Mary and Daphne #39 (Patreon)

In retrospect, it felt like all of quarantine had been building to that day: Jane was coming over. I hadn’t seen Jane in person since the pool party at Brenna’s where she and Tommy got me in so much trouble. Sure, a jury of not–my–peers might say I’m the one who pushed Tommy in the pool (but I only poked the wimp). And, sure, witnesses for the not–my–people would say Jane tattling on me for making fun of her – which I was not and she was just being a brat – may have cost me my second strike. And sure, the spectators in the gallery would say that the poking-Tommy-into-the-pool incident would’ve gotten me spanked regardless of Jane’s brattiness, but acting as my own counsel and star witness, Jane and Tommy ganged up on me. I got spanked til I was walking funny, Tommy got publicly spanked til he was walking funnier, and Jane just looked on like she gives how–to–be–an–angel lessons in her free time when she’s not working with orphans and differently abled kittens.

Or how about the time before that, when I for once accepted the role of ‘middle’ that everyone wants to pin on me? Jane was in her little headspace, and I played along, and then she got upset I was beating her at a video game. The brat called me a diaper butt, and I tolerated it the first eighty times (even though I was just wearing a pullup, I’ll remind you) until I accepted my responsibility (lost my patience) and stepped up to help correct her misbehavior (shut her the heck up). If everyone wants to think of me as a middle, fine – I jumped (uninvited) into the role of babysitter (annoyed playmate), tossed the little brat over my knee, and spanked her on her reset button. Or started to before Lisa, Jane’s big, caught me. Instead of the thanks I deserved, I got marched to the corner and got a blistering lecture about who gives the spankings in Lisa’s house. Just when I thought Jane was finally going to get a real spanking for her name calling, she got a few love taps, and then I – me! the (originally) wronged party – got the backside of a hairbrush applied to the backside of my frontside. And then I got it again when I got home!

Or the time before that when we were at a party and Jane was bratting The. Whole. Damn. Time. All I did was tell her to shh (rudely, and snapped a teensy bit at Mary in the process), and we both got marched upstairs. I had to stand there with my (stunningly spankable) ass on display while Mary played patty cake on Jane’s butt (and she let Jane win!). My protest, as I was being pulled over Mary’s knee, that her tickle fest on Jane’s butt didn’t even count as a spanking was met with the rejoinder that Jane is just a little girl. Well, to that I say, HORSESHIT!!! I got spanked to actual tears (which my being just the right amount of drunk probably helped facilitate).

And those are just the times I told you about. It’s enough to make a sensitive soul like myself come to the conclusion there is no justice in the world. I was pretty unhappy with Jane after the pool party incident, and I told her so after the fact. I told Mary so, and Mary told Lisa, and Mary promised me that the next time Jane was mean to me, she’d get a real spanking. But I’ve had plenty of time to think during this quarantine, and I came to the inescapable conclusion the only justice in the world is the justice we make.

As these incidents demonstrate, I’m (almost) never naughty on purpose. But I had some justice to make, and sometimes goodness (that’s me) needs the help of a little badness (also sometimes me, but not often. In fact, rarely. Really.). We had gone back into full quarantine for two weeks, only seeing Nana (who only saw us), and so did Lisa and Jane so we could have Jane come over. No one called it a play date, but with one self–described little and her big on one end of the zoom call and me and Mary on the other, it seemed like a foregone conclusion that’s what it would be. I had a plan, and I had a backup plan, and I had a tertiary plan, any of which, if executed properly and with the stars aligning, would end with Jane getting the paddling she deserved for all the times she got me in trouble (or was nearby when I got myself in trouble – same difference!). I was even willing to kamikaze my own butt, and my pride, in the pursuit of Jane finally getting a real spanking.

My first plan was more of a trap. If Jane made fun of me, Mary would spank her (and do it right – she promised!). I thought this was so foolproof, I almost didn’t make backup plans. If I did something embarrassing, Jane would say something embarrassing, and I could then credibly say she was teasing me. If I just put myself in a position where no self–respecting brat like Jane wouldn’t make fun of me, game over for Jane. Know what’s embarrassing? Anything and everything having to do with the various (seriously? there were at that point three different kinds to choose from) absorbent undergarments in our house.

If there were longer term consequences, I’d deal with those in the longer term. I was a general in a war for justice, and flag officers like myself get paid to make the tough choices. Sacrifice a little cannon fodder (pride) for the big picture, and replace the cannon fodder later. I was also my own intelligence officer, and I knew my plan needed a little subterfuge. It couldn’t be an obvious put up job, or I’d be the one getting paddled. I was willing to risk that outcome, but only if Jane’s butt was on the block with mine.

As it turned out, Mary didn’t cooperate in Step One of Plan A. If she’d laid my clothes out as she sometimes does, that would’ve added some much needed authenticity to my subterfuge, but I’d just make do without. Meaning, I had to choose to wear a Goodnite. Enter long–term consequences, because Mary would surely draw the wrong conclusion from that choice. Another day’s problem.

And by the way, I think this really shows that I can be laser focused, despite an outward appearance of being a bit of a scatterbrain, and also that I do think ahead even if I don’t always make the wisest choices. Those are just misperceptions (stop laughing!) that people who are not very perceptive make when they misperceive things.

So I did it. I put on a Goodnite and put a pair of heather gray, basic AF cotton shorts over them (literally – Amazon Basics). Pretty short ones too. Not so short it was immediately obvious what I was wearing, but short enough it would become apparent upon close examination, and I was prepared, if necessary, to get so close Jane would have no choice but to examine them.

Even though it was a Saturday, Mary had to work a bit, so when the doorbell rang, it was just me – general, intelligence officer, soldier in a war for justice, bait. The X-factor in all of this was Jane. Who would she walk through the door as? An adult or a little?

“Daffy!” Oof! Big hug!

“It’s so good to see you,” I said and meant it. Just because I was on a mission didn’t mean I wasn’t glad to see one of my besties after months.

“You look so good,” she said to me. “Working outside agrees with you. I think your hair is even a shade lighter.” Drat. She came as an adult. The last time I saw her in person, she was wearing a swim diaper under a swimsuit with ruffles sewn to the butt. So I had to lure her into her little headspace. Why? Because littles, especially a brat like Jane, are easier to provoke into the kind of misbehavior I needed Jane to commit.

“You look great, too,” I said as I took her hand and led her to the living room.

“I have quarantine body,” she complained. “I’ve been on my ass eating carbs all day every day.”

Funny how even though we’d been talking regularly, we still started off by talking about everything we’d been up to, or mainly just rehashing the same complaints we’d been talking about, along with the rest of the world, since the pandemic began. Jane still hadn’t noticed my choice of underwear, so I sat back against the arm of the couch with my legs folded in a way that definitely, definitely showed off my choice of attire. Then I could tell she did notice, and instead of making fun, she didn’t even say anything about it. She just kept right on talking about work (or something; I was plotting more than listening).

So I decided to raise the issue myself, in a roundabout way. “And it sucks not getting to see any of our play partners or scene friends,” I said.

“Lisa and I watched you guys do that erotic humiliation demonstration. It was pretty hot.”

And cue my blushing all the way to the back of my head. “I hate inspections.”

“I could tell from the way you, um, reacted,” she chuckled. “Did you get in much trouble for failing,” she asked with a little lilt in her voice.

“Lots. Mary made me stand in the shower while she aimed the shower wand right at my … inspection … point ... Anyhoo, what about you guys? You been disconnecting from all this by going into little space a lot?” If I ever could regress like she can and just mentally be a little kid again, I sure as hell would’ve for the past four months.

“Some. Not as much as you’d think. I mean, more at first, but it’s not so easy to do that every day for so long,” she explained. “Just a lot of mental energy. You know what it’s like.”

For the trillionth time, I AM NOT A LITTLE! I don’t know. I haven’t the foggiest, frigginist clue.

But subterfuge, so I said, “Mhmm. I was half expecting you to come over as a little today. The last time I saw you, Lisa was making you wear pullups.” I was hoping just raising the prospect of her coming over as a little would make her switch into little space.

“Not for very much longer after that. I see Mary is still insisting you wear pullups.”

I waited for her to follow that up with a joke or a giggle or something, anything, that could be considered not nice. No such luck. But I had a plan for that.

“Yeah,” I said, “Can I get you something?”

“Some water sounds good. I know where it is…” She started to get up.

“No need. Sit. I’m going to go get Mary, too. She should come say hello. She gets so into her work.” And I needed her to be a witness. If I was going to up the stakes, I needed some instant pay off.

First, I went to get Mary, who shut her laptop and went to the living room to see Jane. Then, I went to the kitchen and made Jane a glass of water. Then I made one for Mary. Then I made one for me, except I made mine a glass of water warm. If simply being a pullup butt wasn’t enough to elicit a cutting remark from Jane, upping the ante to a swet pullup butt would. Or so I hoped. And not just wet, but downright soggy. Surely that would be enough for Jane to tease just the right amount for me to hafta to defend my honor (also known as egging her on), and she’d say something mean enough for me to pretend to have hurt feelings, and then my White Knight would ride in on her unicorn waving a paddle over her head.

I could hear them chatting but couldn’t quite tell what about. I pulled out the back of my shorts and pullup and poured most of the glass in, slow enough not to leak right away but full enough that there’d be no mistaking I needed new underwear. It was definitely a funny feeling (which made me hafta pee, so I did; liquid authenticity for my subterfuge). I then made myself another glass and did my very best to carry all three to the living room with just enough waddle to be noticed and not enough for it to look like an affectation. I didn’t hafta try hard to waddle. If Jane cooperated and Mary did her part, I’d be watching a spanking that for once was not my own (in a mirror, though I am pretty flexible) inside of five minutes.

I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised to find that while I was gone, Mary had gotten Jane into little space. Mary seems to get better and better at that, being that she is a big even if she won’t call herself that. And no, that doesn’t remind me of anyone else who says she not something she is (stop smirking!). Nor did I feel jealous to see that Jane was sitting in my Mary’s lap. Not even a little bit. Really.

“What do you say,” Mary asked Jane as I handed them their glasses.

“Thank you.”

“Two hands, sweetheart,” Mary said as Jane lifted her glass for a drink. No one said a word about my waddle because they weren’t even paying attention! But I had a plan for that. There was a reason I poured so much water down that pullup.

“I was just telling Janey that she’s grown since I saw her last,” Mary said.

I sat down on the couch and got exactly what I wanted, a feeling I only ever get when Mary makes me keep the same diaper on for too long: squishiness. I maybe should’ve waited more than four seconds before standing up for the best effect, but I didn’t, and Mary asked, “Where you going?”

“I want more ice,” I said as re-waddled toward our kitchen

Three … two … one. “Daffy. Hold it right there, little girl.” I froze and reminded myself this was all about the long con. I could recover from this, provided I received justice. “C’mere,” Mary said to me. All my senses went into overdrive. I could’ve heard a chipmunk snicker. That’s all I needed. Just a titter from Jane. I walked up to Mary, Jane sitting on her lap. Mary reached out and put her hand … “Turn around.” I did. “Goodness!”

If only Mary would spank Mary for teasing me, we might actually get somewhere. I cringed, but this was okay. If Mary said something embarrassing, I could rely almost a hundred percent on Jane taking that as her cue and bratting at a level that crossed the line. Maybe Mary would even feel guilty for starting it and give Jane a worse spanking. I stood there hoping and blushing.

Now, bear in mind that while I’ve played with Jane in her headspace on numerous occasions, she’s a little. She is not a middle. I will, at times, admit to being some facsimile of a middle, as I have occasionally been while playing with Jane in her headspace. But she’s the little, and I’m the (pseudo) middle (but not really. Really). That’s just how it is. That’s reality, which still exists despite the forces of unreality: Jane is much ‘younger’ in little space than I am when I’m pretending to be a middle (purely for the benefit of others, as I am not an ageplayer, as I’ve said, for I do not protest too much but that others don’t listen enough).

Jane was just sitting there (on my wife’s lap!) with this unreadable look on her face, which is not what I needed her to have, until Mary said to her, “I think you’re grown up enough to help change a diaper. Will you be my helper?”

“Okay,” Jane sunnily agreed.

Dammit it all to the crappiest motel room in hell! Not what I wanted! Setback! This was not the end to my means. All I wanted was for Jane to make funna me for having a soggy pullup. This was completely counter to my plans. Bigger picture, not only did I not want anyone helping Mary change me into a diaper, I didn’t want to be in diapers in the first place! Argh!!!

Immediate picture, I needed Jane acting immature. If she was going to be Mary’s helper, she’d be trying to be more mature to show she was a good helper.

“That’s okay. I don’t wanna wear a diaper today,” I said like that ever has anything to do with what I ended up wearing. Tactical retreat. “I’ll just go clean up and put on some panties.”

“O no ya don’t,” Mary said before I could even start to turn around to scamper out of the room. “Anyone who pees so much their pullup leaks definitely needs to be in a diaper for the rest of the day.”

“But …” I cleverly said. Mary sat there with a too–pleased–with–herself smile on her face waiting for me to come up with a counter argument she could shoot down. “But … but I … if I already peed this much then I won’t need to again.” Which actually has a certain logic to it – if I soaked a pullup, was there really enough left in me to justify the need for a diaper? (I didn’t say it was good logic).

Mary didn’t even bother to shoot down my logic. She just said, “It’s okay, Daffy. Accidents happen.”

“They do not!” Um, okay. Whatever that pithy rejoinder of mine meant.

“Janey,” Mary said, “if you go into the garage…”

No no no no no no. Not that one!

“ … there’s a bag under the seat in my car. Will you be my helper and go get it for me?” Which is how Jane learned there’s a diaper bag in our car. Which just brings up a dozen other answers to questions Jane hadn’t asked and that I hadn’t volunteered, like, how often are you wearing diapers these days? And where to? And do you actually get changed in the back of the car? (And the answers are (1) nunya business, (2) places, (3) just the once, and (4) shut up!)

Jane popped up and walked to the garage while Mary stood up and took both my hands and gave them little kisses which made my heart go pitter–patter, and asked, “Anything you wanna tell me?”

“No…”

“I didn’t ask you wear a pullup today.” So technically, she never asks even when she asks, but I decided to respond by silently blushing. “Did you just want some play time with your friend,” she asked me like I was seven. I responded to that by blushing, too. I couldn’t say no without scrapping my plans. Play time was a means to an end, not the actual ends. And this was not how I pictured it going. “Do you have anything you need to tell me before Jane gets back.” That was my chance to yellow or red light, and I couldn’t. Any other day, I would’ve, but I couldn’t. The long con. I reminded myself I was a general, an intelligence director, a spy deep into enemy (little) territory. This would all be worth it. We’d win the war, and I’d be regarded as a latter day founder of my very own country (or something; whatever).

“No,” I meeped.

“I found it,” Jane said as she came back into the living room holding that backpack.

I panicked, just a little. “But she can’t help,” I whined.

“And why not,” Mary asked.

“She’s … too little. She’s littler than me!” She’s a little. I am not a little. I am, at most, someone who behaves like a middle from time to time. Middles are bigger than littles, and people who behave like a middle on occasion but are really not middles are even bigger than that. It goes Mary (big) --> Me (middle–but–not–really) --> Jane (little). For all we’ve disagreed on in our years together, surely we had all accepted those premises. Postulates, actually. Things that just are. Two points determine a line. Jane is a little and Daphne is not. I mean, I’ve said it enough that we all damn well ought to agree on it.

Mary smiled this smile she only ever smiles when she’s trying to buck me up, her don’t–be–sad smile, and took her hand and stroked my cheek. “It’s okay, Daphne. You’re okay.” She held out her hand and took the bag from Jane. “C’mon,” she said as she knelt down and gave a tug on my wrist with her other hand. I had no viable choice. I’d gone undercover in an evil secret society and had to murder my own pride to prove myself.

We were all kneeling on the floor. Mary unzipped the bag and got out a changing mat, and not one of the ones we had before all the diaper stuff started (to keep stuff off of places while we did things – lots of kinksters have them) but a new one. It wasn’t a baby changing mat, either, but the kind you’d see covering a wheelchair or bed in a nursing home, which made it worse in a way because it was clearly functional and not just some affectation. As Mary spread it out, she explained the roles for the secret society’s initiation ceremony (Worst. Initiation ceremony. Ever.).

“How about you help,” she said to Jane, “by handing me the things I need? And Daffy can help by not being a little wiggle bug. Lay down, Daffy.”

“No.”

“’No’?” Mary asked playfully, “then how are we gonna change your pants?”

“With her in the kitchen,” I said petulantly.

“Aww. Don’t be shy.”

“But she’s littler than me!” My protest was verbal only, and I didn’t resist as Mary gently nudged, pushed, and pulled until I was flat on my back with the changing pad under me.

“She’s big enough to be my helper, and she certainly seems bigger than you today,” Mary rejoined.

That is so not how it works! “She is not!”

Mary frowned her don’t–be–a–silly–goose face at me. “Don’t be such a silly goose.” See? “I can tell she’s done a lot of growing up since we last saw her. Either that, or you’ve done some growing down.”

HAVE NOT! NYAH!I didn’t say that, but the way I grimaced made it abundantly clear that’s how I felt. Mary looked a little flushed. Clearly she was enjoying herself, getting to mix ageplay and erotic humiliation in a way she’d never gotten to before.

“I can tell you’re littler than her,” Mary said in a tone of voice she had never used with me (well, maybe once or twice or many, many times. who can remember?). She uses it with my nephew, age three-going-on-four. “Because …” She started gently tickling my belly and I tried so hard to hold still but dammit I’m ticklish and eeeeeeee! “Because you wet your pants. Didn’t you? Didn’t you wetchure pants?”

“Maryyyy! Heeheehee! St–stop!” I grabbed her hands and held them and unsquinched my eyes and her saw kneeling above me beaming her you’re–so–perfectly–adorable–smile back down at me.

“Awww. It’s okay.” She leaned down and kissed me. “It’s okay. That’s why you wear pullups. So if you don’t make it to the potty it’s not a big deal. When you’re ready, you can wear big girl undies like Janey.”

“I already do!” And, I will add, that the reason I wear pullups is because Mary tells me to. Mary reviewed that fact with me just a few days ago with me draped over her knee.

“Then what you are you wearing right now? Are they big girl undies?”

“No…” I said as poutily as I could because I wanted to and I get to do what I want when I want (if Mary lets me).

“What are they? … Do I need to tickle it outta ya?”

“They’re pullups,” I groaned.

“That’s right! And Little girls like you sometimes need pullups. It’s not about how many years are on the calendar,” she said, “it’s how many days we have to mark with a W.”

“Does she really have a calendar,” Jane asked.

“No,” Mary said, “though that would be cute.”

IT WOULD BE HIDEOUS! IT WOULD BE AN ABOMINATION! IT WOULD DEFACE OUR HOME! IT WOULD BE AN AFFRONT TO SAINT GREGORY FOR WHOM OUR CALENDAR IS NAMED!

“And,” Mary decided to continue, “you didn’t even tell me you were wet.” She patted the front of my pullup. “So wet you leaked. If you can’t even tell when you’re that wet, or don’t want to tell me like we discussed …”

Okay, hold on a flippin’ second. We never discussed that. Don’t go making up ex post facto rules. It’s unconstitutional.

“ … then I think you need to go back to diapers for at least a day. And Jane is definitely big enough to be my helper. Would you get the wipeys out, please?”

I laid there suffering in silence as Mary whisked my shorts down and held them up as though inspecting a clue at a crime scene. “Crescent moons,” she announced like a pee splatter analyst. “A sure sign someone is overdue for a diapee change.” Murder me. Just murder me dead. CSI: Who Peed Their Pants. Which would be awful but still better than all the other CSIs.

She started to tear the sides of the pullup, and I crossed my arms over my eyes. If only that works with your ears.

“Good–ness,” Mary enunciated as she pulled the thing out from under me. I raised my hips without being asked to be helpful and get this over with so I could move on to the next phase of my plan. “Sooo wet! Wipe.” I heard Jane pluck one from the package and then felt the coolness of it on me. “So very wet,” Mary giggled while she cleaned me off. I couldn’t help but squirm. “One more … lift.” I did, and Mary got her hand under there and …

“Hhhh!” I gasped. “Marrryyyy…”

“Shush. Gotta get ev–er–y–where,” she said, flicking her finger over this one spot whose name you’re not supposed to say with each syllable. I couldn’t help but peek and saw Jane was rapt, like this was seeing one of the best things she’d ever seen. Not a surprise given she liked our little demonstration at the virtual convention. Then I snapped my eyes back shut.

Mary pronounced me, “Clean as a whistle. Such a good job.” Well, yes, it was, but could we not discuss it in front of company? Our company had more important things to focus on, such as, “Which diapee should she wear?” I heard Jane shuffling things around in that black pit of despair-slash-diaper bag. “Good choice!” I didn’t even need to see. I listened to it crinkle as Mary unfolded it, lifted when she said lift, heard it crinkle when she said down, and felt it there taunting me.

“So,” Mary continued as she taught Jane how to change a diaper, “once she’s all clean, we have to make sure she’s nice and protected in her diapee. Daffy has very sensitive skin. Could you hand me the tube of …”

Aww, come the crap on! NO NO NO NO!

“ … diaper rash cream in there?”

“She gets rashes?”

“No, and do you know why? Because I used this on her diaper area.”

I DO NOT HAVE A DIAPER AREA!

“Here it comes,” Mary warned before she … oooh, with the hhh and the eeee and the why are my hips moving when I didn’t tell them to. “She likes that part,” Mary chuckled. “Wipe.” I pictured her cleaning off her hands. She is such a tease. Worst evil secret society initiation ever, times two. But my (closed) eyes were on the prize. This was just something to endure on the way to my certain victory (and endure it I did; nothing enjoyable about it at all. Pity me for my ordeal but praise me for my heroism, lo how I suffered for justice!)

“Good girl,” Mary said, which made me happy inside despite myself, “have you done this before?” Which made me realize she was talking to Jane, which did not provoke any feelings of envy, in case you hear differently later. “That’s just what I was going to ask for next. Just a little sprinkle.” And then I smelled powder. Scented corn starch because the talc stuff kills you, apparently, though I do miss that smell. “And I like to sprinkle just a little on her belly.”

“Teehee,” is a noise I allegedly made when she rubbed it in. Dammit!

“And then we just need to close up the diaper.” She lifted it up between my legs, and I felt each tug, from bottom right tape to bottom left, top left to top right. “And that’s how you change a little girl who couldn’t keep her pullup dry.”

I AM NOT A LITTLE GIRL!And I could. I just didn’t. Because (secret) reasons. Really!

“Up we go,” Mary said, taking my hands and helping me to sit up. “How does that feel?”

I had no answer to that.

“She looks a little flushed,” Jane said. And frankly, we all did. I felt a little twitterpated. That was not how my plan was supposed to go. It was supposed to be so simple: I wear a pullup, Jane makes funna me for wearing a pullup. If that didn’t work, I’d get it extra wet, and then Jane would make funna for wetting a pullup. Then Jane would get spanked for teasing. Then I’d go and change into actual clothes. The kind you don’t wear once and throw away.

Simple. In fact, deceptively simple. I am a master of deception, after all. I knew there was a chance Mary would decide I needed another pullup or even a diaper for the day, but that would be after she’d paddled Jane’s butt for me. I also factored in the possibility Mary would come to her own conclusions on why I put on a pullup and used it, and I figured I could deal with that misperception later. I didn’t think she’d put diaper me in front of Jane. She had never done that before. The only other person who’d had anything to do with the putting on or taking off of pullups on my body was Lisa the time Jane got me in trouble for making me try to spank her (the most accurate description of those events ever; at least that the likes of you will ever read).

“Thank you,” Mary said to Jane, “for being such a good helper. What do you say to your friend,” she asked me

“Um, thank you?” I only said it because I was undercover.

“You’re welcome.”

“I’m gonna go throw this away,” Mary said, rolling up the pullup. “Why don’t you two find something to play? I need to go finish my work, and then maybe we can find something to do together.”

She left, with me sitting on the floor with my head spinning and probably (definitely) looking a little like I just got hit by a lightning bolt that sent electricity to all the conflicted parts of me that make me who I am. Jane scooted over and hugged me, and I turned slowly like I’d just woken up from a coma and didn’t know who either of us was anymore.

“I knew it,” she said, rocking back on her heels and looking awfully happy.

“What,” I asked.

“I always wanted you to be littler when we play.”

“I’m not a little,” I said tiredly.

“Well, whatever you wanna call it, that was fun. What should we play next?”

“(Sniffle).”

“Aww, Why are you crying?”

“Because you’re being so nice to me,” I sobbed.

On to Plan B.