Mary and Daphne #73 (Patreon)

I woke up early, even earlier than Mary. That happens maybe eight times a year. Usually I wake up withMary, and with her rule about me getting up at a regular time even though I’m not working I’ve been getting up when she gets up for work for the whole pandemic. She drove the day before, so I eased myself out of bed and got dressed as quietly as I could and decided to go for a walk.

I can’t decide if I’m a beach girl or a mountain girl. I think probably both. I like the beach, but something about mountains and woods makes me happy. Probably has something to do with me comparing myself to an innocent forest creature sometimes. Just a little woodland critter am I, while Mary is a Big Bad Wolf. Maybe even The Big Bad Wolf. She’s always out to get me ya know, and all I wanna do is be furry little foofball hopping through the forest and nibbling the greenery. If you ever see a picture of a wolf who made friends with a bunny, those would be our spirit animals. Or at least let’s pretend that’s true.

Every time I wake up early, if I’m not too grumbly about it, I remember how much I like mornings. Right around sunrise especially. You just don’t see those often, or most people don’t, and the air has that stillness to it and the sky has those softer colors and even when it’s frigid out it feels good.

Up in the mountains, the sounds travel so far in the thin air. The crunch of your feet on the snow. The songbirds talking to each other. Squirrels rustling the leaves. The sharp voice of your wife calling to you, “Daphne!” as you come in sight of her waiting for you on the porch. Ahh, a new morning, and the faint hope her face is red because of the cold air.

“Morning,” I sunnily said when I reached the steps up to the porch.

“Morning. Get your butt inside now, little girl.”

Well, shit. Maybe there’s an actual wolf I can go live with. It’d be safer.

“Where were you,” she asked me as I walked in front of her through the door. She’d made a fire. She put a hand on top of each shoulder and steered me to the sofa in front of it. I sat (with a little help from her) and she put a blanket around me and put her hand on my cheeks.

“I went for a walk. Why are you mad?”

“I’m not mad. I was worried.” She sat down next to me and started rubbing my shoulders.

“I’m not made of glass. I can go for a walk.” Geez, why not just take me to the vet and get me chipped. I mean, just because sometimes I get all giddy and eager like a golden retriever doesn’t mean I am one.

“You didn’t take your phone, and you didn’t leave a note. What if something happened? You don’t even know where we are.”

“I walked up the street for a half hour, I turned around, and I came back.”

“O, geez, and you didn’t even wear a hat,” she said as she felt my (very cold) ears.

“Mary?”

“Stay.”

“Mary?” She completely ignored me and came back with a cup of tea.

“Drink.”

“I’m okay.” Her response was to put her hand on the bottom of the mug and tilt it toward my lips. I took a couple swallows. “I’m an adult, Mary. I can go for a walk on my own.”

“Of course you can, but you could’ve been a little more courteous about it and left a note. You didn’t even take your phone, and you’re not even wearing a hat.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine! You’re freezing.” And then she just hugged the stuffing out of me and started rubbing my back. I think the months of pandemic have caused Mary to form some kind of attachment disorder.

“I’m alright, Mary. Please. Calm down.”

“I have half a mind to paddle your bottom, little girl,” she said in her you–had–me–worried–sick voice while still hugging me.

“For going for a walk?” That’s what scientists and philosophers alike call bullshit.

“For being inconsiderate and for not wearing your mask.”

“But I did wear …” Ooooo. Makes sense now. That’s the real reason she’s upset. It was on the table by the door, where I’d left it.

“What if you ran into someone? What if someone else was taking a walk and you passed each other, huh? We need to be extra safe while we’re here.”

“I just … forgot.” Our trip was a break in my routine. That’s my theory of how I forgot the thing that had gone everywhere with me (which isn’t many places, though) every time we left our house. But this wasn’t our house. It just didn’t cross my mind to grab it on my way out the door.

“I know you did, but you can’t, Daffy. You just can’t. It’s not safe for you.”

“I’m sorry (sniffle).”

“Did you run into anyone?”

“No.” Mary sighed and let me out of her bear hug. She put a hand on each side of my face and made her don’t–you–ever–scare–me–like–that–again face before giving me a kiss.

“Good. Good … You must be starving.” She was over her worry, if not her excessive care of me, and was smiling again and seemed okay.

I took my coat off, and we made breakfast. “You need something warm inside you, something that sticks to your ribs,” Mary said as she made oatmeal. My feelings about oatmeal are that it tastes like soggy cardboard and brown sugar, but it’s one of those things that if Mary makes it then it’s not up for discussion. It’s good for me and keeps me regular, she says, even though we don’t eat it regularly so I don’t know what one has to do with the other. Plus, I don’t remember every saying I was irregular. I usually try to add more sugar when she’s not looking, but not that morning.

Mary asked me if I saw anything cool or saw any trailheads, which I didn’t. We didn’t exactly plan for anything for our time there. We knew there were places to hike, and the area was a ski resort, but I don’t ski downhill and can’t hang out in the lodge what with the whole pandemic and compromised immune system. Too bad I can’t exchange it for another one. I can ski cross–country though.

“There are some sleds in the shed and some snowshoes if it’s deep enough,” Mary told me.

“That’ll be fun.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry I scared you.”

“And I forgive you. We’re gonna have a fun day. Really. You all done with your breakfast? Can you take three more bites for me.”

Glad she was done being scared for me, but the thought that I walked right out the door without my mask made retroactively scared for myself. She forgave me, but I was only just thengetting upset with myself. I put my spoon down. I wasn’t hungry, and I didn’t want oatmeal. “I wanna punishment.”

“Really, Daffy, it’s fine. You’re fine. No harm was done, and I know you’re going to be more careful.”

“But … please?” Plenty of times I’ve made Mary miffed or downright pissed, and plenty of times I’ve disappointed her and plenty of times I’ve goaded her, and depending on what exactly I did I might feel guilty or defiant, but no matter which, if she thinks I need a punishment I’ll never do more than try to argue my way out of it or at worst drag my feet. Doesn’t work as often as I’d like.

But making Mary worry about me is different. If it’s her own anxiety, I can shake that off pretty easily. She loves me, so she worries about me. That’s how love works.

But if it’s because I actually did something I shouldn’t have, accidentally or otherwise … well, you find someone who takes better care of you than anyone in the world and see how you feel after you made them worry about you. It sucks. It really sucks.

And what if I had run into someone? Mary would’ve been as anxious as, well, as me, and the whole trip she’d be wigged out every time I cleared my throat. I don’t like being inconsiderate and I don’t like making people afraid for me, and I don’t like that I forgot something important, and I don’t like that I’m not the kind of person who can let her bad feelings go so easily, but I was, I did, and I am.

Mary sighed at me. The one thing you can say about Mary is if she wanted to punish me, she would. She would never emotionally manipulate me into wanting a punishment. For one thing, that’s not the kind of person she is. For two things, I can emotionally manipulate myself into a punishment without any help from anyone, for I am, after all, a (very needy) adult (who craves the approval of her Mary). And being an adult, I’ve had a long time to nurture my own neuroses and a pandemic to level that shit up. If this were a roleplaying game, I’d be a Level 99 Approval Junkie with Mega Moping and Self–Induced Funk skills. I sometimes wonder who I’d be without Mary, and besides alone in a cold, dark world, I’m not sure if I’d be more independent or a total basket case. I didn’t use to be so needy, but then I guess I never had someone who meant so much to me or whose opinion of me I cared so much about.

I remember the first time she said it. We were in bed, post–aerobics session, and I was laying my head on her chest and she was playing with my hair, and she said, “You were a very good girl.”

And I don’t remember it because she said it. I remember it because it felt like two wires in my brain were instantly spliced together for the first time, and I went, “Hmmmmmmm.”

And she said, “What? You like being called a good girl?”

To which I replied, “Huhuhuhuhuhuhuhheeeeeee.” I’m sure she thought I was a veritable genius.

She chuckled at me and said, “I think we just found a ticklish spot.” And so we had. But more than that, all I’ve ever wanted in life was to be a good person (damn Presbylutheran upbringing), and Mary says I am.

Back in our mountain hideout, Mary said, “Well, if you feel so strongly about it that you ask for one, I guess you do need a good, hard spanking, don’t you?”

“Y–yes.”

“Okay then.” She stood up and didn’t have to tell me to do the same. She took me by the elbow and walked me into the family room, stood me in front of the fireplace with my back to it, and took my pants down. “Hands behind your back and keep your feet where they are. This is all the warmup you’re getting.” She sighed at me again and made her I’m–sorry–you–have–these–feelings–but–I’ll–make–it–all–better face at me before she shook her head just a little. Her hand came to my hip, and she said, “I’m doing this because you asked me to, not because I’m upset with you. You know that, right?”

“Em,” I squeaked. It wasn’t time to start crying yet.

“Okay. You wait right here.” She disappeared down the hall into the bedroom. I wonder sometimes if she gets tired of tending to my emotional needs, or if she wonders what makes me tick and why. I’m still puzzling it out, little by little learning just who I am. I’m the way god made me, but that’s a reason, not an explanation.

I don’t know what Mary was doing in there, but she wasn’t long. She was back in a minute, put her hand on my butt like she was checking my temperature, and with an arm around my shoulder walked me to the bedroom. I stood at the foot of the bed while she knelt down and took my shoes off before taking my jeans and panties all the way off. “Arms up,” she said and pulled my sweater over my head, leaving me in just my cami.

She’d put the paddle on the bed, the one I had our friend carve her name into. She sat down next to it with her left leg cocked up on the bed, picked up the paddle, and I laid myself over her thigh. She locked her right leg over my mine. “Do you want me to hold your hand,” she asked. I answered by twisting my right arm behind my back, and she took a firm hold of my hand with her own. “Ready?”

“H–h–h–h–h–h.” I gave up on trying to say an actual word and just nodded. CRACK!

“Aieee!” CRACK! “Aaaaa!” CRACK! “Aaaa–huh–huh–huh!” CRACK! “Waaaaaah–haah–haah–haahhhhh!”

“Let it all out, baby girl.” CRACK!” So I did. But I didn’t kick my feet or try to get away or even arch my back. I just held still and squeezed my Mary’s hand. Mary really let me have it, too, finishing off my spanking with one heckuva spank that even behind my eyelids registered as a bright red flash.

Mary let go of my hand, and her fingertips pushed up my cami and brushed up and down between my shoulder blades while I sobbed into the covers. I was still crying pretty hard when Mary said, “Roll over, baby.” I did, and as I wiped at my eyes and sniffed back a running nose and let those twin impulses – the one to stop and the other to keep crying – fight it out, Mary put me in a diaper without any rash cream or help from me. She got back on the bed helped me sit up just enough to pull me into her lap, where I buried my face against her belly and started to calm down.

“Shhh,” she cooed at me. “You’re alright, Daffy. Everything is okay.”

“I’m sorry,” I said in my still–crying voice.

“You don’t have anything to feel sorry for.” She was alternating between rubbing my back and patting my butt and shushing me. I’m not so easy to calm down when I’m all up in my own head like that.

My sobs turned into a cramping diaphragm. “I’m sor – h! – sorry I nee – h! – eeded that.”

“Don’t be sorry for the things you need, Daffodil.”

“I don’t – h! – even know why. I shou – h! – should’ve – h! h! – worn a mask.”

“I don’t think that’s why you needed that, Daffy. I think you just had some feelings to get out. It was a very hard year, and it’s almost over. I think you just needed a little release from all those pent up feelings. If it wasn’t that, it would’ve been something else.”

“I’m sorry I n–need so m–much from y–you.”

Mary didn’t say anything to that. Her hand stopped where it was, and with my face against her belly, I could feel her diaphragm tighten. She choked back a sob. “Don’t you … ever, ever … be sorry for … for needing me, Daf.”

O, goodie, now we’re both crying. Bet I can cry harder.

“I’d fall apart without … you, Daffodil … I n–need you … more.”

And with that, I proved once and for all who among the two of us can cry harder.

So we had our little cryfest. I not only got started first; I cried longer, too.

“And when you dry up those tears,” Mary whispered, “we’ll get you a nice warm bath together, and you’ll just be my snuggly little girl today. Does that sound okay?”