Mary and Daphne #83 (Patreon)

“Daffodil,” someone sang. “Daffodil.”

“Govay,” was my response. There may have been little foot kicks, but my heart wasn’t in them.

“It’s time to get up.”

“It’s Saturday.”

“Don’t you wanna get up and play with me? You’re gonna make me sad.”

“Everyone needs to learn to deal with adversity (yawn).” And did I mention that not having access to me really is an adverse event? Really. And then I pulled the covers over my head. And then I ordered her out of our room with a stinging, “Muhsubuhbuh (snore).”

Which was followed by a wooshing sensation as she yanked the covers off me, leaving me cold and naked (up top) and indignant. “Marrrrry,” I throatily groaned. I didn’t whine (I never whine – really). It was the same type of groan one might hear from an irritable Viking right before they heft their battle axe (the kind as big as me).

To which Mary responded by grabbing my delicate, teeny lady ankles and yanking me to the foot of the bed. Whole lot of yanking going on that morning. There I was, half–naked and none too happy about being forced from my winter night’s sleep, with Mary leaning over me with a hand pressed into the bed on either side. Lesser women than me would’ve felt trapped or at least intimidated, but not me. For I am Daphne – Shieldmaiden and owner of an Amazon Prime account. I wasn’t intimidated (really!) even when she leaned all the way down and took a big sniff of my neck like she was a predator smelling prey before she landed these violently gentle love kisses on my neck and cheek and lips one–two–three.

“Are you sure you don’t wanna play with me today?”

“That depends. What game are we playing?” Because if she wanted to play Torment Daphne, I’ve already played it and lost, like, all the times. Which is totally weird given my uninterrupted winning streak in life and the things.

“Does it really matter,” she asked and kissed her way down my chest to my tummy with her hair brushing all soft and ticklish down my skin. Ya know something? I like her. I think I’m gonna keep Mary around.

“No,” I said as she kiss–kiss–kissed my tummy and her fingers started caressing and tickling and wandering up and down my sides where my skin is very soft and sensitive.

“Goody,” Mary said, and I should’ve been more suspicious than I was because she said it just like the Big Bad Wolf, and I didn’t even have my little red hood on. I was about to retract my consent when she, “Pbbbbbt!”

“Mary!”

“Pbbbbt!”

“Heeheehee st– heeeheeheee!”

“Pbbbt!”

“Mary! No raspber– heeheehee!” Grrr. “No raspberries!”

“Are you awake now?”

“Yes!”

“Then let’s get our day started. What am I gonna find when I pull down these shorts of yours?”

“Princess parts.”

“Is that all,” she said as she pulled down my pajama shorts. I only wore them to cover …

“What’s this? Hmm? Is this a wet diapee?” Pat–pat–squeeze. “It is! Did you have an accident last night?”

“Marrrry. It’s too early for teasing. Be nice to me.”

“I’d never tease you for bedwetting, sweetums.”

“I didn’t wet the bed,” I ferociously squeaked. Why’s she gotta say stuff like that?

“It’s okay. You’re just not ready to be out of diapers at night.”

“Marrrry! You’re the one who put it on me at 9:00 last night and wouldn’t let me take it off.” I wasn’t wearing a wet diaper. I was wearing fault. Specifically, it was Mary’s fault.

She tore open the tapes. “Dere dey are,” she said. “There are the princess parts I was promised. Now, up–up.”

“Is this part of the game, or are you just being weird again?” I asked as I sat up. Instead of an answer, I got one of her this–will–shut–her–up kisses that makes me go all a–flutter with the lightheadedness and the oxygen deprivation and the tummy tingles (glayven). Hee!

“You gonna be my good girl today?”

“I thought I was your good girl all the time.”

“You are, and you’re gonna make very good choices for me, aren’t you?”

“Muh–huh,” was my clever and sexy response to the lust eyes she was making at me. Ya don’t think she does that to make me docile and pliable, do you? I don’t think so. Really. That’s not the kind of person she is, and also because I am not so easily manipulated. For evidence of my iron will, I would point to all the times she’s had to coerce me into good choices. Yep, that’s me – a brass butt and an iron will.

“Go to the bathroom and call me when you’re done.”

It was a five–minute trip, if you get my drift. I’m very regular thanks to Mary’s nutritional know how. If I had my way, there’d be a lot more Cheetos. Did you know that cat mascot actually has snow-white fur and is just covered in Cheeto dust? Really. I bet it’s very bad for his lungs.

Miss Mary Queen of Everything did not wait for me to call her, which I wasn’t gonna because why the heck would I? She came in at the flush. Which was very presumptuous. A little mystery in a marriage is a good thing. Not that you need to be Poirot to deduce that particular whodunnit.

“All done,” she asked.

“I don’t like that question.”

“Sit back down.”

“Why?”

“O look, did you remember we own a bathbrush?”

O look, I’m sitting. And naked. Yep, sitting and naked (stupid bathbrush X–men reject mutant butthead hanging on the bathroom wall).

“Let’s see how you did,” Mary said. “Open your legs for me … Why are you making your raccoon eyes?”

I had my reasons. She tore off a piece of toilet paper and ,“Good job in the front. Lean forward.”

“Mar– EEEEP!”

“And good job in back! Such a good girl.”

“Fffpawtuh nurlsen, Mary!”

“Awww, and you’re very welcome! And it’s so cute when you sputter.”

“But buh buh…”

“Up you go. Let’s wash our hands.”

Washing our hands was a quiet affair. I say washing “our” hands, but really Mary washed my hands and her hands. I like her hands, and I like it when she uses them to wash my hands. But – and stay with me here – WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK WAS FUCKING THAT?

“Daffy,” she said to me like the world is a just place, “did you know when you get all blushy and extra special embarrassed the left side of your face kinda sneers?”

That’s a mini–stroke. One day my face will freeze that way and it won’t be so cute then.

She moved me in front of her and hugged me from behind. “I’m cold,” I complained. Funny how you can blush from head to toe and still be cold.

“Brush your toofies and I’ll get some clothes out for you.”

Just like that, she disappeared into the bedroom leaving me to brush my teeth. Teeth. I do not and never have had toofies. I don’t even know what those are. But I will tell you this: your teeth are the best friends you got. If you take care of them, they’ll take care of you. But I still didn’t wear my retainer after getting my braces off, and my teeth look fine. Thieving orthodontists with their cosmetic procedures dressed up as necessities. Two whole years of caramel lost.

I decided the best thing I could do was saunter into the bedroom like I hadn’t a care in the world. That’s the way to deal with bullies like Mary, just ignore them. Don’t let them know they get under your skin at all. So what if she wiped my butt … O gawd I can’t believe she did that. Ourgh!!! … I have to move out of our house now.

“You brushed your hair.”

“Yeah,” I said, “I do that every day.”

“Come.” I am not a dog, I said to myself in my head as I walked over to her. “Here,” she said and held out …

“Do I hafta wear a pullup? What’s wrong with my panties?”

“They don’t absorb anything.” Well, I walked into that one, literally, sorta. “And not so long ago you were trying to get me to start putting you back in these.”

Lies! Lies and wickedness! “That’s … Mary, you’re just so nyegh sometimes.”

“You told me you wanted to wear pullups more.”

“I told you I wanna wear diapers less.”

“That’s not what I heard.”

“Of course it wasn’t,” I roared. Sometimes my roars come out like grumbles and muttering. But they’re roars. Really.

“Besides, no one goes straight from diapers to pullups.”

“I didn’t! I … dammit!” She broke my brain. I was all twitterpated and upside down and inside out and scrambled with the synapses and the transducers and fiberoptics tangled and stuff. “Stop looking so delighted!”

“Did you or did you not wake up in a diaper this morning?”

“You know I did.”

“And what condition was it in?”

“Pris–fucking–tine.” And there she goes again with looking all delighted and happy with herself!

“You’re so …”

“Don’t say it!”

“Pretty and adorable when you’re indignant and in denial.”

“I deny that.”

“Ha! See?”

“Gimme my shirt,” I said and reached around her and put it on. “Where are my pants?” If you’re gonna lay out someone’s clothes, you gotta lay out the pants. She volunteered for the responsibility; I didn’t ask her to. WHERE ARE MY PANTS!!!

“No pants today.”

“You wake me up. You nyeghed me in the bathroom. You make me wear these things that aren’t even mine and are soooo yours. And now I can’t have pants?”

“You are so on top of current events. Want some socks?” Grimace! See my grimace at you and wither! “Sit down and gimme a feetsie.”

“Fine. But only because my toes are cold.”

“What else would socks be for, you silly goose.”

“I am not a silly goose.” Everyone’s a silly goose but me. Hmmph! (Except actual geese. They are not silly. They are dead serious and ill-tempered. Really.)

“Do you wanna hear the rules for today,” she asked while putting my fuzzy warm socks on.

“If I say no, do I still have to follow them?”

“Yep.”

“There’s no justice in the world.”

“I seem to recall a little girl who once upon a time told me that she wants me to make the rules and decide what is and isn’t just.”

“She was twenty–six and high on sexcapades.” Mary had been doing things to me. Ensorcelling me by making me fall utterly and totally in love with her until I was completely dependent on her opinion of me and wanted nothing so much as to please her and hear her call me a good girl. (I am not a golden retriever – really!)

“The rule today is, you come tell me if you need the potty.”

“What do I get in exchange for obeying?”

“Your butt gets to live another day, but,” she said and gave me her I’m–about–to–pounce–on–you look right before she (oof!) pounced on me, “don’t you wanna be my good girl and play my game today?”

What even is that that she thinks she can just (mmm) kiss my neck (ooo) and tickle my (hhhh) and raise the prospect of me disappointing her (urgh) and think she can manipulate me (grrr) into her latest depravities (heehee)? Where did she even get that idea (other than our history as a couple dating back a significant percentage of our lives)?

So entitled. Unethical. Against nature and the rights of humankind. Well, I had had enough, and I told her right where she could put her manipulations (fi!) and coercions (eep!) and rewards (muh) and tongue (mmm!). I told her off and said, “Yes’m.” Dammit …

“Good girl.”

Aww, hear what she called me? I don’t mean to brag or nothing, but my wife thinks I’m a good girl.

She gave me one of those quick pecks and said, “I’ll make breakfast.”

She was gone in a flash to go make breakfast, which is when I said, “Damn right you will” very quietly.

I don’t know the name of her game, but I can say I didn’t especially care for parts of it because as soon as breakfast was over and she had cleaned up (she volunteered to clean up, which is when I left the room and said, “Damn right you will.”) she said, “Let’s go,” and took me by the wrist.

“Where?” You might think I’m paranoid, but there are some days when I don’t trust her so much and wish I knew what was going to happen next. I mean, yes, I’m always three steps ahead of her, but sometimes that means I don’t know what the first and second steps are. Really.

“To the potty, silly.”

“Ourgh!”

“Is it that hard to hold it?”

“Marrry!” Whiskis the sound my pullup made as it reached my ankles. Her pullup. Hers. I … dammit.

“Can you try to go for me,” she asked with all the faux earnestness she can muster (which is a lot)

“Why am I naked again,” I asked with my arms folded across my chest.

“Because big girls pee in the potty and not their pants, silly, but you have to sit down first.”

“Stop smiling.”

“Stop standing.” Well, touché?

And then I was sitting. We should invest in heated toilet seats.

“Mary,” I said and started to stand up and then these hands were on my shoulders preventing me – me! an agent of my own fate! – from standing.

“Five minutes.”

I closed my eyes to gather my patience and said, “Fine. Can I get some privacy, please?”

“Of course not.”

“Thank – what!?! Marrry! Get out,” I didn’t whine. No whining. I don’t even know why people keep bringing up whining when I don’t even do that ever. Really.

Mary knows when she’s crossed a line. She knows when she’s pushed me too far. That’s why when I ordered her out of the bathroom, she sat down on the edge of the tub. Dammit.

“Are we really going to sit here for five minutes,” I asked. Not many people can sit on the toilet because they were told to and maintain a regal level of dignity, but I can. Really. (Really? Please? Meh, really.)

“Well, if you tinkle before then, you can go back to playing after we clean your princess parts and wash our hands.”

“What is even happening right now?” What does it all mean!?! Not that I ever stood under the night sky and shouted that, except when watching Lost. Real – fuck it.

“You tinkle in the potty and …”

“You’re giving me a headache.”

“I’ll rub your shoulders for you when the time is up.”

“I’m not talking to you anymore.” La dee da, not talking to Mary. Not even looking at her. Staring off into space. My, what an interesting ceiling we have. LA DEE FRIGGIN’ DA!

“Guess you don’t have to go,” Mary I’m–so–clever said after five minutes. She actually set the timer on her phone. Like she’s funny or something. She’s not, ya know. I mean, she often is, but in the moment, not. N–O–T. “Let’s get you dressed. Up.”

“Does that mean I can have pants?”

“You’re talking to me again,” she asked as she pulled her pullup back into place over my parts. Who does she think she is? The building inspector? I say what goes over my plumbing. Me, and no one else. Except Mary. Dammit…

“No, I’m not talking to you again …. So is that a yes on the pants?”

“Nope. Snug as a bug in a pullup.” See? She’s not funny. She just tells corny dad jokes designed to afflict me. “Remember to come get me if you need to go.”

I spent the next half hour googling bathroom use denial and adult potty training fetishes not being exactly sure which, if either, she was up to. She’s nothing if not full of surprises and only too happy to explore new and exciting (for her, exclusively … mostly … some of the times … rarely) ways to tickle our erotic humiliation bones. My brain said yellow light, and my gut said let’s see where this goes and my brain said to my gut you always say that, which is when I said, “You both have terrible instincts and suck in different ways. Equally, but in different ways.”

Not that time seems to mean much anymore, but I looked at the time and wondered how it could be that twenty minutes could last a whole ten hours. Which is when my brain said you have to pee. And my gut said, just go to the bathroom. And my brain said, that is so like you – first, you say let’s wait and see, and then your instinct is to do exactly the thing that gets her butt spanked twice a week in a good week. And my butt chimed in with, yeah, ya jerk.

I have to let my brain win some of these fights, if only to give my butt a chance to heal, so I went to Mary (because I’m good girl and one of the all–time great rule followers – really! please believe me!) and said, “I have to pee. What now?” Which I said because we all know she had some notion of what she wanted me to do next.

“Already?”

“Yep. So …” And I hinted toward the bathroom.

“But you just tried.”

“I didn’t have to go then, so could we …”

“Mmmm nah.”

“’Nah’?” What the fuck is ‘nah’? “What is ‘nah’?”

“I just settled in to read the news.”

“So do it in the bathroom!”

“Nah.”

“Marrry!”

“O, just sit and snuggle with me.”

Mixed signals! Unclear directions! Inadequate instructions! Terms not in common usage! Exhibit not in evidence! GRRRRR!

“What game are we even playing?!?”

“Same one we always play, sweetie. Sit.” So it was a game of Torment Daphne after all. I should’ve known. All the signs were there.

“Buh – fine! But I’m gonna pout.” I at least warn her before I do stuff like pout (occasionally). It’s called courtesy. I’m the most courteous person, like Jeeves and Miss Manners had acrobatic courtesy sex and created a courtesy love child.

“I know. You’re being a very good girl, by the way,” she congratulated me without looking up from her phone to see what was one of the best angry–pouting faces I’ve ever made, and I’ve made at least, like, two. It could be more, but it’s also not because I don’t pout. That’s just not me. Really.

But as to my being a good girl in that moment? “Urgh! I know and it sucks.” Really – o no, like for realzies really.

There I sat, as useful as a lump on a log while Mary read on her phone and I did some conspicuous pouting–as–protest. This little monarchy of hers desperately needs a parliament. Something bicameral. And I should be one of the cameras (camere, technically). She read me the occasional headline, and I read the news plenty. I read the news so much sometimes she tells me I’m not allowed to read anymore news because it makes me anxious. I miss the boring decade from the first third of my life.

“Alright, let’s go,” she said all sunny like I’m supposed to be excited about this game. AND WHAT ARE WE EVEN PLAYING!?!

“Ugh. Fine.” I followed her back to the bathroom.

“Alright,” she said, “down those … aww, it’s okay to have accidents. I guess it’s my fault for not taking you to the potty sooner.”

“Suhbuhdunuh higeruh hairen fruhtotter! (Sound of a bee swarm) and (steam escaping) and (alley cats fighting) and I’ll sue! (Angry bear roars)! Defamation of character! (Bostonians shouting at a tourist in a roundabout.) Abuse of authority! (Gasoline catching fire) False advertising, bad rule making and kernoffler, Mary!” O, and there was a lot of fist clenching and stomping, too. Me, specifically, I did the fist clenching and stomping and turning red and giving out dirty looks like candy on a pre–covid Halloween.

Mary, instead of listening to the charges leveled against her, was going, “Hahahaha!”

“Stop laughing at me! (sniff)”

“Aww, c’mere. Let me make it all better.” For the record, I only accepted her hug because I like her and her hugs a lot. Also, I only let her put her hand on the pullup because she didn’t ask permission and I’m a good girl, dammit! (Dammit.) “You soaked this pullup. You couldn’t wait another thirty minutes?”

“But you didn’t say I had to wait another thirty minutes. You just said no,” I didn’t whine. “And the rule about the pullups and you … (huff).”

“Poor, sweet thing. Have you had enough trying for today?”

As in trying to play at whatever game she was playing? “Yes (sniff)”

“Alright, let’s go change you back into one of your big girl diapers. I know you tried your hardest.”

“So I’m not in trouble?” Not that it would be like Mary to invent a game I can’t possibly win and spank me for losing. She’d nevvvver do that – really. (And that, folks, was my first – ever – sarcastic ‘really.’ Really).

“No, sweetie. You did a very good job. Besides, I don’t spank for potty accidents because that would just be cruel.” Which is when she winked at me, which is when my bottom lip started quivering because she pushed all my buttons. Like I said, she knows right where the edge is and not often but sometimes takes me right up to it. It’s one thing to spank a person to tears. It’s another thing to humiliate a person to tears. Right at the edge. She chuckled at my quivering lip and cooed, “Awww. Maybe you didn’t get enough sleep. Do you wanna go back to bed for a while?”

“Mhmm.” Remember an hour and a half prior when I didn’t wanna get outta bed? Me too.

“Okay. Let’s go get one your fluffy cloth diapers on.” I would’ve protested, but I was kinda out of all the words by that point.

“Will you lay down with me?” Except those words.

“Yep, and I’ll hold you real tight and stroke your cheek until you fall asleep.”

“Can we have sex later?” Also, those words, but I was asking for my friend.