Mary and Daphen #72 (Patreon)

Christmas Eve is the most magical day of the year for people who like Christmas. You might think Christmas Day would be more magical, but nope. Christmas Eve wins by a North Pole mile because it’s packed with anticipation. Psychologists have shown that the anticipation of something is usually better than the something itself, to which I say, word.

As for our Christmas Eve plans, we did what we usually do. We spend big parts of the day doing last minute stuff (Mary hadn’t wrapped any of my presents yet, and she somehow thinks she’s the responsible one; cutting it close with my tribute – okay, presents – is not responsible at all). Then around three it’s time to dress for dinner. We’re pretty formal around here. Yeah, we wear our jammies, but they’re new and freshly laundered because we’re classy AF. We make dinner together, and somehow, I always end up collecting all these butt swats every time one of us crosses the kitchen, like the recipe says ‘stir frequently, swat Daphne intermittently.” That would make a good recipe book. Bet we would get a TV show out of that.

After dinner, it’s present time. We save the real presents for Christmas morning. Christmas Eve is when we exchange white elephant gifts. For the uninitiated, those are gag gifts. Well, in our house some of them are gag gifts, but I guess if we use them they’re not entirely gag gifts. We turn on the fireplace, we pour (more) wine, we turn on Christmas music, we get all ready to open presents, and then Mary likes to pretend she’s not in a hurry and relaxes on the sofa in this really see throughable way. Yawning and sipping her wine and looking at her wrist like she still wears a watch even though she hasn’t in a decade, all because she likes to tease me by making me wait an extra two minutes. It works, too. It’s interminable!

This year she didn’t do that. Instead, we did the fire, wine, and music parts, and she got down on the floor in front of the fire and said, “Bring your basket, baby.”

“Aw, do I hafta?”

“Santa gets real–time reports, Daffy. You better be a good girl if you don’t want coal in your stockings.”

“I am a good girl,” I countered, “And Santa always takes your side,” I muttered as I got the basket of changing supplies that lives under the side table. “And it’s your basket,” I said to Mary, “and everything in it is yours too.” I set it down and sat down next to Mary.

“Fine,” Mary said, “it’s all mine, and so are you.”

“Heeee.” Well, yes.

“Lay back for me.”

“How are we gonna do this with me in footies?”

“Don’t worry your pretty little head,” Mary said as she unzipped the front of my footie pajamas. “This is the best present I’ve ever unwrapped,” Mary said as opened my jammies. “Arms out. Mmmm, such a pretty girl.” Her fingers and hands were teasing and tickling and squeezing, and then her lips were kissing and her hair was caressing my tummy as it brushed back and forth. “Mmmm. Maybe we don’t need to open presents tonight.”

“It’s not an either/or,” I reminded her.

“Some little girls are so singleminded around Christmas,” she accused me.

“You don’t mind my singlemindedness in other things,” I said, twirling some of her hair around my finger. I so got the rest of her wrapped around my finger, too. “And like you always say, my ability to focus on certain things is how you know I don’t have ADHD.”

“You’re just adorably random and delightfully impish.”

“Mhmm. Though we should find a word other than ‘impish’ for future use.”

“How about ‘elven’? A mischief elf.” I liked that. “Lift.” She got my pajamas down to my knees and got one of her diapers from the basket. “Now, I know how much you hate this, but you have to tolerate it. I made it myself.”

“You didn’t make a diaper.” She’s talented but not that talented.

“No, but I did decorate it. See? Your very own Christmas diaper. But the stars don’t disappear when you potty, so I’ll just have to reach into your pants every so often to check if you’re wet.”

“You can poke a finger into the leg band too, like with Milo … when he was still in diapers.” It’s hard being the only person in the family in diapers. Not that I’m in diapers. It’s … I’m guessing that’s how people who are in diapers feel. Not me. Really. Others. Those poor souls. Um really.

“That tells if your diapee is wet, but it doesn’t tell me anything about how wet you are.”

“Ha! I mean, o.”

“The way you blush sometimes I’d think you were a virgin if I didn’t know better. Lift.”

“I’m just very modest,” I said as I opened and raised my knees and thrust my … parts in Mary’s direction for her to rub, or, um, apply whatever she, um, wanted to do to me. Rub on me. Apply! Which she did.

“Such a squirmy thing. Maybe I need to start giving you my keys to play with to keep you entertained while I’m doing this.”

“But I’m already entertained,” I protested and closed my eyes and bit my lip to make my protest more performative. Really. “I mean, no need. I’ll just –hhhh! – fffffff … Hey! You’re not done! I could get a rash, a terrible, terrible rash.” Who needs presents? We got plenty of stuff.

Mary just chuckled and wiped her hands on a baby wipe. She’s such a tease. Wonder that I’m as patient as I am to be able to endure this mistreatment; I must be a saint or something to be so patient. I’d ask the pope, but he and I aren’t on speaking terms. Really.

She closed the thing over me and bade me, “Sit up.” She got my jammies back on me and did that thing where she brushes my hair away from my face and looks at me with her adoration eyes. Good thing I never look so dopey. Um, yeah … never. Really.

“Hmmmm,” she smiled at me.

“What?”

“You’re making Bambi eyes at me.”

“Am not! I just like having you around.” Not that I was trying to manipulate her into doing it (it was just a bonus) but that got me one of those kisses that makes me go, “Ha hehehe!” when it’s over. Nope, I’m never dopey. Much too dignified and self–possessed for such gauche behavior. Queen Elizabeth herself wishes she could be as dignified as me. I told her all she has to do is lose the flowery hats, but she said they were part of her brand. Really.

“Wait here for me,” she said and dashed away. She was back very soon. “Turn around.”

“Why? What did you get?”

“Hair ties. Your hair is getting long enough to use these.”

I turned so I was facing the fire and said, “Because I haven’t had a real haircut since March.”

“Are you saying the haircuts I gave you were no good,” she said while gathering my hair into a pony.

“No, just that you won’t go as short as the stylist does.”

“Because I don’t want to bald you.”

“You’d still love me if I was bald … You like other parts of me bald.”

Her face appeared over my left shoulder. “You are about as modest as a toddler after bath time.” And she gave me a kiss on my cheek.

“Are you saying I’m not ladylike?”

“Of course not! You’ve got all the parts.”

“Ha!” I said it; I didn’t honk in case you ever hear that I make honking noises when Mary makes jokes. I only honk when she makes my heart go all a–flutter. Maybe that’s why she started calling me a silly goose. Also when she says ‘honk’ and I blow my nose after I’m done crying. But she made me cry, assuming I wasn’t crying already because I felt guilty. And in either case those don’t count. I’m not sure what they don’t count as, but they don’t. Really.

“All done! Who’s a pretty girl?” I like my hair short, but I don’t hate it longer.

“You,” I said and turned back around.

“I think it’s time for presents.”

“Ugh, just making me do all sorts of things I don’t wanna do tonight. Ope!” That was me getting a swat for my sass, not that I could feel it.

“You can take the girl out of Wisconsin, but you can’t take the Wisconsin out of the girl,” Mary said as she held my hand all five steps to the tree.

“Lots of people say ‘ope.’”

“Like who?”

“Minnesotans. You go first.”

“Pick one for me.” So I did, and she opened it and said, “This is the paddle from my purse.”

“Turn it over.” She did, and saw I had a friend carve ‘Mary’s’ into it.

“Ah.”

“Because you keep forgetting it’s yours, so now you can say, ‘Daphne Ann, bring me my paddle.’ I don’t own any paddles, as you know.”

“So you took this from my purse …”

“Not like we’re going anywhere.”

“And let me guess – you had Devon do this.”

“Mhmm.”

“Well, we’re going to have punish you for your sneakiness.”

“I knew you’d say that, and I did it anyway because I’m a very giving person.”

“Ha! Yeah you are. Do you think if I give you a good hard spank your butt will say ‘Mary’s’?”

“Doesn’t it already? And yes.”

“I love it.” She slapped it into her palm a couple times. “Your turn.” She handed me a box all wrapped in shiny green paper with a gold bow.

“Marrry,” I said – didn’t whine – upon opening it. “You shouldn’t have,” I said politely – it was politeness, not poutiness, really – as I got a good look at my first ever baby bottle.

“What, you don’t get thirsty when we snuggle?”

“I married a smart aleck.”

“So did I.”

“Then you’ll really like this,” I said and handed her another.

“What is it?”

“Ya gotta open it, silly.”

“Who you calling ‘silly?’”

“You, silly,” was my clever response. That’s one of the reasons she married me, my cleverness. Really.

“You sure told me,” she said and opened it. “O, I am so using this.”

“You … are? Really?”

“Yeah, for sure. It’s perfect for, o, say, the backseat of the car. Or a dressing room.”

“I can’t do that in a dressing room!”

“But you’re okay with the back of the car?”

“…. Where are we parked?”

“Ha.” And she set the nursing bra aside. My intent was to get a laugh out of her and then exchange it for something sexy. Guess maybe I underestimated just how much Mary likes orgasming that way. Maybe we should go on one of those TV talent shows. I can just see the male judges conferring in the corner and accusing us of witchcraft, but it’s not witchcraft. It’s a talent. And all the woman judges would be all like, ‘Told ya so,’ and calling their partners to tell them to tune in.

“You turn again,” Mary announced.

“The big one,” I instinctively said.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.” Everybody wants the big present, even though, let’s face it, it turns out to be something not any more special than the other presents nine times out of ten.

“Okay,” she said and lifted it over herself and set it down next to me. “Guess what it is first.”

“Giant teddy bear?”

“Nope.”

“Scale model of the Eiffel Tower?”

“Nope.”

“Oversized garden gnome?”

“I told you how I feel about those.”

“How can anyone be afraid of a garden gnome?” Not that I wanted to have that conversation again, but it still confuses me.

“Because. Open,” she ordered me.

“O! Um … Good thinking. Guess we do, um, need somewhere to put your diapers,” I dug at her.

“As interesting as your theory of ownership is,” she said to me, “by the time they go in the pail,I think they’re indisputably yours.”

“What will it do the other seven days of the week?” See what I did there?

“It’ll replace the bathroom wastebasket.”

“Eh, that’s a good idea. Your turn again.”

“That one.”

“You hafta promise to actually wear it,” I told her. Custom tee shirts are perfect for white elephant gifts.

“I promise nothing,” she said as she tore the paper and beheld my creation. Slogan aside, she looks good in lavender.

“‘Daffodil is my favorite flower,’” she read. “Awww.”

“Turn it over.”

“And it’s got your face on the back! I love it.”

“Sure you do.”

“I do! It’s got you on it. I’ll wear it all the time … when I’m cleaning the house.”

“That counts.” I didn’t mean for her to wear it out of the house. Still, it wouldn’t be the nerdiest thing she’s ever worn in public, but I digress.

“Your turn again.” She handed me the box.

Naturally, I shook it. “Sounds like clothes.”

“Open it and find out silly goose.”

“Don’t rush me,” was my response as I opened it. “Are you sure this is a white elephant? These are nice,” I said as I held up the pajamas she got me.

“Look here,” she said and showed me the snaps up the legs. “It’s for when…”

“I know it’s for when. Big meanie.”

“Turn them over.”

A trapdoor in the back said, “‘Care and feeding of a silly goose. Step 1: Check for wetness in the front. Step 2: Spank the bottom often to maintain happiness levels.’ Well, it’s still classier than those ones that say juicy on the butt.”

“I think so too.”

“That company must think we’re freaks.” Not the first time we’ve gotten white elephants from that website.

“I didn’t get them there. Nana made them.”

“Mary!”

“Ha! I’m just teasing. I had someone on Etsy make them.”

“What interesting questions they must have now.” So many vanillas we’ve corrupted over the years.

“Last two. Should we open them together,” she asked.

“K. One … two … three.” So I got a little taste of what it must feel like to be Mary there, getting to decide when the present opening begins. I didn’t find it very titillating, but then I’m a sub. Either that, or it’s just not as special it appears from my rung on the step stool.

“A pumpkin,” Mary said a little quizzically. I don’t know what she was confused about it. It was a pumpkin. Specifically, it was our pumpkin from Halloween. Ya might say I started my Christmas shopping early. Told ya I’m responsible.

I shrugged. “They can’t all be gems, Mary.”

“Where did you find this?”

“Our porch. If you don’t cut them open, they last a long time. I’m very economical.”

“Well, I love a good pumpkin. Maybe we can make pie out of it.”

“Blech. Warn me first and I’ll go hang out in the backyard until the smell dissipates.”

“So,” Mary said.

“Hmm?”

“You are, too, a silly goose. Read your present.”

When you get a piece of paper for a white elephant gift, you expect it to say something like good for one day of fun with so–and–so or, if you’re like us, get out of a spanking free. But you have to read the fine print, because it always says something like not redeemable when you’re in trouble at the bottom.

But this one said a bunch of stuff about a rental cabin in the mountains.

“This’ll be nice, Mary, thank you.” Something to look forward to when the pandemic is over. She rolled her eyes at me. “What?”

“Look at the dates, Daffy.” I’m good at other things besides noticing. What I lack in observation skills I make up for with cunning and feminine wiles. They landed me Mary, after all. But anyhoo, on to the dates …

“Eeeeeeeeee!” Christmas Day until the third of January!

“So, you like it?”

“Eeeeeeeeee!”

“You really have been cooped up too long,” Mary said as I somehow made myself bounce with just my butt. I didn’t know I could do that.

“Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou!”

“You’re very welcome.”

“And you’re sure it’s safe and clean? Of course you are! Of course it is! You always think of those things. Cuz you love me and stuff. Hehehehehe!” I was as merry as a schoolgirl, as light as a feather, and as giddy as a drunken Daphne. Which I may have been, a little.

“I spoke with the owner. Everything was cleaned on Monday and no one has been in there since.”

“O, my Mary.”

“You’re making Bambi eyes at me again.”

“Of course I am! You’re awesome! … Now I’m feeling a little guilty about the pumpkin.”

“I love my pumpkin! In fact, we’re taking it with us.”

“That’s just silly.”

“Maybe the deer will eat it … not that I’d put your present out for the deer to eat.”

“Meanie.”

Mary took a deep breath and sighed. “That’s it. No more presents until tomorrow morning.”

“What should we do now?”

“C’mere you,” my Mary said to me. If I was making Bambi eyes, she was making huntress eyes, and there I was, a doe-eyed deer in the headlights. She grabbed me by the wrist and pulled me into her lap, where I put my head on her chest and snuggled in … until hands started to wander. “Are you unbuttoning my pajama top, Daphne Ann.”

“No,” I said as I unbuttoned it.

“What is it you think you’ll find in there?”

“Breasts.”

“What do we say first?”

“You’re welcome.”

“Ooo … hhh! Be gentle or I’ll spank your bottom, little girl. Hhhh!”

“Umnutaittlegrl.”