Mary and Daphne #118 (Patreon)

The picnic was my idea. Specifically, having a picnic and to make turkey sandwiches for it. Also, the array of sides and the dessert. The activities surrounding the picnic were Mary’s idea. I informed Mary of the menu (and that I was taking her on a picnic, when she asked me why I was telling her I got potato salad because I forgot to say the picnic part first) well in advance of the event, whereas Miss Mary I’m So Funny (which she is not!) sneak attacked me. When I say she’s a ninja I don’t just mean the physical stuff (is spanking a martial art?) but the trickery and lightning reflexes and the ambuscading out of the shadows.

It all started normally enough (and seriously, fuck my life that this is normal), with Mary laying out my clothes for the day. Know who looks hot in a sundress? Mary. Know who else? Me. I was fine with that. She neglected to lay out a bralette, and I didn’t mind that either; I think she likes my body or something? But that’s not the point. The point is that was just one of two undergarments she neglected to lay out for me. I noticed this as she ninja-spun me out of my bath towel and onto the bed flat on my back.

“Are we having morning sex,” I asked, knowing Miss Mary I’m So Squared Away wouldn’t have laid my clothes on the bed if she intended for us to roll around on them, but a girl can dream. She didn’t even answer me. She just chuckled as she went into the closet and came back out with one of her stupid diapers.

“But why,” I didn’t whine. I’m neither a whiner nor a complainer.

“These are your picnic panties,” she said very sunnily like she had solved some deep and intractable problem.

I sighed. You might say it was a sigh of the put-upon, fitting since she was about to put that thing upon me. “There’s not even such a thing as picnic panties,” I didn’t grump for I am a paragon of perpetual good cheer. Really.

“Now you don’t have to worry about finding a potty at the park. Lift up.”

“The restrooms – not potties – are clearly marked, and even if they weren’t, we’ve been to that park a bajillion times,” I didn’t exaggerate. I’m very objective. ‘There’s goes Daphne,’ people say, ‘who can always be relied upon to be objective.’ Really.

“And now if there’s a line for the potty, you don’t have to worry about accidents.”

“Then you should wear one, too,” I didn’t mean to say out loud. “I didn’t whoa!” Ninja-flipping me like she “Ow ow ow! Marrry!”

“I’ve told you before (spank) that you (spank) do not (spank) say (spank) that I (spank) should do (spank) submissive things (spank spank spank spank spank). Do I need to wash your mouth out with soap to make my point?”

“No!” SPANK! “Yow!” Damn she takes that seriously. Like, for serious? And like, yeah, damn, for serious.

“Good. If you’re all done sassing me, we can finish this diaper change,” she said like I should have felt all better because she flipped me over and smacked my butt. O, why thank you for spanking the sass outta me. I feel ever so better.

“This sure is a funny way of saying ‘thank you for planning a picnic,’” I didn’t sass (that was so sass). Maybe she didn’t spank all the sass outta me after all. Like, nice job, Captain Half-Ass. But crucially, this time I remembered not to say that out loud.

“I think we’re going to have a red bottom in this house before the sun goes down, and thank you for planning our picnic. Spread your knees (crinkle noises). Speaking of thanks, where’s my thanks for making sure you’re protected from the potty monster?”

“You have got to be kidding.”

“I bet I can make you say it.”

“And I bet I can sneeze on your sandwich.”

“Heehee. All done. Who’s a padded princess?”

Did she wake up on the big side of the bed or what? I mean, geez, with the teasing and the butt smacking and the … it’s hard having a humiliation fetish. Much harder than, say, a people-bringing-me-gifts fetish. Maybe I can develop one of those next. It was after I got dressed, naturally, that it occurred to me we weren’t leaving for two more hours. It was barely past nine.

“Um, Mary,” I asked as she rolled up my dress in her hands.

“Yes, Daffy? Arms up.” I don’t need help getting dressed. Don’t hate it, though. She slipped it over my head and smoothed it out. Couldn’t help but notice she felt me up a little. I married a randy one. I like her and stuff.

“Do I hafta wear this until we leave, and then I get to take it off?”

“Of course not, sweetie. I already told you – those are your park pampers. You can piddle a puddle at our picnic and no one will be any the wiser … if for once you can not make your potty pants face.”

“I do not have a potty pants face!”

“ … Okay.”

Grrr! Shining me on! She was shining me on! “What if I have to pee before we leave?”

“Daffodil,” she said as she took me by my shoulders, stooped down just a little to look me in the eye like that she was imparting some Very Important Information, and said, “Don’t worry about it. You take care of the picnic, and I’ll take care of you …” Awww. “…and your huggies.” DAMMIT!

I sighed again. It was a sigh to regather my patience. Or possibly a sigh of resignation. Definitely not a sigh of relief. Really. “Fine.”

“What should we do until it’s time to go,” she asked.

I shrugged. “I was going to get everything together in about an hour.”

“I have an idea until then.”

“Will you like this idea of yours more than me?” Don’t know why I’d be suspicious. It’s not like she ever comes up with random ideas that leave me blushing or crinkling or rubbing my butt or all three.

“Will you come sit on the couch with me and watch Saturday morning informercials?”

Ugh, that is just so stupid it’s romantic somehow.“Can we make fun of them?”

“Of course.”

We have a backpack cooler. It’s very convenient even if it is heavy. There’s an art to packing a cooler, and it was taught to me by my father, that paragon of Midwestern suburbanism who perfected the art of cooler-packing alongside the high science of packing a car for a road trip. And to think he did this in the bad old days before seats folded into the floor and coolers lacked high-quality insulation.

“Mary,” I called out, “are you ready to go?”

“All set,” she said as she came around the corner into our kitchen carrying our pool bag, now stuffed with a blanket and sunbrella. “You ready?”

“Yeah, but um …” I finished the sentence by wiggling my hips, producing a thunderous crinkle. Nuff said, right?

“…What?”

“You know.”

“ … ”

“The … underpants.”

“Sweetie, you’re wearing diapers for the day.”

“Urgh! I mean … You know what I mean!”

“Did you wet,” she asked like maybe she didn’t know what I mean. I couldn’t spread mayo on a brioche roll without crinkling like all the plastic bags in the ocean so I don’t see how she couldn’t get it … unless it was only noticeable to me.

“Marrry!” She rolled her eyes at me, set the bag down, lifted my dress, and put her hand on her diaper.

“Your diaper’s just a little wet. It doesn’t need changed yet,” she announced like this was good – no, great! – news.

“But … Mary, I don’t wanna go out wet.”

“Daffy, I already told you once that I’ll take care of you and your diapers today, so don’t worry your pretty little head.”

Of all the … urgh! “Do I get to win today, like, at all?”

“If you’re my good little submissive today.”

“… Fine. And they’re your diapers.”

“Then I guess I should thank you for keeping them warm for me.”

“Buh! Not funny.” Okay, that was a little funny.

“I see a little twinkle in a little someone’s eye,” she said right before she kissed me on the cheek. I mean, the presumption! She thinks that can make everything all better, but really, it only makes most of the things all better. “Hey,” she said and lifted my chin so I was looking up into her eyes … her hazel eyes, all deep and smiling, “promise me something.”

“I promise.” You really shouldn’t promise stuff without knowing what it is, but I like her. Also, she’s a sorceress and coyote, mythology’s trickster. I think she cast a spell on me or something.

“I know you’re feeling anxious, but I want you to promise me to lower your anxiety level to about here and go with the flow, and we’ll have a very fun day.”

Give up my worries and let Mary lead the way, in other words. Guess I sorta (definitely) signed up for that when I asked for a lifestyle relationship. It’s always a work in progress. But I do trust Mary. She knows my boundaries even if she does push them a little, but that’s how growth happens. I like how our relationship has grown.

“I promise.”

“Good girl.”

O hot damn(!) my wife thinks I’m a good girl!Teehee!

The park was so friggin crowded. It’s great that everyone is enjoying the outdoors more these days, but I’m not sure these folks got the message that this public park is mine. I mean, I appreciate their tax dollars helping to maintain it, and I’m happy to share, but couldn’t they wait until after I’m done with it to share it? It’s not that I mind crowds. It’s just that I wanted a little more space for our blanket without us having to go so far from the path.

“Amateurs,” I said as we passed the people picnicking on picnic tables. “Is it even a picnic if you don’t sit on the ground?”

“I’ll remember you said that in 10 years,” Mary said as she walked alongside me. I don’t know why she thinks ten years will make a difference; if she thinks I’m going to get older and make noises when I have to sit all the way down on the ground, nope. I’m not going to get any older. I refuse to age anymore. In fact, I’m going to start counting backwards at my next birthday, and I’ll keep doing that until I hit twenty again. Then I’m just going to turn twenty a bunch more times.

There’s a path that goes across a narrow creek, up a hill, and back down, with a spur that goes into a clearing where the city hides a water tower in an open field. It’s a sunny spot nice for a picnic. We weren’t the only ones there, but it wasn’t crowded like the main part of the park. We spread out our blanket, sat down, and … looked at each other. Is a picnic more than just eating outside? Cuz I didn’t plan anything else.

“Hungry,” I asked.

“Very.” We only had half a breakfast because I went a little overboard on the food. There are so many salads that don’t involve actual salad, and I think got all of them.

“And thirsty, too,” I said as I got one of those alcoholic seltzer drinks out.

“You packed water, too, right?”

“Of course, but what, you don’t think I can hold my liquor?”

She chuckled at me. “I’m not sure that counts as liquor, but I do know sometimes you get tipsy after one drink.”

“Which is one of my delightful qualities … most of the time. I think you have a thing for tipsy Daphne.”

“Tipsy Daphne is very suggestible,” she said all lasciviously. This one time (at band camp), I got tipsy and Mary talked me into cleaning the kitchen while she did the bathroom.

“Maybe you didn’t notice,” I said while looking down at the place where my underwear was supposed to be, “but I’m pretty open to your ‘suggestions’ pretty much all the time.” I even used air quotes. Air quotes alone have gotten me in trouble before; something about them being hand signal sass. I dunno; I wasn’t paying attention, but if she ever asks, I always pay attention during lectures and scoldings. Which I do. Um, really.

“Are you comfy,” she asked me.

“Yes,” I said truthfully because I’d never fib unless it was to get something I really want or to avoid something I really don’t want. Also, um, really.

“I chose that diapie special,” Mary said like she’s the most attentive and caring big ever. She might be, which is so ugh. I mean, better than the alternative, unless the alternative is a plain ol’ domme who doesn’t like me to pee on myself. “It’s one of the breathable ones. I know the plastic makes you sweaty. I brought another just in case.”

“Keep your voice down,” I whispered like a field mouse. Fittingly since we were in a field, but whereas I am just a little ol’ mouse, Mary is a hawk ready to swoop down and do stuff to me.

“No one can hear us.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Can you hear them?”

“No,” which is so just a fact unrelated to anything and I don’t even know why she bothered to say it. “Quiet, you.” I got up on my knees and and started unpacking our picnic.

“Quite the spread,” Mary commented.

“I got carried away.”

WHAP! “I meant your diaper butt.” I don’t think I ever sat down so fast in my life, and I’ve had many an occasion on which I needed to shield my butt. “Aww, don’t feel shy.”

“Did you choose this dress on purpose?!?” J’accuse, mon ami! The dress went to my knees when I was standing. I didn’t even think about it riding up when I got on all fours. And now that I was sitting, it did seem like it was threatening to give people peeks of my underpants. Regular underpants don’t don’t do that, but these were more … prominent. Sort of like myself, who is very prominent in certain elite circles – literary, television and film, diplomatic, athletics. Really, but I digress.

“Nope,” Mary said, “and don’t worry. Just sit crisscross apple sauce and I’ll get everything out. And take a breath before you keel over.”

What the heck is ‘crisscross apple sauce?’ I swear sometimes I think Mary only pretends to be a systems engineer (or whatever) and that she’s really in her office all day teaching preschool on Zoom.

And then – then! – you know what she called me? “Cutie.” Such effrontery!

“I am not!”

“So cute.”

“O yeah? Well, you’re … you’re … so are you.” Touché?I hate it when she gets me so flustered I can’t even think in a straight line. So many things I could’ve called her. ‘Meanie,’ ‘jerk face,’ ‘darling,’ ‘love of my life,’ ‘my light in the darkness.’ That’d show her I wouldn’t be pushed around and called cute without serious consequences. Dammit …

“Being cute isn’t a bad thing.”

“I’m sexy, too. And smart and independent and strong willed and fierce.” A veritable force to be reckoned with.

“You are all those things,” she said as she stalked toward me on all fours. When she’s not being a hawk, she’s being a she-wolf. I’ve seen that look of hers before, predatorial and aroused and in absolute love with me. I got this kiss right on the lips, and she was very insistent about putting her tongue in my mouth (for some reason). She traced a finger down the center of my chest, and whispered, “If we were alone, I’d be jumping your bones right now.”

“Ha!” I’m so suave it’s scary. Dammit …

I would never accuse her of taking me out and exposing my diaper – dammit! Hers! Her diaper! – on purpose (except for a moment ago when I did accuse her of doing just that), but if she had gotten outta bed feeling all big, the sight of my padded butt out in public seemed to change her mood from big to rowrrrrr. And don’t ever tell her or I’ll be very cross with you, but despite myself I liked feeling the heat rise in my cheeks as I blushed all the reds.

But I couldn’t tell her that. A girl has gotta play hard to get, so I said, “You don’t hafta to put out just because I made lunch.” That made her snorf (snort-laugh; I am a force to be reckoned with, and alo I make portmanteaus).

“Hmmm,” she sighed, “I like spending time with you. My Daffodil.nWhat did you pack?”

What didn’t I pack? Lots of stuff. In fact, most of the stuff, and really, too much. But summer is coming to an end – officially anyway; not so much with the weather where we live – and Mary’s work always gets busier when the summer ends. People aren’t going on vacation and the summer Friday thing her company does ends, and even setting all that aside, if there’s one thing the pandemic has taught me, it’s to seize the moment. Do you know how many moments I let pass because I was trying to be a good employee in the hopes that I’d get some kind of recognition or reward for it? Well, fuck that! My job is to live life, and sometimes that means buying two kinds of potato salad for the same meal because the little things make moments just as much as the big things.

We should picnic more often. It felt a little like dating again because back then when we went on many a picnic. Our non-picnic dates had a way of ending up with me spread across Mary’s lap while she beat out a tattoo on my butt, sometimes instigated by her and other times by me, and a picnic was a way of making it so we couldn’t do that (at least, not there) and could actually get to know each other before our hormones took over. It makes me smile to remember it: Mary, glamorous as all get out, and me walking hand in hand with one of those old fashioned, wicker picnic baskets.

And now, Mary laying on her side under an Audrey Hepburn sunhat playing footsie with me. Enough to make me forget what I was wearing and feel like I was falling in love again. That’s what sunny Sundays are for, nostalgia and time together, and that’s how I ended up sitting between her legs as she rested her chin on my shoulder and kept her arms loosely around my body, watching the other picnickers coming and going as the day wore on and there was no reason in the world for us to ever go home.

“Mary,” I said.

“Yeah, Daffy?”

“You know how our disgusting newlywed phase is over three years old now? I don’t want it to end.” Ooo, did that get me squeezed.

“I love you,” she said and kissed my neck and again and my temple and squeezed me tighter.

“I love you too.”

We stayed like that a little longer. We have this thing at home called a bed, though, and it seemed like a great way to continue our day would be to go use it for sleeping, wake up, eat more food, and then use it for other activities. Did you know it’s hard to pack up a picnic held on the ground when you’re wearing a sundress and … an undergarment that’s not underpants without flashing your not-underpants to everyone in the meadow?

We got to the car, stowed are things, and Mary said, “I need the restroom before we drive home.”

“K,” I said, not thinking where this might lead. Personally, I, um, didn’t need the restroom. Because … because reasons! Yep, that’s why. Reasons. Just remembered the … reasons. I would just wait in the car, thank you very much.

“C’mere,” she said innocently. She’s not innocent. I’m innocent. In fact, I’m an innocent, a veritable angel of probity and goodwill and excellent behavior and … stuff. I think Mary might have been innocent once upon a time, but then she met me and has been committing the foulest deeds against my person and psyche ever since. Which is fun and all, but there’s a time and place. And yeah, most of the times and most of the places count, but we’re not talking about those so shhh.

“Um, why,” I asked out of curiosity. I’m a very curious person. ‘There’s go Daphne’ people say, ‘she’s a curious character.’ That’s what they mean, right?

Mary rolled her eyes at me and came over. This one time, when I had maybe (definitely) pushed her buttons a little too much with the alleged sass and brattiness (as if! But also, yes, I did that) all it took was one eye roll from me, and I found myself outside in our backyard with zero pants already sniffling from the swats she gave me as she sent me outside to cut a switch. Fun times …

You know who has a three-foot vertical jump? Me, when Mary lifts the hem of my knee-length dress in a public parking lot to grope my diaper (sunuvabitch! Hers! It’s hers! Dammit! Dammit it all to crap!) “Mary!”

“I thought I felt my leg grow warmer while you were sitting on my lap.”

“And whose fault is that?!?”

“No one’s fault. Accidents happen.”

“Fnurple kernuh hesson, Mary!”

She got that o-Daphne-is-so-flustered-she’s-not-making-real-words-anymore-and-this’ll-be-fun smirk on her face. Less expressive and more uncouth diarists than myself have a phrase for that sort of grin, and it involves eating something. I saw it coming and just had to stand there with my fists balled up waiting for it to land like I always do.

“You’re just a late trainer. It’s okay, sweetie.”

Defamation! Slander! Libel! “Sernamoffer, Mary!” Um, yeah, that’s it … dammit …

“If you say so,” she said as she reached around me and grabbed …

“No!”

“Mhmm,” she said as she put the backpack she keeps in our car on her shoulder.

“No!”

“‘Fraid so.”

“But mmm-mmm.”

“There’s a family restroom right over there. It’ll only take a second.”

“But … no.” I think I said that already, but that’s okay because it bore repeating.

“What kind of no is this,” she asked me. Good question. And sigh … not a hard no.

“I … but please?” Mary interpreted that as permission, which technically it was if she wanted to make me. “But you can’t make me,” I said like a dunderhead who didn’t appreciate that to a domme those words are just a challenge they can’t back down from.

“Little girl…”

“Am not!”

“Ahem! Little girl, your bottom is soaked. I know you can’t be very comfortable even if you have gotten used to having soggy pampers. You’ll feel so much better when you’re dry.”

So many things (like, all the things … except one … perhaps two) wrong with that sentence I didn’t even know where to start.

“But … we’re in public.”

“Since when do we have a problem using public restrooms to deal with your needs? I know I’ve spanked your bottom in that very restroom at least once, and that’s what you’re about to get again if you don’t let me take care of you.” I tried making bambi eyes at her, to no avail. “What’s it going to be? Fresh pampers, or a spanked bottom and then fresh pampers?”

“But … there’s a line for that restroom.”

“So we’ll stand in it.”

“But …but …” I’m not hyperventilating! You are!

“Hey,” she said as she put her hands on my shoulders just like she had that morning and stooped down to look me in the eye, “you’re okay. Nothing bad is going to happen. I won’t let it. Do you trust me?”

I think my lip was trembling. I bit it and nodded.

“Then take my hand.”

With that backpack hanging off one shoulder, she took my hand and walked us toward the family restroom. If it had been a line to get into a sex shop I wouldn’t have felt as self-conscious as I did. Mary? She just stood there holding my hand, rubbing her thumb against the back of it like this was a normal part of our outings. We’d barely had any outings in a year and a half, and this was not a normal part of them. I could still count on my fingers the number of times I’d worn those dumb things in public.

I looked at the woman in front of us with her little ones and snuck a look at the woman behind us with hers, and despite thinking of how it would look, I gripped Mary’s hand tighter and took a half step closer to her. What must the other people in line have thought, us waiting there and me leaning on Mary? I don’t even want to know.

“You’re okay,” she whispered.

When it was our turn, Mary locked the door behind us. “Perfect,” she said as I wondered what in the name of the sweet baby jeebus could possibly be perfect about the situation. Then I saw: an adult-sized changing table for people with disabilities.

“Can’t we just do this standing,” I practically pleaded. “Let’s just get this over with fast. The other people are waiting.”

“Your diaper change is no less important than theirs,” she said, and I could tell she meant it. Like, as a statement of moral principle. But she relented, I’m pretty sure because she could sense just how close to the edge I was. She’s usually pretty good about that, taking me up to the edge without taking me over.

“Hold your pretty dress up for me.” I did. “Goodness! You is soaked! You piddled a puddle in your pampers!”

“Marrry,” I said with my voice shaking. That made her more business-like.

“Okay, spread your legs for me a little.”

If I didn’t just want the hell out of there, I’d have protested when she got out another diaper. She powdered it, which I used to hate and now understand that it actually does make these things more comfortable, especially on a warm day. I think we were done in less than five minutes, but o yeah, Mary still had to pee.

“Wait right outside for me,” she said. Hoo boy – later, when I had a chance to process, I recited this awesome rant in my head about how it’s not fair that her privacy gets respected while I’m ordered to go in my pants (in public!) and submit to being naked in front of our friends (not that I mind very much … or at all … sometimes) but I had to go stand alone with those people in line who saw us go in together, probably with all sorts of ideas about why, and wait. This was the winery all over again (or as I’ve come to call it, “D-Day” because reasons), except at the winery, no one saw us go in together. No one saw a backpack slung over Mary’s shoulder. And it was a regular restroom, not one marked “Family.”

And the Mary who argued with me in my head asked, “What, did you wanna watch me pee?”

And the me in my head responded, “Well, now that you ask, yeah, sorta,” and I just shut that train of thought right down because I don’t need another fetish at the moment. Like life isn’t hard enough with a humiliation fetish, a spanking fetish, general submissive tendencies, and whatever the heck this not-ageplay thing between us is.

I went back outside, glimpsed those people, put my head down, and went around the corner.

“There you are,” Mary said when she found me after a whole two seconds of looking. “Ready to go home?” Head nod. “Don’t feel like talking?” Head shake. She put her arm around my shoulder, tugged me close, and I leaned on her back to our car. “You’re okay.” Head nod. “Are you okay?” Head nod. “Promise?”

“Yeah.” She kissed my temple.

“Let’s go home and take a nap before dinner.” See? We’re simpatico like that.

All the way home and all the way to our bedroom she kept glancing at me, reaching over to touch me, give me these reassuring pats and squeezes. In bed, with her being the big spoon, she asked, “Are you mad me?”

“No.”

“Really?”

“Really … Would you really have spanked me with those people right outside?”

“You know I would’ve,” she said. Yeah, I did know.

“When you said my diaper change was just as important, it’s not. We shouldn’t make other people wait when we’re just …” I left the rest unsaid.

“You needed a dry diaper. That’s just as important as anyone else. Didn’t I say I’d take care of you?” I really liked that she said that, even if I didn’t like at all the context.

“Yeah … Mary?”

“Close your eyes, baby.”

“Just one thing … Can we have all the sex later? Asking for my friend.”

“Yes, we can, my horny humiliation fiend.”

“I’m not a fiend!”

“The fiendiest. Now close your eyes.”

“(Yawwwwn.) Okay.”