Mary and Daphne #67 (Patreon)

“Murry, wut aryu duin,” I mumbled in the middle of the night. At least I think I did. Maybe not so much with the remembering when I’ve been dragged from unconsciousness at a time I just call ‘dark.’ You only need to number the hours if you’re making plans, and my plan for that hour is always the same: be sleeping.

“Nothing, honey. Go back to sleep.”

“K.”

When morning did come, the sun was out, the birds were singing, and so was Mary. I got out of bed and slippered my way downstairs to the sound of Mary rocking around the Christmas tree, which we didn’t have yet.

“Morning,” I said and smiled from the doorway. “What’re you making,” I yawned and rubbed the sleep from my eyes.

“Pancakes.”

“With cinnamon?” I yawned again and sat myself down in a kitchen chair.

“I know how you like them. Didn’t you get enough sleep?”

“I did.”

“You can go back to bed for a while. We can do Zoom church at ten.”

“Ugh, no way with Pastor Mike.” How someone can take the majesty of the whole of existence and make it boring, I dunno. I got up and made us glasses of juice and water.

Mary crossed the kitchen and gave me my good morning kiss and butt squeeze (what, you don’t get a good morning butt squeeze? I’m so sorry for you). When our lips parted, she kept her hands on the small of my back. “Mmm. Good girl.”

Ooo, two squeezes! I must’ve been an especially good girl. And did you hear what she called me? Ha!

“What I do,” I asked. I mean, yeah, I’m a good girl all the time, but I usually hafta do something to be told so.

“You have a dry bottom.” She just said that and left it flopping on the floor like a fish, going back to the stove to flip the pancakes. Having had the experience of getting flipped over by Mary, ‘patted’ with that very spatula, and eaten, I think I know just how the pancakes must feel: in love with Mary. And vulnerable to her whims.

But back to what she just said, “Of course I ... Did you wake me up last night?”

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to, but you went right back to sleep.”

“What were you doing?”

“Changing your diaper, sweetie. You were wet. Syrup or jelly?”

For a second, I thought there must’ve been someone else in the room because my wife and I were talking about middle–of–the–night diaper changes, not breakfast. Also, “Syrup, please.”

I hoped, o how I hoped, the sound of me getting the butter and jelly – Mary prefers jelly on her pancakes; she talked me into trying it, and I do like it, but she says it doesn’t count as a serving of fruit so I usually stick with syrup, which does count as a serving of tree sap – anyway, I hoped the sound of those things covered the sound of me checking the front of my diaper. And yep, dry. I know I woke up and peed around midnight, because I do that most nights diapered or not. I’ll admit here that I do get back to sleep easier when I do that in a diaper, but I’m never telling Mary.

“Why did you do that,” I asked Mary.

“Change you? Because you needed it, silly.”

“Um, have you ever done that before? In the middle of the night, I mean.”

“Nope.”

“So ...”

“I woke up and reached over to find you and felt you had wet pants and decided to change you.”

“My pants ...”

“Figuratively.”

“O ... kay...” I guess that’s ... okay. Feels like life just got weirder around here, and we already crossed the weirdness barrier in our house many miles ago. It’s like crossing the sound barrier, but instead of a sonic boom, you just hear this voice in your head go, Huh. So that’s a thing now, is what it is ... Interesting.

She scoffed at me as she set our plates down and sat across from me. “What, you want to sleep in a wet diaper?”

“No! I just ... Are you gonna make a habit of that?”

“Well, if I happen to wake up and find you really wet, I might change you. I’ll try not to wake you.” Man, she’s taking the ‘please take care of me’ thing from last night super seriously. Like, for serious? Apparently. And yes, there’s frequently a monologue like that running my head. Weirdness barrier waaaaayyyyy back there in the distance...

“Did you ... did you get back to sleep okay,” I asked. I mean, she literally does not have to do that. I sleep fine, and she needs to sleep fine, too. Besides, if your wife is going to make you wear a wet diaper, while you’re unconscious is the best time for it. Although she’s not making me ... I think? I’ll ... okay. Don’t interrogate yourself, a little voice said to me. Good tip, I said back.

“Mhmm. Mmm! Did I ever tell you I make good pancakes?”

“A time or two.” From scratch! “Thanks for making them with the cinnamon.”

“Just a pinch, like your mom makes,” Mary said. Which is true. That’s how my mom makes them, and that’s why I like them that way. The pancakes I grew up with, except Mary’s don’t come from a box of mix. I smiled at Mary. “What?”

“I can’t help but notice you’re happy this morning,” I told her.

“Yeah, I guess I am.”

“Is that ...” Aw fuck it with the sideways attacks, straight at the issue, damn the torpedoes, every kinkster will do her duty like an Englishman, men abed in their homes will think themselves accursed that they were not, yada yada ... anyhoo ... “Can we talk about last night,” I asked directly.

“Haven’t we been?”

“I mean before we went to sleep. The, um, living room.”

“Sure.”

“I just ... I’m not a little.” Just in case the footie pajamas and pacifier and teddy bear – followed by the bedtime diapering – had led her to believe otherwise. I mean, I would be, if she really wanted me to be. But I’m not. And she hasn’t asked or dropped any hints that she does want ... anyhoo ...

“I know,” Mary confirmed. See? She knows me better than anyone, and Mary knows I’m not a little, so the opinions of others on that subject aren’t even worth my time.

“I just wanted to do something special for you,” I said.

“It was very special. Thank you again.”

“I thought it would make you feel better. You’ve been so ... it was Lisa’s idea.”

That caught her off guard. “Lisa? What does she ...”

“I called her.”

“What made you do that, sweetie?”

“You’ve been sad and stressed, and I didn’t know how to make you feel better. The usual things didn’t work.”

She smiled at me, one of those aren’t–you–so–sweet–it’s–pitiable smiles. “You don’t have to worry about me that much.”

Well, I do, is the thing, because she’s my wife and the love of my life, so I didn’t even respond to that. I skipped right over that and said, “So I called Lisa.” I hope this doesn’t get back to Lisa. She might not like that I told Mary.

“And she told you to get your teddy bear and come snuggle with me?”

“She told me you might ... that maybe you wanted ... that if spanking me wasn’t cheering you up, maybe you needed some ... ...” Apparently we were having a shortage of words in our house.

“Are you okay?”

“Mhmm.”

“Did you not like snuggling with me?”

“No! I mean, yes, I did. I just ... Lisa said maybe you were feeling more like a big than a domme and maybe that’s why ... Spanking me has always made you feel better before.”

“Daffy ... here,” she said and took my plate. She put it in the microwave for ten seconds. I had forgotten to eat while I was busy stuttering and stumbling my way through whatever it was I was trying and failing to say. “C’mere,” she said and patted her knee. I got up and sat down in her lap. I felt her stifle a scortle, perchance at my outfit, still the footies but with some padding underneath. “Bite,” she asked and proffered me a bite of pancake. I accepted it. “Good girl.”

“Thenku.”

“Talking with your mouth full?”

“Sorry.” She kissed me on the cheek and handed me my fork. Just because she now checks and changes my diaper in the middle of the night does not mean she needs to feed me like a ... dammit.

“Sometimes a spanking doesn’t solve things,” she told me. Well, duh, right?

“But it makes you feel better.” My butt is Mary’s stress ball. I have a pair of panties that say so right on the seat! “At least, it used to.”

“It still does, silly. Last week was just ... off.”

“So you still like spanking me?”

“If you ask one more question with an obvious answer, I’ll turn you over my knee right here,” she laughed. That’s exactly the kind of pretext my Mary would use to paddle me.

“Just checking ... So if spanking didn’t solve your crummy mood, why did snuggling do it? We snuggle all the time.”

“I don’t think snuggling solved it. I just think it ... I don’t know. Maybe I’d have woken up happy today regardless ... but you helped,” she rushed to reassure me. Not that I need more reassurance than the average ... whatever I am these days.

“But that’s what you wanted, to ... how did Lisa know and not me?”

“I think she just made a good guess. Take more bites.” Which I did. I don’t normally need so up much prompting to eat my sugar. Really. “Maybe,” Mary speculated, “Lisa was just thinking about what she likes and thought I’d like the same thing.”

“Because she thinks you’re ...” I stopped myself from saying it.

“What? What did she say?”

“It’s not something she said. It’s more ... Do you wish I were a little?”

“I like you the way you are.”

“But you liked me in that outfit a lot.”

“Because you looked ... with your paci and your bear and your eyes all big, you looked like you needed me.”

I mean, sure, with the outfit and accessories and maybe I was a little wide eyed and silent like I got lost in the toy store and was scared I couldn’t find my mommy ... dammit.

I didn’t need her any more or less I’m that moment that I ever do. I have a pretty standard hierarchy of needs: warmth, shelter, peanut butter, to be told I’m a good girl, a butt that’s always in danger, and all the love. Each of those things can translate directly to ‘Mary.’ Except the peanut butter. She’s more often a barrier to that. But only because she loves me! Sigh... So I told Mary, “I need you all the time.”

“Aw, baby, and that makes me feel like the most important person in the world.”

“Well, you are. I mean, duh ... Maybe I just can’t ever understand.”

“Can’t understand what?”

“How ... to be happy ... I need someone, um, you specifically, to take care of me to make me happy, but you need someone to take care of to be happy.”

“You, specifically,” she said and poked me in the side where I’m ticklish.

“I guess I don’t understand that entirely.”

“Letting me take care of you is how you take care of me. Simple as that.”

“Or seriously complicated, but ...” That’s seriously complicated. I looked it up, and nope, no one understands what that’s all about.

“What?”

“I guess we don’t need to understand it. Just remember it,” I said.

“That’ll work, won’t it?”

It would have to, because bigs are confusing. “Mhmm.”

“All done?”

“Mhmm. And I don’t ... if it makes you happy, I don’t mind wearing cute outfits.”

“You make just about all the clothes cute when you wear them. I don’t think it was the outfit.”

“What was it then?”

“The look on your face. The way when I asked you what you were up to, you didn’t know.” She does like me confused. Makes it easier for her to manipulate me into the sorts of scenarios that end with stuff and things in places at times. She loves those, and so do I. Of course, sometimes I’m just pretending to be confused, but that’s part of the fun.

“Thanks for taking care of me,” I said. “If you hadn’t ... hoo boy.” I mean, if she had just told me I looked cute and went back to work, yikes would I have been a hot mess. But she wouldn’t do that.

“What,” she asked me.

“I was just feeling kinda insecure already, but I guess you know that now.”

“You coulda told me.”

“I didn’t want to add onto your plate. I was trying to care of you.”

“Taking care of you is how you take care of me,” she said again.

“Well, I didn’t know that last night.” Or I did, but not with so much clarity. She put it really well. That’s what Lisa was trying to tell me and couldn’t articulate, and it’s what I knew inside me, but I didn’t think of it in those words. Which raised a question, “So, question: can I be too needy, in that little dynamic you just said?”

“Can you be too needy? Anyone can. Are you too needy? No.” I’ll add to that, am I needy? Yes. Am I too needy for just about everyone else in the world? Hellz yes, and I had racked up quite the stable of exes in my short pre–Mary life to prove it. But I’m not too needy for Mary. I just need to be told I’m not too needy for her from time to time. It’s a symptom of the neediness. But then I guess it’s not a problem for Mary, so it’s not a problem for me either.

“Good,” I said. “Just promise me you’ll say something if I ever am.”

“Promise.” I got a kiss. “Good job eating your breakfast.” I mean, for example (random example, plucking it outta thin air), I don’t need praise for things like eating my breakfast, for the record. Littles are the kind of people who need that degree of affirmation. I just happen to really like that degree of affirmation some days (most of the days), and also for everything else I do. Totally different. Really.

“Let’s go to church,” Mary said and patted my hip to get me to stand.

“Not yet.”

“Why?”

“Reasons...”

“O, you just wanna cuddle some ... You’re peeing on me, aren’t you?”

I didn’t immediately respond ... because reasons. Mary didn’t mind, she just rubbed little circles on my shoulders until I was, um, ready to answer, “Like you don’t like that, ya big weirdo.”

“Hey! Is that name calling from Miss Potty Pants?”

“I had to go.”

“You could’ve gone to the bathroom. I did repeal that rule,” she reminded me.

“O. I, um, forget ... sometimes ... is all.” Really. And don’t you interrogate my reasons, either!

“Uh–huh. You ready now?”

“I don’t think you appreciate how hard that is.”

“What?”

“Peeing my pants!”

“You don’t have to.”

“I mean physically! It’s not ... It’s a skill.” I had to practice at it. It took a while to get good at it.

“Then you must have mad skillz,” she teased me while scratching her fingers over my pajamas where the diaper wrapped around my hip.

“Yeah. And if I’m going to feel it, I just want to share the sensation with you. That’s called reaping what you sow, Mary.”

“For someone allegedly so insecure, you sure are mouthy all of a sudden.”

“You reassured me. I’m good for a while.” I gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Good work,” I said, because Mary and bigs and people in general need reassurance to, even if it seems like they’re totally on top of everything. True story.

She gave me a kiss back. “No more stalling. We’ll miss it.” I got up and got swatted on my butt, which was mmmm. She held my hand all the way back upstairs.

“Can I have a change,” I asked as we settled on the bed and opened the iPad for Zoom church. Pastor Sarah was just getting started, while Pastor Mike was sitting in the background looking like he was thinking hard about how to be boring for the next service.

“You can wait,” Mary said and gave me another swat.

“Can wait in the middle of the night to,” I grumbled.

“If you don’t want me to ...”

“Well, let’s see how good you can be at not waking me up first ... Can I have a good girl spanking after church?”

“You’re gonna get a bad girl spanking after church if you don’t settle in and pay attention.”

“Yes’m.”

I can’t wait to go back to physical church. I miss it and our friends and Pastor Sarah, and this bathroom in the basement where Mary takes me after if I don’t behave ... sigh. When the pandemic is over, I’m gonna have to ask Jane to text me the third Sunday of every month around 9:15. For reasons.