Mary and Daphne #68 (Patreon)

Know who loves Christmas music? Mary. Know how many good Christmas songs there are? Fifteen, maybe? Know how many covers of those songs are actually good? I’m guessing Sixteen.

So even if Mary limited herself to the best version of the best songs, we’re talking about living on repeat. Living in our house at Christmas is like working at a Target during the holidays, and you know how I feel about Target. She used to shut her office door when she was on the phone, and now I’m shutting it when she’s off the phone. Also, Mary does not limit herself to the best versions of the best songs; she has roughly the same taste in music as my mother, who played the same Jim Brickman album while she cleaned the house – for twenty years.

So, I did what I had to and bought a really good pair of headphones for more than the $100 limit. Not that I’m on an allowance, but we have an agreement, that applies to both of us, that we don’t spend more than $100 on any non–necessity without consulting each other. Now, while inflation has been low in recent years, I think that number needs updating, but that’s not really the point. The point is that that limit applies to non–necessities, and if I hear The Little Drummer Boy one more time, I’m gonna barump–pum–pum–pum a q–tip through my eardrums, which being a medium–term solution to a short–term problem is a nah.

I can just see Mary going, “Daphne Ann, aren’t you listening to me,” and I’d be all like “WRITE IT DOWN! YOU HAVE TO WRITE IT DOWN!” with the hand gestures and the “I DEAFENED MYSELF BECAUSE OF YOUR HORRIBLE TASTE IN CHRISTMAS MUSIC!” And then she’d grab a pad and write down, ‘You’re deaf and you know it, so why are you shouting?’ And I’d be all like, “I DON’T KNOW BUT NOW I’M EMBARRASSED!”

Anyhoo, I mean, sure, I could’ve asked if I could spend the money, but Mary has this streak of mom logic running right through her middle where every December since we’ve been together, if I mention getting any non–necessity, even a five–dollar one, she says, “Why don’t you wait – maybe Santa will bring you one.” I call that mom logic because my mom said the same thing when I was growing up, and when I was five, it almost killed me. Not even exaggerating. Mom was all frazzled trying to do a buncha stuff at once getting ready for Christmas (because she makes awesome Christmases), and I asked for a cup of water while she was making a dinner for forty people and putting lights on the tree and deworming the dog or something, and she said, “Let’s see what Santa brings you” because she was distracted and not because she was sarcastic to little kids which is mean. And the result was I was thirsty for a whole hour! Which is a lot when you’re five.

And Mary has this other ridiculous mom logic thing about spending money on the ten–percent–better version of something you already have. I think she drastically underestimates how much ten percent is. What would you pay to be ten percent happier? Not that buying stuff makes me happy – well, not for more than eighteen seconds. But anyway, my old headphones didn’t drown out Frosty the Snowman, and I was on the verge of turning into Frosty the Bitch Wife, which really wouldn’t be fair to Mary. Far be it from me to ruin her Christmas fun. So really, they were a present for her. I wasn’t expecting a thank you, but I also wasn’t expecting the worst punishment in the history domestic discipline if she happened to notice my shiny new ear buds.

And what I was doing?Baking. Again. We can take it for granted that spending way more on groceries still falls into some kind of necessity category even if it was just to make cookies, so I could at least be sure I wasn’t going to get in trouble for that even if Mary did sneak up on me while I was bake–dancing (that’s when you break into dance while baking, you silly uncultured people). After all, I did have my new headphones in, and I had my best-of-the-eighties playlist going because the eighties kinda were the best for when you’re feeling overly exuberant because it’s Christmas and you’ve been baking and eating one out of every six things that come out of the oven (and a little bit before it goes in).

“What are you making now,” my sneaky and evil–minded mistress of doom asked me all chipper like. That’s how she fools you – one moment, all chipper like; next, feeding you into a woodchipper all Fargo like.

“Ahh!” That was my super clever response. I spun around. “Geez, text me first before you come in, why don’t ya.” She looked at me funny. That would’ve been a tip off that I’d been caught except she looks at me funny two, maybe eight(teen) times a day because – you’re never gonna believe this is what she thinks of me – I can be quirky and random and stuff, so she says. I took my earbuds out and placed them discreetly in my … hand. I need more leggings with pockets. But they were just the new version of the pair I already had, so maybe she didn’t notice they were new? Seemed like it.

“Sorry, Daffodil. May I have a cookie?”

“It’s ‘may I have a cookie, please,’ and yes, you may.”

“Who are these for,” she asked as she perused my treats.

“Saint Bart’s food bank.”

She made that little noise she makes when she remembers why she likes me. Hard to be sure exactly, but I think she like likes me. “You’re a sweetie.” She selected her snowman cookie. “And here I thought you only knew how to bake erotic treats.”

“I got a new cookie cutter,” I said and happily retrieved the padded envelope by the door where it had just arrived. “See if you can guess what it is,” I said and handed it to her.

She took it out and turned it this way and that before realizing which way was up. “Is that a …”

“A uterus!” Which is when I went all giggly because buh–ha! Uterus cookies! So I’m easily entertained sometimes and get blushy about body parts, shoot me why don’cha.

“C’mere you.” I did, and she gave me a kiss on the cheek. “It makes me happy you take joy in the simple things (kiss). And you’re so adorable (kiss) all dusty with flour.” I got another very sensuous kiss. “I’m gonna go change into something a little more comfortable,” she whispered all hot and sexy into my ear. “Be right back.”

Who knew anatomical diagram cookie cutters could make Mary so eager for some loving? I didn’t think it was sexy; I just thought it was funny. If I knew a gynecologist, it would definitely be the stocking stuffer I gave them. Well, I mean I do know a gynecologist but we’re not close like that. But back to Mary, if I’d know it was that easy to rev her engine I’d have gotten her an anatomy textbook. I cleaned up after myself in the kitchen some while I awaited her return.

“O, Daffy,” I heard her call from the living room.

I put my earbuds back in their case and the case in the junk drawer and went to join Hot Pants in the living room.

“Coming … now remember to be gentle with … aww muff cabbage!”

“What’s the matter? Expecting something else?”

“What did I …”

“Don’t. You. Dare.”

Ooh, so I’m in that much trouble, huh, I said to my self.

Yep, my self said back. Hope it was worth it.

Ask me in January when I can sit again.

Mary stood there, looking effortlessly stern and comfortable at the same time, which only she could pull off. Stern and tensed? Your average run–o’–the–mill middle school principal can manage that just fine, but only Mary could stand there in her floopy pajamas holding a school paddle and looking like it may as well be a feather.

“Go get them,” she said to me.

Now, she was holding the school paddle, and I think it messes with her head whenever she has it because she always thinks I’m suddenly acting like a mouthy seventh grader just because I go, “Arggh! Fine, whatever,” and physically sulk like I’m holding the weight of all puberty on my shoulders. Did I ever mention I haaaated middle school? Bad enough being the smart kid, but when you’re sarcasming at a twelfth–grade level it just paints a big target on your back.

And so what if I went all the way to the kitchen and back to the living room without picking my feet up off the floor? What’s called ‘moping’ in some contexts is known as sock–skating in the game I made up between batches of cookies. I put the case in Mary’s hand when she held it out.

“Something wrong with your other headphones,” Mary asked me as she put the case in her pocket. Now, I’ve been wrapped up in diapers and tossed over Mary’s knee more times than I can count, but at least those are exciting in a kinky way. For pure punishment and being made to feel like a kindergartner, try having your toy taken away. *Sad naughty sub noises*

“No. I just … wanted them.”

“And you couldn’t wait until Christmas? I got those for you.”

“You did!?!” O, you’re so awesome. “I’m sorry … so I guess we’re not having sexy fun time then,” I asked. Just making sure.

“Nope. It’s not fun being deceived, is it?” O, that’s just mean. But point well taken.

“I … no.” I was gonna say I didn’t deceive her, but breaking a rule and then hiding it is close enough. I could debate it, but it’s just semantics, and the school paddle has not patience of semantics.

“And the reason you didn’t ask,” Mary said to me, “is because you knew I’d say no.”

“Yes …” And that’s when my brain decided to go on Christmas vacation in Hawaii. Whatever powers of reason and rationality I had were packed into a suitcase, the old-fashioned kind with bumper stickers that say stuff like ‘Las Vegas’ and ‘NYC’ and ‘Screw you, Daphne, we’re going to Hawaii!’

Because I didn’t just confess. I tried a confess–and–justify maneuver, and I did as craptastic a job at it at thirty–one as I did at thirteen: “But only so I wouldn’t have to keep turning down your music.”

And I know what you’re thinking. Daphne, you’re thinking, however did you graduate middle school in the first place if you’re not smarter than to say that out loud. To which my answer is there are different kinds of smart and something about Mary (there really issomething about Mary!) makes me not function in the head with the anxiousness when she’s holding the (gulp!) school paddle. It’s the, I mean, it’s, (hyperventilating), the scariest paddle of them all – and they’re all scary! Or at least the ones for punishment are, and the school paddle is for friggin’ sure for friggin’ punishment.

Mary made the same face my mom did back in the day when I’d blame her for stuff that was so totally my fault. My mom had either the very good or the very bad sense to ignore that teenage obnoxiousness most of the time. She’s a wise woman – she knew if she just ignored it would go away on its own … in eight short years.

Just like Mary is wise enough to know what’s excusable at younger ages calls for an ass murdering in later years. She just shook her head at me with her lips pressed tightly together … and kept shaking her head … and started to pace before taking me by the shoulders and steering me into the corner when she stripped my leggings down to my knees and ordered me, “Stay.”

Well, to say I was disappointed in me would be an understatement. Disappointed on so many levels. And sorry that my years’ long relationship with my butt was going to come to such an abrupt end. Goodbye, ol’ girl, I bid it, We had some good times, didn’t we? Mary was back before I could start singing O’ Danny Boy.

“Here,” Mary said, and I turned around to find her holding the paddle and my (but really, her) pacifier. “Open. Do you know why,” she asked me as soon as it was in. Kinda a dirty trick doing that.

“Becooyouuvme?”

“Yes, because I love you and don’t want to see that mouth of yours get you into any more trouble than you’re already in. Now grab your toes and stick your butt out.”

Maybe it’s because, as spankable as my ass is, I don’t have junk in my trunk so much as some nicely folded linens in a hope chest, but I always thought grabbing your ankles sticks your butt out whether you want it to or not (isn’t that the point?), but the rare bent–over spankings I receive always startswith Mary telling me to stick my butt out. I mean, it’s out and I’m a triangle – how much more out can it …

WHAP!

There’s a reason we don’t use the school paddle often, which is because I can’t even take one swat without … “Waaaaahhaaaahaaaaa! Mar…” A braver toaster than me woulda stood up.

WHAPP!

“Ahhhhhh haaaa haaa!” A much braver toaster than me woulda run away.

WHAPPP!!!

“Ehuh ehuh ehuh.” Not that I’m not a brave toaster. But a good girl takes her paddling even if she’s a total wimp about it.

“Up you go.” I did what any self–respecting toaster would do: I grabbed a butt cheek in each hand and buried my face in my assailant’s chest. “Good girl holding still. I know that’s hard for you.”

Which I graciously and calmly responded to with, “I’m (sound of a paddled reindeer) and I’m (the high–pitched noise of a kid who doesn’t want fuck all to do with the mall Santa) and (lonely wookie noise) and I’m sor–rr–rry!”

“I know. You’re forgiven.”

Nothing like a tearful apology and being forgiven to purge a bad feeling. And as much of a care bear as I am when it comes to the school paddle, I at least recovered quickly. Not the butt part of me, but the other parts of me. I didn’t even get snot on Mary’s shirt.

“I won’t do that again.” You’re probably thinking I’m being overly dramatic because I said this was the worst punishment in the history of domestic discipline, and all I got was my butt paddled. A particularly hard paddling, but still, not something that doesn’t happen to me to greater and lesser degrees several times a week ever since Mary took me by the wrists at the tender age of twenty–four and said, “You’re just one of those girl who gets spanked when she misbehaves now, and you need to accept it,” and I went, “Rrr ughhh,” and she went, “Did you just cum in your pants,” and I went, “Fffff … maybe?” But back to the matter at hand …

“Well,” the realist who married me reasoned, “I know you’ll try. And to help you do that, your punishment isn’t over.” She kissed my hair.

“O.” Crap.

“Nope,” she said as she let me go and bent over to get the pacifier I had let fall outta my mouth. Well, maybe less let it than it just happened with the bawling. She put it in her mouth first before putting it back in mind. Kinda sweet of her in a really weird way, I guess. Like, that’s a full on parental maneuver. “Your phone in the kitchen,” she asked me.

I woulda protested having my phone taken away, but with my butt swelling by the moment (minor exaggeration as I think it had already swollen as much as it was going to), and knowing the pacifier is Mary’s way of putting my tongue in timeout, I just nodded. She left, and then I heard the door to the garage open. Dammit…

My darling spouse was back quicker than my butt bruise could turn a new shade of spanked with my phone and the bristly mat she makes me do bare bottom timeouts on when my choices have been extra bad. Damn bristles all hard and poking me … And you think it’s bad on a freshly spanked butt until you shift your weight and other … parts … come into contact with it.

“Don’t make that face,” she told me as she put it on the stairs. Know what’s even more childish than timeout in the corner? Timeout on the stairs. So she can keep an eye on me easier, is what she says, cuz sometimes I’m so naughty she needs to make sure I stay in timeout, so she says (I think she just likes looking at me being submissive and getting punished).

“Your choice,” she said, “you can plant your bottom on the mat the way it is, or I can put you in a diaper first. Which do you want?” Evil ninja of a coyote making me … dammit.

“Igher.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Igher!”

“What was that,” she asked and took the paci out.

“Diaper!” And the paci was put back in. Dammit…

“Then you know the drill. Bring me your changing supplies.”

I hopped across the room to the side table where there now lives a wicker basket of diapering supplies underneath, trying to remove my leggings. I don’t know why, but timeout on the stairs in a diaper with your leggings bunched around your knees somehow seems worse than just skipping the pretense of pants at all. I’ll spare you the details, but yes, I ended up just like that on the punishment mat on the stairs, paci in, the spanked edge of my thighs against the mat, but the diaper a much more comfortable thing to be sitting directly on than the mat. Holds the heat in, but still wayyy better.

And you’re probably thinking, that doesn’t sound like the worst punishment ever. Daffy must be losing her mojo.

And my answer to that is you shut your lying trash mouth because I have mojo to spare and what happened to me didn’t happen to you so you can never even know.

“Comfy,” Mary asked. “Good.” She took out the headphones from her pocket. “Since I got you a pair of these for Christmas, you can keep them, but you can’t use them again until Christmas day. Except tonight,” she said and handed them to me. I put them in without being told, knowing she was gonna make me listen to a church sermon about honesty or something. “These stay in until your timeout is over. I think an hour ought to do it. It’ll take that long for a pizza to get here.” She smirked at me like I imagine history’s most notorious wives have smirked at their spouses before torturing them to death with rusty hooks and boiling oil. “We’ll talk more about making good choices during dinner. Meantime, wet your pants if you need to,” she said and walked away with my phone laughing to herself.

Which was really mean. Like, seriously. Yes, I broke a rule. Yes, I was dishonest. But it seemed like she was cutting me some slack until she made that remark accompanied by her I’m–so–mean–and–I–love–it face. She’s been cutting me some slack since it is Christmas and because we’re both just trying to be extra sweet to each other. She probably figured a new toy was a small price to pay for me to eek my way through Month Ten of the pandemic; I just went about it the wrong way. I’m sure she’d make a bigger deal out of it in non-pandemic times (it is kinda a big deal), and as much as the school paddle is also a big deal, three swats is not ten, so that was her cutting me some slack.

And then she had to go and make that cutting little remark when she knows I…

No, I said to myself on the stairs. It was so faint I could hardly hear it at first. It can’t be. She wouldn’t. She couldn’t! She’s not a monster. She’s not a…

“Marrrrrry!”

But it only got louder. It only got louder. And I can hear it still.

Alone in the dark, I hear it still.