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

[Alex Bridges]

Scene #96

 

         Assholes! Assholes assholes assholes! And butt faces.

         I went inside, washed my hands, dried my hands, and threw the dish towel back on the counter because I am fierce. Or just pissed off. And to compound my crappy morning, I knocked a glass on the floor. Mary almost instantly appeared.

         “You okay? What happened,” she asked me.

         “I’m fine. I knocked a glass off the counter.” She walked over to me and, not kidding, picked me up. “Mary!”

         “You’re wearing sandals,” she said and deposited me on the kitchen table.

         “I can clean it up,” I reminded her.

         “I got it. What happened?”

         “I tossed the towel on the counter and knocked the glass off. Sorry.”

         “Accidents happen.” She got the broom out.

         “They ate my flowers.”

         “What flowers?”

         “All the bulbs I planted. Look outside.” She stopped what she was doing and tiptoed to the back door.

         “I’m sorry, Daffy,” she said when she looked outside and saw that every single flower from every single bulb I’d planted was gone. That’s one hundred and thirty-five tulips and crocuses and snowdrops, and some asshole of a deer or rabbit or something ate every last damn one. Fucker!

         “I worked hard on those.” Sort of. I dug tiny holes, put the bulb in, and covered them. I guess that’s kinda not so hard, but not the point. Maybe I emotionally invested a little too much in flowers, but I needed the colors. Reds and yellows and purple and blues and pinks. I needed to see color in my spring after twelve months of immunocompromised quarantine. “There won’t be anymore flowers blooming in our yard for weeks now.”

         “We can buy some tulips. I’ll even plant them with you.”

         “Thank you,” I sighed, “but it’s not the same. I made those ones.” Well, not really, but planting from a seed or a bulb is so much more rewarding than planting a plant.

         Mary resumed her sweeping while I vented and called down the coyotes and hawks to take care of whatever ate my flowers. The bystanders can go about the business, but the ones who did the chewing are on my list of things to subject to the withering power of nature via the power of wishful thinking. Another year of quarantine, and I’ll probably be one of those assholes who talks about manifesting her desires.

         “And we need chicken wire and some spray stuff to keep them away,” I said aloud to add to my mental shopping list.

         “And I’ll hire a neighborhood kid to sit out there all night with a flashlight and an air horn,” Mary offered.

         Which was sweet of her, but, “I’m serious, Mary. All my flowers.” A little bit of whining, which you all know I never do (really!) crept in there.

         “I know, sweetie.” I did some world class pouting while she finished cleaning up my mess (except I don’t ever pout, so technically I didn’t. It was more mourning, I guess).

         “Come on,” Mary said when she put the broom away.

         “Thank you for cleaning up after me.”

         “You’re welcome.”

         “Where are we going?”

         “Bed.”

         “O, sympathy sex,” I said. Maybe I’d be more excited for it by the time we got up the stairs. It’s not that I have a high libido but that fifteen seconds is a long time, more than enough for me to get in the mood.

         When we got to our bedroom, Mary sat down, bent over and took my sandals offs, then popped the button on my shorts. “Why am I getting a spanking,” I asked. Which may have been a leap of logic, but her sitting on the bed with me in front of her while she pops the button on my shorts, well, ya might say it conjures memories.

She gave me a quick kiss on my tummy. “You’re not, you silly goose.”

“I’m not a silly goose. I’m just someone who’s had their shorts taken down for many, many spankings.” She stood up and turned the covers down. “Hop in.” I made a goofy grin at her that was my best attempt to be alluring and sexy and slid in. I wouldn’t so much mind Mary getting in with me clothed and having me fumble around under the sheets trying to gain entry to her pants. Or her her clothes satying on while she used her teeth to … Anyhoo …

Yet I couldn’t help but notice I was also still wearing panties and my tee, and for someone who was going to be getting in bed with me, Mary was suspiciously tucking me in and giving me a kiss on the forehead. Not that I was so in the mood as to be counting on shenanigans, but huh?

“What are you doing,” I asked as she gave me a head pat.

“Putting you down for a nap.”

“But I don’t wanna take a nap.”

“You’ll feel better after a little sleep. I’ll come get you in a bit.”

And then she left. Like, what the fuck? ‘Feel better?’ I felt fine. I was miffed about my flowers (okay, pissed), but I didn’t need or want a nap. Mary could’ve, ya know, asked me.

I got out of bed, put on some pandemic chic no-button shorts, and went back downstairs. I don’t know where Mary went, but I went to the kitchen to get a glass of water. For my trouble, I collected both a glass of water and a spank on my butt.

“What are you doing out of bed?”

“I didn’t want a nap, but I did want a glass of water. What are you up to?”

“Putting you back down for your nap.”

For someone whose wife didn’t want to take a nap, Mary sure was taking me back upstairs for a nap. What was this? Was this Mary, as she had been lately, pioneering her own path on pushing the ageplay stuff? Because I distinctly remember asking her to slow that down. I even have a diary entry literally spelling that out.

“I don’t want a nap, Mary.”

“But you’ll feel better after you take one.” She’s awfully handsy sometimes, a delightful quality when I want her to be and something not so delightful when I don’t especially when her to be and downright annoying when I downright don’t want her to be. Well, I didn’t just then want her to be.

“But I’m not tired.”

“Then just rest your eyes. In you go,” she said as she stood next to the bed again.

“Marrrry.”

“Daffy, in you go.”

“But why?”

“Because I said so. Unless you don’t want to go to sleep because you’re afraid to close your eyes without a diapee on. Is that the problem?”

“Marrrrrry! But … urgh!”

“In,” she said as she guided me onto the mattress and gave me another smack on my butt. “And stay in until I come get you. If I find you out of bed, I’m going to spank.”

And with that the friggin’ dictatress turned, strode across the room, and closed the door behind her. For once in my life (really!), my frustration got the better of me and I threw a pillow at the door. Like, seriously, how the fuck was I back in bed?

To say I was displeased would be an understatement. We had just talked about her being all big without me wanting her to be. Yes, we all sometimes get into our headspace and push the envelope, and sometimes that leads to new fun we didn’t know we liked. And yes, sometimes we deliberately try new things to see how they go, like, o, the very first time she made me wear a pullup, and holy schnikees what a mixed bag that’s been. And yes, as a submissive I like her to be in charge and make decisions, but only if she’s reading my signals. And didn’t I say like a week ago to take two steps back?

Bigging out is a new term I’m using. It’s like wigging out except it’s when someone gets all into their big space and makes you do little stuff even when you’re not in your little headspace, which I’m not ever in because I AM NOT A LITTLE! I’ve said so a bunch of times. I like it when Mary pushes the envelope, but only when I’m in the mood. Some other day she wants to put me down for a nap, fine. That day, was not in the mood even for twenty minutes or however long she was going to make me stay there.

I got out of bed and crept out of the room when I suddenly remembered I dom’t ever have to creep anywhere. If I didn’t want to take a nap, I didn’t have to. That’s called being an adult and an agent of my own destiny and a master of my own fate. It’s called a lot of other things, too. If Mary had a problem with it, I’d just tell her how I felt, like an adult.

I got all the way to the landing on the stairs when I spotted Mary, who turned like predator or a terminator and spotted me from the bottom of the stairs.

“I’m …”

And that’s as far as I got when Mary said, “What did I say would happen if you got out of bed before I came to get you?”

And she’s on her way up the stairs. “Mary, I don’t want to take a nap. Could you just please…”

“No I cannot just please. When Momma says …”

Excuse me? When who says?

“Mary! Red light.”

 

 

 

[Guilend]

Oh dear. A red light. Seriously that isn’t used enough in stories. I’m happy to see it

[thedman]

Wow, that's a surprising twist. Good to see though, shows that even in a story world there needs to be reality, makes it far more believable 

[herezulo]

Wow! Next chapter is gonna be really interesting. This red light was a long time coming, feels like they've been out of sync for a while.

[diaperboymi]

Another Great chapter!!!!   Well...Daphne finally used a Red Light.  Didn't see that coming.  Just wonder how long it will last... she usually gives into Mary....even if it's a struggle.   Mary always seems to win ?  Thanks for the update!!!!!

[Sarah Penguin]

Then cars manifest and roar down the hallway and screech into nearly hitting the wall. from redlight.;

 

[Alex Bridges]

Scene #97

Scene #97

            

I am not a little girl. 

I got good grades in high school. I played sports and was good at some of them. I had friends. I got good grades in college. I had friends there, too. I had girlfriends. I walked all by my lonesome into the kink scene where people like me got great big targets on our backs for every creep and user and abuser out there. 

I started a career. I worked for ten years. I was good at it. I took a lot of shit, but I was good at it.

My whole life, people have made assumptions about me. “Daphne’s different.” “Daphne hasn’t hit her growth spurt yet.” “Daphne’s sheltered.” “Daphne’s special.” “Daphne has some growing up to do.”

So I didn’t start dating until college. “Daphne’s just a late bloomer.” I wasn’t out until senior year of high school, and how easy it is for people to forget that fifteen years ago things were a lot different when you came out. A lot of people still don’t understand how hard it is to do it now.

So I didn’t like sex at first. “Daphne’s not ready.” Or “Daphne’s not really a lesbian – it’s just a phase.” Or “She’s just confused.” Or “She’s a prude.” 

I just didn’t know what I wanted. And when I did know, I didn’t know how to ask for it. I don’t care if you’re gay, straight, both or neither, there’s only one mainstream narrative about sex, and it goes, no one can be happy without sex, there’s only a few ways to enjoy sex, and if you don’t enjoy those then you have some pathological dysfunction. And it’s fucking bullshit, and no one will say so and the people who will say so aren’t allowed a platform by self-appointed gatekeepers who are the real dysfunctionals.

And when I did take my first steps into the kink scene and went to munches, I won’t even type the worst stuff people said and sent to me and about me. The printable stuff? “You’re not really gay. You just need the right ----.” “I want to ---- you so much.” That’s what people said to me! Then there’s what people wouldn’t say to me but that got back to me. “She just needs a good ----.” “I can break her.”

No. You. Fucking. Can’t. No one can!

Or how about this one: “She’s too young to know better.” Like I could be manipulated by older, more experienced predators, bossed around and told what to do and gaslighted, and not all predators are men, by the way. Plenty of women in the scene wanting trying to do that shit to me. “She’s too young to know better.”

            I. Was. NOT.

I was not, and was not about to be, the answer to anyone’s fetish or anyone’s victim or anyone’s mark, and I wasn’t.

And I found my people. I didn’t go back home after college. I stayed in a city where I only knew a few people, and I made my little circle of friends. People who cared about me. People who mostly understood me. And a few of them took me under their wing and made it easier and safer for me to be a part of a community. With people who thought of me as “the kid” of the group who needed looking after at first and finally with people who saw me as fully capable and worth their time as a member of the group and not a newbie or hanger-on.

            But still, no matter what, to everyone outside my circle, to everyone who didn’t know me or didn’t even want to try to know me, I was what I appeared to be at first sight: young twenties, five-foot-two, tomboyish, redhead. As far as the world was concerned, I was a book with no pages, and all the cover said was, “Still just a kid.” “Accident waiting to happen.” “Bait.” “Plaything.”

I. Am. Not. A. PLAYTHING! 

Not for men, not for women, not for anyone, and especially not for wannabe dominants who think a sub is a whore they don’t have to pay.

            And everywhere else, it was the same story in a different setting. It didn’t matter how much I accomplished. It didn’t matter how good I was at my job. Someone else got the credit. I got the blame. Someone else got the laurels. I got a pat on the head. I did the work, and then I got to sit in the back of the room and take notes while the grownups did business and took credit for my talent and effort and blamed me when things didn’t go their way because I couldn’t fight back without losing my job until they managed to gaslight everyone around me into believing the narrative, “Daphne – does an okay job and has nowhere else to go.” Like I was some kind of charity case. They even convinced me a little.

“Not ready.”    

“Still getting her feet under her” at twenty-one means you’re learning and have potential. At twenty-nine, it means you’ll never learn more than you already have.

The positives were backhanded slaps to the face. “Spirited.” “Spunky.” “High-energy.” “Peppy.” 

It was never “Talented.” “Smart.” “Clever.” “Leader.”

“Always in a good mood.” No, I wasn’t.

I. AM. NOT. A. MANIC. PIXIE. DREAM. GIRL.

I don’t exist to help the main character resolve their deepest life conflicts and grow as a person. I am my own main character.

“Don’t take Daphne seriously,” is how it all translated. “She’s not a principle. She’s just an extra.” A cog. A stock character there to move everyone else’s plot forward.

And when it was just us, when it was just me and my friends, I was tired. I was so tired of always being on my guard and always trying twice as hard for half the credit and always having to bury myself under this mask of some whole other person just to try to get people to see me and not the stock character version of me. The manic pixie dream girl wants nothing more than to kick the main character in the crotch and set something on fire on her way back to dealing with her own shit.

I had a lot of bad dates and a lot of good dates that didn’t go anywhere. A few relationships that weren’t right. Was rarely anybody’s fault; they just weren’t right. Play partners who gave me some of what I needed, and I gave them some of what they needed in exchange, but that’s all it was, a friendly transaction.

I don’t think there’s any harder part of life than those first years after the fun of dating is gone but you still haven’t found your person yet. And I never had much fun dating. The people I met outside the kink scene never understood what I needed even when they were willing to try, and the people inside the kink scene, the ones who weren’t out for themselves entirely, were mostly too immature to realize they weren’t ready yet to see past their own needs they’d been holding in forever. It’s not their fault. It’s a lot to carry and a long time to carry it. I understand because I carried it for a long time, too. I learned to recognize desperation.

I wasn’t miserable. I wasn’t unhappy every minute of every day. But I had a hard few years. Yes, I was young, but that little place inside that people spend those years filling with partying? I tried that. I liked it. But it didn’t fill anything. Maybe for most people that stops working at 27 or 28, and that’s when they need more out of life. It stopped working for me … I don’t think it ever worked for me.

Where was my person? Where was the person who wanted to get to know me? I just wanted to be me, and I wanted to be nothing like the person I had to be everywhere else. I wanted to be taken care of for once in my adult life. Not by someone who thought I needed to be but by someone who just wanted to because it made them happy to do it. Where was the person who wanted me, with all my baggage, to be the co-starring character in the story of their life?

Little girls are not the starring character in anyone’s story. They’re a stock character. Or they’re a play partner. Or they’re the kid of the friend group. Or maybe they’re a good friend, but they’re a side player. They’re not part of the main story.

Mary. Mary is my person. Mary is my wife. Mary is the other half of my identity. Because it’s not a phase, and I’m not a kid. Mary. They very first person who ever understood what it meant to be my domme, that it means she’s responsible to me as much I am to her. The very first person to stare at me like a treasure to protect and not an object to possess. The very first person who, when she saw, I just wanted to get behind closed doors with and not be who and what I was to everyone else. To be with and not carry the weight of every ounce of bullshit across my own threshold. 

Because she didn’t see a chore or a responsibility or a wounded person. She saw me, and she wanted to see more. She saw more, and she wanted to see everything. She saw everything, and she wanted me to be the co-star in her life.

And now I’m her wife. I’m not a kid anymore. I haven’t been a kid in a long time. I never was the little girl so many people took me for.

A lot of people thought I wasn’t ready for the world. I even thought so too sometimes. But the world wasn’t ready for me. I kept myself safe. I paid the rent. I built my circle. Me! Because I am the hero of my own story. I’ll always be the hero of my own story, and now Mary is my my co-star. Co- star. Not actress and supporting actress. Co-star.

Little girls are stock characters. Mommies are stock characters. I am not a stock character, and neither is Mary. I don’t want her to be my mommy. I want her to be my wife, like I’m her wife. She can call herself lots of things, but she is not my mommy. She can be my dominant and my top and even my owner or even my big, but I don’t like her calling herself mommy because that makes me the little girl, and I’m not. I can be her submissive and her bottom and I can be owned by her.

I had to fight so many fights to not be seen like a kid. I don’t want to be a little girl. I don’t want her to be my mommy. And I told her that. I told her I don’t like her calling herself that. And I don’t know why she did it anyway, more than once. I didn’t like it the other time either.

She’s not my mommy. We’re partners. We’re co-stars. She’s my wife, and I’m her wife. She’s my Mary, and I’m her Daphne. I don’t want anything to ever, ever change that. 

 

 

 

 

[WBDaddy]

Alex, this is art, seriously.  This chapter is some of the best fiction (forget fetish/not-fetish) I've read in a long time.  My wife and I loved this prose right here.  Great job, buddy.  Really great. 

[Alex Bridges]

1 hour ago, WBDaddy said:

Alex, this is art, seriously.  This chapter is some of the best fiction (forget fetish/not-fetish) I've read in a long time.  My wife and I loved this prose right here.  Great job, buddy.  Really great. 

Thank you!

I wrote this 12 weeks ago and had to work all the way to get here.

[YourFNF]

On 4/11/2021 at 8:56 PM, Alex Bridges said:

Scene #96

 

 

 

         

 

And that’s as far as I got when Mary said, “What did I say would happen if you got out of bed before I came to get you?”

 

And she’s on her way up the stairs. “Mary, I don’t want to take a nap. Could you just please…”

 

“No I cannot just please. When Momma says …”

 

Excuse me? When who says?

 

“Mary! Red light.”

 

 

 

 

 

I can't say I'm surprised and I'm definetly glad to see this being brought up in a story. Definetly adds to realism

5 hours ago, Alex Bridges said:

I had to fight so many fights to not be seen like a kid. I don’t want to be a little girl. I don’t want her to be my mommy. And I told her that. I told her I don’t like her calling herself that. And I don’t know why she did it anyway, more than once. I didn’t like it the other time either.

She’s not my mommy. We’re partners. We’re co-stars. She’s my wife, and I’m her wife. She’s my Mary, and I’m her Daphne. I don’t want anything to ever, ever change that. 

 

 

 

Like everything makes complete sense now and holy shit I feel a lot of this....

[kerry]

Wow. Just wow. What an absolutely brilliant chapter!

I wondered (along with everyone else, I suppose) what would happen after the red light. What I didn't expect was that you would totally step back and, in an adult voice we have not heard from Daphne before, candidly and seriously explore who she is. She loves to play her role with Mary, her "co-star" in life, but there are hard lines she does not want to cross. And here Daphne is, insisting that those lines be respected and abruptly breaking away from her cute, subby narration in order to be clear about it. 

As much as I love every single chapter here because I adore her narrative voice, this chapter retconned her character in a major way (or at least filled in a ton of information about her that she has kept inside until now), and (as I said) it is brilliant. I love that she. put her foot down, and I can't wait to read the next chapter, which I guess pretty much has to explore the immediate aftermath of her declaration. 

Again, wow.

[Hoops]

I don't login and comment often, but had to stop to say - wow. Amazing job, well done. You are truly skilled. Never would I have expected to read anything like that on a fetish site. Thank you so much for this story

[diaperboymi]

What a Fantastic chapter!!!!  Well done!!!!!!!!!!!!   I totally see Daffy's point....but I think Mary has a way to get what she wants.  The art of persuasion is about others letting them have your way ;-).   

[Sarah Penguin]

What if daffy is secretly a platypus driving an android from within it? :)

[Alex Bridges]

1 hour ago, Sarah Penguin said:

What if daffy is secretly a platypus driving an android from within it? :)

This happened to me once!!! It Broke up my first imaginary marriage.

[Sarah Penguin]

1 hour ago, Alex Bridges said:

This happened to me once!!! It Brooke up my first imaginary marriage.

[Alex Bridges]

On 4/11/2021 at 9:40 PM, thedman said:

Wow, that's a surprising twist. Good to see though, shows that even in a story world there needs to be reality, makes it far more believable 

Stories are best, IMO, when they don’t abandon reality. Even in a diaper dimension setting, if you keep everything else but the setting realistic, the story stays relatable and makes room for a deeper connection between writer, reader, and character.

[Alex Bridges]

Kind of a big chapter coming up narrative wise., so I'm taking my time with it. Know how I want it to start, not sure how I want it to end.

[diaperboymi]

Can't wait!!!!!   I know it will Fantastic ?

[Jayme]

Alex, your stories are quite enjoyable to read. Thank you for continuing to post them here for us to also enjoy.

[Bel George]

You're making us curious, again.

[Alex Bridges]

Story interruptus: Patreon has taken issue with my content and may be closing it down, forcing me to redirect my attention to how to keep content out there. I won't call myself a persecuted ABDL, but I'll say ABDLs are targeted by vanillas who don't understand and corporations in whose financial interest it is to not understand.

[diaperboymi]

That totally bites!!!!!!!!   My fingers are crossed for you!!!!!!!

[Alex Bridges]

This is not the end.

Scene #98

     

         Mary stopped mid-step and looked up at me, obviously surprised. I could see the blush rising in her cheeks (so I know she has at least some sense of shame). It’d been a long while since I hit the red light button. We had a moment when we just looked at each other, that kind of awkwardness the well-read call chagrined.

         “What do you need from me right now,” Mary asked after a beat. I started walking down the stairs.

         “Just listen to me,” I said when I got to her. I kept going and she put her arm around my shoulder. I took us into the living room and flopped down on the couch. Mary put her arm back on my shoulder, and part of me wanted to shrug it off, which is like, woah, me not wanting Mary touching me. That’s a rarity.

         “You’re not listening to me again,” I told her. “I don’t wanna nap.”

         Mary looked embarrassed. “I just ... thought you’d feel better if you put your head down for twenty minutes.”

         “I know when I need put my head down. I don’t wanna nap, and you ... you can’t just trot out the domme stuff for everything. I didn’t want a nap, and you made it a thing, and you’ve been doing that a lot lately.”

         Mary took her arm off my shoulder. “I’m sorry. I ...”

         I cut her off with, “And we talked about that just the other day, and you said you’d stop.”

         Mary was looking at the little square of carpet between her feet. Know who else does that when she’s being lectured? This girl. I thought of a whole litany of things to say to her, starting with how much friggin’ credit I deserve for going along with the diaper thing, which is clearly so much more Mary’s thing than mine. Yes, I like the humiliation part, but she was the one pushing it from the get-go. More than half my panties are missing. I don’t even know where she put them. And did I mention I’ve been peeing on myself? It’s not like it’s a hard limit or even a soft limit, but it also wasn’t my idea, and it’s not something I’m exactly looking forward to when she decide to make me wear a diaper.

         But I’m used to it, and I enjoy how submissive it makes me feel to do those things. It brought a new layer of kink into our lives that we didn’t even know we were missing out on. In truth, if I did like those things and wanted them all on my own, they wouldn’t be nearly so fun because then it wouldn’t be me submitting and it wouldn’t be embarrassing. It needs to be something she makes me do, or it just isn’t all the exciting for me.

         And I know everything Mary does for me. She is my rock. She is the water to my life. But I do a lot for her, too. Besides taking care of our home, it’s not easy being a lifestyle submissive. It’s obvious all the work that dommes do, but subs do a lot of work, too. It’s my butt that’s sporting a bruise multiple times a month. I like it, really I do. When I said I wanted to be lifestyle, what that meant is giving up most, but not all, of the say in when and why. I am one well spanked submissive. And I didn’t even want to get into all the peanut butter I’ve missed out on (mostly) following her rules.

         But I didn’t want to rant, and I didn’t want to get all angry. I was angry, but when I red lighted, that went away. So instead, I asked, “What’s wrong?”

         “Wrong,” she asked like it just occurred to her something might be off with her lately.

         “Yeah, like is there something up with you that you’ve just been … kinda pushing whatever you want kink wise … and not really reading my signals?”

         “I think I ... I just got carried away.”

         “Carried away again. You said that two weeks ago. What’s going on?” Everybody gets carried away sometimes in lifestyle relationships. Sometimes the horny takes hold for a while, and it’s easy to lose perspective. Heaven knows I’ve found myself randier than usual sometimes when spring arrives, and we do have that hot vaxx summer thing going on (if only we weren’t monogamous). But this just didn’t feel like that. When Mary is the victim of a tidal wave of thirst, it usually means I get spanked more, mostly for fun, and end up on the dinner menu more often (I’m a tasty little morsel, just FYI).

         Mary sighed and looked at the carpet some more before looking back up at me. “I’m sorry. Have I been that bad?”

         Woah. Role reversal. “Not bad, just making some not great choices, and it seems like you don’t even notice it. Do you ... Am I not satisfying your needs? Are you bored with our lifestyle?”

         “No! O, Daffy, no. You satisfy all my needs, and I’m not bored. Every day with you is a new adventure,” she said with a forced chuckle.  “I guess I just ... I’ve been a little single minded is all. Like you’ve been sometimes with the pandemic and quarantine. Even though more things are open, we’re still not doing much until we’re fully vaccinated, and I’m feeling ... restless. And it just ... Every day is too much the same. Feels like all I do is work, have dinner, go to bed, and do it again.”

         “We spend time together,” I interjected.

         “I know we do.”

         “So you are bored.”

         “Not with you. Just with ... work, and having no balance between work and everything else. I’m sitting at my computer ten hours a day and thinking mostly about you and things we can do to just ... do something different ... I guess I’m spending too much time fantasizing and not doing such a good job of looping you into it. I’m not bored with you, Daffy. I’m just so excited to do stuff with you ... and take care of you ... I’m just forgetting to ... ask. l

         “You don’t have to ask. I don’t want to do scenes. I like being lifestyle.”

         “I know. Not ask, but ... reading your signals, like you said. I’m sorry.”

         “I know. I forgive you ... I wish you’d tell me more about how you’re feeling. I tell you.” And I kinda tell her everything. Very few secrets do I possess that aren’t related to me breaking rules or hiding candy. I’m here for her, too. She takes care of me, but I take care of her. Set aside all the kink stuff. That’s what it means to be married. Everything that happens to me happens to her, and everything that happens to her happens to me, too. That’s what it means to love someone.

         “I know,” she said. “It’s just not always easy. I don’t want you worrying about my work.”

         “It’s not about your work. It’s about you. And I’m gonna worry more if I think you’re not telling me how you feel ...” And trigger my self doubt. “... And maybe I haven’t been doing so good reading your signals, if you’re that stressed or ... whatever. Pandemic fatigued, and I’m not noticing it.”

         “Maybe I haven’t been giving you enough time to notice it. My being so intense lately,  being a little pushy with the playtime ... Doesn’t leave you much time to notice.”

         “You’re not pushy. Just ... insistent.” That’s different, right? In a way that’s the same but without the negative connotations? “No, assertive.” Which is how dommes are supposed to be, but they have to be reading signals in a lifestyle relationship,  because that’s how consent works in a lifestyle relationship. It’s implied. We’re not not negotiating scenes; we’re just being us.

         “It’s not your fault,” Mary told me. She pinched the bring of her nose and rubbed at her eyes.

         “You’re the one who needs a nap,” I said.

         “I know. I’ll do better. I promise I will.” She didn’t say anything for some long seconds and then tentatively added, “We have had this discussion, or almost had it a few times, haven’t we? Over the last year, year and a half?”

         “I guess.”

         “It’s the ageplay, isn’t it? That’s what you said once, that this wasn’t so hard when it was just discipline. Maybe that’s the problem. And I guess I pushed that, too.” She sounded disappointed in herself. On the outside, most of the time, Mary is all confidence, like she’s in control and knows what she’s doing, and a lot of dommes are, but a lot of times that’s just a show. When the mask slips, Mary, like all dommes, is as vulnerable and prone to dejection as folks like little ol’ me.

         “I don’t think either of us pushed it,” I said. “I was thinking about that, when it started. It was more than a year and a half ago. Remember the play party where you wouldn’t paddle me and I had a mini breakdown?” Yes, I’m choosing to characterize that as mini. “I think that’s when it started. It just grew.”

         “But it grew faster since the pull-ups, which were also my idea. And you didn’t want to.”

         “I don’t want to do lots of stuff, and that’s what makes doing it fun ... most of the time ... It’s not easy being like us. It’s hard being lifestyle.” Like, she’s supposed to manage, without my telling her directly, what are things I don’t like that are fun for me when she makes me do them and which ones are not. That’s why our relationship is … intense, and intimate, like Nana once said. We had to be to get to where we are because most lifestyle relationships break down fast, and we have to keep being so in sync with each other to keep it going. It gets tiring, but we love it and we love each other, and we love ourselves when we’re living the lifestyle we always wanted.

         “When we talked the other times, when we slowed down, did you want to red light anything but didn’t? Did I pressure you,” she asked.

         “No. Well, you maybe a little, sometimes. It’s just ... red lights throw everything off, so sometimes I give in. It takes a while to find our groove again. I don’t like red lighting.”

         “So what do you want to change? We can undo anything. We can go back to the way things were before the pull-ups.”

         “And diapers,” I added because it’s just a reflex for me to complain about that now.

         “Yeah,” Mary said, sounding dejected again, I think more because she felt bad about pressuring me into them than that I might say no to them.

         “I’m not a little girl,” I said for the bazillionth time. “But ... I like being your little girl ... But that doesn’t make me a little girl ... Just ... It makes me yours is all.” And that all is everything to me.

         “And you can be that without the diaper stuff. I mean, you were before.”

         “I don’t think of the diaper stuff as just little girl stuff. It’s ... Having a humiliation fetish sucks sometime,” I sighed and leaned against her.

         “So you don’t want to get rid of that?”

         “I hate-like it, okay? You finally dragged it out of me. Except I don’t like them, which is why I do.” I sighed again and again said, “Having a humiliation fetish seriously sucks sometimes.”

         “So,” Mary asked, dragging out the syllable, “does anything change then?”

         “Just you trying to read my signals better. Just because I’m your little girl doesn’t mean I’m not my own adult,” I said, feeling suddenly and unpleasantly irritable again. “Sometimes ... It’d be nice to ... for you to show more often that you see me as the woman you married. I’m lots of things besides cute and subby.”

         “I never forget, Daffy. Though maybe with you not working and being home with me all the time, it’s just been too easy to stay in domme mode for me. I guess that can mask all the ways I feel about you, and I do feel them all, just as much as ever.” She snuck a kiss in on my temple, but I was still leaning on her.

         This next part was harder, because Mary wouldn’t have done it if she didn’t want to. Maybe once, but she’d done it at least twice, and really in some ways more than twice. “There is something,” I nervously said.

         “What?”

         “I didn’t red light because of the nap ... though that did tick me off. It was because you called yourself momma.”

         “O,” was all she said.

         That’s when I had an epiphany. She didn’t even notice herself doing it. Just like she wasn’t reading my signals, she wasn’t paying full attention to her own. It just came out naturally for her, and it did the other times, too. “You didn’t realize you did that, did you?”

         “I ... No. I’m sorry,” she said in a much quieter voice than she almost ever uses. “I got caught up.”

         “Do you remember me telling you I don’t like that?”

         “Yes,” she practically squeaked. It’s this what it’s like talking to me? ‘Cause it’s work.

         “That’s a limit.”

         “I know ... I’m...”

         She trailed off and didn’t say anything for long enough for me to prompt her, “You can say it.”

         “I don’t want to pressure you on it, but can you tell me why it’s a limit? … I just want to understand,” she added quickly.

         I never fully unpacked that myself. “Because ... if you’re my mommy, you’re not my wife.”

         “I’m always your wife.”

         “But if you’re a mommy, that makes me a little, and I’m not a little. I’m just ... yours.”

         “Lisa is Jane’s wife and her mommy.”

         “But Jane is a little. And not just with Lisa. She’s a little with lots of people, even me.”

         “If you can be my little girl and not a little, I could be your mommy and not a mommy.          And you’ve already said I’m a big, which I think is fair.”

         “You said no pressure,” I reminded her as I sat up.

         “I’m ... I don’t mean to.”

         “Can you tell me why it’s ... Why do you like calling yourself that?”

         “I’m not sure.”

         “Try.” Oops, that came out bitchy.

         “I guess I just ... You don’t call me miss or ma’am or mistress, and I don’t want you to. I just ... it makes me feel special, if there’s something you call me that no one else does and that sort of … underlines who we are to each other. A pet name, but also something … that makes me feel more dominant … and protective when we’re doing stuff.”

         “But if you’re my mommy ... People don’t call mommy that just sometimes. If we’re lifestyle ... You’d be mommy all the time ... And I married Mary ... And Mary married me.” Don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry, I said in my head about both of us.

         “Daffy,” she said all choked up (dammit), “I never ... never forget I married Daphne Ann.”

         And that’s when the wheels fell off. Like I’ve been saying, these kinds of things happen in lifestyle relationships. It’s no one’s fault (most of the time). And this is why I don’t like red lights except when absolutely necessary. It’s why I didn’t red light the first time she crossed that limit or the other times. Because now Mary was crying. (And is this what it’s like trying to talk to me?)

         “I know you,” she said. “It’s ... I don’t ... This is my fault.”

         “It’s not anyone’s fault.”

         “If I did a better job showing you I see all the other parts of you...”

         “It’s not about that.” Or it is about that. Or that’s part of it. Fuck our complicated lives. “I mean, I do ... I do need you to show it more, but even if you did, it’s still ... Wouldn’t you being my mommy change everything? Just ... wouldn’t it?”

         She was trying to dry her eyes. I reached for the Kleenex on the table and handed her one. “How,” she asked.

         “I don’t know. I just ... When you label something, it becomes that thing. I don’t know how it might be different, but I like this. I like the way things are. I just don’t want that to change.” Except in the ways we just talked about it changing. Fucking hell is this exhausting.

         “I don’t see how, Daffy. Maybe you’re right, and not knowing how could ... yeah, I can get how that’s scary ... But it doesn’t matter. I’m not going to call myself that ever again. It’s your limit, and I’ll respect that.”

         That felt like a hollow victory. Not even a victory. Just a fact, and an anticlimactic one. “Okay,” I said, and we sat there for maybe half a minute, not sure what to say next. “I love you,” I said first. “You’re my Mary.”

         She didn’t say anything, which made me have a mini panic attack in the split second before I turned and looked at her after avoiding eye contact for the last several minutes. She had on her a face of hers I hadn’t catalogued yet, like a half-of-me-wants-to-cry-and-half-of-me-wants-to-smile face. “That’s it,” she said. “That’s the thing you call me that no one else does.”

         “What?”

         “‘My mary.’ I’m your Mary. Not anyone else’s.”

         “It’s not a title like mommy, though.”

         “It sort of is, and I ... It’s not the title that’s important. Just something that ... reminds me what I mean to you … and what I owe to you.”

         “And being my Mary is that?”

         “Isn’t it? Being yours is my most important job, just like being my little Daffy is yours. And everything about you that makes you Daffy.”

         “And the big in you and everything else ... Are you gonna start referring to yourself in the third person when I’m in trouble now?”

         “Like how?”

         “Like ‘Little girl, what did Mary just say?’”

         “... Time will tell.”

         “That’s a yes.”

         “Daffy? I love you too. Do you forgive me?”

         “Of course. Thanks for ... making it easy to talk about. Or easier.” Was not easy. Marginally easier.

         “Thanks for being brave enough to tell me. I know it’s not easy.”

         “Are we okay?”

         “Yeah.”

         “Then gimme a hug.” Oof, did i get squeezed, and so did she. “What do you want to do now?”

         “Um, promise you won’t get frustrated? Now I wanna take a nap.”

         She chuckled and ran her hand down my side. “Me too.”

         “I call big spoon.”

         “No way. You’re too little.”

         “Marrry.”

         “Fine, just this once. And when we get up, I’m ordering you every tulip we can afford.”

         “You don’t have to.”

         “I want to.”

         I knew it would take some more time to get totally back to normal, or really that we wouldn’t get back to normal. We’d have a slightly different normal, a better one. Plus I got to be the big spoon.

         It’s a work in progress: ourselves, a marriage, a lifestyle relationship. She committed, or recommitted to a lot of things, and sticking to them is the hard part. But we got through the conversation, which is the maybe the hardest part, with no hurt feelings, and I said my piece and she said hers. I think she’s still disappointed about the mommy thing, but I know she’ll respect my boundary, just like I know she’s gonna start lecturing me in the third person sometimes, which is okay. I kinda like that, the way it could make me feel smoler. Hopefully I don’t have to red light again for a long time, and hopefully we get back into our usual groove quicker than we have in the past with red lights.

         Anyhoo, new adventure tomorrow.

[WBDaddy]

I can feel, palpably, the amount of energy you've spent on these last couple chapters.  Really deep stuff here man.  Touching on a lot of the delicate aspects of lifestyle D/s.