Mary and Daphne #124 (Patreon)

So about that play date …

Actually, before we even get into that, let’s just reflect on my general saintliness in tolerating the whole mess Mary created when she decided to introduce diapers into our relationship. Let’s just … let’s just remember that because I know how the mists of time can obscure things, so let’s just remember that this was her doing and I should be canonized and unanimously elected to the Submissive Hall of Fame for going along with it. Okay? Great. Good.

So about that play date …

Lisa dropped Jane off. That’s how deep into little space Jane can get when she wants to – so deep she doesn’t even drive herself to a play date. Mary told Lisa she could stay, but she declined, leaving a bouncing Jane on our doorstep. I’ve never been to a little play party or hosted a true little play party or even gone to Jane’s for that specific purpose. I’ve played with her while she was in little space at her house, and she was little when I had her over during the pandemic, but that wasn’t the reason she came over. Or sort of but not exactly. But for the play date, Jane came prepared, complete with shortalls and a plastic toy suitcase (as in, the suitcase was a toy, but yes, she had packed it with toys.

I … was less prepared. I still hadn’t figured out what I was going to do with her for the afternoon. She was going to be little, and I was going to be her sitter, but I didn’t know what that meant. I never babysat a thirty-six-year-old before. Come to think of it, I’ve only babysat kids a handful of times. I’m not a little, and I’m also not a big, so…

“Welcome her in,” the only big in the house said as she brushed past me. Like, woah, with the impatience. “Hi, Janey,” Mary practically sang with this insipid smile on her face that’s a lot more endearing when she smiles at our nephew like that. “I’m so glad you came over to play with us today.” Mary her put her arms around her shoulder and guided her over our threshold. And, no, I do NOT get snippy when Mary treats Jane like a little. Why would I? I’m not a little. I’m not the jealous type … Okay, so I am the jealous type but not because Jane is a little or Mary treats her like one.

I had to fake some big skills if I was going to hold up my end of the invitation and be her sitter, so I did what Mary did. I put on a totally fake voice and said, “Hello! Do you want a snacky or a drinky?” Why are they looking at me like that?

They seemed to shrug off my perfectly good if totally inauthentic attempt to talk to Jane like a big, and Mary asked her, “How old are you today?” Jane held up five fingers. “Five!?! I thought a littlegirl was coming over to play today. You’re practically grown up!” O that is just so … “And did you bring over some toys to play with?” Jane, apparently not feeling especially verbal, nodded. Turning her attention back to me – her wife! – Mary said, “Why don’t you take Jane to the living room and play for a while, and I’ll come check on you in a bit?”

“Kay. C’mon, Janey.” I took her by the hand to the living room and sat down on the couch leaving plenty of room for her, and instead of sitting on the couch, she plopped herself down on the floor, unsnapped the buckle on her toy suitcase, and upended the thing onto the carpet. Without rolling my eyes even a little or even sighing like I was being put upon because I wasn’t and I should’ve figured that was where she’d wanna play whatever it was she wanted to play, I grabbed a throw pillow and the remote and got down on her level.

I turned on the TV and found some random movie that was on, and Jane, in a total adult-toddler power move, took the remote right out of my hand and turned it to a cartoon. Not a good cartoon like Bugs Bunny or TMNT but some truly awful cartoon meant for kids so little they aren’t even really kids yet. Bossy McBossy-Pants handed me a barbie and said, “You can be Skipper. She’s Barbie’s sister.”

“Um, okay.” It’s not like I was a butch kid growing up. I had my tomboy tendencies, and yes, I know that’s a whole concept best relegated to the dustbin but using it for the sake of making myself understood. And sure as heck no one is mistaking me for butch now. The opposite, in fact, with me literally owning a tee shirt that says, ‘I’m not a manic pixy dream girl’ because people make that mistake a lot. I had barbies growing up; I don’t remember when I stopped playing with them, but more to the point, I didn’t really remember how to play with them.

Jane was accessorizing her barbie, and all I could think to say was, “Hi, Barbie. Are you still taking opioids for the crippling pain your disproportioned body causes?”

Jane … didn’t think that was funny. “Aunty Marrry!”

“Hey, no. No Mary. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that,” I said as I heard Mary coming down the hall. And when did Mary get promoted to Aunty? And what did that make me?

No sooner was Mary in sight than the little fink finked on me. “She’s being mean!”

O my god, you *@#@*! rat, I thankfully didn’t say out loud. This is what she does almost every dang time she’s little around me. She gets me in trouble, and at least some of the time I didn’t actually do anything.

I recounted the story to Mary, who was so obviously suppressing a laugh (cuz I’m funny, dammit!), and explained, “I didn’t mean to be mean. I just don’t know how to play.” Mary’s suppressed smile went away, and her brow wrinkled in this I’m-having-a-realization face she makes whenever she has a realization, followed by this whole pity face she makes when she’s pitying me. And I am not an object of pity! I’m damn paradigm of humankind! To be admired and worshipped and … stuff.

“I’ll help you,” Mary as she got down on the floor with us. “Which one should I be?” Jane, smiling this big smile that I took no offense at at all either as the official sitter or as Mary’s wife because why would I, took Skipper out of my hand and gave it to Mary (my wife! nother aunt!).

It was Mary who said, “And what should Daphne be?” And the little brat flicked a monopoly car toward me! I mean, what the crappin’ crud!?! Like I was suddenly something she scraped off her shoe when she came in cuz now she had Mary to play with.

Since I was the sitter and Mary was really just a bystander even if Jane called her Aunty (which she is not!), I, in my authoritative but kind voice (that should not be mistaken as my impression of Mary when she’s lecturing me except yeah, that’s where I learned it) said, “That’s not very nice Janey. I wanna play too. Will you show me how?” Ooo, she’s smiling at me. Why does it feel so good to get a thirty-something woman to smile at me? Surely not because she’s a little. Really.

“You can be My Little Pony.” Which left me wondering whether she meant the character or Barbie’s pony and had me thinking of a joke about pony play which led me to thinking of this plug we have in our toy chest which is actually a fox tail and not a horse tail but so long as we’re playing pretend … but I had the good sense not to give voice to that line of thinking.

“Where are we going,” Mary asked, and Jane decided we were going to the mall because apparently not only was she five that day but also the whole world rewound to when she actually was five and malls weren’t depressing museums of retail past. Which is another thing I didn’t say out loud.

I just tried to play along, the whole time with Mary giving me these oddly encouraging smiles like she was proud of me or something. Like, yeah, I sorta kinda definitely breakdance inside when Mary is proud of me (and sometimes just a teensy bit on the outside) but not because I’m a golden retriever or desperate for approval or anything. I just really really want it and need it … which is totally different somehow. Really.

“I’m going to go make us lunch. Can you play nicely while I’m gone?” I’m not sure which of us that was directed at, but I decided to say yes not because I’m a little (I was little-sitting, dammit! And doing a great good passable job of it, I might add) but because she’s Mary and in charge and stuff, so I answered her in the affirmative.

Mary stood up and I was all set to keep playing when she remembered something. Or at least I’m guessing she remembered something because she went, “Oop,” and turned around. “Do you need the potty,” she asked.

Ya know what I did? I didn’t blush even a little. Really. Because I knew she didn’t mean that question for me … because reasons.

“No,” Jane said in almost a squeak.

“Are you sure,” Mary said as she walked back over toward us. “Can you stand up for me?” Jane hopped to her feet (glad I never hop to when Mary says. Um, really. What?), and Mary asked, “Can I check your pullup?” Jane nodded, and Mary slipped a hand up the front of Jane’s shortalls while I sat there with that stupid plastic pony in my hand and didn’t forcefully exhale as though trying to push a totally heccin peeved off sense of jealousy out of my body at the sight of my wife touching Jane. And how did she even know Jane was wearing a pullup? I didn’t know. Lisa didn’t say. Further proof that Mary is a big and can just spot pullups at twenty paces.

“All dry,” Mary said in this totally unwarranted congratulatory way that actually stirred no feelings inside me at all. Nary a one. Not even a little. Really. “Will you tell me if you need the potty?”

“She can tell me,” is a thing that impulsively came out of my mouth. “Um, because, uh, I’m her babysitter today. I can do it.” Hey Daff, ya know who says ‘I can do it?’ Toddlers. Stupid peanut gallery in my head. Are you really willing to take her to use the potty if that’s how she wants to play? Peanut gallery makes heccin good points sometimes.

“And you’re doing such a good job,” Mary said. O no you didn’t say that all patronizingly to me you …

O, how I wish the moment stopped there. I don’t even care how the moment ended – me having a sudden stroke, nuclear holocaust, meteor striking the earth, meteor just striking me – so long as it ended. But it didn’t. Nope. My wife stepped over the small pile of toys, held out her hand for me, helped me up, and without so much as a how you doin’ stuck her hand down the front of my shorts and said, “You’re a little damp, Daffy.”

Picture me frozen in a rictus of humiliation as my friend asked my wife, “How can she be the babysitter if she’s in diapers and I’m not?”

Mary, ever the big, looked over her shoulder and said, “She’s still a big girl even if she needs diapers.”

“I don’t,” I protested.

And o how I wish the moment stopped there. But no. No. Sigh …

Mary – ya know, my first wife; pretty sure I’ve told you about her – in that o so earnest and chipper tone I’m beginning to associate with tinnitus, swiveled her head back toward me and asked, “Did you poop?”

Bright flash. Sound of blood rushing through my ears giving way to a piercing ring. For reasons I still don’t understand, I just stood there while Mary turned me around, cupped my butt, pulled out the back of my shorts, peered in, and announced, “Still clean. Good job.”

Excuse me, did she just say good job? “Marrrry! I didn’t and I never and you (building imploding) and (windows breaking) and (elk mating) and and and … you! Heccin hernumfluffer, Mary!” Don’t make me stomp my foot because … because … because it would just show how powerless I am. Dammit …

“It’s okay, honey. Janey understands, don’t you, Janey?” Mary turned part way around, giving me a clear view of that little I was never sitting for again so help me, who nodded solemnly like she’d been invested with a great trust. “Thank you. You two play nice, and I’ll call you when lunch is ready.”

No sooner was Mary past Jane than Jane grinned at me like a hyena. And do you know what I did? Nothing. That’s right. I took the high road. I mean why not take the high road since Rue de Tiradedoesn’t go anywhere. I don’t even need to worry what a pretend five-year-old thinks of me, especially one as bratty as Jane who just wants to stir up trouble. Instead, I just sat back down and picked up that pony and said, “Let’s keep playing.” For I am not a little girl. Neither am I petty or jealous or envious. Who’s a little girl? Not me. Who’s petty or jealous or envious? Dunno! But not me.

Jane rejoined me on the carpet, and being a good little-sitter, I let her take the lead. “Where are we going next,” I asked.

“To get ice cream.”

“Ice cream before lunch,” I said in a mock-surprised tone that was much improved from my first attempt to sound like a big. I didn’t add in, I’ll save the table for us, Barbie, while you throw up in the bathroom, both because eating disorders aren’t something to make light of and because I’m not snarky (what? really). “We can’t have ice cream before lunch!”

“I can have ice cream before lunch cuz I’m not a diaper baby.”

“Hey,” I said calmly – calmly! – “that’s not a nice thing to say.” Like, hey, don’t start bratting. We’re having a good time (if we just block out the last three minutes).

I didn’t get an apology. I didn’t get anything for a minute, so I ventured, “Doodoodoo, we’re waiting in line at the ice cream place. What are you gonna get?”

Having gone with Jane to get ice cream more than a handful of times, I knew exactly what she was going to say because she always gets the same thing, an oreo blizzard. So you can understand my surprise when Jane said, “Did you poop?”

“(Internal screaming).” I rocked back on my heels, took a deep breath, and … remained calm dammit! “Hey,” I said, “deciding to ignore her rather than reward her with the attention the little brat was seeking, “I got some new toys just for us to play with today. Be right back.”

And ya know what? I did buy a new toy just for her, because I’m super nice and really wanted her to have a fun day as a little because she’s my bestie and I took her text as a cry for help. It sounded like she needed some serious little time, I wanted to help her out, I was sorry I couldn’t be a little with her, but I figured, what they hey, I can make it special and bought a new toy. A new toy that came in frustration-free packaging, which is the biggest load of horseshit since ever, but ya know what? Worth it, because I’m a super nice person and she’s my bestie.

I went to the hall closet and got the toys (because I got two – one for her, one for me because I’m so friggin nice and because she’s so my friggin bestie, dammit!), peered around the corner into the living room where she was combing Barbie’s hair (which has an oogy mortuary beautician quality to it if you stop to think about it), and … ping!

Got her! Right in the head! NERF! Holy heck nerf is heccin fun, and I was thinking what’s a game we’ll both like, and I saw nerf on Amazon, and NERF! I got two of the smallest dart guns they have.

“I got you one, too, and we can go outside and,” is a thing I said and that no one heard because Miss Jane I-Can-Dish-It-Out-But-Can’t-Take-It had what can only be described as a full-on cry fest. Worst. Fest. Ever.

I can tell when Jane is doing crocodile tears, or at least I used to be able to tell pre-pandemic and we just haven’t seen each other enough since, but doesn’t matter. It’s ageplay. So I played along. “I’m sorry, Janey. I thought you’d like to play nerf with me. Let me kiss it and make it better,” is what I would’ve said had we not been interrupted by Mary coming around the corner like a freight train and rushing to Jane’s side. She practically slid on her knees she got down next to her so fast! I mean, yeah, a time or two she’s done that for me, but seeing it third-person just hits different.

“What happened,” Mary asked with both arms around Jane. What was Jane babbling about? Who could tell, and who needed to tell with the dart on the floor and me standing in the hall double-fisting my guns with one spent chamber clearly visible.

Woah, Mary looks pissed. “I …”

“I don’t even want to hear it, little girl. What were you thinking? She’s just a little girl.”

So. Much. Cognitive. Dissonance. Like, all the cognitive dissonance in that sentence.

“But …”

“Daphne Ann, you park yourself in a corner and …”

“But I didn’t mean it that way and it was an accident and she made fun of me and I was just trying to change the subject and I got these just for her and me to play with and you’re taking her side and you always take her side!” Gawd, I’m pathetic. And what is this wetness on my face?

“Okay,” Mary said to me and the sniffling Jane. I may have gotten teary, but (1) I had put up with an awful lot for one morning, (2) Mary was being way too deferential to the little brat, which she always is, and (3) at least I wasn’t sniffling like a pretend five-year-old. I was just teary like a bona fide thirty-four-year-old.

Anyhoo, Mary suggested, “Okay, let’s sit down on the couch and talk this out.” She got up, holding Jane’s hand which I didn’t notice because I wasn’t on the lookout for things to tick me off, which it didn’t even, and sat down on the couch, patting the side next to her for me to sit down on. Mary: dominatrix, ninja, sorceress, coyote, and mediator, apparently.

In the spirit of parley, I set my armaments down and joined them. Also in the spirit of parley, I didn’t say, Get. Your. Head. OFF. My Wife’s shoulder! You Hussy! Didn’t even think it. Not jealous of a little because I’m neither the jealous type nor a little. Really.

“You first,” Mary said to Jane, “What happened?”

“We were playing and then she got up and I was still playing and she shot me in the hehh-ehh-ead.”

Okay, now those are crocodile tears. I know from experience that Mary knows crocodile tears from the real thing because she has accused me of that (wrongly because I have never tried crocodile tears, um, really), but she ignored such an obvious affectation and continued her interrogatory. “Just like that? For no reason?”

“Uh-(inward sob)-huh (outward sob).”

Meanwhile, I patiently waited my turn to speak like the good girl I am. A good girl and a humble girl, because when it was my turn to speak, I could’ve started with, First I’d like to remind everyone that I’m a good girl, but I didn’t. Instead, I began, “Right after you left to go make lunch, she said she didn’t hafta listen to me because she doesn’t wear diapers.”

“Is that true,” Mary asked.

“Yeah, but only because I don’t. I’m a big girl. I don’t wear diapers anymore. My mommy said I’m a big girl and that only babies wear diapers.”

I happen to know for a fact that Lisa never said any such thing, but if she did, she was talking out of both sides of her mouth because she assured me, in a moment I spent silently telling her to STFU, that sometimes big girls wear diapers because they need longer to learn.

“I just told you she’s a big girl even if she wears diapers.”

I chimed back in with, “And I ignored her when she said that and then she asked me if I pooped.” Which you started, Mary!!!

Jane’s façade collapsed a little. She tried to hide her smirk, but nope, there it was, and when Mary saw it and scowled at her (I imagine because I couldn’t see), that smirked disappeared and Jane started backpedaling like a backpedaler, and a pretty inept one at that. “I, uh, was just asking because, um, I thought I smelled something, and, um, I was gonna call you so you could change her diaper so that, um, she’d be clean and not stinky.”

“Jane,” Mary said in a tone that has the magic power to provoke confessions.

“But, um, really.”

Gee, where have I heard that before … Um, I mean, um, never heard that before! La dee da … um, really!

“Jane, are you fibbing right now? Were you making fun of Daphne?”

I believe the technical term is lying, and speaking of unwelcome scents, are somebody’s pants on fire? But I stayed quiet.

“Um … yes. I’m sorry,” Jane exclaimed. I could see her mentally searching for an excuse. “I only did it because you did.”

O my god you just totally redeemed herself as my best friend!!! Tellin’ it like it is! Take that, Mary! You started it! Your turn to confess!

“Jane,” Mary said as she began her own confession, “I wasn’t making fun of Daphne. I was checking her diaper because she needs me to do that for her.”

DAMMIT ALL MOTHER*#$%* HELL DAMN CRAP AND #$#%#! I married a woman with no scruples and it’s only fun almost all the time!

Not that my stewing stopped Mary from continuing because she just friggin loves to continue. “If you still needed diapers, I’d help you, too, just like I checked your pullup and will take you to the potty when you need it.” Which is actually a thing Mary has never done with Jane in her little space because until that day, it was just never a thing. “Is that so different? Daphne needing help with her diapers and you needing help wiping on the potty?”

THEY. ARE. NOT. MINE! And hahahahaha! Look at Jane squirm in embarrassment for once.

“No.”

“You owe Daphne an apology.”

“I’m sorry.”

“And Daphne,” Mary said as she turned her attention back to me, “Why did you shoot her with a nerf gun?”

“I was trying to get her to stop making fun of me.”

“So it was because she was being mean to you. When another little is mean to you, are you supposed to be mean back?”

“I didn’t mean it like that. I got them just for today so there’d be something we both like, and I thought if we started playing a new game, then she’d stop being bratty before she got in trouble.”

“Daphne.”

“I’m telling the truth,” I didn’t plaintively whine.

“Okay,” Mary said, my not-plaintive not-whining having convinced her. But I wasn’t done. I can continue too.

“And she wasn’t even hurt. She was just pretending so she could get me in trouble, and she always gets me in trouble when she’s being little, and everyone takes her side.” She’d been trying since the moment she handed me that stupid barbie, but I saved that part just in case in I needed to counter Jane’s perjury, should she attempt it.

Mary sighed one of her you-speak-The Truth-Of-Heaven sighs because I heccin did! She turned her attention back to Jane. “I’m very disappointed in you, Jane. Daphne was very nice to say yes when you asked her to play with you, and she was in charge as the babysitter. It wasn’t very nice of you to accept her invitation and then to make fun of her and try to get her in trouble.”

“I said I was sorry.” Now she sounds genuinely contrite. Heeheehee.

“I know you’re sorry, but you still need a consequence to remind you that you have to make good choices the first time.”

Not that I rolled my eyes thinking about the ridiculous two-swat spanking Mary was probably going to give her, but yeah, I did roll my eyes at the ridiculous two-swat spanking Mary was probably going to give her.

“Remember what you, me, and your mommy talked about the last time you had a play date at our house?” That’s when I remembered, and I could tell it came rushing back to Jane because her eyes turned to saucers and filled with real tears. If real tears dissuaded Mary from doling out a well-earned spanking, well, married life wouldn’t be nearly as much fun.

“That’s right,” Mary confirmed, “if you misbehave at my house, you get the same kind of spanking Daphne gets when she makes bad choices.”

And what kind of spankings would those be? Long and hard, dammit! Naturally, Jane could red light if she wanted to, and I was seriously surprised that she didn’t. She’s not into spanking like me and Mary are. Yeah, she gets spanked sometimes, but a few pops on the butt with a hand. It’s not like Lisa doesn’t know how to give a real spanking, a fact I know because she’s given them to me, but that’s not how it works over at their house. A swat or two, then Jane sobs and Lisa comforts her.

“Pleeeeease,” Jane whined. “I’m really sorry. I won’t ever do it again.”

“You were told the consequence of making fun of Daphne’s diapers,” Mary said with me choosing to ignore the last part, “and you did it anyway. You’re getting a spanking, Jane, a real one. I’m going to take your pullup down and spank your bare bottom until I think you’ve learned your lesson, and because you made fun of Daphne, she’s going to watch.”

Finally! I’d been waiting for justice for a long time.

“Do you understand what’s going to happen,” Mary asked. Jan nodded. “Do you have anything to say first?”

That was Mary giving Jane a chance to red light, and Jane hesitated only a moment. “I … I’m sorry I made fun of you, Daphne, and tried to get you in trouble. I … I’ll …” Mary was looking at her very intently, and I probably was, too, and like Cicero bowing his head in acceptance of his fate, Jane just reached up for the shoulder strap on her shortalls and started to unbuckle it.

“I’ll do that, sweetie. Daphne isn’t allowed to take her own pants down for a spanking, and neither are you. You’re both too little.” Jane sniffled and weakly nodded. “Daphne,” Mary said to me, “would you please bring me the paddle from my purse in the kitchen?”

I was halfway to the kitchen when I heard a sob from behind me, a real one. But ya know what, she’s gotta learn. Seriously, I like Jane, but if she keeps doing this almost every time she’s little around me, I’m just not going to be around her when she’s little. I don’t want that, and I know she doesn’t. She needed to learn a lesson, and if it took a real spanking for her to learn it, then so be it.

I got the paddle and returned to the living room to find Jane naked below the waist and spread across Mary’s lap. And, um, nope, wasn’t jealous of her being across my wife’s lap at all. Not like I consider that my very own private sanctuary or anything. Um, really.

Jane’s shortalls and pullup were on the coffee table, and she was crying already. I could sympathize. When I’ve made a bad choice and feel guilty about it, sometimes I’m crying before I get my consequence too. I shook my head. She really should’ve known better. She’s a little, which means she’s actually an adult. I’ve told her to quit it. Mary’s told her. Lisa’s told her. And they told her exactly what would happen if she didn’t. I handed Mary the paddle and sat down on the loveseat to watch.

“When Daphne gets a punishment spanking,” Mary explained, “she doesn’t get a warmup spanking.” I’m not sure Jane has ever even gotten a warmup spanking even if you count that as the whole spanking. “I know this is your first real spanking, and I want you to try to hold still like a big girl, but it’s okay to cry.” She was already doing that and doing a pretty good job of it too.

Mary tightened her left arm around Jane’s hip, raised the paddle, and …

“Don’t!” Which was me. Sigh … dammit. “Don’t spank her.”

Jane turned some very wet, very surprised eyes toward me, and Mary made her I’m-not-that-surprised face. “She knew what the consequences for poor choices would be, and she made poor choices anyway,” Mary said.

“I know, but I don’t want you to spank her.”

“She wanted me to spank you.” Jane’s eyes were flitting from me to Mary, or as best she could see Mary without craning her neck. “And you didn’t do anything. It’s not the first time either.”

I was so focused on Mary not spanking Jane that I didn’t even think to shout out, J’accuse! You know I didn’t earn all those spankings and you gave them to me anyway! Nope, I just said, “But she doesn’t like to be spanked.”

“It’s a punishment, Daphne. She’s not supposed to like it.”

“I know … but she doesn’t like to be spanked. Please?”

Mary looked down at Jane and in her do-your-hear-me-little-girl tone that I’ve been on the receiving end of soooo many times said, “Do you hear what your friend is saying? Do you hear what a good friend she is?”

“Mhmm,” Jane sort of squeaked. Glad I never sound like that when I’m over Mary’s knee … dammit.

“Do you understand now how she feels when she’s about to get a spanking she doesn’t want? It’s not nice, is it? If I let you up, the next time you make fun of her, I don’t care where we are or who’s there, including your mommy, I will take your pants down and spank your bare bottom until you can’t sit for a week. Do you understand me?”

Holy crap, that’s Mary’s I-absolutely-am-threatening-you-right-now-and-mean-every-word tone.I’ve only ever heard her use that tone a few times when it wasn’t directed at me, and if those times made my heart go all a-flutter, this time it just melted. She so does love me and stuff (yes, I really talk that way even in my own head).

And perhaps the issuance of that threat came out of a well-deserved sense of guilt for having started the whole what’s-in-Daphne’s-diaper thing (even though it’s not mine) and for all the times she went along with Jane’s charade and spanked me for things I didn’t (or at least didn’t fully) do.

“Up,” Mary said and helped my friend up. “Let’s get you redressed. You are one lucky little girl.” I was glad Mary relented. I wasn’t sure she would. She takes discipline seriously. Like, yeah, sometimes it’s part of kinky fun-and-games, but she meant it when she said Jane knew the consequences and did it anyway. Mary comes by the whole domme thing honestly. Throw her adoration of me into the mix, and I would not have been surprised if she had just told me to leave the room and paddled Jane’s butt out of a sense that justice must be done, especially in defense of me.

Once dressed (cute pullup, btw, which is a thing I never would’ve thought if my life hadn’t taken such a weird turn), Jane turned toward me with her arms out, and we did the hug thing. Just friends, hugging it out … hard. With her apologizing and crying real tears. I don’t do so well around other people crying, so naturally, despite my positively spartan stoicism and other qualities of ancient Mediterranean civilizations, I cried a little too (or cried again, if you count the earlier tears, but those were just because I was so damn frustrated so they don’t actually count, and you should really stop counting them. Really.).

Mary disappeared into the kitchen and came back with wet paper towels. “You first,” she said to Jane, and Jane let go of me. Mary wiped the tear streaks off her faced and gave Jane the towel to blow her nose. She did the same for me, except she held the towel and said, “Honk.” I honked.

“I think two little girls would do well to take a little rest before lunch. Jane, you can use the guest room. I’ll come get you when lunch is ready.”

I didn’t bother to repeat that I’m not a little girl because, while I’m not, I could use a quick nap. I turned to go, but Mary grabbed my wrist before I could. I turned back to her, and she took my other wrist and held them together in her hands.

“She deserved a spanking,” Mary said to me in a serious tone like she granted the pardon grudgingly.

“I know.”

“Why didn’t you let me?”

“Cuz she doesn’t like being spanked.”

“She’s not supposed to like a punishment.”

“But she’s my friend,” I shrugged. Mary tugged me closed and moved her hands into my hair to draw me in for one heckuva heccin kiss. Like, seriously, yowza!

“I love you, Daphne Ann.”

I didn’t giggle like a schoolgirl but only because I’m not a schoolgirl. “And you like me too. Admit it.”

“I like you very much. I like that you’re such a kind person and good friend.”

“Is that your way,” I said maybe a little coyly, “of telling me that I’m a good girl.”

“Ha! You are a very good girl.”

“Maybe, um, the best?”

“For sure the best.”

SQUEEEEEEEE!!!!!!

But dignity, always dignity, that’s me. “I love you too.”

“And I’m sorry for getting her started and for letting her get away with those games so many times.”

“I know you are … because you love me.”

“Now you’re just being cute on purpose.” Who? Me? As if. “Go close your eyes for ten minutes. I’ll come get you when lunch is ready.”

“Can I also, um, wear something else?”

She leaned in and kissed me on the forehead, which holy happiness do I always like. “I’ll change you into a dry diaper when I get you up.

“Serious question,” I asked.

“Mhmm?”

“If Jane doesn’t want to, will you play nerf with me later?” Aww, Mary is so cute when she snorfs. “I’m being serious,” I tried to say while not laughing.

“I know, sweetie. Yeah, I’ll play with you.”

Sigh … she likes me and stuff.

“Scoot,” she said with a swat to my butt to send me on my way.

Also, apparently I had failed at being a babysitter and got demoted to playmate, which leads me to believe I was, as best, a babysitter trainee or, more likely, Mary was just humoring me. But that’s okay cuz she likes me and stuff.