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

[Alex Bridges]

8 hours ago, kerry said:

Is this supposed to be Daphne a bit tipsy or does it need proofreading?

 

Fixed. Want a job as a proofreader? Gotta be on call 24/7 and you only get paid in gratitude though ?

[kerry]

4 hours ago, Alex Bridges said:

Fixed. Want a job as a proofreader? Gotta be on call 24/7 and you only get paid in gratitude though ?

Well, the 24/7 thing might be a bit hard...

?

[Alex Bridges]

Working on Christmas chapters. New one will be up this evening. In the meantime, I keep finding pictures of Mary and Daphne on Twitter ?

 

[Alex Bridges]

Scene #144

 

         “I can’t believe you did that,” I told my wife because I couldn’t believe she’d do that. I mean, honestly, get some manners, Mary!

“You can, too, believe I did that,” was her astute if not very clever response because, well, yes, I can believe she’d smack me on the butt in the airport. More than once (maybe five times?) she’s taken me to single-person restroom in airports to adjust my attitude with way more than a playful smack. So I get tired when I travel and cranky when I get tired. If spanking grumpy passengers was a thing, Mary could literally set up a kiosk outside the terminal even when air travers aren’t freaking the heck out like they’ve been doing.

But I didn’t actually do anything to earn that smack. I’d been nothing but cheerful. She just wanted to smack my butt, and sure, no one saw, probably, but, well, I gotta complain a little. A little protest is just de rigueur for paragons of propriety such as me. And it was kinda a loud smack, or it would’ve been if we weren’t in an airport with all that background noise. And why was it kinda loud? Why did it make a distinct pop sound?

“C’mon,” Mary said. “Let’s get you changed.”

“How do you even know I need changed?”

Hey Daphne, a voice in my head said as soon the words were out of my mouth, ever think of just shutting up?

And yes, I do … Just after I’ve said something I should’ve kept to myself. Really.

Mary gave me one of those predatory looks of hers, like I was a little woodland fur bearer who triggered and she was a she-wolf whose chase instinct I’d triggered. “I could check you right here,” she said like she was being helpful which she wasn’t. “Or I could not, and we can risk meeting your parents at baggage claim with you in soggy huggies.”

“Mary!” I hissed. “We’re in public.”

“Can you hear anyone? I can’t. It’s all one big din.” I chose not to respond to that except with some mild pouting. “Or I can just assume you need a change after a four-hour flight, but even if you’re dry, wouldn’t you rather greet your parents wearing something else?”

“Yes,” I said with just a little more pout in my tone, and I deserve to be a little pouty and did I mention I was in a great mood? Because I was. Really. “I hate it when you’re logical sometimes.”

“I’m not smarter than you, Daffy. I just think of these things because it’s my job to take care of you. You don’t have to think very far ahead ahead because that’s what I’m here for.”

“Yeah…” That is pretty much how it works. “I keep you around for other stuff too.”

“Like what,” she asked me as we scanned the terminal for a single-person restroom.

“Emotional intimacy and feeling like you make me whole and just because I like you and stuff.”

“Here we are,” Mary announced as she opened the restroom door for me. I choose to not care if people see us going in together. But sometimes the things we choose don’t work out, so I care a little. My imagination wanders to what their imagination is imagining and that’s just a whole spiral right there, so just minimizing that line of thought as best I can.

What happened next, for no particular reason, reminded me of other times Mary has locked a door behind us and moved like lightning to get my pants off me. No particular reason. Really.

“You’re barely wet.”

“I’ve been holding it.”

“Why?”

“You mean other than the obvious?”

“Do you wanna go in your diaper or the potty?”

I gave Mary my unimpressed face. That’s seemed the safest thing to do rather than saying what I wanted to say (which would’ve gone ‘what the @:;$:@ kinda @-&$;,?:&; question is that!?!). Except my unimpressed face must not have gotten that message across because Mary just looked back at me. I gave in. “Toilet.”

“Potty,” she enunciated like I was still learning the word which is just … ugh! She can be so ugh sometimes, and I only like it all but a few of the times.

“Whatever.” And then once again, nothing happened. “Will you excuse me, please?” I asked it very politely. There goes Daphne, people say, always so polite when asking to use the toilet in private. Or actually no one says that, and that’s a good thing. I don’t want people knowing enough about me to think that’s a thing I hafta ask.

“Don’t be silly,” Mary responded. I don’t think I said anything silly, and I’m an expert on silly. That’s a thing people do say about me. Really.

“Marrry!”

“Don’t get all whiny. Santa still has time to put you on the naughty list. Keep your hands at your side.”

Never marry a ninja sorceress. One moment you’re standing there glaring at her and the next your diaper (hers! DAMMIT! HERS!) is on the floor and she’s pivoting you around and maneuvering your right down onto the toilet seat before you can even say, “Hey! Whoa!”

“Alright. Go potty.”

“Kernuhmoppler frijilian hramit, Mary!” Hmmph!

“No sweetheear. A potty,” Mary condescended like a professional condescender. “Use your words: potty. Go potty.”

“Turn around at least?” Didn’t mean for that to be a questions, but that’s how it came out.

“Don’t be shy. Show me what a big girl you are and tinkle in the potty.”

“Marrry,” I whined and I’m not ashamed to admit it. I had every right to whine. “I really hafta go.”

“Are you not ready for the potty? Do you want your diapie back on? Because it’s okay to not be ready. We’ll just keep you in diapers until we fly back home.”

“Urgh!”

“Yeah! Grrr! You show that potty who’s boss!”

“O my god. Just O. My. God.” So much blood rushing to my face with the furious blushing. I put my head in my hands cuz I guess that was all the privacy I was gonna get. I don’t think I could’ve gone with someone looking at me without the last two years of practice I had going in my pants (DAMMIT!) that Mary forced on me. Me! A queen! An empress, actually, but I don’t like to brag. I’m very humble. Really.

But I did it. And not that it was on purpose, but if she was going to watch me do it, I was gonna do that thing that dogs do and just glare right back at her: you watch me, I’ll just watching you watching me right back. But sigh … that just made it more awkward.

“All done,” Mary asked because she has ears.

“I’m this close to being done talking to you for five whole minutes,” I warned her.

“Open your legs.” I don’t know why she bothers telling me to do stuff when she’s just gonna do it herself anyway. Not that she’s strong enough to open my legs without my help … which I gave her … because reasons.

“Marrrry,” I whined while complying. Which is a thing you can do without just giving in. Somehow. Really.

“If I can wipe your fanny when you’re lying on the changing mat, surely I can wipe you when you’re on the potty,” she said with that super annoying logic of hers again. “And like you’re suffering,” she scoffed because she found some evidence, that I never saw which is a basic right of the accused in this country to her evidence was inadmissible (inadmissible!), that I perhaps didn’t a thousand percent dislike what she was made me do. But I did! Really! … And stuff.

“Up you go,” she bade me. I stood and she, like a crazy person who I don’t even know, held her arm up, palm facing me. “High five!”

“Give me the strength,” I muttered in prayer because dealing with this one requires like, all the strength. There should a be a Chicken Soup for Mary’s Submissives book for us, by which I mean me cuz I’m the only one, to read when we need to shore up our emotional fortitude.

“High five! You did so good and I’m so proud of you!” Something told me she would keep us in the airport restroom forever or until I gave her a high five, whichever came first.

So I gave her one, not that it solved anything because no more than a split second after I did, she squatted down in front of me and said, “Lift up.”

“Hey,” I said because I’m verbally nimble like that, “what are you …”

“I can’t get you into a pull-up with your pants around your ankles, Daffy,” she responded like I – not her, me! – am the crazy one.

“You brought one of those too?”

“Yeah. Hand me the diaper bag.”

Excuse me, the what? “Fribberty, Mary!” I said as I handed her her purse. Said it because reasons I wouldn’t expect the likes of you to understand, person reading my diary (and Mary, I know it’s you!).

“We’re late,” I reminded her. Like, our ride was waiting in baggage claim.

“All the more reason for you to cooperate. Put your hands on my shoulders. Be very careful; we haven’t done this with your shoes still on before.”

“So if I accidentally tear the sides, I can wear my panties?” As in the panties she took away from me at the airport on the way here, which came totally by surprise. It was exactly this whole process in reverse.

“Of course not, silly. If you’re gonna ruin your pull-up, how could I trust you with undies? We’d wrap that freshly spanked butt of yours in another diaper.” Spanked, what? Who, me? I changed the subject.

“How many did you put in your purse?”

“Enough,” she said in a way that came out as a tad bit threatening. “Just be glad I didn’t make you wear one through security.”

“O gee thanks,” I said while she pulled that thing up snug into my … me. She did the same for my pants next, albeit it less snug.

“Wash your hands while I tidy up,” she bade me again. She’s always bidding me do this and bidding me do that because I’m very biddable and stuff. When I was done, she washed her hands, and back we ventured into the airport having spent only ten minutes doing what should’ve taken three. Hmmph.

“Ready to go see your mom and dad,” Mary asked me like nothing abnormal had just happened. I know from abnormal. There goes Daphne, people say, if anyone knows from abnormal, it’s her. People say that. Really. And it’s a complimentary when they do.

“I need a minute.”

“Do you have to go again already,” she joked because she didn’t see my face, because if she had seen my face in the moment before I turned to her and buried my face in that soft place where her arm meets her body, she would’ve known I needed a minute to calm down.

“Hey,” she said softly in my ear when she realized I wasn’t kidding, “you okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Was that too intense?”

I shook my head. “… off guard.”

“Are the lights changing?”

“Uh-uh. Just …” I sighed while she stroked my hair in a sea of people breaking right and left to go around us.

“You were a very good girl.”

Aww! Did you hear what she called me? Maybe we could find the person who does the announcements on the PA and have them let the whole terminal know.

“I’m okay. Sorry,” I said as I let her go.

“Don’t be sorry.” She bent down a little to look me in the eye and brushed away a tear that wasn’t there cuz I wasn’t crying. I just needed a minute like I said, but Mary, see, she dotes on me and stuff. Probably because she likes me. At least I think she likes me. Pretty sure. Anyhoo…

“Ready to go see your parents?”

“Yeah. And thank you.”

“For what?”

“For keeping me on my toes and being nice to me and stuff.”

“I like being nice to you … Do you think maybe you got a little overwhelmed for a moment because you’re not feeling old enough to use the potty and want to stay in your pampers? After all, you are just a little girl.”

“You’re this close to sleeping on the couch. I mean, I’d sleep on the couch with you, but our backs would hurt in the morning, and it would remind you to be nice to me.”

“Kinda like how a hurt butt reminds you to behave?”

“Exactly.”

“You going to jump into your dad’s arms when you see him?”

“Probably.”

“You gonna cry,” Mary asked me.

“Uh-huh.”

“You’re gonna make me jealous someone else is drying your tears for you.”

“I’ll cry for you later if you want.” I kinda do that easily these days, and Mary knows the spots to poke (and smack) to make it happen.

“Crybaby.”

“Now you’re just being mean on purpose.”

“Glad you brought me with you?”

“Always.”

[Sarah Penguin]

No not the potty monster. Daffy is going to get nommed.

[Alex Bridges]

Scene #145

 

Christmas Eve, the night of the extended family Christmas party. The halls are bedecked. The mood is jolly. Uncle Joseph is lording over the hot toddy pot lest anyone other than himself venture to suggest they know how to make them. My mom won’t stop hosting and actually eat some of the food she cooked. Dad is holding court by the fireplace. And it’s Wisconsin, so it’s cold enough to freeze beer and two cousins came straight from ice fishing and smell like a tackle box. Good times.

Meanwhile, I was sitting with Aunt Bethany cuz she’s sweet and most of what she says is funny cuz she’s old enough to have come to the Americas with Erik the Red and it’s always funny when a little old lady says the things she says. I came out to her first and her exact words as she patted my knee were, “O honey, during the war you couldn’t find a man between 17 and 25 worth ruining a pair of nylons over.” So yep, always liked her.

“Hey Daffy,” this Christmas sweater wearing stunner said to me. “Hi Bethany. Can I borrow Daphne for a minute?” And with Bethany’s by your leave, borrow me she did.

“What’s up?”

“Upstairs,” she said, and we walked upstairs to my childhood bedroom.

“Is this about all the peanut butter Christmas trees I’ve eaten?”

“Why? How many did you eat?”

“Um, just one. Really.”

“Look at me,” she said and turned my face to hers and looked in my eyes. “Your eyes are dancing.”

“They do that when I’m happy.”

“And when you’re tripping on sugar and alcohol.”

“Which is made out of sugar. True story.”

“C’mon,” she said with this really pretty Christmas smile and tugged me into my bedroom, also where we were staying.

“What’s up,” I asked again as she closed the door behind us.

“I forgot how many of you there are. I needed a break,” she said as she sat down on my bed and leaned all the way back against the wall before patting her thigh. Not that I come a-running whenever she does that, but I do dive across her lap like a golden retriever who thinks she’s a lap dog. And speaking of people worth ruining a pair of stockings over, have I ever told you about my friend Mary?

“Grandma and Grandpa were fruitful and multiplied.” I lost count of the total, but I have twenty-seven first cousins on just that side of my family, and a bunch of them are married and have kids of their own. More than fifty people down in attendance at our party. We rent extra chairs.

“Here,” she said and handed me a pillow to rest my head on.

“You’re incorrigible,” I reminded her as she folded my dress up across my back to expose my butt. I think she likes it or something?

“I’m insatiable. You’re incorrigible,” was her reply as she squeezed my butt.

“Eeep!” I meeped! “It’s not a stress ball.”

“Then how come we’ve used it as a stress ball before? For both of us.”

“Why? Are you not having a good time?” Cuz we’re in my neck of the woods, and I feel responsible for her having fun when she’s here.

“I am. It’s just a little loud.” Understatement.

“And it looked like you could use a break,” she said and gave me a playful squeeze. She’s like a kid with a Bop It toy when I’m sprawled across her lap like that, squeezing, whacking, twisting, and poking my buttons.

“What makes you say that?”

“You took your shoes off. You always take your shoes off at parties when you need a break.”

“What else do you know about me?”

“All sorts of things.”

“Do you happen to know where my shoes are? Asking for my friend.”

“I put them under the corner of the couch.”

“Aww! That was sweet of you. You like taking care of me. Don’t deny it this time cuz I know you do.” I know she does. I have documentation and everything.

“Gimme a footsie.” I bent my knee to give her what she asked. It is Christmas, and how could I say no at Christmas. “Your toes aren’t cold. That’s a rarity.”

“It’s a million degrees down there. The windows by the fireplace fogged up.”

“I thought that was frost.”

“Condensation. Did I tell you you look pretty tonight?”

“Several times. You’re looking like a scrumptious little morsel yourself. It’s the green velvet and these white cute tights. It’s a miracle you haven’t fallen on your bottom with no shoes on.” Tights are slick, for those who’ve never worn them.

“I’m sprightly and nimble.”

“Ha! Since when?”

“Put your hand back where it was.”

“Is there a please in there somewhere?”

“No.”

“This spot?”

“Yeah. Now do that thing thing where you tickle the back of my thighs.”

“O, that’s what you like.”

“Mmmm.”

“I can literally feel you turning into a puddle across my lap,” which is a coincidence, because I could also feel myself turning into a puddle across her lap. Something about those fingertips of her just running up and down the backs of my thighs from my sit spots to my knees, and felt through the slick surface of a pair of Christmas tights? Fuhgeddaboutit.

She discovered this about me quite by accident. The second time was an experiment, and the time after that was sinfully on purpose.

“This isn’t helping us get ready for part two of the party,” Mary said through a yawn.

“It doesn’t even feel late with the time change,” I yawned back. “See what you started.”

“It’s not late even without the time change. I saw your cousin getting her little one into a fresh diaper and pajamas so she can go straight to bed when she gets home. We could that for you.”

“Har har. Her little one is eight months old.”

“I’m just teasing.”

“You’re awake and talking to me. Of course you’re teasing.” Which earned me a smack bottom which is why I said it.

“You’re talking, which must mean you’re talking back,” she said with this how-very-delightfully-naughty-of-you tone she uses with me sometimes (several times a week at minimum).

“Do you wish we’d gotten a hotel,” I asked.

“No. I like the challenge of us both fitting in this bed. I’ll just hafta hold you even closer.”

“You did a good job last night.”

“I was afraid I’d knock you on the floor. It’s a good thing your small.”

“Excuse me, but the word is petite.”

“Is that why you fit into the bedwetting pullups for children?”

“Santa has plenty of time to put you on the naughty list, Mary.” And I only said that because I’m looking out for her. I’d hate for her to get coal on Christmas morning. I’d own half of it, and what fun would that be?

“If I told Santa what I really wanted for Christmas, he’d wash my mouth out with soap.”

“And here I’ve been thinking all these years that there’s no one you’ll submit to.”

“Well, I mean he could try. I’d paddle his but until it could guide his sleigh.” Which reminds me of this one Christmas when Mary did something exactly like that to … a friend of mine. Um, really. A friend. And there was a leather harness and an antler headband … for my friend.

“Are you sorry we didn’t bring all our presents with us,” I asked.

“No. It gives us something to look forward to when we get home: more presents, and some of them are things you wouldn’t wanna open in front your parents.”

“We should probably get up and go be social. I only see some of these people every few years.”

“Did I mention you’re being a very good girl tonight?”

Squeee! “You have now! What I do?”

“You haven’t gotten in an argument with anyone.”

“Did you see the part where I didn’t push Miriam into the fire? Cuz I wanted to.”

“I think we all want to, Daffy,” she said with a reassuring pat to my thigh that told me it was time to sit up. The two of us smoothed my dress out and did the same for her.

“Here,” she said and handed me my slippers. “I don’t want to take a trip the emergency room after you slide across the floor and smack your head on something.”

“Always looking out for me.”

“And I still really want to put you in a diaper right now.”

“Yeah, you’ve said that only four times since lunch.” I think maybe passing up the chance to do that to me around my entire family on mom’s side is literally causing Mary physical stress. Poor thing. Poor, sexually frustrated thing. So give her credit for resisting temptation because I don’t think either of us ever do that.

“I’ll have my way with you,” she told me.

“I know.”

“When you least expect it.”

“Mary, we live together. I always expect it.” Welcome, it actually. “And like you didn’t have enough fun last night when you made me sneak that pull-up into the trash.”

“That was fun,” she smiled, probably thinking about all the shades of red I turned. “Ready?”

We walked back downstairs where Mom was doing this thing where sorta flaps her arms when she gets flustered, though why she was flustered is anyone’s guess. These people know how to have a party without any handholding from her. “There you are,” she said to us. “Where’d you two get to.”

I don’t know what answer Mary was about to give, but I beat her to it with my Very Funny Answers of, “Gay stuff.” Hey, you don’t think Mary has a point about me getting loopy after four (seven, actually, but three don’t count because reasons) peanut butter Christmas trees, do you?

And then both of these women who’ve played formative roles in my life simultaneously said, “Daphne Ann,” but only one of them semi-discreetly slapped me on the butt. So … didn’t expect that, as my furious blushing and saucer-sized eyes probably said to anyone who looked my way. Pretty sure only Mom coulda seen. Pretty sure.

“You two,” Mom clucked and chuckled as she walked toward a dangerously half-empty (seemed half-full to me) bowl of Fritos.

“Marrry,” I hissed.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Hmmph! … You wanna go find some mistletoe?”

“Tell me why first. Did getting that little play spank in front of your mommy push a button?”

“… Maybe. Don’t make a habit of it.”

“Telling me what to do, little girl?”

“You didn’t let me finish.”

“Okay, finish.”

“Don’t make a habit of it, please.”

“Such good manners from my little cutie. I wish you’d at least let me change you into your jammies for the rest of the party.”

“Keep wishing.”

“Santa isn’t the only one who keeps a list,” she said and tapped her temple. “Taking note of all the sass I’m going to pay you back for as soon as we have some alone time.”

So I got that going for me. Really.

[Alex Bridges]

Merry Christmas from Mary and Daphne and me!

[Sarah Penguin]

Merry Christmas!

[Alex Bridges]

Scene #146

 

Every year, Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday until it’s over, and then Christmas takes the top spot. Since we usually don’t travel for Christmas, our tradition is Christmas Eve at Mary’s brother’s house, Christmas morning just the two of us (and church, unless we went on Christmas Eve), and Christmas dinner at her parents’ house.

How to recreate some of our Christmas morning tradition since we did travel this year? For starters, we left most of our presents for each other at home. We’ll open them on New Year’s Day. Second, we woke up early on Christmas morning. My dad, sweetheart though he is, has never been a morning person, and he decreed some twenty-odd years ago that there will be no present opening before nine. Interminable as a kid, though at least he waited until we were a little older before implementing that rule. And apparently, he still lives by that rule. To get some alone time, we stupidly decided to get up at an hour that, when factoring in the time change, was neither definitively night nor morning.

“Merry Christmas,” my wife said to me ever so sweetly while stroking my cheek. That was a lovely way to wake up, very considerate when one accounts for the size of the bed and that all she’d have to do to wake me is sit up (and by doing so knock my butt to the floor).

“Snoofering early sleep gurnymartin and stuff,” is how I greeted the love of my life on Christmas morning, according to said love. I’ll take her word for it cuz I don’t remember.

“I usually have to work make you spout gibberish. Daffodil,” she sang my name to me. “Daffodil. Wake up, sleepy head.” Which is a weird expression – if a person is sleepy, they should get more sleep, not be told to wake up. How cruel this world is even on Christmas.

“What time is it,” I managed to ask.

“Very early on Christmas morning.”

“Dad was right about the rule.” All those years I doubted him. The wisdom of our elders, I guess … or something.

“Roll over for me.”

“We should buy them a queen-sized bed as a housewarming present when they move,” I grumped as I tried to do a barrel roll. Ooo, Mary’s Christmas morning smile. “Hi.”

“Hi back. You look pretty as a picture this morning.”

“That’s a lie. Here in Wisconsin, we call those lies.” I mean, I could feel my hair sticking up. Maybe should’ve washed the product out of it before I got in bed, but it was late. Late to bed plus super early to rise equals all the ingredients to put me on track for one of those moods my Mary insists needs adjusting. And no, Christmas is not a cheat day with zero consequences. If anything, the smart mouth I married told me once, with the threat of Santa’s closing out the year on naughty list being an entire twelve months away, she needs to be even more strict to keep me on the straight and narrow (though true story: she has never kept me straight).

“You know what I think we should do,” she asked me cuz she values my opinion.

“Go back to sleep and forget about our valiant but misguided attempt to have predawn alone time?”

“I think we should take a shower.” And see, the thing about that sentence is it has a plural subject and a singular object: we … a shower.

“That’s the smartest thing you’ve said since calling me pretty thirty seconds ago.”

“I’m going to have a talk with your mom to find out if not enough sleep has always made you so sarcastic or if it started with puberty.”

“The average kid doesn’t understand sarcasm until age thirteen, but I think I started in kindergarten.” I got out of bed first and discovered, “O crap it’s freezing!” Dad was so proud of his smart thermostat, he showed it to us … for ten forever minutes. And turns out it’s smart enough to know that no one in the house is out from under their covers at that unholy hour. I dashed for my robe hanging on the back of the door, and when I turned around to toss Mary hers, there she was: sitting up in bed, leaning on one hand, her tank top askew, her hair a mess. Oof, so damn pretty.

“Hey, Mary,” I asked all suddenly awake and coquettish, “let’s use the shower downstairs.”

“Why all the way down there,” she asked as she put her robe on and hugged herself for warmth, a job I would soon be doing for her.

“I was thinking as last minute Christmas gifts for each other, I’d do that thing you like, and you could make that sound I like.”

Mary looked around like she was searching for something. “Did I miss something that made you go from sleepy grump to thirsty temptress?”

“You’re giving off all this Christmas hot girl energy I couldn’t see when you were under the covers.” Not blushing. Just hot all of a sudden. Hey, how’d this robe get on me?

“Aren’t you so sweet when you want sex,” she said like I’m adorable and stuff, which I am but also sexy and cunning and humble and witty and benevolent. Kinda packing a lot of superlatives into a small frame. Really.

“I try my best for you.”

And a little while later when we were clean and well groomed, Mom found us on the couch, steaming mugs of cocoa on the coffee table, the two of us more than ready to open presents … as soon as we woke up again.

Then there was present opening, breakfast, I snuck in a nap while my maidservant Mary (please don’t ever tell her I called her that) helped Mom in the kitchen because they both agreed I looked like I needed it (I need to do a better job not leaving the two of them alone together because reasons), dinner, general merriment, and bed around eleven. I coulda stayed up longer, but Mary who didn’t take a nap and is not the boss of me whispered in my ear how much trouble I’d be in if I (A) woke her up coming to bed or (2) was grumpy in the morning. But if Christmas Day didn’t provide a whole lot to relate, lemme tell you how the day after went.

 

 

(Insert harp music here)

 

“Wake up,” I was told by an awake person. “Time to get out of bed before you sleep the whole day away.” And at least it was a reasonable hour. Didn’t even feel behind with the time change.

Which didn’t stop me from answering that directive with, “Whuh?”

The covers were whisked off me by this person who was a dead ringer for my Mary, and she was very business-like and wearing a University of Wisconsin sweatshirt that I know for a fact Mary doesn’t own because she didn’t go to the University of Wisconsin and neither did I. “Rise and shine! Your parents asked me to look after you for the day, and they’re not going to be happy if I let you sleep the day away.”

“Huh,” I said as I sat up. I had yet to recover my wit and mental agility. You might even say I was friggin disoriented waking up in a post-Christmas fog in aplace that was not my bedroom and with this person who was sorta familiar but also not.

“Daphne,” the doppelgänger said as she snapped her fingers. “It’s time to get out of bed. We have big day and lots to do before your parents get home. If you’re good for me today, I’ll get you a treat, but we hafta get moving.”

“Okay but what’s happening again?”

“Wow. Your mom wasn’t kidding when she said you need a little extra help for a girl your age.” O my god, my babysitter is such a bitch … and what the hell, Mom!

“I do not,” I retorted as this stranger in my bedroom sat down next to me.

“Daphne, it’s been a few years but have to remember. Sara Hansen from next door?”

Okay, so I might have once upon a time told Mary – wherever she went – that growing up, Sara Hansen from next door sometimes watched me while my parents were out. It was during those preteen to early teen years when I was technically old enough to be home alone but maybe not for a whole day and definitely not if they went on a trip and didn’t take us (which was very offensive in itself because I’m a blast to travel with and take up very little room compared to the average traveler). I would say I don’t need a babysitter, and Mom would say she’s not a babysitter, just a friend coming over to keep an eye on things. Except that’s called a housesitter when no one is in the house, a petsitter when there’s a pet to look after, and a babysitter when there’s a kid to look after.

So Sara Hansen was my babysitter, and I may have told Mary she was my first crush. Mom never failed to say something embarrassing to her with me right there in the room. Of course, given my age at the time, she could have said ‘have a good time’ and I would’ve found that absolutely mortifying … anyhoo.

“And where did my parents go,” I inquired, trying to catch up on the latest events.

“Aww, don’t be sad, sweetie. Your mommy and daddy will be home before bedtime. They just needed a day to themselves.”

“Sara was never condescending.” Just, ya know, pointing that out.

“Honey, please don’t refer me to in the third person. It’s very rude.”

Gulp. This Sara was apparently a stickler for decorum and none to shy about calling me out. “So Mom and Dad are gone for the day, and you’re my babysitter?”

“Of course not! I’m just a friend home from college for winter break here to hang out with you today. Babysitters are for babies, and you’re not a baby, are you?”

O gee, ya think this might be a trap? “Um, no?” I think it was a trap.

“Of course not! Being a bedwetter doesn’t make you a baby.”

“But I’m …” DAMMIT! How friggin long has she been planning this!?! Scheming, conniving, very nice person I married.

“It’s okay. It’s been a while since I last sat for you – ope! Hung out with you, and I thought you’d be dry by now like the other kids I ‘hang out’ with, but it’s not a big deal. Let’s see how you did last night. Do you have some dry nights, or are you always wet come morning?”

Okay, so first off, ‘ope’ is our word. Mary didn’t grow up in the Midwest, so she can’t use it unless she’s being ironic. That’s just a basic etiquette thing. Second, “No thanks, I can take care of it myself. I’ll be down in just a minute.” And if you’re wondering why I didn’t reject the premise, it was because my wife at the time, Mary, made me come to bed with her so she could make me wear one of those stupid diapers (and also the aforementioned reasons but also those STUPID diapers)! I know a put-up job when I see one! I know when I’m being hustled … upon reflection several hours after the fact. And yes, it was wet, and yes, she knew it was wet because she yanked the covers down and my pajamas don’t hide much (and she picked them out! Dammit!). So I couldn’t even claim to be dry.

“Sorry, kiddo, just doing my job.”

“But … but …” Where are the excuses when you need them!?! “But Mom doesn’t do that anymore. I’m big enough – Old enough! – to take care of it myself.”

“O, well, your mommy didn’t tell me that. The last time I ‘hung out’ with you …”

“Stop saying it like that!”

“Excuse me, little girl, I don’t know all the rules that may have changed since the last time I babysat you, but I’m positive the rules still include not raising your voice at me. That’s strike one.”

O my god. She is being such a … “But I barely did!” Which also, if you’re inclined to see it that way (also known as objectively), which she clearly was, I may have said a little too loudly in a manner once would characterize as raising my voice and, purely by coincidence, it was at her. Oops.

“Okay, that’s strike two.” Sara gave me this pointed look that reminded me very much of this look my wife gives me when she’s trying to warn me about my behavior with just her eyes. “Can I finish what I was saying now?”

“Yes.”

“Good girl.” O my god, my hot babysitter crush who’s also kinda a hardass and a bit of a B thinks I’m a good girl! Squeee!

“As I was saying, I don’t know what rules might have changed since I babysat for you last, and I’d be much happier if we just did things like we did back then so your mom doesn’t get mad at me. Will you be my big helper and just go with the flow today?”

“Yes,” I said. Yes, I’ll do my best, you patronizing … I didn’t say. Good for me for not saying it. My Wisconsin Catholic upbringing must’ve been faulty because, in addition to be super gay, I didn’t even feel a little guilty for the sin of thinking of all the words I wanted to call her right then.

“Thank you. Why don’t you just lay back and we can get your bedtime diaper off you.”

“No.” Who said that? Me. I said no. I refused. I chose not to follow the babysitter’s directions. I chose not to do what I was told.

Cuz ya know why? If Mary wanted to role play, and I’m assuming she did cuz she left me with my old babysitter, who now that I think on it looks a lot like Mary and also happens to be six years older than me like Sara was, I can roleplay too. Really heccin good. Really.

“Okay, just … Excuse me? What did we just say?”

“I can do it myself! I don’t even need them!”

“O really? Cuz through those jammie pants it looks like someone didn’t stay dry last night.”

Scoff! Incredulity! How rude! “Because I had to go, and they make me wear them even though I don’t need them!”

“Honey,” Sara said to me while trying, so it seemed to me cuz I don’t really know her that well, to exercise a great deal of patience that appeared to be quickly running out, “I very much doubt your mommy would still be diapering you at your age if you didn’t need them. Now lay back …”

“But I can do it myself!”

“I’m going to count to three. One …”

“No!!!!” Which is when it occurred to me I was taking it on faith that my parents really were out of the house cuz they definitely would’ve heard that. I didn’t go full tantrum, but Sara wouldn’t listen, and grown-ups have this stupid thing about not shouting but ya know the frick what, we wouldn’t heccin have to shout if they’d just listen to us! And, um, by ‘us’ I mean women in their early thirties. Um, really.

I would have explained that impressive logic to Sara, but before I could, she was pinning me down on the bed looking rather cross with me. I’m not sure why. “Strike three.” Ruh roh

Do you think it was the multiple refusals, the going back on my word as soon as I gave it, the raising my voice and raising it again (several times) after having been warned not to, or the general ‘tude? I had a sneaking suspicion this version of Sara and the current version of me were going to get along a little less swimmingly than the shades of yesteryear.

“Daphne Ann,” Sara said to me, making me wonder who told her my middle name, “I have a very nice day planned for us. We can have fun, or you can stay in your room until your parents get home, and then I’ll let you explain your behavior to them. Which do you want?”

“Fun,” I meeped.

“Then you are going to hold still while I change you out of your nighttime diaper, we are going to deal with your misbehavior, and then we’re going to have our nice day together. If you don’t listen to me or you talk back, you’ll find yourself alone in your room with no TV and no phone for the whole day. Understand?”

So actually the last time Sara ‘hung out’ with me, the only things phones did was make phone calls, but a lot of things were happening that didn’t happen back then so I guess there were just some anachronisms built into the plot. Based on a true story, as Hollywood said, very different from a true story. I opted not to point out the historical inaccuracies, mostly because I didn’t think she’d appreciate criticism of her artistic license, and answered only,“Yes.”

“Thank you. Now stay put while I get what we need.” I had a feeling this was gonna be one of those days that was gonna be all about conflicted feels but that in future years (or days, whichever comes first … or day, singular, perhaps) would stand out in my memory as So Heccin Fun. So yeah, leaning into it. She wanted to treat me like a bratty early teen with an overprotective mom who may or may not need ‘a little extra help’, whatever that means, then that’s what I’d be. Headspace, here I heccin come.

I didn’t want to tempt fate by sitting up to look around, so I just followed Sara across the room with my eyes. She opened my underwear drawer and came up with a packet of baby wipes. I was about to be on very intimate terms with my babysitter.

“Okay,” she said as she plucked one out on her way back to me in a tone sorta like she didn’t enjoy this part of the job, which, ya know, realism. And as my former and current selves both tended and tend to do, I felt a pang of guilt for making it harder on her than it had to be before remembering this was all my mom’s fault … before escaping my headspace long enough to blame Mary and then going right back into headspace.

“Scooch down for me,” Sara instructed. Not coldly or clinically, but I wouldn’t call it warm and fuzzy either. Even the nicest babysitters have a limit to their patience, and I sorta kinda did definitely run up some debt with her in a very brief span of time.

“All the way to the end of the bed. You know the drill, knees over the end. Lift your butt for me.” I did, and she pulled my pajama pants off me, leaving me in just a, “Cute diaper. I like that little lion. Did you pick these out,” she asked me as she untaped it. I didn’t answer (and the answer would’ve been no).

“Ya know, I understand it’s probably not fun still needing diapers at your age,” Sara lectured me, which was so overstepping her bounds as an occasional babysitter, if you ask me and I did so there, “and still needing help with them. I mean, you’re old enough to be babysitting and changing diapers, and here you are on your back getting your big girl diaper changed by your babysitter. I bet you’re worried your friends will make fun of you so hard if they find out and tell everyone at school.”

Ya know what, she was taking her sweet time with those wipes. Almost as if she wanted to draw it out or something so she could rub those words in or something. But Sara wouldn’t do that, right? But she continued like someone (else) who just loves to continue.

“And you probably miss out on sleepovers and Girl Scout camp. All experiences that help girls your age grow and mature, so it’s not like I’m judging you for needing a little extra help for your age like your mom says. But I do hafta say it would make you seem a lot more mature if when you have a wet diaper, you just say so, and when someone is going to change you, that you make it as easy and fast as possible instead of telling fibs, refusing, raising your voice, and having a tantrum like a toddler. Being a bedwetter and needing diapers doesn’t make you a toddler. I’m sure there are women more than twice your age who still need diapers and need help changing them…”

And yes, I got that.

“… but when you act like a toddler, it makes it very hard for people who just want to help you to not treat you like a toddler. There, all clean. Please try to be a big girl and act your age for me today. Will you?”

“Yes,” I said feeling this very confused mix of emotions. Guilt, gratitude, embarrassment, and also a little love, like maybe Sara did care about me after all and wasn’t being mean on purpose. Just overprotective and strict, because she’s overprotective, like my (imaginary) mom. Some serious junior mom vibes she was giving off. I had a lump in my throat (and I didn’t like it cuz I knew where it would lead).

“Now,” she said as she deposited the wipes in the diaper and rolled it up – and hey, true story, Miss Mary Plans for Everything didn’t have a very good plan for disposing of those in my parents’ house, but I digress – “we need to deal with your poor choices. Sit up for me.”

She helped me sit up, and I had this feeling I was going to get a consequence from Sara that I never got from the real Sara. “What’s … what’s my punishment?”

“Come stand in front of me,” Sara said as she took a seat on my bed and stood me, naked from the waist down, in front of her. “What happens when you make poor choices?”

“I get punished.” Hey, why is my voice quavering?

“You get a consequence. What consequence do you usually get?”

“Um … I get grounded?”

“Daphne Ann, I know what consequence happen in your house. When you make a make a bad choice, you get a spanking.”

“But I don’t! I don’t get spankings!”

“Daphne Ann Becker, I know you still get spankings.” (My maiden name? Seriously?)

“But I’ve never gotten spanked before!” Hey, sniffling. Where the heck did that come from?

“Daphne! Do not fib to me. I know you get spankings. I’ve seen you spanked before.”

“But that was a long time ago!”

 “And the whole neighborhood saw at the block party last summer when you threw a tantrum about getting ready for bed before the fireworks. Everyone saw your daddy swat your little bottom all the way back to your house.” O, tears; how literally unexpected.

“Please don’t spank me. I’m too old! No one my age gets spankings.”

“I know for a fact that’s not true. You may be the only one in diapers come bedtime, but you’re not the only girl your age I still sit for. And even if it was true, it wouldn’t change the fact that you still get bare bottom spankings.”

“Mom and dad are gonna be so mad at you!”

“Your mommy gave me permission to spank your bare bottom if you misbehave.”

“Bare!?! Please not bare! Please! It’s embarrassing!”

“I just changed your diaper, little girl. If you’re all out of theatrics, please get over my knee and let’s get this over with.”

“At least let me bend over the bed or something! Only little kids get spanked over the knee.”

“And when you act like a naughty little girl, that’s how you’ll be treated. If you want to prove to me you don’t need to be treated like a little girl, right now you need to accept the consequences of your actions. Now, over my knee.” Sara has really got the stern-but-not-angry tone down. And what the heck is that ball doing in my tummy? I’m not scared of a spanking … am I?

I always do my best to not start crying until I’m well into getting my butt spanked, but I also don’t do headspace. When you’re lifestyle like me and Mary are, you don’t do headspace. It’s just how you are all the time every day. Maybe that’s different for a little like my friend Jane cuz she regresses and needs to switch between her big and little selves because while she’s also lifestyle, it’s not a hundred percent of the time that she’s coloring with crayons. She has to adult too. But I am a hundred percent of the time subject to discipline, no jumping in and out of it. Anytime, anywhere, Mary can spank my butt for any reason or none at all. No headspace needed.

But this was roleplaying, and while I’ve roleplayed without really getting into the headspace of the scene, this time I did. And it was on purpose, but if I knew just how deep I was gonna go, not sure I’d do it again.

She helped me over her knee not with a tug but with enough of a grip on my wrist that I couldn’t have run away even if I tried. “I’m going to spank your bottom with my hand the same number as your age. If you try to reach back, I’ll use your hairbrush. Are you ready?”

“Y-(sniff)-y-yes. I’m s-sorry.”

“I know you are, and we’ll talk about that as soon as your spanking is over.”

The woman playing the character of Sara has given me age in hand spanks just taking me to my pre-spanking timeout spot, and that was my actual age, and all those swats rarely ever provoked more than a protest from me. This time was less than half as many swats, and though she spanked only a little hard, I bawled. B-a-w-l-e-d: bawled.

The whole thing took less than a minute and left me laying across her lap a hot mess. Later, when I was processing what the hell happened, what I came up with was the realism. I was in my headspace, and Mary was in hers. Because when Mary my wife spanks me, I don’t try to get out of it nearly as much, and she spanks way harder for way longer. That’s how adult Mary spanks adult Daphne, but Sara spanked non-adult Daphne.

“Okay,” Sara said to non-adult me, “you can get up now.” She helped me sit up, and somehow it felt like my butt was on fire. I was still crying hard with actual tears running down my face, and Sara wrapped me in a hug and let me cry on her.

When I had calmed down, she patted my back to tell me to sit up. “I’m sorry I had to give you such a hard spanking. I hope you understand that I will not accept you telling me no and raising your voice to me. I know it feels like you’re almost an adult and don’t need a babysitter, but you’re not an adult and your parents think you do need a babysitter. It’s been a long time since I’ve sat for you, but I’m going to follow the same rules because your mom didn’t give me any new ones. Understand?”

“Yes,” I sniffled. “I’m sorry I was bad and you had to spank me.”

“You’re never bad. You just made some poor choices.”

“You probably don’t even wanna hang out with me anymore.” And I so want Sara to think I’m cool. It’s embarrassing even having her as a sitter cuz she’s only six years older than me, but … I dunno. I just want her to like me cuz I don’t have a big sister or even a lot of friends. I was seriously upset when she went away to college. If Mom had just said she was going to come over, that would’ve been awesome, but Mom has to have her officially babysit me tells her I still wear diapers to bed and I still get spanked … and I still cry and carry on like a little kid when I do. Not cool.

“Daphne, that is just not true. You got your consequence, everything is forgiven, and you and me can still have a fun day.”

“But you (sniffle) still think I’m a loser.”

“Hey,” Sara said and put her hand under my chin, bringing my eyes to hers in a gesture that somehow felt really familiar. “I do not think you’re a loser. I meant it when I said it’s not your diapers or your wetting or even still getting spanked that makes you seem immature. It’s the way you handle those things. You didn’t handle them very well just now, but you know what?”

“(Sniff) What?”

“I think you can handle them much better than you did. I know you can, and I know that warm bottom is going to remind you for the next hour.”

“Are you gonna tell Mom and Dad I needed a spanking?”

“It can be our secret, but I need you to listen to me and be on your best behavior today. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Do you promise? Because you know my rule about spanking. Remember?”

“Um …”

“The first spanking is your last warning. Any more bad choices, and I’m going to have to spank again. Understand? Will you be my big helper and help me not to spank?”

“Yes. I’ll be good. I promise.”

Sara kissed me on the forehead and gave me a pat on my butt. “I know you’ll be good. We’re gonna have a very fun day. Up you get.” I stood up, really driving home the reminder I had been sitting on Sara’s lap still naked down below. “You go take a shower, wash your diaper area really well, and I’ll leave an outfit for you on your bed. Come downstairs for breakfast when you’re dressed, and don’t dawdle. We got a schedule to keep today.” She sent me on my way with another spank hard enough to make me eep, and I rubbed my butt the rest of the way to the bathroom.

Sara was much more strict than I remembered from all those years back. I don’t ever remember getting spanked by her that hard, but at least she won’t tell Mom and Dad. And yeah, it was stupid of me to try to get out of it. I just didn’t think Mom would’ve given her permission; all my spankings have been from her for the last two years. Except that stupid block party incident … and a few other times from Dad, but they don’t count cuz my pants stayed up and he didn’t put me over his knee or anything, so those weren’t real spankings.

And that was me writing us a backstory in my head while I showered and rubbed my butt, which very quickly stopped hurting as the water and alone time broke my headspace. But downstairs making breakfast was Sara, and prior to being Sara, Sara was Mary, and Mary is thorough. First off, gotta be impressed with her getting out of that twin bed without waking me up. True ninja. Second, I saw the hairbrush on my nightstand. She literally set up props at some point when I wasn’t in the room or maybe when I was sleeping. I knew she had to have something bigger than a spanking in store, and that it would be fun but intense.

I’ve never become fully comfortable with this part of my spanking kink. People shouldn’t hit kids, and if I ever saw someone spanking a child, I would literally assault that person. But this scenario Mary had created and the backstory we were building as we went … It was exciting. I have learned, though, that you can’t help what you find kinky. All you can do is keep fantasy separate from reality. I wasn’t a young teen, and Mary was not the girl-next-door babysitter. I knew that.

I also knew that I’d had a hard year. Everyone had. And whether Mary meant it to be therapeutic or just fun or both, I felt better coming out of the shower. I’m an adult, Mary is my wife, and whatever she had cooked up for us, I’d enjoy it more if I dug into my headspace. For sure, she would be digging into hers. She doesn’t do much by halves.

And btw, in my headspace I totally do not need diapers no matter what Mom and Dad say, I don’t need ‘a little extra help’ for my age, and I am so too old for spankings! Hmmph! But I’ll try to be a good girl and prove to Sara that I’m more mature than my parents (and, um, sometimes my behavior) give me credit for. Really.

 

(To be continued…)

[Sarah Penguin]

 

[Bel George]

Thank you @Alex Bridges for giving the holidays that little bit extra with (again) a wonderful chapter.

Diapers, roleplaying, spankings, ...  Daphne seems to really enjoy playing the role of a not so little girl.

7 hours ago, Alex Bridges said:

You go take a shower, wash your diaper area really well, and I’ll leave an outfit for you on your bed.

I wonder what outfit that will be, including probably at least a pull-up or maybe a diaper or just some training pants?  And whether she will put it on as requested, without protesting.

7 hours ago, Alex Bridges said:

And btw, in my headspace I totally do not need diapers no matter what Mom and Dad say, I don’t need ‘a little extra help’ for my age, and I am so too old for spankings! Hmmph! But I’ll try to be a good girl and prove to Sara that I’m more mature than my parents (and, um, sometimes my behavior) give me credit for. Really.

 

 

 

(To be continued…)

We'll find out soon, aren't we?  

[AndTheChips]

This is, and will always be, my favorite story of all time. ??? thanks for the Christmas/birthday present aka this last update ?

[Alex Bridges]

4 hours ago, AndTheChips said:

This is, and will always be, my favorite story of all time. ??? thanks for the Christmas/birthday present aka this last update ?

You're very welcome!

[Alex Bridges]

Hi everybody! The next chapter is a little slow in coming cuz I got delayed with this!

Remember in Scene #139 when Mary got Daphne a calendar to keep track of her “bedwetting”? I actually made one and it’s on sale now for 2022!

 

[Alex Bridges]

Happy New Year! Sorry this took me so long. I got distract by the calendar project which was way more work than I thought it would be (and more than it was worth, which will learn me to do something like that again ... though it was fun), and then I had to write a New Year's Eve story to complete my holiday cycle.

Anyhoo, next scene ...

___________________________________

Scene #147

 

         I was expecting Sara to have laid out a pullup for me, but instead I found a sweater, leggings, fuzzy socks, and panties. Granted, they were my unicorn panties, but I could live with that. Even more shocking when I got downstairs was Mary – ahem, Sara – had two bowls, milk, and several choices of cereal on the table.

         “Is this breakfast,” I asked because I’m almost never allowed to eat just cereal for breakfast. Something very accurate about them just being sugar (which I so don’t care about).

         “Don’t you look so pretty cleaned up. Did you brush your teeth?”

         “Yeah.”

         “Do you need help making your own bowl?”

         “No … Is this breakfast,” I asked again.

         “Yeah. You were expecting bacon and eggs or something?” Did she just imply I’m an entitled brat or something?

         “Um, no. It’s just that I’m almost never allowed to just have cereal for breakfast.” True story. Sara’s doppelgänger is kinda serious about starting the day with protein. As in the wooden spoon will come out of the crock serious.

         “Well, we’re in a hurry today, so let’s just not tell your mom. Are you gonna sit down and eat with me?”

         “Yeah,” I said as a I took a seat and selected honey nut cheerios because they are the best ever, which come to think of it may have something to do with how much sugar is in them.

         Speaking of, “Sugar,” Sara asked me and slid the shaker toward me. O my god, what is even happening right now?

         “No, thanks. These are already sweet enough.”

         “Wow. I never thought I’d hear you say that.”

Hey! I got that! Grr. “So where are we going today?”

“It’s a surprise, but we have to leave in ten minutes. We need to make a stop along the way.”

We took my mom’s car, and Sara showed just how overprotective she is. I went to get in the passenger seat, and she told me, “Nice try, but I don’t think so.”

“What?”

“In the back.”

“I can ride in the front. I’m … tall enough.” Really. Have been since I was (sigh) fifteen.

“I’m not so sure about that, sweetie.”

“But I am. I can … Fine.” So I got into the back. “Do I have to wear a blindfold or something?”

“What,” Sara asked from the front seat.

“Cuz it’s a surprise. Aren’t I supposed to wear a blindfold?” Not that wearing a blindfold in the backseat wouldn’t have made it look to other drivers like I was being renditioned or something, or that a blindfold wouldn’t make me dizzy.

“You can close your eyes if you want, unless that’ll make you carsick. Do you still get carsick?”

“Why? How long of a ride is it?” Not that I get carsick, but it would be nice to know just how far from the safety of my home this Sara person was taking me.

“Not long.” She opened the navigation thingy and told it to take us to the nearest grocery store.

“I can give you directions.”

“I bet you can, sweetie.”

O my god, you are so patronizing! And Sara had allegedly lived there even longer than me. She should know the way to the grocery store … unless she’s some spoiled princess who’s never run an errand in her life. I bet that’s what it was. Ugh, so entitled. Pretty and entitled.

When we got to the grocery store, I went to open my door only to find – surprise! – Sara had turned the child safety lock on. “Just hold on a second,” she said as she fiddled with her purse.

“I’d like to get out now,” I said back with, yeah, a bit of a whine, because I was a little up to here with the patronizing crap (I’m pointing to my forehead now).

“Just a sec … Wait, do you have to go potty?”

“What? No.”

“Okay, okay,” she said and got out of the car, walked all the way around, and opened my door. “It’s okay if you do need to go potty. Just tell me.”

Excuse me? Tell her. Don’t think so. “I can go on my own, thank you.” I got out of the car, and the second my back was turned, she touched my butt! I mean, what the heccin hey!?! “Excuse you!”

“I was just checking to make sure you didn’t have an accident. You’re not always honest when you do.”

This is what happens when ‘Sara’ gets to contribute to the storyline! The backstories she writes always put me in the worst possible light. But I chose to just roll with it and try to push through to the fun part of the day, whatever that would be … if it would be. “But … That was was forever ago!”

“I know two years seems like a long time to you, but when you get older, you’ll understand that’s it not so long since I’ve babysat you last.”

Such a big eyeroll I think I strained something. “Whatever.”

“I really don’t like that word,” she told me. “C’mon, we only need one thing.” I decided to be the bigger person and let her hold my hand through the parking lot. In fact, it was actually me who was holding her hand. Really.

 “What do we need here? Are we going on a picnic?”

“Silly, how could we go on a picnic when it’s this cold outside?”

“The arboretum,” I said with a strong, implicit duh. That’s where everyone around there goes during the winter. Duh.

We walked into the supermarket, and Sara beelined us toward … Crap! Really?

“We just need to pick up some Goodnites for our outing,” she told me like I was supposed to be grateful.

“I’m sorry, Sara. I didn’t know you need Goodnites.”

“Nice try, kiddo. They’re for you, and you know it.”

“No,” I said as she reached for the package. “I don’t need those.”

“Of course you do.”

“But I, um, don’t wear them during the day.” I’m not starting to freak out! YOU’RE STARTING TO FREAK OUT! The store was just down the road from my house. People I know might’ve seen us. “I don’t!”

“Sweetie, inside voice. What’s the rule about outings?”

“You lower your voice,” I said quietly cuz while yes, I may have been a little louder than I should’ve been, but she was talking at a normal volume which is much too loud for the subject if you ask me and I did, so there. Heccin really.

Sara exhaled sharply through her nose while grimacing at me. “When we go on an outing longer than an hour, you need to be in pullups. That’s the rule.” Still talking at a normal volume. My o my, the store was crowded the day after Christmas.

“Not anymore. Not in, like, forever.”

“Daphne, your mommy reminded me of this rule just this morning before she left.”

“But I don’t want to wear pull-ups!”

“And I don’t want you to have an accident in your pants because you couldn’t hold it or you’re having so much fun you forget to go to the potty. Remember what happened last time,” she added. I’m guess that was for the benefit of anyone who might overhear it; call me paranoid, but I think Sara likes embarrassing me on purpose. Like, she like likes it, if ya know what I mean.

“But I don’t want them,” I tried again, this time more plaintively than whinily.

“It’s pull-ups, or we have your diapers in your bag. Which do you want?”

“You … You wouldn’t.” No reason to look over here, fellow shoppers, just testing boundaries. Go about your business please. And so that’s what was in the backpack she brought with us. Great. Just … great.

“Daphne Ann Schmidt ….”

O my friggin god! Using my full name in the middle of the store while talking about this and … O, hey lady also shopping in this aisle. How old’s your little one? Have a good Christmas?

“… You are trying my patience. If the next thing that comes out of your mouth isn’t a choice, I will take you to the ladies’ for another little talk about your behavior and then we’re going home. Do you want diapers or pull-ups?” Did she just verbally underline those words? How does that even work?

“Pull-ups,” I mouthed.

“What was that?”

“Pull-ups,” I squeaked.

“Thank you. Let’s go checkout.”

Lemme tell you, doing my absolute best to project a vibe that they were absolutely not for me as we checked out … didn’t work. Not that think anybody knew, but I just couldn’t pull that vibe off. And lemme tell you, when we got to the car, I did some heccin hard pouting in the backseat. I was this close to fussing (I’m hold my thumb and forefinger really close together now).

There are two kinds of pouting. Kind #1 is what you do when you have unhappy feelings that just need to be physically expressed. Kind #2 is what you do when you wanna protest something and have literally no power to do anything other than just look sad and grumpy, so that’s what you do. I did both kinds in the car. I don’t know if Sara could see me in the rearview or not, but if not, she guessed I was pouting.

“Cheer up, Daff,” she said all breezy like she hadn’t just told three aisles of grocery shoppers I needed pull-ups, but o hey, don’t worry cuz if I find that embarrassing, I could always just wear my diapers. That I don’t even need! And she threatened to take me to the ladies’ room for a “little talk!” I’m too old to be spanked! And I’m way too heccin old to be spanked in public! And I’m way too heccin old for her to use such a transparent euphemism around other people! Who probably didn’t hear or notice, but not the heccin point. Really!

“I don’t wanna cheer up.” And okay, I know objectively that was a very childish thing to say, but if I’m gonna be treated like a little kid, then the people doing the treating are gonna hafta deal with one. I didn’t get a response, and ya know what? I peeved enough to demand that someone acknowledge me, so I said it again louder for the people in the front named Sara. “I said I don’t wanna cheer up!” And I crossed my arms, kicked the seat with my heel, and added, “Hmmph!” for emphasis. Take that!

She responded with a sigh. An exasperated sigh. I – I! – did that! I do too have agency even if everyone is gonna try to decide everything for me. But also, got another response. Wow this is a lot of acknowledgement; like who even asked for any acknowledgement at all, is a thing I said in my head as she pulled over.

“Why are you pulling over,” I asked because I was, ya know, kinda curious why she pulled into some random strip mall parking lot. Just curious; not nervous or worried something very public was about to happen (that has happened in a car but not in a busy parking lot … before dark). She turned the car off, and I had this little ball of regret in my tummy (and I don’t even know why. Really). I wasn’t even that bad! I think. She got out of the car, opened the back door, and sat down again next to me.

“Daphne,” she said in that same voice she was using while she was changing my diaper this morning right before she spanked me. Ruh roh. “You are not being the sweet girl I know you are from the last time I sat for you. Wanna try to tell me why?”

“Because I’m not a little kid anymore!” Oops. Said it like it I felt it, which is fine, but it entailed doing that raising my voice thing again. I don’t know why I kept doing that. I’ usually a very calm and collected person … or at least a quiet one … until push pretty darn far.

“I won’t tell you again about raising your voice to me. That is the last time today.” She made her do-you-understand face, and luckily for me, I did.

“Sorry.”

“I haven’t done or asked you to do anything you don’t do every day with your mom and dad.  I don’t know why you thought today would be different, and I really don’t appreciate you trying to use me to get away with not following rules you don’t like.”

“But …”

“No, Daphne. No. Do not fib to me again and tell me the rules are different.”

“But … Sorry.” Admit defeat, regather forces for later offensive at a time and place of strategic advantage … if that opportunity ever presents itself, which it hasn’t in a very long time. “Are you gonna s-spank me again?” Make an uwu face, my brain said to me, so I did. And people say I don’t think before I act. Pshaw! Puh-shaw.

“No, sweetheart, I’m not going to spank you right now, but don’t think I don’t see through your puppy dog eyes.” Dammit. “I want to have a little talk so we can just clear the air. There’s still time to have fun together, but if you’re going to tell me no all day long, we might as well go home. If you’d rather just go home, we can do that and just watch a movie or something.”

“I won’t have to go to my room?”

“No, not unless you make a bad choice again. Or you can have your surprise. Which will it be?”

I wasn’t sure who was talking to me, Mary or Sara (they look a lot alike, okay? … And totally my type). Sara was giving me a chance to pick something more fun. Mary was giving me a chance to red light … or orange, cuz we added orange.

“I …” Heccin dammit this is so hard sometimes. “I want the surprise,” I told Sara. To Mary, I was saying, I trust you. At least I was trying to, but the instinct to preserve one’s own ego is not so easy to suppress. It’s so hard sometimes.

“Can you tell me why?”

“Cuz I trust you and I wanna have fun like we used to. I’ll be good.”

“C’mere.” So weird thing, I could recognize Sara’s hugs in the dark. Felt very familiar. Weird, right? “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“I know. Thanks.”

“I know it must be very hard being a big girl in diapers.”

“Um, yeah, but do we have to keep talking about that?”

“I think you’ll feel a lot better if you do. What were you feeling in the store when you got upset?”

“That, uh, I don’t wanna wear pullups during the day. I don’t want anyone to see.”

“That’s understandable, but I don’t think anyone ever sees, do they?”

“I don’t know. It’s not like anybody ever comes up to me and says they didn’t see anything.” Powerful logic, that. Really. No, really.

“That tells me that either no one sees or that if they do, they don’t make fun of you.”

“But even if they don’t make fun, they won’t think I’m cool anymore. I’m not one of the popular girls. I’m not, like, a loser either, but I will be if people find out and you said everything so loud.”

“I didn’t talk any louder than I normally do, but I understand why you’d be worried. If some you knew did overhear, they might call you names like ‘diaper girl’ and ‘diaper butt’ and ‘pamper packer.’”

Gee, there’s only one person I know of whose ever call me those, and I told Sara the same thing I told that person. “I don’t! I never and I won’t ever.”

“Shh, honey. I’m just saying what they might call you, and they probably would think you fill your diapers cuz diapers are for that too, aren’t they?”

“Technically.” Hmmph!

“Yes, they are. But ya know what else they might do if they found out you still wear diapers?”

“They’re pull-ups. At least call them what they are.”

“Sorry. Sometimes I mix them up because pull-ups are just diapers that get pulled up instead of taped on. But you know what they might call you?”

“What?”

“’Daphne,’ ‘friend,’ ‘person I think it pretty cool.’ Because people are much kinder than it seems sometimes, and I think most people would be very understanding of your little problem.”

“Really?” Also I don’t have a problem, but the quicker I rolled with it, the sooner it would be over … I hoped. And I did say I’m trust her.

“Really. But let’s do this today, okay? You don’t give me anymore trouble about your diapers, and I’ll make sure no one finds out or says anything mean to you if they do. And we’ll have one of the best days we’ve ever had together. Will you do that for me?”

Heccin unfair with her sincere attempt to get me to go with the flow cuz she wants to have fun with me and wants me to have fun with her and the unfairness of it all and the rampant sincerity and gentle kindness and the evident caring and stuff. Darn it! “Yes.”

“Promise?”

“I promise, but you hafta promise too.”

“I promise.” She sealed her promise with a hug that I returned.

 

 

To be continued ...

[Alex Bridges]

Scene #148

 

We left the town I grew up in and drove about thirty minutes. I grew up in the suburbs, so all that means is we took the highway part-way around the city. Not my first time to that part of town, but a place I rarely went to growing up. In other words, where I probably wouldn’t know anybody. I hadn’t lived in my hometown for more than a summer break in twelve years, so it’s not like I knew everyone back forty minutes the other way, but I might know some of them. Can’t go anywhere with Mom but she runs into two different people she knows, but she’s lived there her whole life.

Anyway, Sara took me somewhere no one would know me, is the main point. It made me a little anxious cuz there’s a reason she would do that, and I didn’t know it. I had some guesses, but I tried very hard to suppress my anxiety and remember that Sara wouldn’t let anything bad happen to me … or do any bad things to me. But she could also not do bad things to me or let them happen to me around people I know without any problems either. It’s very easy, actually. Really.

“We’re here,” Sara announced.

“A skating rink,” I asked for some weird reason cuz it was obviously a skating rink. That’s me now, person-who-announces-the-obvious, apparently. Maybe I need to read more challenging books or something and claw my way back to being a worldly conversationalist.

“Yep! Sit tight.” I did, and she came around to let me out of the car even though I now knew I could just as easily have gotten out on the driver side cuz that’s what she did after her Very Sincere But Also Pushing My Buttons talk.

And here’s the thing: I don’t ice skate. Nor do I roller skate, roller blade, skateboard, ski, or snowboard. Surprising because I grew up in a state where almost everyone can skate, but not surprising when one remembers I have all the coordination of a newborn gazelle (which are actually much more coordinated than me after about twenty minutes). Now put that newborn gazelle on something slippery. You think that’s just self-deprecating exaggeration, and it is …but not by as much I wish it were.

“I can’t skate,” I said to Sara. And she knows that because while we don’t live together (eyeroll), we have lived next to each other for my whole life, and I know for a fact she’s seen me sitting on the bench when the neighborhood pond freezes over playing a wicked game of Solo Sad Girl while everyone else skates. She even comes over and says hi to me, so what exactly was she getting at with taking me to a skating rink?

“And today is the last day you’ll be able to say you can’t skate.” Ah, got it now. Good thing one of us had faith in my skills (her, specifically; not me) And here I am a supremely confident person who it actually among the best at most of the best things … but not skating.

“No, but I really can’t.” Not that I don’t trust Sara. I, for example, trusted she would ride in the ambulance with me on the way to the emergency room.

“When’s the last time you tried,” she asked me.

“A long time, but …”

“And how old were you then? Try to guess.”

“Um … Nine?”

“And have you gotten better at other things since you were nine?”

“Yeah,” I answered, seeing her point and still not wanting to try it. Does she not know what happens when you fall on ice? It’s like concrete! And ya know what’s under the ice at skating rinks? CONCRETE!

And you don’t bounce back as easily when you’re not a little kid, which I’m physiologically not no matter how everyone treats me. I had visions of me being Girl-Too-Old-To-Be-Crying-That-Hard while everyone skates around me and then the manager would slide me on my butt to the nearest exit with a push broom. Not that they actually do that, but it makes some sense from an efficiency standpoint.

But back to Sara, my cheerleader, which was nice all, but also … meh. “Of course you’ve gotten better at lots of things,” she said as she held my hand through the parking lot. “And you have a lesson scheduled.”

“I do?”

“You do! A late Christmas present!” She is so irritatingly positive! Which is so irritatingly endearing! Dammit.

Now, just because I couldn’t skate doesn’t mean I didn’t spend a lot of time at skating rinks growing up. There was this awkward period after age nine when I had given up on skating entirely and was the lonely, bored girl at friends’ skating birthday parties. Then came the awkward time when my friends wanted to hang out at the rink to flirt with boys. Then the less-awkward-but-by-no-means-not-awkward period when I knew I liked girls and tried to feign interest in the flirting (but was really watching the figure skaters skating and being hot). Maybe that’s when I acquired my leotard fetish? Yeah, definitely. And I didn’t want to fall on my butt in front of the all the hot women in leotards. Insult, meet injury, ya know?

Just like I remembered, the non-rink part of the rink was so heccin hot! And loud and crowded. Even with a mask, I was surprised Sara would take me there. We waded through all the kids rushing around, and the parents who looked so over it all and ready for them to be back in school, to the reception desk.

“Hi,” Sara said to the woman there. “We have a lesson scheduled.” Which is when I learned that it was not a solo lesson and that Sara, or whomever made these arrangements, had reserved a private changing room. Good for multiple reasons, one of which was not wanting to be in a crowded changing room and the other of which was suspecting Sara had things in store for me that I’d find unacceptably embarrassing (and that police might find misdemeanor-y) if they were to happen in the presence of others. We got our change room key and skates, and the woman said we had twenty minutes and told us where to go for the lesson.

“Are you going to take a lesson too,” I asked Sara.

“No. I already know how to skate.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. I’ve just never been skating with you cuz you don’t know how.” How did I not know that about ‘Sara?’ “We need to a hurry a little if we don’t wanna be late.” You hafta give ‘Sara’ credit for booking the time and working backward to get me out of bed, out of the house, and through the store with twenty minutes to spare, almost as if she anticipated all the ways I’d slow us down. Like she knows me really, really well or something. Hmmm. Though of course I didn’t slow us down at all; she did with her shenanigans and well-meaning but misplaced adherence to alleged rules my imaginary mom made up.

“So where will you be during my lesson,” I asked for reasons other than being nervous. Cuz I wasn’t. Really. Ignore everything I said before. I gibber when I jabber and what comes out is pure nonsense. There goes Daphne, people say, she can’t skate, not that she’s nervous about trying, and btw she is so good at nonsense. Yep, that’s a thing people say. About me. Really.

“Right next to you the whole time. You nervous?”

“A little.” Who said that? Me? More nonsense. But also o my god, yes! Heck heccin yes!

“Maybe a little a lot,” she wisely perceived. “Hurry and get undressed.”

What should I have been more nervous about? Falling on hard ice or whatever knavery she had in mind for our day out? Yes/and. Good thing I’m not the nervous or anxious type. Sigh …

“All the way,” I asked.

“Down to your socks.”

“With you in the room?”

“Did I not change your diaper and spank your bare bottom for you this morning?” Fair point … doesn’t mean she had to bring it up though … and can we please later spend some time debating who that was for (I’ll take the Not Daphne side). “Besides, we’re both girls. Need a little help?”

She was in a hurry, just guessing by how she didn’t wait for me to answer, and I woulda protested that it was totally inappropriate, but (1) I could tell that she wasn’t really asking, (B) she had a point about who’d seen (and touched) what, and (Purple) I think I have a crush on her or something? And how oddly familiar it felt to have Sara strip my clothes off in a hurry, almost like she’d done it before. For serious.

Personally, I was in less of a hurry because I didn’t so much mind being late for an opportunity to embarrass myself. Of course, it would only be embarrassing for a second, and then everyone would stop laughing when they saw how badly injured I was … so I guess I had that going for me? I just hoped I wouldn’t take anyone down with me.

And hey, thought – did you know you don’t actually hafta get undressed to put a pair of ice skates on? True story that I remembered reading once only after I was naked below the waist. “Hey Sara,” I asked off handedly, because, ya know, reasons and suspicions and well-founded reasons for having suspicions, “how come I’m not wearing any pants? Asking for my friend.”

“We gotta get your pull-up on, sweetie, and remember what we talked about. You’re gonna be a good girl and cooperate.” She knelt down in front of me and held open one of her Goodnites, and I put a hand on her should for balance as I stepped in. And can I pause and just point out that if I need to put my hand on her shoulder for balance to literally take a step, I shouldn’t be placed on ice!

“But, um, why do I hafta wear it?”

“The lesson is an hour long, and it’s just too much trouble to get you off the ice every time you hafta potty.”

Like right then, which is a thing I realized as she was sliding it up my legs and seating it snugly against my … seat. I may not be ready to babysit, according to some people, but I do know that if a person has potty problems, which I do not (repeat: not!), then you give them a chance to use said potty before putting them in a new pull-up. I could’ve said something, but I had this weird feeling it wouldn’t have been taken seriously. Probably would’ve resulted in something along the lines of ‘O, you think so? That’s a good sign. Let’s tell your mommy when she gets home tonight,’ or something like that, but no trip to a toilet. Don’t know why I felt that way. Sigh …

“Can you see it,” I asked when my leggings were pulled back up. And o, hey, how about Sara picking out leggings when she knew she’d but putting me in a pull-up later? If she’s not careful, she’s gonna give me complex about the intentions of beautiful women, and that could express itself in so many unexpected ways. Really.

“Arms up.” Don’t know why she bothered asking since she already peeling my sweater off me.

“My friend would super really like to know why you’re taking my sweater off,” I said with maybe a tinge of irritation. A touch. A very small amount.

“To get your skating outfit on, silly goose.”

“I don’t …”

Which is when Mary, no Sara, I think maybe, produced from her backpack my Halloween costume, the one that at the time was a ballerina outfit complete with tights, skirt, and leotard but that, apparently, minus the tights was going to be pulling double duty as a skating outfit. Wear that in vanilla space with a you-know underneath where people would definitely see me and might see it? The sight of the thing sent my parts in opposite directions. Some parts were wobbly. Some parts were tingly. Some parts just checked the heck out, for instance my brain, which musta needed to do a hard restart or something.

“Daffy,” Sara said, “Step in.”

“Huh?”

“Step in,” she repeated as she held the leotard open for me.

“How?”

“What?”

“I mean, how can I wear that with the and at the place when I’m, you know,” I very clearly asked as she got the straps over my shoulders. When did I even step into the thing? Also, Lycra is smooth and slippery, is a thought I had at the time (seriously, need to exercise the ol’ thinking organ with something that isn’t erotica and very soon).

“You’ll feel better when we’re in the rink. I think you’re getting overheated,” she chuckled. “Your face is bright red.” Can you believe she chuckled at me? Like I’m a figure of comedy of something? I’m a very serious person to be taken very seriously. Really.

But in reference to the color I turned, “That’s a thing that happens … But I can’t wear this with a pull-up. Everyone will see.”

“Not with your skirt on.”

“But what if my skirt flies up,” I asked as she raised my skirt up around my hips. When did I step into that thing?

“Daffy, trust me. No one will be able to tell what you’re wearing.”

“But … But I’ll get cold.”

“You’ll probably be too hot once you get going.”

“Do I really hafta wear this?”

“Yes, you really get to wear this. Still dry,” Miss Sara I-Have-An-Answer-To-Everything asked me and didn’t wait for an answer before putting her hand under my skirt and giving me several firm pats … on the front part.

Gah! “You’re g-gonna …”

“I’m just checking …”

“Stop … words.”

“Are you alright? Daffy?”

“I need outta this room.” Before she touches another spot, pushes another button, or says another word and makes me number three in my pants which is how she puts it and I hate it but also love it and turn the doorknob and light and air precious air! And a room full of people that smells like sweaty cocoa. Well, that certainly put the ice in my … bucket. You’re usually better at metaphors … but not so much when she’s pushing the buttons.

“Someone is suddenly so eager,” Sara said looking very satisfied with herself.

Thank god no one was on the opposite side of that door cuz I couldn’t have opened it any harder if I had a battering ram. “I’m kinda lightheaded.” And I might’ve pulled a tummy muscle stopping … something from happening.

“Trying to goldbrick? You’re not getting out of your lesson.”

Gotta stay on your feet; fainting will only attract attention which will only make you faint again. Damn, but I’m complicated, even to the point that I still don’t know why wearing a skating outfit at a skating rink should push my humiliation kink buttons so much. Not like anyone knew why I was wearing it or how I was feeling or even what I was wearing under it. “It’s too hot in here,” I told Sara. Yep, the room’s fault, not mine or Sara’s … well, not mine, anyway.

“Let’s go then.” Sara locked the door behind us, and we speed-walked to the rink. Cold air has never felt so good. Sara sat us down on the bleachers right next to where the lady at the desk said to go for the lesson.

“Are you okay,” she asked me with a very serious look on her face like it was just now occurring to her that people in my condition – by which I mean how I apparently just am at all the times now and not only like right then when I was recovering from an acute attack of being me – should maybe not be put on ice.

“Yeah. No, yeah, I’m fine. Just needed some cold air.” A cold shower and a little forbearance on Sara’s part not being available.

In a dazzling display of dexterity that made me think of all the things Sara could probably do with those fingers and the hands they’re attached to, she had my skates laced in not time flat. I don’t even like walking in skates. Feel like I’m always on the verge on snapping my ankle, the avoidance of which was a helpful distraction from what I was wearing in a room full of regular people.

“Who’s here for a lesson,” some guy probably named Chad asked as he looked from his clipboard to the various people milling about. You actually have to do this, a voice in my head reminded me. Nothing like a good ol’ dose of fear to pull my attention away from so many other emotions. Not that I was scared; I don’t get scared. I was gonna join the X-Men, but they said it’s important for their members to retain at least a small sense of fear as a tool for self-preservation, so I couldn’t join. … If only ice skating was part of their entrance exam, but their loss. Really.

It was a small group lesson, by which I mean there were only two others taking lessons and that they were very small, like under eight years of age. Not sure if that was on purpose but Sara did a good job looking surprised (she did a less good job looking sorry).

And here’s a thing no one ever thought to give me when I tried to learn to skate the last (six) time(s): a helmet. What a friggin’ breakthrough! That would be such a big help in making sure my concussion was merely moderate and not critical! Chad (I missed his real name, if he ever said it, cuz I was too busy catastrophizing in my head), even helped me sort through the bin to find the only adult-sized one while the parents helped their littles ones get theirs on. I put my own helmet on, and what a shot of confidence. Way ahead of my classmates already! Sigh …

“Everyone ready,” Chad asked and stepped onto the ice, making this gesture like it was time for the rest of of us to do the same. Which, seriously?

“Shouldn’t we watch a safety film first?” Why’s everyone laughing? I’m being serious, very very serious.

I waited my turn (while the parents literally picked their kids up under the arms and lifted them over the threshold of the door in the boards before setting them down very gentlly on the ice, keeping their hands on their shoulders to help the little kiddos balance). Yeah, no, great Christmas gift, not potentially lethal and definitely not mortifyingly embarrassing at all. Like, not only am I not six years old, but these are my permanent teeth we’re putting at risk here!

“C’mon,” Mary said and held out her hand for me as she stepped onto the ice like she wasn’t right then doing some superhero shit and I should just be able to do the same thing. But hey, good on me for keeping my shaking so well controlled it wasn’t visible to anyone else.

“Mary,” I said because I just couldn’t stay in character, “if I take out one of these kindergartners, I will never forgive myself.”

It’s a known fact that I’m bad at whispering, but I think it was more the remarkable capacity of almost brand-new ears that made it possible for a tiny voice to respond, “I’m in first grade.”

Wow I feel so much better now, and did anyone else just see those parents move this kids further away from me? I closed my eyes for a second to regather my patience only to find that I really needed all my senses to stay balanced even with Mary holding my arm. “Maybe we should’ve put some thicker padding on your butt,” Mary whispered successfully cuz she’s better at that than me too.

“Not funny.”

“You’re gonna be able to skate by the time we go home, and my name is Sara, sweetie. Sa-ra.” Ugh.

I guess the good news is I only fell once and it was on my butt, which has had a lot of practice impacting against hard surfaces (other way around, actually, but a physicist will tell you it’s the same difference). I didn’t fall the rest of the time so much as I would just keep going until I ran out of momentum and either bumped into the wall (and grabbed it before my butt could hit the ice again) or just came to a slow stop and sat down. More of a falling sit, but we’re not going to count the fall part.

“They are so adorable,” Sara said about the little tykes not literally but damn near skating rings around me. Hot damn I’m feeling good about myself! Really!

“They’re too young to know about traumatic brain injuries,” I reminded Sara. Anyone can move their body with free spirited abandon when they don’t know about traumatic brain injuries! Really. “O god, he’s coming over again.”

“He’s here to help,” Sara reminded me as Chad joined us again. Not that I disliked Chad, but I would have preferred to just fail all by lonesome (with Sara).

And what’s that he’s got? O geez, not the chair! “A lot of adult learners find it a little easier to get their feet under them if they use the chair to steady themselves. Like this,” he said as he put his hands on the back of the chair he’d brought over and pushed it in from of him as he skated. Like I didn’t already know about the chair. Not my first ice skating lesson. I know all about the damn chair. At least he called you an adult; first person to do that all day.

After Chad had given me some more pointers, I got behind the chair cuz at that point, why not? “Do you have any idea how embarrassing it is to show up to a skating lesson in a skating outfit like a huge nerd who bought the outfit but can’t actually skate and then be the only adult in the whole place wearing a helmet and pushing a chair?”

“Pretty darn embarrassing, judging by all the shades of red you’ve turned today.”

“Meanest. Sitter. Ever.”

“Not even close, cupcake. Bend your knees a little.”

But if I do that then I can’t be stiff as board, and my anxiety is telling me I should be stiff as a board right now. “I’d rather not.” Wow, how calmly and politely I said that.

“Just try it. It’ll help.”

“Fine, but anything I hurt you’re rubbing later.” That’s called making a good deal.

And then the lesson over and not a moment too soon. I asked, “Can we leave now, please?”

“Nope.”

“What!?! Why not,” I didn’t whine even thought The Anti-Whining Society of Wisconsin would’ve agree it was justified if I had … which I didn’t. Really.

“Because you’re not done skating,” Sara said once more like she was delivering the best news since ever.

“I so am!” I. Was. So. Done.

“Have you had fun yet,” she asked.

“No.” True story.

“Then you’re not done skating.”

“Saraaaa!”

“Nope. Grab your helmet.”

“The lesson is over. What if someone else needs it?”

“I don’t think that’ll be an issue.” I mean, almost certainly not, but how rude to say so. Amiright? I mean, honestly, the nerve.

“Well, what if we go get some cocoa first?”

“I know that trick. By the time we stand in line, you get through pretending it’s too hot to drink, and sip it down a milliliter at a time, it’ll be time to go home.” Whoa, she really does know that trick. Not that that was exactly what I was gonna do, but yes it was.

“But …”

“Daphne Ann Schmidt,” she said not as quietly as I would’ve liked, loud and crowded skating rink notwithstanding, “you can skate with a freshly spanked bottom, or not. Your choice. Three …” Definitely not as quietly as I would’ve liked.

“Not,” I sighed.

“Exactly what I would’ve chosen. Let’s go.”

If I were actually good at it, skating hand in hand with ‘Sara’ while wearing a leotard (in public!) would’ve been one the all-time great things I ever got to do. The only thing tighter than her hand was the leotard, and that’s exactly how I like both of those things. Not that we didn’t look a little weird, me dressed like a skating princess and Sara in jeans and a college sweatshirt looking decidedly less finicky about her appearance, which is when I muttered, “We look so gay right now,” and couldn’t help chuckling. Neither outfit reflects what we look like or who we are every day, but we definitely fit one stereotype of a lesbian couple.

Then something terrible happened. No, I didn’t get hurt (thank goodness!) or hurt anyone else (thank god!). Something almost as bad. I started to get a little good at skating, which in itself is great … but it proved Sara right. Worse, I started to have fun. Just terrible. I hate proving my people right when I’ve put so much work into insisting they’re wrong. Which is a thing that doesn’t make me a brat even a little bit. Really.

“Leggo,” I told Sara.

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah. Heehee!” She let go of my hand, and in a moment I’ll never live down even if I live long enough to marry my babysitter, I actually said, “I’m doing it! I’m really doing it!” At least I didn’t go wheeee! And I loved-hated-loved how proud I felt when Sara clapped for me. Pretty sure I was starting to like her again. Why else care what she thought of me? (Cuz it’s not like I’m ever insecure of anything. Really).

A half hour later, “It’s almost time to go home.”

“Five more times,” I asked. Not pleaded, asked. Like a mature adult who needed permission from their babysitter. Not like I’m the only one, right? Right?

“Three,” she said and held up three fingers like I needed a visual aid which is a thing a person might reasonably conclude if they are the babysitter of a mature adult. Not that I mind it or ever overanalyze anything while writing in my diary that no one else will ever read.

Back in our dressing room, our windburnt cheeks aglow and steam practically rising from Sara’s sweatshirt, I cowgirled up and said, “Thank you. That was fun after all.” How very magnanimous of me, I know.

“You’re very welcome. You can have all sorts of fun if you just listen to your caregivers.” She pulled off her sweatshirt, and underneath she was wearing this white tee that looked a little damp from exertion. Not that I was staring. “Now, let’s get my little skater ready for the drive home.”

“This is so cool,” I said.

“What’s that, sweetie?”

“I know how to skate. Finally … Can we have my next birthday at a skating rink?” I was the only girl in my whole class who never had a birthday party at a skating rink! I have lost time to make up for!

“I don’t see why not, and there are plenty of places closer to home you can skate at too.”

“Can I wear the outfit,” I said maybe a little flirtatiously.

“Of course you can,” she chuckled as she started taking said outfit off me. “Ya know, you’re becoming quite the shapely young woman. At this rate, you might even have B-cups one day.” That stung a little, but just then I liked her, so I didn’t call her on it.

First the skirt came off, then she started taking the leotard off me. “Sara, is it normal for me to feel … tingly when I wear this outfit?” Trying to start something? Who, me? Never.

“Daphne, I understand that at your age, you’re having lots of feelings you don’t understand, but that’s more a question for your mom than your babysitter.”

“I’m gonna ask my friend Mary tonight. She knows lots of stuff.” Not that I was derpily excited because of my accomplishment, but (squeee!!!!) I was and was looking forward to tell Mary all about it. And my mom and dad. They’d be so proud of me too (awww!). And maybe flustered cuz it’s not like they didn’t try to teach me for nearly nine years. Perhaps it was so diffuclt for me to learn because I was something of a willful child; hard to imagine, I know.

“Let’s see if my awesome skater managed to keep her pull-up … Nope, but that’s okay. Did you know you’re wet, honey?”

“Yeah,” I said ever so much less excited, absorbent undergarments I don’t need always having that effect on me, as Sara took my leggings off.

“Why didn’t you tell me you needed a potty break?”

“Are you mad?” As in angry, not crazy. Clearly she’s crazy, clearly.

“Of course not, sweetheart. Did you know you needed a potty break?”

“I thought I was supposed to use them.”

“You’re supposed to use your diapers, honey, but when you’re in pull-ups …”

“You called them diapers!”

Sara’s I-done-been-called-out face. Ha! “I did, didn’t I?” She tore the sides and pulled it from between my thighs.

“Yes, which makes it all your fault, but I forgive you cuz I had a fun day anyway.”

“Well thank you; that’s very big of you for such a little girl. And I think maybe having your pull-ups on probably helped you learn to skate today. You woulda lost a lot of practice time if you had to make so many trips to the potty.”

“It wouldn’t have been that many trips.” I may – who’s to say? – have poked my tongue out at her.

“Really,” she said and hefted the pull-up in her hand before tossing it up a few inches like a softball. “Cuz it feels like at least three trips to me.”

         “Um, really … I’m not blushing, you are!”

         “Well, you’re the best skater and potty pants I know.” I let that go cuz just then I was liking her. And normally I’d be embarrassed to leave one of those in a public trashcan, but I’d be much more embarrassed to leave it in my parents’ trashcan, as we’d already done a couple times. My parents must think we have some weird hang up about taking out the trash every day (or more).

         “Put this on while I get your things ready,” she said and handed me a dry tee.

When my head popped out, I couldn’t help but ask, “Why do I hafta wear a diaper?” Cuz o look, she got out a diaper. What a predictable and predicted surprise.

“I thought we agreed you wouldn’t argue about your diapers anymore today.”

“I’m not arguing, but couldn’t I wear one of the pull-ups instead?” No point negotiating for panties. Aim for the possible.

“Sorry, but anytime you might fall asleep, you need to be in diapers, and you know that rule so don’t even try me. I can still redden your bottom today.”

Eep! But nonetheless, “But I’m not gonna fall asleep.”

“Lay down,” she said, pointing from me to the diaper she had laid open on the bench. Having made a promise and not wanting to get my bare bottom spanked in the changing room (well, at least not right then), I did. “I know all about girls your age,” she said as she wiped me down and sprinkled powder on me. “They all think they’re grown-ups, but after an active day like today with all this fresh air and practically bouncing from excitement, you’ll be asleep in the backseat in twenty minutes.”

She finished taping me into the diaper (one of the bunny ones) and reached into what was starting to seem like a bottomless bag for a pair of sweatpants for me. Better than leggings considering, but not as good as jeans.

“Shoot,” she said as she dug through the bag.

“What?”

“I forgot to bring a clean outfit for myself.”

“That’s okay. You don’t stink too bad.” Me? A brat? Where do these rumors get started?

“Said Little Miss Potty Pants,” she retorted and playfully smacked my butt. I let that go too. And isn’t it just like Sara to take such good care of me that she totally forgets to take care of herself? I so have a crush on my babysitter!

We stopped for pizza on the way home, and when we got home, I dashed for my bedroom, leaving Sara holding the pizza and my mom chuckling, “She’s always had a tiny bladder. All the stops on trips, remember, honey,” she asked my dad, who responded with a dad noise that I think means yes.

Or that’s just a thing Sara made up to make me squirm. She found me in my bedroom and wanted to debrief on the day. “Did you have fun?”

“Yes, really. Thanks for taking me and making me try it.”

“You’re welcome. And did anyone make fun of you for what you were wearing?”

“Not that I know of,” if we’re not counting Sara. Pretty sure someone out of that crowd had to have remarked on the woman in the figure skater outfit taking lessons with little kids.

“I didn’t think so. You were cute as a diaper pin today.”

“Saraaa.”

“Just teasing. I had a really good time with you today. A little rough start, but you were a good girl all afternoon.” O my god! My babysitter thinks I was a good girl! Squeee!

“Does that mean you won’t tell Mom and Dad that you needed to …”

“Spank your bare bottom?” I nodded. “No need to be embarrassed. Sometimes girls like you need their bare bottoms spanked. Needing some firm guidance is nothing to be ashamed of. In fact, some girls never grow out of needing it, and there’s nothing wrong with that.”

“O good, cuz I worried about that,” I couldn’t help but joke. I giggled, and Sara tickled me on my side for just a second, and I tried hard and didn’t even squeal. Really.

“How’s your diaper? Wet?”

“I don’t need changed.”

“That’s very good, but that’s not what I asked you.”

“Pizza first. Please?” Cuz we didn’t stop for lunch, and I expended some serious calories just be anxious and I didn’t have any protein (understanding now why that’s a thing), and I needed to eat something before I got dizzy. Only reason. It’s a hazard of being smol. Really.

“Look at me,” Sara said, and I think she mean look up cuz I was already looking at her. She must not have liked something cuz instead of making smart remark, she said, “You need to eat something.”

“I just said that,” is a think I said.

“But before we go downstairs, I want you to know I really mean it – I had a great time with you today. One of our best days ever?”

“One of our best days ever.” We exchanged a very good hug, and I got a kiss on my forehead, which I always like.

“Put this on,” Sara said when she got a long cardigan out for me to wear. The kind that goes past my butt. “Go on down and start without me. I need to change.”

“Does that mean you’re not coming downstairs?”

“Nope. I’m going straight home.”

“O. “Do you think after I go home, you could come visit me sometimes?”

“Ha. I’d like that very much.”

“Thanks for making my day so special.”

“Thank you, Daffodil. Run along and tell your Mom and Dad what a good skater you are.” She sent me on my way with a swat on my butt, which I saw coming but didn’t try to dodge because reasons.

As I was descending the stairs, straining to hear if I was crinkling (pretty sure I wasn’t?), it struck me: Why the #!$@$% do I feel like I just said goodbye to Mary @#$@$% Poppins!?! Get a grip! Geez!

“Daffy, there you are,” my Mary said to me when she came downstairs.

“Mary!” And you better believe I koala’ed her like a tree. Why the #!$@$% do I feel like Mary just got home from a business trip!?! Doesn’t matter. I like her and stuff.

“Is everything okay,” Dad asked, “Look like you haven’t seen each other all day.”

“We’re fine,” Mary said as she rubbed my back while I blushed and only partly let go of Mary.

“Is it … Is it a lesbian thing,” he asked quietly.

“Daddyyy! You’ve been making that same joke for twenty years.” I saw it coming the moment he did that thing with his eyes where he pretends he’s looking to make sure we’re alone, and I just had to stand there and let it happen.

“Because it still makes you laugh.”

“Yeah, but … So?”

“I don’t know how you handle her, Mary, but thank you for taking such good care of her for me.”

“My very happy pleasure.” Ooo, she’s smiling at me.

“Besides,” I said, “I take care of her.”

“That’s true,” Mary replied. Hey, who’s squeezing my butt and where is that barely audible crinkling coming from?

[AndTheChips]

D-Da-daff uhhhh marrrr-um-Sara Sh-she- th-the-they uhhhh I-I um hmmmmpfshdkfiwuanhshagsyhx ?????

[Alex Bridges]

6 minutes ago, AndTheChips said:

D-Da-daff uhhhh marrrr-um-Sara Sh-she- th-the-they uhhhh I-I um hmmmmpfshdkfiwuanhshagsyhx ?????

I know exactly what you mean ?

[Sarah Penguin]

*transmutes the author into a cloth diapered platypus* fun 

 

[AndTheChips]

3 hours ago, Alex Bridges said:

I know exactly what you mean ?

Knew you would ?

[Alex Bridges]

It would be super appreciated if folks could leave a review or rating on Vol 7

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09MDDBTKN

[BabyLock]

50 minutes ago, Alex Bridges said:

It would be super appreciated if folks could leave a review or rating on Vol 7

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09MDDBTKN

How do the Scenes relate to the Volume number ?

I.E.

Volume 1 - Scenes 1 thru xx

Volume 2 - Scenes xx thru xxx

Volume 3 - Scenes xxx thru xxxx

Etc.

 

Oh ! and there is an awful {delightful} amount of pleasurable material here !

[Alex Bridges]

2 hours ago, BabyLock said:

How do the Scenes relate to the Volume number ?

I.E.

Volume 1 - Scenes 1 thru xx

Volume 2 - Scenes xx thru xxx

Volume 3 - Scenes xxx thru xxxx

Etc.

 

Oh ! and there is an awful {delightful} amount of pleasurable material here !

Regarding the scenes, I’d have to check. I try to break it up around the 20 scenes/200 page range.

That (1) keeps the printing cost down and (2) makes it more manageable to proof/edit/revise, which in turns means releasing books more often. If I waited until the very end to do that, it would take me YEARS to have the time and motivation to proof/edit/revise and release (which is what happened to both volumes of Done Adulting, though I’m starting to get a handle on those now). 

 

And so glad you’re enjoying it!

[Alex Bridges]

Scene #149

 

         “Hey,” I said as I woke up to someone stroking my hair. “You been there the whole time?”

         “Yeah,” the hair stroker said. “Sandy is going to bring one by and leave it on the doorstep.”

         “I don’t have covid,” I told Mary. “But thank you.” I’m not short of breath, coughing, wheezing, stuffed up, or sore throated.

         “Better safe than sorry. Being sick can cause flare ups.”

A flare up. I had a headache and muscle aches and my joints hurt and I was exhausted and sometimes even my skin hurt in places for a little bit. That comes and goes pretty quick, but the achiness and fatigue were just there.

Me and my autoimmune condition have lived in relative détente for a while. No real issues of late, at least not lasting longer than a day or two and even then, just one or two symptoms, not a bunch at once or all over. For some reason that really sucks, it had been a bunch at once for three days the week we got back from Wisconsin. And Mary’s right, a little infection, something as simple as cold can set it off. Or stress or changes in the weather or even a big hormone shift. Or nothing at all, at least nothing I can single out, like this time.

I’ve mostly been in bed. When I had a job, I would give it a day of rest and then power through it, or try to, and miraculously that didn’t work and typically just made it last longer. But I don’t work anymore, and I have this nice person to take care of me. So bed. It’s actually good to still move and even exercise, but I wasn’t feeling up to it, and when I tried to make myself do it anyway, Mary just kept taking my hand and making me sit down. I think she hid my workout shoes during one my naps. She’s kinda a pushy nurse. Not gonna lie.

“How’s your diaper?” O yeah, the rule that if I’m sick, I have to be in a diaper. She thinks she’s so clever counting seasonal allergies as being sick. But actually sick? I still don’t like it and usually put up a fuss (which usually just gets me called a fussy little girl and a smack on the thigh to get me hold still). But right then, I was way too into hating corporeal existence right then to care (like seriously, I could so totally skip having a body at all if it’s gonna feel this way; just put my brain in cyborg). She reached down all on her own and checked and must’ve been satisfied.

         “Are you hungry,” she asked me, being all affectionate and stuff.

         “No.”

         “Well, you need to eat something. What can I get you?”

         “Nothing right now.”

         “I spank little girls’ bottoms even when they don’t feel well.” She takes my eating so super serious all the time, but when I don’t feel well, she turns into my grandmother and just can’t stop offering me food. Of course, had I accepted one of those offers earlier, she might have stopped for a while.

         And that threat was so transparently empty. “No you don’t.”

At least not this kind of not feeling well. She knows better. She tried it once when I had a flare up back when we were dating and she moved in with me for a few days (cuz she liked me a bunch and still does). Trying to cheer me up and thinking she was being cute, I was shuffling across the living room in my slippers, and she asked me (surprise!) what she could make me, and I got grumpy cuz (surprise!) it was the fourth time in forty-five minutes that she asked me that. I told her nothing kinda sharply (well, the first three times were very nicely declined).

She reached over and just tapped me on the butt, and while I think I meant to say ‘Urgh! Fine. Macaroni,’ what came out instead was, “Waaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh! Boohoohoohoo WAAAAAHHHHH!!!!” And so on and so forth. Except harder and with sooo much self-pity. Mary set a world record for apologizing and getting almost as teary as me. Then she made me a sandwich. Since I’ve known her, Mary says tears don’t stop a spanking, but yeah they do under the right circumstances.

         “We can order in. I’ll get you anything you want, but you can’t go all day without eating.”

         “All the good foods make it worse.” True story. It’s as if my body is trying to tell me that whatever is in a hotdog isn’t healthy for it or something. Strange, that.

         “Daphne.” Hmm. Mary’s yes-you-are face. She saves it for when she’s adamant that yes, I am gonna do what she says. If I ignore it, she escalates (she’s always escalating stuff) to her fine-I’ll-just-make-you-then face. Not that she could actually make me right then because her toolbox of coercive measures was just about empty. What was she gonna do? Ground me to the bedroom? Make me hurt all over? I already did.

         “Soup please.”

And just like that, her anything-for-you face. “What kind?”

         “Hot and sour, and chicken noodle.”

         “Done.” With a mere tap of her finger, Mary made soup appear (in 45 minutes via DoorDash). She’s magic like that. In the meantime, she made her I’m-sorry-you-don’t-feel-well-face and combined it with her does-it-feel-good-when-do-this hands. Normally, yeah. Mary’s hand on my cheek feels wonderful.

         “Not there, please.” Neuropathy. It’s like having a rash or a sunburn except not. It just hurts to the touch (or sometimes even to make any movement that even tightens it, like smiling), and it’s always on places where the skin is sensitive anyway like my temple and cheek and my sides and the inside of my forearms. Mary’s I’m-sorry-this-sucks-so-hard sigh.

         I didn’t start having symptoms until I was in college, and when I got diagnosed my Mom, bless her heart, said not to bother getting upset about it. She was secretly super upset about it, but she didn’t want me to be and thought I’d move on to the this-is-just-my-burden-to-carry phase of acceptance if I just … did, I suppose. And actually, I didn’t have a hard time accepting it because back then the symptoms were few and far between. But like most things, they got a little more frequent with time. And they’re still infrequent, just not totally absent. Color me impressed with myself cuz with all the stress of almost two years of pandemic, this was my first big flare up. If I had predicted it, it would’ve been my tenth or twelfth. Not that I did anything to avoid it. Just happened that way.

         “Hey Mary?”

         “Yeah, baby?”

         “Thanks for taking care of me.”

         “You are very welcome. You wanna watch a movie until dinner gets here?”

         “No,” I said in my I’m-about-to-cry voice, which made Mary make her what’s-happening-face with the furrowed brow and inquisitive eyes. “I’m fine. I just don’t wanna be brave right now.”

         “You can cry and be brave at the same time.”

Offer the fuck accepted! “(Weepy girl noises) (sniffles) (tiny sobs muffled by bedclothes and Mary’s sweatpants).”

“I know. My brave girl. You wanna crawl across my lap and let me rub your butt?"

"A-after d-din-ner."

"My brave girl."

[Sarah Penguin]