Mary and Daphne #49 (Patreon)

Know what Mary needs? A reminder. She always says I need reminder and generally starts a whole lot of sentences with “what you need is...” And we all know how she finishes those sentences. Well, nerts to that.

Mary needs a reminder of the pre–we’re–gonna–ageplay–and–not–acknowledge–it–for–two–years me. Which is to say a reminder that I’m not just adorable, as the whole damn world likes to remind me constantly, but hot AF. Not movie–star–hot–AF, but in a realistic lesbian–next–door kinda way. Now, I was hoping I wouldn’t hafta spell it out for Mary. My objective was for her to just see me and remember, ‘O yeah, she’s a sexy little minx.’

I started out slow: I did yoga in the living room. Or more precisely, I watched TV and waited until I heard Mary’s office door open and then quickly turned on a yoga video and got on all fours. Congenitally short hamstrings may be the curse of the Taylors, and sure, I nearly snapped myself in two, but I did one heck of a downward dog, butt up and pointed at her. She’s a butt woman, as if that’s a surprise. Ooh, yeah, did it catch her attention.

“You better not be practicing yoga without a license,” she said with all the authority of one of those Department of Yoga inspectors in the porno I just made up in my head.

“So what if I am,” I said while doing my very best to not pass out.

“You’ll have to be punished.” Well, I wasn’t really going for a spanking. I was hoping for some afternoon delight. Beggars can be choosy if they wanna be, but I didn’t wanna at just that moment, and a butt whoopin’ is a good lead in to other stuff.

“I ought to paddle that little butt of yours just the way you are,” Mary said, “but little girls like you get their bare bottom spankings over the knee. Up,” she ordered.

“Mary...”

“1... 2....”

“Help please ... I’m stuck ... It hurts.”

“O!” And she helped me up. Which I appreciated because if she hadn’t I think I would’ve had to just flop over like a cow being tipped. “You okay?”

“Ow,” I said while rubbing my thighs and being inadvertently adorable. Dammit…

“Poor baby.” She got that funny look on her face. “That’s why you need a license.”

“Har har.”

“Just too adorable when you’re all pouty.”

Dammit! “I am not too adorable. You’re too susceptible to adorability.”

“Aww. See?”

“(Marge Simpson Grumble).”

To add insult to injury, after we had lunch together – a meal in which neither of us was on the menu – she took me upstairs (hopes rising!) and put a diaper on me (hopes smashed!) in case, she said like a pretext–finding so–and–so, my poor strained hamstrings made it hard to get to the potty in time. I had to abandon my efforts for the day and regroup the next.

In our house, we take several things very seriously, to wit: open and honest communication, discipline, our marriage vows, social distancing, cleaning our toys, grilled cheese sandwiches, and Halloween. Just because you only wear a costume once doesn’t mean you shouldn’t spend a lot of money on it so you can win the costume contest at the kinky trunk or treat (tagline: put a little junk in your trunk. Which is sorta backwards and a misnomer because it’s not in a parking lot. Hmm).

I announced I was going to clean the basement, and I set out to sort through our costumes and see if I couldn’t find anything to remind Mary of my many wonderful physical qualities other than cuteness.

Now, Halloween is always kinda a blur for me. I chalk it up to general excitement and the sense of wonder I’ve bravely maintained in this hard world of ours, whereas Miss Mary I-Know-Everything chalks it up to me eating too many peanut butter pumpkins and getting too wound up.

In my defense, it’s a play party with candy – I’m supposed to get wound up. How else would I earn so many public spankings in one evening? Not the restroom or dressing room kind, but the legit over–the–knee–on–the–nearest–chair kind, a/k/a the real kind we’re not allowed to do anywhere else. Perhaps the flood of endorphins and nearly desperate arousal by the time we get home makes it hard for me to preserve the details. I say all this by way of saying our costumes had a certain theme to them.

In Mary’s box, there was Sexy Librarian; Sexy Gym Teacher; Sexy Naval Officer; Sexy School Principal; and Sexy Boss.

In my box, there was Sexy Cheerleader; Sexy Soccer Player; Sexy Teddy Bear; Sexy Snow White; Sexy Kitten; and my personal favorite, Sexy Person Who Forgot to Wear Pants.

So if I had to sum up Mary’s box, I’d call it the Sexy Authority Figure Collection. If I had to sum up my own box, I’d call it the Lemme Throw a Little At Ya Collection.

But anyhoo, I started with my favorite, which was really just a pair of satin panties so I could go pantsless without inviting the whole world to see my parts, and ditched my pants. I squeezed my cheeks into those panties and sashayed upstairs. Mary’s exact words upon seeing me were, “Ha! You look like a toddler who got dressed on her own.”

Well, crap. I beat a hasty retreat before she could help me get dressed. My box wasn’t so helpful in my endeavor to be seen as sexy and not cute after all, upon further examination. Teddy bear ears or kitty cat ears would only get me called adorable. Soccer player it is.

Mary’s reaction: “Don’t kick the ball against the house,” before she disappeared into her office.

So I went outside and kicked it against the fence in frustration, which led to, “Daffy! What on earth...”

“Sorry, Nana. Just playing soccer by myself.”

“I didn’t know ...” she said as she came through the fence, and then she saw the outfit before I could yell for her not to come over. Funny that she’s seen me in a diaper, and seen me naked with a diaper under me, and she’s seen me in panties, and she’s seen my bare red butt, but it was the super–short shorts and strapless bra (“bra” may be a charitable description) paired with knee socks and soccer cleats that finally made her blush and pivot and go back to her yard.

“Sorry,” I said with my eyes squinched.

“No,” she laughed nervously. “I should’ve knocked.” There was an awkward pause before she asked, “You really play soccer in that? Don’t you get, um, grass stains?”

“It’s an old Halloween costume.”

“O. Guess you got all the candy bars that year.”

“Hahahaha! No, it was for a party with, uh, people like us. I put it on to remind Mary.”

“That Halloween comes earlier every year?”

“That I’m hot and sexy and not just adorable. I think she’s forgetting. Or not forgetting. Just not the most immediate way she sees me these days.”

“And what way do you think that is?”

“As cute as a mini–muffin. Just want to remind her I’m still the woman she married. Complex. Employable. Not a little girl.”

“I think she does.”

“She had better. This bra is super uncomfortable.” Like, seriously, it was separating my ribs.

My small talk with Nana didn’t last long. I headed inside and waited for my wife to find me again. Once more, I didn’t wait long, and once more, I didn’t get the reaction I’d hoped for.

First, Mary seemed to consciously overlook me. I guess she was coming up with a reaction she could turn to her advantage, and you’re probably wondering what in the history of my relationship with Mary would lead to believe she could be so calculating, but trust me because reasons. “Daphne Ann,” Mary said to me faux seriously as she sat down on the sofa next to me.

“Yep,” I said while trying (and I guess failing) to make lust eyes at her. Mary makes great lust eyes. I can manage them better when I’m tipsy, but when I’m sober I just look like my allergies are acting up.

“Your coach called.”

O, come on. I wasn’t looking to role play. “No she didn’t.”

“I’m afraid she did.”

“I don’t have a coach. It’s a Halloween costume. Look – they don’t let you play soccer with your junk halfway out,” I said, trying to redirect her attention to the two halves of me, which make a pretty sexy whole if I do say so my wholesome self.

“That’s what your coach wanted to talk about.”

“There is no coach.”

“Also, your coach wanted to talk about your disrespectful attitude toward your coach’s existence.” Ooh, she is at least as much a smartass as I am, but I’m the only one who gets spanked for it. Also, I’m so much better at it.

“Fine. I’ll apologize to my ‘coach’ the next time I see her. Can we please focus on the matter at hand,” I asked as I moved my hand to, well, a matter on Mary.

“And the larger issue,” she said as she took my hand and put it back in my own lap, “is your coach tells me you’re something of a ball hog.”

“I don’t even like balls!” Well, that at least made her laugh. And then she put that fake serious face back on.

“There is no ‘I’ in ‘team’ in our house.”

“There’s no ‘Q’ in ‘barbecue’ either. Hmmmph!” I don’t even know what that means, but I said it and folded my arms in a pouty way that didn’t at all help steer the conversation back to my womanly virtues. I have feminine wiles, dammit! See my wiles!

“I’m going to have to teach you a lesson about teamwork, Daphne.”

“Well, how ya gonna teach me that lesson?” If only I could get her to spank alternative yet very spankable parts, I could still turn this boat around. Been a while since she spanked that part of me, and I think my alleged misbehavior called for it, if that’s what it came to.

“If you’re not mature enough to pass the ball, then you must not be a big girl.”

“Iamtooabiggirl!”

I’ll spare you the rest except to say I added some choice words about the coach and the sport of soccer and pay equity in the American soccer system, all of which just got the pacifier added to the diaper I had to wear until I ‘learned to play like a big girl.’ That had me freaked out until I learned that my learning period was only until bedtime. Phew! I was worried it would be much longer.

Mary forced my hand. I don’t like to go all nuclear, but she didn’t leave me any choice. No more pretense. No more games. I didn’t wanna do it. Lord knows the last time I did it I ended up with bruises. But, dammit, I AM a big girl. I can handle bruises. I had to put on The Outfit.

The outfit I was wearing the day we met. The one that made her reach out and yank me over her knee. Granted it was a spanking party and I was letting my butt get passed around; but Mary saw me, reached out, practically pulled me off my feet and over her lap, and just held me there.

“Hi,” she said to me with her chin in her hand and her elbow between my shoulder blades like she was just resting it there.

“Hi,” I meeped. I wasn’t nearly as smitten as she was. I was mostly intimidated. “I’m Daphne.”

“I’m Mary. What’s your middle name?”

“Anne.”

“Well, Daphne Anne, what naughtiness brings you here?” She gave me a spank. A get–to–know–you–spank, not too hard and not too soft.

“I’m not naughty. I’m here because I was so very good.”

“Fibber. You know what fibbers get?”

“I’ll know if you show me.” So she did. She was supposed to save some of my butt for the other guests, but I guess she liked it a lot or something because she just kept spanking away at it, and I just let her. I was impressed with her hand; she was impressed with my butt.

“Yow,” I said all kittenishlly when she finished learning me a lesson about fibbing … or something. “You’re good at that.”

“I know,” she said, and I thought to myself, of course she knows! She’s so damn confident! And she put her elbow back and put her chin back in her hand and just looked at me as I twisted my head around so I could look back at her.

“Um,” I said nervously, “can I get up now?”

“No.”

“No?!?”

“I don’t wanna share you.”

“But sharing is caring,” I said because I’m so fucking terrible at flirting.

“I’ll let you up if you hang out with me.”

“Ummm ... Mmmkay.”

“Can I flip you over?”

“I dunno. Can you,” I asked sincerely. “Whoa! Ha! Guess so.” I was then sitting on her lap, and she was looking at me with that look of hers, the one that used to make me into a babbling doofus but that I’ve since built up complete immunity to (really!). “Um, thanks for spanking me? ... What?”

“I was just thinking.”

“About what?”

“About what my chances are if I ask you out.”

“O. Well, I think you’ll get a yes.”

“That’s very reassuring.”

Honestly, I thought she was being kinda weird in a creepy way, but also in a way that was sorta a turn on.

“You’re staring,” I said to her.

“I see someone pretty, and I think I wanna get to know her.”

“Ha!” Okay, I’m a sucker for flattery and dominant women. Plus she’d done a really good job on my butt, and while I wasn’t sure how interested I was, I was interested in a date for sure. Even if it just turned into a play partner relationship, her hand was super compatible with my ass.

So the day after the soccer fiasco, I put on The Outfit: white camisole, white panties, white ankle socks.

I texted her: Are you busy?

Nope. What’s up?

And instead of answering, I strolled into her office, grinned at her, gave her a your move head tilt, and waited.

She took a deep breath, let it out in a sigh, spun back toward her monitor, closed her laptop with a satisfying clap, spun back toward me, stood up, grabbed me by the wrist, and yanked me toward her for a kiss that made me get lightheaded (hypoxia will do that to you).

After, as I was rubbing my shoulder wondering if I’d have a bruise from where she pushed me down before climbing on top of me, I asked her straight up: “Am I a big girl?”

“You’re all woman, Daffy.”

“Damn skippy ... Why do you like me in that outfit so much.”

“Because it makes you look like something you’re not: innocent as a lost little lamb.”

“I am too innocent!”

“Fibber. You know what fibbers get?”

“I will if you show me.”

Maybe I’m not such an innocent lamb, but Mary, no mistake, is a wolf. She just can’t help but chase after little ol’ me.