Mary and Daphne #121 (Patreon)

I do NOT have an attitude … anymore. I’m not the kind of person to find themselves in a funk for no reason (um, really), but sometimes maybe as in yes, I do. Though to be fair to me, because someone needs to be, Mary did come within ten feet of me.

When she did that inconsiderate thing to me, I didn’t get up and leave the room in a huff. That’s just not true. I’m not that unhinged when I’m not in one of those bad moods that appear for no reason that I don’t get. And I wasn’t hunched over my laptop getting angry at there being nothing to read except the news when Mary cast a shadow over me like a giant over an unsuspecting, bucolic village tableau.

“Ahem,” she said from behind me. I turned to find her with her arms folded and leaning against the doorframe, a pose I’ve come to associate with when she’s feeling randy or when she’s feeling cross with me. The look on her face? Yep, the cross one.

“I didn’t do anything!” I didn’t say at an elevated volume in a certain tone Mary insists in a totally unreasonable way is unacceptable for me to direct at her.

“The ‘tude,” is all she said as she walked toward me.

“What ‘tude? If anyone has a ‘tude, it’s you.” She didn’t respond to that. She just gently closed my laptop, and I just let her do that but not because I knew she was right. That’s just not how it was. Um, really.

“Come on,” she said and set my laptop aside, took me by the hand, and led me to our bedroom.

“But why,” I didn’t whine.

“That’s a very good question and one I should ask you. Any reason you’re in a bad mood?”

“I’m not,” I also didn’t whine.

“Don’t you roll your eyes at me.”

“I didn’t,” I double didn’t whine pinky promise. Really.

“Good thing we’re catching this early,” she said like she was catching something before it turned into a much bigger deal like, o, say, me exploding at her for no reason in a verbal tirade and ending up getting my butt beaten black and blue. But like that’s ever happened. Um, really.

She led me right to my nightstand and took the paddle off it. One day it would be super nice to not have a paddle kept on my nightstand. Mary says it’s to help me remember to make good choices and also so she can find it in a hurry. I said then she should keep it on her nightstand, and can you believe she put me in timeout for that sass? As if! But also yes, a little. Which is the extent of all the wrongdoing I ever wrongly did ever. I’m very well behaved and always have been. Really.

Paddle in one hand and me in the other, she walked over to the ottoman and sat down, looking up at me with this searching, why-are-we-here face.

“We’re here because you said,” I didn’t pout before she could ask. And the ottoman? Seriously? That’s for when I’ve been really bad – o, excuse me, when my choices have been really bad, according to Miss Mary I-Read-a-Book-About-How-To-Talk-To-Willful-Children Taylor. All my declaration achieved was for her to make a you-say-the-silliest-nonsense face for a second.

“Want to try again and tell me why you’re in a bad mood?”

“I’m not,” I still didn’t pout while not balling up my first and not stomping my foot. “I don’t wanna spanking! I didn’t even do anything!”

“Daphne Ann.”

And at the very sound of my person saying my name, I didn’t start sobbing and climb into her lap. That’s just fake news. Never happened. I wasn’t having a hard week for no particular reason. That’s just not true, one of many things that isn’t true. For instance, Mary didn’t coo at me and shush me and tell me, “You’re supposed to wait until I’m spanking your bottom before you start bawling.”

“I’m sorry,” I didn’t apologize. I had nothing to apologize for … and stuff.

“I know you’re sorry, and I’m not upset with you,” she said and kissed my temple. “I know it’s been a hard week.”

“But why,” I didn’t ask in a pleading voice like I really wanted her to explain the bad mood I wasn’t in.

“I don’t know, but I can see how tense you get with those little shoulders of yours hunched up around your ears.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop saying that. Everyone gets in a mood sometimes.”

And I didn’t do that thing where you’ve been crying and snort back a snootful of crud and wipe it on your wrist but not before getting some on your wife’s shirt.

“No, I mean I’m sorry you didn’t get to spank me.” I had a hunch born of knowing her in the biblical sense that she was maybe twenty percent sorry she needed to spank me and a hundred percent looking forward to it and forty-six percent sorry she didn’t get to..

“Aww, sweetie. I just don’t get to spank you right now. But at bedtime …”

“Really?”

“Why the pouty face? Don’t you want a spanking?”

“Um … What kind of spanking?”

“What kind do you want?”

“Just your hand.” I like her hands. I wish they were touching me all the time, except when I’m in one of my not-a-bad-moods, and then it’s like, omg, do you still live here? But that never happens. It’s not like we’re some old married couple. We’re … young.

“It’s a date.”

Ooo, I get to go on a date with my wife and she’s gonna feel me up and stuff.

“Were you gonna spank me for being bad or to make me cry,” I asked.

“Like ninety-eight percent to make you cry. I can always tell when you need a good cry. And only two percent for taking out your grumpy on me. Not a good choice.”

“Sorry.”

“You silly goose,” she said and managed to smack my butt with me sitting in her lap. That’s a ninja type move right there. “Stop apologizing.”

“So you’re not cross with me,” I didn’t ask because I wasn’t feeling vulnerable and insecure for no good reason.

“Of course not. Come on, up you get. Lie down on the bed for me.”

“Aww, do I hafta?” I knew what she was gonna do! But, um, she didn’t do anything. She certainly didn’t diaper me on the bed, and since there was no diapering, she didn’t use the cloth diapers that are so poofy and get so heavy when they’re wet, which I wouldn’t even know because I never wear them and certainly I’ve never wet one … or three.

“Why so many,” I didn’t ask because there was just no reason to ask that. Really.

“Because it’s cute when you waddle.”

She didn’t help me up because I wasn’t even laying down, naturally, and because I didn’t feel like I was wearing a pillow around my nethers.

“Let’s go wash your face … and change my shirt.”

“Sorry.”

THWUMP. “It’s okay for you to cry on me.”

Someone might even think Mary likes it when I cry on her because it makes her feel needed and loved, which she is. True story. But how weird of her, right? Glad I don’t do weird things that most adults don’t do. Um, really.