Mary and Daphne #13 (Patreon)

Scene #13

“Daphne Anne,” I heard Mary call my name. Getting double-named is never a good thing. It’s like raising an aural signal flag that’s says “HIDE YOUR BUTT!!!” Only I can’t hide it. And anyway, hiding is childish, and I’m never childish, in my humble opinion. Others may disagree, but what do those doodoo heads know anyway?

And yet it did occur to me to not hide exactly, but maybe disappear. Like, go outside. Go to Mrs. Wilson’s house. Take in dinner and a show. Just to give Mary a few minutes, or hours, to consider just how big a deal whatever I had done really was before she decided on any particular course of action. That’s not being childish when you think about it. That’s actually being very considerate, thinking of her feelings and giving her time to collect her thoughts, gather her patience, think through the issue, take a deep breath, count to ten. I’m sweet like that. I’d hate for her to spank me and regret it. But I didn’t have time to be considerate because Mary was already coming downstairs.

“Yes, Mary,” I said sweetly when she got to the landing. 

“I just tripped in our bedroom.”

So that’s what that sound was. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. Do you want to know what I tripped over?”

“Umm…”

“A pair of your pants.”

“Oh.”

“Stand up,” she said as she strode toward me.

“I’ll go pick it up,” I replied.

“I know you will.” I stood, and she sat. “Over.”

“Aww, dammit.”

“Daphne, I’m warning you, little girl, you do not want to test me.” With maybe a bit more attitude than was wise, I laid myself over her knee. At least she wasn’t taking my pants down.

I tried to beg off. “I’m sorry. I’ll take care of it right now. I don’t want another spanking.” Did you know there’s no way to say that without saying it in a super whiny voice? It’s true. I’ve said it hundreds of times, and no matter what, it comes out whinier than I meant it to be. It’s a law of linguistics, I’m sure, that works in every language. There’s also something about that last statement, when you’re over a knee, that makes it seem like a logical, valid argument. And I’d had a spanking yesterday. Not a big one. Well, maybe a big one by vanilla standards but not by ours.

“I’m not spanking you,” Mary replied. She put her hand on my butt and left it there. “But you listen better in this position. Can you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“And are you listening?”

“Yes.”

“I know not having a job is probably a little disorienting, and I know you’re looking. While you’re looking, you do not get to live like a slob. I was hoping you’d take on a few more chores with your free time, but instead you’re making messes and leaving them for me to clean up.”

Okay, so I actually don’t mind living in a mess, so the state of our house is arguably more her problem than mine. Like, leaving the pizza box on the floor doesn’t bother me all that much. It’s not like I’ll never pick it up. I’ll just get to it when I get to it. If it doesn’t bother me, it’s not problematic to me, hence it’s really not my problem. It’s really Mary’s problem since it does bother her. Over a knee or not, that is some irrefutable logic. But I’m not dumb. I kept that thought to myself. Anyway, if I didn’t care about leaving a mess behind myself, it was obvious Mary was going to give me a reason to care.

“You’re too old to live like this. You know better. It’s like living with a thirteen-year-old. So I’m going to let you up, you’re going to clean up after yourself, and just how bad your spanking is will depend on how thoroughly, how quickly, and how cheerfully you do it.” She gave me a swat and stood me up. 

“Do I have to get spanked? It’s just a little messy. That doesn’t deserve a spanking.”

“I just saw a carton of milk between the bed and your nightstand!”

“That’s where that went!”

“Daphne! Get cleaning, little girl.”

Dammit all to hell! I hate being called that. I started toward the stairs to start in the bedroom.

“And no pants,” Mary said before I got very far. I harrumphed as I stripped them off at the foot of the stairs. Once upon a time I was better at keeping those little reactions to myself, and I don’t know when I lost it. After meeting Mary, odd because she’s the one who it drives so nuts. But I’m not deliberately a brat! Promise!

“And no attitude,” Mary added as she grabbed my left arm and landed five spanks on my panties. “You’re this close to losing pants privileges for a couple days.” I’ve always thought of Mary as a teacher as well as a lover and life partner. For instance, I didn’t know pants were a privilege. She taught me that, wise beyond her years as she is.

“Okay! Ow! I’m going!” There’s something about getting spanked while standing that underscores just how vulnerable your butt really is, a reminder that whoever spanks you doesn’t need you to bend over or get across their lap to land their hand on your butt.

“Scoot,” she ordered with a final swat. I scampered up the stairs with my butt hanging out below my shirt and wishing one of the natural consequences of having neglected my chores was not being down to my oldest pairs of panties. No holes or anything but definitely threadbare.

I don’t hate cleaning. It’s just that my desire to clean comes in bursts. Like, every three months. I honor the burst, too: when the urge comes, around the time that even I’m sick of my mess, I will cancel plans to take advantage of the desire to clean before it fades. 

Then I met Mary, and my first ever discipline spanking from her came over the most contrived thing you could think of: dishes in my sink. Yes, the oldest of them was from Tuesday morning, and yes, she was over picking me up for a Friday night date, but that’s a thing people do, and I didn’t deserve the wooden spoon for it. 

And she left a bunch of spoon-shaped marks on the back of my thighs and wouldn’t let me change into pants before we left. And she made me do the stupid dishes before we left, too! How is that fair? Get spanked and still have to do the chore? It should be one or the other, like a trade! Voicing that opinion got me a bunch more swats while I scrubbed. Dishwashers, I was told, are for big girls who take good care of their things.

At least as I cleaned up in the bedroom I had those pleasant memories to think back on. We’d been dating a month and had only done negotiated spanking scenes, starting at the play party we met at and a bunch of times since. Then a pile of dishes led to having my shorts pulled down with me protesting that dishes were not a spankable offense. I told her on our wedding day that was when I decided I could one day marry her, when she tipped me over her knee on her own initiative. She told me that was the day she decided to propose to me, when I accepted her discipline with just a verbal protest. Two years later, we walked down the aisle with her warning still ringing in my ears: “Just because it’s your wedding day doesn’t mean I won’t take you to the dressing room and spank your butt red if you don’t behave yourself, little girl.” She always knows just what to say to make me swoon.

But that first real spanking from Mary was years in the past and a treasured memory. The one I had coming was in my near future and was going to hurt way more than that spoon did. It made me do something a little impulsive. 

Now, hear me out before you judge. Mary always says, “Bring me your [fill in the blank].” Hairbrush, paddle, other paddle. I’ve been of the opinion that those are not mine; they are hers because she uses them and I just get them used on me and I don’t wanna get political but Marx had a point when he said it’s the workers who truly own the machinery of production and Mary is in the sore butt production business so they are hers and not mine. But take her viewpoint at face value, and why not because she’s the one in charge of all things spanking, and I did agree to accept that, and I honor our marriage vows, dammit.

So I tossed the hairbrush in the trash as I was cleaning. It’s mine, right? Mary says so! I can do with it as I please. My logic is unassailable! It usually is. I’m very left-brained. I told Mary so one time, and her response was, “I’m right handed,” and then she proved it. Guess I didn’t choose the right moment to let her know.

It’s not like there aren’t a dozen different things Mary can spank with in the house. I just hate the hairbrush worst out of all the things she regularly uses. The only things I hate worse are the belt (I like spanking, not whipping, and so does Mary), the school paddle (too heavy for the kind of spankings we like), and the bathbrush (reserved for super serious offenses like wire fraud, class A misdemeanors and, and playing with fireworks without supervision, a rule she made up on the spot one fourth of July). But that hairbrush and the way it concentrates so much oomph into such a small area – hate it hate it hate it. I get the OTK paddle for most spankings. The hairbrush is for a step above that in her arsenal.

Fast forward an hour and the bedroom was clean (the milk was, alas, a total loss) and I wiped down our bathroom and I went back downstairs and cleaned up the living room and kitchen. It took about an hour and a half, which isn’t bad considering. Also, let’s face up to facts. Realistically, whether I took fifteen minutes or two hours Mary was gonna spank me the same. Over two hours and I’d have gotten it worse, but ninety minutes (ish) may as well have been five because when Mary schedules a spanking, as it were, she doesn’t give light ones. On the spot corrections are light; unplanned trips to dressing rooms and highway rest areas and mall bathrooms are comparatively light. “When we get home” or “As soon as” spankings are never light. 

I did see her point, though, when I took the trash to the garage. I filled almost a whole bag, which, yeah, is a lot for little ol’ me for a week. It seemed funny that it was just a week since I’d quit my job, but it felt like forever.

I went in search of Mary and found her on our back porch with Mrs. Wilson. I just stuck my head out the door to tell her I was done and thought she was going to send me to go wait in a corner or something, but no, she told me to come say hello.

“Hello,” I said from the doorway. Nope. Didn’t count.

“Don’t be rude, Daphne,” Mary said and waved me outside. Mrs. Wilson was sitting in one of our chairs, and Mary was on our outdoor sofa, and I was on bare feet and wearing panties that I should’ve thrown away with the hairbrush and decided I was definitely going to get rid of tomorrow. 

Knowing Mrs. Wilson knows all about our lifestyle and has seen me in less than past-their-expiration-date panties never makes it any less embarrassing when the topic comes up or when I’m once more less than fully dressed in front of her. Maybe it’s a generational thing like those old ladies at the gym who are completely unfazed with nudity in the locker room ad she just decided to think nothing of it when she discovered our lifestyle. Who knows, maybe Mrs. Wilson already knew pants are a privilege and just took it in stride when she first saw me without them. Or maybe Mrs. Wilson just sees me like the little girl Mary says I am. I kinda hope that’s why, but I kinda also hope not.

“She’s not rude,” Mrs. Wilson defended me, “she’s just shy. Come on out, honey.” Mrs. Wilson – my defender and secret grandma.

Blushing, I shuffled over to Mary, and she took my wrist and gave me a tug toward her. I ended up sitting on her lap, my legs across the sofa and feeling every bit the little girl Mary had calls me.

Mrs. Wilson did that thing where you exhale a little hard through your nose in amusement (did you know there’s no word for that in English?) and I was a little offended until she followed up with, “You look like a little ragamuffin, Daffy. Wherever did you get those undies?” I looked myself over; also not my newest, shiniest tee shirt.

“Target,” I squeaked. “In college, I think.” Mrs. Wilson nodded at Mary and then looked at my thigh, and then Mary looked at my thigh and reached down to pull my panties over. I guess they’re a little small for me now because my butt cheek had apparently been hanging out at least since I walked outside (Everything was coming up Daphne, lucky me!). I just about could’ve swallowed my tongue. Bare butt is better than having one cheek hanging out because, let’s face it, that look is adorable on me (it’s fucking hot on Mary).

“It’s so cute that her butt blushes when she’s embarrassed,” Mrs. Wilson said. “I’m sorry, Daffy. I know you hate when people say stuff like that.” It doesn’t help me thinking of her like a grandma when she says embarrassing grandma stuff like that. I find it endearing, much to my chagrin.

“It’s okay,” I was trying to say when Mary just had to correct her, eagerly it seemed to me.

“Actually, that’s yesterday’s spanking.” Like that was even a real spanking! I didn’t even cry. Just sniffled a bit. But I didn’t need to wash my face after so that doesn’t count!

I wish there were a way to make myself disappear sometimes. Since I can’t, I said, “I should go back inside. It was nice seeing you, Mrs. Wilson.”

“In a hurry to go back inside,” Mary asked. “You sure about that?” Well, that was a fair point.

“O, I’m sorry,” Mrs. Wilson apologized, grasping Mary’s meaning. “Is she in trouble,” she whispered like I wasn’t there. Force of habit I guess, trying not to embarrass a kid in trouble. Not that I’m a kid. And it is a good habit. Just basic kindness.

“It’s been one of those weeks,” Mary said. “I don’t know what to do with her. She’s looking for a new job, but she’s still home without something to do all day.”

“Mine were like that,” Mrs. Wilson said. Okay, let’s take a step back to her use of the word mine. Really, Mrs. Wilson, ya just gonna toss that out there? That I’m equivalent to your kids just because I’m … Dammit.

“School breaks, the first couple weeks of summer. I had at least one kiddo in trouble pretty much every day. It’s the break in their routine that does it. You know how kids need structure,” Mrs. Wilson continued.

I clearly was not needed for this part of the conversation so I just sat there. I would’ve gotten off Mary’s lap, but she had both arms around me and didn’t seem like she was going to let me go. 

“And I can’t send her to daycare or summer camp while she jobs hunts,” Mary said with a laugh.

“I grew up in a different era, but I don’t think I ever earned a spanking two days in a row.”

“Her record is three days in a row.” Mary turned to look at me. “I hope we don’t have a record setting streak in front of us.” I took a deep breath and let it out since there was no way for me to respond to that.

“Sometimes they get the devil in them, as my mom used to say. Never me, but my brother could rarely go a week without getting turned over her knee. Mom called ages nine to twelve ‘the age of many spankings’ for him. Sometimes he could make it ten whole days, and then he’d get his seat warmed three or four times in the next week, like he was just storing it up. Or maybe Mom was storing it up,” Mary laughed.

“What about your kids,” Mary asked.

“O, I didn’t spank like Mom did. Maybe just four or five times when they were real young. Maybe a little pop on the butt to stop a tantrum before it started, things like that, but just a handful of real spankings ... I didn’t really believe in it, and they didn’t need that kind of discipline anyway. They were well behaved for the most part. Much better than their mom, for sure. For a while I thought I must’ve done something wrong when they hit their teenage years and didn’t get in any of the classic teenage trouble.”

“If only Daphne was so well behaved. I’m afraid she’s in for one of those streaks like your brother’s before she finds a new job. I hope not, but, frankly, I smell more spanking in the air.”

I’ve always thought kink comes from bad wiring in the brain, like something that should just be painful is instead pleasurable. Like something that should be humiliating also turns me on. I wanted to dig a hole and hide in it; I also wanted to go upstairs double check the water pressure in our shower wand.

“Well, send her over to my house. I can certainly use the company and keep her outta trouble.”

“That’s a great idea, isn’t it Daphne?”

“Yes.” It actually did sound fun. I always like hanging out with Mrs. Wilson, and I was getting bored of Netflix. There just isn’t enough to do when you find yourself with whole days to fill all of a sudden. I didn’t want to be unemployed and didn’t plan on being for long, so I hadn’t embraced a buncha new hobbies or a whole new routine. I was already bored. It reminded me of summer when I was in middle school, old enough to be left alone during the day but not old enough to work and not close enough to friends to meet up with them. Every summer followed the same pattern: two weeks watching daytime TV until I got bored and then moody and eventually in trouble, and then Mom would start finding things for me to do. I hated tennis camp. I do like the skirts though. 

“Come on over tomorrow morning,” Mrs. Wilson said. “We’ll find some stuff to do.”

“Thank you. I will.”

“Around ten,” Mary asked.

“Perfect.” 

Mrs. Wilson’s phone alarm went off. “That’s my roast. Kids are coming over for Sunday dinner.”

“We won’t keep you then,” Mary said. She started to stand, and I got off her lap.

“We’ll have plenty if you two don’t have plans for dinner.”

“That sounds terrific,” Mary said. “Daphne?”

“It does. Thank you.”

“Come on over when you’re ready. Kids will be here at 5:30.”

I never met her kids, but I do like meeting new people, and Mrs. Wilson is a really good cook. What my dad calls “good old fashioned American fare” that is absolutely not something you’re supposed to eat every day. 

“That gives me enough time to take care of her,” Mary said as she reached over and patted my butt. My cheek was hanging out again. I grimaced, and Mrs. Wilson looked at me like I was the cutest thing since they invented ducklings.

Mrs. Wilson left through the gate in our shared fence, and Mary guided me inside. She took me to each room saying, “Nice work” and “Good Job” and “See? Isn’t this so much nicer” as we went, ending in the bedroom. Mary sat on the bed, and I stood in front her with my arms a little out from my sides. I know this drill. I could do it blindfolded (which I have). Mary whisked my panties down, and I stepped out of them.

She held them up and looked at them. “Really, Daphne Ann?”

“They’re clean,” I protested.

“Well, they’re as clean as they can get at their age.” Okay, they were a little faded. She fingered a threadbare spot. “I could poke my finger right through this.” O, my darling, naive Mary, that’s no way to make them unappealing. “Did you really buy these in college?”

“Possibly … It was Obama’s first term still, I think.”

She turned and tossed the old panties into the wastebasket. I wasn’t exactly sentimental about them – they were just one of those items of clothing that somehow stays in your dresser long after everything else that old has gone on to clothing heaven (Goodwill). Maybe they weren’t even old; perhaps they were just a classic, or vintage … or throwback!

“What’s so funny,” Mary asked when she caught me smiling. It didn’t seem like a good time to share my clever perspective.

“Nothing,” I said. Mary scooted herself back so she could lean against the headboard, and I crawled across the bed on my knees when she motioned me over her lap. I folded my arms and put my head on them. It still feels weird, just lying there passively. There was nothing passive about my childhood spankings. I only ever got a couple of real ones, kinda like Mrs. Wilson’s kids probably, but I fought like hellion when it happened. I still find it a turn on watching spanking videos and thinking about how submissive some of the bottoms are, just being good girls and boys and holding still for their top.

Mary likes to just look at me in this position. When we were still dating, sometimes she’d order me over her knee just to admire my butt sticking up at her. That led to great sex. Still happens sometimes, but she also sometimes just take a pause before starting my spanking to look at and play with my butt. Like right then, when she took a handful of butt cheek and squeezed hard. Makes it kinda hard to focus on discipline when she does that. (“Why are you getting this spanking?” “For the sex after.” That was not, she ably demonstrated moments later, the case.)

“I know it’s hard,” Mary started to lecture. “I don’t know what it’s like to quit a job without one lined up and then to just be at loose ends while you look. We talked on Friday. I said to take a few days and just enjoy yourself and feel better. I’m glad you did. But it’s now been ten days, and I told you on Thursday to get your act together. I warned you Friday that you were getting bratty. I warned you a second time yesterday morning. I gave you several, now, several passes on some naughtiness, and I had hoped the trip over my knee yesterday afternoon and an early bedtime would help you wake up as my sweet, happy girl this morning.”

“I’m sorry.” I can’t ever stop myself from getting weepy when she does this. One hand running through my hair or rubbing my back, the other one rubbing my butt. On their own, those make me ready for bed or for fun in bed. Added with a lecture when Mary is indisputably right, they make me want to cry, get my punishment, and have her hold me for a while.

“I know, sweetheart. I let you sleep in because I thought you needed it, and I made you breakfast this morning. You hardly said a word to me, and then you left your plate on the table and went to take a shower.”

I kinda forgot about that. She stopped the rubbing and started lecturing like she meant it. She always means it, or almost always, but sometimes she starts using a tone that makes it very clear she’s run out of patience. Sort of that tone people use when they’re feeling whatever comes right before anger, like a few seconds before anger. I hear that tone from Mary maybe twice a year.

“I really don’t get how you went from being so happy and energized last weekend to being lay grump a week later. I tried giving you some space. I came up with excuses to let some things slide, and frankly, Daphne, I’m out of reasons not to spank your bottom. You know better than to behave like a sullen, lazy sixth grader and leave messes everywhere. I gave you days to snap out of it on your own. I gave you warnings. I gave you an easy spanking yesterday hoping it would get through to you. I gave you a pass this morning when what I really wanted to do was follow you into that shower and spank your wet butt because I was hoping you’d come out of the shower all refreshed and acting your age and clean up after yourself like you know to do. Do you remember what a spanking on a wet bottom feels like?”

Not sure if you can call this saying something, but I said, “Uem,” and nodded my head because talking would’ve just led to a sob getting out.

“You’re out of warnings, and I’m out of reason to not to spank. We will tie the record if we need to tomorrow. We will set a new one the day after if you pull can’t yourself together. I do not like spanking you this often, but I will until your behavior tells me you don’t need that many spankings, and each spanking will be as hard as the last until then. Is that understood?”

I nodded again, my face still buried in my arms. She reached over me toward the nightstand where my – no, her – paddle is kept always on display as a reminder. The brush is kept in the drawer. Or it was until about three hours ago. It didn’t seem like a terrible idea then, but until the lecture I didn’t realize just how disappointed with me Mary was. If I thought that was going to be her weapon of choice just a few hours later, I’d have left it alone. I felt my stomach fall through the bed when I heard her open the drawer. I kept my face buried in my arms still.

“Where’s your hairbrush?” God, it is so hers, but not so important at the moment. I pretended not to hear. “Daphne, where is your hairbrush.”

“It’s not in the drawer?”

“No. It was there yesterday when I came close to using it. Where is it now?” I could picture her opening the drawer and looking at it for several seconds before deciding to cut me just a little more slack and closing the drawer, and it made me feel awful.

“Um, I’m not sure. Maybe you moved it?”

Mary took a deep breath and pushed it out through her nose so forcefully I felt it on my back. I kept my face down and tried to stifle myself as I pictured her shaking her head with her lips clenched. She closed the drawer and I guess picked up the paddle instead because a split second later it was resting on my butt. I braced myself. Nothing happened.

“No,” was all Mary said. Well, that scared the crap outta me. “Up.” I got up and rubbed at my eyes, and Mary wordlessly slid off the bed. I cry before a lot of spankings when she starts the lecture. I never do that with anyone else, even as a kid, and I’ve only cried with a few play partners in my adult life. I really do hate the way it feels and the headache it leaves me with, but it is cathartic.

I’ve never cried before a spanking because I’m scared. Mary walked with purpose into our bathroom and came out with the bathbrush. It was more an experimental implement when we first got it. It was my idea, actually, and we found out through our experiments that it was like the school paddle and the hairbrush had a child that even they couldn’t love. A heavyset, small child that concentrates a lot of force into a small area. A mutant child that outgrew its parents’ ability to control it before it reached its first birthday, so out of control it’s on X-Force’s most wanted list. Even Deadpool gives it a wide berth. The thing gets used or sexy showers way more than punishment. It’s practically just a bathroom decoration; give it a couple more years, and the paint under where it hangs in the bathroom will be a lighter shade than the rest of the wall. 

I hold could’ve wet myself when she came out of the bathroom with that (but I didn’t!), but instead I started sobbing. I wish I could say it was a sympathy ploy, but it wasn’t. I just felt awful. I felt awful before I quit my job because of how I was treating Mary. I felt even worse now because I was still treating her that way. Maybe that’s me being too hard on myself – which I can be, especially right before a spanking – but that’s how I felt after Mary had pointed out my behavior to me and how she’d given me so many chances to right my own ship, on top of the fact she was the one who finally got me to quit and was now supporting me. I felt awful, I felt scared, and I sobbed the way I usually do at the end of a spanking.

I’m sure Mary hesitated for a moment. She’s my Mary. I’m sure the thought crossed her mind that if I felt this bad, a spanking wasn’t necessary to get the point across. I’m sure she dismissed those thoughts and reminded herself to follow through, be consistent, not let tears dissuade her, and that this wasn’t just a kinky lifestyle but a promise we’d made to each other and something I needed to be happy. That’s also my Mary. She waved a finger at me, and I crawled off the bed.

She sat down and took me by the hips, positioning me to her left, and said, “Bend over.” I bent over the bed slowly, feeling my knee shake. “Lift up.” I did, and she put her left arms over me with her hand under my waist. She turned a little and had to twist sort of to get her ankle around my mind. An awkward position, and Mary rarely needs to lock my legs. 

I don’t know if she does this on purpose, but sometimes she says things that I love to hear and that in the right context just makes me hot mess. I was already a total mess, and she just set it on fire when she said, “I love you, Daphne Ann. I hope my sweet girl is gonna come back out.”

Stupid, mutant child spanking implement. It was a blur, but Mary managed to find a halfway between the rapid spanks of the hairbrush and the thud of the school paddle. She did a fucking incredible job mixing it up, too. I couldn’t give you the blow my blow if my butt depended on it, but I do remember not being able to anticipate where or how hard that damn thing would land next. The whole thing couldn’t have lasted more than two minutes, maybe even one, but Mary is a ninja and can get a lot of spanking done in less than two minutes. She can wallop me in ten seconds if she gets a mind to.

I usually lay there and catch my breath after a hard spanking, but instead I shot up as soon as Mary let me go and did a Riverdance routine while holding my butt. I’m sure I put on quite a show. I don’t know if I stopped or if Mary stopped me, but I found myself sitting half on her lap and half on the bed with my face buried in her breast while she rubbed my back and tried to calm me down. Ugly crying, seriously. With snot. Mary just kept running her hand through my hair and down my arm until I found my voice.

“I’m sorry I was bad,” I told her. I was still sobbing and losing tears a little. And then Mary did that thing where she says the right thing at the wrong time again.

“Your behavior was bad. You are my very good girl always.” I’m glad she found it endearing when I responded by putting my face back into her shirt and wailing again. Lotta tears. More snot. The rocking motion felt nice. I got the after lecture when I finally stopped crying enough to pay attention. I just nodded my head along.

“I want my sunshine girl to come out tomorrow. Am I going to see her?” (Nod.) “I don’t wanna spank you on your sore bottom. Will you really try to help me not have to spank?” (Nod, sniff.) “No more sullenness, no more laziness, and you’re going to act your age.” (Nod, nod, and nod. Though I had no idea what constituted acting my age at that point.) “And you will never, ever hide a spanking implement from me.” (So she didn’t believe me for a second; not exactly a surprise. Nod.) “Until your hairbrush comes back from wherever it went, all spankings will be with the bathbrush.” (Certain fairness to that, I guess. Damn glad I didn’t break it Nod).

“Ready to get up,” she asked me when I stopped again. I stood and it hurt. Just straightening up. That means bruises. I probably spend five out of every thirty days with a bruise on my butt, and I could tell I had doozies.

“We have about twenty minutes before we need to be next door,” she said off handedly.

“Can I please stay home?”

She nodded very sympathetically. “No, sweetheart. I’m sorry.” 

She took me by the hand into the bathroom and got a clean washcloth from the closet. I took off my shirt with left me with nothing on, and Mary ran the faucet until the water was warm before soaping up the washcloth and washing my face for me. I definitely had the wet rat look going. I wondered if Mrs. Wilson would be shocked to see me in a few minutes. She’s seen me weepy, and she’s seen my red eyed, but I looked like I was in mourning. If asked, I was prepared to say my butt passed away while she was making the roast. I just assumed she would be discreet with her kids and grandkids around, but I definitely, definitely could’ve used some secret grandma time.

I was mentally recovered when Mary was done washing my face, if emotionally shaky and physically would need about three spank free days before my butt started to look better. I turned to look over my shoulder in the mirror.

Anyone into impact play has seen some nasty bruises. These were not the worst I’d seen or the worst I’d had. I like having marks; they’re like temporary tattoos to remind you of the fun you had, or if it wasn’t fun (that had not been any fun at all) of what you could take. That’s a something to be proud of in the BDSM world. I hadn’t had purple bruises in so long I couldn’t remember. Scarlet was a few times a year. True purple? Not so much. I twisted to get a better look, and Mary watched me do it. She thought it was funny when I said, “Mary! My butt!”

She nodded like she was saying, yeah, I know, I did that.

She made me sit on the bed while she got an outfit for me to wear. I had no doubt I’d get through the next day spank free. I could barely even protest the outfit as she took out a skirt and a top and then a pull-up and tossed them on the bed.

“Do I hafta,” was all I could muster.

“You don’t have any clean undies anyway.”

“I have a couple left, I think.”

“Like the ones you were wearing. Can’t take you to Sunday dinner dressed like that, and we’re throwing them out when we get back.” I could tell she’d done a good job not just because my ass felt like a single swollen cheek but because I thought about a smart-alecky, and totally logical, retort to that statement and didn’t even want to say it. Not that I don’t think pretty much every sentient adult couldn’t point out the ridiculousness of the notion that the panties and not the Goodnites with the ponies on them were inappropriate for a Sunday dinner outside the house.

Nor did I say anything when she slid them up my legs and over a butt so sore it hurt followed by a tennis skirt. At least, I didn’t say much, just “What if someone sees the pull-up?”

“Daphne,” she said as she looked at me doubtfully, “You are 31 years old. You know how to sit without showing off your undies.”

“But … what if if they see the back of my thighs?”

“I didn’t spank your thighs, sweetie.”

“Well … okay.” Perhaps I wasn’t 100% recovered if that was all I could think to say back. I put my own top on while Mary went into the bathroom and came back with the hairbrush I actually use to comb my hair (that one is mine; the one in the garage in the trash bag with the spoiled milk is hers) and a scrunchy. She put my hair in a pony for me.

She finally looked at herself and sorta frowned in an amused sorta way when she got a good look at her top. “You slimed me,” she said.

“Well, you spanked the slime outta me with your lecturing and that X-men reject and by being, ya know, really sweet and loving me so much ... and stuff.”

She took her top off before giving me another long hug. “You really are my good girl,” she said as she put her hands on my face and kissed me on the forehead.

“Stop saying that,” I whined and wiped another tear away. She blinked, ya know the way ya do when remember how much you love someone, and I felt self-conscious because the next thing I said was just stupid. “If I hafta to wear a pull-up to dinner, then you hafta wear a bra.”

I probably spent as much time later figuring out where that came from as she spent trying to parse my X-men comment.

Anyway, sitting at dinner hurt a lot. So did standing, walking, and laying down, because spankings hurt (“It’s supposed to hurt,” Mary said to me preemptively when she saw me rubbing on the walk back to our house.) 

The day did not go at all like I thought it would and I had some serious thinking to do that I hoped Mrs. Wilson would be okay with me talking with her about the next day and basically, if I’d known just how upset Mary was with me prior to that spanking and that it was gonna be one of the ten worst I ever got (up to that point), I’d have fixed my own attitude. Mary was right; she gave me enough warnings to tell me before it came to that.

And the funny thing of that day is that while I still hated the bathbrush the most out of anything I’d ever been spanked with, it wasn’t scary any more. If I hadn’t been so emotional when she went to get it I’d probably have been rational enough to know it could never be more than I could take so long as Mary was the one swinging it. It wasn’t more than I could take. It was even quite at the limit.

But she did spank the smartass out of me for an evening (that’s only ever happened twice before), and I hoped, when she sent me to bed right after dinner, that she’d spanked whatever had me being so difficult out of me. I like the sweet me better, too.