Mary and Daphne #52 (Patreon)

“What’s up, buttercup,” this incredible amazon of a she–mistress said to me when she emerged from her home office. I don’t know why, but something about her when she came out just made me remember how … and then I noticed she put on heels for the first time in seven months. When I put on heels, it’s a prelude to me looking like newborn springbok until I either fall down or take them off and carry them around all evening trying to pass myself off as so confident and sophisticated that I can just carry my shoes around like I’m Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. But when Mary wears heels, it’s like hoo boy! Not that I have a high heel fetish or giantess fetish, just that my wife has these really sexy legs that I … Anyhoo.

“I’m baking,” I said. “Have a cookie.” I like sharing my cookies. I didn’t offer her one just because I wanted her to praise me. That was just a delightful bonus.

“Mmm,” she said when she had one of my chocolate chip cookies. I make a mean cookie, which is ironic given what a sweet cookie I myself am, according to my grandma. And I saw no reason to even bring up the two batches I screwed up so badly I put them in the outside trash to keep them from stinking up the house. Those were a secret.

“Good job,” Miss Sexy Legs said to me. Hehe. “But, um, I don’t think we can eat this many cookies,” she said as she took in the full scene.

“They’re not all for us. I started a virtual cookie party.”

“That’s a thing?”

“I made it up while I was bored. We’re going to drop them off at our friends’ houses, and they’ll have some waiting on the porch for us.”

“That’s a really good idea. What else did you make,” she asked and went perusing through my treats. “I take it these are for kinky friends,” she asked.

“Hehehe. Some are.” It’s kinda super important when planning a virtual cookie party with both kinky and non–kinky friends to label the boxes very, very clearly so as to avoid delivering to your in-laws any of the Labia Lemon Bars. To make this treat, you will need lemon bars (look up a recipe yourself, noobs), pink icing, and a piping bag. You can work from your imagination or memory, google some images to guide you, or get a live model. I’m a big proponent of the latter, but she was working to keep a roof over our heads and her company in business or something. I suppose if you have a mirror you could make it a self–portrait, but that would just be weird in a way that making labia out of icing is somehow less weird if you decide it is. I guess.

“Not that I’m shaming you, Daffy, but I’ll never entirely understand your relationship with penises,” my darling wife said while holding up a gingerbread cookie shaped like, well, if it’s not obvious to you then how you found your way to this diary of all places …

“I like the cookie kind. It’s just that the real ones are so weird.”

“Why are some of them iced and some aren’t?”

“To remind people to practice safe cookie consumption,” I giggled, for I’m actually super modest and easily embarrassed, at least when it comes to wieners.

“Funny how you were allergic the first time I carved a ginger root for your bottom but you never have any trouble baking with it.”

“Just lucky like that I guess.”

“Is that it,” she said as she came up behind me and put her arms around me.

“Uh-huh. Pure luck that it’s just my butt that’s allergic.”

“O, now I understand. We should just check your butt right now to make sure you’re not having a reaction.” I’d have told her it wasn’t necessary, but once she gets it in her head that she needs to check on my wellbeing, there’s just no dissuading her. And apparently checking on my wellbeing involved her nibbling on my earlobe. She declared me a delectable morsel as she reached for my apron strings and undid them, followed by yanking my sweatpants down to my ankles.

“I seem to recall having a little talk with you about going commando,” she said as her hands were – ooo, with the kneading and the rubbing and the pinching of the places glayven.

“That’s not even the half of it. I wiped cream cheese off my finger onto my shirt this morning and told myself it was fine because there’s a pandemic.” Civilization is crumbling, but that got a laugh from Mary.

“Such bad behavior. Step out.” She took my sweatpants off around my feet, leaving me wearing an apron in front and nothing in back. I was already writing a porno in my head called The Other Mrs. Field’s, but Mary was obviously coming up with her own plot.

“How bad of me,” I coquettishly asked, for I am a coquette, not to be confused with a croquette even though I once dated a women from France who called me her little croquette. I actually liked that pet name until I looked it up. Anyhoo …

“Well, the good news is I don’t see any sign of any allergic reaction, though I do see some evidence of a ginger something,” she said and did a thing with a finger along the full length of a place, “and the bad news is that there’s no reason to delay spanking your naughty bottom.”

I turned around and made bambi eyes and said, “And I was ever so naughty.”

“So naughty I think this punishment needs to happen in the bedroom.” She looked around at the kitchen mess. “With the flat wooden turny thing.” I don’t know its name either. It’s not a spoon or a spatula or a flipper, but it was one of the few utensils I wasn’t in the process of baking with. She opened the oven to make sure I didn’t have anything in there. “And you definitely won’t be needing that apron.”

I did something kinda impulsive that I’m getting all blushy recounting to you, but I took an oath as a recountant to always recount truthfully. I took the apron off and put it over Mary’s head, and I gotta say that her standing there in heels and an apron with the wooden turny thing about to give me a spanking … well, let’s just say the gingerbread’s arousal had nothing on what I was experiencing. Looking up at Mary, a full eight inches taller than little ol’ me in those heels (normally it’s six), I wanted nothing so much as to be chastised by the head baker, not that I have a heels or giantess fetish. Really. Mary is not a giant. She’s just much taller and a little stronger than me. Her ability to flip me like a griddle cake when she wants to get at my … Anyhoo.

Now, when you’re a spanko like we are, pretty much any spanking that isn’t straight up a punishment is sexy. Doesn’t matter how. But there’s one way that’s sexier than all the others, and in an effort not to wear out that little gem, Mary doesn’t often manspread on the ottoman and order, “Over my knee.” I immediately obeyed. Not that I was eager to comply, though that would be a reasonable misimpression if one were to, say, notice how much like a golden retriever I practically leapt into place straddling her knee so she was facing one way and I was facing the other.

Nor, and again I’m just guessing how others might misinterpret things since they weren’t there, should my efforts to ensure I was in the perfect position for my punishment be mistaken for what the young people call ‘grinding.’ I mean, youth today – what can you do?

I was just doing my part to take responsibility for my actions. I’m not sure what those were, but that’s not so important. Something to do with underwear and erotic cookies and not using napkins. Mary obviously wasn’t sure either because her lecture wandered nearly as much as her hands and the wooden turny thing. I don’t even know why we keep it in the kitchen because clearly it was meant for a whole ‘nother kind of hot stuff.

I could tell I had let myself get out of baking shape during the pandemic because that is surely the only reasonable reason why I was so tired by the time the head baker and I were done tasting each other’s dishes post–funishment. I mean, I was so tired I couldn’t even innuendo well, let alone not fall asleep. When I did wake up, there was Mary with her I–had–an–idea look on her face. I was too tired to be subtle about that either.

“You have an idea,” I accused her. She has so many ideas, many of them good, many of them things she enjoys while they’re happening but that I only enjoy after they’re over.

“You know how you’ve been getting spanked an awful lot lately?”

I just gave her my you’ve–got–to–be–kidding–me–so–not–impressed blank stare, which she obviously interpreted as Gee, have I? I’ve hardly noticed. What with the unemployment and the pandemic and the constant togetherness all leading to so many allegedly bad choices and attitude problems that I have no hope of hiding because we’ve been together twenty-four-seven for seven months, now that you mention it, YES I FRIGGIN’ NOTICED!!!

“Well, I was thinking about how we’ve always been very careful to keep you from developing leather butt.” For the uninitiated, basically that’s when you get spanked so often and so hard, the skin on your butt starts to toughen. Of course everyone likes a nice, supple butt to spank, and from my end of the equation, tougher skin means you don’t feel it as much, and I like feeling every bit of it (most of the time). Plus I like having a soft supple butt. Who doesn’t?

Back to the noneducational part of the story, Mary continued, “I had an idea while you were asleep.”

“You’re gonna spank me less,” I said atonally. Anyone believe that was her idea? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?

“Nope.”

“You’re not gonna spank me as hard.” Bueller? Anyone?

“Such a silly goose. C’mon, I’ll show you.” She grabbed my ankles and pulled me to the foot of the bed so my knees were hanging over the side. Dammit!

“Marrrry, do I hafta,” I whined while she went into the closet and came out with a – you guessed it! – diaper. It had been such a pleasant late afternoon with the baking and the cookie eating and the spanking and the thing she does with the drawing the Cyrillic alphabet with her tongue (because we’re worldly like that). “Can’t we have more sex instead,” I bargained. I mean, things were all sexy goodness and then she had to go and get …

“This one has aliens on it. Lift.” She’s a ninja at bargaining too.

“Marrry.”

“Do I need to count to three?”

“Honestly, it would help.”

“What? Why would that help?” Because it’s slightly more dignified to give in after an actual threat than at the mere implication of a threat. Duh.

“Whatever,” I said instead of explaining it to her and lifted my hips. “I don’t think I’m getting leather butt.”

“You’re not. Down. And we’re gonna keep it that way. Open. I’m getting good at this,” she narrated, “Don’t even need to adjust this one.”

“It’s a celebration,” I said with a touch, the very lighted touch, of sarcasm.

“If you’re still not used to this we could do it more often,” she threatened.

“No, this is okay actually. Perfect. Good work,” I said, sitting up as soon as she had the fourth tape sealed. See, I waited until she made her threat before caving, which left me with (crinkle) soooo much more (crinkle) dignity. Crap (crinkle).

“I thought you’d see if that way.”

“So what’s your big idea?” That she hadn’t led with the idea had me a little suspicious, you might say, when added to the fact that we both very much enjoy the current butt–skincare regimen, which involves lots of lotion thoroughly rubbed into places, sometimes with the aid of instruments that go rrrrrrrrrrrrr and zzzzzzzzzzz and eee–ugh. Though I think the last sound might be me and not an instrument.

I searched for my pajama shorts, and Mary took my wrist and said, “You don’t need shorts, Daffodil. Let’s have dinner first.”

Aww. She made dinner. “When did you make dinner?”

“While you were sleeping.”

“I thought you were asleep too.”

“Not as long as you were. Something or someone must’ve worn you out,” she said in that super confident sexy way she says things like that. I’m super confident, too, when I’m feeling brave enough to be.

“I gotta get back in baking shape. I’m getting a quarantummy,” I said. Because more baking will definitely fix a quarantummy. Really. All things are possible through faith. Pastor Sara made that a whole theme during Zoom church, and I paid very close attention after Mary nudged me with her foot and asked me, “Remember the last time you didn’t pay attention?” … Anyhoo.

“You are not,” my Mary said back in the present with regards to my quarantummy.

“I know,” I told her on our way down the stairs.

“Then why’d you say it,” she asked.

“Just fishing for compliments,” I giggled.

Fun fact: get on your Facebook page right now and let all your friends know you haven’t gained an ounce since quarantine, and you’ll learn who your true friends are, because your true friends will never speak to you again and your fake friends will just ignore it because they never read what you say on Facebook anyway. Voila – the people who cared what you have to say and never want to hear from you again, and everyone else.

Dinner was yummy, and Mary even went to the trouble of finding lids for everything I baked, which is some next level super–spouse shit. Lids sneak off to have orgies with socks. And you have to believe me because I’m the narrator.

“So what’s your big idea,” I asked as I rubbed some icing from a lemon bar labia onto a gingerbread penis because I get single minded around sugar and didn’t notice what I was doing until Mary started laughing at me. I turned a little red when I noticed but shrugged and ate the penis because sugar. I take comfort in knowing that while I may have a problem, it is only one of many that I have.

Mary got up from the table and went to the counter where I had left my baking supplies. If she was thinking of melting chocolate over me, I was in. No questions asked, so long as I could return the favor (because why should she get to eat all the chocolate?). This one time on Valentine’s Day we got these chocolate–covered strawberries and ate them. That’s it. No double meaning. I just wanted to relive that memory with you … Anyhoo.

But no, she didn’t go for the chocolate, and I thought, that’s fine. I can bring that up later, and felt pretty confident she’d be at least as interested as me. Instead, she went for the ...

“Oatmeal,” she said like she was trying to recreate her eureka moment. “It’s good for skin.”

And I was thinking, okay!Because every now and again she’s been bathing me. Sometimes to make me feel better, and sometimes because she likes rubbing soap all over me (I’m starting to think she likes me and stuff), and sometimes with both of us in the tub. There’s not a lot of room in there but if I put my feet by her shoulders and she puts … Anyhoo.

“I’ve taken oatmeal baths before. I like it.” And I figure pretty much the whole world would feel the same way, because why would you add brown sugar to your oatmeal – and I say this as someone with a problem (see above) – when you could add me? I naturally assumed that was what Mary had in mind. I mean, why else would she seem so delighted with her idea except because I would be the best oatmeal additive since cinnamon apple?

“Not quite,” she said. And then she put on her let–me–try–to–explain–this–in–a–way–you–won’t–immediately–reject face. If anyone thinks I don’t pay good enough attention to the world around me, just remember that I have a whole mental catalogue of the faces of Mary, because I remember what’s important. She sat down, not in the chair across from me but the one next to me. Ruh–roh.

She patted my hand as if that would make, “It goes down your diaper” easier for me to hear.

And I took my hand away as a nonverbal exclamation point to my, “No it doesn’t.”

“Uh-huh. It does.”

“It doesn’t, is the thing.”

“Mhmm.”

“Nope.”

“It’s perfect, though. It’ll be right where it needs to be.”

“It’s deeply imperfect, because where it needs to be is literally anywhere else.”

“It’s so good for your skin.”

“Then dump some in your panties, too, if it’s so good for skin!”

“Daphne Ann, who does the spanking in this house?”

Urgh! She’s always bringing that up like she thinks our whole lifestyle revolves around … Urgh! She’s always bring that up. “You,” I said like a stroppy teen. I think that’s how to use the word ‘stroppy.’ (As in, I said it with too much strop, right? Or can only English girls be stroppy? Am I appropriating? Is this tangent unnecessary? Meh.).

“And who gets her bottom spanked?”

“Me, but …”

“That’s right – yourbutt.” O har, har. Just grabbin’ the low–hanging pun fruit. “Who never gets spanked in our house?”

“You, but …”

“So the only butt around here in danger of a hairbrush–shaped callous would be whose?”

“Mine,” I grudgingly – supper–effing grudgingly – gave in on that point.

“And what’s my most important job?”

“Could we skip past the Socratic lecturing please?” I may have been a little hasty with what some might mischaracterize as backchat in a tone of voice exemplifying that attitude the phrase do I need to adjust your attitude was invented to address, but also, ya know maybe not. All things being possible through faith, see above. Really. Please?

“Little girl.” Dammit!“What is my most important job?”

“Taking care of me.”

“Which includes keeping your bottom in spankable condition.”

“What’s wrong with the lotion? We like the lotion. The lotion is good. The lotion is slippery. In fact, I’ll go get …” Her hand was on my forearm before my butt could get come off my chair.

“This is in addition to the lotion,” she cut me off.

“So I just what, marinate in oatmeal?”

“Pretty much.”

“I’ll just take a longer oatmeal bath. I’ll do it right now! Seriously, gimme the oatmeal.”

“You can have a bath after.”

“Ugh, Marrry, c’mon, isn’t it enough that I gave in on the diaper thing?”

“Which is why this is so perfect. It’ll keep everything right where it needs to be with no mess.”

“But I don’t wanna,” I whined. I don’t always admit to whining (I’m sensing incredulity, but trust me), but I straight up whined like a boss because I seriously didn’t wanna.

“Tough cookies,” she said to me and got up and went for the cupboard. Dammit, I’m in charge of the puns around here! Or maybe she didn’t mean to make a pun. It was good if she did. Sorta. “It’s decided. End of discussion.”

“Marrry, can’t … urgh! … No.” That stopped Mary mid–getting–a–big–bowl–out.

“I’m sorry. What was that?”

“I said no. I don’t wanna,” I replied and emphasized my feelings by crossing my arms.

“Is that a red light?” It almost was. Red lights throw everything out of whack for so long. So I mentally weighed that against the oatmeal thing, and in the moment it didn’t seem worth a red light. In the moment. A couple weeks to restore balance versus oatmeal? Dammit.

“No. But I … I don’t wanna.” Funny how that wasn’t as convincing of an argument to her as it was to me even after I repeated it several times.

“Maybe you need a reminder of why it’s necessary, little girl. Is that what you need? A good hard spanking?”

“Like I didn’t see that coming,” was my reply. Which, okay, was perhaps not the best reply in terms of not making things worse, but also, there was very little hope of me getting to bedtime without a real spanking at that point, and if I was going to give in on this, my dignity demanded more than the threat of a spanking. I’m well aware that is kinky–money–logic that is not logical even by actual–monkey–logic standards, but it is what it is.

“Have it your way.” She took my elbow and marched me into my living room naughty spot. “Nose in the corner until I come back.”

“But ...” (SWAT!) “Ow. Seriously, Marrry? I have a very delicate bottom,” I did not whine. But did lie. Like the world’s lyingest liar. All I got for my trouble was a snort of contempt. Or possible a snort–laugh. I’m gonna call that a snorf from now on. Heaven knows I never snorf because I’m way too composed and ladylike to ever do something so crass or really, even for my body to do anything I don’t specifically want it do ... right (really). Anyhoo...

I kinda take it in stride that when Mary says she’s doing something for my benefit, she means it. But also, there’s often another motive. If she would just come right out and tell me the motive, I might even like it sometimes, but then she’d be deprived of the thrill of the chase. Maybe she wants to try sploshing was my first guess and thought this was a way to introduce it, sorta feeling out the ground to see if I’d be interested in trying more. I would happily try it for her, though sploshing isn’t something I’m interested in. I personally think I’m sweet enough without having jelly smeared on me, but a little give and take never hurt anyone. Still, I pictured her pouring gravy on me and calling me a silly goose and couldn’t help but think, (1) ewwww and (2) I’m savory enough without gravy. (Yes, I’m both sweet and savory. Also, umami. I’m the culinary version of Joseph’s dream coat.)

Anyway, Mary is almost always up to something when she has an idea that has anything to do with me and my body. I’m mostly glad of it because it keeps things fresh in our little game of cat–and–mouse. She makes a very good cat, but as the mouse, as much as I enjoy the game, I wouldn’t mind winning a round once every (how long have we been together?) six and a half years or so. I thought I won once, but no. She ate me anyway.

I’ve liked ninety–ish percent of the ideas she’s had, some moreso after the fact, and I usually get a little anticipatey in anticipation, but it takes so much mental energy wondering and worrying what surprise she has in store for me next and how much said surprise is going to hurt or the embarrass the ever loving candy outta me. (Because apparently tonight I’m a delectable morsel, a mouse, and a piñata all at once. No wonder I’m tired.) Anyhoo...

As for leather butt, I wasn’t worried about it before, but then she had to go and bring it up. Like, she just spontaneously had the idea? Or did she notice something and not have the heart to just say so? If anyone would know, I mean, her hand is on my butt more than mine. So color me insecure, which I know would be sooo outta character for me, but that’s what I was checking for when Mary caught me, um...

“Daffy, what are you doing?”

“Um ... uh ... taking my hand out of my diaper? ... Your diaper! Um ... I had a reason ... which is my butt.” Ever blush so hard your back feels hot? Me neither. Really). And I always forget in the heat of the moment whose diaper it is. And she could’ve stopped me from gibbering like an idiot at any point in that sentence. She doesn’t cause she likes to see me squirm. I got her back though. I waited until she fell asleep that night and made myself the big spoon. That’ll show her. Anyhoo...

“Speaking of, come out of the corner.”

I turned around and lo and behold, “The paddle? C’mon, I didn’t even ... that was barely an argument.” What, just because I played hopscotch over, like, four different lines I know I’m not supposed to cross with the attitude and the tone and the multiple uses of the word no.

“And yet you’re still arguing. At any point you could’ve said, ‘Mary, you’re the one in charge and I’m your subby little submissive,’ but you had to keep going with the backchat.”

“O, like that’s a thing I’d ever say!”

“You will if I make you, little girl.”

“Yeah ... so ...” And dammit!

She sat down on the sofa. “March your little buns over here. Your bottom is getting spanked for realzies this time.”

“But I already got spanked today,” I did not whine while I also did not drag my feet. Which was not a half–truth taken out of context. It was a completely true thing that implied a context that was not what had happened. Which is totally different. Just like I was not taking any counter argument I could come up with and throwing it at the wall in the hope something would stick.

“No you didn’t,” she said, “and even if you did, little girls like you get spanked twice a day all the time, don’t they?”

“I’m not a little girl,” I didn’t pout while not crossing my arms.

“Uh-huh,” was her response as she untaped that stupid, assing diaper. She stuck the tapes back where they came from, and I quickly surmised why she would do that. I’m one of the world’s all-time great surmisers. Really.

“Eww! You can’t make me wear it again!”

“And why not?”

“Um, because ...”

“Yes?”

“I peed in it. There, happy?”

“You did?” She looked at it, confused.

“Didn’t I?” Because I coulda sworn…

She looked closer. “Aww, you made the littlest tinkle ... why are you making that face?” Because I was trying to make the carpet swallow me, which takes a lot of mental concentration. If only I was half as good at telekinesis as I am at hydration.

“It’s okay, Miss Potty Pants. We’ll get you a fresh one.”

“Stop calling me names … And I already used that one … I don’t want another.”

I watched her take a glance at a place that looks suspiciously like a lemon bar à la Daphne. “Uh huh.” Like that’s a fair assessment! “Let’s get you paddled before you get yourself in even more trouble.” She took my wrist and pulled me over her lap.

I situated myself, or she situated me ... we situated me, and I was very cooperative because I’m very well behaved and submit to my punishments without any protest, and you’re probably wondering if Daphne is so well behaved, why does she need punishments in the first place, and if she never protests, what was all that protesting she was doing? And my answer to that is I’m very sad for you because you live in the (very recent) past.

I’m also good at mental multitasking, which is why I was distracted telling myself, Mental note: vacuum the couch tomorrow and didn’t notice Mary had asked me a question until SMACK!

“Daphne, I asked you a question.”

“Ya know,” I said, “I don’t talk over you while you’re talking to yourself in your head.” She sighed, and I didn’t see her do it, but I’d bet my butt she did that thing where she pinches the bridge of her nose. In fairness to me, I was quirky when she first met me, so she knew what she was getting.

“Like a puppy with a squirrel sometimes, I swear,” she muttered.

“I heard that.”

“Then you can hear well enough to answer my question: why are you once again bare bottomed over my knee about to get your butt spanked?”

“Because I argued when you said to stop and was (a tidbit) mouthy”

“If you know that, then why did you keep arguing?”

I have my reasons, and I gave her one of them. “Because I was lost in the heat of the moment.” Sort of.

And because I didn’t wanna just give in. I wanted to preserve a little dignity and at least be able to say I was coerced. I mean, I never get spanked that hard for that amount of backchat. It wasn’t much, right? Right? Even with all the backchat since she put me in time out, that’s, like, not ... ooo, crap.

“Well, we’re gonna make some more heat right now.” SMACK!

“OW! Mary ...” SMACK! “Warm up (SMACK SMACK SMACK!!!) Warm up! Warm up!”

“You don’t get! A warm up! With a punishment! Spanking! You naughty! Little! Girl!” SMACK! WHACK! SPANK!

“I’m not a little girl! I OUCH! I OWIE!” What? Fiercer warriors than me say owie during single combat and when they stub their toes on skyscrapers and during their spankings. Really.

So that went on for a while. … Anyhoo.

“Marrry OW!!! M... M... eheh eheh waaaaah! URG! UGH! Waaaaah!” I didn’t cry. I was just trying to say waaaaaaazup, and she kept cutting me off. Waaaaazup. Really. Anyhoo...

“Learn your lesson?” She always asks that while still holding the paddle, like I’m gonna say no or be dense enough to talk back some more. Like I’ve ever done that (many many times have I done that).

“(Mewling sound) (Sniff). I’m sorry. (Sniff).”

“I know. You’re forgiven. Sit up for me.” This being at least partially about me preserving my dignity, I did not sit up so fast and hug her so tight that she went, “Oof!” Though if I had, it wouldn’t make me any less fierce because even the fiercest among us need a good hug when we’re feeling contrite and (literally) butthurt.

Just like I didn’t bury my face in her shirt and go, “Mmmm,” when she ran her fingers through my hair. I like that all the time, but when in the whipsaw between all the OWs and OUCHes and that warm fuzzy feeling when she tells I’m forgiven and the peaceful feeling when it’s so quiet and things are warm and endorphins are flowing, well, I like it a way lot. It’s not fair, really, that you have to go through all that to get to the endorphin rush you only get from a true butt beating. But she could’ve given me a friggin’ warm up. Yeesh!

“Anymore back talk tonight?”

“Uh-uh.”

“You promise?”

“Iamish.”

“You’re Amish?”

I picked my head up. “I said I promise.”

She kissed me is what she did, because she’s forward like that, and said, “I know. I’m just teasing.” And then she kissed me again, which was very inappropriate of her. I mean, get a room. With me in it. “You’re my good girl, and you’re gonna be my good girl all night.”

Oo0, hear what she called me? I didn’t go, “Hehe,” because she called me that though. I went, “Hehe,” because she called me that and poked me in my side where I’m ticklish.

“You wanna go wash your face while I get you some fresh pampers?” To which I nodded and in retrospect should have said to never, ever, ever call them that again, but I was high on endorphins and she just called me a good girl which I always find distracting and my butt seriously hurt, like damn. Maybe it was because I was already high on sugar, because I don’t normally get an endorphin high unless she spanks me to the point of almost–numbness, and it hurt way too much for the numbness. Also, I’m too grown up to get sugar highs. Doesn’t happen. Really.

“Up ya get.” She headed toward the stairs, and I don’t know why, but, “You following me,” she asked when I followed her.

I looked left and right and concluded that she couldn’t be talking to anyone but me and also that yes, for some reason I was following her. “Um, yeah?” Because I remember intending to go wash my face, but instead I was following Mary, and I’ve been thinking about why, and the only conclusion I’ve been able to conclude is that I realllllly like her. Like, I likelike her. Good thing I married her before someone else did.

“You’re always so biddable after a good, hard spanking. My little shadow.”

“I’m not little. I’m five–foot–two.”

And she walked straight past where the pampers (dammit!) are kept to the bathroom, and because she’s so mean to me she took me by the hips and said, “Up up,” and because I was distracted by the chemicals and the pain and the puppy love I just did it and went, “OW!” when she set me down on the counter.

And she snorfed.

And while it doesn’t diminish my love for her, I think she did that on purpose.

She took the washcloth and soaped it up with warm water and put her hand on my cheek and told me, “Hold still,” and with the other hand used that washcloth to wipe my tear streaks away. (Also, I almost forgot, but I didn’t have tear streaks because I didn’t cry. Remember?) And she gave me this look when she was done, and I’m sure it was because I had those little, tiny drops of water on my cheeks that make me look soooo pretty (not that I’m conceited, just reporting what other people who are me say), and it was her I–love–you–to–the–moon–and–back face, and for a split second I wasn’t sure if I was gonna start crying again or do something else, and it turned out I did the something else and started kissing her fingers and ... Anyhoo ...

I’m not entirely sure what was in the air that day because obviously both of us were hot and bothered, and she replaced her fingers with her tongue, which was nice for about two seconds before I remembered I hadn’t been not crying and my nose wasn’t stuffy and I couldn’t breathe. Fortunately for me she stopped kissing me and said, “Hold that thought for a few more hours.”

And in my head I was like, girl, I have that thought at least ten times an hour, but out loud, I said, “Can I have the washcloth,” and she handed it to me, and then I went, “Pbbbbt,” into it and could breathe out of all three air holes again. See, people? Romance isn’t dead.

And she snorfed at me again. Enough with the snorfing. Except it is kinda cute.

“C’mon, silly goose.” We went back into the bedroom proper (washcloth in the hamper, before the internet starts wondering, ya buncha nitpickers) and I had the good sense to stay standing while she got out one of her diapers.

“Lay down,” she said.

“Um, can we do it the standing way?” No particular reason I asked.

“Ya know,” she said with such a smartass expression on her face, “that never gets it as snug.” She’s right about that, of course, but don’t go telling her. I made almost no sound when I put my butt on the bed, and I guess she was back to having fun at my expense, because she said to me, if you can believe she could be so cruel and crass at the same time, “Tsk tsk tsk. Your whole diaper area is red and swollen from one side to the other down here. I swear, Daphne Anne, it’s almost like you enjoy getting in trouble. But it can’t be that because whoever heard of such a thing? Tsk tsk tsk.”

“You have the silliest notions sometimes, Mary. That would make me some kind of pervert or something,” I said innocently. “And I don’t have a ‘diaper area.’ Meanie.”

She finished what she was doing down there and helped me sit up because she’s very courteous, and she told me to, “Hold my hand going down the stairs.”

“I’m not a little girl. I can do it myself.” Which I regretted instantly since only little kids say, ‘I can do it myself.’ But I can, for the record. Also something about getting that severe of a spanking and then just going on about our business like it’s no big thing makes me feel like a kid getting a swat in the grocery store (which is deeply wrong, for the record), but it’s so much better than getting grounded to our room … I miss the grocery store.

“I know. I just want to make sure you don’t start sucking on my finger on the stairs. That wouldn’t be safe.”

Ugh, such a butt sometimes. She has no scruples, ya know – she will literally say and do anything to make me blush. Which I did. I had to defend my honor, so naturally I said, “But it works better when it’s wet.”

And she snorfed. Yes, I’m funny, but I think she needs to start taking allergy medication.

And I chose to play innocent. “Only you could find that statement sexual. I think you’re the one with the dirty mind. (THWUMP!) Oof! No spanking on the stairs!”

“Unless we’re sitting on them.”

“Right.”

“We have oatmeal to make.”

“O. Still?”

“Nice try, Daffodil. Scoot your little buns into the kitchen and pick out a bowl.”

I went left into the kitchen, and she went right into the living room. I was looking in the cupboard trying to make a selection when my darling wife cleared her throat behind me. I turned to glance over my shoulder, wondering what she could be getting at, and couldn’t help but notice her arms were crossed and she had the paddle in her hand again and her I–dare–you face on.

So I put the ramekin back, not that I was expecting to get away with that but a spanked girl can hope.

“How about the popcorn bowl,” she said. She said it very smugly, too. She’s not so smug when she’s not holding that paddle. Which is actually not true. She drips steely confidence when she’s holding a feather. She can do some fun things with a feather. Anyhoo...

“How about a cereal bowl,” I countered.

“What a good idea. That’s what I like about you, Daffy, you have so many good ideas. A regular font of common sense and wisdom,” she said to me as she hung the paddle back up in the cupboard. I told my mother it’s a cutting board once when I forgot to close the cupboard, and she walked right over and took it down and, my hand to god, she asked, “Do you use it much? There’s not a scratch on it. What’s it made out of?” Mary snorfed at that too. And when Mom smacked it into her hand and Mary almost did a spit take and I turned crimson, which is when Mom turned crimson and has never opened our cupboard again. Anyhoo...

“We’re really doing this?”

“Yes, sweetie. I promise it will feel good, especially now that you got a sore butt. Again. We really do need to take better care of your skin, especially now that you ... ahem.”

If the world needs proof that spanking does improve my behavior (briefly; very, very briefly) it’s that I knew what she was about to say and I didn’t say anything back.

Mary is o so confident she just eyeballed the oatmeal and the water and put them in the microwave for thirty seconds. A long thirty seconds. She opened the door stuck her finger in (the oatmeal, you dirty minded pervs), closed the door and gave it twenty more seconds.

Out came the bowl, and she held it toward me and asked, “Not too hot for you?”

And I checked it and affirmed it was not. I relive that moment in my head often now. Sigh...

“Turn around.” I made a face like my nephew makes at oatmeal because he can’t stand the stuff and he’s at that delightful age when he can still get away with making faces at food he doesn’t like. I very much wanted to give talking her out of this one last try and even thought of a red light, but she had sorta a point about skin care, and it was just weird, not painful or anything. I’d live, right?

“Hold up your shirt for me.” I did, and she tugged and tugged again and under her breath voiced her appreciation for stretchy diaper waists and said, “Ready?”

“Sure.” Why not? Great fine fabulous woohoo! Whatever...

“Here it comes...”

Which is when I had an out of body experience.

“Too hot,” Mary asked while making her oops–sorry face, which I saw from above looking down at the two of us. I didn’t know I could hop that high or so fast or that many times in a row.

I returned to my body after a long seven seconds (out–of–body rodeo champion am I) so I could respond with, “Hot! O! Hot!” And I was waving my hands as if that would somehow cool it off.

“It wasn’t too hot on your finger.”

“You didn’t just spank the crap outa my finger,” was my reply as I put two and two together about a quarter–minute too late.

“O!” Was Mary’s response as I stopped doing the Snoopy dance.

“It’s better ... it’s better ... Whoo ... o … I’m okay.”

“Sorry. Now we know for next time.”

As the burning sensation went away, I was better able to notice other sensations. Such sensations were driven home to my attention when I stomped my foot about to declare there would never, ever be a next time, the jolt causing objects in motion to stay in motion for just a second, just long enough for me to really appreciate what all that oatmeal back there felt like.

Mary says both my body and my face froze. I’ll have to take her word for it, because I think what happened is I blew a brain circuit with the sensory overload and the brain workers had to shut down some other parts while they got it repaired. When they got everything turned back on, I brought my eyebrows back down, turned my pupils so they were facing forward, unscrunched my face, straightened up, and did my best to swallow with a suddenly and shockingly dry mouth, which was only semi–successful.

“Daffy? You okay?”

“Uh-huh.” I just never want to move again, at all. This is where I’ll live, in this spot, in this posture.

She crossed her arms again and circled around me. I looked straight ahead. I was already planning out how to make this new lifestyle work. We could mount a TV where the microwave was, and I could hire someone to vacuum the couch like I had planned.

These thoughts were interrupted. Fucking interrupted to be more precise. (THWAWK.) “O, god, Marrry ...” (THWAWK!)

I heard her say, “Someone’s got a bulgy bottom,” right before I blacked out.

Well, not literally. That was just a wish I sent out to the universe. And she just – I mean, really, Mary? Really? – just kept patting my butt. “Ugh, please stop.”

“Stop what (pat pat pat)?” I could hear and feel her smirking.

“It feels like I …” And I couldn’t finish the sentence. Never going to finish that sentence.

“Does it feel like you …”

“Don’t! Don’t say it. We’ll have to get divorced if you say it. I mean, we’ll still live together and everything.”

She circled back around me (because she’s a shark who found blood in the water). “You can open your eyes.”

“Do I hafta?”

And like a shark she took advantage of my … I don’t know. What do sharks do again? Anyway, she did that thing where she put her lips on mine and put her tongue in my mouth (those are sharks that do that, right?), and I reciprocated. Purely out of politeness. There goes Daphne, people always say, she’s so polite, but why is she walking like that? Yep, politeness, and not any other feelings like, o, lust borne of a kinky mind way too into humiliation for my own good.

Just when the kiss (remembered the word! Go me!) was getting good, I reached toward the back end of the shark to squeeze her butt (cuz I like butts, too), and (sigh) she beat me to it. Squeezing my butt, that is, not her own. Because that would be weird, and we’re not into any weird stuff. Really.

Except she couldn’t really squeeze it. She just sorta pressed it and let go. And ewwwwwwwwww. Sensations, which is plural. More than one sensation. In different places occurring at different times as things, um, settled.

“C’mon,” she said. She took me by the wrist. I followed. I opened my eyes what with the moving and not wanting to walk into a door frame. Been there, done that, have a scar above my left eyebrow to prove it. She glanced back at me and at least had the courtesy to bite her lip.

“What,” I meeped.

“Mmm–mmm,” was her response, so maybe she does have scruples? If by chance she was going to say I was walking like a weeble born with two legs, then I’m glad she didn’t tell me what she was thinking. I decided to bite the bullet and walk normally, whatever sensations that would produce be damned.

We got back to the couch where if I had my way, under the circumstances, she’d still be ass–murdering me because that feeling was better than this feeling and that feeling sucked. She stopped in front of the sofa and did that thing where she takes both my wrists in her hands. I don’t know why, but whenever she does that it makes me feel, I dunno, like I’m hers. And small. And precious.

“You’re still blushing,” she said to me.

“No, I’m not. This is just what color I am now.”

“Did I ever tell you you’re awfully cute.”

“Marrry…” I rolled my eyes. Force of habit.

“C’mere.”

“I’m right here.” She took a step closer to me and put her hands around my hips. She smiled at me. For a second I thought she was gonna start slow dancing, but nope. She did a ninja move, I guess because she knew if she had asked me to sit down, I’da said no thanks, so instead she did a spinny thing, and there we were, her sitting on the couch, me sitting on her lap.

“Oooouuggghh! Marrrrrry! Ugggh. You are so mean to me. Oouuufgh. It … Ughfgh.”

“Hahaha! (Snorf) (THWUMP)).”

“Ehf … (THWUMP) … Marrr… (thwump) … (sigh) …” Well, what was I supposed to do? Not snuggle in? That’s just crazy talk. Besides, we have an unwritten rule that if I’m sitting in her lap and resting my cheek just above her breast and twirling my finger on her shirt or bare skin, I can say anything I want and not get in trouble. At least I think that’s an unwritten rule. There’s definitely a history of such interactions that I’m pretty sure would’ve ended with my butt beaten if I’d said it anywhere else. So I said, “You can be such a B sometimes.” Okay, so I went with the PG version because she’s my Mary.

“You can be quite the little handful yourself,” she said while teasing my hair.

“Any chance you’ll at least admit this has nothing to do with my skin?”

“O, Daffy. There’s always a chance,” she chuckled. “And it is good for your skin.”

“You knew exactly what this would feel like.”

“(Sound of Mary not confessing).”

“I’m never doing the real thing.”

“I certainly hope not,” she chuckled again. “Mmm. Goodness, you are so cute tonight.” Which, in the moment, with one hand resting on my head, which I was resting on Mary, and her other hand patting and prodding and squeezing, I was for once amendable to hearing.

“My butt hurts and I smell like breakfast.”

“(Snorf!)”

“Stop snorfing at me,” I whined. I figured she was gonna ask so I beat her to it. “Snorting when you laugh. I made a word.”

“See? Adorable.”

“Urgh.” I know whining when she calls me that doesn’t help with the unintentional adorability, but a spanked girl who smells like Quaker Oats is just gonna hafta give voice to her frustration.

“So how does it feel? Other than being too hot? Is it really that bad?”

The truth? It was getting stickier by the minute as the diaper soaked up almost all the liquid in the oatmeal. Peeing didn’t even help. Um, I’m assuming (Really). I opted not to explain the fluid dynamics to Mary and just told her, “Sticky … and … stuff.”

She stopped teasing my hair and started humming Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. If you heard her actually sing it and noticed the conspicuous absence of crucial letter–Ws, you’d understand it wasn’t so random a decision as it seems. (I stopped assuming, for those of you need to be hit over the head with it).

“Marry…” My heart wasn’t in that whine. It was a pro forma thing. Though I didn’t wholly appreciate her decision to sing that song whenever I happen to be sitting in her lap when I … things. For one, hearing that song in other contexts makes weird thoughts come, and pure thoughts make for pure souls. I strive to never have impure thoughts. Really.

And I’m gonna say my heart wasn’t in that whine because I was tired. I baked all day long, had acrobatic monkey sex, got spanked pretty damn hard, got all wound up again, burned four hundred calories break dancing around the kitchen with my ass was on fire, and then, well, it was a bit of an emotional rollercoaster combined with some cardio. And you lay down on Mary and see if you don’t get sleepy. (Except no, never, you are not allowed; go find your own). So yep, only reason I didn’t put my heart into it is I was tired. Sole reason. No other reasons. You can go and look for other reasons – believe me, better people than you have tried and found none. Really.

And thank god I didn’t acquiesce to this until she spanked me. That helped preserve sooooo much dignity. Crap … Anyhoo …

“And how you are you feeling on the inside?”

And I also told the truth. I mean, why not tell Mary the truth? Like she doesn’t see right through me anyway. “I hate the way this feels …”

“And?”

“And it’s the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever done to me …”

“And?”

“And I’m glad god made us this way.” O boy, did that get me a heck of a squeeze.

“My good girl,” she said all soft like before kissing my hair, which was the last step in reducing me to a puddle in her lap.

“(Sigh.)”

“So I take that to mean you never want to do this again,” she asked me. She audibly smirks sometimes.

“O, definitely not, no, never.” I audibly roll my eyes sometimes, but so do most people. In their early teens when they think that counts as quality sarcasm. “In fact, this has just been the worst day ever … Are we still having sex tonight? Asking for my friend.”

“(SNORF!!!) O, Daffodil. (Thwump.)”

“(Sigh).”