Mary and Daphne #46 (Patreon)

I think this may mark the end of the newlywed phase, and I’m gonna apologize right now for the TMI, but this is my diary and posterity needs to know these things to understand how things went down and not just get the lopsided view of The Punisher.

So sorry to be crass, but we all know that relationships follow a particular arc: there’s the phase when you’d explode before farting in front of your significant other, followed by the phase when you’re finally comfortable enough around one another to let one rip now and again, and the phase when it stops being cute and just becomes yet another reminder you’re partnered with a human and that humans are animals, which is to say they’re gross. Well, I think our Phase 3 just began.

We also know, however, that some humans, such as myself, are special. Take Mary, as a for instance. She is a lioness. Take Nana – she’s a wise old owl. And take me. I’m a spritely woodland sylph. Not that I can make glitter come out of my ... I should just shut up and tell the damn story.

I farted.

I admit this. I am not ashamed of it. We all do it, which is why I didn’t get in trouble for it even if it woulda been more polite to excuse myself, but again, we were in Phase 2 just a couple hours ago. Maybe I need to rewind further.

I’d spent the day searching for some freelance gigs. We could use the money, and it would give me something to do. I’ve been toying with the idea of finding something permanent, hard as that would be right now, but I’m not ready to give up on the idea of going back to school and changing careers. Around three in the afternoon, I called it a day and was putting my laptop away, and who should stop me in the hall but she of the wandering hands. It took her maybe longer than most to figure out this permanent work-from-home thing means she has the flexibility in her workday to, say, rail her wife and then go back to her desk like she went to the water cooler to slake her thirst … twice. If you’ve never been slaked before or slaked someone else, I recommend it.

Anyhoo, before going back her desk, while I was laying sprawled on the bed recovering and trying to remember my name, she decided I’d be more comfortable dressed in what she wanted me dressed in.

“Legs up,” she said from the normal plane of existence I wasn’t ready to return to yet.

“Again? You’re insatiable,” I said with my eyes still rolled back into my head.

“No, sweetie, let’s get you dressed.”

And back to reality. I forced myself to pay attention to the world again. “Aww, c’mon. It’s too warm out.”

“So you can skip the shorts.”

“But ... urgh ... please?”

“Nope.”

“But ...” Over close to a year I’d tried every argument I could think of, and I had nothing new to offer up, not that it had ever mattered before what I’d said anyway. I just laid there and let her put another one of those her friggin’ diapers on me. Ya know, I don’t make her wear any of my things, just sayin’. I was quite fine and comfortable as I was (a/k/a naked and glowy). And she just ignored my request, again. I was starting to get a little miffed that this was becoming more frequent and I seemed to have even less of a say over it than before. And I barely had any say at all before. I went from zilch to nada. I missed zilch.

“One of these days,” I muttered.

“What?”

“I’m gonna ... do something.” Dammit. I’m usually more ready with something pithy, but I was still feeling discombobulated from Mary’s hallway ambuscade.

“You make the cutest threats,” Mary replied. “There,” she said and patted my front, “and you can pick out your very own top.” She winked at me.

“I pick out my own clothes every day,” I whined. Well, almost. She doesn’t really pick them out so much as sometimes lay things out, but since I’m not working she doesn’t do that very often.

“And you get to do it again – yay!”

“Stop celebrating the mundane,” I said as I sat up with a crinkle. “It’s just mean.”

She reached over and let her fingers do a little tickle under my chin. “Daffy.”

“Yeah,” I said and successfully almost didn’t giggle.

“Such a cutie pie.”

“I’m bitter and full of venom,” I replied and crossed my arms.

“How bitter is Daphne,” she sang.

“Stop,” I said and successfully almost didn’t laugh.

“Soooo bitter,” she sang even louder with a big, stupid smile on her face.

“We’re going to need normal people lessons when this is all over.” And she went back to her work, and I got started on dinner.

So it’s after dinner, and we’re in the living room. I let one rip. I’m not proud. I’m not ashamed either. It wasn’t like a cartoon blast off. Not even worth noticing.

“Daffy,” Mary said.

“’Scuse me.”

“C’mere.”

“What? Why?”

“Because I said.” She uses that reason for everything. It loses its punch after the billionth time. Not everything can be because she said.

“You come here,” I said back. O crap! She’s coming over.

“Have it your way,” she said as she crossed the room. She grabbed me under the arm,  and then I was on my feet and she was sitting where I had been in a heartbeat.

Now, with the no–strikes rule I was well aware I had a spanking coming. Those are the rules. I mean, that was straight up back talk on my part, and with the no–strikes rule in effect, there was only one logical outcome. Her hauling me up and sitting down in my place? Talk about telegraphing the next move: yanking me over her knee.

Except she didn’t. I even turned toward her to do it myself (not that I was eager for a smack bottom. Really. Maybe a little. Or a lot. Please don’t judge me.)

“Hold still,” she said and used both her hands on my hips to turn me so I was facing the tv and she was facing, well, my butt.

“What are you ...” My question was cut off by the worst noise my wife has ever made.

“(SNIFF!)”

Did she really … I did not … I never … ever ever … buh-huh?

I distinctly felt a pop in my brain as one of my synapses blew. The Chunnel of my information superhighway just collapsed. I stood there with sea water rising around all my commuters.

Then she, in one of the meanest moves ever, put her hand on my ass. There was distinct cupping. And I love her hand on my ass, but context (freakin’ context, people!) matters, and I was about to jump forward a foot and spin around and explain that to her, but she tugged me backwards. And not on purpose. Well, the tugging was on purpose because she … I don’t wanna say. But history requires its authors if truth as experienced by those who lived it is to be known. She tugged out the back of my (her! Fuck!!!) diaper and (gulp) looked inside. And I wanna crawl into a hole now.

She gave me a pat on the butt and announced, “All clean,” like something had just been accomplished, and I suppose she did achieve one thing: I had never been so embarrassed in my life.

I mean, that’s a goal we’re striving for much of the time, but I kinda like to be in the know when we’re heading in that direction. It’s a two–player game, and just because you can beat the pants off the other player doesn’t mean you shouldn’t play nicely. There’s a certain decorum to these things, and I’m a big believer in decorum. I’m a high class lady, dammit! I have family honor to defend … or something.

Of course, I’m too classy to get angry or pouty or lose my cool, which is why I’ve never done it (no one asked you!), so I saw this as a teachable moment for Mary. I turned to her and said something to the effect of, “I–didn’t–and–I–never–and–I–never–will–and–don’t–even–and–you’re–just–a–big–B–sometimes!” And never has anyone ever done such a classy foot–stomp–fist–clench–glare–face–turn–red combination before.

She smiled back at me, and that’s when my classy wheels began to fall off. I cut her off before she could get out whatever her response was with, “Don’t! Whatever you’re gonna say, no! No! Bad girl!” Huh? O my god, she was so damn delighted with herself.

“It wouldn’t be unheard of for a girl in diapers …”

“Don’t even say it! Don’t you dare say it! Don’t you dare even say it!”

If by chance you run across some primary source material alleging that I stomped around the living room like Sally Brown in the pumpkin patch demanding restitution and threatening to sue, that’s all a buncha crap. I’m too classy. Plus, Sally Brown is … blonde.

“Daphne, I was just making sure you didn’t make a …”

I’m too classy to type what she said. Really. I’m very demure. I just decided to take the high road and respond with, “(High–pitched meeping noises) and (sound of steam escaping) and you’re just (alley cats fighting noises) and I’m (sound world’s most articulate plane crash).” It made total sense if you were there.

“Okay,” she said, ending my mini–parade around the living room by taking my wrist. “C’mere and have a seat.” Hmmph!

“I don’t wanna sit with you.”

“Why not?”

“You’re making funna me.”

“I am not,” she said while making funna me, “I just wanna make sure you’re well taken care of.”

“Stop,” I whined. I was on the edge of hyperventilating (classily).

“Okay. We won’t talk about it anymore … unless it happens again.”

“You’re so damn amused with yourself,” I accused her.

“I’m amused by you and your histrionics.”

“I have no histrionics. I have normal reactions to the abnormal things you do to me because I’m just a regular person and you’re a big weirdo.”

“Now you’re not being truthful,” she accused me of being.

“I’m telling the truth. You just can’t handle the truth! No truth handler you. I deride your truth handling abilities! Truth is mishandled in your mishandling hands of dishandling!” See? That’s how normal people talk (really!).

“You,” she said with that wolfish grin of hers on her (pretty) face, “are just like me.”

“Am not.”

“I can prove it.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

“Then hold still and lemme check the other side of that diapee.”

She is aggressive sometimes. And Strong. And Gentle but rough at the same time. “Marrryyyy … ooo! … you’re … o! … so … mmmm.” Took her a moment through the diaper but she found it. Boy did she find it.

“Mean?”

I hate it when she’s so wrong she’s right.