Mary and Daphne #89 (Patreon)

Cold? Us too, but not as cold as lots of other places. It was just cold enough for us to go hiking and come back ruddy cheeked and wanting hot food, ideally prepared by someone else, served after a hot shower which we took together to be efficient and to save water and to reach places we can’t reach on our own. Really.

Mary combed my hair (what’s left of it) and sent me toward the bedroom with a swat to my butt through the towel I was wearing. “Wait for me,” she said. Not that I didn’t want all the sex, but also dinner. It’s like my mom always said, at least make ‘em buy you dinner first. Or perhaps mom didn’t say that. Doesn’t sound like her. Maybe it was my older cousin. Family rumor has it she got lots of free dinners, which I still wanna believe means she’s good at couponing because I am an innocent.

Anyhoo, Mary emerged from our bathroom in her robe as I observed from flat on my back on the bed, wondering what she wanted me to wait for. And was it wait as in don’t go anywhere or wait as in don’t get dressed or wait as in don’t start nuthin’ without her? Not that I’ve ever been known to start anything without her … anyhoo …

She chuckled at me and said, “You got that look you get from fresh air.”

“I’m an avid outdoorswoman, within a narrow band of meteorological conditions.” The rest of the time, I’m an avid couchwoman. “And you’re one to talk, telling me to wait for you to do things to me.”

“Who said anything about doing things to you? I just wanna get you dressed,” she said as she took her robe off and started to get dressed.

“Could you do that thing again,” I asked.

“What thing?”

“That thing where you bend forward to put your foot through your pant leg.” I don’t know why I like that. Just … her body. I like to watch it move. Also, if she did it again, she’d have to get undressed first, and I can work with that.

“See anything else you like,” she asked.

“You. But just to be clear, that would be a no on the sex with you putting clothes on?”

“Well, for now. I gotta eat.”

O yeah, I was just thinking about that. I got distracted by Mary. She’s always distracting me with shiny objects, like her body. And this one time, she got a belly button ring and I was so distracted that I forgot go to work for a week.

“What are we gonna order,” I asked.

“Hold on.” She disappeared for just a second as she put a big flannel shirt on. Grey leggings, flannel shirt. She thinks she dresses very conservatively, but when she does that thing where she pulls the shirt down and takes her hair out of the collar …

“Mmmm,” I said as I put my head back on the bed.

“What,” she chuckled.

“Nothin’.”

I was that good kind of tired when you feel just at ease with the world and content to be with your person, and Mary made her are–you–happy face before asking, “Are you happy?” See? Mary and me are on the same wave length. I nodded.

“And now you’re sleepy? First, she wants food; then she wants sex; then she wants food; then she wants to fall asleep,” Mary narrated. “Let’s get you dressed.”

“Can I wear this,” I asked and yawned.

“I think we can do better than a wet towel.”

She disappeared into the closet, and it was my turn to sigh. “I know what you’re getting.”

“If you didn’t have a darn good idea by this point, I’d be questioning how smart you are,” she said as she came back out. “Besides, it’s cold.”

“Did they teach you non–sequiturs like that in domme school?”

“Did they teach smartass questions like that in brat school?”

“I’m self–taught.” I could start my own school … And since I’m thinking of going back to school to be a teacher … Do they give credit for life experience?

“Now I get to unwrap my present,” Mary said as she loomed over me (she’s always looming over me, bedeviling me, beguiling me and besmirching my honor in the best ways) and opened my towel. “Aww, just what I always wanted.”

“What part? I need some specifics.” Because if she wants me to keep going along with the ageplay and diaper thing, I’m gonna need some flattery. Like, all the compliments, please. But I’m only saying please to be polite. It’s not a request. Really.

“I think,” she said pretending to be thinking with her finger on her chin making a thinking face. I can’t even make a thinking face around here anymore without getting accused of peeing my pants. “I like this part best,” she said and bent down to kiss my tummy.

“Heehee. Mary, I’m ticklish.”

“Ya don’t say? What with me having tickled you into submission before, I’d have never guessed.” Sigh … “And look what I got for you.” Groan …

“Where do you even find this stuff,” I asked as she showed me a diaper with farm animals on it.

“You can always pick out your own,” she said as she unfolded it.

“That would be construed as participation, and I refuse to participate in my own mistreatment,” I said as I lifted my hips because reasons and had an existential panic moment of questioning how it was that I could participate in my own mistreatment while simultaneously refusing to do exactly that. Stupid brain pointing out the conflicts between my words and actions like anybody even asked it. Anyhoo, “And doesn’t anyone make any that are at least not so cutesy?”

“There’s the medical ones.”

“… Those are ugly … Not that it matters because I hate them all.” I took a chance and lifted my head to see her making her skeptical face. Being skeptical at me just because my words don’t match my actions… grumble. “Don’t you be looking at me like that. Shouldn’t you be massaging things into places?”

“Was that you telling me to get back to work,” she said all o so eager to snark at me. “And wouldn’t that make you the boss of this diapering?”

“No. It would not,” I pouted (like a boss).

“So,” she said, “you're just concerned what would happen if you went peepee in your diapee without any diaper rash cream on, is that it,” she said as she applied said cream.

“That’s not it at all. I … hhh! I just …” Don’t squirm. Don’t give her the satisfaction.

“You’re looking a little red there, Daff.”

“Where? Gonna hafta to be a lot more specific.” Because there were rednesses. Multi–redness. Places plural were red.

“Well,” she said, “not in your pretty windburnt cheeks.” Her hands went away, and then I felt her closing that diaper over me. “After such a chilly day, wouldn’t some oatmeal feel good?”

“O don’t even,” I said, holding my hands up so she could help me sit up. I looked down at myself and sighed.

“What pattern would be acceptable to you, then,” Mary asked me.

“Something cool … fractals. Or more grown up, like lewd imagery. Or zoning laws.”

“Good thing you’re not a silly goose, or someone would accuse you of being a silly goose. Up up.”

“Up up?” What’s ‘up up’?

“On your feetsies.”

“And you can’t just say that because,” I asked.

“Are you grumpy? Because I don’t wanna have to adjust any attitudes tonight.”

“I’m not grumpy. I’m … inquisitive. And really, with the footie pajamas,” I inquired.

“Really. And you know what they say about people who are inquisitive?”

“Nope. Never heard it,” I deadpanned. “Did they teach you what people say about people who are inquisitive when you were in domme school?”

“Ah,” she scoffed. “Just for that, ya little smart mouth, the dropseat can stay down all night.” For the record, the dropseat footie pajamas predate the ageplay stuff. She just wanted quick access to my butt once, and lo and behold, one day I received dropseat pajamas as a Happy Tuesday gift, and I beheld. Later on, as in mere minutes later on, Mary beheld my butt as I stood in the corner with my red buns hanging out.

When she zipped me up and unbuttoned the flap, she gave me a pat on the butt and sighed. “That sigh was suspiciously wistful,” I said.

“You look pretty,” she said.

“Um, thank you.” I suspected a but.

“But I wouldn’t mind having some of that pretty red hair back to braid.”

I turned around. “It could come back if it would make you happy.” I put my arms around her neck.

“It’s your hair, though,” she said.

“You may not have noticed, Mary, but, um, I do a lot of stuff mainly because it makes you happy.” Crinkle.

“Uh–huh. Just me.”

“Yes. What do you want for dinner. I’ll order.”

“Whatever you’re having. I’ll go make us some drinks.”

“Make mine full of alcohol,” I said as I turned and collected another pat on the butt. Butt pats feel good. Everyone should have at least three a day. But diaper pats are … different … somehow.

I went downstairs, being very careful on the stairs lest the soles of these footies fly out from under me and send me to the land of quadriplegia (like, seriously, people put these on their kids!?!), cracked the window behind the couch to let some of that cool air in, turned on the fireplace to balance it out, flopped onto the sofa, and got out my phone. “Is Italian okay,” I called out to my wife the bartendress.

“Perfect. And order a salad.”

“Tiramisu,” I called out.

“A salad!”

“Tirami–salad,” said I and ordered both along with some pasta. See, the thing about tiramisu is – and this is why I ordered three overpriced pieces – is that as good as it is, it’s even better when I eat it off of Mary’s finger because she, um, tastes yummy. Not that I had any designs on the evening with the intent of luring her into feeding my tiramisu off her finger on the way to … other activities.

“What are we gonna watch,” I asked as I got the remote out and the blanket. You might call it nesting … love nesting. Teehee!

“Something we haven’t seen before,” Mary said as she waltzed into the living room like the queen of the waltzing floor.

“Where’s mine,” I said when I only saw one glass in her hand.

“It’s right here,” her queenship said as she revealed …

“Awww. Marrryyyy!”

“It’s been two whole months since Christmas, and we haven’t used your Christmas present once,” she said with The Royal Smirk plastered to her face. “Don’t you want your baba?”

“No.”

She sat down on the couch next to me. “But I made this just for you.”

“Which I appreciate, but I want it in a glass.”

“What’s wrong with drinking from a bottle?”

“All the things.”

“O, but you don’t mind eating tiramisu off my finger.” So she knew that was going to happen. Wonder how she guessed (past experience; lots of past experience).

“That’s … different. And in the future.” Seventy–five minutes, according to the app. We should’ve ordered in advance. “I want to be in the present, Mary. All my therapists and all the mindfulness apps have always said I should live in the present.” She laid her head back against the arm of the couch with that smirk still there, like she’d already won. But she hadn’t. No. No winner her.

“And in the present, I really think you should lay your head back right here,” she said, touching her … chest, “and open wide for your baba.”

“… What’s in it?”

“A cosmo.”

“Why?”

“Because you like cosmos.”

“No, I mean why?”

“Is it important?”

“Sort of … yes.”

“Well, we’ve talked about it before.”

True, but, “And it still … I wanna talk more.” I wasn’t satisfied with the previous talks, not if she now wanted to introduce feeding me from a bottle and didn’t think, o, that I might want to understand why she wants to do that to me. With me. Both?

“Can we talk in the morning after church,” she asked.

“Promise?”

“Of course, Daffy.”

Hmmm. “What will you give me?”

“For what?”

“For drinking out of that thing.”

“Hmmmm.” She made her thinking face again. “Well, how about instead of you eating tiramisu off my finger, I eat it off you?”

Deal. “Gimme my drink.”

“Ha! Lay back.” Which I did, but not because I liked it. Because she bribed me with sex. Which is very dignified in ways some might not understand. “One day I’ll even let you drink out of this yourself, but you’re gonna hafta use two hands.”

“Just for that, I’m gonna need specifics,” I stipulated.

“Specifics?” I settled back and she stroked my hair.

“Which parts of me will you be eating tiramisu off of? I need details.”

“Open up, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

“Like I’ve never heard that before …” If she was just trying to get me drunk and pliable, she coulda chosen a different nipple … That came out wrong. “It won’t come.” … Also came out wrong.

“You hafta press it with your tongue before you suck … Why are you blushing? … For someone who hates this so much, you sure are laughing pretty hard … What?”

“I’ll – ha! Hahaha! Mmmm. I’ll tell you later.”

“My pretty happy girl.” She gave me a forehead kiss. Sigh…