Mary and Daphne #79 (Patreon)

Mom always complains – every single year – that I’m bad at telling her what I want for Christmas. I interpret this as a sign of a financially secure adulthood: if I really want something, I get it. I’m not nine and penniless and waiting for my birthday and Christmas to get a toy I want. Naturally, there are rules, like the one that neither of us spends more than one hundred dollars on a non–necessity without discussing it, and sure, my track record with following that rule is perfect (in its imperfection). But by and large (whatever that means) if I want something, I get it by and by (whatever that means) whether I have to save a little for it or not, so come Christmas and Mom asks me what I want, I’m usually not so much with the ideas. And this year, with me being unemployed and the pandemic pandemicing, what was I gonna ask for? Clothes to wear the office? A new skirt for when I take my vacation to the kitchen?

But Mom also insists you have to have something to open on Christmas. Doesn’t matter what it is, but you have to have something wrapped in a box, something tangible. I like that. I think that’s right. But my real present from my parents for the past few years has been money. I got the presents to unwrap, and a little belatedly while my parents spent three weeks figuring out Venmo (boomers, amiright?), money.

And what did I spend my money on and didn’t even have to consult with Mary because Christmas money is exempt from the rules (but I told her anyway cuz I’m sweet like that)? My very own Xbox. And I know there’s a new generation of systems coming out, but I grew up with Xbox and I didn’t wanna wait for the new one or spend more, so I ordered my Xbox, waited patiently for several whole days to pass, and when it arrived I went, “Squeeeeeee!”

After all, Mary did say I should get some toys to keep me busy. Pretty sure she meant crafts like needlepoint, but she said toys, so I got a toy.

You may have noticed from the time at Jane’s house that I like winning and I like rubbing people’s faces in it, and if people are gonna talk smack I’m gonna talk smack, too. I’m nicer about it and less crude than others, but still gonna talk some smack. It’s kinda part of the gaming culture, least from where I was sitting. I was getting better, too (at the game, not the smack talk). I don’t play a lot and it took some time to get my mojo going because it’s one thing to beat Jane and another to beat the obsessives who do nothing but play, and I was starting to get some flow back and not just get owned like a noob (which I am not; I’m just rusty).

So there I was, winning a little after some very frustrating hours and Mary just appeared in front of the screen with her hands on her hips and I leaned left and right trying to see around her and told her, “Mary, you’re gonna make me dammit!” I died.

“Daphne Ann, who do you think you are?”

That is such a silly question. She answered it herself – I’m Daphne Ann!

“Me. I’m gonna dammit!” Sure, I coulda paused but, “Dammit! Marrrry!”

“Do you even hear the words that are coming out of your mouth?”

“Some of ‘em. Can we dammit!”

“Daphne, look up here,” Mary gestured to her face. Ruh–roh, not a happy face.

“Sorry. But it’s not like I was swearing. I just …”

“Called someone a ‘butt mud muncher?’ Or are you more sorry for calling someone a ‘pie–faced nut knoodler?’”

“Um … least I was creative? You should hear what the other players are saying.”

“Are they being a bad influence? Because if they are I will take away your headset.”

“But … no, they’re not.”

Mary sighed. “Okay. So if they’re not being a bad influence, then I guess you have no one else to blame your potty mouth on, do you?”

I swear she just pretends to go to work every day in that office. She’s really just sitting in there thinking of trip wires to plant. I looked behind me and sure enough, there was the wire, and at the end of it was a pin and tumbling out of a well–camouflaged MRE box was a paddle. I mean, not really, but might as well be. I just decided to sigh instead of say anything in response.

“Little girl, I asked you a question.” Deciding not to answer doesn’t always work. It’s got a track record of about one in five, coincidentally about how I was going on screen before Mary stepped in front of it (progress, people, not perfection).

“I’m not a little girl! I’m just playing like everyone else. It’s part of the game.”

“Do I need to get you nicer games that aren’t rated M?”

“I’m thirty–one years old, and since when do you care if I say stuff like …”

“’Cheese weasel?’”

“What’s the problem with ‘cheese weasel?’” It was one of the nicer things I said.

“Nothing is wrong when you say it, but you don’t say mean things to other people?”

“Mary, you’re being …”

“No, you are not being a nice little girl, and I have taught you how to be nice and treat people with kindness, haven’t I?”

Okay, change in tactics – maybe if I just let her do whatever it is she wants to do to me I can go back to playing, I thought. “No. I’m sorry.”

“Little girls don’t use that kind of language. I have half a mind to put you over my knee and spank your bottom. Is that what you want?”

Well, maybe in a few hours around bedtime, but, “No.”

“Or how about I wash your mouth out with soap?”

“No, please?” Never again! I hope anyway, but, well, a forlorn hope.

“Not this time, but consider this Strike Two.”

“What happened to Strike One,” I asked a smidge – a touch, at most – too indignantly.

“You already know better than to name call, young lady. That’s your Strike One. Now, up.”

“Buh,” I started to say before getting up, “I thought I wasn’t getting a spanking,” I whined.

“O my god, Daphne Ann. Just o. My. God.”

“What,” I didn’t whine.

“Your whining right now. Is this how you get when you play video games?”

“But I was losing and then I finally started to win and I’m thirty–one. I can choose my own words.” Which is when Mary folded her arms and gave me her you–can–what–now look. “Um, what I meant so say was, um, when you let me. Love you.”

“Floor, missy.”

“Aww, please?”

“Fuh–loor.”

“Stupid diapers,” I muttered as I got down on the fuh–loor. Looking back on it, I’m kinda amazed I didn’t get my butt paddled. Mary got the basket out and was next to me in a heartbeat.

“Big girls wear pants,” she said as she took my leggings down.

“I am, too, a big girl!”

“Daphne,” she said as she paused and looked at me with her what–I’m–about–to–say–is–meaningful look, “you will never be big enough to call people names, and to remind you of that…” She reached into the basket, and before I could fight-or-flee, rubber nipple.

“No! I don’t wuk wat.” Stupid pacifier.

“You’ll keep that paci in until dinner time. If I see it out for anything more than drink, you’ll keep it in until morning. Understood?”

“Wuhs.” Stupid pacifier!

“You go right ahead and cross those arms if you wanna pout,” she said as I got into my pouting posture. “Doesn’t change the fact that you’re a piddle pants.”

“Umnuhtapudlepunts!”

She fixed me with her you–are–if–I–say–you–are glare. “Yes, you are, until morning, and I’m not kidding Daphne. If this is the kinda mood your new toy is going to put you in, I will take it away.”

Ugh! No fair! I was only grumpy because I spent the whole morning getting poned. Do people still say poned? And as soon as I started to get good again, blam! Mary and her rules about not calling people names. It’s all part of the game! AND I AM NOT A PIDDLE PANTS!!! Really! (No, REALLY!!!)

“Lift your bottom.” Which I did, even though it’s not a bottom. It’s an ass. I’m not one for crude language, but it’s an ass. I’m old enough to call it an ass! Apparently I’m just not old enough to call other people asses. Which isn’t the worst rule ever.

“There,” she said as she sealed the tapes. What, no cream?!? That’s the good part with the hands and the rubbing and the o it tickles me (glayven). What a rip off. But then, it was a punishment. Those can’t all be fun, I guess.

“Up,” she said and held out her hands to help. I can sit up on my own, too, because I’m not a little girl even if she does make me follow rules and wear a stupid diaper. “Such a sour face. Do you need a nap?”

“Nuh.”

“You’re not the only little girl who needs naps. In fact, most little girls who need diapers take naps.”

“(High pitched objections) und (general agitation) und (muffled curses and epithets) und I doh eed iapers!” Would have been a lot more effective and probably wouldn’t have made Mary burst out laughing if I hadn’t finished my protest by poking my paci back in my mouth before it fell out and I learned about whatever she had acquired to make me sleep with it in.

“Such a cutie patootie!”

“Hmmph!”

“Especially when you’re blushing from head to toe.”

“M nut!”

“I’m gonna call that Strike two–and–half, Daffodil. I think you’d better cheer up unless you want a smack bottom and an early bedtime.”

“(Mumble).”

“What was that?”

“Fuhn.”

“I’m going to choose to believe you said ‘fine,’ and I have work to get back to. You play nicely with your friends, and no more name calling.”

Stupid forehead kisses that make me feel so adored and well cared for. Sigh …

I got back on the couch ready to resume kicking some butt and put my headset back on to hear, “When do you think she’s gonna realize the headset picked all that up?”

“MMMMMMMRRRRRRRRRYYYYYY!”

“Serves you right for being a piddle pants.”

“And a little girl”

“I’M NOT A LITTLE GIRL!”

“But you are a piddle pants,” some meanie head ‘asked.’

“Is your pacifier out,” I heard from down the hall.

“(Silence).”

Well, Mary heard silence. I heard a bunch of butt faces laughing at me.

Stupid humiliation fetish with the things happening in the pants except I’m not wearing pants and … time for a ten–minute break.