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

[Alex Bridges]

46 minutes ago, YourFNF said:

fdklalksdjflaksfhlkjflksahfsklgfbl dklfafjaskfdjfdlkdlfkdglkgdlkdg

But is there a gif for that?

[YourFNF]

21 hours ago, Alex Bridges said:

But is there a gif for that?

??

[Alex Bridges]

1 hour ago, YourFNF said:

??

Well I been done got told

[Guilend]

I've been thinking. I'm betting she'll experience her first real messy diaper while Grandma is watching her. Because she probably thinks she uses her diapers for everything and wouldn't understand why she wouldn't so there'd be a misunderstanding and daffy not wanting to upset her waits too long or is having trouble explaining it or something and ends up not making it on time.?

[Alex Bridges]

5 hours ago, Guilend said:

I've been thinking. I'm betting she'll experience her first real messy diaper while Grandma is watching her. Because she probably thinks she uses her diapers for everything and wouldn't understand why she wouldn't so there'd be a misunderstanding and daffy not wanting to upset her waits too long or is having trouble explaining it or something and ends up not making it on time.?

For everyone who hasn’t e-known Guilend for as long as I have, this is his way of saying he pooed his diaper at his Grandma’s yesterday. Hope she wasn’t upset with you. Poor kiddo. ?

And on to our next scene.

—————————————

Scene 83

 

“Where’s my little critter?”

Her what now?

“Where’s my little critter?”

“Um, are you referring to me,” I asked from the living room as she came in sight around the corner. She had that derpy look she sometimes gets at the end of ten-hour work days after having several ten-hour workdays in a row. Sure, if you work on your feet, you’re physically tired after ten hours, and she gets physically tired (sitting for ten hours is seriously hard on the body) but she’s a knowledge economy worker, according to the intelligentsia who name these things, and after ten hours three days in a row, she gets goofy. 

I’m allowed to call it goofy to her face, just FYI. I called her derpy once and she made me take it back in a way that was only mostly fun.

“Yep,” she said and plopped down next to me. She put her hands on my cheeks and pulled me in and started kissing me all over my face and just loving on me. As if! I mean, geez, summon some dignity why don’tcha. Really.

“Mary - eh - Mary - heehee - Mary - stop! You’re embarrassing me on front of my friends.” 

“There’s no one here but us, silly.”

“Who you calling silly?” I was not being silly. I was being quirky. She was being silly. And derpy.

“You, silly!” Touché.

“Are you done with work now?”

“Mhmm. For eleven whole hours. What are gonna do?” Yeah, I don’t miss work anymore. I miss interacting with people. It was nice to walk into a room and know with a reasonable degree of certainty I’d walk out with my butt in the same condition as when I went in (though this one time when I was working at band camp...). 

But working all day, barely having any me time, and then doing it again? What a stupid idea. I mean, first they pave over nature so you can’t live a hunter-gatherer lifestyle even if you want to, then they stop teaching which berries are poisonous in the schools and how to wear a moose. Which would work because Mary says I look good in anything, but sometimes I wonder how much to trust her word when she gets all derpy. Glad I never get derpy. Just because she makes me go all a-flutter until I go ha! and make my smitten-kitten face doesn’t mean I ever get derpy. Really.

“I’ll make dinner while you go change into something more comfortable,” I offered. Mary looked down at herself.

“I’m wearing sweatpants and a tee shirt,” she said because she finally joined the rest of the world in giving up on clothes with buttons.

“Well,” I suggested, “you could put on a tee shirt too grubby to leave the house in.”

“I’d rather sit here with you and wait for dinner to get here.”

“What did you order?”

“Food. Who cares anymore? I’m tired of figuring out dinner every night.”

“Ahem.” I’ve been doing ninety (thousand) percent of the cooking. We cook together some nights, especially weekends, but since she’s buying the food and doing all the income earning, I’m doing the cooking. Fair is fair. Plus it gives me something to do. Plus I can get away with (less) healthier meals when she’s not cooking.

“I mean,” she backpedaled, “I’m tired of letting you do all the work.”

“Nice save. You’re being goofy.”

“I’m out of working brain parts.”

“You’re talking like me,” I said.

“You’re a bad influence. And pizza. I ordered pizza.”

“Hmm,” I said, “I hope it has a garlic-butter crust so you won’t wanna kiss me tonight.”

“Is that your way of asking for a quickie?” See, she must have some working brain parts. The parts that live in the gutter, but still.

“You’re the one who came in here all floopy and kissing me everywhere. You’re making me think you have some unrequited thing for me. It’s sad really. How sad for you.”

Hoo boy! She requited the stuffing outta me. And then promptly fell asleep. I had pizza and stroked her hair while she slept. Does that make me switch? Probably not. It was a good day.

[Guilend]

15 hours ago, Alex Bridges said:

everyone who hasn’t e-known Guilend for as long as I have, this is his way of saying he pooed his diaper at his Grandma’s yesterday. Hope she wasn’t upset with you. Poor kiddo. ?

?

Revenge shall be mine!!!!!

Just have to wait till someone changes my stinky diaper. 

????

15 hours ago, Alex Bridges said:

though this one time when I was working at band camp

Okay I actually make this joke every chance I get ?

Or some variation of it

 

[Alex Bridges]

12 minutes ago, Guilend said:

?

Revenge shall be mine!!!!!

Just have to wait till someone changes my stinky diaper. 

????

So Grandma is making you sit in it as punishment? Well, I guess that’s fitting for a stinky pants baby.

[Guilend]

10 minutes ago, Alex Bridges said:

Grandma is making you sit in it as punishment?

Punishment??

Oh yes,a punishment,  that's it, yup.

[Sarah Penguin]

[Alex Bridges]

Scene #84

 

         It was getting to be a long day. Somewhere between working and not working there must be some happy place where the days don’t get ridiculously long. Maybe it’s because the pandemic means I can’t go anywhere. I like to at least imagine that if I could go places and see people and do things that this state of semi-retirement would be more fun.

         So what did I do? I made breakfast for us, then I watched the Today Show, doom scrolled through social media, and tried to find a new book to read that wasn’t erotica. I used to read all the time. I don’t know what gives now, but lately I just can’t seem to get into a good book. I blame social media and the internet. I think they killed my attention span.

         Then I made lunch for us and decided after, when Mary was back in her office and couldn’t say no, to make no-bake cookies. But I make them with protein powder and they’re high in fiber, so at least they have some nutritional goodness. Ya know those crisper containers that keep vegetables fresh in the fridge for longer? I put the cookies in there. Not to hide them but because it’s big and I made lots of cookies.

         I went to take Mary a cookie and ask for assistance with a thing and found her office door closed. Granted, it took a couple spankings, but I remembered I’m not supposed to go in or knock if she has the door closed. I didn’t want the cookie to spoil, so I ate it just in case she was going to be in her office for fourteen days (waste not, want not and all that) and texted her.

         She texted me back, “I’m on calls for the next couple hours. You can change it.”

         Well, not that I don’t know how, but I still haven’t done that and I don’t want to. They really are Mary’s diapers, and why should I have to put something on me that I don’t even want? That’d be like her telling me to spank myself, and I haven’t done that since I was single and lonely. (Because sometimes back then, I needed a reminder to behave myself, but more specifically I needed a reminder that a hot, smarting bottom made my woohoo parts go woohoo!)

         I went up to our bedroom and just took the diaper off, did some cleanup, and put on panties. I spent a little time looking in the mirror, too. I had a strange impulse that morning to look like I actually had somewhere to go, and not just somewhere, but somewhere nice. I put on a dress and did my hair (sort of – I don’t know what to do with my long hair and I wanna get a haircut) and even a little makeup and earrings. I was looking very pretty, if I say so myself (and I did, so there).

         And since I was looking so pretty, I decided to do what all pretty girls do and play Assassin’s Creed. Is it me, or are the cut scenes a total waste of time?

         “Daphne Ann,” Mary said as she startled me out of my virtual parkour.

         “Hi. Done with work?”

         “What game are you playing? You just eviscerated that person!”

         “Ha! Yeah.” Good times.

         “We need to get you some nice games for little girls.”

         Which I countered with a dirty look and, “But this is a nice game, and I’m not a little girl.”

         “Just because you put on a little blush doesn’t mean you’re a big girl. For one thing, big girls know how to sit when they’re in a dress.” Okay, for the record, I was in video game stance. It’s not pretty, but it is effective. “Hold still and let me check your undies.”

         She can really move fast when it involves my nethers. She’s like the Green Lantern (what was his superpower?) or the Flash or Usain Bolt. But I’m faster (when there’s a coffee table between us) and moved out of video game stance into crossing my legs stance. “No,” I said.

         “Excuse me?”

         “You don’t need to check anything. I’m fine.”

         “Someone’s in a mood.”

         “Yeah, you.” With her teasing and video game criticism and I did a really good job putting on my makeup, which is a ridiculous thing for someone my age to be proud of, but I hadn’t done it in I don’t even know how long and I did good. What did she do all day except keep the internet on? Like that’s a public service or something.

         “What’s gotten into you,” she asked as she sat down next to me and pushed me (she pushed me! well, more a nudge, but she pushed me!) just enough so she could get a hand under my butt. “Daphne Ann Taylor, where is your diaper, young lady?”

         O my god, she was soooo in a mood if she went and trotted out all three of my names, and I didn’t even do anything. Granted, I told her no, which is against the rules, but she was being snippy with me before I even said that. Yeah, we were both snippy, but she started it (you don’t think she knows I ate her cookie, do you?).

         “I took it off. You said I could.”

         “I said you could change it. I did not say you could change out of it.”

         “Well, how was I supposed to know that?”

         “O, don’t even try that. That’s why you didn’t want me to check.”

         “I didn’t want you to check because there’s nothing to check!” There’s no condition down there that was in need of checking! At the time.

         “So you’re really going to sit there and tell me that when you went upstairs to change you didn’t even spend one second considering whether to put a new one on? And don’t dig a deeper hole for yourself and fib.”

         “That just means you’ve already decided what the truth is,” I pointed out. I’m good at pointing stuff out. Such as, o look, a squirrel and a five-foot-ten lezdom who was being really unfair.

         “So what is the truth?”

         “(Sound of a gentle breeze through a canyon)”

         “That’s what I thought. Let’s go.”

         “Buh – urgh!” SWAT. “Eep!”

         “That wouldn’t have hurt if you had your diaper on.”

         “It wouldn’t hurt if you had learned to keep your hands to yourself!” We learn that in pre-school where I come from, and it’s a very good guide to life and she should SMACK! “Ow! Marrry! Slow down at least.” She has longer legs than me. I’m a tiny little woman!

         “You can scurry just fine when you want to.” And yeah, but that, like, wasn’t a convenient fact for me right then. Really.

         She took me right to the bedroom and sat me down on the edge of the bed, folded her arms, cocked her head, and asked, “Are you having a mini rebellion today?” To which I rolled my eyes. I’m allowed to roll my eyes. They’re mine, and they’re in my head, so I can do what I want with them. Which is when she shook her head and went, “Tsk tsk tsk,” and sighed. “I see the problem now. I can’t believe this is still a thing. Stand up.”

         “There’s no problem,” I said as I stood up.

         “O yes there is, too. You’re wearing big girl clothes, and you think that makes you a big girl.” She lifted my dress above my waist. “Black satin,” she said and put her hand right on my black satin panties. “Satin is hard to wash, Daphne. That’s why it’s for big girls and not pee pants girls.”

         Now, you may hear from misinformed third parties that my reaction to that comment was unrefined, perhaps even a tantrum, or that it went something like, “(Foot stomp) You are (sound of hail falling on a tin roof) and (twenty-car pileup) and (lightning striking a power station) and just so (cattle stampede) and being unfair (red-faced, fist-clenched adult out of breath), Mary!”

         But I don’t know where these third parties get their information, because what I said was, “How true. Good thing I’m an adult and not a pee pants.” Really.

         It was Mary who was out of control with her whole recrossing her arms and looking at me with her you’ve-got-to-be-kidding face and her we’ve-had-this-conversation-before tone when she said, “Turn around.”

         “Eurgh!” But I did turn around, and you know why? Because I’m a good girl (and stomping your foot doesn’t make you not a good girl. It makes you a good girl who stomps her feet, but only because of all the injustice she’s subject to).

         “It’s nice that you wanna be a grown up and wear pretty dresses,” she soliloquized as she unzipped my dress, “and put on makeup. I’m sure it makes you feel very mature. Step out.” And then I was in just my panties and my bra. Unless you count the sour expression I was wearing. “Let’s hang this up,” Mary said. So she did. It was my turn to fold my arms across my chest and glare. So I did.

         She put her arm around my shoulder and guided me to my dresser. “And jewelry, too. Tsk tsk.”

         “Stop tsking me!”

         “Hold still for me, little girl.” Dammit! “Let’s just get these out and put them back where they’re safe.” And she took my earrings out and put them away.

Ya know, I actually really like it when Mary undresses me, but not when she’s being mean. AND I AM TOO A BIG GIRL, DAMMIT! I can wear what I want when I want (unless Mary says otherwise … dammit).

         “And let’s go get that makeup off your face.” So we went to the bathroom and I endured her taking the blush off my cheeks (which under the circumstances didn’t make them any less red) and the lipstick, too. “There.” She turned me to face the mirror. “You don’t need to hide that pretty skin at your age.” Okay, that was maybe sincere and a nice compliment, but still.

“And this little bralette. Arms up.” And she took off my bra(lette) and tossed it in the hamper. I was in just my panties, which don’t cover much, which is fine in summer, but our bedroom is chilly in winter and there were goosebumps (which does not make me a silly goose – really!). “Let’s go.” She took me back into the bedroom and sat down on the chair. “Over my knee. Time for your spanking.”

         “Emmmmmurgh!” I growled (didn’t wine – I don’t do that, as I’ve said, and if I ever find who started that rumor I’m gonna sic Mary on them) and I put myself over her lap. Sometimes being a good girl is seriously disadvantageous.

         “When I put you in a diaper and let you change it, that means put another one on, doesn’t it?”

         “But you didn’t say that. How am I supposed to know what you want with this stuff when you won’t tell me?” And the thing is, that was about forty percent a good faith question. As to the other sixty percent, well, never you mind. Don’t be nosy.

         “But you did know what I meant, didn’t you? … We’ll stay just like this until you answer me.”

         “Yes.”

         “Yes, you did. And you also told me no downstairs. Are you allowed to tell me no when I tell you to do something?”

         “No.”

         “And why not?”

         “Because you’re in charge.”

“That’s right. I’m in charge, and little girls are not in charge. What happens when you don’t follow the rules like I’ve taught you to?”

         “I get in trouble.”

         “And what happens then? Do you get grounded?”

         “No.”

         “Do you get your allowance taken away?”

         “No.” Probably helps that I’m not on an allowance.

         “Then when happens?”

         “I get spanked.”

         “That’s right. I spank your bottom, just like a naughty little girl.”

         “I’m not a little girl!”

         She took the waistband of my panties and snapped them, which made me eep just a little. “Are these still making you feel like a big girl? Because from where I’m sitting, it just looks like you borrowed your big sister’s panties without permission.”

         Okay, so in other contexts, that little scenario would make me cum in my big sister’s panties. In the actual thing happening at the moment, it did not. It so did not. “(Sniff). Why are you being so mean to me today?”

         “Honey, I discipline you and give you consequences because I love you and want you to learn right from wrong. If you had followed the rules, you wouldn’t be over my knee about to get your bottom spanked, would you?”

         “No (sniff).”

         “And I’m sorry I have to give you this spanking. I’d much rather play with you after work than have to spank.”

         O. My. God. She is such a fibber. One of these days I’m going to put soap in her toothbrush just so she can learn a lesson the same way she’s tried to teach me to not fib.

         She squeezed my butt. “This could’ve been avoided if you had just followed directions. You could still be wearing your pretty dress and not over my knee. You think about that while I’m giving you your spanking.” I was within an inch of my life of just telling her to shut up already, and another inch of dissolving into sobs, and I don’t even know why.

 

         SMACK SMACK.

 

         “I’m sorry I had to do that.”

         “Emmmmmm behehe (snort sob).” She didn’t even do it right! I’ve gotten two spanks for crossing the living room while in possession of a butt! Waaaaah!

         “Shh shh. I know that hurt. And you were very brave.” And she was rubbing my shoulders and stroking my back. “Can you sit up for me?”

         Yes, but tearfully, is how to translate my, “Mmmm (sniff).”

         “There there,” She cooed and and stroked my hair.

         “I don’t even know what you’re doing,” I very honestly whined (but seriously, who starts these rumors?). She was being mean and somehow nice and it was confusing.

         “Silly girl, I gave you a spanking.”

         “No you didn’t.”

         “I gave you a little girl spanking because you’re my little girl. Now let’s get you redressed, okay?”

         “Mhmm.” She sorta pivoted so I was sitting in the chair and she was standing. I wouldn’t call it a ninja move, but there was athleticism there.

         Instead of going to my dresser, she went into the closet and – big surprise – emerged with diapers and a long-sleeve onesie I was hoping she was saving for never.

         “I know a little girl who probably has cold toes, am I right,” she asked. She got some of my fuzzy socks to add to the ensemble. “Let’s get these on you first. Gimme one of these feetsies.” I did, and she didn’t exactly tickle it, but she did run a fingertip down the sole of my foot, and it made me curl my toes. I remember from way back when in school they taught us that’s a reflex they test for in newborns. I remember from way back when that I like it when she rubs my feet and does gentle tickles. I don’t like the furious tickling, but I like the gentle kind.

         When I had my socks on, she ordered, “Put ‘em up,” and she pulled the onesie over my head. “Where’d Daphne go!?! Dere she is!”

         “Hehe. Mary, stop.”

         “No.”

         “Grr!”

         “Come on, let’s get you back in a diaper where you belong.”

         Excuse me? “Marrry, I do not.” But I did get on the bed and lay back. I wish she wouldn’t stay stuff like that.

She bent down over me right next to my ear and whispered, “You do if I say you do,” and gave my earlobe a nibble. “But,” she said with her I’m-springing-a-surprise-you’ll-hate-and-I’ll-love tone (her eyes always get bright and shiny when she does that), “I understand that sometimes you wanna feel grown up, so you can keep the undies on.”

“Good,” I said and started to sit up.

“Where are you going,” she said with a hand on my chest stopping me part way.

We didn’t use words for what passed between us next. We did the whole thing with facial expressions and eyebrow gestures.

You can’t be serious.

O yes I am.

No.

Yes.

Marrrry!

This is happening.

“No. Mary, no.”

“Lay back down.”

“No, I’m not gonna.” She could never spank me long enough or hard enough to make me pee in my panties.

“Daphne,” she said with one of those meaningful looks of hers, “do as you’re told.”

Urgh!!!!! Unfair! It’s hard being a good girl, and it’s even harder being a submissive good girl. Telling me to do as I’m told may as well be threatening me with kryptonite and snakes. It got me all started with the trembling lip and hyperventilating. “Please,” I moaned.

“It’ll be okay,” she reassured me. “Just lay back and let me take care of it.” I did and put my arms over my eyes and had my own private pity party (with tears as a party favor). “Shh shh shh. Everything will be fine. Lift your bottom for me.”

I did, and she got a cloth diaper under me. I could tell she had a stuffer in it, too (I’m wishing I’d never learned the lingo).

“Open your legs for me … good girl. You’re being a very good girl.”

O, like I didn’t know how good I was being. I was being great. She folded the diaper over me and tugged to get it snug and then velcroed me in.

“Lift again.” And in a repeat of the process, she got plastic panties on me, the kind with the snaps. I like those a little more than the other, but that still leaves them in the despised category.

My pity party skipped over rave and went straight to post-rave-drunk-girl-panic-attack. It’s more fun when you’re drunk, and it’s no fun at all. Thankfully, Mary knows the signs and laid down next to me, pulling me over so I could cry into her shirt.

“You’re okay,” she whispered.

Long-term, sure. Right then? Nope. Nopety-nope-nope-nope.

She made a snarky comment about my game, implied I wasn’t mature enough for makeup and jewelry, made me take off my dress, talked down to me like I’m a little girl, (viciously) spanked me, and put a diaper on over my panties. She made me wet my panties! (Eventually, not yet then). And I liked those panties! And satin is hard to wash! Really!!!

“Umsadatu,” I said.

“What’s that, baby?”

“I’m so mad at you,” I sob-said.

“Aww. That’s okay. You go right ahead and be mad because I love you forever and always no matter what.”

O. my. God. Was it that she didn’t know or didn’t care that saying that would make me bawl? You don’t say stuff like that to me when I’m already a mess unless you’re just looking to turn me into an emotional dumpster fire. Which, yeah, sometimes is helpful with the purging of the feelings, but there’s a time and a place and “Waaaaaaaaaah haaaah haaaah!” I may have even gone, “Boohoohoohoo!”

“I know. Get it all out. It’s my fault …” O, goodie, something we agree on. “… for letting you get dressed like a big girl. I think those clothes just made you forget your place.” Dammit.

Nope nope nope nope nope – fuck it. “Idunhafapace!”

“Of course you do, sweetheart. You’re place is right next to my side as my submissive little girl.”

“Umntaittlegrl!”

“But you’re my little girl.” And then she kissed me on the temple. And then she did it again. And then she kissed me on my cheek and my neck. Such effrontery from a peasant.

“Iwuntduit.”

“What won’t you do, Daffodil.”

“Put a diaper on myself. I won’t do it. I don’t even like them. You hafta do it if you want me to wear ‘em.”

“Okay.”

“And you tease too much sometimes.”

“I do?”

“I got all dressed up today, and you made it a thing.”

“I’m sorry. Did I hurt your feelings?”

“A little. (sniff).” O. My. God. I. Am. Pathetic. Sometimes, anyway.

“Then I’m very sorry. Can I tell you something that might make it up you?”

“Yes.” She’d better if she knew what was good for me (which she usually does).

“You were very pretty in your dress.”

“Thank you. I did a good job on my makeup, too.”

“Yes you did.”

“Yes I did.”

“My pretty girl.”

But on another urgent matter in need of resolution before things were done that could not be undone, “Do I really gotta pee my panties?”

“Mhmm. Sorry, Daff, but actions have consequences.”

“Then what’s your consequence for teasing me?”

“I’ll make you dinner and let you hang on me all evening.”

“And who said I wanna hang on you,” I pouted as I burrowed back into her chest.

“Such a snuggly little girl.”

“And?”

“A good girl.”

“A very good girl.”

“My very good girl. Let’s go wash my pretty, good girl’s face.”

         “Do the buttons first. And can I have pants?”

         “Nope, but we can sit in front of the fire. How’s that,” she asked as she snapped the onesie shut. It didn’t make me any less pathetic or any warmer.

         “It’s terrible.”

         “Such a silly good girl.”

[YourFNF]

I have a love/hate relationship with this kind of thing at least Mary is being more honest...??

[bobindiapers]

Not only is your story incredibly entertaining but educational too!  It seems like every other chapter I'm googling a word I don't recognize and expanding my vocabulary, and Chapter 81 had two, "laconic" and "ensorcell", though you did fool me with "kernoffler". You're like Sesame Street for ABs!

[Alex Bridges]

11 minutes ago, bobindiapers said:

Not only is your story incredibly entertaining but educational too!  It seems like every other chapter I'm googling a word I don't recognize and expanding my vocabulary, and Chapter 81 had two, "laconic" and "ensorcell", though you did fool me with "kernoffler". You're like Sesame Street for ABs!

On next week's show, The Count will be teaching us how to count to forty with paddle swats, and Oscar is going to get fed up with Mary tossing wet diapers in his trash can.

[bobindiapers]

On 1/31/2021 at 8:03 PM, Alex Bridges said:

On next week's show, The Count will be teaching us how to count to forty with paddle swats, and Oscar is going to get fed up with Mary tossing wet diapers in his trash can.

...

37 paddle swats!

38 paddle swats!

39 paddle swats!

40! 40 paddle swats on Daphne's bright red bottom, muahahahahahaha.

[Alex Bridges]

Just for fun

 

O boy, over Mary’s knee again, panties around my ankles.

“I don’t wanna spanking!” Not that that argument ever works, but worth a try, right?

“Okay. Up.”

Wait, what?

“Huh?”

“Fine. You won’t get a spanking.” Ooo, her game is deep.

“But ... why,” I asked.

“Because you said you didn’t want one,” she said like that made any sense.

“But I’m in trouble.”

“Meh. Up.” She helped me up and I instinctively rubbed my butt before realizing it didn’t hurt. She didn’t even give me the fist spank.

“Where are you going,” I asked.

“Living room.”

“But ... no.”

“No what,” she asked over her shoulder.

“You said I was in trouble and needed a spanking,” I said as I trotted along after her having managed to pull my panties into place along the way.

“Changed my mind,” she said as she sat down on the couch.

“No.”

“You keep saying that.”

I stood in front of her, turned, and bent over a little. “Spank it.”

“Nope.”

“Spank me!”

“Uh-uh.”

Urgh! I dove over her lap (and sent the remote flying). “Start spanking.”

“Not so much.”

“Touch my butt!”

“I don’t feel like it.”

“Marrry!”

“Who’s the domme here, little girl?

“You.”

“And I decided I don’t want or need to spank your butt.”

“But you do! Just touch it. You’ll like it.” Because I knew that would remind her of how much she likes spanking it.

“I don’t want to.”

“You’re being so mean!”

“What will you give me?”

“All the things. Just spank me.”

“Fine.” CRACK!

“Ow! I don’t wanna spanking!”

“O, you are so in for it now.”

I’m not sure which of us reverse psychologied whom.

I am sure which of us has a throbbing butt and which of us is getting all the (sexual) things.

[Guilend]

Okay I'm soooo going to have to try this one day.

[Sarah Penguin]

[Alex Bridges]

Scene 85

 

 

I don’t think you all realize what kind of person Mary is. You all think she’s great, but I’ve been trying to tell you just how evil she is: she’s the kind of evil that would strangle a baby panda.

And I say that because she said the meanest thing she’s ever said to me. Or not to me, but about me and with me sitting right there. And it was so mean it’s evil! I won’t even tell you what she said because some of the evil would rub off on me and I’d have to break quarantine and go to church and apologize to god! 

 

So I’ll just tell you what I said in response to her evilness. 

 

“I DID NOT HAVE STINKY PANTS!”

 

Deep breath, wait for my heart to slow down, kiss a crucifix, wash the bad feelings away, and rewind.

 

 

I put on five pounds with my Christmas-slash-pandemic-induced-stress baking. Which, yeah, isn’t a lot, but it shows on me. I didn’t notice it at first, though I suspect Mary did and was just being nice not saying anything. But when I put my yoga pants on and looked in the mirror, I think my exact words were, “What the fuck is that?”

“What,” Mary asked.

“This! Is it - it wasn’t there last week.”

Mary had her I’m-not-so-sure-about-that look on her face and said, “I’m not so sure about that.” See? She waltzed right up to me and squeezed it. Or tried to because it disappeared when she did, but it popped right back out. “Someone’s got a little jelly roll.”

“Eeeeegyuh! No more cookies and peanut butter.”

“Gee, who said that twenty baking sessions ago?”

“It’s sad how you live in the past, Mary.” Sad, but understandable. It’s her coping mechanism. Some of us bravely live in the present, ready to take whatever life can throw at us with a steely resolve like me, and some of us can’t, like Mary. Really. (What? Really.)

“Can I offer a suggestion,” Mary asked.

“Only if it’s nice.”

“You could use that athleisure outfit of yours to do something athletic to go along with all the leisure.”

Harsh. So harsh. But also right, which makes it even more harsh. Though I wouldn’t call all of my downtime leisure. I’d call it unstructured play, which is important for developing creativity and imagination. Also, I am a lady of leisure, which is what I now call myself instead of unemployed or housewife or stay-at-home-partner or homemaker. Though I am all of those things except for the first one.

            So downstairs to our basement gym I went, and I removed the various pieces of laundry hanging on the exercycle I bought at some point in my misspent past. As a stationary bike, not the best brand, but as a thing to hang delicates and shrinkables on to dry, also not the best brand. I dusted off the bluetooth speaker that amazingly still works, and I got to work.

            Now, you don’t lose weight by exercise. You lose it by dieting. But the exercise helps, and not having been to the gym, walked up the stairs in a parking garage, or done much of anything besides a leisurely walk in almost a year, you might say I was still slim on the outside, the five pounds my yoga pants revealed as a little blub of flubber notwithstanding, but I had gotten very fat on the inside. I exercycled as far as my almost atrophied legs and lungs could take me in a half hour, or almost a half hour, when Mary came to the top of the stairs and walked down to congratulate me on my first step toward better health.

            She went, “Turn it down!” I guess the congratulatory part was silent.

            “What?”

            “TURN IT DOWN!” And she turned off my speaker. “I’m glad you’re doing this and hope you do it tomorrow, but you can’t blast your music while I’m working. The noise goes right up the vent to the guest room. Here,” she said and held out the headphones I bought (for more than the agreed upon spending limit) but that Mary let me keep (after paddling me with the school paddle). I’m still walking funny from that one. Or the seven or eight since. Who’s to say? I’m not a doctor.

            “Sorry … and thank you.”

            She made her Daphne-is-yummy face and put her hand rather suggestively on my arm. “You’re a little sweat ball.”

            “Am not! I’m just glistening.” We’ve been over this. I glisten. Pigs sweat. Woodland creatures such as myself glisten.

            “Can’t remember the last time I saw you so sweaty outside the sheets.”

            “It’s not sweat. It’s … whatever substance makes us glisten.”

            “Us?”

            “Me and other sylphs and water nymphs.”

            “Ha! Don’t strain yourself.”

            “I won’t. I’m an experienced athlete … who’s hasn’t athleted in a while.”

            Mary went back to her work, and I went back to mine, which is when I remembered how much harder it is after you stop for a few minutes but how easy it is to take a break.

            I have the willpower of a golden retriever, the impulse control of a golden retriever, and the appetites of an intact golden retriever. I can sense you shaking your heads what with my normally stoic and even ascetic approach to life, but it’s true. Sometimes I just can’t help myself when it comes to whatever endorphin or oxytocin inducing thing I set my mind on, which no sooner satisfies one desire before it finds another pleasure inducing thing to want. I find the best way to deal with this is to remove the temptation entirely. Of course, many of those appetites and accompanying temptations are called Mary, but at least I can throw out the junk food.

You might be wondering if Mary would be mad at me for throwing out the junk food, and the answer is no because she’s one of those freaks who doesn’t crave it like it’s the best thing since me. Which is totally unfair. I mean, I was addicted to Diet Coke from the age of friggin’ four, but at least I managed to stay my svelte little self growing up in the land of BBQ Jalapeño Ranch Everything. The Wisconsin climate and diet aren’t friendly for us naturally cold, hungry, and addictive types.

With nothing else to do, I went back down to the basement after lunch for some strength training. We have bands and kettlebells and some dumbbells acquired here and there from our various dalliances with fitness trends. I hoisted and carried and lifted and put down and pronated and supinated and extended and contracted and … stuff. That’s when I realized two things: I should make a plan and I was in trouble.

How did I know I was in trouble? I saw Mary’s angry feet coming down the stairs. Only Mary could manage to have angry feet. The normal out there just have angry expression, but even in her work slippers (I invented that category just for her), she can have angry feet.

“Daphne, I told you to use your headphones.”

Obviously I was using my headphones because … dammit.

“I must’ve left them upstairs when I too a break. Sorry.” Also, breaks can be five hours long. I decided. On this, I am the decider. Really.

“A little late for sorry. I had to get off a conference call because your dance party is coming through the vent.” Which is when I saw …

“Mary, not the … urgh.”

“Yep, this might make you remember when I tell you something. Grab your knees.”

I hate the school paddle! It’s so … big. And I’m not! Why couldn’t I gain all five pounds in my ass? Stupid weight gain and stupid paddle and stupid HVAC system.

I wasn’t even playing my music that loud.

“Can’t we talk about this,” I asked in what apparently came across as a rhetorical question because Mary took me by my shoulder, turned me, and bent me forward.

“We can talk about it tonight after your paddling and when I’m done with work.”

WHAP! “Eep!” WHAP!!! “Yow!!” Sniffle.

“Headphones,” she said and kissed me. “I have to get back on that call.”

And she kissed me again. That’s the second time those headphones got me paddled by Assistant Vice Principal for Buzzkilling Mary. And yes, it’s the headphones’ fault, not mine. Really.

            And did I mention OW! I can’t believe it’s legal to do that to anyone but a consenting adult because OW!!! My butt hurt, and just above that and around the corner was a little ball of tummy dread because often, but not always but often frequently, if Mary gets out the school paddle I get another spanking the same day. You may not have noticed, but I’ve kinda been not getting spanked as frequently as I was before. Like maybe just once (and a half) a week (on average) as compared to twice, and I was kinda enjoying not spending so much time in the corner. I was getting playful good girl spankings to make up for it, which is key to a happy Daffy. And approximate rhyme is not a spanking offense. Really.

I finished my workout and spent some time examining my butt (marks with just two swats! that thing should be added to the list of weapons of ass destruction), and checking out my figure. Not because I’m vain but because good health demands it. And also vanity.

I went downstairs to the kitchen for a post-workout snack of healthy fruit and nuts, and there was Mary. “I’m sorry about the music,” I said.

“Everything travels right up the vent, and why do you play it so loud anyway?”

“I was feeling the burn?”

“And how does your bottom feel now?”

“It burns.” Har har. She pulled a chair out from the kitchen table and turned it so it was facing the room. “Aww, c’mon. You already spanked me. I won’t do it again.”

“What’s the rule about getting spanked at school?”

“What are you even talking about?”

“Did you get your bottom paddled today?”

“Mary …

“Daphne Ann, I asked you a question, little girl.”

“Yes.”

“And what kind of paddle was it?”

“School paddle.”

“So you must’ve gotten your bottom paddled at school, and what’s the rule about getting spanked away from home?”

“But that’s only if I get spanked by someone else.”

“And during business hours, I’m Senior Vice President Taylor, who had to drop off a meeting to go downstairs and discipline you.”

“But that’s not fair!” I didn’t stomp my foot. It was more like half a stomp. Just my heel came up, so that doesn’t count.

“Who whines about fairness?”

“Marrrry!” And who even whines? Not me. It’s those other people. They’re the whiners.

“Do I need to make you say it?”

Ooo, this one time she made me say something by … “Little kids and hypocritical politicians whine about fairness,” I grumbled.

“And have you been elected or appointed to an office I don’t know about?”

Well, I am Empress, but that’s a secret, so, “No.”

“Then I guess we know what you are. Come here to me.” I got within arm’s length before she took my wrist and pulled me over her lap.

“But it still hurts from the paddling!”

“I imagine it does.” SMACK! Mary and her stupid imagination. SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! And so forth. I mean, you must know the routine by now. Me over Mary’s getting spanked like a (little) giantess who bestrides the world (of Mary’s lap) stoically (grunting and verbalizing my growing discomfort) as I accept the injustice (though this time it was debatable) of the world as I take the sins of others (who are me) upon myself (butt).

“I said I was sorry.”

“And I (spank) accept (spank) your apology (spank) but that (spank) doesn’t (spank) mean (spank) you get (spank) out (spank) of (spank) your (spank) pun- (spank) ish- (spank) ment (spank).”

“Why are you making so big a deal out of this?”

“Because (spank) I shouldn’t (spank) have to tell you (spank) things twice but if I do (SPANK) then I guess (spank) you need to be (spanked) spanked twice (spank spank spank).”

“Mary, that – ow! Okay – ow! I won’t do it again. I’ll list- ow! Fuck muffins.”

“Excuse me, what did you say?”

“Fuck cupcakes? Teehee?”

SPANK!!!! “Furple!” I exclaimed for some reason, I guess. I only have good reasons for the things I do and say. Really.

“Little girls do not swear during their spankings, and they don’t get to keep their pants up, either.”

“No, Mary, please? Not bare. It already – ouchie!”

Holy fuck, Daphne, did you just say ouchie, asked the mean girl voice in my head.

So what if I did, the sensitive girl shot back.

So this pandemic really is turning you into a little girl.

But it hurts!

It’s a hand spanking!

So? Like you’ve ever been on the receiving end of Mary’s hand.

Hello? We share a butt, remember?

You’re a butt.

Said the little girl with her playground comeback.

Shut up!

“Owie!”

Aww, did the little girl get a spanking on her bare bottom from the big mean Mary?

She’s not mean! She’s just strict because I (“Oof!”) asked her to be.

Let me guess – first you’re gonna cry, and then you’re gonna sit in her lap and cuddle?

Yes! So what? … And shut up, ya big buttface.

“(Subsonic mouse cries).” SPANK! “Myeh.”

What was that?

It was a high-pitched sob, now shut up already!

“Ehuh ehuh ehuh waaaaaah!”

She’s still spanking you, if you thought crying was going to make her stop, which would at least be a good excuse for carrying on like a little girl.

Waaaaaaaah!

Yep, crying just like a little girl.

Am not! I’m just crying.

Now she’s not spanking you, but you’re still crying.

I know – (sniff).

“Shh shh shh,” Mary cooed while rubbing my butt.

 

And we did cuddle, and she did wash my face and call me pretty, and she did hold up a paper towel and tell me to honk, etcetera, etcetera. I got a good summation lecture about listening the first time and being on my best behavior during business hours. Etcetera.

 But then Mary had to go and be Mary and answer the phone after dinner. “Hey, Brenna.”

“Hey. Just calling to see how you guys are doing.”

“We want out,” Mary said.

“Same. How’s Daphne?”

“You can ask her yourself.” And I’d have been happy to talk except Mary didn’t just let me talk. She had to turn on the video which sent me scrambling for a blanket to pull up to my chin because I was dressed … for bed. Meaning naked, um, really. Naked, and wearing … something.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi. Are you feeling shy?”

“Um, I’m naked.”

“She is not,” Mary helpfully chimed in. My wife, my lover, my helpmeet, that’s Mary, who’s also a narc. “She’s just shy because she’s dressed for bed.”

“It’s only 7:30. What happened, Daffy? Did you get an early bedtime?”

“No,” Mary said. “I just like her in her jammies. But she did get her bottom spanked today.”

“Marrry!”

“Brenna knows all about little girls who need their bottom spanked, including yours.”

“I’m not a little girl,” I said as I absentmindedly chewed on the edge of the blanket. “Can I come live with you?”

“No, you may not, little girl,” Mary said and kissed me on the temple. “I wanna keep you.”

Not to change the subject, but Mary wants to keep me and she gives temple kissed (though my whole body is a temple) which made me get this all over tingly, warm sensation.

And that sensation lasted right up until Mary said, “Besides, Brenna, she’s an awful lot of work. When I put her over my knee, Little Miss Sass Bottom here had stinky pants.”

“Muh,” Said I.

“No way,” Brenna laughed.

“Buh,” me said.

“Very stinky.”

“She is such a little girl.”

Well, I am many things. I am an empress. I am a temple. I am someone who is going crazy in the pandemic times and gets in fights with herself in her own head while getting spanked. But – BUT! “I am not a little girl and I DID NOT HAVE STINKY PANTS!”

“It’s okay,” Brenna said. “You do what ….”

“I was working out! I was sweaty! I didn’t!”

“Maybe she does need that early bedtime,” Brenna speculated because I don’t know why. “She’s getting herself all worked up over some stinky britches.”

“Marrry, see what you did?”

“Yep. You wanna see her bedtime outfit,” Mary asked.

“No,” I declared. Not just any declaration but one of those infallible ones just us popes and empresses get to make. And I gripped the blanket, now pulled up to just under my nose, in case Mary tried to make me.

“But if you wanna live with her she’s gonna need to know how to dress you properly.”

“I can dress myself.”

“But you told me just the other day that you don’t wanna put your diapers on yourself.”

“Marrrry!” Embarrassed, pleading puppy dogs were turned all the way up to eleven. They’re one of the main weapons at the disposal of empresses (such as myself).

“Sorry,” Brenna said, “I don’t change stinky diapers.”

“I didn’t,” I squeaked and turned toward Mary and buried my face in the space between her back and the couch. I was taught at a young age by a very kind child psychologist to take a break to regather my patience and thoughts as necessary to deal with heightened anxiety and stress, and I needed such a moment and a private place to take it, and purely by happenstance, hiding behind Mary was (and frequently is) a good place to take have a minute to myself. So let’s not read any more into it than that.

The rest of their conversation was brief and muffled. Something about cooking? Anyway …

“You can come out now,” Mary said as she leaned just a little bit away from me.

“Why’d you tell her that,” I asked.

“Because a little embarrassment is a good reminder to certain little girls to behave, and you know why else.”

Yes, yes I do know why else. “I’m not a little girl.” Really!!! “My diaper is wet.” Hers! Dammit …

“Already? I jus put t it on you twenty minutes ago, and you pottied right before.”

“It’s not pee.” (Sniff)

“You need a little help with that?”

“Yes please.” (Sniff)

“Lie back back for me, baby.”

“I’m not a baby.”

“I think we’ll start calling this is a number three.”

“Ehhhehrm!”

“Such a grumpy girl.”

“I’m not grumpy. I’m frustrated and impatient and my butt still hurts.”

“Aww (crinkle) is your bottom all red and sore under your diapee (crinkle)?”

“Urr.” With her hands (crinkle) pressing in (crinkle). “Yes.”

“Wanna tell me what happened?”

“I got – hhh – my bare bottom – hhhh- spanked for diso – urgggggm – beying.”

“And you had stinky pants when you got your spanking, didn’t you?”

“Ffffffff no.”

“Yes you did.”

“Ffff mmmmm nnnno.”

“Yes you did.”

“Hhhh hh hh hhhhhh mm mm mm … … … …. …. ……  (Sigh) … No I didn’t. …. Wanna turn?”

“Heehee. My little Daffodil. God bless whoever taught you about taking turns.”

“Heeeheeee.”

“It’s one of the things that makes you such a good girl.”

Oooo, my wife thinks I’m a good girl. And I am. Really. Heeheee.

[Sarah Penguin]

Sillly

[diaperboymi]

On 8/16/2020 at 5:39 PM, Alex Bridges said:

Scene #41

 

 

 

Like I needed an audience. Not that it was her fault. It was Mary’s fault. We have a clothes dryer that works just fine. Having to put up a clothesline in the backyard to dry those stupid, idiotic, asinine, craptastic, fuck-my-life cloth diapers Mary got a punishment diapers is just bullshit. It’s an extra chore for an extra punishment, and Miss Mary I’m-So-Great will deny it was also meant to embarrass me in the off chance someone saw but that’s exactly what she was hoping. Not that it was Nana’s fault.

 

“Hi Daffy,” she said through the fence. She has ears like a bat. I mean, what, did she hear me opening a clothespin? And then she came through the fence. “Something wrong with your dryer? You can ... O.”

 

“Hi Nana,” I said kinda flatly. “Dryer’s fine.”

 

“Haven’t seen those in a very long time. Didn’t know they made them for ... sorry.”

 

“It’s fine,” I said while blushing all the way to the top of my scalp.

 

“Mary sure is, um, inventive.”

 

“She’s a regular Jane Edison.” And that’s when things got really embarrassing, because ... “Um, could you grab the other end of the, um ...”

 

“Bedsheet?”

 

Stupid, assing, fuckwadding, LEAKING diapers! Arrrrgh! And there was a stain in my side of the mattress now.

 

“This is ... (hfff).”

 

“Wanna talk about it,” she asked me.

 

“Maybe later. Can I come over later?”

 

“Of course. I’ll be around.”

 

And before she got more than a few feet, I stopped her. “Wait. I don’t ... I’m sorry. How are you?” Because not everything in the world is supposed to be about me and Mary, or me being in trouble or upset or needing a personified wailing wall to vent to.

 

“I’m doing alright. I saw my grandbabies yesterday.”

 

“You did?!?”

 

“Mhmm.” She looked so happy.

 

“Did they remember you?”

 

“Ha. Yeah.”

 

“Told ya they would.” We chatted for another minute. I really did want to, and I also wanted to so we could also have a normal friendship. Ya know, two adults talking about normal things, supporting each other in normal things. Partly because I want that normally, but also because I think I need to make a point of being a better friend and not always taking my emotional stuff and dumping it on their floor, especially Nana’s floor. I have a floor, and they’re welcome to dump on it too. Which are word choices I now regret.

 

Anyway, with our sheets hanging up for the whole world to see along with those TNINGS, I decided I needed to have a little chat with Miss Big for Britches about her choice of britches for me.

 

Now, in my memory, I went inside and changed into one of my work outfits (nice slacks, business-cute top, low heels) and made a PowerPoint any graphic designer would’ve been proud of laying out via charts, graph, flow charts, heat maps, scatterplots, and the kind of brief but insightful bullet points that expert communicators tell you will wow your audience and leave them thinking whatever you want them to think and do whatever you want them to do. I’d show it to you, but would you believe I lost the thumb drive? (I mean really, would you believe it? Please?)

 

In Mary’s memory, I slammed the door and threw a massive tantrum and set the carpeting on fire. Or at least, that’s my memory of what Mary’s memory is. It would certainly explain some things.

 

Anyhoo, I went inside and said, “Mary?”

 

“In my office, Daffodil,” she called back. Which felt a little like she was rubbing it in my face that she had an increasingly successful career going on whereas I did laundry and dishes and put out carpet fires. “We need to talk,” I called back.

 

“Can we talk after work? I’m in the middle of some things.”

 

“No, it can’t wait.” I’m friggin ten times as important as whatever she was doing to keep the internet turned on or whatever. “I need to talk now.” And I heard her footsteps coming my way. It made me wish I’d spent another couple hours on my PowerPoint, awesome as it was. And I should’ve hand written my notes or something.

 

“What’s up,” she asked all confident and like she was just gonna shut down whatever my deal was and go right on back to handing down fiats like she’s queen of every damn thing. I’m an American, dammit! I don’t cotton to monarchy. It’s a new world this side of the Atlantic, and … “Daphne?”

 

“Mary.” Okay, this at this point in my presentation, I made a conscious effort to maintain open body language and a friendly tone of voice. Just because I was proposing to impose a constitution on the queen is not reason to cross my arms, give Mary a dirty look, and spit out, “When those fucking diapers are done drying, you can bring ‘em in yourself and throw ‘em in the damn trash.”

 

Well, at least I got my audience’s attention, as evidenced by the saucer-sized eyes and the way Her Majesty’s head did a sort of a double take. She was coming up with her regal reply, or at least I think she was because her eyes got kinda narrow and she crossed her arms and suddenly we were in a weird lesbian/BDSM/domestic discipline/ageplay standoff. She took her phone out of her pocket and looked at something and then put it down on the counter.

 

And there I was fumbling with the clicker to move on to slide two of my PowerPoint. I know when it’s time to regroup. We can always reschedule meetings. Better to get it right even if it takes two tries then to come away with the wrong next steps because we tried to rush things. “I’ll be at … Mae’s.” Now to waltz past her like a boss. Scoff – silly weakened queen doesn’t realize that’s my arm she’s grabbing. Well ow ow ow ow OW OW.

 

“You, Daphne Ann…”

 

“Ow! Stop! I OW!”

 

“… can plant your butt in the corner and stay there until I say. Do you (swat!) hear (swat swat!) me (swat!) little (smack!) girl (smack! Smack! SPANK!)!?! You have no idea how much trouble you’re in.”

 

What? Does being queen make your ears stop working? “I said I’m going to …”

 

Well, I guess it sorta is the kinda job that gives you a lot of gym time, plus if you recall Mary is also a ninja. I didn’t catch much of what she said because I was too focused on how I came to be in the air with my bare butt hanging out, but the parts I did catch were, “Are you … damn mind … your bare … for a month!” And a whole lot of palm-smack-butt sounds.

 

I said some stuff, too, and Mary could tell you what but there’s no reason to believe her because she didn’t bother to make a PowerPoint. Her mistake.

 

And suddenly I was back on my feet. It’s like she did that magic trick where the waiter yanks the table cloths out from under the water glass, on in this case me, and spanks the crap outta the water glass and it all happens so fast the water glass couldn’t tell you exactly what happened.

 

“Do you have anything else to say to me right now,” the snooty ninja queen waitress magician said. If I had that many titles I’d get a big head, too, I suppose.

 

I didn’t cry at least. That came later. Instead I thought back to all the times my asshole former boss said I needed to spend more time revising my PowerPoints, and I did that in the corner on the kitchen with my butt on display and probably covered in handprint. I ventured to turn around and didn’t even see my shorts or panties. Guess The Incredible Spanking Magicianess made them vanish. I had plenty of time to wonder how she did that trick. Plenty of time. Like, enough time to think I solved that mystery and think about how maybe my PowerPointing skills could use some brushing up after not having made one for six months. Or maybe the slides themselves were fine and just needed one fewer F bombs. Or perhaps a more diplomatic approach to my attempt at dethroning. And I still had time to build a mental clock for what time it was based on the shadow I cast on the wall. It was half past Daphne when she came back.

 

“Well, Seaman First Class Daphne Ann, who thinks she can swear at me like a sailor and tell me what for, I just canceled my entire afternoon to get the bare bottom of this.” She was sorta in my peripheral vision. There’s no seamen in our home, but I had the good sense to stand at attention like one and keep my eyes on the wall and turn around. “Do you have anything to say to me before your punishment?”

 

“I’m …” Don’t cry, dammit! “… sor-sorry.” You know what doesn’t help with the not crying? When I’m upset and Mary is upset and she does that thing where she sighs and any hint that she’s angry with me disappears and she just seems so ready to hug me till candy comes out (which really happened once and we’re not sure how! really!) but is just too damn responsible to let misbehavior slide.

 

“I know. And we’re going to have a long talk between punishments.” Ha! She loves me so much she forgot the singular form of … crap. “Upstairs. March.” Her and the military metaphors… I marched up the stairs while she totally screwed up the cadence with, “Straight to the bathroom.”

 

I have no idea where the term soapbox originated for when people are making a speech, but in our house, the soapbox is a little plastic box from the travel section of the drug store that holds a bar of soap. It’s amazing how long a bar of soap will last if you don’t actually wash with it. I think we’ve had that one since we moved in together.

 

“Arms up.” I did, and she took my shirt off me. “So quiet now,” she said. “Could that be because you realize just how badly you screwed up?” She got the soap out and a lather going while continuing her lecture. “I have no idea – no idea! – what possessed you to come into the house and – seriously! – swear at me like that. Open.”

 

I was supposed to be working on revising my PowerPoint, so you can understand if I was a little tentative about getting pulled off that task to … eeewwwwwwwwww. O god it tastes like dead flowers and bitterness and astringent and regret. Maybe I’d get extra credit for not … eeeoooeeewwwugh it’s lathery enough without her a dammnit to not in my molars awww fudge potatoes.

 

“I don’t care how old you are, Daphne Ann. You (smack!) do not (smack!) swear (smack!) at (SMACK!) me (SMACK!!!). Look at yourself in the mirror (smack!). Do you like what you see? Because I see a little girl who knows way better than to direct curse words at other people, especially her wife.”

 

Welp, floodgates open. “(sniff) (sob) (sob again) (another sob) (that thing when you're diaphragm starts to spasm and) waaaah.”

 

“Whatever you wanted to say to me you could’ve said maturely. We could’ve sat down at the table like two adults. You could’ve told me what was wrong, and we could’ve fixed it together. But instead you threw a tantrum like teenager throwing a tantrum like a toddler. So here we are. Open … ah ah ah. I’ll hold it.” And she held a cup of water to my lips and let me sip and spit and it’s never enough to get the taste out, not that I’ve had my mouth washed out that many times in my life. I’m not sure how many, but I know I have more fingers than that number. But I think only by one now. And to the bedroom we go.

 

She sat down on the bed where she had already laid out the hairbrush. And a hand towel. I didn’t know what for and was afraid to find out. “Over.” I put myself over her knee, and if at this point you’re thinking to yourself that my anti-monarchy rebellion sure got defeated quick, fast, and in a hurry, well, I was thinking the same thing. If you’re also thinking that I caved like a surrender monkey and didn’t even try to put up a fight, I’ll admit strategic errors and tactical mistakes were made, but it wasn’t as outright and crippling a defeat as it appears just because I was completely nude and over her lap about to get spanked with the hairbrush while trying to mind-over-body the taste of soap out of my mouth after a two-hour timeout. I didn’t immediately and fully surrender even if it appears that way just because I hadn’t said more than two words since my opening salvo and those words were an apology. Nor does my allowing the appearance of these things to take hold suggest in any way that I knew I was sooooo in the wrong on, like, at least three levels. And not even really sure what had made me so angry to begin with.

 

“Daphne,” she said to me while starting to rub my butt. “I really want to know what the hell that was all about, and you’re going to have a chance to tell me, but first you are getting your bottom spanked. Do you understand why?”

 

“Because I swore at you.”

 

“Yes. I don’t care if you swear, but you do not. Swear! At me!”

 

I can’t say in good faith that she skipped the warm up because that would ignore the spanking I got in the kitchen and the swats I got in bathroom. I can say she didn’t do as good a job with the warm up as I would’ve preferred, but she’d just counter that with a reminder that it was a punishment spanking and warm ups for little girls who didn’t F bomb their wife. And I’m not a little girl; I’m just saying what Mary would’ve told me.

 

Back to the matter at hand, it was a blur of a spanking. Literally, it was blurry because whatever composure I had managed to maintain (which, good on me for not, for once, going straight to a blubbering mess as soon as I had a moment to reconsider my choice of words two hours prior). She spared no portion of my butt. Which is a shame, because it was a nice butt. We’d been together thirty-plus years, and I didn’t relish the idea of butt shopping during a pandemic but I had no choice because she beat my butt and set in on fire.

 

Fast, hard, and thorough. Which is exactly how I would’ve spanked me. And, btw, probably not a coincidence that the worst punishment back in the old country was reserved for treason. I should never have tried to dethrone the queen, even if all I wanted to do was impose a little control around the royal prerogative.

 

And a failed rebellion is a seriously emotional thing even if you somehow escape the queen, so pardon me if I needed to lay there and wail a moment even after (I think) she stopped spanking me. Plus, for all her faults, my queen loves her subjects, and when she was done administering justice, she was kind enough to let me lay there and even (shuddery feelings) ran her fingers down back to the smoldering red ruins of my butt and back again until I had stopped carrying on).

 

“Ready to sit up,” Her Majesty asked.

 

What I meant to say was, “Not just yet, your Queenship,” but what came out was, “Mmarry.”

 

“C’mon, baby, dry up those tears.” And she helped me to sit up, and I ignored how painful it is to sit on someone’s lap without a butt.

 

“Shhh. C’mon. Dry up those tears.”

 

Dammit, she may be queen of a buncha stuff, but she’s not queen of my tears. “Illstopryinweniwuntoo.”

 

“What?”

 

“I’ll stop crying when I want to.”

 

“So you can use your words.” And she kissed my head. You’d think she’d figure out that if I’m already crying and she kisses my head that just makes me cry some more. “Shhh. You’re okay, Daffy. Whatever is wrong, you’re okay.”

 

What’s wrong is my butt was beyond repair. I needed another minute.

 

“Gotta headache,” she asked me.

 

“Yes,” I said in my thick I’m-just-barely-not-crying voice.

 

“Here.” She reached next to her and grabbed that towel and held it against my nose. “Honk.” And I did. “Can you sit up for me?” And I did that too. “You slimed my shirt,” she said as she pulled it off. She scooted herself to the top of the bed and patted her thigh. I followed, feeling my swollen once-was-a-butt ache with each step (is it a step if you’re crawling?). I put one leg over her one leg and one arm over her and one arm behind her and basically clung to her like I’d gone overboard and she was a harbor buoy and the tide was going out.

 

“Are you ready to tell me what that was all about?”

 

“I ... (sob) ... I didn’t mean to.”

 

“What did you mean to say?”

 

“That I hate those stupid diapers and don’t want that punishment anymore.”

 

“And why didn’t you just say that?”

 

“Because you didn’t listen to me when I said I didn’t like them.”

 

“When was that?”

 

“The very first time when you said they were for punishment. I said I didn’t like them.”

 

“Daphne, you say that about a lot of things.”

 

“Yeah...” What? Just because I say that about stuff I don’t really mean on a weekly basis I was supposed to somehow make it clear when I actually mean it? Why do I hafta do all the work to make myself understood?

 

“Remember the last time you got upset because you felt things were moving too fast?”

 

“Yeah...”

 

“And what happened?”

 

“I got angry and was mean to you.”

 

“And you got your bare bottom spanked, and do you remember what I told you then?”

 

“Not really.”

 

“No surprise there.” Sarcasm alert! No fair! “I told you when you feel that way you need to tell me and do it maturely, and ever since then I’ve been very careful about asking you if you have anything to tell me and even directly asking you if you need to red light anything.”

 

“And I said I didn’t like those.” Well, so I made a bad faith argument.

 

“And that is not the same thing as a red light.” And she called me on my bad faith argument.

 

“But ... eeeugh hmpf!” Dammit! What the fuck is wrong with me! I was fine, like, two hours ago!

 

“Daffy, okay, seriously, what bee is up your bonnet today? Whatever is pissing you off, you just need to say it because now it’s pissing me off.”

 

I sat up. Fine. She wanted it straight? Fine. I was still pissed even if I was a weepy, headachy mess and even if I didn’t know why and even if I did regret what I’d said to her, so I turned responsibility of exposing it over to the ancient lizard part of my brain in the hopes I’d just be able to say it if stopped trying to be all clinical about it. No surprisingly, it came out a little sharply when I said, “You made me into a bedwetter! Those diapers are thick and stupid and you made me wear ‘em and Nana saw and there’s a stain on my side of the bed and I slept in a wet spot and they’re babyish and I’m tired and I hate that punishment!”

 

And then I started crying again. I’m not normally such a crybaby (stop laughing!) but I really didn’t sleep well, and it really did bother me that Nana saw our sheets hanging out there. Literally airing our dirty laundry. And did I mention my butt hurt?

 

But I wasn’t done ranting. I just did I through tears. “And I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to say that. I was ...”

 

“Rude, disrespectful, and a total bitch?”

 

“Mhmm.”

 

“You didn’t seem so upset when we got up this morning, honey. What happened?”

 

“Nana saw. She knows I’m a bedwetter.”

 

Mary scoffed at that. I was in no mood to be scoffed at. “You are not a bedwetter. Your diaper leaked. It happens.”

 

“But Nana saw.”

 

“Nana doesn’t care. She’s seen you waddling around with your diapered booty hanging out now, and she didn’t care then, did she?”

 

“No.”

 

“No, she didn’t. She thinks it’s cute. If she had her way, she’d be over here babysitting.”

 

“Not anymore.”

 

“Because she saw your wet sheets?”

 

“Because she has her grandbabies back.” Aww, crap. Tell me I did not just say that. The stupid shit we say when we’ve been crying so hard our heads hurt and we’re going on being naked for two hours, by the way, which was starting to make me feel a little more vulnerable than I like. I didn’t mean that about Nana. That was my lizard brain talking, and lizards are not logical and I just forgot to tell it to shut up. Silence prevailed in the room for a good forty seconds. I was about to correct my lizard idiocy but Mary got there first.

 

“Nana doesn’t ... You’re not a substitute for her grandkids. She liked you before all this, too.”

 

“I didn’t mean that ... I just ...”

 

“Please don’t start crying again, Daffy.”

 

“I’m ... I don’t ... I just don’t like ... (throaty groan frustration).”

 

“Can I try saying what I think you mean to say?”

 

“Mhmm.”

 

“I think what you’re trying to say is you don’t like that you like this so much. Is that it?”

 

“(silence).”

 

“Is that an answer?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Yes, it’s an answer; or yes, it’s what you’re trying to say?”

 

“Both.”

 

“It’s okay to like these things if it’s what you like.”

 

“But I’m ... this is too hard.”

 

“What is?”

 

“Talking about it. We never had this much trouble talking about this stuff when it was just discipline.”

 

“Maybe that’s just part of it, you having trouble expressing yourself when ... You having trouble expressing yourself.”

 

“When what?”

 

“Nothing. Wrong train of thought.” Ugh. She’s usually a better fibber.

 

“No, what?”

 

“When you’re ... in your ... middle headspace.”

 

“I’m not a middle!” Even if I have in the past admitted to being a middle, I’m not.

 

“Little girl,” she said in a very sweet cut-the-bullshit way, “it’s okay. It’s okay.”

 

“I’m not a little girl or a middle or a little or any of that.”

 

Sure, just because I’d been acting like one ever since I stopped working, but pandemic. It made everything so weird. My whole world shrunk down to our house for months, and we just ... It just happened. The trajectory we were on with all this just accelerated. We went deeper. It ... It just happened. It’s not who we are. It’s not. It’s not who I am.

 

“Daffy, look at me.” I tilted my head and she was smiling back down at me like she was oddly happy for someone whose wife had just told her to go fuck herself, essentially. “It’s okay to be a middle. Or a little.”

 

“But I’m not. I’m just me.”

 

“Of course you are.”

 

“I’m just me.”

 

“Okay. That’s all you need to be. I love you and your ‘me’ very much. Do you know that?”

 

“I love you too.”

 

“Can we keep talking?”

 

“Of course we can.” Why couldn’t we? Yawwwwn.

 

“If you hate the cloth diapers so much, they can be a just-in-case punishment.”

 

“I don’t want them to be a punishment at all.”

 

“Are you red lighting them? And I need you to be truthful.”

 

“No...”

 

She sighed. “Then, Daphne, I don’t understand what you want.” She sounded frustrated. Maybe I had been expecting her to read my mind mind a little (wayyy) too much.

 

“I want ... not everything needs to be a punishment, ya know. Some things ... I do good things, too, ya know.”

 

“What does ... sooo, you want them to be a reward?”

 

“I didn’t say that!”

 

“... Are you not not saying that?”

 

“(silence) (crickets stridulating) (the noise a black hole makes)”

 

“Okay ... okay. We can do that.” She traced her middle finger up my side from my hip to my ... o, that feels so good.

 

“I’m sorry,” I said again. “That was awful of me to say.”

 

“You apologized (kiss) and got spanked (kiss) and you’re forgiven (kiss).”

 

“Am I gonna get a second punishment like you said?”

 

“No. I don’t think we need that. Unless it’ll make you feel better.”

 

“Uh uh.”

 

“C’mon.” She sat up. “Back to the bathroom.”

 

“What for?” She held my wrist and walked me back to the bathroom.

 

“To clean you up, silly. You look like a wet rat.”

 

She wet a face cloth and wiped away the tear streaks (and not streaks) from my face. God, I don’t think I’ve cried like that in ages. Really.

 

“Hold still, wiggle bug,” she laughed.

 

“I’m trying to see.” I twisted around trying to see the marks I’d so earnestly earned. Talk about who’s a bitch sometimes? Me. And the ass murdering I got for it...

 

“What ...”

 

“What what,” she asked.

 

“Where’s the rest of it?”

 

“Huh?”

 

“It’s ... red.”

 

“Of course your bottom is red, sweetie. You got a spanking,” she said like I had short term memory loss. She must really think I’m dense or crazy sometimes.

 

“I mean ... It should be purple.”

 

“You start trying to top from the bottom and you’ll get that second punishment.”

 

“I mean ... I thought it would be worse.” I wouldn’t even have a bruise.

 

“I didn’t spank you that hard, baby.”

 

“Yes you did.”

 

“You are just oppositional today, Ms. Sassback.”

 

“But ... I cried.”

 

“You blubbered. I think you just needed a good cry. So much so that I think I know what will make you feel better.” She reached over and turned on the tub faucet. “And you really didn’t sleep well, did you?”

 

“No. I slept in a wet spot.”

 

“Why didn’t you get up? I would’ve helped you change the sheets.”

 

“Because then you’d know I wet the bed.”

 

“In you go.” I stepped over the edge of the tub and sat down. It didn’t hurt. Sorta felt rough against my skin, but nothing ached. I must be developing rhino butt or something because no way would I cry and carry on like I did unless she paddled me but good. I think. Unless I was an emotional mess for twenty different reasons and a hairbrush tap was all it took to make it come rushing out.

 

“Daffy, can we clarify terms for a second? When you say you wet the bed, were you awake for it?”

 

“What?!? Of course I was! Don’t be mean.”

 

“Just asking … would explain why you’re so upset about it ... you could’ve just gotten out of bed, though, and I’d have helped you change the sheets and gotten you into something dry.”

 

“Bad enough as is.”

 

“You’d rather sleep in a wet spot than just tell me you need changed? You silly goose.”

 

“I’m not a silly goose. I just ... hmph.”

 

“So you’re not a silly goose or a little girl or a silly little girl. Got it. Lay back.”

 

“I’m not,” I said as I laid back.

 

“And you didn’t throw a fit like a teenager who was having a meltdown like a toddler.”

 

“So what if I did?” Me oppositional? Pshaw.

 

“So, you need a nap, and I’ll take one with you, and then I think we should see if your Nana wants to come over.”

 

“What for?”

 

“To spend time with you. We can order in and rent a movie.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Arms up.” And I lifted my arms and soap just tickles when you’re the one not holding it, but at least I didn’t squee. “Daffy?”

 

“Mhmm?”

 

“Are there any more big talks we need to have before nap time?”

 

“Like what?”

 

“Like anything else at all you want to change? I’m serious, because if there’s something you want to red light and you don’t tell me and throw a tantrum later, or any other emotional crises we need to resolve before they turn into other tantrums, you need to tell me. Because next time, it’s going to be a just-in-case punishment. I think we’ve had enough of you holding things in until they come gushing out all at once.”

 

“No.”

 

“Nothing at all?”

 

“I don’t think so ... And you know I don’t mean to. It’s just ...

 

“I know (kiss). So many big emotions for such a little girl.”

 

“Ow! No fair pinching. I’m not a little girl.” But the emotions are definitely big.

 

“I think we need to get back to fundamentals for a bit. Let’s put the zero strikes rule in place for a little bit. See if we can’t stay on top of the little things before they become big things.”

 

“But ... for how long?”

 

“We’ll see.”

 

“That’s not an answer.”

 

“I don’t know everything either, ya know.”

 

“I know.”

 

“We’ll just need to see. We need to leave a pitcher in here.”

 

“What for?”

 

“For when I wash that pretty red hair of yours.”

 

“Are we gonna make a habit of you giving me baths now?” Because you don’t hafta be a little girl to enjoy that.

 

“Maybe if you’re a good girl who makes good choices.”

 

“Am I a good girl even when I make bad choices, like telling you to ... I really am sorry.”

 

She put her hand under my chin and turned my head so I was looking her in the eye.

 

“You’re always my good girl, Daphne Ann. Always ... No. You are not gonna start crying again after I just finished washing your pretty face.”

 

But I was having feelings! I didn’t mean to!

 

She let out a big sigh. “Fine. Go ahead if you want to.”

 

“I’m just tired,” I said weepily. And hormonal.

 

“I know, baby. We’ll get you all snuggled up for your nap.”

 

“(sniff). Thank you for taking care of me.”

 

“You’re very welcome.”       

What AWESOME chapter.   Please don't ever let this story stop.   Soooo much more can happen.   Incredible characters.   I'm totally in.

[justforfun]

On 2/10/2021 at 12:18 PM, diaperboymi said:

What AWESOME chapter.   Please don't ever let this story stop.   Soooo much more can happen.   Incredible characters.   I'm totally in.

^^^^^ This.

[Alex Bridges]

Scene #86

 

It was months ago now that I finally accused Mary of being a big and started wondering where that came from and when it started, and she had done a very good job avoiding the subject. Good if not always subtle, “Like, Mary, how did you get interested in ageplay?”

         And Mary’s good but not subtle evasion was, “Over my knee.”

         “Why? I didn’t do anything?” She didn’t exactly give me a choice or a satisfactory explanation (“You’re a red head.” Ginger prejudice in my own house! Besides, I’m a day walker.)

I don’t why she won’t just talk about it. She said before it’s because she thought ageplay goes so well with our domestic discipline and humiliation kinks, and I agree that it does, but that was more to do with her sudden interest in absorbent undergarments and not so much with the general ageplay. Or maybe her interest in absorbent undergarments wasn’t so sudden, but if I can’t get her to talk about her ageplay interest, I doubt she’ll come clean on just how long ago her Daphne-in-diapers kink originated.

         I turned to my unpublished journals from years past (tentatively titled I Don’t Wanna Be a Little Girl, copyright, boilerplate, boilerplate, forthcoming in late 2021, maybe) to see if somewhere in our history there was a moment the ageplay thing started, because we’ve been together almost seven years and married for almost three, and the ageplay started before we got married, subtly for sure, but also I’m sure of that (don’t question my sentence structure). I mean, she started calling me little girl not long after we became an item, but that’s not the same as ageplay.

         What I came up with was a scene we did at play party put on by the same kink group we did that humiliation demonstration for, in the before times when we could do stuff like that. We’d been dating for a year, so we were past the point of Mary only spanking me in negotiated scenes but before I told her I wanted to go full lifestyle, and an acquaintance named Catherine wanted to arrange a group scene with a bunch of spanking couples. Mary and me were quite happy to oblige. Sorta the point of play parties, and this party was a monthly thing in a big warehouse event space so we could do our thing and people could do whatever else elsewhere.

         The scene Catherine wanted to do was a school principal scene. Right away that’s kinda ageplay, but if we define ageplay as getting off on any woman in a cheerleader outfit then every person ever would qualify as an ageplayer, so it wasn’t that. Nor did Catherine want to spank me or my fellow bottoms’ bottoms. She wanted to sit back and, well, maybe it’s better shown than told.

 

         I was facing a wall along with four of my “friends.” The five of us, three women and two boys, were caught skipping class and smoking reefer (did I mention Catherine is like sixty?), and out parents (tops) had been called to school to deal with us.

         “I’ve given them demerits, detentions, kept them after, and even had the janitors put them to work, but nothing is getting through to them,” Assistant Principal for Discipline and No Fun Catherine told our tops. “I’ve paddled each of them multiple times with as many swats as the district allows. That’s why each of you is here, to do what I can’t.”

         Now, I was facing the wall with my hands on my head like a good girl. We didn’t go so far as to give ourselves back stories, but since I am a good rule follower, I blamed the others for leading me astray. Peer pressure, amiright? I didn’t know everyone Catherine had talked into doing this, but I did know Brenna and Tommy, who was standing several “friends” down, and it was Brenna who asked, “And what exactly is that?”

         “Paddle them like they deserve it. The district only allows me to administer five swats to clothed bottoms. As their parents, I expect you to do a much more thorough job on their bare behinds right here and right now, or I’ll have no choice but to suspend them.”

         Kinda makes you wonder what happened to Catherine back in the day. I have some theories.

         I won’t bore you with the details, partly because I wasn’t allowed to turn around. I guess I was learning by audio example, though I did have the (enjoyable) misfortune of listening with my panties around my knees and my skirt flipped part way up (thanks, Mary!). Not that I’m an exhibitionist, but the whole humiliation thing and what I imagine were other party goers watching our predicament had me a wee bit jittery. Not my first time getting paddled at a play party or in front of others or bare in front of others, but no matter how many times it’s a rush. There are butterflies in my tummy and arousal in places and just a little bit of fear even though I’m kinda old hat at all this (wherever that expression came from).

         As it happens and without me noticing it, we were lined up on the wall from tallest to not tallest, which left me at the very end, which is kind of bullshit because I’m a very tall five-foot-two. Also, I guess that was Catherine’s doing. Just goes to show some people have some very particular fantasies. The tallest got to go first, so I got listen as each “parent” collected their “naughty student” and put their own spin on the scene. Certain phrases, well, I guess pretty much every spanko has certain phrases that get their motor running. I think I heard them all.

         “I had to leave work early to come deal with you.”

         “I can’t believe how you’ve embarrassed me.”

         “Wait til your father gets home.”

         “Who do you think you are?”

         “Don’t you get spanked enough at home?” (I like that one a lot).

         “I can’t believe I have to paddle you at your age.”

         “I thought the days of spanking your bottom were behind me.”

         And a lot of young lady this and young man that and “Please not here!” and “Not in front of my friends!” and “Please not bare!”

         And none of that has anything to do with why I think this is the earliest sign of Mary’s transformation into a big. That’s all just standard school spanking scene stuff. Just about every spanko enjoys that, and it was all just to make a scene.

         No, what makes me suspicious that this was a turning point is what happened when it was my turn. I listened to four other bottoms get the mischief paddled out of them. Two cried! And that wasn’t because of the scene. They got paddled like spanking fetishists getting spanked by spanking fetishists, which is to say damn!!! They got it good. I was tingly with all the feelings – nervous, excited, aroused. All the anticipation. I was practically buzzing, not to mention ready to play my part as the spunky one who takes responsibility for none of it. I was led astray by the bad ones. I’m a good girl! Let them make me admit my own guilt if they dare. I’d prove to them I was too strong, and I’d prove to my fiends I could take way more than they got.

         “Your turn,” Mary said as she took me by the elbow and turned me around. We had quite the audience, including my four battered partners in imaginary crime.

         “But I didn’t do anything,” I said. Brat power! It’s not for every Domme. It takes a special one, like Mary.

         “I don’t want to hear it, Daphne Ann. I have had enough of your excuses.” She swatted my butt over to the table that was serving as the principal’s desk. There on top, Catherine’s school paddle. With big drilled holes. I looked upon it with trepidation and a hankerin’ for some spankerin’. What do the young people call that today? Thirst? I was parched.

         “Daphne is the most willful of the five,” Catherine said. “The girl is incorrigible and refuses to take responsibility for herself.”

         “We’ll straighten that out right now.” Mary sat down in one of the chairs. “Over my knee.”

         “Excuse me, Mrs. Taylor, but this needs to be a paddling. Please bend her over the desk like the others.”

         Me? I was just decoration for this part. At least at first. This was all Mary and Catherine, beginning with Mary’s, “I think a firm spanking will be sufficient.”

         “That wouldn’t be fair to the others.”

         “How they choose to handle theirs is their business.”

         “I’m afraid I have to insist.”

         “I know how to deal with her. Daphne, over.”

         “I’ve paddled her on three separate occasions, and none of them have gotten through. I hardly think a hand spanking will do the trick.”

         Standing nose to the wall with my butt hanging out for all to see? Okay. Not really self-conscious about it. Me standing there awkwardly with Mary deciding to argue this point in front of a crowd? Yeah, that got me feeling self-conscious. For one, Mary was kinda hijacking scene, which is not very nice kink etiquette. For twosies, I felt a lot smaller than five-foot-two when Mary said, “Look at her! She’s not big enough for the paddle.”

         This, from a woman who had paddled me many times by then, including at that very event in (lovely) bygone days. And I am, too, big enough for the paddle! She was only saying that to embarrass me, and it worked.

         “Mary,” I said under my breath rejoining the scene as more than living (blushing) statuary, “you’re embarrassing me.”

         “Hush, sweetie. I’ll handle this.”

         Before she could resume her monologue with Catherine, I interjected with, “Just paddle me.”

         “Honey, I said I’ll handle this.”

         “But I am big enough for the paddle.” I have my pride, weird as its source may be. Don’t be telling the whole kink club I can’t take the paddle. And did I mention I like getting paddled? Well, some of the time. But all the time when I’m not actually in trouble. Really. (Like, realllly. Gah! With the feelings in the places with the things. Mmmmmm.)

         Catherine jumped back in with, “Even the girl knows needs a good paddling. If you didn’t coddle her …”

         “How dare you!” Mary missed her calling as an actress. She’d have won an Oscar for that scene. Or at least The Golden Dildo (which is an award I just made up and now I want one … or just gold. Just send gold … and jewels).

         “Mary, I just wanna get this over with. Just paddle me like my friends.” I’d have won The Brass Butt. You know it’s a good scene when you forget you’re doing a scene. I started to bend myself over the table, but Mary didn’t let me. She reached out and plucked me right off my feet and over her knee.

         “I said no, Daphne.” SPANK. “You’re too little for the paddle. You’ll take your spanking like a good little girl and like it.”

         “I’m not too little!” And forgetting I was in a scene, the thought of my friends making fun of me for getting spanked over Mary’s knee like a kid instead of paddled flashed through my head, prompting me to try to get up (which I don’t really do. Ever. Might have to chase me down sometimes and hold me still, but once I’m over a knee, I (pretty much) stay there). “My friends’ll make funna me!”

         “They should make fun of you! (SPANK) A girl your age behaving the way you do, you should be embarrassed. (SPANK) If you acted your age, you wouldn’t need spankings at all. (SPANK) But you haven’t and you do, so I will put you (SPANK) over my knee (spank) like a little girl (spank spank) until you don’t need your bottom warmed (spank spank) or until you do get big enough for the paddle (spank spank spank). Do you (spank) understand me (SPANK)?”

         “Yes. Ow! I understand!”

         Which is when my world got turned right side up, literally. I was sitting on Mary’s lap looking directly into her eyes. “Do you understand why I had to spank your bare bottom?”

         I about did a double take. I looked right in her eye, and yep, she was serious. That was all the spanking I was getting for the same (imaginary) misbehavior that got my friends blistered with a (nasty friggin’) paddle. They had bright red and purple bruises; my butt was pink. Heck, my ears were blushing a deeper shade! And some of them really are my friends! And other friends were watching! And a bunch of strangers were watching, but it was the friends that bothered me. They knew I could take the paddle! I can take whips and wax and chains and they saw me get spanked and scolded like a little kid and not the fearsome iron bottomed warrior-brat-amazon-queen I am!

         I looked away from Mary and saw people smiling and not in a way I liked. They were making laughing at me! They really were making funna me!!!

         And Catherine was not happy. I could see her not-happy face out of the corner of my eye as Mary stared very intently at me and I stared back. “That is not an acceptable punishment for her misbehavior,” Catherine said still thinking we had anything to do with her scene. She was mad, and people were smiling at me, and I heard someone call be adorable, and my lip started getting pouty all on its own (traitor) and Mary brushed my hair out of my face and nodded. She just nodded.

         I sucked in a big breath, buried my face in Mary’s sweater, and sobbed. I absolutely sobbed. Mary put one arm around my waist and the other around my shoulder so she was pressing my face into her chest and just whispered, “You’re okay. Let it all out. Mary’s got you.”

         Which is when I lost it. I bawled, hard.

         “I’ll never let anyone decide how I discipline you, Daffodil. You’re all mine.”

         Actually, nope. That was when I lost it.

         “Butiwunagetaddled,” I sobbed.

         “That means you don’t decide, either, little girl. You’re too little for the paddle.”

         “I am not,” I sob-whined.

         “Tonight you are, because I say you are.”

         Hoo boy. Had I been spanked to tears at a play party? Of course. Except that time I didn’t get spanked to tears. I got embarrassed to tears, then I got loved to sobs, and then I bawled until there was snot. (You think it’s funny, but it snot … I just had to say that.)

         “But – hhh! – ev-er-y-one – hhh hhh – will-make-fun-a-me,” I said trying to get my breathing under control and my diaphragm to stop cramping.

         “Let ‘em try, Daffy. I protect you now.”

         Yeah, nope. That’s when I lost it. Or lost it a third time. I don’t even know.

         “Is she okay,” Catherine asked, having moved around to kneel down next to us.

         “She’s fine. She’s just gotta cry it out … told you she didn’t need the paddle to learn her lesson.”

         Catherine I guess thought it would be nice of her if she reached out and patted my shoulder. Ya know how it’s rude to hijack someone’s scene? You do not touch someone getting aftercare. Maybe she thought that rule didn’t apply because I was having a total meltdown that, to an outsider who wasn’t me or Mary, looked like something much more than some scene drop, but nope. Just no. Mary has two hands, and I knew where both of them were, and feeling some strange third one made me almost knock Mary over as I, somehow, managed to get even closer to her despite already being in complete physical contact with her. She just squeezed me tighter.

         “Shh shhh shhh. I got you. You’re okay.”

         Um, she couldn’t prove that. Also, glad she thought so, because I didn’t. I was good and freaked out by my reaction. In fact, I had pretty much given up any responsibility for my state of being. I stayed just like that, sitting on Mary’s lap with my face buried in her shirt clinging to her and weepy, with a party going on around me and people giving us a wide berth, until Mary said, “Okay, baby. Let’s get you home and into bed.”

         I didn’t record my response for posterity, but if memory serves, I went, “Snnnnffffurfle. Snurf!”

         “But maybe let’s go to the lady’s room and blow your nose first,” Mary chuckled.

         It was a quiet car ride home. We took a shower together for efficiency’s sake and got in bed, and only after the light was out did and I could hide safely in the dark did I say, “I’m sorry.”

         “For what?”

         “For making a scene and sobbing all over you.” I didn’t record it in my diary, but I’m pretty sure that was the first time I slimed her shirt.

         “You don’t have anything to be sorry for. I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d get so upset. I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

         “I don’t even know why.”

         “Was it too much,” she asked. She sounded worried she’d pushed me too far, gone overboard with the humiliation. That’s my Mary – she seemed so confident at the party like she knew exactly what she was doing and what I needed, but even the most confident dommes are feeling their way. A year together isn’t so long. “It didn’t seem like … was it something specific that got you so upset?”

         “You nodded.”

         “When?”

         “When you put me in your lap and said it was over.”

         “That’s what set you off?”

         “Put me over the edge … you nodded. I don’t know why that got to me.”

         “How were you feeling right before I nodded?”

         “Humiliated. Everyone was laughing at me.”

         “They were not.”

         “Some of them were. Why didn’t you paddle me?”

         “I was going to. I thought you’d sass me, and then I was going to bend you over that table. Instead your little lip started quivering, and you made sad puppydog eyes at me.”

         “I was embarrassed. All those people thought I couldn’t take the paddle. You spanked me like a little kid.”

         “Not the first time I put you over my knee.”

         “But everyone else got paddled. I felt … small.”

         “Did I hurt your feelings? I didn’t mean to.”

         “I know. And no. Just felt … I don’t know. Emotional for some reason. Did I scare you?”

         “A little, at first. Everything I said just made you cry harder.”

         “Sorry.”

         “Don’t be sorry. It was my fault. I guess you needed a good cry.”

         “You were …”

         “What?”

         “Being so … nice to me. Like it was okay.”

         “Like what as okay?”

         “Bawling. Making a scene.”

         “Because it is okay. It’s okay to cry.”

         “Not like that.”

         “Who says? You needed to. I’m just glad it was me who made you do it.”

         “What!? Why?”

         “So I could be there to comfort you.”

         “I think that’s what made me cry so hard.”

         “Me comforting you made you cry harder? Silly goose.”

         “It’s not silly … I felt …”

         “What did you feel?”

         “Really loved,” I said, and was kinda embarrassed to say it out loud.

         “O, Daffy. That’s because I really love you.”

         “Did you mean what you said?”

         “What did I say?”

         “That you protect me now.”

         “Of course I meant it. You’re mine. That’s what it means when you belong to someone.”

And her saying that just made all the feelings happen. Oooof. And I thought, we belong to each other. “Roll over,” I told her.

         “Why?”

         “I wanna be the big spoon.”

         “But you’re too little,” she giggled.

         “Am not.”

 

         Yep, that was the turning point. According to my diary, it wasn’t long after that that Mary surprised me with a pair of panties from a junior miss department. They had ponies on them, according to my records. I didn’t like them, but when Mary held them out and told me to step in, I did. I didn’t know that was just one of some very early baby steps toward what is today our ageplay-but-don’t-call-it-that relationship.

         And ever since, Mary has been my protector.

         Also in my records – I AM NOT A LITTLE GIRL AND I AM NOT TOO LITTLE FOR THE PADDLE! REALLY!!! Hmmph!

[Disk]

This scene, this book...

All the feels.

[Alex Bridges]

Scene #87

 

         Someone around here has to make executive decisions and take action. That’s just a fact of life. You can’t have just nobody taking responsibility for anything. I had to be the boss. I had to do it even without Mary’s permission. Or in this case, specifically without Mary’s permission because she’d said she didn’t wanna do it, and there was no way not to get caught. Me taking executive action even though I knew I’d get caught? Running a risk was I. My heroism is small, but it’s still heroic.

         “Mary,” I called out.

         “What’s up buttercup?”

         “Could you please come help me with something?”

         Okay, so I didn’t so much get caught as needed to ask for help finishing what I started. I was helpful, too. I got out everything necessary to finish the job. It just looked like a different kind of job from Mary’s perspective.

         “Why are the stool and hairbrush in the living room? What did you do?” For the record, because I’m a recordkeeper, while I have asked for a hairbrush spanking before, I have never and will never ask for one over the stool. And don’t think I didn’t realize what conclusions she would draw seeing them there. I was already risking a smack bottom for what I’d started, and that was before I got out two of her favorite smack bottom accessories. Three, if you count me.

         I was in the kitchen. “Promise you won’t be mad?”

         “Well, tell me first, and then I’ll decide.”

         “Ugh. That is such big logic.”

         “Why don’t you just come in here and tell me?”

         “Okay … but don’t be mad and don’t laugh.” I came out from around the corner, scissors in hand and with about one-third of a haircut. “Um, I was tired of it being so long.” And she wouldn’t cut it, so I forced the issue. She couldn’t leave me with a third of a haircut. Now she had no choice.

         “Daffy …”

         “Stop giggling.”

         “Buhha!” I really need to learn to stop stomping my feet when I’m frustrated. Half the time it just gets me in trouble, and the other half it makes Mary go, “Aww. You’re adorable.”

         “Would you please help me finish?”

         “I guess we don’t have any choice now. Come sit.” I got on the stool and remembered there’s a reason I don’t like stool – I feel like a little kid when I sit on them. I know no one’s feet touch the floor when they’re sitting in a stool, but when I sit in one I’m so short I have to hop-scoot my way to the bar (or else ask Mary to subtly push me in). Makes me feel like I’m in a highchair. So when you go out with friends again and you go to a bar, just be courteous and don’t sit at the bar if your friends are under five-seven.

         “Have you ever actually sat on this,” Mary asked.

         “Not really what we bought it for, is it?”

         “Well, I don’t know, Daffy. It is a stool. What did we buy it for then?”

         “Grumble.”

         “I don’t think we bought it for grumble. I think we bought it for me to sit on when you go over the knee.” Over the knee – makes it sound like on the chopping block.

         She was trying to needle me, so I reminded her, “Haircut.”

         “And more specifically,” Mary said while hugging me from behind. She likes, um, doing stuff to me from behind. “Because nothing reminds you what a little girl you are than putting you over my knee on this stool so your hands and feetsies don’t even touch the floor. Does that make you feel all helpless and submissive?”

         “Marrry.”

         “Got a picture of what we’re going for?” I took out my phone and brought up the picture.

         “Hmm. Maybe next time something a little less complicated.”

         “Think you can do it?”

         “I can do the amateur version. You did a pretty good job getting started.”

         “Does that mean you’re proud of me?”

         “Of course I am.” Heehee! My wife is proud of me. “O look,” she said, “Daffy went fishing for compliments and caught one.”

         “Ha!”

         “I’m gonna miss your long hair. I liked styling it. Head up.”

         “Maybe it’ll be back in a few months. I just don’t like having to take care of it.”

         “I see. So if I promised to wash it and comb it for you, would you grow it back out?”

         “Like every day?”        

         “Mhmm.”

         “Heh. Maybe.”

         “Every night before bed you could sit in front of me while I brush your hair one hundred times.”

         “You are such a big.”

         “And you are not saying no, so what does that make you?”

         “A woman of few words.”

         “That’s a fib if ever I heard one.”

         “So you saw the stool and hairbrush and thought I got them out so you could spank me?”

         “It’s what they’re for.”

         “Yeah, but why did you think I spread newspaper on the floor.”

         “In case you piddled while getting bour bottom spanked.”

         “Marrrry. When I have I ever piddled while getting my bottom spanked? And who even does that?”

         “Well then do you care to explain why when I take down your undies to spank that cute little bottom of yours they’re so often damp?”

         Eep. “No. No, I do not care to explain that.”

         “One thing I do like about your short hair,” Mary said.

         “What’s that?”

         “It so much easier to nibble on your earlobe.”

         Ooo, a warm and tingly sensation in my tummy. “You keep saying stuff like that and I’m gonna start thinking you like me,” I warned her.

         “Hold up your phone again.”

         Imagine going to the stylist and the stylist not having a mirror in front of you for you to watch. Now, switch the stylist for an IT developer (or whatever Mary’s title is). It’s an exercise in faith, supported by remembering no one but the IT developer is really gonna see you for a while (besides from the grandma next door and your parents on zoom).

         “Did I ever tell you,” Mary asked, “that one of the only real spankings I ever got growing up was for cutting my own hair?”

         “I can see where you’re going with this.” She’s as subtle as a toaster (just think about that and you’ll realize it’s a perfectly good simile).

         “Mom was not happy with me,” Mary said.

         “How old were you?”

         “Ummm, I think kindergarten?”

         “You sure she wasn’t mad because you were playing with scissors?”

         Mary stopped what she was doing for a second. “Well now I’m not … she … hmm.”

         “I’m insightful like that.” She gave me a kiss on the cheek.

         “We’re going to need to wash your hair when we’re done,” she said. “Get all the stray bits.”

         “I know. We should do that in the downstairs bathroom.”

         “Why?”

         “Reasons.” I have reasons. Like that tub is big enough for both of us, and I already got the bath beads ready and some champagne and strawberries chilling in the back of the fridge.

         “Silly goose.”

         “I’m not a silly goose.”

         “Then what are you?”

         “I’m your funny valentine … Mary?”

         “(Sniff).”

         “Aww, please don’t do that.” Whenever she does it, I end up doing it like thirteen times harder.

         “(Kiss).” Ooo, hehe. The back of my neck. The rest of my neck. Shoulder. Ear. Kiss kiss kiss kiss. Sigh…

         “Happy Valentine’s Day, Mary.”

         “Happy Valentine’s Day, Daffodil.”

[kerry]

SO sweet!