Mary and Daphne #219

La la la, minding my own business, not sneaking up on Mary like a land shark (cue theme from Jaws). “I know those teeth,” Mary said about the ones biting her shoulder, “Those are Daffy’s.” I wasn’t biting her hard or nothing; just my way of getting her attention in a way that might lead to … stuff.

In a fight between a land shark and a ninja-sorceress, the ninja-sorceress would win. I know these things cuz Mary, see, ninja-ensorcelled me right over her lap. Not that I put up much of a fight. One might even say I helped her do it. Not that she needed my help, though, cuz she’s strong and knows ninja moves and magic. She’s always casting love spells on me and stuff.

And me? I just sighed and sunk into her lap, content to let whatever happen just happen. I collected one firm spank on my bottom, and I don’t know how to quantify squeezing and rubbing and other stuff, so I’ll be conservative and say +5.

“Is there a reason,” Mary asked me as she tucked her kindle into the arm of the sofa cuz my backside is so much more interesting than whatever she was reading – in fact, the only thing more interesting than my backside is my frontside – “you bit me to get attention instead of using your words?”

“Because reasons.” Was that sass? I wasn’t trying to be sassy. I was trying to be coy.

“Do those reasons have anything to do with why you’re not wearing pants?”

“Do your own detective work.” Okay, that was sassy. I’ve gotten spanked for too much sass, but being sassy isn’t the same as spouting too much sass. True story.

“I think I know what’s going on,” Mary said in such a confident tone that I didn’t believe for a second she thought she knew it. She knewshe knew it. And then she bit me back. You never see ninjas pulling hair or biting in the movies, but they bite harder than land sharks. And ya know what? The land sharks like it and stuff. Like, all the stuff and most of the things too. Ninja toothmarks I’d have for at least a day, right on my butt.

I responded appropriately. I’m nothing if not appropriate; I follow all the norms and conventions of genteel society, and I’m never gauche even when I walk around with no pants on biting people. Really. Yep, responded appropriately by letting a shudder run all the way to my toes in a way Mary couldn’t not notice and draw lascivious conclusions from.

“It’s that time of the month,” Mary concluded. Not thattime of the month. The time before that time of the month when my hormones shoot through the roof. Which is so different from how I am the rest of the time. Um, really.

For sure you won’t be terribly surprised that Mary likes that time of the month. The only problem is the needier I get, the more Mary’s orgasm denial kink gets triggered. I mean, I always win, but really, everyone’s a winner. Co-champions we are … and stuff. But winning sooner is better than winning later. I mean, for onesies, the sooner you win, the sooner you can win again, amiright? Yes.Yes, I am.

“Do things to me,” I may have said. But if I did, and that’s a big if, it was said in a very ladylike, appropriate way, and it for sure wasn’t accompanied by any butt wiggling or attempts to press myself against Mary’s supple yet firm thigh. Really.

And Mary, equally ladylike as befits the queen of me, slid my panties over my butt, down my legs, and off my toes in a way previous generations would have labeled heavy petting. “Such a good girl lifting your hips for me without my even having to ask.”

O heck of geez o me o my o o o yes! She called me a good girl! The queen of me thinks I’m a good girl! Who’s a good girl? Me! I am! Mary says!

“Are you waggling your butt to entice me or cuz you’re a happy little puppy?”

“(Squirmy lesbian noises).”

And I lifted my hips again and parted my thighs just so, and cuz Mary is the world’s leading expert on the body language of Sexually Needy Daphne … pause for just a moment to think how cool it would be if a toymaker made her Barbie’s lesbian friend. Imagined it yet? Good; now back to the smut … knew just where to put her hand to do hand stuff. Hand stuff doesn’t get nearly enough respect, especially among the straights. That’s according to my straight lady friends who never say so but I’m pretty sure are jealous my partner has all the same parts and so knows where everything is.

Did I press myself into her hand? Yes. Yes, I did. But ladylike. Needy, kinda slutty ladylike. How, you wonder, can someone be slutty with their own spouse? Just trust me on this. I know things. Gay things. Really.

“(Lesbian purring noises).”

“Did you just purr?”

“Um … no?”

“Wags her butt like a puppy, purrs like a kitten … is kinda humping my leg right now.”

“Am … not.” Wait, was I? And not that I wasn’t having fun, but Mary never lets me win as quick as I was on pace to. She must have had something up her sleeve. Not her right sleeve, cuz that one was pushed all the way up to her elbow so she wouldn’t … Ladylike; that’s us.

“But I bet you would if made you.” Would I, though? Would I? Yes. Yes, I would. “Do you wanna cum?”

“(Squeaky almost-there noises).”

“Well, maybe later.” And then she took her hand away. I. Was. Using. That!

“Urghhhfff! (And other frustrated gay noises!)” Plus a big sigh of irritation, and I kicked the sofa, and made some huffy noises. “Now andlater,” I (weakly) demanded. “It’s not like I’m gonna run out.”

“Heehee. I know.”

“Marrrry! Stop getting off on me not getting off!”

“Don’t you take that tone with me, young lady.”

“Well, (desperate but not too desperate to be a problem solver noises), what if you got off and I watched with my mouth?” Cuz Mary’s motivation to orgasm denial my orgasms, I discovered long ago, is a lot less strong after she cums.

“‘Watch with your mouth’? I think you need a reminder about how little girls are supposed to talk.”

“I’m not a little girl!”

“You sound like a little girl right now about to have a tantrum because she didn’t get a happy meal.”

“I want to be the happy meal. Or you can be the happy meal. I’m very good at taking turns.” True story.

That didn’t get a response. That … worried me. Surely by now I had sassed enough to earn a spanking, and I can work with that. Many a chastisement has turned into filthy good sex under our roof. I was already over her lap and bare bottom and everything! That silence could only mean Mary was thinking. I didn’t need her to think; I needed her to act. On me, specifically. I could be the bumbling prop girl, and she could be the out-of-patience director. Or she could be the intimacy coach, and I could be the ingenue who’s just so new at this and needs private lessons. Heck, I could even settle for being the stage! But a one-woman show? I mean, if I had to, but I get the best critical reviews when I have a partner … … What were we talking about again?

Mary broke her silence. “You are not a big girl, Daphne Ann. Tsk tsk tsk.”

“(Sound of me rolling my eyes so hard I gave myself a headache).”

“Big girls know how to wear underpants.”

“What does that even mean?” And if she was about to cast aspersions on my hygiene, I was gonna bite again except this time it would be my own lip to keep my internal screaming from externalizing.

“What day of the week is it,” she asked me.

No choice but to play along. “Sunday.” I sat through all of church with rapidly rising hormone levels and Pastor Sarah up there just being all purple-haired-lesbian-in-a-clerical-collar hot! I suffered for my faith!

“So you do know your days of the week. Sit up.” I did, or my like she sat me up as I wondered what was even happening. “Look at these; what do they say?”

“Tuesday?”

“Is that an answer or a question?” And then she made her that-question-was-not-rhetorical face. It was Mary who taught me many years ago that no question asked in the course of a scolding is rhetorical, no matter how obvious the answer. It’s almost like she asks embarrassing questions on purpose and makes me answer them out loud to embarrass me as though we both get a weird kind of pleasure from it. Which would be so weird and stuff … anyhoo …

“It says ‘Tuesday,’” I answered while giving her my patented really?-this-is-what-we’re-doing-when-we-both-could-be-cumming-right-nowjust--really? face.

“So you know it’s Sunday, and you know these underoos say ‘Tuesday.’”

Bravo, Poirot, I think I was very clever to think and even cleverer to not say out loud.

“You can’t even wear your underpants right, which tells me you’re too little for underpants. Do you know what girls who are too little to wear underpants wear instead?”

“No.”

“No, you don’t know, or no, you do know but don’t wanna wear them?”

“Twice; we coulda done it twice by now,” I said under my breath.

Mary just shook her head like the she couldn’t believe I still didn’t know how to wear underpants and told me, “You stay right here, exactly as you are,” and then she went upstairs.

I DO TOO KNOW HOW TO WEAR UNDERPANTS! I know, for instance, that the days on day-of-week panties are merely suggestions! I also know that I used to own a pair for all seven days of the week, and I know who absconded with the other six. She only left me Tuesday, and Tuesday is my least favorite day of the week! And I know it was her no matter how many times she explains that she didn’t throw them out and that they went to live on a farm!

Mary and her made up excuses to make me wear diapers! And it was only minor consolation that the longer she denied me an orgasm – that I richly deserved! she said herself that I’m a good girl! – her denial kink only made her more and more aroused. Soon we would be equally aroused; soon her level of arousal would surpass mine; and then … stuff and things.

But I’m not a patient woman, I don’t like being called a little girl, and I hate diapers! Urgh!!!

Mary returned with a shopping bag … and no pants. This … portended things. She set the bag down where I couldn’t see inside, turned on the fireplace, spread a blanket on the floor in front of it, and did all that while ignoring me and giving no hint of what she was up to. But ninja-sorceresses are always up to something.

“Mary?”

“Yes, love bug?”

O…kay; so that’s a thing she called me. “What are you doing?”

“You’ll see.”

“Why’d you take off your pants?”

“You got mine wet when you were over my lap.”

Yeah, I noticed that but opted not to say anything about it, just like I opted not to point out that she got her own pants wet. You don’t blame the soda for exploding; you blame the person who shook the bottle; and it was her hand, and no one made her wipe it on her jeans, so …

“Why didn’t you put on new pants?” See where my inquiry was going?

“I don’t need them. Come lay down.”

I slid off the couch and warily sidled over to her, assuming the position flat on my back with my knees up and open. Was I hoping she would see it and forget about the diaper? Was I hoping she would put that position to another, more exciting use? Yes. Yes, I did hope.

“You warm enough if I take your top off?”

“Mhmm.” I mean, sure, let’s get those out too. Anything to get her to pay grownup attention to the grownup serving herself up like dessert. I sat up, and she pulled my top off. She stood up and took all the throw pillows from the sofa and loveseat and dumped them on the blanket. She took off her own top and – cuz she’s Mary – neatly folded it like she did mine and put it on the coffee table.

“Heehee! We’re gonna have living room sex,” I said in my I’m-happy-cuz-I’m-about-to-have-living-room-sex-with-Mary voice. It’s a very pure voice, the very note of excited contentment. “You were so determined when you went upstairs. What happened? Did you think of little ol’ me and decided you couldn’t wait any longer?” That was both sassy and sass. “What did you bring down? Did you get new toys to surprise me?”

She kissed me on the forehead and made her patronizing you-are-such-a-cutie-patootie face. It was very inscrutable except for the way it made it so over-the-top obvious she loves me and thinks I’m cute. She put her hands on my shoulders and urged me to lay back down. I did.

Mary produced a changing pad from the bag. I lifted my hips so she could spread it underneath me. I thought very little of it cuz we had it way before she started making me wear diapers; even post-diapers, we mostly use it to keep sex off things not as easy to wash as sheets.

“Help me,” she said as she lifted a strap-on harness from the bag (and that harness was, ahem, armed, so to speak). It’s almost like – and how weird would this be? – she was trying to make me even more aroused by straddling my chest on her knees so I could help her get it on without sitting up, as though she thought putting queen parts so close to my face would stimulate impure thoughts in my head. And she’s good at this sorta thing that she didn’t even poke me in the eye with that thing.

“Don’t you dare cum yet,” she gently ordered me as though I have a track record of being teased to the point of cumming without her even touching me. And being told when I’m allowed to cum was a risky move, what with how wound up I was and how much submissives like me like getting bossed around in the living room. But that’s Mary, intrepid risk taker. She climbed off me.

Then, instead of climbing back on me but lower down around the hip area, in Mary’s smarmy I-so-enjoy-letting-you-think-you’ve-won-and-then-snatching-it-away tone, she said, “Let’s get your adorable bottom adorably diapered.”

“Marrrry!”

“O shush, baby. Do as you’re told.” Fine, but only because I like it when Mary tells me what to do. I was still gonna cross my arms and make a pouty face though, and it wasn’t even an affectation.

“I didn’t change my mind,” she explained as she diapered me. “I just decided to take it in a different direction. There; so cute in your pampers, and now you can’t make a mess.”

“Stop talking about me messing diapers!”

“Ha! I meant the kind of mess you made on my jeans. You didn’t even cum! Just imagine the Number 3 you’re gonna make when I finally let you.”

“(Sound of hope returning). And when will that be?”

“That depends on you,” she said to me and rubbed the front of the diaper in a … forceful way. “Why don’t you go potty before we get started?”

“Um, that’s okay. I don’t have to.”

“Daphne Ann, I know that’s a fib. Piddle a puddle in your pampers right now, little girl.”

Well, heccin darn it. I had the decency to look away. Mary had the indecency to take my chin and turn my head so we were looking right at each other while I peed and she kept rubbing. Good thing I like being made to feel small and submissive and embarrassed, and even better that no matter what she makes me do, the queer smile she makes while I do it is so worth it for me and also so queer (cuz she’s such a queer! Hot heccin darnit I love her!).

“There,” she said. She arranged the throw pillows and laid down next to me. “My tiny, subby, wet girl is blushing so red! It’s not the first time I’ve seen you wet your diapers, you know. Or does pointing out how many times I’ve seen you pee yourself make it even more embarrassing for you?”

“(Sound of me blushing even more).”

“Now,” she said while getting as close as she could and guiding my lips toward her chest, “no hands. Only your lips and only my breasts, and if you do an extra good job making me cum before you make a Number 3 in your diaper, we can play with the strap-on.”

I speak Mary fluently. What she really said was, I’m going to keep telling you not to cum, but we both know you’re gonna cuz I’m not gonna stop giving you this HJ through the diaper I made you wet. And o yeah, let’s pretend I’m not poking you with this dildo on purpose. And when you do cum before I do, I’m gonna tell you it’s alright and that you did such a good job you can still have the strap-on.

I closed my lips around her nipple. “Hhh!” she gasped. “Be gentle, or I’ll have to spank your bottom.”

What she was really saying was, Be mostly gentle, and I’ll probably spank your bottom before bedtime.

“And Daffy,” she said to me, “your diaper stays on when I use the strap-on.”

What she was really saying was … Wait, what now?!?

Eep!