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

[kerry]

Awww! This is so tremendously adorable!

[Alex Bridges]

7 hours ago, kerry said:

Awww! This is so tremendously adorable!

Hehe! They’re gonna have a very good Christmas. 

[YourFNF]

19 hours ago, Alex Bridges said:

Why? And spanking me is a way Mary takes care of me, so if what Mary needed was something to take care of, why didn’t that do the trick? Was spanking me not fun for her anymore? What it a chore now?

Good thing I’m not insecure (?). Really ...

Ooof I want to hug the poor girl

19 hours ago, Alex Bridges said:

You’re my little girl. My very bestest good little girl.”

“And you’re ...”

“What?”

“My Mary.”

https://tenor.com/view/jim-carrey-the-grinch-feelings-emotions-gif-3567136

[Sarah Penguin]

Hugs for both.

[Disk]

Please sir, can I have some more!

[Alex Bridges]

2 hours ago, Disk said:

Please sir, can I have some more!

Yep, tomorrow.

[Alex Bridges]

Scene #65

 

“Murry, wut aryu duin,” I mumbled in the middle of the night. At least I think I did. Maybe not so much with the remembering when I’ve been dragged from unconsciousness at a time I just call ‘dark.’ You only need to number the hours if you’re making plans, and my plan for that hour is always the same, be sleeping.

“Nothing, honey. Go back to sleep.”

“K.”

When morning did come, the sun was out, the birds were singing, and so was Mary. I got out of bed and slippered my way downstairs to the sound of Mary rocking around the Christmas tree, which we didn’t have yet. 

“Morning,” I said and smiled from the doorway. “What’re you making,” I yawned and rubbed the sleep from my eyes.

“Pancakes.”

“With cinnamon?” I yawned again and sat myself down in a kitchen chair.

“I know how you like them. Didn’t you get enough sleep?”

“I did.”

“You can go back to bed for a while. We can do Zoom church at ten.”

“Ugh, no way with Pastor Mike.” How someone can take the majesty of the whole of existence and make it boring, I dunno. I got up and made us glasses of juice and water.

Mary crossed the kitchen and gave me my good morning kiss and butt squeeze (what, you don’t get a good morning butt squeeze? I’m so sorry for you). When our lips parted, she kept her hands on the small of my back. “Mmm. Good girl.”

Ooo, two squeezes! I must’ve been an especially good girl. And did you hear what she called me? Ha!

“What I do,” I asked. I mean, yeah, I’m a good girl all the time, but I usually hafta do something to be told so.

“You have a dry bottom.” She just said that and left it flopping on the floor, going back to the stove to flip the pancakes. Having the experience of getting flipped over by Mary, ‘patted’ with that very spatula, and eaten, I think I know just how the pancakes must feel: in love with Mary. And vulnerable to her whims.

But back to what she just said, “Of course I ... Did you wake me up last night?”

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to, but you went right back to sleep.”

“What were you doing?”

“Changing your diaper, sweetie. You were wet. Syrup or jelly?”

For a second I thought there must’ve been someone else in the room because my wife and I were talking about middle-of-the-night diaper changes, not breakfast. Also, “Syrup, please.” 

I hoped, o how I hoped, the sound of me getting the butter and jelly - Mary prefers jelly on her pancakes; she talked me into trying it, and I do like it, but she says it doesn’t count as a serving of fruit so I usually stick with syrup, which does count as a serving of tree sap - anyway, I hoped the sound of those things covered the sound of me checking the front of my diaper. And yep, dry. I know I woke up and peed around midnight, because I do that most nights diapered or not. I’ll admit here that I do get back to sleep easier when I do that in a diaper, but I’m never telling Mary.

“Why did you do that,” I asked Mary.

“Change you? Because you needed it, silly.”

“Um, have you ever done that before? In the middle of the night, I mean.”

“Nope.”

“So ...”

“I woke up and reached over to find you and felt you had wet pants and decided to change you.”

“My pants ...”

“Figuratively.”

“O ... kay...” I guess that’s ... okay. Feels like life just got weirder around here, and we already crossed the weirdness barrier in our house many miles ago. It’s like crossing the sound barrier, but instead of a sonic boom, you just hear this voice in your head go, “Huh. So that’s a thing now, is what it is ... interesting.”

She scoffed at me as she set our plates down and sat across from me. “What, you want to sleep in a wet diaper?”

“No! I just ... are you gonna make a habit of that?”

“Well, if I happen to wake up and find you really wet, I might change you. I’ll try not to wake you.” Man, she’s taking the ‘please take care of me’ thing from last night super seriously. Like, for serious? Apparently. And yes, there’s frequently a monologue like that running my head. Weirdness barrier waaaaayyyyy back there in the distance...

“Did you ... did you get back to sleep okay,” I asked. I mean, she literally does not have to do that. I sleep fine, and she needs to sleep fine, too. Besides, if your wife is going to make you wear a wet diaper, while you’re unconscious is the best time. Although she’s not making me ... I think? I’ll ... okay. Don’t interrogate yourself, a little voice said to me. Good tip, I said back.

“Mhmm. Mmm! Did I ever tell you I make good pancakes?”

“A time or two.” From scratch! “Thanks for making them with the cinnamon.”

“Just a pinch, like your mom makes,” Mary said. Which is true. That’s how my mom makes them, and that’s why I like them that way. The pancakes I grew up with, except Mary’s don’t come from a box of mix. I smiled at Mary. “What?”

“I can’t help but notice you’re happy this morning.”

“Yeah, I guess I am.”

“Is that ...” Aw fuck it with the sideways attacks, straight at the issue, damn the torpedoes, every kinkster will do her duty like an Englishman, men abed in their homes will think themselves accursed that they were not, yada yada ... anyhoo ... “Can we talk about last night,” I asked directly.

“Haven’t we been?”

“I mean before we went to sleep. The, um, living room.”

“Sure.”

“I just ... I’m not a little.” Just in case the footie pajamas and pacifier and teddy bear - followed by the bedtime diapering - had led her to believe even otherwise. I mean, I would be, if she really wanted me to be. But I’m not. And she hasn’t asked or dropped any hints that she does want ... anyhoo ...

“I know,” Mary confirmed. See? She knows me better than anyone, and Mary knows I’m not a little, so the opinions of others on that subject aren’t even worth my time.

“I just wanted to do something special for you,” I said.

“It was very special. Thank you again.”

“I thought it would make you feel better. You’ve been so ... it was Lisa’s idea.”

That caught her off guard. “Lisa? What does she ...”

“I called her.”

“What made you do that, sweetie?”

“You’ve been sad and stressed, and I didn’t know how to make you feel better. The usual things didn’t work.”

She smiled at me, one of those aren’t-you-so-sweet-it’s-pitiable smiles. “You don’t have to worry about me that much.”

Well, I do, is the thing, because she’s my wife and the love of my life, so I didn’t even respond to that. I skipped right over that and said, “So I called Lisa.” I hope this doesn’t get back to Lisa. She might not like that I told Mary.

“And she told you to get your teddy bear and come snuggle with me?”

“She told me you might ... that maybe you wanted ... that if spanking me wasn’t cheering you up, maybe you needed some ... ...” Apparently we were having a shortage of words in our house.

“Are you okay?”

“Mhmm.”

“Did you not like snuggling with me?”

“No! I mean, yes, I did. I just ... Lisa said maybe you were feeling more like a big than a domme and maybe that’s why ... spanking me has always made you feel better before.”

“Daffy ... here,” she said and took my plate. She put it in the microwave for ten seconds. I had forgotten to eat while I was busy stuttering and stumbling my way through whatever it was I was trying and failing to say. “C’mere,” she said and patted her knee. I got up and sat down in her lap. I felt her stifle a scortle, perchance at my outfit, still the footies but with some padding underneath. “Bite,” she asked and proffered me a bite of pancake. I accepted it. “Good girl.”

“Thenku.”

“Talking with your mouth full?”

“Sorry.” She kissed me on the cheek and handed me my fork. Just because she now checks and changes my diaper in the middle of the night does not mean she needs to feed me like a ... dammit.

“Sometimes a spanking doesn’t solve things,” she told me. Well, duh, right?

“But it makes you feel better.” My butt is Mary’s stress ball. I have a pair of panties that say so right on the seat! “At least, it used to.”

“It still does, silly. Last week was just ... off.”

“So you still like spanking me?”

“If you ask one more question with an obvious answer, I’ll turn you over my knee right here,” she laughed. That’s exactly the kind of pretext my Mary would use to paddle me.

“Just checking ... So if spanking didn’t solve your crummy mood, why did snuggling do it? And we snuggle all the time.”

“I don’t think snuggling solved it. I just think it ... I don’t know. Maybe I’d have woken up happy today regardless ... but you helped,” she rushed to reassure me. Not that I need more reassurance than the average ... whatever I am these days.

“But that’s what you wanted, to ... how did Lisa know and not me?”

“I think she just made a good guess. Take more bites.” Which I did. I don’t normally need so up much promoting to eat my sugar. Really. “Maybe,” Mary speculated, “Lisa was just thinking about what she likes and thought I’d like the same thing.”

“Because she thinks you’re ...” I stopped myself from saying it.

“What? What did she say?”

“It’s not something she said. It’s more ... do you wish I were a little?”

“I like you the way you are.”

“But you liked me in that outfit a lot.”

“Because you looked ... with your paci and your bear and your eyes all big, you looked like you needed me.” 

I mean, sure, with the outfit and accessories and maybe I was a little wide eyed and silent like I got lost in the toy store and was scared I couldn’t find my mommy ... dammit.

I didn’t need her any more or less I’m that moment that I ever do. I have a pretty standard hierarchy of needs: warmth, shelter, peanut butter, to be told I’m a good girl, a butt that’s always in danger, and all the love. Each of those things can translate directly to ‘Mary.’ Except the peanut butter. She’s more often a barrier to that. But only because she loves me! Sigh... So I told Mary, “I need you all the time.”

“Aw, baby, and that makes me feel like the most important person in the world.”

“Well, you are. I mean, duh ... Maybe I just can’t ever understand.”

“Can’t understand what?”

“How ... to be happy ... I need someone, um, you specifically, to take care of me to make me happy, but you need someone to take care of to be happy.”

“You, specifically,” she said and poked me in the side where I’m ticklish.

“I guess I don’t understand that entirely.”

“Letting me take care of you is how you take care of me. Simple as that.”

“Or seriously complicated, but ...” That’s seriously complicated. I looked it up, and nope, no one understands what that’s all about.

“What?”

“I guess we don’t need to understand it. Just remember it.”

“That’ll work, won’t it?”

It would have to, because bigs are confusing. “Mhmm.”

“All done?”

“Mhmm. And I don’t ... if it makes you happy, I don’t mind wearing cute outfits.”

“You make just about all the clothes cute when you wear them. I don’t think it was the outfit.”

“What was it then?”

“The look on your face. The way when I asked you what you were up to, you didn’t know.” She does like me confused. Makes it easier for her to manipulate me into the sorts of scenarios that end with stuff and things in places at times. She loves those, and so do I. Of course, sometimes I’m just pretending to be confused, but that’s part of the fun.

“Thanks for taking care of me,” I said. “If you hadn’t ... hoo boy.” I mean, if she had just told me I looked cute and went back to work, yikes would I have been a hot mess. But she wouldn’t do that. 

“What,” she asked me.

“I was just feeling kinda insecure already, but I guess you know that now.”

“You coulda told me.”

“I didn’t want to add onto your plate. I was trying to care of you.”

“Taking care of you is how you take care of me,” she said again.

“Well, I didn’t know that last night.” Or I did, but not with so much clarity. She put it really well. That’s what Lisa was trying to tell me and couldn’t articulate, and it’s what I knew inside me but didn’t think of it in those words. Which raked a question, “So, question: can I be too needy, in that little dynamic you just said?”

“Can you be too needy? Anyone can. Are you too needy? No.” I’ll add to that, am I needy? Yes. Am I too needy for just about everyone else in the world? Hellz yes, and I had racked up quite the stable of exes in my short pre-Mary life to prove it. But I’m not too needy for Mary. I just need to be told I’m not too needy for her from time to time. It’s a symptom of the larger problem. But then I guess it’s not a problem for Mary, so it’s not a problem for me either.

“Good,” I said. “Just promise me you’ll say something if I ever am.”

“Promise.” I got a kiss. “Good job eating your breakfast.” I mean, for example (random example, plucking it outta thin air), I don’t need praise for things like eating my breakfast, for the record. Littles are the kind of people who need that degree of affirmation. I just happen to really like that degree of affirmation sone days (most of the days), and also for everything else I do. Totally different. Really. 

“Let’s go to church,” Mary said and patted my hip to get me to stand.

“Not yet.”

“Why?”

“Reasons...”

“O, you just wanna cuddle some ... you’re peeing on me, aren’t you?”

I didn’t immediately respond ... for reasons. Mary didn’t mind, she just rubbed little circles on my shoulders until I was, um, ready to answer, “Like you don’t like that, ya big weirdo.”

“Hey! Is that name calling from Miss Potty Pants?”

“I had to go.”

“You could’ve gone to the bathroom. I did repeal that rule,” she reminded me.

“O. I, um, forget ... sometimes ... is all.” Really. And don’t you interrogate my reasons, either!

“Uh-huh. You ready now?”

“I don’t think you appreciate how hard that is.”

“What?”

“Peeing my pants!”

“You don’t have to.”

“I mean physically! It’s not ... it’s a skill.” I had to practice at it. It took a while to get good at it.

“Then you must have mad skillz,” she teased me while scratching her fingers over my pajamas where the diaper wrapped around my hip.

“Yeah. And if I’m going to feel it, I just want to share the sensation with you. That’s called reaping what you sow, Mary.”

“For someone allegedly so insecure, you sure are mouthy all of a sudden.”

“You reassured me. I’m good for a while.” I gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Good work,” I said, because Mary and bigs and people in general need reassurance to, even if it seems like they’re totally on top of everything. True story.

She gave me a kiss back. “No more stalling. We’ll miss it.” I got up and got swatted on my butt, which was mmmm. She held my hand all the way back upstairs.

“Can I have a change,” I asked as we settled on the bed and opened the iPad to Zoom church. Pastor Sarah was just getting started, while Pastor Mike was sitting in the background looking like he was thinking hard about how to be boring for the next service.

“You can wait,” Mary said and gave me a swat.

“Can wait in the middle of the night to,” I grumbled.

“If you don’t want me to ...”

“Well, let’s see how good you can be at not waking me up first ... can I have a good girl spanking after church?”

“You’re gonna get a bad girl spanking after church if you don’t settle in and pay attention.”

“Yes’m.”

I can’t wait to go back to physical church. I miss it and our friends and Pastor Sarah, and this bathroom in the basement where Mary takes me after if I don’t behave ... sigh. When the pandemic is over, I’m gonna have to ask Jane to text me the third Sunday of every month around 9:15. For reasons.

[kerry]

I've said it before, but Daphne is my favorite narrator ever. And the way you write her—the ease, the flow, the silliness, the constant sense of neediness and love—is utterly brilliant. Are you sure your were not a lesbian Little in another life?

[Alex Bridges]

20 minutes ago, kerry said:

I've said it before, but Daphne is my favorite narrator ever. And the way you write her—the ease, the flow, the silliness, the constant sense of neediness and love—is utterly brilliant. Are you sure your were not a lesbian Little in another life?

Kerry, there are days when I’m not sure I’m not a lesbian little in this life.

Or maybe that’s the pandemic isolation talking. Who knows.

Also, Daphne is not a little. Just because she got her diaper changed in the middle of the night and ate breakfast on her wife’s lap and sometimes gets her bare bottom spanked in the church basement does not mean she’s a ... dammit.

[kerry]

11 minutes ago, Alex Bridges said:

Kerry, there are days when I’m not sure I’m not a lesbian little in this life.

Or maybe that’s the pandemic isolation talking. Who knows.

Also, Daphne is not a little. Just because she got her diaper changed in the middle of the night and ate breakfast on her wife’s lap and sometimes gets her bare bottom spanked in the church basement does not mean she’s a ... dammit.

LOL

[Sarah Penguin]

[YourFNF]

I really want a Mary... *sighs wistfully*

[Alex Bridges]

22 hours ago, YourFNF said:

I really want a Mary... *sighs wistfully*

Me too. 
It probably makes the writing better, but sometimes the writing and not having bum me out.

I made the mistake of watching a Christmas rom-com (Happiest Season) on Hulu, and when it was over I decided I was done with Christmas rom-coms this year. Between watching people getting to be out and about normally and the romantic part of the story, I was depressed AF. I had to hang with my bear for a while. And drink whisky. Bear and whisky. Yep.

[Hoops]

Hey Alex, I've been browsing this site for a long, long time, but just made an account to comment on this story. In short, I Am Not A Little Girl (Really!) is an outstanding piece of work. I've read a lot of ABDL stories, and Daphne is the most real character I've ever encountered, she is just so much fun. This story is truly great and it has moved me, and I just wanted to take a moment to say thank you. Can't wait to see where it goes next, and keep up the great work!

[YourFNF]

13 hours ago, Alex Bridges said:

Me too. 
It probably makes the writing better, but sometimes the writing and not having bum me out.

I made the mistake of watching a Christmas rom-com (Happiest Season) on Hulu, and when it was over I decided I was done with Christmas rom-coms this year. Between watching people getting to be out and about normally and the romantic part of the story, I was depressed AF. I had to hang with my bear for a while. And drink whisky. Bear and whisky. Yep.

Mood

[Alex Bridges]

2 hours ago, Hoops said:

Hey Alex, I've been browsing this site for a long, long time, but just made an account to comment on this story. In short, I Am Not A Little Girl (Really!) is an outstanding piece of work. I've read a lot of ABDL stories, and Daphne is the most real character I've ever encountered, she is just so much fun. This story is truly great and it has moved me, and I just wanted to take a moment to say thank you. Can't wait to see where it goes next, and keep up the great work!

Thank you! I appreciate the feedback and am glad you’re enjoying it.

[Alex Bridges]

Scene #66

 

 

 

Know who loves Christmas music? Mary. Know how many good Christmas songs there are? Twenty, maybe? Know how many covers of those songs are actually good? I’m guessing thirty.

So even if Mary limited herself to the best version of the best songs, we’re talking about living on repeat. Living in our house is now like working at a Target during the holidays, and you know how I feel about Target. She used to shut her office door when she was on the phone, and now I’m shutting it when she’s off the phone. Also, Mary does not limit herself to the best versions of the best songs; she has roughly the same taste in music as my mother, who played the same Jim Brickman album while she cleaned the house - for twenty years.

So I did what I had to and bought a really good pair of headphones for more than the $100 limit. Not that I’m on an allowance, but we have an agreement, that applies to both of us, that we don’t spend more than $100 on any non-necessity without consulting each other. Now, while inflation has been low in recent years, I think that number needs updating, but that’s not really the point. The point is that that limit applies to non-necessities, and if I hear The Little Drummer Boy one more time, I’m gonna barump-pum-pum-pum a q-tip through my eardrums. Which being a medium-term solution to a short-term problem is a nah. I can just see Mary going, “Daphne Ann, aren’t you listening to me,” and I’d be all like “WRITE IT DOWN! YOU HAVE TO WRITE IT DOWN!” with the hand gestures and the “I DEAFENED MYSELF BECAUSE OF YOUR HORRIBLE TASTE IN HOLIDAY MUSIC!” And then she’d grab a pad and write down, ‘You’re deaf and you know it, so why are you shouting?’ And I’d be all like, “I DON’T KNOW BUT NOW I’M EMBARRASSED!”

Anyhoo, I mean, sure, I could’ve asked if I could spend the money, but Mary has streak of mom logic running right through her middle where every December since we’ve been together if I mention getting any non-necessity, even a five-dollar one, she says, “Why don’t you wait - maybe Santa will bring you one.” I call that mom logic because my mom said the same thing when I was growing up, and when I was five, it almost killed me. Not even exaggerating. Mom was all frazzled trying to do a buncha stuff at once getting ready for Christmas (because she made awesome Christmases), and I asked for a glass of water while she was making a dinner for forty people and putting lights on the tree and deworming the dog or something, and she said, “Let’s see what Santa brings you” because she was distracted and not because she was sarcastic to little kids which is mean. And the result was I was thirsty for a whole hour! Which is a lot when you’re five.

And Mary has this other ridiculous mom logic thing about spending money on the ten-percent-better version of something you already have. I think she drastically underestimates how much ten percent is. What would you pay to be ten percent happier? Not that buying stuff makes me happy - well, not for more than eighteen seconds. But anyway, my old headphones didn’t drown out Frosty the Snowman, and I was on the verge of turning into Frosty the Bitch Wife, which really wouldn’t be fair to Mary. Far be it from me to ruin her Christmas fun. So really they were a present for her. I wasn’t expecting a thank you, but I also wasn’t expecting the worst punishment in the history domestic discipline if she happened to notice my shiny new ear buds.

As to what I was doing? Baking. Again. We can take it for granted that spending way more on groceries still falls into some kind of necessity category even if it just cookies, so I could at least be sure I wasn’t going to get in trouble for that even if Mary did sneak up on me while I was bake-dancing (that’s when you bake and dance, you silly uncultured people). After all, I did have my new headphones in, and I had my best of the eighties playlist going because the eighties kinda were the best for when you’re feeling overly exuberant because it’s Christmas and you’ve been baking and eating one out of every six things that come out of the oven (and a little bit before it goes in).

“What are you making now,” my sneaky and evil-minded mistress of doom asked me all chipper like. That’s how she fools you – one moment, all chipper like; next, feeding you into a woodchipper all Fargo like.

“Ahh!” That was my super clever response. I spun around. “Geez, text me first before you come in, why don’t ya.” She looked at me funny. That would’ve been a tip off that I’d been caught except she looks at me funny two, maybe eight(teen) times a day because – you’re never gonna believe this is what she thinks of me – I can be quirky and random and stuff, so she says. I took my earbuds out and placed them discreetly in my … hand. I need more leggings with pockets. But they were just the new version of the pair I already had, so maybe she didn’t notice they were new? Seemed like it.

“Sorry, Daffodil. May I have a cookie?”

“It’s ‘may I have a cookie, please,’ and yes, you may.”

“Who are these for,” she asked as she perused my treats.

“Saint Bart’s food bank.”

She made that little noise she makes when she remembers why she likes me. Hard to be sure exactly, but I think she like likes me. “You’re a sweetie.” She selected her snowman cookie. “And here I thought you only knew how to bake erotic treats.”

“I got a new cookie cutter,” I said and happily retrieved the padded envelope by the door where it had just arrived. “See if you can guess what it is,” I said and handed it to her.

She took it out and turned it this way and that before realizing which way was up. “Is that a …”

“A uterus!” Which is when I went all giggly because buh-ha! Uterus cookies. So I’m easily entertained sometimes and get blushy about body parts, shoot me.

“C’mere you.” I did, and she gave me a kiss on the cheek. “It makes me happy you take joy in the simple things (kiss). And you’re so adorable (kiss) all dusty with flour.” I got another very sensuous kiss. “I’m gonna go change into something a little more comfortable,” she whispered all hot and sexy into my ear. “Be right back.”

Who knew anatomical diagram cookie cutters could make Mary so eager for some loving? I didn’t think it was sexy; I just thought it was funny. If I knew a gynecologist, it would definitely be the stocking stuffer I gave them. Well, I mean I do know a gynecologist but we’re not close like that. But back to Mary, if I’d know it was that easy to rev her engine I’d have gotten her an anatomy textbook. I cleaned up after myself in the kitchen some while I awaited her return.

“O, Daffy,” I heard her call from the living room.

I put my earbuds back in their case and the case in the junk drawer and went to join Hot Pants in the living room.

“Coming … now remember to be gentle with … aww muff cabbage!”

“What’s the matter? Expecting something else?”

“What did I …”

“Don’t. You. Dare.”

Ooh, so I’m in that much trouble, huh, I said to my self.

Yep, my self said back. Hope it was worth it.

Ask me in January when I can sit again.

Mary stood there, looking effortlessly stern and comfortable at the same time, which only she could pull off. Stern and tensed? Your average run-o’-the-mill middle school principal can manage that just fine, but only Mary could stand there in her floopy pajamas holding a school paddle and looking like it may as well be a feather.

“Go get them,” she said to me.

Now, she was holding the school paddle, and I think it messes with her head whenever she has it because she always thinks I’m suddenly acting like a mouthy seventh-grader just because I go, “Arggh! Fine, whatever,” and physically sulk like I’m holding the weight of all puberty on my shoulders.  Did I ever mention I haaaated middle school? Bad enough being the smart kid, but when you’re sarcasming at a twelfth-grade level it just paints a big target on your back.

And so what if I went all the way to the kitchen and back to the living room without picking my feet up off the floor? What’s called ‘moping’ in some contexts is known as sock-skating in the game I made up between batches of cookies. I put the case in Mary’s hand when she held it out.

“Something wrong with your other headphones,” Mary asked me as she put the case in her pocket. Now, I’ve been wrapped up in a diaper and tossed over Mary’s knee in more dressing rooms than I can count, but at least those are exciting in a kinky way. For pure punishment and being made to feel like a kindergartner, trying having your toy taken away.

“No. I just … wanted them.”

“And you couldn’t wait until Christmas? I got those for you.”

“You did!?!” O, you’re so awesome. “I’m sorry … so I guess we’re not having sexy fun time then,” I asked. Just making sure.

“Nope. It’s not fun being deceived, is it?” O, that’s just mean. But point well taken.

“I … no.” I was gonna say I didn’t deceive her, but breaking a rule and then hiding it is close enough. I could debate it, but it’s just semantics.

“And the reason you didn’t ask,” Mary said to me, “is because you knew I’d say no.”

“Yes …” And that’s when my brain decided to go on Christmas vacation in Hawaii. Whatever powers of reason and rationality I had were packed into a suitcase, the old fashioned kind with bumper stickers that say stuff like ‘Las Vegas’ and ‘NYC’ and ‘Screw you, Daphne, we’re going to Hawaii!’ Because I didn’t just confess. I tried a confess-and-justify maneuver, and I did as craptastic a job at it at thirty-one as I did at thirteen: “But only so I wouldn’t have to keep turning down your music.”

And I know what you’re thinking. Daphne, you’re thinking, however did you graduate middle school in the first place if you’re not smarter than to say that out loud. To which my answer is there are different kinds of smart and something about Mary (there really is something about Mary!) makes me not function in the head with the anxiousness when she’s holding a (gulp!) school paddle. It’s the, I mean, it’s, (hyperventilating), the scariest paddle of them all – and they’re all scary! Or at least the ones for punishment are, and the school paddle is for friggin’ sure for punishment.

Mary made the same face my mom did back in the day when I’d blame her for stuff that was so totally my fault. My mom had either the very good or the very bad sense to ignore that teenage obnoxiousness most of the time. She’s a wise woman – she knew if she just ignored it would go away on its own … in eight short years.

Just like Mary is wise enough to know what’s excusable at younger ages calls for an ass murdering in later years. She just shook her head at me with her lips pressed tightly together … and kept shaking her head … and started to pace before taking me by the shoulders and steering me into the corner when she stripped my leggings down to my knees and ordered me, “Stay.”

Well, to say I was disappointed in me would be an understatement. Disappointed on so many levels. And sorry that my years’ long relationship with my butt was going to come to such an abrupt end. Goodbye, ol’ girl, I bid it, we had some good times. Mary was back before I could start singing O’ Danny Boy.

“Here,” Mary said, and I turned around to find her holding the paddle and my (but really, her) pacifier. “Open. Do you know why,” she asked me as soon as it was in. Kinda a dirty trick doing that.

“Becooyouuvme?”

“Yes, because I love you and don’t want to see you that mouth of yours get you into any more trouble than you’re already in. Now grab your toes and stick your butt out.”

Maybe it’s because, as spankable as my ass is, I don’t have junk in my trunk so much as some nicely folded linens in a hope chest, but I always thought grabbing your ankles sticks your butt out whether you want it to or not (isn’t that the point?), but the rare bent-over spanking always starts with Mary telling me to stick my butt out. I mean, it’s out and I’m a triangle – how much more out can it …

WHAP! There’s a reason we don’t use the school paddle often, which is because I can’t even take one swat without …

“Waaaaahhaaaahaaaaa! Mar…” A braver toaster than me woulda stood up.

WHAPP!

“Ahhhhhh haaaa haaa!” A much braver toaster than me woulda run away.

WHAPPP!!!

“Ehuh ehuh ehuh.” Not that I’m not a brave toaster. But a good girl takes her paddling even if she’s a total wimp about it.

“Up you go.” I did what any self-respecting toaster would do: I grabbed a butt cheek in each hand and buried my face in my assailant’s chest. “Good girl holding still. I know that’s hard for you.”

Which I graciously and calmly responded to with, “I’m (sound of a paddled reindeer) and I’m (the high-pitched noise of a kid who doesn’t want fuck all to do with the mall Santa) and (lonely wookie noise) and I’m sor-rr-rry!”

“I know. You’re forgiven.”

Nothing like a tearful apology and being forgiven to purge a bad feeling. And as much of a care bear I am when it comes to the school paddle, I at least recovered quickly. Not the butt part of me, but the other parts of me. I didn’t even get snot on Mary’s shirt.

“I won’t do that again.” You’re probably thinking I’m being overly dramatic because I said this was the worst punishment in the history of domestic discipline, and all I got was my butt paddled. A particularly hard paddling, but still, not something that doesn’t happen to me to greater and lesser degrees several times a week ever since Mary took me by the wrists at the tender age of twenty-five and said, “You’re just one of those girl who gets spanked when she misbehaves now and you need to accept it,” and I went, “Rrr ughhh,” and she went, “Did you just cum in your pants,” and I went, “Fffff … maybe?” But back to the matter at hand …

“Well,” the realist who married me reasoned, “I know you’ll try. And to help you do that, your punishment isn’t over.”

“O.” She kissed my hair. Crap.

“Nope,” she said as she let me go and bent over to get the pacifier I had let fall outta my mouth. Well, maybe less let it than it just happened with the bawling. She put it in her mouth first before putting it back in mind. Kinda sweet of her in a really weird way, I guess. “Your phone in the kitchen?”

I woulda protested having my phone taken away, but with my butt swelling by the moment (minor exaggeration as I think it had already swollen as much as it was going to), and knowing the pacifier is Mary’s way of putting my tongue in timeout, I just nodded. She left, and then I heard the door to the garage open. Dammit…

My darling spouse was back quicker than my butt bruise could turn a new shade of spanked with my phone and the bristly mat she makes me do bae bottom timeouts on when my choices have been extra bad. Damn bristles all hard and poking me … And you think it’s bad on a freshly spanked butt until you shift your weight and other … parts … come into contact with it.

“Don’t make that face,” she told me as she put it on the stairs. Know what’s even more childish than timeout in the corner? Timeout on the stairs. So she can keep an eye on me easier, is what she says. “Your choice,” she said, “you can plant your bottom on the mat the way it is, or I can put you in a diaper first. Which do you want?” Evil ninja of a coyote making me … dammit.

“Igher.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Igher!”

“What was that,” she asked and took the paci out.

“Diaper!” And the paci was back in. Dammit…

“Then you know the drill. Bring me your changing supplies.”

I hopped across the room to the side table where there now lives a wicker basket of diapering supplies underneath, trying to remove my leggings. I don’t know why, but timeout on the stairs in a diaper with your leggings bunched around your knees somehow seems worse than just skipping the pretense of pants at all. I’ll spare you the details, but yes, I ended up just like that on the punishment mat on the stairs, paci in, the spanked edge of my thighs against the mat, but the diaper a much more comfortable thing to be sitting directly on than the mat. Hold the heat in, but still wayyy better..

And you’re probably thinking, that doesn’t sound like the worst punishment ever. Daffy must be losing her mojo.

And my answer to that is you shut your lying trash mouth because I have mojo to spare and what happened to me didn’t happen to you so you can never even know.

“Comfy,” Mary asked. “Good.” She took out the headphones from her pocket. “Since I got you a pair of these for Christmas, you can keep them, but you can’t use them again until Christmas day. Except tonight,” she said and handed them to me. I put them in without being told, knowing she was gonna make me listen to a church sermon about honesty or something. “These stay in until your timeout is over. I think an hour ought to do it. It’ll take that long for a pizza to get here.” She smirked at me like I imagine history’s most notorious wives have smirked at their spouses before torturing them to death with rusty hooks and boiling oil. “We’ll talk more about making good choices during dinner. Meantime, wet your pants if you need to,” she said and walked away my phone laughing to herself.”

Which was really mean. Like, seriously. Yes, I broke a rule. Yes, I was dishonest. But it seemed like she was cutting me some slack until she made that remark accompanied by her I’m-so-mean-and-I-love-it face. She’s been cutting me some slack since it is Christmas and because we’re both just trying to be extra sweet to each other. She probably figured a new toy was a small price to pay for me to eek my way through Month Ten of the pandemic; I just went about it the wrong way. I’m sure she’d make a bigger deal out of it in other times (it is kinda a big deal), and as much as the school paddle is a big deal, three swats is not ten, so that was her cutting me some slack.

And then she had to go and make that cutting little remark when she knows I…

No, I said to myself on the stairs. It was so faint I could hardly hear it at first. It can’t be. She wouldn’t. She couldn’t! She’s not a monster. She’s not a…

“Marrrrrry!”

But it only got louder. It only got louder. And I can hear it still.

In the dark, I hear it still.

 

 

[YourFNF]

Ohhh that is fucking evil XD

[Baby Toni38]

Oh I would take a bare bottom spanking and sit on the mat , just so I would NOT have to listen to that song. 

 

As always great up date and an interesting twist.

[Alex Bridges]

Scene #67

 

 

 

Mary thinks she’s so funny. I stared, and it stared back. She knows I hate the Elf on a Shelf. The whole concept of deceiving innocent kids into behaving is dubious enough without adding a prop narc. But she insists I’ve gotten to be such a handful she and Santa need an extra set of eyes. I mean, I’m a smartass, but if I ever trotted out a little gem that smartassy, I’d get my mouth washed out. And my protests that Santa was gonna listen to the elf one-handed when he heard the report from our house (for reasons) didn’t dissuade Mary one bit. But let’s not forget, in case this episode should make anyone question Mary’s insistence that she doesn’t want a little, that no way doth she protest too much. Glad I never do that, self-awareness being one of my most sterling traits. But that wasn’t what was wrong.

“Alrighteeo, Daffodilio,” the spiritual incarnation of a kinky lesbian Flanders said to me before she saw me hugging my knees on the couch. Then she did see me and asked, “What happened?”

“You’ll be mad,” I said. I knew she wouldn’t be, but saying it would win me extra sympathy when I confessed. I don’t know if this qualified under the ‘make Mary happy by letting her take care of me’ thing, but it seemed like a good fit. Maybe I need to start pretending to be sad more often just for her benefit. But I wasn’t pretending.

“I won’t be mad,” she said and sat down next to me. “What’s the matter, baby?”

“I ... I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t have.”

“Just tell me and we’ll make it all better.”

“I listed to the Christmas Shoes song.”

“Awww,” she said and put her arms around my shoulder and gave me a kiss on my hair, “I married the silliest goose.”

“You’re not mad,” I said knowing a hundred percent that she wasn’t but it makes her feel special to comfort me.

“No, but why even do that to yourself. It’s not even a good song.”

“I’m a glutton for punishment.”

“Literally. Maybe we need to add that to the list of things you’re not allowed to google.”

Said list currently contains (1) pictures of skinny polar bears, (2) videos of dogs greeting returning soldiers, (3) anything having to do with childhood illness, and (4) Lake Island Resort and Boat Rental. Everybody likes that movie until the last ten minutes.

“Okay,” I said and got snuggly.

“I know what will make you laugh,” she said. Before I could tell her no (because she’s been dipping into the well for this joke kinda twenty times a day ever since), she poked me in the side and whispered, “Hippopotamus.”

“Marrrry! Don’t! I’m gonna start singing it if you don’t stop that,” I threatened.

“Try it and I may just decide the only way to purge that song from your head is an enema.”

“What song? I don’t know any songs.” What even is a song?

“Ha!” She settled in close to me again. “But how are you really feeling? It’s okay we didn’t go get it ourselves?”

She was referring to the Christmas tree, which we’d had delivered. We always go and pick it out together. That was one of our first dates, getting a Christmas tree for her apartment. Maybe it’s because I’m from where pine trees actually grow, but when she said she was going to put up the artificial tree like always, I about decided we were incompatible for more than the occasional butt spankin’ session. Let the poseurs have their plastic trees and tinsel. I’m a traditionalist: I like my whisky neat, my Christmas trees wooden, and my sex partners vagina owners the way god intended for me. Plastic is for dishwasher-safe sex toys, not Christmas trees.

“Yeah. It’s okay. We have lots of other Christmases to go buy trees. Are you okay with it?” Mary is, after all, a Christmas tree convert, and converts can be even more zealous than people born into the faith.

“Yeah, I’m good. You ready to decorate it?”

“Mhmm.” I gave Mary a kiss and smiled at her because ooooof she makes me happy inside. I hopped off the couch.

“How is it you can go from mopey because of a sad song to bouncing off my knee in the space of two minutes?”

“I told you I could be an emotional pinball when we first met.”

“I remember.” She leaned forward and looked inside my glass. “Surely this has nothing to do with it.”

“I’m not drunk.”

“Yet.”

“Ooo, ya gonna take advantage of me?”

“I thought you stick with whisky this time of year.”

“I do, but then I thought, you know who understands drinking, winter, and tragedy really well? The people who come from the Vodka lands. Plus it has cranberry juice so it’s healthy.” True story.

“Maybe I shouldn’t trust you with the glass ornaments this year,” she said and got up off the sofa. “In fact,” she said with a finger on her chin like she was having an epiphany (which isn’t until January sixth - we celebrate all twelve days of Christmas around here, in spirit if not fact). But anyway, Mary continued, “Just to be safe, I think you should take your pants off.”

“That is such a non-sequitur,” I retorted as I complied.

“Good girl.”

“Dawwww.” Hear what she called me? Not that I’m bragging but my wife thinks I’m a good girl.

“Daffy!”

“What?”

“I’m so proud of you.”

“I know, but, um, what I do?” One thing you learn in a domestic discipline relationship is never take credit unless you know what for.

“You put on a pull-up.” Well, yeah, I sometimes do. It’s proven to be semi-effective at not getting put in diapers. And not that I’m bragging, but my wife is proud of me.

“Is it dry,” she asked and didn’t wait for an answer before she took her hand and cupped ... places … and squeezed ... things.

“Of course it is. I don’t ... yes.”

“Hmm.”

“Hmm what?”

“Hmmm, maybe I need to bring back the rule about using one if you’re wearing it.”

“Ugh! Scoff! Why would you do that?”

“So you wouldn’t have to feel so conflicted about your pants piddling. You can go back to pretending it’s all my fault. Would that be a good Christmas present for you, plausible deniability?”

Sometimes I think there must be a hidden camera somewhere and a studio audience ready to congratulate Mary on her sick burns. Like she doesn’t have enough rules for me already. But I can recognize a cry for help when I hear one. I can be selfless. Far be it from me to deny Mary, who takes such good care of me, her little jokes and jibes. I decided to politely but firmly let her down gently by telling her, “Fine, I’ll follow your stupid rule.”

“I didn’t even make the rule yet.”

“O no, don’t take it back on my account. You make the rules, you made the rule. I’m just your subby little rule follower.” And stuff. Complicated stuff.

“Well,” Mary said, “I guess let that be a lesson to you about who makes the rules?”

“I’m so mistreated,” I reminded her, in case, ya know, she ever forgets.

She made her I’m-gonna-finally-say-it face and said, “Have you ever noticed you’re better at following some rules than others?”

“I’m a very good rule follower.”

“Like the spending limit rule?”

“A very. Good. Rule follower.”

“Ya know what, you’re right. I’m sorry. You’re the best rule follower.”

“Yes I am. Can we decorate now or is there anything else you’d like me to take off?”

“If you’re my good Christmas helper I’ll let you take off my pants later, and if you’re extra good, you can do it with your hands tied behind your back.”

“Eep,” I eeped. So intimidating is my Mary.

“Silly goose.”

Christmas tree decorating went the way it always does. Belatedly remembering not to neglect the lower half (and bending over in our house for any reason is always a risk; just because I am, allegedly, a silly goose doesn’t mean I can’t get goosed or get my tail smacked). Taking the ornaments I made in preschool and putting them in the back. Mary taking the ornaments I made in preschool and moving them to the front. Having a second drink. Remembering cranberry juice goes right through me. Reminiscing about the time we got this or that ornament. Which reminded me of the hilarious story of that one time at that Christmas party. And Mary telling the second half of one of those stories about how I got spanked in front of all the guests and had to do bare bottom corner time with my red butt peeking out from under my Christmas sweater. Good times.

“And good job with the lights,” Mary said when we were about done. I did that part all by myself. “Star or angel this year?”

“I think we need all the angels we can get this year.”

“Awww. You wanna put it up?”

“If you won’t hurt yourself,” I said and stepped over. “Don’t drop me.”

“If I haven’t dropped you while you’re trying to wiggle off my knee yet I think I can manage this. One two three!” She tried to hide it, but she definitely went, “Uff,” when she got her arms around my hips and lifted me high enough to put the angel on top.

She set me back down, and we stepped back so we could admire our tree. She hugged me from behind and gave me a Christmas kiss on my cheek.

“We did a good job,” I told her.

“Yeah we did. Sit with me.” She sat down in front of the fireplace, and I joined her. We watched our tree glow and enjoyed the warmth of fire on our backs and held hands and played footsie.

“So far so good,” I said to her.

“What’s that?”

“Christmas. We’re doing a good job.”

“Yeah we are. Thanks for making our house so festive.”

“Thanks for helping.”

“You ready for dinner,” Mary asked.

“Mhmm.”

“Anything else you’re ready for?”

“Such as?”

“Silly goose.” Mary let go my hand and got up just enough to reach the diaper changing basket by the couch. “If you’re not gonna tell me...”

“Why should I tell you? You made the rule.”

“O, that’s how it’s gonna be.”

“They’re your diapers after all. I just use ‘em ‘cause you make me.”

“Little girl ...”

“I’m not a little girl!”

“C’mere,” she said and grabbed my ankles and pulled me in front of her. “I oughta tickle the sass right out of you. Do you know why I don’t?”

“Because you love me?”

“And because if you have another accident we’ll need to clean the carpet ... aww, look at the blushing pampers pottier!”

“I’m not blushing! It’s the fire.”

“Ironic, huh,” Mary said.

“What?”

“That my little girl is almost too big for what a pull-up can handle.”

“Marrrry! I’m not a little girl.”

“Hippopotamus.”

“Hehehehehe! Marrrry!”

“I can’t change you into a dry diaper if you’re gonna wiggle and giggle, Daffodil. Don’t you wanna hold still and be my good girl?”

“I be good.” And I wasn’t wiggling. I was squirming. Huge difference, and she knows it, too, because she loves to make me squirm.

“Hippo.”

“Marrrry!”

“I thought you were gonna hold still.”

[Baby Toni38]

Now I got that song stuck in my head again.

Great update 

 

[Alex Bridges]

Scene #68

 

“Daffy,” my Mary called.

“In here,” I called back.

“What are you doing in here,” she asked me when she found me submerged. Well, partially.

“I was cold,” I said from the bathtub. And bored. The tub is a good place to read. Also, when I’m in the tub I’m not eating or baking cookies. I think I have an addiction. I could ask Mary to take a firmer handing in helping me deal with it, but then she would, which would mean fewer cookies and more depredations upon my person. And there’s only so much of my person for her to depredate. Surely I must safeguard at least some of my person for my own purposes. Which gets complicated when my purposes are to eat cookies and collect depredations. Anyhoo…

“There are other ways to get warm,” Mary said as she sat down on the edge of the sub and swirled her fingertips in the water. “Like a sweater.” Well, yeah, sure, but that’s not as fun as a bath.

“Have they let you go yet?”

“Almost.”

“You have that look on your face again.”

“People keep wanting stuff. They’re under the impression they’re the only ones taking off for Christmas.”

“Want me to fix their wagon for them?” That’s an odd expression. I can only assume the first person to say winked or something when they said it. And though I’ve gotten marginally handier since the pandemic started - you should see me dig holes now - I don’t think I could fix a wagon. I can tell people to fuck off though.

“How would you do that, Daffy?”

“I’d tell them they’re making me sad.” I winked at her. I’m a winker. Did you know there are people who can’t wink? They look awfully silly trying. Poor people.

“And you think that would help why?”

“Because when I tell you I’m sad, I can get you to do anything. Plus it’s Christmas, and no one wants to make a pretty girl sad at Christmas.”

“Well, I know no one wants to make a little girl sad at Christmas.”

“Grr.”

“Exactly,” Mary said with that I’m-so-satisfied-with-myself twinkle in her eye, “a little girrrrl.”

“So when can you tell them to fuck the fuck off?”

“You’re a salty little mermaid.”

“Well, they’re being a buncha grinches.”

“And I should go give them their Whoville presents so they go can back to their mountain and be miserable.”

“I don’t want them to be miserable. I just want them to let you shut down that computer so we can start our Christmas vacation.”

“A few more hours. Then I’ll be done.”

“Kiss me first.” Which she did, because I’m more important. Really. Mary is taking off for the entire rest of the year. We’ll be using her time off to do whatever we want. If there weren’t a pandemic that would be more fun, but we’re going to make fun. It can be found in the least expected places. We’re gonna try the most expected first, but it’s good to have a backup plan.

Getting out of the tub is the only part about taking a bath I don’t like. I’ve been late to things because I haven’t wanted to get out of the bath. That’s worth avoiding if it’s somewhere important, because Mary takes a special delight is spanking wet bottoms. If I’ve made extra bad choices, like this one time when I (maybe) insider traded (I don’t think I did, for the record) she’ll even put me over her knee and wet my butt with a sponge while she spanks. But that’s reserved for my truly evil deeds.

 I braved the frigid seventy-degree air of our house between the tub and my bathrobe knowing it would be a good time to wrap Mary’s presents. It’s been hard enough, for both of us, buying presents this year and it not being super obvious to each other where we got stuff at and what it might be. I used to have her presents delivered to my office, when I had such a thing.

I’m not so good at wrapping but I’m great at giving presents, and I love to do it. Watching someone open something you got them is so much fun, and hearing later that they really like it is even better. Even better than that is if they say it’s better than what someone else gave them, and not that it’s a competition, but Im gonna be everyone’s favorite aunt. Really. Period. End of story. The best aunt by default has to be the one to give the best presents. I’m also going to be the best aunt because I’m gonna teach them stuff like why the sky is blue, the best swear words, and how to hide misbehavior (within reason). If they’re parents are as vigilant as Mary, any advice I could give them would be not so much with the helpful, but I think only Mary is as vigilant as Mary. And I’ll be the best aunt by being the safe adult they can come to with anything. Really.

Other than giving the best presents to my nibling, my goal for Christmas is to make Mary’s Christmas so friggin’ awesome it makes up for the whole supporting both of us and all the strain that went with that this year. We managed just fine, and not having anything to spend money on like travel and concerts and conventions helped, but I knew it was a little extra stress for her in an already stressful year (because she told me, after many seconds of interrogation). Sure, being employed has its advantages during a lockdown, like getting people to talk to, but I got to pursue new hobbies and Mary got to keep the internet on and manage a P&L. Good thing she got that raise to go with her promotion, but that was extra responsibility too. Mary is the kind of person who thrives on responsibility; I mean, she’d hafta be to be my disciplinarian. But even people who thrive on responsibility still need a break from it. The theme for my presents for Mary this year was self-care. 

Mary and I also exchange white elephant gifts on Christmas Eve and our real presents on Christmas morning. Being the very good girl I am, I considered buying some of the things Mary loves inflicting on me as presents for her, but then I figured she was probably getting a bunch of those things for me. I turned around that theme and can’t wait to give her the white elephant gifts almost as much as her real presents. She’ll either love them or love spanking me for getting them. I’m guessing mostly the latter, which she’ll love. 

As for me, I know I’m getting a pair of headphones I’ll like. Feel like I earned those twenty times over, with a bruise the size of my butt as a bonus payment.

And you know the thing no one ever mentions about Christmas is how sore your back is after wrapping. I texted Mary to see if she was nearly done and got out of my bathrobe. Yeah, it’s the old lady kind, but it is December even if it’s not actually cold here. It just feels cold if you live here and are used to it being warm to hot nine months a year.

Being cold (it’s the curse of all sylph-like creatures), I put on a Christmas sweater and went to free Mary from the clutches of the evil corporation that pays for our stuff and  gives us health benefits and let’s Mary take off the whole rest of the year (buncha bastards, amiright? well, the ones who won’t let her stop working are) and tapped on her door frame, peeking around the corner.

“Now are you done,” I asked.

“Yep.”

“You got that funny look on your face again.”

“I had a call with my boss and got my Christmas bonus.”

“Jelly of the month club?” All of friggin’ 2020 was one big jelly of the month club.

“Yeah, but a five-figure jelly of the month club.”

“Shut up!” 

“It pays to be the boss.” Of her team. She has a boss who has a boss who has a boss etcetera etcetera etcetera (and so forth).

“You didn’t know they were gonna do that?”

“No. I ... no.”

“Are you happy?” She didn’t look happy.

“It’s sinking in. But it’s work and work is over for the year, so let’s talk about it later.” I was more than happy to do that.

“Mary?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s Christmas Vacation.” Hehehehe! I don’t care how old I get, I never want to not get excited for Christmas Vacation.

“Wanna go look at Christmas displays?”

“Yeah, but I need your help first. But it’ll only take five minutes, promise.”

“What’s up?”

I stepped from behind the door frame. “So first, my back hurts from wrapping. And secondly, I tried what you said and put on a sweater, but I’m still cold.”

“Hmmm, do you think that could be because you put on only a sweater?”

“What do you mean?”

“O, just that pants and undies and socks go good with sweaters.”

“Aww dammit, Mary, you know I need very specific instructions.” Really.

“Hehe. I know. My fault. Let’s go warm you up.”

“And rub things.”

“All sorts of things.”

“And take a nap after.” Sure, she wanted to dive into Christmas Vacation, but sometimes I gotta be the responsible one, and Mary needed a nap.

“Goes without saying.”

“And then it’ll be time to go see lights,” I assured her. First, self-care. Then, Christmas lights. I insisted. I’m not as good at Mary at insisting, but I’m pretty good at insisting and being the responsible one. Really.

I wish I could say I have an elaborate plan for making it her best Christmas ever. I’m thinking I’ll just be extra frisky and see if we can’t live in a little kink manger until the new year, with breaks for Christmas movies and food. Hmmm. 

Away in a manger, no room, board, or bed, my sexy Domme Mary inflicted her most favorite perversions on little ‘ol me (in our room; with, among other things, a board; on, in, and adjacent to our bed). 

Yeah, I think that’s the story I wanna tell come January. We’ll leave the farm animals and wise men out of it, but there could well be gifts of gold. I’ve been extra good this year, in case you didn’t notice. Very little in the way of misbehavior. Many good deeds done. I’m a very good girl. Really. Mary says, and she’s in charge, and Santa is afraid of her. Really.

[Alex Bridges]

I had a funny idea today. I'll be producing a new chapter tomorrow.

 

[YourFNF]

[Bel George]

I'm looking forward to the new chapter.