Mary and Daphne #140 (Patreon)

I never wanted a written list of rules. I find that artificial and confining. I need room to grow and flourish! I can find ways to misbehave that Mary hasn’t even thought of yet! Don’t fence me in, man!

But sometimes it would be nice to know what will and won’t get me in trouble. I think I know about ninety-five percent of it, and while the other five is fun to explore, sometimes I’m out exploring and fall down a mineshaft. Btw, this is Western Metaphor Day, apparently, but that was the last one – promise … maybe.

Anyhoo, here’s a thing they don’t tell you about quitting your job and never getting another one – you get bored. Or maybe they do tell you that. Regardless,  I think I’ve done a really job managing it. But some days, I guess whether you’re employed or not, you’re gonna get bored, and you’re gonna find yourself to doing random stuff in the hopes of entertaining yourself even for just a few minutes. Which is what I was innocently doing.

“There you are,” my beautiful wife said when she found me in our bedroom.

“Here I am.” Wherever you go, there you are. Stupid human condition.

“What are you up to,” she asked as she crossed the room to look over my shoulder. “Daphne Ann,” she said when she saw what I was doing, “what is the rule about my makeup?”

“But it looks pretty on me,” I chuckled.

“Turn.”

Which I did so we were facing each other, and I wasn’t feeling intimidated by her looming over me practically pinning me against her dresser or anything. Really. So I kissed her. “How’s your workday going?”

“What’s the rule about my makeup, little girl?”

“So … we’re not gonna talk about your day?” Don’t tell her cuz she’ll think I’m starting to like her or something, but I like talking about her day with her. This domesticity thing fits me well. She smiled at me and looked up to her right like she was having an epiphany. Ruh roh. When she makes her epiphany face, it sets of warning bells. Dunno why. Really. (I’m rolling my eyes right now).

“Maybe it is time,” she said.

“Time for …”

“Time to teach you how to put on makeup.”

“That is so mean! I’m great at putting on makeup.”

“You are becoming a young woman,” she said as though puzzling out these great life puzzle pieces in her head.

“Grumble,” I grumbled.

“I’ll be teaching you about bras and hair in new places and about your period soon.”

“You … just … hmmmph!”

“Though I guess pads are taken care of.” Sometimes I wonder if she even realizes whose underpants area she’s suddenly holding so firmly. “What did we say about that,” she asked like I should have a clue what we said about anything in an imaginary conversation we didn’t have.

“That you’re sorry and will stop making me wear them,” I said as I maybe – eyewitness accounts differ, and we’ll never know what really happened so we should all just accept my version of events – leaned into her hand, which I didn’t, so there. Really.

“You’ll wear them til you learn.”

“Meany.” And I may – why even try to untangle a truth we’ll never learn – have kept leaning into her hand. Her hand which comes with fingers that were … pressing … stuff. They do call me fingers, and I have seen (and felt) them fing.

“It’s not mean to keep you in diapers until you stop having accidents,” she said with her delightedly earnest face on. “But we were talking about makeup,” she said and took her hand away. So mean. So, so mean.

She reached around me and took a pencil off her dresser. “Look up for me.” We don’t actually do this a lot. Like, hardly ever. “You hafta hold still,” she admonished me after an abortive attempt.

“You try not flinching when a pencil comes at your eye and you’re not the one holding it.” But seriously, it’s so awesome that she wants to not blind me and stuff. She’s super like that.

“Maybe you’re not ready for makeup after all.” But I did my best and let her draw the eyeliner on. She picked up the blush. “You’re so pretty with rosy cheeks.”

“They’re always rosy.”

“Especially when you’re embarrassed.”

“And cold. You shoulda seen me back home in Wisconsin. Terminal adorability.” Or terminal windburn and a forever war against dry skin. One of those. She picked up the lipstick.

“And these lips. They’re just so naturally pouty.”

“Which is odd because I never pout.” She smiled at me. Sigh.

“Such a chatterbox. Go like this.”

Which I did and she made my lips a shade of red that works much better on her than me.

“And how ‘bout some earrings,” she said and opened her jewelry box. There’s a rule about her jewelry too, and it’s super harsh: I hafta ask first. She never says no, but I mean, come on! She’s lucky I even let her keep any precious stones. Back in the days of the sumptuary laws, a peasant (goddess) like her wouldn’t even be allowed to wear those pointy shoes with the curly toes!

“You should wear earrings more often,” she said as she put them in for me.

“Cuz they’re pretty on me?”

“Cuz they’re pretty on you, and because your ears are going to close up if you’re not careful. You used to wear them every day.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works. … I used to wear a pantsuit twice a week too.”

“Maybe that’s what you should do today, make a goodwill box.”

“I’m going to wear them again at some point.”

“Like when?”

“I dunno. Court dates?”

“Court dates? Honey, I already told you your adoption is final and no more court dates.” So damn delighted with herself with her mirthfully delighted faced and bright, smiling eyes full of love.

“Jerk,” I muttered and totally meant it except I didn’t cuz I sorta thought it was funny but not really and also yes I did.

She chuckled at me. “Look.” She turned me around so I could look in the mirror.

“There I am.”

“There you are. What do you think?”

“This lipstick looks better on you.”

“Yeah … You look like your mom is making your big sister share her makeup with you.”

“What?!”

“Mhmm. And like she’s making her take you to a club.”

“This club … Will there be boys there?”

“Not a one.”

“Ooo. Hey, speaking of, The Dungeon is open again. Vaccinated deviants only.”

“Are you asking me out on a date?”

“Maybe,” I coquettishly said while fluttering my eyes like a coquette … whatever one of those is.

“I should’ve prepared myself,” Mary said with a sigh. “I think I knew this day was coming and just didn’t want to let myself believe it was so close.”

“We’ve been going places.” True story. We’ve been going places.

“First the puberty talk. Then a makeup tutorial. Now she wants to start dating.”

“Marrry,” I said, “I’m thinking epithets right now.”

“Hhh! Naughty girl! You’re not old enough to think those words yet.”

“What are you gonna do about it?” If she’s gonna treat me like a brat, I guess I’ll just have to be bratty. That was my first time being bratty, btw; hope I did okay. Really.

“Turn,” she said like she’s the boss of me or something. This boss who put one hand against the small of my back and another in my hair and kissed me … hard and stuff.

“A-hmm,” I said when she let me go because I’m clever like that and also because I needed a moment to get my bearings. “Will you, uh, teach me how to do that too?” And there was that smile of hers again.

“I’ll teach you lots of things … after work.”

“Dammit.”

“And no practicing on your own. You could get hurt.”

“I’m willing to risk it.” I’m risk acceptant, as the actuaries say.

“O no. No one is going to hurt you accept me.”

I may – why are we even wasting our time on unknowable unknowns – have leaned against her and said, “Can you also teach me how to talk dirty and make it sound romantic and classy?”

“We’ll see. Maybe when you can keep your pants dry.”

I stood up straight because I was actually never leaning on her cuz I don’t like her very much at all, and I told her, I said, “I can and you know it!”

“So if I put my hand in your pull-up, it wouldn’t be even a little damp with something?”

“O … well, um, if you … heehee!”

“You’re blushing. I think I have my answer.”

“You put blush on me.”

“And your lipstick is a little smeared. How did that happen?”

“Hold still and I’ll show you,” I said like a coquette who says stuff coquettishly … whatever that means.

“Ah-ah,” she said holding up a finger. “After work.”

“Dammit. What’ll I do til then?”

“You make that goodwill box and think about how it feels to be sexually frustrated.”

“Fine … If I have to.”

“You do have to, and do you know why?”

No maybe about it; she went and swooped me into one of her lust hugs again. “Because you … mmm.” With her hand handing and her fingers finging. “Because of … ahmmm hhh! Hhh! Mmmmmm.” Sigh …

“Did you … Did you just cum in your undies?”

“Huhuhahahaha!”

“I barely touched you!”

“Heeheehee!” It’s a neat trick, I gotta admit.

“Could you teach me how to do that,” she asked.

Ooo, tables turned. “I can try.”

“And don’t think you’re not paying for that later.”

“I like paying you … That sounded sexier and less prostitution-y in my head.”

She shook her head and sighed at me. “Incorrigible.”

“So I guess now I’ll just make that goodwill box and, ya know, not be frustrated about anything a’tall.”

“Did you just say ‘a’tall’?”

“Mayhaps.”

“You’re weird when you’re post-orgasmic. Did I ever tell you that?”

“Maybe. I don’t listen much after.”

“That’s because you have a listening disorder.”

“Maybe if you nibbled on my ear,” I suggested and helpfully swept my hair back. I’m helpful. Really.

“After work.”

“There’s that frustration again,” I sighed.

“Sure was quick.”

“Easy come, easy go.”

She did a double take. “Did you … Was that pun on purpose?”

“I’ll never tell while the sun is shining. After work.”