Mary and Daphne #45 (Patreon)

“Mary, I really don’t wanna.”

“You are so forgetful,” she said back to me.

“What’d I forget?”

“That the no–strikes rule is in effect, and clearly it needs to be if you’re going to have such a hard time following instructions. It must be my fault for letting things get so out of hand.” Boy, she can lay it on thick sometimes.

“I am not out of hand. That is such a mom guilt trip thing to say.” I said that fully expecting to be flipped onto my tummy so she could give me my second (or third or fourth depending on how we’re counting) spanking of the day. Instead I got kissed. Hard. To which I cleverly replied, “Ha!” And went in for seconds and got a finger placed gently on my lips instead.

“You’ve had a hard day, and I just want you to relax and have a nice evening. Nana is coming over and she’s never even seen you in the onesie she made for you.”

“But I ... Can’t I just wear the onesie then and ... a skirt over it?” That would tick the box, wouldn’t it? I mean, she’d see me in it. That would be plenty.

“You can wear a skirt over it. But under it ...”

“No,” I whined. “Please?” Hey, how did I get to be face down all of a sudden? SMACK!

“Little girl, I meant it when I said no strikes, so unless you want twenty more of those to go with the ones you already got today, you need to remove that word from your vocabulary when I’m telling you to do things, understand?”

“Yes,” I meeped. Damn, but she sounded serious. Sweet, but serious.

“Roll back over ... butt up.”

Ya know what’s not the word no? “But ... can I wear one of the other ones?”

Mary sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. You might say she was getting a little fed up with me and the back talk and the mixing of the messages. “I’m trying to be nice to you. Not three hours ago you said you wanted these to be a reward.”

Technically, I didn’t say that. “Technically, I didn’t, is the thing ...” Wow, she can make steam come outta her ears. Neat trick. “And Nana is coming, and they’re so ... prominent.” That seemed a good substitute for super–bulgy–and–obvious

“Butt. Up.” Hey, wudduya know? My butt’s up. “Nana will not mind, and you need to stop worrying about that.”

“But you don’t ...”. Ooh, I recognize that face. That’s Mary’s I’m–mentally–counting–down–to–ass–murdering–time face. I was gonna say she didn’t need to make them so thick. I didn’t see why she needed to use more than one in the first place. Maybe there’s a perfectly good reason. I wouldn’t know because unlike her, and Sandy who started all this and who has a sharp blow to the nose coming the next time I see her, I’m not some weird pervert trolling the internet for how–to–cloth–diaper–your–wife tips. I’m, I will have you know, an entirely different kind of pervert, not that I’m kink shaming.

She tugged hard on the wings of the diapers to get a really snug fit with the velcro. I do gotta say I like the way the elastic in the thighs hugged my butt, but there are plenty of things that do that. For one, Mary; I like the way Mary squeezes my butt. For another, panties. Or at least some of them.

“How’s that feel,” she asked me while delivering some very firm pats to places.

“I can’t even feel your hand.”

“You’re pretty,” is what she said back.

Ooh! She thinks I’m pretty! Not that her saying so distracted me because I’m not that distractable. Really.

“Gimme a footsie.” I gave her a foot and then my other one and she threaded those plastic panties up my legs and she’s knows me way too well because when I raised my butt without even being told she said, “Good girl.” And I got a little tingly feeling I my tummy. Not that I’m susceptible to flattery. Really.

“I remember when I had rubber panties that were skin–tight and I had to not eat for two days just to get them on,” I said. It was back once upon a time when I went to play parties looking for someone to slap my ass, and those panties did an awesome job of attracting that kind of attention. I don’t really miss those days, but the Daphne who wore those with confidence seemed a far cry from the Daphne who had ruffles on her butt.

“You were such a dirty little thing, going out like in public,” she smiled at me.

“I was sexy as hell.”

“Yeah you are.”

“Prove it.”

“What?”

“Do I still turn you on?”

“Are you kidding,” she said as she reached out for my hands and helped me sit up. “I don’t even know what to say half the time I look at you. You make me feel like an awkward teenage lesbian.”

“I can’t imagine you ever being awkward.” She seemed to have stolen all the self–confidence in the world, and she makes me feel like a lovesick schoolgirl who gets all twitterpated with a just smile from the head cheerleader.

“Shows what you know. Let’s get you dressed.” And that how I ended up wearing one of those diapers that didn’t feel so much like a reward now (not that they ever could be a reward because they’re diapers even if I intimiate they could be a reward because while I did that I also didn’t and I admit nothing but deny most things; catch all that?).

Context is king. Going for a walk is nice. Going for a walk during an artillery barrage is not so nice, and having a witness to me and my giant diaper butt was not when I had in mind when I said what I allegedly but definitely did but let’s pretend I didn’t say. I don’t even know what I had in mind; I think maybe I was just trying to steal a little control of the whole diaper thing. I mean, if I couldn’t make it go away, I could take away at least part of the punishment part of it maybe?

Of course, that was sort of predicated on the standard for a reward being wayyy higher. It’s not like I say ‘I wanna reward’ and she just hands one over. I didn’t think I’d have to be so blessed for a while. I mean, did she even hear what I said to her that very morning?  How does that earn a reward? I mean, seriously, if I got a reward every time I told someone to go fuck themselves, I’d never stop saying it (true story).

Topped off by a onesie and a flouncy cotton skirt, I didn’t feel like I was being rewarded so much as dressed up for playing house. My feet were cold, but I opted to just deal with it for fear she’d magically produce a pair of frilly ankle socks or booties or something.

“What time is Nana coming over,” I asked.

“Soon. C’mere.” She patted her lap and I shuffled over. Ya hear that? I shuffled. I did not waddle. I didn’t. (Really!) I took a seat partially adjacent to her lap. I’m not a golden retriever. I don’t need to be on her lap all the time. “I need you to do something for me,” she said.

“I’ll behave for our company,” I said and rolled my eyes, which wasn’t so smart.

“I know you will, Daffy Duckling.”

“I am not a duckling!”

“Hehe. But seriously, will you just relax tonight and go with the flow?”

Wow, way to raise my suspicions. “Where’s the flow going?”

“Wherever.” At least she didn’t say my pants; I’d have poked her in the eye if she had. Not really, but maybe a gentle shoulder smack. “I just want you to relax. You’re with two people who love you very much and I can see the stress already in your shoulders.”

“I’m not stressed.”

“Daphne Ann!”

“Maybe a little?” What, just because I spent the whole middle of the day being grumpy and then regretful and then sobbing she thought I was anxious or something? She leaps to conclusions is what she does, and just because she’s so sure footed and usually right doesn’t mean she’s always right or even usually right even if she is, am I right? To which the answer is yes.

She put her hands on top my shoulders. “These are ‘sposed to be down here,” she said and pushed down gently. Okay, so maybe I was a little tense with the whole shoulders–up–around–my–ears thing.

“I’ll try,” I promised.

“And the no–strikes rule applies even if Nana is here.”

“Gee, what with you having practically invited her to a spanking I wouldn’t have known.”

“An anxious smartass says what?”

“What.” I didn’t fall for it. I was just acknowledging the truth. I always acknowledge the truth, just sometimes more publicly than others. I’m very self–aware. People say, ‘There goes Daphne. She’s very self aware.’ Really.

“Thought so. Are your feet cold?”

“No.”

“Fibber. Let’s go pick out a movie.”

Several of my movie choices got vetoed, and we settled on something light. Something you might even characterize as family friendly. But my picks were family friendly, so long as everyone in the family is over 18 and not my mom.

We were in the kitchen making snacks when Nana knocked on our screen door and let herself in.  “Hey hey,” she cheerily called. I can sorta tell that back in the day she was the life of the party.

“Hi, Mae. Come on in. Thanks for coming over.”

“Thanks for inviting me. Hello, Daffy.”

“Hi,” I tried to say confidently even though I was dressed the way I was. Trying and failing to sound confident makes you sound even less confident than if you hadn’t tried at all. It’s like incompetent inconfidence.

“Is that the diaper shirt I made you?”

Well, at least I didn’t do a spit take, even if I did sputter a little. “It’s ... buh ... muh-huh.”

I shot Mary a look that made it very clear that the no–strikes rule would not stop me from winging a block of cheese at her if she let out so much as a titter of the laugh she was barely holding in. “Um, thank you again for making it. It’s comfy and, um, snug.”

“And makes her cuter than anyone has any business being,” Mary said.

I so wish we chose a different movie. And that I didn’t get pizza sauce on my onesie (shirt! dammit). Or that at least Mary would’ve told me instead of taking the opportunity to lick a napkin and paw at me. I think she just likes to paw at me. Lord knows I like to paw at her. Not that I’m a cat girl or anything. Just affectionate.

“You okay, Daffy,” Nana asked a half hour into the movie.

“Yes,” I said a little shakily. “It’s sad.” It wasn’t Ol’ Yeller sad, but it was sad enough, and ... really, I don’t know. I’m a bit more emotional than some folks realize and always have been. Even my own family doesn’t know, but movies like this one ... if I’d known it was sad I would’ve insisted on something else. Certain things, like movies with sad things happening to kids, and I get weepy, and I was recovering from being weepy just hours earlier, and that’s a fragile thing.

“C’mere,” Mary said, and scooted over and leaned back so I was lying against her and she was lying against the arm of the couch. “Comfy,” she asked while reaching for the blanket on the back of the sofa.

“Yes.”

“Maybe we should’ve picked something different,” Nana suggested. “This is bumming me out, too.”

“It gets better ... And she’s just had an emotional day.”

“O no. What happened?”

“Marrrry, don’t you ...” And she’s talking right over me and putting our shit right out in the street.

“Just some big feelings. And she was embarrassed you saw hanging up her diapers and sheets.”

“That’s no reason to be embarrassed. I don’t care one lick what you wear, Daffy. You’re cute as a button.” I just chewed on the inside of my cheek trying not to squirm in the good kind of embarrassment. “I’m so glad you like your onesie.” So she does know the modern term.

Mary put her hand under the blanket and started running all five of her fingers in slow circles on my tummy. Not that I’m a golden retriever; I don’t furiously kick my leg when she does that. My toes sometimes curl and I squirm a little, but that’s not like a golden retriever either. More like a Pillsbury Doughgirl, and no one should be judged just because their insides are made of pastry. That little fella is doing the best he can with what God gave him, and he turns into delicious biscuits to boot. Mary called me her little biscuit once, and I vetoed that pet name immediately ... Not that my mind wanders randomly. I’m very good at focusing, just less so when I’m getting a tummy rub.

I started to get up to go excuse myself to go, um, do a thing, and Mary just clasped her hands lightly with me under them.

So I started to get up again, and she just clasped them tighter.

So I looked up at her and gave her a look.

And she looked down at me and gave me a look back.

So I gave her a dirtier look.

And she smiled.

So I went hfff.

I mean, Nana was right there. I know it did it once while sitting in Mary’s lap, but I didn’t want to make a habit of it. I didn’t really want to do it at all, but I don’t, apparently, get a vote on it and related subjects in Mary’s dictatorship. She’s a despot, is what she is, a tummy rubbing despot like the worst ones always are. She proved as much by her despotism and her resumption of the tummy rubbing and I was then squirming for two different reasons.

Dammit. Anyway...

Since I wasn’t allowed to even leave the room, I did the next most private thing and turned away from the TV, which unfortunately meant turning my face into the crook of Mary’s arm. I was not trying to be cute about it. I didn’t want to look at anyone while I did it. And I would’ve held but, but we had iced tea, and that stuff will just go right through you.

It’s not so easy to pee in that position, which is a part of the story that I haven’t told, and I think I deserve some credit for awesomeness that I’ll never get from Mary because she just expects me to just be able to pee my pants and it’s not easy and she doesn’t know that because how the heck could she because fuck if I’ll ever tell her because I’d rather talk about pretty much anything else. But it’s hard and she doesn’t know that, and I do it because I’m not only a good girl but because I’m a good and regrettably talented girl at this very niche skill. Apparently. Unfortunately. Fuck my life.

I stopped my squirming and froze so I could, well... sigh. At least I was more comfortable.

Mary knew because she could feel even through all the cotton she’d wrapped around me, and she – Gasp! Shock! But not really – moved her hand downward and pat pat squeeze.

And I resumed my several kinds of squirming.

“Good girl,” Mary whispered. “Who’s my very good girl.”

Ooooo. She called me a very good girl. Ha. I felt an inexplicable desire to wiggle my feet and it was all I could do was try not to writhe. It’s soft and warm in the crook of my Mary’s arm. And tummy rubbing and parts squeezing and her petting my hair.

“Is she asleep,” Nana whispered.

“She’s on her way.” Well, yeah, but I was still awake and heard every word, which Mary knew and decided to talk about me anyway, which she totally does on purpose. “We took a nap, but she didn’t sleep well last night, and it was a rough day. For both of us.”

“O no. What happened?”

The polite answer would’ve been Mary just saying nothing to worry about, but no, she had to continue just hanging our dirty laundry out there for everyone to see, and behind our laundry was all our junk right there in the street for the neighbors to gawk at.

“She really did get embarrassed with you seeing her diapers hanging there, and she had a tantrum.” O, nice choice of words, ya big B.

“She really has tantrums?” See? Ya see what she does?

“She wouldn’t call them that, and she doesn’t explode like that with anyone but me, but ya know how people are. They let their guard down with the people they’re closest to. She got embarrassed, then angry, and then took it out on me.”

“Well, ya know, she is an adult. She gets to be angry, Mary, even at you.” Of course I do! She’s the source of the embarrassment; Nana is just an innocent bystander.

“Of course she does, but she doesn’t get to swear at me.”

“She didn’t,” Nana said in disbelief.

“She definitely did. She knows better, too. She’s fully capable of discussing things like an adult,” Mary said and gave me a firm pat on my thigh under the blanket. “She just made a bad choice.”

“Stop talking about me,” I said, rolling back over so I could see them both. And my face was red because it was warm, not because I was blushing o so adorably.

“We’re just chatting,” Mary said. You, I said to her in my head, are not an innocent. She’s the world’s best humiliatrix. All those dommes who just make fun of people’s body parts and make them kiss their feet are playing tiddlywinks. Mary plays six–dimensional chess.

“See how she embarrasses me on purpose,” I said in my defense. Of course what Nana didn’t see was how wet it made me under all layers of already warm and wet cotton.

“No need to be embarrassed,” Nana said reassuringly. She always says that. I mean, there obviously is a reason to be embarrassed. Me and Mary aren’t weird, I decided; Nana is weird if she really doesn’t see any reasons to be embarrassed when she looks at me and the lifestyle I live and the outfits I wear.

Mary, with her I–ate–the–Cheshire–Cat–smile plastered to her face chimed in with, “Your nana knows how bad choices get dealt with in this house. You got a long time out, your mouth washed out, and what else?”

“Marrrryy!”

“It’s okay.” She pinched the inside of my thigh.

“She already knows,” I whined.

She pinched my thigh harder. “Then there’s no reason not to say tell her.”

“She doesn’t have to,” Nana said. “I assume she got a spanking for it.”

“On her bare bottom,” Mary added with a chuckle.

“You’re just the worst,” Nana chuckled back at Mary. I did not chuckle. “Leave the girl a little dignity.”

“You’re so mean,” I said to my Mary.

“C’mere. I’ll protect you.” Mary let me up, and I was halfway up off her lap when I regretted it. Get up and waddle over to Nana? Nope, I was good where I was.

“I’m good,” I said and eased myself back down.

“Go on,” Mary said.

“Nope, really. I’m fine.”

Mary leaned in and whispered in my ear, “Up, little girl. She’s trying to be nice. Go with the flow.”

I had wobble knees when I stood up, which didn’t help me not look like a two–minute–old antelope about to fall down. Good thing I’m so athletic and kinesiologically talented, because I made it all six steps without face planting on our rug (yay small victories!). It made me think I should try figure skating again (by which I mean a second try after having done a giraffe–on–a–frozen–pond impression once when I was five and never setting foot on a skating rink again, and I grew up in Wisconsin), if only because I like the outfits (which are not at all like onesies, before you even think it! Just because it’s a shirt that comes together through the legs and is worn with a skirt like the one I was wearing that evening … dammit...).

I quickly sat down next to Nana, and she put her arm around my shoulder. “We won’t let her tease you anymore,” she said.

“She teases me all the time. She only made me put up a clothesline to embarrass me.”

“Why does she do those things, do you think?”

“To be mean,” is what I said. To be mean and because it makes us both all tingly in places is what I didn’t say. “She’s very cruel,” I said in a way that could get me accused of being deliberately cute and catty. It would just be one in a long line of wild accusations people have made about me, though, I’ll have you know.

“It isn’t very nice being talked about like you’re not in the room, is it Mary,” Nana asked Mary. As in, Mary the Queen. As in, the Mary who never gets put on the defensive or called out on her bullplop. As in, the very same Mary who thinks she can just spank me whenever and wherever and however she wants to (and I have no idea who gave her that impression – wink).

To say my eyeballs turned into cartoon stars and little red hearts appeared above my head wouldn’t be wholly accurate but only because I’m not a cartoon character. Nana is a goddam hero, is what she is. She’s the Caped Crusader of The Daphne Defense Forces. I could sense Mary stewing in her own juices. Even Mary is no match for Nana. It was my lucky day, and I was gonna push that day’s luck just to watch Mary squirm for once.

“And she’s so rough with me,” I pouted. “She takes advantage because I’m shorter than she is.” Not by much, mind you. I’m actually a giant compared to some people (under age 10), but I’m five-foot-two, and Mary is five-foot-eight. “Bully,” I said straight to the queen from Fortress Other Couch Nana Was Sitting On (we call it “the couch” for short).

That blow seemed to glance off the queen’s armor as a smile spread across her face. “Why don’t you give Nana some examples.” And my defender turned and smiled an eerily similar smile at me.

“Um,” I cleverly stalled for time. “She puts things on the top shelf.”

“What else,” Nana said. “It’s okay. You can tell me.”

“She ... you know. Don’t you be mean to me, too,” I pouted like an expert, which is amazing since it was my first time ever pouting (really!).

Ha! I thrust; Mary ripostes; I dodge; Mary swings; Nana enters the fray; I hide behind my cuteness. Just like how the knights of ye olde kinky kingdom woulda done it.

“I’ll never be mean to you,” Nana said. Ha! Try switching sides and ganging up on me ... don’t know who you’re messing with.

“Can I say one thing, though,” Nana asked.

Ooh, she’s clever.You can’t say no when someone asks that. “I guess,” I was forced by societal mores to say.

“I think you’re very lucky to have her, even if it means you get your bottom spanked every once in a while.”

“More like every day!” Fuck. “I mean, you’re right. Ha!”

“She couldn’t possibly be that naughty,” Nana said to Mary while I searched for an escape tunnel in Fortress Couch.

“It’s not every day, but we did put the no–strikes rule in effect until we get her back on track.”

“How off track can she be?”

“She used the F word at me.”

“Daphne Ann! How could you?”

“No need for that, Mae. She already got her consequence and apologized profusely. We don’t need to be starting any more tears outta her.”

The queen hath spoken, Nana; I mean, geez, pick a side and stay on it, will ya? It helps to know who your frenemies are.

“So what exactly is the no–strikes rule? Daphne mentioned it once.”

“It means I’m going to spank her bottom for her for every little misdeed for a while until her behavior improves. Not that her behavior is so bad, but I think she’s just all out of sorts, and the key to a happy and healthy Daffodil is a perpetually pink bottom.”

What did we just say about talking about people like they’re not in the room? And could we not talk about my butt in front of company?

Mary prattled on, “And I think she could use a little more structure in her days. A little more supervision and some responsibility and she’ll be right as rain. No job, no job hunting, and no school for months on end – she’s not quite herself.”

Well, at least we can agree on that.

“You can’t send her to work in diapers, though,” Nana sorta objected, sorta asked, and I sorta wished she’d shut up.

“I pick out my own clothes for work,” I said to no one who was listening. At least, I usually do. Or did, back in the pre–historic days before the pandemic. Did I just promote diapers to “clothes?”

“Diapers weren’t a regular thing for her back when she was working. That’s recent,” Mary explained.

“O. How did those come about anyway?”

“A friend of ours suggested we give it a try.”

“Objection!” Why’s everybody looking at me funny? “A friend of ours suggested it to you, and you make me.” Surely that would win Nana permanently to my side. Go on, Nana, bite her head off.

“Well,” Nana said, and then turned and looked at me. Wrong direction! Look at Mary!“She is the one in charge, little girl.”

Traitor! Benedict Arnold! Judas Cumberbatch! Marcus Junius Brutus and the whole damn Gens Junia!

“Ooh, you were right, Mary, that does make her make a cute pouty face,” Nana said. And when the heck did Nana get in on the humiliation fun? Did she even know what she was doing or was she just a natural?

“Nana! She ... you ... isn’t fair!”

“Shhh ...” Aw, hell naw, bitch, you do not wanna be shushing me!“... I’m just teasing. But she is in charge, and if she can spank a bottom, she can certainly put a diaper on one.” That is some bull plop logic! Bull plop!

“Did Sandy tell you to say that?”

“Who’s Sandy, sweetie?”

“One of Mary’s co–conspirators.” I was onto them, all of them. Nana was no hero; she was a mercenary, going whichever way the wind blows. If I was going to have her on my side, I’d have to work for it. And I have something Mary doesn’t have: adorabilibuddiness.

“The diapers to keep Little Miss Sass Bottom in line was Sandy’s idea, though other people like us do it, too,” Mary helpfully explained. “And I’ll add that they do a good job. That and her paci have saved her from a smacked bottom more than a few times. In fact, they actually work better than spanking her.”

“They do not!” And she’s just talking right over me again.

“And when she’s wearing one, she magically turns into my shadow. She gets all clingy.”

“I do not!”

“You were more attached to me at my parents’ house than Milo was to my sister.”

“Who’s Milo,” Nana asked.

“My sister’s four–year–old. I like it,” Mary said. “I like that she’s get even more touchy–feely. I didn’t really anticipate there being so many mood swings though,” Mary added with a bit of a put upon eye roll, “but then I didn’t anticipate there’d be a global pandemic and we’d be even more twenty-four-seven with all this than we already were.”

“Twenty-four-seven, really? I bet those cloth diapers are saving you a bundle,” Nana said.

“Ha! She’s not wearing them 24/7. I meant just our lifestyle in general. There’s no break when we’re both home all day.”

Hey, dammit, what’s that supposed to mean? “What’s that mean? Do you ... need a break?” From me?

“O no, sweetie. I just meant we’re always together now; we don’t get time away, and you especially with not working right now. You said yourself it’s hard to not have other people to talk to with you not working. We haven’t gotten to be our work selves for months ... unless you were getting into mischief at the office and getting your bottom smacked for it and not telling me.”

“O. Yeah...”

“I mean it. I’ll never need a break from you.”

“I know.” Still… I’m not usually so insecure that an innocent, off handed comment could scramble my brain so easily, or at least I didn’t use to be. What a weird day. I was just off, and I didn’t know why.

“Mae, would you do me a favor?”

O, don’t you dare, Mary, whatever it is you’re gonna ask her to do.

“Will you rub her tummy? That always makes her feel better.”

“I am not a golden retriever. I oooh! Heehee! ... I’m just ticklish, Nana!”

“Too cute for your own good,” Nana said. “Well, you both know Daphne is welcome at my house anytime. You keep me younger if not young.”

“That could be difficult with the no–strikes rule, Mae. I know you don’t wanna tattle on her, but I really do think she’ll be happier if we stick to strict for a while.”

“I can’t be her nana if she can’t trust me to not tell you everything.”

Damn straight.

“But,” Nana said, “one thing that’s been bothering me and I’m going to have to insist on.”

“What’s that?”

“If she’s over at my house, I’m not letting her sit around in a soggy diaper. Either you let her change it or me, or I’m going to send her home to get that taken care of.”

It’s my butt, dammit! Why is that anyone else’s concern? Except Mary’s. I know Nana’s trying to be helpful, but not helpful! Not helpful! Not! I feel dizzy. Probably because all my brain blood ran down into my face.

“That’s up to Daffy,” Mary said.

Ooh, I get to make a decision for once. “I’ll just take care of it myself.”

“Nice try, but not what I meant, kiddo.”

“I’m not a kiddo!” But as long as I was being treated and talked about like one. “And you’re such a butt sometimes.” If I’m gonne treated like a bratty kid regardless, I’m calling all the people who act like butts butts when they’re acting like butts.

“Daffy,” Nana said and put her hand on my thigh just below where my skirt ended (and had ridden up), “we’re all women. You have nothing I don’t see every day. I just think you’d be so much more comfortable, and that way when you’re over, we won’t have to stop what we’re doing or talking about for you to run home.”

“Okay, technically – and actually not technically – you do not see what I see every day, is the thing.”

“You know what I mean,” Nana said.

“I do ... I need to think about it.” I’m not really shy about nudity with people in the scene. If we’d met Nana at a play party, it wouldn’t bother me. Even being touched by play partners we’d just met isn’t that much of a thing with me so long as Mary is right there next to me.

But we didn’t meet Nana at a party, and she’s not in the scene. She’s my neighbor and a really good friend. I didn’t want to lose her as those things by me or Mary turning her into a play partner or Nana inadvertently or advertently (is that a word?) doing that to herself.

“Okay,” Nana replied. “No pressure. Totally up to you.”

“Partially up to me,” I muttered, except I said it to Mary and gave her a dirty look to match.

“This is the back chat that can get her in trouble. Daphne, come over here please,” Mary said.

“No. I didn’t ... That wasn’t ...” Nana will rescue me. And then I realized I was alone and cold in a cruel world, because then Nana took her arm off my shoulder. Protection, gone. I turned and looked at her, my once–upon–a–time hero. And for the record, I did not look at her with pleading puppy dog eyes. They were disappointed kitty eyes.

“You weren’t kidding when you said strict,” Nana said, and then she looked at me and added, “I think you’re gonna need to be more careful about who you call a ‘butt’ for a while.”

Statute of limitations! That was, like, fifty seconds ago.

“But ... but ...”

“Sorry, kiddo,” Nana said.

Fine. I would at least walk to my place of spanksecution with the dignity befitting someone of my station, by which I mean I dragged my feet and used every bit of body language I know to grump and pout (having done it for the first time ever that evening, I figured I’d try it again).

“It was nothing,” I whined as I approached Mary.

“It was several somethings.” O, yeah, sure, if you were listening to the words I was brattily saying, then I guess, yeah, there some things I said that probably weren’t so wise to say with the no–strikes rule in effect. But give a girl a break (the opposite of the no–strikes rule, granted) because with all the talking over me it’s impossible to know when I’m being listened to or even if I’m being heard and what even counts as being too bratty? It’s arbitrary, the very essence of despotism, and knowing that I love everything about it is no excuse for Mary to, ya know, do it. I don’t mean to be sacrilegious, but typing that out, and living it every day, makes me just wanna remind myself, Mary and the whole world that God made me complicated, I didn’t choose it, and even if I have some really hard days, like that one, I like being me a whole lot.

Anyway, in the moment, I was just thinking that I didn’t say anything that would earn a spanking except under the no–strikes rule and even under the no–strikes rule, probably would only earn a spanking for that kind of low–level bratting on Day 1. I didn’t especially want a fifth or twentieth or however many spanking of the day, and definitely not in front of Nana, but anything more than the token resistance I’d put up would only make it worse.

Mary caught my near wrist and moved my hand out of the way, and I got a THWOCK THWOCK THWOCK THWOCK to my butt and SPANK SPANK to the back of my thighs.

She caught me off guard. For one, I was wearing the equivalent thickness of every pair of underwear for a two–block radius, and she rarely spanks me with just one pair on. For two, spankings during no–strikes periods are usually more formal, like over the knee formal. And for three, I thought she would excuse us to the kitchen or something. She’d threatened me with a spanking in front of Nana, and Nana had seen my butt smacked by accident a few times (her seeing it was the accidental part; Mary smacking it was totally on purpose), but she’d never actually done it, and I didn’t think she would out of respect for Nana, plus basic kink ethics – Nana is not part of the scene and did not consent (to my knowledge; who knows what those two schemers talk about when I’m not around). But then with our lifestyle being a lifestyle and not a scene and so much of it being out in the open with Nana, maybe we’d reached the point of implicit consent, at least for some swats to a covered butt.

After those two zingers to the back of my thighs, I half anticipated getting yanked over her knee or hauled into the kitchen and being stripped to my birthday suit for the real deal, but instead Mary just took my other hands in hers, held them together gently, looked up from the couch with Bambi eyes, and asked, “Do you understand why I had to give you that spanking?”

“Be–because I bratted.”

“Yes, and we’re going to work on that smart mouth together, okay?”

“Mhmm.”

Silence reigned for a moment. Mary was right; it was an emotional day for me. Hormones aside, the whole damn day was too much, and it crashed into me like I was drunk on chocolate and Lifetime movies.  First, my lip quivered, and I tried to get it to stop. Then a tear ran down my cheek.

“O, Daffy,” Mary said with genuine concern in her voice. She gave me a tug so I fell–slash–sat on the couch next to her and put my face in the crook of her neck. I wasn’t sobbing (so good on me for that, I guess), but I was definitely weepy and had no idea why. If I didn’t know better, I’d chalk it up to pregnancy. “You’re just a hot mess today.” Mary leaned down and kissed my hair, which made me do that thing where you sorta choke and hold your breath until the big swollen lump in your throat goes away. With my face buried in Mary’s neck, I didn’t see Nana coming over, but I felt when she sat down, and then a new hand was rubbing my back.

“Is she really that sensitive to pain,” Nana asked.

“That didn’t even hurt her,” Mary said.

“O. Well … Is she just embarrassed again?”

“I don’t think that’s it. I I think she’s just having one of those days. Shhh. C’mon, Daffy, you’re okay. You’re okay.” Yes, but WHY was I having one of those days?!? I didn’t understand. Maybe it was just a random one–of–those–days. Maybe it was something Mary said. Maybe neither. And I’m glad she thought I was okay because I sure didn’t. What was wrong with me?

“Daffy,” Nana said quietly, “you were very brave.”

Brave doing what?It’s not brave to take a spanking, not in our house. It’s a hell of a lot more brave to refuse to take a spanking, and I’ve never been that brave. Or so inclined, though Mary has pushed the limits sometimes, which usually end up being the kind of events that mark a new phase in our life together.

“Here,” Mary said, guiding me up, “go see Nana.” Huh? Why? Mary sorta pivoted me so I twisted around, and Nana had her arms open. Ooo. Nana hug. The woman gives good hugs. And back pats. She gives just the right level of thump. And back rubs. She gets the whole length of it, not like some people who I imagine must be emotionally constipated or something. Though I can’t fully blame them because the way I was that day, I could’ve used some emotional cheese. But Nana gets the whole length of my back, from my shoulders to HEY DAMMIT! THAT’S NOT MY BACK!

“She’s wet,” Nana whispered, which was just weird because her mouth was right next to my ear. Did she think I wouldn’t hear her?

“It’s almost bedtime,” Mary said back.

I took a big sniff and sat up. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Nana said. She brushed the hair out of my face and used her thumb to wipe a tear away. She has such soft hands, but they have this rough texture, like she’s been working in the garden for sixty years. I wonder if my hands will feel like that someday.

“I don’t know what that was all about.” And I was tired again. Like, blood–sugar–plummeting tired.

“I think,” Mary said, “it’s time to say goodnight.”

We said our goodnights, and I told Nana I’d see her the next day. Mary made us each a glass of water, and we went upstairs together. I offered to help clean up the family room, but she just said the mess would be there in the morning, and we shut off the lights behind us.

Certain parts of yourself you just can’t turn off. On the one hand, I wanted to cancel the sunrise and sleep for thirty–six hours. On the other, I had a lot of pent up feelings that require a minimum degree of physical activity to resolve. If my humiliation kink is a little button, the whole damn day was Mary poking it, twisting it, pulling it, flicking it, and squeezing it. She really knows how to girlhandle my button.

“Here,” she said, and handed me that teddy bear she got me. I keep moving it to the dresser, she keeps moving it back to the bed. “Lay down for me.”

“He’s just an innocent bear,” I said as coquettishly as I could while yawning. “It wouldn’t be right to expose him to certain things,” I said and set it by my pillows as I tried to sexily collapse on the bed. I did the collapsing part like a boss.

“You’re kidding, right,” she scoffed at me. “I could knock you over with a feather.”

Well, there’s an idea. “So go get the feather.” It’s why we bought it, after all.

“How about we just get you tucked in.” She went to my dresser instead and got a diaper out of my erstwhile underwear drawer. There was still underwear in it, but they’d been pushed to one side. It’s like my drawer was gentrifying and the long–time residents were getting squeezed by these new people that weren’t even self–aware enough to know they weren’t fully welcome. I mean, yeah, come spend your money in our stores and restaurants, but how ‘bout going to back to where you came from at the end of the day? And yes, I realize in this metaphor that I’m a spokesperson for the Neighborhood Panty Association, but if I’m not, no one else will be.

Mary disappeared into the bathroom and came back out with a thing of wipes, powder, and a towel. “We need somewhere to put these cloths diapers when they’re wet,” she said. “Lift up for me.”

I lifted, and she spread the towel under me. My skirt was off, my onesie was open, the plastic panties felt a little wet as they came off over my toes, and instantly those cloth diapers felt wet and cold. Mary tore them open (and practically lifted me off the bed in the process; that’s some good velcro) and put them in a pile between by my feet on the towel.

“Hey, slow down,” I said when she started cleaning me up. “Where’s the fire, sexy.” Ooh, we need a fireman outfit for her. She scortled and ignored me, switching over to the powder. “What,” I said, “no cream?”

“Not tonight.”

“Um, Mary?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m trying to get busy with you here.” And she’s sooooo good at rubbing in that cream.

“Daffy, your eyes are half–closed.”

“That’s never stopped – yaaaawwwwwwn – us before.”

“Lift.” She’s also gotten good at getting the diaper positioned right on the first try. Too good, if you ask me. I guess this passed into our normal a while back, which is a bummer. She’s also good at tugging it tight between my legs before doing the tapes, but that part I like because it’s snug in the right spots.

I had an ace up my sleeve, a sure fire way to get Mary to focus on what was important: having an orgasm before bed. And that’s pretty damn important, by the way, for heart health. And hadn’t I earned it? Not that sex is a reward in our marriage, but other than my tantrum (fine, whatever, I’ll call it that), I’d been good as gold. I did my chores (even if I told Mary what she could do with one of them), been very cooperative and brave (Nana said!) with my spanking(s), and raised (almost) no words of protest while Mary needled me with Nana right there (and with her sometimes joining in!).

Plus, I’d had a very hard day and really didn’t understand why. If Mary didn’t owe me an orgasm, and I’ll agree she didn’t because no one ever owes anyone one, the universe did. And I’ve prayed to the universe for spontaneous orgasms, and those prayers have always gone unanswered, so I really (like, fucking really) needed Mary to be the universe’s instrument. And luckily I know Mary and her buttons as well as she knows mine.

“Mary,” I said as she was giving my front one of those firm pats she’s so fond of giving, “how about if I, um, huh, suck on your nipples? Sound like fun?” I had to suppress quite a yawn, not that she noticed because her eyes were up and to the left like she was considering one of the best ideas ever.

Ever since she talked me into doing that the last time, I can tell she’s wanted to again. I do enjoy it, and it does make me feel special that I can make her cum from that, and she puts her hand to work while I’m at. That’s a win–win. A mutual win–gasm.

She got a happy–queer smile on her face. “Lift.” I lifted and she rolled up the towel with those diapers in it. “I’m going to go throw this in the washer. If you know what’s good for you, little girl, that onesie will still be unbuttoned when I get back.”

I watched her saunter out of our bedroom from flat on my back on the bed and let out the gigantic yawn I’d been holding in.

I got you wrapped around my little finger, I thought to myself. And when you get back …

And that’s the last thought I had until I woke up fourteen hours later. Dammit.