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

[Alex Bridges]

Daphne can’t talk today. She’s busy pacing the room and being pissed off.

[Jayme]

Hopefully Daphne can relax a bit. Pacing while being pissed off can be stressful.

[Bluebird67]

I hope Daphne feels better soon. Things are going to get better, really. And Daphne and her amanuensis have real talents that are much appreciated by the rest of us who are also finding these times, and the behaviour of people who genuinely can’t tell fact from fiction, hard to cope with.

[Alex Bridges]

Scene #78

 

         Mom always complains – every single year – that I’m bad at telling her what I want for Christmas. I interpret this as a sign of financially secure adulthood: if I really want something, I get it. I’m not nine and penniless and waiting for my birthday and Christmas to get a toy I want. Naturally, there are rules, like the one that neither of us spends more than one hundred dollars on a non-necessity without discussing it, and sure, my track record with following that rule is perfect (in its imperfection). But by and large (whatever that means) if I want something, I get it by and by (whatever that means) whether I have to save a little for it or not, so come Christmas and Mom asks me what I want, I’m usually not so much with the ideas. And this year, with me being unemployed and the pandemic pandemicing, what was I gonna ask for? Clothes to wear the office? A new skirt for when I take my vacation to the kitchen?

         But Mom also insists you have to have something to open on Christmas. Doesn’t matter what it is, but you have to have something wrapped in a box, something tangible. I like that. I think that’s right. But my real present from my parents for the past few years has been money. I got the presents to unwrap, and a little belatedly while my parents spent three weeks figuring out Venmo (boomers, amiright?), money.

         And what did I spend my money on and didn’t even have to consult with Mary because Christmas money is exempt from the rules (but I told her anyway)? My very own Xbox. And I know there’s a new generation of systems coming out, but I grew up with Xbox and I didn’t wanna wait for the new one or spend more, so I ordered my Xbox, waited paitentily for several whole days to pass, and then it arrived and I went, “Squeeeeeee!”

         After all, Mary did say I should get some toys to keep me busy. Pretty sure she meant crafts like needlepoint, but she said toys, so I got a toy.

You may have noticed from the time at Jane’s house that I like winning and I like rubbing people’s faces in it, and if people are gonna talk smack I’m gonna talk smack, too. I’m nicer about it and less crude than others, but still gonna talk some smack. It’s kinda part of the genre, least from where I was sitting. I was getting better, too (at the game, not the smack). I don’t play a lot and it took some time to get my mojo going because it’s one thing to beat Jane and another to beat the obsessives who do nothing but play, and I was starting to get some flow back and not just get owned like a noob (which I am not; I’m just rusty).

So there I was, winning a little after some very frustrating hours and Mary just appeared in front of the screen with her hands on her hips and I leaned left and right trying to see around her and, “Mary, you’re gonna make me dammit!” I died.

“Daphne Ann, who do you think you are?”

That is such a silly question. She answered it herself – I’m Daphne Ann!

“Me. I’m gonna dammit!” Sure I coulda paused but, “Dammit! Marrrry!”

“Do you even hear the words that are coming out of your mouth?”

“Some of it. Can we dammit!”

“Daphne, look up here,” Mary gestured to her face. Ruh-roh, not a happy face.

“Sorry. But it’s not like I was swearing. I just …”

“Called someone a ‘butt mud muncher?’ Or are you more sorry for calling someone a ‘pie-faced nut knoodler?’”

“Um … least I was creative? You should hear what the other players are saying.”

“Are they being a bad influence? Because if they are I will take away your headset.”

“But … no, they’re not.”

Mary sighed. “Okay. So if they’re not being a bad influence, then I guess you have no one else to blame your potty mouth on, do you?”

I swear she just pretends to go to work every day in that office. She’s really just sitting in there thinking of trip wires to plant. I looked behind me and sure enough, there was the wire and at the end of it was a pin and tumbling out of a well-camouflaged MRE box was a paddle. I mean, not really, but might as well be. I just decided to sigh instead of say anything in response.

“Little girl, I asked you a question.” Deciding not to answer doesn’t always work. It’s got a track record of about one in five, coincidentally about how I was doing on the screen before Mary stepped in front of it (progress, people, not perfection).

“I’m not a little girl! I’m just playing like everyone else. It’s part of the game.”

“Do I need to get you nicer games that aren’t rated M?”

“I’m thirty-one years old, and since when do you care if I say stuff like …”

“’Cheese weasel?’”

“What’s the problem with ‘cheese weasel?’” It was one of the nicer things I said.

“Nothing is wrong when you say it, but you don’t say mean things to other people.”

“Mary, you’re being …”

“No, you are not being a nice little girl, and I have taught you how to be nice and treat people with kindness, haven’t I?”

Okay, change in tactics – maybe if I just let her do whatever it is she wants to do to me I can go back to playing, I thought. “Yes. I’m sorry.”

“Little girls don’t use that kind of language. I have half a mind to put you over my knee and spank your bare bottom. Is that what you want?”

Well, maybe in a few hours around bedtime, but, “No.”

“Or how about I wash your mouth out with soap?”

“No, please?” Never again! I hope anyway, but, well, a forlorn hope.

“Not this time, but consider this Strike Two.”

“What happened to Strike One,” I asked a smidge – a touch, at most – too indignantly.

“You already know better than to name call, young lady. That’s your Strike One. Now, up.”

“Buh,” I started to say before getting up, “I thought I wasn’t getting a spanking,” I whined.

“O my god, Daphne Ann. Just o. My. God.”

“What,” I didn’t whine.

“Your nearly terminal level of whining right now. Is this how you get when you play video games for three straight hours? Do you need time limits?”

“But I was losing and then I finally started to win and I’m thirty-one! I can choose my own words.” Which is when Mary folded her arms and gave me her you-think-you-can-do-what-now look. “Um, what I meant to say was, um, when you let me. Love you.” And cute smile! Out of trouble now, right? Please?

“Floor, missy.”

“Aww, please?”

“Fuh-loor.”

“Stupid diapers,” I muttered as I got down on the fuh-loor. Looking back on it, I’m kinda amazed I didn’t get my butt paddled because I was definitely a bit much with the attitude. Maybe video games are a bad influence on me. They get me a little wound up.
 

Mary got the basket out and was next to me in a heartbeat. “Big girls wear pants,” she said as she took my leggings down.

“I am, too, a big girl!”

“Daphne,” she said as she paused and looked at me with her what-I’m-about-to-say-is-meaningful look, “you will never be big enough to call people names, and to remind you of that…” She reached into the basket.

“No! I don’t wuk wat.” Stupid pacifier.

“You’ll keep that paci in until dinner time. If I see it out for anything more than a drink, you’ll keep it in until morning. Understood?”

“Wuhs.” Stupid pacifier!

 

“You go right ahead and cross those arms if you wanna pout,” she said as I got into my pouting posture. “Doesn’t change the fact that you’re wearing a diaper tonight like a wittle piddle pants.”

“Umnuhtapudlepunts!”

She fixed me with her you-are-if-I-say-you-are glare. “Yes, you are, until morning, and I’m not kidding Daphne. If this is the kinda mood your new toy is going to put you in, I will take it away.”

Ugh! No fair! I was only grumpy because I spent the whole morning getting powned. (Do people still say powned?) And as soon as I started to get good again, blam! Mary and her rules about not calling people names. It’s all part of the game! AND I AM NOT A PIDDLE PANTS!!! Really!

“Lift your bottom.” Which I did, even though it’s not a bottom. It’s an ass. I’m not one for crude language, but it’s an ass. I’m old enough to call it an ass! Apparently I’m just not old enough to call other people asses. Which isn’t the worst rule ever. People really shouldn’t name call, but I was talking smack while gaming, and I don’t think that’s name calling. It just looks that way to the uninitiated, like Mary. “There,” Mary said as she sealed the tapes.
 

What, no cream?!? That’s the good part with the hands and the rubbing and the o it tickles me (glayven). Without that, what the heck fun is this supposed to be for anyone but Mary?

         “Up,” she said and held out her hands to help. I can sit up on my own, too, because I’m not a little girl even if she does make me follow rules and wear a stupid diaper sometimes. “Such a sour face. Do you need a nap?”

         “Nuh.”

         “You’re not the only little girl who needs naps. In fact, most little girls who need diapers take naps.”

         “(High pitched objections) und (general agitation) und (muffled curses and epithets) und I don eed iapers!” Would’ve been a lot more effective and probably wouldn’t have made Mary burst out laughing if I hadn’t finished my protest by poking my paci back in my mouth before it fell out and I learned about whatever she had acquired to make me sleep with it in.

         “Such a cutie patootie!”

         “Hmmph!”

         “Especially when you’re blushing from head to toe.”

         “M nuht!”

         “I’m gonna call that Strike two-and-half, Daffodil. I think you’d better cheer up unless you want a smack bottom and an early bedtime.”

         “(Mumble).”

         “What was that?”

         “Fuhn.”

         “I’m going to choose to believe you said ‘fine,’ and I have work to get back to. You play nicely with your friends, and no more name calling.”

         Stupid forehead kisses that make me feel so adored and well cared for. Sigh …

         I got back on the couch ready to resume kicking some butt and put my headset back on to hear, “When do you think she’s gonna realize the mic picked all that up?”

         “MMMMMMMRRRRRRRRRYYYYYY!!!!!”

         “Serves you right for being a piddle pants.”

         “And a little girl.”

         “I’M NOT A LITTLE GIRL!”

         “But you are a piddle pants,” some meanie head ‘asked.’

“Is your pacifier out,” I heard from down the hall.

         “(Silence).”

         Well, Mary heard silence. I heard a bunch of butt faces laughing at me.

         Stupid humiliation fetish with the things happening in the pants except I’m not wearing pants and … time for a ten-minute break.

 

 

[Sarah Penguin]

[Alex Bridges]

Scene #79

 

“I’m sorry I can’t come over,” Nana said. She didn’t need to apologize. I get it – she needed to make a pandemic bubble, and it made more sense for her to do it with her kids and grandkids than us. Makes total sense. Doesn’t keep us from taking on the phone though. If it wasn’t raining, we’d be talking over the fence.

“That’s okay,” I told her. “You don’t have to apologize every time we talk. Are you keeping busy?”

“It’s amazing how many things we can find to do if we just make them up. Are you staying outta trouble?”

Why’s she gotta ask questions like that? Loaded question, too. “No more trouble than I can handle,” I answered with bravado. Maybe even a little braggadocio. 

“Mine always got in trouble on rainy days.”

“Your what, Nana? You never had one of me.” Which came out without me really meaning for it to. It’s just that she says that sometimes, and I always think the same thing: she never had one of me.

“Sorry. You know what I mean.”

“I’m not a little girl.” Ooo, turns out I was in a snippy mood. Wish I’d known that before I called.

“I know. I’m sorry. I just …”

“No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be snippy. Just that I’m … blegh.” I’m blegh. The whole world is blegh, and as world leader, I’m blegh, too, both because I am and because I have blegh constituents to represent.

“Light at the end of tunnel, though. Do you know when you might get a vaccine? You’re prioritized, aren’t you?”

“I have no idea. My immunologist says she doesn’t know anything. I can’t believe no one even has a plan … I wanna drink now.”

“It’s nine-thirty.”

“I know. Getting a late start.”

“Ha! Tell me about your vacation instead. You still haven’t.”

“It was good. Fine.”

“You told me that part already, silly. What did you guys do for a whole week?”

What did we do for a whole week? Well, here’s how I’ve pieced it together in my head: we went on vacation; the break in the routine made me forget about COVID for just long enough for me to forget my mask; I totally freaked myself out and had a meltdown; and Mary did something she said she’d never do and it took a couple days to just forget about it and I don’t wanna talk about it anymore.

“We just social distanced elsewhere. We went snowshoeing … there was a sauna.”

“I hope you had more fun than that. Was it at least nice to get away from the house for a bit?”

“Yeah. It was.” That part was good. “It was a nice break … hard to come back.”

“I’m sure.”

“How’s your family?”

 

Well, that wasn’t our best conversation. Nana isn’t allowed to spoil my repression. Repressing our feelings is a long-standing tradition in my family. Like my mother said, “You’re a woman. You can hold onto it forever.” Or maybe that was Marge Simpson.

There really isn’t anyone to talk to. Mary, obviously, but all my other friends are working. Maybe if I had kids I’d have some stay-at-home mom friends, and then I’d be a stay-at-home mom, too, instead of unemployed and lonely. We could use some more friends anyway. Normal ones we’ve never seen naked and who have never touched my butt. Don’t get me wrong, I like our friends, and we do have some vanilla friends, but all our close friends are from the scene. 

I did go to college out here. You’d think I’d have some friends from back then who were still here. Or anywhere. Who goes to college and doesn’t have any college friends?

And work friends are really important to have, but not many make that transition to outside-of-work friends. I had none of those. Not anymore their fault than my fault. Just the way it is. End of the workday, and everyone just wanted to go home. Weekends, and you just don’t want to be thinking about work. That line between the two is good, or it seemed back then. It went work-line-home. I hated office social events. My awkward was always on full blast, or so it seemed to me, and then I spent way too much time thinking about this or that thing I’d said. And it always just seemed weird to think of interacting with someone outside the setting I was used to knowing them in. Weirder, when you think about it, that you can see someone every workday for years and then one day never again. Something so artificial about work relationships. Or at least I think there must be if it’s so easy to just cast one aside.

No one ever teaches you how to make friends as an adult. People help you make friends when you’re a kid. Being a kid just comes with all sorts of ways to make friends. School, sports, activities, clubs. And groups, too. How do you be part of a group as an adult? Wish someone had told me at my last track meet that it wasn’t only my last track meet but my last time ever being part a team. And work is not a team. People can call it that, but a team is something you join because you want to, not because you have to or you won’t be able to eat. Still, it was good having common purpose.

But Mary can do it. She’s made new friends as an adult. Mostly as part of the scene, but not only. She can do almost anything, but I gotta remind myself that’s just the way it seems from where I sit. There are lots of people like Mary (but only one actual Mary). How come people like that can make new friends, but not me? What do they know that I don’t? How are they different?

Truthfully, I wasn’t very good at making friends as a kid either. I was monogamous in my friendships, so to speak. I had my handpicked circle, and I really didn’t like it when one of them would try to add someone. They were interlopers. I was jealous and protective. I didn’t like that my friends had friends outside our circle, which was odd because I was friends with some really popular people, and I was decently popular too. Just in a more distant way. Two of my friends thought I had social anxiety, and I did. I just didn’t like new people. 

Not like I mean to be that way, and I didn’t like being that way then either. Even now, I’m not a big fan of new people coming into our friend groups. How screwed up are people that even when we want more connections, we don’t want to actually meet people or let them in? We’re more worried about losing what we have, even when there’s no risk of it, than afraid of missing out on what we might gain.

And how screwed up is it that who we are at age five is pretty much who we are at thirty-one? They say you get less neurotic with age but that your personality is pretty much your personality forever. I hope not. Sigh…

I knocked on Mary’s office door. “You busy?”

“I can take a break. What’s up?”

“I’m lonely. Wanna make lunch together?”

“It’s only ten.”

“I’m stress eating again,” I confessed. All I want anymore is sugar and fat. I had seven meals yesterday. Eight if you count the cosmo I kept topped up from early afternoon through bedtime.

“How about some fruit,” Mary suggested as she got up from her chair and glanced at her phone before putting it in her pocket. As if we we weren’t all attached to those things too much already before the pandemic.

“Kay … Can I put peanut butter on it?”

“A little bit, silly goose.”

“I’m not a silly goose,” I said all plaintively and goose like as I started toward the kitchen. “I just like peanut butter.”

“Hey,” Mary said and grabbed my wrist gently. I turned around, and she put her hand under my chin to lift my gaze to hers. “You feeling okay?”

“I’m just … blegh.”

“Let’s be blegh together then.”

“Kay.”

It’s better being blegh with someone than being blegh alone.

 

 

 

[YourFNF]

14 hours ago, Alex Bridges said:

No one ever teaches you how to make friends as an adult. People help you make friends when you’re a kid. Being a kid just comes with all sorts of ways to make friends. School, sports, activities, clubs. And groups, too. How do you be part of a group as an adult? Wish someone had told me at my last track meet that it wasn’t only my last track meet but my last time ever being part a team. And work is not a team. People can call it that, but a team is something you join because you want to, not because you have to or you won’t be able to eat. Still, it was good having common purpose.

Fuck this a huge mood

[diapernocturnus]

18 hours ago, Alex Bridges said:

No one ever teaches you how to make friends as an adult. People help you make friends when you’re a kid. Being a kid just comes with all sorts of ways to make friends. School, sports, activities, clubs. And groups, too. How do you be part of a group as an adult? Wish someone had told me at my last track meet that it wasn’t only my last track meet but my last time ever being part a team. And work is not a team. People can call it that, but a team is something you join because you want to, not because you have to or you won’t be able to eat. Still, it was good having common purpose.

 

God this speaks to me ?, aspergers adds the worst social debuff 

[Alex Bridges]

1 hour ago, diapernocturnus said:

 

God this speaks to me ?, aspergers adds the worst social debuff 

Hope it helps a little know you're not alone.

[Sarah Penguin]

hmmm blegh.

[Alex Bridges]

Scene #80

 

“O, Daffy,” my dearest wife called out. “O, Daffodilio,” she added because she’s a Flanders.

“Yep,” I replied as I passed through our bedroom to the master bath. Kinda weird when you think about that term. ‘Master bedroom’? I can guess where it came from, but it makes it sound like some command-and-control center from which Captain Mary flies our house. Which reminds me of this Halloween when she dressed up as a naval officer and tied me to the yardarm and launched a thousand ships. Or possibly one ship a thousand times ? I was distracted by ... a thing.

Anyhoo, she was sitting on the edge of the tub wearing her fancy robe, the one reserved for ... never. It mostly stays in the closet. And she was swirling her fingers in the warm water, being all tempting.

“C’mere,” she said to me.

I thought of the coolest, sexiest thing to say as I glided across the rug like the sylph-like creature that I am, and I made my sultry face and said, “Ha!” (I know, but it came sexier than it sounds).

She smiled her Daphne-is-so-suave smile, which to the untrained eye looks like her Daphne-is-such-a-goofy-doofy smile, but trust me. Not the case. (Really). In fact, so overtaken with my wiles was she that she didn’t even say anything. She just reached out and took my shorts down, leaving me in my sexy-to-the-point-of-sultry (Muppet-print) panties (dammit). And then they joined my sweatpants (sexy sweatpants - really) at my ankles.

I started to take my shirt off and got, “Ah-ah-ah. Let me do that. Arms up.” Which I did, and then I was naked. Know what’s fun? Being naked with Mary. It’s fun when she’s naked, too, and it’s fun when she’s wearing clothes because I like feeling all vulnerable and smol and stuff. Maybe she needs a suit of armor so she can be a shiny knight and I can be the naked nymph  who won’t let her inside my ... tree house (I guess?) unless she guesses my riddles three (the answers are, in no particular order, “I”, “Said”, and “Now.” But don’t go blabbing it to her. Gotta make her work a little, amiright?)

“How is it,” Mary said, “that a little girl who spent the whole day inside can get so dirty?”

“Am not,” I didn’t pout despite what you may hear in the form of lies from lying liars who tell lies when they’re lying (really!).

“So dirty,” Mary said and took my hand and ‘helped’ me into the tub. “Close your eyes,” she said and poured a pitcher of warm water over my head.

“Mmmm. What made you decide to do this?”

“I figured you’re getting to be a woman Daphne, and it’s time I teach you a few things.”

Which is when I made my so-not-impressed-with-your-snark face. She snarks at a ninth-grade-level, max. I have a doctorate of snark in snark. The day I was born, the doctor slapped me on the ass, took one look at my ear-to-ear grin and said, “She’s gonna be a snarky one.” That’s right – diagnosed snarky!

“Now,” Mary said while trying to snark and failing (fuh-ail-ing), “with this womanly figure you’re developing come certain responsibilities, such as,” she trailed off and picked up a razor. “I know it’s winter and you’re not going out, but I think maybe it’s time for you to learn how to shave your legs.”

And for the record (we’re creating more records than the Beatles and the court of the Han dynasty combined, people!) I wasn’t blushing. It was just a hot bath.

“I get your point,” I said and held out my hand for the razor.

“Silly goose, like I’m gonna trust you with a razor when you’ve barely graduated out of your training bra.”

“Bitch!” Not sure if she hear me over the splash. If you’re gonna make funna someone in the bathtub, you’re gonna get splashed. That’s just physics. And her silky robe was suddenly clingy... hmmm.

“Daphne Ann,” she said while wiping her brow off (don’t worry - most of it got stopped by the floor), “just because you’re old enough to shave your legs doesn’t mean you’re too old for a spanking, and with that kind of language you better believe you’re getting a wet-bottom spanking.”

So she did hear that.

“You’re being so mean.” I would never tell her to shave her legs more often. In part because she does is more often than me and in part because I would get paddled like a canoe. But then stubbly legs aren’t so fun and I do sort wrap myself around her a lot.

“This isn’t about body shaming, Daphne. It’s about teaching you about all the ways your body is changing.”

Ya know what? Fine. I can play along. I can keep up. I am, too, a big girl! In fact, the biggest (doesn’t sound right). In fact, an actual adult! But I can play her game better than she can, so I said, “You mean changes like how I’m having these strange, new feelings when I watch you get undressed before bed?”

Also, when she looks all studious while she’s working, and when she smiles at me, and when she scolds me, and when she says embarrassing stuff about me, and when she licks the spoon when the ice cream is all gone, and when she tells me I’m pretty and a good girl (weak knees, for realzies), and when I catch a glimpse of her wedding ring that says she’s all mine. ?☺️.

But about her teaching me about these strange, new (for many years) feelings... “Sure. Also,” she said like she wasn’t cracking up inside, “I’ll teach you how around this time in a young woman’s life they should start wearing deodorant.”

“Such a B,” I said and folded my arms and then unfolded them because it sent the wrong message and to clear it up I had to add, “I do and you know it.” She doesn’t inspire any feelings at all, so I made my indifferent face.

“No need to pout.” I wasn’t pouting (really!). “Gimme a footsie.”

“No.”

“No?”

“You’re gonna tickle it.” I’m on to her.

“Such a silly goose. That would just get more water on the floor. Footsie.”

“Fine.” It put my heel on the rim of the tub. “Ya know,” I said trying to turn things to my advantage, “if I earned a bedtime spanking, don’t you think it’s only right that I suffer a bedtime orgasm as well?”

“You already had one today.”

“Did not!”

“I heard you!”

“O, yeah, that. ... But that doesn’t even count because you weren’t there. We should do things together as wife and wife. Perverse things. Butt things even.” I tried to wink, but I think that’s genetic or something because I just blinked.

“What was that?”

“I winked.”

“Looked like a ministroke,” she laughed and rubbed slippery stuff on my leg. I liked that part.

“Is it Tease Daphne Day?” What stupid ass munching jerkoffasaurus head of marketing invented that day?

“Every day is Tease Daphne Day, and like you don’t like it.”

“Nuh-uh!”

“Uh-huh.”

“O, Mary, that was just so beneath you.”

“Ha! Well, I can tell when you like stuff. I’m good at that.”

“How can you tell?” I know how she can tell. I just wanted to hear her list the things. Also, I don’t like it (really!).

“The little red spot on your collar bone.”

“Other ways?”

“The blush in your cheeks.”

“The water is hot!”

“The way you don’t know what do to with your hands.”

“I’m naked and wet and vulnerable. What the heck am I supposed to do with my hands?”

“Modest young ladies would cover their princess parts.”

“I am modest! ... And a lady! ... And a princess! I’m lots of things, ya know. Things you don’t even know about.”

“Daphne, I’ve seen you inside and out.” True story, not gonna tell it, never playing with med fet toys again ... probably. “I don’t think there’s many secrets about your little body I don’t know. All done! Gimme your other footsie.” Which I did because I’m averse to conflict, not because she’s the boss of me.

“O yeah,” I challenged her. “If you know so much about my body, what does it mean when the little button gets all red and swollen?”

“I’ll tell you when you’re mature enough to be trusted with a vibrator unsupervised.”

“And if I confess I’ve been using one unsupervised going on about fifteen years, will you teach me about butt stuff? And is it true the safest way to use a lifelike dildo is to strap it to your wife?”

“I love it when you get embarrassed and try to cover it by being dirty and hypersexual. Does talking like a big girl make you feel more grown up?”

“I ... Stop calling me out.” It’s not polite to be calling people out on all their things.

“There. See how nice and smooth? Doesn’t that feel good?”

“My leg, or you rubbing my leg?”

“And after I show you a few more times, you can try. Under my supervision, naturally. Isn’t that exciting?”

“(Glaring).”

“Maybe just once a month to get started. That’s more frequent than now, right,” she asked because she’s a smartass. There’s a difference between smartassery and snarkiness, and the latter is superior in every way.

“No!” I’m not an Amazon. I’m very delicate and ladylike. But it’s long pants season. Once a week is fine.

“And it will have the added bonus of feeling so much nicer on my thighs when you’re squirming around over my knee for your latest naughty behavior.”

“Is that ... really?” So that’s how she noticed. But as much as I (and every woman who is normal) hate that chore, I don’t mind it so much if she does it.

“Really. And speaking of which, you need a wet-bottom spanking for that language and the splashing. Stand up.”

“But you were being mean to me. You were body shaming, is what you were doing. That’s very toxic.” Not the thinnest of arguments, not the thickest.

“I was helping you with your hygiene and teaching you about what happens when little girls grow up.”

“Grr.”

She made her I’m-having-a-fake-realization face. “Is your little tantrum your way of telling me you’re not ready be a big girl?”

“Keep talking. I’ll just be under the water.” Where it’s peaceful and no one teases me.

“There’s that spot on your collar bone again.”

“Stop pointing out my spots!”

“I’m just saying, Daphne, not being ready to be a grown up would be a perfectly good excuse for that little outburst. That’s a big and complicated feeling for such a little girl ... and somewhat to be expected from a girl like you. Graduating to a real bra but still needing ‘big girl’ diapers sometimes must be very confusing.”

Her and her stupid invisible air quotes. “I wish I had a snorkel.”

“You wanna get some bath toys?”

“O my god.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Yeah, something that squirts, so I can soak you some more.”

“I already have a little toy that squirts and gets me wet.”

Which is when I made my raccoon-in-the-flashlight eyes. Pupils dilated. The works. Not that I changed my mind from being put out and victimized to wanting to be touched and victimized and played like a Lamellophone but did you hear she with the words and the teasing (which I hate) and the humiliating belittlement and implications of my middleness (hate it, really!) and the rubbing my leg and the clingy robe and the words with the double meanings and the confident domineering sexiness and what she implied she wants to do to me? A travesty, is what it is. And I wanted no part of it (even if I wanted all the parts of it – really!).

“Buh...” I said all sauvely (really), “If I take my spanking like a good girl, will you show me how to play with your little toy?” I like toys. I wanna learn all the games. I’m a good sport. As gracious in victory as I am in defeat, and not to blow my own horn but I’m never lost at horn blowing.

And she of the world conquering confidence who totally who totally conquered my world but was all benevolent, though firm, about it said, “If you promise to hold extra still and not splash while I’m spanking your bottom. Do you promise me?”

“Muh-huh.” Daffies make the best bath toys, I thought to myself as I got to my feet and turned toward the wall and stuck out my butt because I’m not only a good girl but a great girl. The best, really, but I’m too polite and humble to say so. Really.

“And then when you’re tuckered out from play time and too weak and blissed out to resist, we’ll get you in your nighttime diaper.”

“I’m getting cold. Could we get with the spanking?”

“And don’t you feel bad about it. I’m sure you’ll be dry at night before you start college in the fall, and even if you’re not, I have a feeling your roommate won’t mind.”

“This is cutting into playtime,” I said to whatever she was yammering on about. Something about the stock market? Yada yada exchange trade funds yada. Amiright?

“Little girl, you hold real still,” she said and grabbed a handful of butt and squeezed (so very very) hard and put her hand on ... Not sure what it’s called. My mind went blank with the feelings and the sensation and the o it feels good on me (hoyven).

Maybe I do need some remedial lessons in princess parts and how they work. And learning by doing is fun.

(But I do shave my legs often enough and wear deodorant every day. Really.)

 

 

 

[kerry]

A day without a Daphne fix is like a day without diapers.

[YourFNF]

As a Middle this is just.....

[Alex Bridges]

So now I have a cat named Daphne who doesn’t listen to me, and I find myself going, “Daphne. Daphne. Daff! Daphne! Stop that!” 40 times a day. 
 

I guess that makes me Mary ??????????

[Sarah Penguin]

[Alex Bridges]

New chapter tomorrow. Bet you didn't realize this is now more than 250,000 words long. That's 515 8-1/2 by 11 pages.

I'm not sure, but I think I may write the longest ABDL stories. Way longer than 50 Shades. You think I can get a publisher to take a chance on Mary and Daphne, or do you think they'll only go for the fake stuff ?

[Alex Bridges]

Scene #81

 

“What are you thinking about,” Mary asked me. She’s the type of person who looks at another person and wonders what she’s thinking about, mostly cuz she likes me and stuff. She wants to know what’s going on with me at all the times.

As for me, I’m the type of person who wants to lay across Mary’s lap because it’s one of my happy places. Sorta like how a kitten, which Mary keeps calling me lately, likes to lay across the top of the couch.

So what was I thinking about? This one time, maybe six months after we started dating. (Insert harp music here).

 

The year was 2014(ish), and the country was obsessed with this show called Game of Thrones. So obsessed that we were having a watch party with some of Mary’s friends, and I was enjoying the terrific sense of superiority that came with having read the books. Knowing the future was intoxicating, as was the cabernet. At 10% alcohol by volume, I was tipsy after the first glass because I’m a world-class drinker, and when I drink I become uncharacteristically talkative. Normally I’m so laconic. People say, There goes Daphne. She’s so laconic. Really. And yet being talkative and knowing what happens and being excited led me to (spoiler alert) let slip a spoiler. Some guests were, as the saying goes, displeased, as was Mary.

I have this thing – call it a good upbringing – that says never to fight in front of company. Mary has this thing – call it an evil streak – that goes, “We’re not fighting. You’re in trouble, and I don’t care if we have company.”

“It was an accident, though.”

“You talked through most of the show even after I asked you watch quietly, and you blurted out the ending. That was very rude to our guests.”

“Can we talk about this privately,” I asked while trying and failing to not look at the guests in question. Some looked satisfied to see me get lectured, and some looked delighted to see get lectured. It was then that I realized I needed a vanilla friend to invite to stuff so Mary couldn’t chastise me in front of people. This wasn’t even a play party. And I still hardly knew these people. I could count on one hand the number of times Mary had actually chastised me outside a scene and the number of times Mary had done what I was pretty sure she was about to do in front of these people was a big fat zero.

“Daphne Ann,” she said. And did anyone else notice the very first question she ever asked me was my middle name? She had designs on me, as evidenced by yanking me over her knee, but that was at a play party. “Are you a girl who gets spanked?”

“Marrrrry,” I said quietly. “You’re embarrassing me.”

“I asked you a question. Are you a girl who gets spanked?”

“Yes,” I whispered.

“I’m sorry?”

“Yes! This is so …”

“That’s right. You’re a spanked girl now, and you’re getting a spanking right now.”

“No! You can’t!”

“Do you think these people don’t know what happens to naughty girls who get spankings? Do you want to ask what they think?”

“It’s eleven o’clock. Can’t they just leave?”

“They can leave when they’re ready. Over my knee.”

“No, please?”

“Is that a hard no?”

O sweet baby jebus was I conflicted on that. It’s not like I hadn’t been spanked in front of people before, and even some of the guests. It’s just that I hadn’t ever been actually punished in front of other people before. And Mary was being (wistful sigh) something I had wanted for a long time, someone willing to take me in hand. Lots of people had said they wanted to, but Mary was the first to actually get what it meant and to follow through. I liked what was happening, I hated what was happening, and I so wanted to obey and run away all at the same time. But damn did I not want an audience. I was flushed and blushing head to toe and these butterflies were flapping their flippers in my tummy.

“No,” I said, “but this isn’t even a big deal. Can’t we just …”

“No we can’t.” And suddenly I was face down over Mary’s knee look at the carpet. If I turned and looked toward my feet, I could see all of our guests upside down. Fitting metaphor for the state of affairs, somehow (sort of? Not really). “Why are you over my knee about to get your bottom spanked?”

“Because I spoiled the ending and kept talking when you told me not to.”

“Disobeying is a big deal, Daphne. You need to make better choices, and when you make a bad choice you’re going to get your bottom spanked every single time. I don’t care where we are or who’s here. I’ll drop your pants in front of everybody. That’s what happens to spanked girls like you. Understood?”

O, just get the friggin’ frack on with it. “Yes.”

“You’re going to make a good choice right now and not fight me on this, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Brenna will be only too happy to help me if you can’t hold still.” Smack … smack … smack

My god can she talk. At least she left my pants up. Stupid butterflies in my tummy. Just calm down. You’ve been here before. It’s not even like you did anything so wrong. It’ll be over in thirty seconds.

(Smack smack smack smack smack)

See, it does even hurt (SMACK!) that much. She’s just showing off – ow – for her friends. Ow. Some of whom are cute. Ow ow. Even Brenna ow in a big kinda way ow ow. She’s getting a little enthusiastic up there. OW! Geez, it wasn’t even the penultimate ep-OUCH! Dammit.

“I think these can come down,” Mary said as she tugged my pants down to my knees!

“Hey! I didn’t say OW!”

“This is a punishment, Daphne Ann. Spanked girls don’t get to decide how they get spanked, and if you think (SMACK!) you’re (SMACK!) getting out of this (SMACK SMACK SMACK!) with your (SMACK!) undies up (SMACK!) You have got (SMACK!) another thing coming.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” In retrospect, I realize now how that statement can be interpreted as a challenge that sorta backs someone into a corner. At the time, my immediate thought after letting that bon mot come out of my mouth was, Holy fuck she dared! Because down my panties instantly came. Later on, as I was nursing a sore butt at work the next day, I began to suspect I was dating a ninja because I don’t know she got those down in the first place.

“O yes I will,” was Mary’s response when she just as well could’ve said o yes I did.

My calm, collected manner – you know, the way I’m always level-headed and rational and take things in a very laid back manner – disappeared. I mean, I am all those things. I used to be all those things. I used to be all those things and still am all those things and then Mary came along and still I am those things. Well, not in that moment which went something like, “Mary! Stop! Lemme go! OW! Ow! That hurt! Lemme go! OW! OW! EEP! EEE! OUCH!”

And the team of little people inside my head who are in charge of the kinesiology department said, Break right! Try left! Kick the feet! Arch the back! Break right again! Squinch the eyes shut! Pound the floor! Try left again! Grab the chair legs! Try to pull forward! Kick the legs! Once more with feeling!

I would so fire those people if I could. Not once did they say, o, I dunno, Keep the legs shut! Everybody can see everything!

“Hold (SMACK!) still (SMACK!) like a (SMACK!) good (SMACK!) girl!”

“I am so mad at you,” was my response. I mean, it made sense for me to say so, when you think about it. It was a very opportune time to talk about feelings because it’s always a good time to talk about our feelings. Mr. Rogers, who was played by Tom Hanks himself (so you know he was either really important or had something terrible happen to him on a plane), said so. For a split second, I thought Mary agreed, but nope. Nope, she was just putting her leg over mine.

         “Brenna, would you please go get the paddle in the kitchen drawer under the silverware?”

         “Don’t you dare!”

         “Don’t you talk to our guests that way, young lady! I don’t know (SMACK!) what (SMACK!) has gotten into you (SMACK!)”

         This isn’t fun this isn’t fun this isn’t fun OW! OWIE! “OWIE!” O my god I said Owie. Who even says that? “Mary this isn’t OWWW!”

         “This is a punishment, Daphne Ann.”

         “All I did was spoil the ending.”

         “You disobeyed – thank you, Brenna. (CRACK!)”

         “Aaaah!”

         “Spanked girls (CRACK!) stop (CRACK!) when they are told (CRACK!) to (CRACK!).”

         “(Sniff!)” What the fuck is this wetness in my eyes? That’s not supposed to be there. I’ve taken so much worse than this without so much as a meep. Am I crying? What the hell? She made me cry? What a bitch!

“Ow! Ah! Ah-ha! Eh-heh! Eh-heh! Eh-heh!” O you are not going to start sobbing like some wimpy little girl. “Wahhhh!” Hey. Hey, shut up! You’re embarrassing yourself. Stop. Please stop? “Waaah ah! OW! Ah-haaaaaaa! Wahhhh-haaaaah!” Fine, go ahead a cry.

         So I did. And did some more even after Mary stopped paddling me.

         “Shhh. Deep breaths, baby.”

         And I did that thing where your diaphragm cramps and you just suck in air, which goes, “Hhhhh!”

         “Calm down, deep breaths. There’s my good girl. Can you sit up for me? C’mon.”

         Everything was blurry with the tears for the split second between picking my head up and burying my face in Mary’s chest. O, I like it there so much. I don’t think I’m safer anywhere else than with my face pressed into Mary’s chest with my eyes shut tight and her arms all around me and her hands rubbing my back and teasing my hair and her lips making soft, quiet kissed on me.

         I stayed just like that while everyone filed out (not that I was paying much attention), which is what you do when a scene ends so that the bottom can get their aftercare. Or in my case so the naughty spoiler can get her aftercare.

         “Good girl,” Mary kept cooing at me. “Such a good girl. I know that was very hard.”

         “(Meep. Sniff. Inward sob.)”

         “I’m so proud of you.”

         “I’m sorry for being bad.”

         “No, sweetheart, you weren’t bad. You just made a bad choice. You’re always my good girl.” O, god, was that an arrow through my bleeding heart.

         “Ahhh-haaaaaa-haa-haahhh! (Sobbing wookie noise) (Moose with a cold) (Elephant snorting water).”

         “Shh shhh shhhh shhh. Dry up those tears.”

         “Imrying.” That would be trying, for all those who don’t speak sobbing Daphne, which Mary didn’t yet. We’d only been together six months, and I wasn’t always a crybaby. And I’m not a crybaby now. Really.

         “I know you’re crying sweetie. You’re doing it on my shirt,” she said with a chuckle.

         “I said ‘I’m trying.’ (sniff).”

         “Can we talk a little bit now?”

         “Mhmm.”

         “I’m sorry I had to spank you, but you need to make good choices and listen when I tell you things. I know you’re new at being a submissive, but that’s part of what it means, and as your domme I’m going to hold you to that. Does that make sense?”

         “Yes. I’m sorry.”

         “I know, and you’re all forgiven. You got your consequence, and it’s over, but you’re gonna feel that sore bottom as a reminder.”     

         “But did you hafta do it front of them?”

         “I give the spankings, and you’re the girl who gets spanked. If we’re with kinky company, I will spank your bottom if you need a spanking right then, and you did spoil the show for them.”

         “But they saw.”

         “They’ve all seen girls get spanked before, and what they saw is a girl who needed a spanking. But, and listen carefully to me, did you want to red light and didn’t?”

         “No … sort of.”

         “Which one?”

         “No.” I did and didn’t, and then when she bared me and everyone could see … it didn’t even occur to me to red light then. I pretty much spent the week trying to figure that out. All I could come up with is that it didn’t seem like an option. It was, and I knew that, but it didn’t seem like an option because, just like Mary said, spanked girls don’t get to decide when they get their butts spanked. Even if they don’t want a spanking, they get one. Mary decided. Mary decides. “No,” I repeated. I liked that Mary decided. I wanted her to decide even if I didn’t like her decision.

         “I’m very happy to hear that. I don’t ever want you to do anything you don’t want to. Will you promise me you won’t?”

         “I promise,” I said in my please-don’t-make-me-cry-again voice.

         “That’s my good girl. And I’m proud of you for obeying and being brave. You were very brave.”

         “I sobbed.”

         “That’s okay. It’s okay to cry when you get spanked.”       

         “But I don’t, normally. You know.” Trust me, she knew. She’d spanked me lots of ways. She’d spanked me way harder than that for playtime, and spanked me for punishment (maybe twenty percent funishment) but had never spanked me that hard for punishment. That’s when I put two and two together and came up with the equation in trouble with Mary plus hard spanking equals I cry like my puppy died.

         “It’s okay to cry, especially when you’re having big feelings and getting a big spanking. I know how brave you are. I won’t ever think less of you if you need to cry.”

         “I know. I just … everybody saw.”

         “Are we still on that, silly goose?”

         “What?”

         “Still on everybody seeing.”

         “No, what did you call me?”

         “A silly goose.”

         “I am not a silly goose,” I said while putting my face back on the driest part of her shirt I could find.

         “Said my silly goose. And you know something else? I may be strict with you, but it’s only because I love you and want what’s best for you.”

         Which is when my face came off her chest in a hurry and I made great big eyes at her. (And geese have tiny eyes; I am not a silly goose. Really!)

         “Mary, is that, um, are you saying that because headspace or …”

         “I’m saying Daphne, that I will spank your bottom wherever and whenever and hold you until you stop crying and do anything else you ever neeed because I love you very much.”

         “I love you too.” O, she can hug so good with the kisses and the caressing.

         “I think we should go wash that pretty face of yours, and then it’s bedtime, and I call big spoon.”

         “You’re always the big spoon.” Well, almost.

         “C’mon,” she said and took me by the hand.

         “Mary?”

         “Yeah?”

         “Love you. Oooo, that feels so good.”

         “Such a silly goose. And I love you, too.”

        

(Insert harp music here)

         So I told Mary, “I was thinking about you.”

         “What about?”

         “How much I like you.”

         “Just like me?”

         “And love you lots.”

         “And I love you muchly.”

         We’re disgustingly cute when we’re not being disgustingly filthy. Really. (No, really).

[kerry]

It amazes me that, even though I am generally not a fan of spankings in fiction (or, I guess, anywhere), I am absolutely infatuated with this story. You have managed to craft characters and a dynamic and a narrative voice that just compel me to read, and I love that! Thank you once again, not (I am sure) for the last time.

[Alex Bridges]

30 minutes ago, kerry said:

It amazes me that, even though I am generally not a fan of spankings in fiction (or, I guess, anywhere), I am absolutely infatuated with this story. You have managed to craft characters and a dynamic and a narrative voice that just compel me to read, and I love that! Thank you once again, not (I am sure) for the last time.

I like spanking all on its own, but for me it just fits so naturally into ageplay. Ultimately, the age imbalance is part of a power imbalance, and power exchange is at the heart of DS relationships. That the power imbalance takes on the ageplay flavor feeds the erotic humiliation dynamic, and as many have said, if it weren’t for shame and embarrassment, there would be no kinks..

It’s a curvy but clear path from “I decide when you get spanked” to “spanked girls don’t decide when they get spanked” to “little girls don’t decide when they get spanked and your little unicorn undies are coming down right now.”

And the pain and embarrassment and submission as a gateway to emotional catharsis and way of showing they trust one another is how lifestyle relationships, ideally, work in real life. You can only trust someone this much if you love them, and that’s what holds these two together (just like it holds Jamie and Amanda together).

There’s a lot about these two that isn’t realistic. I’m at least trying to capture a version of an achievable dynamic I know a lot of readers (and one writer) crave.

[Sarah Penguin]

[Alex Bridges]

Scene #82

 

 

         “Daffodil,” someone sang. “Daffodil.”

         “Govay,” was my response. There may have been little foot kicks, but my heart wasn’t in them.

         “It’s time to get up.”

         “It’s Saturday.”

         “Don’t you wanna get up and play with me? You’re gonna make me sad.”

         “Everyone needs to learn to deal with adversity (yawn).” And did I mention that not having access to me really is an adverse event? Really. And then I pulled the covers over my head.  And then I ordered her out of our room with a stinging, “Muhsubuhbuh (snore).”

         Which was followed by a wooshing sensation as she yanked the covers off me, leaving me cold and naked (up top) and indignant. “Marrrrry,” I throatily groaned. I didn’t whine (I never whine – really). It was the same type of groan one might hear from an irritable Viking right before they heft their battle axe (the kind as big as me).

         To which Mary responded by grabbing my delicate, teeny lady ankles and yanking me to the foot of the bed. Whole lot of yanking going on that morning. There I was, half-naked and none too happy about being forced from my winter night’s sleep, with Mary leaning over me with a hand pressed into the bed on either side. Lesser women than me would’ve felt trapped or at least intimidated, but not me. For I am Daphne – Shieldmaiden and owner of an Amazon Prime account. I wasn’t intimidated (really!) even when she leaned all the way down and took a big sniff of my neck like she was a predator smelling prey before she landed these violently gentle love kisses on my neck and cheek and lips one-two-three.

         “Are you sure you don’t wanna play with me today?”

         “That depends. What game are we playing?” Because if it’s Torment Daphne, I’ve already played it and lost, like, all the times. Which is totally weird given my uninterrupted winning streak.

         “Does it really matter,” she asked and kissed her way down my chest to my tummy with her hair brushing all soft and ticklish down my skin. Ya know something? I like her. I think I’m gonna keep Mary around.

         “No,” I said as she kiss-kiss-kissed my tummy and her fingers started caressing and tickling and wandering up and down my sides where my skin is very soft and sensitive.

         “Goody,” Mary said, and I should’ve been more suspicious than I was because she said it just like the Big Bad Wolf, and I didn’t even have my little red hood on. I was about to retract my consent when she, “Pbbbbbt!”

         “Mary!”

         “Pbbbbt!”

         “Heeheehee st- heeeheeheee!”

         “Pbbbt!”

         “Mary! No raspber- heeheehee!” Grrr. “No raspberries!”

         “Are you awake now?”

         “Yes!”

         “Then let’s get our day started. What am I gonna find when I pull down these shorts of yours?”

         “Princess parts.”

         “Is that all,” she said as she pulled down my pajama shorts. I only wore them to cover …

         “What’s this? Hmm? Is this a wet diapee?” Pat-pat-squeeze. “It is! Did you have an accident last night?”

         “Marrrry. It’s too early for teasing. Be nice to me.”

         “I’d never tease you for bedwetting, sweetums.”

         “I didn’t wet the bed,” I ferociously squeaked. Why’s she gotta say stuff like that?

         “It’s okay. You’re just not ready to be out of diapers at night.”  

         “Marrrry! You’re the one who put it on me at 9:00 last night and wouldn’t let me take it off.” I wasn’t wearing a wet diaper. I was wearing fault. Specifically, it was Mary’s fault.

         She tore open the tapes. “Dere dey are,” she said. “There are the princess parts I was promised. Now, up-up.”

         “Is this part of the game or are you just being weird again?” I asked as I sat up. Instead of an answer, I got one of her this-will-shut-her-up kisses that makes me go all a-flutter with the lightheadedness and the oxygen deprivation and the wobble knees (glayven). Hee!

         “You gonna be my good girl today?”

         “I thought I was your good girl all the time.”

         “You are, and you’re gonna make very good choices for me, aren’t you?”

         “Muh-huh,” was my clever and sexy response to the lust eyes she was making at me. Ya don’t think she does that to make me docile and pliable, do you? I don’t think so. Really. That’s not the kind of person she is, and also because I am not so easily manipulated. For evidence of my iron will, I would point to all the times she’s had to coerce me into good choices. Yep, that’s me – a brass butt and an iron will.

         “Go to the bathroom and call me when you’re done.”

         It was a five-minute trip, if you get my drift. I’m very regular thanks to Mary’s nutritional know how. If I had my way, there’d be a lot more Cheetos. Did you know that cat mascot is actually white and is just covered in Cheeto dust? Really. It’s very bad for his lungs.

         Miss Mary Queen of Everything did not wait for me to call her, which I wasn’t gonna because why the heck would I? She came in at the flush. Which was very presumptuous. A little mystery in a marriage is a good thing. Not that you need to be Poirot to deduce this who-done-what.

         “All done,” she asked.

         “I don’t like that question.”

         “Sit back down.”

         “Why?”

         “O look, did you remember we own a bathbrush?”

         O look, I’m sitting. And naked. Yep, sitting and naked (stupid bathbrush X-men reject mutant butthead).

 

         “Let’s see how you did,” Mary said. “Open your legs for me … why are you making your raccoon eyes?”

         I had my reasons. She tore off a piece of toilet paper and “Good job in the front. Lean forward.”

         “Mar- EEEEP!”

         “And good job in back! Such a good girl.”

         “Fffpawtuh nurlsen, Mary!”

         “Awww, and you’re very welcome! And it’s so cute when you sputter.”

         “But buh buh…”

         “Up you go. Let’s wash our hands.”

         Washing our hands was a quiet affair. I say washing “our” hands but really Mary washed my hands. I like her hands, and I like it when she uses them to wash my hands. But – and stay with me here – WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK WAS FUCKING THAT?

         “Daffy,” she said to me like the world is a just place, “did you know when you get all blushy and extra special embarrassed the left side of your face kinda sneers?”

         That’s a mini-stroke. One day my face will freeze that way and it won’t be so cute then.

         She moved me in front of her and hugged me from behind. “I’m cold,” I complained. Funny how you can blush from head to toe and still be cold.

         “Brush your toofies and I’ll get some clothes out for you.”

         Just like that, she disappeared into the bedroom leaving me to brush my teeth. Teeth. I do not and never have had toofies. I don’t even know what those are. But I will tell you this: your teeth are the best friends you got. If you take care of them, they’ll take care of you. But I still didn’t wear my retainer after getting my braces off, and my teeth look fine. Thieving orthodontists with their cosmetic procedures dressed up as necessities. Two whole years of caramel lost.

         I decided the best thing I could do was saunter into the bedroom like I hadn’t a care in the world. That’s the way to deal with bullies like Mary, just ignore them. Don’t let them know they get under your skin at all. So what if she wiped my butt … o gawd I can’t believe she did that. Ourgh!!! … I have to move out now.

 

         “You brushed your hair.”

         “Yeah,” I said, “I do that every day.”

         “Come.” I am not a dog, I said to myself in my head as I walked over to her. “Here,” she said and held out …

         “Do I hafta wear a pullup? What’s wrong with my panties?”

         “They don’t absorb anything.” Well, I walked into that one, literally, sorta. “And not so long ago you were trying to get me to start putting you back in these.”

         Lies! Lies and wickedness! “That’s … Mary, you’re just so nyegh sometimes.”

         “You told me you wanted to wear pullups more.”

         “I told you I wanna wear diapers less.”

         “That’s not what I heard.”

         “Of course it wasn’t,” I roared. Sometimes my roars come out like grumbles and muttering. But they’re roars. Really.

         “Besides, no one goes straight from diapers to undies.”

         “I didn’t! I … dammit!” She broke my brain. I was all twitterpated and upside down and inside out and scrambled with the synapses and the transducers and fiberoptics tangled and stuff. “Stop looking so delighted!”

         “Did you or did you not wake up in a diaper this morning?”

         “You know I did.”

         “And what condition was it in?”

         “Pris-fucking-tine.” And there she goes again with looking all delighted and happy with herself!

 

         “You’re so …”

         “Don’t say it!”

         “Pretty and adorable when you’re indignant and in denial.”

         “I deny that.”

         “Ha! See?”

         “Gimme my shirt,” I said and reached around her and put it on. “Where are my pants?” If you’re gonna lay out someone’s clothes, you gotta lay out the pants. She volunteered for the responsibility; I didn’t ask her to. WHERE ARE MY PANTS!!!

 

          “No pants today.”

         “You wake me up. You nyeghed me in the bathroom. You make me wear these things that aren’t even mine and are soooo yours. And now I can’t have pants.”

         “You are so on top of current events. Want some socks?” Grimace! See my grimace at you and wither! “Sit down and gimme a feetsie.”

         “Fine. But only because my toes are cold.”

         “What else would socks be for, you silly goose.”

         “I am not a silly goose.” Everyone’s a silly goose but me. Hmmph! (Except actual geese. They are not silly. They are dead serious. Really.)

         “Do you wanna hear the rules for today,” she asked while putting my fuzzy warm socks on.

         “If I say no do I still have to follow them?”

         “Yep.”

         “There’s no justice in the world.”

         “I seem to recall a little girl who once upon a time told me that she wants me to make the rules and decide what is and isn’t just.”

         “She was twenty-six and high on sexcapades.” She’d been doing things to me. Ensorcelling me by making me fall utterly and totally in love with her until I was completely dependent on her and wanted nothing so much as to please her and hear her call me a good girl.. (I am not a golden retriever – really!)

         “The rule today is, you come tell me if you need the potty.”

         “What do I get in exchange for obeying?”

         “Your butt gets to live another day, but,” she said and gave me her I’m-about-to-pounce-on-you look right before she (oof!) pounced on me, “don’t you wanna be my good girl and play my game today?”

         What even is that that she thinks she can just (mmm) kiss my neck (ooo) and tickle my (hhhh) and raise the prospect of me disappointing her (urgh) and think she can manipulate me (grrr) into her latest depravities (heehee)? Where did she even get that idea (other than our history as a couple dating back a significant percentage of our lives)? So entitled. Unethical. Against nature and the rights of humankind. Well, I had had enough, and I told her right where she could put her manipulations (fi!) and coercions (eep!) and rewards (muh) and tongue (mmm!). I told her off and said, “Yes’m.” Dammit.

         “Good girl.”

         Aww, hear what she called me? I don’t mean to brag or anything, but my wife thinks I’m a good girl.

         She gave me one of those quick pecks and said, “I’ll make breakfast.”

         She was gone in a flash to go make breakfast, which is when I said, “Damn right you will.”

         I don’t know the name of her game, but I can say I didn’t especially care for parts of it because as soon as breakfast was over and she had cleaned up (she volunteered to clean up, which is when I left the room and said, “Damn right you will.”) she said, “Let’s go,” and took me by the wrist.

         “Where?” You might think I’m paranoid, but there are some days when I don’t trust her so much and wish I knew what was going to happen next. I mean, yes, I’m always three steps ahead of her, but sometimes that means I don’t know what the first and second steps are. Really.

         “To the potty, silly.”

         “Ourgh!”

         “Is it that hard to hold it?”

         “Marrry!” Whisk is the sound my pullup made as it reached my ankles. Her pullup. Hers. I … dammit.

         “Can you try to go for me,” she asked with all the faux earnestness she can muster (which is a lot)

         “Why am I naked again,” I asked with my arms folded across my chest.

         “Because big girls pee in the potty and not their pants, silly, but you have to sit down first.”

         “Stop smiling.”

         “Stop standing.” Well, touché?

And then I was sitting. We should invest in heated toilet seats.

         “Mary,” I said and started to stand up and then these hands were on my shoulders preventing me – me! an agent of my own fate! – from standing.

         “Five minutes.”

         I closed my eyes to gather my patience and said, “Fine. Can I get some privacy, please?”

         “Of course not.”

         “Thank – what!?! Marrry! Get out,” I didn’t whine. No whining. I don’t even know why people keep bringing up whining when I don’t do that ever. Really.

         Mary knows when she’s crossed a line. She knows when she’s pushed me too far. That’s why when I ordered her out of the bathroom, she sat down on the edge of the tub. Dammit.

         “Are we really going to sit here for five minutes,” I asked. Not many people can sit on the toilet because they were told to and maintain a royal level of dignity, but I can. Really. (Really? Please? Meh, really.)

         “Well, if you tinkle before then, you can go back to playing after we clean your princess parts and wash our hands.”

         “What is happening right now?” What does it all mean!?! Not that i ever stood under the night sky and shouted that, except when watching Lost. Real – fuck it.

         “You tinkle in the potty and …”

         “You’re giving me a headache.”

         “I’ll rub your shoulders for you when the time is up.”

         “I’m not talking to you anymore.” La dee da, not talking to Mary. Not even looking at her. Staring off into space. My, what an interesting ceiling we have. La dee friggin’ da.

 

         “Guess you don’t have to go,” Mary I’m-so-clever said after five minutes. She actually set the timer on her phone. Like she’s funny or something. She’s not, ya know. I mean, she often is, but in the moment, not. N-O-T. “Let’s get you dressed. Up.”

         “Does that mean I can have pants?”

         “You’re talking to me again,” she asked as she pulled her pullup back into place over my parts. Who does she think she is? The building inspector? I say what goes over my plumbing. Me, and no one else. Except Mary. Dammit…

         “No, I’m not talking to you again …. So is that a yes on the pants?”

         “Nope. Snug as a bug in a pullup.” See? She’s not funny. She just tells kinky dad jokes designed to afflict me. “Remember to come get me if you need to go.”

         I spent the next half hour googling bathroom use denial and adult potty training fetishes not being exactly sure which, if either, she was up to. She’s nothing if not full of surprises and only too happy to explore new and exciting (for her, exclusively … mostly … some of the times … rarely) ways to tickle our erotic humiliation bones. My brain said yellow light, and my gut said let’s see where this goes and my brain said to my gut you always say that, which is when I said, “You both have terrible instincts and suck in different ways. Equally, but in different ways.”

         Not that time seems to mean much anymore, but I looked at the time and wondered how it could be that twenty minutes could last a whole ten hours. Which is when my brain said you have to pee. And my gut said, just go to the bathroom. And my brain said, that is so like you – first, you say let’s wait and see, and then your instinct is to do exactly the thing that gets her butt spanked twice a week in a good week. And my butt chimed in with, yeah, ya jerk.

         I have to let my brain win some of these fights, if only to give my butt a chance to heal, so I went to Mary (because I’m good girl and one of the all-time great rule followers – really! please believe me!) and said, “I have to pee. What now?” Which I said because we all know she had some notion of what she wanted me to do next.

         “Already?”

         “Yep. So …” And I hinted toward the bathroom.

         “But you just tried.”

         “I didn’t have to go then, so could we …”

         “Mmmm nah.”

         “’Nah’?” What the fuck is ‘nah’? “What is ‘nah’?”

“I just settled in to read the news.”

“So do it in the bathroom!”

“Nah.”

“Marrry!”

“O, just sit and snuggle with me.”

Mixed signals! Unclear directions! Inadequate instructions! Terms not in common usage! Exhibit not in evidence! GRRRRR!

“What game are we even playing?!?”

“Same one we always play, sweetie. Sit.” So it was a game of Torment Daphne. I should’ve known. All the signs were there.

“Buh – fine! But I’m gonna pout.” I at least warn her before I do stuff like pout (occasionally). It’s called courtesy. I’m the most courteous person Jeeves and Miss Manners had acrobatic courtesy sex and created a courtesy love child.

“I know. You’re being a very good girl, by the way,” she congratulated me without looking up from her phone to see what was one of the best angry-pouting faces I’ve ever made, and I’ve made at least, like, two. It could be more, but it’s also not because I don’t pout. That’s just not me. Really.

But as to my being a good girl in that moment? “Urgh! I know and it sucks.” Really – o no, like for realzies really.

There I sat, as useful as a lump on a log while Mary read on her phone and I did some conspicuous pouting-as-protest. This little monarchy of hers desperately needs a parliament. Something bicameral. And I should be one of the cameras (camere, technically). She read me the occasional headline, and I read the news plenty. I read the news so much sometimes she tells me I’m not allowed to read anymore news because it makes me anxious. I miss the boring decade the first half of my life.

“Alright, let’s go,” she said all sunnily like I’m supposed to be excited about this game. AND WHAT ARE WE EVEN PLAYING!!!

 

“Ugh. Fine.” I followed her back to the bathroom.

“Alright,” she said, “down those … aww, it’s okay to have accidents. I guess it’s my fault for not taking you to the potty sooner.”

“Suhbuhdunuh higeruh hairen fruhtotter! (Sound of a bee swarm) and (steam escaping) and (alley cats fighting) and I’ll sue! (Angry bear roars)! Defamation of character! (Bostonians shouting at a tourist in a roundabout.) Abuse of authority! (Gasoline catching fire) False advertising, bad rule making and kernoffler, Mary!” O, and there was a lot of fist clenching and stomping, too. Me, specifically, I did the fist clenching and stomping and turning read and giving out dirty looks like candy on a pre-covid Halloween..

Mary, instead of listening to the charges leveled against her, was going, “Hahahaha!”

“Stop laughing at me! (sniff)”

“Aww, c’mere. Let me make it all better.” For the record, I only accepted her hug because I like her hugs a lot. Also, I only let her put her hand on it because she didn’t ask permission and I’m a good girl, dammit! (Dammit.) “You soaked this pullup. You couldn’t wait another thirty minutes?”

“But you didn’t say I had to wait another thirty minutes. You just said no,” I didn’t whine. “And the rule about the pullups and you … (huff).”

“Poor, sweet thing. Have you had enough trying for today?”

As in trying to play at whatever game she was playing? “Yes. (sniff)”

“Alright, let’s go change you back into one of your big girl diapers. I know you tried your hardest.”

“So I’m not in trouble?” Not that it would be like Mary to invent a game I can’t possibly win and spank me for losing. She’d nevvvver do that – really. (And that, folks, was my first – ever – sarcastic ‘really.’ Really).

“No, sweetie. You did a very good job. Besides, I don’t spank for potty accidents because that would just be cruel.” Which is when she winked at me, which is when my bottom lip started quivering because she pushed all my buttons. Like I said, she knows right where the edge is and not often but sometimes takes me right up to it. It’s one thing to spank a person to tears. It’s another thing to humiliate a person to tears. Right at the edge. She chuckled at my quivering lip and cooed, “Awww. Maybe you didn’t get enough sleep. Do you wanna go back to bed for a while?”

“Mhmm.” Remember an hour and a half ago when I didn’t wanna get outta bed? Me too.

“Okay. Let’s go get one your fluffy cloth diapers on.” I would’ve protested, but I was kinda out of all the words by that point.

“Will you lay down with me?” Except those words.

“Yep, and I’ll hold you real tight and stroke your cheek until you fall asleep.”

“Can we have sex later?” Also, those words, but I was asking for my friend.

[Disk]

"And did I mention that not having access to me really is an adverse event?"

We know Daffy, we know

[Sarah Penguin]

[YourFNF]

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[diddldum]

Dear YourFNF,

don't you know that extremely dirty jokes are forbidden here???????

                                       A very disappointed

                                                Diddldum