Mary and Daphne #51 (Patreon)

One of those basic kindness things that pretty much every parent has to learn is that sometime in the early years, your kid figures out you’re talking about them. Your clueless parents don’t seem to think it matters if they talk about their kid in front of the kid, and your good parents learn to mostly stop doing it when the kid is right there.

Your asshole parents do it deliberately to embarrass the kid. Which is not to say that Mary is an asshole, but that she does know exactly what she’s doing. She’s not even sneaky about it. She just talks on the phone with whomever, usually leaving me to guess who she’s blabbing to, while she chats up a storm about our latest misadventure, typically telling a version of the story that doesn’t make me out in the best light, smiling and winking and flushing while I’m blushing and squirming in my seat.

Meanwhile, I sit there and listen, too curious to know what story she’s telling about me and trying to figure out how to repair the damage to my otherwise stellar reputation. For those reasons only, and not because I get off on it, for that is just another rumor (started by me, normally trustworthy but also not, except that I always am).

If you want to know which of us is the pervert, just know that the longer those phone calls go on, the more Mary tends to start touching me and stuff. Including swatting my hands away from the phone when I try to correct the record because she’s mean and tells tales outta school.

“We’re having some potty problems in our house,” Mary casually told someone. I have my guesses, but Mary just ignored me when I asked. Jane? Brenna? Lisa? My mother? Her mother? A doctor? A telemarketer? Who knows. So because this is where I get to tell my version of that story, I’ll tell you what really happened. The unadorned truth.

“Wuddya get,” I asked Mary when I brought the package inside. Call us paranoid, because we are, but I wiped the thing down and then washed my hands, twice. The return label was some cutesy name, so right away I knew it was very likely from an Etsy shop. So many good things come from Etsy. Paddles come from Etsy. Sexy outfits. Chains, whips, chips, dips. Ya know, the basics for any good party or quarantine driven descent into kinky indulgences and credit card debt.

“Let’s see,” Mary said. She took the package and opened it, peaked inside and shut the box again, and said, “Ooo. It’s a present for you.”

“Can I see?” I asked because that’s how presents work. Mary I think sometimes forgets because she’s so focused on being good at other stuff, but when you get someone a present you’re sposed to show them what it is. I know these things because I’m very wise. Really.

“I ordered it when you were being good. Do you think you’ve been good enough to still deserve a present?”

“What kind of bullshit question is that?” I said not in my own head. “I mean, of course? … Teehee?” Do I say these things on purpose or because I’m delightfully unrestrained? Yes.

“Daphne Ann, now I’m going to hafta send it back.”

“No ya don’t, ya big silly.” Adding ‘ya big silly’ on to the end of a sentence can defuse anything. You’re just a dumpster fire of a human being, ya big silly. See? “Wuddya get me?”

“I’m not sure if I should give it to you. We had a pretty big episode this week, didn’t we?”

“But that’s not fair,” I didn’t whine, “you always say once I get my consequence it’s over, and I got my consequence already.” And it still hurt a little to sit down. And so what if I didn’t do exactly as she said. Or any of what she said. I was busy watching Netflix. And so what if I was quote–unquote mouthy about it. It’s a mouth; it’s gonna get mouthy now and again through no fault of mine, which is English, duh. And so what if I don’t take responsibility for my actions. Except when it suits me. It said brat on my fetlife profile all the way back when we started dating. Plus, I wanted a present. Who wouldn’t?

“Did you get your consequence already? I don’t remember that part.” Fibber. She fibs when it suits her, which is so unfair and not at all like when I do it for reasons that aren’t for the likes of you to know.

“You do, too!”

“Maybe if you tell me about it I’ll remember,” she said. She was biting the inside of her lower lip, the way she does when she’s trying to be serious and sexy and not laugh at the same time and totally enjoying making me squirm.

“But ... I’d rather not.”

“Well, then maybe you didn’t get a consequence at all, in which case the present has to go back, and we have to get that consequence out of the way.”

“Urgh! Fine.”

“How did you get punished?”

“You spanked me. There. Present, please.”

“How did I spank you?”

“Over your knee.”

“Just over my knee? I think there was more.”

“See!?! You do too ‘member.”

“It’s coming back to me. Keep going.”

“You – hmmph! – you grabbed by the arm and spanked me upstairs.”

“I spanked you upstairs, or I spanked you up the stairs?”

“Marrrry! ... Fine. Up the stairs.”

“Then what happened?”

“You sat down on the ottoman and pulled my shorts down.”

“I pulled your shorts down? You didn’t take them down yourself?”

“You never let me take them down myself!”

“O, that’s right! Because you’re ...”

“Don’t say it!”

“A little girl...” Dammit! “...and little girls don’t get to take down their own pants down for their spankings.” Urgh!!! Present better be friggin worth it. “What happened then?”

“You put me over your knee and spanked me. There. End of story.”

“It sounds like I spanked your bare bottom. Did I spank your thighs too?”

“A little.”

“And what did you get your spanking with?”

“The hairbrush.”

“(Gasp!) How naughty you must’ve been. Did it hurt?”

“Yes! A lot, thank you very much.”

“Did you cry like a little girl?”

“I sniffled ... like an amazon warrior princess.” Because I guess they get spanked by their wives sometimes, too. If they made a documentary about that I would watch it all day long … sigh.

“You didn’t get spanked to tears? That doesn’t sound like an effective punishment.”

“It was! I ... did ... tears. A little.”

“Aww, you poor thing, that must’ve been very traumatic for you. C’mere.” And hug. And – ooo! – she squeezed my butt. Ha! “Thanks for telling me that story.”

“Welcome … Big meanie.”

“Do you want your present now, or should I wrap it for you?” Ooo, conflicted. Who doesn’t love unwrapping things? And yes, I’m aware that I have previously gone on some tangents about wrapping things, but that’s about when I have to do the wrapping which is why it’s different.

“Now, please.”

“Close your eyes at least,” Mary said with such a happy smile on her face. She loves giving presents; she puts a lot of thought into it. She was especially excited for this one, I could tell. I closed my eyes and listened to her tear open a plastic bag. “Keep em closed but hold out your hands.”

Whatever it was felt soft and a little squishy because it was so thick. “Any guesses?”

“Nope.” Gimme my present.

“You never wanna guess. Okay, open.” I opened. “Ta da!”

“O! Wow huh?” Underwear. Oversized, cartoon-adorned underoos.

“Teenage mutant ninja turtles! It’s your favorite! Michelangelo! Turtle power, dude!”

Okay, so I was conflicted. Because he is my favorite. But they’re underoos, not that I don’t have quite the collection of junior miss panties thanks to Mary insisting that wearing them helps me remember to behave. And not that while I used to call them my punishment panties, they seem downright grownup compared to what Mary’s been making me wear at least twice a week and sometimes more.

“They’re cute,” I said. “They’re awfully thick.”

“They’re training pants.”

“O. You really shouldn’t have.”

“No need to be bashful. Put them on.”

“Here?” In the kitchen, to be exact.

“Of course, silly.” And she did that ninja thing where she flicks a finger and pops the button on my shorts. It’s not a preternatural ability; she’s just had lots of practice. In our kitchen; in other people’s kitchens; this one time in a commercial kitchen which is its own story. “Like your bottom hasn’t been bared in this kitchen before.”

“That’s different!”

“Okay. Then like I haven’t found you naked and eating ice cream at three in the morning before.”

“Well ...” I mean, what, am I supposed to get up and put on clothes in the middle of the night? I’m not a hero. I’m just a 31–year–old who sometimes sleeps naked and needs ice cream in the middle of the night. But like it was even worth arguing the point because Mary already had my shorts and panties down.

“Lift.” Off came the big girl clothes, up came the training panties. “So friggin’ adorable,” I was proclaimed when she got them in place and stood back to admire me.

I had this totally nonsensical sense that the panties reinforced the difference between us better than just about anything ever: there she was, a ninja; there I was, wearing teenage mutant ninja turtle training panties. I felt compelled to go find and stop a crime in progress just to demonstrate that I can ninja, too. But I can’t. And if I tried, Mary woulda spanked me for it. She has this thing about me putting myself in danger, just one of her rules, and I’m a good rule follower. Really, that’s the only reason I haven’t made a point of developing my crime fighting abilities. We certainly have enough skintight outfits and masks to cobble together a convincing superhero outfit for me, both regular and crotchless and … Anyhoo …

We ended up on the sofa enjoying a movie on a lazy Saturday afternoon, Mary in her Saturday secret ninja clothes and me, I guess, just lucky she didn’t make me put a onesie on. I will admit to looking down at myself while I was leaning back against Mary, checking out the turtle action on my panties. Back when our relationship was new and we were searching for things other than kink we had in common, we learned we had both been enthusiastic turtle fans. Her favorite was Donatello, no surprise because she’s such a nerd and so is he.

I was trying to be a good girl. Let’s just all get that straight. Mary has rules about what I wear, and I was trying to follow the rules, because I’m a rule follower at heart. Go ask anyone, and they’ll say, There goes Daphne, off to follow the rules somewhere. I’m a good little rule follower, dammit! When I want to be and remember to be. Really.

“Daphne!” As a rule, Mary doesn’t shout. She doesn’t raise her voice, so when she did and since I was sitting pretty much on her, it scared the bejeebus outta me and I sprang up on to my feet. “What in …” Then she was on her feet.

“What?!?” I was confused–freaked out.

“Did you really just pee on me?” She was confused–incredulous. She looked at her front, and her jeans had a dark spot. I looked at my front, and Michelangelo’s pizza was ruined.

“It leaked,” I meeped.

“Why would you do that?”

“It’s not my fault,” I said defensively. “They must not be made well.”

“Ugh. It’s on our couch.”

I’d like to pause to point out the basic unfairness in Mary making a rule that I have to pee on myself but the first time a little gets on her she acts like she’s so unclean she can’t go into the temple for seven days and seven nights. “Explain yourself, little girl.”

I’m not a little girl! I was just an adult wearing cartoon training pants that leaked when I peed them, dammit! “I had to go.”

“So you just went? What, is this Level 99 Bratting or something?” For the friggin’ record, I don’t attempt Level 99 Bratting. I just do it – there is no try. But this wasn’t that.

“I was doing what you said! Don’t be mad.” She stopped inspecting the couch and turned back toward me with that face she makes when she’s sorry, usually because she’s made me cry or almost made me cry. Not that I ever cry on purpose to get that reaction. Really. I just happened to be feeling a little vulnerable in that moment what with being the wrong kind of humiliated and freaked out. And my butt was wet. That’ll make anyone feel vulnerable. And she snapped at me, and I reeeaaaalllly don’t like that.

“Calm down, Daffy. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound angry.”

Too late. She poked the bear. Not my big ferocious bear, but the one that was mortified and had a cold, wet butt. “(Sniff). I was using them like you said I have to.”

“Honey,” she said as she stepped over to me and took my hand and brushed a tear from my face, “they’re not diapers.”

“But it’s the same rule for pullups.” And I pulled these up. Or actually Mary did, but they point is they were down around my ankles and got pulled up. Reusable pullups.

“They’re training undies.”

“Yeah …” Aren’t pullups disposable training undies? Did I miss something?

“You’re not supposed to pee in them. They’re not waterproof.” So, yes, apparently I did miss something. I thought they had a waterproof lining between all the cotton or something. That would make sense, right? Isn’t that what training panties do? Keep accidents off clothes?

“Well, then what the hell good are they?”

“What?”

“Who the heck would put non–waterproof underwear on a kid who isn’t potty trained? What the hell is that training them for? That’s like putting on a training … shirt, or something.” I saw moral high ground from my mortification hole and went for it, even if it was a C-minus rant at best and even if I did compare myself to a kid being toilet trained in the process.

“So you thought they were, what, like what a cloth diaper is to a diaper, these are to pullups?”

“Yes! Which is totally logical! I … I’m not like you, ya know!”

“What’s that supposed to mean!?!”

“I’m not spending all my time online looking up the ins and outs of diaper fetishism and learning all the names of the stuff and things. I thought you wanted me to pee in them … I was just trying to follow the rules.”

“I know, sweetie. I’m sorry. Guess that’s my fault.”

“Yeah … and?”

She rolled her eyes at me. “You’re a very good girl for trying to follow the rules.”

Ooo! She called me a good girl! “Thank you.” There was an awkward pause, which I succeeded in making more awkward, because that’s one of my superhero abilities, apparently. “We have pee on us.”

“Guess we should clean the couch.”

“That sounds like a one–person job,” I suggested. She smiled her good–thing–I–like–you smile at me.

“That’s fine. I’ll do that if you can get these in the washer,” she said as she knelt and zipped those cold, wet panties – that’s what we’re calling them; they don’t train anything – down to my ankles. “Step out.” So many rooms of our house I’ve been naked below the waist in. Except … nope, the garage too. Perhaps a closet? She handed me the wet panties when she straightened up and then took her jeans off but left her own panties on. Drat. “And you might as well throw these in there too.”

“Guess that’s just a hazard of being a big, huh? Sometimes you get peed on,” I snarked as snarkily as I could snark.

“Comments like that are gonna make me think that was on purpose and that I need to tune up the bruise you already have on your butt.”

“I was purposefully trying to follow your stupid rule.” I stuck my tongue out for good measure because, really, why not, and got a smack on the outside of my thigh in exchange. See? She loves me and stuff, which is why she gets me random presents and remembers that Michelangelo is my favorite.

“Such big words from a little girl who just wet her pants,” she said with those bewitching eyes of her twinkling. But I resisted them.

“Shows what you know. I wasn’t even wearing pants.” There goes Daphne, people say, off to deliver one of her trademark lame comebacks.

“Go put that in the washer, and then bring a diaper down here and some wipes, and something for me to wear.” That was an invitation to bring down two diapers just to tease her, but if she was trying to sucker me into doing that, and I don’t think she was, I didn’t fall for it. She’d have spanked my butt good and made me wear both of them.

I was halfway down the hall (fuck yeah main floor laundry!) when she threw over her shoulder, “And when that butt of yours is in a diaper, we’ll go upstairs so I can show you which underpants aren’t supposed to be peed in.”

“Har har!”

“Don’t want any more confusion.”

“You’re hilarious, Mary. Wherever you go, hilarity ensues.”

Not really, though, which is why she’s the Donatello and I’m the Michelangelo.

But of course, the way Mary was telling the story on the phone started at the end. “I got Daphne her first pair of training pants and she had a potty accident almost right away. We went back to diapers for the day.”

“Tell the story right!”

“Shush, sweetie, I’m on the phone.”

“Marrry!”

“You should see her blushing right now. Too adorable.”

Urgh!!!