Mary and Daphne #217 (Patreon)

“Wait,” I said, “you’re leaving?”

“I’m just going to work,” my wife - got that? My wife. - said like that was an answer to my question, which it was but wasn’t for reasons that are obvious if you’re me, which I am, her wife. WIFE!

“At the office or here,” I asked.

“Here, but I have some long meetings today. You’ll be okay.”

“But … I don’t want you to … go.” The actual words I wanted to use and didn’t cuz they would be rude (and I’m so friggin polite it hurts me on the inside sometimes) were ‘to leave me with her.’ It had been a very intense 30 minutes, and though I wasn’t even sure why I felt so strongly about it, I wanted my Mary. I said to her, “Stay for a while at least.”

“I have an important work meeting.”

I’m sure she did, and such meetings are a critical part of how she keeps a roof over our heads. I understand this. Yet in the weird headspace she’s booted me into, I felt really put out and said to Mary, “It’s not important than me.”

Something unexpected happened. Something I don’t think has happened in the context of a scene ever, I think: Mary looked like that stung. Not in a way others would pick up on. In a very subtle way only her wife (who is me!) would pick up on. Like she didn’t want to leave me either but had to, and that and probably what I said (which was unwarranted, but my logic center was taking a major backseat to every other function of my brain) made her feel, I dunno, sorry she couldn’t spend the day with me? Sorry she ‘had’ to leave me with a sitter, in the weird headspace she’d booted herself into probably without meaning to.Guilty, maybe. Dunno, but I didn’t like how I was feeling, and Mary didn’t like how she was feeling, and neither of us liked how the other was feeling.

Sandy intervened, and I’m still on the fence about whether it was helpful or not. She said, “It’s always hard leaving them with a sitter for the first time. Best to just go.” That wisdom sounded familiar. Later I remembered where I’d heard it before: a friend with kids telling another friend with kids how to manage the first day care drop off. Like a time machine transported me back to that conversation and made it about me, and I didn’t like that.

Sandy put her hands on my shoulders like maybe she would have to keep me from clinging to Mary (which is a thing I often do but not in the way she was implying), and Mary said, “Bye-bye. I’ll see you after work. Be good for Miss Sandy.”

And then she left. Meaning she walked down the hall to her office and closed the door like she does a buncha times a week. And I did not like it.

Just me and Sandy, the other engineer of these circumstances. Be good for her?

There is a multiplicity of demons within me. The first demon urged me to make her regret she had ever knocked on our door. The second demon thought that was a wee bit dramatic and suggested I be a total brat, which is very out of character for me as I’ve never bratted in my life (really). Yet a third demon said to just play along to make it go by faster. And another one said to play along because I might actually like it. Another son of satan said to storm upstairs, slam my bedroom door, and not come out until Mary came out of her office. One suggested if I was so unhappy with the situation that I red light. Still another suggested I just cry. And the last to speak up, but hardly the last demon living inside me (it’s crowded in here, really), added to the crying idea with, “and do it on Sandy.”

I wasn’t ready to red light; better to hang on to that option. I wasn’t going to tell Sandy to hit the bricks, not yet anyway. I could definitely have cried if I wanted to (and I did want to a little cuz apparently I’m a crybaby now), but I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of letting her see me like that.

Playing along, well, nope. Demons can’t boss me around (only Mary can boss me around … and the people she says I have to listen to like a certain interloper in our living room right then), so I chose my own path: passive resistance. Non-cooperation. How do you not cooperate with a scene like that? By pretending it’s not even happening. Just two normal friends doing normal stuff together.

“Can I get you a drink,” I asked Sandy.

“That’s very sweet of you. Will you be my helper in the kitchen?”

“Nonsense. You’re our guest,” I said. “Make yourself comfortable. What can I get you?”

“O, aren’t you so adorable. I’m not your guest; I’m your babysitter. It’s my job to take care of you today.”

It was a standoff. Who could be the most polite. Could I pretend this wasn’t happening better than she could pretend it was? Unfortunately for her, my patience is boundless. Knows no bounds. Endless. Keeps on going and going cuz it has no boundaries. Um, really.

But I course-corrected anyway. “Are you gonna stay in character the whole day?”

She smiled a condescending smile at me and led me to the kitchen. I will pause for a moment to say she’s either very beautiful or just merely above average but in her twenties, and I like and resent those things in equal measure.

“I did the dishes,” I said because reasons that I understand and that you don’t need to but should just trust that I know my own mind.

“Mommy’s good helper.” She sat me down in a kitchen chair, and knelt in front of me like she was about to convey some pointed heartfelt wisdom I would be more likely to absorb if we were making eye contact when she said it. “Your mommy left me in charge, and she wouldn’t have done that if she didn’t think we’d have fun together. But how we have fun and whether we have fun is up to you. Why don’t you sit here a moment and think about what kind of day you wanna have while make you a drink.”

I hate it when my tormentors are right. But ‘fun’ isn’t a word with as clear a meaning in our world as in the normie world. In the kinky humiliation discipline fetish world, there’s Type 1 Fun; describes things that are fun while they’re happening. Then there’s Type 2 Fun; this kind of fun is only fun after it’s over. Type 2 Fun events can suck so, so very hard while they’re still going on. Like, as a random for instance cuz this has never happened to me, getting a seriously hard spanking after being scolded to the brink of tears. Not that much fun during. Lot of fun afterward.

And complicating matter is I could decide to have Type 1 Fun, but it could turn into Type 2 Fun if I accidentally broke one of those unwritten rules of being babysat. What rules, you very reasonably ask? I dunno cuz we’ve never done a scene like this before. And I know from experience with a certain sometimes capricious disciplinarian named Mary that it’s very easy as an adult to break a rule you haven’t had since you were a kid.

All I could do was be on my best behavior, be very clear in my communication, and, if needed, red light. As much as I don’t like red lighting with Mary, I’m not shy about it with people Mary puts in charge. I’ve only had to do it a couple times though.

Well, you can’t get in trouble if you literally ask for it. Also, my feelings were all discombobulated, and there’s a sure fire way that works when need to recombobulate those. And it would put me in charge of the scene, which is right and proper because cuz I’m the queen of everything except Mary.

“Sandy, real talk,” I said in my I’m-being-serious-and-vulnerable-and-need-you-to-respect-that voice. She got it cuz she sat down next to me (and wiped that faux babysitter smile off her face). I told her, “I’m not in the right headspace for this yet.”

I was in some kinda headspace. A little miffed at Mary; a little more in love with her at the same time cuz she works so hard to set up scenes cuz she wants me to be happy and have fun. A little thrown by how much I wanted Mary to participate in the scene she set up and this odd, totally inappropriate-for-my-age-and-marital-

relationship-with-my-wife-who-is-not-my-mommy-and-didn’t-just-leave-me-with-sitter-but-I’m-feelings-weird-anyway.

“Do you wanna be in the right headspace?” Wow, what an interesting question. Like, what even is the right headspace?

“I wanna have fun today,” is how I replied. How’s that for non-committal? Cuz when does anyone not wanna have fun? You may be in a terrible mood or dealing with some stuff, and you’d hate the heck out of it if someone tried to get you to have fun, but you’d still rather be having fun, right?

“What can I do to help you,” Sandy asked.

“And if we didn’t have to be quiet, what would you want to do right now?”

“I want a spanking. That’ll get me in the right headspace.” As in, first we need to purge these feelings, then we can have fun. “But we have to be quiet cuz Mary is working.”

“Okay. We can do that. Where do you want your spanking?”

This, ladies and perverts reading my diary, is called negotiating a scene. It’s what Mary probably did with Sandy, and it’s what I did with Mary back before we became a lifestyle couple. She has permission in perpetuity to do whatever she wants to within the confines of the relationship we negotiated way back when, including putting people like Sandy in charge of me and springing these play dates on me (but a little notice would be appreciated), but that doesn’t mean I just have to go along with it. I’m still me, my very own person with my very own body, and I get to negotiate what, if anything, I left play partners like Sandy do. And Sandy gets to negotiate what she’ll do and what she needs from me too. Even if I just went along with this play date entirely by ear, I’d still be consenting, which is a kind of implicit negotiation between the three of us.

“The guest bedroom is furthest from the office.”

“How hard do you need me to spank you?”

“I need to cry.” Yep, a lot packed into that statement. “I just hafta … get some feelings out before I can, ya know.”

“Okay. I can do that.” I heccin know she can. She spanks hard and fast and brings me to tears pretty easily, I don’t think she’s even spanked me since before I became such a crybaby. “Do you wanna be scolded at all, or do you just need a spanking?”

“Um …” I was blushing. The answer was yes, and I know how to ask for most things, but I didn’t know what I needed to be scolded for. I didn’t like what I’d said to Mary about me being more important than her meeting, but I was pretty sure if Sandy spanked me for that I’d just freak out. So I told her, “You can decide, but it can’t be about Mary at all.”

“What about Mary,” she asked before catching herself. “Sorry. Not my business … But are you okay?”

“Yeah. I’m good. We’re good.”

“You’re sure?”

“Mhmm.”

“Okay. Will it help or hurt if I get back in character?”

“Up to you.”

“Okay. Anything else?”

“Nope.”

“Then let’s go take care of your spanking.” She stood, and I stood, and she held out her hand, and I took it. “Before we get started, I want to say you’re a very good girl for speaking up and telling me what you need.”

“I know. I’m, like, the bestest girl. It’s really tiring sometimes.” And we hugged.

“Even good girls get spanked,” she told me. Then she disappeared into character again. “I’ve nannied for lots of little girls, and even the best behaved need their bottom spanked from time to time.”

“I’m not a little girl.”

“And that’s why you’re getting this spanking.”

“Because I’m not a little girl?”

“Because you are a little girl, and every time you say you’re not, you’re lying.”

“I’m not lying.”

“One time is a delusion. Two times is a fib. But how many times have you denied it now? I don’t tolerate lies from the little girls I babysit.”

Well, I did tell her to decide what I was in trouble for. BUT SCREW THAT! I’M NOT A LITTLE GIRL!

“Is this your nursery,” she asked me as she led me into our guest room.

“No,” I didn’t answer petulantly.

“Pretty sure it is. It’s not decorated like one, but I think today it’s your nursery.” She sat down on the end of the bed. “Tell me again how you’re not a little girl.”

“I’m. Not. A. Little. Girl.” Do little girls answer back sarcastically? No! Because little girls aren’t capable of sarcasm. That only comes with teendom. And I’m not a middle either.

“Do big girls get their bottoms spanked?”

“Sometimes.” True story. I have photographic evidence … kind of a lot of it, actually. Not that I’m an electronic hoarder of spanking pics, but I do have several thousand that I compulsively saved on my phone for no reasons cuz I never even look at them. True story.

“Do big girls get their pants taken down for their spankings?” She slowly started to take my shorts down, then yoinked them the rest of the way to my ankles. “Put your hand on my shoulder and step out.” I woulda put my hand on her shoulder anyway. Not cuz I’m a little girl but cuz I this one time I tripped while Mary was taking my pants off and ate floor. Not that I’m anything like the human equivalent of a minute-old gazelle, but sometimes the prospect of a spanking makes me knees go wobbly in a very adult way. Really - a very adult, I’m-having-tingly-sensations-in-places way.

“Sometimes.”

“And what is this,” she asked while putting her hands on my diaper. Actually, not mine. Mary’s. I don’t own any diapers. They all belong to Mary, and I only wear them cuz she tells me to. But literally no one I know understands that, like I’m the crazy one (I AM NOT THE CRAZY ONE!). So I don’t even try to explain it anymore. I answered Sandy by folding my arms across my chest, looking away, and literally turning my nose up at the very question.

“It’s a diaper,” she said. “Big girls don’t wear diapers. Only little girls wear diapers.”

Nope, not dignifying that with a response.

“Big girls are potty trained. They get to wear big girl undies cuz they won’t piddle or poopoo in them. But little girls like you who still have accidents wear diapers.”

“I don’t have accidents,” I didn’t say and thus didn’t take the bait. What are those quotation marks even doing there?

“That’s not what I heard. I heard you wet your pants if you’re not in a diaper. I heard sometimes you even make stinkies in your pants and cry about it.”

“I do not and I never!” True story. TRUE. HECCIN. STORY!

“O, so you wouldn’t cry like a baby if you had a poopy accident in your diaper?”

I mean, yeah I definitely would, but not because I’m a little girl. In fact, precisely because I’m not a little girl.

“We’ll just sort this out on your bottom,” she said as she tipped me over her knee. THWUMP THWUMP THWUMP THWUMP THWUMP THWUMP! “You can’t even feel it through your poofy pampers. Just how much of a pants piddler are you that you need such thick diapies? Let’s just get this out of the way.”

She reached under me to open the tapes on the diaper, opening it but leaving it under me, as she teased, “Just in case you have one of your accidents on my lap. Of course, I would never spank a little girl for having puddle pants cuz they can’t help themselves. But little girls who think their grown ups need to be spanked back to reality.”

Funny, I thought the headspace we were aiming for was the exact opposite of reality. To be in realty headspace, I just need to be awake. Not so funny, Sandy’s hand is made of steel or something. Seriously! How can someone spank that hard with their hand and not do themselves an injury? Heck yes I cried. And I did it as quietly as I could. Big old tears; long, soft mewling; and more of s runny nose than I care to admit.

But ya know what? I’m glad I had a runny nose (big understatement) cuz when it was all over and Sandy was giving me aftercare in her lap, I got some on her shirt. And don’t ever tell anyone, but when that happens with Mary, it’s an accident. But I did it on purpose to Sandy. Yep, that’ll show her there are consequences to introducing diapers into someone’s kink life. Yep, just four short years and you’ll get your shirt slimed. Learned her good. Really … Dammit.