Mary and Daphne #18 (Patreon)

It’s almost always pool weather where we live even if most people don’t keep their pools open year round. I don’t exactly get it; maybe it’s a cost thing, because it’s definitely warm enough to swim in January if you put your big girl pants on and just do it. We hit March, though, and everyone who has one opens their pool. I hope that’s me some day.

Every year, our kinky friend Brenna has a big pool opening party with a bunch of friends from the local kink scene on the first third in March. As Mary reminded me (as part of a preemptive warning to behave) before we left, I don’t have the best record with pool parties.

I guess the problem stems from who I am, which is totally unfair as a person should never be punished for something they can’t change. In my case, that something is that I’m too adorable. It’s true. Really.

It’s not a kinky pool party per se, but it is behind a privacy fence, and there’s always a few people there who are a little more playful than others and always seem to get me into trouble.

Jane and Lisa always go. It can always be a bit of a struggle around Jane for all the aforementioned reasons. Sandy always goes, and she’s never happier around me than when she’s stirring the pot. And Brenna’s boyfriend, my arch nemesis: Tommy.

Tommy is Brenna’s bottom, and when he wants to, he decides to act like a middle. I’m still not sure I’m a middle (actually pretty sure I’m not and people should stop saying unless they want me to fetch them a very sharp blow on the nose), but that doesn’t matter to Tommy when he decides that’s who he is for the day, and like any middle of that “age,” he delights in picking on girls. Or at least me.

Last year, not at the party but on a random day we were hanging out at the pool with Brenna and Tommy (‘Voldemort’ is his last name), I did the most grown up thing I could think of and tattled, as though Mary and Brenna weren’t poolside watching. I guess if ever there was a good time to admit that Mary sees me as a middle is when she told me, “Honey, little boys play that way when they like a girl. It just means he thinks you’re cute.”

Hence the root of my problem: I’m just too adorable. He got a telling off, but it worked for less than ten minutes. Tommy doesn’t do anything inappropriate; he just makes a pest of himself, and last year I got fed up, and our splash fight (I was friggin Switzerland until I just couldn’t take it anymore) ended with both of us getting our butts spanked on the pool deck. Mary didn’t bare my butt, but she did give me a wedgie spanking and made me sit in timeout on my spanked ass on the hot pavement. The thing she did with the after-sun lotion at home made up most of the way for it.

It was a great day for a pool party. Sunny, not humid, the occasional gentle breeze. I had my one-piece on under my clothes and a fresh outfit in our pool bag. Mary had the same, but a two-piece. I like my one-piece, and Mary likes to remind me most little girls wear a one-piece, a not so subtle point.

I was on guard from the moment we got ready to leave. Tommy, Sandy, Jane, and a bunch of kinksters who would think nothing of seeing me get my butt spanked, and I didn’t even know how many people on Mary’s Spank-Daphne-As-Needed list were going to be there. Even if it does take a village to raise Daphne, I am seriously over-parented sometimes.

Anyway, we weren’t the first people there, and I carried the pool bag, and Mary carried the dessert we brought.

“What did you bring,” Brenna asked after she gave each of us a hug.

“A cake,” I said. “Thank you for having us over.” See? I’m very polite and well behaved.

“You’re so welcome, sweetie,” Brenna said.

“And Daphne decorated it,” Mary proudly said as she unveiled the cake. I know how to use a pastry bag. Mary would be telling everyone who would listen that I decorated the cake. It’s sweet that’s she’s proud of me for little things and likes showing me off (most of the time).

I got down to my bathing suit, and Mary just took her tee shirt off and set our bag in a corner. I was getting a couple glasses of lemonade for the two of us, minding own business when my adorability led to the first incident: someone slapped me on the butt.

This is a thing that happens to me pretty frequently what with Mary’s list of approved Daphne Butt Handlers, but I was a bit wound up in preparation for the instigators and consciously trying to avoid trouble, and my first thought was Sandy. Sandy, our good friend, my sometimes babysitter who won’t admit to me that’s what she is, and the woman responsible for introducing Mary to the joy (exclusively hers) of pull-ups and diapers.

“Daffy, good for you!”

O, Lisa, I realized as I spun around to confront the butt slapper.

“Hi, Lisa.”

“I told you so,” she said. What did she tell me again?

“Um, what did you tell me?”

“You’re out of pull-ups. Like I said, everyone grows at their own pace.”

How does one politely respond to that? Mary is very strict about lying, so thanking her for her confidence in me was wrong, presumably.

“I guess so,” I said with a smile so fake I thought my face was going to crack.

“We had a little slide backward,” Lisa said and stepped to her right, revealing Jane in a purple one-piece with ruffles Lisa had to have sewn on herself. And peeking out from that suit, could it be?

“Is that a ...”

“A swim diaper,” Lisa said in the most chipper way ever. “Don’t be shy, Janey.”

“Hi,” Jane squeaked. There’s a very subtle difference between blushing in embarrassment and flushing in arousal, and Jane was doing both.

“See,” Lisa said, “If Daffy can do it, you can, too.”

I tried hard not to laugh. Tables turned. “Aren’t swim diapers in case...”

“Well, you can never be too safe,” Lisa said with that condescending smile she turned on me not long ago.

“Mommy,” Jane whined. She is a cutie pie.

“Mary’s over here if you guys wanna say hello,” I said. And they followed me, and I could see evil cogs turning in Mary’s head when she saw what Jane was wearing. Sometimes I wish we had no kinky friends at all.

“So what happened,” I asked Jane when we were both leaning against the edge of the pool. Mary was standing next to Lisa and Brenna with a beer in her hand by the grill.

“I piddled on the floor,” she said in her adult voice.

“Why?”

“Level 99 Bratting. I’ve done it before, but she never made be wear pull-ups for more than a day before. Or ever in public.” She sounded less than thrilled. Good. I’m a mature person, though, so I didn’t say, Who’s a pull-up butt, now? Or Na na na na na!

“How many days has it been,” I asked instead.

“Three. I think she saw you in them and remembered how much she likes me in them. She kept talking about cute you were.”

See? My adorability even gets my friends into mischief.

“So you did it to get put in pull-ups on purpose?”

“No! I didn’t even think about that. I just wanted to do something naughty.” I’ve been unfairly (and fairly) accused of being a brat at times, but at least I have a goal in mind when I do. Gimme credit for that at least. I may be a brat (debatable), but I’m not a nihilist about it.

“What would you know about naughty,” I asked, “No one even spanks you right.”

“I’m just a little girl, dammit. We have more delicate heinies than you ... And at least I don’t hafta use the pull-ups.”

“We’re gonna be alone one day, and I’m going to paddle you like a canoe,” I reminded her. Two kinky adult friends, but talking and teasing each other like good friends do.

Or so I had been led to believe. It’s a conspiracy, is what it is. It has to be. All these people ganging up on me. A little good natured joshing between friends as we got out of the pool. All I said was, “That thing is like two times the size now.” And it was! It was filled with pool water. And maybe I gave her a pat on the butt (maybe as in, yeah, I did, if you happened to be looking in our direction when I did it).

We gravitated toward the food table. I don’t know what it is about the smell of pool water on your hands that makes eating Fritos while you’re still dripping so much better than Fritos at any other time. I think it must be the magic of pool season.

“You guys having fun,” Mary asked us with Lisa at her side. Lisa had a towel for Jane, also purple with “JANEY” monogrammed in big pink letters.

“She said my pull-up was huge and threatened to spank me,” Jane said in her little voice.

So freaking unfair!One second, adult. Next, takes our adult conversation, changes the tone of her voice, and BAM! How am I supposed to compete with that? Or even just deal with it? I didn’t want to start up with that stuff that day. I know I say ‘really’ a lot, but really (I’m being serious).

So, fine. I won’t spank her. I’ll just hold her under the water until the bubbles stop.

“Daphne Ann, why would you make fun of her,” Mary scolded me.

“I wasn’t! I was just saying. And she was an adult until just now.” Context, people! Fucking context!

“You of all people should know better than to make fun. You say you’re sorry right now.”

“I’m sorry,” I said grudgingly. Jane is such a little rat fink. Saw her opening to stir trouble and ran for it.

“I’m so sorry,” Mary said to Lisa. Mary turned back to me and put a hand on my shoulder. “You go play nice and remember she’s just a little girl ... And you can do it without attitude,” she added when I made my not-impressed face. “This is your second warning today. Next time is strike three. Behave yourself like you know how to.”

“Yes,” I said, maybe like a stroppy teenager. That is how you use the word ‘stroppy,’ right?

I walked back toward the pool in perhaps not the best mood. I lost my second warning over nothing. Even the first was over nothing; it was over my alleged tracked record at pool parties. I mean, at least let me misbehave first! Not the time or place, but Jane and I had to have some time soon to talk about boundaries. I’m o so glad she likes to turn on the littleness all the time, but it’s not fair to do shit like that to me.

Knowing darn well she’d retreat into her little space like a friggin surrender monkey if I confronted her about it right then, and then that I’d probably end up raising my voice, I swallowed it down, poured myself a G&T, and got back in the pool.

This is what Spring and Summer and Fall are all about (don’t you wish you lived here?): sun on your face, cool water, and liquor that’s full of alcohol. Not that I was out to get drunk, but a little tipsy never hurt a girl, and that’s what we were there for, to enjoy ourselves.

Then he appeared, Tommy. I hadn’t seen him, and then there he was at the edge of the pool with Jane. I don’t know how friendly they are, but they connect at an ageplay level that I don’t really connect with unless I put some effort into it.

I’ve been meaning to ask Mary when she thought we started ageplaying, if we were, but it seemed irrelevant anyway. I like playing with Jane because we’re friends outside of kink, even if we needed to have a Jane-to-person-who’s-going-to-drive-her-to-the-desert-and-leave-her-for-dead heart to heart very soon. Just because Mary and I live a lifestyle relationship doesn’t mean I’m always okay with her playing in ways that get me in trouble. Drive her into the desert, pull her pants down, spank her in front of all the coyotes and leave her there. Floor piddler that she is, apparently.

Trying to salvage my good mood, I got out of the pool, poured myself another drink, had some snacks (ooh, shrimp), and talked to a few people.

Or tried to. Suddenly I heard Tommy calling my name. Always happy to converse with him when he’s not in middle headspace, but obviously he was. In what way was it obvious? Adults don’t usually call the name of someone over and over and over again trying to get their attention. They get their ass out of the pool and walk over.

“I think Tommy wants you,” the person I was talking to said. Duh. I mean, duh, what else is there to say than that?

“He can walk his butt over here, then,” I said and returned to what we were talking about.

And I kept mingling. I’m a world class mingler. Or is it mingless? I have people skills. I’m a delight. I’m a pleasure to be around. I brighten a room. I’m getting sprayed with a water gun.

That little shit! “Tommy! Knock it off,” I didn’t quite shout. He sulked away.

“Act your actual age,” said my conversation companion who likewise has no patience for Tommy the Middle. I get that it can be harder for boy ageplayers. We girls are cute and don’t even get me started again about me, but boys are hairy and have beards and have all these toxic expectations they have to fight through. So I have sympathy for Tommy. I just don’t like how he usually expresses his middleness around me. It feels more directed at me.

And we’re mingling again. And then Mary is there checking on me, and everyone knows I decorated the cake, and everyone is congratulating me on a job well done, and Mary drifts away, and then a beach ball bounces off my head.

Well, fine, if he wanted to play, then I would play Daphne, 31-year-old unemployed account manager, and he could be the simpering pretend ten-year-old when I walked over and warned him, “I will march you over to Brenna and tell her what a bad boy you’re being if you don’t behave yourself ... And you, too, Jane,” I added because she was standing there smirking. For I am Daphne, and I’m not to be trifled with!

And how did they respond to my threat? In the appropriate way. Well, not appropriate but expected, unfortunately. “No you won’t!”

“Yes I will.” Odd, how quickly I said that without thinking.

“No you won’t.” And then there was a tongue sticking out at me. And then there were two tongues sticking out at me.

You can’t win that sort of fight with ageplayers. They have no shame. All you can do is walk away, but I did add, “I’m serious.” Whatever that means. I’m sure they got a good chuckle out of getting a rise out of me.

And we’re mingling. We’re discussing music and the latest movies and the newest restaurants. The things erudite, interesting people discuss at parties. Totally low key. And we’re then we’re on to discussing travel plans for the summer and the inevitable work questions slip in and I tell the truth because I have nothing to be embarrassed about and people are offering tips and some of them don’t even suck and we’re in the middle of talking about the state of the economy and then the conversation turns to snapping the strap on my swimsuit.

MOTHERFUCKER!!!

Line crossed. Rubicon over there; Tommy no longer on his side of it.

Tommy the Middle isn’t even smart enough to run away. I turned, and he’s grinning at me with this stupid now-will-you-come-play smile on his face, and I was by all accounts (especially mine) no more pissed than I had a right to be.

I don’t remember what all I said, but I do remember poking him in the chest and saying something to the effect of “I’ll serve you to the Devil on a platter made of damned souls and pita bread.” Subsequent eyewitness accounts report that I said something a lot less quirky and a lot more expletive laden. I don’t really remember, but I do remember him falling into the pool. Potentially in fear of me as I am both adorable and fearsome (or as Mary says, “My little handful,” which makes it really hard to let others know how fearsome I am when she tells them that) but also maybe because I poked him a few times while walking toward him while he said words that sounded like ‘sorry’ but it was hard to tell over the sound of steam escaping my ears.

I probably would’ve gotten away with it if he hadn’t fallen in the pool. Not even gotten away with it. I didn’t get in trouble for telling him off. I got in trouble, according to Mary, for getting physical.

No sooner had I finished telling him what I thought of him than Mary had my upper arm, Brenna was leaning over the edge of the pool telling him to get out, Jane was pretending like chocolate wouldn’t melt in her swim diaper, and some bystander said, “Every year, the Daphne and Tommy Show. Love it.” And whoever said it, said it like it’s the best part of the party.

I got frog marched to the patio, and Tommy and Brenna weren’t far behind. Mary picked up our pool bag, and a conference was held. Mary said, “I’ll take care of this inside if that’s alright.”

And Brenna said, “Be my guest. This naughty boy is going to sit in timeout for a while.”

Brenna keeps her house freezing, as was very apparent right away, and since all I had on was a swimsuit, I knew I’d be nude and shivering in a minute. I didn’t even wanna hear from Mary on the subject of what I supposedly did wrong, but that’s never an option, nor is getting marched somewhere without “Ow! Ow! Can you you at least wait OW!”

“I will not wait,” she said as she swatted me across the living room, with guests watching, and upstairs. A couple of those swats practically lifted me to the next riser and propelled me into the guest room. Mary at least shut the door.

Way back when we were negotiating the parameters of the domestic discipline lifestyle I asked for, we reached an agreement: I didn’t have to agree with why I was getting punished. I just had to submit to it. Pretty standard stuff (well, for people like us), and I was feeling mighty righteous in the moment.

“I didn’t do anything!”

“You pushed him into the pool, Daphne.”

“I barely poked him.”

“Hard enough that he fell into the pool.”

“So fucking ...”  SMACK! Well, that handprint will be on my thigh for a few hours. Deep breath, try again. “So what? He squirted me with a water gun, he threw a ball at me, and he snapped my swimsuit.”

“What’s the rule when playing with other littles?”

Well, let’s just unpack that statement: “IamnotalittleandIwasn’tevenplaying!” Foot stomp, fist clench, pouty face, that works, which earned me a SMACK! There’s a lot of room between your butt and your knee. Plenty of room for individual handprints.

“Don’t you raise your voice at me, little girl. I asked you a question: what’s the rule when playing with other littles? If they’re being mean, what are you supposed to do?”

“Come tell you or their big.”

“Now, you had every right to to be mad, and even though you shouldn’t at a party, you had every right to yell at him. But you shouldn’t ever get physical.”

One of the whole points of domestic discipline relationships is the bottom doesn’t always have to regulate their emotions. I chose to exercise that right with my signature bawling-and-babbling.

“I wasn’t (babble) and Jane (bawl) and he (wounded moose impression) and everybody’s out to get me today!” It works best if you cap it off in the traditional way, by opening your arms just a little and leaning forward so that Mary catches you and you end up on her lap getting a very good hug. And it wasn’t a sympathy ploy. They were being mean to me and Mary just took Jane at her word and dammit, my feelings were hurt.

And Mary will never deny a hurt Daphne comfort, and she knows when that’s what I need. She likes to pet my hair when I’m like that. I like it, too.

“I’m sorry, baby girl. I know it’s hard sometimes. You had every right to be upset. I just wished you’d come and told me.”

“But I’m an a-(sob inward)-dult (sob outward). I shouldn’t have to. They should just do what I say if they wanna play like littles. They didn’t even ask. They just wanna get me in trou-u-uble.”

“Ask you what, honey?”

“If I wanted to play. I was just - hhh! - trying to enjoy the par-ar-arty.”

“I’ll have a talk with Lisa and Brenna both about that.” One, two, three pats on the back. “Honey, why do you think they didn’t ask?”

“Because they think I’m a little or a middle, too.”

“What do you think?”

“That I’m just Daphne. I don’t wanna have a label. And they still need to a-a-ask. I didn’t me-ee-ee-ean to get in trou-u-uble.”

“Okay,” Mary said. She was rocking back and forth. “That’s okay. You’re okay.” She just kept patting my back and petting my hair until I reduced my sobs to sniffles.

“You’re not my mommy,” I whine-sobbed with a big (kinda nasty) sniff when I was done.

She thought that was pretty funny. “Who said I was?”

“Lisa and Jane.”

“They were just teasing, honey. I’m not your mommy.”

“You’re my wife.”

“And you’re my wife, sweetiekins. Do you feel better?”

“A little.”

“You know I still have to punish you for pushing Tommy in the pool.”

“Mhmm.”

“You ready to get it over with?”

“A-hhh-hhh,” I said (does that count as saying, when you nod and cry and suck in air at the same time) and stood up. Mary stood up with me and kissed my forehead. I was actually hoping she would wallop me good. I needed the endorphin rush. Anything less than that would’ve been cruel. But I couldn’t say so. For one, trying to top from the bottom is always a bad idea, and for two, I’m always conflicted. Yeah, I wanted that endorphiny feeling, but it’s on the far side of the OW-OW-OW-MY-ASS feeling.

I like one-piece swimsuits and I don’t fully know why. There’s just something about them. Kinda that they’re wholesome, a bit of the girl-next-door vibe. And they make you looked toned, provided you are actually at least a little toned. It’s a fetish for me, obviously, and it’s the same fetish behind why I like women in leotards and singlets and ballet outfits and, yes, onesies. (I fucking love the summer Olympics.)

But to this day, no one has ever invented a one-piece that’s not a nightmare when you have to pee or when your wife is trying to peel it off you so she can spank your bottom. That’s what you get when you let vanillas design things. It’s awkward standing there while she tugs at it. It always ends with the thing inside out in a wet heap around your ankles. I stepped out without even being told because I do things like that because I’m considerate, and well behaved. Really.

“Do you understand why you’re getting this spanking,” she asked me after she sat back down on the bed and cocked her left leg up.

“Because I shouldn’t have poked Tommy.” Risky, I know, but I still didn’t want to admit I pushed him.

“What should you have done instead?”

“Come found you or Brenna.”

“That’s right. We’ve had this problem several times now, haven’t we?”

“Yes. I’m sorry.” Even if Tommy started it, provided you define “it” was what drove me to poke him into the pool rather than the poking itself.

She turned around and reached into the pool bag and out came with the paddle, the one that goes everywhere with her, before turning her attention back to me. “I’m going to put you over my knee, and I’m going to spank your naughty little girl bottom very hard, and maybe I won’t have to spank for this issue ever again.”

That wasn’t a question, I laid myself over her left knee. She scooted me forward so most of me was on the bed, and my toes were just off the floor.

And I gotta say, she wasn’t lying because CRAP! did she skip the warm up. Mary knew I needed a good one and not just because of my (alleged) naughtiness, and she didn’t waste time.

I didn’t try to be stoic. I didn’t try to hold still. She was spanking me fast and harder than normal for this stage of a spanking. I couldn’t help but arch my back, and my feet wanted to come up and I gripped the bedspread and was pulling myself forward without even trying. Mary got a firmer grip around my hips, and from top to bottom, side to side, she didn’t miss a single spot of butt. She was thorough like when search parties lock arms and walk through tall grass.

I was actually sweating, and that little sob session I had a few minutes ago was now a wailing session. No way the people downstairs didn’t hear me. Probably the people outside heard me. Birds flew from trees. Rabbits dashed into their dens. Dogs started barking. Car alarms went off. People hit rewind on their DVRs because they missed the dialogue.

Well, not really, but you get the idea. That part of my spanking was over, blessedly, with no warning and the next part was the other kind of spanking. There’s no mistaking it for something other than punishment, but it’s more, too.

Mary slowed down. She swung that paddle hard, but she didn’t bounce it off my butt. She let it settle before she raised it again and brought it down in the same spot, or a different spot, or the same spot six times in a row. I couldn’t anticipate it, and even though I always try not to, just the feeling of the paddle coming off my butt made one or the other or both thighs flinch away after the half-beat pause that told me the paddle was on its way back.

I was damn well punished, and now this was the other thing. You don’t get the endorphin high off a punishment spanking. You get it from being taken way past that point. To the point where you’re not flinching or wailing anymore. Just sobbing quietly into the mattress until whoever is dishing out the paddling thinks you’re done. Mary decided I was done.

I kept crying, and she put the paddle down and ran her fingernails down my bare back, getting to my swollen butt where every nerve ending was electrified by her fingertips. It hurt in the best way.

That feeling of warmth spread outward until it was in my feet and belly and cheeks and hair. My heartbeat was throbbing in my ass, and everywhere else felt as good as it ever had. It’s the same feeling as the afterglow of an orgasm, but even better and even longer. I still remember the first spanking that got me to the endorphin rush, and I’m not kidding: food tasted better that day.

Mary bent down and kissed the nape of my neck, my shoulders, my back, all the way down. “You ready to get up?”

I moaned, sighed, and moaned again as I stood up. She helped me and got out of the way before guiding me back to the mattress, flat on my back, knees up and open.

“Feel better?” I nodded. “No one can do that like I can, can they, little girl?”

“Nuh uh.”

She chuckled. “Why don’t you just stay close to me the rest of the afternoon? I’ll make sure no one else picks on you.”

I was in my happy place.

“But you have to wear clothes,” she said and got my things out of the pool bag. “Lift up.”

Crinkle noises, somewhere in the endorphiny distance. What?

“I gotta wear a diaper?”

“Yes, sweetie. Lift ... good girl,” she said when she got it adjusted.

“Can’t I wear a pull-up?”

“I didn’t bring any. Besides, this is much better after a spanking. Holds the heat in. I know you like that.”

True, but, “Everyone will see.” I couldn’t even whine well. No conviction behind it. I’m very biddable after a spanking like that. Mary takes advantage of me when I’m like that in the best and worst ways.

She taped the thing up, offered me her hands, and helped me sit up. “This one’s different.” I said. It wasn’t plastic like the other ones. I didn’t know what the material was.

“It has monsters on it,” Mary said, “just like my little girl can sometimes be. Can you go RAAAWWWRRR for me?”

“Rrrr?”

“Good first try,” she laughed. I stood up, she held out my skirt for me, I stepped in, up the skirt went. Out came my shirt next.

“Stick up your arms,” which I did, and she pulled the shirt over my head. I helped.

My swimsuit went back into the pool bag, but the paddle went in her back pocket. Warning received.

“I’ll be good,” I meeped.

“I know you will, sweetie. Let’s go wash your face.” To the bathroom we went, and Mary washed my face like she always does, and she got out the brush from our bag to comb my hair for me. She put it in a pony tail, which I always do after swimming since that’s the easiest thing to do without showering first, and then she turned me around.

“Wanna look,” she asked. Too proud of herself by half. Halfway between my knees and butt, her handprints. Just north of that, overlapping paddle marks. Just north of that, diaper peeking out from under my skirt.

I didn’t mind the battle scars; kinky friends would just be jealous. But, “It doesn’t cover my diaper.” I really meant ‘her diaper’ but I was so floaty I didn’t know what I was saying. Really. “Everyone will see it.”

“So? They won’t make fun, not with me around.”

“Lisa and Jane will.” They’d say I had a relapse or some smart remark like that.

“They will not if they know what’s good for them. I’m gonna be right by your side.”

“Will you give Jane a real spanking if she makes fun?”

“Absolutely.” In that case, I wouldn’t mind getting made fun of by Jane. “Ready to go back outside?” I just nodded. Pretty sure I was making Bambi eyes at Mary as we made our way back downstairs. I didn’t mean to. Again with the congenital adorability.

No one was in the living room. I probably scared them away. Or Mary did. We walked back outside, and I got blinded for a second, and Mary handed me my sunglasses back. To say I felt conspicuous would be a massive understatement. Everyone knew I just got spanked; not just spanked, but spanked like Justin Bieber shoulda been a long time ago. And looking down at myself, I had a diaper pooch. I didn’t even know those existed, of all the awful times to discover that little tidbit. No one had even seen me from behind yet with the monsters peeking out from under my skirt like they were checking to see if the coast was clear.

Twenty or thirty people were staring at us. Mary squeezed my hand twice. I gripped hers tighter. I was ready to start crying and hide behind Mary the way Jane does with Lisa.

“Woooo!”

Huh?

“Daphne Ann, everyone!” Applause. Hoots (the non-derisive kind).

Everyone was cheering for me. I was getting applause. Me! About damn time, too. I don’t know what took everyone so long to recognize my greatness, but I, magnanimously, forgave them.

Mary held up my arm like I’d just won a prize fight (and like I couldn’t take any kind of punishment my imaginary opponents could dish out). And then, o, then, she put both arms round my shoulders, pulled me in close, and kissed me so hard I almost lost my balance. Which also would’ve been classic Daphne. Falling down like a baby deer. Endorphins and Mary and I don’t mind saying I got a little lightheaded. Definitely had nothing to do with the three cocktails I had or the fact I hadn’t had any water (I forgot! Okay? I don’t need a lecture). I can hold my liquor. Really. I can. So long as I don’t have too much.

Brenna stepped forward, and I got a great big hug from her before she said, “Everyone told me who started it, so I kept his butt in timeout for you.”

There, with his nose in the corner of the fence and his swimsuit tugged down in back and his pale butt on display, Tommy. Not so tough now.

“What’d I miss,” said a familiar voice from behind.

“Lots of good things,” Mary told Sandy.

Sandy looked me over. “Too adorable for your own good in that outfit.” See? Even Sandy knew!

“Daffy and Tommy had their annual naughtiness contest,” Mary reported. Felt like tattling to me, but she’d call it a report.

“Who won?”

“I got a standing ovation,” I said proudly. “And I got my punishment in private at least.”

“Tommy’s gonna get it still?”

“Big time if I have my way,” Mary said.

Still holding my hand, she led me over to where Brenna was putting a folding chair.

“I have to pee,” I whispered to Mary.

“That’s what diapees are for,” she whispered back. “Stay with Sandy.”

Tommy was still standing there with his butt hanging out, seriously pale between his still-damp navy swimsuit and his slightly tan back.

Sandy was standing behind me and put her arm around me. “You got it good, huh”

“Got it perfect,” I was pleased to say.

Like almost everybody, we wanted to watch the show. Brenna was giving him the talking to of his life. It was kind of a whiplash the way she went from, “You will respect women” to “That is not how we play with girls” to “Don’t you interrupt your elders when they’re talking” to “A grown man acting this way” to “Every year you behave like a naughty little boy who doesn’t get spanked enough. Well, we’re gonna start fixing that right now.”

Tommy was looking straight at the ground. He couldn’t look at Brenna or at the rest of us. But he couldn’t help himself, either, and said, “It won’t even hurt! I’m not Daphne.”

No, he’s definitely no Daphne. Enter the ninja I married.

“Excuse me,” she said to Brenna as she strutted through the crowd, “mine just got the daylights spanked out of her. Since he started it and was picking on my Daphne, how about I spank his bottom?”

“Great idea. He deserves at least what Daphne got.” Brenna stood. I don’t know if she knew what she had just agreed to.

“And then some,” Mary added. She sat down in Brenna’s place. A cheer went up from the crowd like Santa Clause hit a walk-off grand slam to win the Heisman Cup (did I get that right? that’s a real sportsball thing, isn’t it?).

And Tommy’s face went from defiant to ‘o shit’ in a heartbeat. Mary thought he deserved more of a lecture, and I don’t know if Tommy is into humiliation or is just an exhibitionist or neither, but he did not look like a happy camper to be getting dressed down, figuratively and literally, in front of the crowd.

Mary really laid into him. “How dare you pick on my Daphne again! She’s just a little girl, and you tease her almost every time we see you.” SMACK! “You hurt her feelings, Tommy. You made her cry. Do you understand that?” SMACK! “I asked you a question.”

I’m guessing he mumbled yes, which didn’t stop Mary from delivering two more. SMACK SMACK!! And I noticed what she called me, but I was okay with it if in Mary’s mind it justified him getting a bigger spanking.

“Do you feel like a big boy now?” He was smart enough to answer before she got him again.

“Big boys don’t pick on little girls. Big boys don’t make little girls cry. And you know what? It hurt me, too. I don’t like my little girl crying. It hurts me inside.”

O my god, she got him to sniffle. I’ve never seen Tommy sniffle, not even during a punishment. I held back my cheer because there’s a certain etiquette to these things. Decorum, always decorum. That’s me. And because I’d rather listen to my Mary lay into him than myself cheering.

“And she got in trouble because of you. She just got her bare bottom spanked because of you! You started it, but I still had to give her a spanking.”

She reached out and yanked hard on his swimsuit and it landed with a wet plop around his ankles. “You,” she said with her finger pointed under his nose, “are definitely not a big boy.” He tried to cover himself. That only got his thighs swatted again and his hands smacked. “I’m going to treat you just like the little boy you act like. I’m going to put you over my knee, and I’m going to spank your bottom purple, buster, right in front of all these people. All your friends are going to see you you get your bare bottom spanked, little boy. Like a naughty toddler who can’t keep his hands to himself.”

She stood just enough to grab his earlobe, and pulled him down over her knee, took a firm grip on him, and gave him the punishment spanking she just gave me times about two, and he didn’t get any of the fun kind of spanking either. She just paddled him and kept at it. And kept at it. And then kept keeping at it.

He didn’t carry on like I did, probably because we were outside, but he was struggling and tears were streaming down his face and his lips was quivering when she was done with his butt.

He danced right off my Mary’s lap at the end. All modesty gone, holding his butt (holy ass cheeks, Batman! That color...) and dancing with his thingy flopping around. Although Mary was right; I’ve seen floppier, and I don’t even go looking.

Mary wasn’t done. She was back on her feet, grabbed his ear again, and asked him, “Are you ever going to tease my Daphne again?” He couldn’t twist away as she landed that paddle again and again and again.

“No!” he said with little sobs he was trying so hard to hold in.

“Why not?” She was just cracking his butt with that paddle. I was honestly pretty damn impressed that he didn’t use a red light. Brenna didn’t stop it, but she did look like this was beyond any spanking she ever gave him. I’d have thought less of her as a top if she didn’t look concerned about the walloping Mary was giving him. Maybe she gave him the same sometimes, but it’s different when another top is doing it.

“Because it’s wrong,” he said.

“And?” Four more, all directed at his thighs.

“You’ll spank me again! Please!” All those little sobs came out now, crying just like a little boy. Sorta.

She kept hold of his ear and marched him back to the corner, landing more swats along the way.

“You stay here in this corner and think about what you’ve done, and no rubbing you little fanny or I’ll start your spanking all over again, mister.”

“I won’t! I swear!”

Mary gave him one more hard one on each cheek, let go of his ear, and marched with determination right back to Brenna.

“That’s how you spank a boy like Tommy,” she said proudly. “Why don’t you keep Daphne’s paddle for next time?”

It’s. Not. MINE!!!!

And it was definitely not mine anymore (yay!). And I guess that means we get to go paddle shopping (yay paddle testing!).

She put the paddle down with a clank on the table, and now she was getting cheers and applause while Tommy was standing naked in the corner with his shoulders quaking and his hands around in front of him shielding his dingaling from the eyes of the fence, I guess.

Mary strolled right back to me, and if I could’ve, I’d have lifted her on my shoulders. My Champion. My Lover. My Always Defender. I got on my tiptoes, threw my arms around her neck, and all the cheers turned to awws.

She let me go, and with a big smile said, “Anyone else wanna pick on my Daphne?” She looked around and her eyes zeroed in on Jane, who had a raccoon-caught-in-the-flashlight look on her face. “Jane?”

“No, ma’am.”

Jane and I still needed to have a talk, and I knew Mary would follow up and talk to Lisa like she said she would.

Sandy was standing there the whole time, looking absolutely delighted. Everything in the world that makes her happy just happened right in front of her. The only other person I’ve ever seen put a hurting on a man like that is Sandy. Not that I spend much time paying attention to men playing, but I’ll watch Sandy domme anyone because she’s, um, good at it and stuff.

“Nicely done,” Sandy said. “It’s always so satisfying to make boys cry.”

“He’ll remember that for a while, but I’m betting he’ll need plenty more reminders.”

“Boys always do.” I didn’t even realize I was looking up at Mary with an adoring smile on my face until she she looked down and tapped my nose. “My Daphne certainly does.”

“Littles always do, too,” Sandy added.

“She’s my little girl, but she’s not a little. She’s just Daphne.” O, my wonderful Mary.

“Well, Daphne’s a little wet, but those diapers hold a lot. She’s good for a while,” Sandy helpfully chimed in.

I’d actually forgotten I was wearing it. And how did she know it was wet?

“She’s got the cutest little potty face,” Sandy added.

O my god. From my thighs to my face I probably had so many shades of red on me I looked like a paint sample card.

“She’s making funna me, Mary, go get the paddle back.”

“No, she’s not, sweetie. Are you?”

“Of course not, kiddo. You’re just too adorable, is all,” said the woman almost ten years younger than me. Calling me ‘kiddo’...

“I’m gonna get her home,” Mary said, “and into a bath, and then into bed.”

“It’s two o’clock,” I said. Then I got her meaning. I’m good at other things besides innuendo. And not sounding ditsy saying things like, “O!” when I figure it out.

I don’t know who said it was The Annual Daphne and Tommy Show, but it was quite a show. Not that I was eager for an encore for quite some time.

But I like to think we taught people a thing or two, chief among them don’t fuck with Mary’s little girl (that’s me; just don’t call me that because only Mary is allowed, but please don’t tell her I said so), and that a lot of Brenna’s guests went home and did the same thing we did. Probably minus the diaper.

All because I’m everybody’s adorabilibuddy. I can’t help it. Really.