Mary and Daphne #109 (Patreon)

Ya know how excited people get when they fit into something from their high school years? Well, I fit into something from my preschool years. Glass half full? Of course, I never did like being so petite. I’m not abnormally short. I’m just short. And I wish stores wouldn’t have such high shelves. And the rest of me is proportional. So I fit – barely – into those stupid swim diapers.

Could that be the end of it? No, because I married Miss Mary ‘I’ma Poke This Bear For As Long As It Pleases Me’ Taylor. No, o no, she said when we get home she’s going to get me some adult sized swim diapers just to be safe. Safe from what, I asked. Safe from not wearing a swim diaper, she said. Guess that just proves which of us is the dominant in the wordplay department. Though there is something to be said for straightforward dommes.

That’s all that happened in the bathroom, thankfully, her squeezing me into those stupid things (not thankfully). I opted to just let it happen. I was pacing myself. It was only our first full day there. I planned on earning lots of spankings in lots of places before we went home.

And I did get a waffle. I had to eat some fruit, but I like fruit, and I made up for whatever health benefits it gave me by, as I said, eating a waffle with syrup and butter. So to recap the morning: slept in, public humiliation, I can squeeze into Little Swimmers, and I ate carbs and fat for breakfast. Pretty good morning, all things considered. I naturally flopped back onto our bed in our cabana as my blood sugar plummeted and Mary said, “I told you to eat some protein.”

“(Sloppy snore). I’ll be fine in a (snort) minute.”

I drifted off there for a sec to the sound of distinct chuckling at my expense. I was having a good day so far even with the gift shop episode, and she seemed to be down-damn-right delighted. And we still had most of a day to fill. That’s the nicest thing about sleeping in and having a late breakfast: you can go back to bed and doze and wake up again just in time for a lunch. I think I was dreaming about a monte cristo sandwich when the french fries starts tickling my feet. Is there a name for when you’re not quite asleep but are sorta dreaming, or is that just called hallucinating? Asking for my friend.

“Daffy … Daffodil,” the French fries were singing.

I sighed and opened my eyes. “French fries don’t sing.” Aww, Mary makes the most adorable faces when she’s concerned about my mental health.

“Did you … Are you doing okay today?”

“I had a reason,” I said as I sat up.

“Did it have anything to do with fnurple?”

“Well when you tell some store clerk I’m gonna poop in the pool, interjections are just gonna come spilling out, Mary. And speaking of, when’s the last time I told you you’re a mean person?”

“About thirty minutes ago between waffle bites.”

“Well … you still are.” So mean that I decided I wasn’t done pouting about it yet. I crossed my arms and everything, turned up my little nose, and went, “Hmmmph!”

“I see a pouty girl,” she sang. “She’s the poutiest girl in the whole wide world.”

“Would you stop being so … grrr.”

“You had no conviction in that. Wanna try it again? We can do it together. GRRR!”

“You make it so hard to be mean back. You’re supposed to take offense or something or at least be grumpy about it.”

“How can I be grumpy when I’m on vacation with my person? I think you just want me to be grumpy, and just for that I’m gonna be nothing but sweet as sugar pie, and you know why?”

“Why?” Also, where do they sell these sugar pies you speak of?

“To get a little rise out of you.”

“As if.” I mean, as if. I’m cool as a cucumber. There’s no getting a rise outta me. I’m just not that kinda girl. For instance, you could tell a store clerk I’m a pool pooper, and I won’t hardly say a word … apparently.

“O yeah,” Mary said with that twinkle in her eye again. She’s so twinkly lately. “Who’s a pouty girl?”

“O don’t you dare baby talk at me.”

“Who’s a pouty girl? Who’s a pouty girl? Is it you? Hmm? Is it you? Is you the poutiest girl in the whole wide world? Hmm? Is you pouty cuz I told the nice sales lady about your problem?”

“I don’t have a problem! You just make stuff up … And I’m not giggling,” I said while not giggling. I was staring her down, in fact. And she was staring right back at me with this doofy I-love-Daffy smile on her face. “And if I am giggling it’s not because of you. Really.”

“Heehee.” She crawled up on the bed on all four and stalked over to me like the lioness to my wobbly newborn antelope. “Did I ever tell you thank you for playing along?”

“Yeah … but not lately.”

“Thank you for playing along.” I can just see Mary now, twenty-five years younger, the leader of the mean girl pack who always stayed behind to apologize to the victim and be nice to them and stuff. Though Mary insists she was never a mean girl, which I can believe because she’s just too sweet. Really. She’s quite saccharine at times. Like right then, when she ambuscaded me into one of her playful hugs and kissed me all over my face while I tried all adorably to fight her off with my little verbal protests. Yep. I protested, and it worked because she gave me one last smooch, a squeeze, and asked, “What are we doing today?”

The answer to which was going to the beach. We live not far from the beach beach, and the shores of Bear Claw Lake are beach enough. Better even because I don’t like the salt in saltwater. The thing about being from the midwest is everybody knows somebody who knows somebody who has a lakehouse, and you might say I was self-appointed queen of the lake in the late aughts what with my being That Girl at the lake. Which girl? The one who was at the lake a lot, always ready for a bonfire, eating way too many frozen KitKats, smelling like Banana Boat suntan oil, and feeling like a big shot for sneaking hard lemonade. My bestie from back in those days called me a lake girl stereotype (truth) and had the temerity to suggest I get a summer job (nah), but I figured I’d have one of those job things forever so what was the rush (well, it was a safe assumption at the time). All of which is to say I was in my element on the shores of Bear Claw Lake.

“One thing that makes you different from the other little girls,” Mary said as though letting me know she was far from done being a shit disturber for the day, “we don’t need to bring nearly so many toys to the beach to keep you entertained.”

“Maybe,” I suggested off handedly, very casually, just sayin’ as I spread my towel out, “that’s because I’m not a little girl.”

Swat! “Let’s hope I did the right thing not bringing another one of your swimmies with us.”

“Marrry! Someone coulda seen.”

“Seen me slapping my wife’s butt? Like anyone would think anything of that. Besides, I want them to see so they know you’re all mine.” Silly me, I thought that’s what our wedding rings are for.

“You are so full of mischief lately. I thought I was the one that was gonna go nuts when we were vaccinated, but you’re all wound up and floopy,” I told her. I’m not scared of her; I’ll tell it like it is. Really. (Because she lets me. Really.)

“What is ‘floopy,’” she asked with her you-don’t-even-know-what-the-words-you-make-up-mean face on. It’s a very smug face. Comes with a smug smile, slightly bemused, and head tilted just so, and sometimes with her chin in her hand.

“You know … floopy. It’s like it sounds … you’re just …”

“Mhmm?”

“All over the place.”

“Which is floopy?”

“It’s onomatopoetic, Mary. And now you’re being something that rhymes with floopy,” I may have muttered but didn’t. True story. Really. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to read this book for a while … so I can pretend to be with normal people who do normal things and don’t floop all over the place and aren’t mean to me,” I also didn’t mutter. And yet despite my not muttering and thus needing no response, she kissed my cheek; she is just so … ugh! so sweet and presumptuous and … floopy.

“O my gawd, stop doing that. Are you pregnant? Is this pregnancy hormones.” Like geez, Louise! Mary was randy as a stoat, whatever one of those is.

“I can’t be excited to be out of the house with my little girl?”

“I dunno, Mary. Who is this little girl you speak of?”

“Spoilsport.”

“Flooper … But seriously, just please promise me you won’t forget to not expose people to our kinky fun times? I think you made Nana uncomfortable yesterday.”

“Really?” That changed her countenance.

“Yeah, a little. I know she doesn’t mind our lifestyle, but I don’t think she wants to hear about it every time we see her.” Notice how I phrased that passively, like it just happened and wasn’t something mean ol’ Mary did? That’s called being diplomatic. Really.

“Okay, I’ll give you that … Come to think of it, Mae does seem more shy about your spankings than she does about your diapers.”

“Ugh. They’re not mine. Do I need to draw the diagram again?” I should just save a copy on my phone to whip out as needed. And though irretrievably wrong about whose diapers they are, I think Mary is right about Nana. She always reacts more to finding out I got or am getting or will soon be getting a spanking than she does to me wearing or recently having worn or soon to be wearing a diaper. So far as I know, Mary still doesn’t know about the time Nana changed me. I guess she is a nana; maybe diapers just don’t bother nanas? I only have the one of her, so hard to say, but I kinda suspect that’s the case? Right?

And ya know what? “That’s not it,” I told Mary. “She was uncomfortable because it was about sex.”

“It’s all about sex, Daffy,” Mary said like that was obvious.

Which it (mostly) is, so I clarified, “I mean it wasn’t a punishment. You spanked me just cuz. When you told her, that’s what made her uncomfortable.”

“O,” Mary said. “I guess I did.” She got quiet, not her natural state. It’s my job to be pensive and brooding. It’s her job this week, apparently, to tell store clerks I poop pools and to sing songs about me being pouty.

“I think it’s fine, really,” I told her. “I think we just need to be a little more private. I’m glad we can play a little in public again, but maybe let’s make sure we don’t overdo it.”

“I won’t. Sorry.”

“It’s okay. My feelings aren’t hurt or anything. Just gotta not go nuts after being cooped up.”

“When you make rules,” Mary sighed, “they’re always so strict. Such a good girl.”

“Yes I am.” Also, not to be telling tales outta school, but my wife thinks I’m a good girl. Squeeeeee!

“But you know that won’t stop any spankings you earn away from home,” she threatened me with this little lilt in her voice that said she would make good on the threat and have fun doing it.

“I hope not,” I said and tapped her with my toe cuz playing footsie is fun and stuff. I mean, why bother leaving the house if I can’t get taken to task in, o, say, one of those changing booths by the boardwalk we walked down to get to the beach.

We laid out and read our books and reapplied sunscreen (Mary rubbing sunscreen on me? Me rubbing sunscreen on Mary? Not exactly a chore we have to be told to do) and stayed hydrated.

Let us all recall that I am a good girl. Mary said, and she’s in charge so what she says goes. A good girl, and a good rule follower, and one of the rules is if I’m in one of Mary’s diapers like the one I was (barely) wearing, it gets used. So … I did.

Which is when things felt wrong. Very, very wrong. I didn’t notice it at first. It felt like it always does … at first. And then it felt that way much further down my thigh.

I may be an emotional pinball, but give me credit (please?) for not panicking. In fact, I think I handled the whole thing like a boss lady (who peed her one-piece).

I sat up straight. I looked to my left and right and behind me to see who might be looking. And once confident I was attracting no attention, I sat very still and considered what to do. We were not especially close to the water, and there were more than a few people between us and it. Sprinting for the lake would be a lot less sprinting and a lot more walking carefully so as to not kick sand in anybody’s eyes or step in anyone’s bucket. “Mary,” I said, “could you, um,” and nodded my head to beckon her over.

“What’s up?”

“Just, um, (nod, nod, gesture frantically with eyes).”

“Okay,” she said since she was literally within touching distance on her own towel. She sat up, scooted over, and was shoulder to shoulder with me. Turns out I didn’t need to say anything cuz shoulder to shoulder happened to put her on the outer edge of my wet towel. “Daffy,” she asked quietly.

“Mhmm.”

“They’re not for that,” she told me. “They don’t hold pee.”

“But … they’re diapers.” Of course they hold pee.

“They just keep messes out of the pool. They barely absorb.”

Well motherfuck that! They coulda put a friggin’ warning label on them or something! And how the hell does Mary even know that?

“What do we do now,” I asked.

“Lean over.” I did, because once again I am a good girl who follows directions and stuff, much to my own misfortune. “Your butt’s wet.” Stupid not dark swimsuit.

“Will everyone be able to tell?”

“Just stand up. I’ll stand right behind you so no one can see, and we’ll get in the water.” She stood up first and held her hand out to help me up. I got up and practically backed into her.

We walked to the water like we were attached by a six-inch chain (ooo, we should buy some chains). I heard the distinct sound of stifled giggles but didn’t dare turn around. At least they were stifled, and since I could hear them that meant they could only be coming from the woman who did this to me and not from onlookers. I walked into the lake. Never has lukewarm lake water felt so good.

I folded one arm across my chest and put my forehead in my hand. I needed a moment. Mary stood next to me looking out over the lake, took a deep breath, and sighed. We both had our moment, and she bumped against me just a little and asked, “You okay?”

O my god, what a question for the ages. I had to match it with an equally profound answer. “I … I wet my pants.”

Mary did this scrunchy thing with her mouth as though trying out various replies before settling on, “Yeah, you did … But I don’t think anyone saw.”

“I wet my pants in front of a buncha people.”

“But no one saw. You’re okay.”

“I peed on my towel.”

“We’ll wash it.”

“You … How do you even know that,” I accused her.

“Know what?”

“That they don’t hold pee. Like, who even knows that?”

“I … I don’t know. I learned it somewhere.” She didn’t say anything for a moment, and I saw her eyes go up and to the left just before she bit her lip to stop a smile.

“Stop laughing at me.”

“I’m not laughing at you,” she said in a way that at least reassured me she wasn’t laughing at me. “I was just thinking of how cute you looked with your padded butt under your suit trying to tiptoe to the water.”

“It wasn’t cute. It was … it was horrible.”

“Really? Because I can’t help but notice your pouty lips never trembled, your little shoulders never shook, and you looked pretty calm about the whole thing.”

“I … My … shut up.” Demanding a cessation to all speech: the last resort of the called out.

“Daphne,” Mary said with that sparkle in her eyes again, “you wet your pants.”

“Marrry,” I groaned, “don’t.”

“You pottied your pullup in public. You peed a piddle puddle on your towel.”

“Stop,” I tried to say convincingly. “That was not fun.”

“Maybe you’re not ready for swim diapers. Do we need to keep you in your regular diapers for the beach with some extra tight rubber panties?”

“Grrr.”

“Aw, is my little girl embarrassed cuz she had an accident? I’m not mad you had an accident, Daffy. I shoulda taken you to the potty. It’s my fault you wet yourself.”

“At least we agree on that,” I said while she turned toward me like a lake shark and set those beady, sparkly, hazel shark eyes of hers on me. “O, don’t you even,” I warned her.

“Don’t what? Don’t do this?”

O my god - a lake shark has my butt!

“Marrry.”

“What,” she asked again, leaning in. The books do say to lean in. Hmmm. “Don’t squeeze that little bottom of yours? Even when it’s snug under that pullup? Or don’t do this,” she said before kissing me.

O my god - a lake shark bit my lip! And I liked it and stuff … hmmm.

“You’re trying to seduce me,” I accused the lake shark I married. Either that, or she was trying to eat me. Same difference sometimes. Heehee.

“My wife wet her pants,” she said again. Apparently once the immediate crisis had been averted, she’d spent a whole two minutes mulling the idea over and … didn’t hate it. Good thing there’s no way she can use that against me, right? Right? Please?

“And she had to walk by all those people in her wet suit with her padded little butt where anybody could’ve seen she’s just a little girl not yet ready for big girl underpants yet.”

“Mary,” I said without exactly knowing what I’d say next, “you, um … Have a point, when you put it like that.” I mean, um, no points, actually. Really. Can’t remember the last time Mary made a point about anything, if I’m being truthful. I don’t admire her nearly as much as you may have been led to believe with all the misconstrued things I’ve said about her that you’ve misconstrued. She’s really never right about anything. Really. Um … yep, really.

“Maybe we should get you back to the cabin and get you cleaned up,” she growled at me all sexy like.

“Will you, uh, help me clean up?”

“If you can’t keep your underpants dry, how could I trust you in the shower alone?”

“Heehee. Don’t you threaten me with a loofah, Mary. I know where you sleep.”

“Can you make it back to the cabin without making any more puddles?”

“Grr. Yes … Let’s not make that a habit … Which includes you not making me make it a habit.”

I’m on to her. Two steps ahead, that’s me. Um, really.