Mary and Daphne #82 (Patreon)

“What are you thinking about,” Mary asked me. She’s the type of person who looks at another person and wonders what she’s thinking about, mostly cuz she likes me and stuff. She wants to know what’s going on with me at all the times.

As for me, I’m the type of person who wants to lay across Mary’s lap because it’s one of my happy places. Sorta like how a kitten, which Mary keeps calling me lately, likes to lay across the top of the couch.

So what was I thinking about? This one time, maybe six months after we started dating. (Insert harp music here).

The year was 2014(ish), and the country was obsessed with this show called Game of Thrones. So obsessed that we were having a watch party with some of Mary’s friends, and I was enjoying the terrific sense of superiority that came with having read the books. Knowing the future was intoxicating, as was the cabernet. At 9% alcohol by volume, I was tipsy after the first glass because I’m a world–class drinker, and when I drink I become uncharacteristically talkative. Normally I’m so laconic. People say, There goes Daphne. She’s so laconic. Really. And yet being talkative and knowing what happens and being excited led me to (spoiler alert) let slip a spoiler. Some guests were, as the saying goes, displeased, as was Mary.

I have this thing – call it a good upbringing – that says never to fight in front of company. Mary has this thing – call it an evil streak – that goes, “We’re not fighting. You’re in trouble, and I don’t care if we have company.”

“It was an accident, though.”

“You talked through most of the show even after I asked you watch quietly, and you blurted out the ending. That was very rude to our guests.”

“Can we talk about this privately,” I asked again while trying and failing to not look at the guests in question. Some looked satisfied to see me get lectured, and some looked delighted to see get lectured. It was then that I realized I needed a vanilla friend to invite to stuff so Mary couldn’t chastise me in front of people. This wasn’t even a play party. And I still hardly knew these people. I could still count on one hand the number of times Mary had actually chastised me outside a scene and the number of times Mary had done what I was pretty sure she was about to do in front of these people was a big fat zero.

“Daphne Ann,” she said. And did anyone else notice the very first question she ever asked me was my middle name? She had designs on me, as evidenced by yanking me over her knee the first moment she ever saw me, but that was at a play party. “Are you a girl who gets spanked?”

“Marrrrry,” I said quietly. “You’re embarrassing me.”

“I asked you a question. Are you a girl who gets spanked?”

“Yes,” I whispered.

“I’m sorry?”

“Yes! This is so …”

“That’s right. You’re a spanked girl now, and you’re getting a spanking right now.”

“No! You can’t!”

“Do you think these people don’t know what happens to naughty girls who get spankings? Do you want to ask what they think?”

“It’s eleven o’clock. Can’t they just leave?”

“They can leave when they’re ready. Over my knee.”

“No, please?”

“Is that a hard no?”

O sweet baby jebus was I conflicted on that. It’s not like I hadn’t been spanked in front of people before, and even some of the guests. It’s just that I hadn’t ever been actually punished in front of other people before. And Mary was being (wistful sigh) something I had wanted for a long time, someone willing to take me in hand. Lots of people had said they wanted to, but Mary was the first to actually get what it meant and to follow through. I liked what was happening, I hated what was happening, and I so wanted to obey and run away all at the same time. But damn did I not want an audience. I was flushed and blushing head to toe and these butterflies were flapping their flippers in my tummy.

“No,” I said, “but this isn’t even a big deal. Can’t we just …”

“No we can’t.” And suddenly I was face down over Mary’s knee looking at the carpet. If I turned and looked toward my feet, I could see all of our guests upside down. Fitting metaphor for the state of affairs, somehow (sort of? Not really). “Why are you over my knee about to get your bottom spanked?”

“Because I spoiled the ending and kept talking when you told me not to.”

“Disobeying is a big deal, Daphne. You need to make better choices, and when you make a bad choice, you’re going to get your bottom spanked every single time. I don’t care where we are or who’s there. I’ll drop your pants in front of everybody. That’s what happens to spanked girls like you. Understood?”

O, just get the friggin’ frack on with it. “Yes.”

“You’re going to make a good choice right now and not fight me on this, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Brenna will be only too happy to help me if you can’t hold still.” Smack … smack … smack

My god can she talk. At least she left my pants up. Stupid butterflies in my tummy. Just calm down. You’ve been here before. It’s not even like you did anything so wrong. It’ll be over in thirty seconds.

(Smack smack smack smack smack)

See, it does even hurt (SMACK!) that much. She’s just showing off – ow – for her friends. Ow. Some of whom are cute. Ow ow. Even Brenna ow in a big kinda way ow ow. She’s getting a little enthusiastic up there. OW! Geez, it wasn’t even the penultimate ep–OUCH! Dammit.

“I think these can come down,” Mary said as she tugged my pants down to my knees!

“Hey! I didn’t say OW!”

“This is a punishment, Daphne Ann. Spanked girls don’t get to decide how they get spanked, and if you think (SMACK!) you’re (SMACK!) getting out of this (SMACK SMACK SMACK!) with your (SMACK!) undies up (SMACK!) you have got (SMACK!) another thing coming.”

“You wouldn’t dare!” In retrospect, I realize now how that statement can be interpreted as a challenge that sorta backs someone into a corner. At the time, my immediate thought after letting that bon mot come out of my mouth was, Holy fuck she dared! Because down my panties instantly came. Later on, as I was nursing a sore butt at work the next day, I began to suspect I was dating a ninja because I don’t know she got those down in the first place.

“O yes I will dare,” was Mary’s response when she just as well could’ve said o yes I did.

My calm, collected manner – you know, the way I’m always level–headed and rational and take things in a very laid back manner – disappeared. I mean, I am all those things. I used to be all those things. I used to be all those things and still am all those things and then Mary came along and still I am those things. Well, not in that moment which went something like, “Mary! Stop! Lemme go! OW! Ow! That hurt! Lemme go! OW! OW! EEP! EEE! OUCH!”

And the team of little people inside my head who are in charge of the kinesiology department said, Break right! Try left! Kick the feet! Arch the back! Break right again! Squinch the eyes shut! Pound the floor! Try left again! Grab the chair legs! Try to pull forward! Kick the legs! Once more with feeling!

I would so fire those people if I could. Not once did they say, o, I dunno, Keep the legs shut! Everybody can see everything!

“Hold (SMACK!) still (SMACK!) like a (SMACK!) good (SMACK!) girl!”

“I am so mad at you,” was my response. I mean, it made sense for me to say so, when you think about it. It was a very opportune time to talk about feelings because it’s always a good time to talk about our feelings. Mr. Rogers, who was played by Tom Hanks himself in the biopic (so you know he was either really important or had something terrible happen to him on a plane), said so. For a split second, I thought Mary agreed, but nope. Nope, she was just putting her leg over mine.

“Brenna, would you please go get the paddle in the kitchen drawer under the silverware?”

“Don’t you dare!”

“Don’t you talk to our guests that way, young lady! I don’t know (SMACK!) what (SMACK!) has gotten into you (SMACK!).”

This isn’t fun this isn’t fun this isn’t fun OW! OWIE! “OWIE!” O my god I said Owie. Who even says that? “Mary this isn’t OWWW!”

“This is a punishment, Daphne Ann.”

“All I did was spoil the ending.”

“You disobeyed – thank you, Brenna. (CRACK!)”

“Aaaah!”

“Spanked girls (CRACK!) stop (CRACK!) when they are told (CRACK!) to (CRACK!) stop.”

“(Sniff!)” What the fuck is this wetness in my eyes? That’s not supposed to be there. I’ve taken so much worse than this without so much as a meep. Am I crying? What the hell? She made me cry? What a bitch!

“Ow! Ah! Ah–ha! Eh–heh! Eh–heh! Eh–heh!” O you are not going to start sobbing like some wimpy little girl.“Wahhhh!” Hey. Hey, shut up! You’re embarrassing yourself. Stop. Please stop? “Waaah ah! OW! Ah–haaaaaaa! Wahhhh–haaaaah!” Fine, go ahead a cry.

So I did. And did some more even after Mary stopped paddling me.

“Shhh. Deep breaths, baby.”

And I did that thing where your diaphragm cramps and you just suck in air, which goes, “Hhhhh!”

“Calm down, deep breaths. There’s my good girl. Can you sit up for me? C’mon.”

Everything was blurry with the tears for the split second between picking my head up and burying my face in Mary’s chest. O, I like it there so much. I don’t think I’m safer anywhere else than with my face pressed into Mary’s chest with my eyes shut tight and her arms all around me and her hands rubbing my back and teasing my hair and her lips making soft, quiet kisses on me.

I stayed just like that while everyone filed out (not that I was paying much attention), which is what you do when a scene ends so that the bottom can get their aftercare. Or in my case so the naughty spoiler can get her aftercare.

“Good girl,” Mary kept cooing at me. “Such a good girl. I know that was very hard.”

“(Meep. Sniff. Inward sob.)”

“I’m so proud of you.”

“I’m sorry for being bad.”

“No, sweetheart, you weren’t bad. You just made a bad choice. You’re always my good girl.” O, god, was that an arrow through my bleeding heart.

“Ahhh–haaaaaa–haa–haahhh! (Sobbing wookie noise) (Moose with a cold) (Elephant snorting water).”

“Shh shhh shhhh shhh. Dry up those tears.”

“Imrying.” That would be trying, for all those who don’t speak sobbing Daphne, which Mary didn’t yet. We’d only been together six months, and I wasn’t always a crybaby. And I’m not a crybaby now. Really.

“I know you’re crying sweetie. You’re doing it on my shirt,” she said with a chuckle.

“I said ‘I’m trying.’ (sniff).”

“Can we talk a little bit now?”

“Mhmm.”

“I’m sorry I had to spank you, but you need to make good choices and listen when I tell you things. I know you’re new at being a submissive, but that’s part of what it means, and as your domme I’m going to hold you to that. Does that make sense?”

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

“I know, and you’re all forgiven. You got your consequence, and it’s over, but you’re gonna feel that sore bottom as a reminder.”

“But did you hafta do it front of them?”

“I give the spankings, and you’re the girl who gets spanked. If we’re with kinky company, I will spank your bottom if you need a spanking right then, and you did spoil the show for them.”

“But they saw.”

“They’ve all seen girls get spanked before, and what they saw was a girl who needed a spanking. But, and listen carefully to me, did you want to red light and didn’t?”

“No … sort of.”

“Which one?”

“No.” I did and didn’t, and then when she bared me and everyone could see … it didn’t even occur to me to red light then. I pretty much spent the week trying to figure that out. All I could come up with is that it didn’t seem like an option. It was, and I knew that, but it didn’t seem like an option because, just like Mary said, spanked girls don’t get to decide when or how they get their butts spanked. Even if they don’t want a spanking, they get one. Mary decides. Mary decided. “No,” I repeated. I liked that Mary decided. I wanted her to decide even if I didn’t like her decision.

“I’m very happy to hear that. I don’t ever want you to do anything you don’t want to. Will you promise me you won’t?”

“I promise,” I said in my please–don’t–make–me–cry–again voice.

“That’s my good girl. And I’m proud of you for obeying and being brave. You were very brave.”

“I sobbed.”

“That’s okay. It’s okay to cry when you get spanked.”

“But I don’t, normally. You know.” Trust me, she knew. She’d spanked me lots of ways. She’d spanked me way harder than that for playtime, and spanked me for punishment (maybe twenty percent funishment), but she had never spanked me that hard for punishment. That’s when I put two and two together and came up with the equation in trouble with Mary plus hard spanking equals I cry like my puppy died.

“It’s okay to cry, especially when you’re having big feelings and getting a big spanking. I know how brave you are. I won’t ever think less of you if you need to cry.”

“I know. I just … everybody saw.”

“Are we still on that, silly goose?”

“What?”

“Still on everybody seeing.”

“No, what did you call me?”

“A silly goose.”

“I am not a silly goose,” I said while putting my face back on the driest part of her shirt I could find.

“Said my silly goose. And you know something else? I may be strict with you, but it’s only because I love you and want what’s best for you.”

Which is when my face came off her chest in a hurry and I made great big eyes at her. (And geese have tiny eyes; I am not a silly goose. Really!)

“Mary, is that, um, are you saying that because headspace or …”

“I’m saying Daphne, that I will spank your bottom wherever and whenever and hold you until you stop crying and do anything else you ever need because I love you very much.”

“I love you too.” O, she can hug so good with the kisses and the caressing.

“I think we should go wash that pretty face of yours, and then it’s bedtime, and I call big spoon.”

“You’re always the big spoon.” Well, almost.

“C’mon,” she said and took me by the hand.

“Mary?”

“Yeah?”

“Love you. Oooo, that feels so good.”

“Such a silly goose. And I love you, too.”

(Insert harp music here)

So I told Mary, “I was thinking about you.”

“What about?”

“How much I like you.”

“Just like me?”

“And love you lots.”

“And I love you muchly.”

We’re disgustingly cute when we’re not being disgustingly filthy. Really. (No, really).