Mary and Daphne #62 (Patreon)

All characters are 18+

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Splish-splash we were taking a bath. By which I mean, we were both in the tub, not Mary giving me a bath. The sub in me, which is to say me, wants to give Mary a bath, but she’s not so into that idea, but anyway, we would have gone to my parents’ for Thanksgiving, and since we can’t this year, we decided to make up our own tradition, which we decided involves us in the bath. It’s not the reason we bought the house, but having a tub big enough for both us to use while facing each other and not having a faucet digging into someone’s back was definitely a bonus.

“We should use this thing more,” Mary suggested. “I don’t know why we don’t.”

“Water bill,” I reminded her.

“Yeah, but when we’re both in it that means less water,” she chuckled. “The flowers were a nice idea.”

I ordered flowers. Mary, as usual, was more concerned with me having a good holiday, especially since we couldn’t travel to be with my family, but I wanted her to enjoy it and not just worry about me, so I ordered flowers for the table and added some petals to our bath along with some scented oil and a nonslip mat because I’m safe like that (and because who knows what slipper stuff we might get up to on short notice).

“I’m just trying to pamper you,” I told her. “You need a break more than me.”

“What makes you say that?”

“You’re working, I’m not. You do most of the emotional labor around here, I just emote.”

“You do plenty of emotional labor in the relationship.”

“But most of it is my own anxiety,” I chuckled nervously. Didn’t really chuckle.

Mary shrugged. “We all have our things, Daffy. Once we’re out of the pandemic you’ll feel so much better, and then we can get you back to work. You’ll feel better if you have more to do ... Besides, I like taking care of you. Makes me feel needed.”

“Thanks. I worry sometimes ... I just don’t want to dump all my feelings on you and ... not do my share.”

“You do plenty. You’re keeping the house clean and cooking most days and you made us that pretty garden.” She giggled. “And you’re always finding new ways to be naughty and sexy.”

“I am good at that ... I just wanna take as good of care of you as you do me.”

“You do. You give me exactly what I need – a kinky little minx to cherish and protect. Makes me so happy I’m the person you come running to when life is hard. Makes me feel like the best person ever.”

“You are!” Which is a totally stereotypical sub thing to say, but she is! And I’ve met a lot of people, probably at least nine. Perhaps more and I just don’t remember them all because that was before the pandemic times and who remembers any of that.

“You’re just saying that because I know how to make it all better,” she winked at me.

“And almost no one else does.”

“Almost? Who’s my competition?”

“For making it all better? Dad.” I was a total daddy’s girl. Sorta still am when I go home.

I must have let out a forlorn sign or something, because Mary said, “What are you thinking?”

“That if we were there, he’d be asking some clueless but cute question about being a lesbian right about now.” He does it on purpose. Or it started out as actual questions and now he just asks because it makes me laugh. Yes, Dad, lesbian is spelled with a capital L, like the Lakers. And so on while mom keeps smacking him on the arm and telling him to stop.

“We’re Zooming with them this afternoon at least.”

“Yeah ...”

“Alright, let’s talk about something else,” Mary said and took a sip from her breakfast wine. And you’re probably thinking, I’ve never even heard of breakfast wine. And more’s the pity for you. The recipe is simple: pour wine in a cup (cup is optional) before noon.

“Are you changing your mind about having kids,” I asked. Mary nearly spit her breakfast wine across the tub.

“What? No ... Why? Are you thinking ...”

“No. I just ... wondered if, um, maybe that’s where your, um, sudden big tendencies came from. Forget I asked.”

“I’m not rethinking it ... You know I would if you wanted to.” Which is so like her, but she totally would, and she’d be a great mom, too.

“I know. But I don’t.” There was this other thing I had been thinking about. “... I was, though, thinking maybe, um, when the pandemic is over, we, um, could find a, um, another bottom to play with?”

“Like a poly ...”

“No! Just play.”

“You wanna playmate?” I sensed a smidge of jealousy and also her predator instinct kicking in as she considered the possibilities.

“Well, no, but, uh, I wouldn’t mind, um, someone I could, uh, ya know?”

“You want someone to dominate?”

“Sorta?”

“Where’d that come from?”

“I dunno. Maybe just wanting someone I can boss around. Would be nice to not always be on the receiving end...”

“Do you remember what happened the last time you tried to domme someone?”

Not my finest hour. It was at a monthly play party put on by a local kink group, and there was this girl who was kinda new to it and didn’t know anyone and we were talking and it turned into talking about a scene. Naturally, I went and asked Mary if I could do it, and she was skeptical. Like straight up told me that it was not a good idea. Well, ask anyone and they’ll tell you that telling me I shouldn’t do something is just gonna make me more determined. Little wonder that personality trait still hasn’t been spanked outta me despite many having tried and Mary trying many times. But of course she’d be so disappointed if she succeeded.

But Mary gave in and came with me, and I introduced her, and the three of us took over a play area. The girl brought her very own flogger, and Mary stood there with her arms folded like she knows every–damn–thing and looking all skeptical, but I can so domme someone if I want.

The girl put her arms up and spread her legs (she wasn’t ready to try the restraints on the cross thingy), and I swung that flogger gently just to get her warmed up. I did a good job too: just right for a warmup, not hard but not too soft. The girl enjoyed it. Mary told me good job.

And that’s when I started crying and apologizing profusely. I even needed a hug from Mary. And the girl. Who also apologized. We even attracted the attention of one of the organizers, who we knew, and when Mary told her why I was crying (I needed another minute before I could explain), our friend chastised Mary, not me, for letting me try. Apparently lots of people just know, or think they know, that I don’t have a dominant bone in my whole body.

“Well, that was a long time ago,” I reminded Mary. “I spanked Jane that one time.”

“Yeah, but that was less you being dominant than you being a naughty little girl who lost her temper,” Mary reminded me. “But we could find you a playmate, someone else to do, um, things with.”

“I have Jane for that.”

“Maybe someone who takes a little less glee in getting you in trouble.”

“Yeah...”

“Elizabeth always has some new friend or other.” Which is because Elizabeth runs a group that makes a point of being extra welcoming to newbies, but notice how Elizabeth never seems to keep her playmates around for long.

“I don’t like Elizabeth.”

“That’s because she makes you call her ‘mistress.’”

“And she is not! It should bother you more than it bothers me.”

“You just don’t like calling anybody by a title. I had to wash your mouth out before you’d call Mae ‘Mrs. Wilson.’”

“Which Nana doesn’t even like. And I don’t see why you made such a big deal out of that in the first place.”

“It’s rude to call your elders by their first name.”

“She’s your elder, too.”

“But more so yours.” She grinned at me, trying to goad me into something or other. I’m not so easily goaded. Take Jane for instance – she had to goad the heck outta me before I finally tossed her over my knee. And I still owe her a real spanking. Her crocodile tears may fool her mommy, and she may be a little, but she’s not a little girl, and I owe her a big girl spanking. Anyhoo …

“By all of six years,” I countered to Mary. “Know what you should be thankful for,” I asked. I prefer to say that I said it sassily rather than in a pouty way.

“What’s that, Daffodil?”

“That I put up with your excuse finding and chicanery, and I only do it because I love you.” Also because I love our kinky game of cat–and–mouse, and getting tossed over her knee so often, and never exactly knowing what shade of Daphne my butt will be when I go to bed, to say nothing of all the other (mostly) fun things she’s done to me over the years.”

“I love you, too, and I’m thankful for every little thing about you.”

“Daww!” Hehehe.

“Especially the way you blush like a maiden whenever I remind you how much in love with you I am.”

She had this grin on her face like she knew I was going to go Ha! before I could stop myself and went “Ha!”

“See!?! You are so the smitten kitten.”

“Of course I am! I like you and stuff,” I said and played footsie with her. People probably think, why is Daphne so tired all the time, and the reason is because it’s hard work being a mouse and a maiden and a kitten, let alone a smitten kitten, all at the same time. Go ask the other smitten kittens, and they’ll tell you how hard, but with the loving support of my Mary, anything is possible.

“Meantime,” Mary said, “if you want something to be in charge of, offer is still on the table.”

“Puppies are expensive though.”

“So? We can afford it. And it would give you something to do. You could totally nerd out and be an expert dog trainer in a month.”

“I’ve never had a dog on my own.”

“First time for everything.” Damn if between the two of us we hadn’t proved that a dozen million times. “Plus it wouldn’t be alone.”

“I don’t want something to be responsible for.” Because being responsible for living things that don’t photosynthesize makes me anxious AF. “I just want someone to boss around.” Not a lot. Just a little. For a change anyway, at least until the novelty wore off, and then we could just be friends. Maybe that’s what I really need, a new friend. “Or maybe I just need to make a new friend.”

“Kinky or normal?”

“Either.” Though personally, I don’t understand why everyone isn’t kinky. Way back when, when I was a freshman in college and was getting to explore and experiment, it was brought to my attention through a series of intermediaries that I was developing a reputation as a prude, if you can believe that. Which, firstly, what a buncha unpleasant people I was hanging out with my freshman year for even thinking like that, and two, I am not a prude (no, really, it’s true – stifle your shocked gasps). I just didn’t get it. And before you ask, I’m not talking about the mechanics. I just mean I only knew vanilla people, and they just wanted to have sex and I just … didn’t. Plain vanilla sex didn’t turn me on. I needed sprinkles and oreo bites and (OMG) peanut butter crumbles, and I didn’t know how to ask for what I wanted. I mean, how the heck was I supposed to have sex if no one had even hit me with a wooden board yet? It was just boring. Did very little for me.

It wasn’t until I was a junior that I liked someone enough and that someone liked me enough to badger me into showing them what I liked. Out came the laptop, up came a website now sadly defunct call Spank That Brat (It’s on C4S, but those two performers aren’t making new videos together), and my partner was so clearly hiding (or trying to hide) her distaste but agreed to give it a try. People are really averse to hitting other people, even when those people literally are asking for it.

I eventually got desperate enough to go to a munch, scary AF on your own as a twenty–one year old woman, and got lucky enough that someone decided to make it their business to introduce me to the local scene. Probably (possibly? perhaps?) helped that I was a cute young thing with wide eyes and a butt crying out for chastisement. Wasn’t so hard to meet people, lot harder to be and feel safe, but I had found my crowd, and then I found my people inside that crowd, and there was a little spot in the world where I could be safe doing my thing, which is where I met Mary.

“We could start going to munches again when things are safe,” Mary suggested, because she reads my mind when I’m not looking. “We can do that thing where I meet new people and you act all shy and stand behind me.” Um, yeah, that’s an ‘act,’ uh–huh…

“We go to play parties,” I said. Or we did in the before times.

“But munches are easier for meeting friends. There’s less pressure.”

“We met at a play party,” I reminded her.

“And I was nervous as hell.”

“I don’t think you’ve ever been nervous in your life.” She bestrides the world like a lioness, at least in my eyes.

“It took a lot of guts to pluck you over my knee.”

“You did a good job hiding it.”

“I kept thinking how out of my league you are …”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” I interjected. Except, actually, it will get her all the places because I like flattery, I like Mary, and I like it when she’s in all my places. And in what universe am I the one out of her league?!? I suppose our leagues are all about what type we have. Mary’s type is ballet dancers (not me, because I’d just fall down, which is a true story, but in terms of build), whereas I guess my type is Mary. I have other types, but Mary is the main one, and God only made the one of her.

“Everyone in the room wanted a crack at your bottom.”

“That’s because they’re a buncha pervs,” I snarked, “and all they had to do was wait their turn. You cut the line.”

“And shut the door behind me. I didn’t wanna risk letting you go.”

“Is that why you didn’t let me go?”

“Mhmm.”

“I’m starting to think you like me and stuff,” I said and played some more footsie.

“We could try a new munch we haven’t been to before. There’s probably going to be a lot of new ones when the pandemic is over … We could, um …” So she does get nervous, I said to myself when she trailed off.

“What,” I prompted her

“Try an ageplay munch.”

“We could …”

“Might be fun for you to get to play with another little.”

“I’m not a little!”

“Fine, a middle.”

“I’m not that either.”

“Well, there are a lot of other people out there in the world who ‘aren’t’ littles or middles, and you might enjoy spending time with one is all I’m saying.”

“You and your air quotes … I don’t even know what we’d do.”

“You play with Jane sometimes.”

“Because she likes it. I don’t like the cutesy stuff.”

“Well, somewhere out there is someone who is a little who’ll look at you like the big kid you are and will just be happy to do whatever you wanna do.”

“Really packing in the double entendres today.”

“You guys could play with Jamie together,” Mary said with her I’m–gonna–verbally–poke–you–in–the–belly smile.

“Marrrry!”

“Seriously, you could have tea parties and eat whatever you wanted, whether Jamie likes it or not. He’s easy to boss around”

“Never was a tea party kinda girl.”

“Why don’t you like him? I thought you’d like a teddy bear.”

“He’s cute,” I shrugged. “I just don’t, I dunno, like stuffies that much. Probably because,” I said with my finger on my chin like I was contemplating great mysteries of the physical universe, “I’m not a little!” And I sent a tiny splash her way. Maybe more of a wave. I didn’t want any wet bottom spankings.

“I just thought he’d be a comfort object. Something to snuggle at night.”

“He’s too small to snuggle with.”

Mary’s eyebrows shot up. “So you’d be happier with a bigger bear? Something big enough to snuggle?”

“I already have someone to snuggle with,” was my response, and I played more footsie with her under the water just in case she missed my meaning.

“Well, Christmas is coming up, and you’re getting some toys whether you like it or not.”

“Why?”

“To give you something to do. Some adult coloring books or something. Puzzles. Anything. Without a garden to play in, you’re watching too much Netflix and reading too much news that sends you into a funk.”

“Can they be dirty coloring books?” As you can see, I’m over that part of my life where it takes more than second to get my engine revving, but the fun part, I was thinking, would be when I went to show Mary what I colored and mayhaps recreating the picture live, or maybe being chastised for being so naughty with my coloring.

“What’d you think I meant when I said ‘adult coloring books’?”

“Heehee ... I was thinking more about taking a class online, maybe something free to start with, see what I like. Think it’s time to think more seriously about going back to school.”

“What’s your latest fancy,” Mary asked.

“I don’t have fancies! I just haven’t decided yet. I was thinking about being a teacher, if you must know.”

“Finally!”

“What finally?”

“I wanted to suggest that fifty times!”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Because suggesting you do something has the same effect on you as suggesting you don’t do something.” Which is ironic because I can be very suggestible in certain contexts.

“Well, I got there on my own.”

“What were you thinking about teaching?”

“I don’t know. Not teens. I don’t need any mean girls in my life.”

“I don’t think you’d like teaching high school anyway.”

“Were you a mean girl,” I asked my darling wife.

“Of course not! What would make you ask that?”

“Well, you’re sorta awesome at plotting mean things to do to me.”

“That reminds me – I remembered we own a turkey baster today,” she said with her I’m–gonna–baste–you face, apparently. That’s a new one.

“I don’t even wanna know ... but I’ll try it ... but only because it will make you happy.” Really. I’m sweet like that.

“I think you could teach grade school or preschool.”

“Preschool?”

“You’d be so cute running around chasing toddlers,” she chuckled, “and if there’s one place you could get away with a pullup sticking over your waistband without being judged ...”

“Marrrry! Such a mean girl ...”

“So what were you thinking?”

“Grade school or outdoor education.”

“Why that?”

“Because I liked being outside so much this year. I missed that.”

“That could be your thing. You should reach out to a couple of schools and see if someone will talk to you about it.”

And in the meantime, it was time to get out of the tub. We had a Thanksgiving chicken to make. It was fun cooking such a big meal together, even if there was no way we’d ever eat all those leftovers ourselves, and even if Mary threatened to put pumpkin pie filling down my diaper (vetoed; I cannot stand the smell of that stuff). I made an apple pie just for me, and I told Mary I’d even let her have some if she decided she didn’t like her orange gloop pie, or even just because she wanted some. Also, I wasn’t wearing a diaper, which lasted until the chicken was in the oven, which is when Mary declared it was time to dress for dinner. I would’ve protested, but that baster was nearby and who knows what she might have done to me.

There was also a noticeable uptick in innuendo in our Thanksgiving kitchen compared to my mom’s, like when Mary told me to say ‘gobble gobble’ and when I asked why she said it was time to stuff the turkey. Mary said every turkey she’s ever had has been dry, except me. And so on. I was just glad she didn’t emerge from the closet with a turkey outfit for me. I can handle her sudden interest in ageplay, but I draw the line at being fowl.