I am not a little girl! (Really!) (Scene #214 posted 12/6/23)

[Guilend]

I loved it.

 

I know, the second or third time she tries to wet it she pushes to hard and she poops in them. Diapers would've been much better, the thick ones would've been way more obvious in those yoga pants lol.

[Alex Bridges]

14 hours ago, Guilend said:

I loved it.

 

I know, the second or third time she tries to wet it she pushes to hard and she poops in them. Diapers would've been much better, the thick ones would've been way more obvious in those yoga pants lol.

Yoga pants and diapers are a better couple than peanut butter and jelly, macaroni and cheese, and cookies and milk. And those are some rightly famous romances.

[Guilend]

35 minutes ago, Author_Alex said:

Yoga pants and diapers are a better couple than peanut butter and jelly, macaroni and cheese, and cookies and milk. And those are some rightly famous romances.

Totally agree. 

[Alex Bridges]

Scene #11

 

I always have mixed feelings about spending time with Mary’s family. Her dad is actually great. He’s funny, and I think he’s picked up on the general outlines of our relationship, if not the details. I don’t think many fathers-in-law call their daughter-in-law pet names, but he calls me Daffy sometimes.

Mary’s mother is less warm. Mary says it’s got nothing to do with my being a woman, but I’ve never fully believed that.

My sister-in-law gets plenty of affection, though, from both her parents. I like her, but we’re friendly, not friends, if that makes any sense. Mary is not that close to her, and we only see each other at events.

And at those events, like at the one we’d just come from, I usually get jealous, on the inside, watching my nephew, who’s three, with my sister-in-law. He gets to sit in her lap and just lean against her all the time. I wish I could do that with Mary. It’s sucks being adult-sized, and at the same time it sucks being a small adult like me. Better not to grow up, but since you have to, it would be nice to at least be average height. I’m 5’2”, not unheard of for women, but a far cry from average and farther from Mary’s 5’8”.

And I about choked when my mother-in-law said, “I heard it’s back to pull-ups.”

“Yeah,” my sister-in-law said as she made the sweetest expression at Milo. “But we’re not in a hurry yet.”

To top it off, Mary had to work when we got home, even though it was a Sunday. What fun was that? I needed some Mary time. I tried playing footsy with her under the kitchen table, and that just got me told, “Later, baby.” Hmph! Stupid work.

“Can I put panties back on,” I asked.

“Sure.”

Well, what fucking fun was that? She was supposed to say no. How can I be a brat if she’s just gonna acquiesce?

“I think they’re stupid, by the way, the pull-ups.”

“I know you do sweetie,” is all Mary said. “Off you go.”

So now I was feeling put out and a little miffed. I went outside first, where I guess Mrs. Wilson heard our screen door shut.

“Who’s out there,” she called out over the fence.

“Me.”

She came to the fence and looked over. “Hey there, cutie pie. Why the long face?”

“Mary is working.”

“On a Sunday? Glad I got out of workforce before it turned into this 24/7 thing. You bored?”

“Yeah.”

“Wanna come help me plant tulip bulbs for spring?”

“Is it hard?”

“Not even a little,” Mrs. Wilson chuckled.

So I helped her dig little holes along the edge of her bed. It felt kind of nice to get my hand and knees dirty. She stood up and got another tray of bulbs behind us.

“Daffy,” she asked me.

“Mhmm?”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Uh huh.” Not many secrets between us, apparently.

“Are you ... are you have any health problems?” Crap! Except that secret. I instantly knew why she asked.

“Um, no. Healthy as a horse, little ol’ me,” I said, obviously nervous. She got back down on her knees beside me and started planting more. I guess because she’s my pseudo-surrogate grandma she kept asking questions when pretty much anyone else would’ve been quiet, in fact wouldn’t have even asked the first question.

“You know you can tell me anything.”

“I know, Mrs. Wilson.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah. It’s fine.” I straightened up and sat back on my heels. “Can I ask you something?”

“Mhmm.”

“How did you notice?”

“With you bent over like that, it peeked above your jeans.”

“Oh.”

“I don’t think you showed anybody else if that’s what you're worried about.”

“Good.” I sat there still.

“Daffy,” Mrs. Wilson said as she sat up next to me, “Are you sure everything is alright? Are you in trouble again?”

“No, I’m … I meant to change out of these. Stupid …”

“So you don’t need them?”

“Of course not! Mary … it’s sort of a reminder to behave. And sometimes a little bit of a punishment.”

“Oh … Huh.”

I suddenly felt humiliated and like I’d said way too much, not just in embarrassing myself but in embarrassing her. She didn’t ask to have our kinky life rubbed in her face. “Sorry. I’ll go,” I said as I set her trowel down and stood up.

She caught my hand but didn’t pull me back down. “Don’t go just because you’re embarrassed. It’s okay.”

She was still holding my hand. “This isn’t fair to you. I’ll just … see you later.” I was on the verge of tears.

“Little girl …” What the fuck! What else did she learn from Mary! “Please calm down. Sit.” I did as I was told. “I don’t care what you’re wearing or why. If you need to be upset, you go right ahead, but not on my account.”

“I’m sorry,” I sniffled, “I just … I meant to take it off.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I got upset and came outside and then you said hello, and I just forgot.”

“And then you got embarrassed. Well, don’t be. I’m sure Mary has a very good reason for having you wear those.”

“Mhmm.”

“Now, what were you upset about it when you came outside?”

“Mary’s working, like I said.”

“And…”

“And it’s Sunday. I want spend time with her.”

“Did you tell her that?”

“Sorta.” I bratted a little. That counts, right? I mean, Mary is pretty fluent in that language.

“Sometimes people have to work,” Mrs. Wilson said.

“I know. I have to work weekends sometimes, too.”

“It’s been an hour. Why don’t you go see if she can take a break?”

“Okay.”

“And Daffy,” she said, “I like living next to the two of you. You’re my favorite neighbor. You make me feel young again.”

I blushed. “You’re my favorite, too. It’s kinda like … never mind.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Tell me.”

“Well, it’s kinda like, um, having grandma living next door.”

“Ooh, you wicked little thing,” she said with a big smile. “If I weren’t an actual grandma I’d march you right up to Mary and tell her spank your fanny for calling me that.” She poked me in the belly as she said it.

“Hehe. I don’t mean it like that.”

“I know you don’t. C’mere. Big hug.” And I got a big hug, and it was nice. “Now, go see if Mary can take a break.”

“Okay. Thanks again. I’ll come back out and help some more if she’s not ready yet.” I got up and walked back through our fence. I wondered what Mrs. Wilson tells people about us. I know we were a big surprise for her. I can’t tell with her, though, if she’s playing along or if she just thinks of me as someone who needs a little extra love and guidance (like a little extra compared to an insecure teenager). I don’t know exactly which of those I am anymore myself. I guess I’d kinda drifted over the years, and the more people who came into my life who were willing to provide that to me the more I just came to wear that need on my sleeve with them. The thing is, Mrs. Wilson is the only person outside of the kink community who fills that role for me. I wonder if she realizes that, how unique that makes her. She just does that because why? Because it comes naturally to her?

I took my shoes off on the back porch to not track dirt through the house. I’d managed to get my knees and hands quite dirty, too. It occurred to me as I tried to brush myself off that I didn’t particularly care if Mary was ready for a break. I was ready for Mary to take a break. And dammit, I was going to get her to take one.

I walked back into our kitchen and stood next to Mary. “We’re you helping Mrs. Wilson,” she asked me.

Instead of answering, I took off my pants and kicked them toward a corner. Mary’s got a heckuva poker face. She put her chin in her hand and watched me. She looked slightly amused, looking at me in that pull-up. I tore the sides away, pulled that damn thing from between my legs, held it by the waistband with my thumb and forefinger, and let it fall with plop on Mary’s keyboard. She just blinked and bit her lip.

“Ahem,” I said. Mary just sat there, so I took a step closer. “Ahem.” She scooted her chair out, and I quickly climbed onto her lap and put my head against her. She instinctively put an arm around me and tugged me closer. “I don’t want you to work anymore today.”

“You don’t?”

“No, because it’s Sunday, and working on Sundays is not good for you, and it’s not good for me. We should spend it together.”

“Is that why you put your wet diaper on my keyboard?”

“Yes, to get your attention. And it’s not a diaper, it’s a pull-up.”

“That’s was very naughty of you,” she said as her finger started to twirl a strand of my hair.

“I know.”

“You have my attention now.” Her other hand traced a finger down my thigh.

“Good.”

“Is there anything else you want to talk about before we take care of your punishment?”

“I wanna do this more.”

“What’s that?”

“This,” I said as I snuggled in closer.

 “Okay, little girl. After your spanking, we’ll just snuggle for a while.”

“Okay.”

 

 

[Alex Bridges]

Scene #12

 

 

We all have our bad days. Days when we just don’t have the fortitude to deal with bullshit anymore, when we just can’t hold it in anymore. If we’re lucky, we take that out on the people causing it. If we’re not lucky, we take it out on unsuspecting bystanders. If we’re really not lucky, we do this where Mary can see, and then Mary reminds us, in her words, “how to be a good girl.”

Now, I should be clear. I AM a good girl. I have a pair of underpants that say so, which makes it official. They don’t sell those to just anybody. I just forget I’m a good girl sometimes, like when my boss yells at me over the phone so loud that colleagues call me later to see if I’m alright, because apparently it was enough of a scene to become a topic of office conversation that day.

And because I was having the unluckiest day ever, it wasn’t simply a waitress I took out my frustration on or another driver or a sales clerk or someone we didn’t know. It was Sandy, who’s stopped by just to hang.

To set the scene, imagine Mary and Sandy are in the kitchen standing over a bottle of wine and some crackers. And keep in mind my relationship with Sandy. We’re friends, but she’s also brilliant at getting my goat and backing me into situations that end with my butt red, plus the instigator behind Mary’s pull-up policy. She’s a shit disturber, basically, and so am I, and in my rotten mood and anticipating she’d try to disturb some shit, I was arguing with her in my head as soon as I found out she was coming over. I was winning that fight, too.

I wasn’t really in a hanging out kind of mood, but I stopped in the kitchen for a glass with the intention of heading back upstairs and being antisocial.

What happened was, Sandy said, “How are things?” And you’re thinking, wow, what a @##&@. Or probably not, actually, but I was because I was already arguing with her in my head and winning, awesomely, with my impeccable logic and oratorical skills.

I responded to her enquiry with, “Just $#$*@ make whatever @#&@*$ eating joke you’re gonna @#&*@$&*@ make.”

For once, even Sandy was speechless.

 

Huh, I said to myself. I don’t think she was taking that where maybe you were anticipating her taking that. Cue my waterworks.

“Sandy,” I said as I got teary.

Mary picked her jaw up off the floor and cut me off with, “Go ahead and say it, and then we’re going upstairs to deal with this.” Sandy actually looked embarrassed, and this was a young woman who I don’t think has ever blushed in her life. That Mary was going to take me upstairs actually had me scared, because normally Mary has zero qualms about turning me over her knee in front of someone from the scene. Shit, she barely has any qualms about paddling my ass in public.

“I’m sorry,” I pleaded. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t meant that. It’s just (babbling) and (unintelligible words) and everyone heard and (not even English) and I’m so, so sorry, and wahhhh!” That’s when I shuffled across the kitchen and fell into Mary’s arms. I cried into her breast while the two of them discussed my fate.

“Don’t spank her on my account,” Sandy said. Had to have been the very first time she ever said that. “I get it. We all have those days.”

Mary was rubbing my back and shushing me, while Sandy reached over and stroked my arm.

“Thanks for that,” Mary said, “But she needs a spanking. A big one. Trust me - it’ll make her feel better. Should’ve done it as soon as I got home, and now we have this naughtiness to deal with, too,” Mary said as she pulled my hair out of my face.

Thank god for Mary. I did need a spanking. A regular butt beating for what I’d said and for the feelings I was having. The way she looked at me while brushing my hair aside, that smile that says, I love you forever and always, and I know just what you need, is how I know I’m home wherever my Mary is.

“Little girl,” Mary said firmly but kindly, “go put yourself in a corner.” Did she really have to call me that in front of Sandy? Of course Sandy calls me that already. I just don’t like for her to have the satisfaction. I swallowed and scurried off.

I put myself in my naughty corner in our bedroom, and while I was standing there I decided to save Mary the trouble and bared my own bottom. As ridiculous as it seems, that always struck me as a grown up thing to do. Little girls don’t do that, just as mature, kinky ones. Mary always swats my hands out of the way if I try to do it myself, but she wasn’t there to stop me.

I felt a lot more nervous than usual when I heard the stairs creak and the door close, but the rule is no turning around until I’m called. It was cold in the bedroom with no pants on, but I knew I’d probably be warm soon enough.

“Daphne,” Mary finally called to me, “come sit.” I turned around and crossed the room to sit on the end next to Mary. To my surprise, she leaned over and kissed me on the forehead. I expected her to be lecturing and gesticulating and generally going off on me, which is what I’d have done to me. Instead she just said, very quietly, “We’re going to get you all sorted out, and you’ll be a good girl again, and you can come back downstairs. Ok?”

I nodded, dry mouthed and unable to talk.

“Lay back, little girl.”

I’d have protested that I hate being spanked in the diaper position. Everything(!) is on display in that position. There’s nothing to do with your hands. And you have to look at the person. Worst time for eye contact ever, even if it is Mary. But instead I just slowly eased myself back with Mary still sitting next to me on my left.

I was confused, and I figured I might get off a little easier for being not just cooperative but helpful, so I said, “Do you want the paddle?”

“No. I don’t think we need that tonight.”

I shuddered as I exhaled. Mary wasn’t angry with me. Only me was angry with me. I relaxed, but already I had a lump in my throat, not the normal kind you get from a spankings but the kind you get from feeling like you matter to someone.

Mary put her arm under my knees and pushed them backward, using her shoulder to keep them there and putting her hand on my bottom. Her fingernails teasing the taut skin of my butt cheeks felt electric. She swirled them over me, finding those parts not normal so exposed during a spanking, and as I fought the twin urges to sob and sigh, she shushed me as she pulled her palm away and brought it down hard, leaving it there before pulling it back again.

Mary is a fast and furious spanker. Her slow hands are saved for when she wants to take her time and make a point. One spank at a time, she was making that point, starting at my thighs, stretched tight and accentuating the awful sting, and working her way down.

I tried to think about something other than the pain as she sped up, and all I could think about was what I said to Sandy. And I tried to think of something other than Sandy, and all I could think about was my boss screaming at me. So I gave up and tried not to think about anything, which just freed me up to whimper, then sob, then cry. Great big, snotty tears. I just let it all out, every bit of it, while Mary turned my butt red from its top to almost my knees. I gripped the covers in my hands, gritted my teeth, and submitted to the spanking that I needed and earned. It wasn’t right of me to take out my bad day on Sandy. I don’t mean to be such a bitch sometimes. My cries were mixing with squeals now as I tried to hold still. I wanted to roll away from Mary, and I forced myself to stay there. Finally just let my hands relax and took my spanking, too tired to do anything else.

Then she took her hand away, and instead of another spank, I felt her fingernails again, teasing my bottom again. I still felt awful. “I’m sorry,” I moaned.

“Shhh. I’m sorry, too.” She set my legs back down, and I could feel the heat from my butt radiating back from the covers, the bedspread feeling rough against my sensitive, spanked skin.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I groaned, still through tears, “I’ve been awful for weeks.”

“Stay right there,” Mary said. “I got a surprise for you. Keep your eyes closed.” She brushed a finger against my chin as she stood up. I put my arms over my face.

She was back in a moment. “No peeking, and open your legs.” I wasn’t really in the mood for sex, but I figured why not give Mary’s surprise a try. “Lift your hips for me.”

The surprise was instead of feeling lips or something else on top of me, I felt her slide something under me, and I had a good idea of what it was before I even took my arms away. “Down.” The crinkle confirmed it. I knew Sandy gave her one. I just didn’t think she’d ever use it.

“Mary,” I whined as I took my arms from my eyes, “please don’t. I’ll be good! I promise.” She ignored me, and I watched her, concentrating on the smile on her face, as she pulled the front of that diaper through my legs and spread it over my hips. Such a vibrant, happy smile. “I don’t wanna,” I pleaded, but I didn’t resist. I barely even argued. I put my head back and resumed crying as she tore the first tape and sealed one side of my diaper - no, her diaper! - and felt the next three tapes sealed as she tugged at my hips.

It felt so much tighter than the pull-ups, and it felt so much heavier and thicker, too. “Please take it off! I learned my lesson. Please!”

“Shhh,” was all Mary said in return. She still hadn’t even acknowledged anything I’d said. Instead, she laid down next to me, reached over me, and pulled me up so my face was buried in chest. “Calm down, sweetie. Shhh. Just relax.” THWUMP. I felt a heavy pat on my butt. THWUMP. I kinda liked it. THWUMP. It felt different than when she did that with me in a pull-up. My tears turned to slow sobs again.

“Why do I have to wear it,” I asked, admitting defeat. I wasn’t asking out; I was just asking why.

“Sit up,” Mary said. We both did. “You look liked a wet rat,” she giggled when we parted and she got a look at my face. “C’mere.” She pulled my legs over her lap and pulled my head down so I was resting it on her shoulder. She started to actually rock me, which sometimes she does if I am, like I was then, a complete emotional mess. Tears still ran occasionally, but I had the sobs under control. I hate that part, not being able to keep my diaphragm from cramping.

“This feels weird,” I said as I felt her hands stroke my edge of my hip encased in that thin plastic and heard my underwear crinkling.

“I’m sorry I didn’t spank you as soon as I got home today and saw what kind of mood you were in,” Mary said and gave me a kiss. “And I’m sorry I’ve let this go on as long as I have,” she said and gave me another one. “Tomorrow you’re quitting your job,” she said as she gave me a third kiss.

“What?”

“You’re going to waltz in there late, after we have a good breakfast together, and then you’re gonna quit. No two weeks’ notice. You’re just gonna quit, on the spot.”

I like working. I don’t want to be one of those people who just sits at home all days and cleans during commercials. And we need the money.

“But I wanna work, and I need to,” I protested.

“I know,” she said and kissed me again, “and you’ll find something else. Something better, with a boss who appreciates how smart you are and who treats you right.”

“I … okay.” I could find something else. It was more inertia that kept me working there despite that asshole.

“Okay?”

“Okay.” Mary is so soft. I like it when she holds me like this.

“C’mon,” she said as she urged me to stand up. She kept hold of my hand and led me into our bathroom. I got the first good look at myself in that ridiculous diaper. Where Sandy even find diapers this size with ponies on them? I looked ridiculous, and the thing looked huge on me, but I’m thin-framed.

“Mary, I wanna take this off.” Though I did like how it was keeping the heat of the spanking in.

“I know you do,” she said as she wet the hand towel under the sink and soaped it up. “Head up.” I closed my eyes and felt the soapy towel against my face. She wiped away the tears and around my nose, then covered my nose with it and said, “blow.”

I honked. She got a clean towel from under the sink and dried my face. “So pretty,” she told me. She stepped aside so I could see myself in the mirror again. “See? Such a pretty little girl.” I blushed.

“But about the diaper, Mary?”

“Uh huh,” she humored me as she there the wet towel in the hamper.

“Please can I take it off?”

“Why,” she said as she reached over and squeezed a butt cheek hard through it.

“Because it’s embarrassing. I don’t need diapers,” I whined. “Can I wear pull-up instead?” That is how much I wanted out of the damn thing.

“Of course you need diapers, because I said so, silly girl.” She stepped behind me and put her arms around my waist, placing her hands on my opposite hip, pressing the wings of that diaper. “If we didn’t have any, I’d send you out to get some, and you’d do it,” she said and kissed me on the neck, “just because (kiss) I said so (kiss kiss kiss). Wouldn’t you?”

“Yes,” I huffed. “But I’m too old for diapers.” Which made zero sense. I was too old for pullups and spankings, and for that matter I was too old for the kind of temper tantrum I’d just thrown in our kitchen.

“If you say so, sweetie,” Mary said, ignoring my argument, weak as it was, “Now, let’s go see what Sandy is up to.”

“She’s still here?”

“Of course! I wouldn’t send her home just because you were naughty. C’mon.” She took my hand again and led me back through our bedroom. I looked longingly at the shorts I’d discarded in the corner, knowing if Mary was going to let me wear anything over the diaper she’d have stopped.

“Like this,” I pleaded anyway.

“Sandy has seen lots of little girls in diapees,” Mary responded.

“Stop calling me that,” I gently whined. Mary ignored me. I followed as slow as I could without dragging my feet until we got to the edge of our living room. Then I hit the brakes. Mary didn’t try to pull me along. She just stopped. Sandy must’ve looked up wondering what was going on. I kept my feet planted firmly on our hardwood floor.

Mary let go of my hand and slid her palm up my arm and around my neck, gently turning me so I was facing her. “I’m right here,” she whispered. “Everything is okay.”

“Promise?”

“Always.” With her arm around me, she guided me into the living room while I stared at my feet and listened to my panties crinkling.

“Everything alright,” Sandy asked.

“Yeah. We’re just a little shy,” Mary answered for me.

“You feeling better,” Sandy asked me.

“Uh huh,” I squeaked.

“Wanna share my blanket with me?” Mary gave me a gentle push, and I padded over to the couch and sat down, curling my legs up under me. Mary sat next to me, and Sandy handed her the end of the blanket, which they stretched over me. I was thrown by Sandy not mentioning my attire or being snarky or condescending, her usual modus operandi when I’m in trouble, or was, or will be. She didn’t say anything about it all. It was like it was normal to her.

“What are we watching,” Mary asked.

I looked from the TV to Mary to Sandy to the TV to Mary. “You’re okay, Daffy,” Mary said as she ran her fingers through my hair.

My butt hurt, and I was wearing a stupid diaper, but I had Mary, so she was right. I was okay.

[Guilend]

Yay, she's in a proper diaper. Wonder is she realizes that she has to use it or not? I guess we shall wait and see. ?

[Diaperingdaddy]

Cant wait to see the interaction of her now that she is a Naughty little.

[dyperaby]

I'd luv to see more of this story!

[WBDaddy]

3 hours ago, dyperaby said:

I'd luv to see more of this story!

Me too, even though this isn't necessarily a story as much as it's a series of vignettes.  I love the rabbit hole Daphne was falling into in the last installment, and have been starving to see the next step ever since... 

[Alex Bridges]

Perhaps this weekend. I’ve been putting all my effort in Done Adulting.

[WBDaddy]

6 hours ago, Alex Bridges said:

Perhaps this weekend. I’ve been putting all my effort in Done Adulting.

Of course you have, and I feel that - I get into a rhythm on one story, and I hate to get away from it and lose said rhythm.  

FWIW, her first time being forced to pee in one?  That scene will write itself.  In a hundred different ways.

[Alex Bridges]

This is probably the longest one of these vignettes (good word, WB!) you'll ever get, and it took me way longer to write than I usually spend on one chapter, and I didn't proof the back 2/3 of it because I'm tired and don't wanna. Enjoy. ?

___________________

Scene #13

 

 

“Daphne Anne,” I heard Mary call my name. Getting double-named is never a good thing. It’s like raising an aural signal flag that’s says “HIDE YOUR BUTT!!!” Only I can’t hide it. And anyway, hiding is childish, and I’m never childish, in my humble opinion. Others may disagree, but what do those doodoo heads know anyway?

And yet it did occur to me to not hide exactly, but maybe disappear. Like, go outside. Go to Mrs. Wilson’s house. Take in dinner and a show. Just to give Mary a few minutes, or hours, to consider just how big a deal whatever I had done really was before she decided on any particular course of action. That’s not being childish when you think about it. That’s actually being very considerate, thinking of her feelings and giving her time to collect her thoughts, gather her patience, think through the issue, take a deep breath, count to ten. I’m sweet like that. I’d hate for her to spank me and regret it. But I didn’t have time to be considerate because Mary was already coming downstairs.

“Yes, my love,” I said sweetly when she got to the landing.

“I just tripped in our bedroom.”

So that’s what that sound was. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Do you want to know what I tripped over?”

“Umm…”

“A pair of your pants.”

“Oh.”

“Stand up,” she said as she strode toward me.

“I’ll go pick it up,” I replied.

“I know you will.” I stood, and she sat. “Over.”

“Aww, dammit.”

“Daphne, I’m warning you, little girl, you do not want to test me today.” With maybe a bit more attitude than was wise, I laid myself over her knee. At least she wasn’t taking my pants down.

I tried to beg off. “I’m sorry. I’ll take care of it right now. I don’t want another spanking.” Did you know there’s no way to say that without saying it in a super whiny voice? It’s true. I’ve said it hundreds of times, and no matter what, it comes out whinier than I meant it to be. It’s a law of linguistics, I’m sure, that works in every language. There’s also something about that statement that, when you’re over a knee, makes it seem like a logical, valid argument. And I’d had a spanking yesterday. Not a big one. Well, maybe a big one by vanilla standards but not by ours.

“I’m not spanking you,” Mary replied. She put her hand on my butt and left it there. “But you listen better in this position. Can you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“And are you listening?”

“Yes.”

“I know not having a job is a little disorienting, and I know you’re looking. While you’re looking, you do not get to live like a slob, understand? I was hoping you’d take on a few more chores with your free time, but instead you’re making messes and leaving them for me to clean up.”

Okay, so I actually don’t mind living in a mess, so the state of our house is arguably more her problem than mine. Like, leaving the pizza box on the floor doesn’t bother me all that much. It’s not like I’ll never pick it up. I’ll just get to it when I get to it. If it doesn’t bother me, it’s not problematic to me, hence it’s really not my problem. It’s really Mary’s problem since it does bother her. Over a knee or not, that is some irrefutable logic. But I’m not dumb. I kept that thought to myself. Anyway, if I didn’t care about leaving a mess behind myself, it was obvious Mary was going to give me a reason to care.

“You’re too old to live like this. You know better. It’s like living with a thirteen-year-old. So I’m going to let you up, you’re going to clean up after yourself, and just how bad your spanking is will depend on how thoroughly, how quickly, and how cheerfully you do it.” She gave me a swat and stood me up.

“Do I have to get spanked? It’s just a little messy. That doesn’t deserve a spanking.”

“I just saw a carton of milk between the bed and your nightstand!”

“That’s where that went!”

“Daphne! Get cleaning, little girl.”

Dammit all to hell! I hate being called that. I started toward the stairs to start in the bedroom.

“And no pants,” Mary said before I got very far. I harrumphed as I stripped them off at the foot of the stairs. Once upon a time I was better at keeping those little reactions to myself, and I don’t know when I lost it. After meeting Mary, odd because she’s the one it drives so nuts. But I’m not deliberately a brat! No, really, it’s true!

“And no attitude,” Mary added as she grabbed my left arm and landed five spanks on my panties. “You’re this close to losing pants privileges for a couple days.” I’ve always thought of Mary as a teacher as well as a lover and life partner. For instance, I didn’t know pants were a privilege until we moved in together. She taught me that, wise beyond her years as she is.

“Okay! Ow! I’m going!” There’s something about getting spanked while standing that underscores just how vulnerable your butt really is, a reminder that whoever spanks you doesn’t need you to bend over or get across their lap to land their hand on your butt.

“Scoot,” she ordered with a final swat. I scampered up the stairs with my butt hanging below my shirt and wishing one of the natural consequences of having neglected my chores was not being down to my oldest pairs of panties. No holes or anything but definitely threadbare.

I don’t hate cleaning. It’s just that my desire to clean comes in bursts. Like, every three months. I honor the burst, too: when the urge comes, around the time that even I’m sick of my mess, I will cancel plans to take advantage of the desire to clean before it fades.

Then I met Mary, and my first ever discipline spanking from her came over the most contrived thing you could think of: dishes in my sink. Yes, the oldest of them was from Tuesday morning, and yes, she was over picking me up for a Friday night date, but that’s a thing people do, and I didn’t deserve the wooden spoon for it.

And she left a bunch of spoon-shaped marks on the back of my thighs and wouldn’t let me change into pants before we left. And she made me do the stupid dishes before we left, too! How is that fair? Get spanked and still have to do the chore? It should be one or the other, like a trade! Voicing that opinion got me a bunch more swats while I scrubbed. Dishwashers, I was told, are for big girls who take good care of their things.

At least as I cleaned up in the bedroom I had those pleasant memories to think back on. We’d been dating a month and had only done negotiated spanking scenes, starting at the play party we met at and a bunch of times since. Then a pile of dishes led to having my shorts pulled down with me protesting that dirty dishes were not a spankable offense. I told her on our wedding day that was when I decided I could one day marry her, when she tipped me over her knee on her own initiative. She told me that was the day she decided to propose to me, when I accepted her discipline with just a verbal protest. Two years later, we walked down the aisle with her warning from that morning still ringing in my ears: “Just because it’s your wedding day doesn’t mean I won’t take you to the dressing room and spank your bottom if you don’t behave yourself, little girl.” She always knows just what to say to make me swoon.

But that first real spanking from Mary was years in the past and a treasured memory. The one I had coming was in my near future and was going to hurt way more than that spoon did. It made me do something a little impulsive.

Now, hear me out before you judge. Mary always says, “Bring me your [fill in the blank].” Hairbrush, paddle, other paddle. I’ve been of the opinion that those are not mine; they are hers because she uses them and I just get them used on me and I don’t wanna get political but Marx had a point when he said it’s the workers who truly own the machinery of production and Mary is the one producing sore butts so they are hers and not mine. But take her viewpoint at face value, and why not because she’s the one in charge of all things spanking, and I did agree to accept that, and I honor our marriage vows, dammit.

So I tossed the hairbrush in the trash as I was cleaning. It’s mine, right? Mary says so! I can do with it as I please. My logic is unassailable! It usually is. I’m very left-brained. I told Mary so one time, and her response was, “I’m right handed,” and then she proved it. Guess I didn’t choose the right moment to let her know.

It’s not like there aren’t a dozen different things Mary can spank with in the house. I just hate the hairbrush worst out of all the things she regularly uses. The only things I hate worse are the belt (I like spanking, not whipping, and so does Mary), the school paddle (too heavy for the kind of spankings we like), and the bathbrush (reserved for super serious offenses like wire fraud, class A misdemeanors and, and playing with fireworks without supervision, a rule she made up on the spot one Fourth of July; somehow that spanking felt patriotic). But that hairbrush and the way it concentrates so much oomph into such a small area – hate it hate it hate it. I get the OTK paddle for most spankings. The hairbrush is for a step above that in her arsenal.

Fast forward an hour and the bedroom was clean (the milk was, alas, a total loss) and I wiped down our bathroom and I went back downstairs and cleaned up the living room and kitchen. It took about an hour and a half, which isn’t bad considering. Also, let’s face up to facts. Realistically, whether I took fifteen minutes or two hours Mary was gonna spank me the same. Over two hours and I’d have gotten it worse, but ninety minutes (ish) may as well have been five because when Mary schedules a spanking, as it were, she doesn’t give light ones. On the spot corrections are light; unplanned trips to dressing rooms and highway rest areas and mall bathrooms are comparatively light. “When we get home” or “As soon as” spankings are never light. Doesn’t mean they can’t get worse, though.

I did see her point when I took the trash to the garage. I filled almost a whole bag, which, yeah, is a lot for little ol’ me for a week. It seemed funny that it was just over a week since I’d quit my job, but it felt like forever.

I went in search of Mary and found her on our back porch with Mrs. Wilson. I just stuck my head out the door to tell her I was done and thought she was going to send me to go wait in a corner or something, but no, she told me to come say hello.

“Hello,” I said from the doorway. Nope. Didn’t count.

“Don’t be rude, Daphne,” Mary said and waved me outside. Mrs. Wilson was sitting in one of our chairs, and Mary was on our outdoor sofa, and I was on bare feet and wearing panties that I should’ve thrown away with the hairbrush and decided I was definitely going to get rid of tomorrow.

Knowing Mrs. Wilson knows all about our lifestyle and has seen me in less than past-their-expiration-date panties never makes it any less embarrassing when the topic comes up or when I’m once more less than fully dressed in front of her. Maybe it’s a generational thing, like those old ladies at the gym who are completely unfazed with nudity in the locker room and she just decided to think nothing of it when she discovered our lifestyle. Who knows, maybe Mrs. Wilson already knew pants are a privilege and just took it in stride when she first saw me without them. Or maybe Mrs. Wilson just sees me like the little girl Mary says I am. I kinda hope that’s why, but I kinda also hope not.

“She’s not rude,” Mrs. Wilson defended me, “she’s just shy. Come on out, honey.” Mrs. Wilson – my defender and secret grandma.

Blushing, I shuffled over to Mary, and she took my wrist and gave me a tug toward her. I ended up sitting on her lap, my legs across the sofa and feeling every bit the little girl Mary calls me.

Mrs. Wilson did that thing where you exhale a little hard through your nose in amusement (did you know there’s no word for that in English?) and I was a little offended until she followed up with, “You look like a little ragamuffin, Daffy. Wherever did you get those undies?” I looked myself over; also not my newest, brightest tee shirt.

“Target,” I squeaked. “In college, I think.” Mrs. Wilson nodded at Mary and then looked at my thigh, and then Mary looked at my thigh and reached down to pull my panties over. I guess they’re a little small for me now because my butt cheek had apparently been hanging out at least since I walked outside (Everything was coming up Daphne, lucky me!). I just about could’ve swallowed my tongue. Bare butt is better than having one cheek hanging out because, let’s face it, that look is adorable on me (it’s fucking hot on Mary).

“It’s so cute that her butt blushes when she’s embarrassed,” Mrs. Wilson said. “I’m sorry, Daffy. I know you hate when people say stuff like that.” It doesn’t help me to stop thinking of her like a grandma when she says embarrassing grandma stuff like that. I find it endearing, much to my chagrin.

“It’s okay,” I was trying to say when Mary just had to correct her, eagerly it seemed to me.

“Actually, that’s yesterday’s spanking.” Like that was even a real spanking! I didn’t even cry. Just sniffled a bit. But I didn’t need to wash my face after so that doesn’t count!

I wish there were a way to make myself disappear sometimes. Since I can’t, I said, “I should go back inside. It was nice seeing you, Mrs. Wilson.”

“In a hurry to go back inside,” Mary asked. “You sure about that?” Well, that was a fair point.

“O, I’m sorry,” Mrs. Wilson apologized, grasping Mary’s meaning. “Is she in trouble,” she whispered like I wasn’t there. Force of habit I guess, trying not to embarrass a kid in trouble. Not that I’m a kid. And it is a good habit. Just basic kindness.

“It’s been one of those weeks,” Mary said. “I don’t know what to do with her. She’s looking for a new job, but she’s still home without something to do all day.”

“Mine were like that,” Mrs. Wilson said. Okay, let’s take a step back to her use of the word mine. Really, Mrs. Wilson, ya just gonna toss that out there? That I’m equivalent to your kids just because I’m … Dammit.

“School breaks, the first couple weeks of summer. I had at least one kiddo in trouble pretty much every day. It’s the break in their routine that does it. You know how kids need structure,” Mrs. Wilson continued.

I clearly was not needed for this part of the conversation so I just sat there. I would’ve gotten off Mary’s lap, but she had both arms around me and didn’t seem like she was going to let me go.

“And I can’t send her to daycare or summer camp while she jobs hunts,” Mary said with a laugh.

“I grew up in a different era, but I don’t think I ever earned a spanking two days in a row.”

“Her record is three days in a row.” Mary turned to look at me. “I hope we don’t have a record setting streak in front of us.” I took a deep breath and let it out since there was no way for me to respond to that.

“Sometimes they get the devil in them, as my mom used to say. Never me, but my brother could rarely go a week without getting turned over someone’s knee. Mom called ages nine to twelve ‘the age of many spankings’ for him. Sometimes he could make it ten whole days, and then he’d get his seat warmed three or four times in the next week, like he was just storing it up. Or maybe Mom was storing it up,” Mary laughed.

“What about your kids,” Mary asked.

“O, I didn’t spank like Mom did. Maybe just four or five times when they were real young. Maybe a little pop on the butt to stop a tantrum before it started, things like that, but just a handful of real spankings ... I don’t really believe in it for kids, and they didn’t need that kind of discipline anyway. They were well behaved for the most part. Much better than their mom, for sure. For a while I thought I must’ve done something wrong when they hit their teenage years and didn’t get in any of the classic teenage trouble.”

“If only Daphne was so well behaved. I’m afraid she’s in for one of those streaks like your brother’s before she finds a new job. I hope not, but, frankly, I smell more spanking in the air.”

I’ve always thought kink comes from bad wiring in the brain, like something that should just be painful is instead pleasurable. Like something that should be humiliating also turns me on. I wanted to dig a hole and hide in it; I also wanted to go upstairs and double check the water pressure in our shower wand.

“Well, send her over to my house. I can certainly use the company and it’ll keep her outta trouble.”

“That’s a great idea, isn’t it Daphne?”

“Yes.” It actually did sound fun. I always like hanging out with Mrs. Wilson, and I was getting bored of Netflix. There just isn’t enough to do when you find yourself with whole days to fill all of a sudden. I didn’t want to be unemployed and didn’t plan on being unemployed for long, so I hadn’t embraced a buncha new hobbies or a whole new routine. I was already bored. It reminded me of summer when I was in middle school, old enough to be left alone during the day but not old enough to work and not living close enough to friends to meet up with them on my bike. Every summer followed the same pattern: two weeks watching daytime TV until I got bored and then moody and eventually in trouble, and then Mom would start finding things for me to do. I hated tennis camp. I do like the skirts though. All the girls had a crush on a counselor named Matt. I think that’s when I started to realize I felt a little different. Maybe that explains why I like the skirts so, so much. 

“Come on over tomorrow morning,” Mrs. Wilson said. “We’ll find some stuff to do.”

“Thank you. I will.”

“Around 8:30,” Mary asked.

“Perfect.”

Mrs. Wilson’s phone alarm went off. “That’s my roast needing to be turned. Kids are coming over for Sunday dinner.”

“We won’t keep you then,” Mary said. She started to stand, and I got off her lap.

“We’ll have plenty if you two don’t have plans for dinner.”

“That sounds terrific,” Mary said. “Daphne?”

“It does. Thank you.”

“Come on over when you’re ready. Kids will be here at 5:30.”

I never met her kids, but I do like meeting new people, and Mrs. Wilson is a really good cook. What my dad calls “good old fashioned American fare” that is absolutely not something you’re supposed to eat every day.

“That gives me enough time to take care of her,” Mary said as she reached over and patted my butt. My cheek was hanging out again. I grimaced, and Mrs. Wilson looked at me like I was the cutest thing since they invented ducklings.

Mrs. Wilson left through the gate in our shared fence, and Mary guided me inside. She took me to each room saying, “Nice work” and “Good Job” and “See? Isn’t this so much nicer” as we went, ending in the bedroom. Mary sat on the bed, and I stood in front her with my arms a little out from my sides. I know this drill. I could do it blindfolded (which I have). Mary whisked my panties down, and I stepped out of them.

She held them up and looked at them. “Really, Daphne Ann?”

“They’re clean,” I protested.

“Well, they’re as clean as they can get at their age.” Okay, they were a little faded. She fingered a threadbare spot. “I could poke my finger right through this.” O, my darling, naive Mary, that’s no way to make me want to get rid of them. “Did you really buy these in college?”

“Possibly … It was Obama’s first term still, I think.”

She turned and tossed the old panties into the wastebasket. I wasn’t exactly sentimental about them – they were just one of those items of clothing that somehow stays in your dresser long after everything else that old has gone on to clothing heaven (Goodwill). Maybe they weren’t even old; perhaps they were just a classic, or vintage … or throwback!

“What’s so funny,” Mary asked when she caught me smiling. It didn’t seem like a good time to share my clever perspective.

“Nothing,” I said. Mary scooted herself back so she could lean against the headboard, and I crawled across the bed on my knees when she motioned me over her lap. I folded my arms and put my head on them. It still feels weird, just lying there passively. There was nothing passive about my childhood spankings. I only ever got a couple of real ones, kinda like Mrs. Wilson’s kids probably, but I fought like a hellion when it happened. I still find it a turn on watching spanking videos and thinking about how submissive some of the bottoms are, just being good girls and boys and holding still for their top.

Mary likes to just look at me in this position. When we were still dating, sometimes she’d order me over her knee just to admire my butt sticking up at her. That led to great sex. Still happens sometimes, but she also sometimes just takes a pause before starting a spanking to look at and play with my butt. Like right then, when she took a handful of butt cheek and squeezed hard. Makes it kinda hard to focus on discipline when she does that, and she did teach me to spend my time over her lap thinking on my misdeed, but it’s still my butt and she’s still playing with it. (“Why are you getting this spanking?” “For the sex after.” That was not, she once ably demonstrated moments later, the case.)

Mary started to lecture. “I don’t know what it’s like to quit a job without one lined up and then to just be at loose ends while you look. We talked on Friday. I said to take a few days and just enjoy yourself and feel better. I’m glad you did, and you seemed like a whole new person. But it’s now been ten days, and I told you on Thursday it was time to get your act together. I warned you Friday that you were getting bratty. I warned you a second time yesterday morning. I told you, word for word, that you were this close to a spanking. I gave you several, now, several passes on naughtiness, and I had hoped the trip over my knee yesterday afternoon and an early bedtime would help you wake up as my sweet, happy girl this morning.”

“I’m sorry.” I can’t ever stop myself from getting weepy when she does this. If this were only about lost milk cartons, I wouldn’t feel so bad. Now knowing it was about more than that, I couldn’t help but get teary. Add in the one hand running through my hair or rubbing my back, the other one rubbing my butt. On their own, those make me ready for bed or for fun in bed. Added with a lecture when Mary is indisputably right, they make me want to cry, get my punishment, and have her hold me for a while.

“I know, sweetheart. I let you sleep in because I thought you needed it, and I made you breakfast this morning. Then you hardly said a word to me, none of which were ‘thank you,’ and then you left your plate on the table and went to take a shower.”

I kinda forgot about that. She stopped the rubbing and started lecturing like she meant it. She always means it, or almost always, but sometimes she starts using a tone that makes it very clear she’s run out of patience. Sort of that tone people use when they’re feeling whatever comes right before anger, like a few seconds just before angry. I hear that tone from Mary maybe twice a year. I don’t like making her angry or upset or disappointed. I don’t mean to.

“I really don’t get how you went from being so happy and energized last weekend to being a lazy grump a week later. I tried giving you some space. I came up with excuses to let some things slide, and frankly, Daphne, I’m out of reasons not to spank your bottom. You know better than to behave like a sullen, lazy sixth grader and leave messes everywhere. I gave you days to snap out of it on your own. I gave you warnings. I gave you an easy spanking yesterday hoping it would get through to you. I gave you a pass this morning when what I really wanted to do was follow you into that shower and spank your wet butt because I was hoping you’d come out of the shower all refreshed and acting your age and clean up after yourself like you know to do. Do you remember what a spanking on a wet bottom feels like?”

Not sure if you can call this saying something, but I said, “Uem,” and nodded my head because talking would’ve just led to a sob getting out.

“You’re out of warnings, and I’m out of reason to not to spank. We will tie the record if we need to tomorrow. We will set a new one the day after if you can’t pull yourself together. I do not like spanking you this often, but I will until your behavior tells me you don’t need that many spankings, and each spanking will be as hard as the last one until then. Is that understood?”

I nodded again, my face still buried in my arms. She reached over me toward the nightstand where my – no, her – paddle is kept always on display as a reminder. The brush is kept in the drawer. Or it was until about three hours ago. It didn’t seem like a terrible idea then, but until the lecture I didn’t realize just how disappointed with me Mary was. If I thought that was going to be her weapon of choice just a few hours later, I’d have left it alone. I felt my stomach fall through the bed when I heard her open the drawer. I kept my face buried in my arms still.

“Where’s your hairbrush?” God, it is so hers, but not so important at the moment. I pretended not to hear. “Daphne, where is your hairbrush.”

“It’s not in the drawer?”

“No. It was there yesterday when I came close to using it. Where is it now?” I could picture her opening the drawer yesterday and looking at it for several seconds before deciding to cut me just a little more slack and closing the drawer, and it made me feel awful. Thinking back, I don’t think I deserved that break, and she gave it because she loves me.

“Um, I’m not sure. Maybe you moved it?” I try to never lie, but a sense of self-preservation is hard to overcome when you’re in that position.

Mary took a deep breath and pushed it out through her nose so forcefully I felt it on my back. I kept my face down and tried to stifle myself as I pictured her shaking her head with her lips clenched. She closed the drawer and I guess picked up the paddle instead because a split second later it was resting on my butt. I braced myself. Nothing happened.

“No,” was all Mary said. Well, that scared the crap outta me. “Up.” I got up and rubbed at my eyes, and Mary wordlessly slid off the bed. I cry before a lot of spankings when she starts the lecture. I never do that with anyone else, even as a kid, and I’ve only cried during a spanking with a few play partners in my adult life. I really do hate the way it feels and the headache it leaves me with, but it is cathartic, most of the time.

I’ve never cried before a spanking just because I was scared. Mary walked with purpose into our bathroom and came out with the bathbrush. It was more an experimental implement when we first got it. It was my idea, actually, and we found out through our experiments that it was like the school paddle and the hairbrush had a child that even they couldn’t love. A heavyset, small child that concentrates a lot of force into a small area. A mutant child that outgrew its parents’ ability to control it before it reached its first birthday, so out of control it’s on X-Force’s most wanted list. Even Deadpool gives it a wide berth. The thing gets used for sexy showers way more than punishment. It’s practically just a bathroom decoration; give it a couple more years, and the paint under where it hangs in the bathroom will be a lighter shade than the rest of the wall.

I hold could’ve wet myself when she came out of the bathroom with that (but I didn’t!), but instead I started sobbing. I wish I could say it was a sympathy ploy, but it wasn’t. I just felt awful. I felt awful before I quit my job because of how I was treating Mary. I felt even worse now because I was still treating her that way. Maybe that’s me being too hard on myself – which I can be, especially right before a spanking – but that’s how I felt after Mary had pointed out my behavior to me and how she’d given me so many chances to right my own ship, on top of the fact she was the one who finally got me to quit and was now supporting me. All because she loves me. I felt awful, I felt scared, and I sobbed the way I usually do at the end of one of Mary’s spankings.

I’m sure Mary hesitated for a moment. She’s my Mary. I’m sure the thought crossed her mind that if I felt this bad, a spanking wasn’t necessary to get the point across. I’m sure she dismissed those thoughts and reminded herself to follow through, be consistent, not let tears dissuade her, and that this wasn’t just a kinky lifestyle but a promise we’d made to each other and something I needed to be happy. That’s also my Mary. She waved a finger at me, and I crawled off the bed.

She sat down and took me by the hips, positioning me to her left, and said, “Bend over.” I bent over the bed slowly, feeling my knees shake. “Lift up.” I did, and she put her left arms over me with her hand under my waist on the other side. She turned a little and had to twist sort of to get her ankle around my mine. An awkward position, and Mary rarely decides she needs to lock my legs.

I don’t know if she does this on purpose, but sometimes she says things that I love to hear but that in the wrong context just make me a hot mess. I was already a total mess, and she just set it on fire when she said, “I love you, Daphne Ann. I hope my sweet girl is gonna come back out.”

Stupid, mutant spanking implement. It was a blur, but Mary managed to find a halfway between the rapid spanks of the hairbrush and the thud of the school paddle. She did a fucking incredible job mixing it up, too. I couldn’t give you the blow my blow if my butt depended on it, but I do remember not being able to anticipate where or how hard that damn thing would land next. The whole thing couldn’t have lasted more than two minutes, maybe even one, but Mary is a ninja and can get a lot of spanking done in less than two minutes. She can wallop me in ten seconds if she gets a mind to.

I usually lay there and catch my breath after a hard spanking, but instead I shot up as soon as Mary let me go and did a Riverdance routine while holding my butt. I’m sure I put on quite a show. I don’t know if I stopped on my own or if Mary stopped me, but I found myself sitting half on her lap and half on the bed with my face buried in her breast while she rubbed my back and tried to calm me down. Ugly crying, seriously. With snot. Mary just kept running her hand through my hair and down my arm until I found my voice.

“I’m sorry I was bad,” I told her. I was still sobbing and losing tears a little. And then Mary did that thing where she says the right thing at the wrong time again.

“Your behavior was bad. You are my very good girl always.” I’m glad she found it endearing when I responded by putting my face back into her shirt and wailing again. Lotta tears. More snot. The rocking motion felt nice. I got the after lecture when I finally stopped crying enough to pay attention. I just nodded my head along.

“I want my sunshine girl to come out tomorrow. Am I going to see her?” (Nod.) “I don’t wanna spank you on your sore bottom. Will you really try to help me not have to spank?” (Nod, sniff.) “No more sullenness, no more laziness, and you’re going to act your age.” (Nod, nod, and nod. Though I had no idea what constituted acting my age at that point.) “And you will never, ever hide a spanking implement from me.” (So she didn’t believe me for a second; not exactly a surprise. Nod.) “Until your hairbrush comes back from wherever it went, all spankings will be with the bathbrush.” (Certain fairness to that, I guess. Damn glad I didn’t break it. Nod).

“Ready to get up,” she asked me. I stood and it hurt. Just straightening up. That means bruises. I probably spend five out of every thirty days with a bruise on my butt, and I could tell I had doozies.

“We have about twenty minutes before we need to be next door,” she said off handedly.

“Can I please stay home?”

She shook her head very sympathetically. “No, sweetheart. I’m sorry.”

She took me by the hand into the bathroom and got a clean washcloth from the closet. I took off my shirt which left me with nothing on, and Mary ran the faucet until the water was warm before soaping up the washcloth and washing my face for me. I definitely had the wet rat look going. I wondered if Mrs. Wilson would be shocked to see me in a few minutes. She’s seen me weepy, and she’s seen me red eyed, but I looked like I was in mourning. If asked, I was prepared to say my butt passed away while she was making the roast. I just assumed she would be discreet with her kids and grandkids around, but I definitely, definitely could’ve used some secret grandma time.

I was mentally recovered when Mary was done washing my face, if emotionally shaky and physically would need about three spank free days before my butt started to look better. I turned to look over my shoulder in the mirror.

Anyone into impact play has seen some nasty bruises. These were not the worst I’d seen or the worst I’d had. I like having marks; they’re like temporary tattoos to remind you of the fun you had, or if it wasn’t fun (that had not been any fun at all) of what you could take. That’s a something to be proud of in the BDSM world. I hadn’t had purple bruises in so long I couldn’t remember. Scarlet was a dozen times a year. True purple? Not so much. I twisted to get a better look, and Mary watched me do it. She thought it was funny when I whine, “Mary! My butt!”

She nodded like she was saying, yeah, I know, I did that.

She made me sit on the bed while she got an outfit for me to wear. I had no doubt I’d get through the next day spank free. I could barely even protest the outfit as she took out a skirt and a top and then a pull-up and tossed them on the bed.

“Do I hafta,” was all I could muster.

“You don’t have any clean undies anyway.”

“I have a couple left, I think.”

“Like the ones you were wearing. Can’t take you to Sunday dinner dressed like that, and we’re throwing them out when we get back.” I could tell she’d done a good job not just because my ass felt like a single swollen cheek but because I thought about a smart-alecky, and totally logical, retort to that statement and didn’t even want to say it. Not that I don’t think pretty much every sentient adult couldn’t point out the ridiculousness of the notion that the panties and not the Goodnites with the ponies on them were inappropriate for a Sunday dinner outside the house.

Nor did I say anything when she slid them up my legs and over a butt so sore it hurt , followed by a tennis skirt. At least, I didn’t say much, just “What if someone sees the pull-up?”

“Daphne,” she said as she looked at me doubtfully, “You are 31 years old. You know how to sit without showing off your undies.”

“But … what if if they see the back of my thighs?”

“I didn’t spank your thighs, sweetie.”

“Well … okay.” Perhaps I wasn’t 100% mentally recovered if that was all I could think to say back. I put my own top on while Mary went into the bathroom and came back with the hairbrush I actually use to comb my hair (that one is mine; the one in the garage in the trash bag with the spoiled milk is hers) and a scrunchy. She put my hair in a pony for me.

She finally looked at herself and sorta frowned in an amused sorta way when she got a good look at her top. “You slimed me,” she said.

“Well, you spanked the slime outta me with your lecturing and that X-men reject and by being, ya know ... really sweet and loving me so much ... and stuff.” I didn’t anticipate being my usually excellent conversationalist self at dinner.

She took her top off before giving me another long hug. “You really are my good girl,” she said as she put her hands on my face and kissed me on the forehead.

“Stop saying that,” I whined and wiped another tear away. She blinked, ya know the way ya do when remember how much you love someone, and I felt self-conscious because the next thing I said was just stupid. “If I hafta to wear a pull-up to dinner, then you hafta wear a bra.”

She just made a face like she wondered if maybe she'd spanked my sanity away. Really weird thing to say under any circumstance, but she already was, in fact, wearing a bra. I probably spent as much time later figuring out where that came from as she spent trying to parse my X-men comment.

Anyway, sitting at dinner hurt a lot. So did standing, walking, and laying down, because spankings hurt (“It’s supposed to hurt,” Mary said to me preemptively when she saw me rubbing on the walk back to our house.)

The day did not go at all like I thought it would and I had some serious thinking to do that I hoped Mrs. Wilson would be okay with me talking with her about the next day. If I’d known just how upset Mary was with me prior to that spanking and that it was gonna be one of the ten worst I ever got (up to that point), I’d have fixed my own attitude. Mary was right; she gave me enough warnings to tell me before it came to that.

And the funny thing of that day is that while I still hated the bathbrush the most out of anything I’d ever been spanked with, it wasn’t scary any more. If I hadn’t been so emotional when she went to get it I’d probably have been rational enough to know it could never be more than I could take so long as Mary was the one swinging it. It wasn’t more than I could take. It wasn’t even quite at the limit.

But she did spank the smartass out of me, mostly, for an evening (that’s only ever happened twice before ) and that’s gotta be a sign that I’ve got the message. I hoped, when she sent me to bed right after dinner, that she’d spanked whatever had me being so difficult out of me. I like the sweet me better, too.

[WBDaddy]

2 hours ago, Alex Bridges said:

I don’t wanna get political but Marx had a point when he said it’s the workers who truly own the machinery of production and Mary is in the sore butt production business so they are hers and not mine.

That.  Was.  Epic.   

[Alex Bridges]

33 minutes ago, WBDaddy said:

That.  Was.  Epic.   

I taught political theory for a year. Never did use that example in class ...

[Diaperingdaddy]

Love it!

[Alex Bridges]

Well, maybe this will get a little more narrative in style. I wanna draw out my characters more.

______________

Scene #14

 

Mary nudged me out of bed the morning after that horrible spanking when her alarm went off and sent me into the shower first, which meant I couldn’t dawdle without making her late. She gets out the door faster than I do. It didn’t occur to me until later in the morning that she had purposely not just left when she was ready. She could have, obviously. She waited for me to be ready and helped me along.

She laid out clothes for me while I was in the shower, which she does sometimes, more of a weekend thing though, like she wants me in something specific or is just trying to be helpful. I went to bed - or really, was sent to bed right after dinner - thinking Mary was going to run a quick load of laundry. Not that I asked her to or that she said she would or that I was dumb to ask when I woke up after our “discussion” about chores, but Mary laid out a pull-up for me with my clothes. I just accepted it. For one, she threw out the remaining circa 2010 panties in my drawer and all my other ones were still dirty. For two, she laid the stupid thing out and I didn’t want to risk so much as a swat on what was left of my butt. Mom used to say to always wear clean underwear in case you go to the hospital; least of my concerns if I end up in the hospital.

Anyway, I got dressed while Mary was in the shower and decided to just wait on the bed. I never told her, but part of why I’m slower to leave the house most days is because I like watching her get dressed. It’s my version of The Today Show.

I did get a pep talk when she got done dressing, totally expected. Bad spankings usually lead to a reminder lecture the next day, but I like it more as a pep talk. Not that I didn’t have butterflies in my tummy when Mary said, “C’mere, honey.” I got off the bed (still hurt just to stand), and Mary maneuvered me in front of her facing the mirror. Arms around me, her chin on my shoulder. There’s a engagement photo of us just like that on our mantle; it’s one of my favorites.

“New day,” she said. Just once I wanna be a morning person like she is, all perky and glad to be conscious. “Who woke up this morning? My sweet girl or the bitch monster?”

“Your sweet girl,” I told her. Her sweet girl who really wanted to have a talk about some of the pet names she has for me, but another time. She kissed my neck.

“Who am I gonna come home to?”

“Your sweet girl.” She kissed my neck again.

“Who am I gonna go to bed with?”

“Your sweet but just a little slutty girl?” She kissed my neck again and again and I think we both wanted her to be late to work. She wouldn’t be Mary if she wasn’t responsible nine days out of ten, though, which to her means no later than 9:15, at her desk.

“I hope so,” she told me. “Everything I said last night still stands. Let’s not tie any records today.” I just nodded. “And it would probably be a good idea if the hairbrush came back from vacation today.” Brilliant idea, actually.

There’s never time in the morning for a real breakfast before work. We always share a smoothie on weekday mornings, and Mary long ago declared herself in charge of them. Her way of ensuring we both get enough protein and fiber. I’d have Frosted Flakes for breakfast every morning if she’d let me. Adding Fruit Loops to the smoothie is apparently enough of an offense to make her fine being at her desk by 9:30 and me at my desk on a warm bum. “But I made you a treat” didn’t dissuade her.

Into our Hydroflask tumblers the smoothie went, and I thanked her, hugged her, kissed her, and said, “Have a good day at work.”

And then nothing happened. I looked at the clock. 8:20. When Mary is ready, Mary leaves for work. And she looked ready to me. I gave her a quick once over, and yeah, ready. And she sat down at the table.

“Is everything okay,” I asked. Sweet girl this morning, remember? Concerned wife. Break in routine. What’s happening?

“Yeah, honey, everything is good. Why”

“I thought you were leaving for work.”

“I told Mrs. Wilson you’d be over at 8:30.”

“I remember.”

She shrugged and said, “We’ll wait five more minutes.”

It’s funny that there are people that Mary has designated as disciplinarians for me, including Sandy who basically acts as a babysitter, sometimes pretty explicitly with the role play, but I don’t think I ever felt so much like a kid as when Mary took me by the hand (that’s pretty frequent, us holding hands) and walked me to Mrs. Wilson’s house, also known as the house next door. It definitely felt like being dropped off on the first day of school school. All I was missing was a little Elsa backpack (how I hate Disney musicals, except Newsies) and some Mary Jane shoes. At least no one saw us waiting on the doorstep, still hand in hand, Mary looking ready to go run a ten-person team of tech workers and me looking ready for day camp.

“Good morning,” Mrs. Wilson said as she opened the door. “Come on in.” I went first.

“Morning.”

“Good morning,” Mary said. “Thanks again for spending the day with her.”

“I thought she was spending the day with me,” Mrs. Wilson laughed.

“Thanks either way.” Mary leaned close to my ear and whispered, “Behave today,” before she leaned back with her arms out. I got another hug and a “Have fun today.”

“We will,” Mrs. Wilson said.

“Have a good day, Mary,” I said as she left. Mrs. Wilson closed the door behind her. Much as some folk, like, say, Sandy would’ve been quite pleased to see me lose my shit and scream ‘don’t leave me, mama,’ I somehow against all expectations managed to remember that I was, in fact, 31, and hadn’t just been left at daycare. Even if I had gotten dropped off at the doorstep and had every intention of asking Mary if I could walk to kindergarten on my own next time (maybe at more like 10:00), I was actually looking forward to spending the day with Mrs. Wilson. We’d never spent a day together, but I do enjoy her company and I didn’t want to spend the whole day at home either.

“Don’t stand in the doorway,” Mrs. Wilson said as she waved me over, “come in and let me fix you something.”

“O, you don’t have to do that. I got my breakfast.” I brandished my smoothie. People at work are – I guess were – jealous of my smoothie. Of course, they didn’t have to drink the same smoothie at least five days a week, but whatev.

“You young people and your little life hacks. Suit yourself. I’m just going to make three eggs and two pieces of toast and some fruit and whatever happens to what I don’t eat is just gonna happen.”

“Thank you,” I acquiesced. “Can I at least help?” Although eggs and toast aren’t really a two person job.

“Sure. You can sit down and cut up this orange.” Not the same table as the night before, but the same chairs. People who say they’ll spank you until you can’t sit down are full of shit. Of course you can sit down. You just don’t wanna. Or you wanna a little, if we’re talking about me and I’m being honest.

I gasped a little when my butt met the chair and eased myself down slowly. Still a good pain, mostly; just maybe too much of a good thing all at once. If I’m not allowed to hide spanking implements, maybe I can just nail the bathbrush to the wall.

Mrs. Wilson cracked the eggs and then turned to me. “Look up,” she said and guided my eyes up with her hand under my chin. “Your eyes look much better this morning.”

“Thanks. And thanks again for dinner last night.”

“My pleasure. And thank you for spending the day with an old woman.”

“You’re not old.”

“Well, unless I live to be 120, I’m not middle aged either. What should we do today.”

“O, whatever you usually do or needed to do today. Don’t let me get in the way.”

“Funny,” she said. “that I never see any sign of the naughtiness Mary sees.”

“Grandmas usually don’t,” I said under my breath. Or thought I said under my breath. Mrs. Wilson smiled at me funny in a way that I could tell she heard me. I tried to cover up with, “Don’t worry because Mary is right. I got myself out of sorts last week.”

“These things happen sometimes. And we’re not doing what I do every day. What fun is that? Let me take you shopping or something.”

“I couldn’t let you buy anything for me.” Or did she not mean it that way? I’m not always that awkward. Just, ya know, some days. But it was my first vanilla play date (that’s what I decided this was) in twenty years. I was rusty. So a little awkward is excusable. A little.

“I didn’t mean it that way, sweetie, but friends can buy friends presents, can’t they?”

“Yeah,” I said. She dished up the eggs right on top of the toast on two small plates and sat down next to me.

“You don’t have to finish it all,” she told me. Which was good, because I did need to finish the smoothie. That’s a rule.

“Smells good.”

“Everything okay this morning,” she asked me. Perhaps because I was being kinda weird, and quiet, which is weird for me. “Are you still in trouble?”

“No. Well, sorta. I’m not in trouble from the stuff I got in trouble for yesterday, but I’m all out of warnings for the next … lifetime.”

"Well, she won’t get any bad reports from me. I left behind my tattle tale reputation when I was nine.”

“I just feel a little weird is all. I’m ... I’m just not great at ... This just feels a little like I got dropped off at daycare or something.” And then I laughed nervously, as though reading from a script that said to laugh nervously. She laughed like I’d told the best joke she’d ever heard. For a second I thought she was gonna be the first person in history to shoot scrambled eggs out her nose.

“Honey, I taught daycare once upon a time,” she said when she’d recovered from the hilarity. “I don’t think this is daycare.”

“I didn’t mean ... not literally.” Which she knew, and yet I said it anyway. Instead of dropping me off, Mary should’ve spanked me and sent me to Mrs. Wilson’s through the back yard. I never have so much trouble talking to Mrs. Wilson when that happens. It’s like there was some kind of awkward turtle transformation portal around her front door that morning.

“I know, honey … Would it help if you talked a little about what got you in trouble? That usually makes you feel better.”

“The same stuff I’ve been getting in trouble for. Quitting my job turned out not to be the panacea we hoped. Or maybe I hoped. Not getting yelled at by an abusive boss has been good, obviously, but I’ve still kinda been treating Mary poorly. I didn’t do my share of the housework and … I just had an attitude.”

“That doesn’t seem like so much to get you in as much trouble as, well, you seem to have gotten into, from the way you were squirming at dinner. In fact, that sounds like a marriage to me. There are phases.” True enough, but our marriage had a way to resolve those phases before they turn into long term problems. Or at least we thought we did. This wasn’t a long term problem yet, but what on earth did I need to just snap out of it.

“I’m underselling the details a little. I didn’t realize just … part of my problem sometimes, I guess. I don’t always realize how difficult I’m being until Mary points it out.”

“Maybe Mary can be too hard on you sometimes.”

“Not lately. I mean, she’s not infallible, but I … I don’t like being the person I’ve been lately.”

“Maybe you’re too hard on yourself.”

“Probably. Anyway, I didn’t think I was in so much trouble when we were talking on the patio yesterday.”

“But you were?”

“Yeah. And I made it worse without exactly meaning to.”

“Say something you shouldn’t have?”

“Tried to get out of something, sort of.” I wish I had just said something I shouldn’t have. I can’t think of anything I could’ve said that would’ve gotten the bathbrush involved. Friggin mutant sonuvabitch. There was nothing I could’ve said within reason to get that thing taken down off the wall.

She shook her head at me and sighed. “You were an awfully sorry sight last night. I wanted to give you a hug.”

“Hug would’ve been nice … Thought I hid it a little better than that…”

“Can’t hide eyes that puffy from a mom. And you were walking a little stiff.”

 “I … Mary knows how to … handle me, I guess.” I took a deep breath and thought to myself just screw it, let’s just use the S word. Mary has no problem using the word with Mrs. Wilson. “I got spanked pretty hard but … it’s when she tells me how I’ve disappointed her … that’s … that’s what got me crying so hard. Seems like all I can do lately is disappoint her.”

“That’s not true, honey. I know that’s not true. She is so proud of you for leaving that awful job, and,” she stopped and sighed, “honey, she loves you like … I’ve never seen a couple as in love as you two. It’s just … different. I’m not sure how.”

Mary and I aren’t exceptional. Lifestyle couples tend to be that way, a different kind of bond layered over the traditional partnership. Doesn’t make everything perfect, but it certainly makes everything more intense.

I took a deep breath. “I usually feel better after a spanking … Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Why … How come … How come you play along with this? I mean, it’s … you know.” Question the next: any theories on how I’m so damn articulate in my head and can barely get a sentence out of my mouth sometimes?

“I don’t think of it as playing, Daffy. When you told me all about the two of you I never thought you two were playing.”

“We’re not,” I started to say and she talked over me.

“I just … how else would we be? You and Mary are who you each are, even if you never meant for me to find out. If you’re okay with it, it’s only right for me to see you as who you are.”

“But … no one else does.” On the other hand, no one else knows but our friends in the kink community. Still, there’s zero chance of any vanilla just embracing who we are, and we don’t particularly want anyone to. Mrs. Wilson just fell into our lap. Once I came clean to her, she just embraced it. Mary’s in charge, I’m me and all that entails lately, and Mrs. Wilson just started engaging with us on the same level that I see Mary and that Mary sees me. Kismet, I guess.

“I’m not anyone else,” Mrs. Wilson said, “and I like helping people. You’re one of my favorites to help.”

“I like it, too,” I whispered. I think I won the neighbor lottery.

“I hope I am helpful, but if you want me to butt out …”

“No! I just … didn’t understand. It’s really helpful, having someone to talk to. Our friends who know, it’s just not the same talking to them like when we talk … I just don’t wanna burden you with it. It’s our lifestyle, doesn’t always feel right talking to you about it.”

“This is how it used to be. Neighbors helped each other. Your neighbor needs to talk about something, you talk. And we were all confidantes. The moms talked about being moms; we talked about our marriages. People kept more secrets than was healthy, but we talked, too.”

“Talked about stuff like this?”

“Well, maybe when the neighbor was a lot younger than you, but if that’s what they needed to talk about, yeah. I had a neighbor when I was growing up who I’d talk to when I needed a neutral grown up to just listen. You’re right, too; it was like having another grandma … And maybe I’m out of line, but years on a calendar don’t seem to mean much to the two of you.”

“I guess not.”

“And at my age, I can’t let them mean much to me or I get too depressed.” I laughed at that. “Can I ask you something?”

“Yeah,” I said, though depending on what she asked I might not have answered.

“How come Mary calls me ‘Mae’ and you call me ‘Mrs. Wilson?’”

“Mary told me to when we moved in. She said it wasn’t, um, appropriate for me to call you by your first name.” And then Mrs. Wilson grinned at me like I’m o so adorable. I am, but people don’t have to go round pointing it out all the time. I blush, and then that’s adorable, and then I giggle, and then that’s just too much to stand, and that’s how I wound up being labeled an adorabilibuddy in one of our kink groups. Like I’m a toy that lights up when you rub its tummy. Though I do perk up when Mary does that.

“You can call me ‘Mae’ if you want,” she told me.

“I’d get in trouble.”

“It can be our secret. Or you can call me something else.”

“You don’t like being called ‘Mrs. Wilson?’”

“Makes me sound like the old lady who lived next to Dennis the Menace.”

“Does that make me Dennis the Menace?”

“Goodness, no.”

“Maybe a nickname would be okay with Mary.”

“Or I could tell her I asked you to. You wouldn’t get in trouble for that, would you?”

“No. She’d be okay with that.”

“That’s what we’ll do then.” That seemed to bring the conversation to a stopping point.

“Can I do the dishes at least?”

“If it will make you happy,” she said and slid her plate toward me. “I do need to go run an errand,” she said. “Let’s go together, and I am gonna buy you a present so you can just accept that right now. Then maybe we can just come home and talk a little more. How does that sound?”

“Okay. If you insist.” I gave up. And friends do buy friends presents.

“Know what I wanna get you,” she asked. I shook my head. How could I know? “After seeing you in those ancient skivvies yesterday, we’re gonna get you some new undies.”

And then I dropped her plates into the sink (they didn’t break), and I’m sure my ears turned even more red (you’d assume a person could only blush so much before they get lightheaded – nope) and I saw Mrs. Wilson as the kindred spirit she is (a very sincere smartass).

I smacked my lips without meaning to and said, “Well, if that’s not a grandma gift …”

“I am a grandma. I’m just not yours … Would you rather call me ‘Nana’ than ‘Mae?’ Would that be more comfortable for you?”

“I’d like that.”

[justforfun]

For some reason I just found this story.  Really enjoying it!

[Alex Bridges]

5 hours ago, justforfun said:

For some reason I just found this story.  Really enjoying it!

It does seem to have attracted not so much attention from the board. Which is a little puzzling, but the ageplay/diaper component of this has been slow building.

[Guilend]

I'm really enjoying it myself. I enjoy every story you have written so far.

[orange_sandwidge]

Great story, very intrigued by the latest plot development!

[Alex Bridges]

Scene #15

 

I was such a good girl for two whole weeks after the bath brush incident. I didn’t get a single spanking, at least not a real one. A swat or two doesn’t count. Truthfully, I was getting tired of being good all the time. What’s a 31-year-old hafta to do to get her butt paddled?

Nana helped, though, to keep me out of trouble, just by giving me something to do, and I also think having her to talk to put me in a much better mood, especially since I didn’t have anyone to talk during the day. I just missed adult interaction. We didn’t hang out every day, but a lot of days I went over there. And yes, Mary insisted on delivering me to her door if I went over in the morning, and that one time she did have to swat me out of bed and into the shower, but that doesn’t count as a spanking, and I went over sometimes on my own anyway. 

Mary did set some rules for those visits, though. She was fine with me calling Mrs. Wilson ‘Nana,’ but after after a week, Nana was at our house when Mary got home, and I guess Mary felt it was time to set some parameters. Nana was only too happy to oblige.

She thanked her for the new panties she got me (I thanked her, too), but no more presents unless she and Nana talked about it first. Fine by me. She thanked her for helping me get some chores done, but she didn’t want Nana doing that; in fairness, I didn’t ask for help. I think really Mary meant she didn’t want her doing that too often, and Nana didn’t help much. And she had to stop baking with me so often. I was less happy with that rule (cookies!) but I also wasn’t so happy when Mary pinched my thigh. 

In fact, I wanted to call her a bitch, spanking or not, but instead I just gave her a very dirty look. That she ignored, which was kinda bitchy. I had not gained weight, but Mary still said, “She’d eat anything she wanted if I let her, so I try to make sweets a treat. Plus sometimes her little sugar highs end with her in trouble.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want that,” Nana laughed. “I’ll try to remember to stop spoiling her so often.”

“I do not get sugar highs,” I protested. Kids get sugar highs. I’m well past that point.

“What about trunk or treat last year?” Technically there were no trunks because it was a fetish party in a club, but there were treats aplenty. The person who brought the Oreo balls won first prize for best erotic treat, and they didn’t even mean them that way, so they claimed. But that was just one time.

“I ... well ... that was just the one time.”

“Uh huh. What about Easter?” So I ate too many peanut butter eggs and maybe got a little rambunctious, but I still don’t think that Mary needed to take me up to my childhood bedroom. Guess I should be thankful everyone thought we went up there to have sex, preferable to them knowing I got my Easter dress lifted while she gave me ten with the purse paddle. Not that we didn’t get plenty of weird looks and my parents didn’t use every trick in their mental inventory to remain in denial.

“But ... peanut butter.” That’s a valid excuse, right? Lots of people can’t control themselves around peanut butter. So maybe I got a little too mouthy talking to relatives. Stranger Things sucks, and I don’t care if my cousin is fifteen, she’s gonna stand there and she’s gonna listen to why Stranger Things sucks while my nephew sneaks me another peanut butter egg even if Mary said enough to both of those things. That’s what Easter is all about. Besides, there are no more novelty shaped peanut butter cups from Easter until Halloween. You strike while the iron is hot, and now as I’m writing this I think I see Mary’s point and maybe I do have an addiction, but Stranger Things really does suck.

“I don’t think you’re gonna win this one, Daffy,” Nana said.

“Be a lot easier sometimes if you didn’t remember everything,” I huffed.

“Don’t be a grumpy gus,” Mary warned me. “And you’d get in a lot less trouble if you remembered better.” Low blow, Mary. Low blow.

“She’s just showing off,” Nana said. “They do that for company sometimes.” Who is ‘they?’ Other thirty-something’s? That must be what she meant.

“Don’t I know it,” Mary replied. I didn’t reply. I chose to let the rest of the conversation happen without my input.

“And,” Mary continued. “I need your help.”

“Happy to help however I can,” Nana said.

“My guess, and my hope, is that Daffy is nothing but an angel around you, and I get that you two are close in a very special, and I really love that. But as you know, Daffy and I are fighting a war against naughtiness and ...”

I think I turned white as a sheet. Not our white sheets, but Martha Stewart’s white sheets. I wondered what color Nana was because I was looking at the little piece of carpet between my shoes. I couldn’t believe Mary was going to give Nana spanking permission. I mean, ignore that I don’t want anymore people to have that permission (there aren’t enough already? really?) but how could Mary even think to involve our vanilla neighbor that way? It was just unethical. I was mortified for both of them and for myself. It was so not like Mary.

“... if her behavior really warrants it ...”

O god o god o god! 

“... I’d appreciate if if you’d tell me.”

Is that all? I don’t know if Nana was relieved, but I was relieved enough that I didn’t even mind that Mary just turned my Nana into her narc.

“Well,” Nana replied, “if she really crosses a line, I’ll let you know. But me and her are gonna have our little secrets. That’s what Nanas do.” O, ya gotta love your Nana and secret surrogate pretend grandmas in general.

“Good,” Mary said. “She could use a good role model in her life.”

“I have one,” I said, kinda impulsively, but maybe just a little trying to be cute.

And I was pretty damn good for those two weeks, and I woulda been with or without Nana possibly telling on me. I really felt like myself again. I guess I just needed enough time to feel like I was in a routine again. I did my chores, I took on more chores, I had dinner waiting for Mary most nights, I applied for jobs, I did some phone interviews. I was my sweetest self, and I followed the rules almost a hundred percent. Then Mary had to go and make new rules.

The thing about a domestic discipline marriage is it’s hard to tell if you’re about to get a spanking for real or for play. I hadn’t done anything that I knew of, but I guess maybe I was ready for a serious spanking, so when Mary said, “Over my lap,” one evening before bed, I didn’t exactly protest. You might even say I sorta hopped out of my shorts and over her knee in one motion. Like a dolphin. Or a golden retriever.

And then she didn’t spank me, which what the fuck? If I was hard up for more than a swat, then she had to be, too. I was ready to just ask. Instead, she started massaging my butt. Which is almost as good as a spanking, but it’s not at all the same even with the soft smacks and her fingers doing wandering around down there. Maybe I am a brat, but she is such a tease sometimes.

“You’ve been doing so good these past two weeks,” she said. “Quite the turnaround. I’m very proud of you.” She always says I seem to listen better when I’m over her knee, but I don’t think so. It’s hard to hear over a paddling, and it’s hard to pay attention when she’s tickling the insides of my thighs.

“But the job search is taking a little longer than I hoped...” Which is not my fault. “...and I wanna set some new guidelines until you’re back at work.”

“Okay,” I said.

“I don’t want you to get any further out of a work routine than you already are. I could send you over to your Nana’s more, but you’re already over there from the morning two days a week and even if she we’re okay with it, I’m not.”

“But she likes spending time with me.” I’m her favorite sort-of granddaughter.

“Of course she does. I just don’t want to intrude on her time anymore. You can go see her whenever, but I don’t want to just presume I can drop you off at 8:30 every day, but I also don’t want you laying around the house on days you’re not with her.”

So if Nana didn’t consider me hanging out for such big pieces of the day to be daycare, and if I was sorta somewhere in between, Mary apparently did think of it that way, at least in effect. I knew what she meant and agreed - there’s a point where you wear out your welcome, pseudo-daycare or two friends spending a lot of time together or not.

“You ready to hear the rules?”

“Yes.”

“You’re going to get up at the same time I do every day. You’re going to go to the gym or go for a walk every day. You’re going to dress like you are going to work every day. And you’re going to go bed like you have work in the morning.”

“I can’t stay up a little later?” That would severely cut into my video game time.

“Nope. I want you used to your regular sleep schedule when you go back to work.”

“Do I really hafta dress for work?”

“You wear jeans to work.” Yeah, but jeans are neither yoga pants nor shorts. “Just put on a skirt if you don’t wanna wear pants with buttons.” Which was a pretty good summary of my feeling towards real clothes when there are athleisure alternatives. Anyway, jeans haven’t been sexy since it became okay to wear yoga pants almost everywhere.

“Okay,” I said. These were not big deals. I’d be doing them again soon once I got a job. Going to the gym every day instead of most days isn’t a problem when you don’t have anywhere else to be.

Her fingers were swirling over the backs of my thighs. I was about ready to ask, now that we were done with the new rules, whether we were going to get busy or not when Mary handed down the last rule. I don’t know if she put me over her knee in the hopes her fingers would keep me too distracted to put up a fuss or so I was spank-ready if I put up a fuss. Probably both. Mary is crafty like that.

“Lastly, you’re on your own a lot, and I want you to have a reminder to behave.” Finally. Finally! FINALLY! I’ve been arguing for maintenance spankings for years, and Mary always said she knew better than to let a kinky little monkey like me get away with maintenance spankings. I’d enjoy them too much, she said. Of course she was right, and irony or ironies, I once pressed the issue so much that I got an on-the-spot spanking for asking one too many times for maintenance spankings, but fine by me now. I was ready to hop up and get a calendar. Let’s get these puppies on the books. How about Sundays at nine, instead of church? Good? Great. Set an alert on your phone.

Nope.

“So from when we get up on weekdays to when I get home, you’re wearing pull-ups.”

Oh. So no maintenance spankings. Pull-ups five days a week. The rule about pull-ups still stood, too: they come off when they’re wet. I can use the potty, but no regular underwear until the pull-ups are wet. I’m not a fan. At least not as much as Mary thinks. She thinks she knows everything about me, but it’s more like 98.7%, and she thinks the rest are things that she knows and I don’t wanna admit, but that’s at most 1.1%, and pull-ups and related activities are in what’s leftover. Probably. 

Talking Mary out of a rule is like time travel: possible in theory. I came close once. But nope. Fine line, too, because trying to talk her out of a rule is a tightrope between feeling like I’ve at least saved face by protesting and falling off the rope and over her knee. One time I fell off the rope and over the hood of the Subaru, and now I’m not allowed to drive over 75 no matter how fast everyone else is going because, and excuse me if I don’t see the logic in this, I wouldn’t drive over a cliff just because everyone else did, would I? Whatever. I had to sit on the hood of that car while she lectured me after. Stupid hot metal. And stupid cows watching the whole time.

I don’t wanna wear pull-ups every day or really any day, especially not if I hafta use them even if it is just a little and I’m a big girl dammit and ... Butt up, panties down already, I had to express my feelings in just the right way. 

So I said, “But ... I don’t ... ehhh ... seriously ... urgggh.” I mean, how could she say no to that? Cicero himself couldn’t have made a better argument with his toga pulled up and his butt on the firing line.

“Yes, seriously,” Mary said.

“Fine,” I whined.

And now you’re wondering, geez, she went two weeks without a spanking? Daphne Ann? And she managed to keep herself from saying something to get her spanked even after that awesome oratory was shot down like a drone flying over a crazy farmer’s crop circles? Maybe she doesn’t even need spankings anymore. Maybe she finally learned how to behave.

Meh.

My two week streak came to end the next day. In fairness, I was following all the rules we talked about the night before, and I wouldn’t have even gotten caught if Mary I’m-so-thoughtful hadn’t been so thoughtful.

I got home from my workout (at least I don’t hafta wear those stupid pull-ups there), took a shower, put on real clothes and the Goodnite, and blam. Caught red handed.

“Ahem.” I about jumped outta my skin. I thought I was alone, of course. Instead I just almost choked on the milk I was drinking and spilled some down my shirt.

“Mary,” I said as I wiped my face off. “What are you doing home?”

“My meeting was canceled, and I thought I’d come home and surprise you. Took the rest of the day off so we can go do something fun.” Little warm fuzzy ball of love right in my tummy when she does sweet things like that.

“Aww,” I said and gave her a milk free hug. Skillz. She put her hand on my butt, and it was all I could not to jump up and down and say, See! I’m following the rules! Please be proud of me! (Golden retriever does seem an apt metaphor for me sometimes. I take no offense.) She kissed me and let me go.

“Drinking out of the milk carton? Something wrong with our glasses?”

“Um, I was just ... I got back from my workout and I was just really thirsty.”

“I thought we broke you of that habit years ago.”

“I ... I almost never,” I said. ‘Almost never’ translates in Mary’s mind to ‘Is a thing she does when I’m not around.’ She’s not always right about that. I’d give you examples, but I forget what they are. Really. 

“Sorry.”

“Well, good thing we have all day,” she said. She grabbed me by the front of my jeans, pivoted around me into a kitchen chair, and popped the button on my jeans one handed and in one motion. The chair wasn’t even facing out and then suddenly it was and she was in it. Everyone thinks I’m kidding when I say she’s a ninja, but that is some ninja shit. Mary is no more a developer team leader than Clark Kent was a cub reporter. And Mary would spank the lies right out of Superman’s mouth, too.

“But it’s just milk,” I tried to say by way of getting out of it. Jeans down, pull-up on display, pull-up down, Daphne naked between her waist and her ankles. That took almost a whole two seconds.

“It’s a rule you broke, Daphne. You know that.” Over her knee. I could draw our kitchen tile from memory. 

Mary’s purse was by the door, and the spoon was in its crock, so I grabbed the chair legs, wished once more I was tall enough that my feet were at least on the floor, and settled in for a hand spanking.

People who think an adult won’t cry at a hand spanking may be right if the person doing the spanking isn’t a ninja. How fortunate for them. But Mary is the kind of ninja who believes in proportional justice, so I didn’t cry. I grunted and twisted and squirmed and kicked my feet a little, and of course none of that deterred her and she kept a firm hand around my waist to make sure I didn’t fall off and hurt myself. I didn’t even beg or anything. I just made the occasional “Eep! Ow! Ah!” She was thorough like she always is, but it only took five minutes until she was satisfied I’d learned my lesson.

“What are you not going to do again,” she asked as I laid over her knee with a dark pink butt pointed at the ceiling.

“Drink out of the carton.” And then I was on my feet. 

“Your pull-ups are still around your ankles. Your undies never stay on,” she said as she redressed me. Gee, what a wonderful bonus to wearing pull-ups. We should write the company so their marketing division can slap that on the packaging. ‘Won’t fly across the room when spanking your wife.’ 

And once more, these are not my pull-ups. They belong to Mary. It’s complicated, but when you consider the term ‘use,’ Marx’s view of ownership still works and I don’t like em anyway and she buys them and just because they’re on me doesn’t mean they’re mine. By that logic, the entire earth is mine, and I don’t want to explain that right now so just accept it.

On the long list of sanctions Mary may impose on me, none of them last very long. At the very bottom of the list, on the other side of the bath brush and the belt and taking my phone away (torture!) is grounding. When my spanking is over, it’s over. She doesn’t hold my naughtiness against me, and I don’t pout. Not unless I want a second spanking. I rarely pout (without meaning to).

I got my hug (sigh), and my, “All’s forgiven. You’re my very good girl,” (sigh), and my kiss on the forehead (flutter, melt). And I wasn’t even sore enough that I had to put any effort into not rubbing. Not that it would help through Mary’s stupid pull-up anyway. “Where do you wanna go to lunch?”

“Anywhere you want,” I told her.

“Oh, no you don’t,” she said as she swatted me again. “You’re picking this time.”

“Can we just go sit at the pub and hang out?”

“Sounds perfect. Go find your shoesies.” She let me go, and I got another swat to send me off.

I think we’re put in earth to make people happy. Mary makes me happy. And I’m probably still gonna drink out of the carton sometimes, but I’ll wear these stupid pull-ups if she says so. It makes her happy.

 

[WBDaddy]

Uh-oh.  Now the real slide begins...

[Alex Bridges]

Scene #16

 

I regret nothing. Totally worth it. So totally worth the spanking I just got and the one I’m gonna get when I get home. I snapped, and it was so worth it.

Video games probably result in a statistically significant share of the world’s spankings. Not that I ever got spanked for it growing up, but I got in trouble for swearing at the TV while playing (you should’ve heard my grandma swearing at the TV during baseball season - holy shit), and for fighting with my brother and sister over whose turn it was. Standard stuff. 

I think part of my mother’s impatience with the thing was just that she had an outdated view of video games in general. If she really believed a word she said when she was chasing me outta the house to go play, then she must still be wondering why my brain hasn’t melted. As opposed to classic board games with their compelling narrative arcs (“Sorry!” Really? Why don’t I play the board game “Sorry!”?). She never minded us playing those (I will admit Battleship has a certain degree of drama if you use your imagination - those poor souls.)

And she just didn’t understand how I could like video games. Give her a break because it was a long time ago and video games at home were still kinda new, but to her they were boys’ toys. I had my share of Barbies (nothing happens when you bump Barbie up against Ken, but when you bump Barbie up against your other Barbie, you can kinda see how that would work in real life), so I wasn’t a tiny lesbian stereotype playing in dirt all the time and dressing as He-man for Halloween or anything. She’d ask what I wanted for Christmas or my birthday, and I’d say a video game, among other things, and she’d say, “How can you like those,” but one would show up under the tree for me anyway. 

Still, by the time I was fourteen, I wanted to say, I just do, every time she asked me how I could like video games, which is honestly the one hundred percent simple answer. By the time I was sixteen, I was ready to say, Guess what else I like! And then I did when I was 17. Not in the context of video games, but in the context of the world’s most overdue and awkward “talk” anyone’s ever tried to have. I’d been thinking about coming out for a while, and it seemed like the right time, plus I wanted the hell out of that conversation. I guess they kept waiting until I brought a boy around, and then decided they had to have the talk before I got any older.

Mom, looking like she studied early 1990s after school specials and YouTube videos on tone and body language for this occasion: “Honey, you’ve been a woman for some time now, and it’s time we talk about birth control.” 

Dad, looking like he’d agreed to not shoot boys on sight only to make Mom happy: “Just ... Jesus Christ almighty.” And then he put his head in his hands.

Me: “Can we not have this conversation if I tell you I’m a lesbian?” Awkward pause. “Good news for all of us then.”

Two hours later, after I’m done giving the talk to them, the last question my dad has is, “Is ‘lesbian’ spelled with a capitol L?”

“Yes, Dad. It’s a proper noun, like the Dodgers.” Went right over his head. I’m almost positive he would capitalize it if he ever had a reason to write the word.

Anyway, it started out as a normal day. Actually, there’s nothing abnormal about me getting spanked, so it was a normal day all day. I met my friend Jane to go shopping. Just plain vanilla shopping. Jane is a little and her wife slash big is Lisa. Lisa is on Mary’s “May Spank Daphne” list, and Mary has put Jane over her knee when she needed it. Jane isn’t a spanko like me and Mary. She’s just a little, and getting spanked happens to naughty littles. Sometimes she tries to get one, but more often she just brats because she loves being a brat and then she finds herself in the corner wondering exactly where she crossed the line. 

I think I told you about the party we went to that ended with Jane goading me into snapping at her, and then Mary spanked the crap outta me and played the gentlest game of patty cake ever on Jane’s butt because she’s “just a little girl.” She’s thirty-freakin-three.

We finished our shopping trip, and went back to her house, where Lisa had lunch waiting for us. I don’t know when Mary and I crossed the line from domestic discipline to ageplay. I’m not even sure if we have, but Lisa has treated me like a middle ever since Mary blessed her with spanking privileges. I don’t mind. It’s endearing and not really noticeable, usually.

Jane transformed from little-pretending-to-be-an-adult to very-tall-kindergartner the moment we got inside, and five minutes later, there was a glass of milk and a peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich in front of me; Jane’s sandwich was in the shape of a kitty, sort of, and I assured Lisa she didn’t need to cut the crusts off mine. She may think of me as a middle, but I have a grown up palate. I’m probably not alone when I say that somehow peanut butter and jelly goes great with Cheetos and I wanna know why. Really, a very grown up palate. Grown up enough to know that PB&J is just three different forms of sugar, which is why virtually everyone likes it so much.

I thanked Lisa, and I even offered to wash the plates, but she showed me out of the kitchen with a pat on my butt and I cringed because no way she didn’t feel the pull-up Mary had me wear for the day. Jane and I sat down to play some video games in the living room. I don’t know how she and Lisa divvy up household responsibilities or if cleaning while Jane plays just makes Lisa feel even more like a mommy, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen Jane clean anything, ever.

Anyhoo, Jane and I like some of the same games (yes, adults play video games, to all you boomers out there with your cable news and your questions about which remote does what). I’m more than happy to play her little games - it’s fun to play with littles, to a point; they just get so happy at small stuff - and we did. I’m not sure what my little pony’s name was, but we played, and then we switched to a game both of us like.

I don’t know if Jane got bratty because she was losing or just because she has fun bratting. I do know that beating the pants off someone at a video game is fun as hell. Used to beat my brothers, used to beat my friends when I could convince them to play, and used to beat my dad when he’d try video games just to spend time with me; golden memories. Three different skill levels, and the worse they were at it, the more fun it was for me in a sadistic sorta way. Maybe Jane figured if she couldn’t beat me at being mean on screen, she could beat me at being mean off screen 

“This is stupid. All your games are stupid,” she said, and I didn’t point out that this was her game, literally.

I will admit to not exactly responding in the most mature way. You can’t enjoy all the pleasures schadenfreude has to offer if you’re mature about it. It’s like sex: it’s not all about the orgasm, but ya get lot more outta the experience with it than without it (if you take your time). So perhaps, “The game’s not stupid. You just suck at it,” wasn’t the most clever response, but all in good fun. At first.

“You’re stupid.” Littles are so clever.

“I know you are but what am it.” I’m not proud.

“Stupid.” Touché.

Lisa heard our witty banter and called out from the kitchen, “If you can’t play nice, I’m gonna take it away.”

“Sorry,” we said in unison.

It’s funny how when Jane is being bratty and she gets frustrated, her little age goes from about five to middle-school mean-girl. “You’re cheating,” she accused me, which I wasn’t. Not even sure how a person could cheat at that game.

“I am not. You just never play against anybody who’s good.”

“You can be such a bitch sometimes.” I hit pause. Part of our job sometimes is to watch out for littles.

“What will happen if your mommy hears you say that?” 

Jane is a cutey. I don’t know if she does it on purpose or if it’s natural to her, but she makes the most ridiculous sad faces. “Wash my mouth out and give me a spankin’.” I don’t know how she just loses her Gs like that. Littles are weird animals.

“I won’t tell her, but you need to use nice words.”

“Sorry. I’ll be nice.”

See? I can be the more mature person when necessary, and I can play along with bratting littles, and I can even enjoy it. We went back to playing, and in a best-of-five game, I scored four points and then let her get three I did a pretty good job of making it seem like I wasn’t throwing the game. Now she was having a blast. I might have even let her win (probably not).

She got cocky. The game went from stupid to “You suck at this” and “You’re not so happy now, are ya” and I just kept my smile to myself. I could’ve won at any point. I let her get her fourth point, and I’ll admit that I was kinda letting her get close because it would make it that much more fun when I took my fifth (not really kinda; that’s exactly what I was doing) but she was having so much fun I was wavering. Sometimes ya gotta throw a game; it’s nice, and it’s also crucial if you ever want that person to play with you again.

Then she sealed her fate. Never do a victory dance until you’re the victor. Part of our job is teaching littles, and that’s the lesson I taught her. 

Pow. Game over. So sorry. Maybe next time. Probably not though.

I don’t know where Lisa was. Upstairs or outside, because she didn’t hear (1) Jane’s controller bounce off the floor or (2), “I hate those game and you suck and you are too a crap head!”

So maybe I deserved that. I set a trap, and she walked into it, and it was fun for me, and not fun for her. Or it was briefly, but when you get so close and lose, it takes away the fun. I couldn’t help but chuckle at her little outburst though, which in her headspace apparently pissed her off something mighty, and nothing I could say could calm her down.

“It’s okay.” She may have believed that, but it didn’t change her opinion of me as a crap head, apparently.

“It doesn’t matter who’s better at the game.” I didn’t believe that - ha! 

“I least I don’t wear pull-ups.”

Gee, thanks a lot, Mary, both for making me wear them and for letting word get around.

“Jane, that’s not nice.” Calming down pissed off littles (and kids younger than 10) lesion #1: if you show them they found a weak spot, they find a stick and start poking at it. 

“Jane...”

“Pull-up pull-up pull-up!”

“Honey...”

“Pull-up face!”

“I’m gonna count to three ...” Jane slipped into her headspace when she walked through the door. When did I slip into my headspace and start responding to her like she really is five and I’m, I don’t know, her big sister or babysitter or something, who knows? Nothing happens after three. Well, normally. When Mary counts to three, woe unto my ass if I don’t take heed.

“Diaper butt!”

I swatted the outside of her thigh. I would never in a million years hit a child, but she’s not a child. She’s a little. A very long time ago, she told me if she was in her headspace, that’s how she wanted me to treat her, like a little, if I was comfortable with it. I gave her that swat without a second thought.

She stopped, looked at me kinda funny, and practically screamed, “DIAPER BUTT!!!”

Welp, I promised her one day I’d spank her for real, and I told myself it would be worth it. I don’t know what constitutes a spanking between her and Lisa. Probably more than what Mary gave her at that party (like, six spanks; I get twice that in ad hoc smacks just walking through the living room over the course of a week).

I tipped her over, yanked up her skirt, gave her a mother of a wedgie, and started spanking that butt. I don’t even remember the last time before that that I gave a spanking. Shoot, it may have been to myself. But you don’t forget how. You may forget in the moment that Lisa is there, though.

I like to think I got in fifty hard and fast ones before Lisa stopped me; it was probably just twenty-five. Between the smacking sound and Jane squealing, I didn’t even hear Lisa until she grabbed my wrist.

“Daphne Ann!” I’m pretty sure Mary has inadvertently taught almost everybody we know what my middle name is. Lisa had Jane in her arms like a mama bear protecting her cub, and suddenly I was on the defensive. I was no longer the “oldest” person in the room. Can’t exactly say I was sorry though. It’s hard to tell the difference between tears and crocodile tears when they’re coming from a little. I had my suspicions.

“What on earth is going on in here?” Poor little Jane retreated back to her I’m-so-traumatized-I-can’t-speak-and-need-my-mommy routine.

“She was throwing a tantrum,” I defended myself. “I was just pushing her reset button.” Mary uses that term with me. My butt: a behavioral reset button. 

“Who does the spanking in this house?” 

Jane magically recovered her powers of speech. “Mommy!”

“That’s right.”

“But,” I tried to think of something else relative mature sounding, but instead I said, “she was making fun of me.” So I started out as trying to justify myself by playing the reasonable adult who unfortunately had to give the little a spank on her reset button, and then I kicked the shit out of the stool holding up that (weak) argument and made myself the middle who got angry because the little was making fun of her. Also something I’m not proud of, but I’d still do it again.

“It that true,” she asked Jane.

“All I said was she wears pull-ups and she does!”

“She called me diaper butt!”  I’m pathetic. I admit this and am still glad I spanked her. 

“She is,” Jane said again. “Diaper butt!”

Lisa sort of sighed. It seemed like a very genuine mommy sigh. She led Jane to a corner and told her to stay there. My satisfaction was brief. I sat there and didn’t anticipate the ear grab (fucking ow!) and then I was in the other corner. “You two stay where you are.” I let out a very genuine Daphne sigh. In the corner again. Woopty doo.

“Don’t turn around until I tell you,” Lisa said. Yeah yeah. Like I don’t know the rules of corner time. Probably beat the pants off of Jane at corner time, too.

At least I didn’t have to go first. I stood in my corner and smiled because finally Jane was going to get the spanking she deserved. I just listened while Lisa lectured.

“You know better than to name call. We do not say mean things, do we?”

“But ...”

“Do we?” You tell her, Lisa!

“No.” Great big sniffles. Is the little girl scared of her spanking? Well, too bad.

“And we don’t make fun. We especially do not make fun of people because they’re not ready to stay dry. Everybody grows at their own pace.” Low blow, Lisa. Low fucking blow.

“And you have your share of accidents, so you especially shouldn’t be making fun of Daphne because she needs pull-ups.” That’s a fun bit of information. Mental note to follow up on that later.

“I may put you back in pull-ups if you start having accidents again. We do not make fun in this house. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Jane said in the most pathetic voice. Any other day, I’d rush to comfort her. Not that day.

“Mommy is going to pull your undies down and spank your bottom.” Jane squeaked, and I figured that was her panties coming down. I probably gave her a worse wedgie than spanking.

And finally, FINALLY, I got to see (hear) Jane get her comeuppance for the years of bratting iI endured. Good friend or not, I was ready for this a long time ago. Mary may have held back because Jane wasn’t hers, but now the piper would be paid. I hoped Lisa left and got the hairbrush. That would be sweet.

I heard the skin on skin first spank. Warm up with the hand, then straight to the brush. Classic. Two. Three. Four. Five. Jane was whimpering. Here we go!

“Now, you stand in the corner while I tend to Ms. Big Britches here.”

MOTHERFUCKER! THERE IS NO JUSTICE IN THE WORLD!!! ARRGGGH!!!!

Lisa had me by the ear again before Jane even shuffled to the corner. At least it would just be a hand spanking.

Nope.

She did go get a hairbrush, and, worse, a bar stool. I hate - HATE - being turned over a knee on a bar stool. I won’t even sit in one at a bar. I feel ridiculous with my feet just dangling there and trying to scoot the thing close enough to actually reach the bar. Being spanked over one means my feet and hands are just hanging in the air. Nothing makes me feel more like a little girl than dangling there while I get my butt spanked.

Now, the four of us have known each other a while. Lisa knows I enjoy erotic humiliation. I didn’t know she was actually good at it. I don’t even know if she was trying to be good at it. I just stood there and felt that strange, but fun, feeling of my brain pulling in opposite directions, hating and loving every second (probably more like 70/30). And also probably making my situation worse by rolling my eyes and sighing like a pouty teenager, but ya know what, I had just found out there was no justice in the world. That’s a pretty damn good reason to be pouty.

Down came my skirt. I stepped out. Old hat for me.

“Are you dry?” She didn’t wait for me to answer (good, because my mind was blank; how do you even respond to that?) and put her hand on the front of it and around the back. “All dry. Good for you, Daphne. I’m sure you won’t need these much longer.” There wasn’t the faintest hint of sarcasm in her voice. Was she in her ageplay headspace, or is she just a natural at this? She’s so good I still don’t know what she thinks the pull-ups are for or what I do in them. I want to clarify that with her, but also really, really don’t ever wanna talk about it with anyone.

“Look at me.” I lifted my chin to look her mostly in the eye. “Honey, I know it must be so hard having to go back to pull-ups at your age. It must be so frustrating, and of course you’re embarrassed. It’s not your fault, and I hope you know that your mommy and me...” 

Excuse me? My what? She must be talking about a sixty-year-old woman named Beth because Mary is not my mommy.

“... know that. We don’t blame you. You’ll be ready when you’re ready, and we’re all going to help you. It was very wrong of Jane to make fun of you, and I’m very sorry she did that. Do you understand all that, honey?”

“Um, yes?” Well, not really, but okay. Anything to speed this up.

“But it was even more wrong of you to spank her for it. You do not give the spankings in this house. In fact, Daphne doesn’t give anyone spankings anywhere, does she?”

At least I knew the answer to that one. “No.”

“If Jane is misbehaving, you tell me or your mommy or another adult ...” 

I’m just a middle around here, apparently.

“... and we’ll take care of it. Now I have to give you spanking for what you did. I’m going to pull down your pull-up and put you over my knee and spank your bottom. Do you understand?”

I just nodded. And rolled my eyes. Do we really need the production? I’m not a little. I don’t need it explained to me, I don’t need a pep talk about a non-existent potty - bladder! I meant bladder - problem, and could we skip to good part? Or mostly good part?

“Do you need to go potty before your spanking?”

Don’t ask me. I just work here. Maybe I could get a job at the post office. I guess Lisa took my not-immediate as a maybe.

“Let’s go try.” She had me by my upper arm, and I was speechless, not my usual condition. I wasn’t surprised by the talk about the pull-up but this was out of left field. She was taking me to the bathroom. To pee. Mary takes me to bathrooms all the time, to spank me. Suddenly that didn’t seem so embarrassing. Yet I walked along side her and never even gave a thought to saying “red light.” It never even crossed my mind. I can’t remember the last time I said it.

“I’ll wait out here,” she said and nudged me, and there I was in the bathroom. I have no idea who was in the mirror. Daphne, kinky minx, or a middle with potty problems? Yes? 

I did pee (why not? I was there.) and washed my hands and (heaven help me) pulled the pull-up back on, and there was Lisa waiting for me when I opened the door.

“Um, I peed.”

“I heard! Good for you.” I prayed for a sinkhole to swallow the house. I was blushing so hard I think the top of my head was red. 

“But we still have this spanking to take care of.”

Back we went to the living room, where I could tell from the back of her head that Jane was laughing at me, and while I was contemplating some devastating comeback, Lisa whisked the pull-up to my feet. Damn near gave myself whiplash turning from Jane to my ankles.

“Step out.” I did, and then - I swear, Lisa was either a mile deep in headspace or just is a natural at humiliation or else is just a natural mommy who does see me as truly a middle - she held the thing up and looked inside. It was perplexing (who does that?) until she said, “Good job wiping.”

Forget sinkholes swallowing me. Just murder me. Murder me dead.

“Do you have any questions before I spank?”

“Yeah. Since you’re gonna spank me anyway, can I finish spanking the brat?” What is it with people who are just about to give a spanking? Do they have no sense of humor? That was funny! No outward sign she thought so. And it was a legitimate question! If I was gonna do t he time anyway, at least let me finish the crime!

She sat, said “Over”, and there I was, naked below the waist, hand and feet dangling, with that friggin pull-up a foot in front my face, just perfect there for me to look at, and Lisa gave me the spanking some may feel I deserved. I am not among those. She didn’t spank me like Mary would, but she spanked me like she was spanking a spanko, not a little. I don’t know, maybe that’s the spanking she would give any naughty middle. 

Not like I haven’t had worse, but I came off her lap (really, was eased off her lap so I wouldn’t fall off the stool) with a red behind. I didn’t give Jane the satisfaction of so much as an eep from me, and Lisa didn’t get to see me do the spanky dance. 

I got a hug, she patted and squeezed my butt, and she picked up that Goodnite and put it back on me. Notable not my skirt.

“Jane, come here. What do you have to say to each other?”

I tried to go first, but Jane beat me to it. Stealing my thunder. And she did it on purpose, too, because what she said was, “I’m sorry I made fun of your diaper.”

Gotta give her credit for being good at bratting. Like, a world champ gold medalist wins all the sports dishes good at it. I’m good, but I can admit when I’m beaten. I win video games. She wins bratting.

“I’m sorry I spanked you ... and it’s a pull-up, not a diaper.” Someone’s gotta stick up for Daphne, and I guess that person was Daphne that day.

“Hug and make up.” We did. “I’m going to get my keys, and I’ll drive you home.” Really wishing Jane hadn’t picked me up, not that it would make any difference to my butt, but a little less embarrassing. Could’ve stopped and gotten Mary some flowers. Or seen a couple movies. Star Wars marathon, perhaps.

And just to rub it in, because she knew the answer, Jane asked, “Is your mommy gonna give you another spanking when you get home?” That’s the rule: spanked by someone other than Mary away from home, get another spanking when I get home.

“Yes. And she’s not my mommy. She’s my wife.” 

Because I am an adult. I am. Really!

One day I really am gonna spank Jane, a real one. Some time when her mommy isn’t around to save her.

I regret nothing!

[Guilend]

God this was sooo good.

[Alex Bridges]

? Thanks.

Sometimes I feel this is a vastly under-read and under appreciated story.