Mary and Daphne #17 (Patreon)

EVERYONE IS STUPID AND CAN GO FUCK THEMSELVES!

I thought it but didn’t say it. It was just one more rejection, but that made nine in a month, and that’s not even counting the applications I sent that didn’t even get a response. I should sic Mary on all those people who couldn’t even bother to tell me to go to hell. Assholes. Mary would teach them; she spanked the habit of sending out thank you cards into me, and I bet those pencil pushing HR reps with their business casual shirts and their policy handbooks couldn’t even take a swat from Mary without filing a workmen’s comp claim.

A month, and I don’t know how many applications, and all I had to show for it was the time wasted on phone interviews that went no where and two in-person interviews that went no where and finally, after two rounds of interviews with the same company and a third scheduled for tomorrow morning, I get a thanks-but-no-thanks email. Couldn’t even fucking call me. I thought I had the job sewn up. Why else would they spend that much time on me?

At least I only slammed the lid on my laptop. I wanted to chuck it through a window.

I hate being angry. Walking it off doesn’t help, but I tried anyway and went outside and just paced around the yard. And being angry never ends with being suddenly not angry. It turns into being sad. It’s not even that I loved those companies; I wanted to work at some of them, but it’s not like I missed out on my dream job. It was just so much rejection.

It’s no wonder by the time I got to my last chore of the day, grocery shopping, that I got home with three bottles of the same wine and four kinds of chocolate. Felt like every woman at the store saw what was in my cart and wanted to tell me, “You poor dear.” And then I wanted to tell the checker, “I didn’t get dumped” just to avoid the humiliation of that assumption.

Mary was home when I got home, though. That’s a bonus. I put the groceries on the counter and went upstairs ready to have an epic rant. I’d been holding it in all day. What good is ranting without an audience?

Mary hadn’t made it very far after getting home. She had her shoes off but her work clothes on and was sitting up on the bed typing on her phone. Answering an email probably; they never let her alone. I had to wait.

I got on the bed next to her and went through my mental notes to cover all the points I needed to make: they all suck; ass hats; can eat a buncha dicks; incompetent; inconsiderate; Mary should give them all spankings; may they dry up and shrivel; may their children and their children’s children have ugly babies.

It was gonna be an epic rant. Which is, by the way, is just a word for “adult temper tantrum.” The kind of rant that makes you YouTube famous and that you never live down.

Mary was writing a damn tome over there, and I was getting more wound up inside: may they dry up, shrivel, and lose their hair on their heads and get way more hair everywhere else. Mary hit send. My time to shine. She turned to me.

“What’s up, buttercup?” Here it goes, the rant the sages would sing poems about. Deep breath...

“Eheh, eheh, waaaaaah.”

Well, it would’ve been a good rant.

“Oh, honey, come here. Shh shh shh.”

I don’t exactly understand why I was so upset. I knew the job market for what I did wasn’t that big in our area and it was very competitive because of that. I didn’t think it would only take a week to get a new job. Maybe I didn’t think I would get so much interest that went no where. That’s the flip side, that while it’s not a big market for what I do, there’s not many people who are really good at it.

“What’s wrong, honey?”

“I (babble) and (not real words) and fucking (chipmunk noises) and I don’t even (unintelligible).” I have no idea how she deciphers me sometimes, or maybe she just pretends to.

“I’m sorry. Can I help at all?”

“No.” I don’t see how she could. And I’m glad she asked. Nothing worse than someone who offers advice when you’re just trying to vent. I just wanted to lay on Mary for a while.

“Would a spanking make you feel better?”

“Uh uh.” Well, maybe later. It’s a standing (ha!) offer.

We laid there for a while with her petting my hair. That’s all I wanted. When I sat up; she rubbed the back of her hand on my cheek and gave me a kiss, a good one, before she went to the bathroom and came back with a warm washcloth. I held still while she wiped the dried tears from my face. She smiled at me. Amazing how such a small gesture can make you feel better.

“Such a pretty little girl.”

“I am not little,” I whined. “I’m just unemployed.”

“You’re my little girl. Let’s change our clothes.” I was already in just a skirt and top. Grocery shopping clothes. Mary took off her pants and laid them on the bed to hang up later. Then she turned her attention back to me.

It’s hard to be sad when your wife is prancing around in panties and a button-down blouse. I may have been unemployed, but I could think of a job to do.

“Your turn,” she said. She grabbed me by ankles and yanked so I was flat on my back before she pulled my sandals off, reached up and grabbed hold of my pull-up (yes, I was still wearing the fucking thing) and tore the sides open. She yanked it out from under me, followed by my skirt.

I just watched her the whole while. Little peeks of her panties from under the hem of her shirt. That queer little smile she wears when she’s up to something. I had a pretty good idea what she was about to be up to.

“Open your legs for me,” she said in this steamy little coo. I obliged, ready to lay there and let it happen. She grabbed that wet washcloth, and I let my eyes roll back in my head while she went to work with it. It was still warm, and the rough terry was ... helpful. Her thumb was ... aggressive. Her fingers were ... suddenly not there. Huh?

I laid there motionless for a moment and let my eyes flick from right to left like there was an explanation somewhere in the room. “Um, Mary?” I sat up. Mary was across the room in the closet. In the chest I’m not supposed to go in. But I’ve been in there a time or two or once a week when I can get away with it. Sometimes something new and wonderful shows up. I stared at her butt as she bent over and wrestled something out of it.

Mary had that queer smile again when she stood up and turned around.

“No! What’d I do?”

“Shh, everything is okay,” she said as she started unfolding that stupid, assing diaper. I hate them! I’d only worn them twice, and they are so much worse than pull-ups. They’re thick and they’re obvious and they make noise and I didn’t even do anything!

“I don’t wanna,” I whined.

“Hey,” Mary said softly as she got back on the bed and knelt over me. She put a hand on my cheek and turned my face so I was looking up at her. I got a kiss, a very sensual one. I didn’t reciprocate. Not fully. Or fully but with maybe some reticence. Not a lot, but enough so she knew it was my protest tongue. “It’s okay,” she said.

Easy for her to say! She wasn’t about to be wearing plastic underwear with sea animals on them. Nothing wrong with my panties with whales on them - couldn’t I just wear those?

“But I didn’t do anything. Why am I being punished?”

“You’re not.”

“It is, too!”

“Do you want a punishment?”

“No.” I wanted to go back to hugging. Or what I thought was gonna be sex. Or maybe a sandwich. Is that asking so much?

“Then let me do this for you.”

“Urrrgghhh.” I folded my arms across my chest and stared at the ceiling. I didn’t have to help. Cooperate, sure, but I wasn’t lifting my hips for her. Which doesn’t matter, because she had my ankles in the air in a heartbeat and that stupid thing under me.

I started to make a list. Jane was on it. I owed her a spanking still. Add to that Sandy, who introduced the pull-ups and stupid diapers to Mary; I don’t even know what know her. That’s as far as I got before my butt was back on the diaper and my feet were flat against the bedspread with knees up and open.

“I don’t like this,” I pouted. That got me zero response. Mary walked away again, and I started memorizing the ceiling. I’ve memorized so many tiles and carpets face down over her knee - why not memorize a fucking ceiling?

“This’ll be a little cold,” she said when she got back. I jumped a little. It was cold, but not for long. It felt so thick.

“What is that?”

“Desitin.”

“What’s that?”

“Diaper rash cream.”

“Mary!” I didn’t need that. I don’t even know where this whole new obsession of hers came from. Rubbing that stuff into me. So thick and ... o, now I see what she was driving at. Okay. This is tolerable. Fair trade. Warming up.

“I think someone likes this treatment,” Mary said with a laugh. Smug little laugh.

“I do n...” There I was trying to stay on message - yes to her hand, no to the diaper and the rash cream - and my body wouldn’t cooperate. Stupid hips moving on their own. I need a communications director, someone to follow me around ready to say, “What Daphne means to say is ...” and “Read her lips - no, the ones on her face.”

And then Mary stopped again. I was honestly pissed off. What the fuck about me crying for twenty minutes said Hey! I wanna be played with and teased! Mary is usually spot on with reading my signals, and really, like anyone couldn’t read the ones I was putting out, along with, I dunno, the words I was saying?

I was so close to calling a red light, and close to crying again.

“Mary, what are you ... I don’t wanna.” She got back on the bed and put lips close to my ear.

“Trust me. You’ll enjoy this. I promise.”

I nodded but still let out a sob. She brushed a tear away, and I didn’t even look at the ceiling. I just laid with my eyes closed. I kept my legs open for her hoping she would tape up the damn diaper and I could get back to my shitty day.

A hand was back on me, and then another hand, and then she was inserting something. Like I needed more teasing. Then she pulled the diaper closed and taped it on.

Fucking great: the wireless vibrator. Another toy best described as hers. Goes inside me, but she controls the remote. I am not allowed to touch the remote. Old men for whole TV is their only true friend are more generous with their remote than Mary is. It’s the ultimate edging toy, and I was not in the fucking mood. Mary was way off; if she thought this was going to make me feel better, she was wrong. Red light. I sat up to say it, and Mary put her finger to my lips before I even could.

She pushed me gently back down and laid down next to me, and I tried to breathe through my anger. Why the fuck couldn’t she read my signals? Where was her head? It’s essential: you wanna be in a kinky lifestyle relationship, you have to always be reading your partner’s signal. Otherwise, it’s not a lifestyle; it’s just a bunch of scenes negotiated as you go.

“It’s not a punishment,” she said to me. “It’s a treat.”

I was aware I needed to say ‘no thanks’ politely. She was, after all, trying to be nice, she was just way off the mark. This was much more a treat for her.

“But ...”

She stopped me again, took my hand, opened my fingers, and handed me the remote.

“All yours for the evening. Diaper stays on. Go nuts.”

Best.

Present.

Ever!

That little remote was like holding a million dollars wrapped around a Nobel prize for Outstanding Contribution to Solo Sex hung around the neck of an Oscar awarded for Best Feature Length Orgasm.

I didn’t know quite what to say. I never get to have the remote. The closest I ever came (ha!) to getting the remote is when she offered it to me and then yanked her hand away and started using it to play keep-away-from-Daphne with Brenna. I thought I was gonna win when Brenna dropped it, but I was getting spanked before I could even bend over. The rules to that game are very unfair.

I just looked at the thing. I’m not sure, but I think it was what’s was inside the briefcase in Pulp Fiction.

“Do you need me to show you how to use it,” Mary asked when I didn’t say anything. Well, no, because discovery is the most fun part; well, second most fun.

“Thank you,” I said.

I got another sensual kiss, and I didn’t hold anything back, and I didn’t care that I squirmed when she slid her hand down there and pressed deep into that stupid diaper. All those sea animals were about to get quite the ride. The world’s oceans have never been so happy.

“You’re very welcome. What can I make you for dinner?”

The remote and dinner? Who needs a job? What are those for anyway?

“Grilled cheese.”

“Ya gonna come downstairs?”

Was I ever!

I was gonna eat in the kitchen, too.

“Yeah. I’ll, uh, meet you there.”

“Is there anything else I can do for you,” she asked.

“Leave your pants off?”

There’s nothing she won’t do for me. She can read my signals better than me sometimes.