Mary and Daphne #143 (Patreon)

Our home is beautiful. Not like super expensive look-at-our-Carrara-marble-wall-sconces beautiful, which isn’t to say I wouldn’t like some Carrara marble in my life, but our home is beautiful more in a we-made-a-home-together-and-it’s-cozy-and-ours way. Which is definitely the superior way. Really.

We didn’t curate so much as combine our stuff and then got some more stuff, and fortunately we both have excellent taste if you ask people who are us and we did and we agree that we do. We have similar tastes most of the time, so even before we bought our first objet d’art as a (super gay) couple, our stuff meshed.

Why am I talking about our decor? Well, if you’ll be quiet and listen, I’ll gently tell you why in a very calm way: MARY RUINED THE WHOLE HOUSE!!!

I wouldn’t have thought that was possible with just one new piece of decor, but apparently yeah, you can ruin a whole house with just one new piece of decor. It’s in our bedroom, and even though it’s in there and there only, it ruins the bathrooms, living room, family room, guest bedrooms, Mary’s office, the kitchen, dining room, basement, porch, patio, front yard, back yar, side yard, other side yard, attic, and even the garage. The whole dwelling where we dwell is unfit for habitation.

Worse, Mary disagrees with my assessment – an assessment that is correct and expert and expertly correct – and says it’s great and grand and wonderful. As someone who is herself great and grand and wonderful, I feel I can authoritatively say it isn’t. This is what I get for putting Mary in charge, and she’s also great and grand and wonderful, but apparently not when it comes to what we should hang on our bedroom wall.

Let’s say one day you’re walking upstairs and you pass your wife on the way up. Let’s further say that you notice her carrying a hammer. Let’s also say that you think you saw her turn her head and hide a smirk. Spidey sense tingling yet?

Let’s say you go into your bedroom, and something seems different. Let’s say you weren’t so good at the find-the-things activity in the Highlights magazine at the pediatrician’s office but that your mom assured you that you were good at other things and so it takes you almost a minute to recognize what’s different.

Let’s say once you spot it, you impulsively shout, “Mary! Heccin get back up here!!!”

Let’s say you can hear your wife literally fall over on the floor laughing hysterically.

But I can be demonstrative too, so I stomped my foot really loud (as we Very Mature Adults do), and said in my very authoritative and not at all whiny voice, “Stop laughing! Marrrry! It’s not funny! I’m counting to five and then I’m tearing it off the wall.”

“You’d better not,” said my wife who is mean to me as her gasping guffaws turned into chuckles interspersed with brief fits of laughter. I heard her snorf as she came up the stairs.

“Explain,” I commanded in a sharp and sorta definitely huffy tone (like all the great commanders of history. George Patton could get huffy as heck. Really).

Gone were the merry peals of laughter and delight, replaced with that faux-earnest, condescending, for-your-own-good way she has of talking to me when she’s trying to embarrass me. She doesn’t say mean, humiliating things cuz that’s no fun and just makes me angry. She says sweet things like I’m a little girl which I am not which makes it like she’s twisting my humiliation knob and poking all my buttons like an elevator that won’t come down … except that doesn’t work on an elevator but does work on me.

“It’s a bedwetting calendar,” she said with a straight face which is such a dishonest face cuz her eyes, those sparkly windows into her beautiful soul, were dancing with comedic abandon. “So we can track your bedwetting.”

“I don’t wet the bed and you know it!”

“Daphne, sweetheart, it’s okay. I know it’s embarrassing for a girl your age to not be able to keep the bed dry, but you shouldn’t be so hard on yourself. You’re just a little girl.”

“I am not a little girl and I can too keep the bed dry and you know it and you’re just being mean!”

“Indoor voices, please.”

O gawd my buttons! “Marrry!”

“Aw, c’mere,” she said, “someone needs a hug.” Oof.At least the hug was sincere … right up until she goosed me and said, “are you upset because you’re having daytime accidents now too?”

It became a race against time to defend my honor and my good name and my honor before all the blood drained out of my brain and into my face, which I could feel turning all the shades of red. “I can too keep the bed dry,” I groaned.

“Sit down, sweetie. Nope, right here in my lap,” she said when I tried to sit on the bed like a normal person. “Let’s be honest: your diapers keep the bed dry, not you.”

“Fernonnuhner frowerhoffin, Mary!” She gave my thigh a slap.

“Shush. I already said indoor voices. Please don’t make me tell you a third time. Your diapers keep the bed dry, and lately you’ve been making your poor diapers work awfully hard, haven’t you, cuz you’re getting to be such a big little girl.”

To which my clever and heroic and all-the-other-superlatives response was, “(Whimper).”

“We might have to start keeping you in bigger diapers cuz your bladder is getting so big but you’re still a little girl. Remember where your bladder is? It’s right here,” she said while putting her hand right heccin there and just leaving it to wander slowly up and down and across my tummy all down low and stuff and then lower where it stopped … and stuff.

I … may not have helped my case when I squeezed my thighs around her hand. I thought she may have correctly misinterpreted that as lusty feelings (I never feel lust toward her; she’s mean and I don’t even like her very much except that I do so much and stuff), but she chose to misinterpret it as, “Why are you squeezing your legs together, honey? Do you need to go potty? Are you about have one of your daytime accidents?”

“(Meeping noise) (dragon breathing all huffy in its sleep noise) serneepin ferfle.”

“Okay, but tell me if you need the potty, and we’ll take your straight there. Any more accidents, and it’s back to daytime diapers until I think you’re ready to try being dry again. And this calendar will help us get you dry at night.”

“H-how,” I managed to say. Not as in ‘o goody, how’ but as in, ‘o yeah, and just how the heck will it do that when you are so full of it,’ but I left that part unsaid because whereas Mary so rarely has a thought she doesn’t express when she’s pushing my buttons, I, ever the composed one (never a mislaid word do I … lay), manage to maintain a dignified subtlety. Um, really … What?

“Well,” she said and paused cuz she had no idea cuz she just makes stuff up as she goes and I called her out on that like a boss. But unfortunately, she recovered. “It will help us keep track of whether you’re ready for pull-ups, and then we’ll use it to keep track of when you’re ready for big girl undies. Do you wanna hear the rules?”

I’d bet our whole house she was making up the rules on the spot.

“When your diaper has been dry in the morning for 30 days in a row – that’s one month; remember when we learned how long a month is?”

O come the crap on with your button pushing … and soft shoulder to rest my head on and stuff. I shot her the worst dirty look I could muster, which she ignored … or possible didn’t even see cuz I was burying my face deeper into the crook of her neck.

“When your diaper is dry every morning for a month, you can sleep in pull-ups, and when your pull-ups are dry every morning for two months, you can sleep in underpants. But,” she said in the longest rendition of that syllable ever, “if you have even just one wet morning, it’s back to diapers and starting over all the way at the beginning.”

Wait a heccin second; that’s changing what we agreed on. “But we both agreed I wouldn’t wear diapers every night.”

“And you won’t, but you won’t wear pull-ups or underpants on those nights either. Remember when we talked about what ‘going commando’ means?”

Hmm. That’s an interesting twist. Mary sleeps commando under her pajamas … and sometimes not even with pajamas … and sometimes she wakes up with this hand that’s mine touching her butt . True story.

“But on nights I do put you to bed in diapers, they’re going on at 8:01, so you better try to go potty before then.”

“That’s just mean,” I told her in case she didn’t know but she did cuz Miss Mary Mean Girl is mean on purpose like all mean girls. Also, that’s not any different than what she’s been doing, which is why I didn’t protest more. The only thing new was the calendar cuz let’s be forthright: with her rules, there was no way I’d ever go thirty nights without using one of my – her! Her, dammit, her! – diapers.

“If you say so,” she said in the most condescending tone anyone has ever used to condescend to me. Grrr!

“But I wanna take the calendar down. It’s embarrassing. What if someone sees?”

“I hope lots of people see,” she said like she was saying how much she hopes the sun will rise in the morning.

“What?!? Marrry!”

“The only people who will ever come into our bedroom are people who will encourage you and want to help you learn to stay dry.”

“But it’s embarrassing! I don’t wanna look at it all the time!”

“I’m sorry you feel that way, but my mind is made up. It’s staying there, and every morning, I’ll watch while you put a sticker on it. Gold stars for dry mornings, rain drops for wet mornings, and anthropomorphic chocolate ice cream in case you dirty your diaper in your sleep.”

Hey, guess who shot off their wife’s lap like a firecracker. This girl!!! “I don’t and I won’t and I’ll never and (steam whistle) and (glacier calving) and (caribou bleating) and frumpernutter and mean! Just mean!”

Which is when I got yanked off my feet and over her knee. “Dammit,” I said out loud for once just before her hand landed..

SMACK! “I already told you to use your indoor voice, and I don’t like that language. I understand you don’t like talking about your diaper problems and that almost no other girls your age still wet the bed, but they’re not little girls, are they?”

“Neither am I!” SMACK!

“Are they,” she said with a sharp edge in her voice.

“No. Hmmph!”

“And you shouldn’t compare yourself to them.

“Why did you have to get a special calendar? Why couldn’t you just get a regular one?” Which, yes, dammit, suggests I’m okay with some version of this which I am not … Dammit …

“It’s your bedwetting calendar, so it should say ‘Daphne Ann Taylor’s Bedwetting Calendar.’ And I picked out the pictures myself; they’re the prettiest ones of you we have, and I like seeing your pretty face.”

“Where did you even get it?”

“A copy store. And I told that mean boy behind the counter to stop snickering because I’d never let anyone make funna you.” So a person has now seen this calendar with my name and picture on it. That’s … heccin dammit!

“Except you,” I said and tried to sit up. SMACK! She wouldn’t let me get up and didn’t need much effort to keep me there, which is great and all most of the time but that thing was defacing our house!

“Never! I would never make fun of you,” she said all faux hurt by my accusation which was the heccin truth which is the only language I speak (when I’m not fibbing). “And I especially would never make fun of your diaper problems. I take them very seriously. Some people just need more time to practice and learn … Why are you squeezing your legs together again?”

I’m doing what? Cuz I didn’t mean to. Really.

“Do you need to use the potty?”

“No. I need you to let me up so I can tear that off the wall!”

“You do, and you’re going right back over my lap for a good, hard spanking on your naughty bare bottom with the bath brush.”

Gah! No! Never again!

“Is that what you want?”

“No!”

“Then you better leave that calendar alone unless you’re putting a sticker on it. The stickers are staying in my nightstand, and I better not find you’ve been putting stickers up without my supervision. Now, I asked you, do you need to go potty?”

“No (whimper).” How come she always wins? Hmmph!

“It certainly looked like you did. Did you already go?”

“What? No!”

“It’s okay if you did. Accidents happen to little girls.”

“I’m not a little girl,” I whined. Yes, I gave in and whined. One short blip in my otherwise perfectly dignified and whine-free decorum.

“You can tell me. I promise I won’t get mad,” she said and started rubbing the small of my back before her hand started wandering south. “Accidents happen, and have I ever gotten cross with you for piddling yourself?”

“N-no,” I said kinda breathily cuz she was giving me sorta a deep tissue massage on my butt, and you might be surprised to learn this, but that’s sorta a major erogenous zone for me. Really.

“That’s right. If you have an accident, we just get you in a diaper for the day and maybe sometimes two in case you’re still having trouble the next day, and I never make fun of my little diaper wearing Daffodil with her cute widdle diaper butt.”

“Mar-rry, st-stop.”

“Stop what, sweetie? I think I had better check your undies myself to make sure you didn’t …”

“Ur! O-urgh! Huffffmfffff! (Sigh).”

We had ourselves a moment of silence during which Mary behaved abominably. It’s very bad form to laugh during a moment of silence no matter how well you stifle it. I could feel her shaking under me. How rood!

“Aww, did my little girl just cum in her undies? Hmm? Did you make a number three in your pants? I think the answer is yes cuz I can feel something on my …”

“Mmm!” O, well now this is just embarrassing. “Mmm! Awurgh! Oofffmmff! (Pant).”

Well, now, um, how ‘bout that? Never two before from just her (delightfully evil) words. Such is the power and burden and burdensome power of the humiliation fetish that embarrassing words are sometimes enough, which is itself embarrassing, the kinky Irony of Ironies.

“All done,” Mary cooed at me while chuckling and stroking my hair. “Do you have anymore in you?”

I think I mostly understood her, but I was in sleepy post-orgasm land where a constant white noise makes everything sound kinda foggy and distant, so I told her, “Summur funnigain think so maybe dunno.”

“Okay,” she said quizzically even though I was perfectly clear. Really. “Up you go.” She helped me up and led me toward the bathroom. Good idea cuz I, uh, well … anyway.

“See,” she said, “you can even have an accident on my lap, and I won’t ever get mad.” Mayhaps her outlook has changed because the one time that really did happen (not that it was an accident; more of a … mishap), she was not happy with me.

“I’ll just get you cleaned up and we’ll go about our day. Hold still.”

And cue me snapping back to the moment: Hold what now for what? “I can…”

“O hush. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before,” she said as she yanked my pajama pants down. “Step out.” She held them up. “Yep, that’s more than a little wet.”

Curse you, light blue scrub pajamas!

“And o my goodness,” she squealed, “look at these underpants!”

Damn you, traitorous heather grey panties! Damn you all to hell!

“Someone musta had a big accident, huh?”

“O don’t flatter yourself … It was two small ones.” Really.

“Big enough to get on my lap,” she pointed out. “Why are you blushing? I already told you it’s okay for you to have accidents,” she said kindly for the first time in the last twenty minutes and leaned forward to give me a very kind kiss. Sigh … I really do like her and stuff.

“Now,” she said, “you sit here in case there’s any more, and we’ll just give it a few minutes.” She pivoted me by my shoulders and sat me down on the toilet.

“Mary …”

“We’ll just give a few minutes.” She took off her pants and put all the things in the hamper. How come she gets to wear white satin … which looks so … I like her and stuff and things.

“I don’t have to pee,” I said as she folded her arms and leaned against the wall looking at me with her arms all folded and that smug smile on her face.

“Maybe you will in a few minutes, which is why we’ll wait. I mean, it certainly looks like you got it all out, but just to be safe,” she chuckled again. Whole lotta chuckling at my expense.

“Hmmph! That wasn’t pee, and could I have a little privacy please?!?”

“Leave such a little girl alone in the bathroom? How unsafe would that be? But if you’re sure you don’t hafta pee, let’s clean you up.”

We switched to wet wipes a while back cuz they do feel so much better, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t practically bounce of the toilet when Mary stuck her hand down there without so much as a ‘how you doin’.

“Mar …”

“Gotta get you clean as a whistle. Lean forward.”

Lean where now? “EEP! Marrry!”

“All clean. You okay? You're looking a little twitterpated.”

“Fuh humunuh humunuh.”

“Let’s get you in a diaper. Up up.”

Ever get disoriented in your own bathroom? Good; me neither. Really.

She washed my hands and hers, and I stood there naked below the waist while she got out her Mistreat Daphne Supply Kit. Ever been so mentally exhausted you forgot to tell your wife how much you hate that kit and all its contents? Good; me neither.

All done, she held out her hands to help me sit up. “Can I at least have some pants, please?” Ya hear that? I said please cuz I’m nice and polite, unlike Miss Mary … Isn’t. Every get so twitterpated you can’t come up with stinging nicknames? Good; me neither. Really.

“I wanna be able to see your diapie so I can see right away if you have any more accidents in your pampers today. But how ‘bout I keep my pants off so you don’t feel self-conscious?”

Well, that’s not the worst idea she had that day. Literally. “But about the calendar, Mary, please can we take it down?”

“I thought you might feel this way, so I got one to put up over my side of the bed too.”

“Really? A bedwetting calendar?”

“Of course not, silly goose! I’m an adult woman, not a little girl like you.” She went to her nightstand and took a calendar out of the drawer to show to me. “It’s my Wake Up Next to Daphne calendar, and look – all the days are already filled in with gold stars.”

“Aww. That’s sweet. You’re sweet and mean.”

“And you’re my good girl for letting me be sweet and mean to you.”

O my goodness! My wife thinks I’m a good girl. Squeee!

___________________________

And just a reminder, you can still buy your very own 2022 bedwetting calendar made by the real life Mary and Daphne (which is me! heehee!)

https://www.lulu.com/en/us/shop/lexy-bridges/the-no-more-bedwetting-calendar-for-allegedly-adult-bedwetters/paperback/product-y6e9rr.html