Mary and Daphne #88 (Patreon)

Someone around here has to make executive decisions and take action. That’s just a fact of life. You can’t have just nobody taking responsibility for anything. I had to be the boss. I had to do it even without Mary’s permission. Or in this case, specifically without Mary’s permission because she’d said she didn’t wanna do it, and there was no way not to get caught. Me taking executive action even though I knew I’d get caught? Running a risk was I. My heroism is small, but it’s still heroic.

“Mary,” I called out.

“What’s up buttercup?”

“Could you please come help me with something?”

Okay, so I didn’t so much get caught as needed to ask for help finishing what I started. I was helpful, too. I got out everything necessary to finish the job. It just looked like a different kind of job from Mary’s perspective.

“Why are the stool and hairbrush in the living room? What did you do?” For the record, because I’m a recordkeeper, while I have asked for a hairbrush spanking before, I have never and will never ask for one over the stool. And don’t think I didn’t realize what conclusions she would draw seeing them there. I was already risking a smack bottom for what I’d started, and that was before I got out two of her favorite smack bottom accessories. Three, if you count me.

I was in the kitchen. “Promise you won’t be mad?”

“Well, tell me first, and then I’ll decide.”

“Ugh. That is such big logic.”

“Why don’t you just come in here and tell me?”

“Okay … but don’t be mad and don’t laugh.” I came out from around the corner, scissors in hand and with about one–third of a haircut. “Um, I was tired of it being so long.” And she wouldn’t cut it, so I forced the issue. She couldn’t leave me with a third of a haircut. Now she had no choice.

“Daffy …”

“Stop giggling.”

“Buh-ha!” I really need to learn to stop stomping my feet when I’m frustrated. Half the time it just gets me in trouble, and the other half it makes Mary go, “Aww. You’re adorable.”

“Would you please help me finish?”

“I guess we don’t have any choice now. Come sit.” I got on the stool and remembered there’s a reason I don’t like stools – I feel like a little kid when I sit on them. I know no one’s feet touch the floor when they’re sitting on a stool, but when I sit on one, I’m so short I have to hop–scoot my way up to the bar (or else ask Mary to subtly push me in). Makes me feel like I’m in a highchair. So when you go out with friends again and you go to a bar, just be courteous and don’t sit at the bar if your friends are under five–seven.

“Have you ever actually sat on this,” Mary asked.

“Not really what we bought it for, is it?”

“Well, I don’t know, Daffy. It is a stool. What did we buy it for then?”

“Grumble.”

“I don’t think we bought it for grumble. I think we bought it for me to sit on when you go over the knee.” Over the knee – makes it sound like on the chopping block.

She was trying to needle me, so I reminded her, “Haircut.”

“And more specifically,” Mary said while hugging me from behind. She likes, um, doing stuff to me from behind, “we got it because nothing reminds you what a little girl you are than being put over my knee on this stool so your handsies and feetsies don’t even touch the floor. Doesn’t that make you feel all helpless and submissive?”

“Marrrry.”

“Got a picture of what we’re going for?” I took out my phone and brought up the picture of the haircut I was trying to give myself.

“Hmm. Maybe next time something a little less complicated.”

“Think you can do it?”

“I can do the amateur version. You did a pretty good job getting started.”

“Does that mean you’re proud of me?”

“Of course I am.” Heehee! My wife is proud of me. “O look,” she said, “Daffy went fishing for compliments and caught one.”

“Ha!”

“I’m gonna miss your long hair. I liked styling it. Head up.”

“Maybe it’ll be back in a few months. I just don’t like having to take care of it.”

“I see. So if I promised to wash it and comb it for you, would you grow it back out?”

“Like every day?”

“Mhmm.”

“Heh. Maybe.”

“Every night before bed you could sit in front of me while I brush your hair one hundred times.”

“You are such a big.”

“And you are not saying no, so what does that make you?”

“A woman of few words.”

“That’s a fib if ever I heard one.”

“So you saw the stool and hairbrush and thought I got them out so you could spank me?”

“It’s what they’re for.”

“Yeah, but why did you think I spread newspaper on the floor.”

“In case you piddled while getting your bottom spanked.”

“Marrrry. When have I ever piddled while getting my bottom spanked? And who even does that?”

“Well, then do you care to explain why when I take down your undies to spank that cute little bottom of yours they’re so often damp?”

Eep. “No. No, I do not care to explain that.” She kissed my cheek from behind. And was that ear nibble? Heehee!

“One thing I do like about your short hair,” Mary said.

“What’s that?”

“It so much easier to nibble on your earlobe.”

Ooo, a warm and tingly sensation in my tummy. “You keep saying stuff like that and I’m gonna start thinking you like me and stuff,” I warned her.

“Hold up your phone again.”

Imagine going to the stylist and the stylist not having a mirror in front of you for you to watch. Now, swap out the stylist for an IT developer (or whatever Mary’s title is). It’s an exercise in faith, supported by remembering no one but the IT developer is really gonna see you for a while (besides from the grandma next door and your parents on zoom).

“Did I ever tell you,” Mary asked, “that one of the only real spankings I ever got growing up was for cutting my own hair?”

“I can see where you’re going with this.” She’s as subtle as a toaster (just think about that and you’ll realize it’s a perfectly good simile).

“Mom was not happy with me,” Mary said.

“How old were you?”

“Ummm, I think kindergarten?”

“You sure she wasn’t mad because you were playing with scissors?”

Mary stopped what she was doing for a second. “Well, now I’m not … she … hmm.”

“I’m insightful like that.” She gave me another kiss on the cheek.

“We’re going to need to wash your hair when we’re done,” she said. “Get all the stray bits.”

“I know. We should do that in the downstairs bathroom.”

“Why?”

“Reasons.” I have reasons. Like that tub is big enough for both of us, and I already got the bath beads ready and some champagne and strawberries chilling in the back of the fridge.

“Silly goose.”

“I’m not a silly goose.”

“Then what are you?”

“I’m your funny valentine … Mary?”

“(Sniff).”

“Aww, please don’t do that.” Whenever she does it, I end up doing it, like, thirteen times harder.

“(Kiss).” Ooo, heehee. The back of my neck. The rest of my neck. Shoulder. Ear. Kiss kiss kiss kiss. Sigh…

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Mary.”

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Daffodil.”