Mary and Daphne #122 (Patreon)

I am so many kinds of fun it’s not even funny, and I should get some credit for that the next time someone accuses me of being a grumpy goose. I mean, I play along on all kinds of stuff, so people should play along with me. For goodness’s sake, it was a play date! We’ll get to that, but first …

Who wanted to have a play date? Jane. I was very happy to have Jane over, and it’s not like she sprung it on me. She texted and said, “Can we have a play date?”

I texted back, “Like a ‘play date’ play date?”

“Yeah, I want some little time. Be little with me?”

I can recognize a cry (text) for help when I hear (read) one. Did I suspect Mary’s hand at the virtual keyboard? Nope. Jane doesn’t need Mary’s instigation to want a play date. Still, I asked Mary about it (and no, I didn’t ask if I could have my friend over. I’m not a little girl! Really!).

“What’s up, buttercup,” Mary asked me as I sat down on the couch next to her. She put her arm around my shoulder. I think she likes touching me and stuff? Anyway, anytime she calls me buttercup, it means she’s in a silly mood. I like that she gets into silly moods. Some people want their domme to be all serious all the time, and I don’t think that’s fair (dommes are people, not characters) or fun (I live with this person; who wants to be with someone who never feels silly?).

“Jane wants to have a play date.”

“Like a ‘play date’ play date?”

“Heh. That’s what I asked. She asked me to be little with her.”

“And what did you say?”

“Nothing yet. It was just a second ago … I’m not a little.”

“I know.”

“Jane should know too. Like, pretty sure I’ve said that a few hundred times in the last forever years.” Minor, but only minor, exaggeration.

“I think she does know. Maybe she didn’t mean it that way.”

“How many ways are there to mean it? I don’t mind her coming over and being little. She does that sometimes anyway, or she did before the pandemic. And sometimes when we play at her house, she’ll be little and I won’t.” Because I’m not, again for clarity, a little.

I thought very carefully about what I said next. “I … she could be little, and I could be her babysitter.”

I wasn’t looking at Mary, but if I was, I’m so positive I would’ve seen a smirk that it’s not even funny. Ya know what that woman said? Well, I’ll tell you what she said: “But Daffy, you’re too little to babysit.”

Me? I didn’t dignify that with a (verbal) response.

“Hey,” that woman exclaimed. “What have I told you about hitting,” she said as she rubbed her arm where I gave her the tiniest love tap. Such a wuss!

“Do it whenever I feel like,” I sassed back.

“Such a sarcastic squirrel,” she said like that’s even a thing.

“That’s not even a thing … I just don’t know what she wants me to do.”

“You can just tell her no.”

“But she … She’s never asked me to be little with her. She wouldn’t be asking if she didn’t really need some little time.” Saying no to playing with a little, unless you’re totally hands down not into it, is like saying no to an actual little kid. ‘No, small child who looks up to me, I won’t play with you cuz I’m a monster.’ Who does that? Monsters, that’s who. I play with Jane when she’s little; I’m just not little also.

“You still get to say no. You can hang out with her and not play. Just tell her you’re not comfortable playing that way.”

“I’m okay with her being little while she’s here.” Her cry for help aside, I was getting a little miffed she asked me that. Had she just asked to play and not specifically asked me to be little with her, no problem. “I just don’t … I’m not a little. I wouldn’t even know what to do … Ya know, that’s what I’m gonna tell her. If she wants to be little, she can be and I’ll have fun with her, but I’m not going to try to be little. It’s just not my thing. I don’t wanna even try.”

“What will you do with her,” Mary asked.

I shrugged. “Whatever she wants. I’ll offer to be her sitter for the day. We can do whatever she wants. If she wants to play little games, that’s fine. I’ll play along. I’m just … it’s not my thing. I don’t have that headspace.” True story. Really.

“We can both play with her. We’ll make it a fun day for her.”

“I hope so. Why do you think she’s asking? She gets to be little with Lisa whenever she wants. Have you talked to her lately?”

“Not in a week or so. Nothing is going on that I know of.”

“Then maybe she really does want time with a little,” I reasoned. She gets to be little on her own all the time. “So … I can play with her. I just can’t be in that headspace.”

“Daffy,” my very reasonable wife said, “just tell her no if you don’t want to.”

“It’s not just that I don’t. It’s that I can’t. I’m not a little. I don’t do the whole headspace thing … And I don’t really wanna try to fake it. It’s … It’s just not fun for me. It’s boring.”

Mary gave me one of her why-are-you-overthinking-this looks. “Why are you overthinking this?” See? Told ya.

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. Just tell her she can come over and play but that you aren’t going to be little. You’ll play with her, but not as a little.”

“But that’s not what she asked.” Ya know what? I was so overthinking this.

“So eager to please. You know you can’t be that way.”

“Just trying to do something nice for her. She is my second-best friend ya know.”

“Who’s you’re first?”

“You.” She knew I was gonna say that and gave me a smooch and a squeeze anyway.

“I like that you want to do nice things for your friends. You’ll both have a good time, and I’m sure you’ll think of something to make it even more fun. Text her back right now.”

So I texted her, “Sure! You can come over and have little time. I’ll play with you, but not as a little. But we’ll have fun! I’ll think of some fun things, and we can do whatever you want. Mary says she’ll play too.”

Jane was either staring at her phone anyway or was waiting for me to text her back cuz she responded right away and said yes. There was a smiley face, so whether she was disappointed or not, she didn’t say and I couldn’t tell.

“All set,” Mary asked me.

“Yep.”

“Good. We’ll have fun. Go get your shoesies on.”

Ugh, with the baby babble. “Where are we going?”

“Not sure yet. We’ll figure it out when we get on the road, but we hafta deal with your behavior when we get there.”

What the fernopter fruhlinhoffer?“What behavior?!? I didn’t do anything!” In case she didn’t notice, I was just sitting there talking to her trying to figure out how to do a nice thing for our friend. There’s no way I could’ve misbehaved! And I should know because I was there!

“Daphne Ann,” she said in her I-have-the-authority-here voice, “you do not hit.”

“I didn’t! What are you even talking about? I didn’t hit anyone.”

“You hit me right on the shoulder, little girl.”

“But but but but … that was a love tap! It was playful! You were teasing me!”

“Doesn’t matter. You do not hit.”

“That doesn’t even count as hitting! I never hit anyone.” The one time I tried to top someone else, I ended up crying and they ended up comforting me. I’m not a hitter. I don’t hit. I don’t I don’t I don’t! Hmmmph!

“I decide what counts, and not only do little girls not hit, they never, ever hit their dommes. It’s disrespectful.”

Well, that put a slightly different twist on it that had a little more validity, but still, “Bullcrap!”

“Daphne Ann, I’m going to count to three, and if you’re not putting your shoes on by the time I’m finished …”

Why the heck does she think counting scares me? I’m not five! I’m not a little girl! Really!!! “Count til you’re hoarse for all I care!”

And the thing is, if there had been a mirror in front of me, I’d have been able to look in it and see the line I’d just crossed right behind me, like, o look in the mirror; there’s the line you crossed, doofus! I tried to backpedal, but nope. “Um, what I meant is woah! Mary, no!” SPANK SPANK SPANK!

“You (SPANK). Do (SPANK). Not (SPANK). Hit (SPANK).

“Can we at least stop and appreciate the irony!?! Ow ow ow! Marrry!”

“And (SMACK). You (SPANK). Do (SWAT). As (SPANK). You’re (SPANK). Told (SPANK SPANK SMACK SPANK!). Are you ready to put your shoes on?”

“Or what? You’ll spank me some more! Eep! Ow ow ouch!” So … that would be a yes. She coulda just said yes.

“Do I need to take your pants down?”

More irony - she spanks me for not getting dressed when told, and her solution is to take off more of my clothes. Must be nice being a domme and being freed from the need to be logical, like, at all.

“No! I’ll put my shoes on. Geez!” SPANK!!!! “OUCH!! Marrry, be gentle! I have a very delicate bottom.”

She scortled at that. “No you don’t. Up. Get your shoes.” I slid off her lap, not that I’m even sure how I got there in the first place, and almost but not quite dodged the swat I knew she was gonna send me off with.

“Why are we leaving the house? Can’t you just punish me here,” I asked because reasons, like I didn’t want to get spanked in public. The only time that ever happens is when we’re already in public, and not exactly a fan. Um, really. And about the irony – submitting to her to stop the spanking … so she can spank me somewhere else. I need less irony in my life, or it could take a less painful form.

“First off, I never punish you. I give you consequences for your bad choices. Second, ya know how when you misbehave away from home, you get spanked at home? New rule: misbehave at home, and I’ll spank your bottom in public,” she said like she was so darn proud of herself and her stupid innovation that is so stupid but also kinda like woah and maybe a little titillating.

But before it was titillating, which actually it isn’t and never has been or will be and is just mean and cruel and unfair, her new rule stopped me in my tracks, one shoe on. “What the heck kind of crapping nonsense is that with your smug smirk right now and (dolphin chatter) and friggin (howler monkeys fighting) and (slamming of piano lid), Mary!”

“Who makes the rules?”

“Marrry…”

“Who. Makes. The. Rules, little girl?”

“Dammit! “Stop calling me that! I’m not a little girl!”

“Daphne Ann Taylor, you are throwing a tantrum like one. Who makes the rules?”

A tantrum is the cry of the oppressed, so even if I were throwing a tantrum, and I wasn’t because I don’t do that, it would be justified. But, sigh … “You make the rules. But, what, we’re gonna leave the house every time you wanna spank me?”

“Daffy, you know I don’t spank you because I want to.” O my god such lies! Lies and wickedness! “I spank you because you need spankings.” Truth, but let’s not focus on that. “And no, we’re not going to leave the house every time you need your bottom warmed.”

“But you just said!”

“I know what I just said, but I think I’m going to unmake that rule later today.”

Blink-blink, my eyes went. All I heard was the sound of blood rushing through my ears.

“Put your other shoe on, unless you need help.”

“I’ll give you some help, you mumble mumble murmur,” I mumbled and murmured.

“What was that?”

“There. My shoe’s on. Where are you gonna do this mean thing to me?”

“If you don’t take your consequence like the good girl I know you are, I won’t buy you lunch.”

Ooo, my wife knows I’m a good girl. Heehee! “You will, too,” I called her bluff.

She tilted her head a little. “Yeah, I will, but I’ll make you eat asparagus.”

“Ew.”

“Come along,” she said and took my hand to lead me toward the garage. “Just need to get my purse and your diaper bag.”

“Awww, really?”

“Really.”

If Jane ever fully understood what playing with Mary could mean – not that we’re playing; this is how we are – I’m not sure she’d wanna come within a mile of our house.

As for Mary, it’s a good thing I like her and stuff. Like, all the stuff. Even the mean (actually kinda nice) bits. Really.