Mary and Daphne #30 (Patreon)

Mary is about a subtle as a falling air conditioner sometimes. Like I’m not going to notice, o, say, opening my underwear drawer and finding she’d lined half the drawer with pullups. I’m not dense. I don’t know how she thought I would react, but it’s not like I’d just decide that’s my underwear for the day.

Or the present she bought me. She thinks she’s sneaky or funny or something, but of the two of us, I’m definitely funnier. I’m good at being sneaky, too, but Mary is even better at being vigilant, to the detriment of my butt. The doorbell rings, I go to answer it, and there are fresh-cut flowers in a vase on the porch along with a note and a teddy bear.

The note said, “Roses are red, violets are blue, one upon a time, I deflowered you.” Which isn’t true, which she knows, but I will give her credit for taking my vanilla sex life and my kink sex life to the next level.

By the time I was done putting the flowers in fresh water, she was standing in the door to the kitchen looking at me with a look best described as, “Now.”

After I’d come down, I forgot about the bear until it, shocker, showed up on my pillow before bed. I’m not so much the kind of person who keeps stuffed animals. I moved it to the top of my dresser. Mary didn’t say anything about it. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings and toss it in the closet or anything, but I also knew what she was doing and didn’t want to give her the satisfaction.

And if you think that’s not subtle of her, you should hear her say, “No.”

I hate that word. It’s a bitch. And unfair.

“Bu...” I started to respond.

“No.”

Well, clearly a different angle was needed. Something along the line of, “Bu...”

“Little girl...”

“Would you stop friggin’ calling me that!” I’ll accept it in cute and cuddly moments, but I was trying to have an adult conversation-slash-fight. You have to be taken seriously to win a fight, and it’s impossible to be taken seriously when the other person calls you a little girl.

“Daphne Ann, I said, ‘No.’ That’s it. End of discussion.”

“Bu...”

“One...” she counted. Perhaps the most childish – well, not childish; parental, I guess – habit she’s adopted, like I’m supposed to be so scared by whatever comes at three. I don’t even give in when she starts counting, except maybe half or more of the time (also known as a majority of the time). Wasn’t going to budge this time, though.

“However...” I said, which totally caught her off guard. It’s a synonym for “but,” right? Just that no one uses it like that. She looked at me like I was I weird or something, and I’m weird and she’s weird, but I guess not like that. Anyway, progress...

“Two...” Dammit!

“I want to,” I whined. I’d made that point already, but I thought it bared repeating just in case. A lot might have changed in the three minutes between when I’d asked if I could go to lunch and just then. I was going to sit on a patio and everything.

“Three. Enough,” Mary said, “Enough of this nonsense.” She took me by the upper arm, spun me around, swatted me all the way to the corner, and told me, “You’re in timeout until I come get you.”

There’s only one dignified way to respond to that. “Hmmph!” Accompanied by folding your arms and scowling at the wall. I know it sounds undignified, but I’m a timeout expert. Trust me. I mean, there’s no dignity in meek acceptance of timeout. And no, pouting is not a form of meek, nor is it born of meekness. Really.

So I don’t hold it against her that she responded in the proper way from her side of the equation, by delivering one heck of an underhand spank to the undercurve of my butt. “Ow!”

I really am not a fan of timeout. Yes, it’s a form of domestic discipline, which I am the World’s Number One Fan of, but it’s so boring. I once left a magazine between the couch and the wall, just close enough to lean over and grab without leaving the corner, just a little reading material. I didn’t exactly think I’d get away with it, but I tried anyway. I didn’t leave the corner, right? Turns out violating the spirit of timeout is apparently an even bigger deal than violating the letter of timeout. How was I supposed to know that without being taught? She really ought to write these things down. She said writing these things down was a brilliant idea and that she would be very happy to write down all the rules and consequences, frame them, and hang them in the living room corner I do my timeouts in to review when I’m on my naughty spot, but said she’d be leaving them up even when we had company. I had to talk her out of that; or she made me think I had to because it amused her to watch me squirm. She contented herself to make me stencil “Daphne’s Naughty Spot” in a corner of our bedroom. Meanie.

“Alright,” Mary said as she walked back into the living room, “get that naughty bottom of yours over here.” I turned to face the music and was relieved she only had the wooden spoon. She sat down on the sofa. “Over,” she said and patted her right thigh. I dutifully crossed the room and laid myself across her lap. It wasn’t even worth trying to get out of having my seat warmed.

No sooner had I adjusted myself than she flipped my skirt up. “Little girl,” she of course said. For the record, if you saw me in that state of dress from that angle, you would not be mistaking me for a little girl. Now stop picturing it. “Where are your undies?”

I shrugged. “It’s hot out. I just didn’t put any on.”

“You have to wear undies, Daphne. Having nothing on under your skirt is not ladylike.”

Seriously? What lifestyle was she leading? Not much ladylike about a lotta things the two of us do. Like, I dunno, an entire chest in the closet as a just for instance filled with stuff you ain’t gonna find in Queen Elizabeth’s bedroom.

“What are you even talking about,” I asked with complete disregard for the vulnerability of my butt.

“Little girls don’t go commando ... well, not without permission.”

“Since when?” Uh, been going commando when I want to since we’ve known each other. You shoulda seen what I wasn’t wearing on our fifth date.

“Well, Ms. Sass Bottom ...” (I am so fed up with nicknames) “... if you just don’t wanna wear your undies, we can give them all to a little girl who does. After we’re done here, you can get a trash bag...”

“I get your point,” I interrupted.

“... and you can march your little red bottom up those stairs and ...”

“I said I get your point!”

“O, do you now? You wanna wear your undies?”

“Panties.” Smack!

“What are they called?”

“Panties!” CRACK!

“Excuse me?”

“Fine. Urgh! Undies.” There are more important hills for my butt to die on.

“Who wears undies?”

“I do.”

“Who else?”

“Ladies.”

“Little girls.” Welp, walked into that one. “But if you really don’t want them, just tell me.”

“But I’m not supposed to go commando.” Or did I have blanket permission for that now? She tries to confuse me on purpose, ya know. She’s a trickster; as I’ve said, a coyote, whereas I am an innocent. A little lamb lost in the woods. With a hooded, red cape specifically made for riding...

“We’ll get you all stocked up on training pants if that’s what you want.” I didn’t even respond. Like I needed to even acknowledge that. Not gonna give her the satisfaction. “Is that a yes?”

“No!”

“Okay then,” she said, “if we have that resolved, for now, we can deal with your other naughtiness. Why are you across my lap about to get that cute little caboose of yours spanked?”

Ya know, once upon a time she called it an ass. I have ass, she has an ass, you have an ass, even asses have their own asses.

“Because I want to go out and you won’t let me,” I said like a completely petulant teenager. Well, she was treating me like one.

“Daphne Ann, do you want to go upstairs and get the bath brush instead?” I’d rather put my tongue in an electric socket.

I held my breath for a second because otherwise a whole lot of non-verbal sass woulda come spilling out. “Because you told me no and I didn’t stop.”

“And what’s the rule?”

“When you say no it means no. But...” SMACK!

“And when I say no, we can talk about it, but how do we talk about it?”

“Calmly.”

“And?”

“Without whining.”

“And you have been whiny for a couple days, and a little sass mouth, too. Everything has been a smart remark lately.”

“Sorry.”

“I know you are. You always are. I just don’t know why I have to keep teaching you these lessons.”

BECAUSE I’M COOPED UP WITH NOTHING TO DO! Well, that explains lately. Not so much the many, many times my sassy attitude has gotten adjusted via my butt prior to covid. Daphne’s Butt: Am Attitude Adjustment Device.

“Sometimes I don’t think a single spanking I’ve given you has gotten through. What do we need to do differently?”

“They’ve gotten through. It’s just that I forget, in the moment, sometimes.” You know what it is? It’s bottom privilege. I’m the bottom, she’s the top. If she’s going make the decisions, then I don’t hafta moderate myself as much. That’s the deal: she gets to be in charge, and I get to be taken care of, and when you don’t hafta take care of yourself, you don’t hafta be quite as mature. That’s my story, that’s it’s a side effect of kink and not at all something more inherent in me. Really. Stop questioning my story; I’m the narrator and the hero, so you can shhh!

“Well, you better hope this one takes.” And with that she put the spoon to work. I know it’s stupid to personify the spanking implements, but the spoon has two personalities: fun and light when Mrs. Oxo Goodgrips is in a good mood, and a convex little cunt when she’s in a bad mood. Guess she was having a rough day.

Usually Mary starts at my butt and finishes at my thighs, but I guess it was backwards day, and CRAP does that friggin spoon sting. The hairbrush feels like a paddle, and the paddle feels like a paddle, but the spoon feels like bee stings, and I just knew it was leaving those stupid oval welts everywhere it smacked me. I’d have them on my thighs below my skirt for a day, not like it mattered because no one would see because I DON’T GO ANYWHERE ANYMORE! ARGHH!

I was practically relieved when Mary finished with my thighs, but once she got to my butt she stopped flicking it and start whamming it. It’s made of balsa wood or something; how the crap can something so light be so heavy at the same damn time? Schrodinger’ spanking spoon. (I’m good with words; not physics. I know enough to know that’s not quite right, but give a spanked girl a break).

“When I say no! I mean no!” I really do try to listen when Mary lectures during a spanking, but there’s a lot of sensory inputs going on, including the EEPS and OWS and OUCHES and AH AH AH! NOT THERE NOT THERE NOT THERE coming from me. I’m pretty forgiving with myself for not listening even though I know I should try because Mary never shows any sign of listening to me during a spanking. Either that or she doesn’t understand what NOT THERE means. Those are the only two logical explanations, right?

She spanked me to the point of sharp intakes of breath and watery eyes and sniffles. She stopped at the first sob from me, not because she has any qualms about spanking me to the point of an out-of-body experience of tears and wailing and carrying on but because I wasn’t that bad. O, excuse me: as Mary would say, I wasn’t bad; my choices were bad. She learned that from her sister the teacher, who says it to her kindergartners.

She put the spoon down and started rubbing my butt. That’s another way I can tell she’s not that upset about whatever I’ve done, the way she rubs my butt. If she’s really displeased, it’s less a rub than squeezing handfuls of hot, bruised, ass. O, and because she was letting her hands wander a little far south.

“Do you understand why I spanked your bate bottom?”

“Because I didn’t stop when you said no.” (Sniff).

“That’s right, and I hope that got some of the brattiness out. If it didn’t, we’ll have to try a different tool, and we’ll have to try it ASAP. Understood, little girl?”

Of course I did, because Mary is at her least subtle when I’m across her lap. I took a shallow but forceful breath in and out. It was more a surrender breath than a bratty one. “Yes.”

She flipped my skirt down and rubbed my back right between my shoulders. I took an even shallower but forceful breath in and out. I could use an actual, professional massage. I feel like one big knot back there living through all this bullcrap.

“I have one more work thing to get done. It won’t take long. Why don’t you go upstairs and wash your face, pick out some undies, and by the time you get back downstairs I’ll be done and we can make dinner.” She sent me on my way with two pats to my butt.

When I got to our bedroom, that stupid bear was on the bed again. I wasn’t in a rush, so I flopped down face first/butt up on the bed, flipped my skirt back up, and rubbed some of the sting away.

I know I should’ve stopped when she said no, in particular the second or, face up to facts, the third time she said it. It just wasn’t fair is all. Or it was. I don’t know. I don’t feel like I know much of anything anymore. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now or next or how to even weigh my choices and risks and what the fucking fuck I’m supposed to do for the next however many weeks or months or years.

And that stupid bear was staring at me from on top of my pillows like it was the king of Pillow Mountain. I sat up, grabbed the fuzzy little shit, and was about to chuck it at the wall just to relieve some of my own frustration. I didn’t even feel that frustrated until I got upstairs.

Mary didn’t go a good enough job, is what I decided. If she spanked me to a sobbing, tear-soaked, snotty mess then I wouldn’t be frustrated. I didn’t deserve that kind of punishment, but punishment aside, that woulda purged some stress. I’m not sure Mary understood I was stressed and frustrated. Or maybe not how badly stressed I was. Or maybe I didn’t.

I laid back down on my side and just thought for a bit. I have too much time to do that now. I reached back to give my butt another rub, which led to a sniffle, and then I was crying. Not sobbing; not big tears and loud boohoos, but crying and sniffling and my breath catching, you know the way you do when the hormones and the stress and the whatever catches up to you. I don’t know, for ten minutes maybe?

“What are these tears for,” Mary asked sweetly when I guess she came upstairs to see what was keeping me. She sat down on the bed and started stroking my hair. I just, god, I don’t know, but it’s like she and I have some kind of weird physiological thing because her hands just make me go limp sometimes. Not all the time; it’s like with a puppy where sometimes you find the right spot and they do that leg kicking thing and sometimes the same spot doesn’t work. “C’mon,” she coaxed me, “why are you crying, baby?”

I opened my eyes, and it was all blurry. “I (high pitches meeping noises) and I just (sad elephant sounds) and it’s just (babbling) and I want ou-ou-out.”

“C’mon,” she said, “sit up for me. Right here.” She scooched to the top of the bed against our pillows and opened her arms for me. I got up just enough to pivot and put my head against her chest. She put her arms over me. “You’re okay.”

“I’m not,” I said a little desperately. “I’m not okay! None of this is okay!” I needed her to understand that.

“Hey, hey, shhhh, baby girl. Tell me calmly.”

“I wanna go out.”

“I know ...”

“I just ... dammit, I just wanna go sit down somewhere and have a meal. Things are reopening, and I wanna go out.”

“I know things are reopening, but that doesn’t change your health.” Exactly what she’d said to me downstairs after the first time she told me no.

“I know that; it’s my health. It’s not like I’ve forgotten. I can’t just stay here for the next two years. I mean, everything got put on hold. I couldn’t find a job now if I tried, and it’s like there’s no point in starting school right now except online, and I’m not even sure that’s worth it. And I just wanna see people; I wanna do things; I want to leave the house.”

“I understand all that. I’m right here with you.”

“And I want you to come with me. Just, anywhere. We can just go anywhere that seems safe. Anywhere at all.”

“Daphne, the risk to you is exactly the same as it was three months ago. That hasn’t changed. I will stay here with you for two years if that’s what it takes because you are the most important person in this world, and I vowed to cherish and protect you, and that’s what I’m going to do.”

“I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

“I know.”

“No you don’t! You have a job. You have things to do. You get to talk to people. I don’t have any of that!”

Mary didn’t say anything to that. She patted my shoulder and sat quietly, and I just laid there with tears drying on my face. I know it’s as big a risk to me now as it was then. We flattened the curve, and all these people seem dedicated to unflattening it, and the curve really has nothing to do with my health. I’m still immunocompromised.

But other people are at risk too, and they’re doing what they have to. We don’t know what’s going to happen; we don’t know how things are going to turn out. But if people are mostly following guidelines, that might be as safe as it can get for a long time.

And Mary bringing up our marriage vows was not entirely fair. She did vow to cherish and protect, and I did vow to honor and obey, and if we weren’t kinky we never would’ve used those words. Really, it was just kind of an inside joke because we knew what those words meant to us and so did some of our friends there. Even my dad thought it was odd, but we said it and meant it for our own reasons. I like being cherished and I like being protected, but I don’t like being on a pedestal in a glass case on top of plinth surrounded by velvet rope.

“Daphne,” Mary almost whispered, “you are the light of my life, and I’m ... I’m scared for you. For both of us.”

O great. Now Mary was teary. You could beat my butt with a hose without making me cry if I didn’t want to (true story), but when one of my people cry, I can turn into a hot mess quick. Mary leaned over and kissed my head, which depending on the circumstances makes me randy or weak kneed or weepy.

And Mary was scared for me, but also scared of losing me. And then I thought of Mary alone, and then I rolled to my side and buried my face in her breast and choked on a couple sobs and put my arm over her. Mary alone is a terrible thought. She needs me.

“Shhh. Shhhh,” she cooed at me. “Come on, sit back up for me.” I did and wiped my eyes, pressing my palms into them. She looked at me and shook her head just a little. “I don’t trust anyone when it comes keeping you safe. I don’t know what to make of the news. One place seems like people are following directions; other place, people aren’t. It’s impossible to plan for that; you don’t know what you’ll find when you get somewhere.” She shook her head again.

So we’re still on no. It’s not that I don’t understand.

She kept talking, “You’re the most important person in the world, Daffy.” She sighed. “Tomorrow, let’s call your doctor and figure out a plan, okay? If she says yes and tells us how, we’ll figure something out.”

Ohhhh, thank goodness. “You mean it?”

“Of course, sweetie.”

“Thankyouthankyouthankyou.” I turned back again and put my arm over her and laid my head against her, and o! My Mary.

“But you have to promise me you will do exactly as I say. Wherever we end up going, you need to do exactly as I say.”

“I promise.” I gave her a very unladylike kiss but didn’t hear any complaining. “I really do. I’ll be sooo good.”

“I know you will.” She patted my shoulder and played with my hair and, ya know, in general couldn’t keep her hands off me because, after all, I am the most important person in the world. Really. Mary said and she’s in charge.

Her hand got as far south as my thigh. “You didn’t put on any undies yet.”

“I didn’t get that far,” I said in my own defense. “And they’re panties,” I said under my breath. I’m bad at whispering or Mary is great at hearing.

“Did you change your mind again about getting rid of your undies?”

“Marrrry.” I had changed my mind about not whining. Or at least not sounding whiny. Those are two different things, and people need to stop mistaking them for the same thing. I don’t even think they’re mistaking them in good faith. Motivated reasoning, the motive being getting to slap my ass.

“It’s still an option; lot of little girls would be so happy to have your underoos; poor but musical ones who live in orphanages run by cruel directors.” I just let her have her monologue. “Don’t you want the orphans to have your pretty undies? No? But I tell you what.” She started to get up, and I sat up so she could. She walked to my dresser. “You can wear panties tonight.” She plucked a pullup from my drawer.

“Those aren’t panties,” stating the obvious was I.

“They are too,” she said as she unfolded them. “They’re training panties.”

“Marrrrry.”

“Blushing like a virgin,” she said with a chuckle as she walked back toward the bed.

“Uh! I am not!” Wait, which?

“Hop up.” I got off the bed, and Mary knelt in front of me and held the pullup open for me to step into. I steadied myself with both hands on her shoulders and stepped in, and she slid it up my legs. She stood up, took my chin in her hand and kissed me hard. Really hard. Her other hand was, well, I did that thing where I giggle and get wobble knees, and it’s only maybe thirty percent an affectation.

“Who’s your new friend,” she asked me, nodding toward the bed.

“You should know. You got him.”

“It’s a he?”

“Marrrrry!” Wow, I really am whiny. I mean, sound whiny!

“Well, I don’t know his name,” Mary said.

“Neither do I.”

“You really ought to learn someone’s name if you’re gonna a hug him like you were. We’re not in college where you can just hook up with any bear and not learn his name.” I chose to ignore that joke, but I admit it was pretty good.

“It’s just a thing.” I’d have grabbed a pillow, but he – it! inanimate objects are “it” – was on top of the pillows. And anyway, I was gonna throw it. Because I was frustrated and not a little girl. Lot of very adult emotions. I’m virtually a senior citizen.

“Don’t say that about your bear,” she whispered. “You’ll hurt his feelings.”

“Jamie,” I said with the biggest eye roll I could manage. I think I saw inside my own head for just a split second. (And I saw a lotta kinky shit in there, surprise.)

“Jamie Bear.” Mary said. She reached for the bear and shook its – his! no, its. Wait ... Dammit! See what she made me do – paw. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Bear.”

“Aw, come on. Don’t even.”

“What? Too formal? ... He is naked; commando like you were.” She got a twinkle in her eye like she was about to say something funny that would make me cringe in embarrassment. She always gets a twinkle in her eye right before she does that. “Maybe we could get him some training panties like yours. You guys could dress alike.”

“But he’s a boy! ... I mean, shut up.” Seriously, what spell did she cast? How does she do this to me? After five years together, she still makes my head spin, and when she’s doing the whole erotic humiliation thing and making me embarrassed on purpose, it’s like I can’t even think in a straight line.

“You’re just all a-flutter,” my darling wife said to me. “And no surprise after the emotional roller coaster of a day you’ve had. Shouldn’t have any trouble getting you to sleep tonight.”

Well, no, she wouldn’t, because I’m thirty. You hit thirty, and it’s like, “Fuck yeah! I can’t wait to be unconscious! Come on, bedtime!” But I digress. And also, I put myself to sleep, okay? Even if I do have a bedtime. And even if she does sometimes tell me it’s an early bedtime if I’m extra tired or in trouble. And once in a blue moon she helps me put on my pajamas. The most important person in the world (Mary said!) should get dressed for bed by her admirers every now and again. Seriously. But I put myself to bed. Really.

“What do you want for dinner,” I asked, changing the subject. She put the bear down.

“What do you want?”

“Breakfast.”

“Breakfast for dinner? We haven’t done that in a while.”

“Well, it’s backwards day.”

“Why is it backwards day?”

“I dunno, but you started it.”

I’ve assured Mary that everything I say makes sense if you hear my inner monologue first, and she said that was good because she didn’t wanna hafta start medicating me. Smartass.

She gave me the look like she married an adorable crazy person, as though it were dawning on her I wasn’t kidding about losing my mind, but I’ve been adorably quirky for a very long time. If I were rich, I’d get to be called eccentric. Ooh! And then I wouldn’t be unemployed – I’d be the idle rich. Hehe.

“Pancakes, eggs, and bacon,” she asked.

“Mhmm.”

“Kay. Go wash your face, and we’ll make it together ...” There was that look on her face again, the one when she’s about to try to make me blush. “Is Jamie going to have dinner with us?”

“Marrrrry! He’s just a bear,” I muttered as I stalked off to the bathroom, leaving Mary smiling at me like I was an adorably confused and conflicted three-year-old.

I figured something out as I was splashing water on my face in the bathroom: all this time, I’d been thinking about when I (allegedly) started to turn into an (alleged) middle, but I had it all wrong.

The real question is, when did Mary turn into a big? And who did what first?