Mary and Daphne #94 (Patreon)

“You seem a little eager for the real warm weather to get here,” Nana said to me.

“What makes you say that,” I said knowing exactly what made her say that: my outfit. I had on my one-piece, a pair of shorts, and a pair of old sneakers (ironically not made for sneaking) to work outside in my garden, which Nana very generously offered to help me with. “I just wanna get some sun.” Also, my one-piece fetish, but Nana doesn’t need to know about that. I mean, seriously, like she needs to know about all our business? She’s got enough to try to process, and a girl needs a little mystery in her life.

“You gotta go deeper than that, honey. Here,” Nana said and showed me how deep to make a hole for planting my rhododendron.

“You better dig those holes right,” my darling spouse said from her position on the veranda (patio) reclined on a throne (chaise lounges from Target) drinking for her golden goblet (cup from some place that gives away souvenir cups; I don’t remember where and the dishwasher long ago wore the label off; we are so fucking classy).

“She’s doing fine,” Nana told her royal pbbbbt!

“She used to hate yard work,” Mary said.

“It’s different when it’s your own yard, and it’s not yard work. Sweaty men and paid laborers do yard work. This is gardening.” Which is what ladies of leisure such as myself do between juleps on the veranda.

“Wanna tell Nana what happened the last time you complained yard work?”

“No, I do not, and you don’t either if you wanna go to bed with someone who likes you tonight,” I haughtily replied. Us ladies of leisure are allowed to be haughty. Or so I hoped.

That’s when Nana chimed in with, “I could use a cold drink.” She pointed a pointed look toward Mary, and I don’t think I’d ever seen such a thing, but Mary stood up, said, “I’ll make some lemonade,” and went inside to do it.

I mean, sure, if I ask for something, she’ll do it, but I’ve thrown Mary plenty of pointed looks. Not so much with the producing of results, much less just declaring a desire and seeing it appear (except sometimes cuz Mary loves me like you wouldn’t believe). Pointed looks just seem to tell Mary what to do or say next to get my goat (which is a strange phrase; did someone get their goat got?), and declarations of desires usually end up with me going to do a thing. Which is right and proper given our respective roles. I like getting things for Mary. But it’s still fun to see someone else just say something and watch Mary hop to.

“When she comes back, tell her some jewelry would hit the spot,” I suggested.

“You guys doing okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Just yeah? That’s not your usual lovey-dovey answer.”

“She’s been taking good care of me. I just … same. Same thing that always bothers me. Am I taking good care of her?”

“I’m sure you are. Besides, didn’t you tell me letting her take care of you is how you take care of her?”

“Yeah. Maybe been letting her do that a little too much.” Ya know what would be cool? If I could make up my damn mind. “I mean, she’s just getting more and more into doting on me, and I don’t want it to get out of hand … if it hasn’t already.” And why would I think that? O why, o why would I think that?

“Do you ever talk about that stuff?”

“Yeah, occasionally.” Most often after I’ve bottled up emotions and let them come pouring outta me in an explosion of misgivings and hurt feelings, at which point Mary paddles me until I’m a hot mess and makes me tell her what’s bothering me while reminding me this whole thing coulda been avoided if I had been up front with her in the first place.

Which, yes, but in my defense, feelings are hard! It’s not easy talking about this stuff, and it’s not easy saying no to Mary when pleasing Mary is, on the whole, the thing I like most. Add in me not working, and it’s kinda my whole raison d'être right now unless you count consuming my weight in added sugar. Remember balance, as in before the pandemic? A lot of things were out of balance, but a lot of things were in.

And the thing is, I don’t know if I wanna go back to school after all. I don’t really miss working as much as I did a few months ago, and with Mary’s promotion we’re really not hurting for the money. Her last raise was pretty much what I’d be making as a first-year teacher (which, holy crap, is a whole ‘nother social issues rant to be had, but it can wait). But I can’t keep living like this! Another year, and I’ll be in diapers 24/7 because that’s what you do with people who have taken leave of their senses and live in rubber rooms. And I look fat in a straitjacket (true story).

“Maybe,” Nana logically suggested, “you should have a talk with Mary.”

“Yeah. I know,” I said as I placed my plant in the hole. What is dirt made of anyway?

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For bringing up a touchy subject.”

“It’s not touchy. It’s just … sensitive.”

“Let’s talk about something else. Did you get an appointment for a vaccine yet?”

“Nope, and let’s not talk about that because I’m just gonna scream at the sky if we go down that road.”

“Poor thing. You really are having a rough few weeks. Wanna come over tomorrow and do something fun?”

“Yeah. I’d like that.”

“Lemonade,” Mary said from the patio. “I made it fresh from a powdered mix.”

“Took you long enough,” I said because bratting is more fun that serious conversations.

“Daphne Ann, you are gonna bite off more than you chew today. I smell a spanking coming.”

“Marrry, don’t say stuff like that in front of Nana.” I stood up and dusted myself off.

“I was thinking the same thing with a sass mouth like that,” Nana said before dusting me off some more.

“I am so overparented,” I grumbled. Like there was any way the day wouldn’t end with Mary wanting to give me a bath and put one of those stupid diapers on me. Yes, I like being bathed, but a little moderation keeps things interesting, mainly by stopping them from getting boring, and Mary had definitely been going the route of using bath time to dress me in cutesy little girl things for the evening (or entire day). Remember the punishment panties? I need to bring those back into my life (and fuck my life since that’s what it’s come to).

But nope, no way am I on a collision course with an emotional catastrofuck that ends with me bawling over Mary’s knee. Nope. No way … Really. Please?