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

[kutteberg]

Fantastic Story, this fits right up my alley, i love the slow going buildups makes it feel so much more realistic.

[YourFNF]

Daphne just keeps digging herself deeper. I feel like she needs to talk to Mary about scene parameters. I think that's when I tend to get annoyed by punishments at least theoretically is when they feel unfair.

[Alex Bridges]

23 minutes ago, YourFNF said:

Daphne just keeps digging herself deeper. I feel like she needs to talk to Mary about scene parameters. I think that's when I tend to get annoyed by punishments at least theoretically is when they feel unfair.

I think the challenge is they’re in a lifestyle relationship, so they don’t negotiate over scenes. The parameters move constantly, and Daphne is okay with that to a point. That point also seems to shift, and she might be the last one to recognize that it has. Or maybe she just pretends to.

 

And I don’t think Daphne resents the punishments she got on those occasions so much as the punishments Jane didn’t get. She just wants her friend to get her fair share of the whoopings. But Jane is so much littler than Daphne and gets “age appropriate” punishments, or so Mary would say.

[WBDaddy]

55 minutes ago, Alex Bridges said:

I think the challenge is they’re in a lifestyle relationship, so they don’t negotiate over scenes.

Can attest to the truth of this.  A lifestyle relationship is way different than negotiated play.  Safewords are still a thing in lifestyle relationships, obviously, though you have also accurately depicted a typical sub's sense of pride in Daphne's internal arguments over whether to invoke said safeword. 

[Alex Bridges]

2 hours ago, WBDaddy said:

Can attest to the truth of this.  A lifestyle relationship is way different than negotiated play.  Safewords are still a thing in lifestyle relationships, obviously, though you have also accurately depicted a typical sub's sense of pride in Daphne's internal arguments over whether to invoke said safeword. 

And I think part of it not just pride but that subs agree to this arrangement in which they give up control. The giving up of control is what makes them submissive, so to safe word or be in constant negotiation whenever something they disagree with comes up, negates the submissiveness. A person has to be willing to be subject to decisions they do not agree with in order to be a sub, at least in the context of a domestic discipline arrangement like what Mary and Daphne have.

From a sex standpoint, submitting even when they disagree is what makes it exciting and sexy for the sub. They want to feel those conflicted emotions; that inner turmoil is what makes it so exciting and disorienting and fun, IMO.

It’s such a delicate balance. There have to be parameters from the outset of what is acceptable and not acceptable on both sides of the relationship, and there needs to be communication to adjust as needed, but if those adjustments reach the point where punishment only occurs when both parties agree, it’s no long dominance/submission as a lifestyle. They’re back to scenes.

This is why it’s said the submissive is really in charge because they decide where the line is, but in a lifestyle relationship, it’s less a solid line than a shaded zone that gets darker until it’s a line.

[WBDaddy]

20 minutes ago, Alex Bridges said:

From a sex standpoint, submitting even when they disagree is what makes it exciting and sexy for the sub. They want to feel those conflicted emotions; that inner turmoil is what makes it so exciting and disorienting and fun, IMO.

Speaking from experience, this CNC aspect is super fun for the Dom(me) too.   

Also....
 

20 minutes ago, Alex Bridges said:

And I think part of it not just pride

But there is definitely a badge of honor for many subs that they "took all my Dom(me) could dish out".  

[Alex Bridges]

Again, not my picture. If it's yours and you want me to take it down, just PM me.

_____________________

Scene #38, Part 3

 

Jane and I, and Mary, had a good time after our nap (or Jane’s nap, Mary’s finishing up work, and my creeping around the bedroom with a sharpie in hand and ‘DIAPER BUTT’ on my diapered butt). I think Mary had an especially good time playing the big to Jane’s very willing little, and Jane easily slid up and down her fake age range from toddler to adult as suited her in the moment. I honestly don’t get it, the whole mental regression thing where she can just shut off the adult part of her brain. The only way I can be entertained by little stuff is by doing it with Jane, because it’s fun to play with Jane when she’s little (most of the time, meaning most of the time when she’s not bratting but sometimes when she is also), and maybe that means I have more in common with Mary’s end of the age play spectrum than Jane’s.

To the extent I allegedly, but not really, and may be, but really am not, and sort of, but I’ll punch you in the nose if you say so, am starting to, but not very much, enjoy (but absolutely hate) some of Mary’s blending of age play with our domestic discipline, it’s more because it rubs my humiliation and submission happy spots, which is not the same thing as liking age play or some of the particular manifestations of it that had made their way into my home, like the one wrapped around my waist (for the last too many hours, which is a number of hours that begins with ‘any’). And I get how it could look from the outside, particularly if you’re looking at and understand the nuances of my outsides and their relationship to my insides, and how that could lead one to mistake my liking those particular contributions to my humiliation and submission fetishes for the same thing as like age play and these incontinence aides, and think those are my jam. But those are just lies and misnomers and malicious rumors started by my enemies and perpetuated by social media, word of mouth, and the 24/7 news cycle. There’s zero truth to it at all. Really. My being confused by it is also one of the rumors, and I call on the faithful to be part of the solution and not the problem. (Please?).

So, like they always say, don’t let the sun go down on unresolved issues, like, as a random for instance not driven by recent events that I inadvertently caused, letting your wife think you’ve crossed into a new level of not just acceptance but active and happy participation in a fetish you’re not really all that jazzed about. And yet just typing that makes me wanna do jazz hands, but who doesn’t always want to do jazz hands? 2020 needs more jazz hands. Anyway…

“Um, Mary,” I ventured from the door of our bedroom.

         “What’s up, buttercup,” she sunnily asked me from our bed where she was reading a book and looking ready for bed, all shiny and showered.

         I stayed in the doorway and innocently inquired, “You know that rule where if I confess to something I don’t get in trouble for it?”

         She grinned at me and closed her book. “We don’t have that rule.”

         “Well, not, like written down, but more as just an … understanding … maybe please?”

         “How ‘bout no,” she said and smiled at me like I was the Snack Pack pudding in her lunch. I could tell her spanky sense was tingling, but pretty sure just about anyone woulda looked at her and thought, ‘There’s a woman about to slap a butt. Repeatedly.’ And, to be clear, totally worth a smack bottom if in the course of it we dispelled any mistaken notions about who did what for reasons not true. “But to encourage your honesty, why don’t you stop fidgeting in the doorway and tell me what it is you want to confess, and I promise to be merciful?”

          “Do you mean merciful or kinky merciful?” Color me a skeptic what with having my butt colored red so many times.

         “Daffy, just c’mere.” She scooted over and patted the bed next to her.

         “I am not a silly goose,” I said while making my way confidently to her side. I’d projected nothing but stern confidence from the moment I walked in the room (right?) and wasn’t about to shrink before her now.

         “I didn’t say you were.”

         “You were thinking it,” I sassed, but not really because I don’t sass. Another rumor perpetuated by not just my enemies but the enemies of truth itself. They are legion these days.

         “Yeah,” Mary deadpanned, “I was.” I sat down beside her. I hadn’t fully sunk into the mattress before her hand was on my shorts. “How are you not more wet?”

         Like I was going to dignify that with a response, much less the truth (been (mostly) holding it until bedtime). “About today,” I began.

         And stopped, because I hadn’t figured out exactly how to say this. Should I frame it around my quest for justice or go straight at the misperception I allegedly (totally) fostered (dove head first into like a cartoon animal running at a wall, and STILL had no roadrunner to show for it).

         “Mhmm,” Mary said. Or asked.

         “I, um …”

         Dammit! She was giving me The Look. Not the look that says ‘bend over my lap’ or the one that says ‘you’ve really done it now’ or the one that says ‘you’d better knock it off (or not) if you know what’s good (wonderful) for you.’ But The Look, the one she’d been flashing so damn often since the start of the whole quarantine mess, the one that says ‘I’m the happiest person in the world because you’re all mine.’ And this is just an aside, but I have a look like that, and when I look like I’m looking like that I just look dopey (did you follow that?), and she looks like a World Conquering Chief Love Officer. It’s so not fair. And when she looks at me with The Look, my spirit animal, which is also me because I am my own spirit animal, channels its inner golden retriever and just wants to do anything to make her happy. Bring her her slippers? On my way. Kill a rabbit and leave it on the doorstep as a gift? I’ll do it even if I’m crying over the poor bunny the whole time. Dive over her lap and present my bottom for her ministrations? Sure. Lay on my back and let her put a diaper on me? Apparently, which is how this mess get started in the first place. Although I did put up a little more resistance than that the first time, now that I think on it. She did have to spank me first and threaten me with a lot more. And I resisted some other times. Not in a while. But in general, we (me, my spirit animal which is also me, and my spirit animal’s inner golden retriever) aim to please. And she had so much fun that day…

         “Daffy!?! Do I need to tickle it outta you?”

         “You’d better not,” I said in an oddly, cutely grumpy way.

         “Then…”

         “I was lost in thought.” There’s, like, fifteen thousand miles of synapses in the human brain. It’s a miracle more thoughts don’t get lost trying to navigate those railroad tracks.

         “So what is it you wanna say…”

         “Um, see,  ya know how I put on a pull-up without you telling me today?”

         “I vaguely recall.” Smartass.

         “And, uh, how it, was, um … damp.”

         “You leaked all over your shorts.”

         “It was not ‘all over!’”

         “If you say so.”

         “Well, I just did. So there.” For the record, because you may hear differently from the rumor mill later, I was not pouting.

         “Do you have some more to this story,” she asked me.

         “And when I drew on Jane’s picture, and you thought I did it because I was embarrassed?”

         “Well, mostly I thought you did it because you were trying to act like a little and thought the best way to do that was to be a meanie head.”

         “I am not a meanie head!” You are! Is a thing I would say, I mean, if I were the type of person to call others ‘meanie heads,’ which I am not.

         “I know you’re not. Of all the ways you make naughty choices, being a meanie head is rarely one of them.” And then she kissed me. And I will confess to liking that without any hesitation, because that’s normal. About the only normal thing about me lately, but anyway…

         “Um, well, thank you. I always try to be kind.”

         “And you are. But that’s not what you wanted to talk to me about. Or is it still a confession?”

         “Both. I, uh, you seemed to have a lot of fun and be really happy when you noticed my … ahem, choice of attire, which is fine, but I didn’t want you to think that I wanted to wear that … Because I don’t.” In fact, I don’t know how I came to be wearing that. It’s a mystery, like the Holy Trinity or where baby storks come from. Or do storks just bring each other baby storks?

         “You don’t.” She looked skeptical. A whole bunch skeptical. “I see. So …”

         “I was trying to get you to spank Jane.” There. I confessed. And did not feel better. Well, not much. And then Mary was wearing that other look which had also become a go-to of hers during quarantine, the look that says ‘I married a crazy person.’

         “You … put on a pull-up … so that I would spank Jane … I don’t … no, I don’t get it.”

         “You said you’d spank Jane if she got in trouble when she was over. I was trying to get her to make fun of me … and it woulda worked, too, if you hadn’t enlisted her as your helper … and it was water in that pull-up … mostly.” And with the slightest, almost indiscernible wrinkle around the eye, she takes on the ‘I married an adorable crazy person’ look. She has so many looks. I have many looks, but almost all of them are versions of ‘dopey,’ ‘mopey,’ ‘awkward,’ ‘confused,’ ‘nerd trying to get laid,’ or ‘but I don’t wanna spanking!’

         She didn’t say anything. She seemed to be mulling that idea over in her head. Well, if she wasn’t sure what to make of it, that made two of us. “Well, Miss Fibber McGee … you were awfully … acquiescent after she agreed to be my helper.”

         “Well, duh … I mean, yes, because I was still hoping she’d make funna me. And that’s why I drew on her picture. To pick a fight so she’d get in trouble. I didn’t mean to make her cry … I meant for you to make her cry.”

         “Why?”

         “For all the times she got me in trouble and got off with a game of tic tac toe on her butt while I got spanked like, like …” Dammit, where did my gift for similes go?

         “Like a naughty little girl?”

         “Maybe…”

         “Naughty little girls shouldn’t try to get their friends in trouble.”

         “Paddle or hairbrush,” I moaned.

         “Topping from the bottom again?”

         “Just trying to be helpful.” I’m very helpful. My first grade teacher put it right on my report card: Daphne is a very good helper. First grade teachers are experts at spotting those good helpers.

         “And are you sure you’re telling the whole truth? You’re not leaving anything out?”

         “Like what?”

         “Like any other mischief.”

         “Well, you’re gonna think this is funny. And maybe also that I’m an evil genius, but I’m not. Evil, I mean; genius yes. And actually, I’d like to take a step back …” I really need a lawyer for these things, because I meant to start this off with a key talking point, “… what you just labeled ‘mischief’ was actually a quest for justice. A sacred quest, actually, not that I’m being sacrilegious but just, uh, it was a justice mission to get, um, justice for, ahem, all the times she got me in trouble when I, um, didn’t really deserve it … fully … Not that you’ve ever been unjust! You’ve just, um, acted sometimes without all the, um pertinent facts, a few times, not many. Never, really, but once or twice. In fact, you’re very just, like the lady in the front of the courthouse except, um, hotter … love you.”

         I’m so pathetic. I don’t know whatever made me think I could be a general in a war for justice. At best I topped out at ensign. Navy uniforms being way sexier, but anyhoo…

         “Okay,” Mary said, looking bemused because she loves it when I get all flummoxed and squirm. If there was a streaming service that was just me squirming, she wouldn’t even bother with the free trial. “So on this little quest, what else did you do?” There she goes throwing around the word ‘little’ again like it’s not a big deal.

“I was, um, going to frame her, since she didn’t make funna me and didn’t …”

“Take your bait?”

“Yeah.”

“Frame her for what, exactly.”

“Making funna me.”

“How do you frame someone for making fun of you?”

Wow, so this is a lot more embarrassing than even I thought it would be. I slid off the bed, opting not to verbally explain or, ya know, look my wife in the eye in that moment, dropped my shorts, and asked, “Can you see it?”

“See …” I bent over a wee bit. “Ha! Hahahaha!”

“Stop laughing.”

“Aww, I’m laughing at how clever you are. You are a little evil genius,” she said and held out her arms for me.

“I’m not little,” I said as I accepted her invitation to snuggle. People who are not little snuggle … while wearing a diaper. Dammit…

“So,” I said by way of summary, “today was not a cry for being treated like a little. It was all part of an elaborate scheme … that woulda succeeded if Jane had stayed true to character. Am I in trouble?”

“No, you’re not in trouble.”

“And you’re not mad?”

“Of course not. Why would you be worried I would be?”

“Well, you’re not disappointed?”

“About what?”

“That … you had so much fun today. I don’t … that I got your hopes up that I, I dunno, that I finally bought into the diapers and being a little thing.”

“I did have fun today, and you definitely had me wondering what was up, but I thought you probably just wanted to play with little Jane. You haven’t gotten to play with another little in so long.”

“Marryyyy!”

“You heard that, huh?”

“Every time … so you’re really not disappointed?”

“No.”

“And you don’t wish I was little like Jane … you had a lot of fun with her.”

“Jealous?”

“No … in a ‘yes’ way, a bit.”

“I had a lot of fun with Jane, but I don’t wish you were a little like Jane. I’m surprised you haven’t figured that out by now.”

“Haven’t figured what out?”

“That I like you the way you are.”

“And how am I?”

“Adorably befuddled.”

“I am not befuddled!” Fuddled, maybe. But befuddled? No way.

“O, my mistake. Here I thought that sometimes when you’re squirming and blushing in embarrassment, you were also writhing and getting all flushed and hot and bothered … or was I perhaps right?”

Of course, telling the truth is no fun at all. In a game of cat-and-mouse, the mouse can’t just stand there and tell the truth. Takes all the fun of out … being eaten, I guess. Which has a certain verisimilitude …

“I don’t know where you’re getting that from,” I said coyly.

“You don’t?”

“Nope. Way off base.”

“So that little streak of red, running from your cheek down your neck to this little spot on your collar bone, that’s all embarrassment?”

“Mhmm,” I said a little breathily.

“That’s odd, because that spot always get red when I make you cum.” Heehee. She noticed that spot, too, huh? “And the way you spontaneously shudder when I trace my finger down that pretty little back of yours when you’re over my me knee, that’s always you squirming in embarrassment, too?”

“Yes.” We take what god gives us, like how when Mary is aroused, she looks like Athena in perfect control of the universe, whereas I react like a loyal but not very bright golden retriever who collapses in a puddle if someone rubs my belly the right way.

“And you hate everything about how I enlisted your friend to help change your potty pants, which you’ve been wearing all day without a word of complaint, or being put in time out for acting out, and drawing pictures to hang on the fridge?”

“I do! Really!” Maybe she has a point about me being befuddled. At a minimum, I was feeling a least a little kerfluffled.

“That’s too bad then,” she said. And took her hand away. Hey! Hey lady! Finish that belly rub! Finish it! I’ll do tricks! I’ll balance a cookie on my nose! TOUCH MY BELLY! “I guess we’ll just turn the light off and go to bed.”      

“You are such a tease,” I whined while neither squirming nor writhing. It was a small seizure is all. Really, she shoulda been gravely concerned for my health, if she was paying attention at all.

“And you are such a diaper butt. It says so right …” POP!

“No fair.”

“So let me get this straight then. You were going to frame Jane.”

“Yep.”

"And I shouldn't regard those antics as something one would expect from, o, say , a middle?"

"Not even a little. I mean, no! No." Ha! Also, oops.

"Uh huh, if you say so. And then you wrote on your own butt.”

“Uh huh.”

“And then changed your mind?”

“Pretty much.”

“What made you change your mind?”

“She’s my friend.”

“Aww. See? Not a mean bone in your body.”

“Nary a one, unfortunately.” Which is why so many of my rants collapse under their own weight before they even get going. See, for example, my most recent employment experience.

“How did you manage to write on your own butt?”

“I took the diaper off, silly.”

“Excuse me, little girl? You did what?” Crap. With a capital C, which stand for crap. “Who is allowed to take your diaper off?”

“You and anybody you say.”

“And did I say you are allowed to take your diaper off?”

“No.”

“No. In fact, I made it very clear that once your butt is in a diaper, it stays on until I say.”

“I put it right back on.”

“And before you put it back on, it was …”

“Off. But I was on a sacred quest for justice?”

“Uh huh.”

“Sometimes goodness needs the help of a little badness?”

“Uh huh.”

“Paddle or hairbrush?”

“I think my hand will be sufficient for this reminder.” She let go of the hug she had on me, and I obediently laid myself over her lap.

“Don’t you feel like a naughty little girl, getting a spanking on her diapered bottom.”

“Yes.” THWOCK!

“Good. Because I’m …”

“NO! NO! HA! STOP! PLEASE! I’M TICKLISH!!!”

“Oh, having been living with you for four years, I didn’t notice!”

“AHH! HEEHEEHEE! MAR… I’M GONNA PEE!” Which I’d never done (five times?) while being tickled before in my life (after age six, except two of those times) when sober (except one of those times).

“Like you’re a stranger to wetting your diaper. Little Miss Piddle Pants!”

“AHH! AIEEE! MARYYYY!”

“But!” She exclaimed, her hands stopping their assault, “I am just, and not a meanie head, either, so I’ll observe the mercy rule.”

“My hero,” I said. THWOCK! How Mary perceived that as sarcastic, I’ll never know. She was just off her perception game that day. “Can I get up now?”

“No.”

“But I really do hafta pee.”

“I know, and if I were you, I’d do it now before bed time so you can go to sleep in a dry diaper.”

“I hafta wear a diaper to bed?”

“Yep.”

“But I thought I wasn’t in trouble.”

“You’re not.”

“O.”

“So…”

“I can’t do it lying over your legs.”

“Yes ya can … but if it will help…” She let me sit up. “Gimme a footsie.”

“Marrryyy!”

“There you go again with that little red spot on your collar bone. So easily embarrassed.”

“What do my feet hafta to do with anything … Maryyyyy! That tickles!”

 

 

I'm beginning to suspect one of us has the other's number, but I'm not sure which.

[WBDaddy]

1 hour ago, Alex Bridges said:

Again, not my picture. If it's yours and you want me to take it down, just PM me.

It's not my picture, but as someone who has followed this story since the beginning, I don't know that it adds anything.  I have a picture in my head of how Daffy and Mary look, and it's definitely not represented by the art you're adding.   

That said, I love where this is going, and I have a sneaking suspicion Daffy will be lucky to get pull-ups tomorrow morning, especially considering the lack of "traditional" discipline she received this evening. 

[Alex Bridges]

7 hours ago, WBDaddy said:

It's not my picture, but as someone who has followed this story since the beginning, I don't know that it adds anything.  I have a picture in my head of how Daffy and Mary look, and it's definitely not represented by the art you're adding.   

That said, I love where this is going, and I have a sneaking suspicion Daffy will be lucky to get pull-ups tomorrow morning, especially considering the lack of "traditional" discipline she received this evening. 

I just think the picture was too cute not to share.

[WBDaddy]

32 minutes ago, Alex Bridges said:

I just think the picture was too cute not to share.

Fair point.  Not arguable either.   

[YourFNF]

On 8/5/2020 at 5:28 PM, Alex Bridges said:

And I think part of it not just pride but that subs agree to this arrangement in which they give up control. The giving up of control is what makes them submissive, so to safe word or be in constant negotiation whenever something they disagree with comes up, negates the submissiveness. A person has to be willing to be subject to decisions they do not agree with in order to be a sub, at least in the context of a domestic discipline arrangement like what Mary and Daphne have.

From a sex standpoint, submitting even when they disagree is what makes it exciting and sexy for the sub. They want to feel those conflicted emotions; that inner turmoil is what makes it so exciting and disorienting and fun, IMO.

It’s such a delicate balance. There have to be parameters from the outset of what is acceptable and not acceptable on both sides of the relationship, and there needs to be communication to adjust as needed, but if those adjustments reach the point where punishment only occurs when both parties agree, it’s no long dominance/submission as a lifestyle. They’re back to scenes.

This is why it’s said the submissive is really in charge because they decide where the line is, but in a lifestyle relationship, it’s less a solid line than a shaded zone that gets darker until it’s a line.

That actually makes a lot of sense. So I think that would have to be one of the parameters for me at the outset. Agreeing on punishments only when fair or fun and what constitutes punishment worthy. So like not holding up one of my household responsibilities or not taking care of myself would be punishment worthy but swearing or sass wouldn't. I guess that's part of why I feel bad for Daphne is I feel like some things she's being punished for things I would have set a hard line on in the beginning. ?

On 8/5/2020 at 11:09 PM, Alex Bridges said:

the whole mental regression thing where she can just shut off the adult part of her brain.

This, I've never actually regressed it's always been roleplay at most for me. Which is ironic considering even without the headspace I could still use a fulltime Cg ?

On 8/5/2020 at 11:09 PM, Alex Bridges said:

“Yes ya can … but if it will help…” She let me sit up. “Gimme a footsie.”

 

“Marrryyy!”

 

“There you go again with that little red spot on your collar bone. So easily embarrassed.”

 

“What do my feet hafta to do with anything … Maryyyyy! That tickles!”

[Alex Bridges]

11 hours ago, YourFNF said:

I guess that's part of why I feel bad for Daphne is I feel like some things she's being punished for things I would have set a hard line on in the beginning. ?

 

Speaking of people who turn red so easily...

 

I think Daffodil is having more fun than a barrel of monkeys most of the time. Not an actual barrel of monkeys because you can see how that would get out of hand in a hurry, but a proverbial barrel? Definitely.

[YourFNF]

2 hours ago, Alex Bridges said:

Speaking of people who turn red so easily...

 

I think Daffodil is having more fun than a barrel of monkeys most of the time. Not an actual barrel of monkeys because you can see how that would get out of hand in a hurry, but a proverbial barrel? Definitely.

Yep XD

[Alex Bridges]

Scene #39

 

Sometimes I think Mary plays the straight woman to my madcap antics. And anytime I get to thinking that way, it’s like she somehow knows and makes a grand gesture to remind me there is nothing, at all, straight about my wife.

“Wuh,” was my clever response as she nudged me awake. “What time is it?”

“Time to get up.”

“It’s Sunday. Lemme subuhhmm ssss....”

“No, honey, it’s time to get up.”

THWOCK!!!

That’s the sound of a big swat on a butt covered by a diaper covered by a comforter. Mary just had to put me in it at bedtime, and I had to sleep splay legged for how thick it was. She assured me I’d get used to it, and when she suggested it be an every night thing to facilitate my acclimation faster, I shut up and let it happen.

I rolled over. There she was, her hair a wonderful bedhead mess, the morning light through the window scattering through it and making her glow like my very own angel beaming down at me. 

And if you believe that crock, I got lots more. Though the bedhead part is true. But what caught my attention was, um, well ...

“What the heck is that,” I politely exclaimed upon seeing her (I’m blushing even thinking about it) wearing the pajama shorts she went to bed in but with a, well, a thing under them. 

I’m a very genteel lady, as you know, shy and retiring and easily embarrassed by human anatomy. Well, not really, but I get a little blushy about facsimiles of parts I don’t have showing up in unexpected places, like the thing forming a gigantic tent in her pajama shorts. It was like a circus in her pants!

“Marrrryyy, what are you doing,” I whined and giggled and blushed like a maid on her lesbian wedding night. I even pulled the covers up to just under my chin and I don’t know why.

“What,” she casually asked like nothing was out of place. “O, you mean this?”

“What is that?”

“Morning wood.”

Well, to say I was speechless was a true thing to say, is what it was. And then I cracked up and couldn’t stop giggling. And just when I was ready to, she grabbed me by my shoulders and pinned me down and straddled me because I am a shy and retiring woodland bunny, and she is queen of the whole damn forest.

“I’m gonna need your help making it go away,” she said to me. And then she, well, she kissed me like I’m a Disney Princess who got lost in an R-rated movie, and I, heh, suddenly found things less funny and more sexy. In that same very earnest, so not earnest tone of voice she uses when she’s trying to embarrass me and wants me to know it, she said, “I can’t go to church like this.”

“Ooh,” I said kittenishly, twirling a strand of her hair around my finger, “whatever will the parson way?”

“We can’t find out.”

“I just need a minute,” I said.

“Whatever for?”

“To, um, clean up?”

“You look spick and span to me.”

“But, um, I’m wearing, you know.”

“I think that can stay right where it is until after church.”

Talk about deer in the headlights. Stunned (and just the right kind and amount of afraid - the forest Queen had a raging hard on for me! It was very intimidating ?) and faux scandalized. “You’re so crude,” I lectured her. I put the back of hand to my forehead like I was overcome with the vapors. She pulled the covers off me and started nipping at my neck.

Ya know, she’s right about most things most of the time. Which I reflected on while sitting under the covers with her behind me resting her chin on my shoulder and that diaper still around my waist (if a little worse for wear) and her arms wrapped around me while The Right Reverend Pastor Sara talked about something on Mary’s iPad. I forget what. I couldn’t concentrate very well. 

I had a hard enough time suppressing the giggles because I couldn’t stop thinking about Mary’s prop comedy. Well, that, and I had this overall, whole body, glowy feeling going on not uncommon to those who’ve just been to the circus.

Hmm. I like my wife very muchly. ?

[WBDaddy]

Hot!  And fun!  And cute!  

[Sarah Penguin]

[Baby Toni38]

Love the update 

[YourFNF]

[Bel George]

Although I follow this thread and get an email when something is added, I still check every day to see if a new chapter has been added. This story is addictive.

[Alex Bridges]

12 hours ago, Jor said:

Although I follow this thread and get an email when something is added, I still check every day to see if a new chapter has been added. This story is addictive.

Daww!

Next chapter is in the works.

[Alex Bridges]

Scene #40

 

I had a streak! Not that it’s anything to be proud of because, I am, after all, an adult and not a little kid who has so much trouble staying out of trouble that not getting in trouble for two whole weeks is cause for celebration. But I’m proud just the same. 

Two whole weeks without so much as a time out. Sure, I collected a spare swat here and there and more than a couple warnings, but I needed warnings only because I’m a good girl who makes good choices. Mary says so. Of course she always adds on, “when you remember to” to the end of that, but I’m usually not listening at that point and thinking instead that I must be one of human history’s all-time good girls and all around wonderful people if Mary says. She’s a tough grader and an expert on good girls, and her opinion is the most important in the whole world.

Of course, the thing about a streak is that they end. Otherwise they wouldn’t be streaks. They’d just be how things are. But I like to focus on the positives in life. So I had a spank-free streak, Mary was very proud of me, I think she even told some people, and they were proud of me, too. I was proud of me, and thinking back on it, getting a big head may have been the thing that led to my streak ending. It’s not like I thought I had finally grown out of needing spankings (perish that awful thought), as Mary accused me of thinking. More that the butt pain of bad choices was such a distant memory I wasn’t really thinking about it at the time. And it wasn’t a bad choice. It just wasn’t the best choice, depending on your perspective. But again, Mary’s perspective is the one that matters in all things spanking or just, ya know, relating to my butt in general.

Anyhoo, it was kind of a big day for us. We went over to see Mary’s family, whom we haven’t seen since March. It was in the backyard with her dad manning the grill, which is exactly the right word for how men are with meat (so weird), and her mom grandmomming my nephew to death, who turned four without any hullabaloo during the stupid quarantine. Everyone deserves a hullabaloo.

I was talking to my sister-in-law when I was interrupted by a pair of arms wrapping themselves around me from behind. “Can I borrow Daffy,” Mary asked her sister.

“How are you two still in the disgusting newlywed phase,” my sister-in-law asked.

“Just lucky.” And we went inside to Mary’s childhood bedroom. It’s not a shrine to high school Mary, but only because she lived there for a bit after college, so it’s more a shrine to college Mary, who was pretty fucking hot. 

Funny thing about her childhood bedroom is I’ve gotten spanked in there more times than she has (but probably fewer times than some of her dolls), and definitely gotten busy in there at least as many times as Mary. “What’s up, hot stuff,” I asked while starting to get a little handsy with the erstwhile tenant.

She took my handsy hands and kissed my wandering fingers. “The volume of your voice,” she said back to me.

“Ooh,” I whispered, “do we need to keep it down?”

“I mean,” she said while still holding my hands and putting on her serious face, “you’re being awfully loud. I know you’re excited to be with people again, but you need to dial it down to about 5.”

“O. Sorry. Guess I’m just a little rambunctious.” Or buzzing with energy because, like Mary said, we were at a social gathering for the first time in almost six months. A family gathering, but I like these people. It was a taste of normality, or something close to it. And, also, I had a couple sodas, which I generally don’t ever have, and it’s not like a never have caffeine, but not, ya know, except every six months or so, and it kinda hits me like, FUCK YEAH! But not really, because only kids get buzzed on sugar and caffeine, and I’m not a kid. Really (but also yes with the sugar and caffeine).

“Thank you. And could you also chill a little with the political discussion?”

“Why,” I said because we’re not the type of people not to speak our minds. I didn’t even offend anyone because we’re all on the same page. “Everyone agrees with us.”

“Exactly, so maybe you didn’t need to slam your fist on the table and use all those F bombs in front of Milo.” Guess I let the righteousness (and sugar and caffeine) get good to me.

“O. Sorry. I forget he’s a big kid now.”

“I know. He’s a little sponge. He hears everything.”

“I’ll chill.”

“Thank you. That’s my good girl.” And she kissed me. I got a kiss and(!) affirmation that I’m a good girl and (!!!) got to go out and be with people. It was a good fucking day.

“I’m sorry, what did you call me?”

“My good girl.”

“Ehee.” So I like that way more than is reasonable, so much so I make squeaky noises sometimes when she calls me that.

“And you’ve been such a good girl for two whole weeks. It’s like some of those punishments actually got through to you.”

“I’m just so good at making good choices. Possibly the best ever.”

“Well, with a little help.”

“A teeny bit, at most,” I riposted.

“And that’s why I brought you up here,” she said as her eyes turned from their beautiful hazel to demon red. “Shorts down.”

“What? Why?”

“Because I said so,” she reminded me. Which seemed like enough of a reminder for me to not need any other form of reminder, but I wasn’t consulted. She sat down on the edge of her bed, grabbed me by the waistband of my shorts, and tugged me over. In a second I was naked below the waist.

“I don’t wanna spanking,” I whined.

“Don’t get all pouty.”

“I’m not pouting,” I pouted. And stomped my foot for good measure. Which is neither whiny nor pouty. It’s declarative. I was making a declaration.

“I hope not.” She leaned forward and gave me a kiss on my tummy. “Because you’ve been such a good girl.”

Sigh. Flutter. Melt. Why do I have to be such an approval slut?

“But,” she said as she stood up and pivoted us around, “I’m not going to spank your bottom.” With a gentle nudge, she made me trip backward onto the bed. “Let’s get that reminder on you.”

Aww, fuck nuggets. I only just then noticed the backpack from the car at the head of the bed.

“Marrrrrryyy! I don’t wanna.”

“I know, sweetie,” she said while reaching for the backpack. Like hey! I’m talking here!

“But I don’t wanna,” I repeated.

“Who wears diapers,” she countered.

“Who enjoys diapers,” I threw right back at her.

“Excuse me, little girl.” Dammit! Dammit dammit damn it and crap! “This is not up for discussion.”

I was looking away from her. Bad enough she had me wearing the stupid things around strangers and kinky friends. Around family?!? I ... no. Just no.

“Feet up,” she said. I turned back to look at her, and she had a big white diaper unfolded in her hand.

Ya know what? “No.” Well, that got her attention. She sorta did a double take.

“Are you telling me red light?”

I don’t like those. It throws everything off. You can’t red light in a lifestyle relationship without making things weird for a while. Doesn’t take you back to Square 1 on what’s okay and what’s not, but it definitely takes you back to Square 2. I said I wanted her to be in charge, and she said that means I do what she decides and I said Yes please! If she says to take out the trash on trash day and I don’t, that’s not a fundamental relationship dealy. If she says to get over her knee because I didn’t do what she said and I say no, that goes back to the ground rules this whole house of nudey cards is built on.

“No,” I ventured.

“Then feet up, little girl.”

“No. I don’t wanna.”

And then she crossed her arms and glared at me. And I didn’t give in! For I am strong and independent! And don’t need her stupid diapers! Or approval. Or ... other stuff. 

I just laid there with my arms crossed and glared back. I had no need to stand up. Or put my shorts back on. Or leave the room. Or ... other stuff.

So I just laid there. Half-naked. Having a staring contest. But not really because I have nothing to prove. I just decided staring contests were beneath me and look at other things. 

And I was on offense! Let her be on defense with her crossed arms and ‘or else’ look. I don’t need to cross my arms. So I uncrossed them. Her glare didn’t even frighten me. Not only didn’t frighten me, but with my butt (and ... other stuff) just hanging out there and flat on my back, where a warrior such as myself is not defenseless, I didn’t even feel self-conscious. I glared right back. And then decided I didn’t wanna glare. I don’t need to telegraph what I’m thinking. I don’t need to explain myself!

Or cover anything. I just wanted to. And when she nudged my hand away from my panties, I didn’t reach for them again because I decided I didn’t want them. They’re stifling. They can’t contain me! Nothing and no one can contain me! I can’t even contain me!

And ... stuff.

She took a deep breath and sighed. She started to say, “If someone knocks...”

And I didn’t panic. I didn’t talk over her. The very sound of her voice did not drive me to instantaneously say anything to avoid deepening the confrontation. I was not intimidated by her changed demeanor. I am not intimidatable! I’m in charge! I make up words to suit my needs! 

“Fine,” I did not say too fast. Nor did I groan, roll my eyes, or kick my heel against the bed, despite what others might claim I did. 

And she uncrossed her arms! I made her do that! Me! I may be the one naked when she says and red-butted when she says and peeing in my pants when she says, but I am powerful. She uncrossed her arms at the very sound of my voice (giving into her)! Because I am more powerful than her. And ... stuff.

And I was not making a face that was a cross between a sad puppy and a grumpy puppy. That’s just libelous slander if you hear that. And if you do hear that, you should politely, but firmly, correct them.

“But,” I did not sputter, “but ... urgh ... ... ... ohhhhrgh ...” I said those non-words with authority, I’ll have the whole world know.

“Hey,” Mary said softly. “Hey.” She sat down on the bed next to me. She came to me. That shows who wears the pants in this marriage (even when I’m naked because she said. Dammit...) “Use your words. What’s wrong?”

“I don’t wanna wear a stupid diaper,” I didn’t whine.

I am so powerful I made her do that thing where you scoff and chortle at the same time, for which this is no word in English, so I’m going to call it a scortle. She scortled. I made her do that. Because I’m powerful, I’m funny even when I don’t mean to be, and ... other ... stuff. Really.

“You always say that,” she said.

“I always mean it.” And I recrossed my arms. So there.

“Hey.” She uncrossed my arms. Which I chose to let her do. I have agency. I am agent! “Where did my good girl go?”

Bitch! Now, I am not needy. I am not in need of constant affirmation. I am not desperate for validation. Those are misperceptions, and if anyone, including me, told you I was then they were lying or you misunderstood. “I am a good girl,” I didn’t whine. I did not. Fake news. “I just don’t wanna.”

“Do I need to make you really tell me what’s wrong?”

“No ...” Because she can’t make me do anything. We powerful agents are not subject to coercion or persuasion like others are.

“Aww, c’mon,” she said while lifting my shirt and swirling her (perfect) fingertips on my (pretty) tummy. Which did not make me go, “Eegh” or squirm. “I bet I know, but I want you to say.”

“What if they see?”

“Surely they’ve seen a little girl in diapers before.”

“Marrrryyy.”

“Of course, with Milo being out of diapers now they might not be thrilled to have diapers back in the house...”

“Stooooop!”

“Daphne Ann, do you not trust me?”

And that accusation did not - did not! - scare me into sitting up and furrowing my brow and pledging my devotion with words like, “Of course I do! You’re my Mary.”

“You silly little girl. Then what’s the problem? Don’t you think I’ve already thought of that?”

I am not silly! I am a force of nature. Tornadoes and hurricanes are not silly. I could knock down a building, and the insurance claim would say “Act of God” because I am a force of nature, and forces of nature are not silly. And I am not a little girl!

“Iumntittlegrl,” I said like a thunderclap.

“What was that,” she chuckled at me. Don’t you be laughing at my thunder!

“I’m not a little girl. How many times do I have to tell you?”

“You’re right. I’m sorry.” Don’t you be humoring my force of nature! “C’mere.”

Don’t you be hugging my ... mmm. I don’t know how she can be so soft and firm at the same time. Which is irrelevant because derechos and earthquakes care not for such ... sigh. 

“You (smooch) don’t (kiss) need to worry (nose tap) about my family finding out.”

“Yeah I do. They’ll never look at me the same.”

She sighed. “First off, you don’t need to worry because I said so. I’ll do the worrying about my family. Second, they’ll never be anything but nice to you because they love you, and because they love me, and because they had better if they know what’s good for them. And lastly, I got you new diapers, if you would stop being such a silly goose and pay attention to what I had.”

“Iumntaillyoose.”

She understood my authoritative mumbling that time because she said, “You are such a silly goose!” She reached over and grabbed the (no! my! DAMMIT! her) diaper and handed it to me. “See how thin and quiet.”

“It’s not thin,” I pointed out.

“It’s thinner than your other ones.” Which are hers!

“It’s thicker than panties.”

“And those are thicker than nothing at all, but you’re not allowed to go commando.” Talk about a red herring. And a selectively enforced rule. And a non sequitor.

“Well, it’s ... “

“I’m waiting ...”

I didn’t actually have another objection, other than what it was. And that got shot down already. Again.

“It’s ... ugly.” 

“Ugly,” she asked, surprised. I surprised her. I am full of surprises. Surprises and power and agency. Not neediness or eagerness to please or a constant desire for approval or silliness or any goose parts. Really.

“Yeah. It’s ... plain and ... it has those stupid lines.”

“Honey, those are wetness indicators.”

Oooorgh! “I don’t even need those.” Speaking of dumb things to say.

“They’re not for you; they’re so caregivers can see when someone is wet. These are medical diapers.”

“O.”

“They’re thinner and quieter. I got them for you for when we’re out sometimes.”

“O.”

“But if you’d rather have a pretty one ...”

“No!”

“... you have some in your diaper bag.”

“No! This is ... whatever.”

“Whatever?”

“Yeah. Just ... fine.”

“What do you say.”

Aw, crap no! No way was I going to say, “Thank you ... for thinking of me.” Dammit...

“You’re welcome. Now,” she said while manhandling me so I was spread eagle on my back with her sitting between my legs like she was changing a ... dammit.

“Lift your bottom.”

Whatever ... 

“Mary?”

“Yeah, kiddo?”

“Since this is quieter, does that mean I have to wear them more often?” See? She thinks she’s ten steps ahead of me all the time, but I’m onto her game. Mostly. Sometimes. Frequently enough.

“I didn’t even think about that!”

“Liar.”

“There. See,” she said as she smoothed out the tapes and gave my front a pat. Which I don’t like. Even if it feels good. And even if I like it I don’t. Just don’t tell anyone. “How does it feel? And be truthful.”

“It ...” I wiggled my hips, and it didn’t make any noise. I could close my legs. It was snug in the right places. I wasn’t instantly sweaty around the waistband like with the other ones. Dammit ... “It feels ... tolerable.”

“Uh huh. Sit up.” And she helped me get re-dressed, not because I’m helpless but because I am nobility. We nobles have always had our peasant servants dress us. I’m noble and powerful and an agent and I forget the other stuff I said but I’m those things too.

“Now,” she said and gave me another kiss, “no one will notice (kiss). And You’re safe (kiss). And do you know why (kiss)?”

“Because you say so?”

“And because I’m right here.”

And I did not get a lump in my throat. I didn’t. I had no emotions at all. I was a (diapered) spartan at Thermopylae (in-laws’ house) making my stand (capitulating) at the Hot Gates (wife’s childhood bedroom) before an angry army (of one - my loving and doting and pretty and kind and soft but firm and darling Mary). Dammit...

“And,” she continued because she loves to continue. If ever someone needed a spanking for not knowing when to stop... “In case that’s not enough of a reminder for you to be on your best behavior and watch that pretty little mouth of yours, I have a paci in this bag, too.”

“Marrryyy.”

“Sweet little thing that you are.”

“I’m not little.”

“How big are you?”

“Marrryyy....”

“Soooo big?”

“Stop,” I didn’t say while chuckling and blushing and leaning my head on her shoulder.

“So big. Ready to go rejoin the others?”

“I never wanted to un-join them.” Swat!

“You know when we get home I have to give you a spanking for telling me no?”

“I know.”

“On your pretty bare bottom.”

“I know.” 

“The one under the diaper you’re wearing.”

And then I made that sound where you push the air out of your nose hard because you’re getting excited, and there’s also no word for that in English. “I know ... but your heart isn’t gonna be in it.”

“Is that a challenge, little girl?”

“No...”

“And you’re getting double if I hear Milo dropping any F bombs.”

“That’s not fair!”

“Tough cookies.”

“You’re so mean.” 

“Is that why you’re smiling?”

“Am not.” Stupid face making faces without my approval.

“C’mere.” I got another hug and gave a damn good one back.

Funny how we went up to her room because I was so wound up, and she was the one with the sudden energy to burn, I YOW! “Mary!”

“What?”

“Nothing ... I ... tell a girl before you’re gonna squeeze her butt that ... hard.” I wasn’t flustered or weak kneed or any other things you might hear. It was, just, ya know, I deserve a little respect for my force of agency sharknados and ... stuff.

“Just checking your diaper.”

I didn’t stick my tongue and there’s no photographic proof I did. “Fibber. And it’s your diaper. I’m just ... using it ...for you.” Dammit...

And no one noticed what I was wearing. And wearing it did not suddenly make me quieter, and it didn’t make me stay right next to Mary, nor did it put me on my best behavior, in case you hear differently from lying liars who tell lies when they’re lying. So it was completely ineffective, and I didn’t like it, and it wasn’t more comfortable than the other ones, and I didn’t pee in their kitchen. And I didn’t cave. Really.

Because I not an approval slut. I don’t need affirmation or to be told I’m a good girl or the loving embrace of the sorceress I married or her smiling at me like I’m the best thing since sunshine. Really. I don’t need those things. I just need them to be happy. Which is different. Really.

And I am powerful and persuasive and full up to my ears with agency and thunder and resolve and noble lineage and decorum and ... stuff and things. Really.

And I’ll tell you one more thing: that four-year-old has the WORST potty mouth. Whoever taught him those words needs her butt spanked. Dammit...

 

 

[kerry]

I so love Daphne!

[Alex Bridges]

5 hours ago, kerry said:

I so love Daphne!

Isn’t she just bunches of fun with her little conflicted self?

[Alex Bridges]

Scene #41

 

Like I needed an audience. Not that it was her fault. It was Mary’s fault. We have a clothes dryer that works just fine. Having to put up a clothesline in the backyard to dry those stupid, idiotic, asinine, craptastic, fuck-my-life cloth diapers Mary got a punishment diapers is just bullshit. It’s an extra chore for an extra punishment, and Miss Mary I’m-So-Great will deny it was also meant to embarrass me in the off chance someone saw but that’s exactly what she was hoping. Not that it was Nana’s fault.

“Hi Daffy,” she said through the fence. She has ears like a bat. I mean, what, did she hear me opening a clothespin? And then she came through the fence. “Something wrong with your dryer? You can ... O.”

“Hi Nana,” I said kinda flatly. “Dryer’s fine.”

“Haven’t seen those in a very long time. Didn’t know they made them for ... sorry.”

“It’s fine,” I said while blushing all the way to the top of my scalp.

“Mary sure is, um, inventive.”

“She’s a regular Jane Edison.” And that’s when things got really embarrassing, because ... “Um, could you grab the other end of the, um ...”

“Bedsheet?”

Stupid, assing, fuckwadding, LEAKING diapers! Arrrrgh! And there was a stain in my side of the mattress now.

“This is ... (hfff).”

“Wanna talk about it,” she asked me.

“Maybe later. Can I come over later?”

“Of course. I’ll be around.”

And before she got more than a few feet, I stopped her. “Wait. I don’t ... I’m sorry. How are you?” Because not everything in the world is supposed to be about me and Mary, or me being in trouble or upset or needing a personified wailing wall to vent to.

“I’m doing alright. I saw my grandbabies yesterday.”

“You did?!?”

“Mhmm.” She looked so happy.

“Did they remember you?”

“Ha. Yeah.”

“Told ya they would.” We chatted for another minute. I really did want to, and I also wanted to so we could also have a normal friendship. Ya know, two adults talking about normal things, supporting each other in normal things. Partly because I want that normally, but also because I think I need to make a point of being a better friend and not always taking my emotional stuff and dumping it on their floor, especially Nana’s floor. I have a floor, and they’re welcome to dump on it too. Which are word choices I now regret.

Anyway, with our sheets hanging up for the whole world to see along with those TNINGS, I decided I needed to have a little chat with Miss Big for Britches about her choice of britches for me.

Now, in my memory, I went inside and changed into one of my work outfits (nice slacks, business-cute top, low heels) and made a PowerPoint any graphic designer would’ve been proud of laying out via charts, graph, flow charts, heat maps, scatterplots, and the kind of brief but insightful bullet points that expert communicators tell you will wow your audience and leave them thinking whatever you want them to think and do whatever you want them to do. I’d show it to you, but would you believe I lost the thumb drive? (I mean really, would you believe it? Please?)

In Mary’s memory, I slammed the door and threw a massive tantrum and set the carpeting on fire. Or at least, that’s my memory of what Mary’s memory is. It would certainly explain some things.

Anyhoo, I went inside and said, “Mary?”

“In my office, Daffodil,” she called back. Which felt a little like she was rubbing it in my face that she had an increasingly successful career going on whereas I did laundry and dishes and put out carpet fires. “We need to talk,” I called back.

“Can we talk after work? I’m in the middle of some things.”

“No, it can’t wait.” I’m friggin ten times as important as whatever she was doing to keep the internet turned on or whatever. “I need to talk now.” And I heard her footsteps coming my way. It made me wish I’d spent another couple hours on my PowerPoint, awesome as it was. And I should’ve hand written my notes or something.

“What’s up,” she asked all confident and like she was just gonna shut down whatever my deal was and go right on back to handing down fiats like she’s queen of every damn thing. I’m an American, dammit! I don’t cotton to monarchy. It’s a new world this side of the Atlantic, and … “Daphne?”

“Mary.” Okay, this at this point in my presentation, I made a conscious effort to maintain open body language and a friendly tone of voice. Just because I was proposing to impose a constitution on the queen is not reason to cross my arms, give Mary a dirty look, and spit out, “When those fucking diapers are done drying, you can bring ‘em in yourself and throw ‘em in the damn trash.”

Well, at least I got my audience’s attention, as evidenced by the saucer-sized eyes and the way Her Majesty’s head did a sort of a double take. She was coming up with her regal reply, or at least I think she was because her eyes got kinda narrow and she crossed her arms and suddenly we were in a weird lesbian/BDSM/domestic discipline/ageplay standoff. She took her phone out of her pocket and looked at something and then put it down on the counter.

And there I was fumbling with the clicker to move on to slide two of my PowerPoint. I know when it’s time to regroup. We can always reschedule meetings. Better to get it right even if it takes two tries then to come away with the wrong next steps because we tried to rush things. “I’ll be at … Mae’s.” Now to waltz past her like a boss. Scoff – silly weakened queen doesn’t realize that’s my arm she’s grabbing. Well ow ow ow ow OW OW.

“You, Daphne Ann…”

“Ow! Stop! I OW!”

“… can plant your butt in the corner and stay there until I say. Do you (swat!) hear (swat swat!) me (swat!) little (smack!) girl (smack! Smack! SPANK!)!?! You have no idea how much trouble you’re in.”

What? Does being queen make your ears stop working? “I said I’m going to …”

Well, I guess it sorta is the kinda job that gives you a lot of gym time, plus if you recall Mary is also a ninja. I didn’t catch much of what she said because I was too focused on how I came to be in the air with my bare butt hanging out, but the parts I did catch were, “Are you … damn mind … your bare … for a month!” And a whole lot of palm-smack-butt sounds.

I said some stuff, too, and Mary could tell you what but there’s no reason to believe her because she didn’t bother to make a PowerPoint. Her mistake.

And suddenly I was back on my feet. It’s like she did that magic trick where the waiter yanks the table cloths out from under the water glass, on in this case me, and spanks the crap outta the water glass and it all happens so fast the water glass couldn’t tell you exactly what happened.

“Do you have anything else to say to me right now,” the snooty ninja queen waitress magician said. If I had that many titles I’d get a big head, too, I suppose.

I didn’t cry at least. That came later. Instead I thought back to all the times my asshole former boss said I needed to spend more time revising my PowerPoints, and I did that in the corner on the kitchen with my butt on display and probably covered in handprint. I ventured to turn around and didn’t even see my shorts or panties. Guess The Incredible Spanking Magicianess made them vanish. I had plenty of time to wonder how she did that trick. Plenty of time. Like, enough time to think I solved that mystery and think about how maybe my PowerPointing skills could use some brushing up after not having made one for six months. Or maybe the slides themselves were fine and just needed one fewer F bombs. Or perhaps a more diplomatic approach to my attempt at dethroning. And I still had time to build a mental clock for what time it was based on the shadow I cast on the wall. It was half past Daphne when she came back.

“Well, Seaman First Class Daphne Ann, who thinks she can swear at me like a sailor and tell me what for, I just canceled my entire afternoon to get the bare bottom of this.” She was sorta in my peripheral vision. There’s no seamen in our home, but I had the good sense to stand at attention like one and keep my eyes on the wall and turn around. “Do you have anything to say to me before your punishment?”

“I’m …” Don’t cry, dammit! “… sor-sorry.” You know what doesn’t help with the not crying? When I’m upset and Mary is upset and she does that thing where she sighs and any hint that she’s angry with me disappears and she just seems so ready to hug me till candy comes out (which really happened once and we’re not sure how! really!) but is just too damn responsible to let misbehavior slide.

“I know. And we’re going to have a long talk between punishments.” Ha! She loves me so much she forgot the singular form of … crap. “Upstairs. March.” Her and the military metaphors… I marched up the stairs while she totally screwed up the cadence with, “Straight to the bathroom.”

I have no idea where the term soapbox originated for when people are making a speech, but in our house, the soapbox is a little plastic box from the travel section of the drug store that holds a bar of soap. It’s amazing how long a bar of soap will last if you don’t actually wash with it. I think we’ve had that one since we moved in together.

“Arms up.” I did, and she took my shirt off me. “So quiet now,” she said. “Could that be because you realize just how badly you screwed up?” She got the soap out and a lather going while continuing her lecture. “I have no idea – no idea! – what possessed you to come into the house and – seriously! – swear at me like that. Open.”

I was supposed to be working on revising my PowerPoint, so you can understand if I was a little tentative about getting pulled off that task to … eeewwwwwwwwww. O god it tastes like dead flowers and bitterness and astringent and regret. Maybe I’d get extra credit for not … eeeoooeeewwwugh it’s lathery enough without her a dammnit to not in my molars awww fudge potatoes.

“I don’t care how old you are, Daphne Ann. You (smack!) do not (smack!) swear (smack!) at (SMACK!) me (SMACK!!!). Look at yourself in the mirror (smack!). Do you like what you see? Because I see a little girl who knows way better than to direct curse words at other people, especially her wife.”

Welp, floodgates open. “(sniff) (sob) (sob again) (another sob) (that thing when you're diaphragm starts to spasm and) waaaah.”

“Whatever you wanted to say to me you could’ve said maturely. We could’ve sat down at the table like two adults. You could’ve told me what was wrong, and we could’ve fixed it together. But instead you threw a tantrum like teenager throwing a tantrum like a toddler. So here we are. Open … ah ah ah. I’ll hold it.” And she held a cup of water to my lips and let me sip and spit and it’s never enough to get the taste out, not that I’ve had my mouth washed out that many times in my life. I’m not sure how many, but I know I have more fingers than that number. But I think only by one now. And to the bedroom we go.

She sat down on the bed where she had already laid out the hairbrush. And a hand towel. I didn’t know what for and was afraid to find out. “Over.” I put myself over her knee, and if at this point you’re thinking to yourself that my anti-monarchy rebellion sure got defeated quick, fast, and in a hurry, well, I was thinking the same thing. If you’re also thinking that I caved like a surrender monkey and didn’t even try to put up a fight, I’ll admit strategic errors and tactical mistakes were made, but it wasn’t as outright and crippling a defeat as it appears just because I was completely nude and over her lap about to get spanked with the hairbrush while trying to mind-over-body the taste of soap out of my mouth after a two-hour timeout. I didn’t immediately and fully surrender even if it appears that way just because I hadn’t said more than two words since my opening salvo and those words were an apology. Nor does my allowing the appearance of these things to take hold suggest in any way that I knew I was sooooo in the wrong on, like, at least three levels. And not even really sure what had made me so angry to begin with.

“Daphne,” she said to me while starting to rub my butt. “I really want to know what the hell that was all about, and you’re going to have a chance to tell me, but first you are getting your bottom spanked. Do you understand why?”

“Because I swore at you.”

“Yes. I don’t care if you swear, but you do not. Swear! At me!”

I can’t say in good faith that she skipped the warm up because that would ignore the spanking I got in the kitchen and the swats I got in bathroom. I can say she didn’t do as good a job with the warm up as I would’ve preferred, but she’d just counter that with a reminder that it was a punishment spanking and warm ups for little girls who didn’t F bomb their wife. And I’m not a little girl; I’m just saying what Mary would’ve told me.

Back to the matter at hand, it was a blur of a spanking. Literally, it was blurry because whatever composure I had managed to maintain (which, good on me for not, for once, going straight to a blubbering mess as soon as I had a moment to reconsider my choice of words two hours prior). She spared no portion of my butt. Which is a shame, because it was a nice butt. We’d been together thirty-plus years, and I didn’t relish the idea of butt shopping during a pandemic but I had no choice because she beat my butt and set in on fire.

Fast, hard, and thorough. Which is exactly how I would’ve spanked me. And, btw, probably not a coincidence that the worst punishment back in the old country was reserved for treason. I should never have tried to dethrone the queen, even if all I wanted to do was impose a little control around the royal prerogative.

And a failed rebellion is a seriously emotional thing even if you somehow escape the queen, so pardon me if I needed to lay there and wail a moment even after (I think) she stopped spanking me. Plus, for all her faults, my queen loves her subjects, and when she was done administering justice, she was kind enough to let me lay there and even (shuddery feelings) ran her fingers down back to the smoldering red ruins of my butt and back again until I had stopped carrying on).

“Ready to sit up,” Her Majesty asked.

What I meant to say was, “Not just yet, your Queenship,” but what came out was, “Mmarry.”

“C’mon, baby, dry up those tears.” And she helped me to sit up, and I ignored how painful it is to sit on someone’s lap without a butt.

“Shhh. C’mon. Dry up those tears.”

Dammit, she may be queen of a buncha stuff, but she’s not queen of my tears. “Illstopryinweniwuntoo.”

“What?”

“I’ll stop crying when I want to.”

“So you can use your words.” And she kissed my head. You’d think she’d figure out that if I’m already crying and she kisses my head that just makes me cry some more. “Shhh. You’re okay, Daffy. Whatever is wrong, you’re okay.”

What’s wrong is my butt was beyond repair. I needed another minute.

“Gotta headache,” she asked me.

“Yes,” I said in my thick I’m-just-barely-not-crying voice.

“Here.” She reached next to her and grabbed that towel and held it against my nose. “Honk.” And I did. “Can you sit up for me?” And I did that too. “You slimed my shirt,” she said as she pulled it off. She scooted herself to the top of the bed and patted her thigh. I followed, feeling my swollen once-was-a-butt ache with each step (is it a step if you’re crawling?). I put one leg over her one leg and one arm over her and one arm behind her and basically clung to her like I’d gone overboard and she was a harbor buoy and the tide was going out.

“Are you ready to tell me what that was all about?”

“I ... (sob) ... I didn’t mean to.”

“What did you mean to say?”

“That I hate those stupid diapers and don’t want that punishment anymore.”

“And why didn’t you just say that?”

“Because you didn’t listen to me when I said I didn’t like them.”

“When was that?”

“The very first time when you said they were for punishment. I said I didn’t like them.”

“Daphne, you say that about a lot of things.”

“Yeah...” What? Just because I say that about stuff I don’t really mean on a weekly basis I was supposed to somehow make it clear when I actually mean it? Why do I hafta do all the work to make myself understood?

“Remember the last time you got upset because you felt things were moving too fast?”

“Yeah...”

“And what happened?”

“I got angry and was mean to you.”

“And you got your bare bottom spanked, and do you remember what I told you then?”

“Not really.”

“No surprise there.” Sarcasm alert! No fair! “I told you when you feel that way you need to tell me and do it maturely, and ever since then I’ve been very careful about asking you if you have anything to tell me and even directly asking you if you need to red light anything.”

“And I said I didn’t like those.” Well, so I made a bad faith argument.

“And that is not the same thing as a red light.” And she called me on my bad faith argument.

“But ... eeeugh hmpf!” Dammit! What the fuck is wrong with me! I was fine, like, two hours ago!

“Daffy, okay, seriously, what bee is up your bonnet today? Whatever is pissing you off, you just need to say it because now it’s pissing me off.”

I sat up. Fine. She wanted it straight? Fine. I was still pissed even if I was a weepy, headachy mess and even if I didn’t know why and even if I did regret what I’d said to her, so I turned responsibility of exposing it over to the ancient lizard part of my brain in the hopes I’d just be able to say it if stopped trying to be all clinical about it. No surprisingly, it came out a little sharply when I said, “You made me into a bedwetter! Those diapers are thick and stupid and you made me wear ‘em and Nana saw and there’s a stain on my side of the bed and I slept in a wet spot and they’re babyish and I’m tired and I hate that punishment!”

And then I started crying again. I’m not normally such a crybaby (stop laughing!) but I really didn’t sleep well, and it really did bother me that Nana saw our sheets hanging out there. Literally airing our dirty laundry. And did I mention my butt hurt?

But I wasn’t done ranting. I just did I through tears. “And I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to say that. I was ...”

“Rude, disrespectful, and a total bitch?”

“Mhmm.”

“You didn’t seem so upset when we got up this morning, honey. What happened?”

“Nana saw. She knows I’m a bedwetter.”

Mary scoffed at that. I was in no mood to be scoffed at. “You are not a bedwetter. Your diaper leaked. It happens.”

“But Nana saw.”

“Nana doesn’t care. She’s seen you waddling around with your diapered booty hanging out now, and she didn’t care then, did she?”

“No.”

“No, she didn’t. She thinks it’s cute. If she had her way, she’d be over here babysitting.”

“Not anymore.”

“Because she saw your wet sheets?”

“Because she has her grandbabies back.” Aww, crap. Tell me I did not just say that. The stupid shit we say when we’ve been crying so hard our heads hurt and we’re going on being naked for two hours, by the way, which was starting to make me feel a little more vulnerable than I like. I didn’t mean that about Nana. That was my lizard brain talking, and lizards are not logical and I just forgot to tell it to shut up. Silence prevailed in the room for a good forty seconds. I was about to correct my lizard idiocy but Mary got there first.

“Nana doesn’t ... You’re not a substitute for her grandkids. She liked you before all this, too.”

“I didn’t mean that ... I just ...”

“Please don’t start crying again, Daffy.”

“I’m ... I don’t ... I just don’t like ... (throaty groan frustration).”

“Can I try saying what I think you mean to say?”

“Mhmm.”

“I think what you’re trying to say is you don’t like that you like this so much. Is that it?”

“(silence).”

“Is that an answer?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, it’s an answer; or yes, it’s what you’re trying to say?”

“Both.”

“It’s okay to like these things if it’s what you like.”

“But I’m ... this is too hard.”

“What is?”

“Talking about it. We never had this much trouble talking about this stuff when it was just discipline.”

“Maybe that’s just part of it, you having trouble expressing yourself when ... You having trouble expressing yourself.”

“When what?”

“Nothing. Wrong train of thought.” Ugh. She’s usually a better fibber.

“No, what?”

“When you’re ... in your ... middle headspace.”

“I’m not a middle!” Even if I have in the past admitted to being a middle, I’m not.

“Little girl,” she said in a very sweet cut-the-bullshit way, “it’s okay. It’s okay.”

“I’m not a little girl or a middle or a little or any of that.”

Sure, just because I’d been acting like one ever since I stopped working, but pandemic. It made everything so weird. My whole world shrunk down to our house for months, and we just ... It just happened. The trajectory we were on with all this just accelerated. We went deeper. It ... It just happened. It’s not who we are. It’s not. It’s not who I am.

“Daffy, look at me.” I tilted my head and she was smiling back down at me like she was oddly happy for someone whose wife had just told her to go fuck herself, essentially. “It’s okay to be a middle. Or a little.”

“But I’m not. I’m just me.”

“Of course you are.”

“I’m just me.”

“Okay. That’s all you need to be. I love you and your ‘me’ very much. Do you know that?”

“I love you too.”

“Can we keep talking?”

“Of course we can.” Why couldn’t we? Yawwwwn.

“If you hate the cloth diapers so much, they can be a just-in-case punishment.”

“I don’t want them to be a punishment at all.”

“Are you red lighting them? And I need you to be truthful.”

“No...”

She sighed. “Then, Daphne, I don’t understand what you want.” She sounded frustrated. Maybe I had been expecting her to read my mind mind a little (wayyy) too much.

“I want ... not everything needs to be a punishment, ya know. Some things ... I do good things, too, ya know.”

“What does ... sooo, you want them to be a reward?”

“I didn’t say that!”

“... Are you not not saying that?”

“(silence) (crickets stridulating) (the noise a black hole makes)”

“Okay ... okay. We can do that.” She traced her middle finger up my side from my hip to my ... o, that feels so good.

“I’m sorry,” I said again. “That was awful of me to say.”

“You apologized (kiss) and got spanked (kiss) and you’re forgiven (kiss).”

“Am I gonna get a second punishment like you said?”

“No. I don’t think we need that. Unless it’ll make you feel better.”

“Uh uh.”

“C’mon.” She sat up. “Back to the bathroom.”

“What for?” She held my wrist and walked me back to the bathroom.

“To clean you up, silly. You look like a wet rat.”

She wet a face cloth and wiped away the tear streaks (and not streaks) from my face. God, I don’t think I’ve cried like that in ages. Really.

“Hold still, wiggle bug,” she laughed.

“I’m trying to see.” I twisted around trying to see the marks I’d so earnestly earned. Talk about who’s a bitch sometimes? Me. And the ass murdering I got for it...

“What ...”

“What what,” she asked.

“Where’s the rest of it?”

“Huh?”

“It’s ... red.”

“Of course your bottom is red, sweetie. You got a spanking,” she said like I had short term memory loss. She must really think I’m dense or crazy sometimes.

“I mean ... It should be purple.”

“You start trying to top from the bottom and you’ll get that second punishment.”

“I mean ... I thought it would be worse.” I wouldn’t even have a bruise.

“I didn’t spank you that hard, baby.”

“Yes you did.”

“You are just oppositional today, Ms. Sassback.”

“But ... I cried.”

“You blubbered. I think you just needed a good cry. So much so that I think I know what will make you feel better.” She reached over and turned on the tub faucet. “And you really didn’t sleep well, did you?”

“No. I slept in a wet spot.”

“Why didn’t you get up? I would’ve helped you change the sheets.”

“Because then you’d know I wet the bed.”

“In you go.” I stepped over the edge of the tub and sat down. It didn’t hurt. Sorta felt rough against my skin, but nothing ached. I must be developing rhino butt or something because no way would I cry and carry on like I did unless she paddled me but good. I think. Unless I was an emotional mess for twenty different reasons and a hairbrush tap was all it took to make it come rushing out.

“Daffy, can we clarify terms for a second? When you say you wet the bed, were you awake for it?”

“What?!? Of course I was! Don’t be mean.”

“Just asking … would explain why you’re so upset about it ... you could’ve just gotten out of bed, though, and I’d have helped you change the sheets and gotten you into something dry.”

“Bad enough as is.”

“You’d rather sleep in a wet spot than just tell me you need changed? You silly goose.”

“I’m not a silly goose. I just ... hmph.”

“So you’re not a silly goose or a little girl or a silly little girl. Got it. Lay back.”

“I’m not,” I said as I laid back.

“And you didn’t throw a fit like a teenager who was having a meltdown like a toddler.”

“So what if I did?” Me oppositional? Pshaw.

“So, you need a nap, and I’ll take one with you, and then I think we should see if your Nana wants to come over.”

“What for?”

“To spend time with you. We can order in and rent a movie.”

“Okay.”

“Arms up.” And I lifted my arms and soap just tickles when you’re the one not holding it, but at least I didn’t squee. “Daffy?”

“Mhmm?”

“Are there any more big talks we need to have before nap time?”

“Like what?”

“Like anything else at all you want to change? I’m serious, because if there’s something you want to red light and you don’t tell me and throw a tantrum later, or any other emotional crises we need to resolve before they turn into other tantrums, you need to tell me. Because next time, it’s going to be a just-in-case punishment. I think we’ve had enough of you holding things in until they come gushing out all at once.”

“No.”

“Nothing at all?”

“I don’t think so ... And you know I don’t mean to. It’s just ...

“I know (kiss). So many big emotions for such a little girl.”

“Ow! No fair pinching. I’m not a little girl.” But the emotions are definitely big.

“I think we need to get back to fundamentals for a bit. Let’s put the zero strikes rule in place for a little bit. See if we can’t stay on top of the little things before they become big things.”

“But ... for how long?”

“We’ll see.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I don’t know everything either, ya know.”

“I know.”

“We’ll just need to see. We need to leave a pitcher in here.”

“What for?”

“For when I wash that pretty red hair of yours.”

“Are we gonna make a habit of you giving me baths now?” Because you don’t hafta be a little girl to enjoy that.

“Maybe if you’re a good girl who makes good choices.”

“Am I a good girl even when I make bad choices, like telling you to ... I really am sorry.”

She put her hand under my chin and turned my head so I was looking her in the eye.

“You’re always my good girl, Daphne Ann. Always ... No. You are not gonna start crying again after I just finished washing your pretty face.”

But I was having feelings! I didn’t mean to!

She let out a big sigh. “Fine. Go ahead if you want to.”

“I’m just tired,” I said weepily. And hormonal.

“I know, baby. We’ll get you all snuggled up for your nap.”

“(sniff). Thank you for taking care of me.”

“You’re very welcome.”       

[WBDaddy]

Dammit, I ran out of likes again.  Please don't construe that to mean I'm not grateful for another installment.