Mary and Daphne #85 (Patreon)

It was getting to be a long day. Somewhere between working and not working there must be some happy place where the days don’t get ridiculously long. Maybe it’s because the pandemic means I can’t go anywhere. I like to at least imagine that if I could go places and see people and do things that this state of semi–retirement would be more fun.

So what did I do? I made breakfast for us, then I watched the Today Show, doom scrolled through social media, and tried to find a new book to read that wasn’t erotica. I used to read all the time. I don’t know what gives now, but lately I just can’t seem to get into a good book. I blame social media and the internet. I think they killed my attention span. MTV killed the radio star; the internet killed the attention span.

Then I made lunch for us and decided after, when Mary was back in her office and couldn’t say no, to make no–bake cookies. But I make them with protein powder and they’re high in fiber, so at least they have some nutritional goodness. Ya know those crisper containers that keep vegetables fresh in the fridge for longer? I put the cookies in there. Not to hide them but because it’s big and I made lots of cookies.

I went to take Mary a cookie and ask for assistance with a thing and found her office door closed. Granted, it took a couple spankings, but I remembered I’m not supposed to go in or knock if she has the door closed. I didn’t want the cookie to spoil, so I ate it just in case she was going to be in her office for fourteen days (waste not, want not and all that and stuff) and texted her.

She texted me back, “I’m on calls for the next couple hours. You can change it.”

Well, not that I don’t know how, but I still haven’t done that, and I don’t want to. They really are Mary’s diapers, and why should I have to put something on me that I don’t even want? That’d be like her telling me to spank myself, and I haven’t done that since I was single and lonely. (Because sometimes back then, I needed a reminder to behave myself, but more specifically I needed a reminder that a hot, smarting bottom made my woohoo parts go woohoo!)

I went up to our bedroom and just took the diaper off, did some hygiene stuff to freshen up, and put on panties. I spent a little time looking in the mirror, too. I had a strange impulse that morning to look like I actually had somewhere to go, and not just somewhere, but somewhere nice. I put on a dress and did my hair (sort of – I don’t know what to do with my long hair and I wanna get a haircut) and even a little makeup and earrings. I was looking very pretty, if I say so myself (and I did, so there).

And since I was looking so pretty, I decided to do what all pretty girls do and play Assassin’s Creed. Is it me, or are the cut scenes a total waste of time?

“Daphne Ann,” Mary said as she startled me out of my virtual parkour.

“Hi. Done with work?”

“What game are you playing? You just eviscerated that person!”

“Ha! Yeah.” Good times.

“We need to get you some nice games for little girls.”

Which I countered with a dirty look and, “But this is a nice game, and I’m not a little girl.”

“Just because you put on a little blush doesn’t mean you’re a big girl. For one thing, big girls know how to sit when they’re in a dress.” Okay, for the record, I was in video game stance. It’s not pretty, but it is effective. “Hold still and let me check your undies.”

She can really move fast when it involves my nethers. She’s like the Green Lantern (what was his superpower?) or the Flash or Usain Bolt. But I’m faster (when there’s a coffee table between us) and moved out of video game stance into crossing my legs stance. “No,” I said.

“Excuse me?”

“You don’t need to check anything. I’m fine.”

“Someone’s in a mood.”

“Yeah, you.” With her teasing and video game criticism and I did a really good job putting on my makeup, which is a ridiculous thing for someone my age to be proud of, but I hadn’t done it in I don’t even know how long, and I did good. What did she do all day except keep the internet on? Like that’s a public service or something.

“What’s gotten into you,” she asked as she sat down next to me and pushed me (she pushed me! well, more of a nudge, but she pushed me!) just enough so she could get a hand under my butt. “Daphne Ann Taylor, where is your diaper, young lady?”

O my god, she was soooo in a mood if she went and trotted out all three of my names, and I didn’t even do anything. Granted, I told her no, which is against the rules, but she was being snippy with me before I even said that. And yeah, we were both snippy, but she started it (you don’t think she knows I ate her cookie, do you?).

“I took it off. You said I could.”

“I said you could change it. I did not say you could change out of it.”

“Well, how was I supposed to know that?”

“O, don’t even try that. That’s why you didn’t want me to check.”

“I didn’t want you to check because there’s nothing to check!” There’s no condition down there that was in need of checking! At the time.

“So you’re really going to sit there and tell me that when you went upstairs to change you didn’t even spend one second considering whether to put a new one on? And don’t dig a deeper hole for yourself and fib.”

“That just means you’ve already decided what the truth is,” I pointed out. I’m good at pointing stuff out. Such as, o look, a squirrel and a five–foot–ten lezdom who’s being really unfair.

“So what is the truth?”

“(Sound of a gentle breeze through a canyon)”

“That’s what I thought. Let’s go.”

“Buh – urgh!” SWAT. “Eep!”

“That wouldn’t have hurt if you had your diaper on.”

“It wouldn’t hurt if you had learned to keep your hands to yourself!” We learn that in pre–school where I come from, and it’s a very good guide to life and she should SMACK!“Ow! Marrry! Slow down at least.” She has longer legs than me. I’m a tiny little woman!

“You can scurry just fine when you want to.” And yeah, but that, like, wasn’t a convenient fact for me right then. Really.

She took me right to the bedroom and sat me down on the edge of the bed, folded her arms, cocked her head, and asked, “Are you having a mini rebellion today?” To which I rolled my eyes. I’m allowed to roll my eyes. They’re mine, and they’re in my head, so I can do what I want with them. Which is when she shook her head and went, “Tsk tsk tsk,” and sighed. “I see the problem now. I can’t believe this is still a thing. Stand up.”

“There’s no problem,” I said as I stood up.

“O yes there is, too. You’re wearing big girl clothes, and you think that makes you a big girl.” She lifted my dress above my waist. “Black satin,” she said and put her hand right on my black satin panties. “Satin is hard to wash, Daphne. That’s why it’s for big girls and not pee pants girls.”

Now, you may hear from misinformed third parties that my reaction to that comment was unrefined, perhaps even a tantrum, or that it went something like, “(Foot stomp) You are (sound of hail falling on a tin roof) and (twenty–car pileup) and (lightning striking a power station) and just so (cattle stampede) and being unfair (red–faced, fist–clenched adult out of breath), Mary!”

But I don’t know where these third parties get their information, because what I said was, “How true. Good thing I’m an adult and not a pee pants.” Really.

It was Mary who was out of control with her whole recrossing her arms and looking at me with her you’ve–got–to–be–kidding-me face and her we’ve–had–this–conversation–before tone when she said, “Turn around.”

“Eurgh!” But I did turn around, and you know why? Because I’m a good girl (and stomping your foot doesn’t make you not a good girl. It makes you a good girl who stomps her feet, but only because of all the injustice she’s subject to).

“It’s nice that you wanna be a grown up and wear pretty dresses,” she soliloquized as she unzipped my dress, “and put on makeup. I’m sure it makes you feel very mature. Step out.” And then I was in just my panties and my bra. Unless you count the sour expression I was wearing. “Let’s hang this up,” Mary said. So she did. It was my turn to fold my arms across my chest and glare. So I did.

She put her arm around my shoulder and guided me to my dresser. “And jewelry, too. Tsk tsk.”

“Stop tsking me!”

“Hold still for me, little girl.” Dammit! “Let’s just get these out and put them back where they’re safe.” And she took my earrings out and put them away.

Ya know, I actually really like it when Mary undresses me, but not when she’s being mean. AND I AM TOO A BIG GIRL, DAMMIT! I can wear what I want when I want (unless Mary says otherwise … dammit).

“And let’s go get that makeup off your face.” So we went to the bathroom and I endured her taking the blush off my cheeks (which under the circumstances didn’t make them any less red) and the lipstick, too. “There.” She turned me to face the mirror. “You don’t need to hide that pretty skin at your age.” Okay, that was maybe sincere and a nice compliment, but still.

“And this little bralette. Arms up.” And she took off my bra(lette) and tossed it in the hamper. I was in just my panties, which don’t cover much, which is fine in summer, but our bedroom is chilly in winter and there were goosebumps (which does not make me a silly goose – really!). “Let’s go.” She took me back into the bedroom and sat down on the chair. “Over my knee. Time for your spanking.”

“Emmmmmurgh!” I growled (didn’t wine – I don’t do that, as I’ve said, and if I ever find the person who started that rumor, I’m gonna sic Mary on them) and I put myself over her lap. Sometimes being a good girl is seriously disadvantageous.

“When I put you in a diaper and let you change it, that means put another one on, doesn’t it?”

“But you didn’t say that. How am I supposed to know what you want with this stuff when you won’t tell me?” And the thing is, that was about forty percent a good faith question. As to the other sixty percent, well, never you mind. Don’t be nosy.

“But you did know what I meant, didn’t you? … We’ll stay just like this until you answer me.”

“Yes.”

“Yes, you did. And you also told me no downstairs. Are you allowed to tell me no when I tell you to do something?”

“No.”

“And why not?”

“Because you’re in charge.”

“That’s right. I’m in charge, and little girls are not in charge. What happens when you don’t follow the rules like I’ve taught you to?”

“I get in trouble.”

“And what happens then? Do you get grounded?”

“No.”

“Do you get your allowance taken away?”

“No.” Probably helps that I’m not on an allowance.

“Then when happens?”

“I get spanked.”

“That’s right. I spank your bottom, just like a naughty little girl.”

“I’m not a little girl!”

She took the waistband of my panties and snapped them, which made me eep just a little. “Are these still making you feel like a big girl? Because from where I’m sitting, it just looks like you borrowed your big sister’s panties without permission.”

Okay, so in other contexts, that little scenario would make me cum in my big sister’s panties. In the actual thing happening at the moment, it did not. It so did not. “(Sniff). Why are you being so mean to me today?”

“Honey, I discipline you and give you consequences because I love you and want you to learn right from wrong. If you had followed the rules, you wouldn’t be over my knee about to get your bottom spanked, would you?”

“No (sniff).”

“And I’m sorry I have to give you this spanking. I’d much rather play with you after work than have to spank.”

O. My. God. She is such a fibber. One of these days I’m going to put soap in her toothbrush just so she can learn a lesson the same way she’s tried to teach me to not fib.

She squeezed my butt. “This could’ve been avoided if you had just followed directions. You could still be wearing your pretty dress and not be over my knee. You think about that while I’m giving you your spanking.” I was within an inch of my life of just telling her to shut up already, and another inch of dissolving into sobs, and I don’t even know why.

SMACK SMACK.

“I’m sorry I had to do that.”

“Emmmmmm buhoohoohoo (snort-sob).” She didn’t even do it right! I’ve gotten two spanks for crossing the living room while in possession of a butt! Waaaaah!

“Shh shh. I know that hurt. And you were very brave.” And she was rubbing my shoulders and stroking my back. “Can you sit up for me?”

Yes, but tearfully, is how to translate my, “Mmmm (sniff).”

“There there,” She cooed and and stroked my hair.

“I don’t even know what you’re doing,” I very honestly whined (but seriously, who starts these rumors about me whining?). She was being mean and somehow nice and it was confusing.

“Silly girl, I gave you a spanking.”

“No you didn’t.”

“I gave you a little girl spanking because you’re my little girl. Now let’s get you redressed, okay?”

“Mhmm.” She sorta pivoted so I was sitting in the chair and she was standing. I wouldn’t call it a ninja move, but there was athleticism there.

Instead of going to my dresser, she went into the closet and – big surprise – emerged with diapers and a long–sleeve onesie I was hoping she was saving for never.

“I know a little girl who probably has cold toes, am I right,” she asked. She got some of my fuzzy socks to add to the ensemble. “Let’s get these on you first. Gimme one of these feetsies.” I did, and she didn’t exactly tickle it, but she did run a fingertip down the sole of my foot, and it made me curl my toes. I remember from way back in school they taught us that’s a reflex they test for in newborns. I remember from way back when that I like it when she rubs my feet and does gentle tickles. I don’t like the furious tickling, but I like the gentle kind.

When I had my socks on, she ordered, “Put ‘em up,” and she pulled the onesie over my head. “Where’d Daphne go!?! Dere she is!”

“Hehe. Mary, stop.”

“No.”

“Grr!”

“Come on, let’s get you back in a diaper where you belong.”

Excuse me? “Marrry, I do not.” But I did get on the bed and lay back. I wish she wouldn’t say stuff like that.

She bent down over me right next to my ear and whispered, “You do if I say you do,” and gave my earlobe a nibble. “But,” she said with her I’m–springing–a–surprise–you’ll–hate–and–I’ll–love tone (her eyes always get bright and shiny when she does that), “I understand that sometimes you wanna feel grown up, so you can keep the undies on.”

“Good,” I said and started to sit up.

“Where are you going,” she said with a hand on my chest stopping me part way.

We didn’t use words for what passed between us next. We did the whole thing with facial expressions and eyebrow gestures.

You can’t be serious.

O yes I am.

No.

Yes.

Marrrry!

This is happening.

“No. Mary, no.”

“Lay back down.”

“No, I’m not gonna.” She could never spank me long enough or hard enough to make me pee in my panties.

“Daphne,” she said with one of those meaningful looks of hers, “do as you’re told.”

Urgh!!!!! Unfair! It’s hard being a good girl, and it’s even harder being a submissive good girl. Telling me to do as I’m told may as well be threatening me with kryptonite and snakes. It got me all started with the trembling lip and hyperventilating. “Please,” I moaned.

“It’ll be okay,” she reassured me. “Just lay back and let me take care of it.” I did and put my arms over my eyes and had my own private pity party (with tears as a party favor). “Shh shh shh. Everything will be fine. Lift your bottom for me.”

I did, and she got a cloth diaper under me. I could tell she had a stuffer in it, too (I’m wishing I’d never learned the lingo).

“Open your legs for me … good girl. You’re being a very good girl.”

O, like I didn’t know how good I was being. I was being great. She folded the diaper over me and tugged to get it snug and velcroed me in.

“Lift again.” And in a repeat of the process, she got plastic panties on me, the kind with the snaps. I like those a little more than the other, but that still leaves them in the despised category.

My pity party skipped over rave and went straight to post–rave–drunk–girl–panic–attack. It’s more fun when you’re drunk, and it’s not even fun at all when you’re drunk. Thankfully, Mary knows the signs and laid down next to me, pulling me over so I could cry into her shirt.

“You’re okay,” she whispered.

Long–term, sure. Right then? Nope. Nopety–nope–nope–nope.

She made a snarky comment about my game, implied I wasn’t mature enough for makeup and jewelry, made me take off my dress, talked down to me like I’m a little girl, (viciously) spanked me, and put a diaper on over my panties. She made me wet my panties! (Eventually, not yet then). And I liked those panties! And satin is hard to wash! Really!!! She said so! Grrr!!!

“Umsadatu,” I said.

“What’s that, baby?”

“I’m so mad at you,” I sob–said.

“Aww. That’s okay. You go right ahead and be mad because I love you forever and always no matter what.”

O. my. God. Was it that she didn’t know or didn’t care that saying that would make me bawl? You don’t say stuff like that to me when I’m already a mess unless you’re just looking to turn me into an emotional dumpster fire. Which, yeah, sometimes is helpful with the purging of the feelings, but there’s a time and a place and “Waaaaaaaaaah haaaah haaaah!” I may have even gone, “Boohoohoohoo!”

“I know. Get it all out. It’s my fault …” O, goodie, something we agree on. “… for letting you get dressed like a big girl. I think those clothes just made you forget your place.” Dammit.

Nope nope nope nope nope – fuck it. “Idunhafapace!”

“Of course you do, sweetheart. Your place is right next to my side as my submissive little girl.”

“Umntaittlegrl!”

“But you’re my little girl.” And then she kissed me on the temple. And then she did it again. And then she kissed me on my cheek and my neck. Such effrontery from a peasant.

“Iwuntduit.”

“What won’t you do, Daffodil.”

“Put a diaper on myself. I won’t do it. I don’t even like them. You hafta do it if you want me to wear ‘em.”

“Okay.”

“And you tease too much sometimes.”

“I do?”

“I got all dressed up today, and you made it a thing.”

“I’m sorry. Did I hurt your feelings?”

“A little. (sniff).” O. My. God. I. Am. Pathetic. Sometimes, anyway.

“Then I’m very sorry. Can I tell you something that might make it up you?”

“Yes.” She’d better if she knew what was good for me (which she usually does).

“You were very pretty in your dress.”

“Thank you. I did a good job on my makeup, too.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Yes, I did.”

“My pretty girl.”

But on another urgent matter in need of resolution before things were done that could not be undone, “Do I really gotta pee my panties?”

“Mhmm. Sorry, Daffy, but actions have consequences.”

“Then what’s your consequence for teasing me?”

“I’ll make you dinner and let you hang on me all evening.”

“And who said I wanna hang on you,” I pouted as I burrowed back into her chest.

“Such a snuggly little girl.”

“And?”

“A good girl.”

“A very good girl.”

“My very good girl. Let’s go wash my pretty, good girl’s face.”

“Do the buttons first. And can I have pants?”

“Nope, but we can sit in front of the fire. How’s that,” she asked as she snapped the onesie shut.

“It’s terrible.”

“Such a silly good girl. I love you muchly.”

“I love you muchly more.”