Mary and Daphne #20 (Patreon)

We’re practicing. This is what Mary calls it. She even keeps a straight face while she says it. I haven’t been a student in so long, she says, that I need to practice. It’s important that the details are right, apparently.

If you’re thinking she has me brushing up on math skills or reading textbooks and taking notes, you’re way off base.

I’m practicing looking like I’m back in school. Great big smile when she said, “I got you a present.” I open the box, and it’s a plaid skirt, white blouse, knee socks, and Mary Janes.

Does she even love me? Does she know what Clan Macalister will do to me if they catch me wearing their tartan? Does she understand what could happen if the girls from St. Cecilia’s see me walking through their neighborhood?

It wasn’t a sexy schoolgirl outfit, either. It was a legit school uniform. I looked like a sophomore at Our Lady of Perpetual Teendom.

Why are there so many pleats!?! There are people in the word with no pleats at all, and some of them desperately need them ASAFP.

The pull-ups are much less embarrassing. They’re hidden. Everybody was looking at me at Target in that stupid outfit.

“Can we get what we need and go,” I asked.

“I’m just seeing if they have anything cute,” she said. Or claimed. I’m downgrading that from “said” to “claimed” because color me a Doubtful Daphne when it comes to Mary’s mixing of her motives. Sure, she likes to shop, but I think she likes watching me blush and squirm even more. She wouldn’t wear dress pants from Target if they were the only pants purveyor to survive the pantspocalypse.

“See, look at these,” she said.

“You don’t put bows in your hair.” Because no one her age or my age or really anyone’s age after seven does. Into the cart they went anyway.

“Okay, moving on,” she said without answering me and steered the cart toward our normal Target aisles. I actually have zero patience for Target. I know some people love it. I would too if they would close the store to everyone else while I shopped. Steering those gigantic carts around people just staring into space, taking up room, breathing my air, existing in my plane of existence... I don’t like box stores in general.

“Wanna split up,” I asked. We could get done faster and get on to the good part of the day. Lunch and then literally anything else that wasn’t being in a big box store. Getting hooted at by construction workers (again). They’re fixing the parking lot and gave me a good hooting on my way in; I’d have gotten pissed off, but considering the outfit, I don’t think they were catcalling so much as having a good laugh and I can’t blame them. Or if they’d already gone home for the day, some other delightful activity besides Target shopping, like playing catch with a watermelon, visiting with Tommy, simultaneous dental and anal surgery, or watching a loved one be autopsied.

“Nah. Let’s stick together.”

“Can’t we split up and finish faster?”

“What’s the rush? Don’t you like shopping with me?” She just loves whipping out little lines like that, her way of really saying, don’t you like being my submissive little girl, to which the answer is fuck yes more than anything. But that doesn’t mean I like Target! Why are there so many primary colors!?! It overwhelms my delicate senses.

“You know I hate Target, and everyone is looking at me.”

“They are not. That’s just your imagination.”

“Yes they are!”

“Like who?”

“Like him,” I said and half-heartedly pointed at a boy who looked about sixteen and like he wanted to ask me to junior prom. And he saw me point and smiled this big stupid smitten teenager smile. Mary just laughed while I turned around mortified and hoped for one of the fluorescent lights to fall on me. Why fluorescent!?! There’s too much fluorescence in these stores!

We don’t need to go down every aisle. I, too, love the serendipity of finding something you want to have without knowing you wanted it, but come the fuck on. We don’t have any surfaces in need of lamps. We don’t eat off placemats. There’s nothing wrong with our tableware. Our shower curtain is holding up like a champ. We don’t buy linens at Target. We haven’t bought a DVD in I don’t know how many years. We don’t have a baby. We don’t need or want flat-pack furniture. Our patio umbrella is fine.

And how the hell are we back in the greeting cards again? Who are we greeting? And why does greeting them require spending six dollars? ‘H! How are ya? Happy birthday!’ Blam! Free!

And why can’t we use the leftover Christmas wrapping paper for non-Christmas events? Santa gonna chew us out? It’s literally something people tear up and throw away. People should give presents in the shopping bag they give ya at checkout or just right in the friggin Amazon box. Use your reason people!!!

“Would you stop,” Mary finally said.

“Stop what?”

“Looking like you’re pissed off.”

“You know I hate these stores.” Between the gawking men and the judging women taking wannabe-furtive glances at my outfit and the fluorescing and inoffensive top-40 music and the red everywhere, my nerves were being grated upon, one might say (and I do, and I should know).

“Sometimes we have to do things we don’t like.”

“Gee, thanks for the words of wisdom.” Oops.

It’s not my fault. It’s shareholder capitalism’s fault. It leads to box stores that just grate on your nerves until you can’t stand it anymore. You say stuff without thinking. Maybe I could get out of trouble if I found a really good apology card. Totally worth the six bucks.

“Daphne Ann,” she said in that calm way that makes me know she’s pissed at me. She says she’s never pissed, merely disappointed or upset. Mom and Dad used to say that to me, and I can tell the damn difference. She took the shopping list out of her pocket; like she even needs a list – she just remembers everything from how much shampoo is left to every time I ever misbehaved in a retail outlet. She tore a piece off the end of the list, wrote something on it, handed it over, and said, “Five minutes or else. I’ll be by the laundry stuff.” She turned on her heel – well, she tried but not really; she would’ve, but the cart was too wide and one of the wheels was dragging and the aisle was narrow and some guy was bent over staring at coffee makers (Why are we in this aisle!!! We don’t drink coffee!!!) with his gigantic ass sticking out, so it was more of pivot, scrape, squeezing – and walked away.

Well, crap. There’s my mouth getting me in trouble again. Like I didn’t know how this was going to play out. No way was she not going to spank me in the restroom. No way. Not even worth trying to get out of it.

If I’d done something not so bad like pull the fire alarm or deliberately knock over all the shelves and crush the other shoppers or robbed the customer service desk with a homemade flamethrower, she’d just tell me, ‘Wait until I get you home, missy.’

For smarting off like I just did, it would be, ‘If you’re not too old to misbehave in public, you’re not too old to get your bottom spanked in public.’ Semi-public. This Target has a family restroom. It wasn’t to be my first time in there with Mary.

So what’d she write? With a great big butterfly in my tummy and people still staring at me as they spotted me in that school uniform, I looking at the paper.

AWW, DAMMIT IT ALL TO HELL! CRAP FUCKING ASSHAT FUNGUS MUFFIN!!!

I didn’t even know where they keep the adult diapers at Target. I headed toward the pharmacy section and about fell on my ass in the stupid shoes Mary got for me to wear with this outfit. Why are the floors or Target so smooth!?! I need traction, dammit! Which is the type of complain you make when you’re so irritated completely normal things irritate you more, or when you’re trying to change the subject from what you're butt has coming to it. Or both.

Painkillers, stomach ailments, supplements - ah hah, incontinence. Sandwiched between humidifiers and condoms. Why didn’t I think of that?

I was hit by an ethical-slash-ass-risking dilemma. Did I dare get pull-ups and pretend I was confused? And which of these were pull-ups and which were diapers? They all looked sorta the same. The only brand name I recognized was Depends. Those looked more like underwear.

“Can I help you?”

Fucking really? Out of all the Target employees in all the Targets in all the strip malls in all the land, the only helpful one had somehow found me? Did I piss off the Target gods with my lack of reverence for their bargains and tasteful home goods? Was I cursed by a wood nymph? Maybe I could try that excuse when I returned to Mary, which I needed to do pronto: it’s not my fault I snapped; I was cursed by a forest fairy who possessed me with a bitchy demon.

The clock was ticking.

“Um, yeah, I’m shopping for my grandma,” I said like he gave a shit, “and she’s, uh, ya know, and I need to get her some diapers,” I said very quietly without even meaning to like I was trying to hide, “and I can’t tell which are, um, those, and which are pull-ups.”

“Oh, hmm. Ya know, I’m not sure.”

Of course he’s not sure! He works at Target! They don’t hire their employees because of their intimate knowledge of medical supplies! Why did he even ask? Did Mary send him? Is there an actual vengeful wood nymph?

“But,” he said, “I can ask the pharmacist.” Just what I need. A bigger audience.

“Um, thanks,” I said, “but I think these are probably it.”

“It’d be no trouble.”

“I appreciate it, but I think I got it.”

“Well, good then ...” And he just stood there.

O my fucking lord. I’m being hit on by a forty-year-old Target employee while buying adult diapers.

I pissed off the wrong wood nymph. She is one nasty bitch, with a capital-B which stands for ‘Bitch’.

And not burdened by a cart, I had nowhere to hide the diapers. But not burdened by a cart, I turned on my heel and speed walked away. Or tried to. In those stupid Mary Janes on Targets stupidly frictionless floors I put a little too much twist into and almost lost my balance before pretending like everything was normal – nothing to see here! just a grown woman dressed like parochial schoolgirl with a bag of adult diapers who nearly fell on her ass! move along, return to your domiciles and places of business … please?

“Took you a few extra minutes,” Mary said in The. Most. Chipper. Voice. Ever. So glad she was having so much fun.

I started to lift the bag into the cart. “Ah-ah. You can hold on to those.”

“Mary,” I said in my very own I’m-so-past-my-breaking-point-I’m-oddly-calm voice, “look at how I’m dressed. Unless you want to end up in a Schoolgirls of Target video on the internet with me, I’m putting them in the cart.”

“Well, I’ll give you that,” she chuckled.

“I just got hit on by a guy who smells like Doritos.” Glad she thought that was so funny. It’s not that I mind guys hitting on me; it’s just that I don’t like getting hit on in public at all. I mean, who hits on strangers in public anymore? Go to a club, get on an app. I was there to shop for (I’m dying a little inside) diapers, not to be some rando’s flirting post.

Mary took a thing of detergent off the shelf, the kind with no perfumes or dyes. She knows I’m sensitive to smells and dyes. Sigh … she takes good care of me. It’s the endearing little things, like remembering the detergent you prefer, that makes a person your person. O, guilty feelings, wondered when those would show up.

“Are we gonna check our first,” I asked. As in before Mary dealt with my attitude problem.

“Still in a hurry?”

“No ... I just ... I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

“I know, sweetie. It’s not the first time, though, is it?” A rolling lecture as I tagged along next to her. “Keep your hand on the cart, honey.”

“No, not the first time.” I said dolefully. A mom and her eight-year-old walked the opposite way; she, too, was holding the side of the cart like a good little girl. I felt a little jealous of, thinking that she probably never gets spanked at all, let alone in the Target restroom

“I wish we could break that habit of you not thinking before you say something. And you ought to be mature enough to just suck it up when you have to be somewhere you don’t wanna be.”

“I know.”

“I know you know. But I’ll keep giving you reminders until you remember to behave like you know.” I knew that, too. “So let’s go take care of this, finish our shopping, and if you can be a pleasant little girl for the rest of our trip today, I’ll get you a treat.”

Still with my hand on the cart, we walked toward the restrooms. You think Target is big, just try walking from one end to the other with a spanking waiting for you when you arrive and a bag of adult diapers in the cart.

Mary parked the cart, or more like wedged it sorta outta the way, and I just waited to be told what to do or be taken by the wrist.

“What are you doing,” I asked when she started tugging at something in the cart and hoping the answer was something other than ...

“Getting a diaper out,” she said at a completely normal volume.

I was in damage control mode. You don’t raise your voice in damage control mode. You don’t do anything to make the other person raise their voice. You focus on the possible, not the ideal.

“They make these so hard to get out,” she said with a grunt.

“Just grab the whole bag then.” Whatever makes this part of it go faster before people start noticing.

“No, I got it.” With one more hard tug, she got one out. And tossed it into the air. It landed on the floor between us, and she bent over to pick it up, looking not in the least fazed to be holding a giant diaper in public. Meanwhile, I was ready to wander away muttering, ‘Does anyone know this person? I don’t know her. Wonder who that is. La dee da...’ My brother thinks that’s the most hilarious thing ever when his kid throws a fit at the store. Walks away ten feet and says, ‘Whose kid is that?’

Not an option for me.

“Come on,” Mary said, stretching her diaper-holding arm out and putting her hand on my shoulder to usher me into the restroom. All hard surfaces. It’s just so loud in public restrooms. And this one was right by the entrance, too. Does she just not care anymore if we get caught? Could be worth it if we got banned from Target. I still cared, though. She locked the door behind us, put the diaper on the sink, and hung her purse on the hook. At least it was a single-person restroom. And yes, I’ve been spanked in restroom that were no single-person, but only when we’re travelling. Highway rest stops are always so busy…

“What do you think, Daphne? Is this the third time we’ve visited this restroom together or the fourth?”

“I don’t know,” I said trying to be a lot quieter than she was.

“Not everything is fun. Not everything is fun for both of us. I do things you like that I don’t, and you do things I like that you don’t. Why couldn’t we do that today? For just an hour, just while we got some stuff we needed?”

“I’m sorry. I just ... I didn’t realize I had such an obvious attitude. And I didn’t mean to say that to you.”

“You let a lot of things slip out of that mouth when you don’t get your way. You need to learn to bite your tongue.”

“I do, mostly.” I’m just more comfortable around Mary. I don’t always remember to filter myself. The brat is strong in me sometimes, and if you can’t brat with your domme, who can you brat with? She’s my safe space to be my very truest self. It’s just that my self can be a tad lippy.

“Clearly ‘mostly’ is not enough. You’re gonna be in school soon. Are you gonna make smart remarks if the class is boring?”

“No.”

“I hope not. Now, I’m going to lift that pretty skirt of yours and spank your naughty bottom, then you’re wearing that diaper for the rest of our day out. You let both of those things remind you to watch your mouth today, or you’ll be one sorry little girl when we get home.”

“Yes,” I said, trying very hard to keep the attitude out of my voice. If there was any attitude in my tone, it was direct at me, not her.

“Been a while since you needed two spankings in one day.” Geez, now a little attitude was directed at her. She just likes watching me squirm. “I’ll take that diaper right down, and spank your fanny for you if you need it.”

I couldn’t help picturing that. It seemed best avoided. I just nodded. She turned back to her purse and got out the hairbrush. We hadn’t replaced the purse paddle yet.

“Mary,” I whined. “Not that.”

“Who does the spanking,” Mary asked. I think she was a little incredulous that I would be arguing with her after what was kinda a harsh lecture. I don’t very often do that (or I try not to do that very often). Not unless I’m trying to get a worse spanking than she has in mind. Which is not often; not unheard of, but not often because Mary doesn’t normally need any encourage to give my butt her all.

“Everyone will hear,” I reasoned.

“Who does the spanking, little girl?”

“You.”

“And who gets her naughty caboose spanked?”

“Me.”

“That’s right. I spank little girls, and you are the little girl who gets her butt spanked.” About one inch tall; that’s how I felt.

She stepped up to me so that we were facing opposite walls. I didn’t have to be told to bend over; I just did, and she grabbed my skirt and tucked me under her arm.

I hated (love/hated) that paddle so much, and now I missed it as that brush bounced off my butt. And when we got a new paddle for the purse, I’d surely miss the brush because at least it’s the devil I knew. Give Mary credit, though. She left my panties up, and it was a lot quieter than it would’ve been bare. Not quiet, but muffled enough that there wasn’t a giant cracking sound ricocheting off the walls.

I hate being bent over under her arm. I don’t like bent-over for spankings at all. I wanna be over her lap. It’s a loss less fun and a lot more painful if I don’t get to touch her. There was nothing fun about this spanking anyway. She swung it hard enough to hurt and not hard enough to actually get any endorphins flowing. SMACK CRACK STING BURN! It just hurt, and I just stood there trying to hold still and let Mary give me the spanking I earned. I may misbehave sometimes, but I know how to take my medicine like a good girl.

I started to squirm, and she held me tighter, delivered five really hard ones, and let me up. I didn’t cry or get teary – even if I deserved a punishment spanking, I didn’t deserve a bad one – and I straightened up chastened and with light red butt under those silly school uniform panties. Even the stuff from the junior miss departments are sexier than those friggin granny panties. Mary reached down and rubbed my butt for me.

“Anymore naughtiness in you for the day?”

“No. I’m sorry.”

“I know, sweetie.”

She gave me my post-spanking hug and kiss, squatted down at me feet, reached up under my skirt, whisked the granny panties down and said, “Don’t need these anymore today.” I lifted my feet, and she had to work a little to get them off with those clunky shoes still on. Are Mary Janes a sarcastic joke no one picked up on? Put awkward, smooth-soled shoes on a little kid and watch them try not to fall over?

Being a good girl, and having just been well reminded of it, I kept my skirt up, and Mary pivoted back toward her purse hanging from the wall. She put the brush away, grabbed the diaper, and threw the panties at the trash can.

“You can’t take away my panties,” I sorta whine-shouted. Where did that come from?

“Excuse me?”

“You can’t! Please don’t throw away my panties!”

“Honey,” she said as she stepped forward and hugged me, “don’t get teary.”

I was teary? Since when? Then I felt a tear drop on my cheek, and my nose was all stuffy. Yep, teary. What the fuck?

“Shh. Calm down. You don’t even like those undies.”

I had to sniff back a runny nose so could say, “You’re not throwing all my panties away?”

“Of course not. What made you think that?”

“I ...” Just panicked when I saw the diaper in her hand and the panties in the trash. She did joke about it the once, too. Guess I made a little leap there with the logic. “I just ... I dunno.”

“I’m not gonna throw your undies away, sweetie. They’re too cute on your bottom.” She kissed me on my forehead.

“I ... I’m sorry I snapped again.”

“You didn’t snap. You just got scared.” She kissed me again. “Now let’s get this diapee on you, and we can go back into the store.”

First time I’ve been put into a diaper standing. I held my skirt up and did a Daphne-being-lowered-onto-a-horse impression so she could get it on me. I wanted like you wouldn’t believe to say no. I’d have begged for a pull-up if she had any. Shoot, why not just roll up the skirt a few inches and give everyone in the store a peak at my ass cheeks? Like they weren’t trying to look anyway.

Anyway, she got it on me, washed her hands, took a wet paper towel and wiped my the tear streak off my face before letting me blow my nose. Of course she insisted she hold the paper towel while I did it, but we’re experienced with that. She holds the towel and says, “Honk.” I honk. She wipes my nose, and we’re done. I stood there through the whole procedure until she got her purse down and once again held her arm out to gesture me to the door like nothing out of the ordinary happened, just a woman in her thirties who had to take out a timeout from her errand to spank a bratty shopper. Which isn’t out of the ordinary for us. Not a regular occurrence, at least the while-shopping part, but not out of the ordinary by any means.

Back into the bright, awful light of Target. I almost panicked again when I didn’t see our cart right away. Go ahead and spank the crap outta me, because no way was I gonna start all the way over with this trip. I’d rather go hang out with the construction workers.

“We only need two more things,” Mary said as she started pushing the cart again. “Hold on to the cart, honey.”

There was no sign anyone had heard a thing. I breathed a sigh of relief. But i didn’t get to finish it.

“Mary,” I whispered.

“Yeah,” she said once more at her regular volume. Is that a top thing? Choosing to ignore that signal?

“I don’t like this,” I said with more stress than whine in my tone.

“What?”

“This feels ... awful.”

“It’s a spanking, sweetheart. It’s supposed to hurt for a while.” That’s definitely a top thing – choosing to mistake your meaning so they can make you squirm some more.

“Not that,” I said while rolling my eyes, not that she could see because I was looking at the six inches in front of my feet as we walked. “This is so uncomfortable.”

“Your diaper?”

Good thing Our Lady of Perpetual Teendom taught me how to silently pray for patience. I should probably actually do that more.

“Yes.”

“That’s a punishment, too, Daffy Pants. This time at least.” Huh? That’s a brand new pet name. And a decidedly stupid one. I hoped it wouldn’t somehow take. And what else did she say? I could hear over THE SOUND OF MY UNDERWEAR!

“I know, but ...” I was having a hard time even finding the words. “Feels ... like ... a grocery bag.”

“Really?”

“It feels ... cheap. And it’s so crinkly!” I’m not an expert, but Pampers makes a better diaper, I’m sure. God help me if they ever make a size big enough for me, because Mary will, no doubt, join Costco just to buy them in bulk, probably at Sandy’s suggestion, and make me go with her to Costco, which is just Target on steroids and I no doubt brat my way into a wholesale-sized spanking to go with our pallet Daphne-sized Pampers.

“You like your diapers at home better,” Mary asked me.

“Yes ...” Crap! Crap!! Crap!!! “I mean, no but they feel better than this ... I don’t like any of them them ... Stop looking at me like that,” I whined. I really needed to do a self-assessment and figure out what was up with my whininess lately.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m the world’s cutest baby chick.”

“You are so adorable when you blush. I could gobble you up.”

“Stop saying stuff like that,” I whined.

She reached over to put her arm around my shoulder and pulled me close so I was leaning on her. She ran her hand through my hair and kissed me as we walked. “I’ll start keeping one of your good diapers in my purse when we go out, how’s that?”

“Horrible.” She just kissed me again. “Can I go take this off?”

“No, sorry, sweetie. Punishment stands. But we can just throw them away when we get home.”

“Why even buy them then?”

“Or we could go up to the customer service desk and try to return them. They’re gonna ask why they’re open, but if you want ...”

“No! That’s okay.”

“You do sound like you’re wearing a grocery bag.”

“You can hear it!?!”

“Yep.”

I didn’t dare look up. I’m sure I was probably getting looks, and I didn’t even want to think what they were for now.

I put my eyes down and inched forward as we waited in line at checkout, practically moonwalking to keep my moving any more than I had to. It turned into a slightly longer trip than it would’ve been, totally my fault, but we were almost home free.

“You know these are open, right,” the checker asked Mary.

Funny how a blushing like a stop sign can bring heat to your face even as all the rest of you suddenly feels cool all over and that bitter adrenaline taste rises in your throat. Maybe it would finally be the one. That final embarrassing incident in my life that would literally kill me. Death by stroke as all the blood rushed to my cheeks and ears.

“Yeah. We had a little emergency,” Mary said while turning and looking pointedly at me.

Checkers don’t care, and maybe shoppers in line don’t care, but I cared. Come on, massive stroke! Kill me here, and bury me under the Target parking lot. I’m ready!

But I lived through it, and Mary paid, and we walked back into the midmorning sun which is actually not as searing as box store lighting even if you stare right at it. And the parking lot noise masked the diaper noise. So I had that going for me, I guess. Really?

“How ya feeling,” Mary asked me.

Real answer? I needed to cum so bad. So. Damn. Bad. Because of the spanking and humiliation. Not because of the diaper. Really.

But like I’d tell Mary that.

“You’re so mean sometimes,” I whined instead.

“Gonna be my sweet little girl for the rest of our trip?”

“Mhmm.”

I kept my promise, and Mary kept hers: she got me a peanut butter cup on the way home. We split it.

“Who takes such good care of you,” she asked me.

“You do.”

“Because I love you so much.”

“I love you, too.”

“You talking to me or the peanut butter?”

“Peanut butter.”

“You little stink rat!”

“I am not a stink rat!”

“Are, too.”