Mary and Daphne #27 (Patreon)

Some adults hate their birthday. No one likes getting older, so why celebrate it? And my answer to that is because you need to take any and every excuse you can think of to celebrate, and then celebrate the ever loving crap out of it because life is too damn short not to. And besides that philosophical belief, I also think I make the world a brighter place, and a little recognition of my contribution isn’t just for my benefit – it’s good for everybody.

According to anonymous sources who agreed to be quoted on background because they didn’t have permission from their wife to speak on the record, the prospect of not getting to celebrate my birthday in the style to which, being of my station, I am both accustomed and entitled, made me a little pouty. A tad. A touch. And a teensy bit mouthy. This source lifted my skirt right there in the kitchen and gave me one of those underhand spanks that make even little ol’ me’s butt cheeks wobble, to which I may have unwisely said, “What the fuck was that for?”

Well, shit. She caught me off guard, okay?

One look at Mary’s face told me I needed to at least try backpedaling, so I followed up my little outburst with, “Said the lion to the wardrobe about the witch?”

Mary’s not-impressed face. “Stay right here,” is all she said.

That kicked my heart rate up a notch. We were in the kitchen, where a number of spanking implements live. There’s the spatula (fucking prick that he is), the spoon (we have an on-again-off-again thing going), the paddle hanging in the pantry (he’s always in a bad mood), and the paddle ever present in Mary’s purse (we don’t get along). Which isn’t to say our bedroom doesn’t contain a variety of butt punishers, and therein lies the anxiety: if everything in the kitchen wasn’t enough to pick from, what was she picking out upstairs? I looked at the pot of boiling water on the stove and imagined my butt being scalded.

Mary was back in a moment, and there was no implement in her hand. Ruh roh. She strode across our kitchen like the graceful goddess that she is and said simply, “Open.”

“Mmm mmm,” I said (hummed?). I’d sooner go get the extension cord from the garage and tell her to beat me like a rented left-handed, red-haired step-mule than get my mouth washed out. If a spanking can be at least a little fun (and sometimes the most fun ever) and if a timeout is at least kinky and submissive and her stupid absorbent undergarments make her happy, mouth soaping is more like chemical warfare, and there are treaties against that. What kind of example would I – me, whose birthday is cause for public celebration – be if I were a party to treaty violations? I’m a role model for our nation’s - no, our planet’s - youth!

“One … “

Pshaw. Does that even work after the age of 9?

“Two …”

Well, it is a little intimidating, not knowing exactly what happens at three, but it can’t be that bad.

“Thr… Good girl,” she said as I stood there with my lips parted. I’m not even sure how it happen. Magic, I think. Mary is a ninja, as you well know, and also a sorceress. She’s ensorcelled me for many years.

And then very quickly – so quickly I couldn’t tell if she drew on her ninja or sorceress skills – there was a rubber nipple in my mouth. I’d forgotten about that damn pacifier.

As I stood there like a friggin toddler, giving Mary the dirtiest look I could muster, something terrible happened. I mean, it was just awful. I’ve been fortunate in my life that nothing too terrible has ever happened to me. Shitty boss, lost my grandpas kind of young, but I’m loved, financially secure, and overall healthy. And what happened next was, at least in the moment, such a game changer that I’m still not over it, as you can probably guess. I’m a little traumatized.

That same anonymous source has gone on record many times in the past to just about anyone who would listen to tell them that my dirty looks are legendary. They have made lesser women and men than this source capitulate and quake. It took years for my mother to build up immunity to them. I knew this anonymous source was the person I was meant to marry because she was immune from the very start. Those pouty faces and dirty looks didn’t make her change her mind; they didn’t even faze her. She’d give a dirty look right back and often accompany it with a smack to my ass.

Tragedy: an event that is tragic in character.

I gave her the very worst (or is it best?) dirty look I could with that pacifier between my lips, knowing full well I was courting a smack bottom but refusing to knuckle under without registering any protest at all, and all she did was say, “Aww.”

I mean, what the fucking fuck am I supposed to fucking do with that?

And then that sorceress witch turned her back to me and resumed chopping vegetables for dinner.

“I don wike dis,” I mumbled.

“No talking, sweetie. We’ll leave it in until dinner.”

Well, I don’t know who she thinks she is, but I know damn well who I am: I, at the time, was the Birthday Girl. And Birthday Girls don’t have to put up with that kind of bullshit (even when our actual birthday is the next day).

Birthday Girls say and do what they want, and what I wanted to say was, “Errrrmmm (stomp) urrrggh (stomp, clatter).” And if a Birthday Girl wants to pick up a dish towel and toss it weakly at the exact spot on the counter she picked it up from at a height of about four inches, she’s gonna. She’s fucking gonna. Take that, witch!

Calamity: a complete breakdown in the social order of our household.

She put her kitchen utensils down, turned, put her hands on my shoulders, leaned over, and gave me a kiss on the temple. Then (then!) she turned me around, squeezed my butt, and gave me a kiss on the forehead. Have you ever heard of such effrontery to a Birthday Girl of my standing!

“Don’t be like that.” Another kiss. “But if you really don’t like it, we can get online after dinner and order a ball gag. Up to you.”

She’s a ninja, and a sorceress, and a coyote, well known in the mythology of the Americas as the trickster. I married a coyote, and she just tricked me. Or maybe this is even worse and she’s not a coyote: she could be a lawyer. Or (fuck my life) I may have been sharing a bed with a politician this whole time.

I mean, I just threw a tantrum. A pretty big one by the standards of emotionally stable adults. Our marriage license – a legally binding contract – dictates that in the immediate wake of such behavior I be turned over any convenient and suitable thing and beaten around the thighs and buttocks with a flat, hard item. I’m not saying that’s what I wanted to happen. I’m just saying that’s what was supposed to happen, and it didn’t, and I didn’t understand why. It’s like I dropped an apple and it fell up.

Conceivably, it could have been because of my birthday, but that doesn’t even make sense because, one, I’m me and she’s she and we’re us. For another, birthdays have stopped zero spankings in our house.

But I don’t want a ball gag. I deployed the pouty face. She smiled at me. I escalated to a frowny face. Maybe she couldn’t see it behind her pacifier (and yes, it’s hers too, just like all the paddles and hairbrushes and pull-ups and diapers). I had only three escalation strategies left: the nuclear option, the medieval option, and the biblical option (listed in order of increasing direness). Knowing now, however, that she’s a coyote, I couldn’t risk the medieval option (a.k.a., get angry) or the biblical option (a.k.a., refuse) without knowing what other tricks she had up her sleeve (Birthday Girls get to mix metaphors all we want).

I went fucking nuclear: sad face. Bam! Mic drop. Yeah, I went there. She couldn’t miss it, not with my quivering lip making my paci tremble. I knew that would set her straight and put the world back in order.

She looked at me, my darling wife/ninja/sorceress/coyote, and she said to me, “O, little girl, don’t be sad.” And then she gave me a goddam hug.

I’d lost. And I’m not even sure what we were playing for. I’m not even sure if she was playing too or if it was all in my head.

And then she spiked the fucking ball. “Why don’t you lay down on the couch while I finish dinner?”

I nodded and turned to shuffle to our living room, and as if she needed to gloat some more, she sent me on my way with a loving pat to my bottom. Not a smack. A loving pat.

Life in the Upside Down sucks. And so does that show, but it’s an apt reference. Apt!

After my power nap, I was allowed to take the paci out. Mary rinsed it rinsed it and put in the drainer, admonishing me to remember to take it upstairs after dinner and put it back, and happily telling me (happy unto the point of snark) that I was welcome to use it whenever I thought it would keep me out of trouble or, in her words, “whenever jI ust wanted to” because I might “come to like it.” Fat chance.

I know when I’ve lost a battle, if it was a battle. I don’t know what it was. I wasn’t bratting. I wasn’t trying to get a spanking. I didn’t want a spanking. But thems the rules. Had she spanked me and then kissed me and told me she’d finish dinner, that would’ve been perfectly in keeping with how things work and how sweet she is.

I’d been mouthy, according to her. Enough so to deserve a really hard whap to my butt, and when I inadvertently had a little outburst as a result, she gave me a kiss and told me to take a nap. I am not a little girl, dammit! Pouty little girls get sent to take a nap. Pouty minxes can get sent to bed, but it ain’t to sleep.

I wasn’t about to lose the war though. She’d forced my hand. I couldn’t just brat. I had to make her see me as the grown, beautiful, complex, kinky submissive minx that I am. Except I didn’t get to. I was all set to walk right up to her and prove it, and when I was within a foot of her, she patted the bed and told me to sit. Which I did (hmmmph!)

“I was going to tell you in the morning, but since it’s bothering you, I’ll tell you now,” she said to me in her ever so assured and confident way.

“Tell me what?”

“We’re having a birthday party for you tomorrow.”

“We are?” On Zoom? Because I’m so fucking over Zoom. I couldn’t be in a crowd of people. I hadn’t even seen my parents in months because they’ve been going out to the grocery store. I’d only talked to Nana through the fence.

“Yep. There’s an itinerary and everything.”

“An itinerary?” I was confused, okay? I’m sure I’d have had better questions if she didn’t catch me off guard.

“For instance, your birthday breakfast is at eight tomorrow.” I liked the sound of that. She patted the pillow and I scooted over and laid down next to my wife.

“I like breakfast.”

“And your birthday spanking is from 8:45 to 11:30.”

“That’s a long spanking.”

“Are you doubting I know how to spank you for three hours?”

“Hehe. No.” Because she’s done it before. It happens on birthdays, certain major holidays, and the occasional slow day.

“And then we’ll get you cleaned up and dressed. I have something picked out for you to wear.”

“Am I gonna like it?”

“I can get it out right now.” She slid off the bed and went into the closet. She tossed out my favorite skirt for laying around the house; nothing fancy about it at all. It’s just a bright blue jersey material that cost all of $13; it’s what sweatpants wear when they’re lazy. Things got a little more dismaying from there: a diaper; a plain white onesie. Mary sat down on the bed looking very satisfied with herself.

“Um, that’s, uh, thoughtful of you, but, um, I can’t be around people yet, I don’t think.” Nor did I want to be around people while wearing all that. Except the skirt.

“Hence the itinerary,” she explained. “We’ll be outside, on opposite sides of the yard. Your parents are going to over for an hour; then fifteen minutes later, your brother and sister are coming over; then Jane and Lisa; then Sandy; and then nana.”

“Oh. That’s sounds fun. That’s … thank you for going to so much trouble.”

“Is that all I get?”

“It’s great. I just … don’t wanna wear a diaper for that.”

“I thought you might feel that way, but it’s non-negotiable. It’s going to be a full day, and we can’t have you making a mess.”

“Mary, could you stop pretending I’m gonna wet my pants? It’s old.”

She rolled over so were facing each other. “Now you listen to me, little girl …”

Dammit!

“… I’m not worried about you wetting your pants, but I know you and that little body of yours like the palm of my hand. There’s no way you can wear the wireless vibrator and a plug for the whole day without getting something somewhere. And before you ask, I’ll have both remotes.”

“O (giggle) um, well – the whole day? – well, um, ha, okay, if you think – the whole day! – hmmm.” As skilled as she is, even she can’t edge me for a whole day. She’s welcome to try, though, and god willing will fail at least four times.

“That’s what I thought. And I know you’re worried about people seeing, but they won’t. Chairs on opposite sides of the yard. You don’t even have to stand up.”

“If I even can stand up. Hehehehehe.”

“You’re blushing,” she said with a very delighted smile on her face.

“Well, I’m a very modest woman,” I said in defense of my honor.

“Uh huh. With a long day ahead of her. Why don’t you run downstairs and get your paci, and then we can go to bed.”

Darn it. “I have to sleep with it in? Why?”

“No, you silly goose. It just belongs on your nightstand. We can’t leave your toys out where they don’t belong … Don’t give me that look. It’s a rule. Scoot.”

Well, fine, but it’s a rule she just friggin made up. There’s a mirror at the foot of our stairs, a small one the size of a photo in a thick frame that’s just for decoration. I checked first to make sure she wasn’t coming down the stairs before putting the paci between my lips and checking myself out in the mirror. To my horror, it looked really endearing.

One problem at a time, though. In fact, no problems at all. It’s my birthday, and I’m getting to do kinky things on it and see people I haven’t seen in months, plus she’s making me breakfast, which is probably gonna have bacon.