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

[diaperboymi]

Please take some time and rest.  Hope you get better soon???

[Alex Bridges]

Scene 197

 

As told to me, cuz I don’t remember any of it except the last bit …

 

“Mary … Mary, wake up.”

“Wuh.”

So already, tables turned. ‘Wuh’ is kind of a Daffy response to being woken up.

“Mary. C’mon, wake up.”

“What time is it,” she claims to have asked. I’ll trust her on it; sounds like a Mary question.

“You can’t die first,” she says I said. Sounds a little dramatic to me, and I’m not at all known for drama. I’m the opposite of a drama queen; I’m a … comedy … peasant. So … got that going for me.

“Daffy, what are you …”

“You can’t die first.”

“Daff … What are you doing?” She says she asked me that cuz she thought it was weird that I would wake up, issue a directive on the order of our deaths, and roll back over to go back to sleep. “Daffy … Daffy.”

“Shhh.” She says I shushed her. I would never shush her cuz I value my butt.

“Are you awake?”

“Don’t die first.”

“Daff … Daffy?”

“I already told you.”

“You’re having a night terror.”

That’s a thing I have a couple times a year. Mary is very good about them, especially since sometimes I scare the holy heccin crappin crud out of her with my unconscious ramblings and declarations.

“And,” she says she said to me and I’m highly skeptical it’s even a thing, “your diaper is soaked.”

According to Miss Mary I-take-such-good-care-of-you, she got off the bed and sauntered across the room - the sauntering part is me filling in the detail and if you saw the sexy tee shirt she went to sleep in and the way her butt kinda peeks out the bottom, you’d understand - to the closet and returned with a dry diaper. “You’ll feel better when you’re dry again.”

I’ve been informed by parties described as dubious that I was basically totally back to sleep by that point but that said party had no trouble manipulating my allegedly “cute little butt” out of the diaper she put me to bed in and into the new diaper she put me back to bed in.

And not that I was awake for it, but I disagree with the word “soaked.” Not a thing that happened, but if it did - which is a big if, possibly the biggest and iffiest if ever - it’s only cuz Miss Mary Okay-I-take-mostly-good-care-of-you didn’t change the diaper she put on me at movie time before we went to bed.

“You’re not listening,” I’m supposed to have said.

“And you’re not even awake.”

“You’re always saying that.”

“Where’s your mute button,” she said and I have zero trouble believing her. That’s her pet name for the pacifier she used to keep on my nightstand but stopped fighting me on every time I moved it to in my nightstand. So … I showed her with that. Yep; that’s a thing I did.

“There,” she says she said after patting my butt, tugging up my pajama bottoms, and putting that paci between my lips.

Now, as to the part I do remember …

 

“Good morning,” I said to Mary. It’s always a good morning waking up with her wrapped around me like I might escape if she loosed her grip. Big secret: I don’t even try to escape; I like it here.

“Good morning; where’s your mute button?”

“What the heck kind of greeting is that?!?”

[diaperboymi]

Good I love this story???

[BabyLock]

Alex - - -

WHAT HAPPENED TO SCENE 198 ?

[thedman]

7 minutes ago, BabyLock said:

Alex - - -

WHAT HAPPENED TO SCENE 198 ?

My guess is that 198 ÷ 13 is 15.23 which makes it a very unlucky number. Ergo it had to be skipped like the 13th floor in buildings.

 

OR

 

Scene 198 happens to be where the underpants gnome actually hid all of Mary's panties

[Alex Bridges]

19 minutes ago, BabyLock said:

Alex - - -

WHAT HAPPENED TO SCENE 198 ?

 

10 minutes ago, thedman said:

My guess is that 198 ÷ 13 is 15.23 which makes it a very unlucky number. Ergo it had to be skipped like the 13th floor in buildings.

 

OR

 

Scene 198 happens to be where the underpants gnome actually hid all of Mary's panties

The truth is I'm baby and these numbers are getting really BIG and confusing!

 

Scene #198

"Mary," Daphne asked, "do you think Santa is gonna bring me stuff tomorrow?"

"Of course Santa is going to be bring you stuff. Why would you even ask?"

"Because I've been naughty. I'm on lists and stuff. Remember when you made me write "Daphne has been naughty" 500 times? He saw that; he always watching, judging. I think he even reads my diary ... It's very disconcerting."

"You're such a silly Christmas goose."

"Am not."

"The silliest Christmasiest goosiest goose."

"You're always saying that."

"You're always being so silly," Mary said with the confidence only a dominant can have, as though she alone decides who's silly and who's goosey.

But Daphne has never been the type of submissive to let such verbal transgressions against her character stand. "She says I'm silly; her, the same woman who took my pants away in case we do get carolers. 'They'll just see a little girl in her Chrstmas diaper,' she says. 'I'm sure they're use to it,' she says. Hmmph."

"Ding dong."

"What?"

"Ding dong," Mary sing-songed, giving her Daffy's tummy a poke. "It's the carolers, and they wanna sing carols to little girls."

"O drat; we don't know any of those."

"I do; I do know a little girl!" Mary held Daphne firm in her left arm and tickled her tummy and underarms and sides and chinny-chin-chin, and Daphne squealed and squirmed and squeed, but she didn't move an inch out of Mary's  embrace.

Out of breath, Daphne decided to inform Mary, "I think we're both silly, but I think you're sillier."

"Being a tickle monster is very serious business, Daphne Ann Taylor. You'll understand when you're not a little girl."

"I'm not a little girl! Really."

"Are."

"Am not."

"So are."

"So am not!"

"If you say so ... By the way, this year I'm giving the gift of humoring of you, and you just unwrapped it."

"Marrrrry!!! Hmmph! Santa's watching you too, ya know."

"Santa and I have an arrangement."

"Does this have anything to do with Mrs. Claus waking me up this morning? She's sexy and looks like you."

"Yeah? Anything else you noticed about her?"

"She spanks hard and smells like candy canes ... And the fuzzy white panties she was wearing should make many non-Christmas appearances."

"And for each spank, Santa took one strike off your naughty list."

"Do you think he's bringing me any panties?"

"Nope, but he'll bring you a fresh diaper and let you open it just as soon as you use this one."

"Grumble mutter murmur mumble."

"She says she's not a silly goose, and then she says stuff 'murmur mumble'. And what are all these little goose bumps doing on her slender little legs if you're not a silly goose? Are you cold?"

"If I say yes, can I have my pants back? Asking for my friend who is me."

"Nope; we're gonna hafta move closer to the fire and snuggle until it's time to put out cookies for Santa."

"Cookies, a spanking, and all those things I did to Mrs. Claus and let her do to me ... For someone who allegedly just gives stuff away for free, he sure drives a heccin hard bargain ... Does he take donations, cuz I'll do all that stuff all the times." True story.

"Heehee! You are such a silly goose!"

"Am not."

"Merry Christmas, Daffodil."

"Merry Christmas,  Mary ... Mary?"

"Mhmm?"

"Do you think there's any chance Mrs. Claus will sleep in our bed tonight?"

"There's a chance."

"And do you think I can be the big spoon so I can, uh, put my hands, um, on those fuzzy panties all night? Asking for my friend; a different one this time ... who is also me. Really."

"What do I normally say when you wanna be the big spoon?"

"That's I'm too little."

"But on this Christmas, you can be the big spoon."

"Awwww. You're so awesome and stuff."

"How could I say no after you've been such a good girl?"

"What did you call me?"

"A good girl."

"Squeeeeeee! Not to brag or nothin', but you think I'm a good girl."

"I think you're my best girl."

"And you're my Mary."

 

_____________________

 

Scene #199

 

Heaven forfend someone complains or something that a cute redhead can’t just watch her show without some big, tall bully walking into the room like she owns the place even though both their names are on the deed and just order me to stand up. And gawd forbid anyone point out the cute redhead put the big bully in charge and likes it that way. And from no lips let the secret pass that I’m that redhead (but I am).

Ooo, I thought, she looks determined, with her long strides and solid grip on the hairbrush. I bet this leads to great sex. Or something.

Why? Why would I believe this? Because I didn’t do anything to deserve a spanking. Of this I was certain … mostly certain. Not that I keep a list of my misbehaviors (mostly cuz it could be used as evidence against me – if you’re gonna do crime, don’t keep records) but I have a steel trap (sieve) for a memory bank (piggy bank). And not that I always know if something I’ve done or am doing or am about to do is going to qualify in a certain someone’s eyes as a “poor choice” deserving “a consequence,” but I do know that we don’t have a rule against watching crummy dance competitions on TV, so I thought my butt was safe. Not safe-from-a-spanking but safe-from-a-real-spanking safe.

She’s building anticipation, I thought when she yanked my yoga pants down like they were on fire. She’s setting the mood, I assumed when she wordlessly pulled me over her lap.

She’s not giving me a warmup, I realized when she went straight to the brush and proceeded to paddle the stuffing out of me!

“Mary ow Mary oof Mary! Ow ow ow ow o ow ow ow OW HEY WHAT THE YIPE AIEEEEE EEEEEEEEEE! What’s (sound bats use to communicate with each other) and (panicked chipmunks) and (mournful mooses)! (Sad wookie noises). (Steel rending). I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry ow ow ow ow ouch!”

My working theory as to why I was being spanked like I stole a Michelangelo DaVinci commemorative plate is my friend Ralph dropped an F bomb and told Mary he heard it from me. “Maryyyyyyyy! What I do?”

Mary replied as only Mary can: “(SPANK SMACK SWAT SPANK SPANK!)”

And I replied as only I can: “Waaaaaaahhhhhhh!” You think it’s just tears, but it snot too.

“Are you going to bring them back,” Mary asked.

“What are you talking eeeeeeeeee waaahhhhhhhhh!”

“Are you going to bring them back?”

Well, I heccin knew the correct answer to that question. “Yes!”

“Are you going to take them ever again?”

“No!”

“Up you get.” And she manhandled me right to my feet. She had me by my elbow, and I was hobbled by my yoga pants (good old yoga pants; sweatpants woulda been hanging from the ceiling fan). “Show me where you hid them.”

“But I (sob) don’t (choke) know (snurfle) what you’re talking about-ou-out.”

And through my tear-blurred eyes I saw Mary do not quite a double take of recognition as if to say, O, she really didn’t do it. “… You … haven’t been hiding my panties?”

“(Sad head shake).”

And I’ll tell you this for free: seeing Mary embarrassed for once did NOT make up for how much my butt hurt. Not even close; that was a ninety-second ass burning. Butts aren’t like kidneys and lungs. You only get one! And mine was out of commission for at least half a week!

But I handled it well. All grace and poise, that’s me: “My butt hur-ur-ur-ur-urts (snort snurfle sob snort)!”

“O, Daffy,” she said like she loves me or something (she does, which is all the kinds of great), “I’m so sorry. I thought you’ve been hiding my underwear.”

Now, recall that this woman – She-Tyrant! – has been hiding my underwear faster than I can replace them for, like, three years. All I have left as of this writing is five pairs from the Junior Miss department that I would’ve thought were too cutesy and embarrassing twenty years ago. And you might be thinking, huh, that ironic. But it’s not. It’s what we in the business call BULLSHIT.

I did what submissives do when then they’ve been wronged: clung to the dominant who wronged me and demanded, in my regal, weepy-mouse-with-hurt-feelings voice, “Make it better.”

Making it all better is quite the production. It begins with all the kisses. Forehead; hair; cheeks; neck: temple. Then there’s the forehead-to-forehead apology, a ritual movement in which the big mean bully lady leans forward so that her forehead touches that of Her Most Gracious and Forgiving Highness (who is me), and says, “I’m so sorry, Daffy.”

The proper response, and I am nothing if not a proper lady – manners, decorum and that all crap even with my pants still around my ankles and my princess bits just hanging out there – is, “I’m very mad at you.”

But rituals are more than words, of course (of course said the horse said the horse), so I followed the protocol of time immemorial and hugged her tighter. It is in this way, new generation of followers, that Mary was made to understand that (1) I wasn’t very mad at her,  (B) but I was displeased, and (Purple) she owed me presents and comforts.

“Let’s go wash your face.”

“Take ‘em off first,” I commanded in a very commanding, not at all self-pitying tone. I mean, she pulled my pants down; the least she could do was take them the rest of the way off and not make me shuffle to the bathroom or, ya know, do it myself.

Getting my face washed involved, for me, nothing more than being told, “Look up. Lemme see those rosy cheeks … There’s my pretty girl.”

“Even with puffy, red eyes?”

“Especially with puffy red eyes.” And I knew she wasn’t just saying that. “Can I get you anything,” she asked when I was freshly scrubbed.

“Ice cream.”

“Why don’t you go back to your show, and I’ll bring it to you? We have two kinds; which would you like?”

“Neither. We need to order it … and cookies.”

“You’re gonna make me spend $60 on DoorDash, aren’t you,” she said knowingly.

“You bruised me,” is all I said in response to her back talk. That’s when she just handed me her phone and gave me a pat on the head. I mean, a bruised butt is virtually body art for me, but if I’m not going shopping for it, I at least like to deserve it.

“I’ll meet you downstairs,” she said, so downstairs I went. Did you know a sound spanking can make walking hurt? Cuz I’ve known for a very long time.

It’s a fact of commerce that value of ice cream and cookies delivered to one’s house is pegged to the price of gold. It’s also known that it’s much more delicious than whatever you have in the fridge even if sometimes it’s literally the exact same ice cream. I’m not that profligate, however. I at least ordered something we didn’t have at home, and though I was feeling very righteous and knew this was probably the only time doing so wouldn’t earn me a spanking, I fought off the temptation to order a cake.

“Mary,” I called upstairs, “it hurts to sit on the couch and it’s your fault.” Just wanted to remind her. I was only just beginning to milk her guilt, which yes, ran a risk of overdoing it and getting spanked again, but I was still a good ways from crossing that line.

“You don’t seem very sorry,” I said when she came downstairs. Big honkin’ step toward the line.

“Do I ever make you say sorry twice,” she asked me and gave me The Look.

“No, but my butt does a lot of the apologizing for me,” I sassed. Yep, straight up sassed. I’m very brave, I know; go forth and spread the word of my bravery and courageous deeds.

And I wasn’t at all afraid when Mary’s eyes and lips narrowed like a gunwoman in a the big shootout scene in of those horse-and-dust movies, not when she strode right past me and got …

“Mary, no, please?”

… a diaper from the basket under the side table.

“I’m sorry,” she said again, “but not very, very sorry. Wanna guess why?”

“Cuz I probably did something to earn that spanking but got away with it?”

“Yep, and because I know even though your butt hurts, you’re getting more turned on by the moment.”

“ … You … shouldn’t talk about other people’s bodies. It’s very rude.” Very true, in this instance, but very … forgivably rude.

She unfolded the diaper. “You’re thinking about how silly you looked turned over my knee getting your bare bottom paddled. And about how submissive you are, the way you didn’t even ask why you were getting spanked. You just let me pull you across my lap because you’re the subby little sub and I’m the big, cool domme, and you didn’t even try to stop me from taking your pants down like a naughty little girl who needed a long, hard, bare bottom spanking.”

“I’m not a little girl.”

“Until you cried. Until your cried like a well-spanked little girl getting all her guilt out through those tears to make room for the lesson she was being taught. How embarrassing to cry like that, too. Carrying on like a girl a third of your age.”

She sat down next to me and spread the diaper, business side up, down the length of her thigh. She has … nice thighs. Surprisingly sturdy for such slender thighs; it’s, ya know, one of those pleasant surprises. “If sitting on the couch hurts, why don’t you hop up on my knee,” she said all casual like. “You can face whichever way you want.”

She’s good. I will give her credit for that. I mean, you try saying that line all casual like. You can try, but you won’t succeed. I tried and started giggling a quarter of the way through. True story.

“Hmmph,” I hmmphed as I climbed aboard.

“Want help?”

“I can do it myself … the first time.”

“Such a quote unquote big girl grinding her sore bot-bot against my knee on her diapie.”

“I’ll quote unquote you.”

“You want me to feed you your ice cream while you ride my knee?”

“… Yes.”

“And when you’re all wore out, we’ll just tape that cummy diaper on you for bedtime. Just a well-spanked little girl in her cummy diaper. How … embarrassing.”

“Marrrrrry!”

Mary’s a goooooood helper. Later, when I was satisfied that I’d taught her thigh a lesson about stuff and things, I asked her, “What is it with you and panties?”

“You mean why did I take it so seriously when I thought you were stealing my underwear? Because submissives should never do something like that, for starters, which is a conversation we’ve had before when you’ve appointed yourself Household Underpants Gnome. And because in this house, only dominants get to wear panties. Do you get to wear panties?”

“Most of the time.”

“Daffy, those aren’t panties. Remember what we call them?”

“I don’t wanna say. I hate that word.”

“I don’t know why my little girl hates using little girl words …”

“Cuz I’m not a little girl.”

“… but I think you should say it unless you want to lose them for a couple days. What do you get to wear when you’re not in your pull-ups and diapers?”

“… Undies.”

“That’s right! Cute undies with seahorses and unicorns and hearts and things on them.”

“Hmmph.”

“Open for more ice cream.” I only did because I like Mary, she told me to, and I like ice cream, in that order.

“Suzie’s been taking your underwear,” I told her.

“How do you know that?”

“Well, Mary, see, underpants gnomes don’t really exist, and she’s the only other sentient creature in the house … Also, cuz she hides them under her bed.”

“Daphne Ann!”

“I’m not in trouble; you already spanked me,” I replied and parted my lips for more ice cream. Definitely not toeing the line across which resides a second spanking. Really.

[diaperboymi]

OMG...2 chapters ??????. What a Wonderful way to start the year.  Have a Fantastic New Year Alex?????

[Alex Bridges]

Scene #200

 

“Go to your Nana’s.” This was the directive ringing in my ears, a tinnitus suspiciously resonant with the lingering vibration in my butt. Yep, ladies and boys (mostly boys, buncha pervs), Mary is definitively back at work. I can tell cuz she’s been saying stuff like, “Daffy, can you not see I’m working?” It well and truly (Truly? Yes, truly.) sucks that she can’t do fun stuff during the day.

Of course, Nana says I’m welcome anytime. I think sometimes she’s as bored as I am. Or not. Sometimes I think I’m finally in a groove and the days seem to go by so fast, and other days it feels like I’m back at Square Wuhn learning how to be retired. Nana’s been retired a lot longer than me. She seems to get it.

Now, I’m a very good rule follower, so a knock-knock-knocking I went on her door, and who should greet me? Nana, of course; it’s her house, ya big sillies

“Hey there, Daffy”, she greeted me. I hope I’m as energetic as she is when I’m forty. I mean, she’s around seventy, but at the rate my manna energy drain is going - for what is life but an MMORPG - I’ll be lucky to be awake three hours a day when I’m forty. Maybe your thirties are just uniquely tiring, like adolescence. Or maybe I’m going through a belated growth spurt; five-foot-two-and-a-quarter, here I come!

“Mary sent me,” I replied. Oops; didn’t mean to sound churlish (I’m not a churl; really). “I mean …”

“She texted me. Come inside out of the chill, child.”

“Thanks.” What did she call me?

“So you have a case of the bored today?”

“I guess. I mean, yeah, but probably not as bad as Mary thinks.” She thinks I bug her during the workday cuz I’m bored, but the truth is I do it because I’m bored, don’t have the same appreciation for the sanctity of work that I used to, and that I like her. I like like her, if I’m being honest, and you know me: I’m always honest (unless I have a good reason not to be … half a good reason will do in a pinch).

“You just missed Julia,” she told me.

“Your …”

“Daughter in-law. She had a doctors appointment this morning and dropped Augie off.”

“How old is he now?”

“Two.”

“Terrible twos, right?” Like I would actually know. The closest I come to knowing anything about junior humans is Suzy, and if I’m being honest (see above) I don’t think she’s as smart as a two-year-old. Just as cute though, and she’s got them all bested in the fuzziness factor.

“He’s an angel. And so smart! Come see what he painted.”

I dutifully followed Nana to the kitchen table; Grandma of The Year had set up finger painting for the little guy. “Just look at this,” she said. I did, and … See, the thing about honesty is one of the good reasons to not be honest is to spare someone’s feelings. It’s not Nana’s fault she can’t recognize crummy finger painting when it’s painted by her grandson’s fingers. It’s genetic.

“Wow. He … did that by himself? Such fearless use of … brown.” What? I had to say something! I couldn’t just stand there silently as though struck by awe (there must be a word for that but I can’t think of it; really).

“I keep every one of his paintings and drawings.”

“All of them?”

“Every single one. I’m sentimental. Be right back.”

I couldn’t remember the last time I painted something. I remember discovering if you pop the watercolors out of the tray, you can use them like crayons. I can’t remember what if anything I discovered about whatever paint you use to finger paint. But I did remember painting the kitchen and the delightful sensory experience of rubbing paint between your fingers; not on purpose, of course, but I’m a messy painter. And the o so fun feeling of peeling it off. I wonder if animals that shed their skin like the feeling.

Curiosity got the better of me, and it is for this reason alone, and not for any reasons having to do with a desire to finger paint, that Nana found me rubbing orange between my thumb and forefinger. 

And for the record, I didn’t startle or jump or blush or any of those things when she said, “You wanna paint a picture for Mary?” Only someone who gets caught at something would startle or jump or blush. In fact, I’ve never blushed in my life. Never had a reason to. What even is embarrassment, and from whence does the word cometh? It certainly has nothing whatsoever to do with being bare assed. I know because I checked, and anyway, I’ve never been bare assed. Really. No, you’re rambling! Big rambler mutter muffle murmur grumble.

“I wouldn’t know what to paint,” I said because I’d forgotten the word ‘no.’ Understandable given the surfeit of syllables in that word.

“Paint, um … a daffodil.”

“I’m not blushing; you’re blushing.”

“Huh?”

Heccin hell, Daphne! Saying the quiet part out loud? Why not just tell her you’re embarrassed because any sign you enjoy finger painting could be taken to confirm something a certain someone has alleged and a certain someone seems to implicitly agree with and something you vehemently deny?

“Okay,” I said because I forgot the word … I don’t remember the word I forgot. O the irony; the utter, utter irony. Almost positive that’s not an example of irony or almost positive that is an example of irony. One or the other for certain and definitely not both. And would you stop rambling already? I’m trying to relate this story.

“Are you hungry,” Nana asked me.

“I am if you are.”

“You like tomato soup?”

Here’s an interesting thing: despite having been called Daffodil most of my life, I didn’t know what one actually looked like. Re-reading that, I can see now that it isn’t interesting at all. Sorry, but they can’t all be gems, whatever the ‘they’ in that sentence is.

I ended up spending several hours at Nana’s painting pictures of daffodils (after I googled what they look like) and eating grilled cheese and tomato soup. I don’t care for tomato soup on its own, but dunking a grilled cheese in there is one of life’s little pleasures, which, being one of life’s little pleasures myself, I appreciate. I never did an art appreciation class, but I’m self-taught in grilled cheese appreciation. Maybe that’s the hobby for me - grilled cheese appreciation. I could form a club, just me and the other homemakers getting together at least once a week to eat grilled cheese and gossip and stuff.

‘He’s fucking his secretary,’ one of club members would say.

And being of a certain mind, I’d blurt out, ‘I’d be Mary’s secretary but says she prefers to fuck the interns, so I go this outfit and …’ And the vanilla heterosexuals would look at me all aghast and stuff and just wouldn’t understand, and they’d stage a club coup, and I’d lose my crown as The Grilled Cheesiest and resign in disgrace. Whole character arcs I’m writing in my head with Nana right there.

“What are you thinking about,” Nana asked.

O geez; tell the truth? That I invented a hobby and talked myself out of it because I’m insecure about my ability to maintain my position as The Grand Gruyère and can’t bear the thought of having to hand over my crown of cheese cubes and cheese stick scepter to Jenny the Heterosexual Homemaker with the cliched adulterer husband? That’s a heccin good reason to not tell the truth.

“Nothing,” I fibbed. Fibs, ladies and perverts, are what we call lies when we wanna soft pedal our dishonesty. I’m referring, of course, to the royal we because I’m still The Grand Panjandrum of The Pecorino and Provolone Provost Marshall. Now that I think on it, the real reason I’d get thrown out of office is abrogating titles to myself and an embarrassing inability to stop making bad cheese jokes. My followers would start off enthusiastic but they’d grow tired of my bleu material and eventually be unable to camembert me anymore.

“You’re thinking about something; you’re smiling. Are you thinking about how excited Mary will be for her pictures?”

“Mary will be so excited, and then she’ll tease me for days.”

“But you did so good, especially not having a brush. It’s not like you made hand turkeys.”

I’m GREAT at hand turkeys, for the record. Just saying. “She’ll tease me cuz I went over to grandma’s house and finger painted. She’ll call me names, tell me I’m adorable, and ask if I got put down for a nap.” And I only need a nap cuz I ate too much cheese. We sapphics are suckers for cheese; lose all common sense and regularly overeat the stuff. No wonder so many hot girls have tummy troubles … Wonder how mad Mary would be if I broke the spending limit to buy a fondue pot? I should find out. The very worst that could happen is I get a spanking and eat a lot of melted cheese … that Mary could feed to me off a long skewer. A sore butt, cheese, and getting skewered by Mary … This is how trouble starts and I’m here for it.

“You tell her I said to be nice to you or else,” Nana said. “But speaking of, need a nappy? Ha! A nap. I meant a nap … You know you turn almost the same color as your soup.”

“Do not. And I’m doing the dishes.” If Nana had her way, I’d never lift a finger at her house except in the garden, but I’m the kind of person who stops by uninvited, paints flowers, makes silent cheese jokes, and does the dishes. Ya know, a good friend. That’s me.

“Mary and I are going to a party this weekend,” I said by way of small talk. “We used to go to a party, like, every other month before the pandemic.” With friends. We went to a kinky play party through this fetlife group more like monthly.

“What’s the occasion,” Nana asked while she cleaned up the art studio/kitchen table.

“Just because. Our friend Brenna is hosting it.”

“I can’t remember the last time I’ve been to a ‘just because’ party. Do young people still have those? We used to have them all the time when George and I were newlyweds. We all felt so grownup hosting dinner parties, but we just sort of stopped once we all had young kids.”

“Um, I think we did more in our twenties, but same, I guess. Dinner parties never really were that big a thing for our generation though; more like appetizer and BYOB parties, and then people start having kids.” Of course, so many of our friends are in the kink scene that getting people together for a dinner party that’s just a dinner party was sort of rare in itself. Private play parties, well, Mary and I met at one, and the only thing private about it was the apartment door was closed. Good times.

“Are you taking a dish,” Nana asked me.

“Yeah, but I don’t know what. I’ve been watching cooking shows all week trying to get excited about something, but everything I get excited about is, ya know, work requiring skill.”

“You’re a wonderful cook.”

“At comfort food. For dinner party food, I bring the dip. Kinda wanna do something special.”

“I’ll help.”

“I can’t ask you to do that.”

“I offered. You’d be doing me a favor; I get bored too some days.”

And so we spent another hour talking about possible show-stopping dishes to prepare. I was less anxious about what I’d bring than about there being no such thing as a dinner party at which all the guests are lifestyle couples. I mean, there’d be dinner, but as happens pretty much at all Brenna’s parties, her twerp of a partner and Jane would head off into their little space and try to take me with them. And new people would be there. Not new to Mary and me; we know Ann and her partner. But new to the rest of the group.  New people, new dynamic, anxious me.

And Mary did gush over my paintings. One is on the fridge; the other she says she’s gonna have framed and wasted no time in texting a picture of it to our moms and posting it on Facebook. And only blushed a little, and I only felt flattered a whole bunch despite myself cuz Mary wasn’t (just) teasing me. She really, really was proud of my mediocre painting. Steve even called me a good artist; not nearly as good as being called a good girl, but I liked it just the same.

And when I told her about the fate of my grilled cheese club, instead of laughing like a normal person, she nodded along like her little girl had come home from Grandma’s house and told her all about the imaginary world she invented, just beaming with pride at my creativity. I’m not weird; Mary is weird. True story.

[Guilend]

And she totally skipped the part where she pooped her big girl panties or pull up while at grandma’s house and got forced to wear just a shirt and diaper for the rest of the day and had to walk back to her house without her pants. 

[Derivas]

8 minutes ago, Guilend said:

And she totally skipped the part where she pooped her big girl panties or pull up while at grandma’s house and got forced to wear just a shirt and diaper for the rest of the day and had to walk back to her house without her pants. 

That escalated quickly…

[Guilend]

1 hour ago, Derivas said:

That escalated quickly…

It’s a running joke I have with the Author about her first time messing is at grandmas house and Alex will usually come back with how that’s what I want to do at grandmas house or something to that effect. I hadn’t made that joke in a while and I wanted him to know how much I enjoyed the chapter. 

[diaperboymi]

Aww ?. What a cute day for Daffy ??????

[Alex Bridges]

3 hours ago, Derivas said:

That escalated quickly…

 

1 hour ago, Guilend said:

It’s a running joke I have with the Author about her first time messing is at grandmas house and Alex will usually come back with how that’s what I want to do at grandmas house or something to that effect. I hadn’t made that joke in a while and I wanted him to know how much I enjoyed the chapter. 

Guilend will not rest until Daffy is over Mary’s knee getting spanked on a full diaper ?

 

As always, love your persistence, hun ?

[Guilend]

11 minutes ago, Alex Bridges said:

 

Guilend will not rest until Daffy is over Mary’s knee getting spanked on a full diaper ?

 

As always, love your persistence, hun ?

?? I absolutely love your stories. And this one in particular I enjoy a lot. 

[SolSombraYSoldados]

Super duper cute chapter! I like the slooooooow dip of the toe into littlespace thing that Daffy is doing. 

And I'm sure her paintings were great! ❤️ 

[Alex Bridges]

Scene #201

 

Ow. Ow. Ow! This is so unnecessary. I didn’t - ow! - even do - dammit! - anything remotely worthy - OW! - of a spanking.

“Are you learning your lesson,” Mary asked me.

“Y -ow! - es! Yes!”

“Sound a little bratty to me still.” Spankspankspankspank!

“Owowow!!!”

“Tell me what you learned.”

“All spoons - ow - are soup spoons.”

“One more time without the dramatics.”

O. My. Gawd! Which of us was being dramatic? I’ll tell you who - Mary! “All spoons are soup spoons.” This is without doubt the dumbest argument we’ve ever had.

“And spending thirty dollars on ‘soup spoons’ is not a smart use of our funds, is it?” Mary and her stupid oral air quotes.

“N-eep! No!”

And with one final spank, she let me up. I wanted o so badly to point out to her that the wooden spoon she’d administered that spanking with was not, in fact, at all suited for soup (the eating of; the making of it does quite well), especially having been applied to my butt. But did I make my very valid point? I did not. I stood quietly rubbing my butt and giving Mary my signature I’m-grumpy-at-you look. O, the times I’ve rubbed my butt and given her my I’m-grumpy-at-you look; I could write a book. I know I shouldn’t have been making grumpy faces at Miss Mary If-The-First-Spanking-Didn’t-Work-Let’s-Try-Another but the plain truth of the matter is I wasn’t repentant at all. In fact, I’m going to make soup for dinner (after thoroughly washing the wooden spoon), and I’m going to put a regular spoon at Mary’s place setting and one of our new soup spoons at mine and we’ll just see who enjoys her soup more. Take that, Mary! 

And before you even think it, that is neither feeble nor passive aggressive nor ridiculous; there, I saved you the trouble of having a specious thought. You’re welcome.

“Someone is feeling her oats today,” Mary replied to my withering dirty look that didn’t wither her at all. I’m secretly glad of that; who wants a withered Mary? Not me; that’s who doesn’t. And I didn’t even touch my oats! Really! Whatever that means …

“I didn’t deserve that spanking,” I sassed. That’s the second bravest sass a spanking bottom with a spanked bottom can sass ( the first is “that didn’t even hurt,” which I’m brave enough to say but wise enough not to. Brave and wise, that’s me and I’m awesome). “It’s not like I broke the spending limit rule.” Which still hasn’t been adjusted for inflation, which was problematic even before it became a problem.

“No, you called me a name. Little girls who resort to name calling get their little girl bottoms spanked.”

“You just called me a name!”

“I know this is hard for little girls to understand, Daffy, but an accurate description isn’t name calling just because you don’t like it.”

“You … You … Hmmph!” For the record, I called her a philistine for not appreciating the pleasures of soup supped from a true soup spoon at soup supping time … which are myriad and complex and that sophisticates, such as myself, have neither the time nor the obligation to explain to those not given to a preternatural understanding or the powers of logic to deduce on their own. And shut up! I do too know what they are, and I’m not a snob. I’m merely a petit scioness of the petit bourgeois getting a little bourgeoisier (?) the longer I live off the largesse of my dear darling wife.

And I’ll tell you another thing before getting back to the main story line - I have not and do not and will never make any malapropisms. Nyeh!

“I thought,” Mary said cuz she likes to say stuff to me (true story - I’m her favorite person to talk to), “a pink bottom would remind you of just what a little girl you are, but I think you need to be taken down a peg or three still.”

“I don’t need that,” I didn’t whine.

“Said the whiny little girl.”

“Marrrrryyy, I do notttttt, whiiiiiiiine,” I definitely positively cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-live-long-and-prosper did not whine. Realllllllyyyyy!!!!

“Come along, little one,” she said and just took my hand without even asking and led me up our stairs.

“I’m not little; I’m just waiting for a growth spurt.”

“I was referring to your maturity rather than your size. Now,” she said as she spun us around and put both her hands on my shoulders, looking down her (cute) nose at me (cuz I’m short and she’s tall and that’s how slacks relations work); I knew what she was going to do before she even did it cuz she had her I’m-gonna-push-you-down-onto-the-bed look on display. “On the bed.” And then she pushed me down onto the bed. Saw it coming; literally.

“Yipe!” Flat on my back. She can only do that cuz I let her and because she’s bigger and stronger and my pants are so often tangled around my knees and/or ankles.

“My little girl makes little girl sounds,” she said as she disappeared into the closet to get one of her diapers. They are SO hers. Just because I wear them doesn’t change the fact that she owns them. She owns me too, which is consensual and delightful and all the stuff and things. 

If, for a random instance, Mary says, “You’re wearing diapers for the rest of the day,” then I, being obedient and a good rule follower and all the stuff and things, say, “No! Mary! No! Bad, Mary!” And I pound my fists and heels into the mattress to show her that I am (1) my own person and (B) not a little girl and (blue) displeased.

“I am this close to medicating you at bedtime tonight,” she said like … hmmph! “You tossed and turned all night, and you’re the grumpiest little girl today because of it. I’m gonna lace your nighttime baba with melatonin.”

“I don’t have a nighttime baba,” I didn’t pout.

“You do if I say you do.”

Aw. Touché.

“It’s sweet of you to cooperate,” she said as I lifted my butt to receive her diaper, “but I don’t need you to.” For the record, I was only cooperating cuz I’m a good girl. She yanked my jeans and panties off my legs in one go, magically leaving my socks in place and making me wonder if she can do that magician trick where they rip away the table cloth without disturbing the place settings. She is a sorceress, after all.

“I,” she said as she lifted my ankles, “can diaper an uncooperative little girl just as easily as a cooperative one.”

“Wait.”

“Nope,” she said meanly like a meanie.

“I need to go to the bathroom first.”

“O,” she said with this sudden she-wolf look in her eye. Ruh-roh. “Have you had to potty for a while?”

“Y-yes?”

“It’s so cute when little girls aren’t sure if they have to potty.”

“But I am sure.”

“Then why you’d say it like a question? I guess I should count myself lucky you didn’t lose control of your little girl weewee while you were across my lap getting your bottom spanked pink. Wouldn’t that have been awful for you? All you big girl illusions taken away in one sorry episode of fraidy cat pants peeing over a widdle smacked bottom.”

“Marrryyy!”

“Are you whining cuz you’re trying so very hard to hold on to your big girl illusions or cuz you’re trying very hard to hold on to your little girl bladder? Will you piddle a little if I do this,” she said and put her hand right over my bladder and pressed.

“Eeeep!” I eeeped. Despite being a good girl, I tried to roll away, but Miss Mary I-still-have-you-by-the-ankles Taylor held fast.

“Told you I can diaper uncooperative little girls just fine. Little girl ankles down; little girl knees wide; little girl diaper area covered by the little girl’s diaper, and tape and tape and tape and tape. Doesn’t my little girl look cute in her pampers? Yes you do! A-yes you do!”

“But I hafta pee.”

“You can do it now, or you can do it while you’re asleep cuz it’s nap time.”

“I’m not a bedwetter!”

“Not yet, but who knows? Maybe you’ll grow into it. Don’t make that pouty face at me.”

“I’m not pouting … I’m sulking.”

“And I’m covering you with this blanket and rescinding your pants privileges for the day.”

“But it’s cold.”

“You can carry your blankie around. In fact, if you wanna spend thirty dollars so bad, you can pick out five potential security blankets, and I’ll pick one out for you after work. But first, nap. If I come up here and find you out of bed, your cute little pink tushy is gonna be red.

“Hmmph.”

And get this - she kissed me. Such effrontery from a philistine peasant woman. She should be carrying sheaves of wheat on her back and gleaning the fields, not being the boss of me like I asked her to be. It’s almost like she loves me or something or like I’m the most precious thing in her world and stuff. Weird.

Anyhoo, fast forward through twenty minutes of tossing and turning …

“Daphne Ann,” she called out before she even opened the bedroom door, “what did I tell you about being out of …”

“I’m not,” I said she as opened the door to find me still in bed. Told you I’m a good girl. Nyeh!

“I heard you from downstairs.”

“I haven’t gotten out from under the blanket! Really!”

“Why is your face flushed? You must’ve been doing some …” Away she tore my blanket. Very rude. “And why is one side of your diaper untaped? You got up to use the potty, didn’t you? You are in so much trouble, young lady.”

“I didn’t!”

“Uh-huh. Up.”

“No, really! I didn’t! Look. It’s wet.”

“What is … O, it sure it. Your yellow stripe is green.”

Never have I ever wanted to wipe the look of self-satisfaction off her face so badly. Ever and never.

“Just barely,” she smugly said. “You piddle the cutest little puddle ms in your pampers. Are you done?”

“I resent that question so much.”

“Why is your diaper untaped?”

“I, um, was just adjusting the fit.”

“Are you saying I didn’t do a good job diapering my little girl?”

Wow; there’s no right way to answer that.

She took my hand cuz she’s a She-Sherlock who suspected something based on last experience and knowing me very well and I won’t tell you how she deduced what she deduced; I’ll just tell you the deduction. “I think,” she said cuz she’s one of the all-time greatest thinkers, “a certain little girl who says she’s not a little girl was jilling off in one of her diapers she claims to hate so much. Is that what you were doing?”

“ … I resent that question … so, so much.”

“Up.”

“But I didn’t get out of bed,” I said as I got up. “I don’t deserve a spankinggggg,” I whined (but righteously, so it’s okay and doesn’t make me a whiner).

“Over my lap,” she said as she sat down in my place.

“But I didn’t do anythinggggg,” I resoundingly resounded in a very stentorian, non-whiny way cuz my earlier righteous whine was just a transitory phase I was already so totally over even as I put myself across her knees.

“I leave you alone for twenty minutes, and you wet your diaper and start masturbating in it.” She let that hang there a moment. “Good girl.” 

Huh? I mean, squeeee! My wife thinks I’m a good girl! But huh?

And then she took her hand and … she did these things. And she did them to me. With her hand. From behind and underneath. These … things.

“Was it your spanking, your diapering, your wetting, or the many reminders of what a little girl you are that had you so aroused? … Or was the whole greater than the sum of its parts, hmm? … My-my, Daffy. The back of your ears are turning such a pretty shade of red. Is it cuz you’re embarrassed or cuz you’re about to cum? Cat got your tongue?”

For the record, no, I had my own tongue, thank you very much. I was biting it to keep from making noises I’d regret.

“From now on, little girl, if you wanna tickle yourself after I put you in your huggies, then you do it through the diaper or in it, but those tapes stay on or the bath brush comes off the wall. Understand? Make a sex noise if you understand.”

“Ehemmmmm-eh.”

“Good girl.”

Hear what she called me? Cuz I certainly did. “Eh! Hhhhh!”

“Can’t control her cummies or her weewee, but that okay cuz you’re in a diaper. My good little girl.”

“Ahh! Hhhh! Eh! Mmmm!”

“That’s it; let it all out. Your diaper will get it all. Good girl.” Her hand slowed down slowly, until I was, um, spent, which was much appreciated, and then she pushed my shirt up and start rubbing and tickling the small of my back with her fingertips, which is just delightful.

“(Yawwwwwwn!)”

“Just needed to take care of that before you could sleep, is that it?”

“Mhmm.”

“I’m sorry I got cross with you. On your feet … Aww, you look a little wobbly there, Daff. Back in bed.”

“Stop (yawwwwn) drawing mis-conclusions and (yawwwwwwwwn!) go back to work.”

“Feisty to whiny to feisty again. Maybe after your nap, you’ll be my sweet little girl again. Hold still … there. I better not see you’ve moved that tape again when I come back up here.”

“Or what (yawwwwwn!)? You’ll make me cum again?”

“What do we say?”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now, close those peepers and stay in bed, and I just might make you a snack when I get you up.”

Ya’ll are gonna think I’m weird for saying this, but I’m pretty sure Mary likes me.

 

Post script: I caught her eating ice cream with a soup spoon! I have so much work to do civilizing her.

[Guilend]

SOUP SPOONS ?????

[diaperboymi]

That was Awesome ?

[YourFNF]

Soup spoons? Really Daffy? Girl needs more reeducation through spankings.... Commissar's orders.... ?

[Disk]

I'm 110% security blankets making an appearance I'm future chapters... such a cute image!

Tyftc!!

[Alex Bridges]

7 hours ago, YourFNF said:

Soup spoons? Really Daffy? Girl needs more reeducation through spankings.... Commissar's orders.... ?

??see, what happened is I’ve been eating a lot of soup, see, and I bought some soup spoons ($10) and sat down to eat my soup and had the epiphany - all spoons are soup spoons ?

[YourFNF]

16 hours ago, Alex Bridges said:

ee, what happened is I’ve been eating a lot of soup, see, and I bought some soup spoons ($10) and sat down to eat my soup and had the epiphany - all spoons are soup spoons ?

*pats head*

[kerry]

On 1/14/2023 at 12:11 PM, Alex Bridges said:

abrogating

By context, this does not seem to be the word you want. "Assigning," maybe?

On 1/14/2023 at 12:11 PM, Alex Bridges said:

she nodded along like her little girl had come home from Grandma’s house and told her all about the imaginary world she invented, just beaming with pride at my creativity.

I LOVE this! It's a line that is totally what moms of little kids do. No kink, just joy.

Oh God do I love these characters and this story!!!!

[Alex Bridges]

14 hours ago, kerry said:

By context, this does not seem to be the word you want. "Assigning," maybe?

“Arrogating” is what I was going for, and I am not Miss Maloprop cuz reasons and stuff ????

[Alex Bridges]

14 hours ago, kerry said:

By context, this does not seem to be the word you want. "Assigning," maybe?

“Arrogating” is what I was going for, and I am not Miss Maloprop cuz reasons and stuff ????