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

[SolSombraYSoldados]

2 hours ago, Alex Bridges said:

“You wanna live on a farm like that woman on Twitter and have emu friends?”

 

“She’s gay, ya know. Her girlfriend films her videos.”

Yessss I love the Emanuel reference. ❤️

[diaperboymi]

Love this???  Still my favorite story?????????????

[thedman]

Those darn farmers, always having the tractor fall over on them

[Sarah Penguin]

gay farmers planting fields full of baby daffys

[thedman]

People are always saying "There goes farmer Daffy, getting stuck under her tractor and saying those naughty words again"

[Alex Bridges]

9 hours ago, thedman said:

People are always saying "There goes farmer Daffy, getting stuck under her tractor and saying those naughty words again"

This made my morning ?

Thank you!

[kerry]

On 8/14/2022 at 2:41 PM, Alex Bridges said:

did I just get spanked by my wife, diapered by the grandma next door, put down for a nap, and promised cookies? What is even happening anymore?

a dream come true for most of us here?

[Alex Bridges]

Scene #186

 

I’m not a little girl. Really. I’m just a woman married to a woman. A woman who gave me two dollars and sent me to the store, ostensibly because I needed some fresh air and exercise (pretty rich coming from Mary the Desk Pilot). Not that I was complaining cuz she told me I could have a peanut butter pumpkin so long as I walked to the store to get it. But just the one, so she gave me two dollars from her purse (almost like she doesn’t trust me to follow the rules about peanut butter pumpkins because – get this – for some reason she doesn’t trust me to follow the rules about peanut butter in any shape, as though I have a well-earned reputation for deceit, but I like to think of it as guile), and sent me on my way with a smack to my butt and kiss to my mouth. I really did kiss a girl, and I heccin liked it. True story.

The peanut butter pumpkin never made it home of course. It made it from the checkout to … I wanna say the crosswalk, but that would be a lie, and I am a paragon of truth. Unlike President Washington, I really did (try to) chop down a cherry tree and confessed immediately upon being asked (I was six and confused about the moral of that story). Anyhoo, the pumpkin didn’t even make it across the parking lot.

When I got home, there was Mary in the kitchen looking domestically scrumptious. She was stirring something (she’s always stirring pots and swinging spoons like it’s a hobby or – get this – a fetish; how weird!), and she bade me come close. For her I am ever so biddable, plus I like her and stuff. You know what she did? She gave me another kiss. A good one.

“You taste like peanut butter,” she told me.

“Flattery will get you all the places with me … You should eat more peanut butter.” She rolled her eyes so subtly, I almost didn’t notice.

“Why not just spread some on me,” she ask sarcastically, but from sarcasm comes some of the best ideas ever. Pre-sliced bread, for instance, was invented when someone rolled their eyes and said, ‘why don’t we just slice it for them too?’ Really.

“You joke, but that’s a very good idea.”

“Like puppy play?”

“I’m not a puppy. But you do make a nummy treat. Thank you for my pumpkin.” She even let me keep the change, which I added to the change jar. “Can I taste?”

“I’m making dinner,” Mary said like I’m a singleminded pervert or something. Now whose turn is it to roll their eyes? Mine. That’s whose turn it was.

“I meant dinner, you silly … alpha goose.”

“Such a sass mouth. It’s the sugar that does it.” She dipped the spoon into the pot, blew on it for me (cuz she loves and stuff), and held it out for me to taste.

But first I said, “Blame me, not the sugar.” Because I don’t cotton to heresy. Then I tasted it. “Mmmm. Yummers.”

“You always make up new words when you get a little hyper.”

“I think you wanna blame peanut butter for things. Is that because you love me so much you don’t want to face my flaws? Not that I have any, but, ya know, theoretically … Even though I transcend theory … Whatever that means.”

“Your bottom knows the answer to that.” That’s actually what she said to me. She’s the sass mouth. Her! Mary!

“What’s that mean?”

“That’s I’ve never spanked peanut butter, but I’ve spanked you bare little bottom more times than I can count.”

“Yeah, but cuz you love me, right?”

“So much. Come stand next to me.”

“Why,” I asked as shuffled over to stand next to her.

“So I can put my arm around you while I stir the mushrooms.”

“Awww. You’re being a softy today.”

“I am. I really am.”

Know how banks have silent alarms? Mary’s use of ‘really’ in that context tripped mine, and the little teller in my head just kept smiling like everything was normal and she had not tripped any alarm and no need to get violent just take the money and go with the almighty’s blessing.

“… In what … other ways are you being a softy today?” Of course, it didn’t hafta to be something bad. It could be that she bought me a present. Maybe she decided we should go on another trip. Maybe stuff … Or things.

“Jo texted me again, and we set a date. Ran out of excuses.”

“Jo as in Ann’s partner?” Ann as in the woman we met at a play party, a little and spanko who had kindly packed our things for us as Mary and me were giving each other some after care? Jo and Ann as in the Jo and Ann who had invited us to go to their home and we said yes but really Mary said yes and I said meh and Mary said yes and I said okay but not now and then we all forgot about it but not entirely and apparently Jo and/or Ann had reached out again and Mary said yes and agreed to a date and time because we had allegedly run out of excuses?

I know we’re married and everything, but ‘ran out of excuses’ is not a we problem. That’s a Mary problem. Mary may have run out of excuses, but years of practice trying to stay out of trouble have made me friggin’ the best at coming up with excuses. Random for instance, ‘love to, but can’t; our bird is sick.’ Bam! Literally just came up with that on the friggin’ spot! Tall brunette person with her arm around me talking nonsense about running out of excuses mumble mutter murmur mumble.

“Marrry!”

“We’ll talk about it after dinner.”

“Are you gonna do that thing when you use physical pleasure to keep me quiet and pliant while you tell me how it’s gonna be and reassure me it’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Fibber … And you had better.”

Mary took the hint, not that I was at all subtle about it … nor basically telling her I was miffed and she owed me if she wanted me to go along … nor that the very prospect of playing with new people had me so anxious I needed to be physically calmed down. Really.

So, after dinner – which, let’s acknowledge, I ate very much of despite having snarfed a peanut butter pumpkin shortly before, which I bring up only to counter all those people who ever thought I would spoil my dinner as though I can’t eat like a slender, very feminine, totally calm, hungry hungry hippo – Mary got out the big waterproof pad (always a sign of fun times ahead, except in certain circumstances I don’t wish to talk about), and laid it on our bed. I knew where that was going, so I took the liberty of stripping to my birthday suit while she went to find the massage oil under the bathroom counter. As an aside, I don’t know why people call it a birthday suit; that implies nakedness is only for special occasions, but being naked is great pretty much all the times.

I was face down on that pad when Mary climbed onto the bed and climbed over me. Little ol’ me, right between her naked thighs. You might think having a naked masseuse is likewise only for special occasions, but ask your masseuse to straddle you during your session and you will hear, among other reasons they will decline, them say they don’t want to get massage oil on their clothes.

“Why did you say yes,” I asked as she poured a small pool of oil in the small of my back. She snapped the lid closed and started spreading it up and down, side to side.

“Why did you say ‘not yet’ every time I suggested a date?”

“Reasons. Good ones.”

“Like the way you tend to resent new people coming into our lives?”

“Yes.” Ever since I was a kid, I’ve never liked a new person being added to my group of friends. I had my group; I liked my group; what did we need a new person for? A person who might change the group’s dynamic or take away from my time with my friends, basically meaning their attention would be on someone who wasn’t me. But I would get over it. It’s just that, despite knowing better, I would rather not deal with it at all than get over it.

“You have a big knot here. Tell me if it hurts too much.” My muscles and connective tissue don’t like me. There’s always a knot somewhere, and getting it to relax often requires a lacrosse ball, a masseuse, or a lesbian leaning on it with her elbow. “Any other reasons?”

“I’m shy and awkward and embarrassed about being shy and awkward.”

“Are you as shy as you used to be?”

“No.”

“And you were never as awkward as you thought. Besides, some people like shy, awkward girls are cute.” Yeah, the one rubbing oily hands on me sure likes that mode on me. Sometimes she decides she wants to help me be less shy; other times she tells me it’s okay to hide behind her. Either way, she won’t let anything happen to me, which is oddly reassuring despite literally nothing ever having happened to me because I’m shy. Like, it’s caused literally no problems in my life and I can just not be shy when I need to. She’s not protecting me from anything; she’s just reassuring me, which I like a lot.

“I just don’t like being the center of attention, and a new bottom is always the center of attention. That woman is going to focus all this energy on me, and you’re gonna wanna know more about Ann, and I’m going to hate both of those things.” I’ve already decided I’m going to hate both of those things. Especially the latter, not that I ever get jealous. Um, really.

“I’m not expecting you to play with them. We’re just going to get to know them more. You haven’t even talked to Jo yet.”

“O. That makes more sense.”

“Did you really think I was just going to send you off to play with strangers?”

“Why are we meeting at their house then?”

“So we can all be more open about ourselves. They have a lifestyle relationship too. We know people who know them; they vouch for them.” Safety first.

“Well, geez Mary, why didn’t you say so? You can tell me these things.”

“We kept putting it off so long I just forgot about it. I’m surprised she texted me. I thought they’d given up on us. I would’ve.”

“Wonder why they didn’t. It’s been months.”

“Probably because they could use new friends, just like a little girl I know who’s been saying she needs more friends.”

I do need more friends. Friends who are available during the day. All my friends work all day. I don’t have any impression of Jo, and my only impression of Ann is from when I was weeping on Mary’s lap not wanting anything to do with anyone who wasn’t my Mary. All I really know about is what I overheard during that conversation Mary had with Jo. “And it’s a coincidence this couple you wanna make friends with are ageplayers?”

“It’s a coincidence that we Ann, but I don’t think it’s a coincidence that she approached us. Can I tell you a secret?”

“You keep secrets from me?”

“My secret is that I love Oily Daffy.”

“She’s pretty fun.”

“You’re like a slip-n-slide.”

“So when did you say we’d meet them?”

“Saturday after next. I think we’ll really like them. I get sense their lifestyle is a lot like ours.”

“I do need more friends. Okay. Just don’t run out of excuses without giving me a chance to come up with some new ones.” She snickered at me.

“I promise.”

“Hey, as long as you’re up there and I’m all oiled up, how about smacking my butt for a while?”

“And maybe my other hand could find another way to keep busy?”

“I was just gonna suggest that.”

“On one condition: afterwards, we wash the oil off each other.”

“Twist my arm why don’t you.”

Making new friends sometimes feels like one of those things that’s good for you, but you still don’t want to do it. All my reasons weren’t very good reasons, and I do need more friends. Having another kinky couple to be friends with would be nice, especially if Jo and Ann really do turn out to be more like us. Even if not, even if we just get along as vanillas, I really have been getting bored lately.

 

[kerry]

Just when I thought my day was souring, along comes another visit with Daffy! God I love her (and I'm jealous of her too...and I'm not even into spanking (except in theory, when it can be a turn-on (not that I would ever indulge in it, but hey, you know?)))

[AndTheChips]

????????????? 

[bobindiapers]

I forgot all about Ann and Jo, I'm excited to see how their visit goes. I predict Daphne has a lot more fun than she thinks she will. And she probably ends up getting spanked.?

[diaperboymi]

Awesome chapter!!!!@   Can't wait to see if the new friends work out ????????

[Alex Bridges]

Scene #187

 

Childhood, work, and lifestyle discipline marriages have something in common: rules that get made and even rules that get made and then rigidly enforced very often stop getting enforced until even the person who made the rule forgets there ever was one. Like the rule about bedtime.

Mary never made me have a bedtime until I quit my job. It part of her whole you-will-not-live-like-teen-on-permanent-summer-vacation-staying-up-til-three-and-sleeping-in-til-noon thing. I can’t deny the logic of it because that’s very much a thing I would do despite know it’s unhealthy and would make it harder to go back to work (which was the plan at the time) and school (which was the plan later). Something also about how it put me in a foul mood, but she might have meant fowl mood cuz she said I was being an irritable goose one time. I don’t think geese are irritable; that’s just their normal, and Mary shouldn’t project human standards of behavior onto geese or geese behaviors onto me.

But I was definitely irritable some days plus tired. Mary would wanna do something and I wouldn’t cuz I was tired, plus the crabbiness (which I now admit despite at the time redirecting Mary’s allegation to all the evidence of my equanimity and grace), plus it not being very healthy, I put up only a minor fuss about having a bedtime. I wasn’t so much opposed to going to bed at a certain time, but getting out of bed at a certain time is just so hateful to my soul. Which isn’t over dramatic; I have a very delicate soul. But Mary was right.

But knowing she was right two years ago is not the same as agreeing she’s right this week when she noticed that at some point, we both stopped paying attention to the bedtime rule. Forgot about it, actually. And I don’t think it’s fair to equate noncompliance with a rule both of us forgot about to be rule breaking. That’s unconstitutional, I think, or should be. Problem being, 50% of the people who live in our house are 100% of the people who decide these things, and it’s not me.

“I don’t need a bedtime,” I explained to Her Royal Tyranny.

“It helped last time,” she unhelpfully pointed out.

“Things were different then.”

“This isn’t even a strict bedtime, Daffy. Ten o’clock on weekdays, midnight on weekends, or when I go to bed, whichever is later. You hardly ever stay up past that anyway.”

Separate issue, how the hell is it that I’m usually too tired to stay up for Saturday Night Live, but my parents - who are twice my age - aren’t? What the hell happens in your thirties, and what the hell happens in your sixties? I demand linearity! Same universe making no sense and stuff…

But to Mary, I only said, “It’s the principle of the thing.”

“Daffy, it’s bedtime.”

“No.” Did my whole body just shudder? Prancing right over that verbal Rubicon

“Excuse me?” Yeah, Mary, you should excuse yourself! Not that ever a bajillion years would I ever cross that chasm and actually, ya know, say that or even think it too loudly.

“Not until you debate the principle.” Yeah, justify yourself, lady! No more free rides! I’m not oppositional! You are! Really!… And stuff.

Either she’s a sorceress (that’s the leading theory) who can fast forward time, or I blacked out. I was sitting on the couch; the coffee table was in front of me; I was wearing pants and underwear; … I wasn’t upside down.

Short of sorcery or unconsciousness, how else to explain how I came to find myself holding on to Mary’s upside-down calf with her foot propped on the coffee table, wear no pants, wearing no panties, and – o yeah – heccin upside down over Mary’s knee and not able to describe the sequence of events that got me there?!? It’s very alarming. Really. I mean, awesome that she can manhandle me like that (another foot and I’m climb her like a tree), but very alarming. I hate being turned over her knee when she’s got it propped on something. Leaves me just dangling there with my hands and feet off the floor like I’m a … spanked thirty-something. Really.

“You wanna debate the principle,” she said as she broke all of Robert’s Rules of Order, the first one of which is don’t slap your opponent’s butt. I say she said it because she wasn’t asking. Purely a rhetorical question. Mary, for all her superlatives, is not a good debater. If she couldn’t cut off debate by doing what she was doing, she’d have to rely on logic and argument, and here’s what she came up with: “I’ll principle you until you can’t sit for a week.”

“What does that even mean!? Ow ow owowowowow ouch stopit!”

“It’s been too long since you went to be with a sore butt.” SMACKSMACKSMACKSMACK. She’s going to get tennis elbow one of these days.

“Has not! Marrrrry! Stop!”

“How’s this for a debate: you’re the subby little girl. I’m the one in charge. Little girls have bedtimes.”

“I’mNotALittleGirl!”

“Calm down, hold still, and listen (SMACK).” See, the woman has insufficient powers of logic. Would you calm down and hold still if you were getting stung by bees? Of course not! And we were past bee territory after the first sixty smacks. And where the heck does her energy come from!?!

“You. Are. My. Little. Girl. And. If. I. Say. It’s. Bed. Time. Then. It’s Bed. Time.”

“(Sniffle). Let me – ow! – go! I – shouldn’t – eep! – hafta – yipe!” Robert’s Rules of Order also say you need to let your opponent finish. My is no parliamentarian.

“How are you still arguing with me?”

“This is (snurfle) ridiculous!”

“I’ll tell you what’s ridiculous.”

“Of course you will.” Well, that was probably the bravest and dumbest thing I’ve ever said. And here I thought that was as fast and hard as her hand could go. Check that off – ow! – as the new thing I – snooze muffin! – learned today.

“What’s ridiculous is you telling me no. Are you allowed to just say no when I give you a rule or tell you to do something?”

“No.”

“What happens when you tell me no?” Is she still being rhetorical? SMACK “What happens if you disobey?”

“I get in trouble oof ouch Mary!”

“A little girls in trouble get their bare bottoms spanked and sent to bed with sore heinies.”

“Mar-ar-rrry!” I hope her hand hurts tomorrow … No I don’t. I like her and stuff.

“I can keep spanking your butt.”

“I’ll go to bed! I wanna go to bed!”

“Is that why you’re about to go to bed as soon as I let you down?”

“No.”

“Then why?”

“Cuz you said!”

“Because I am in charge of you. You, little girl, are not.” She punctuated that with a thunderspank to each cheek and set me back on my feet, whence I proceeded to hold my butt and do the Snoopy dance. It was very dignified, in case you hear rumors to the contrary.

“I don’t know any big girls that hold their butts and do the spanky dance,” Mary who’s mean to me said. “In fact, I don’t any big girls who get bare bottom spankings turned over a knee with their big girl hands and feet struggling in midair.”

Robert’s Rules of Order probably say something about being a sore winner, and so do I. “(Sniffle) Don’t be a sore winner,” I said in with my classic sniffle-mumble combo.

She reached out, pulled me close, held me with one hand around my shoulder and one on my butt, and – rood much? – kissed me on the temple, squeezed my butt, and whispered, “I didn’t win, Daffodil, because it was never a contest.” And if she though that kissing me again would stop me from throwing a full-blown hissy fit, then she was right, is what she was. But it would’ve been very dignified. Really.

“Do you have a bedtime,” she asked me.

“Yes.”

“When is it?”

“When you say.”

“Good girl.” Holy heckety heck she thinks I’m a good girl! Validation! That’s all I ever wanted, and I choose to think of it as sweet rather than pathetic, and more importantly, so does Mary.

“I’m sorry.”

“I know, baby. And you got your consequence and all’s forgiven. But don’t think I won’t your butt glow in the dark if bedtime becomes an issue.”

“I know.” At least she didn’t make me cry. Got that going for me.

“Besides, if you go to bed after me that means I don’t to spend as much time with you in my arms.”

Welp, scratch that. Gonna cry.

You don’t have to.

Nope; gotta.

But they don’t have to be big tears.

Deal.

“(Tiny sob). (Sound of watering eyes spilling over). (Pathetic mewl).”

“O my goodness, where are these tears coming from?” Her thumb wiped aways the few tears.

“(Snurfle).”

“I think they’re coming from an overtired little girl. C’mon – let’s go wash your pretty face and put you to bed.”

She took my hand and led me up the stairs, prompting me to ask, “Did you see where my pants went?”

“No. We’ll find them tomorrow. You put up quite the struggle. Something you wanna talk about?”

Yep, when resist a spanking, that’s a sign I need to emote. When I meekly accept it, all is well with world we’ve created for ourselves. Totally normal. Really.

         “No.” We were in the bathroom, and she wet a washcloth for me.

“No, there’s nothing you wanna talk about, or no, there’s nothing you need to talk about? Look up for me.” She wiped the tear streaks away. “There’s my pretty girl.”

“I’ll try to be a better submissive for you.”

“Daphne Ann,” Mary said all serious like (like seriously? Yeah, for serious), “you are the very best submissive there is. Needing a reminder who’s in charge doesn’t change that.” She handed me the washcloth. “Honk.”

“I never honk. (HONK!) (tiny honk).”

“All done. Got put that in the hamper and pick out a sleepy time diaper when I use the potty.”

“Um, what if you did that and I peed first?” Asking for a friend who had to pee.

“You don’t need the potty.”

“Um, I do, though.”

“My submissive little girl,” Mary said, slowly enunciating the words, “doesn’t need the potty tonight. Go pick out some huggies, and I’ll be right out to diaper you for bed. You can piddle a puddle in your pampers as soon as the last tape is closed.”

“But …”

“Go be my good girl who obeys.”

“O-okay.” Yeah, I’m gonna sleep great with all these conflicted feels. Dammit.

[diaperboymi]

Poor Daffy???  Never question Mary ????

[Alex Bridges]

Sorry I've been kinda slow to post lately. I've been busy at work and getting ready for a vacation, which made me even busier at work ?‍♀️

_____________________________________

Scene #188

 

 

I Want. My. Mary.

Fortunately, I remembered to get one and keep her on hand pretty much all the times. She was in our bedroom reading cuz she says she can’t concentrate when I’m playing my virtual murder games (her words). I don’t exactly mind cuz she can be very unreasonable about the language I use when I play. I tell her it’s part of the game, but she says little girls don’t use words and phrases like butt munch, snot muffin, and chumble spuz. Seems like a red herring cuz only adults live in our house, but Mary brings it up anyway.

I trudged up the stairs, made a right, plodded down the hallway, made a left into the master bedroom (it’s where my master sleeps all wrapped around me and stuff), spotted Mary sitting in the wing chair (so she actually does sit in it even when I’m not across her knee. Who knew?), and bullied her over so I could wedge myself between the arm and Mary.

“Why the long face?”

“You’re being too tall again,” I answered.

“Sorry,” she said with a verbal eye roll as she scooted herself down in the chair so her shoulder was just the right height for me to rest my head on. “Did you lose your game?”

“I quit part way.”

She closed her book, which made that satisfying book-closing sound (who doesn’t love that sound?), and asked me, “What happened?”

“This person was being mean to me.”

“What’d they say?”

“I don’t wanna repeat it.”

“Did they call you a name?”

“Yeah, but that’s not it.”

“Then what?”

“I don’t wanna say.”

“How am I supposed to help my Daffodil if you don’t tell me?”

Sheesh. She is so earnest sometimes. Can a person be earnestly earnest? Mary can, but she’s exceptional in all the ways. She’s also one of the all-time greats at seeming earnest when she’s being the very, very opposite, like when she’s telling me why I’m in trouble for doing non-troubling things or telling me little girls don’t call other gamers things like gravy salesman.

“They said something really ugly,” I said.

“You know it was probably just some stupid kid.”

“Yeah.”

“How about you just whisper it to me? It might make you feel better to say it, like you’re pushing it away.”

It was a very ugly thing to say. Who the hell is raising (or raised) these people? And it may not have been a kid; coulda been a grown ass adult, not that it even matters. I looked at Mary and she was making her soft, you-can-do-tell-me-anything eyes. I’m a sucker for those eyes. And maybe there’s something to her pushing-it-away theory. I whispered it to her.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen Mary look so … frighteningly calm. She squeezed me tight, kissed my temple, and said, “I’ll be right back.” Like, huh what? She stood up and calmly left the room.

She’s not a big fan of video games. It’s like the six years between us puts us on opposite sides of the adults-who-game divide. She might not mind so much if I played casual games, but I like RPGs and FPSs. I didn’t play online multiplayer very much before I stopped working (what working adult has the time to play enough that they don’t get destroyed by middle schoolers who need more homework and less screen time?). I play a little more now. Online gaming isn’t nearly as ugly as the media makes it out to be, but it does have its outsized share of oversized assholes. If Mary had her druthers (first time using that word – woohoo!), she’d take away all my games and replace them with My Little Pony Naps Quietly (Rated E for Everyone), Waiting for the Drier to Ding Simulator (Rated B for Boring People), and Your TV Isn’t Frozen It Only Looks that Way (Rated N for No One). Or she’d get rid of the whole console. It dawned on me that’s what Mary may have been doing so I went downstairs to put a stop to that, if that’s what she was doing.

Instead, I found Mary wearing my headset. I’ll try my best to recreate what she said. (Sound of me clearing my throat for some reason before I type):

 

 

 

“Alright, you bleeping bleepers. What the bleep is your motherbleeping problem? Buncha bleeping bleepereses who couldn’t get bleeped in a bleephouse living bleep lives because bleep your bleeping cousin-bleeper ancestors bleeped their bleep in the bleeping puddle that is the motherbleeping gene pool you bleeping spawned in. You wouldn’t be so bleeping brave if you weren’t sitting on your bleeps bleeping your bleep in your parents’ bleeping basements like sun-starved bleeped bleepers between your bleeping shifts  scrubbing bleep off the bathroom walls at bleeping McDonald’s. If you bleeps EVER bleeping talk that way to my little girl again, I’ll bleeping find you, tie your bleeps to a bleep like it’s a bleeping hat and bleeping watch you bleep slow on your own bleep.”

 

            “Mary,” tried to interject. It seemed interjecting was the wise thing to do; at least, I guessed because I’m usually the unhinged one (in a much cuter and less this-could-be-a-the-cold-open-of-a-CSI-episode way), and of course even then I’m never unhinged because I’m the very poster picture of poise and equanimity. Really.

            “ … and it bleeping won’t be in your motherbleeping sleep, motherbleepers…”

            “Mary?”

            “… with a bleeping hole where it used to bleeping be …”

            “Mary?”

            “ … until your bleep bleeps a bleep in bleeping bleep with the other bleeping bleepers …”

            “Um, Mary?” Like, maybe it was a bad time for her to talk or something?

            “ … your bleeping mothers will wear your bleep as a remembrance of the bleeping day they bleeped you out into your short, meaningless bleeping existence, you bleeping bleepfaces …”

            “M-Mary?”

            “ … better bleeping dox your bleeping selves before I get there cuz you’ll bleeping need the bleeping Musketeers to come bleeping save your motherbleeping bleep before I bleep your …”

“Mar-Mary?”

“… bleeping like bleeping mistletoe hung with bleeping care at the last bleeping Christmas you’ll ever bleeping see …”

            “A-ha-hem?”

            “ … bleeping inside out! Do you bleeping read me, motherbleepers? Inside bleeping out!”

            “H-hey, Mary?”

            “Bleep!”

            “Mary!?”

            She closed her hand around the mic, turned to me like the world was totally normal and she wasn’t invoking ancient bane deities in our living room (free tip – always invoke ancient bane deities out of doors, or at least lay down some newspaper first), and said, “Yeah, sweetie, what’s up?” So … that was unsettling.

            “It’s turned off.” She kinda did a double take like she was just then coming to grips with what a screensaver means. And yet, ladies and men (mostly men, buncha pervs), she has a big important job in technology somehow?

            She sighed, took off my headset, and practically bounded across the room to throw her arms around me like an impatient anaconda.

            “Um, are you alright?” No particular reason I asked, though I had very many questions about how far below the surface of her mind such vivid imagery resides and what medications will keep it locked away there forevermore.

            “I don’t like it when people are mean to you,” she said in a crying-a-little voice I recognized very well cuz it’s usually coming from me.

            Not my fault. My feelings got hurt; Mary briefly became someone the great Beelzebub his self would tell to take it down a couple notches; and then she got teary. Mary getting teary is enough for me to get weepy. We both have a role to play, and I’ll be bleeped before she out-cries me. Not my fault I got weepy.

            “Let it all out,” she said because she apparently thought my feelings were so much more wounded than they were. Mary was clearly way more upset about it than me. It’s a crappy part of gaming culture, and while it bothered me, it didn’t do to me whatever it did to Mary.

            No, what got me going was the way the whole thing reminded me. “You really love me more than anything.”

            “Of course I love you more than anything.” And she kissed my hair. Like, how can girl be expected to keep her knees from wobbling when her white knight violence goblin curses bleeping bleeps to bleeping bleep their bleep up both of their grandmothers’ bleeps and bleeps? (Okay; I made that one up, but the rest were all true.)

            “You’re kinda terrifying.”

            “I’ll keep you safe.”

            Pretty sure she thought I was making room for a dramatic silence, but what really happened is my brain circuits blew and the brain manager had to do a hard restart.

           Mary being Mary waited the appropriate three seconds before saying in nothing but seriousness, “If I ever hear you use those words, I’ll wash your mouth out and spank your bare tushy. Do you hear me, little girl?”

            “Yes’m.” Far be it from me to respond less than submissively and respectfully to such a frightening personage. Frightening in a way that turns me on a little, if only in the context of verbally terrorizing a powered-off gaming console on my behalf.

            “Go get your shoesies.”

            “Where are we going?”

            “The cupcake store. My little girl deserves a treat just for being who she is.”

Remember in The Fellowship of the Ring when Gandalf gets really scary before making his kindly-old-basset-hound face and saying, ‘I’m trying to help you [you sweet widdle hobbity wobbit]’? That’s (apparently) who I live with. That’s who married me cuz she loves me most out of all the things there are and I love her back just as much and twice over.

And the bleeps had better watch out cuz she’s a little unhinged when it comes to me, all to keep me safe (cuz she loves me). Sigh …

Also, I’m never telling her what other gamers say again cuz I like her so much that I don’t wanna risk a götterdämmerung harangue like that going viral in the distressing-to-think-about event the console is on next time. Mary is most enjoyable when she’s employed and not a defendant in any proceedings. True story.

 

[WBDaddy]

Having listened to one half of my son playing Call of Duty as a teenager a few years back, I so bleeping feel this. The language and verbal abuse is so rank... 

[diaperboymi]

Awesome chapter.   Just loved.." its turned off" ????????

[kerry]

18 hours ago, Alex Bridges said:

My Little Pony Naps Quietly (Rated E for Everyone), Waiting for the Drier to Ding Simulator (Rated B for Boring People), and Your TV Isn’t Frozen It Only Looks that Way (Rated N for No One)

I laughed out loud at this!

 

18 hours ago, Alex Bridges said:

verbally terrorizing a powered-off gaming console on my behalf

Here too!

Bleep me this was wonderful!

[YourFNF]

I would be torn between embarrassment and cheering Mary on lol XD

[Alex Bridges]

11 hours ago, YourFNF said:

I would be torn between embarrassment and cheering Mary on lol XD

You’d look so cute blushing and trying to keep from clapping and bouncing up and down ☺️

[YourFNF]

22 hours ago, Alex Bridges said:

ou’d look so cute blushing and trying to keep from clapping and bouncing up and down ☺️

[Sarah Penguin]

I hate that hapening. Why mostly plzy rpgs not mmo  game stuff solo. if i want to shoot stuff i play doom  offline in campaign mode.

 

[Alex Bridges]

Scene #189

Their doorstep was ordinary, so that was a good sign. Or a bad sign. One of the two. Probably. I’m decisive like that and stuff.

“I’m not nervous; you’re nervous,” I said preemptively to Mary, who I swear was taller on the afternoon we met Jo and Ann at their house. Either she was taller or seemed taller, or she was standing up straight. Her parents instilled all these good habits in her, like standing up straight. It’s kinda gross actually, now that I think on it, the way she has so many good qualities and habits. A showoff, that’s what she is. I mean for cripes sake (whatever that means), she works in IT! Where does she get off being the only person in the entire IT profession with good posture and no back pain? Not that I don’t appreciate the way she can bend.

Ever notice how the people who make the diagrams showing how you’re supposed to sit at a computer don’t themselves work at a computer? Like, thanks physical therapists who already have inhuman flexibility and range of motion, but you’re not helping. I mean, ever try to sit like the diagram? The monitor is a million miles away! Not that I work anymore, but I am a committed diarist.

I’m not rambling; you’re rambling.

I was having this perfectly good train of thoughts as we waited for Jo and Ann to open their front door for us when Mary decided to interrupt me by doing one of those ninja moves where she puts her arm around my waist so I can’t get away and pulls up my shirt and it all happens so fast that before I can do anything to stop her from committing yet another of her misdeeds, she’s blowing a raspberry on my tummy. That’s, uh, definitely a thing ninjas do. Really.

“Heehee! St-stop!”

“Pbbbbt!!!”

“Heeeheeehee! Mar-eeeeeeee!”

Which is when the door opening and everything before Mary straightened up (and I swear to gawd she was even taller!). What a fine way to make a poor impression, am I right?

“She had a little something on her tummy,” Mary said to our hosts without loosening the arm that held me even a little. She likes me and stuff, my Mary does. Wants me close at all the times. Heccin true story.

“Yeah,” I mumbled, “a giant lesbian with boundary issues right there on my tummy.” One who pinches you discreetly when you mumble smart aleck remarks in front of people you just met.

“You must be Jo,” Mary said and held out her hand. I was right; Mary was nervous. I could tell because we’d facetimed with them the day before, so it’s not like we didn’t know what they looked like. It was a good refresher for me; I remembered Ann from the play party as the kindly if butt-in-skee young woman who gathered up our things for us while Mary was giving me aftercare post public spanking (that I didn’t even deserve but o my gawd did I want), but I didn’t remember her face. Probably something to do with me crying unreservedly and keeping my face pressed against my Mary where it’s safe. It’s even safe to slime her shirt; something about crying women with red butts being sexy and cute to her? She’s so weird; weird and tall. A shapeshifter actually, who purely by coincidence gets taller when I feel smaller and in need of protection, which I don’t ever. Just saying. Anyhoo …

“So nice to finally meet the two of you in person,” was the so clichéd way Jo greeted us, right up there with Mary’s cliché. Not that I instantly copped an attitude as a defense mechanism or anything. Really.

And Ann was standing just like me, with her dominant’s arm around her waist. But she wasn’t like me. For onesies, she didn’t look anxious at all. For twosies, she’s a little. Which I’m not, as I think I’ve said shouted before many, many times. Like, all the times. She was dressed the part too. It was subtle; she could wear what she was wearing out in public and probably not draw any attention, but having been around ageplayers and Mary thinking she’s way sneakier than she is when she finds ‘totally normal’ things for me to wear, I could tell her outfit was no accident. Shortalls, tee shirt with frilled piping on the sleeves, pink sneakers, and a pony tail.

And yes, I have the same outfit, but it’s for working in the garden and totally practical. And my sleeves don’t have frills. And shut up.

Whereas I had dressed for the occasion by wearing exactly what I would be wearing anyway despite Mary clucking at me like a mother who was doing her utmost to stop herself from telling her teenage daughter to go change into something nice for fear of triggering some kind of near-fatal emotional standoff. I wasn’t being rude or snooty or dismissive though. I just didn’t see the point of putting on anything nicer than my usual Sunday shorts and tee. It’s hot still.

Mary didn’t exactly put on anything special either. Those high-waisted khaki shorts of hers that are an exact replica of what Laura Dern wore in Jurassic Park (and give off all the domestic vibes that just … ugh. Yes please and do it to me twice). And this peach top that was new, but I think that was a coincidence. I could eat a peach for hours … sigh.

As for Jo, as we crossed the threshold and I got a good look at her, she was older than I realized by a good seven or so years. She and Ann definitely had an age gap going that was about twice the gap between Mary and me (eight years, by way of reminding my diary … as if I might forget, I guess?). I would guess (and I did guess) Ann was just a year or two younger than me, and Jo was about five years older than Mary. She had her hair up and was wearing capris; she looked like a woman coming from or going to Target, and she had a slight southern accent that I couldn’t narrow down to a state because I only like to pretend I’m expert enough to tell the differences but, ya know, I’m not. Don’t tell the bumpkins though cuz they’ll believe anything. I made my first million in a patent medicine show, and … anyhoo.

Mary was nervous because she was worried I’d be nervous. Possibly also that I would be churlish and distant, but she gets nervous when we go outside our (mostly my) comfort zone because she’s protective of me. She doesn’t want me to have a bad experience or even just not a good time. The first couple times I took her home with me to Wisconsin for Christmas, she apologized to me for it being so cold. Tall and weird, like I said, and also very sweet. She let go of my waist only to hold my hand all the way to the sectional sofa Jo led us to. They sat on the other half of the L.

“I made some sweet tea and baked some cookies,” Jo said, gesturing toward the pitcher and tray on the coffee table.

“I helped,” Ann announced. Show off much? Geez.

“Yes, my little munchkin did,” Ann said and – public display of affection in your own home much? – kissed her on the cheek.

They say the best first dates are activities rather than drinks or meals because it takes some of the pressure off to talk the whole time and the awkward pauses that ensue, and that would’ve been a good idea for the four of us. I was thinking this as the three of them easily feel into conversation, so really just a good idea for me, but all for one and one for all … cuz we’re musketeers, apparently. What water is to pavement is not at all what my mind is to tangents. And shut up.

“Do you like it,” Jo asked a person who turned out to be me. “I can get you something else.”

“Huh?” I make the best first impressions, hands down. I’m an impressionist, actually, of the first order … and stuff. Really. “O! It’s very good,” I said and took my first sip of tea. Actually, it was kinda cloying, which coming from me is like a smack addict saying fentanyl makes them feel funny, not that I’m addicted to sugar like Mary says I am. I just get anxious if there isn’t any in the house, a totally non-addict thing to feel. Um, really.

Nor do I get weird if I have too much sugar, not that it stopped Mary from saying, “Only one glass, Daffy. She gets a little hyper if she has too much sugar.” I do not. Mary and me are excellent examples, paragons actually, of how a married couple can disagree and still love each other. And it’s not all sugar; it’s just sugar as manifested in the earthly form peanut butter enveloped in chocolate, which is the ambrosia the ancients spoke of. And it’s not even that cuz I don’t get weird on peanut butter. In fact, I’ve never done anything weird in my life. Much too dignified and logical and exemplary of all humankind’s best qualities for that sort of nonsense. Really. And shut up; no one is asking you.

“Are you excited for Halloween,” Ann asked me.

“Mhmm. We’re going to trunk-or-treat at the lifestyle center. We haven’t been since before the pandemic.”

“What are you gonna dress up as?”

“We haven’t decided yet.”

“I’m going as a sheep, and Mommy … oops, I mean Jo is going as Big Bo Peep.”

“It’s okay if you wanna call her ‘Mommy’ in front of us. You’re gonna make a very cute sheep.”

I had my first ever urge to sheer a sheep bald. I asked Mary, before we left, to not engage with Ann as a little unless I said it was okay, and that remark was borderline. Not that I was primed by o, say, jealousy to interpret pretty much any words Mary said to Ann as borderline bordering on over the line because I don’t have those kinds of petty thoughts and feelings.

Nope, don’t have them, just like I don’t cover for insecurity by making the kinda jokes I really shouldn’t make in front of new acquaintances like, o, say, “Mary’s the Big Bad Wolf. She’s always trying to eat me.” Good thing I’m not the kind of person who lives in the past or I’d regret that and write it down I my diary. But the weirdest thing happened.

Jo said, “That must make you Little Red Riding Hood.” I would’ve been quite offended if I imagined even for a moment she intended any innuendo in that (little on the button for my taste … get it?). I was more bothered by the fact that I didn’t get so much as a smile out of her. Well, not a ‘haha’ smile; I got this how-cute-you-are smile. What the heck? I heccin am not! Hmmph!

“She went as Little Red Riding Hood once,” Mary chimed in instead of sending me one of her watch-yourself-young-lady signals. What the heccin hey! Not that I was acting up to try to shape the conversation in ways I am more familiar and comfortable with so as to gain a sense of control, but, you know, that was my backup plan.

“I went as the huntress. Someone’s gotta protect my Daffodil.” And then she kissed me. For a second there, I thought they were having some kind of dominance game where they each take turns saying affectionate things and kissing us until someone (and it so totally would’ve been Mary!) establishes their submissive is the best and they love them most and that was Mary’s opening move. But nope. She was just making conversation.

She continued, because you know how my Mary loves to continue (and if you can’t tell by now, perverts who have somehow gained access to my diary, that means she’s got a big mouth sometimes), “Isn’t that the year you ate too much candy and I had to spank your bare bottom in the corner and put you in timeout? No, wait, that’s every year.” Such a butt face.

“Ann told me all about the spanking you gave Daphne at that event.”

“She needed a hard spanking. Embarrassment shouldn’t be a punishment,” which is a string of sounds Mary makes when she’s lying cuz she definitely has zero qualms about using embarrassment as a punishment, “but she needed a spanking then and there. If that was embarrassing for her, then I hope that helps her remember to make better choices.” I wasn’t blushing; you were, and you weren’t even there!

“I don’t know,” Jo replied, “I think a little embarrassment is fine as a punishment.”

“Tell us about some of the embarrassing things you’ve done to Ann,” I interjected like a brat (like a brat, because a brat I am not) wanting someone else to squirm for once.

“Daffy, be nice,” Mary scolded me. Can you believe that? She scolded me. Me! Hello, paragon over here. The paragon of … stuff. And things. Hello! Hello? Dammit…

“Once when we were at her parent’s house, I put her in timeout in her old bedroom.”

“Big deal. Mary spanked me in my childhood bedroom.” Ha! One-upped her. Why the heck am I bragging about that?

“But did Mary tell everyone where you were and why,” Ann asked. Who does she think she is one-upping me? It’s not a competition. Also, as long as we’re letting fantasy be more fun than reality, that sounds so delightful but must’ve been so awful!

“I feel like we know a lot more about Mary than about you,” Jo said. Cuz Mary was way more excited about this and had been texting with Jo to arrange it for a while.

“Um, what do you wanna know?”

“Anything you want to share.”

“Well, uh … I guess firstly, all the things Mary told you about me are false, except the endearing parts. Those are true.” I said that in the safety of an agreement Mary and me had that I could say anything I wanted without repercussions during this visit, said agreement being a (non) binding contract that I didn’t tell Mary she’d agreed to. But I hoped for the best … and stuff.

“Everything she said about you is endearing,” Jo replied. “All she does is brag about how lucky she is. Not that I’m not even luckier,” she said as she guided Ann onto her lap.

Jo is earnest, a trait I like in people, but I didn’t much care for what Jo said. First of all, I’d made yet another joke she didn’t laugh at. I’m not saying it was a gem – they can’t all be diamonds, people! – but it’s widely known that I’m funny. You might even say it’s a skill I cultivated as a means of fitting in (which wouldn’t be true, but also, yes). I make jokes; people laugh or least chuckle or smile; that’s how I know I fit in and gain a sense of control. When people don’t laugh, it throws my whole game off.

Random aside, that thing about how some subs have a need to be in control so much that they crave surrendering all that control and more to the right person is just a bunch of very true pseudo-psychology for some of us. Anyhoo …

            What Jo said was kinda sorta a comment on how Mary feels about me. Know who I need to tell me about how Mary feels about me? No one except Mary. It seemed kinda overly familiar. Not that I was primed to feel that way. Really?

            And I felt no competitive desire for Mary to guide me onto her lap just because Jo did that with Ann, and if you hear otherwise, politely correct that person. Be a bringer of truth and light. That’s what I always say and teach the world through my paradigmatic example. True story. Mary, meanwhile, was holding my hand and smiling at me – literally all I ever need from her but it sure is nice when she says sweet things to me too. So nice.

As a group we seemed to be perilously close to an awkward pause event horizon when Ann whispered something in Jo’s ear. Jo whispered something back. Ann whispered in reply. So that’s plus two people in the world who are better at whispering than me (and so far zero people who are worse, that I know of; I confide this secret only to my diary lest the other paragons – and there aren’t many – learn of this flaw and not let me sit with them at lunch anymore … actually, Mary – the paragoniest of all the paragons – would either convince them … or make them … parentheticals aren’t supposed to be this long and I also don’t go off on tangents ever, so … overly aggressive use of ellipses …).

            Anyhoo, to her third whisper, Ann added a you-can’t-say-no-to-this-face face (mine is better, not that I ever stoop to that level except when I want something). Jo responded with a I-can’t-say-no-to-that-face face (Mary’s is better, though I think we’re both kidding ourselves when she makes that face cuz she’s quite adept at saying no to me). Jo nodded and patted Ann’s thigh.

Ann turned her face into the space between Jo’s arm and body, something I’ve been known to do when I need a moment alone to pretend that others aren’t watching me or when I need a quiet place to process whatever wonderful or horrible or wonderfully horrible thing Mary just said or did to me or is about to do. I’ve also seen a Jane do it as she slips into little space. I think a Ann was doing both.

Jo turned back to us and asked, “Is it okay if I change Ann into her play clothes?”

Mary glanced at me to make sure I wasn’t scandalized by the idea and said, “Fine by us.” As she said it, I realized it wasn’t clear what she meant by “play.” BDSM and all that, she could’ve meant changing into lord only knows what, not that we’d necessarily disapprove but we’d only just met them. Or it could’ve meant an ageplayers play outfit, as in an outfit for finger painting or sandboxes. Jo cleared it up in an apologetic way.

“I know we didn’t want to turn this into a play date since it’s our first time meeting in person, and I don’t mean that we are. It’s just that Annie couldn’t keep her pull-up dry, and she needs a break from grown up space. A whole Sunday morning being a grown up is lot for her.” I couldn’t tell if she was saying that tease Ann or telling the truth or both.

“I understand,” Mary said like a crazy person or fibber or crazy fibber.

“No, you don’t,” I reminded her. How could she? No such person similar to Ann lives with Mary. Of course, Mary has virtually no sense of shame, so she didn’t even blush. And I am very polite and wasn’t bothered by Ann changing into something else and didn’t want my riposte to be taken the wrong way, so I quickly added, “But it’s okay.”

“We’ll be right back down.”

“Take your time.”

Ann, like an over excited you know what, popped off Jo’s lap and scurried upstairs as Jo followed behind chuckling. Mary leaned over to see if she could see upstairs; she couldn’t, and we couldn’t hear a door close, so we kept our voices down.

“How you doing,” Mary asked me.

“Fine … What do you think of them?”

“I like them. They seem very nice. Jo is very welcoming.”

“A little familiar.” Oops; I was honest.

“She doesn’t mean anything by it.” O good, I wasn’t the only person who thought so. “I think she’s just very warm person, and from what she knows of you …” She trailed off, probably (definitely) because what she really meant was …

“You mean what you told her about me.”

“And what Ann told her.”

“You didn’t exactly try to dispel the notion that Ann and I are both littles in your secret text chain … Meanie.”

“You’re not mad.”

“Who said I was? Meanie …”

“My point is she’s not being familiar so much as …”

“Affectionate in a way that’s kinda weird for someone you just met … unless your wife made you sound like a little.” In which case it’s not weird because are affectionate with people actually of that play age all the time.

“I saw the way you blushed when Ann said Jo told her family she was in a timeout. You like them.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t … Also, we have to be more affectionate with each other than they are when they come back because reasons.”

“Are we proving a point or something,” Mary very reasonably asked. I should know because I’m so reasonable and stuff. Really.

“Yes, but I don’t know what it is.” Very reasonable. People say that about me all the time. ‘There goes Daphne,’ people say, ‘I’m sure she has her reasons, whatever they are.’ Yep, that’s a thing people say about me. If they were as reasonable as I am, they’d probably understand my reasons. I pity them sometimes, but I’m too polite to let them know I feel that way. Poor little dears.

“Might get embarrassing for you,” Mary hinted as subtly as a devil imp poking me with a pitchfork and throwing fireballs at all the flammable things as it dances and cackles in merry glee.

“Be nice to me. I’m the shortest person here … And don’t say it. We both know it; you don’t have to say it.”

“You’re the shortest person in most of the places we go.”

“And she said it anyway,” I grumbled. See? See what she makes me do. Breaking the fourth wall like there’s someone in the room other than her that I’m talking to. “Meanie.”

“Did I tell you you’re extra cute today?”

“More.” All the compliments please. I like them more from Mary than anyone else.

“And that you’re being a very good girl?”

O MY GAWD SHE SAID IT SHE SAID IT SHE SAID IT! Play it cool, Daff; just play it cool. “A very, very good girl, by chance?”

“Well, a very good girl.”

“I’ll accept that for now, but I expect more when we get home.” I sipped my tea. “This is cloying.”

“Wow. You saying that …”

“I know … But also no cuz I have a very normal relationship to sugar.”

“Of course you do. You’re a paragon and stuff.” That’s what I get for using that word out loud while trying to get out of … something.

“Bite me.”

“Where?”

Can you believe she said that!?! In a stranger’s house? Inappropriate. Can’t take her anywhere but I do anyway cuz she’s fun to be with and stuff. True story.

“Sorry, sorry,” Jo apologized as they came back down the stairs. “Took a little longer than I thought. We’re still learning about holding still during changes and that not all naked time is play time. Had to wrestle her into that onesie.”

The proper response from Ann would’ve been to freeze, blush, and pout, but if she was in a proper frame of mind she would’ve resisted being seen that way rather than asking to be changed into that outfit. Not to yuck anybody’s yum or project my feelings … and things. And if you hear anyone say I was in any way jealous of how happy Ann looked as she bounced across the room and hopped playfully onto the loveseat, correct them by slapping them across the face as hard as you can. She looked as happy as a puppy making new friends, not that I’ve ever been jealous of how happy a puppy is (but aren’t we all?).

“Giving up on the potty for the day,” Mary asked. Just guessing, but I think she was referring to the very thick diaper Ann was wearing under her onesie.

“It’s a marathon, not a sprint, right,” Jo said as she sat down and pulled Ann into her lap. She tickled Ann, making her giggle from behind the pacifier in her lips like, well, exactly what she looked like. She was in a cloth diaper (several, actually) with clear plastic panties. Her onesie didn’t cover it; in fact, the onesie covered about as much of her butt as it didn’t. She was still wearing her shoes; definitely a toddler vibe to that outfit.

Jo said, “They say cloth diapers help them feel wet so they train earlier, but every little girl is different, aren’t they sweetie?” Ann nodded. “Go get your brush for me.” Ann bounced off her lap and toddled away with a butt pat from Jo.

“What’d she do,” I asked.

I guess I sounded confused because Jo got my meaning, answering as Ann thundered back down the stairs, “It’s not her spanking brush.” To Ann, she added, “But it will be if you run down the stairs again.” Ann did not seem intimidated by that and sat down on the floor in front of Jo. Her straining onesie left whoever chose to look a fine view of the diaper between her legs. Jo took the band out of Ann’s hair and started to comb it out.

“Daphne grew her hair out during the pandemic for a while. I miss brushing it.”

“I’ll grow it back if you want.”

“It’s your hair.”

 Mary apparently didn’t take my directive to out-affection them seriously because I had to put myself in her lap. “And I liked that too. I’ll grow it long if you promise to promise to brush it before bed.”

“Promise. That’ll make a hairbrush part of your bedtime routine with you sitting on your bottom for once. We’ll need some time to get use to that.” And then she kissed me right on the neck with her arms around my middle and stuff. Take that, Ann, who’s barely spoken and I’m competing against but not competing against and I don’t even know what the prize is!

“You must be a vixen with that red hair grown out,” Jo commented. She started braiding Ann’s hair. I very much liked Mary combing out my hair and braiding it; I just got tired of taking care of it. But if Mary would take on that responsibility, preferably with me sitting between her legs so close I can feel her breath on the back of my neck, I’d do it … for her sake, of course. Of course. And because reasons.

Ann sure did seem to be enjoying Jo’s fingers in her hair, an impression I gathered from the dreamy expression on her face, an impression I would never have been disabused if that onesie did a better job hiding what was under and if my hearing wasn’t so sharp. I mean, sometimes I can hear myself wetting a diaper (a direct consequence of Mary being such a tyrant cuz I only do it cuz she makes me), but I’m right there (obviously) when I’m doing it. But Ann was a good six feet away and sounded like the water dispenser on our fridge was between her legs.

“O Annie,” Jo admonished, but not really, “I just asked you if you needed to use the potty before I put your diapers on you. Why didn’t you go then?”

“I didn’t have to then,” Ann transparently lied. Transparent as in the sound made it obvious she was definitely holding it for a while and transparent as in her clear plastic panties showed she soaked her diapers. Two years and then some into Mary-instigated diaper play and I’d yet to see anyone so openly wet themselves. It didn’t squick me out (thanks for helping me stay normal, Mary – NOT!) or uncomfortable, but it was definitely … something. I don’t know. I didn’t think anything of it one way or the other; I just felt like I should. I mean, it’s not like she did it on the floor. God help me, but that’s what diapers are for (Mary, this is all your fault).

“What am I gonna do with you?” Ann looked over her shoulder at Jo and made a downright libidinous face like surely the two of them would think of something Jo could do with her. Jo chuckled and said to Mary, “It’s awfully hard potty training these little girls when they say it’s almost as good as an orgasm to let go in their pants.” So Ann does know how to blush. And for the record, Jo’s comment was about as shameless as Ann flooding herself like that seated on the floor with her diaper basically on display. Which is also something I didn’t think anything of (Mary, you’ve ruined me).

 “Do you ever feel that way, Daffy,” Mary asked.

O goodie; glad we could establish who blushes hardest. #DaphneWinsAgain “Marrrry!”

I bet all the money in my purse (a crumpled single and some loose change) that Mary was turned on by Ann’s display. Probably even more turned on because the display wasn’t for us. Ann would’ve done that whether we were there or not, a true little, not an exhibitionist.

As for how I felt? Not bothered by what Jo said or Ann did, but Mary’s question … Such is the torture of the humiliation fetish.

“Daphne and diapers have a complicated relationship,” Mary opted to explain despite no one having asked. Grr. “It says so right in the relationship status on the Facebook page I made.” She didn’t really. She knows I’d bite.

“Not Annie. Sometimes I think we’re in a polycule with diapers as the third partner. I was skeptical at first, but once I realized my girl is just a high-functioning toddler, I knew I’d be changing diapers forever. Not that we don’t keep trying to potty train, but little Annie works so hard to keep her undies clean and dry when she’s pretending to be a big girl at work, she has no control at all as soon as the workday is over … Or so she says. The seat of her cozy coupe has seen some real trauma during those commutes home. Now she wears pull-ups to work; amazing how the little control they have slips even more as soon as they’re in something absorbent. I have to pack extra in her backpack.”

“I don’t wanna wear pull-ups to work but Mommy says I have to,” Ann said.

“You should’ve seen the tantrum and tears when I put my foot down about wearing them to the gym too. But Mommy was right, wasn’t she? None of the other girls make fun of you in the changing room, do they?”

“No.”

“See, Daffy?”

“No. No, I don’t.” I see nothing. Mary ony asked to embarrass me. Cuz she’s mean and knows I like being teased, especially in front of company. Mean and very sweet and nice to me.

“I can’t imagine this one throwing a tantrum,” Mary chose to say instead of explaining herself, probably because she had no explanation (because there isn’t one).

“Sweet as can be and an angel most of the time, but plenty rambunctious, and she can definitely have her moments. All done; stand up for me.” I assumed at that time Ann could stand up; I’d only seen her bounce up. Jo chose the right word, rambunctious. It seemed like from the moment Jo okayed her going into little space, she had an excess of energy (must be nice). “That’s a soggy bottom you got there.”

“Heehee! No, it isn’t.”

“It isn’t? That’s not a soggy diaper I feel?”

When Mary checks one of her diapers (that I by cruel fate happen to be wearing) in the same very hands on manner as Jo, I make funny noises. Just sayin’.

“Then you must not need a change yet,” Jo said. She gave Ann some playful swats on her butt. “Good thing I put such thick diapers on you. Little trick for parenting these little rascals – the sooner you put them in thicker diapers and allow yourself to not feel like a bad mommy for letting them stay soggy for so long, the less often you have to chase them down for a diaper change. But even still we have a couple of disagreements a week about when a diaper needs changed. Good thing you’re so cute when you stomp your little feet.”

“You always wanna change ‘em right after I get ‘em just the way I like ‘em.”

“You know what I think Daphne would like,” Jo asked Ann. Bookmakers the world over had the odds a billion to one Jo was in the same universe as whatever I would like. “I think she’d like to see your nursery. You wanna go show her?”

“Yeah. C’mon.”

She didn’t wait for me. She popped up again like a prosecco cork and scampered up the stairs like you’d expect a little to.

“Go on,” Mary said. “I’ll be up in a minute.”

O…kay.

[dyperaby]

♥

[slc_fun]

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