Mary and Daphne #63 (Patreon)

I woke up alone, which I’m kinda used to since Mary is an earlier riser than I am, and went downstairs to the kitchen where Mary had beat me to it.

“A–ha–hem,” I said from the dooorway. I even folded my arms. Mary always folds her arms when she a–ha–hems me, and being my role model like she is, I thought I’d try it. It’s as satisfying as it looks. “Are you eating pie for breakfast?”

With a mouthful, Mary said, “C’mere,” so I shuffled across the kitchen in my slippers. “Open.”

“Mmm,” I said when she put a bite of pie on my tongue.

“I like feeding you pie,” Mary giggled. “You look so happy.”

“It’s a new day, and you’re feeding me pie. What’s not to be happy about?” By unspoken mutual consent, I think we both agreed 2020 didn’t count and therefore we get to be disgusting newlyweds for an extra year.

“What are we doing today,” she asked me.

“Christmas shopping. There’s only four weeks until Christmas. We have a lot of shopping to do.”

“So ya know how you go overboard with the shopping every year?”

“Mhmm,” I mumbled because pie.

“Just because you have the time, please don’t go over overboard.”

“I won’t ... but since it’s Christmas can I start stress baking again?” I mean, speaking of going overboard...

“Yes, just don’t eat your weight in Christmas cookies. Maybe you can arrange another cookie exchange.”

“Sounds like someone wants more of my labia lemon bars.”

“Just don’t send any to your mom by mistake,” she teased.

“You’re gonna jinx it if you joke about that stuff.” Last thing we needed for the holidays was to send the right cookies to the wrong person. I suppose I could just not do any erotic baking rather than risk it, but what fun would that be?

“C’mon, let’s go sit by the fireplace,” Mary said, taking my hand and pulling me along.

“Can I change first?” I’d been wearing what Mary put me to bed in (does “put me in before bed” sound less childish? no? dammit...) since, well, she put me to bed last night. Put us to bed? We went to bed at the same time.

“Right in the living room,” Mary replied. “Lay down in front of the fire.” She made a hard right but not before giving me a love swat.

When I was a really young kid, I had a torrid love affair with the heating vents (torrid – heating vent – get it? ba–dum–chhh! that’s my rimshot since I can’t have an in–house band during COVID). The vents were in the floor, and until I was maybe six, I had a habit of taking naps on them with my blankie and bunny (a stuffie, not a rabbit; rabbits are mean, and I’ve had the scratch marks to prove it). Then we moved into a house with no heating vents in the floor but that did have a gas fireplace. I parked myself in front of it pretty much all winter. I used to get in trouble for opening the window so I could do that without getting too hot.

I laid down in front of the fire, and Mary was right behind me with that basket that mysteriously appeared on her birthday game night. “Maybe you need some bigger jammies for Christmas,” she suggested.

“Maybe you need to stop putting diapers on me at bedtime. My jammies fit fine without them.”

“Or we could find you a Christmas nightgown.”

“Only little kids and old ladies wear nightgowns,” I reminded her while wiggling to try to help her get my pajama pants off.

“You mean there’s a piece of comfy loungewear you don’t want to wear,” she chuckled. “And maybe it’s time for new slippers,” she added. She took one off and waved it at me.

“They’re fine. They’re just well loved.”

“You’re gonna fall and hurt yourself in them one of these days. She paused and, “Snfff ... snfff.”

“I know,” I said blushing. Or maybe it was the fire turning my face so red. “I smell like a ...”

“Bedwetter?”

“I could’ve finished the sentence if I wanted to say it out loud.” I mean, yeesh, like she had to actually say it.

“Maybe ten hours is a little too long to be in the same cloth diaper.”

“Has it become as apparent to you, as it has to me, that these things create more problems than they solve, and also that they don’t solve anything?”

“I think they solve lots of problems.”

“Like what?”

“Like reminding you to behave. When’s the last time you got spanked with a diaper on?”

“Day before yesterday, right before you took it down and paddled me.”

“Okay,” Mary said, “bad example ... how ‘bout when we’re out in public and you have a diaper on, you get adorably clingy with me?”

“I’ve only been out in them four times ... and I can be clingy without them.” Surely she noticed that what with my tendency to cling to her like a koala to a tree.

“Well, Miss Smart Bottom, here’s a problem they definitely solve: when you’re wearing a diaper, you’re not not wearing a diaper. What’s your response to that? Lift your butt.”

I lifted my butt and she got the plastic panties off easily. That’s kinda a yucky feeling, the way the little bit of wetness feels going down my legs. The kind that snap on would be better, but I’m never, ever telling her that (and if you do, we can’t be friends anymore, so shhh!).

“That’s not a real problem,” I pointed out.

“Sure it is, and do you know why,” she asked as she opened the velcro.

“Because you say it is?”

“Good star A–plus for Daphne!”

“What’s it like getting to just to declare something,” I asked as I put my hands behind my knees to give her access to my nouns: my person and places and things.

“Intoxicating,” she said with a smile.

I smiled back as she cleaned me off and asked, “And what’s it like getting to punish those who don’t accept your declarations?”

“Positively orgasmic ... there. That’s as clean as you’re getting without a bath.”

“I need a bath.”

“Yep, but what’s the rush? Don’t you wanna sit next to the fire with me? I bet the heat is good for your naked diaper area.”

“I don’t have a diaper area,” I reminded her for the bajillionth time ... I simultaneously pivoted so as to point nouns toward the fireplace. No judging. That was precisely what Mary was suggesting. “What’s it like getting to suggest things when what you’re really doing is issuing an order,” I asked after she laid down next to me.

“Like being a mafia don,” she told me. “What’s it like getting your bare bottom spanked when you mistake an order for a suggestion?”

“Like I got someone who loves me even when I’m naughty.” I got a kiss for that answer. I got her wrapped around my little finger. It may not be obvious, what with the way she’s in charge and is always paddling me and making me wear diapers, but ... dammit.

“And I love you even when you smell like weewee. I think we’ll only use ‘sposables at night from now on.”

“But not every night,” I reminded her. I had my limits. I wasn’t going to be a 24/7 diaper person, and I wasn’t going to be 8/7 or 24/3 or any of that. “Like we talked about.”

“Like we talked about (kiss). How’s that fire feel down there?”

“Um ...” I think everybody should try laying in front of the fire with their bits exposed for twenty minutes a day, like a self–care routine. I just liked a warm spot to nap when I was little, but Mary’s ‘suggestion’ was pretty friggin’ comfy. I was already thinking about rearranging the furniture to make it easier on my back. I am in my thirties after all. How many more years can I just keep laying on floors with my knees open before it catches up to me? (No seriously, I’m asking ... I’ma google that later).

“Ha. How do you think a bare bottom timeout in front of the fireplace would feel after a good spanking?”

I made my raccoon–in–the–flashlight face. “A good spanking or a good spanking?”

“A good, hard spanking for my naughty Daphne Ann when she gets into more mischief than her bottom can handle.”

“How is it you’re so nice and can come up with the meanest things?”

“How is it you’re so sweet and can come up with so many ways to misbehave?”

“Luck.”

“Ha! Can I feel?”

“So you do know how to ask permission before groping me,” I teased my Mary.

“Such a sass mouth.” She put her hand on, well, it’s also a noun. I had a feeling there would be verbs soon. “And I need to put my hands on your princess parts. Someone has to take care of your diaper area, because lord knows you’d never do it on your own ...”

“Because I don’t have a diaper area,” I whined. She talked right over me.

“... and if I asked permission to touch your butt every time you need a spanking, you’d never get all spankings you need.”

“Well, that’s just not true.” Also, I guess we’re just gonna pretend she doesn’t have permission, because I’m the one who gave it to her in perpetuity. But what fun is acknowledging reality?

“Speaking of your butt, remember a moment ago when I was changing you out of your night diaper?”

“Marrrry...”

“O good, you do remember. I saw this bite mark on your butt cheek. When and how did that happen?”

My poor wife, her memory beginning to fail so young. That must be why she asks me if I remember stuff. “You did it,” I coquettishly refreshed her memory. I’m quite the coquette when I wanna be.

“I did, hmm? Was I trying to gobble you up?”

“Sure seemed like it.” There I was tied up like that goat in Jurassic Park, innocent as a ... baby goat(?) minding my own business when there was Mary. I’ll give her more credit than the T–Rex though. Mary knows how to savor her meals. I mean, sure, sometimes you just want to be swallowed whole but ... anyhoo ...

“Are there any leftovers,” Mary asked. Whereas I am a coquette, a little red riding hood (I even have the outfit somewhere), and was being all coquettish, Mary is most definitely my big bad wolf, as evidenced my her wolffish grin and matching appetite.

“Remember before the pandemic when we were too busy to do things like lay in front of the fireplace talking about spending most of the day in bed?”

“Yeah.”

“Let’s never live that way again.”

“Ha. Deal.”