Mary and Daphne #103 (Patreon)

I didn’t do anything. Let’s just lay that fact out there, and let’s keep it in mind for the duration of the tale I’m about to relate to you, for it is fanciful and strange and nothing that follows will seem wondrous or even make sense if you don’t remember that Marley was dead to begin with and that I didn’t do anything.

In fact, I was a very good girl. My arm was sore after my shot, but I felt fine otherwise. Mary did not feel fine, and I played nursemaid very attentively. If she felt a little better, I would’ve even put on my nursemaid outfit. Mary recovered after a couple of days feeling oogy, and as she often does after being down with something or having a migraine, she gets a little (lot) frisky and wants, I think, to show her appreciation for my taking care of her. Of course, when you’re us, showing your appreciation can seem … not so appreciative. Maybe even … punitive.

But I wasn’t thinking about that when she made me do the oatmeal thing. And I wasn’t thinking about it when she suggested I take a nap because I had been yawning the whole time we were cleaning the house. I was thinking that it would be awesome to take a nap. I was thinking it would be awesome to not clean anymore. I was thinking it was very nice of Mary to offer to do my half of the cleaning so I could get some extra sleep and assumed that was her showing appreciation for taking care of her. You know what they say about assuming – don’t do it – but you can’t go through life questioning your wife’s motives all the time. I went upstairs, I flopped face down on our bed, and I promptly passed out and dreamt about the fact that I didn’t do anything.

“Daffy,” I heard from somewhere in the inky darkness. “Daffy,” a dulcet voice called to me. “You’re gonna sleep the day away.” I was okay with that. “All the chores are done.” Well, that being the case, I may as well wake up, right?

I opened my eyes to find my Mary lying next to me petting my hair. “Hi,” I said. I’m clever like that.

“Did you get a good nap?”

“Mhmm. Thanks for finishing all the cleaning.” See, I’m polite. I didn’t do anything, and I’m polite.

“You’re very welcome. You ready to enjoy our afternoon?”

“What are we gonna do? Is it gonna be delightful?” I may have had that stupid smile on my face I sometimes get. When we’re fully vaccinated, we’ll resume our something more like our normal Sundays. Until then, one month hence, we’ll probably keep having a lot of Sunday sex. I’m not in as huge a hurry to rejoin society as I was a few months ago, because reasons.

“I think so,” my Mary said in her sultry voice with that I’m-gonna-do-stuff-to-you look on her face. She lifted the covers off me, leaned forward, and gave me a kiss on my neck (there was nibbling too). I figured she was going to slide under those covers and devour me like a small woodland creature, seeing as she is a she-wolf, but no. No, that is not what happened.

She kissed her way down to my shoulder (it got a nibble too) and paused. I was about to lean into her and find something of hers to nibble, but she stopped me. I was confusaled, and she had this what-is-going-on-here look on her face. I missed the old look. She reached down and touched my butt, reminding me of what I was wearing and making me want to bury my face in the pillow again. She touched it again, took the waistband of my shorts, and folded them down.

“Young lady, are you wearing a diaper!?!”

O, she is so full of …

She was out of bed before I could answer, standing on her feet on those long legs of hers. She missed her calling as an actress. “Why are you wearing a diaper?”

I learned long ago that when she plays this game, which I call the Do Stuff to Daphne Then Deny All Knowledge Game, it doesn’t matter if I play along or not. She’s going to just keep playing her role in the game regardless. “You made me,” I retorted, deciding not to play along. But the thing is, Mary doesn’t let me not play. There’s no getting out of it, and I don’t particularly enjoy it (at the time; I just have to give it a few weeks (seconds) and then I find the enjoyable bits in it).

I guess my not playing along is a kind of playing along, but let’s not say so because it’s less fun that way. But also, it’s not fun (really), and even though it is a game and I know I didn’t do anything, try telling that to the part of my brain that isn’t interested in logic. It just responds to the tone of Mary’s voice, and Mary’s voice said I should be contrite and embarrassed to have been caught doing something even if she she made me do it.

“You naughty little girl,” Mary continued (I’ve told you how much she loves to continue) like I wasn’t even there. “You have no excuse to be wearing diapers at your age.” Her contradicting herself in the space of a sentence does remind me of certain adults growing up (like, all of them). “You have no idea how much trouble you are in.”

“I’m not a little girl, and I was following your stupid rules!” I could’ve said nothing and gotten the same results. It’s just … when Mary says something, the sub in me (also the brat in me) … (also possibly me) feels compelled to respond, especially in defense of my honor.

“Where do you keep them,” she asked. I started to get up. “You can stay right where you are.” So instead of getting out of bed, I rolled over and plopped down on my butt. Nothing squished, for the record, but only because it already had several hours prior. “Tell me where … And you can do it without rolling your eyes at me unless you want to make your spanking even worse.”

“What?! That is such bullcrap!” Smack, her hand went on my thigh. It stung, but I didn’t even eep.

“In the trunk in the closet.” I pointed, getting caught up in the game because I was going to have to answer for my imaginary misdeed anyway. I may have sat there on the bed with my arms crossed and pouting like the arm-cross-and-pout champion of the universe (I’m a multi-sport athlete, like all the greats), and what was that about a spanking? What was I gonna get spanked for? I didn’t do anything! Hmmph!

In fact, I followed the rules. I didn’t wanna wear a diaper. I didn’t wanna a pantload of oatmeal. And I didn’t wanna take a nap in a diaper. All of those things were Mary’s idea, and I did such a good job obeying that a casual observer could have inferred I did them willingly. And I really wanna have a one-on-one with my brain in the near future to remind it that it doesn’t need to participate in Mary’s chicanery. I didn’t do anything and wasn’t actually in trouble, but the weak-willed, anxious approval slut in me just decided that I was gonna be pouty (even though I never am) and remorseful (even though I didn’t do anything) and on the edge of weepy (even though it was just a game). I can’t very well defend my virtue and honor if half of my brain won’t remember it’s just a game. Of course, games have a way of turning into other things for us, but first things first (that’s why they call them first things, silly).

“Daphne Ann, this trunk is a call for help,” Mary said from our closet, where she was looking in hertrunk. “It’s filled with diapers and sex toys. There’s just no excuse.” Well, shit. I’ve been saying that about the diapers for over a year now, but did she listen? She came out of the closet holding a cloth diaper, plastic panties, changing stuff, and a paddle.

“Hey,” I said when I saw that paddle. “I didn’t do anything to deserve that! That’s gonna hurt.”

“It’s a spanking – it’s supposed to hurt.”

“Urgh!”

“Don’t you take that tone with me. I’m not the one who decided to wear a diaper and use it like a little girl.”

Ah, hell na. “That’s just fernoplering hilfenschtule, Mary! It’s totally (bear sounds) and just another (sound of shattering glass) and you’re just being a (chipmunk noises) and nerfermurmur!”

“Such big words for a girl wearing a full diaper,” was her response to my very well-reasoned and brilliantly articulated protest. People say I’m a brilliant articulator all the time. There goes, Daphne, they say, one of this era’s great orators.

I felt a distinct pop that I’m pretty sure was me bursting a blood vessel. When I came to, I was standing in front of Mary, who was sitting on the ottoman with her hands on my hips. Well, for a moment.

“Not only are you wearing a diaper,” she gaslighted me, “but it’s soaked. You peed your pants! Are you a pants pee-er?”

“No!”

“Well, obviously you are, Daphne. You’ve piddled a puddle in your diaper.” And she was rubbing and squishing things, too. Dammit … “So you must be a pants wetter. Are you a bedwetter, too?”

“No! Marrry!”

“What a shame. At least you’d have a good reason to be in diapers at your age if you were. That must mean you’re just being naughty. What happens to naughty girls who wear and wet diapers?”

“I dunno. They get elected mayor or something?” SMACK! “Hey!” So uncalled for. She turned me sideways and delivered a smack to my butt. Her hand paused in mid-air before she could deliver a second.

“You didn’t,” she said all dramatically like she’s Frances McDormand or something. I mean, come the fuck on. Who’s she fooling (other than that anxious girl in my head).

“I didn’t,” I pleaded. She planted her hand back on my butt. Firmly.

“You didn’t. You are standing in front of me with a mushy butt, and you’re telling me you didn’t mess your diaper.”

“I didn’t!”

“Then what is this,” she asked as she rubbed and squeezed and patted and kneaded. “This is a messy diaper. You fudged your huggies.”

“Marrrry! I didn’t.”

“You’re a mush tush.” She took my wrist and pulled it toward my butt. “Feel. Feel what you did in your diaper.” Which, of course, I didn’t. And also, she did it. But she didn’t let me keep my hands to not myself. When I didn’t move, she planted my palm on my butt for me. “Feel what you did. Is that how a big girl feels, or is that how a girl who made a mess in her pampers feels?”

“Marrrrrry!” It was getting to be a bit too much. I was gonna get weepy, and Mary must’ve known cuz she ninja’d me over her lap. Ahhh, over Mary’s lap. I’ll be safe here, the naïve and kinda dumb girl in my brain chimed in. She’s nice and all, but she’s usually wrong about stuff. Fortunately, there’s a very realistic girl who also works in my brain who went, Pshaw! This is gonna get worse before it gets better. I hate it when she’s right.

“Look at you,” my (mean) Mary (who’s very mean) continued her lecture (cuz she’s mean and loves to continue, especially when she’s being mean). “You call yourself a big girl, and you’re over my knee wearing a dirty diaper about to get your bottom spanked. Does that happen to any other big girls you know?” My silence got me a smack.

“Ewww!”

“Darn right ‘ew!’ You dirtied your diaper!”

“Marrryyy!” And with that, she put the paddle to work. At least it didn’t hurt. It felt gross, but at least it didn’t hurt.

“Spanking your dirty pampers,” she mumbled while she … well, did what she said. But at least it didn’t hurt.

“OW! OW!” Until she worked her way down to my thighs. But it was just the two. “OW! OW!” Four. “(Sniff!)” I wasn’t crying. Really.

“I’ve never had to spank a 31-year-old in a dirty diaper before,” Mary (who’s mean) said as she put the paddle down. “I hope you learned something from it. What did you learn?”

“Don’t wear diapers,” I said with just a tinge of exasperation in my voice. And why shouldn’t I be exasperated? Can’t win for trying when Mary decides you don’t get to win.

“O, that’s what you think. You wanted diapers, now you got ‘em. You’ll wear them til you’re sick of them.”

See?!? I can’t win! “(Sniffle.) Marrry, I don’t wanna wear diapers.”

“You say that now, but if I let you out of them, you’ll be craving them and sneaking them behind my back in a just a day or two, and don’t think I won’t catch you, not if you make messy pampers like you did today, and I’ll have to spank your mush tush all over again.”

“I won’t.” And also, “I didn’t.” O yeah. I almost forgot. “You’re being mean and it’s not fair.” You know who whines about fairness? Little kids, hypocritical politicians, and me when Mary is being unfair.

“I’m trying to help you,” she cooed at me. “Dirty diapers are a very dirty habit.” She pulled my shirt up and let her fingertips drift over the small of my back. “And now I’m going to help you into a clean diaper.”

I started to sit up, and her hand on my back stopped me. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“You said you were gonna …”

“And you’re fine where you are. Just do what I tell you.” She reached across and under me to find the tapes and tore them open, then did the same the other side.

“Ewwwwwwww,” I groaned as she peeled back the diaper and all that sticky (oatmeal) mess (that was oatmeal and only oatmeal). “Marrrry!”

“I’m sorry it feels icky, baby, but you remember that the next time you decide pants are for poopin’. And it’s not exactly a treat for me either.”

Faithful readers, don’t try this at home, and always remember that Mary is mean. Sweet, but mean.

As bad as the feeling is when it’s in the diaper, as soon as the diaper is open, it starts to cool down and feel like … I can’t even say it. “Hurry,” I pleaded. I was doing so much pleading that day.

“It’s a big mess, baby. You made a very big mess in your diapee.” I closed my eyes as tight as I could and lay over her knee like a statue while the opened the container of wipes. I’m not an expert on being over someone’s knee (I’m the expert on being over someone’s knee), but in my humble (expert) opinion, it doesn’t present one’s anatomy to these ministrations as easily as one (nonexpert) might expect. O, it can work, but it’s an effort. “I’mma clean you up as fast as I can. I wanna see your cute pink bottom, too.”

Too? Did I ask to see my own butt when I wasn’t listening? That line of thought got cut off as soon as that wipe reached my skin. “Urgh!”

“Not a Sunday drive up here, either, Miss Dirty Bum. If you hadn’t decided to wear and dirty a diaper, we wouldn’t have your mess to clean up, now would we?” Wipe Number 2 came off the bench. “And a girl your size – forget about your age – I don’t think I’ve ever changed such a messy diaper. But I do it because I love you.” Wipe Number 3’s turn. “I do it because I love you, just like I spank you bottom when you need it because I love you, and why I’m going to help you get over your little diaper problem because I love you.”

Excuse me!?! “Marrry…”

“Time to get between your cheeks.”

“(Sound of my eyes shooting open and my mouth making the squiggle shape on Charlie Brown’s shirt).”

“So much mess in here. Open your legs, sweetie.” Can’t; had a stroke; not one with my body anymore. “Open …” She did it for me. “There. We’ll get you all clean. Clean eberywhere. Eb-ber-ry-where … Such a messy girl. This is hard work. You made such a mess that cleaning you up is hard work! You’s just a messy girl! Yes you are! Yes you are!”

Stupid humiliation fetish. Makes it so hard to stay on message, with her (evil) words and (soft and also evil) hands and (evil) words. “Mary,” I said with my I’m-about-to-start-crying voice while at the other end my toes were doing that thing where they ball up and open and ball up again.

“Is you getting squirmy during your diapee change? We’re almost done.”

Oatmeal in a diaper get very sticky. We were not almost done. Part of me needed extra attention.

“Almost,” she said while giving it maybe more attention than extra. “And just to make sure …”

“Mmmuh.” That part didn’t come into contact with oatmeal.

“All clean,” she cheerfully sang. “All clean eb-ber-ry-where! Hold still.” I tried to hold still while she pulled that diaper out from under me and, I’m guessing because my eyes had rolled up into my head and I was only semi-conscious, put all the wipes she’d used in it before rolling it up. “Up ya get,” she said and gave me an up-ya-get spank. I felt wobbly as she helped me to my feet. I looked down and saw the wadded-up diaper. I smelled quaker oats. I felt the breeze from the fan on my butt. “Did you learn a lesson about fudging huggies,” my (mean) Mary asked me (so mean, like, all the mean).

“(Lip quivering).”

“Aww, c’mere.” She pulled me into her lap, where I buried my face in her shirt and did some crying. No sobbing. Just had an overflow of hormones going on, and they needed to come out as tears. Sometimes that happens. They’re not sad tears. Just overwhelmed tears. And damn, she can be mean. “There there. Your Mary’s got you.”

“Mean,” I said into her shirt.

“What was that,” she asked.

“Mean!”

“Ohhhh. Yes, I was very mean, but it was for your own good,” she said like she was talking to a toddler.

“You did it, and you’re mean.”

“So mean. Did I hurt your feelings?”

“(Sniff). No,” I grumbled. “But very mean.” I didn’t have full command of my words. I’m sure I could’ve come up with many more incisive things to say. People say, There goes Daphne, off to be incisive like she usually is except when Mary has just been so very mean to her. But it was impossible for me to be incisive because I kept picturing myself over Mary’s knee getting spanked on that full diaper and her wiping my bottom, and I couldn’t get those pictures to stop, and I couldn’t access my full dictionary cuz the pictures were taking up way too much brain RAM.

“And I gotta be mean again and put your princess parts in a clean diapee to make sure you learned your lesson.”

“No.”

“No? Daphne, little girls who get spanked on their dirty diapees and need help wiping their bottoms don’t get to decide whether they need to wear more diapees.”

“(Sound of me shutting Mary up by sticking my tongue in her mouth). Take a bath with me first, please?”

Stupid humiliation fetish. Really!