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

[Alex Bridges]

Scene #159

 

“We need to talk,” Mary said to me.

“No.”

“No?”

“I don’t wanna talk. Besides, we’re married. It’s too late to break up.”

“We’re very married. That’s why I want to help you with your problem.”

How the heck did I end up as the one always accused of being up to something? I was literally doing dishes, and there’s Mary putting her latest plot into motion. Does she even work anymore? Is this what it’s like being married to Homer Simpson, one misadventure after another when you’re just trying to be a good homemaker?

“What problem?” I don’t even know why I asked. It just encourages her.

“Your out-of-control libido.”

“My libido is not …” Shush! We’re about to get laid. “Help me how? Asking for my friend.”

“A very special kind of therapy.”

Torn: of course she was up to something, and of course it would be something possibly more fun for her, but the question was whether I would like it more than dislike it. The way she was looking at me didn’t help clarify that at all. “You’re grinning at me like jackal. Did you know that do that?”

“Won’t you be my good girl and trust me?” Avoiding the question and pushing my buttons - classic Mary.

“Don’t … Grr! If you push that button too often, it’s gonna wear out.” Jackals are always doing that! Hmmph!

“Has it yet?”

“… No.” For the record, I didn’t stick my tongue out at anybody. That’s just a lie.

“Then let’s go upstairs, and we’ll see if we can’t get it all out of you.”

Warning lights started blinking. “Get what out? Out of where?” She withdrew the blindfold from her pocket and twirled it around her finger. “No, but what out of where?”

“You’ll see.” Stupid irony.

She walked around behind me like a predator circling prey, and lemme tell ya this for nothing - as someone very used to being the biggest, baddest shark in these waters, the look on her face right before she disappeared from my sight sent my fight-flight-or-freeze response into a tingly overdrive. I wouldn’t say I chose freeze so much as my body chose for me. Probably why I suddenly felt very cool and shivered a little as she put that blindfold over my eyes and paused to breathe all hot and stuff on my neck and nibble my ear lobe. I wasn’t scared. I just had an excess of adrenaline, which happens to all of us badasses when an apex predator like Mary decides it’ll be more fun if you can’t see what’s she’s doing to you.

“Y-you’ve been getting that out a lot more.”

“The blindfold? I guess I have.”

“Don’t you have to work today?”

“Mhmm. But the company is very understanding of caregiver responsibilities.”

“Yippy?”

We had talked about not putting the blindfold on until we got up the stairs, but I guess my Mary was an eager beaver. She led me up the stairs, and I didn’t even stub my toe so one of us must’ve been doing a good job. “You and yoga pants,” she said to me as she took my yoga pants away. I mean, I’d get them back later, but I was actively using them to not be cold.

“It’s cold in here,” I let her know.

“You’ll be warm in a second, sweetie.”

“Maybe if you lay on top of me…”

I got no response. Instead, she raised my arms and took my shirt off. Let me advance a notion: if my libido is too high, the cause is a chronic and debilitating case of Mary. Symptoms include heavy petting, pinching, grabbing, nibbling, and all that even before she steered me toward the bed.

“Face down, Daffy.” Another symptom: firm cupping sensations around the butt and thigh area. “Your diaper is a little wet. When did that happen?”

“It’s yours, and recently. And did I mention your punishment for my alleged rebellion sucks?”

“You’ll wear them til you learn.”

“Learn what?”

“To obey forever and always.”

Ah. Touché.

“Spread your arms and legs out,” my libido therapist instructed me.

“Has this treatment been peer reviewed,” I asked while complying. I’m an active healthcare consumer, but not so active I forget I’m submissive whatever-Mary-wants-to-do-to-me consumer (most of the time). And unlike, say, a health insurance company, she really does have my best interest at heart.

“No, but if you wanna video tape it for some of our peers, we can do that, Daffy. Do you wanna contribute to science?”

“Um … Will I ever receive this treatment again?”

“Maybe.”

“Then maybe for this first one, we, um … Can we record it for posterity but maybe not share it with anyone?” Perhaps I should’ve also asked what she was going to do to me, but I guess I trust her that it would be something worth watching again just in case we learned anything to submit to the New England Journal of Medicine or the Lancet or … maybe a scrapbook. We should keep a scrapbook (that we never show anyone).

“What a good idea. Better to have it on video and not need it. That’s what I like about you, Daffodil; all those raging hormones, and you’re still thinking the good of humanity.”

“I’m very nice. … Hey, Mary?”

“Yes, my love?”

“Couldn’t help but notice you’re tying my wrists to the bed.”

“You’re a good noticer.”

“But why? Are you gonna hit me with something?” I wasn’t in the mood for that. It’s like chocolate: I love chocolate, but I don’t want it all the time … Bad example. It’s like … … something, probably. Wow, maybe my appetites really are outta control.

“No, sweetie, I’m gonna do nothing but nice things to you. Lift your hips for me; okay, down.” I heard velcro. Then I was laying on something hard. And then I felt something being fastened. I had a theory. “Is that too tight?”

“No.”

“Are you comfy?”

“Mhmm.”

“Gimme a footsie.”

I have feet, for the record, two of them, each of them quite adept at playing footsie but neither of them a footsie. Very different. I’m an adult, after all. For proof, my wife tied me spread eagle to the bed, face down with what was so obviously the magic wand put backward into the strap-on harness so it was pressed against me (firmly). That is no way to cure an overactive libido, but I didn’t want to tell her that cuz it might hurt her feelings (and make her change her mind).

“Turn this way,” she said, and when I did, someone - not sure who cuz I was blindfolded - gave me the sweetest kiss on my cheek. And someone - could’ve been the same person - ran a fingertip from my neck all the way down my spine to butt. I don’t mind telling you it made me wiggle a little cuz it tickled and stuff and I like it when she caresses my back. My mom would do that when I was very little when she was putting me to bed, and Mary very happily picked up the habit.

“Anything you need,” Mary asked me.

“I don’t know how to answer that right now.” True story. Like, always up for a cookie? But no, nothing I needed right then.

“I love you muchly. I’m going to put your headphones on, and I’ll come check on you in a little bit. Shout if you need me.”

“But what happens now,” I asked because, um, just seemed like the sort of treatment your therapist should stick around for. Maybe participate in.

“Try to get some rest,” is all she said to me. Not terribly helpful, if you wanna true story.

She put my headphones on me and turned on the noise canceling, but she didn’t put any music on. I got another kiss, and she pulled a blanket over me.

So just me blindfolded, noise canceled, tied to the bed, and with the vibrator pressed against my happy place through a punishment diaper that I so don’t deserve. To the extent I appreciated it in the moment, it was solely because I wouldn’t need to change the sheets after this so-called therapy. I don’t think Mary even has a license to practice medicine.

You know how when you go to the doctor, they’re always running behind? Like, you show up on time, and then wait. And they take you to the exam room, and you wait. And so-and-so will be right in, and you wait. Well, when Mary plays doctor, she goes for the realism; I waited. I waited. And then I waited. And then I started to fall asleep.

I was in that weird sleepy space where your brain starts to dream while you’re still conscious, and this may surprise you what with my record of being very serious at all the times and never straying into the land of fantasy and nonsense, but when my brain starts dreaming while I can still hear it, it says some crazy stuff. It’s very entertaining, and I’m loathe to miss a word, which is exactly what happened when this faint buzzing sound interrupted my inner monologue. Not just a sound, mind you, but a sensation.

Details get fuzzy after that. Drifting consciousness, interrupted napping, space travel, seeing stars, spirit animals, communing with the gods, time travel. And those are just the parts I was awake for.

And I’m pretty sure at least once I was being observed by my therapist. She sat down on the bed for a minutes (and I think she was touching herself) and then left again. Not that I blame her, cuz if my hands were free, I woulda been touching myself. At least at first; even I have my limits. Really.

 

 

“(Kiss). Wake up, Daffy.”

“Hrrrm.”

“You make the cutest sleepy noises, but it’s time to get up. Where did your headphones go?”

“I dunwunnagouh (snore).” Or at least I’ve been told that’s what I said. I doubt the veracity of that account.

“You need a bath.” She untied my wrists and ankles, and I took the opportunity to bury my face in my arms. So tired. So limp and flaccid and tired.

“Where did your sleep mask go?”

Look, where does anything ever go? What purpose do such questions serve? And who is even in the room with me?

“You’re freezing,” she said, and okay, true story cuz the blanket mostly came off at some point. “C’mon, open those peepers and let’s get you cleaned up.”

Velcro was torn asunder, and with a violent tug that jangled my jingle, the hard, bulbous thing I’d been laying on was wrenched out from under me. It was quite the jolt, which is why I exclaimed, “Kuumphhh!” and sat up so quick I got dizzy … Or maybe I was already dizzy. Wasn’t sure where I was what with all the star voyaging and time portals I slipped through, but I recognized my person when I saw her. “Hi,” I said.

“Welcome back to the land of the living. Did you sleep well … Daffy? Earth to Daffy.”

“Mary.” How fuzzy the world is. And since when does our bedroom have so many right angles? … Tired …

“Are you okay?”

“I’m thirsty.”

“I got a drink for you waiting on the rim of the tub. Let’s go.” She helped me up, and glancing behind me, I saw that I’d be doing laundry after all. For some reason, and who knows what it is, I seem to have sweated through all the bedding during my journey to the field of reeds … and the other field of summer grass … and this place with clouds. I musta visited five or eight places. They say traveling is about the trip and not the destination, to which I say - they’re both pretty damn awesome. No wonder I got so sweaty.

“I’m cold,” I told my Mary.

“It’ll be a warm bath, and then we’ll get you some dinner. It’s almost six.”

“I had dreams.”

“Good dreams or bad dreams?”

“And you were there, and this lion … my childhood dog … a woman named Glenda who had this special wand.”

“What else happened in your dream?”

“Bright lights, colors. Lots of different pinks. I tasted some of it.”

“Some of what,” Mary asked me as she started untaping the diaper shed out me in.

“The colors.” Always wanted to taste colors. I made grabby hands for the bottle of water and practically tore the nipple off. Maybe Mary wanted me to be little and nurse a bottle just then, but I needed the water a lot faster than that.

“I think your therapy was a success,” Mary said as she seemed to (gross) inspect the diaper. “I’ve changed lots of your diapers, Daphne, and this is by far the cummiest diaper you’ve ever made.”

“More,” was my response and I held the empty bottle toward her. I made a mental note to have a word with her about what she’d just said, but first, water.

“Such a thirsty girl.” She refilled it at the sink. “Into the tub.” I sat down and resumed my gulping.

“How do you feel now?”

“Still sleepy,” I yawned.

“Hmmm. Maybe three hours is too much therapy for you.”

“You said it’s close to six.”

“Mhmm.”

“That’s more than three hours.”

“Three hours of therapy. I gave you some breaks in between.”

“O … Can we have sex later?”

“ … Are you … Really?”

“Yes really.” I mean, sure, I was exhausted, felt weak as kitten, and sore like I’d been riding a horse all day and doing kegels the whole time I was sitting on top of the sweaty beast, but I couldn’t let Mary think she’d gotten the better of me. True story.

[Sarah Penguin]

[Alex Bridges]

Scene #160

 

 

Art commissioned from JuiceBox (patreon.com/juiceboxart; @JuiceBox_Art on Twitter).

 

 

We make mistakes in life. I am certainly not immune. As a for instance, I put Mary in charge and gave her full disciplinary control. I may not have done that if I had known then that diapers, according to weird people named Mary, are a behavior improvement tool. Worse, I didn’t know Mary would come to think of me in a diaper as the cutest thing since they invented ducklings.

But I’ve gone along with it, and why? Because once when I was very young, I fell into a looking glass on my way to Grandma’s house and a forest witch cursed me an erotic humiliation kink. I do not care for the diapers, I do not care for green eggs and ham, and I do not care for wetting myself. But that I do not care for them, and that not a day goes by when I don’t have to defend my adulthood, honor, and sterling reputation as an upstanding citizen, just creates all the conflicted feels needed to sate an erotic humiliation fetish.

Another reason I go along with this nonsense? Because I am a good girl, and Mary is in charge. I am such a good girl that the other good girls roll their eyes at my goodness. I am the poster girl for goodness (setting aside all my alleged misbehavior, which has never been proven in a court of law). I like being good for my Mary. I am a submissive after all, and I want to be in her good graces always and to make her happy cuz I loved her and stuff. It’s not easy being Mary’s good girl cuz, according to Mary, sometimes I have a little devil in me and can be quite the handful. But I try to be good. Really. And then Mary has to go and declare it a diaper day the moment I emerge from the shower.

I only pouted a little (in a very good, dignified way that one could only see as little girl behavior if their reasoning was motivated. Really.) And Mary just smiled back at me. Rude? A little. But rather than say anything, I simply stared longingly at my underwear drawer as Mary sealed the last tape. I reminded myself it makes Mary happy, and here’s a secret: she’s the love of my life. I married her for just that reason. I even felt a rush of pleasure hormones as Mary told me, “Such a good girl for holding still.”

“What did you call me?”

“A good girl,” Mary replied with another one of those beguiling smiles of hers. She’s always beguiling me and stuff. She knows just how much I like being called a good girl. “I have to work for a little bit. Are you going to be okay on your own?”

I may, and this is a she said/she said dealy so we’ll never know the truth, have rolled my eyes. “I’m thirty-three. I’m not a little girl.”

“You’re my little girl, and if I’m not mistaken, you have some chores to do today.”

“I know. I’m the one who wrote the chore calendar.” Really.

“Little Miss Sassy pants. Up,” Mary told.

I don’t need to be told to do chores (anymore … mostly … or at least much less often than in the past). Me and Mary divide the housework, and ever since I quit my job, I’ve taken on a larger share and actually learned to enjoy it. It’s nice having clean things, plus it’s been very pleasant not finding myself over Mary’s knee getting my butt spanked for not doing my chores and not cleaning up after myself. “Am (spank) I (spank) getting (spank) through (spank) to (you), little (SPANK) girl (SPANK)?” And it turns out the answer is yes. Took a dozen-and-a-half trips over her knee for it to sink in, but yes, it finally, finally did … so I got that going for me.

I cleaned for an hour, and the doorbell rang. It was just a delivery person dropping off a package on the porch, but nothing quite like a doorbell to remind a person they’re not wearing any pants. And nothing quite like an exposed diaper to remind a person they should not be so casual with the no-pants wearing. “I’m getting too used to this,” I mused out loud cuz there was no one to talk to. The door to Mary’s office was closed. For reasons I do not understand, and I will forever regret doing this, I texted her, ‘Can I put on some pants?’

I’m allowed to choose what I wear unless Mary lays something out for me, and she has (almost) never made me go pantsless. And yet, because I’m a deeply imperfect yet somehow also perfect person, I asked for permission anyway. I regretted it even before Mary texted me back: ‘Nope.’

I could just picture my wife smirking as she tapped out that reply. She loves it when I just walk into trouble and was ever so damn delighted (I assume) picturing me making a grumpy face and waddling from room to room as I straightened up, put away, and cleaned. She was probably considering having me go into the basement and find the French maid costume I’d worn for Halloween years ago. Or maybe I was thinking that … Or thinking of Mary thinking that … which is still her fault somehow. She’s so mean to me, and only like it almost every single time.

The doorbell rang again, another delivery. “We’re popular today,” I said to myself as I watched the delivery person through the peephole. Glad nothing needed my signature. I looked down at Mary’s diaper that she was making me wear. “Pants would be a lot of fun. Just saying.”

And girls just wanna have fun. I really can’t say what kind of integrity the music industry has today, but Cindi Lauper circa 1983 wouldn’t have sung that if it wasn’t true. So I texted Mary again. ‘Can I go put on panties yet? I … did the thing.’ I still can’t always bring myself to say it.

Mary the Smartmouth replied, ‘You piddled your pampers? They can hold more than one tinkle.’

‘I need changed.’

‘Already? That’s a thirsty diaper I put you in.’

I swallowed down my urge to brat back. I was very mature and dignified for a grown woman in a wet diaper getting teased by her wife. ‘Yes, already.’

‘I don’t know if a little girl is the best judge of when she needs her diaper changed,’ Mary answered, probably holding in a belly laugh during a zoom call with all those colleagues who don’t even know how evil she is. She doesn’t ever regret her misdeeds. She just regrets that she doesn’t always get to see me blushing o so adorably. It’s hard to be Mary’s good girl when I just wanna smack her with a pillow sometimes.

‘Then can you come check? Or I could just go change into underwear if you’re busy.’ See how helpful I am? Certainly not at all the type of person who makes suggestions out of self-interest while framing them as being beneficial to others who are not me. Um, really.

‘It’s not really an underwear kind of day, Daffy.’ Like, what the heck is that heccin supposed to even mean!?!

And the better angel of mine who lives on my shoulder told me right then not to take Mary’s bait. I should listen to her more often. I’m a good girl, a great girl, even the best girl, but I’m not perfect (for very brief moments. Rest of the time? I’m a role model for humans everywhere). Besides, life is boring when you always listen to your better angel.

So I texted back, ‘But you’re wearing underwear.’

‘Tone,’ was all Mary replied with.

‘Tone? What tone?!? I’m texting!’

‘That tone.’

“Ugh! She is so … hmmph!” Yet I swallowed down the metallic taste of indignation and very politely texted back, ‘When are you gonna come check me then?’

‘At lunch time.’

‘But this is getting uncomfortable, and that’s an hour away!’

‘You’re such a cutie. I’m gonna brag to all our friends that my little girl can tell time.’

Ugh! ‘Fine, but I’m putting on pants.’

‘You’d better not.’

I was uncomfortably wet (my butt was cold!), Mary has pushed my buttons, I wasn’t best pleased with her, and I wasn’t so happy with myself for letting Mary get my goat even when it was so clear that’s what Mary (who is so mean and pretty and nice to me but also so mean sometimes) was trying to do. So with all those reasons in mind – and they are reasons (good ones) and not excuses – I don’t think it should be counted against my to-this-day perfect record of good judgement that I turned in the direction of Mary’s office and declared, “I’m not a little girl! I can wear pants if want to!”

Diplomatic? Mayhaps not, but neither was the continental congress when they wrote King Georgie to say, “Go suck a fat one, Kingy Boy!” Didn’t make the final draft, but it made it through several rounds of edits. Really.

So I went and put on pants. I can do that whenever I want cuz I am an adult, an agent of my own fate, a decider of my own destiny … and stuff. And not afraid of Mary. Really. She just works for me actually (but please don’t ever tell her I said that). Independence declared and pants on, I finished my cleaning.

“Nice job cleaning,” Mary called out from the kitchen when she emerged from her office. She peaked around the corner and saw me absolutely not pouting on the couch. Really. I was feeling downright giddy; freedom of pants is such a rush. Certainly wasn’t at all nervous what her reaction would be. And sure, maybe I should’ve thought ahead a little more and not given into a bratty impulse just cuz Mary teased me, but on the other hand, I fear no woman named Mary. Farthest from my mind was the hope that she’s actually a T-Rex and wouldn’t be able to see that I’d disobeyed so long as I didn’t move. Really.

I suspected trickery cuz Mary isn’t one to just let these things slide, but she was gone for a few minutes. Maybe she decided not to make a thing out of it. The plot thickened, as they say … whatever that means.

And then (gulp) Mystery Mary re-appeared in the hallway holding the barstool and that sunuvabitching evil bath brush. I may be a good girl, but I am NOT a surrender monkey. I was on my feet freedom fighting (verbally) in a way that wasn’t, as some witnesses to whom I am married describe it, whiny and pouting. “I can wear pants if I want to!”

“Of course you can, just so long as you’re willing to face the consequences.”

“What consequences? There are no consequences! You almost never don’t let me wear pants!”

“You never ask,” Mary replied calmly as she set the stool down in the middle of the room. I hate that stupid stool. My hands and feet don’t even touch the floor when I get spanked over Mary’s knee on that thing. ! I’m just over her lap like a little kid draped. I mean, sure, like all fine things I drape well, but I heccin hate it and that’s exactly why Mary brings the damn thing out when she quote “wants to teach me a stupid lesson” unquote (I may have added the ‘stupid’ part).

“That doesn’t even make any sense!”

“I said no. You disobeyed. What kind of top would I be if I didn’t spank my defiant little bottom’s bottom? Besides, everyone knows little girls like you need consequences when they make naughty choices.”

“I’MNOTALITTLEGIRL!!!”

“You are the grumpiest little girl,” Mary scoffed at – again, this is her characterization and it’s just so not even accurate – my outburst. “A spank on your reset button is gonna do you a world of good. Come to me.”

I hate that stool, and I heccin hate that heccin bathbrush. All the speed and sting of a hairbrush plus the thud of a paddle like some mutant spawn from a hairbrush hate-screwing a school paddle and they weren’t even married, and that stupid mutant shouldn’t even live with us! It should go live with the X-men and fight crime or something with the other mutants. It hardly ever comes off the wall cuz it’s so next-level with the pain and the hurting and o I hate it so much! I may be a spanking enthusiast, and I may like a good hard spanking a whole lot more after than during, but that thing hurts too much to like it ever. All conflicted again trying to be a good girl and Mary’s mean decree and the barstool and that friggin weapon of ass destruction. Hmmph!

But I’m brave. I’m decisive, and I’m brave, so in a stentorian voice of certainty, I said, “Nuh-n-no.” Decisive, right? Yes right.

Mary’s eyebrow arched. She’s not used to hearing me say no. Maybe that’s the problem. I’ve been too good a girl for too long. “Excuse me, little girl? Get your butt over to me now.”

I’m cool as a cucumber under all the circumstances ever. Wasn’t like I felt my heartbeat rising or anything … and stuff. “N-no. Cuz I didn’t, um … do … anything.” In fact, I’ve actually never misbehaved in my life. Really.

“I’m the one who decides when you’ve earned a spanking. You disobeyed, you know it, you need a sound spanking, and you’re getting one right this instant, young lady. Don’t make me come get you.”

“But …”

“Daphne Ann, I’m going to count to three. If I have to walk over to …”

“I’m not a toddler! I’m not impressed by counting!” I had just enough time for stupid angel (who never makes her case well; this was all her fault) in my head to say ruh roh before Mary was on her feet and had me by the elbow. She spun around, sat herself down on the sofa, and twirled me over her lap in one motion. Think hard before you marry a spanking ninja ballerina who’s bigger than you. I mean, it’s the best decision I ever made and I wouldn’t change it for all the gold in Narnia, but in the moment, I was wishing very much that her hand-eye coordination was just a little off. I almost couldn’t hear her scolding me over the thwump of the frantic but expertly delivered spanks she was landing on the seat of my Forbidden Pants.

“Not a toddler? Then why are you over my knee getting a spanking over your diaper?”

“Lemme go!” I’m not a brat, but sometimes I do perform acts of brattitude, and I must’ve woken up on the bratty side of the bed that morning, I guess. I tried to swim off Mary’s lap as the spanks rained down. Not that I could feel them through my pants and Mary’s diaper (that I was kind enough to wear and, um, utilize on her behalf, and where is my thank you for that, btw?), but it was embarrassing. And stupid age play-esque erotic humiliation fetish and the spanking and the conflicted feels and it’s not like I wanted to be so obstinate, but I do hafta to defend my adulthood and independence and honor and nobility and stuff. It’s actually a full-time job since I live with Mary. She keeps me on my toes.

“When I tell you no, little girl, that means no. Up.” She spanked me to my feet, and no, I wasn’t sniffling and I didn’t wipe away a single embarrassed, regretful tear. Rumors and innuendo. Propaganda from the Regime of Mary, Queen of Making-Up-Rules-As-She-Goes actually … and stuff. Nor did I just stand there chastened and obediently holding still as Mary took my freedom pants down. “All this fuss over a pair of pants. Do you feel like a big girl now, getting your pants taken down so I can spank your bare bottom?” Like I was even going to dignify that with a response … until she smacked my thigh.

“No.”

“Other girls your age who still get spanked are allowed to take their own pants down for their spankings, but are you allowed to do that?”

“No.”

“That’s right. You’re too little to bare your own bottom. Step out.” Mary picked the pants up after I stepped out of them and started to fold them neatly as though even she respected their symbolism (or was just trying to rub it in and make my consequence last). She paused, and I saw this smile spread across her face. Very impolite. I married a tall, strong, ninja ballerina with hardly any manners at all.

“Daffy,” she said sweetly as though my what-embarrassing-thing-is-she-gonna-do-or-say-to-me-next antenna wasn’t picking up all the signals, “did you wanna put pants on cuz you were embarrassed for me to see your leaky diaper?”

“It’s not leaky!” Defending one’s reputation is hard sometimes. Especially when it’s futile, like if you’re me and live with Mary. Nonetheless, I wasn’t wearing a leaky diaper. More propaganda (that happened to be true, I found out later … dammit).

“Then how did your pants get wet? Just goes to show little girls don’t know when they need a diaper change.”

“Marrry! I told you I needed a change!” I stomped my foot. I know it’s adorable, and I hate being adorable when I’m trying to be tken seriously, but I can’t help it sometimes. Even I, the very paragon of forbearance and equanimity, let some less than sterling mannerisms slip out when my Mary pushes the right buttons, and the I’m-so-sweet-to-this-helpless-little-girl tone of voice definitely pushes a right button or four. But I didn’t, for the record of truth which is what I always tell, pair my foot stomp with a clenched fist and a “Hmmph!”

“I know it’s hard being a girl your age still in diapers, but you know I’d never judge you for needing your pampers.”

“I don’t need them! You make me wear them.”

“Because you need them.”

“I don’t need them!!”

“Yes, you do. Of course you do, because I say so. It’s just the cherry on the sundae that they make you so cute I can hardly even stand it. And usually they keep you out of trouble, but I guess a leaky Luvs just brought your grumpy out, didn’t it?”

That wasn’t an actual question, and I wasn’t going to dignify it with with an answer. I just stood there … not pouting and not avoiding eye contact. Really.

“Was your bottom just so uncomfortable you just couldn’t help but act out, hmm? I know little girls have trouble controlling their impulses when they’re tired or uncomfy. It’s just such a shame cuz your bottom is about to be a whole lot more uncomfortable, but it will help you learn.”

“Marrrry, none of this woulda happened if you had just let me change.”

“None of this would’ve happened if you had listened and obeyed, but you didn’t, so it’s happening,” Mary said, her tone returning to that of a calm, firm, determined disciplinarian. It’s so unfortunately arousing when does that … dammit. “We’ll keep that diaper under you just in case you piddle during your spanking.”

“I will not and you know it,” I declared in a declaratory way befitting declarations that declare you’re not about to wet yourself while your wife has you over her lap for a bare bottom spanking. Mary led me toward the stool and sat herself down.

I know a thing or two about poise and aplomb in the face of adversity, so I was all prepared to submit (like a good girl – I am too such a good girl!) … until I saw the bath brush again. Not that I panicked. I just exclaimed in a very exclamatory way, “Not the bath brush!”

“Over.”

“Please not the brush,” I asked (didn’t beg; fake news … but I did dig my heels into the carpet and, um, try to pull away).

“What has gotten into you today?”

Wow, that is such a good question. What bee got into my bonnet today?

It took a little more of tug than usual, but Mary – tall, strong, athletic, brunette, married to me and I like her a lot and stuff but do not care for the bath brush or that stupid stool either – got me over her lap despite my heroic (and maybe slightly half-hearted cuz I really am a good girl and love my Mary) resistance.

“Raise your hips,” she said to me. Like hey, can we at least acknowledge my heroic resistance and also leave that diaper up and, ya know, not spank me bare bottom? Or at all?

“Not the brush!”

“Daphne Ann, you need to calm down, hold still, and listen to me.”

“I will, but not the brush. I hate the brush and I hate this stool and I hate this diaper and you’re just being mean today! Mean Mary!”

I may be small, but I’m also fierce and stuff. I wasn’t just gonna let Mary hold me over her lap without at least expending some real effort. Can’t just meekly submit (at least not all the time; what fun is that?). She got a firm grip on my hip, and again with the rudeness, delivered a few thunderspanks to the back of my thighs to the tune of, “Settle! Down!”

“Make me!” I probably shouldn’t have said that. I should try to figure out what exactly got into me today, assuming I survive.

Witnesses get confused, documents get lost or destroyed by the accidents of history (or by submissives who don’t want certain things recorded for posterity). All of which is to say that historians weren’t there, so you can’t fully trust them when they say Mary did, in fact, make me settle down and hold still.

She skipped the hand spanking warm-up (which is in the Geneva Conventions, btw), and went straight to the bath brush. Perhaps, in her view, my behavior warranted a lot more spanks (and harder) spanks than she usually gives me with that thing.

And I don’t mind admitting how much it hurt. I’m the wronged party here, and people should know just what she did to me (but also please don’t spread this around – so humiliating!).

It took two spanks to produce the first sobs.

It took three more to provoke real tears.

Ten more, and I stopped thrashing. “Finally holding still,” as Mary grumbled. She sounded a little out of breath. Almost like, as a random for instance, she was perched precariously on a bar stool trying to hold on to a grown woman who was trying to get the heck off her lap, and spank said grown woman at the same time. Glad I made her work for it at least (further proof I’m not a little girl). Also glad she held onto me and that I didn’t tips us over. Anyhoo …

Eight more spanks, and my wailing turned into a sobbing moan as I laid limply over my Mary’s knee.

And ten more until, I guess, Mary was confident whatever naughtiness and yucky feelings had provoked such bad choices were all cried out of me.

“Shhh,” Mary cooed, “it’s all over.” She rubbed my butt and my back as she surveyed the scene. The diaper was on the floor, I was a sweaty mess, and so was Mary. She’d need to comb my hair again before her next Zoom meeting. And how the heck did I manage to kick a sock off?

“Can you sit up?”

Of course I could. I’m very big and brave and capable. I didn’t need but did accept Mary’s help as I pivoted straight into her lap, put my cheek against her shoulder, and continued my crying (which I was only doing cuz my butt and pride her; I’m not a little girl! Really!!!). “I’m sorry I was ba-a-a-ad,” I (allegedly) sobbed. Very big and brave and … stuff and things.

“You weren’t bad, Daphne. You just made some bad choices. You’re my good girl.”

“Waaaahhhh!”

“Aww, sweetie.” She chose to rock me a little. I didn’t ask for it or need (not that I hated it but also yes I did cuz I’m not a little girl). “You always cry harder when I spank bottom and call you my good girl.” And yet she always says it, which is good cuz I’d be an unhappy Daffy if she didn’t say it.

“Cuz I love you and I’m trying to be good for you and I’m sorrrrrryyyyy!”

She chuckled. “You silly goose. I love you too, and you’re always my good girl and always will be, even when you make bad choices.”

Did you hear what she said? She said I’m always her good girl! Heck yes!  My diaphragm cramped with the occasional sob and sniffle, but the tears dried up.

“Are you going to obey me?”

“Yes.”

“Are you ever gonna fight me again when I decide you need your bottom spanked?”

“No,” I meeped.

“Good. I don’t like having to give you such hard spankings. If I had my way, the bath brush would go in the trash, but it can’t do that until your behavior tells me you won’t ever need me to spank you with it again. Do you understand that, that I don’t spank your bottom just because?”

“Mhmm.”

“Good. And you got your consequence, and everything is forgiven. How about we make lunch together?”

“Mmm-mmm.”

“Mmm-mmm? You wanna snuggle longer?”

“Yes please.”

“Okay. Your Mary loves you very much.” Ooo, with the soft kissing. I think she likes me. Maybe even like likes me

“I love you too.” Mary held me for a few more minutes. Told you she likes me and stuff.

“Alright, up you go.”

“Not yet.”

“Do you need me to keep hugging bad feelings away, or are you just trying to delay getting diapered again?”

“Um, no … really.”

“I think someone’s fibbing. You know what fibbers get?”

“I’m up!” I sprang to her feet. “I’m up and my butt really hurts.” Heccin seriously! Ouch and stuff!

“And your huggies are gonna hold the heat in longer. Let that be a reminder to make good choices. Lie down.”

I resisted mentally, for the record, if not physically or verbally as Mary got a dry diaper from the changing basket under the coffee table and put me into it. “Let’s go blow your nose and wash your pretty face, then we’ll have lunch together. Sound good?”

“Mhmm … Mary? Can we have sex as soon as you’re done with work?”

“Ha! Of course we can.” I know this is crazy, but I’m pretty sure she was just as aroused as me by the whole episode. Weird, right?

“Can I get started without you?” I was asking for my friend.

“You can go crazy on yourself so long as that diaper stays on the whole time … Are you making uwu faces at me?”

“No, I swear … um, really.”

“My silly little girl.”

“My Mary.”

And my butt (and pride and stuff)! My poor, poor butt (and pride and stuff)! And I didn’t even do anything (except for all that stuff I did)! I’m a good girl! Really!

[diaperboymi]

Fantastic chapter ?  Still my favorite story ever.  Poor Daffy...she wants to grow up but i think she's destined to go the other way.   And i know we've not seen the last of that bath brush ??????

[kerry]

This story has a unique and wonderful position in the ABDL stories pantheon. It is probably the only story graphically depicting spanking scenes that I and other non-spankers-and-spankees can really enjoy, and that is because, despite repeatedly returning to scenes of Daphne getting spanked, it never stops being focused on the relationship between these two well-written women. It's also because, as I and others have pointed out on several occasions, Daphne is easily the best narrator in any ABDL story. Her humor, her self-effacing and yet braggy remarks, her love/hate relationship with diapers, her pure and unwavering love and commitment to Mary...all of these and more make it impossible not to love her. Heck (and didja notice I said "heck," which is a Daffy word?), the relationship between these two women might even be enough to tempt certain readers (I didn't say me, but if it was me I probably wouldn't say it anyway) toward interest in this sort of scene.

I hope this story keeps going forever.

[Sarah Penguin]

[Alex Bridges]

Scene #161

 

“Wherever you go, whatever you do, I will be right there waiting for you.”

“Hmmm (snore) singing.”

“Who’s my sleepy girl?”

“Huh? O … Is the movie over?” I was very alert in a groggy, consciousness-is-overrated kinda way.

“Mhmm.”

“Sorry I fell asleep,” I told my Mary. “Was it good?”

“No. I feel asleep too.”

Me? Snuggle into Mary? Never. It’s so uwu. Yuck. “You were singing me a song. You’re so gay and stuff.”

“I’m totally gay for you, Daffodil. Should we go to bed?”

“Yeah, I’d hate to have slept through bedtime.” Me, a smartass? Never ever, upon my word as a heterosexual. Um, really.

“I’ll get you tomorrow for that,” Mary yawned. “Up you get.”

“Carry me.”

“Very funny. C’mon.”

“(Fake snore).”

“Up. You can’t fall asleep with your face buried in my lap. You’ll suffocate.”

“Yeah, but what a way to go.”

“Up. Maybe a smack bottom will get you moving.” That’s her solution to everything. I’d criticize her for it if it didn’t work nearly all the times.

“Ugh. Fine.” Gotta say it: laying down was more fun that’s sitting up.

“You’re so much fun when you’re dazed,” my wife who is a smartass and didn’t get the trait from me because I’m ever so sincere said to me.

“You love it when I’m dazed. I’m suggestible and stuff.” We trudged up the stairs. I chose to ignore the clock saying it was only 9:30. We’re not losers. We’re just two tired people in a pandemic and the accumulated stress and the … stuff and things. Who wants to list all the stuff and things? Too much work.

We got to our bedroom, and Mary turned to face me, putting her hand against my forehead. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Just sleepy?”

“It’s bedtime.” Sort of. I was groggy. I was in the middle of a really good REM cycle when Mary woke me up with her sweet singing and stroking my face, and I’m pretty sure she blew in my ear. She likes me; I can tell these things.

“Let’s get you into your sleep time diaper, and then you can go back to dreamland.”

“Mary, the only way that’s happening is if you do it all in your own without waking me up.” I got under my covers, and I was back asleep before Mary even got to the toy box she keeps the diapers in.

So how the heck did I wake up in a heccin diaper!?!

[kerry]

Short entry but sweet and fun. ?

[diaperboymi]

That was Great ?  Somehow I knew Daffy would end up in a diaper ?

[YourFNF]

On 2/17/2022 at 7:24 AM, Alex Bridges said:

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 ?

totally doesn't want a link ?

On 2/19/2022 at 1:54 PM, Alex Bridges said:

Yes really.” I mean, sure, I was exhausted, felt weak as kitten, and sore like I’d been riding a horse all day and doing kegels the whole time I was sitting on top of the sweaty beast, but I couldn’t let Mary think she’d gotten the better of me. True story.

[Alex Bridges]

38 minutes ago, YourFNF said:

totally doesn't want a link ?

I always smile when I see you’ve commented

[YourFNF]

2 hours ago, Alex Bridges said:

I always smile when I see you’ve commented

[Sarah Penguin]

[Alex Bridges]

I was gonna write a new chapter but instead I’m having dinner with my mom and dad.

And it’s grownup food too. Hmmph!?

[diaperboymi]

Hope you had a Great time ??

[Alex Bridges]

Scene #162

 

“Mary, come look at this.”

“Do you really need me to come look, or are you laying on the bed naked,” she called back from wherever she was doing whatever she was doing. I really did need her to come look, sorta but not really but yes, but she did give me an idea for the future. Maybe one day this week I’ll need her to come look at a few things in the bedroom. Heehee!

“I need you to come look.”

My Mary usually strides or saunters or struts and once even promenaded, but it sure sounded like she was trudging up the stairs to me. “What?”

Can you believe she said that? I chose to ignore it. “Remember that snake I saw in the yard?”

“You mean do I remember hearing you shriek and running because I thought you were hurt and finding you flailing at the ground with a shovel?”

“It wasn’t a shriek; it was a battle cry, and yes. This says there can be four hundred of these snakes to an acre. We have to move.”

“You are such a fraidy cat.”

“Ssssss!”

“Did you just hiss at me?”

“You called me a name. Besides, you’re the one who won’t even kill her own spiders.”

“But,” she said as she advanced on me. She’s always advancing on me. “I am the one who’ll spank her wife’s butt when she gets sassy.”

“Hey whoa! Stop just flipping me over.”

“Make me!” And then – get this – she gave me ten rapid spanks on – get this! – my butt!!! Like, who even does that (aside from most of the women I choose to associate myself with and the one I married named Mary).

“What was that for!?!”

“Because it makes you sexually excited. Why don’t you go see your Nana for a while?”

Which is when we had the awkward silence to end all awkward silences. Normally, I’d find it very funny when Mary gets flustered for once, but the manager in charge of funny in my brain walked off the job and into the ocean.

“Um, heh, what I, uh, not related … the sentences! Why don’t you just go hang out with her … if she’s home, give you something to do.”

“Maybe you take a nap while I’m gone,” I said to Miss Mary Malaprop while giving her the sidiest side eye ever. “Is everything okay? You came upstairs a little grumpy.”

“I hate doing taxes.”

“You’ll like it more when we get the refund check.”

I had offered to do them, and Mary patted me on the head and said she really appreciated the offer but it’s a grownup job. Then she said my job was to be smol, play with toys, and “glare at me just like you’re doing now, cutie … Yep, just like that.” Which made me blush and look away, and she snickered at me! The nerve this woman has on her! By Jove, I like her and stuff (and her things too).

“What if instead of going to Nana’s I take a nap with you? I’ll be the big spoon, and don’t you tell me I’m too little for it.” I preempted that whole thing. She’d probably never say I was too little again. Really.

“I’m almost done. Scoot.” And there she went swatting my butt again. “Are your pull-ups still dry?”

“It’s a ‘pull-up,’ Mary. Up. I’m only wearing one. Don’t make it worse than it is.”

“Speaking of grumpy butts.”

“Am not. I just don’t like snakes.”

“They’re the size of a pencil.”

“They’re snakes … We should buy a mongoose. Or mongeese.” Mongooses?

“Yeah, that’s a thing that’s gonna happen.” I was halfway out the door when she said, “Wait. Gimme a kiss.”

Which I did and I liked it and I had that Katy Perry song stuck in my head for a half hour after.

I headed to Nana’s back door cuz we’re familiar like that and was pleased to find her in yard getting her garden ready for planting. “Hi,” I said loudly enough for her to hear me over her headphones.

“Hiya. Was that you screaming earlier?”

“Yes.” I’ll own it. I have nothing to be embarrassed about.

“What on earth was Mary doing to you?”

“Nothing,” I snootily answered back. I was a little offended. I don’t think I’ve ever carried on that way cuz of anything Mary has ever done … I think. She’s done a lot of stuff to me, some of the best parts fuzzy in my memory. And how did Nana get to be someone who just assumes we’re up to kinky stuff or that I’m in trouble all the time? We’ve done nothing to give her that impression. Really. Were actually quite normal and vanilla and private. Really.

“I saw a snake,” I informed her.

“O. You don’t like snakes?”

“Not even a little.”

“What kind was it?”

“A ring-neck, according to the interwebs.”

“All that screaming for one of those little things?”

“It was a battle cry, and a small snake is not not a snake. I’m ready to move, but if we have to disclose we have snakes I don’t think we’ll get much for our house.” I know we wouldn’t have to disclose that, but I’m just saying. Do you wanna buy a snake house? If the answer is yes, we can’t be friends.

“You’re so dramatic.”

“They’re serpents!” Go read some literature and see how civilizations stretching back to the very beginning feel about serpents. The apple was just one of their many misdeeds.

“They eat pests.”

“They are a pest! I’d rather have a mouse than a snake. At least the mouse is a mammal.” Like me. Small, cute, soft, which taken together is I guess what smol means; and vulnerable to the predations of predators (named Mary) who are always threatening to pounce, swoop down, strike, or bite. I’m not sure which of those is my favorite.

“You wanna help me?”

“Yes please. Be right back.” I ducked back into my yard and emerged with my trusty pitchfork. I’d left it out. Good thing Mary isn’t terribly interested in gardening and outdoor chores, or I’d probably get a lecture about taking care of my tools as prelude to getting my butt beat with the garden hose (which really happened once, but I don’t think I could do it now; o, to be young again).

“So what’s happening in your life, Daffy?”

“Spring,” I said as I helped her spread mulch. “Being outside and planting stuff. You really started something.”

“How’s that?”

“I used to think I hated gardening, and then I helped you plant tulip bulbs and you offered to help with our garden, and now I spend all winter looking forward to it.”

“It’s fun making things grow, isn’t it? Are you planting anything special this year?”

“The plan is to plant more berries. I planted two blueberry bushes last year and got exactly three berries.” They were very good. I figure if I spend another eighty dollars on berry bushes I could have enough to top a (very small) bowl of ice cream. Won’t that be fun? Heehee!

“And I learned my lesson last year about vegetables,” I added.

“Figured out a better way to plant them?”

“Figured out not to plant them at all. We had so many, and Mary insisted we actually eat them.” Something dumb about them being healthy for us. I just grew them cuz I like making stuff grow. But Mary was all about actually eating them, and that led to our then-latest disagreement about the importance of eating vegetables, which led to me remind Mary she’s not in charge of what I put in my body, which led to Mary making her wanna-bet face and reminding me she’s in charge of me, which led to her not letting me have dessert for a week.

But because I am an agent of my down destiny, Mary not letting me have dessert isn’t the same as me not having dessert. When Mary discovered my perfidy (her word; I prefer ‘civil disobedience’), she reminded me she can’t make me do anything but she can make me wish I had. Long story short, got spanked, dessert prohibition was extended another week minimum and remained in effect until I asked her to spank me with the bathbrush. And lemme tell you something – turns out I like dessert more than I hate that bathbrush, so it’s not like I wasted time in asking for it.  Of course, Mary put her thumb on the scale and arrived home that afternoon with a cake from a bakery and was o so ready to remind me I couldn’t have any until I asked for my spanking. If only she put her genius into being god instead of wicked.

“You come up with more ways to get yourself into trouble,” Nana said.

Aw crap, did I really just tell that story to Nana?

“It’s not my fault Mary cares more about my health than my hedonism.” And she really likes certain aspects of my hedonism, so imagine how much more she likes me healthy and stuff.

“Ya know,” I said for no particular reason, “if you were my real nana, I’d expect to be spoiled with cookies and cake and candy when I come over.” Cookies, cake, and candy: three of the four Cs I love to get my lips around. The other one is … anyhoo …

“If you were really my granddaughter, I wouldn’t tell Mary you said that.”

“You’re not gonna tell her.” Nice try, Nana, but not fooling me for a second.

“I know how hard she works to keep you on the straight and narrow. I don’t mind giving her a hand.”

“Mary doesn’t know anything about keeping anyone straight.” True. Story.

“Hahahaha! Very smoothly done.”

“Thank you.”

We kept working for a bit and were interrupted by someone tall and brunette calling, “Hello,” over the fence.

“We’re here,” I called back. And then there was Mary looking much happier than when I saw her last, which is just kinda the best.

“Hi, Mae,” Mary politely greeted Nana.

“You look happier,” I said before Nana could respond.

“Cuz I’m done.”

“Are we getting any money back?”

“Nope. We owe a little.”

“Then why do you look so happy?”

“Cuz I’m done. I was doing our taxes,” Mary explained to Nana.

“Can I get you something,” Nana asked. “We were just about done too.”

“Only if it’s no trouble.”

“It’s no trouble. Have a seat, and I’ll bring out some lemonade,” Nana said.

I waited for her to disappear in the house and quietly asked Mary, “Do all grandmas always have a pitcher of lemonade ready or just the one who lives next to us?” Nana always has a pitcher of lemonade ready.

“Maybe she just likes lemonade. Hee!”

“What ‘hee’? What’d I miss?”

“You.”

O my gosh, she’s doing that thing where she puts her hands around my waist and looks at me with that derpy smile on her face. Whereas I am derpy by default but hide it well (What? Really), Mary is at her derpiest when she’s looking at me.

“What about me?” I wasn’t fishing for compliments; I was just curious. Play it cool, Daphne. No one likes it when ya just throw it at ‘em. That’s actually not true of course; Mary kinda sorta definitely likes it when I’m so thirsty it’s near a medical condition (which sometimes triggers her orgasm denial kink, and then it really does turn into a medical condition).

“You’re dirty,” is what she told me. Like, wow, just straight up reading my mind.

“I’m not any dirtier than you, ya big perv.” One of these days, I’m going to seek out an expert on being a brat and ask them how to do it cuz I don’t know how. Really.

“Silly goose, I meant you’re dirty. You got a smudge on your face, and you’re sweaty and you smell like yard.”

“Lemonade and cookies,” Nana called from the patio, but we were busy.

“And you like it when I’m dirty?”

“Mhmm. I like it on a warm day when my little girl comes in from playing hard. Makes you look so wholesome, like my own real life Raggedy Daphne Ann.”

“I’m not gonna take offense at being called ‘raggedy’ cuz I know you didn’t choose that word.”

“You even have the same hair color. You look like you’ve been having young adult adventures and need me to put you in the tub and scrub you clean.”

I’m not blushing! You’re blushing!

“Our host has cookies,” I reminded her cuz we were borderline being rude, but also reminded myself cuz anything short of a cookie wouldn’t have gotten me to go over to the patio instead of standing in my Mary’s arms being adored. I’d work on her choice of comparison later, but just then we were all gay and held hands to the patio.

“Do you have any plans for the summer yet,” Mary asked Nana.

“I’m going to the beach for a week with my son and his family, and my friends are meeting me for another week. Other than that, just the regular things.”

I wish I had friends to go to the beach with for a week. I mean, I do, but since they work and I don’t, my schedule is a smidge more open than theirs. They can’t take a vacation with their family and another one with me, unfortunately.

“What about you,” Nana asked.

“We’ve got big plans. We’re taking a trip to the lake for a week, and we’ll probably take a few long weekends, and I’m making a summer reading list for Daffy.”

“You are,” I asked. I like reading. Hope it’s mostly erotica because reasons.

“That’s a good idea. Maybe we can make a little book club. What did you have in mind for her?”

“Age-appropriate things,” Mary smirked. I think she was trying to make a point or something. If she’s not careful, she’s gonna wake up one of these days and find me giving her a very dirty look. That’ll fix her wagon. Mary continued, cuz she’s always continuing, “Anne of Green Gables, Pippi Longstocking, Ramona, and Harriet the Spy.”

“Why those,” I asked.

“Cuz they’re all about quirky little girls who get into adventures like you.”

“I’m not a little girl, and I’m not quirky!” Why are they looking at me like that? I’m so normal my brother nicknamed me ‘Abby Normal’ when we were kids. Yep, that’s how he said it, I think. “And why exactly are you making me a reading list anyway?”

“Cuz you need some mental stimulation.”

True story, but “I get plenty of mental stimulation. Trying to stay ahead of you takes serious mental energy.”

“When’s the last time you stayed ahead of me?”

I was gonna answer that, but instead I turned to Nana and said, “See how mean she is to me?”

And Nana, bless her heart, had the temerity to reply, “My daughter loved The Babysitters Club. They’re probably still in the basement.”

“Daffy could use some help learning to babysit. I called the Red Cross, and they said she’s too old to take their babysitter certification course.”

“You did not.” Which is when she looked at me with her maybe-I-did-maybe-I-didn’t face. “Anyway, I read lots.” I’m very well read, actually. Hence my erudition and comfort breaking all the grammar rules whenever I heccin want. At the rate I’m going, there’s gonna be more words in my computer’s dictionary that I made up than there are words it came with. Might take a million years, but I’ll get there. We she-gods are eternal and stuff.

“Not as much as you used to.”

That’s actually true. “These modern times killed my attention span.”

“So some easy books will be perfect. And you’d better read them cuz there will be quizzes.”

“You’re gonna make quizzes?” and btw, Nana was still there, of course, probably thinking we’re more entertaining than any of the weirdness on daytime talk shows.

“I got them online. There’s all sort of learning aids online these days to help teach little girls.” And then – get this nonsense – she poked me in my side where I’m ticklish. I only a flinched a little.

“Fine,” I said to her. I’ll read her stupid books. Maybe they’ll even give me ideas for new ways to misbehave. Like … surveilling people. That’s what Harriet the Spy does, right? Or is that just peeping when you’re an adult? Maybe I’ll just peep at Mary. That’s allowed, most of the time.

We munched cookies and kept chatting, and yes, they did that thing where they talk about me like I’m not there for a bit, but at least neither of them saw me rolling my eyes.

“Ready to go home and get cleaned up,” Mary asked me.

“Sure.”

“Thanks for helping me,” Nana said to me.

“Anytime. Thanks for getting me into gardening.”

No idea if Nana saw Mary goose me on our way back to our own yard, but I’m positive she couldn’t have heard Mary whisper, “Let’s get you into the tub. Is your pull-up still dry?”

“It’s sweaty and gross, actually.”

“O sure, it’s just sweat.”

“It is!”

“Mhmm.”

“Mary, it is.”

“Of course. Whatever you say, silly goose.”

“Can I be a silly mongoose instead?”

“Nope. You’re too little.”

“Marrry!”

“Cutie.”

“Meanie.”

[diaperboymi]

You just brightened my day with this news chapter.   Thank you soooo much for the update!!!! ????

[Bel George]

Damn, again I didn't get a follow notification that there was a new chapter.

In my favorite story, the chapters with nana are probably also my favorite chapters. So I'm really glad to see her show up again.

I try not to impose myself with possible storylines, but ... If Nana's son has to drop out last minute for the week's holiday at the beach, then maybe Daphne can replace and keep her company? I'd love to see that happen.

[Alex Bridges]

Scene #163

 

“Ow!” What the heck? “Ow (spank) ow! (SPANK!) Ouch! Mary! Ow! What’d I even do!?! Ow ow ow ow ow!”

I was literally getting a glass of water and suddenly, “(SPANK!) Eep! Quit it!” We looked at each other for a second, and then, “Ow!” Dammit!

“I’m done,” she said, leaving me rubbing my butt and wondering what the heccin hey.

“What was that all about?”

“Bad workday.” O. That’s a perfectly good reason for her to spank me. My butt is like a stress ball, for both of us.

“You wanna talk about it?”

“Not really.”

“Is everything okay at least?”

“Yeah, just frustrated.” Mary’s not-happy face. I can’t let that stand. I wouldn’t be a good wife, let alone a good submissive, if I just let Mary stand there all frustrated and not happy. I stepped over to the counter and got the wooden spoon out of the crock.

“Here,” I said and thrust it into her hand.

“Daffy, you don’t need to …”

“Shush. How do you want me?”

“Really, it’s …”

“Are you gonna make me misbehave? Cuz I’ll do it. I’ll earn a spanking right here and now and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.” True story. What’s she gonna do to stop me from earning a spanking? Spank me? Check and mate.

She looked at the spoon and seemed to feel the weight of it, though it’s pretty light, and looked back at me. “You’re sure?”

“Mhmm.”

“Okay,” she said skeptically and led me to our living room. “I’m not mad at you,” she said as she took a seat on the sofa and started unbuttoning my shorts (PS, it’s shorts weather again - squee!). “Get these out of the way.”

And just like that, I was showing all my lady parts in our living room again. In some households - weird ones with weird people who have weird standards of behavior - that’s actually considered quite inappropriate, even offensive. Glad we’re not weird or anything. Really.

I put myself over her knee and reminded her, “Whoever you’re mad at isn’t me, just in case you get lost in the moment … But don’t hold back if you need to.”

“You’re earning major brownie points right now,” she said right before she (THWACK!) landed that spoon on my butt.

Not being caught off guard like I was in the kitchen, I did a much better job keeping my ouches and ows to a minimum … at first.

“Ow! Mary ow could you ow with the youch just a fungus muffin that hurt!” Which didn’t slow her down at all. “Save some eeep of me fnurnit for later ack!”

If I were actually in trouble, I’d have been crying, probably before I even went over her lap because apparently I’m a crybaby now, but since I wasn’t in trouble and didn’t feel the least bit guilty, I didn’t even sniffle. I’m not sure if I like crying during my spankings or not. I do know that without my own carrying on to distract me, I get to concentrate a hundred and fourteen percent on how much it hurts. Lucky me.

I should’ve pick a different implement. Or none at all. The spoon can’t even weigh two ounces, and it heccin stings! It can even leave marks. I probably had oval welts all over my butt, and since Mary wasn’t sparing my thighs, I’d have them there too, past where my shorts start. It’s not fun at all and also all the fun ever walking around with spoon marks on the backs of your thighs for others to see to if they happen to. Not that we do it on purpose, but as Mary likes to say (she always likes to say stuff), we’re not gonna delay my consequences or put our life on hold just because I need a spanking where and when others can see the marks (and hear me getting them). I hate-love that so much.

I could take a deep breath again when the spoon stopped and Mary with her strong hands was rubbing and squeezing and - “Eep!” Biting stuff with her mouth.

“Feel better,” I asked her.

“Mhmm. You have such a pretty red bottom.” And her hand, see, she put it, um … well, I’ll keep that part between me … between them … between us … to myself! Dammit!

“Thank you,” she said.

“I … mmm.”

“I’m not gonna let you finish,” she said to me all pleased with herself.

“Wanna bet?” We’ll see who can …

“Yep.” And then she took her hand away. Dammit.

“What happened to brownie points,” I may have whined like a woman who had been spanked and touched just so and wasn’t allowed to finish, also known as heck yes I heccin whined. What the heccin hey?!?

“When we get home, I’ll redden up that little butt of yours some more and then flip you over to make your front match. How’s that sound?”

“Tell me more,” I said as I, according to sources who aren’t always objective, rhythmically moved my thighs against her leg. SPANK! “Ow.”

“Nice try. Up.”

“I can have more than one, ya know.” Like she’s saving them as though they’re in short supply. Trust me, they’re not. But of course that’s not the actual reason she started when she didn’t (let me) finish.

“But it’s so much more fun for me to make you wait. You’re pretty when you’re horny,” she said as she got up and reached under the side table for the basket of her diaper changing supplies. “Where do you wanna go to dinner?”

“Somewhere that serves dessert.” I flipped onto my back obediently without even being told … Can it be obedience if you haven’t been told to do it yet? Preemptive obedience? “I don’t like diapers,” I reminded her.

“I know. Lift your butt.”

“I dislike them, actually.”

“Down. So you’ve said.”

“I like sex.”

“And you can have some later after you finish your dessert.”

I’m so very put upon.

[diaperboymi]

HA....love this.  My day is now bright again.   Thank you for this lovely update.   God i want these two as my neighbors ??????

[YourFNF]

On 3/12/2022 at 11:52 AM, Alex Bridges said:

You’re gonna make quizzes?” and btw, Nana was still there, of course, probably thinking we’re more entertaining than any of the weirdness on daytime talk shows.

Not going to lie I would kinda like this

16 hours ago, Alex Bridges said:

And you can have some later after you finish your dessert.”

 

I’m so very put upon.

Damn I could really use a nice catharsis spanking sometimes

[Sarah Penguin]

[bobindiapers]

On 3/14/2022 at 7:20 PM, Alex Bridges said:

What’s she gonna do to stop me from earning a spanking? Spank me? Check and mate

?

[Alex Bridges]

Scene #164

 

I’ll be okay if I can just live through the night. It’s happened before. But let me back up to explain.

“Why are you putting cocoa powder on vanilla ice cream,” the benevolent tyrant named Mary asked me.

“Cuz I like it this way.”

“Why not just have some chocolate ice cream?” I swear she looks at me like an anthropologist inspecting the strange ways of an uncontacted tribe sometimes.

“This is better than chocolate ice cream.”

“Yeah,” she said, “that’s a normal thing normal people do.”

Well, that was just rude, and I’ve had my fill of rudeness, even if the rude person may (sorta) have a point. Mary had her back turned to me, which just goes to show she doesn’t fear me at all even after such a offense as hers, and she should cuz I’m fierce and reckless and fiercely reckless.

I pulled back my hand, I swung it forward, and smack. Right on Mary’s butt.

Then I ran like hell with my ass on fire before she could do it for real. I’m very brave, by the way, with the courage of my convictions and stuff. Really. Just … sometimes retreat is the better part of valor … And I’m very valorous and stuff and things also. Um, really.

“Daphne Ann Taylor,” Mary the Vengeful sternly called after me, “you get your butt back here right now, young lady.”

“No.” I think that was very reasonable on my part.

“You’re only making it worse.”

“I doubt that’s possible.” True story. Up the stairs I dashed, not sure what exactly my end game was. The last time I smacked Mary on the butt, well, she returned the favor, quite generously about three hundred times over. She’s very giving, my Mary is. That’s the benevolent part of her tyranny.

Our bedroom is where the spanking implements live. Going in there would be like running into the swamp thing’s swamp. The other bedroom, though … Closet full of boxes, and me.

“Daphne, come out here.”

Way to telegraph that you don’t know where I am, silly goose. Yep, if I’m gonna smack my domme on the butt, I might as well double down and call her a silly goose (in my head where she can’t hear me). I can live like this, I thought, in my fortress of fortifications; I don’t take up much space, and I can sneak downstairs for food and water when she’s asleep. And sure, hiding in a closet may seem like the second in a rapid succession of impulsive decisions, but not having an exit strategy is a proud American tradition.

“Daphne,” said the voice of the dictatress from within the room. Gulp. “I know you went upstairs, and there are only so many rooms up here. Do you wanna come out of the closet, or do you want me to come in there and get you?” Well, that was a fun seventy seconds of safety.

Ah-hah! Humor will defuse this situation! “Honestly, I’d prefer if you came in here and got me.”

“What?”

“I want the press to say I didn’t give up without a fight.”

“This isn’t funny.” Okay, so humor won’t defuse this situation.

“Does it help if I apologize and say I’ll never do it again even if you’re pants are on fire?” I didn’t actually mean that last part. If her pants are ever on fire, I’ll swat at the flames. I do like her a lot, after all.

“Fine,” she responded, and then … silence.

Well, that was unnerving. Which is unusual for me. “There goes Daphne,” people say, “she has a lot of nerve.”

“You just stay in there, and you and I are going to have a little chat about right and wrong.”

“Um, okay.”

“I admit that what I said was a little cutting, and I apologize for that. Do you accept my apology?”

“Yes.”

“But no matter what someone says, you don’t hit.”

“You smack my butt all the time for stuff I say!”

“I don’t hit you, Daphne. I spank your bottom when you need a consequence to help you make better choices in the future.”

“That’s a distinction that isn’t,” I grumbled.

“When it’s a child, no, there’s no difference at all. But you’re not a child. You are a little girl.”

Wait a heccin second, did I just get demoted to below the rights that a kid has in the don’t-hit-me-on-the-butt department? Not that I think anyone should ever fit many reason hit a kid on the butt or anywhere else (consenting adults only), but the principle of the principle was at stake.

“You’re my little girl, and I won’t have you hitting. That is naughty behavior, Daffy, very naughty.”

“You’re talking down to me.”

“No, I’m not.”

O, well, glad we got that resolved? (I’m rolling my eyes sarcastically right now).

“You are the little girl, and I’m the dominant. Is it okay for little girls to hit their dominant?”

O friggin frack. “… No.” That was a valid point she had. I’m not saying she didn’t have other valid points, which is why I didn’t dispute them very much, but that was the most valid of her valid points. It’s not that I disagreed with her. It’s just that I didn’t want a consequence for my misbehavior.

“I do an awful lot for you because I love you and because you’re my wife and my little girl, and I don’t ask for very much in return, but I expect you to respect me and us enough to know better than to think it’s okay for you to swat me.”

“I do respect you and us. I just …”

“What?”

“Did it anyway?”

“You always did have poor impulse control for a girl your age.”

She wasn’t laughing or chuckling or chortling or snickering, but she was definitely doing all of those things (plus giggling) at my expense. She was just doing it on the inside, which I couldn’t hear but I could see through the door (in my head – I am too normal).

“So,” I ventured, “we’re in a standoff.”

“Not really. I could open that door and pull you out of there right now if I wanted to.”

“But, um, you don’t want to?”

“I don’t need to. You’re going to come out on your own.”

O. That was news to me. I mean, sure, eventually I’d have to come out, but I wasn’t in any pressing hurry. I hadn’t given her a good reason to use her new paddle brush yet, but I had visions of it river dancing across my butt, and ya know, I could do without. But if Mary thought I was going to come out on my own, futurist that she is, maybe she knew the answer to, “When?”

“Soon.”

“Dammit.” And I swear she was chortling at me again. Me! As though I’m a figure of fun and revelry rather than a paradigm of might whose mere presence causes a hushed awe to descend on the crowd who are delighted simply to gaze upon me. ‘There goes Daphne,’ people say, ‘let’s watch what happens next.’ Yep, that’s a thing people say about me (I’m quite the topic of conversation in certain circles … sometimes … rarely but not never … among very small (micro) circles).

“You’ll come out soon because you know you made a bad choice, Daphne Ann Taylor. You know you need a consequence and will feel better the sooner you get it. You broke a major rule, you hit me, and you know you need to pay the price for that.”

“Does the price get higher the longer I stay in here?” That would be a good reason to go out there and face the music (such a weird idiom). Plus, it was dark in the closet. I am an angel of the light, after all, a beacon unto the world. Really. And petite as I am, there was very little room in there for me (closets and I have that kind of history together). I was getting a cramp in my leg.

“Much higher.”

Well, friggin fine. Might as well bite the bullet … Unless … Worth a shot. (crunch bump rustle ruckus).

“What are you doing in there?”

“I’m coming out.”

“I knew you would.” Of course she knew, the big so and so who knows me better than I know myself which is perfect but also grrr sometimes.

“Here I come.” I slid open the door, and it was so much less dramatic than it should’ve been, all things considered and since I was, well, I’ll let Mary tell you.

Mary: “What on earth happened to your clothes?!?”

Me: “Took ‘em off.”

“Why?”

I anticipated her asking that. In fact, as soon as I thought to myself, hey, take off your clothes before you go out there, I knew she was going to want to know why I did that, and I prepared my answer before I even got my socks off. So see, I do too think (several seconds) ahead sometimes. “To remind you how much you like my body and please don’t break it.”

“What did you think I was gonna do to you,” Mary asked as she pulled the throw blanket off the bed and put it around me.

“Spank me really hard … a lot.”

“Why would you think that?”

Is that … Is that her earnest face of her faux earnest face? Is she putting me on? I gotta be careful around her at (all the) times. It’s like living with a circus tiger – she seems ready to live among the humans and be all soft and furry and then bam! Pounces on you and devours you. Which is so much fun and all, but also sometimes ouch.

“Cuz I broke a major rule and disrespected you,” I said as she put her arm around my shoulder and guided me toward our bedroom like she wasn’t being weird at all. I may have hidden in a closet and stripped to my nudity before coming out, but at least that was in character. Mary, by all rights, should’ve been wailing on my butt just then, not gently guiding me to our bedroom like a kitten she found in the rain.

“Do you know you made a bad choice?”

“Mhmm.”

“Then I think the firm scolding you got is enough.”

“Really?” Call me mistrustful.

“Yeah. Because you know if you ever smack my butt again, after I let you off with just a talking to the first time, I’ll take my belt off.”

Gulp. “O … I’d rather not.” I don’t like the belt. Not on a plane or a train or with a moose or a goose because I’ve felt the belt and don’t want to ever feel it again.

“Me too. Lay down for your diaper.”

“Do I hafta?”

“Which one of us is the domme?”

So that would be a yes. Of course, I did say I liked it better – which is to say, not at all – when the diapers were a punishment cuz at least I knew when to expect them. But on the other hand, “I thought you said I wasn’t being punished.”

“You’re not.”

“Yes, I am. You’re making me wear a diaper.”

“That’s not a punishment, sweetie.”

“Um, yeah it is.”

“Nope.”

“Yes.”

“Mm-mm.”

“Yuh-huh, is the thing.”

“I’m not making you wear your diaper for punishment, Daffy. I’m putting you in your diaper cuz you wear diapers.”

“No I heccin don’t,” she said from flat on her back while her wife put a diaper under her butt. Dammit.

“Yes, you do.”

“But I don’t, is the other thing.”

“Then what’s this,” Mary said as she patted the front of my – her! It’s hers! – diaper.

“This probably wouldn’t be happening if I’d left my clothes on, huh?”

“You know who takes their clothes off randomly?”

“Toddlers?”

“You silly goose, what made you think of that first?” Okay, see, now I know she’s putting me on. “Little girls named Daffy takes their clothes off and for the strangest reasons. Are you comfy?”

“Physically or more like, on this plane of existence?”

“Such big words for my little one. Sit up. We gotta get you re-dressed so we can go out for ice cream.”

That’s right! My ice cream was probably melted. “You’re taking me out for ice cream?”

“Mhmm.”

“I should smack you on the butt twice a week.”

“Excuse me?”

“Just kidding.” Like, obviously.

“Excuse me, little girl. Just for that, I shouldn’t let you wear any pants. How would you like to go through the drive-through wearing just your diaper?”

Eep! O heck heccin no! “I’m sorry. Very sorry.”

“Look at me,” Mary said as she, um, climbed up on the bed and straddled me, looking down at me with her … big, kind eyes that just love me so much. Oof, she makes it so hard so pick a feeling and stick with it sometimes. “Daffy, I can tell that we’re not getting to Monday without you spending some time over my knee crying your little girl eyes out, and ya know what?”

There was a pause until the voice on my head said, O, she’s actually waiting for me to ask, “What?”

“Before, during, and after, I’ll love you muchly.”

“O geez,” I groaned and put my arms over my eyes cuz I needed a moment alone.

But she moved my arms and made me look at her (o geez!) while she added, “When you’re naughty, when I’m taking your pants down, when I’m spanking your bare bottom, when you wipe your runny nose on my shirt – I’ll love you muchly the whole time.”

I blinked in response, made that squiggly smile Winne the Pooh makes (according to Mary), and said, “O my goodness.” Which is when Mary made a squiggly smile, probably thinking of how my response was so very normal.

“Hug,” she asked as I squirmed underneath her.

“All the hugs please.”

And you’ll never believe me, but I got all the hugs! True story. “Sorry for smacking you on the butt.”

“You said that already. All is forgiven. You wanna take a little cocoa powder to put on your ice cream?”

“Mhmm.”

“I’ll even love you muchly when people look at us funny while you put cocoa powder on your vanilla ice cream.”

Aww! She really likes me and stuff. I can tell.

[Sarah Penguin]