Mary and Daphne #93 (Patreon)

I’ll admit Mary was onto something when she looked at me hopping out of bed in the morning and called me a happy Daffy. And why? Because Springtime! I used to say fall was my favorite season, and last year during quarantine I realized it was spring. Might’ve had something to do with being outside during the day for the first time since I started working, but spring, I realized, is awesome.

It’s even better this year because I have my garden to play in. It really is kinda awesome that you can plant a bulb in the fall and get a flower in the spring. Tulips! And of course, daffodils. Shoot, I’m so giddy I kinda wanna get a little sunburned, just a smidge, to kick off the season.

Now, there’s also some sadness as Brenna isn’t having her annual pool party, but last year that event seriously did not go in my favor. Things were done to me. But I have a surprise for Mary, whose office is on the first floor, which makes it o so fun to knock on her window. “Can you come out and play,” I asked.

She swiveled in her chair and gave me one of those aww-isn’t-she-cute looks she’s always giving me. She opened the window, and said, “What’s up, buttercup?”

“I got a surprise for you.”

“I got a call in four minutes, but …”

“It’s a pool!” So I might not be good at holding in surprises. “I bought a pool.”

“You … better not have.” She looked confused.

“It’s inflatable, silly. They sold out last year, so I ordered one at Christmas time. It just got here.”

“Where’s it gonna go?”

“It’ll fit on the patio. Just a place to cool off when it gets hot … and maybe a place to get bizzay when things get hot?”

“Did you really just say ‘get bizzay’?” If anyone can bring back that phrase, it’s me, so she can shhh!

“I … may have. Also, you need to spank me later.”

“Why?”

“The spending limit rule. I broke it like, seven … no, nine times.”

“On a kiddie pool!”

“No; on landscaping, but I told you proactively, so I get in less trouble.”

“Daphne Ann!”

“You’re late for your call.”

“You’re in for it after work. Just you … wait til I get home, I suppose.”

Ha! Mary’s flustered! Let her be the flustered one for once. Not that I’m ever flustered because I’m not, and also, it’s springtime! Perhaps I’ve been a little cooped up. Which is not the same as being a little who has been cooped up so don’t even with your wordplay that you’re not even as good at as me.

Said landscaping had, mostly, not arrived, but according to the internet, the beds must be prepared for planting, so I got to work on doing that. I tore out dead stuff, cleaned out leaves, turned over dirt, found what may have been a snake hole and put a rock on top of it, and got all the potted plants from out of the garage and arrayed them on our porch in the sunshine. Either they’re potted plants that are dormant, or they’re just pots full of dirt and the remains of dead plants. Time will tell – how exciting!

I don’t know what Mary was doing. Earning money for me to spend, I suppose. I know a thing or two about shareholder capitalism, and I think getting the money without doing the work makes me the boss, but I don’t think I should say so.

And dirt! It feels good to get on your knees in the dirt and work it with your hands. So much better than the sanitized reality I’ve been living in all winter. I’m going to make broccoli come right out of the ground. How is that not so much cooler than anything else? But for the time being, I just made piles of yard waste I needed to dispose of the next day. I was content with my day’s work and laid down on the grass, still a little damp despite the clear day, as the sun went down and just enjoyed the coolness. Sigh … springtime, renewal, all that poetic crap.

“You’re filthy,” was what my darling spouse had to say to me from above.

“I’m showing the evidence of my labor,” I countered.

“Let’s get you cleaned up.” She held out both her hands and helped me to my feet, and once I was on my feet, she assaulted me!

Okay, overly dramatic, but, “Ow! What was that for?” She just goes and smacks my butt without stating the reason like she doesn’t know I’m the boss or something. “Ow!”

“I’m just brushing the dirt off you.”

“Ow! Marrry! I’m not a rug.”

“You’re right, we should get a carpet beater.”

“Har har.” And giving me little kisses on my cheek like I’m not the boss. Who does she even think she is? Besides my Mary, I mean.

“You really are dirty,” she laughed. “Your whole back is wet. Are you my little piggy playing in the mud?”

“You take that back or we aren’t friends anymore.” I am not a little piggy. Not. I will submit to being compared to a silly goose, whatever a silly goose even looks like or however they act. All the gooses I’ve ever met have been super serious with the honking and the hissing if you get too close.

“Aww,” Mary said without apologizing for implying I’m a little piggy. “C’mon. Inside, into the tub, and then it’s dinner time.” She steered me toward the back door and stopped on the patio. “Shoes.” I got my dirty shoes off. “Socks.” I got my dirty socks off. “Shorts, undies, and shirt.”

“Har har again, Mary.”

“No joking. You’re dirty.”

“I think I can make it to the laundry room without making a mess.” (Fuck yeah main floor laundry! Woohoo!)

“But why risk it?” Smiling like she’s having fun at my expense. Nyahh!

“Because we’re outside.” Like, duh. I’m being hyper, not an exhibitionist.

“It’s dark.” She folded her arms and tapped her foot. “Need me to undress you,” she asked when I gave her the stink eye.

“Ugh, fine.” She held out her hand as I turned over the remainder of my apparel like it was contraband. Did I mention it had gotten chilly?

“In you go,” Mary said as she held the door open for me. I got past her when she exclaimed, “Hi, Mae!”

“Eep!” Warp speed out of sight I went.

“Hahahaha! Look at you go when you’re motivated.”

“Not funny!”

“Said princess pouty face.”

“Why are you in such a goofy mood all of a sudden?”

“Because my workday is over and I have a pretty little girl to wash.”

Well, good reasons, but, “I’m not a little girl!”

“It’s even cuter when you say that with the little dirt smudge on your face. Like you played all day with the other littles.”

“You … (foot stomp) … urghrrrr! I am not a little!”

“Tots adorbs, Daffy. Bathroom.” Nobody even says ‘tots adorbs’ anymore. “Ah-ah-ah,” she said. “Dirty little girls can use the downstairs bath.” I made a sharp left into the downstairs bath with Mary hot on my heels. She’s always being hot on my something. You think she has the hots for me or something?

She turned on the tap and stopped the drain, then turned and gave me a look I haven’t classified yet. She’s always coming out with new looks (and the seasons are changing, and she could totally be a model for, like, an Eddie Bauer catalogue). “Um, what,” I asked. Probably be worth pausing just to note that I was standing there naked and dirty, and she was standing there clothes and clean, and I was about to get a bath she would be participating in, and none of that was registering as out of the ordinary. Interesting path we’ve trod to get to this point, but here we are.

“Exactly how much did you spend,” she asked.

“Um, well, tax adds nine percent.”

“Nine percent of what?”

“Six hundred dollars, give or take,” I said as though I had nothing to fear, because I don’t. I’m the boss. I can dip into petty cash as needed. I certainly didn’t say it sheepishly.

“Six hun…” Ooo, look, flaring nostrils … that’s never good. “You … such a naughty girl.”

“I’ll work it off.”

“O yeah, how?”

“Yard work. Ouch!” Such quick hands for someone who works at a computer all day. A little carpal tunnel would be good for my butt.

“I think you just bought yourself a whole lot of doing the dishes.”

“What’s for dinner?”

“Excuse me! Privileged much?”

“Not privileged! I mean, yes, privileged, but also hungry and something smells good.”

“I made lasagna. Can we focus, please?”

“Aww, you made lasagna because it takes a while to cook and now you can take your time giving me a bath cuz you like me and stuff.”

“Focus.”

“Sorry. Dishes, got it.” I am, too, good at focusing! Just … springtime … and nudity … and a hot bath … and I was hungry.

“How much sugar did you have today?”

“Just what was in the gatorade … Six of them. Ya know, I’m outta shape, now that you mention it.” She leaned over and shut the water off.

“Lots of dishes, and you’re getting your bottom spanked.” She sat down on the lid of the toilet, yoinked me over her knee, and rested her hand on my butt, drumming her fingers. “Played in the yard all day, all dirty, over my knee in the bathroom about to get her bare bottom spanked, and then is gonna get a bath. Tell me again you’re not a little girl.”

“I’m not a little girl! And I’m only over your knee and getting a bath because …” Dammit.

“Why? Use your words.”

“Because you said.”

“Mhmm. Because I’m in charge. Know who’s not in charge? Little girls.”

“But ... I’m a shareholder!” Hmm. Awkward pause.

“… Daphne, serious question: did you put something in the gatorade?”

“No … It makes sense if you listen to the things I don’t say.” And she so doesn’t listen because I’ve told her that before. I lead a rich inner life with a fast-paced, 30-Rock kinda inner monologue. I’m not random. Other people are just too linear.

“I honestly don’t know what to do with you sometimes.”

“You have a knack for figuring it out.”

“If you’re enjoying this, I can take my belt off.” Yeah, not so much a fan of the belt. Like, at all.

“No! I mean … I know I did wrong and I’m ready for my consequence.” Been a while since I said that. We got less formal about these things over the years. I mean, when we switched from scenes to lifestyle and, “Ow! OW!! Mary! You’re gonna sprain a finger! Warmup! Warmup!”

“It’s a punishment, Daphne Ann. You don’t get a warmup.”

“Eeep!”

“You’d better eep! Six hundred … Did you lose your gosh dang mind this morning or something?” for the record, I’m the one from Wisconsin with the whole Midwest nice stereotype and not once in my entire life have I uttered the phrase gosh dang.

“I ordered it on Sunday. OWW!!! Mary, that hurts!”

“It’s supposed to hurt, little girl. It’s a spanking.” O yeah. I forget sometimes. “Are you gonna behave?” SPANK!

“Yes!”

“Good! (SMACK!) Up you get.”

I was back on my feet and rubbing my butt before she could change her mind. I felt like I’d gotten away with something. Six hundred bucks (okay, more like seven) when the limit is one hundred? “Um, is that all?”

“Do you need more?”

“No,” I meeped.

“Then that’s all. In you go.” Mary and her directions; up I went and in I got.

“Aich,” I exclaimed when my reddened butt made contact with the hot bath water. That’s a fun feeling, as is the non-slip texture at the bottom of bathtubs on a freshly spanked butt. Unless she really lets me have it, in which case it would not be fun at all (except in the ways it’s still kinda fun).

I reached for the soap expecting and receiving, “I got that,” from my Mary.

“I can do it myself,” I reminded her.

“Of course you can,” Mary said-smirked at me as she took my soap after she sat down on the …

“Where did that come from?”

“What?”

“The stool you’re sitting on.” Um, duh?

“Amazon.”

“I mean why’d you buy it.”

“Because it hurts my knees giving you a bath kneeling on the floor. Lean forward.”

“I’m sorry about the money.”

“You can consider four hundred of it a gift.”

“Why? Was there something else you were gonna get me? … Asking for my friend.”

“Tell your friend no, and remind her how lucky she is she didn’t get six hundred dollars’ worth of spanking.”

“Mary, sometimes I don’t you think you listen. See, I got a spanking. My friend didn’t.” Out of the tub, that would for sure earn me a pop in the butt. In the tub? Heeheeheehee.

“Tell me the truth: so you like getting baths from me?”

“Mhmm.” Who wouldn’t? Hot water? Check. Mary’s soapy hands? Check. Those hands rubbing all over me? Ooo, you better believe that’s a check.

“I like giving my little girl baths.”

“I’m not a little girl! I’m a noble sovereign being bathed by her handmaid. You are still a maiden, right?”

“Such a little girl. A literary one.”

“We can check your maidenhead later.” Because I’m nobility I get to decree things like that.

“Do I need to remind you who the domme is, or are you done sassing me?” Because I’m nobility I get to the decree things when Mary lets me.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Just remember some words are not nice for little girls to say.”

“I’m not a little girl.” Really!

“Then I guess you don’t get your present. Lean back. Time to get your front.” Know what’s better than slippery, soapy hands on your back? Slippery, soapy hands on your front. Do not doubt. I know things. That’s what I do: I spend Mary’s money, and I know things (and if that doesn’t sound like a shareholder, you ain’t hearing from enough shareholders).

Also, “So you did get me something. You fibbed … by omission.”

“I got you something when I saw you playing in the yard.” She filled a cup I hadn’t noticed with water. “If you’re gonna be in a kiddie pool, you’re gonna have to wear a frilly little girl swimsuit.” Close your eyes.”

“Marry! That’s pbbbbttt (sputter; cough). Urgh!”

“You’re supposed to close your mouth when you close your eyes, sweetie.” Sitting on her stool looking so friggin’ delighted with herself. “You’re gonna look so cute.”

“You didn’t!”

“I so did.”

“Marrrry!”

“It’s just until I take the pictures.”

“Pictures!?!”

“No splashing.”

“I’m not splashing! I’m pouting!”

“It’s not an every time thing. Just when …”

“Just when you wanna mistreat me. Hmmmph!”

“If you’re gonna be like that, I’ll just hafta send back your other present.”

“Go right ahead … Whuddya get me?” Okay, so I like presents. Most of the time.

“A swing,” Mary said with that happy-fun tone she uses with our nephew.

“Um,” I said all clever like, “you mean like a sex swing?”

Mary’s hand stopped what it was doing (washing my hair; sigh …) and she leaned over to look me right in the eye. “You are the dirtiest little girl I think I’ve ever met.”

“Maybe that’s because I’m. Not. A. Little. Girl!” I’m just a thirty-one-year-old with an overwhelming urge to physically express her love for her wife.

“I got a swing-swing, for the tree. Two, actually. One porch swing to sit in together, and one swing to push you in so you can make cute little squees as you go higher.”

“Aww. Thank you. … Um, can we return one?”

“But I wanna sit with you under our tree. Eyes closed.” Someone of a more paranoid streak than me might suspect her the rinse was strategically times to shut me up. Luckily, swinging, I’ve since googled, is good exercise. “Aww, someone looks like a wet puppy. Up you get.” Her and her directions. Up I got and out I went.

She dried me off in a towel that’s only stayed so fluffy because it’s in the downstairs bath and no one showers down there. I couldn’t help but notice she was seeming a little amorous, what with the putting her left arm around my belly and right hand grabbing a butt cheek (clarification: mine) and her lips nibbling at my neck as she steered me in front of the mirror.

“Admit it,” I said as my knees wobbled. “You’re in love with me.”

“Every day, Daffy. I think I loved you before I even met you.” Oof. Feels. Like the feeling of her lips kissing me all up and down my bare neck. “Will you hold still for me while I comb your pretty red hair?”

I would so do anything for her. Holding still is easy. She reached around me to open the medicine cabinet. “Where’d all this come from?” It’s a downstairs bathroom, and we live upstairs. We bathe en suite, like fancy people. We don’t keep toiletries in the downstairs bath.

“I thought we agreed we’d use this tub more.”

“O yeah. I just forgot you could it’s for baths, too.” Because I suggested we use it for … drinking wine and playing Battleship. Um, yeah, that’s a waterproof game with a nautical theme. And we do have that torpedo in the toychest …

“Mmm, my silly goose, all sparkly clean. Mwuh!” Heehee! She was being all kissy and lovey dovey.

“Mary?”

“Yeah, baby?”

“Thanks for taking care of me today.”

“I love taking care of you, Daffy.” She sighed at me. Sigh … She gave me a pop on the butt. Such a fun sensation through a wet towel, which she unwrapped.

“Someone looks cold all of a sudden. I got your jammies in the living room. Go get your diaper basket out and wait for me. She gave me another butt smack before I could get out of butt smacking range. I could feel the adrenaline (and maybe also sugar) of springtime happiness fading now that I was clean and ready for a hot and heavy meal (also, we were having lasagna for dinner teehee!).

I almost forgot to say, “I hate the diapers, Mary,” on my way to the living room.

“I know, sweetie, but you’ll wear them until you learn,” my darling spouse called after me.

“Marrry!” Learn what? That Mary is in charge and I’ll wear what she says or else? Because learned it. Top of the class. May not seem that way with my tendency to try to get out of it, but was I not practically skipping down the hall with springtime mirth to do as I was told? After all, I’m a good rule follower.

“Good girl,” Mary said to me when she found me on the floor next to the basket and sitting on the blanket she’d presumably put down just for me. “Lay back for me.” I did and felt even more tired. Not ready-for-bed tired, but definitely ready-to-be-snuggled tired. And did you hear what my wife called me? Heehee! Not that I’m bragging, but my wife thinks I’m a good girl. Sigh …

We went through the motions, and Mary pronounced me pretty as a picture. I don’t especially like footie pajamas, but I gotta admit, after a day outside and after a bath and when the temperature drops and the window is open, shudderwith the fuzzy-warm feelings. I let out another sigh (sigh …).

“You gonna make it through dinner before you pass out on me?” O, so she, too, was anticipating me passing out on her? Maybe she meant it another way, but in her lap was my intent.

“Uh-huh,” I yawned.

“You were bouncing off the walls a half-hour ago. Such a silly goose.”

“Mhmm.”

“Daffy …” She sat down next to me and put her arm around my shoulder, and I leaned into her. “How you feeling today with everything? Still okay?”

“Mhmm.”

“Anything you wanna talk about? You really doing okay?”

“Yeah. I promise.”

“Okay.” She kissed my temple. “You just tell me if you need to talk. Anytime.” The timer on the oven beeped, and we went to the kitchen where Mary pulled this beautiful lasagna out of the oven. Lasagna is a lot of work, with the prep and layers. Even if it is just for two people. And it looked so yummy!

“Let’s let it cool for ten minutes. What salad dressing do you want? … Daffy?” She was only saying that cause I didn’t answer her. And because my lip started quivering again. And I don’t even know why! Or I did, sorta.

“You made me dinner (sniffle; choke) And you were working all day and you still made dinner (sob; choke; sob).” I’m … not pathetic. It’s not pathetic. It’s just the little things. The little things, and grief, and being tired. And maybe – just maybe – a sugar crash. Maybe. And grief. For lots of reasons. Grandma was … just the latest reason.

I held out my arms, knowing I could fall forward and Mary would catch me in the tightest, warmest hug. Which she did, cause she loves me and stuff. Really.