Mary and Daphne #58 (Patreon)

I live in the world of facts. I say this because it’s important to be clear from the get go that I did my research, gathered my facts, and came up with several conclusions.

Fact: Mary keeps putting diapers on me.

Fact: this doesn’t seem to be connected to my alleged misbehavior anymore.

Fact: When this was new, I was spending part of the day in diapers. Then whole days. Then overnight.

Fact: It used to be once a week. Now it’s a couple days a week.

Fact: I can see where this is going.

Fact: I didn’t go straight from panties to diapers. Mary made me wear pullups first.

Fact: I began spending more time in diapers after Mary apparently stopped buying pullups.

Fact: If you rewind about 29 years, I didn’t go straight from diaper to panties, either. I was put into pullups first.

From this litany of facts, I draw several conclusions.

Conclusion: Fuck my life.

Conclusion: The diapers are going to become more frequent if I don’t do something about it.

Conclusion: I need to get my pullups back.

Conclusion: Seriously, fuck my life.

Luckily for me, in addition to being very fact based, I’m also in charge of grocery shopping, and we’re having our groceries delivered. I don’t even need to be sneaky about it. I could just, ya know, order some pullups and pretend everything was normal. Like, haha, nothing to see here, I just ordered some … fuck my life. It worked, though. Sorta. Kinda. Not so much.

“What’d you get,” Mary asked me as she emerged from her office. I may be the number one chow hound around here, but Mary must’ve heard grocery bags and come in search of goodies. I mean, what the hell else is there to do around here in pandemic except eating me and food?

“Stuff,” I said as I clorox–wiped a bag of beans. I know they say we really don’t need to do that, but may I remind you that it was touched by a person and persons have, for a long time pre–dating COVID, been gross? We’re gross. I suspected she would come out of her office in search of fresh fruit or a broccoli tree to eat, which she only does to remind me how responsible she is (is my theory). Little did she know I’d cloroxed the pullups first and put them under the sink.

And I did that so they’d be a surprise for her. Not because I was worried about her taking them away. I’ve made a lot of concessions, and I’ll wear her stupid diapers when she makes me, but these were my pullups. I declared it so. I’m a declarerer! She can’t take my pullups away from me, I declared in my head. (No, but seriously, fuck my life.)

I had a plan, too. The first part of the plan was holding it for the whole damn day after Mary had decided it was a diaper day. I make my decisions based on facts. I have no idea how Mary decides things, but she did when she declared it a diaper day, thus activating my plan. So I held it and held it. I held it while I unpacked the groceries. And I held it while Mary nibbled on a carrot and kissed me on the temple. I even held it when I gave her a pat on the butt to send her back to work, which was very brave of me.

She turned and looked at me. “Well,” I said bravely and not nervously. In fact, which is me getting going again with facts, I declared, “you do it to me all the time.” I did not whither under her glare. That’s not a fact, if you hear someone say I did. Really.

And then she left, and my god, did I stop holding it. I stopped holding it a lot. I don’t care where you go when you stop holding it that much, it feels good.

I got the pullups out from under the sink and took them to our room first, and I put them away. I guess it may have been more wise to hide them, but I had a plan, and hiding them wouldn’t help. I only hid them in the kitchen so I could get to the first part of my plan. I put the pullups away in my underwear drawer.

Here’s another fact: that drawer used to be more full. Ever since Mary started keeping the occasional diaper in there, it’s been less full, and I don’t know what she did with the pairs of panties she took out of there. At least, I think she took some out. I’m fact based but not the best observer and who knows how many pairs of panties they have? Anyway, I put all the pullups away except one, and I took it downstairs and went out to the car and got her diaper bag and got the thing of travel wipes, and then I went to her office and knocked. The door was open, but I’ve gotten very good at remembering to knock because Mary has gotten worse at closing the door when she’s on the phone or zooming.

Being cute wasn’t part of the plan. It just happened (as it often does to me). I knocked, and Mary saw the thing of wipes in my hand. And then because she’s trying to give me a heart attack she turned back to her computer and said, “I gotta disappear for a sec, team. I got a diaper to change.” Which is when I retreated – I repeat, retreated, which I am repeating because I did not scamper away. Bunnies scamper. I am not a bunny. I am a tigress. A tigress so big I don’t even eat bunnies because they’re too small to satisfy my appetite. A six–hundred–pound tigress packed into a size 4 whose roars come out like meeps sometimes, but that’s just a thing. Fierce, being the takeaway I’m going for here.

“Daffy, where’d you go,” I heard Mary, who would quake in front of tigresses like myself if she weren’t an uber–huntress, call out after me.

“Living room,” I roared quietly. Some might call it a purr, but it wasn’t, so there. I just kept reminding myself of the plan: get put back in pullups. (Fill in the blank: “_______ my life.” If you answered “fuck,” gold star for you.)

She emerged from the hallway being all huntressy, no firearms as she prefers to use her hand and various kinds of paddles. “Why’d you scamper away like that?”

“I didn’t scamper.”

“If you say so.”

“Who’d you say that to?”

“Just my new boss and a few other people – maybe.” She takes way too much delight in making me wonder stuff like that.

“No, really.”

“Well, sorta not maybe.”

“Mary!”

“Relax, she doesn’t even know me yet. I’ll tell her I watch my nieces and nephews sometimes if she starts asking questions. Not like she overheard me giving you a spanking.”

“You gotta be careful,” I admonished her.

“I will be. Can I guess the reason you did the pamper scamper?”

“There are so many things wrong with that statement,” I muttered.

“Lemme check,” she said.

“I don’t need a check. I’m telling you.”

“But how do I know you really need a fresh diapee,” she said to me.

“A marriage built on trust and scrupulous honesty.” At least when it doesn’t have to do with peanut butter.

“Okay, fine,” Mary said, “I believe you, and I’m going to check anyway.”

“Fine.” I stood still, because I’m a tigress who’s not afraid of “YOW! Marrry! Be gentle with the squeezin’. I’m a tiny little woman.” On the outside. Inside: tigress.

“You most definitely need fresh pants, Daffy Dew Drop.”

“I know.”

“Lie down for me.” I did. “This feels kinda warm, Daffy.”

“I was saving it for you since you seem to like it so much.”

“Is that an attitude I detect?”

“No.” Me? Have an attitude? That’s ridiculous. I’m way too engaged with facts to be ridiculous, but sometimes Mary gets all ridiculous with her loose accusations of attitude.

I was surprised she didn’t notice the pullup, but I guess it made sense because her attention seemed to be captured by, um, the task at hand. My task, her hand. I’ve never really understood what she does for a living, but I’m starting to think it’s a union job because when she takes a break to deal with these little life tasks she sure takes her sweet time. Even a teamster would’ve been done by the time she said, “Is that a boo boo?”

“Is what?”

“There’s this spot that looks a little red. Does it need a kiss?”

I’m fact based and responsible and Mary is usually way more responsible, but I guess she’s been having trouble concentrating on her job (not that kind of job, ya buncha pervs) because I had to be the one to remind her, “Aren’t you in the middle of a call?” She clucked her tongue. “Don’t worry,” I assured her, “It will still be red when work is over.”

“Lift,” she said, and I lifted, and she slid out the diaper and balled it up, and the moment of truth arrive. I handed her the pullup. She looked at it for a moment with a look like she was trying to figure out what to say. I imagine my mother would make the same face if I were to hand her a pullup with the implicit expectation she’d be putting it on me. “Where’d this come from,” she decided to ask.

“With the groceries … You said we were out.”

She sighed and held out her hands, and I did my best to not roll my tigress eyes and took her hands and let her pull me up. She patted her lap, and I scooted my bare butt onto her thigh. She gave me a kiss. I wasn’t sure if I was in trouble or not.

“I said we didn’t have anymore,” she reminded me.

“Uh-huh. So I, um, got some.”

“Aww, you were trying to be my helper?”

“Um, yeah?” Just say whatever, I told myself, if it gets you back into pullups. It’s a process. What my life, everyone? That’s right: fuck it.

“I appreciate you trying to be my helper, but that’s not really what I meant, and I think you know that.”

“But …” I figured I’d decide what the second word of that sentence would be when I got there, but Mary got there first.

Her eyes twinkled before she said it, which tends to happen whenever she makes her you’re–trying–to–outsmart–me–but–I’ve–already–outsmarted–you face. “You miss your pullups, huh?”

“Um …”

“You really want them back?”

“Yes?” Perhaps. I was sure I did until a second ago. Doesn’t she know it’s mean to be mean to a tigress?

“You wanna give them a try again?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure you’re ready?”

“Marrry!”

She patted my butt and gave me another kiss. “I’m not so sure, but I’ll make a deal with you.”

“Okay,” I asked and visibly flinched, because I knew I wasn’t going to like the deal. I’m all about facts and declaring things and being a fierce jungle tigress. I’m not as good at negotiating deals as Mary is. For evidence, remember that the whole domestic discipline relationship thing had been my idea.

“We can give pullups a try, but if you can’t keep them dry than it’s back to diapers for the whole next day if you tinkle in them.”

“But I’m not allowed to use the bathroom when I’m wearing them!”

“Sure you are.”

“You said I can’t take them off until they’re wet.”

“Exactly. You can use the bathroom, but you can’t take them off until they’re wet.”

“So I’ll hafta wear a diaper for the whole next day every time I wear pullups?”

“If you can’t keep them dry.”

“But that’s … so I can keep wearing the pullup so long as I keep it dry?”

“You can wear it until it falls apart, and we’ll get a new on you, so long as you keep them dry.”

“So when do I get to wear panties again?”

“When you’ve proven you can keep your pullups dry.”

“I don’t like this deal.” This deal was bullshit. This deal was a one–way ticket to either breaking the rules about taking a pullup off before it was wet or else a one–way ticket to never wearing panties until Mary got tired of this game and found a whole ‘nother way to poke my buttons.

“Well, that’s the deal: I can put this pullup on you, and it could be a while before you get to wear panties again, or you can turn down the deal.”

“Fine. I don’t want the deal,” I said. It wasn’t attitude in my voice. It was dejection. She kissed me, and still I let out a dejected, “Hmmph.”

“Don’t be like that. Stand up.” I did, and she unfolded the pullup and held it open for me. “Foot,” she said. I picked up my foot, because she’s done a very good job conditioning me to do as I’m told, and hesitated, because she’s done a very good job of conditioning me to be suspicious.

“But I don’t want the deal.”

“I know, but you get to wear this pullup anyway.”

“And when I wet it?”

“I have faith in you, Daffy Pants. If you really try …”

“Marrrry.”

“We’ll see how the mood strikes us. Only don’t wait so long before coming to find me for a change. This won’t hold what you put into your diaper.”

“Urrrgh! What’s the point of the deal then if I get to wear this pullup anyway?”

“None at all, except to remind you that I’m the decider. If you’re very good, I’ll even let you wear undies after the pullup today.”

“For how long,” I asked. No particular reason I was suspicious. If I didn’t know better (and I definitely know better) I’d suspect she had a forked tongue.

“I’ll decide later. Know why?”

“Because you’re the decider?”

“Very good girl!”

Oooh! Hear what she called me? So many conflicting feelings. People think we tigresses are singularly focused, but we have conflicting feelings a bunch.

I let her (I think; she may have let me; it’s really not clear, and I don’t think there’s a right or wrong answer, so we’ll go with I let her) put that pullup on me, and when I did she, “Yow! Ya can’t just go pinching tigresses on their … places.” Well, actually she can, but it’s less fun if she knows that.

“Hehe. Why don’t you go get the pullups you bought and put them on top my dresser. I’ll make sure they get put away in the right place.”

I heard her back in her office as I went back upstairs. “Sorry that took so long,” she said, “We had to have a little talk about the when it will be time for pullups.”

I mean, c’mon, like I’m supposed to believe she was talking to anybody. I think. She went and forced my hand. I tried the indirect way. I was gonna hafta try the direct way. Well, direct for me, anyway.