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

[Sarah Penguin]

[Bluebird67]

Shrsn frsn grsn dumbasses!

[YourFNF]

God I wish I had a Mary

[Alex Bridges]

3 hours ago, YourFNF said:

God I wish I had a Mary

? Don’t we all. If it helps, you’re a very good middle.

[Sarah Penguin]

Hmm is Alex  Bridges a little girl? It's okay if you are

[Alex Bridges]

On 7/14/2020 at 7:52 AM, Sarah Penguin said:

Hmm is Alex  Bridges a little girl? It's okay if you are

I am not a little girl! (Really!)

(Where have we heard that before?)

[Alex Bridges]

Scene #37

 

“Stop looking at me like that,” I said to my Mary.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m an adorable little duckling.” I am not a duckling. I am an eight-hundred-pound she-gorilla packed into a size 4. A force of nature to be reckoned with, and there will, by the grace of the Furies, be a reckoning that will shudder you!

“I know you’re not a duckling. You’re  a gosling.”

“What? Why am I a gosling?”

“Because you’re such a silly goose.”

“But ... no more pet names.”

“No deal, Daffodilio.”

“You are such a Flanders!”

“O come on. We’ve done it before. I seem to recall you used to love it.”

“It was different then.” And o, by the way, this conversation took place while we were in bed, me sitting across Mary’s lap.

“Why was it different?”

“Because we weren’t, ya know. With the ageplay stuff so much. It’s different.”

“O. I hadn’t really thought of that. But it doesn’t have to be different. I don’t wanna do it if you don’t want to, but I don’t think it has to be something different now.”

I did like it back then. Made me feel pretty awesome that I could make her do that; not all women can, and not all lovers can make it happen. I didn’t exactly trust her renewed interest, though. I couldn’t really see her taking it in that direction, but I didn’t see the absorbent undergarments coming into my life a year ago.

“You promise this is just what it is and not some ageplay thing?”

“Cross my heart,” Mary said and did so, looking like she’d won a prize (which she did: me).

“I’m not a gosling.”

“Uh huh.”

“I’m fierce.” She just nodded like she was humoring a, well, you know. “I’m an eagle ... a golden eagle.”

“The goldenest.”

Suffer the wrath of my irritable face! 

“Is that an eagle sneer,” she asked me.

“Mammals fear me.”

“I know I do. Because when you don’t get enough sleep, you get so cranky.”

“Alright. Enough with you. If you want to, you know where it is.”

“Is it right here,” she asked, “right where I left it?” She put her hands between my thighs, and I took a sharp breath as I blinked and blinked again and felt my breath shake.

I turned my head into Mary’s breast and found her nipple, wrapping my lips around it and teasing it with my tongue. 

Yes, Mary can cum just through having her nipples played with, but I’m the only one who can make it happen for her. It doesn’t make me a superhero - it just makes me super.

[Sarah Penguin]

[YourFNF]

??

[Alex Bridges]

Too damn late in the day to edit this and I haven't had dinner yet.

________________

Scene #38

 

 

 

I’ve been told sometimes I push things a little too far. A touch. I dispute this notion. It’s not that I push too far but that others don’t back up enough. I need space to shine. And I didn’t really push anything, contrary to what Mary says. A philosopher will tell you that a “thing” is defined by its “thingness,” a terrible standard that’s still better than Mary’s definition of “a thing is whatever I decide it is, Miss Sassbottom.”

That she gets to decide when I’ve pushed things too far and also what constitutes a “thing” to begin with is a lopsided arrangement. A political philosopher will you that’s too much power vested in one person, no checks or balances. I may have consented (okay, it was actually my idea) to this benevolent dictatorship, but as a woman of the people (or in this case, I am the people) I do have a sacred obligation to stand up for our rights against tyrants. Mary tends to remind me that Socrates drank the hemlock because he was obligated to the state that had made his life possible and the state told him to down it, a line of argument she ended with “so bend over.” I think ours may be the only household where anyone has ever said, “L’etat, c’est moi – so bend over.” I had an excellent counterargument but I forgot what it was while I was rubbing my butt after. And anyway, she is my Sun Queen.

I was trying to remember that argument while standing in the living room corner waiting for Mary to come get me. I didn’t think I did anything wrong. Really, I wasn’t even sure why I was in the corner in the first place. One moment we were sitting on the couch, and the next Mary told me to get my bottom in the corner and was ever so helpful in pointing me toward it with a smack on my butt. “What’d I say,” I asked.

“Get (smack!),” she answered. “And stay put ‘til I come get you.”

Color me confused. And I had hurt feelings. One moment we were being disgustingly cute newlyweds flirting and playing footsie on the couch and the next I was in the corner. Mary didn’t sound playful when she ordered me into timeout. She didn’t sound angry or disappointed either. On the other hand, I felt massively insecure and was going over everything I could think of in my head on what I had done or said. If this was some kind of mind game it was the most effective one ever and it sucked. It felt like dating again with me wondering what I’d said or done to so successfully end a relationship after just a couple dates, which I had a stunning track record of.

“Okay,” Mary said as she came back in and took me by my upper arm, gently but firmly leading me up the stairs.

“What did I do wrong,” I asked in complete earnestness. I’m very earnest, as you know, even if nine-point-nine out of ten times I asked that question I know damn well what I did. That doesn’t detract from my earnestness, which comes through in other ways. Really.

         Mary didn’t answer me, which made the eight-second trip to the bedroom nerve wracking. Mary doesn’t fly off the handle, which I couldn’t deal with (it would’ve been a deal breaker) and it’s not like she often gets really angry with me. Normally she just says she’s disappointed with me, and she sounds it. She didn’t sound angry, and she didn’t sound disappointed, and she didn’t sound sexy. If this was that ‘I’m-so-angry-I’m-calm’ thing, it was unnerving. And I’m rarely unnerved, as you also know. I’m the very picture of poise and confidence. I’m the precise opposite of an insecure, needy, emotional hot mess. Even when I’m over Mary’s knee getting my butt tenderized and wailing like a she-demon, I mean to do that, so that’s actually when I’m at my most poised. Really. (Don’t question my gibberish, dammit!)

Mary led me straight to the chair in our bedroom and sat me down in it. She stood in front of me and crossed her arms. Her expression was blank, while mine, I’m sure, could be summarized as “huh?”

“Little girl…” Dammit! “which of us is the domme?”

Ooh! Ooh! I knew that one! “Um, you are.”

“And what does that make you?”

“The submissive?”

“Are you not sure?”

“No?”

“Then why are you asking questions?” I had a math teacher who used to do that, and I fucking hated it then, too.

“O. I’m the submissive.” I gave myself a little headache with all the effort it took to not roll my eyes.

“You’re the submissive. That’s right. Submissives do not disrespect their domme, do they?” She loves Socratic lecturing. Another thing I’m not best pleased with, and all things Socrates are just one of those things we agreed to disagree over.

“They don’t.”

“And when they do, what happens?”

“They get punished.”

“They do get punished. Now, it would be disrespectful for a submissive – that’s you, remember? – to, for instance, suggest that their domme – that’s me – do something submissive, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

         “Because submissives submit and dommes don’t.”

“Gold star for Daphne Ann. Let’s run through some examples. Who gets put in timeouts – dommes or subs?”

“Subs.”

“Who gets spanked?”

“Subs.”

“Who decides who gets spanked?”

“Dommes.”

“And here’s the question that brings us to our bedroom – who wears diapers?”

Ooooooh. I got it now. All caught up. Because I had been joking about, well, bet it’s obvious now.

“Um, submissives do.”

“You’re an A-plus student today.”

“But it was just a joke,” I defended myself. “I didn’t mean you really should.”

“I know that. But you’ve joked about it before, and I made it clear it wasn’t something you should be joking about. Joke or not, it’s disrespectful. Remember what happened the time you joked about spanking me?”

As in the time, I said, ‘you need a spanki…” and found myself in the air being flipped over and ass-murdered before I even finished the syllable? She was literally spanking me while I was in mid-air. Her hand more than gravity it what pushed me down over her lap, which is when I realized she’s a ninja. That it happened at a dinner table that was not in our house would surely have shocked the other guests if it weren’t that particular crowd. Every dominant at the table looked on approvingly while every sub studied their food in detail, and then to drive the point home, Mary gave each dominant a turn. And then she asked their permission for their subs to spank me while I stood there like an incredibly well chastised sub listening to her explain that dommes do the telling and subs do what they’re told. Well, duh. At least I had the sense to keep that to myself. And at least some of those subs didn’t put their heart into spanking me. And at least it wasn’t a big dinner party.

“Yes.”

“So maybe what I need to do is arrange some playdates for you. You can see how other dommes diaper their subs and littles, and you can see what some littles do in their diapers besides tinkle. Is that what you want?”

“No.” Okay – being diapered by other dommes is in my soft limit category. That other thing is in my I-won’t-even-type-it category.

“I want you to go into the closet and get what I put on top of the toy chest.”

Interesting term we have for that trunk. I’ve always thought it would be really cool if we got some of that blank egg foam and craved perfect niches for each toy to go into, but that’s a lot of work and so what if the thing is disorganized. Part of the fun of digging through a big box of sex toys is digging through it and finding what you forgot you had. Of course, Mary had already gone through it and picked out what she wanted for …

Seriously? I’m sort of purposefully not googled this stuff because I don’t want to know or give Mary any ideas. I’m not surprised they make cloth diapers for adults or that they have babyish designs on them, but I was surprised they were so heavy. But they were at least cotton, so that had to be better than the disposables Mary orders from thingstoembarrassdaphne.com.

Mary was sitting on the ottoman when I emerged from the closet holding what I was going to be wearing as soon as she was done reddening my butt. She had the hairbrush in her hand, which was so uncalled for. I wasn’t that disrespectful.

“Did you really just roll your eyes?”

Wait, did I? “Um, I don’t think so?”

“I guess we’re just overdue for this,” she said, sounding kinda surprised.

“I got a spanking two days ago.”

“I mean for a reminder of the big picture.” She held out her hand, and I handed over the diaper.

“Do you like your new undies?”

“Not especially,” I said earnestly. See, told you I was very earnest.

“Just want to make sure my lap is protected,” she said as she spread the diaper out over her lap. I have nothing to say on that subject. She smoothed it out and then looked up at me. “Why don’t you sit down for a moment.” I started to sit next to her, and she stopped me before I even lifted my foot. “No no. Right there on the carpet.”

         I can’t even remember the last time I sat on a floor. It was probably back when I was in college and was working at summer camps, and even back then it had been years since I sat on a floor. Or actually, come to think of it, the last time I sat on a floor was when I was babysitting my nephew. We played cars together. He’s such an adorable little thing, especially with his pull-up sticking out above his … dammit. Anyway, I thought the lecture portion of the afternoon was over, but nope.

         “It is not okay to disrespect me. I expect better behavior than that. You’re a submissive, and I’m going to remind you of that. Understand?”

         “Yes.”

         “Who does the spanking?”

         “You.”

         “That’s right. I’m going to pull your little skirt off, yank down your cute little undies, and spank your little bottom. And you’ve lost pants privileges for the day. When you’re spanking is over, I’m going to put your fanny into a diaper, and it’s going to stay there until morning. Who wears diapers?”

         “Subs.”

         “And?”

         “Littles.” Which. I. Am. NOT!!!

         “And who else?”

         “Um, diaper fetishists,” I guessed because I assumed she wasn’t talking about babies and people with incontinence.

         “And who else?”

         “Um…”

         “Daphne.”

         “I’m thinking.” Geez, a little patience goes a long way.

         “No, sweetie. I mean, Daphne wears diapers. That’s you.”

         “O.”

         “Say it, please, sweetheart.”

         I married such a B. Which is great and all, but there’s a whole list of things I’d rather say about myself than that. Like, “Daphne is not good at confrontation,” and “Daphne doesn’t remember how to do long division by hand,” and “Daphne believed in Santa until she was fifteen” because all of that is less embarrassing than what she wanted me to say. Plus, who wants to give such a B the satisfaction.

         But she was already holding that hairbrush, so I tried to get away with, “Daphne muhbuh buh buhbuh.”

         “Use your words, little girl, like you know how to.” Okay, a condescending B.

         “Daphne wears diapers,” I said with no intonation except annoyance and while not looking her in the eye.

         “Daphne doesn’t talk about herself in the third person, though, so maybe Daphne wants to try that again.” A sarcastic, condescending B.

         “I wear diapers.”

         “Why do you wear diapers? Do you have potty accidents?”

         “No.”

         “Do you wet the bed?”

         “No.”

         “Well, if you don’t have potty accidents and you’re not a bedwetter, then why do you wear diapees?”

         “Because you say so.”

         “Very good. But if they’re not accidents, why do you tinkle in your diapees?” They’re. not. MINE!!!!

         “Because you say so.” And why does she make me say these things? And why does saying them make my body do what it does? I’m not the only person in the world who’s eager to please, but only some of us get all mmmm because of it.

         “That’s right, too! You’re doing soooo good. After you’ve made a wetsy in you diaper, who changes you?”

         “You do.”

         “That’s right! Because you’re not allowed to without permission. But who does have permission?”

         “Whoever you say.”

         “Right again. Anybody I decide can change your wet diaper, and you’ll let them. Why?”

         “Because you said.”

         “And that’s because I’m the…”

         “Dominant.”

         “And you’re the…”

         “Submissive.”

         “And a quick learner, even if you do need these reminder sessions. Now, to drive the point home, I’m going to spank your bottom, because if you’re not too old to need diapers because I say so, then you’re definitely not too old to get your bare buns spanked because I say so. Stand up … now hold your arms out.” O, like I don’t know the procedure. “One day,” Mary said with what I imagine was the biggest Cheshire cat grin ever since I decided not to watch, “you just may be big enough to take your own undies down before you get a spanking, but you’re too little for that. Maybe when you’re thirty-five.”

         Down came my skirt.

         “And we’re not going to be needing these, are we? Because you’re in diapees for the rest of the day.” And down came my panties. She lightly took hold my ankle, and I lifted my foot so she could get my erstwhile clothing off, then lifted my other foot. Mary sighed. “By your age, I’d really expect a girl to need no more than two spankings a week to reminder her to behave.” O, bit me. “I don’t like having to spank such a cute bottom.” Lies! LIES AND WICKEDNESS! With her mind games and ageplay and … soft eyes and warm skin and how she knows just how to make me all blushy and tingly in anticipation. The devil really does come disguised as a beautiful woman mixing her lies with the truth.

         “Come over to my side,” she beckoned me. “Now it’s time for your spanking. I’m going to lay you over my lap, and I’m going to spank your bottom with this hairbrush to help you remember that you are the submissive little girl, and I’m you dominant. Understand?”

         “Yes.”

         “Okay…”

         She guided me over her lap. She was doing a wonderful job confusing the hell outta me. She kept jumping from (kinda derisive) you-do-because-I-say dominant to gentle lemme-remind-you-how-this-works-because-you’re-a-little-lost-lamb-who’s-forgotten-her-place to butts-will-burn to but-just-enough-to-teach-you-a-valuable-life-lesson.

         “Comfortable?”

         “Mhmm.”

         “Good. That’s not part of the punishment. Just making your bumbum uncomfortable is.” I wanted to wiggle off her lap and just dance and shake until all the anticipation was out of me. Between the taking-to and the talking-down-to, I felt exactly like the person she was treating me as, and even I now agreed that person needed this lesson driven home hard. “Are you ready for your spanking?”

         “I’m ready for my spanking.” Pleeeeeeeasssssse already!

         “Okay, and I want you to know that lots of little girls have accidents during their spankings, too. It’s okay if you tinkle while I’m spanking your bottom. I know it hurts ... Here it comes…” FUCKING FINALLY!!!

 

 

         (Smack) Mmmm. How you doin’?

         (Smack) Ahhh. I like that spot, too.

         (Smack) Ooo. Alright, that’s enough of a warm up.

         (Smack) That one had a little zip to it. Now we’re getting somewhere.

         (Smack) Ouch. Now that times about a hundred and don’t be shy.

 

 

“You were very brave.”

Excuse me? O don’t you dare …

“Can you get up?”

NOOOOO! I'M NOT DONE!!!!!!!!!!!!! RELIEF!!!!! FREEEEEEEDDDDDDDOM! KHAAAAAAAAAN!

…. and she’s rubbing my butt. Crap. “I didn’t learn my lesson,” I said with no ability to hide my annoyance, which was fine by me because I had no intention of hiding it. She had Sooooo much left to teach me.

“You’ve had enough.”

“No I haven’t.” C’mon! Teach the shit outta me!

“That was a very big spanking for such a little girl. Sit up and let’s get your diapee on.”

“No. I'm not a little girl.” If she hadn't just lectured me about who's the top and who's the bottom, I'd have told her to get spanking or I'd dock her a day's wages.

“’No?’” She giggled. “I think yes, little girl. Because I say so.” She reached between my legs and folded the diaper over my butt giving it a good yank and my butt a pat when what I needed was a whack. “You got just the right size spanking for such a little diaper girl.”

What? What the fuck did she just call me? I mean, no. Just no. Fuck that. I am not. I am not. I am not. I fucking am not. Mental turmoil. Synapses misfiring. Electrical signals getting lost in unused brain wiring. I am not. Is it melodramatic to hyperventilate under these circumstances? I dunno – ask someone whose brain is still working.

         “Up we go,” she said to me and didn’t wait for my cooperation. She was lifting me up, and then I was on my feet, and then I was shuffling across the carpet with that diaper between my legs. “Lie down.” On what? What’s this called? A bed? I’ve never heard of such a thing. What’s it do?

It’s like I had a migraine without the pain. Like half of my brain jut shut down, including the part that makes me run. It’s not fight-or-flight. It’s fight-flight-or-freeze, and my hypothalamus made its choice.

         “Aw,” she said to me when I was on my back waiting for my brain to reboot. “That’s okay. I know you couldn’t help it.”

         “Huh?”

         “You had an accident during your spanking, but that’s okay.”

         “I didn’t,” I said in a seriously whiny, plaintive, shouting kinda way.

         “I’m sorry, but you did. Feel.” She pressed it against me and I felt a certain coolness that is often caused by something damp being exposed to air, but, like, that doesn’t mean anything. It was very humid is all.

         “But I didn’t.”

         “You didn’t what? You didn’t tinkle, or your princess parts didn’t get wet?”

         “I didn’t …” O, with the feelings and the squirming and the why didn’t she spank me right.

         “That’s what I thought,” she said smiling the Cheshire Cat is actually the most sincere and empathetic cat you’ll ever meet. “But if you’re not a pants piddler, then when exactly did that little tingly feeling inside show up? Was it when I was lecturing you on who’s in charge, or was it when I was explaining how I was going to spank your naughty bottom? Or maybe it was when you were telling me why it is that you wear diapers? Hmm?”

         And more squirming and blushing and putting my arm over my eyes because I needed a minute to myself. She just chuckled again, and a few seconds passed before she said, “Lift up for me.” I did as I was told, and when I was told, “Down,” I felt something thicker but dry under me.

         “That should last you until bedtime,” Mary said, “but lemme know if you get uncomfortable. This is going to be a little trial and error until we get these cloth ones figured out ... which are so friggin adorable.”

         I wasn’t paying attention. My brain was back on, and I was making an agenda in my head for an emergency meeting I was going to call.

         She closed the thing over me, tugging it pretty tight and velcroing it shut, and said, “Gimme your feetsies.” She was putting plastic panties on me. At least they weren’t uncomfortable. “And hands.”

I held out my hands, but kept my eyes closed, and she helped me sit up. When I did and opened my eyes, I saw those plastic panties balloon up for a moment.

“Stand up. Tell me what ya think,” I was told, so I did. Or at least I did the first part. I looked down at myself, felt the padding between my thighs (sooo thick), reached behind me and ran my hands over my own not-even-sore butt (even thicker), and my body once again decided it was going to do what it wanted to without any input from me because my bottom lip started quivering.

“Ohhh, c’mere.” Mary reached out and took my hand and tugged me back onto the bed right next to her and hugged me while I buried my head in her chest. “You’re okay, little girl. Shhh.”

I was trying to remember the agenda for that meeting I just set up in my own head, and in the meantime I thought I’d stall for time, so as a little introduction to all attendees, the meeting organizer in my head was saying, Thank you for coming today. I’m Daphne, and I’m having a lot of emotions I’m not sure how to deal with right now.

         And the me the rest of the world sees and hears translated that as, “(Sniffle).”

         “What happened to my horny little girl,” Mary asked with a chuckle.

         “I don’t like these. Can … can I just wear the other ones?” Not even going to ask for panties because why bother. Might as well as for a million dollars cash and a billion dollars in unmarked sex toys.

         “Now you like those?”

         “No, but I don’t like these more.”

         “That’s good, then, because they’re for a little change. From now on, these are your punishment diapers. The other ones aren’t for when you’re in trouble anymore.” 

         “Then what are they for?”

         “We just went over this, silly. What did we just talk about Try and remember – what are they for?” I didn’t get it right away. “Why do wear diapers?”

         “Because you tell me to.”

         “Exactly! So the other ones are for…”

         “When you tell me?”

         “Right."

"And these ones are for when I’m in trouble?”

         “When you’re in trouble and I tell you.”

         “Then when are the other ones for?”

         “When I tell you.”

         “But when is that?”

         “Whenever I tell you.”

         “But … okay.” Well, I could tell that was as much clarity as I was going to get, and it was probably all Mary knew. She likes to pretend she's got it all planned out, but she's making it up as she goes most of the time. I think. They weren’t for anything other her liking me in them.

         “That’s my good girl.” Oooh. Did you hear what she called me? Which reminded me of my meeting agenda. We already crossed Item #1 (I don’t like these) off the list. On to Item #2.

         “I’m not a diaper girl.” Did I mention this conversation took place with Mary still hugging me and my face still buried in her chest? Because it didn’t. Really.

         “But what are you wearing?”

         “It doesn’t matter. I’m not. I don’t wanna be called that.”

         “Okay, sweety. What can I call you instead?”

         “Daphne.”

         “What else?’      

         “Daffy.”

         “What else?”

"Daffodil."

"What else?"

         (Silence)

         “How about I call you a silly goose, but only when you’re being a silly goose.”

         “I am not a silly goose.”

         “Said the silly goose.”

         “Marrrry!”

         “Aw, such a pouty girl. I think I know why you’re feeling pouty.”

         “Because I don’t like this … outfit.”

         “I think it’s because you got all wound up and didn’t get to let it out.”

         “Maybe…” She sees things that others don't, as well as things that are glaringly obvious to everyone.

         “And I think we can fix that later.”

         “Can we fix it now?” She was at least as horny as me, but of course denial is something she gets off on.

         “Hmmm nope. Later.”

         “Can we fix it a few times?”

         “Hehe. I certainly hope so. Let’s go get a snack.”

         “Mind if I stay here while you do that?” A girl’s gotta try, amiright?

         “Nice try. Get waddling.” She gave me a swat that I couldn’t even feel, and she wasn’t kidding about the waddling. I guessed I’d get used to the feeling and figure out who to walk not like Baby Huey if I found myself in these things often.

         “Ha,” Mary snorted

         “What,” I said giving her a mildly dirty look.

         “I was just thinking Jane is going to tease you so bad if she sees you in those. Better be on your best behavior before you see her next week.”

         “Hmph. You said you’d spank her for real if she makes fun.”

         “And I’ll keep my promise. I already talked to Lisa about it. Let’s go find some peanut butter.”

[kerry]

I SO love Daphne as a narrator, and I'm always happy for another chapter. ?

[WBDaddy]

9 hours ago, kerry said:

I SO love Daphne as a narrator, and I'm always happy for another chapter. ?

This.  Emphatically.

[Sarah Penguin]

[YourFNF]

 

Askhjskgksfjskfj fiesaioaofjdakfaklsdjaklsjkga;sdakdslad

*collapses*

 

 

......

.....

....

....

Umm wow okay... ? So now that I've had a sec to calm down....... You really captured the whole dynamic. I feel I was really getting Daphne's mixed "How dare you! Fuck off!" and "Oh God yes please, more.". Like I could feel that fight in my own head.... So ummmm Great job. ?☠️I'm going to grab a shower now while I try to calm down some more.

[Alex Bridges]

4 hours ago, YourFNF said:

 

Askhjskgksfjskfj fiesaioaofjdakfaklsdjaklsjkga;sdakdslad

*collapses*

 

 

......

.....

....

....

Umm wow okay... ? So now that I've had a sec to calm down....... You really captured the whole dynamic. I feel I was really getting Daphne's mixed "How dare you! Fuck off!" and "Oh God yes please, more.". Like I could feel that fight in my own head.... So ummmm Great job. ?☠️I'm going to grab a shower now while I try to calm down some more.

You’re bunches of fun ? I always like seeing that you commented.

[Alex Bridges]

The very first two-parter (maybe three) of this series.

As for the illustration, I found it on Deviant Art. If it's yours and you'd rather I didn't use it, please PM me and I'll remove it.

 

Scene #38, Part 1

 

 

In retrospect, it felt like all of quarantine had been building to that day: Jane was coming over. I hadn’t seen Jane in person since the pool party at Brenna’s where she and Tommy got me in so much trouble. Sure, a jury of not-my-peers might say I’m the one who pushed Tommy in the pool (but I only poked the wimp), and witnesses for the not-my-people would say Jane tattling on me for making fun of her, which I was not and she was just being a brat, may have cost me my second strike but that the pool incident would’ve gotten me spanked anyway, but acting as my own counsel and star witness, Jane and Tommy ganged up on me. I got spanked til I was walking funny, Tommy got publicly spanked til he was walking funnier, and Jane just looked on like she gives how-to-be-an-angel lessons in her free time when she’s not working with orphans and differently abled kittens.

Or how about the time before that, when I for once accepted the role of ‘middle’ that everyone wants to pin on me? Jane was in her little headspace, and I played along, and then she got upset I was beating her at a video game. The pseudo-six-year-old called me a diaper butt, and I tolerated it the first eighty times (even though I was just wearing a pull-up, I’ll remind you) until I accepted my responsibility (lost my patience) and stepped up to help correct her misbehavior (shut her the heck up). If everyone wants to think of me as a middle, fine - I jumped (uninvited) into the role of babysitter, tossed the little brat over my knee, and spanked her on her reset button. Or started to before Lisa, Jane’s big caught me. Instead of the thanks I deserved, I got marched to the corner and got a blistering lecture about who gives the spankings in Lisa’s house. Just when I thought Jane was finally going to get a real spanking for her name calling, she got a few love taps, and then I - me! the (originally) wronged party - got the backside of a hairbrush applied to my backside. And then I got it again when I got home!

Or the time before that when we were at a party and Jane was bratting the – whole – damn – time. All I did was tell her to shh (rudely, and snapped a teensy bit at Mary in the process), and we both got marched upstairs. I had to stand there with my (stunningly spankable) ass on display while Mary played patty cake on Jane’s butt (and she let Jane win!). My protest, as I was being pulled over Mary’s knee, that her tickle fest on Jane’s butt didn’t even count as a spanking was met with the rejoinder that Jane is just a little girl. Well, to that I say, HORSESHIT!!! I got spanked to actual tears (which my being just the right amount of drunk probably helped facilitate).

And those are just the times I told you about. It’s enough to make a sensitive soul like myself come to the conclusion there is no justice in the world. I was pretty unhappy with Jane after the pool party incident, and I told her so after the fact. I told Mary so, and Mary told Lisa, and Mary promised me that the next time Jane was mean to me, she’d get a real spanking. But I’ve had plenty of time to think during this quarantine, and I realized the only justice in the world is the justice we make.

As these incidents demonstrate, I’m (almost) never naughty on purpose. But I had some justice to make, and sometimes goodness (that’s me) needs the help of a little badness (also sometimes me, but not often. In fact, rarely. Really.). We had gone back into full quarantine for two weeks, only seeing Nana (who only saw us), and so did Lisa and Jane so we could have Jane come over. No one called it a play date, but with one self-described little and her big on one end of the zoom call and me and Mary on the other, it seemed like a foregone conclusion that’s what it would be. I had a plan, and I had a backup plan, and I had a tertiary plan, any of which, if executed properly and with the stars aligning, would end with Jane getting the paddling she deserved for all the times she got me in trouble (or was nearby when I got myself in trouble - same difference!). I was even willing to kamikaze my own butt, and my pride, in the pursuit of Jane finally getting the spanking she deserved.

My first plan was more of a trap. If Jane made fun of me, Mary would spank her (and do it right – she promised!). I thought this was so foolproof, I almost didn’t make backup plans. If I did something embarrassing, Jane would say something embarrassing, and I could then credibly say she was teasing me. If I just put myself in a position where no self-respecting brat like Jane wouldn’t make fun of me, game over for Jane. Know what’s embarrassing? Anything and everything having to do with the various (seriously? there were at that point three different kinds to choose from) absorbent undergarments in our house.

If there were longer term consequences, I’d deal with those in the longer term. I was a general in a war for justice, and flag officers like myself get paid to make to make the tough choices. Sacrifice a little cannon fodder (pride) for the big picture, and replace the cannon fodder later. I was also my own intelligence officer, and I knew my plan needed a little subterfuge. It couldn’t be an obvious put up job, or I’d be the one getting paddled. I was willing to risk that outcome, but only if Jane’s butt was on the block with mine.

As it turned out, Mary didn’t cooperate in Step One of Plan A. If she’d laid my clothes out as she sometimes does, that would’ve added some much needed authenticity to my subterfuge, but I’d just make do without. Meaning, I had to choose to wear a Goodnite. Enter long-term consequences, because Mary would surely draw the wrong conclusion from that choice. Another day’s problem.

And by the way, I think this really shows that I can be laser focused, despite an outward appearance of being a bit of a scatterbrain, and also that I do think ahead even if I don’t always make the wisest choices. Those are just misperceptions (stop laughing!) that people who are not very perceptive make.

So I did it. I put on a Goodnite and put a pair of heather gray, basic cotton shorts over them (literally – Amazon Basics). Pretty short ones too. Not so short it was immediately obvious what I was wearing, but short enough it would become apparent upon close examination, and I was prepared, if necessary, to get so close Jane would have no choice but to examine them.

Even though it was a Saturday, Mary had to work a bit, so when the doorbell rang, it was just me - general, intelligence officer, soldier in a war for justice, bait. The X factor in all of this was Jane. Who would she walk through the door as? Adult or a little?

“Daffy!” Oof! Big hug!

“It’s so good to see you,” I said and meant it. Just because I was on a mission didn’t mean I wasn’t glad to see one of my besties after months.

“You look so good,” she said to me. “Working outside agrees with you. I think your hair is even a shade lighter.” Drat. She came as an adult. The last time I saw her in person, she was wearing a swim diaper under a swimsuit with ruffles sewn to the butt. So I had to lure her into her little headspace. Why? Because littles, especially a brat like Jane, are easier to provoke into the kind of misbehavior I needed Jane to commit.

“You look great, too,” I said as I took her hand and led her to the living room.

“I have quarantine body,” she complained. “I’ve been on my ass eating carbs all day every day.”

Funny how even though we’d been talking regularly, we still started off by talking about everything we’d been up to, or mainly just rehashing the same complaints we’d been talking about, along with the rest of the world, since March. Jane still hadn’t noticed my choice of underwear, so I sat back against the arm of the couch with my legs folded in a way that definitely, definitely showed off my choice of attire. Then I could tell she did notice, and instead of making fun, she didn’t even say anything about it. She just kept right on talking about work (or something; I was plotting more than listening).

So I decided to raise the issue myself, in a roundabout way. “And it sucks not getting to see any of our play partners or scene friends,” I said.

“Lisa and I watched you guys do that erotic humiliation demonstration. It was pretty hot.”

And cue my blushing all the way to the back of my head. “I hate inspections.”

“I could tell from the way you, um, reacted,” she chuckled. “Did you get in much trouble for failing,” she asked with a little lilt in her voice.

“Lots. Mary made me stand in the shower while she aimed the shower wand at right at my … inspection … point ... Anyhoo, what about you guys? You been disconnecting from all this by going into little space a lot?” If I ever could regress like she can and just mentally be a little kid again, I sure as hell would’ve for the past four months.

“Some. Not as much as you’d think. I mean, more at first, but it’s not so easy to do that every day for so long,” she explained. “You know, just a lot of mental energy.”

For the trillionth time, I AM NOT A LITTLE! I don’t know. I haven’t the foggiest, frigginist clue. “Mhmm. I was half expecting you to come over as a little today. The last time I saw you, Lisa was making you wear pull-ups.” I was hoping just raising the prospect of her coming over as a little would make her switch into little space.

“Not for very much longer after that. I see Mary is still insisting you wear pull-ups.”

I waited for her to follow that up with a joke or a giggle or something, anything, that could be considered not nice. No such luck. But I had a plan for that.

“Yeah,” I said, “Can I get you something?”

“Some water sounds good. I know where it is…” She started to get up.

“No need. Sit. I’m going to go get Mary, too. She should come say hello. She gets so into her work.” And I needed her to be a witness. If I was going to up the stakes, I needed some instant pay off.

First, I went to get Mary, who shut her laptop and went to the living room to see Jane. Then, I went to the kitchen and made Jane a glass of water. Then I made one for Mary. Then I made one for me, except I made mine a glass of water warm. If simply being a pull-up butt wasn’t enough to elicit a cutting remark from Jane, upping the ante to a soggy pull-up butt would. Or so I hoped. And not just wet, but downright soggy. Surely that would be enough for Jane to tease just enough for me to hafta to defend my honor (also known as egging her on), and she’d say something mean enough for me to pretend to have hurt feelings, and then my White Knight would ride in on her unicorn waving a paddle over her head.

I could hear them chatting but couldn’t quite tell what about. I pulled out the back of my shorts and pull-up and poured most of the glass in, slow enough not to leak right away but full enough that there’d be no mistaking I needed new underwear. It was definitely a funny feeling (which made me hafta pee, so I did; liquid authenticity for my subterfuge). I then made myself another glass and did my very best to carry all three to the living room with just enough waddle to be noticed and not enough for it to look like an affectation. I didn’t hafta try hard to waddle. If Jane cooperated and Mary did her part, I’d be watching a spanking that for once was not my own inside of five minutes.

I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised to find that while I was gone, Mary had gotten Jane into little space. Mary seems to get better and better at that, being that she is a big even if she won’t call herself that. And no, that doesn’t remind me of anyone else who says she not something she is (stop smirking!). Nor did I feel jealous to see that Jane was sitting in my Mary’s lap. Not even a little bit. Really.

“What do you say,” Mary asked Jane as I handed them their glasses.

“Thank you.”

“Two hands, sweetheart,” Mary said as Jane lifted her glass for a drink. No one said a word about my waddle because they weren’t even paying attention! But I had a plan for that. There was a reason I poured so much water down that pull-up.

“I was just telling Janey that she’s grown since I saw her last,” Mary said.

I sat down on the couch and got exactly what I wanted, a feeling I only ever get when Mary makes me keep the same diaper on for too long: squishiness. I maybe should’ve waited more than four seconds before standing up for the best effect, but I didn’t, and Mary asked, “Where you going?”

“I want more ice.”

Three … two … one. “Daffy. Hold it right there, little girl.” I froze and reminded myself this was all about the long con. I could recover from this, provided I received justice. “C’mere,” Mary said to me. All my senses went into overdrive. I could’ve heard a chipmunk snicker. That’s all I needed. Just a titter from Jane. I walked up to Mary, Jane sitting on her lap. Mary reached out and put her hand … “Turn around.” I did. “Goodness!”

If only Mary would spank Mary for teasing me, we might actually get somewhere. I cringed, but this was okay. If Mary said something embarrassing, I could rely almost 100% on Jane taking her bratting to a level that crossed the line. Maybe Mary would even feel guilty for starting it and give Jane a worse spanking. I stood there hoping and blushing.

Now, bear in mind that while I’ve played with Jane in her headspace on numerous occasions, she’s a little. She is not a middle. I will, at times, admit to being some facsimile of a middle, as I have occasionally been while playing with Jane in her headspace. But she’s the little, and I’m the (pseudo) middle (but not really. Really). That’s just how it is. That’s reality, which still exists despite the forces of unreality: Jane is much ‘younger’ in little space than I am when I’m pretending to be a middle (purely for the benefit of others, as I am not an ageplayer, as I’ve said, for I do not protest too much so much as others don’t listen enough).

Jane was just sitting there (on my wife’s lap!) with this unreadable look on her face, which is not what I needed her to have, until Mary said to her, “I think you’re grown up enough to help change a diaper. Will you be my helper?”

“Okay,” Jane sunnily agreed.

Dammit it all to the crappiest motel room in hell! Not what I wanted! Setback! This was not the end to my means. All I wanted was for Jane to make funna me for having a soggy pull-up. This was completely counter to my plans. Bigger picture, not only did I not want anyone helping Mary change me into a diaper, I didn’t want to be in diapers in the first place. Immediate picture, I needed Jane acting immature. If she was going to be Mary’s helper, she’d be trying to be more mature.

“That’s okay. I don’t wanna wear a diaper today,” I said like that ever had anything to do with what I ended up wearing, except that morning, which was a special circumstance. Tactical retreat. “I’ll just go clean up and put on some panties.”

“O no ya don’t,” Mary said before I could even start to turn around to scamper out of the room. “Anyone who pees so much their pull-up leaks definitely needs to be in a diaper for the rest of the day.”

“But …” Mary sat there with a too-pleased-with-herself smile on her face waiting for me to come up with a counter argument she could shoot down. “But … but I … if I already peed this much then I won’t need to again.” Which actually has a certain logic to it – if I soaked a pull-up, was there really enough left in me to justify the need for a diaper? (I didn’t say it was good logic).

Mary didn’t even bother to shoot down my logic. She just said, “It’s okay, Daffy. Accidents happen.”

“They do not!” Um, okay. Whatever that pithy rejoinder of mine meant.

“Janey,” Mary said, “if you go into the garage…”

No no no no no no. Not that one!

 

“ … there’s a bag under the seat in my car. Will you be my helper and go get it for me?” Which is how Jane learned there’s a diaper bag in our car. Which just brings up a dozen other answers to questions Jane hadn’t asked and that I hadn’t volunteered, like, how often are you wearing diapers these days? And where to? And do you actually get changed in the back of the car? (And the answers are (1) nunya business, (2) places, (3) just the once, and (4) shut up.)

Jane, who still hadn’t said a word, popped up and walked to the garage while Mary stood up and took both my hands and gave them a little kiss which made my heart go pitter-patter, and asked, “Anything you wanna tell me?”

“No…”

“I didn’t ask you wear a pull-up today.” So technically, she never ‘asks’ even when she asks, but I decided to respond by blushing. “Did you just want some play time with your friend,” she asked me like I was seven. I responded to that by blushing, too. I couldn’t say no without scrapping my plans. Play time was a means to an end, not the actual ends. And this was not how I pictured it going. “Do you have anything you need to tell me before Jane gets back.” That was my chance to yellow or red light, and I couldn’t. Any other day, I would’ve, but I couldn’t. The long con. I reminded myself I was a general, an intelligence director, a spy deep into enemy (little) territory. This would all be worth it. We’d win the war, and I’d be regarded as a latter day founder of our country.

“No,” I meeped.

“I found it,” Jane said as she came back into the living room holding that backpack.

I panicked, just a little. “But she can’t help,” I whined.

“And why not,” Mary asked.

“She’s … too little. She’s littler than me!” She’s a little. I am not a little. I am, at most, someone who behaves like a middle from time to time. Middles are bigger than littles, and people who behave like a middle on occasion but are really not middles are even bigger than that. It goes Mary (big) —> me (middle-but-not-really) —> Jane (little). For all we’ve disagreed on in our years together, surely we had all accepted those premises. Postulates, actually. Things that just are. Two points determine a line. Jane is a little and Daphne is not. I mean, I’ve said it enough that we all damn well ought to agree on it.

Mary smiled this smile she only ever smiles when she’s trying to buck me up, her don’t-be-sad smile, and took her hand and stroked my cheek. “It’s okay, Daphne. You’re okay.” She held out her hand and took the bag from Jane. “C’mon,” she said as she knelt down and gave a tug on my wrist with her other hand. I had no viable choice. It was like I’d gone undercover in an evil secret society and had to murder my own pride to prove myself to them.

We were all kneeling on the floor. Mary unzipped the bag and got out a changing mat, and not one of the ones we had before all the diaper stuff started (to keep stuff off of places while we did things – lots of kinksters have them) but a new one. It wasn’t a baby changing mat, either, but the kind you’d see covering a wheelchair or bed in a nursing home, which made it worse in a way because it was clearly functional and not just some affectation. As Mary spread it out, she explained the roles for the secret society’s initiation ceremony (Worst. Initiation ceremony. Ever.).

“How about you help,” she said to Jane, “by handing me the things I need? And Daffy can help by not being a little wiggle bug. Lay down, Daffy.”

“No.”

“’No’?” Mary asked playfully, “then how are we gonna change your pants?”

“With her in the kitchen,” I said petulantly.

“Aww. Don’t be shy.”

“But she’s littler than me!” My protest was verbal only, and I didn’t resist as Mary gently nudged, pushed, and pulled until I was flat on my back with the changing pad running from my knees to by lower back under me.

“She’s big enough to be my helper, and she certainly seems bigger than you today.”

That is so not how it works! “She is not!”

Mary frowned her don’t-be-a-silly-goose face at me. “Don’t be such a silly goose.” See? “I can tell she’s done a lot of growing up since we last saw her. Either that, or you’ve done some growing down.”

HAVE NOT! NYAH! I didn’t say that, but the way I grimaced made it abundantly clear that’s how I felt. Mary looked a little flushed. Clearly she was enjoying herself, getting to mix ageplay and erotic humiliation in a way she’d never gotten to before.

“I can tell you’re littler than her,” Mary said in a tone of voice she had never used with me (well, maybe once or twice or many, many times. who can remember?). She’d uses it with my nephew, age three going on four. “Because …” She started gently tickling my belly and I tried so hard to hold still but dammit I’m ticklish and eeeeeeee! “Because you wet your pants. Didn’t you? Didn’t you wetchure pants?”

“Maryyyy! Heeheehee! St-stop!” I grabbed her hands and held them and unsquinched my eyes and her saw kneeling above me beaming her you’re-so-perfectly-adorabbible-smile back down at me.

“Awww. It’s okay.” She leaned down and kissed me. “It’s okay. That’s why you wear pull-ups. So if you don’t make it to the potty it’s not a big deal. When you’re ready, you can wear big girl undies like Janey.”

“I already do!” And, I will add, that the reason I wear pull-ups is because Mary tells me to. We went over that just a few days ago

“Then what you are you wearing right now? Are they big girl undies?”

“No…” I said as poutily as I could because I wanted to.

“What are they? … Do I need to tickle it outta ya?”

“They’re pull-ups.”

“That’s right! And Little girls like you sometimes need pull-ups. It’s not about how many years are on the calendar,” she said, “it’s how many days we have to mark with a W.”

“Does she really have a calendar,” Jane asked.

“No,” Mary said, “though that would be cute.”

IT WOULD BE HIDEOUS! IT WOULD BE AN ABOMINATION! IT WOULD DEFACE OUR HOME!

 

“And,” Mary decided to continue, “you didn’t even tell me you were wet.” She patted the front of my pull-up. “So wet you leaked. If you can’t even tell when you’re that wet, or don’t want to tell me like we discussed …”

Okay, hold on a flippin’ second. We had never discussed that. Don’t go making up ex post facto rules. It’s unconstitutional.

“ … then I think you need to go back to diapers for at least a day. And Jane is definitely big enough to be my helper. Would you get the wipeys out, please?”

I laid there suffering in silence as Mary whisked my shorts down and held them up as though inspecting a clue at a crime scene. “Crescent moons,” she announced like a pee splatter analyst. “A sure sign someone is overdue for a diapee change.” Murder me. Just murder me dead. CSI: Who Peed Their Pants. Which would be awful but still better than all the other CSIs.

She started to tear the sides of the pull-up, and I crossed my arms over my eyes. If only that works with your ears.

“Good-ness,” Mary enunciated as she pulled the thing out from under me. I raised my hips without being asked to be helpful and get this over with so I could move on to the next phase of my plan. “Sooo wet. Wipe.” I heard Jane pluck one from the package and then felt the coolness of it on me. “So very wet,” Mary giggled while she cleaned me off. I couldn’t help but squirm. “One more … lift.” I did, and Mary got her hand under there and …

“Hhhh!” I gasped. “Marrryyyy…”

“Shush. Gotta get ev-er-y-where,” she said, flicking her finger over this one spot whose name you’re not supposed to say with each syllable. I couldn’t help but peek and saw Jane was rapt, like this was seeing one of the best things she’d ever seen. Not a surprise given she liked our little demonstration at the virtual convention. Then I snapped my eyes back shut.

Mary pronounced me, “Clean as a whistle. Such a good job.” Well, yes, it was, but could we not discuss it in front of company? Our company had more important things to focus on, such as, “Which diapee should she wear?” I heard Jane shuffling things around in that black pit of despair/diaper bag. “Good choice!” I didn’t even need to see. I listened to it crinkle as Mary unfolded it, lifted when she said lift, heard it crinkle when she said down, and felt it there taunting me.

“So,” Mary continued as she taught Jane how to change a diaper, “once she’s all clean, we have to make sure she’s nice and protected in her diapee. Daffy has very sensitive skin. Could you hand me the tube of …”

Aww, come the crap on!

 

“ … diaper rash cream in there?”

“She gets rashes?”

“No, and do you know why? Because I used this on her diaper area.”

IDONOTHAVEADIAPERAREA!

 

“Here it comes,” Mary warned before she … oooh, with the hhh and the eeee and the why are my hips moving when I didn’t tell them to. “She likes that part,” Mary chuckled. “Wipe.” I pictured her cleaning off her hands. She is such a tease. Worst evil secret society initiation ever, times two. But my (closed) eyes were on the prize. This was just something to endure on the way to my certain victory (and endure it I did; nothing enjoyable about it at all. stop looking at me like that!)

“Good girl,” Mary said, which made me happy inside, “have you done this before?” Which made me realize she was talking to Jane, which did not provoke any feelings of envy, in case you hear differently later. “That’s just what I was going to ask for next. Just a little sprinkle.” And then I smelled powder. Scented corn starch because the talc stuff kills you, apparently, though I do miss that smell. “And I like to sprinkle just a little on her belly.”

“Teehee,” is a noise I allegedly made when she rubbed it in. Dammit!

“And then we just need to close up the diaper.” She lifted it up between my legs, and I felt each tug, from bottom right tape to bottom left, top left to top right. “And that’s how you change a little girl who couldn’t keep her pull-up dry.”

IAMNOTALITTLEGIRL! And I could. I just didn’t. For reasons.

         ‘Up we go,” Mary said, taking my hands and helping me to sit up. “How does that feel?”

         I had not answer to that.

         “She looks a little flushed,” Jane said. And frankly, we all did. I felt a little twitterpated. That was not how this plan was supposed to go. It was supposed to be so simple: I wear a pull-up, Jane makes funna me for wearing a pull-up. If that didn’t work, I’d get it extra wet, and then Jane would make funna for wetting a pull-up. Then Jane would get spanked for teasing. Then I’d go and change into actual clothes. The kind you don’t wear once and throw away.

Simple. In fact, deceptively simple. I am a master of deception, after all. I knew there was a chance Mary would decide I needed another pull-up or even a diaper for the day, but after she’d paddled Jane’s butt for me. I also factored in the possibility Mary would come to her own conclusions on why I put on a pull-up and “used” it, and I figured I could deal with that misperception later. I didn’t think she’d put diaper me in front of Jane. She had never done that before. The only other person who’d had anything to do with the putting on or taking off of pull-ups on my body was Lisa the time Jane got me in trouble for making me try to spank her (the most accurate description of those events).

“Thank you,” Mary said to Jane, “for being such a good helper. What do you say to your friend?”

“Um, thank you?” I only said it because I was undercover.

“You’re welcome.”

“I’m gonna go throw this away,” Mary said, rolling up the pull-up. “Why don’t you two find something to play? I need to go finish my work, and then maybe we can find something to do together.”

She left, with me sitting on the floor with my head spinning and probably (definitely) looking a little like I just got hit by a lightning bolt that sent electricity to all the conflicted parts of me that make me who I am. Jane scooted over and hugged me, and I turned slowly like I’d just woken up from a coma and didn’t know who either of us was anymore.

“I knew it,” she said, rocking back on her heels and looking awfully happy.

“What,” I asked.

“I always wanted you to be littler when we play.”

“I’m not a little,” I said tiredly.

“Well, whatever you wanna call it, that was fun. What should we play next?”

“(Sniffle).”

“Aww, Why are you crying?”

“Because you’re being so nice to me,” I sobbed.

On to Plan B.

 

[YourFNF]

[Alex Bridges]

10 hours ago, YourFNF said:

 

???

[YourFNF]

25 minutes ago, Alex Bridges said:

???

Oh just another nose bleed gif because umm.... ???

[Alex Bridges]

30 minutes ago, YourFNF said:

Oh just another nose bleed gif because umm.... ???

Cutie

[YourFNF]

2 hours ago, Alex Bridges said:

Cutie

Baka! ?

[Alex Bridges]

7 hours ago, YourFNF said:

 

Baka! ?

 

[Bel George]

I am really looking forward to read how plan B goes/fails.  

[Alex Bridges]

Scene #38, Part 2

 

 

 

You can convince yourself that almost anything is permissible in the pursuit of justice. If my trap didn’t work, I’d just have to activate Plan B: entrapment.

Entrapment may be illegal in a court of law, but in a court of kinky domestic discipline, pretty much everything is admissible. Nor was this cost free for me. I fully expected to find myself over Mary’s knee alongside Jane but figured it would be worth it. Really, this was an even simpler plan. All I had to do was pick a fight. It was our alleged bickering at that one party that led to both of us getting spanked (or, actually, me getting spanked and Jane getting petted) even though I wasn’t bickering and she was being a total brat who deserved to get told to shh with the bratting.

Jane’s eagerness to play something together made it almost too easy. She agreed to play something she never agrees to play: Call of Duty 2. Woman against woman. Person who sucks at that game (her) against person who is incredible (me). Person who can’t focus on two screens at a time against person who is a shameless inveterate screen looker, not that you young readers will know what that means. After kicking her butt in Round 1, taunting her in around 2, and taunting her some more in around 3, I was sure she’d be calling me everything but a child of God inside twenty minutes.

We never got there. Mary came through the living room just as we were starting the game, heard virtual D-Day, and decided, “Too violent. It gets you all worked up,” and turned off the TV. It does not get me worked up, the record. She was just saying that so she could say, “Why don’t you play something nice instead? How about drawing some pictures? I bet your mommy would like it if you drew something for her,” she said to Jane.

So this was a predicament. The ethical balances were reset. Beating her at a video game until she snapped is enjoyable even when I’m not trying to get Jane in trouble. It doesn’t require resorting to too childish behavior. But picking a fight while drawing? I only had a few tools in my brat box for that, and they were both incredibly childish. Also, mean. I’m not a mean person. Merely a pursuer of justice.

“Why do you have crayons,” Jane asked me as we were sitting at the kitchen table.

“For when Henry comes over.” My nephew. He doesn’t draw so much as scribble, but they’re the best scribbles ever, which is how having a nephew works. (I mean, I’m sorry, but yall’s nephews’ scribbles kinda suck. Very pedestrian.)

I’ll admit pulling this move was made easier by having murdered my pride in the living room during the evil secret society initiation/diapering, but the memory of having once been a proud person was still alive. I was in mourning; I should’ve drawn a picture of me wearing a diaper and a black arm band. Instead, I endeavored to draw the ocean. All of it. Why?

“Can I have the blue for a bit,” Jane asked.

“Later.” Picking a fight like a total bitch, which I can be when I try (also when I’m not trying, but then I’m not sure by bitchdom is ‘total’).

Two minutes go by, and my standard letter-sized piece of white paper is about thirty percent blue. “Can I have it now,” Jane asked

“No.”

“I just want to color this one spot. I’ll give it right back.”

“No.”

“Why are you being so mean?”

“Reasons.” How’s that for emotional whiplash? She had to have been wondering what produced the turnabout in my mood in the past ten minutes, from getting sniffly because my Plan A had failed (in the most embarrassing way possible) to being mean to her just because. I sensed all I had to do was push just a little more and she’d lose her temper.

Now, before you judge me, remember Jane has gotten my butt painted red many, many times, and most of those I didn’t deserve. Meanwhile, she’d never even gotten her butt painted pink for the same misdemeanors and felonies she committed all on her own (like calling me ‘diaper butt,’ which is a Class A felony). Just one more nudge, and I expected her to leap from her chair and call me that and worse. A little tête-à-tête, perhaps a bit of hair pulling, and Mary would be back in the kitchen in a heartbeat ready to put a stop to our bickering with swats aplenty. So don’t judge what I did next.

I reached over and drew a single blue line through her drawing. “There. Happy now?” (I’m not proud.) I commenced my countdown, sure she’d be on her feet and reading me the You’re Being a Bitch Act of 2020 by the time I got to one.

Three .... two...

“(Sniffle). Eheh eheh eheh...”

Wait, what?”

 

“Why did you do that? You ruined it!”

“Wait! I’m sorry.” I needed her angry, not weepy. Angry means fighting we would both get punished for. Her crying meant I and I alone would get in trouble. “Hug?”

“Waaaah!”

“Stop that! No!” I stomped my foot. “No! There’s no crying in coloring! Don’t!” And she was on her way to Mary’s office, leaving me in the kitchen weakly calling out, “Hug? Please?”

Well, crap. I’m not exactly great with littles, as you may have noticed. So I misjudged that pretty badly. How badly? Three ... two ... one ...

“Daphne Ann,” Mary was calling to me from the hallway. That badly. I stayed put; she was on her way to me. “Did you ruin Janey’s picture?”

“Um, I was trying to help?”

“She wouldn’t gimme the blue and then she drew on my picture!” Aww, shut up.

“Daphne, is that true? And tell the truth, little girl. You know lies only make it worse,” Mary reminded me.

“It’s a little true.”

“Daphne Ann.”

“It’s true.”

“Why would you do that?”

Well, the real answer wasn’t a viable candidate for answering that question. I could tell a lie - that Jane was making fun of me so I did it in fit of pique - but I didn’t like that particular lie. It was too weak. It would’ve devolved into a Daphne said/Jane said, and that wouldn’t have gotten my quest for justice anywhere.

Thinking quickly, I fell back on an answer so clever no one has ever thought of it before: “Cuz.”

Mary frowned at me. Jane glowered at me. I sat there waiting to be told to stand up and bend over. Mary pulled out a kitchen chair, crooked a finger at me, and said, “Come over here.”

Plan A was an excellent plan, the only flaw being Mary, instead of serving as a silent witness to Jane’s cruelty, taking on the role of headline player in my little drama and relegating Jane to backup dancer.

Plan B was an excellent plan, the only flaw being Jane, instead of meeting my insult with her own, surrendered like a friggin surrender monkey and went straight to Mary all weepy and pathetic. Now my butt was on the block, Mary was ready to administer what only looked like justice on the outside, and Jane was standing there with her arms crossed ready to serve as witness, again, to my derailed plans and ignominy.

I sighed and stood up, did my trademark shuffling walk to that very familiar spot next to Mary’s right thigh, and was about to put myself over it when she said, “Have a seat,” and patted her lap. Wheels started turning my head trying to anticipate where this was going, but the way Mary’s eyes were sparkling told me she was cooking up some zingers in her head to crank up the humiliation factor. Whether I’d get spanked for my seeming misdeed when she was done making me turn red from my shoulders to my scalp was the only open question. I sat down on her knee with a crinkle, remembering that I hadn’t been given clean shorts to put on and hadn’t, for reasons I don’t care to interrogate, taken the initiative to go and get some.

“Daffy,” my Mary said to me, “sometimes when we’re feeling small we try to make ourselves feel big by doing mean things to others.”

O. My. God. May the earth swallow us all.

 

“I know you’re feeling a little embarrassed because you had a potty accident ...”

No I didn’t! Who starts these malicious rumors? That’s who deserves a spanking. Wait…

“... and your friend helped to change you into a dry diaper ...”

Aw, bite me! In fact, everyone sucks and can go bite everyone else.

 

“... but that wasn’t Jane’s fault. Was it?” In case being quiet and blushy were passing through my mind as alternatives to a verbal answer, Mary gave my butt a heavy pat.

“No.”

“No. Jane didn’t go potty in your pull-up. That was you, and that’s okay because accidents happen. You shouldn’t feel embarrassed ...”

She’s saying while deliberately embarrassing me and enjoying it 1,112%. I only got to enjoy about 10%.

“... but when you do have feelings like that, and you get angry ...”

Ya mean like right now? Like right freaking now!

 

“... you need to talk about those feelings and not act out or be mean to other little girls. Understood?”

There is no ‘other!’ But I was pretty sure I understood her point. Hard to say because I couldn’t hear the last part over the sound of blood rushing through my ears. “Yes,” I ventured.

“Please say you’re sorry to Janey.”

“I’m sorry I ruined your picture.” Sort of. In isolation from the bigger picture, yes. As a means to my ends, I was only sorry I didn’t get the reaction I wanted. As for Ms. Mary-I’m-having-so-much-fun-teasing-you, we needed to have a conversation before bedtime. I wasn’t planning on confessing to my master plan (leaving them all wondering what had happened was just funnier), but now I had to if Mary was going to be disabused of the notion this was all some big cry for belittlement (literally and figuratively).

“Janey,” Mary asked, “do you have anything to say.”

“I forgive you,” Jane said. “And I’m sorry you wet your pants and have to wear diapers.”

DAMMIT!! DAMMIT IT ALL TO CRAP!!! ARRRGGHHH! It was too late! It was TOO DAMN LATE!!! That was exactly the kind of backhanded (pretty darn forehanded too) comment I needed Jane to make so that I could go blubbering to Mary to administer justice and make the world right. Plan B was a failure. An utter failure.

Mary shifted, I stood up, and she stood up. She spun the kitchen chair so it was facing the corner and put me (me!) in timeout. This was starting to feel like every RPG game ever, and we’d just reached the level where the protagonist is imprisoned. I was very humphy while I sat and pouted, after Mary told me, “You sit here in timeout until lunch time and think about how to make better choices.”

The only poor choice I made was relying on others in my quest for justice! I had ideas about how to address that flaw next time. Step 1: Burn it all down. Step 2: Dance around the flames. Though I’m sure that plan would get screwed up too. I did some of my best pouting ever while my wife played with that little and enjoyed it way too damn much.

“Let me help you start over,” Mary said. Stop bonding with her! “See how pretty,” Mary said, I guess in reference to her drawing, which was a low bar because Jane’s original sucked. There, I said it.

While Mary was making lunch and Jane was drawing, I moved on to my failsafe plan, Plan C. My trap failed. My entrapment failed. The easiest and most sure-to-get-results strategy I only held off in the hopes one of my less unethical plans would work. Plan C presented the most ethical conundrums, as well as a practical one: frame job.

Now, framing someone is just wrong. But Jane framed me a time or twenty, like the time she twisted my words to fraudulently say I was making fun of her and threatened to spank her. She perjured herself before the most important court of kinky law in the land, Mary. She deserved a real spanking for her pervious crimes, justice delayed but realized. And perhaps framing someone for a crime they didn’t commit in order to ensure they get punished for a crime they did commit isn’t so much wrong as not not wrong. I’m not a jurist, after all. I’m just a street fighter in the war for justice, and I know a thing or two about street fighting. Thing #1 is throw the first punch, which I didn’t do because Jane did it with her many transgression both public and notorious. Thing #2 is fight dirty. Well, that I could do.

Practically speaking, framing Jane was more complicated. Easy enough to do (once I figured out how), but it was complicated from a repercussions point of view. Jane could’ve been trapped into making fun of me or entrapped into fighting with me, and she would’ve known she actually did those things and wouldn’t have any real cause to be mad at me. She’d know she didn’t do whatever I framed her for, and she’d by well within her rights to be pissed at me. But people on the side of injustice are often pissed when they get their comeuppance, and I’d figure out how to deal with it later. You might say I was writing a lot of post-dated checks in my epic quest for justice, but let’s go over what I am and am not. Am: general. Not: jurist. Am: soldier. Not: accountant. You can see why armies have all those things, but they’re not all the same people.

How to frame her and what for though? I’m glad you asked, because while I will in turn ask that you not judge me, I suspect you will anyway, and I’ll also ask that you see me as an evil genius and not just evil. I’m not evil. It’s a saintly thing I did, actually. By committing an act of evil in pursuit of justice, I put my soul at risk for the benefit of others (who also happen to be me). It actually makes me a kind of martyr. Really.

So fast forward. Out of time out. Eating lunch. What are we doing to do with the rest of the day? “I need a nap,” I said.

“There’s a good idea,” Mary who apparently has been itching to play house said, “how about you both lie down for a little while, and I’ll finish my work for the day and we can do something together?”

So how does a nap help? It makes it a lot easier to plant evidence on someone if they’re asleep. Evidence of what? Evidence of making fun of me. No way would Mary tolerate someone being mean to her little girl. How does making fun of someone leave evidence? If they do it in writing. So did I steal her phone and write mean things about myself on social media? Of course not. That would only embarrass me more.

Instead, I slid out of bed, quietly found what I needed in the junk drawer of Mary’s dresser, went to the bathroom. I had a sharpie and a will to use it. Call this the blunt force approach to my mission. I shimmied out of the diaper because even someone as talented as I am can’t write legibly on their own butt.

I decided to keep it simple. I could’ve written all sorts of weird and gross things. “Wide load.” “This zone for loading and unloading only.” “Poopy butt diaper baby.” But why be nasty about it? I simply wrote “DIAPER BUTT” on my (Mary’s, I reminded myself) diaper and slid it back on. It didn’t fit as well and looked a little disheveled, but I could blame that on sleeping hard.

You’re probably thinking this isn’t that ingenious. But it is. I wouldn’t be the one reporting the crime. Mary would simply spot it. That’s credibility. But even more ingenious, I had one last piece of evidence to plant. Something to put Jane’s hand on the murder weapon.

I crept back into the bedroom, trying and failing not to crinkle and stood over Jane. My sometimes nemesis. The reason for multiple spankings I didn’t deserve (at least not all of them, or at least not fully). The little who enjoys bratting but not being called on or it chastised for it. The little who drags me into her little games without my consent and against my insistence I am not a little. The woman who is two years older than me but gets away with five love swats when she’s in trouble because she’s “just a little girl” while I (me!), who everyone says is a little girl, magically and instantly has buns of concrete when I’m in trouble that other people started and get paddled like a ping pong ball because of what they (and sometimes I also, but let us not dwell on that) did.

The tiniest stroke of a sharpie. Just a little mark on a finger to connect Jane to the physical evidence. “Who wrote that awful, sacrilegious, ahistorical, despicable, heretical, malignant phrase on my sweet, innocent, beautiful, perfect, wise, powerful, sexy, paradigm-of-adulthood Daphne’s butt,” my wife and issuer of butt beatings would ask in righteous fury.

“Tear up the planks! here, here! --It is the beating of his hideous heart! Check her hands,” I would cry out! “For she hath defaced and defamed me! I demand a swift and terrible justice!”

With the stroke of a felt-tipped pen, I would do all this, and word would spread, and Jane and the whole world would think twice about picking on me again. Because I serve mine cold.

You fancy me mad, but would a madman be so wise as this?

 

 

But on the other hand … She is my bestie, and she would be pissed at me, and I wanna keep her around.

Meh. I put the sharpie back, put some shorts on, and crawled back into bed with her, wondering how to undo all the reputational damage I’d sustained in just a few brief hours. Also how the crap to explain the words “DIAPER BUTT” on my Mary’s diaper? There was nothing for it – I’d have to confess my attempted right-doing to Mary and hope she didn’t mistake my noble quest for justice (vengeance) for misbehavior.

Someday, surely, Jane would brat her way into a real spanking, and I’d be there. Probably getting spanked, too, but it would be worth it. Plan A or Plan B were still good in theory; I just needed to bide more time. Mine is a long and deep game.

 

 

[Sarah Penguin]