Mary And Daphne #102 (Patreon)

I was really not liking my brain that day. Or actually, not my brain. My brain and I are on the same side. We’ll blame my heart. I myself am more than the sum of my parts, so I’ll be blameless while one of my parts takes the wrap.

The problem is for some inexplicable reason that I’ve been trying to explicate to myself since the day before is that while Mary is not my mommy, I felt this unwelcome desire to do something special for her on Mother’s Day. I don’t even like Mother’s Day! Never have. It’s a greeting card holiday. I can appreciate my mom any and every day of the year, and I do. Flowers and cards and overpriced prix fix brunches just are not necessary, but anyhoo. I guess I just wanna do something nice for Mary.

And we talked about having kids a lot of times. It’s just not right for us. We’re more the footloose and fancy-free types (or the Very Responsible Type A and Anxious and Quirky types but same diff). Still, Mary deserves a day regardless, and because my heart is weak and turns to water when I think of Mary, it overruled my brain and decided it didn’t matter if she’s not my mommy, Mother’s Day would be a perfect day to do something nice for her.

My heart is not so great at planning, though, so I didn’t actually know what I wanted to do for her. And I may have forgotten to tell her I was gonna do something special, but that was okay since I didn’t know what the something was. For sure it wasn’t resting my cheek against her chest while we watched Zoom church in bed. We do that every Sunday since the pandemic started.

“What are you thinking about,” she asked me after Pastor Sarah wished us a blessed day. I like her; she’s very kind and a little hot. Anyhoo…

“That I can hear your heartbeat when I lay on you like this.”

“Does it sound like ‘Daph-ne Daph-ne Daph-ne?”

“It does now that you said that,” I giggled. “Do you think we’ll always be this disgustingly cute?” I had previously blamed the pandemic for extending our sickening newlywed phase, but now I’m not so sure and think maybe this is just who we are.

“Let’s hope so.” She kissed my hair and rubbed my shoulder, which I knew was prelude to, “We have to be at my parents’ in an hour.”

“How come no one does Mother’s Day happy hour,” I asked as I sat up. “The happy part is built right into the name.”

“You just don’t like leaving the house on Sunday mornings unless it’s to go to breakfast.”

“And brunch isn’t breakfast. It’s balled melon and egg casserole.”

“And mimosa.”

“… I do like that part. I might hafta save room for a lunch waffle when we get home.”

“You’re a lunch waffle,” Mary called me right before she pinched my butt and swung her legs out of bed. Such effrontery. Totally unacceptable. I really like it. And totally unacceptable. But don’t tell her or she might stop.

“I don’t even know what that means,” I said and followed her to the bathroom. I took my shower last night and was not required to pee on myself, so no need for another one. I brushed my teeth and combed my hair and put on a little makeup while the pinching lady cleaned her body. Her lithe, powerful, firm body. Not that I was staring through the glass trying to see through the condensation … Maybe she’d let me install a camera in there.

While she saw to her hygiene, I stood in front of my dresser trying to decide what I should wear to her parents’. This was going to be our first family gathering since the fall. We had a nice day for it. I always say fall is my favorite season until spring gets here. Then that’s my favorite. Until summer gets here. I have a fickle heart for the seasons. And not that we were treating this like a reunion or something, but it was still kinda an occasion, hence the makeup. I’m surprised I remembered how to put it on. I think the last time was New Year’s Eve. I’m sure Mary would have been delighted to come out of the shower and find me looking like a girl who got into her mother’s lipstick, but I did a very good job. I do look kinda pretty as fuck when I wear a little blush. It just goes with my complexion and the whole redhead day-walker vibe I give off.

Anyhoo, my standing at the dresser considering options had only gotten me as far as putting on a necklace. I walked to the closet, and that’s when it occurred to me it might be time to consider buying some clothes. I had work clothes that I should’ve packed away months ago, since I’ve been not working since before the pandemic, and I had being-at-home clothes in abundance, but I didn’t really have any leaving-the-house-just-cuz clothes. At least not any that I liked. Looking at my work clothes made it seem foolish to invest so much in clothes, but on the other hand, who doesn’t want to be feel and look good in what they wear? Maybe even excited by what they wear (in the gleeful way, not the other kind of excited; we have those clothes already and they’re mostly in the basement). All of which was prelude to the eventual end of the pandemic, and I wanted choices that would make for fun outfits when we ventured back out to something like normal. Peering through the closet, which was somehow stuffed and yet I didn’t feel like I had anything to wear (and sorry if I’m calling anybody out with that), my eyes came to rest on the trunk.

It’s not the forbidden trunk. I am allowed to go in there whenever I want. It’s just the foreboding trunk. It contains … stuff. My … stuff … is in its own smaller box. I don’t need a huge trunk like Mary because I’m not a perv. And because a lot of our stuff, including my many impulse buys, is in the basement. And Mary wouldn’t need such a big trunk if she didn’t keep … other stuff in there.

So here’s a thing Mary likes and is not a total random segue if you’ll just shush a minute: she likes it when I initiate some of the things that are things she likes and that I (mostly) don’t. I guess it makes me seem more submissive to her, which makes her feel more dominant and reminds us both that we love each other, like, a bunch. I think I even like her. Maybe even like like her.

So yeah, out came one of her diapers and some of the needed accessories to put it on me. I laid it out on the bed, and I thought two can play at that game, whichever game it was, and went fishing in her drawers for the Christmas gag gift that she apparently thought was actually pretty awesome, the nursing bra. That’s how she found me, still in my pajamas and rifling through her underwear drawer.

“A-ha-hem,” she pretended to clear her throat. Did I ever mention that when she wears a towel I kinda wanna jump her bones? Cuz I do. “Are you being an underpants gnome again?”

So first off, I was never an underpants gnome (grrr!), and second, “No,” I said, taking out my prize. “I was picking something I want you to wear today.”

“And what is that,” she asked in her sexy huntress voice as she sexy-strolled across our carpet. Stupid Mother’s Day celebration. We coulda spent the whole morning doing acrobatic monkey sex stuff but, no, we had to go help ball a honeydew.

“This,” I said and tossed it to her. “I, um, thought you could wear it … for reasons.” For she is the sexy huntress, and I am the sexy prey who’s only gonna make a pretense of resisting cuz I’m tired of the chase and just wanna be eaten. That’s a thing, right? I think it I saw it on National Geographic.

“O really,” she said and took it from me. “Will you help me put it on?”

Did I ever mention that when she shrugs her shoulders and the towel just falls right to the floor, I cum in my pants a little? Cuz I don’t, unfortunately. It would be pretty cool if I did though, right? I mean, how does she even do that? I’ve shrugged my shoulders until I got a cramp, and nothing happened to my towel. Must be a ninja move.

“So,” I asked as I helped her into what was the least sexy bra ever except it is sooo sexy for us. Seriously, it’s pretty utilitarian. But what a utility! And I was gonna utilize the heck out of it. Anyhoo, I asked, “Exactly how long do you think we’ll need to stay at your parents’? I have, um, some stuff and things to do later.”

She turned with her sympathetic face on and stroked my cheek. “Aww, Daffy. Did you do that thing where you your sex drive goes from zero to thirsty in two minutes?”

“Well, you’re the one who had to walk around in a towel.” Didn’t help that said towel was on the floor. I was positively dehydrated drinking in the view of my wife.

Whatever she was gonna say next, which probably would’ve been something to the effect of why do you do these things to yourself and whatever shall we do with you, both of which just make the problem worse, she got distracted looking over me and spying the underpants I’d chosen.

“Really,” she said, even though that’s my word, “you really want to? You don’t have to.”

“I know,” I said while maybe, if you believe certain sources who very accurately describe things, blushing pretty damn hard.

“We have some of the medical ones. Those are thinner.”

“This is fine. I don’t think people can see.” She likes these ones more. Why not go all in?

“Well that just sounds like a challenge,” she snarked. “I’ll have to pick the rest of your wardrobe.”

“Har har, Mary … But will you, um, put it on me? … Asking for my friend.”

And that, ladies and gentleman, is called a joke. Mary’s snark doesn’t even compare to mine. Even Mary must think so cuz she laughed harder at my joke than I did at hers, which was at most a titter from me … Ha – titter. … What? I can find unintentional (stupid) puns funny … Especially that one, when Mary is wearing that … gift I got her. Really.

I guess the answer to my friend’s question was yes because I was very soon not wearing my pajama shorts. All well and good until Mary slid them up her own legs. They barely even fit … sigh …

“What are you doing,” I asked. Very confused.

“Look at me,” was her witty reply, “I’m Daphne. I’m petite and use a quirky sentence structure. Uwu uwu uwu.”

“That’s not funny!”

“Then why are trying so hard not to laugh,” she asked as I tried very hard not to laugh. Red face, shoulders shaking, lip biting, that sorta thing.

“Marrry,” I tried to whine and then did not laugh like Elmer Fudd. I didn’t. Um, really … yep, really. “Hey,” I cleverly exclaimed as my wife pushed me backward onto our marital bed. We do marital stuff in it … stupid brunch.

“We’d better get you in your diapee, little girl,” she said leaning over with me with those strong arms of hers pressing her palms into the bed on either side of me and making me feel trapped and helpless even though I am neither of those things ever.

“I’m not a little girl.” I said it by reflex because in my head I was thinking, She is barely in those shorts.

“Okay. You’re not a little girl.” She straightened up and traced a finger across my cheek and swirled it down my tummy. “You are a very big girl who needs her diapee on before she goes to her in-law’s house.”

Cross out the word need and that’s a hard sentence to argue with, at least on that day. Of course, Mary wasn’t done. She unfolded that garment of hers, taking her sweet time about it for someone who said a half-hour ago that we needed to be at her parents’ in an hour.

“And look,” Mary took way too much delight in saying, “it has aminals on it.” Nope, not a typo. That’s what she said. “What’s this one say?”

“It says we’re gonna be late.” Why did I do this again? Remind me? I don’t even like her that much … Really … Okay, not really. I like her so friggin much … But she coulda skipped this part, which was her idea entirely and was not something I started. I just got the thing out. It was the first one I saw.

“But the aminals wanna know what they say,” she said. “You don’t wanna make them sad, do you? Won’t you tell them, for me?” If this was an impression of my Aunt Bertie’s emotional blackmail routine, it was very good.

“It says moo.” As in mooove faster cuz we’re gonna be late. And did I mention my brain and my heart do not work together well? My heart wanted me to take a bite out of Mary’s butt cheek, which was hanging out of my pajama shorts. My brain, being the obnoxious little rule follower that it is, was getting anxious about being late to something it didn’t even wanna go to. I like Mary’s family, and I wanted to go to a gathering of people I don’t live with, but I think I’d like it more for lunch on a Tuesday. Sunday mornings with Mary, or waffles or both, are just special. But my brain didn’t care. It just knew there was a scheduled event and that, despite the scheduling not being to my liking, it was important for us to be on time and to go because while Mother’s Day doesn’t mean much to me, it does to Mary’s mother. She’s not my favorite person, but I do like her and will never do anything to hurt someone’s feelings if I can avoid it. I’m very nice like that.

“And what’s this one say,” Mary asked me as she pushed my knees back and lifted my butt off the bed. I would’ve helped had she asked, but no, sometimes she wants to do it all herself.

“Oink.”

“What else does it say?”

“I dunno. Depends on who it’s talking to?” That one in the book about the spider said lots of stuff. I don’t read the book about the spider and the pig. It makes me cry like someone ran over my puppy’s puppy. Anyhoo…

“It also squeals,” Mart informed me as she dusted me with powder. I do like how that smells. “Know what else squeals? Daffodils.”

“I do n- eeeeeeep!” That was an eep, not a squeal. They are totally different. And there she went again with the pinching (hmmph!) of the places that are a part of me (heehee)!

“O, I am gonna make you squeal today,” she threatened me. Which I took to be a promise. An addendum to our marriage vows, actually. I was planning to hold her to it.

“Aww, Mary. Did you do that thing where you go from zero to thirsty in two minutes?”

“Well, you just had to be adorable and sexy at the same time. You know what that does to me,” she said as though imitating someone. Don’t know who. Really.

“Whatever shall we do with you?” SLAP! “Urfff! Heeheehee” Stars were circling me interspersed with dizzying little hearts cuz that’s the part of me she’s not supposed to spank unless she’s prepared for the consequences.

“The question is what I’mgonna do to you, and when,” she growled.

Who said that? My eyes were closed and I was taking deep breaths. Whoever it was sounded like she was very prepared for the consequences.

“Stupid brunch!” I may have finally said out loud.

“I give us permission to be late,” the boss lady said.

We weren’t that late. And on the way home, we found this wonderfully secluded place to park and try out Mary’s present. It was a very special day.

Because we had waffles for dinner. Really.