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

[diaperboymi]

OMG...i LOVE this story.   Thank you fitte thre Wonderful update!!!!!!

[Sarah Penguin]

Get her a Mary  stuffy for her to take care of and diapper her just like Mary does ::)

[Alex Bridges]

10 hours ago, Sarah Penguin said:

Get her a Mary  stuffy for her to take care of and diapper her just like Mary does ::)

I was going to add in a joke about getting a custom Real Doll in case Mary ever travels for work again, but I left it out ?

[diaperboymi]

That would be Great.   If not that then maybe an American Girl doll that looks like Mary.

[Sarah Penguin]

1 hour ago, Alex Bridges said:

I was going to add in a joke about getting a custom Real Doll in case Mary ever travels for work again, but I left it out ?

If only you publishyed in a mutable media instead of carving your words from immutable steel.

[Alex Bridges]

Scene #156

        

         When you’re single, Valentine’s Day sucks. No two ways about it: it sucks. When you have a partner, you get to choose whether it sucks. Some people think it’s just a greeting card holiday, and some people see it as an opportunity to be all lovey dovey and stuff. I take the latter approach, as is my wont cuz I’m as sunny as sunshine. I am goddam friggin delightful. “There goes Daphne,” people say, “She is such a delight.” Mhmm, that’s a thing people say about me. But delightfulness and a heck yeah attitude toward the holiday isn’t always enough to figure out what to get your Mary for Valentine’s.

       “Daphne,” Mary said. It’s not how she said it that made me jump. It was when she said it, specifically when I was rifling through her drawers.

       “O. Hi.”

       “What are you up to?”

       “Rifling through your drawers trying to think of something to get you for Valentine’s Day.”

       “We’ve talked about you going in my drawers,” she said with the same smile she-wolves make when they approach bunny.

       “Yeah, about that: I couldn’t help but notice you don’t mind it when I’m putting your laundry away.”

       “Tsk tsk tsk. Such a sass muffin.”

       “Well, you won’t find those in a bakery … Wanna go to a bakery later?” That’s where they keep delights to delight delightful me. The person who thought to put chocolate in the croissant is my hero. Blessings and sunlight be upon them all their days.

       Mary did a reach-around and closed her drawer (that’s what a reach around is, right? I don’t know these things; I’m very innocent and sexually inexperienced – really). And then she put her hands on my hips and pivoted me around before leaning forward and giving me a kiss that almost knocked me off my feet. I think she’s hopelessly in love with me or something. As for myself, I like to think of it as hopefully in love with her, glass half full and what not.

       “Ya know, Mary,” I said and maybe sorta kind definitely put my hand on her chest, “it’s almost as if you’re hiding my Valentine’s Day present in your drawers what with the drawer shutting and maybe-this’ll-distract-her kiss.

       “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

       “Yes. Yes, I would.” That’s why I said it.

       “Tough. You have to wait.”

       “Fine,” I said and tried to do the thing she just did with the grabbing the hips and pivoting her around but, um, I’m not as strong as she is, plus she has six inches on me so she has leverage … and stuff.

But I did make her lose her balance and almost trip over me. She didn’t, but only because she planted her hand on my shoulder and almost knocked me flat on my ass, then grabbed me by the arm to save me from a broken butt. It’s sort of amazing anyone has ever dated me. Rewinding a bit, Mary was taking a huge risk trying to teach me to ice skate. I could’ve maimed both of us plus everyone within an ice rink radius.

       But in the then-present, I apologized for my faux pas. “Um, oops? You okay?” See how polite I can be after almost knocking my wife down? Very polite. Apologetic and polite and with, I’m told, a very cute oops-how-embarrassing grimace.

       And Mary makes this kinda sweet I-don’t-know-what’s-passing-through-your-head-sometimes face. “There goes Daphne,” people say, “the source of much consternation.” Yep, that’s also a thing that people say about me.

       “What exactly were you trying to do there, little girl?”

       “Spin you toward the bed so we could fall back on it and look at each other with big gay eyes.” What I lack in physical prowess and coordination I make up for in word choice and timing. True story. Also, I actually have all the physical prowess … so I got that going for me.

       Mary grinned at me, and no sooner did I suspect her intentions when she grasped me by the hips again with a “You mean like this?”

       “Woah! Ha! Yeah, like that. Heehee.” Wow; so this is what it’s like to be laying on a bed with a beautiful woman. Pretty awesome. But seriously, how does she do that? It’s not like she’s Superwoman (at least not since this one Halloween at band camp).

       “Your eyes are so gay,” she said to me.

       “No you.” That’s a trick I learned. Whenever you get a compliment, just say ‘no you’ and the other person will get squirmy and think you’re nice and also so cute. Not that I ever play tricks on my Mary, but …

       “You’re so cute.”

       “Ha! Hahuheeheehee!”

       “What are you giggling about?”

       “I’m happy.” And here’s a secret for you – right then, Mary kissed me. Girls kissing girls. Whoever heard of such a thing, and why aren’t there public service announcements letting the whole world know how awesome it is? And why doesn’t the news cover it with, like, a thirty-second video of at the top of each segment?

       But awesome or not, I still had to tell her, “But you still haven’t given me any ideas for Valentine’s. What do you want?”

       “I want … Hmmm. I don’t want anything. I already have a little girl.”

       “Can I meet her? I promise I’ll be nice and won’t bully her or anything.”

       “You think you’re so clever.” Ooo, she tapped my nose! O my heccin goodness she tapped my nose! I LIKE that. I like like it and everything. Sigh … nose taps. Also I’m not a little girl. Really.

       “Besides,” she said to me, “you couldn’t bully anyone if you tried. You’re too kindhearted.

       “I can too bully people. I can be mean. You’ve heard my rants. I say all kinds of mean things.”

       “Mhmm. Your temper tantrums can be quite the verbal fireworks show, plus it’s cute the way you turn all red and clench your fists and stomp your little feet. In fact, I’d say you have the most adorablly ineffectual temper tantrums I’ve ever seen in an adult.”

       Ugh! That is so mean! Can you believe she says these things about me? My Mary has no social graces a’tall. “You better say something nice about me next.”

       “The reason you can’t bully people is because you are too good a girl.”

       Heehee! “Um, would you even say that I’m a very good girl? Maybe even a very very good girl?”

       “That’s what I tell people.”

       “Aww, you go around bragging about me? You’re so sweet.”

       “Mhmm. I’m always telling people ‘sorry for her behavior; she really is a very very good girl.’”

       “If we’d done more stuff and gone more places in the last two years, I’d probably believe you actually said that to someone.” I may not be mean, but I can be mischievous, over excited, and every so often short tempered. Sometimes Mary makes me apologize; sometimes she even makes me mean it; and sometimes Mary takes me to the nearest private place for a … conversation about good choices. Yep, just a conversation. A regular Algonquin Roundtable … complete with paddling and stuff.

       “But we’re still talking about me,” I said. “What do you want for Valentine’s Day? Try harder.” If gotta boss her into giving me an idea of what to give her, I will. Not that I didn’t have ideas, but they were birthday, anniversary, and Christmas ideas. I needed a Valentine’s Day-sized idea.

       “Um … I want a … surprise.”

       “You’re about as helpful as burnt toast sometimes.” One time she burnt the toast so bad, the smell gave me a headache and she took me to breakfast. And one time the following weekend, I turned the toaster way up when I thought she wasn’t looking, and she took me to a chair and put me over her knee. Just shows that even brilliant economists such as myself can get our reward-to-risk calculations wrong, but in my defense, it’s notoriously hard to contextualize the true value of restaurant waffles. Just look at what they cost – that much happiness for just three dollars? Ridiculously underpriced. True story.

       “I want an experience,” Mary said.

       “Do you want a surprising experience or an experiential surprise?” I’ll get her either one; I just wanna be sure cuz I don’t wanna get her something she won’t like.

       “Incapable of being mean, but fully capable of being a sassy molassey.”

       “By the way, I looked that up, and it’s not a word.”

       Mary’s you-really-wanna-go-down-that-road face. Huh. Wonder what she meant by that, and lucky for me, she told me. “You, telling me, that something’s not a word. That’s … okay.” Mary’s I’m-gonna-let-that-go face. What could she mean by that?

       “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Really.”

       “You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.”

       “Of course it does. So you know what I want for Valentine’s Day?” Changing the subject? Me? Never. I don’t avoid the tough conversations. I go straight at them. That’s me – damn the torpedoes and all that jazz.

       “But I already got you your Valentine’s Day present.”

       “I know. I was talking about something else. Something I think I’m gonna get myself.”

       “Is it under the hundred-dollar limit?”

       “Yes, and we need to talk about that number not having changed in almost seven years, but just to clear, I wasn’t asking permission.” You’d think from the face Mary made that I’d sent a red flag up the mizzen. But I didn’t. Really.

       “So what is this thing you want to buy yourself?”

       “You know how the stores have peanut butter hearts back in stock?”

       “You can have one.” She even put up one finger to illustrate her point. I like that finger. It does some pretty cool stuff. But I don’t especially care for it when she uses it for illustrative purposes cuz I almost never like the point she’s trying to illustrate.

       “I don’t understand your puritanical attitude about chocolate and peanut butter confections.” I mean, why would my Mary align herself with the Puritans? They very much would not align themselves with us.

       “They turn you into a crazy person.”

       “Leading experts say sugar highs are largely a myth.”

       “I know. That’s what makes it even weirder how you behave on them. It’s like you found a drug that only works on you. You can have two, and not on the same day. Or on back-to-back days. You on peanut butter cups runs me ragged.”

       Many is the time Mary has put me over her knee because she says I listen better in that position, but I think Mary is the one with the listening disorder. I already told her I wasn’t asking permission, and there she was trying to dictate terms. But we were having such pleasant quality time that I didn’t want to make things awkward or hostile. I decided to just nip this conversation right in the bud. “I have to show you something.”

       “It better not be a candy stash,” she warned me as I got off our marital bed.

       “Remember when we ordered Chinese last week,” I asked as I stepped over to my jewelry box and got out my precious.

       “Yeah.”

       “They sent three fortune cookies, and PS, I ate the extra one, and this was my fortune: ‘You should be able to undertake and complete anything you desire.’” My precious.

       And Mary, see, she’s very smart but has trouble keeping up with me sometimes, and I could tell it was one of those times cuz she was making her I-don’t-get-it face. “I don’t get it.” See how well I know her? “What’s that have to do with what we were just talking about.”

       “It says I can have and do whatever I want.”

       Mary’s deep skepticism face. “Um, no, it doesn’t.”

       “Sure it does. If I undertake the doing or having of things, I’ll be able to complete – a/k/a do and have – all the things I desire. It’s just a fancy way of saying I can do and have anything I want. That’s what it says, and I want peanut butter hearts, so I shall have them.”

I’m both a sympathetic and empathetic person. I can understand how difficult it must have been for Mary to understand her authority had been usurped by a cookie. I can understand her discomfort with the entire notion. I mean, if I were a dominant, I’d probably think it was downright dangerous for them to even make such a cookie and leave them where submissives could get their hands on them. I’d think it was dangerous and immoral, especially since all everyone knows if there’s a cookie somewhere, submissives will find it.

       “That’s what you think it says, huh?”

“Mhmm. It’s quite clear. I can do and have anything I want. It’s pretty awesome actually.” Bit of a head rush.

“Let me see that,” Mary sat right up and said with her hand outstretched. I mean, geez, grabby hands much? She seemed awfully alert all of a sudden, one might even say ready to spring into action, perhaps even get online and organize a dominant boycott of the fortune cookie company.

       “Are your hands clean?” What? It’s a valid question.

       “Daphne Ann.” Whoa. Doubled naming me. It’s not unheard of for the very recently deposed to try to exert the power they had mere moments ago. She needed time to adjust. I understood. She was under a lot of stress just then; being dethroned, as far as I can tell cuz I’ve been on the throne all my life, seems very traumatic.

       But there is a certain protocol to these things, and she had a right to see it. “Be careful with it,” I instructed her, “It’s an official document.” I duly handed over my precious.

       Mary read it, looked up at me, read it again, and said, “Stop smiling.”

       “So I’m going to get all the peanut butter hearts they have at the store, and then I’m going to go to a few more stores, and then I’m going to go to Target and buy a mini fridge to keep them all in.”

       “This is exactly the weird behavior I’m talking about, and you haven’t even tasted one yet.”

       “I’m sorry you feel that way.” Hmm. Why are her eyes narrowing like that? “Hey,” I said as she put my fortune in her pocket. “I need that.”

       “Stay.”

       “I won’t stay, but I’ll wait patiently because I’m in charge of me but I’m still polite,” I said as she strode across the room like the sheriff in an old western. How sad that she hadn’t yet grasped that she was no longer the law around these parts. “It’s alright with me if you wanna hang on to that for a little while until you get used to the idea, by the way. Just give it back by bedtime.” See? See how considerate I am?

       “I’ll give it back to you in just a minute,” she said like the sheriff in an old western striding back across the room carrying a … naughty stick and giant pampers? I’d never seen either of them before. Really hope neither was my Valentine’s Day present; how disappointing would that be. But bigger picture, do you see? You see how she’s the aggressor? Like all tyrants, even the benevolent ones like my Mary, she’s always so ready so resort to coercion. I mean, who buys a stick just for chastising their wife (besides the very best kind of people)?

       “On your back,” she ordered like authority was still a thing she had. I was going to let her stay on in a ceremonial capacity, or sort like the founder of a company who retires but still comes to work every day like they’re still in charge only now they wear a sweater instead of a suit. If she’d picked any battle besides peanut butter and chocolate, I’d have let her do that. I’d have even gotten her some nice house slippers to wear in her forced retirneemnt. But she sealed her fate when she tried yet again to get between me and the peanut butter.

       “I don’t wear diapers anymore, and you can’t spank me.”

       Hmm. Mary’s hell-hath-no-fury face. What an … unsettling reaction.

       “Um …”

       “I’m going to count to three.” Almost like she didn’t accept the authority of the cookie to take away her authority over me and put that authority under my authority. And remember when Mary implied I don’t always make sense? What was up with that?

       “I’m not a toddler,” I reminded her. “I’m not impressed by counting.”

       “One.”

       “I didn’t have a choice. You have to obey fortune cookies. It’s the law.”

       “Two.”

       “I’m not even intimidated by the way you’re slapping that stick into your palm.”

       What happened next is one of those things historians will debate: did she say ‘three’ before my back hit the bed? I was there in the room, and I don’t even know. Not that I surrendered. I just … decided to let her have this one. Call it Stick-holder Management – sometimes you hafta let a stick-holder think they’ve won to pave the way for confrontations down the road.

       Mary let her guard down just enough to flash a situation-defused face. Or maybe it was more of a Daphne-should-learn-that-when-she-tries-these-things-she-just-makes-herself-vulnerable face. And if it was the latter, I have no idea what she was talking about. Really.

       “I think I understand what you’re trying to tell me – hands above your head,” Mary said as she untied the bow in the drawstring holding up my sweatpants. Maybe I should use some of my free time to learn more difficult knots she’ll have a harder time undoing. “You’ve been such a good girl lately …”

       O my gosh she really thinks so?!?

       “… that I haven’t been as strict as I should’ve been. I mean, if you felt the need to make up that scene with the cigarettes, that must’ve been your way of telling me I haven’t been spanking you often enough or hard enough or long enough. I apologize for missing your signal, but I promise I’ll correct that mistake.”

       Something about being naked below the waist while a tall, strong woman wielding a big stick stands over you just has a way of making you feel vulnerable. Maybe science will one day be able to tell us why that is. I found it especially disconcerting as I’ve never felt exposed or vulnerable in all my life.

       “It really is just about the peanut butter,” I said very calmly for someone feeling so disconcerted. In any case, I thought I’d been admirably clear about my stance. Isn’t it just like a stick-holder to read way more into what you’ve been saying than is really there? Silly stick-holders.

       “But then,” Mary Monologue soliliquyed as she unfolded that diaper, “we’ve gone through so many cycles of strict and very strict, and the effects never last for very long, so maybe such a little girl trying to take on so much responsibility for herself is really trying to say she needs even more doting and attentive care.”

       Hmmm. Mary’s I’ve-got-her-cornered face. “I, um, just want more peanut butter hearts than you let me have.” I’m very reasonable. I can scale back my demands. “There goes Daphne,” people say, “a pleasure to negotiate with. She knows when to scale back her demands.” Yep, that’s one more thing people say about me. I’m the friggin talk of the town.

       “It’s so cute that you think so, but little girls so often don’t know what they want or need or even mean.”

       So I was going to remind her I’m not a little girl, but something about the way she was smiling so adoringly and threateningly at the same time made me decide to remind her later. Good thing I (mostly but also all the times) like it when she adores and threatens me at the same time. True story.

       “But I’ll humor my little girl,” she said as she glanced from the stick on her right side to the diaper on her left. “What do you think you need: some extra strictness, or some extra care?”

       I think I’ve lost control of the narrative. Let’s just try this. “I don’t think you’re taking the fortune cookie seriously enough.”

       “Mhmm,” she patronized me. The faux interested in the way she wrinkled her brow practically shouted, tell me more about that.

       “Um, see, they may not be legally binding, but,uh … mystically speaking, they do tell the future. And that’s my destiny, apparently … getting to do whatever I want. You wouldn’t, um, wanna deprive a pretty girl of her destiny … would you?”

       “Daphne.”

       “So what if I only follow my destiny specifically for candy and only until after Easter?” That’s the start of the dry season when there are no more holiday-themed peanut butter treats until Halloween. We could even consider a trial period; we could go back to her way of peanut butter deprivation if it didn’t work. I mean, if peanut butter has such a strong effect on me, that’s plenty of time to remove any doubt as to whether my behavior on peanut butter is as self-destructive as she says. Heccin good logic, by the way.

       “I’m going to pick for you,” she responded. Quite the firm negotiator, my re-throned queen.

       “So we’re on the same page, doting means I’m wearing that diaper, and strict means you’re gonna spank me back to the stick age?”

       “Wearing diapers, with an ‘s,’ but other than that you seem to understand it perfectly.”

       “Any chance if I choose the stick I’m not going to end up in diapers?”

       “No; sorry.” I know my Mary, and she wasn’t sorry at all. Fibber.

       “And would I be correct to assume that choosing the diaper doesn’t mean the stick goes in the fire pit?”

       “Quite correct.” She winked at me! Who winks at a time like this? Like she was raised in a barn sometimes. “But if you choose diapers, the stick goes back in the closet until your choices tell me you need it applied to your bare bottom.” I took a deep breath and pushed it out as a big sigh through my nose. “Don’t you go getting huffy with me,” she gently warned me.

       “I wasn’t gonna … How many diapers?”

       “That depends on heavy a wetter you are.”

       “So, how many hours?”

       “168 hours. Probably easier for a little girl like you to of it as seven days. That way you only have one digit to wrap your little girl mind around.”

       Dammit! “Can I … hold the stick first?” It looked heavy.

       “I’m gonna choose for you.”

Big sigh again. “The diapers.” I was gonna end up in them anyway, and I’ll tell you something else for free: we have so many spanking implements, Mary only buys a new one when she thinks it’ll hurt more than all the ones we already have. I’ve heard about naughty sticks. I did NOT want my first experience of one to be a (allegedly) bad girl spanking.

       “You’re the boss.”

       “That’s just mean,” I said as I crossed my arms.

“Lift your butt.” She got the diaper situated under me. “And I haven’t forgotten about your fortune cookie. You can have it back.”

       I watched, horrified, as she withdrew my precious from her pocket and dropped it on the open diaper. Time slowed down, like watching a tragedy unfold and being unable to stop it.

       My Mary folded the diaper over me and taped it shut. The pats she gave the front of it echoed in my ears like the clang of some terrible bell tolling the death of a valiant band of freedom fighters for whom independence was too sweet dream to come true. Literally, because all they wanted was the freedom to eat as many chocolate peanut butter hearts they could stomach.

       “I can’t believe you did that,” and I said that having seen Mary get pretty creative with the mean things she does to me. She shrugged and made her I-know-I’m-pretty-impressed-with-myself-too smile. It’s a good thing I like seeing her smile, else I’d have gotten huffy with her after all.

       “And don’t even think of opening this diaper or reaching in there to get it.”

       “I was going to frame that.” I could spend the rest of my life eating nothing but Chinese takeout and never get that fortune again.

       “Tell ya what – if it comes out of there in one piece and you can salvage it, we’ll frame it. Custom, in a giant overpriced frames. How’s that?”

       “I just wanted more peanut butter hearts,” I pouted.

       “You can have three.”

       “Five.”

       “Four.”

       “That’s not even enough to get the dosage right. I’ve built up a lot of tolerance.”

       “Three.”

       “Four’s good.”

       “I’m so glad you feel that way,” she chuckled and laid herself back down next to me like there never was an interlude in our staring into each other’s big gay eyes.

       “Would you really have spanked me hard with that stick?”

       “You didn’t leave me much choice.”

“Taking a cookie awfully serious.” But not in the way I wanted her to, so actually she was quite flippant in a this-is-very-serious kinda way.

“I had a mutiny on my hands. I won’t have my submissive little girl trying to rebel, even in a cute way.”

       “It was just supposed to be funny.” But if it had worked, and I’m not saying I believed it would, then it would have been way too important to be funny. A watershed moment in the history of the tripartite relationship between Daphne, Mary, and peanut butter. Really.

       “You know how sometimes a kid does something very naughty, but it’s also hilarious, but the parents can’t laugh?”

       Hey! “I don’t think I care for that analogy … So you really think I’m hilarious?”

       “Very.”

       “Is my comedic timing good?”

       “Very good.”

       “Good.”

       “Can I feel,” she asked. Like, seriously, now she’s asking? She reached over and felt the diaper she put me in.

       “What,” I asked cuz I wasn’t sure what she was doing.

       “Is it soft?”

       “Lots of things are soft. That doesn’t mean I wanna wrap them around my loins and urinate in them.” True story. Very. True. Story.

       “So much sass,” she chuckled, “but is it? It’s supposed be.”

       “Yeah … Where did you even find this? It looks like a giant pampers.”

       “It’s new.”

       “From … Pampers? Really?”

       “No, silly goose, from a company that makes diapers for girls like you.”

       Does she really think those comments just slide under my radar? “I’m not going to take that bait because I like you and stuff.”

       “They’re hard to get now, but once there’s enough, you might never wear another kind of diaper again, unless you want to. I know how attached you are to the one with the little blue dog and the pink princess one.”

       “Psychologists call what you just did projecting.”

       “They even have some on Etsy made out of real baby diapers. Do you wanna try those?”

       “Um, how about no?” Hey, wait a second! “But I will if you want me to … if I can have six peanut butter hearts.”

       “And you really don’t think you do things you wouldn’t otherwise do without the peanut butter?”

       “I have no idea what you’re talking about it.” Seriously, what is she even talking about? I’m a certified instructor in Nonsense as a Second Language, and even I have no idea what point she’s trying to make half the time.

       “If you say so.”

       I casually reached over and picked up the naughty stick. “Really, Mary? Just unilaterally escalating?”

       “Like you said, your tolerance has gone up.”

       “An extended spank-free period would fix that.”

       “And have you sad, mopey, and unspanked? I couldn’t do that to you.”

       I’ll admit that on that subject, she actually had a point. “Do you think maybe if I behave all day, we can give it a trial run before bed?”

       “Why wait for bedtime? We can test it it when I change your diaper.”

       I wanted so badly to avoid that thing a few minutes before, and now I was curious and wanted to feel it. “Goes straight to heart of being me. I don’t want it when I’m in trouble, but when I’m not, I want it so bad that I need it.”

       Mary kissed me on my forehead. “Goes to the heart of being us. I hate having to spank your bottom, but love doing it.” And she tapped my nose again! Heck yeah nose taps!

       “Our Sundays are heccin fun.”

       “So much fun. How about some lunch? You can color a picture while I dote on you just like I threatened.”

       “Can it be a picture of me and you doing stuff to each other?”

       “Knock yourself out. Giving a pencil to such a little girl, I’ll be happy if I can tell the difference between that and your drawings of a house.”

       “Mean! I’m good at drawing.”

       “Very good at drawing.” O heck heccin goodness she tapped my nose again! Squeeeee!

[Alex Bridges]

PS, inspired by a true fortune cookie. It says I can do and have anything I want, right?

[diaperboymi]

Thank you for  the new chapter!!!!!!!   Love this story ????☺️☺️☺️???

[Sarah Penguin]

Daffy  is deaging. Every episoede she is getting younger less mature.

 

[Alex Bridges]

50 minutes ago, Sarah Penguin said:

Daffy  is deaging. Every episoede she is getting younger less mature.

 

Really? I kinda think so too, but mostly because she isn’t working. She needs more responsibilities.

[YourFNF]

On 1/17/2022 at 7:24 PM, Alex Bridges said:

… I think that might be a step too far for Daffy. Don’t you get sore? … Uh-huh … Lanolin? … Interesting.”

Woah when did the ageplay get formally acknowledged!?

[YourFNF]

On 1/23/2022 at 2:41 PM, Alex Bridges said:

 

I let that go. I let the diaper pats go. I let it go when she asked me if I had any more of that Vaseline to let go (turns out yes). And I’ll tell you one darn thing – I like her. Like, a lot. And I’m a good sharer too.

[Alex Bridges]

Scene #157

 

Does anyone remember when the ASPCA was airing those Sarah McLachlan Angel commercials? All those pictures of sick and injured and malnourished dogs and that saccharine song playing over them? Holy shit did I fugly cry. Those were on before I met Mary, but I stumbled onto it on YouTube years later, when I did know Mary, and she made a rule: I am not allowed to watch that commercial. Anywhere I encounter it, I must look away.

Of course, that rule would’ve been much more useful earlier that same week, because by then it was too late. Too late for what? Too late to avoid the spanking I got when the credit card statement came. Mary praised my soft heart and generosity while reminding me we were trying to get me out of credit card debt and that I literally couldn’t afford to be quite (or half) as charitable as I had been.

This anecdote by way of pointing out that I am a very giving, charitable person. Too charitable for my own good. For the right cause or the right person, I’ll give the shirt off my back and throw in the buttons. I’ll even (dammit!) give up my pride, which is why it sucks to be me sometimes, like on Valentine’s Day. Because Mary is the right person, making her happy is the right cause, and she said she wanted a surprising experience (or experiential surprise) for her present. Well, I figured one out. I figured it out, and I’m still processing the consequences.

This story of good intentions and misbegotten ideas is best begun, of all the unusual places in this unusual universe Mary and I are living our unusual lives in, in the guest bathroom. Our heroine (that’s me, btw) is sitting on the edge of the tub, knowing Mary is hard at work on work stuff just one room away. I was sitting there giving myself a pep talk and I tried to work up my courage to actually do the deed.

“She’ll like it,” I told myself. “She loves when you do little stuff on your own … Remember how happy she was when you went into her office and just made an uwu face without saying a word and she just held you for, like, an hour? She was so happy, she was practically glowing … But it’s … No! No! Stop coming up with reasons not to. It’s not for you. It’s for her. She’s your Mary. It’s Valentine’s Day. You do it. You just … just do it and be done with it. Do it, turn on the crocodile tears, and let Mary take care of you. It’ll be over soon.”

Which turned out to be more easily said than done. You think I’d be pretty good at it considering I’ve been doing it for so long, but my body knew better. It did not want to do the deed, and I spent more time trying to relax and let it happen than I did on the mental prep. Turns out, understatement of this young year, I should’ve spent more time on the mental prep because I was heccin not prepared..

The feeling of relief quickly gave way to, O my god. I can’t believe I did that. I … calm down. Just … calm down. Or … no, stop that. No crying. They’re supposed to be crocodile tears, not real ones! Not real ones! … … … I! Want! My! Mary!

Which was the plan anyway, but it was supposed to be a scene. I do it, I get pretend-teary, Mary makes it better. Not I do it, I flip the heck out, Mary makes it better. Maybe it looks the same on the outside, but it feels totally different on the inside (what a poorly timed pun). So me, Daphne, your heroine, shuffling into Mary’s office with real tears on my cheeks.

“I was just about to come find you,” Mary said when she heard me cross the threshold into her office. She leaned forward to switch off her monitors. A big snurfle from me, and she turned my way, her expression instantly turning into her o-no-what-happened face, the real kind ad not the kind she makes during scenes. On her feet in a heartbeat, She crossed the room in a single bound and had me in her arms saying, “Daffy, what happened?”

I tried really hard to say, and all I got out was, “Hhh hhh hhh hhh.”

“You need to take a breath, sweetie.” O, for cripe’s sake, like I wasn’t trying to do exactly that. I don’t need lessons in breathing. I need lessons in making choices that don’t result in me sobbing like a family member named My Dignity died.

“(Sad bunny noises) and (mourning mooses) and your present and (regretful rhino).” She can usually decipher me, but I guess I was quite the mess.

“Daphne, Daphne, look at me. Is everyone alright?”

“Uh-(snurf)-huh-(fle).”

“Are you hurt?”

“Nuh-(snort)-uh.” Damn, I’m fun to be around; word play, kinky, the occasional grown-woman-crying-so-hard-there’s-snot-bubbles. If I were any prettier, we’d need more Kleenex. True story.

“Tell me what’s wrong. Why are you crying? Use your words.”

I use words like nobody’s business! Just not when I’ve gone and undermined one of my last shreds of self-respect.

“Come,” she said and led me to our living room she sat down in the big chair and pulled me into her lap. “Shhh,” she cooed at me. “Whatever it is, we’ll fix it. It’ll be …” Ah, she finally notices what’s amiss, when I’m in her lap and she’s sharing just a sliver of the sensation I’m experiencing. “Daffy, did you … Are your pants wet?”

YES AND I HATE IT AND I WANNA UNDO IT AND I CAAAAAAAAAAAANNNNNNN’’’’’’’’’’TTTTTTT!

Which is pronounced, “Waaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh!”

“Um, it’s okay? It’s just … ugh. You’re soaked. You must’ve really had to go.”

“I didn’t mean to-hoo-hoo!” To be clear, the upsetting myself part. The wetting my black yoga pants, I meant to do.

“Well, um, accidents happen. You don’t have to cry. Did you just forget you weren’t wearing your diapers?”

“They’re (sob) not (sob) mine (waaaaiiiillll)!”

“Shhh, please try to calm down. It happened, and I’m not mad. It’s okay. I’ll make it all better.”

She had better make it all better! It’s her job as the dominant. My job is to be cute, let her use my butt as a stress ball, and make her feel like the most important and cherished person in the world (which she so is!), and her job is to keep me outta trouble, make me feel like the most important and cherished person in the world, and make stuff all better. If we don’t do our jobs, this whole kinky house of cards comes crashing down.

“O-hhh!-kay.”

“Can we go get you cleaned up, or do you need a few more minutes?”

“Clean-hhh-please.” I wanted to be clean, and I wanted my diaphragm to stop cramping.

“Using your word like a big girl … O, don’t you go making that face again. I’m just teasing my little girl. C’mon.”

We got up, and she started taking us toward the guest bathroom, and did I panic? Of course not. I just … panicked. “No!” Did someone shout? Wasn’t me. Really.

“Daffy! What has gotten into you?”

“Not in there!”

“What’s wrong with …”

I’ve been cataloguing Mary’s faces for as long as I’ve known her. The one she made when she abruptly left her sentence incomplete was first observed on a hiking trail way back when we were newly dating. As it’s discoverer, I was entitled to name it, and I dubbed it the my-sock-is-wet face. Little did I know then that all these years later I would discover a subspecies, Mary’s why-is-my-sock-wet face, and in rapid succession, another cousin, Mary’s o-that’s-why-my-sock-is-wet face. To her credit, she was handling the whole situation much better than me, and I’m know far and wide as a good situation handler (who is also sometimes a runaway hot mess on wheels).

Mary turned to me, put a hand on each of my shoulders, leaned forward to kiss my forehead, and said nothing. She just kissed me, and hugged me, and made her you’re-a-lot-of-work-sometimes-and-I-love-you-even-more-for-it face. It’s a very reassuring face.

And me? I made very grownup, all-is-well-nothing-to-see-hear whimpering sounds as she walked me to the bathroom.

It was a crime scene: there was the puddle where my pride drowned in what appeared to be accident (where are the pun police when you need them?). But there was the rug folded up out of the way, suggesting the wetter wanted to make clean up easy, a sure sign of premeditation proving the accident was staged. The charge: reckless indifference to one’s own sense of adulthood, and I was already punishing myself way more than the criminal justice system ever could.

And there was Mary ‘Poirot’ Taylor, one arm around my shoulder, surveying the scene and making mental notes to follow up on at the inquest. But for now, she looked down at me – me, who was trying to look everywhere but her eyes – smiled a smirk, and said, “I think I see what kind of accident this was.”

“(Sound of me exercising my right to stay silent).”

“Wait for me,” she said and kissed my forehead again. And as I was waiting, to my surprise, there I was in the mirror, having not actually shrunken down to two inches tall but merely feeling like it. “Why don’t you step into the tub,” Mary said when she returned with paper towels, cleaner, and a plastic grocery sack already containing one said towel.

“I can clean it up,” I said, now feeling more mortified at how mortified I’d been and the scene (and puddle) I’d made.

“If I can clean you up, I think I can manage a tile floor. I already got the trail you left in the hallway. Tub,” she said and held my hand as I stepped over the side. It only took her a moment, and she laid the rug back out. She got the stool she started keeping in that bathroom to sit on cuz she likes giving me baths, and ageplay aside, I like it when pretty women rub me all over with soapy hands. Sometimes they do stuff under the water you can’t get away with on TV. True story.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Little girls don’t need to be sorry for having potty accidents,” she replied with a poorly disguised chuckle. “But if you mean for scaring the crap out of me when you came into my office and started crying like someone died, I forgive you; over and one with. I have a little girl to clean up. Arms up.” She got my shirt off and tossed it in the corner. “That was an awfully big accident. You musta been holding it for so long. You shoulda come and gotten me if you didn’t wanna use the potty all by your lonesome.”

My brain drowned out the particulars of her monologue with white noise as she peeled my wet leggings down, thinking instead about how it was only a matter of seconds until …

“… just may not be ready for … Daphne Ann, are these my panties?”

“(Sniff!) I’m sorry.” I’ve yet to begin cataloguing all the faces I make, but if I ever get around to it, I shall name that one my I-make-very-bad-choices-sometimes-but-please-scold-me-later-cuz-I’ll-start-crying-so-hard-all-over-again face.

Mary stood up, put her hand on my chin, made me look her in the eye (so mean!), and said to me, “You are such a handful.” And she kissed me! “You make the days fun.” And she did it again!

“I didn’t mean to.”

“Didn’t mean to make it fun?”

“Didn’t mean to have a meltdown. I just …” And she did it again! She’s very forward.

“It’s okay, Daffodil. Little girls get upset sometimes when they don’t mean to. Step out.” I did, and my wet yoga pants and her wet panties joined my shirt in the corner. I stood there naked, got a good look at wet spot I’d made on Mary’s jeans (who even wears jeans anymore? I worry about her sometimes), and she ran a tub. I sat down in it, and Mary wasted no time in getting the sponge soapy and rubbing it up and down my back. That … always relaxes me.

“I was trying to surprise you.”

“It was quite a surprise,” she chuckled. “And what a nice surprise it would’ve been if you hadn’t had a potty accident, my little girl showing me she could wear big girl undies and keep them dry.”

“Mary,” I chuckled back.

“Was wearing my underwear your way of saying you wanna be just like me when you grow up?”

“That part was just for comedic effect … and yes to what you said too.” But really just comedic effect and to make it even more surprising. Pretty sure I succeeded on both counts.

“But clearly,” Mary said as her sponge hand parted my thighs, “you’re not ready for big girl undies yet.”

“Marrrry.”

“Whose puddle did I just clean up? Right in front of the potty. You got so close and just couldn’t hold it anymore. After a week in diapers, I think you just weren’t ready to switch right back to underoos. Is that what happened?”

“I just wanted to surprise you for Valentine’s Day.”

“… By peeing our pants?”

“By letting you take care of me. I know how much you like it when … you know. … If you make me say it, I’ll heccin … splash or something.” Let the world observe that there is a difference between being little and acting little. I acted for Mary’s benefit. I am not a little girl. I acted, I was clearly miscast for the role, tears ensued, and if the casting director (and screenwriter/director/producer) weren’t also me, I’d blame her. Debacle! Ignominy! Her fault! My fault! Clearly my range as an actress has limitations.

“So your plan was to …”

“Pretend to have an accident, pretend to get upset, and let you make it all better. I’m sorry I messed it up. It’s just … you said you wanted an experience instead of a present and …”

“Hey, look at me. I see my little girl who had herself an accident; got very, very upset; and now she’s sitting in the bathtub, and I’ll make it all better if she’ll let me. Will you let me?”

O gawd! Mary’s I-love-you-let-me-help face! Her eyes are so big and earnest and her smile is to soft and genuine … “Mhmm.”

“Then you stop being sorry for upsetting yourself. Those kinds of accidents happen too.” Yeah, about that – I am kinda an expert at those kinds of accidents. Who needs to go to a haunted house on Halloween when they can just be left to their own thoughts and devices? I can freak myself out so good it’s bad (very, very bad; really).

“And,” my Mary said to me, “I’m going to take such good care of you tonight.”

“What’re we gonna do?”

“I’m gonna get you all clean, and then we’ll go upstairs and get you into a fresh pampers.”

For the records, I embarked upon my bad idea knowing that would happen and was willing to make the sacrifice. It’s Valentine’s Day. I suffer for my love.

“And,” she continued, “we’ll get you in your footie pajamas. And after I change into some clothes you didn’t get piddle on, we’ll order dinner and dessert.” Ooo, restaurant cake. I feel better already. “Your ears just moved.”

“What?”

“I said dessert, and I swear your ears moved.”

“Heehee! Did not.”

“Did so. Pie – they did it again!”

“Heehee hmmmm. Thanks for making me laugh.”

“I love making you laugh.”

“Thanks for not getting mad about me wetting your underwear … and getting your jeans wet.”

“Just part of having a little girl who’s in and out of diapers as much as you.”

“Marrryyy!”

“Look up for me. There’s my pretty girl. So much prettier without those tear streaks though. Close your eyes and lemme wash those away.”

[Sarah Penguin]

She is not a little girl she is is a newbotn baby girl she she needs to be kept in diapers, bathed, and fed like a baby not a litle girl. little girls can talk sensibly like adults and be clearly understood. Daffy spends most of her  time babbling complete nonsense.or crying.Some little girls need diapers too  but daffy dosent often act like a little girl, because deep down she is mot a little girl she isa baby girl who diapers, to be watched constlently if she is not a secure place like a playpen, highchair, or crib she can't get of herself.

Daffy knows this.  Deep down she needs a capable grownup to save from adulting.  She won't happy until all responsabilities are gone from by her except  making her mary/mommy snile at her by shaking her baby her baby rattle cutely enough. 

[Bel George]

I'm pretty sure Mary will remember this event for a very long time, and will often remind Daphne of it when she chooses to put a diaper on her.

It's been a while since nana has been featured. How is she doing?

[Alex Bridges]

I think Daphne is my niece’s spirit animal.

Her grandma: “let’s try using our indoor voices”

Niece (3 years old): “no. I’m a little wound up is all”

[bobindiapers]

When Daphne was describing her actions at the start of scene 157 at first I thought she was going to dress up as Cupid for Mary. But then when she said "you would think I could do it easily, I've been doing it so long" I realized she was trying to use the bathroom, but I thought she was wearing a diaper so I thought it was going to be a messy one since wetting a diaper is common for her now. I can only imagine the crying that would have followed that, and I think Mary probably enjoyed this a lot more. 

[Alex Bridges]

Scene #158

 

Inspired by a real brush.

____________________

 

The mail arrived. That is literally all that happened. Mary was the one who went and got it. I merely walked in the kitchen to see if my mail-order medicine had arrived. And what did I find?

I found Mary, standing over a torn Amazon delivery bag, smiling like she’d gotten a present she’d always wanted, and she was tapping that present into her palm with a wistful look plastered to her face. I saw that present, a hairbrush that at a glance I could tell was a weapon of ass destruction, and I said to myself, Get thee behind me, Satan! Not today!

I did an about face sharp enough to make the Marines proud and was halfway into taking giant steps the hell outta there as speedily as that time I walked in on my parents.

But the commandant I married ordered me to, “Stay.”

“But I didn’t do anything,” I whined liked the whiniest person who ever whined when they were whining (which I had every right to). Slumped shoulders, defeated expression, gaping frown, barely holding my torso upright as I spun around and shuffled toward her cuz I’m a good girl (a very good girl!) who does what she’s told (most of the tine). Any sane person would’ve been running down the block knocking over trashcans to slow their pursuer.

“I didn’t say you did anything,” my Mary who is mean to me said as she took me by my upper arm and tugged me toward the kitchen table. Dragging my feet would be an understatement; I had them firmly planted on the floor and was gliding along on my socks (stupid collaborationist socks!). She turned a chair around and sat down in it.

“But I don’t wanna spanking,” I said – no, declared! With fist clenching, foot stomping, and all the pouting I could muster. You don’t fight a brush like that. You just try to make it feel sorry for you. But some brushes are pitiless.

“And I’m not going to spank you.” Wait, really?

No; not really. She yoinked me off my feet and over her knee.

“You said …”

“Just as soon as I’m done spanking, I’m not going to spank.” SPANK.

“Ouch! That hurts!”

“I was hoping for that.” Spank spank spank spank spank spank spank.

“Marrry! This isn’t fair!”

“It’s very unfair, you silly goose.” Spank spank spank spank spank spank spank. “Let’s get these down.”

“No!” Spank spank spank spank spank spank spank. “Eeeeeeee! Stop! It hurts!”

“It’ll hurt (SPANK) less if you hold (SPANK) still.” Spank spank spank spank spank spank spank.

That is specious reasoning, which is why while she was busy spanking, I was busy trying to freestyle medley my way off her lap. I mean, how much more could face planting onto the kitchen floor hurt than that brush?

“And these too.”

“NO! NOT BARE! MAR-EEEEEEEEEE!”

“Of course (SPANK!) bare.” Spank spank spank spank spank spank spank!

“So mee-hee-hee-ean.”

“Very mean.” Spank spank spank spank spank spank spank!

“Wuhaa-aaa-aaa.” Spank! spank! spank!

“There. Look at me.” Fine! Fine I will! I’ll look at her, and she can see what she did!

She reached over and wiped a tear off my face, making one of her trademark o-really faces and rubbing the teardrop between her forefinger and thumb. Yeah! Really!

“Daphne, this is a real tear.”

“Of course it’s real you (stampeding of victimized vicuñas) and (bleats of innocent ibexes) and (lamentations of oppressed submissives everywhere) and just mean! Mean! (Wounded wookie)!”

SPANK!

“All done?”

“ … MEEEAAAANN!!!!” SPANK! “Hmmph!”

“Now you’re done.” What can I say? The woman knows me; I was done. “Sit up.”

She helped me sit up, but I was having none of it. I was on my feet and rubbing my butt and scowling at her something fierce. I was fierce! I AM fierce! Grrrr!!! And stuff too, cuz hell hath no fury like a bottom scorched.

“Daffy …”

“No! No, Mary! Bad Mary!” She started to get up. “No! You stay for a change!”

And I’ll tell you what I did next. Just to show her I won’t put up with her shenanigans and raw exercises of domme power, that there are consequences for her actions just like she’s always telling me there are for mine! I sat down in her lap, put my cheek against her chest, and held onto her like a koala to her favorite tree.

That’ll show her. That’ll show her good! Mary with the demon brush and the … soft kisses on my hair and fingertips going up and down my back and palm patting my newly spanked bare bottom.

“No one does histrionics like you, Daffodil.”

“I’ll histrionic you,” I softly bellowed back while wiping my nose on her shirt.

“Ha!”

“That thing heccin hurts!”

“The reviews said it would. I thought you were gonna swim right off my lap.”

“What reviews? It came from Amazon.”

“The reviews on Amazon.”

“The reviews on Amazon are about spanking?”

“Mhmm. You wanna read them later?”

“ … Yes.”

“You wanna go upstairs and lemme rub lotion on your butt?”

“Mhmm.”

“Up you go.”

“Can I return that brush tomorrow,” I asked because reasons.

“No, sweetie. It’s going to live on the end table in the living room.”

“What!?!”

“It’s perfect for quick, on-the-spot corrections. You’ll be glad it’s always in reach. Just think of how well behaved you’ll be. Won’t that feel good?”

“No! Can we at least keep it in a drawer? It’s gonna give me nightmares.”

“My little drama princess.”

“Meanest queen ever.”

“Love you.”

“Love you back.”

[Guilend]

????

[Sarah Penguin]

Platypus Cannon CHARGE CHARGE CHARGE FIIIIIRE krackaboom

[Alex Bridges]

2 hours ago, Sarah Penguin said:

Platypus Cannon CHARGE CHARGE CHARGE FIIIIIRE krackaboom

Okay ???

[diaperboymi]

OMG... that was AWESOME ?  Never saw that coming.   I guess Daffy didn't either ?????

[Alex Bridges]

12 hours ago, diaperboymi said:

OMG... that was AWESOME ?  Never saw that coming.   I guess Daffy didn't either ?????

If I inspired one person to buy that brush and apply it to a butt, it will have all been worth it ?

[Sarah Penguin]

12 hours ago, Alex Bridges said:

If I inspired one person to buy that brush and apply it to a butt, it will have all been worth it ?

Tests the brush on the authors bottom.

[Alex Bridges]

7 hours ago, Sarah Penguin said:

Tests the brush on the authors bottom.

I already did that. It hurt! And if it hurt that much using it on myself, I don’t even want to imagine what it would feel like in someone else’s hands ?