Mary and Daphne #71 (Patreon)

Thanksgiving with my parents, Christmas with Mary’s, and the next year we switch. At least, that’s usually the plan, but with 2020 being the best fucking year ever, that’s not the plan. I’m being churlish because we’re having a good Christmas, but still. Anyhoo, our much anticipated delivery was on its way, per my mom’s text. But first…

“Daphne, I need to see you in the living room please,” my Mary called for me. I was ninety percent sure I hadn’t done anything, but my butt makes up approximately ten percent of the surface area of my body and we all know how that works out sometimes. Yeesh!

“Coming,” I replied and made the trek from the other room. Can’t say I’d be entirely averse to getting a good butt beating because it’s been more than a week, but I like to know what I did so I can prepare myself for the whupping I got coming.

“Here,” Mary said and held out a tissue for me.

I took it, totally rolled my eyes, and asked, “Where?” Mary pointed at the little bug cowering in a corner. “Big fraidy cat,” I called her as I collected the thing. I can call Mary a big fraidy cat when I’m getting rid of bugs for her. ‘Bout the only time I have the high ground on who’s a nervous nelly. “What would you do if I threw it at you?” Like I didn’t know.

“Bathbrush your butt until it was blue, make you take a two–quart enema, and wrap you in a diaper until you pooped your pampers.”

“I’ll go get rid of this.”

“Good idea,” she winked at me.

I went to the door to let it go, and announced, “It’s here,” when I found the box on our porch. I picked it up and brought it into our living room, leaving it on the floor.

“Wipes,” Mary said like I had forgotten the ways of quarantine living. I went to the kitchen to get the clorox wipes so we could sanitize the box and whatever was inside. Mary got down on the floor with me, and we did it together. It’s a weird way to open a box of Christmas gifts. It’s also the lesser of two evils, because bleach irritates my lungs. It’s never given me an asthma attack before, but it’s given me asthma symptoms. You think you’d build up some resistance to it after wiping down every box, bag, package, and letter to enter the house since March, but nope.

“There’s so many this year I remarked (cough).”

“Go wash your hands, Daffy. I’ll finish.” I got up to wash the bleach off my hands. “And turn on the fan for a moment.”

We’re not allowed to open them until Christmas morning, per Mom’s rules. Not only am I a good rule follower, but I also believe in not opening Christmas presents until Christmas morning, except for the white elephants Mary and I do on Christmas Eve. I washed my hands and headed back to the living room, passing Mary. She’d arranged all the boxes under the tree except for one on the coffee table.

“What’s this one,” I asked.

“Wait til I get back,” she called from the kitchen. When she came back, it was with a snack. “What’s the note say,” she asked and held the bowl of homemade party mix toward me. That’s also a Christmas tradition. We never make it except at Christmas time.

The outside of the envelop said, “NOT A GIFT” in my dad’s scrawl. I opened the note and read it aloud: “Merry Christmas to our Daffodil and favorite daughter–in–law.”

“Aww,” Mary said.

“We’ve been considering downsizing for a while now, and we’re leaning toward it. We’ll talk more about it after Christmas. But know that no matter where we live, it will always be your home, too.

“In the meantime, we thought you’d like some of your keepsakes from your bedroom. This isn’t everything, but they’re some of the most special. Or at least we think they are.

“We can’t wait to see you again in person. Mary, I told you the day we met I expected you to take good care of my baby girl, and you’ve done that and more. Thank you a million times. I wish you every good thing in the world this Christmas and hope your family is well. Please tell your folks I says hi. I have no doubt the two of you are taking wonderful care of each other, and that Mary will give Daphne all the hugs we can’t give her this year.

“We’ll talk on Christmas day if not before.

“Be safe, merry Christmas, and watch out for deer,

Dad and Mom

“PS, Mom says to text her when you get the package. She’s doing that thing where she gets nervous stuff won’t arrive in time and get all flappy with her arms.”

“Your dad’s a sweetie,” Mary said and put her arm over my shoulder for a squeeze.

“I know.”

“Did he teach you to talk like that?”

“Guess it rubbed off.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah, just a bummer. I don’t like the idea of going home and it not being the house I grew up in. I know their house will always be my home, but not really the same. And … they’re downsizing because they’re getting older.” As much as I may be rather, ahem, obsessed with celebrating my birthday, that’s really just a celebration of me. I don’t like aging, I don’t like my parents aging. I don’t like the idea of my parents being old. I’m not sure if they are yet, but it’s not that far off when they could be.

“I know.” She gave me a kiss on my temple. “But we can’t let it get us down.”

“I tried to talk to them about moving out here, but they weren’t interested. They’ve lived there their whole lives. Their friends are there. Greg; their grandkids. Sigh…”

“It’s not because they love you less.”

“I know that, silly. I get it, I just … want them to move here anyway, if they’re going to move anywhere at all. And Greg can come to. It’ll be like the Joads moving west.” I sat up and sighed again. “Truth be told, I might’ve moved back there if I didn’t meet you.”

“I don’t believe you,” Mary teased me. “You didn’t move back because of the winters.”

“Eh, those too. I knew I was different from the other girls back home when they told me I was a wimp for being so cold all the time. Plus, I can’t drive on snow.” Which, where I grew up, is basically like saying you can’t drink out of a glass.

“Weather, mean girls, driving on snow – any other reasons,” Mary asked.

“You. I was really thinking about it. I was only twenty–five still. Work was meh, as you may have noticed what with me sticking with it until I was insufferable to be around.” Thank goodness she made me/let me/helped me quit.

“You are happier. Took you a while to adjust. Your poor bottom,” she said and poked me in my ribs where I’m ticklish.

“Yeah, and thank you again for the telling me to quit and the keeping a roof over our heads. And feeding me. And putting up with my pandemic hobby obsessions.”

“Makes me happy you’re happy.”

“Hehmmm. I was this close, but I didn’t want to slink back to my hometown.” I took a deep breath and smiled. “And then you, and I had a reason to stay.”

“There’s no such thing as slinking back. There’s nothing special about people who like one place better than another. I like it there when we visit. I’d move there if you wanted to.”

It’s nice there, especially during the months when you can go outside without the inside of your nose freezing. Don’t have that problem here, but we do have to deal with some disgustingly hot and humid days. Worth it, though, when I decide I’m cold and the temperature is still in the fifties.

“What wouldn’t you do for me?”

“Huh. I’ll get back to you on that. Do you want to move back, or think about it?”

I shook my head. “Not really. Just the pandemic talking. When we can travel again, we can see them more … And our life is here, like theirs is there.”

“Yeah, the life we made together,” Mary said and kissed me on the temple. Those are some of my favorites. We sat quietly for a moment, just holding hands.

“Daphne? I really need to open this box, like right now.”

“Why? I mean, okay, but why?”

“Because I wanna see your childhood keepsakes. If you’re adorable now, like, whoah, what’s in the box?”

“We can open it. Just … let’s see what’s in there before you get your hopes up.” It’s not like Mary had never seen some of my things from my childhood. It’s just that Mom had intervened to stop Dad doing what dads do and embarrassing me by showing her the worst pictures and mementos. She couldn’t stop him, though, from asking when we were gonna get married everytime we saw them for the three and a half years between when I first introduced her to them and when we got engaged.

Mary dove into the box. I got some “oohs” and some “awws” and some “You were quite the little dish” when she saw my photos from freshman year of college (and such a pity, as I had no one to eat me yet). And then there was the, “Um, cute, in a … cute way.”

“I was a late bloomer!”

“O, and when do you think you’ll start blooming?”

“Grrr.”

“So your hair … and that’s a lot of …”

“Yes, dammit, yes! I was a ginger. Are you happy now? Are there any other secrets you want to take away from me?”

“Are you keeping secrets from me?”

“Um, no? Good girls don’t keep secrets from their wives.”

“Aww, good girl,” she said and pinched my cheek, which I decided to not take as patronizing.

“Heh. I am, aren’t I?”

“A very good girl.”

“And I evolved into a Day Walker, as you can see.” My hair turned more red than orange during that otherwise terrible time known as puberty, and my freckle forest faded to a few cuteness dots. Took ‘til damn near the end of puberty, but by the fall of my senior year of high school, saying I wanted to go to college somewhere sunny and warm no longer made people exclaim “But you’ll be immolated!” I wasn’t immolated, obviously, but I did spend that first fall semester walking verrrrrrry slowwwwwwwly lest I be overcome by the heat.

I was quite happily watching It’s a Wonderful Life after dinner when I wasmroused from ruminating on how someone should’ve put a shiv in Mister Potter (like, fucking seriously) by the o so familiar sound of my Mary calling out, “Daphne Ann, I need to see you right now, little girl,” in that I’m–only–doing–this–because–I–love–you tone she has. Not that I’m intimidated by her or that I’ve been trained to come a–scurrying when she sounds like that, but I didn’t dawdle. One might even say I cleared all the wickets in a single leap lest I tempt fate.

“Do you wanna tell me what this is all about,” Mary asked as she thrust a piece of paper at me. I took it, noting she’d spread a bunch of stuff from the box on the kitchen table.

“Um, my report card from the first semester of ninth grade.”

“And? Anything to tell me?”

“About …” She stood up and took my report card back.

“This, Daphne, this right here! You got a C in physics. Explain yourself, young lady.”

“Mary,” I chuckled. “Stop.”

“Am I laughing?”

“Um, no.” No, no she wasn’t. She was doing that thing where she’s conspicuously not laughing. I have a theory that means she’s cracking up inside, but I think that theory is only accurate sometimes. The other times, she’s not laughing anywhere.

“Are C’s acceptable for someone as smart as you?”

“No.”

“So do you have an explanation, because what the teacher writes here is you didn’t finish your final project.”

“I had my reasons … probably.”

“This isn’t funny. When you brought this home, what did your parents say?”

“That they were disappointed … probably.” It was almost twenty years ago! I don’t remember the project, the teacher, how my parents reacted, or why I didn’t finish the project. Was starting to wish I had finished it, though.

“And did you get a consequence?”

“I think I might have been grounded for a couple weeks.” I mean, also probably. That’s the kind of consequence I got. Or maybe my car keys taken away after I got my license. Not that I was in trouble much. I really am a good girl (really). The time with the party in the woods was a one–time thing (even if only because we didn’t get caught the other times).

“Well,” Mary said shaking her head, “how other parents choose to raise their kids is their business, but you’re mine now and I’m not at all satisfied you learned your lesson.” And with that she put the report card, which was practically an antique(!), down.

“Other what raising their who,” I tried to interject before she grabbed me by the elbow, held my arm out of the way and landed a zinger on the back of my leggings.

“Mary! Ow ow!”

“Move your hand this instant, young lady. You know better than to try to cover your butt.”

“But–but–but OW! Marrrry!”

“Stay,” she ordered me and crossed the kitchen to get the spoon out of the crock. She came right back, turned the kitchen chair around, and sat herself down in it. “I’m disappointed in you, Daphne.”

“It was twenty years ago! You can’t spank me for something I did twenty years ago!”

“If someone had then we wouldn’t be in this situation, would we?”

“No, literally!” Urgh! Such bullplop! Statute of limitations! And double jeopardy. I am a victim of so many injustices and I only enjoy, like, most of them.

“You’re going back to school soon,” she lectured me as she whisked my leggings down and took my panties with them. “I might as well tell you now that you are getting straight A’s or so help me, you’ll be doing your homework in the corner with your naughty red bottom on display for the whole study group to see. Do you understand me?”

“Yes.”

“Over.” If you take the number of times I’ve been turned over Mary’s knees and multiply by the number of knees she has, you get at least three – count em! – three spankings I didn’t deserve. “And don’t you dare try to cover your bottom again.”

“This is ridic… ow ow ow ow ow could you slow ow ow OW! Mar–OW–y!”

“A girl as smart as you (spank spank spank spank SPLAT!), that kind of laziness is not acceptable! I ought to call your teacher and let her know just how I dealt with you.” I’d actually really like to hear that conversation. Like, really.

“YOW! Thighs, Mary, thighs! Eeeeeeeeee,” is a noise I make when she spanks me on my thighs with that spoon. Little oval welts that thing leaves without even putting much force into it.

“I’ll physics you good (whack whack SPANK!)!”

“What does that even mean! OW!” She let fly with a bunch of stingers.

“Are you going to not finish your school projects ever again?”

“No!” Hmmph!

“Am I ever going to see anything less than an A on one of your report cards?”

“Well, if you keep looking in the box, you OW!”

“In the future, little girl, or do you want to see what happens if you smart me right now?” Wow, what an ironic use of the word smart under the circumstances.

“No, you won’t. I’ll get all A’s. I promise.” This whole schooling thing, by the way, being about seven months away; twelve if I decide not to go back until it’s safe for me to be in class in–person.

She squeezed my butt and said, “Up.” I got off her lap and stood in front of her rubbing my butt cheeks. “Look down at your undies,” she instructed me. “Isn’t it embarrassing getting your bare bottom spanked and all those penguins seeing it?”

Christmas penguin undies. They’re ice skating and wearing scarves; it’s a very endering scene. “Mhmm.” It’s always embarrassing getting spanked at ice skating parties (or so I assume … Now there’s an episode to try to engineer in the future, with the leotards and the … mmmmmmmm).

“Then you know how to avoid that in the future. I don’t care if the penguins and the ponies and the seahorses and all the characters on your undies know you still get spankings at your age. And if you need help with your classes or if the other boys and girls are bullying you, I’ll help you and we’ll talk to your teachers together, okay?”

“Okay.” She may be joking about the other students (but then again, maybe not, because I’ll be the old lady in the class), but I knew she really would come with me to see professors if she thought it would help. If I didn’t think it would help or thought it was super embarrassing (which it would be, which is thirty to fifty percent of why she would do it), she’d be not so much with the interested in that opinion.

“And Daphne Ann, you better believe I won’t hesitate to spank your bottom for you right there on campus if you need it.” Oooooh, with the mixed feelings and the tingling in my butt and the burning sensations. Ha!

“I know the rule,” I said.

“Tell me the rule then.”

“Misbehave in public, get spanked in public.”

“That’s right. On the spot, no waiting until we get home.” Or at least that’s the goal, because it’s important to correct misbehavior as soon as possible. Not that a punishment shouldn’t still be issued even if it twenty years later, apparently. Guess that was as soon as possible from Mary’s perspective. “Come here,” she said and stood up. I got my post–spanking hug, complete with an extra spank and some butt squeezes. She pulled my leggings back up for me. Just may have been too hot for penguins in there now.

“Am I forgiven,” I asked.

“Of course. You got your consequence, and you’re all forgiven.” Sigh… She likes me; I can tell. “It’s almost time to get ready for bed.”

“You coming,” I asked.

“Mhmmm.” I turned off the TV and admired our Christmas tree for a moment. We did a really good job. “Daphne Ann,” Mary said from the stairs, “little girls who just got spanked can’t be late for bed.”

“Coming.” We held hands on the way up the stairs. “Mary?”

“Mhmm?”

“When you said the thing about the other parents raising their kids, that wasn’t …”

“Just an expression. I’m not your mommy.” She may be a big, but she’s not my mommy. We’ll figure out the difference later, but I’m sure there is one. She’s not my mommy; she’s my wife.

“If my parents had spanked me for that bad grade, would you still have spanked me?”

“Well, if you parents had spanked you growing up, I’d think a lot less of them for hitting kids. And no, I wouldn’t have. You’d have already been spanked for it.”

I sat down on the bed. “But if I get spanked away from home by someone else, I get another from you when I get home.”

“But that was your home back then. And still is.”

“Your rules sometimes have very thin logic,” I informed her.

“Did the penguins tell you to say that?”

“Ha! … If I make a friend on campus, can I bring her home to meet you?”

“Of course.”

“Like maybe a twenty–two year old grad student with big glasses who wears her hair up and is barely getting by on her stipend and despite her sexual inexperience needs to be dissuaded from turning to sex work but has so much sexual energy she’s going to burst?”

“Daphne, you are going to be in so much trouble if you find one of those and don’t bring her home. C’mon, get your jam–jams on.”

“I can sleep in leggings. They’re clean.” That had the desired effect.

“Some little girls,” Mary muttered and got pajama bottoms and a top out of my dresser.

“Mary, did I really just get spanked for a bad report card?” I don’t often feel like a middle, but hehehehehe! Oof, that was fun.

“You sure did. You got those little ovals on your butt to prove it.”

“Maybe I should confess some other misdeeds to you from back in the day.”

“O, like what,” she asked with that predator look she has while she took my leggings down for the second time in fifteen minutes.

“You know how I was on the swim team?”

“Mhmm. That helps explain this svelte little body of yours,” she said while tracing a finger down the sensitive side of my svelte little body.

“Well, sometimes I didn’t practice as hard as I could have.” There, I confessed it.

“Tsk tsk tsk,” Mary said as she laid down on the bed next to me.

“And the coach, see, she never yanked me out of the pool dripping wet and spanked me in front of the whole team right through my one–piece.”

“Not a two–piece?”

“No, definitely a one–piece.” Because, um, I like stretchy one–pieces for reasons and stuff. Like that leotard I’ll be wearing to that skating party when the pandemic is over and I figure out the logistics of scheduling a play party at a skating rink.

“Well, your coach may have let that kind of behavior go, but I won’t. Tomorrow you’re going to learn a lesson about always trying your hardest.”

“Aww, darn.” My whole tomorrow ruined (if I’m lucky).

“’Darn’ indeed, little girl.”

“I’m not a little girl.” I have twenty–year–old report cards to prove it.

“Fine, you’re not a little girl. Now,” Mary said propping herself up on her hand, “about this sex we’re having tonight, should we get you in your nighttime diaper before or after?”

That’s my Mary, queen of the smooth segue.