Mary and Daphne #218 (Patreon)

Scene #218

I couldn’t help but notice, because I’m a good noticer, that while I was forbidden from texting Mary (and wasn’t privy to where my phone was), Sandy was in no way restricted. That’s not enough evidence to conclude they were plotting against me, but literally everything since the doorbell rang was proof positive they were plotting against me. Did I know for a fact sandy was texting Mary (my Mary!) as I observed her from the spot on the floor she was making me sit on? No. But I deduced as much because I’m a good deducer … or is it deduceress cuz I’m a lady? Anyhoo, I deduced that’s who she was talking to cuz she said, “Your mommy is almost done with her meeting, but I have to go.”

“You can’t stay longer,” I asked for reasons I don’t understand. Was I being polite? Did I want to stick around for the rest of the scene? Did I want her to end the scene first and not leave me to be found by Mary as I was?

“Sorry, but she’s running late and so am I. I had a fun time with you today,” she said, still using the gentle tone people use to talk to little kids.

“Me too,” I said for reasons I don’t understand. Did I? Was I just being polite?

“You were a very good girl for me. I told your mommy so.”

“Thanks for … coming over.” I think? Great at noticing, terrific at deducing, and my own thoughts are sometimes a heccin mystery to me. “Um, before you go, are you gonna …”

“Your mommy wants to see you just as you are,” she said and winked at me with this smirk that said I-really-am-sorry-I’m-gonna-miss-this. “Can I get a hug?”

I got up and gave her a hug, we promised to talk more than we have in the recent past in this weird still-in-the-scene-but-also-not exchange as I saw her to our door, and then there was just me and Suzie. I would love to know what our dog makes of all this. At least she can’t tell anyone our secrets. So, so many secrets … not all of which Mary keeps as secretive as I’d like. But I still love her. Like, a lot. So much so, and so relieved was I to have Sandy gone (did I enjoy our day together, and if so, what parts specifically, and also if so, why was relieved for her to be gone mere moments after kinda wanting her to stay? If being conflicted paid money …)

Anyhoo, so in love with my wife that I totally did not pull a Suzie-when-we-get-back-from-a-weekend-away-totally-freaking-out-can-hardly-stay-on-her-feet-jumps-up-and-licks-our-faces when I heard Mary’s office door open ten minutes later. Really. No, really. For one, I didn’t piddle on the floor and not only because I was wearing a diaper but because I didn’t piddle in excitement at all cuz I don’t do that (which in a former life I wouldn’t even feel the need to point out, but, welp, here we are). For twosies, I didn’t whine with perfect joy. I squeed with perfect joy. For threesies, I didn’t lick her (until later). And lastly, I didn’t slip and fall down on the hardwood floor the way Suzie does when she takes the corner into the hallway too fast. Yeah, I almost did, but I caught myself (with Mary’s help; not that I meant to fall into her arms but if you’re gonna fall it’s a super place to do it).

“Woah there, little girl,” Mary said to me all smiley and amused and glad to see me. Not that I could see her smiling cuz as long as I fell into her arms I figured pressing my face against her chest and clinging to her like a koala to a tree was called for, but I could feel her smiling all over (and not just any tree, but the koala’s favorite tree that I had a day-long meeting and left it with another tree without giving advance warning).

“I missed you,” I said because when I’m with Mary, I can say what I really feel even if it is ridiculous. It’s not like she left me at daycare for the very first time; it’s more that she engineered the scene to make both of us feel like she left me at daycare for the very first time.

“I missed you too.”

And not just because I had an urgent thing I needed her help with, but also … “I need …”

But she cut me off with, “I wanna hear all about your day,” and with me still firmly attached to her arm, we went back to the living room where she silently surveyed the evidence of the day’s activities on her way to the sofa, where she sat down and pulled me into her lap. And in her lap, I got kissed on my hair and my back got rubbed and she patted my butt, which doesn’t usually make me cringe, but we’ll get to that. But first, have you ever felt someone radiate happiness? Cuz I have, right there in their lap. Mary’s whole body, and I should know cuz I was touching as much of it as I could as is my wont and right as her wife, was just overbrimming with happiness. Some of it even got on me (cuz as her wife, nothing makes me as happy as her being happy). Why she was so happy; why did she have her life-couldn’t-get-better than-it is-right-now face on, I was to discover. But first, she wanted to hear all about my day. Which isn’t even a mommy-kiddo dynamic in which the mommy wants to hear all about the kiddo’s day and the kiddo couldn’t care less about what mommy did at work all day. I mean, yeah, I might now agree that Mary is within the context of our ageplay and discipline dynamic my mommy, but I’m still not a little girl.

“I wanna hear everything,” she said to me while continuing to absentmindedly pat my butt.

“It was awful,” I said reflexively, once more not knowing if I felt that way, felt that way kind of, was being funny, was being dramatic, or was playing a role in a scene. Mary and I don’t really scene. We’re lifestyle. But that what I said.

“O,” she chuckled in the condescending way people do when humoring especially dramatic … youth. I’m not a little girl, but I’m still young, right? “What was so awful?”

“You left me with a babysitter and didn’t even warn me.”

“I left you with a friend,” she retorted.

“And it was awful. I wanted to cry and everything.”

“What made you want to cry?”

“We have lunch together everyday, and then I realized we weren’t gonna today, and it made me wanna cry, and I knew how ridiculous that is, and it made me all discombobulated.”

“I’m sorry I made you wanna cry, but I’m not sorry you felt discombobulated. Do you know why?”

“Cuz you’re convinced without any evidence that it helps me take my guard down and opens me up to tryin new things and having fun.” I said all that extemporaneously and not at all drawing on the many times Mary has said as much to me, backing up her position with lots of evidence. And even if she did, the evidence would be inadmissible for reasons that aren’t yours to know. I don’t have to explain myself to anyone, least of all myself and less so in my own journal.

“I hope that didn’t lead to a tantrum,” she said, her hand having gone from my butt to stroking my hair. Please don’t think this is crazy, but I think my wife loves me so much she just wants to feel all the parts of me so much she can’t keep her hands off me. And not that I grew out my hair just because she likes it and even less so because I like her petting my hair. Ridiculous notions, those are.

“Of course it didn’t.” If only because I held my tantrum in and channeled it more effectively and tried to take a very mature approach to the day (which is, like, all the irony considering what we did all day).

“What else was so awful?”

“She spanked me,” I reported. That’s right - Sandy spanked me. Me! The boss! Literally cuz I bossed her when I specifically voluntold her to spank me.

“You got your bottom spanked?” Mary asked in the faux surprised way people do when they’re humoring a … youth … who’s reporting what to them is surprising and what to everyone else is totally expected. “I thought I heard a little girl getting her bottom spanked?”

Dammit. “You did? I tried to be very quiet for you.” I didn’t want to disturb her meeting.

“I’m sure you were very quiet. It’s just that I have special ears for hearing little girls getting their tushies paddled. Did you cry?”

“Only a little … Unrelated, Sandy went home in one of your shirts cuz I got snot all over hers.”

She chuckled. “It was that big a spanking? What did you do to be so naughty? Maybe I need to spank you again before bedtime to make sure you’ve learned your lesson.”

“I didn’t do anything. I just had a lot of feelings to get out after you went to work … And let’s talk about the other thing you said after dinner.”

“I see. Did my little girl ask her babysitter to spank her bottom to get all those feelings out?”

“The scene this morning was really intense.”

“I know. You were such a brave, good girl for that. Did you like it?”

“… I’m not a little girl.”

“For someone who”s not a little girl, you had a babysitter and got a spanking, and if I’m not mistaken, you’re wearing a big baby diaper right now. But maybe - just maybe - you’re not a baby, and being talked about like one to your babysitter is exactly why you liked that scene this morning.”

“Stupid humiliation kink,” I muttered. “Um, speaking of what I’m wearing, can we …”

“What else did you two do today?”

“She made me leave the house.”

“You love going on little outings.” Did she mean little outings, or brief, narrowly-scoped outings? Hmmm.

“But she made me wear a diaper,” I didn’t whine. I’m not really the whining type. People who whine tend to also be people get their feelings all confused and cry and cling to their person, which is so totally not me.

“Daffy dewdrop, she didn’t make you wear a diaper. You need to be in diapee, especially when you don’t know how close you’re going to be to a potty. We’ve talked about this,” she said to me like an adult who has explained something patiently to a youth several times before and is out of patience on the inside but will explain it again very patiently as many times as it takes. “Do I need to explain it again? Should I get the pictograms out after dinner?”

True story: she only made those pictograms to embarrass me. Other true story: the only reason I haven’t torn the house apart to find and destroy them is because if anyone else were to ever see them, they wouldn’t be able to tell what the heck was going on. I mean, I know I’m slender, but that’s not why she used stick figures. Also, because it’s my job as her wife to protect her feelings, she can never know just how bad an artist she is, so this is, like, a big secret.

“Harrumph,” is all of my response to her impugning my toileting skills because there’s literally nothing to be gained from arguing the point because this isn’t about logic. It’s about ageplay humiliation, when logic goes to suffer long and slow.

Except maybe I did take the bait a little bit when I said, “Why did you tell Sandy I sometimes have … the other kind of accident? She’s gonna think I do that on purpose sometimes, and I don’t and I won’t ever.” An ever so slight peevishness may have crept into my tone. I wonder o I wonder why I felt peevish on this point (I’m typing sarcastically now).

“I told her the exact opposite,” she said, and in a turning of the tables, I may have looked at her the way a youth does when realizing the adult they’re talking to may actually believe their own bullplop. “I said you can make it to the potty if you have to poop, and to let you cuz you’ll get very upset if you have a messy accident.”

“You said ‘another’ accident, and you said it’s been awhile since the last one which is the same as saying it’s happened, and it never has. And you said it to embarrass me cuz you’re mean … in a very nice way, but still.” There would be no humiliation kink if it weren’t for conflicted feelings; that’s the very nature of it. Isn’t gonna ever stop me from complaining about the mean part of it ever (because it genuinely bothers me and also, sigh, because the complaining is cringe and fun and fun cuz it’s cringe and cringe cuz she knows it’s fun. Humans are complicated, and we’re the two most human humans we know).

“Did I?” Barely bothering to hide her smirk. Our relationship is built on implausible deniability, pretense, and puppy love, and we like it that way. I like it that way, even when I’m protesting and calling her out on her pretense, which she loves to deny in the most implausible ways. Round and round it goes (I really like her. Like, I like like her.)

“Yeah, ya did, so can we …”

“Where did you guys go?”

“The mall.” Did you know there are still malls? With people conducting commerce in them and everything. So weird.

“Did she buy you anything?”

“Yeah, and we hafta take it back.”

“Why?”

“It’s too small.” To find clothes too small for slender, short (but also very huge and tall in terms of personality) one must shop in the junior miss section. Mary used to buy me panties from that section in what, in retrospect, was the stumbling stone at the top of the long, slippery slope down which I’ve descended ass over tea kettle from pull-ups to diapers and can only pray I’ve hit the bottom of the hill. She used to say wearing little girl undies was a punishment for when I was acting like a little girl. Which, like, I never did. Um, really. Then she’d make me wear them even when I wasn’t in trouble to, she said, remind me to behave myself like the good little girl I really am. And when she was really reaching for an excuse to do wonderful, horrid things to me, she made it a rule that I wasn’t allowed to call them panties because panties are for grown-ups, whereas I was, in her formulation, a little girl wearing little girl undies (or underoos or funderoos depending on how silly-hearted and playful she was being). She bought so many cutesie panties from the junior miss section that my dresser couldn’t hold them all.

And then Sandy – the very same one who she dubbed my babysitter. The very same one! – gave her a pull-up to make me wear under the same stupid logic of reminding me to behave myself. And then she gave her a diaper. And Mary, playing the longest game ever, has rid the house of all but a few pairs of my panties, only two of which come from the women’s section. Though I think she’s hidden a few others for special occasions like the next time we play Lingerie Model Pillow Fight (the game is not to the quick or the strong but the one who bites first, and have I ever mentioned Mary is a she-wolf?).

“What did you get,” she asked me. “She should’ve had you try it on.”

“Pajamas, and she did have me try them on. We found some that fit fine, but she insisted in a very insistent way that pajamas for little girls in diapers should be snug to help keep the diaper up even when it’s soggy. And I said that was ridiculous, and she said babysitters understand these things and little girls do not, so I said I don’t even get that soggy cuz you change me fast – by the way, sometimes I lie to make you look good – and she said she can spot a heavy bedwetter a mile away and wouldn’t it be better to go to breakfast without my bedtime diaper practically falling down.”

“And what did you say?”

“I said – again! – to keep her voice down, and she didn’t even, which she totally learned from you, and said it was those pajamas or nothing. And I said I was fine with nothing, and she said it was those pajamas or those pajamas a real spanking right there in the dressing room over her knee with my diaper down and the paddle from the diaper bag, and cuz we were in the junior miss section at ten on a weekday there was no one there and I thought she might actually do it.”

“So what did you say?”

“I said, ‘Thank you. These are lovely pajamas.’”

“Anything else?”

“I think I called her pretty.”

“Can I tell you a secret,” she asked me. Keeping secrets from me? Not okay, so I nodded. “She sent me a picture of your butt in those jammies, and they fit you perfect.”

“Do not!”

“They leave nothing to the imagination,” she grinned. “No hiding your Huggies in those.”

“I remember when ‘nothing to the imagination meant you could see my … you know.”

“Pussy?”

“Mary! I have …”

“Sensitive little ears,” we recited in unison.

“I know, I know. Your kitty. Sorry.” Firstly, I’m pretty sure if I said the p word on the backend of an ageplay episode, I’d get my mouth washed out and my butt spanked. Second, Mary’s the-world-is-perfect-I’m-so-content face was still there, but now her cheeks were now flushed with I’m-picturing-you-in-a-diaper-arguing-with-your-babysitter-in-a-public-dressing-room randyness.

“Do you like the pattern at least?”

“If I don’t, can we get a different pattern in the right size?”

“You’re such a silly goose. That is your size. Those are gonna be your winter PJs for whenever I have your bottom padded.”

“They’ll fit perfect without a diaper underneath,” I said.

To which Mary replied, “Whenever you’re padded.”

No winning here. “I do like the pattern.”

“And that shade of pink is so pretty on you. What did you do after you left the store?”

“I didn’t even tell you the worst part yet.”

“What?”

“She changed me in the dressing booth.”

“In a regular dressing room?”

“Yes! Anyone could’ve come in and heard everything she was saying and the tapes and the crinkling and seen the old diaper balled up on the floor cuz the stall door didn’t go all the way down.”

“She’s quite the risk taker,” Mary said. Yes, there was an undertone of disapproval, but it was overpowered by much more forward notes of amusement and admiration.

“Never make me do that again.”

“But were you glad you tired it after the fact?”

“(Sound of me not admitting that in retrospect, yeah, it pushed some goodness buttons.)”

“What did you guys do when you left?”

“She took me to lunch. Which was also awful. She made me order from the kids’ menu.”

“You order from the kids’ menu sometimes.”

“That was the awful part. She ate some of my fries.”

“O,” Mary said in a Very Serious tone and with a Very Serious face befitting the gravity of the transgression.

“You need to tell her.” Specifically, tell her I don’t share French fries. I could tell her myself, but this sort of thing is exactly why I have a domme in the first place. It’s, like, part of a domme’s basic job to communicate their sub’s weird food things to others.

“Good girl for not biting her.” Not to brag or nothing, but my wife thinks I’m a good girl. Specifically for not biting another human, which is mostly a joke, but this one time I was a little drunk and over excited and we were being playful and I kinda nipped Mary’s finger in a way that required interrupting dinner so I could find a a bandaid while she put pressure on it. It was early in our relationship, and that she found it funny (after the bleeding stopped) was really reassuring that we had something special. It was a long time before she ever fed me strawberries by hand again. True story.

“I’ll tell her. What did you do when you got home.”

“She made me take a nap.”

“You love taking naps.”

“She made me drink a bottle first. Of tea.”

“Ooo, tea goes right through you. Speaking of, when did she last change you?”

“Right after my nap.”

“So you made this poopy diapie after your nap?”

“Marrrry! It’s not … that word.”

“Poopy?”

“Marrrrry!”

“But it’s such a full diaper. I’m not mad. Diapers are for that too. It’s been a while since you had a dirty diaper, but maybe you’re regressing in your potty training.”

“(Sound of me expelling air hard through my nose and putting my head back down on Mary’s chest to endure this humiliation without having to look at her.)”

“A major sign of potty readiness is asking for a change when you pack your pampers.”

“I tried to, and you kept cutting me off!”

“A major sign of not being ready is blaming mommy for your lumpy luvs.”

“Frumper iffiscence!”

“Losing your words, too? You’ll be a baby by bedtime. C’mon, let’s get you out of those fudged huggies. Cuz, baby, I love you, but you got some stinky britches.”

“She’s more creative than you,” I grumped. By which I meant that while Mary sometimes dumps oatmeal down the back of the diaper she’s making me wear, Sandy dug deeper into our pantry.

I waddled upstairs to our bedroom with Mary holding my … butt. Yep, couldn’t stop patting and groping my butt.

When I was laying on the changing mat on our bed, with a clean diaper and a tug of wipes and cream and powder next to me watching Mary tie her hair in a pony, she said, “One day when you’re all grown up, you might have a little girl of your own. And when you change her messy diapers, remember to put your hair up so you don’t get any of what’s in her diapie in it. Cuz yucky,” she said in the same playful tone she used to use when changing our nephew (who graduated out of diapers roughly around the same time Mary was putting me back in them). “It’s yucky!”

And I should’ve seen it coming, but I was trying to force an out of body experience and so was caught off guard when Mary dove straight for my tummy and raspberried the heccin heck outta me. Yes, I squirmed and squealed and ineffectually tried to stop her, but she’s strong and a very determined tummy attacker. True story.

“But seriously,” she said as she straightened up, “what did you do in your diaper? Cuz that really smells.”

“I didn’t do anything! Sandy …”

“Another major sign of not being ready is not knowing you have a dirty bottom.”

“I’m. Very. Aware. Of. It.” She got a whiff of it? I’d been sitting in it for almost three hours! And I heccin hate – Hate! Despise! Hate with fire and hatred! – the smell of pumpkin pie filling! Ugh!

Mary looked at me sheepishly for a split second, which is the longest she’s ever felt sheepish, and asked me, “So what did you do after your nap?”

“You don’t wanna open it, do you?”

“Sweetie, I love you muchly and more, but no one wants to open a messy diapie, especially one this full.”

Then, nothing happened. So I said, “Sandy used the same excuse you use when you wanna put oatmeal down my diaper … which isn’t even mine.”

“Daffy, it is good for you skin.”

“So is lotion. For that matter, so is not wearing diapers!”

“Shh. Don’t get upset. I’ll get you out of that yucky thing and into a clean diaper in … not no time,” she chuckled. “Five minutes, maybe eight.”

“Har har.”

“Here we go,” she said and tore the four tapes holding that buffet to my butt. “O … O my.”

I don’t know what face she made upon seeing the inside of that diaper cuz I had my arms crossed over my face. Because it’s not embarrassing if no one can see your face while it’s happening, is a lie I told myself many years ago and still choose to believe. Also, crossing your arms over your eyes creates such a nice, dark space when you need a moment alone even while someone is wiping your bits for you.

“Such a messy girl. Sandy got you good,” she chuckled.

“You’re the one cleaning it up; she got you good. Maybe you should rethink hiring a babysitter who leaves me sitting in that stuff for hours.”

“It won’t work on your bottom if it doesn’t have time to do its magic.”

So. Much. Pretense. “I begged her to just stick to oatmeal. At least I would’ve only smelled like breakfast.”

“Babysitters do have fridge privileges, but not like this,” she chuckled again.

“Stop chuckling.”

“What’s … It’s kind green.”

“I dissociated after the pumpkin pie filling.” I stood very still and made myself think happy thoughts. That Suzie was standing in front of me wagging her tail like she might get people food didn’t help. Like, at all.

“So what else did you do with Sandy?”

“How can you talk like this is normal?”

“Wiping bottoms is just part of being a mom,” she said in this distressingly casual way that conveyed to me she really meant it. I chose unhear that, which didn’t work, so I did the next best thing and ignored it.

“She wouldn’t give me my pants back and made me sit on the floor.”

“It looks to me like she made a really nice play area for you with your favorite blankey.”

“And she made me watch an episode of,paw patrol and made me color pictures for you.”

“I can’t wait to see them.”

“And she braided my hair.”

“And you look so pretty.”

“I like it better the way you do it.”

“Want me to re-do it while dinner is in the oven?”

“Yes please.”

“I’ve never seen such a muck butt, but all clean! You’re all clean!” She tickled me.

“Heehee! Marrry! It’s not funny.”

“My baby girl is all clean,” she said, sitting down on the foot of the bed and making that life-is-perfect-I’m-so-proud-of-you-for-being-open-to-trying-new-things-also-I’m-kinda-really-horny face again. “Seriously, was it a good play date?”

“(Sound of me blushing).”

“Let’s see,” she said as her hand started to wander back to parts of me she just cleaned. Like, with a fingertip tracing a certain line up and down. “You got your bottom spanked almost the minute I left you with your sitter. And she made you try on cutesie clothes you’re embarrassed to wear. And anyone could’ve heard her talking all about your diapers and heard your wet pampers getting changed. And you nearly got a spanking in public; been too long since you got one of those probably. And I bet the waitress thought how odd it must be for an adult to order from the kids’ menu, and or maybe not if she heard you crinkling on the way to your table. You got fed a baba and had nap time. And you got to learn what it’s like to sit in a very full, very stinky, very messy diaper for hours. I bet you’ve felt so humiliated and helpless all day. And I bet you’ve felt so proud of yourself for being a good little subby girl for obeying. And I bet that makes you feel even more humiliated and small. And right now, knowing that I know how turned on it makes you, how … embarrassing for you.”

Her fingertip made a deep, upward arc back to front. “Look at me. Open your eyes. See what you’re doing right now?” She was holding up her finger to show me. “Do big girls get off on being treated this way? Daffy, you don’t need to hide your real feelings from me. I’m not only your wife. I’m your mommy who changes your yucky diapers. Just a mommy with a little girl who … I’m not even touching you and you’re making a cummy mess.” She chuckled, so proud of herself for giving me a hands-free orgasm. Which, ya know, is a talent to be proud of. “You are such a good girl! You are! Yes you are!”

“(Sound of me … you know.)”

“I should’ve gotten the new diaper under you first.”

“It wouldn’t make a difference,” I said with a post-orgasm chuckle of my own.

“Cuz you wanna go again right away?”

She knows me so heccin well. “Wait,” I said as she wound up her whole body like a tigress about to pounce. “Order dinner first.”

“Such a good girl, and so smart too.”