Mary and Daphne #36 (Patreon)

“Remembering the rules for the internet now? Well?”

O, come the fuck on! Now she’s just being mean. How the fuck am in supposed to talk around a bar of soap?

“Maybe you can tell me when the timer goes off.” I’m sure I can. Mary Waltzing out the room with her bossy pants on... hmph!

She trusts me to do what I’m told (when I’m already in a lot of trouble), which is why she left me with the kitchen timer ticking and a bar of soap in my mouth knowing I wouldn’t take the bar out or twist the timer to shave off a minute. Three minutes is a damn long time, too.

The punishment didn’t even make sense. I didn’t say anything I shouldn’t have. I typed it. She should’ve washed my hands. And I am not unreasonable – she could’ve used a very harsh soap. Or something strongly scented; I don’t like strong scents on my hands. The punishment would’ve fit the crime!

And I didn’t even really do anything I shouldn’t have, unless you count all the expletives. It’s a stupid rule that makes total sense and isn’t stupid at all, but urgh! STUPID FUCKING SOAP!

Mary doesn’t care if I swear. She cares if I do it in writing online where it lives forever, especially if I do it in a way that I wouldn’t actually do it out loud. Like unleashing a tirade of curses and epithets that would make a biker gang boss say, “Those kinds of words hurt my heart.” That’s what Mary said when she was channeling my mother and telling me I was in for it, and while my mother is no shrinking violet, she’s not Mary and Mary would walk all over biker gang bosses if they ever tried to take over our town.

I should thank my mom for getting me in trouble in the first place. Mary barely pays attention to social media. The only reason she even noticed my post is because my mom is on Facebook constantly, and since I didn’t respond to her text asking me why I called on a pantheon of gods from ancient cultures spanning a large swath of the planet and human history (I’m ecumenical, dammit!) to rain demons and ... Well, not so important. The point is I wouldn’t have gotten in trouble if mom didn’t text Mary and ask what was up with me.

And the answer to Mom’s question is virtually the entire world is stupid and I just can’t take it anymore. Like how the fuck are we going backwards?

O, now I remember: DUMBASSES! DUMBASSES EVERYWHERE! DUMBASSES IN CHARGE, AND DUMBASSES ATTACHED LIPS–TO–ASSCHEEKS LISTENING TO THE DUMBASSES IN CHARGE INSTEAD OF THE PEOPLE WHO ACTUALLY KNOW WHAT THEY’RE TALKING ABOUT! MAY BAEL CAUSE ALL THE DUMBASSES TO GO BALD AND HAVE UGLY GRANDCHILDREN!!!!

Whooo. Did it again. Darn. Never been so sorry–not–sorry in my life. The dumbasses are either too stupid to understand how their actions impact others or just don’t care, which in my case means they literally don’t care if I get sick and die. So I hope their children and their children’s children come out of the womb looking like George Burns circa 1993.

Anyhoo, Mary shares those sentiments, but that doesn’t mean rules magically go away. Know what also won’t magically go away? CORONAVIRUS!!! AAARRRRGHHHHHH!

And DING.

I swear Mary was just waiting in the hallway because it didn’t even stop dinging all the way and there she was.

“Open,” she said and out came the bar of Dial. I don’t even like washing my hands with Dial (it smells like flowery grey poupon or something). My jaw was sore. I sat on the counter waiting, because I know better than to rinse without permission, or even to move in direction of the faucet. I’m very obedient (when she makes me be). “Remember the social media rule yet?”

Ever try talking without actually moving your mouth? “Dun thay anyting you woulbn’t thay in perthun.”

Mary has a heckuva poker face, but she definitely wanted to crack up. Which woulbn’t be very nice.

“That’s right. I know you lost your temper, and I understand why, but I make rules for a reason. When you’re ready to go back to work, employers would’ve seen that.”

“I debeeded it.”

“After it had been up. You need to make good choices the first time. Hop down.”

I did, and Mary filled a cup for me, and I got to rinse to my heart’s content, and that did virtually nothing to get the taste out. It would be there for a while. That stuff irritates my lips and cheeks, too.

When I was done, Mary put the bar back in the soap holder she got just for that reason, rinsed her hands, and cheerily said, “Let’s go get your bottom spanked and then you can call your mom.”

Something about that sentence just felt off. It wasn’t the ‘let’s go get your bottom spanked’ part, which sounds like ‘let’s go get your transmission rotated,’ but the mom part. Temporally too close or something. Those spheres of my life need to be kept separate.

Mary sat down on the end of our bed, and I dutifully stood in front of her, putting my arms up when she said and letting her take my shirt off because it was covered in soapy drool. Soapy drool is weird, too: clean but not clean. Know what happens if you swallow while you’re getting your mouth washed out? It ends up washing out the rest of your digestive tract. So I chose to drool, which was me exercising agency. I am an agent. I choose where to go and what to do. I am the master of my ...

“Daphne!”

“What?”

“I said ‘over.’ You’re such a space cadet today.” She gently tugged on my wrist, and there I was again, over her knee, where she wrestled my panties down (shorts were in the bathroom, because Mary decided I didn’t need them for that part; she just likes my butt).

But as I was saying, I am master of my, “OW! Marrrry!” Smack! Sniffle.

“Don’t you try crocodile tears with me, little girl.”

“I’m not,” I said petulantly. I’m a pro at this; I don’t cry after one or two or five – “Eheh eheh eheh (sniff)” – swats. Not to mention, I’m not a little girl, as I’m sure I’ve said at least once. Really.

As for the runny nose and leaky eyes and cramping diaphragm, clearly those were due to allergies and not the paddle.

Mary paused and said, “Look at me.” I looked over my shoulder, and she looked very sympathetic. Because she loves me (because I’m awesome). She let out a short sigh and I guess figured I’d been punished enough. “Here,” she said and leaned back and grabbed the bear (that I keep putting on the dresser and that she keeps putting back on my pillow. “Hold on to Jamie.” SMACK WHACK CRACK SMACK WHAP WHACK CRACK!

I don’t so much recall how I responded to that, but Mary tells me I was ‘demonstrative’ and ‘verbal.’ I just remember things got blank while she swung at my butt like she was trying to hit home runs during March Madmen or whatever the sportsball thingy is.

So anyway, that would be a nope on deciding I’d been punished enough. Don’t even ask me how many paddle swats I got (I think it ends in ‘–illion’ but Mary says it three letters, starts with a ‘t’ and ends in ‘–en’ so I guess we’ll never know the truth). The only person in the world who was in more pain than me in that moment would’ve been Jamie if he – it! – were alive because I squeezed the crap out of him (it!).

The next thing I remembered was the feeling of fingers running through my hair and down my back all the way to what was left of my butt. I very much prefer a long, hard spanking to a short, thunderspank spanking.

“Let it all out. Good girl,” my Mary said while I (her characterization) sobbed. She musta not thought that I was done yet, because when I started to get myself under control she CRACKCRACKCRACK! Which made be sob harder.

I then did something very disobedient and got up, and she didn’t stop me, and I spun around so I was sitting on instead of draped over her lap.

“Hehe,” Mary said over my (her word) wailing (she’s an inveterate exaggerator, unlike me, who always gives you an objective, accurate, and unbiased account), and continued with the fingernails going up and down the bare skin of my back. “Just cry it all out.”

I’m not a little girl. I don’t need to be rocked when I’m like that. You should instead ask Mary–I’m–only–a–big–cuz–you’re–a–middle why she started rocking me. It felt good for very adult reasons I can’t articulate but having nothing to do with my alleged littleness. I think I started to fall asleep, but I do that after major spankings all the time. Really. (No, really).

“You ready to go wash your face,” Mary asked me before I could completely go to sleep.

“Mmm-mmm.”

“You wanna take a nap instead?”

“Yes.”

“Okay ... okay ... Daffy? I need to get up now.” I slid off her lap reluctantly. “Lay down.” She went to my dresser and grabbed that damn pacifier and opened my middle drawer to get a pull up, except she got a diaper instead. So that’s what she did for three minutes while I sucked soap, put at least one diaper in my underwear drawer.

“Open,” she said and inserted the pacifier. I really don’t like the thing. Makes the roof of my mouth feel funny after a while. “And lift.” And then there was waterproof underwear under me. I’ve learned the process. I just let it happen. I am an agent; I choose to let it happen. I’m the master of my ...

“You glad you have your own teddy?”

I must’ve held onto it (him. it! dammit!) when I climbed into Mary’s lap. “Wait right here.” Mary went into the closet and came back with baby wipes, which as much as I wish we didn’t own, I do like the smell. She wiped the tears streaks away and held it to my nose for me to blow (or as she said, “Honk.” I am not a duckling.)

Then she got undressed down to her bra and panties, got on the bed next to me, and we snuggled into one another. “Feel better after that big cry?”

“Yeah.”

“Knew you would.” She kissed me. “Close your eyes, sweetie.”

The dumbasses may not care about me, but my Mary does.