Mary and Daphne #54 (Patreon)

You’re never gonna believe this, but I got in major trouble for (almost) no reason (at least three reasons) at all. I was minding my own business, when all of a sudden, “Ow ow ow ow!” I exclaimed as I rose from the sofa. I don’t know if Mary noticed but that was my ear she was pulling.

“Where is it,” she asked. I made a quick mental inventory of our respective armaments. Me: pajama bottoms (my favorite silk ones Mary got me) and one free ear. Mary: the round paddle (gulp), mom jeans (did I miss a style change?), sour expression (gulp again), and my ear (ow!). I was outgunned and not sure what she was referring to.

“Ow! Where’s what? OW!” Seriously, with the pinching? Seriously? “OW!!!” So that would be a yes, with the seriously.

“Your stash.”

“I don’t know …” (SMACK) “Ow! My stash of what?” We’re a drug–free household.

“Don’t get smart with me. (SMACK) You know darn well what I’m talking about. (SMACK SMACK) Where’s the candy?” Ooooo … Except for that drug.

“There’s just the stuff in the kitchen.” See, what I just did there is called a lie, boys and girls.

SMACK!!! “OWWW! That hurt!”

“You wanna fresh one?”

“Geez, at least buy a girl dinner first…” SMACK!!! “OWWW!” Dammit! She’s too good at that.

“Daphne Ann, where is it? And if you tell me you don’t have one you’re getting your mouth washed out for lying.”

“Can I have some candy right after OWWW!” Irony of ironies, I have such good comedic timing and yet it was never going to be the right time for that joke.

“If I count to five, the candy is going down the back of your diaper.” Well, it’s her diaper, but more important than correcting her (again) was saving the candy and keeping everything out of my (her!) diaper.

“In the cabinet OW!! I’m serious!” Like seriously, geez! Also, I walk better when no one is pinching my ear – still! Grr!

“Show me,” she said as she marched me into the kitchen.

At least she let my ear go when we got there. Nothing says I’m–a–grown–up–and–you–can’t–tell–me–what–to–do like rubbing your butt with one hand, your ear with the other, and sliding the foot stool over to the cabinet above the range because you’re too short to reach where you hid the candy you weren’t supposed to buy. It was a good hiding place, too. We never use the slow cooker anymore. If you’re thinking this was all a little dramatic over some Halloween candy, well, that’s debatable.

“Daphne Ann,” Mary said in what I think was genuine surprise. “When did you buy this?”

“With the groceries we had delivered yesterday.”

“It’s half gone!”

“It’s not that big a … bag?” I mean, it says right there on the back ‘About 55 pieces,’ which is, okay, more than few and sort of a many. But that’s still almost nothing in peanut butter mini–pumpkins. You have to convert for peanut butter. Fifty-five chocolate peanut butter pumpkins is equivalent to, like, 3 of anything else.

“Little girl, you are getting your bottom spanked.”

“I’m not a little girl! I can have as much candy as I want.” I stomped my foot for emphasis. It’s an emphasis thing, not an I’m–frustrated–because–I–got–caught–and–I’m–pouting thing. Ooo, did my declaration of candy independence elicit an I’m-even–less–happy–with–you–than–I–was–two–seconds–ago–face from Mary. “Um, if you’ll let me with, uh, your permission?”

“Bar stool.”

“O, c’mon! That’s …”

“Daphne! For your own sake, zip it.” She always has such good ideas. I mean, seriously, why didn’t I think of zipping it … I’m actually asking.

Back to the living room, where Mary dominated the entire center of the room, looking on while I got the bar stool out of the coat closet. People ask why we own only one barstool, and surprise, telling them it’s because we don’t have a bar just confuses them more.

I brought the barstool back to the center of the room, Mary kindly stepped aside for me to set it down, and I probably – just guessing – looked a little sullen when Mary took my pants down. She got them for me not just because she loves me and not just because she thought they’d feel good and look pretty on me and not just because I like blue but also because silk just flies right off when it’s time to get spanked. They were an engagement present, and she assured me with all the spankings she intended to give me the split second difference compared to flannel would add up. I still believe her. She sat down before she started lecturing me, which made me feel even smaller with her being even taller than me on that stupid stool.

“How many years have we been together, Daphne?”

“Going on seven.”

“And how many Halloweens is that?”

“Also going on seven.”

“And for how many years have you been allowed to buy Halloween candy?”

“Not since the first one.”

“And you did anyway. Up and over, little girl.” She helped me over her lap, leaving me dangling across her knees with neither feet nor hands on the floor and folded over in the middle, helpless. That’s exactly why she got the stool and exactly why she wanted this spanking to take place on it because that’s exactly, she says, what a little girl is supposed to feel like when she’s getting her bare bottom spanked, helpless. Well, I’m never helpless. I’m just sometimes pinned over Mary’s lap and kinda physically and definitely mentally unable to do much about it except try to take my punishment like a good girl. And I am such a good girl! I just make bad choices sometimes. True story.

It was one of the rare spankings Mary decided to lecture during, starting to spank me with her hand even though my butt seriously smarted from the paddle whacks I already got. I confessed under torture, just to remind folks, not that the Court of Mary’s rules of evidence make much allowance for procedural niceties like ‘no torturing confessions out of Daphne.’ You have to imagine a steady rhythm of staccato smacks followed by quiet grunts to get the soundtrack right. It’s kinda like spoken word, with my butt standing in for the bongos.

“I got us some candy, and I told you you could have two pieces a day, and you said okay, and I don’t do it to be mean but because you eat way too much until you go on a sugar high and get yourself in trouble and end up in bed with a sore butt and a tummy ache.”

“I don’t get sugar highs,” I interrupted. And you’re thinking, She’s crazy! With as much trouble as she’s already in, she’s going to interrupt and dispute the notion she gets sugar highs that result in her getting in trouble? But it’s not my fault I said that – it was the sugar’s fault! I was barely coherent! … is my defense. But, I mean, that’s not a sugar high. That’s more like a sugar psychedelic experience. I was expanding my mind and … stuff. The Court of Mary doesn’t consider self-induced intoxication a defense, but this is my version of the story and it’s the court of public opinion, people! But maybe I was, maybe – if one is inclined to see it that way – a little, perhaps – it’s a remote but possible possibility – a little wound up, which would account for some of the earlier answering back. Potentially.

Mary stopped spanking me. I could feel her not–impressed eyes boring a hole through me. “What about the Easter egg hunt four years ago?”

Okay, for the record, and as I explained at the time, yes, I helped hide the eggs, and yes, I took out some of the good stuff, from like, three (ten) eggs, give or take. But – and this part of the story is under appreciated – I replaced every piece of chocolate I took out of those eggs with jellybeans and pennies. That’s a fair swap to the little kids doing the egg hunting. Really. Also, I was still in my twenties, and who isn’t crazy in their twenties, amiright? Please? But cutting losses, I chose not to respond. Now imagine the smacks and the grunts are both louder.

“You deliberately disobeyed me. You know (smack) you’re not (smack) supposed to buy (smack spank smack) bags of candy (smack whack slap) any time of year (spank) but especially (whack) at Halloween (spank). And you know way better, little girl, than to hide things from me and lie to me.” Which, by the way, yeah. Guess that’s why she was so displeased with my choices.

She tightened her grip around my hip and stopped lecturing. She doesn’t lecture–spank often, but even when she’s of a mind to, she knows there’s no point because once she switches to the paddle, I can’t hear her over my counterargument, which goes (ahem):

“Ow! Ow! Eep! Urgh! Ourfgh! OW! UGH! OW! I’m sorry I’m sorry I won’t OW! I’ll be good! I won’t! OW! again! I promise! Ugh ugh ugh. Eheh. Eheh. Waaahhh–ahhh–ahhh! Mary! I’ll be good! I’ll listen! I’ll AIEEE!! Waaaah–ahhh–ahhh. Eheh. Eheh. Sniff. Ow. Ugh. Ooof. Sniff. Sniffle. (Weepy puppy noise). Sniffle. (Weepy mouse noise). Sniffle. (Sorry weepy Daphne noise).”

Quite the spanking orator am I.

Mary always gets in the last word. “Are you going to disobey again?”

“No–o–o–o–o.”

“Are you going to lie to me again?’

“(Repentant caribou sounds.)”

(SMACK!) “Alright, up ya get.”

She helped me back on my feet, still with the tears getting loose and the diaphragm cramping and the sobbing noises. I remember the first time Mary paddled me, nary a tear or even a hair out of place on my pretty little head, and not because she didn’t try. The first time she paddled me because she was upset with me, hoo boy did I blubber before she even got me over her knee.

We did the thing where Mary sits down and I sit on top of her–slash–cling–to–her–slash–bury–my–face–in–her–slash–sob–on–her–slash–absentmindedly–wipe–my–nose–on–her while she finished the postscript to the lecture. “I don’t make rules just to make rules, Daffy. Do you believe that?”

“Eee–eee.” I meant yes. I just couldn’t say yes, but Mary knew what I meant. She speaks freshly–spanked–Daphne like nerds even nerdier than her speak Klingon.

“Even you know you can’t help yourself around Halloween candy.”

“(Sad possum noise),” because she’s right.

“You start bouncing off the walls and get yourself in trouble.” Well, I’m not positive that would be the case in the absence of people to get in trouble with, but historically, she may be on to something.

“And you give yourself a tummy ache.” Yep. But worth it. So worth it … peanut butter and chocolate maybe the only pairing in the whole world better than Mary and me.

“But I didn’t spank your bare bottom so hard because of candy, did I?”

“No, you didn’t,” I made words. I made words! Sure sign the recovery had begun.

“I did it because you disobeyed me, and you lied to me. It hurts when you lie to me,” she said to me, I’m sure, since she’s so good at remembering things, knowing it would set back my recovery by a least a minute.

“EeeuughyewwwHrrrr. (choking noise). (Sniff–turning–to–snort). I’m sorrrrrry.”

“Shh shh shh shh. I know you are, baby.”

“I’m (sound Rudolf would make if he couldn’t fly on Christmas) and (sound I make when I see a skinny polar bear, which I’m not allowed to google) and I won’t (hamster noises because I’m almost out of air).” And deep breath, and “(sob sob sniff).”

“I know, baby girl.” She kissed my hair. Ooo, that’s a key step in the 12–Step Program for a Seriously Spanked Daphne. “I forgive you …” That’s four steps. “… and you’re my good girl again.” Ooooooo! Hear what she called me? That’s all the steps.

“My bottom hurts.” I’m pathetic. I know this. But you’re supposed to be 100% positive and supportive toward people in 12–step programs, so shhh!

“Hehe. I know it does. You earned yourself (kiss) quite (kiss) the spanking (kiss kiss kiss). Ready to get up?”

“Mhmm.” I scooted my bruised butt off her lap.

“I suppose it’s no news to you you can’t have any candy for a few days.”

“How many is a few (sniff)?” Remember earlier when we were converting for peanut butter? One day without peanut butter is equivalent to all the days ever. Not that I have an addiction.

“Hmmm … three.” Ughh, that’s sooo long! But fine, I’d be good. “Let’s go upstairs and get ready for bed.”

I was well spanked enough to not point I had been ready before she went and yanked off my pajamas. She took me to the bathroom first to wash my face, leading to the usual, “There’s my pretty girl,” when the tear streaks were gone.

Endorphins were taking over, which is why I went, “Hehhhh,” when she called me pretty.

“Honk,” she instructed when she held a tissue to my nose.

“I don’t honk (HONK!) I blow my nose.”

She looked down at herself. “You slimed me again.”

“Sorry–not sorry.”

“Such a smart mouth. Good thing it’s pretty (kiss).”

“Ha!”

“Brush your teeth while I change.” Fun fact, I can watch my wife undress and brush my teeth at the same time. I can spit at the same too, but I can’t hit the sink from the bathroom door and good thing Mary found that as amusing as I did that one time.

“All done,” she asked me.

“Mhmm,” I said as I stepped back into the bedroom to find her coming out of the closet (insert tired joke here) in her PJs and with my PJs in her hands.

“Guess I don’t get to wear my silk jammies.”

“You get to wear your … whatever this material is called.”

“It’s called a diaper,” I said as I eased my butt onto the bed, but at least it wasn’t one of the crinkly ones. And notice how I made an (allegedly) good choice and didn’t argue about it. I mean, sure, it took me a little over a year to not argue about a diaper while in possession of a swollen butt, but I learned. Mary learned me good with all her favorite teaching tools.

“Up,” she said and slipped an underpad under me. Our ownership of that predates the diaper thing. We got it to keep stuff off of places because we’re, um, adventurous. “Hold your knees for me.”

I put my arms behind my knees to expose my smoldering bottom cheeks to the ass arsonist I married. And exposed some other things... “For the record,” I said to get this on the record, “there’s nothing undignified about this position … hhhh!” Ooo with the squirming and clenching because of the cold rash cream and the painful and the hurting on my butt (glayven).

“It’ll feel better in a second,” Mary told me. “I think you’re gonna remember what we talked about for at least five days,” she added while spreading that stuff on my butt with maybe a little more squeezing than was strictly necessary. I mean, just that morning she put cream cheese on a bagel without any squeezing at all.

“What is that? It smells different,” I asked.

“It’s Butt Paste. Thought we’d try a different brand.”

“O.”

“You like the other stuff better?”

“It smells nicer.” I mean, it’s totally unnecessary but feels good on a freshly spanked butt and does smell good, at least at first.

“That’s the Desitin. We can go back to that.”

“Yeah, but I probably won’t need it much longer,” I tested a toe in the water. I mean, setting aside the diaper thing, how many more spankings could I possibly still need? My average per week was down to … how many more could I possibly need?

“If you say so, Daffy.” Sometimes she seems to do an extra thorough job, and she’ll tell you it’s because she’s conscientious, but the real reason is she likes rubbing lotions and creams and oils and slippery things on my butt and loses track of time. “You can put your legs down … They should make a glow–in–the–dark version of these,” she said as she pulled the diaper up between my knees and got it sealed.

“You are such a big.”

“It would be cute … and I could always find your fun bits in the dark.”

“You never seem to have trouble finding them in the dark,” I dryly remarked, and the searching is enjoyable. “And I’m fun from top to toes.”

“Hehe. Yeah you are. You can pick out your very own jammies bottoms,” she said as she helped me up (groan). I put things away and dashed back downstairs for my bottoms and to turn out the lights. I picked out a different pair of pajama bottoms for sleeping because after the leaking incident I don’t want to risk ruining my favorite pajamas (survey says getting pee out of silk is not easy). I don’t think Mary was trying to make a point by leaving the bathroom door open, but she made one anyway with her peeing while I listened jealously. I was in bed when she finished brushing and turned out the bathroom light.

“Why the face,” she asked me.

“I’m not making a face.” I couldn’t bring myself to admit why out loud.

“You are too. What’s wrong,” she said as she sidled into bed beside me. She’s always sidling because she’s so smooth and self–assured and stuff. “Tell me.”

She doesn’t always hafta be right. And she’s not. But it would be fun sometimes if her average dipped below ninety percent. Just once in a while for a little bit. “My tummy hurts.”

“Awww. Tsk tsk tsk. I told you.”

“Rrrr.”

“Want me rub it for ya?”

No! Because I’m … dammit. “Yes … please.”

“C’mere.”

I scooted over. Mary rubbed some soft circles on my belly as I snuggled up to her. I know life isn’t fair and some of us sidle up to people because they’re Frank–Sinatra–smooth and some of us snuggle up to people because we’re Care–Bear–smooth, but just once I wanna sidle and not look like it’s a huge affectation.

Anyhoo, Mary is so attentive. She takes such good care of me. And she never stays mad at me, even when I do something so plainly wrong like lie to her. She just gives me my consequence and then she’s back to loving and touching and feeling all over me and stuff.

“I really am sorry,” I said again. “And sorry you had to give me such a hard spanking. I deserved it.”

“I know, honey, and I forgave you (kiss) and it’s over (kiss) and you’re my very (kiss) good (kiss) girl (kiss) always.”

Sigh… All I ever wanted in life was to be a good person, and Mary says I am. Sigh…

“You want your bear,” Mary asked. “He’s bearly gotten to snuggle with you.” And no, I didn’t spell that wrong. That’s how Mary said it.

“Don’t tease me,” I said mostly playfully.

“O. Sorry … You want your binky?”

Her snark aside, she gave me an idea. “Um …” I couldn’t think of how to say it since I’m sure I was blushing already, so I just innocently reached over. She loves me and she loves that and I got my consequence and there was no reason not to. “Been a while since we, um … you want to?”

She kept rubbing my tummy with her right hand as she unbuttoned her top with her left. I wanted to, for the record; it wasn’t just to make it up to her for the disobeying and the lying. That’s just a bonus. She scooted me over so I could start on the right side first, gave me a firm not–quite–my–bottom–not–quite–my–front pat and managed to keep rubbing my tummy as her eyes (I imagine, because I couldn’t see) rolled back into her head.

Also for the record, I don’t really get sugar highs and kid stuff junk like that. I just get exuberant around certain holiday treats (and peanut butter all damn year). I just exuberate when I have a little too much. At least she didn’t say no more candy at all this Halloween. Just three days … three long days … maybe while she’s working she’s working I can find where she hides it …