Mary and Daphne #38 (Patreon)

I’ve been told sometimes I push things a little too far. A touch. A tad. A teeny, tiny bit, allegedly. I dispute this notion. It’s not that I push too far but that others don’t back up enough. I need space to shine. And I didn’t really push anything, contrary to what Mary says. A philosopher will tell you that a “thing” is defined by its “thingness,” a terrible standard that’s still better than Mary’s definition of “a thing is whatever I decide it is, Miss Sassbottom.”

That she gets to decide when I’ve pushed things too far and also what constitutes a thing to begin with is a lopsided arrangement. A political philosopher will you that’s too much power vested in one person, no checks or balances. I may have consented (okay, it was actually my idea) to this benevolent dictatorship, but as a woman of the people (or in this case, I am the people) I do have sacred obligation to stand up for our rights against tyrants. Mary tends to remind me that Socrates drank the hemlock because he was obligated to the state and the state told him to, a line of argument she ended with “so bend over.” I think ours may be the only households where anyone has ever said, “L’etat, c’est moi – so bend over.” I had an excellent counterargument, but I forgot what it was while I was rubbing my butt later. And anyway, she is my Sun Queen.

I was trying to remember that argument while standing in the living room corner waiting for Mary to come get me. I didn’t think I did anything wrong. Really, I wasn’t even sure why I was in the corner in the first place. One moment we were sitting on the couch, and the next Mary told me to get my bottom in the corner and was ever so helpful in pointing me toward it with a smack on my butt. “What’d I say,” I asked.

“Get (smack!),” she answered. “And stay put ‘til I come get you.”

Color me confused. And I had hurt feelings. One moment we were being disgustingly cute newlyweds flirting and playing footsie on the couch and the next I was in the corner. Mary didn’t sound playful when she ordered me into timeout. She didn’t sound angry or disappointed either. I, on the other hand, felt massively insecure and was going over everything I could think of in my head on what I had done or said. If this was some kind of mind game, it was the most effective one ever, and it sucked. It felt like dating again with me wondering what I’d said or done to so successfully end a relationship after just a couple dates, which I had a stunning track record of accomplishing.

“Okay,” Mary said as she came back in and took me by my upper arm, gently but insistently leading me up the stairs.

“What did I do wrong,” I asked in complete earnestness. I’m very earnest, as you know, even if nine–point–nine out of ten times I ask that question I know damn well what I did. That doesn’t detract from my earnestness, which comes through in other ways. Really.

Mary didn’t answer me, which made the ten–second trip to the bedroom nerve wracking. Mary doesn’t fly off the handle, which I couldn’t deal with (it would’ve been a deal breaker) and it’s not like she often gets really angry with me. Normally she just says she’s disappointed with me, and she sounds it. She didn’t sound angry, and she didn’t sound disappointed, and she didn’t sound sexy. If this was that ‘I’m–so–angry–I’m–calm’ thing, it was unnerving. And I’m rarely unnerved, as you also know. I’m the very picture of poise and confidence. I’m the precise opposite of an insecure, needy, emotional hot mess. Even when I’m over Mary’s knee getting my butt tenderized and wailing like a she–demon, I mean to do that, so that’s actually when I’m at my most poised. Really. (Don’t question my nonsense, dammit!)

Mary led me straight to the chair in our bedroom and sat me down in it. She stood in front of me and crossed her arms. Her expression was blank, while mine, I’m sure, could be summarized as huh?

“Little girl…” Dammit! “which of us is the domme?”

Ooh! Ooh! I know that one! “Um, you are.”

“And what does that make you?”

“The submissive?”

“Are you not sure?”

“No?”

“Then why are you asking questions?” I had a math teacher who used to do that, and I friggin’ hated it then, too.

“O. I’m the submissive.” I gave myself a little headache with all the effort it took to not roll my eyes.

“You’re the submissive. That’s right. Submissives do not disrespect their domme, do they?” She loves Socratic lecturing. Another thing I’m not best pleased with, and all things Socrates are just one of those things we agreed to disagree over.

“They don’t.”

“And when they do, what happens?”

“They get punished.”

“They do get punished. Now, it would be disrespectful for a submissive – that’s you, remember? – to, for instance, suggest that their domme – that’s me – do something submissive, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because submissives submit and dommes don’t.”

“Gold star for Daphne Ann. Let’s run through some examples. Who gets put in timeouts – dommes or subs?”

“Subs.”

“Who gets spanked?”

“Subs.”

“Who decides who gets spanked?”

“Dommes.”

“And here’s the question that brings us to our bedroom – who wears diapers?”

Ooooooh. I got it now. All caught up. Because I had been joking about, well, bet it’s obvious now.

“Um, submissives do.”

“You’re an A–plus student today.”

“But it was just a joke,” I defended myself. “I didn’t mean you really should.”

“I know that. But you’ve joked about it before, and I made it clear it wasn’t something you should be joking about. Joke or not, it’s disrespectful. Remember what happened the time you joked about spanking me?”

As in the time, I said, ‘you need a spanki…” and found myself in the air being flipped over and ass–murdered before I even finished the syllable? She was literally spanking me while I was in mid–air. Her hand more than gravity is what pushed me down over her lap, which is when I realized she’s a ninja. That it happened at a dinner table that was not in our house would surely have shocked the other guests if it weren’t that particular crowd. Every dominant at the table looked on approvingly while every sub studied their food in detail, and then to drive the point home, Mary gave each dominant a turn. And then she asked their permission for their subs to spank me while I stood there like an incredibly well chastised submissive listening to her explain that dommes do the telling and subs do what they’re told. Well, duh. At least I had the sense to keep that to myself. And at least some of those subs didn’t put their heart into spanking me. And at least it wasn’t a big dinner party. (But also, ow.)

“Yes.”

“So maybe what I need to do is arrange some playdates for you. You can see how other dommes diaper their subs and littles, and you can see what other littles do in their diapers besides tinkle. Is that what you want?”

“No.” Okay – being diapered by other dommes is in my soft limit category. That other thing is in my I–won’t–even–type–it category.

“I want you to go into the closet and get what I put on top of the toy chest.”

Interesting term we have for that trunk. I’ve always thought it would be really cool if we got some of that blank egg foam and craved perfect niches for each toy to go into, but that’s a lot of work and so what if the thing is disorganized. Part of the fun of digging through a big box of sex toys is digging through it and finding something you forgot you had. Of course, Mary had already gone through it and picked out what she wanted for …

Seriously? I’m sort of purposefully not googled this stuff because I don’t want to know or give Mary any ideas. I’m not surprised they make cloth diapers for adults or that they have babyish designs on them, but I was surprised they were so heavy. But they were at least cotton, so that had to be better than the disposables Mary orders from ThingsToEmbarrassDaphne.com.

Mary was sitting on the ottoman when I emerged from the closet holding what I was going to be wearing as soon as she was done reddening my butt. She had the hairbrush in her hand, which was so uncalled for. I wasn’t thatdisrespectful.

“Did you really just roll your eyes,” she asked me.

Wait, did I? “Um, I don’t think so?”

“I guess we’re just overdue for this,” she said, sounding kinda surprised.

“I got a spanking two days ago.”

“I mean for a reminder of the big picture.” She held out her hand, and I handed over the diaper.

“Do you like your new undies?”

“Not especially,” I said earnestly. See? I told you I was very earnest.

“Just want to make sure my lap is protected,” she said as she spread the diaper out over her lap. I have nothing to say on that subject. She smoothed it out and then looked up at me.  “Why don’t you sit down for a moment.” I started to sit next to her, and she stopped me before I even lifted my foot. “No, no. Right there on the carpet.”

I can’t even remember the last time I sat on a floor. It was probably back when I was in college and was working at summer camps, and even back then it had been years since I sat on a floor. Or actually, come to think of it, the last time I sat on a floor was when I was babysitting my nephew. We played cars together. He’s such an adorable little thing, especially with his pullup sticking out above his … dammit. Anyway, I thought the lecture portion of the afternoon was over, but nope.

“It is not okay to disrespect me. I expect better behavior than that. You’re a submissive, and I’m going to remind you of that. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“Who does the spanking?”

“You.”

“That’s right. I’m going to pull your little skirt off, take down your cute, little undies, and spank your little bottom. You’ve lost pants privileges for the day. When you’re spanking is over, I’m going to put your fanny into a diaper, and it’s going to stay there until morning. Who wears diapers?”

“Subs.”

“And?”

“Littles.” Which. I. Am. NOT!!!

“And who else?”

“Um, diaper fetishists,” I guessed because I assumed she wasn’t talking about babies and people with incontinence.

“And who else?”

“Um…”

“Daphne.”

“I’m thinking.” Geez, a little patience goes a long way.

“No, sweetie. I mean, Daphne wears diapers. That’s you.”

“O.”

“Say it, please, sweetheart.”

I married such a B. Which is great and all, but there’s a whole list of things I’d rather say about myself than that. Like, “Daphne is not good at confrontation,” and “Daphne doesn’t remember how to do long division by hand,” and “Daphne believed in Santa until she was fifteen,” because all of that is less embarrassing than what she wanted me to say. Plus, who wants to give such a B the satisfaction.

But she was already holding that hairbrush, so I tried to get away with, “Daphne muhbuh buh buhbuh.”

“Use your words, little girl, like you know how to.” Okay, a condescending B.

“Daphne wears diapers,” I said with no intonation except annoyance and while not looking her in the eye.

“Daphne doesn’t talk about herself in the third person, though, so maybe Daphne wants to try that again.” A sarcastic, condescending B.

“I wear diapers.”

“Why do you wear diapers? Do you have potty accidents?”

“No.”

“Do you wet the bed?”

“No.”

“Well, if you don’t have potty accidents and you’re not a bedwetter, then why do you wear diapees?”

“Because you say so.”

“Very good. Do I also tell you to tinkle in your diapees?” They’re. Not. MINE!!!!

“Because you say so.” And why does she make me say these things? And why does saying them make my body do what it does? I’m not the only person in the world who’s eager to please, but only some of us get all mmmm because of it.

“That’s right, too! You’re doing soooo good. After you’ve made a wetsy in you diaper, who changes you?”

“You do.”

“That’s right! Because you’re not allowed to without permission. But who does have permission?”

“Whoever you say.”

“Right again. Anybody I decide can change your wet diaper, and you’ll let them. Why?”

“Because you said.”

“And that’s because I’m the…”

“Dominant.”

“And you’re the…”

“Submissive.”

“And a quick learner, even if you do need these reminder sessions. Now, to drive the point home, I’m going to spank your bottom, because if you’re not too old to need diapers because I say so, then you’re definitely not too old to get your bare buns spanked because I say so. Stand up … now hold your arms out.” O, like I don’t know the procedure. “One day,” Mary said with what I imagine was the biggest Cheshire cat grin ever since I decided not to watch, “you just may be big enough to take your own undies down before you get a spanking, but you’re too little for that. Maybe when you’re thirty–five.”

Down went my skirt.

“And we’re not going to be needing these, are we? Because you’re in diapees for the rest of the day.” And down went my panties. She lightly took hold of my ankle, and I lifted my foot so she could get my erstwhile clothing off, then lifted my other foot. Mary sighed. “By your age, I’d really expect a girl to need no more than two spankings a week to remind her to behave.” O, bite me. “I don’t like having to spank such a cute bottom.”

Lies! LIES AND WICKEDNESS!With her mind games and ageplay and … soft eyes and warm skin and how she knows just how to make me all blushy and tingly in anticipation. The devil really does come disguised as a beautiful woman mixing her lies with the truth.

“Come over to my side,” she beckoned me. “Now it’s time for your spanking. I’m going to lay you over my lap, and I’m going to spank your bottom with this hairbrush to help you remember that you are the submissive little girl, and I’m your dominant. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“Okay…”

She guided me over her lap. She was doing a wonderful job confusing the hell outta me. She kept jumping from (kinda derisive) you–do–because–I–say dominant to gentle lemme–remind–you–how–this–works–because–you’re–a–little–lost–lamb–who’s–forgotten–her–placeto butts–will–burn to but–just–enough–to–teach–you–a–valuable–life–lesson.

“Comfortable?”

“Mhmm.”

“Good. That’s not part of the punishment. Just making your bumbum uncomfortable is.” I wanted to wiggle off her lap and just dance and shake until all the anticipation was out of me. Between the taking–to and the talking–down–to, I felt exactly like the person she was treating me as, and even I now agreed that person needed this lesson driven home hard. “Are you ready for your spanking?”

“I’m ready for my spanking.” Pleeeeeeeasssssse already!

“Okay, and I want you to know that lots of little girls have accidents during their spankings, too. It’s okay if you tinkle while I’m spanking your bottom. I know it hurts, and that’s why I laid your diaper over my lap ... Here it comes.” FUCKING FINALLY!!!

(Smack) Mmmm. How youdoin’?

(Smack) Ahhh. I like that spot, too.

(Smack) Ooo. Alright, that’s enough of a warm up.

(Smack) That one had a little zip to it. Now we’re getting somewhere.

(Smack) Ouch. Now that times about a hundred and don’t be shy about it.

“You were very brave.”

Excuse me? O, don’t you dare …

“Can you get up?”

NOOOOO! I'M NOT DONE!!!!!!!!!!!!! RELIEF!!!!! FREEEEEEEDDDDDDDOM! KHAAAAAAAAAN!

…. and she’s rubbing my butt. Crap. “I didn’t learn my lesson,” I said with no ability to hide my annoyance, which was fine by me because I had no intention of hiding it. She had sooooo much left to teach me.

“You’ve had enough.”

“No I haven’t.” C’mon! Teach the shit outta me!

“That was a very big spanking for such a little girl. Sit up and let’s get your diapee on.”

“No. I'm not a little girl.” If she hadn't just lectured me about who's the top and who's the bottom, I'd have told her to get spanking or I'd dock her a day's wages.

“’No?’” She giggled. “I think yes, little girl. Because I say so.” She reached between my legs and folded the diaper over my butt giving it a good yank and my butt a pat when what I needed was a whack. “You got just the right size spanking for such a little diaper girl.”

What? What the fuck did she just call me? I mean, no. Just no. Fuck that. I am not. I am not. I am not. I fucking am not. Mental turmoil. Synapses misfiring. Electrical signals getting lost in unused brain wiring. I am not. Is it melodramatic to hyperventilate under these circumstances? I dunno – ask someone whose brain is still working.

“Up we go,” she said to me and didn’t wait for my cooperation. She was lifting me up, and then I was on my feet, and then I was shuffling across the carpet with that diaper between my legs. “Lie down.” On what? What’s this called? A bed? I’ve never heard of such a thing. What’s it do?

It’s like I had a migraine without the pain. Like half of my brain just shut down, including the part that makes me run. It’s not fight–or–flight. It’s fight–flight–or–freeze, and my hypothalamus made its choice.

“Aw,” she said to me when I was on my back waiting for my brain to reboot. “That’s okay. I know you couldn’t help it.”

“Huh?”

“You had an accident during your spanking, but that’s okay.”

“I didn’t,” I said in a seriously whiny, plaintive, shouty kinda way.

“I’m sorry, but you did. Feel.” She pressed it against me, and I felt a certain coolness that is often caused by something damp being exposed to air, but, like, that doesn’t mean anything. It was very humid is all.

“But I didn’t!”

“You didn’t what? You didn’t tinkle, or your princess parts didn’t get wet?”

“I didn’t …” O, with the feelings and the squirming and the why didn’t he spank me right.

“That’s what I thought,” she said smiling like the Cheshire Cat is actually the most sincere and empathetic cat you’ll ever meet. “But if you’re not a pants piddler, then when exactly did that little tingly feeling inside show up? Was it when I was lecturing you on who’s in charge, or was it when I was explaining how I was going to spank your naughty bottom? Or maybe it was when you were telling me why it is that you wear diapers? Hmm?”

And more squirming and blushing and putting my arm over my eyes because I needed a minute to myself. She just chuckled again, and a few seconds passed before she said, “Lift up for me.” I did as I was told, and when I was told, “Down,” I felt something thicker but dry under me.

“That should last you until bedtime,” Mary said, “but lemme know if you get uncomfortable. This is going to be a little trial and error until we get these cloth ones figured out ... which are so friggin adorable.”

I wasn’t paying attention. My brain was back on, and I was making an agenda in my head for an emergency meeting I was going to call.

She closed the thing over me, tugging it pretty tight and velcroing it shut, and said, “Gimme your feetsies.” She was putting plastic panties on me, wherever she magically produced those from. At least they weren’t uncomfortable. “And hands.”

I held out my hands, but kept my eyes closed, and she helped me sit up. When I did and opened my eyes, I saw those plastic panties balloon up for a moment.

“Stand up. Tell me what ya think,” I was told, so I did. Or at least I did the first part. I looked down at myself, felt the padding between my thighs (sooo thick), reached behind me and ran my hands over my not–even–sore butt (even thicker), and my body once again decided it was going to do what it wanted to without any input from me because my bottom lip started quivering.

“Ohhh, c’mere.” Mary reached out and took my hand and tugged me back onto the bed right next to her and hugged me while I buried my head in her chest. “You’re okay, little girl. Shhh.”

I was trying to remember the agenda for that meeting I just set up in my own head, and in the meantime I thought I’d stall for time, so as a little introduction to all attendees, the meeting organizer in my head was saying, Thank you for coming today. I’m Daphne, and I’m having a lot of emotions I’m not sure how to deal with right now.

And the me the rest of the world sees and hears translated that as, “(Sniffle).”

“What happened to my horny little girl,” Mary asked with a chuckle.

“I don’t like these. Can … can I just wear the other ones?” Not even going to ask for panties because why bother. Might as well ask for a million dollars cash and a billion dollars in unmarked sex toys.

“Now you like those?”

“No, but I don’t like these more.”

“That’s good, then, because they’re for a little change. From now on, these are your punishment diapers. The other ones aren’t for when you’re in trouble anymore.”

“Then what are they for?”

“We just went over this, silly. What did we just talk about Try and remember – what are they for?” I didn’t get it right away. “Why do you wear diapers?”

“Because you tell me to,” I ventured.

“Exactly! So the other ones are for…”

“When you tell me?”

“Right."

"And these ones are for when I’m in trouble?”

“When you’re in trouble and I tell you,” she explained (albeit poorly).

“Then when are the other ones for?”

“When I tell you.”

“But when is that?”

“Whenever I tell you.”

“But … okay.” Well, I could tell that was as much clarity as I was going to get, and it was probably all Mary knew. She likes to pretend she's got it all planned out, but she's making it up as she goes most of the time. I think. They weren’t for anything other her liking me in them.

“That’s my good girl.” Oooh. Did you hear what she called me? Which reminded me of my meeting agenda. We already crossed Item #1 (I don’t like these) off the list. On to Item #2.

“I’m not a diaper girl.” Did I mention this conversation took place with Mary still hugging me and my face still buried in her chest? Because it didn’t. Really.

“But what are you wearing?”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m not. I don’t wanna be called that.”

“Okay, sweety. What can I call you instead?”

“Daphne.”

“What else?’

“Daffy.”

“What else?”

"Daffodil."

"What else?"

(Silence)

“How about I call you a silly goose, but only when you’re being a silly goose?”

“I am not a silly goose.”

“Said the silly goose.”

“Marrrry!”

“Aw, such a pouty girl. I think I know why you’re feeling pouty.”

“Because I don’t like this … outfit.”

“I think it’s because you got all wound up and didn’t get to let it out.”

“Maybe…” She sees things that others don't, as well as things that are glaringly obvious to everyone.

“And I think we can fix that later.”

“Can we fix it now?” She was at least as randy as me, but of course denial is something she gets off on.

“Hmmm nope. Later.”

“Can we fix it a few times?”

“Hehe. I certainly hope so. Let’s go get a snack.”

“Mind if I stay here while you do that?” A girl’s gotta try, amiright?

“Nice try. Get waddling.” She gave me a swat that I couldn’t even feel, and she wasn’t kidding about the waddling. I guessed I’d get used to the feeling and figure out how to not walk like Baby Huey if I found myself in these things often.

“Ha,” Mary snorted

“What,” I said giving her a mildly dirty look.

“I was just thinking Jane is going to tease you so bad if she sees you in those. Better be on your best behavior when you see her next week.”

“Hmmph. You said you’d spank her for real if she makes fun.”

“And I’ll keep my promise. I already talked to Lisa about it. Let’s go find you some peanut butter.”

Aww, see? She likes me and stuff.