Mary and Daphne #40 (Patreon)

You can convince yourself that almost anything is permissible in the pursuit of justice. If my trap didn’t work, I’d just have to activate Plan B: entrapment.

Entrapment may be illegal in a court of law, but in a court of kinky domestic discipline, pretty much everything is admissible. Nor was this cost free for me. I fully expected to find myself over Mary’s knee alongside Jane but figured it would be worth it. Really, this was an even simpler plan. All I had to do was pick a fight. It was our alleged bickering at that one party that led to both of us getting spanked (or, actually, me getting spanked and Jane getting petted) even though I wasn’t bickering and she was being a total brat who deserved to get told to shush with the bratting.

Jane’s eagerness to play something together made it almost too easy. She agreed to play something she never agrees to play: Call of Duty 2. Woman against woman. Person who sucks at that game (her) against person who is incredible (me). Person who can’t focus on two screens at a time against person who is a shameless and inveterate screen looker, not that you young readers will know what that means. After kicking her butt in Round 1, taunting her in around 2, and taunting her some more in around 3, I was sure she’d be calling me everything but a child of God inside twenty minutes.

We never got there. Mary came through the living room just as we were starting the game, heard virtual D–Day, and decided, “Too violent. It gets you all worked up,” and turned off the TV. It does not get me worked up, the record. She was just saying that so she could say, “Why don’t you play something nice instead? How about drawing some pictures? I bet your mommy would like it if you drew something for her,” she said to Jane.

So this was a predicament. The ethical balances were reset. Beating her at a video game until she snapped is enjoyable even when I’m not trying to get Jane in trouble. It doesn’t require resorting to too childish behavior. But picking a fight while drawing? I only had a few tools in my brat box for that, and they were both incredibly childish. Also, mean. I’m not a mean person. Merely a pursuer of justice.

“Why do you have crayons,” Jane asked me as we were sitting at the kitchen table.

“For when Henry comes over.” My nephew. He doesn’t draw so much as scribble, but they’re the best scribbles ever, which is how having a nephew works. (I mean, I’m sorry, but yall’s nephews’ scribbles kinda suck. Very pedestrian.)

I’ll admit pulling this move was made easier by having murdered my pride in the living room during the evil secret society initiation-slash-diapering, but the memory of having once been a proud person was still alive. I was in mourning; I should’ve drawn a picture of me wearing a diaper and a black arm band. Instead, I endeavored to draw the ocean. All of it. Why?

“Can I have the blue for a bit,” Jane asked.

“Later.” Picking a fight like a total bitch, which I can be when I try (also when I’m not trying, but then I’m not sure my bitchdom is ‘total’).

Two minutes go by, and my standard letter–sized piece of white paper is about thirty percent blue. “Can I have it now,” Jane asked

“No.”

“I just want to color this one spot. I’ll give it right back.”

“No.”

“Why are you being so mean?”

“Because reasons.” How’s that for emotional whiplash? She had to have been wondering what produced the turnabout in my mood in the past ten minutes, from getting sniffly because my Plan A had failed (in the most embarrassing way possible) to being mean to her just because. I sensed all I had to do was push just a little more and she’d lose her temper.

Now, before you judge me, remember Jane has gotten my butt painted red many, many times, and most of those I didn’t deserve it. Meanwhile, she’d never even gotten her butt painted pink for misdemeanors and felonies she committed all on her own (like calling me ‘diaper butt,’ which is a Class A felony). Just one more nudge, and I expected her to leap from her chair and call me that and worse. A little tête–à–tête, perhaps a bit of hair pulling, and Mary would be back in the kitchen in a heartbeat ready to put a stop to our bickering with swats aplenty. So don’t judge what I did next.

I reached over and drew a single blue line through her drawing. “There. Happy now?” (I’m not proud.) I commenced my countdown, sure she’d be on her feet and reading me the You’re Being a Bitch Act of 2020 by the time I got to one.

Three .... two...

“(Sniffle). Eheh-eheh-eheh...”

Wait, what?”

“Why did you do that? You ruined it!”

“Wait! I’m sorry.” I needed her angry, not weepy. Angry means fighting we would both get punished for. Her crying meant I and I alone would get in trouble. “Hug?”

“Waaaah!”

“Stop that! No!” I stomped my foot. “No! There’s no crying in coloring! Don’t!” And she was on her way to Mary’s office, leaving me in the kitchen weakly calling out, “Hug? Please?”

Well, crap. I’m not exactly great with littles, as you may have noticed. So I misjudged that pretty badly. How badly? Three ... two ... one ...

“Daphne Ann,” Mary was calling to me from the hallway. That badly. I stayed put; she was on her way to me. “Did you ruin Janey’s picture?”

“Um, I was trying to help?”

“She wouldn’t gimme the blue and then she drew on my picture!” Aww, shut up.

“Daphne, is that true? And tell the truth, little girl. You know lies only make it worse,” Mary reminded me.

“It’s a little true.”

“Daphne Ann?”

“It’s true.”

“Why would you do that?”

Well, the real answer wasn’t a viable candidate for answering that question. I could tell a lie – that Jane was making fun of me so I did it in fit of pique – but I didn’t like that particular lie. It was too weak. It would’ve devolved into a Daphne said/Jane said, and that wouldn’t have gotten my quest for justice anywhere.

Thinking quickly, I fell back on an answer so clever no one has ever thought of it before: “Cuz.”

Mary frowned at me. Jane glowered at me. I sat there waiting to be told to stand up and bend over. Mary pulled out a kitchen chair, crooked a finger at me, and said, “Come over here.”

Plan A was an excellent plan, the only flaw being Mary, instead of serving as a silent witness to Jane’s cruelty, took on the role of headline player in my little drama and relegating Jane to assistant helper.

Plan B was an excellent plan, the only flaw being Jane, instead of meeting my insult with her own, surrendered like a friggin’ surrender monkey and went straight to Mary all weepy and pathetic. Now my butt was on the block, Mary was ready to administer what only looked like justice on the outside, and Jane was standing there with her arms crossed ready to serve as witness, again, to my derailed plans and ignominy.

I sighed and stood up, did my trademark shuffling walk to that very familiar spot next to Mary’s right thigh, and was about to put myself over it when she said, “Have a seat,” and patted her lap. Wheels started turning my head trying to anticipate where this was going, but the way Mary’s eyes were sparkling told me she was cooking up some zingers in her head to crank up the humiliation factor. Whether I’d get spanked for my seeming misdeed when she was done making me turn red from my shoulders to my scalp was the only open question. I sat down on her knee with a crinkle, remembering that I hadn’t been given clean shorts to put on and hadn’t, for reasons I don’t care to interrogate, taken the initiative to go and get some.

“Daffy,” my Mary said to me, “sometimes when we’re feeling small we try to make ourselves feel big by doing mean things to others.”

O. My. God. May the earth swallow us all.

“I know you’re feeling a little embarrassed because you had a potty accident ...”

No I didn’t! Who starts these malicious rumors?That’s who deserves a spanking. Wait…

“... and your friend helped to change you into a dry diaper ...”

Aw, bite me! In fact, everyone sucks and can go bite everyone else.

“... but that wasn’t Jane’s fault. Was it?” In case being quiet and blushy were passing through my mind as alternatives to a verbal answer, Mary gave my butt a heavy pat.

“No.”

“No. Jane didn’t go potty in your pullup. That was you, and that’s okay because accidents happen. You shouldn’t feel embarrassed ...”

She’s saying while deliberately embarrassing me and enjoying it 1,112%. I only got to enjoy it about ten percent.

“... but when you do have feelings like that, and you get angry ...”

Ya mean like right now? Like right freaking now!

“... you need to talk about those feelings and not act out or be mean to other little girls. Understood?”

There is no ‘other!’But I was pretty sure I understood her point. Hard to say because I couldn’t hear the last part over the sound of blood rushing through my ears. “Yes,” I ventured.

“Please say you’re sorry to Janey.”

“I’m sorry I ruined your picture.” Sort of. In isolation from the bigger picture, yes. As a means to my ends, I was only sorry I didn’t get the reaction I wanted. As for Ms. Mary–I’m–having–so–much–fun–teasing–you, we needed to have a conversation before bedtime. I wasn’t planning on confessing to my master plan (leaving them all wondering what had happened was just funnier), but now I had to if Mary was going to be disabused of the notion this was all some big cry for belittlement (literally and figuratively).

“Janey,” Mary asked, “do you have anything to say.”

“I forgive you,” Jane said. “And I’m sorry you wet your pants and have to wear diapers.”

DAMMIT!! DAMMIT IT ALL TO CRAP!!! ARRRGGHHH! It was too late! It was TOO DAMN LATE!!! That was exactly the kind of backhanded (pretty darn forehanded, too) comment I needed Jane to make so that I could go blubbering to Mary to administer justice and make the world right. Plan B was a failure. An utter failure.

Mary shifted, I stood up, and she stood up. She spun the kitchen chair so it was facing the corner and put me (me!) in timeout. This was starting to feel like every RPG game ever, and we’d just reached the level where the protagonist is imprisoned. I was very hmmmphy while I sat and pouted, after Mary told me, “You sit here in timeout until lunch time and think about how to make better choices.”

The only poor choice I made was relying on others in my quest for justice! I had ideas about how to address that flaw next time. Step 1: Burn it all down. Step 2: Dance around the flames. Though I’m sure that plan would get screwed up too. I did some of my best pouting ever while my wife played with that little and enjoyed it way too damn much.

“Let me help you start over,” Mary said. Stop bonding with her! “See how pretty,” Mary said, I guess in reference to her drawing, which was a low bar because Jane’s original sucked. There – I said it.

While Mary was making lunch and Jane was drawing, I moved on to my failsafe plan, Plan C. My trap failed. My entrapment failed. I only held off on the easiest and most sure–to–get–results strategy in the hopes one of my less unethical plans would work. Plan C presented the most ethical conundrums, as well as a practical one: frame job.

Now, framing someone is just wrong. But Jane framed me a time or twenty, like the time she twisted my words to fraudulently say I was making fun of her and threatened to spank her. She perjured herself before the most important court of kinky law in the land, Mary. She deserved a real spanking for her pervious crimes, justice delayed but realized. And perhaps framing someone for a crime they didn’t commit in order to ensure they get punished for a crime they did commit isn’t so much wrong as not not wrong. I’m not a jurist, after all. I’m just a street fighter in the war for justice, and I know a thing or two about street fighting. Thing #1 is throw the first punch, which I didn’t do because Jane did it with her many transgressions both public and notorious. Thing #2 is fight dirty. Well, that I could do.

Practically speaking, framing Jane was more complicated. Easy enough to do (once I figured out how), but it was complicated from a repercussions point of view. Jane could’ve been trapped into making fun of me or entrapped into fighting with me, and she would’ve known she actually did those things and wouldn’t have any real cause to be mad at me. She’d know she didn’t do whatever I framed her for, and she’d by well within her rights to be pissed at me.

But people on the side of injustice are often pissed when they get their comeuppance, and I’d figure out how to deal with it later. You might say I was writing a lot of post–dated checks in my epic quest for justice, but let’s go over what I am and am not. Am: general. Not: jurist. Am: soldier. Not: accountant. You can see why armies have all those things, but they’re not all the same people.

How to frame her and what for though? I’m glad you asked, because while I will in turn ask that you not judge me, I suspect you will anyway, and I’ll also ask that you see me as an evil genius and not just evil. I’m not evil. It’s a saintly thing I did, actually. By committing an act of evil in pursuit of justice, I put my soul at risk for the benefit of others (who also happen to be me). It actually makes me a kind of martyr. Really.

So fast forward. Out of time out. Eating lunch. What are we doing to do with the rest of the day? “I need a nap,” I said.

“There’s a good idea,” Mary who apparently has been itching to play house said, “how about you both lie down for a little while, and I’ll finish my work for the day and we can do something together?”

So how does a nap help? It makes it a lot easier to plant evidence on someone if they’re asleep. Evidence of what? Evidence of making fun of me. No way would Mary tolerate someone being mean to her little girl. How does making fun of someone leave evidence? If they do it in writing. So did I steal her phone and write mean things about myself on social media? Of course not. That would only embarrass me more.

Instead, I slid out of bed, quietly found what I needed in the junk drawer of Mary’s dresser, and went to the bathroom. I had a sharpie and a will to use it. Call this the blunt force approach to my mission. I shimmied out of the diaper because even someone as talented as I am can’t write legibly on their own butt.

I decided to keep it simple. I could’ve written all sorts of weird and gross things. “Wide load.” “This zone for loading and unloading only.” “Poopy butt diaper baby.” But why be nasty about it? I simply wrote “DIAPER BUTT” on my (Mary’s, I reminded myself) diaper and slid it back on. It didn’t fit as well and looked a little disheveled, but I could blame that on sleeping hard.

You’re probably thinking this isn’t that ingenious. But it is. I wouldn’t be the one reporting the crime. Mary would simply spot it. That’s credibility. But even more ingenious, I had one last piece of evidence to plant. Something to put Jane’s hand on the murder weapon.

I crept back into the bedroom, trying and failing not to crinkle and stood over Jane. My sometimes nemesis. The reason for multiple spankings I didn’t deserve (at least not all of them, or at least not fully). The little who enjoys bratting but not being called on or it chastised for it. The little who drags me into her little games without my consent and against my insistence I am not a little. The woman who is two years older than me but gets away with five love swats when she’s in trouble because she’s “just a little girl” while I (me!) who everyone says is a little girl magically has buns of concrete when I’m in trouble that other people started get paddled like a ping pong ball because of what they (and sometimes I also, but let us not dwell on that) did.

The tiniest stroke of a sharpie. Just a little mark on a finger to connect Jane to the physical evidence. “Who wrote that awful, sacrilegious, ahistorical, despicable, heretical, malignant phrase on my sweet, innocent, beautiful, perfect, wise, powerful, sexy, paradigm–of–adulthood Daphne’s butt,” my wife and issuer of butt beatings would ask in righteous fury.

“Tear up the planks! here, here! ––It is the beating of his hideous heart! Check her hands,” I would cry out! “For she hath defaced and defamed me! I demand a swift and terrible justice!”

With the stroke of a felt–tipped pen, I would do all this, and word would spread, and Jane and the whole world would think twice about picking on me again.

Because I serve mine cold.

You fancy me mad, but would a madman be so wise as this?

But on the other hand … She is my bestie, and she would be pissed at me, and I wanna keep her around.

Meh. I put the sharpie back, put some shorts on, and crawled back into bed with her, wondering how to undo all the reputational damage I’d sustained in just a few brief hours. Also how the crap to explain the words “DIAPER BUTT” on my Mary’s diaper? There was nothing for it – I’d have to confess my attempted right–doing to Mary and hope she didn’t mistake my noble quest for justice (vengeance) for misbehavior.

Someday, surely, Jane would brat her way into a real spanking, and I’d be there. Probably getting spanked, too, but it would be worth it. Plan A or Plan B were still good in theory; I just needed to bide more time. Mine is a long and deep game.