Mary and Daphne #76 (Patreon)

New Year’s Eve is so overblown. The calendar changes over. Wooptydoo. It’s not even the calendar. It’s just the Gregorian calendar. People act like it’s obligatory to spend a bunch of money and go out to celebrate the clock doing what clocks do. They should be focusing on more important things, like celebrating me. Or not. I’m benevolent like that. Very low demands, don’t ask for much. I fact, my subjects always say, There goes Daphne, very benevolent, doesn’t demand much beyond birthday tribute and constant affirmation.

What is a big deal is New Year’s Eve is the anniversary of Mary and me officially becoming a couple. Or at least that’s how I date that event in world history.

[Insert harp music here]

Mary was hosting a New Year’s Eve party at her apartment for a select group of friends, some of whom I knew and some of whom I would come to know. These friends all had something in common.

I knew this because I had hung out with bits and piece of the party crowd of ten or so on other occasions and even knew some of them casually through local organizations centered around certain activities. Philately, mostly, and also, um, quilting and mutual enthusiasm for, uh, the box kite. Gets overlooked with all those fancy diamond–shaped kites and dragon kites, but the, uh, box kite is for purists. I was so very pure at that age. Um, really.

Not that anybody was flying any box kites. It wasn’t that kind of party, and the thing you need to understand is just because people like to fly box kites and collect stamps doesn’t mean you can just fly your kite and philatelate around your fellow kite and philately enthiusiasts anytime. It’s just not done in polite circles. A non–box kite enthusiast could’ve joined our party and not thought anything different about the ten or twelve of us gathered there. For all I knew, because I didn’t know all of them, there might even have been a non–box kite enthusiast among us. One or two of them could’ve been paper airplane people for all I know (freaks – they’re all freaks and society should shun them for being too normal than is healthy and too healthy than is normal).

At this point in our relationship, which I think was maybe eight weeks or so old, Mary and I had flown kites together publicly and in private, with the former being at box kite parties (see, what you do is you put your piece of string in a bowl by the door … no, that’s something else). I think I already told you about when Mary started flying kites without asking me, and that was, um, something I realllllly liked.

And I guess I should tell you that this whole thing has been a charade and there were no kites and I’m referring to Mary deciding to correct my (alleged) behavioral defects through the application of corporal chastisement, as it’s called by no one. Mary is very straight laced, as they say in the shoe industry, and there were many such (alleged) behavioral defects of mine she wanted to correct.

But aside from play parties, she’d never, um, corrected me in front of others. I liked that, too, it happening in public. But that involved asking me first, as is appropriate for play parties and any other setting unless you give blanket consent. In private, not asking was okay, as I had given my blanket consent for that. In front of others, asking. Big difference.

The other thing to understand is these behavioral defects were of the o–so–popular–these–days pretextual variety. As in, “Is that an unwashed bowl in the sink? Over my knee.” Or such crimes against humanity as “I just found a wet towel hanging on the towel bar in your bathroom. Drop those shorts.” There’s a huge different between that sort of misbehavior getting corrected and actual misbehavior getting corrected. The first kind is fun and cute and is often a lead-in to other fun things. The actual correction of misbehavior makes me feel guilty and a little embarrassed even when it happens privately.

Back to the party, ya know how Mary is six years older than me? That seems like less and less the more time we spend in this world, but when you’re twenty–four, like I was then, it seems like a lot, and all of Mary’s friends were closer to her age than mine. I was feeling a little out of place even if I did know some of them. It’s different at a play party when people are older cuz roles matter more than age, but in a regular party it just sort of highlights that you’re in different life stages and don’t have as much in common. I was feeling a little awkward and a little out of place, and Mary was being a good host (because she’s that type of person – if I didn’t know better, I’d think she flew paper airplanes when she wasn’t tying very straight knots in her shoelaces).

Luckily, there’s a tried-and-true substance that helps one to feel a little less awkward and little more courageous, and this substance is often found at parties and is free to guests. Somehow, this “alcohol,” as scientists call it, came to be “inside” of me and entered my “bloodstream.” We’ll never know how, but witnesses say I “poured” it into “my” glass and “drank” it. Personally, I’ve never really been able to follow medical procedurals, so I “don’t” know what they’re talking about. “Really.”

I was starting to feel a little more at ease even if Mary was being a good host and not doing what I prefer her to be doing, which is giving me her exclusive attention. I thought this substance was doing such a good job that I decided to obtain more of it, which is when Mary decided to start paying more attention to me. In fact, I noticed several people were paying closer attention to me because I was getting “a little” loud. She got up off the couch and followed me across her living room into the dining room in this very lovely open–floorplan apartment she had at the time.

“I think you’ve had enough,” she said to me at a very polite volume.

“I’ve only had one,” I replied at a very “polite” volume for someone who still didn’t have much experience drinking alcohol that didn’t come mixed with sugar water or wasn’t made from grapes.

“I know, sweetie,” she chuckled at little lightweight ol’ me. I wasn’t really in a being–chuckled–at mood. “How about some caffeine first and then we can switch you back to wine?”

“I’m a grownup, Mary. I’ll just have …”

“No, let’s get you a soda first.”

Now, like I said, we’d only been dating a couple months. I don’t think Mary understood that when I told her I don’t take the word noso well, I wasn’t making a joke. It was more me demonstrating how self–aware I am, a trait I hold in high esteem. I, to say it again, do not take being told no well. Just ask my mom about that scar on her hand from where I bit her circa 1993.

And Mary, not understand how I feel about being told no, took my glass out of my hand, replaced it with her hand, and led me toward the kitchen where the soda could be found.

Well, I didn’t want a soda. I wanted alcohol. After all, it had done such a good job making me feel so confident. So confident, in fact, that I didn’t think much of taking my hand out of Mary’s hand and telling her, “No.”

Mary and me are super compatible because it turns out she doesn’t take the word no so well either, or at least not from me. Mary did that thing she where she makes her I’m–about–to–win–a–battle–of–wills face, took me by my wrist, and led me toward the kitchen, and for some unknown reason, I followed rather meekly. That wasn’t like me, or at least it wasn’t back then. Not that I’m meek now. I’m quite fearsome. There goes Daphne, people say now, she looks so fearsome on her way to her timeout spot. And I do. Really.

And I’m thinking to myself once we’re in the kitchen, soda doesn’t come out of the sink because that’s where she took me, so I’m standing at the sink looking over her countertop into the living room where guests were mingling and one or five were conspicuously trying to not pay any attention to me and Mary when this very pretty black dress I saved up to buy just for the occasion (New Year’s Eve, not the trip to the kitchen) was lifted in the back and SMACK SMACK! Just the two.

My o my how conspicuously inconspicuous all the guests were trying to look then. Funny how you’re not supposed to use that kind of spatula on nonstick pans, which Mary never does (surprise, surprise, straight-laced Queen of Domestic Perfection and Discipline that she is), but they’re apparently safe to use on my butt (which Mary does: surprise, surprise, surprise).

Mary tells me I made my raccoon–caught–in–the–flashlight face, and that’s what the guests heard and saw: two splat! sounds, my big saucer eyes, and me leaning against the counter with Mary being me holding the pancake flipper. At least the counter blocked the view of everything south of there.

Ow, said a little voice inside my head, um, maybe they can’t see you if you don’t move.

And this other voice said, They’re not T–Rexes, Daphne.

And the first voice said, Dammit.

And then Mary stepped up to the sink and turned on the faucet, which I wish she’d done before she spanked me with an implement that makes such a splat! sound, and (of course) started washing the spatula while quietly lecturing me, “If you’re set on embarrassing yourself, Daphne Ann, I’ll do it for you and spank your little bare bottom right in front of our guests and put you straight to bed. Do you want that, or do you want to spend the evening with me?”

“You.” I woulda said more, but a little speechless was I with the she just spanked in front of everyone! Sort of. So many new feelings, so little time to process.

She turned off the faucet. “Good. I want that, too. You stay right next to me, and no more naughtiness, okay?”

“’Kay.”

“What kind of soda can I make you?”

So I stuck close to Mary the rest of the evening which I woulda done anyway because I was feeling super vulnerable before the spanking and super more vulnerable after, and the irony being she contributed o so much to that sense of vulnerability because she spanked me in front of everyone (eeeeeee! feelings!). O so many feelings.

The logical part of me wanted to be pissed. Or what I thought at the time was the logical part of me. The rest of me wanted to just rub against her like a cat against her leg because hoooo buddy did I like her even more. Conflicted feelings.

Mary did a good job including me, having realized, I think, that as outgoing as I can be at a play party, at a regular party with strangers and acquaintances I don’t know very well, I’m more of an awkward turtle.

We watched the ball drop, people left, and we ended up in her bedroom where we were both very tired and got changed into pajamas. As we were about to get under the covers, or as I thought we were about to, Mary sat down on the edge of the bed and said, “Let’s talk.”

“Um, okay.” I sat down next to her.

“I had a very nice time with you tonight.”

“Sorry about the, um, thing. I was just, uh, nervous.”

“All forgiven. Am I forgiven, too, for not doing a better job helping you meet people?”

“I don’t … yes.”

“What’s that face for?”

“What face?”

“The sad kitty look.”

“I just … not sure how well I fit in with your friends.”

“They like you! And you know who else likes you?” She reached over and tickled my knee.

“Who,” I said knowing damn well. Or thinking I did. Not that I’m insecure or ever was. Really.

“I like bunches you. In fact, I think I wanna keep you.” She scooted over and laid back on the bed and motioned for me to follow. I settled into the curve of her body. Her hand slid down to my hip. “Isn’t this a nicer way to go to sleep than getting sent to bed early all by your lonesome.”

“You wouldn’t have,” I told her and shifted my weight to snuggle in.

“Daphne Ann, it’s a brand-new year and you need to understand something: you’re a girl who gets spanked now. I wouldn’t have hesitated one moment to send you to bed early.”

I took her hand back and rolled over so were facing each other.

“I want you to keep me.” I put my right leg and arm over her and laid my cheek against her breast. “And I wanna sleep like this.”

She put her arm around my shoulder and ran her fingers through my hair. “A Daffodil of my very own.”

“My Mary.”

And back in the present, I was looking at Mary in that ridiculous dress she brought and looked back down at myself in the one she insisted I bring, like we were going to a party and not ringing in the new year alone in a cabin. I’m a simple person. I think she looks just as good in an old shirt and ripped sweatpants.

“Mary,” I said.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for taking us on vacation and for making me dress up for New Year’s.”

“Thanks for coming with me.”

“Thanks for keeping me.”

“Thanks for letting me keep you.”