Mary and Daphne #86 (Patreon)

I don’t think you all realize what kind of person Mary is. You all think she’s great, but I’ve been trying to tell you just how evil she is: she’s the kind of evil that would strangle a baby panda.

And I say that because she said the meanest thing she’s ever said to me. Or not to me, but about me and with me sitting right there. And it was so mean it’s evil! I won’t even tell you what she said because some of the evil would rub off on me and I’d have to break quarantine and go to church and apologize to god!

So I’ll just tell you what I said in response to her evilness.

“I DID NOT HAVE STINKY PANTS!”

Deep breath, wait for my heart to slow down, kiss a crucifix, wash the bad feelings away, and rewind.

I put on five pounds with my Christmas–slash–pandemic–induced–stress baking. Which, yeah, isn’t a lot, but it shows on me. I didn’t notice it at first, though I suspect Mary did and was just being nice not saying anything. But when I put my yoga pants on and looked in the mirror, I think my exact words were, “What the fuck is that?”

“What,” Mary asked.

“This! Is it – it wasn’t there last week.”

Mary had her I’m–not–so–sure–about–that look on her face and said, “I’m not so sure about that.” See? She waltzed right up to me and squeezed it. Or tried to because it disappeared when she did, but it popped right back out. “Someone’s got a little jelly roll.”

“Eeeeegyuh! No more cookies and peanut butter.”

“Gee, who said that twenty baking sessions ago?”

“It’s sad how you live in the past, Mary.” Sad, but understandable. It’s her coping mechanism. Some of us bravely live in the present, ready to take whatever life can throw at us with a steely resolve like me, and some of us can’t, like Mary. Really. (What? Really.)

“Can I offer a suggestion,” Mary asked.

“Only if it’s nice.”

“You could use that athleisure outfit of yours to do something athletic to go along with all the leisure.”

Harsh. So harsh. But also right, which makes it even more harsh. Though I wouldn’t call all of my downtime leisure. I’d call it unstructured play, which is important for developing creativity and imagination. Also, I am a lady of leisure, which is what I now call myself instead of unemployed or housewife or stay–at–home–partner or homemaker. Though I am all of those things except for the first one.

So downstairs to our basement gym I went, and I removed the various pieces of laundry hanging on the exercycle I bought at some point in my misspent past. As a stationary bike, not the best brand, but as a thing to hang delicates and shrinkables on to dry, also not the best brand. I dusted off the bluetooth speaker that amazingly still works after not having been used in let’s-not-quantify-my-laziness (but really, leisure – I’m very intrepid), and I got to work.

Now, you don’t lose weight by exercise. You lose it by dieting. But the exercise helps, and not having been to the gym, walked up the stairs in a parking garage, or done much of anything besides a leisurely walk in almost a year, you might say I was still slim on the outside, the five pounds my yoga pants revealed as a little flub of flubber notwithstanding, but I had gotten very fat on the inside. I exercycled as far as my almost atrophied legs and lungs could take me in a half hour, or almost a half hour, when Mary came to the top of the stairs and walked down to congratulate me on my first step toward better health.

She went, “Turn it down!” I guess the congratulatory part was silent.

“What?”

“TURN IT DOWN!” And she turned off my speaker. “I’m glad you’re doing this and hope you do it tomorrow, but you can’t blast your music while I’m working. The noise goes right up the vent to the guest room. Here,” she said and held out the headphones I bought (for more than the agreed upon spending limit) but that Mary let me keep (after paddling me with the school paddle). I’m still walking funny from that one. Or the seven or eight since. Who’s to say? I’m not a doctor.

“Sorry … and thank you.”

She made her Daphne–is–yummy face and put her hand rather suggestively on my arm. “You’re a little sweat ball.”

“Am not! I’m just glistening.” We’ve been over this. I glisten. Pigs sweat. Woodland creatures such as myself glisten.

“Can’t remember the last time I saw you so sweaty outside the sheets.”

“It’s not sweat. It’s … whatever substance makes us glisten.”

“Us?”

“Me and other sylphs and water nymphs.”

“Ha! Don’t strain yourself.”

“I won’t. I’m an experienced athlete … who’s hasn’t athleted in a while.”

Mary went back to her work, and I went back to mine, which is when I remembered how much harder it is after you stop for a few minutes but how easy it is to take a break.

I have the willpower of a golden retriever, the impulse control of a golden retriever, and the appetites of an intact golden retriever. I can sense you shaking your heads what with my normally stoic and even ascetic approach to life, but it’s true. Sometimes I just can’t help myself when it comes to whatever endorphin- or oxytocin-inducing thing I set my mind on, and no sooner do I satisfy that desire than my mind finds another pleasure-inducing thing to want. I find the best way to deal with this is to remove the temptation entirely. Of course, many of those appetites and accompanying temptations are called Mary, but at least I can throw out the junk food.

You might be wondering if Mary would be mad at me for throwing out the junk food, and the answer is no because she’s one of those freaks who doesn’t crave it like it’s the best thing since me. Which is totally unfair. I mean, I was addicted to Diet Coke from the age of friggin’ four, but at least I managed to stay my svelte little self growing up in the land of BBQ Jalapeño Ranch Everything. The Wisconsin climate and diet aren’t friendly for us naturally cold, hungry, and addictive types.

With nothing else to do, I went back down to the basement after lunch for some strength training. We have bands and kettlebells and some dumbbells acquired here and there from our various dalliances with fitness trends. I hoisted and carried and lifted and put down and pronated and supinated and extended and contracted and … stuff. That’s when I realized two things. Firstly, I should make an actual plan for my exercising. Second and more immediately, I was in trouble.

How did I know I was in trouble? I saw Mary’s irritable feet coming down the stairs. Only Mary could manage to have irritable feet. The normal folk out there like you and me just have irritable expressions, but even in her work slippers (I invented that category of footwear just for her), she can have irritable feet.

“Daphne, I told you to use your headphones.”

Obviously, I was using my headphones because … dammit.

“I must’ve left them upstairs when I took a break. Sorry.” Also, breaks can be three hours long. I decided. On this, I am the decider. Really.

“A little late for sorry. I had to get off a conference call because your dance party is coming through the vent.” Which is when I saw …

“Mary, not the … urgh.”

“Yep, this might make you remember when I tell you something. Grab your knees.”

I hate the school paddle! It’s so … big. And I’m not! Why couldn’t I gain all five pounds in my ass? Stupid weight gain and stupid paddle and stupid HVAC system.

I wasn’t even playing my music that loud.

“Can’t we talk about this,” I asked in what apparently came across as a rhetorical question because Mary took me by my shoulder, turned me, and bent me forward.

“We can talk about it tonight after your paddling and when I’m done with work.”

WHAP! “Eep!” WHAP!!! “Yow!!” Sniffle.

“Headphones,” she said and kissed me. “I have to get back on that call.”

And she kissed me again. That’s the second time those headphones got me paddled by Assistant Vice Principal for Buzzkilling Mary. And yes, it’s the headphones’ fault, not mine. Really.

And did I mention OW! I can’t believe it’s legal to do that to anyone but a consenting adult because OW!!! My butt hurt, and just above that and around the corner was a little ball of tummy dread because often, but not always but often and frequently, if Mary gets out the school paddle I get another spanking the same day. You may not have noticed, but I’ve kinda been not getting spanked as frequently as I was before. Like maybe just once (and a half) a week (on average) as compared to twice (and a third time), and I was kinda enjoying not spending so much time in the corner. I was getting playful good girl spankings to make up for it, which is key to a happy Daffy. And approximate rhyme is not a spanking offense. Really. Besides, happy Daffy assonates. Go look it up.

I finished my workout and spent some time examining my butt (marks with just two swats! that thing should be added to the list of weapons of ass destruction), and checking out my figure. Not because I’m vain but because good health demands it. And also vanity.

I went downstairs to the kitchen for a post–workout snack of healthy fruits and nuts, and there was Mary. “I’m sorry about the music,” I said.

“Everything travels right up the vent, and why do you play it so loud anyway?”

“I was feeling the burn?”

“And how does your bottom feel now?”

“It burns.” Har har. She pulled a chair out from the kitchen table and turned it so it was facing the room. “Aww, c’mon. You already spanked me. I won’t do it again.”

“What’s the rule about getting spanked at school?”

“What are you even talking about?”

“Did you get your bottom paddled today?”

“Mary …

“Daphne Ann, I asked you a question, little girl.”

“Yes.” And I am NOT a little girl! Dammit!

“And what kind of paddle was it?”

“School paddle.”

“So you must’ve gotten your bottom paddled at school, and what’s the rule about getting spanked away from home?”

“But that’s only if I get spanked by someone else.”

“And during business hours, I’m Senior Vice President Taylor, who had to drop off a meeting to go downstairs and discipline you.”

“But that’s not fair!” I didn’t stomp my foot. It was more like half a stomp. Just my heel came up, so that doesn’t count.

“Who whines about fairness?”

“Marrrry!” And who even whines? Not me. It’s those other people. They’re the whiners.

“Do I need to make you say it?”

Ooo, this one time she made me say something by … anyhoo. “Little kids and hypocritical politicians whine about fairness,” I grumbled.

“And have you been elected or appointed to an office I don’t know about?”

Well, I am Empress, but that’s a secret, so, “No.”

“Then I guess we know what you are. Come here to me.” I got within arm’s length before she took my wrist and pulled me over her lap.

“But it still hurts from the paddling!”

“I imagine it does.” SMACK! Mary and her stupid imagination. SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! And so forth. I mean, you must know the routine by now. Me over Mary’s getting spanked like a (little) giantess who bestrides the world (or Mary’s lap) stoically (grunting and verbalizing my growing discomfort) as I accept the injustice (though this time it was debatable) of the world as I take the sins of others (who are me) upon myself (butt).

“I said I was sorry.”

“And I (spank) accept (spank) your apology (spank) but that (spank) doesn’t (spank) mean (spank) you get (spank) out (spank) of (spank) your (spank) pun– (spank) ish– (spank) ment (spank).”

“Why are you making so big a deal out of this?”

“Because (spank) I shouldn’t (spank) have to tell you (spank) things twice, but if I do (SPANK), then I guess (spank) you need to be (spank) spanked twice (spank spank spank).”

“Mary, that – ow! Okay – ow! I won’t do it again. I’ll list– ow! Fuck muffins.”

“Excuse me, what did you say?”

“Fuck cupcakes? Teehee?” SPANK!!!! “Furple!” I exclaimed for some reason, I guess. I only have good reasons for the things I do and say. Really.

“Little girls do not swear during their spankings, and they don’t get to keep their pants up, either.”

“No, Mary, please? Not bare. It already – ouchie!”

Holy fuck, Daphne, did you just say ouchie, asked the mean girl voice in my head.

So what if I did, the sensitive girl shot back.

So this pandemic really is turning you into a little girl.

But it hurts!

It’s a hand spanking!

So? Like you’ve ever been on the receiving end of Mary’s hand.

Hello? We share a butt, remember?

You’re a butt.

Said the little girl with her playground comeback.

Shut up!

“Owie!”

Aww, did the little girl get a spanking on her bare bottom from the big mean Mary?

She’s not mean! She’s just strict because I (“Oof!”) asked her to be.

Let me guess – first you’re gonna cry, and then you’re gonna sit in her lap and cuddle?

Yes! So what? … And shut up, ya big buttface.

“(Subsonic mouse cries).” SPANK! “Myeh.”

What was that?

It was a high–pitched sob, now shut up already!

“Ehuh ehuh ehuh waaaaaah!”

She’s still spanking you, if you thought crying was going to make her stop, which would at least be a good excuse for carrying on like a little girl.

Waaaaaaaah!

Yep, crying just like a little girl.

Am not! I’m just crying.

Now she’s not spanking you, but you’re still crying.

I know – (sniff).

“Shh shh shh,” Mary cooed while rubbing my butt.

And we did cuddle, and she did wash my face and call me pretty, and she did hold up a paper towel and tell me to honk, etcetera, etcetera. I got a good summation lecture about listening the first time and being on my best behavior during business hours. Etcetera.

But then Mary had to go and be Mary and answer the phone after dinner. “Hey, Brenna.”

“Hey. Just calling to see how you guys are doing.”

“We want out,” Mary said.

“Same. How’s Daphne?”

“You can ask her yourself.” And I’d have been happy to talk except Mary didn’t just let me talk. She had to turn on the video which sent me scrambling for a blanket to pull up to my chin because I was dressed … for bed. Meaning naked, um, really. Naked, and wearing … something.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi. Are you feeling shy?”

“Um, I’m naked.”

“She is not,” Mary helpfully chimed in. My wife, my lover, my helpmeet, that’s Mary, who’s also a narc. “She’s just shy because she’s dressed for bed.”

“It’s only 7:30. What happened, Daffy? Did you get an early bedtime?”

“No,” Mary said. “I just like her in her jammies. But she did get her bottom spanked today.”

“Marrry!”

“Brenna knows all about little girls who need their bottom spanked, including yours.”

“I’m not a little girl,” I said as I absentmindedly chewed on the edge of the blanket. “Can I come live with you?”

“No, you may not, little girl,” Mary said and kissed me on my temple. “I wanna keep you.”

Not to change the subject, but Mary wants to keep me and she gives me temple kisses (though my whole body is a temple) which made me get this all over tingly, warm sensation.

And that sensation lasted right up until Mary said, “Besides, Brenna, she’s an awful lot of work. When I put her over my knee, Little Miss Sass Bottom here had stinky pants.”

“Muh,” said I.

“No way,” Brenna laughed.

“Buh,” said me.

“Very stinky.”

“She is such a little girl,” said Brenna

Well, I am many things. I am an empress. I am a temple. I am someone who is going crazy in the pandemic times and gets in fights with herself in her own head while getting spanked. But – BUT! “I am not a little girl and I DID NOT HAVE STINKY PANTS!”

“It’s okay,” Brenna said. “You do what ….”

“I was working out! I was sweaty! I didn’t!”

“Maybe she does need that early bedtime,” Brenna speculated because I don’t know why. “She’s getting herself all worked up over some stinky britches.”

“Marrry, see what you did?”

“Yep. You wanna see her bedtime outfit,” Mary asked.

“No,” I declared. Not just any declaration but one of those infallible ones just us popes and empresses get to make. And I gripped the blanket, now pulled up to just under my nose, in case Mary tried to make me.

“But if you wanna live with her she’s gonna need to know how to dress you properly.”

“I can dress myself.”

“But you told me just the other day that you don’t wanna put your diapers on yourself.”

“Marrrry!” Embarrassed, pleading puppy dogs were turned all the way up to eleven. They’re one of the main weapons at the disposal of empresses (such as myself).

“Sorry,” Brenna said, “I don’t change stinky diapers.”

“I didn’t,” I squeaked and turned toward Mary and buried my face in the space between her back and the couch. I was taught at a young age by a very kind child psychologist to take a break when needed to regather my patience and thoughts to deal with heightened anxiety and stress, and I needed such a moment and a private place to take it, and purely by happenstance, hiding behind Mary was (and frequently is) a good place to have a minute to myself. So let’s not read any more into it than that.

The rest of their conversation was brief and muffled. Something about cooking? Anyway …

“You can come out now,” Mary said as she leaned just a little bit away from me.

“Why’d you tell her that,” I asked.

“Because a little embarrassment is a good reminder to certain little girls to behave. And you know why else,” she said with a lascivious grin.

Yes, yes I do know why else. “I’m not a little girl.” Really!!! “My diaper is wet.” Hers! Dammit …

“Already? I just put it on you twenty minutes ago, and you pottied right before.”

“It’s not pee.” (Sniff)

“You need a little help with that?”

“Yes please.” (Sniff)

“Lie back back for me, baby.”

“I’m not a baby.”

“I think we’ll start calling this is a number three.”

“Ehhhehrm!”

“Such a grumpy girl.”

“I’m not grumpy. I’m frustrated and impatient and my butt still hurts.”

“Aww (crinkle) is your bottom all red and sore under your diapee (crinkle)?”

“Urr.” With her hands (crinkle) pressing in (crinkle). “Yes.”

“Wanna tell me what happened?”

“I got – hhh – my bare bottom – hhhh– spanked for diso – urgggggm – beying.”

“And you had stinky pants when you got your spanking, didn’t you?”

“Ffffffff no.”

“Yes you did.”

“Ffff mmmmm nnnno.”

“Yes you did.”

“Hhhh hh hh hhhhhh mm mm mm … … … …. …. …… (Sigh).” Welp, that was quick, mayhaps an indication of just how revved she had my little engine … which leave time for seconds and thirdsies before bed. Also, “No I didn’t. …. Wanna turn?”

“Heehee. My little Daffodil. God bless whoever taught you about taking turns.”

“Heeeheeee.”

“It’s one of the things that makes you such a good girl.”

Oooo, my wife thinks I’m a good girl. And I am. Really. Heeheee.