Mary and Daphne #81 (Patreon)

“O, Daffy,” my dearest wife called out. “O, Daffodilio,” she added because she is such a Flanders. Seriously.

“Yep,” I replied as I passed through our bedroom to the master bath. Kinda weird when you think about that term. ‘Master bedroom’? I can guess where it came from, but it makes it sound like some command–and–control center from which Captain Mary flies our house. Which reminds me of this Halloween when she dressed up as a naval officer and tied me to the yardarm and launched a thousand ships. Or possibly one ship a thousand times. I was distracted by ... a thing.

Anyhoo, she was sitting on the edge of the tub wearing her fancy robe, the one reserved for ... never. It mostly stays in the closet. And she was swirling her fingers in the warm water, being all tempting.

“C’mere,” she said to me.

I thought of the coolest, sexiest thing to say as I glided across the rug like the sylph–like creature that I am, and I made my sultry face and said, “Ha!” (I know, but it came sexier than it sounds).

She smiled her Daphne–is–so–suave smile, which to the untrained eye looks like her Daphne–is–such–a–goofy–doofy smile, but trust me. Not the case. (Really). In fact, so overtaken with my wiles was she that she didn’t even say anything. She just reached out and took my shorts down, leaving me in my sexy–to–the–point–of–sultry (Muppet–print) panties (dammit). And then they joined my sweatpants (sexy sweatpants – really) at my ankles.

I started to take my shirt off and got, “Ah–ah–ah. Let me do that. Arms up.” Which I did, and then I was naked. Know what’s fun? Being naked with Mary. It’s fun when she’s naked, too, and it’s fun when she’s wearing clothes because I like feeling all vulnerable and smol and stuff. Maybe she needs a suit of armor so she can be a shiny knight and I can be the naked nymph who won’t let her inside my ... tree house (I guess?) unless she guesses my riddles three (the answers are, in no particular order, “I”, “Said”, and “Now.” But don’t go blabbing it to her. Gotta make her work a little, amiright?)

“How is it,” Mary said, “that a little girl who spent the whole day inside can get so dirty?”

“Am not,” I didn’t pout despite what you may hear in the form of lies from lying liars who tell lies when they’re lying (really!).

“So dirty,” Mary said and took my hand and ‘helped’ me into the tub. “Close your eyes,” she said and poured a pitcher of warm water over my head.

“Mmmm. What made you decide to do this?”

“I figured you’re getting to be a woman Daphne, and it’s time I teach you a few things.”

Which is when I made my so–not–impressed–with–your–snark face. She snarks at a ninth grade–level, max. I have a doctorate of snark in snark. The day I was born, the doctor slapped me on the ass, took one look at my ear–to–ear grin and said, “She’s gonna be a snarky one.” That’s right – diagnosed snarky!

“Now,” Mary said while trying to snark and failing (fuh–ail–ing), “with this womanly figure you’re developing come certain responsibilities, such as,” she trailed off and picked up a razor. “I know it’s winter and you’re not going out, but I think maybe it’s time for you to learn how to shave your legs.”

And for the record (we’re creating more records than the Beatles and the court of the Han dynasty combined, people!) I wasn’t blushing. It was just a hot bath.

“I get your point,” I said and held out my hand for the razor.

“Silly goose, like I’m gonna trust you with a razor when you’ve barely graduated out of your training bra.”

“Bitch!” Not sure if she heard me over the splash. If you’re gonna make funna someone in the bathtub, you’re gonna get splashed. That’s just physics. And her silky robe was suddenly clinging to her ... hmmm.

“Daphne Ann,” she said while wiping her brow off (don’t worry – most of the water got stopped by the floor), “just because you’re old enough to shave your legs doesn’t mean you’re too old for a spanking, and with that kind of language you better believe you’re getting a wet–bottom spanking.”

So she did hear that.

“You’re being so mean.” I would never tell her to shave her legs more often. In part because she does it more often than me and in part because I would get paddled like a canoe. But then stubbly legs aren’t so fun and I do sort wrap myself around her a lot.

“This isn’t about body shaming, Daphne. It’s about teaching you about all the ways your body is changing.”

Ya know what? Fine. I can play along. I can keep up. I am, too, a big girl!In fact, the biggest (that doesn’t sound right). In fact, an actual adult! But I can play her game better than she can, so I said, “You mean changes like how I’m having these strange, new feelings when I watch you get undressed before bed?”

Also, when she looks all studious while she’s working, and when she smiles at me, and when she scolds me, and when she says embarrassing stuff about me, and when she licks the spoon when the ice cream is all gone, and when she tells me I’m pretty and a good girl (weak knees, for realzies), and when I catch a glimpse of her wedding ring that says she’s all mine.

But about her teaching me about these strange, new (for many years) feelings... “Sure. Also,” she said like she wasn’t cracking up inside, “I’ll teach you how around this time in a young woman’s life they should start wearing deodorant.”

“Such a B,” I said and folded my arms and then unfolded them because it sent the wrong message and to clear it up, I had to add, “I do, and you know it.” She doesn’t inspire any feelings at all, so I made my indifferent face.

“No need to pout.” I wasn’t pouting (really!). “Gimme a footsie.”

“No.”

“No?”

“You’re gonna tickle it.” I’m on to her.

“Such a silly goose. That would just get more water on the floor. Footsie.”

“Fine.” I put my heel on the rim of the tub. “Ya know,” I said trying to turn things to my advantage, “if I earned a bedtime spanking, don’t you think it’s only right that I suffer a bedtime orgasm as well?”

“You already had one today.”

“Did not!”

“I heard you!”

“O, yeah, that. ... But that doesn’t even count because you weren’t there. We should do things together as wife and wife. Perverse things. Butt things even.” I tried to wink, but I think that’s genetic or something because I just blinked.

“What was that?”

“I winked.”

“Looked like a ministroke,” she laughed and rubbed slippery stuff on my leg. I liked that part.

“Is it Tease Daphne Day?” What stupid ass munching jerkoffasaurus head of marketing invented that day?

“Every day is Tease Daphne Day, and like you don’t like it.”

“Nuh–uh!”

“Uh–huh.”

“O, Mary, that was just so beneath you.”

“Ha! Well, I can tell when you like stuff. I’m good at that.”

“How can you tell?” I know how she can tell. I just wanted to hear her list the things. Also, I don’t like it (really!).

“The little red spot on your collar bone.”

“Other ways?”

“The blush in your cheeks.”

“The water is hot!”

“The way you don’t know what do to with your hands.”

“I’m naked and wet and vulnerable. What the heck am I supposed to do with my hands?”

“Modest young ladies would cover their princess parts.”

“I am modest! ... And a lady! ... And a princess! I’m lots of things, ya know. Things you don’t even know about.”

“Daphne, I’ve seen you inside and out.” True story, not gonna tell it, never playing with med fet toys again ... probably. “I don’t think there’s many secrets about your little body I don’t know. All done! Gimme your other footsie.” Which I did because I’m averse to conflict, not because she’s the boss of me.

“O yeah,” I challenged her. “If you know so much about my body, what does it mean when the little button gets all red and big?”

“I’ll tell you when you’re mature enough to be trusted with a vibrator unsupervised.”

“And if I confess I’ve been using one unsupervised going on about fifteen years, will you teach me about butt stuff? And is it true the safest way to use a lifelike dildo is to strap it to your wife?”

“I love it when you get embarrassed and try to cover it by being dirty and hypersexual. Does talking like a big girl make you feel more grown up?”

“I ... Stop calling me out.” It’s not polite to be calling people out on all their things.

“There. See how nice and smooth? Doesn’t that feel good?”

“My leg, or you rubbing my leg?”

“And after I show you a few more times, you can try. Under my supervision, naturally. Isn’t that exciting?”

“(Glaring).”

“Maybe just once a month to get started. That’s more frequent than now, right,” she asked because she’s a smartass. There’s a difference between smartassery and snarkiness, and the latter is superior in every way.

“No!” I’m not an Amazon. I’m very delicate and ladylike. But it’s long pants season. Once a week is fine.

“And it will have the added bonus of feeling so much nicer on my thighs when you’re squirming around over my knee for your latest naughty behavior.”

“Is that ... really?” So that’s how she noticed. But as much as I (and every woman who is normal) hate that chore, I don’t mind it so much if she does it.

“Really. And speaking of which, you need a wet–bottom spanking for that language and the splashing. Stand up.”

“But you were being mean to me. You were body shaming, is what you were doing. That’s very toxic.” Not the thinnest of arguments, not the not thinnest.

“I was helping you with your hygiene and teaching you about what happens when little girls grow up.”

“Grr.”

She made her I’m–having–a–fake–realization face. “Is your little tantrum your way of telling me you’re not ready be a big girl?”

“Keep talking. I’ll just be under the water.” Where it’s peaceful and no one teases me.

“There’s that spot on your collar bone again.”

“Stop pointing out my spots!”

“I’m just saying, Daphne, not being ready to be a grown up would be a perfectly good excuse for that little outburst. That’s a big and complicated feeling for such a little girl ... and somewhat to be expected from a girl like you. Graduating to a real bra but still needing ‘big girl’ diapers sometimes must be very confusing.”

Her and her stupid invisible air quotes. “I wish I had a snorkel.”

“You wanna get some bath toys?”

“O my god.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Yeah, something that squirts, so I can soak you some more.”

“I already have a little toy that squirts and gets me wet.”

Which is when I made my raccoon–in–the–flashlight eyes. Pupils dilated. The works. Not that I changed my mind from being put out and victimized to wanting to be touched and victimized and played like a lamellophone but did you hear her with the words and the teasing (which I hate) and the humiliating belittlement and implications of my middleness (hate it, really!) and the rubbing my leg and the clingy robe and the words with the double meanings and the confident domineering sexiness and what she implied she wants to do to me?

A travesty is what it is! And I wanted no part of it (even if I wanted all the parts of it – really!).

“Buh...” I said all sauvely (really), “If I take my spanking like a good girl, will you show me how to play with your little toy?” I like toys. I wanna learn all the games. I’m a good sport. As gracious in victory as I am in defeat, and not to blow my own horn but I’m never lost at horn blowing.

And she of the world conquering confidence who totally conquered my world but was all benevolent, though firm, about it said, “If you promise to hold extra still and not splash while I’m spanking your bottom. Do you promise me?”

“Muh–huh.” Daffies make the best bath toys, I thought to myself as I got to my feet and turned toward the wall and stuck out my butt because I’m not only a good girl but a great girl. The best, really, but I’m too polite and humble to say so. Really.

“And then when you’re tuckered out from play time and too weak and blissed out to resist, we’ll get you in your nighttime diaper.”

“I’m getting cold. Could we get with the spanking?”

“And don’t you feel bad about it. I’m sure you’ll be dry at night before you start college in the fall, and even if you’re not, I have a feeling your roommate won’t mind.”

“This is cutting into playtime,” I said to whatever she was yammering on about. Something about the stock market? Yada yada exchange trade funds yada. Amiright?

“Little girl, you hold real still,” she said and grabbed a handful of butt and squeezed (so very very) hard and put her hand on ... Not sure what it’s called. My mind went blank with the feelings and the sensation and the o it feels good on me (hoyven).

Maybe I do need some remedial lessons in princess parts and how they work. And learning by doing is fun.

(But I do shave my legs often enough and wear deodorant every day. Really!)