Mary and Daphne #212

Every time I travel overseas, when I wake up there after my first night’s sleep, I never remember where I am. It’s that kinda waking up where your mind is alert before your body, and you know you’re awake but your eyes aren’t open, and you have no clue what time it is or where you are. Whose bed is this? What year is it? Did the spirits really do it all in one night? Who knows!

But the one constant, the one thing that tells me all is well and that I may not know where I am but I also know exactly where I am: I’m right next to Mary. Eyelids too heavy to lift, brain to slow to think, but Mary feels exactly the same whether we’re at home or, this time, in Italy. My Mary, mia bella amore. The woman who was so nice but also so friggin mean to me the day before.

And I’m not even taking about the shenanigans on the plane or in the airport. We landed in Rome slightly less tired than we would’ve had we flown in economy, and we followed the crowd in the general direction of baggage claim. Totally normal: find an atm to get some euros, go to collect our bags, and go to the metro to catch a train. O, EXCEPT FOR STOPPING ON THE WAY FOR A DIAPER CHANGE!

Mary promised me she wasn’t gonna make me wear diapers the whole time, but the ENTIRE first day AND that night she did. Mean! And this might be stretching the meaning for words (but it isn’t!) up to that point constituted the entirety of our trip to that point, so technically she broke her word. Not that I called her on it, but I was thinking about it while she was applying that stupid thing to me in the restroom.

It was late afternoon by the time we got to Florence and checked into our hotel. “Come,” she said to me and took me into the bathroom. “Your pampers dry?”

“I’m jet lagged and feeling feisty, Mary. Don’t call em that.”

“So you’re telling me they’re wet,” she said while she soaped up a face towel with cool water. “Look up for me.”

“You like it when I’m exhausted,” I accused her. “It makes you feel even more needed when you take care of me … I feel like I have airplane on me.”

“But underneath you’re my pretty little girl. We just gotta scrub the travel away … Feeling better?”

“Mhmm. What about you? Can you make it past dinner time?”

“Yeah. Awfully crowded out there, wasn’t it?”

“Summertime. If we weren’t so desperate for a break, we would’ve waited til the fall.” I actually don’t need breaks so much as changes of scenery, what with me being a lady of leisure now. Mary, though, Mary needed a break big time. Glued to her desk for hours at a time, and she’s the nicest boss, but she was getting so tired I caught her getting a very teeny tiny bit short tempered with a direct report this one time. She never does that, and maybe they deserved it, but I also know Mary doesn’t like being that kinda boss.

I took it as my cue to nag her about a vacation (even if it did make me feel like Lucy pestering Ricky to take her to the club), and also to submissive it up more. Seriously helps to de-stress when she’s taking care of me and when she’s smacking my butt repeatedly and hard. I don’t think it counts as bratting when you’re doing it to give your domme a reason to use your butt as a stress ball. I mean, she knows I know it’s naughty to draw on the wall (that’s why I use pencil), so it’s not like she thinks she’s teaching me an overdue lesson or anything … At least I think she knows I know. Cuz how embarrassing would that be, Mary thinking I still need to learn something everyone else knows by age 6. Not coloring on the walls and potty training, the things Mary pretends from time to time I still need to learn. Yep, our marriage is normal. Really.

“Lemme check your pants,” Mary said to me.

“Lemme check your pants,” I said back even though it wouldn’t have gone anywhere cuz we were way too tired to have sexy time. Makes me nostalgic for the good ol’ days when we were never too tired. Which were never, now that I think on it. We weren’t that young when we met.

“You’re just damp,” she said and – get this – rebuttoned my pants.

“But I wanna change,” I didn’t whine. You’re never too tired to not whine. That’s why I didn’t whine even though I was really tired and wanted back into panties. Really.

“If you just let me take care of your huggies for the rest of today, tomorrow you can use that potty,” she said and pointed to the potty like a game show model gesturing to a prize, which was such a cheap jokes. I mean, like, yeah Mary, you just go ahead and tell yourself you’re on the cutting edge of comedy, ya big meanie.

“It’s a toilet,” I didn’t mutter.

“You hungry?”

“Very, but we can’t eat yet,” I told her. “As soon as I eat something, I’m going to fall asleep.”

We ended up walking to down the street from our hotel to what turned out to be Basilica San Lorenzo. Considering how many basilicas and chiese and pievi and catedrali and duomi we ended up visiting, it was a good starter basilica.

Hey, ya know what’s a weird feeling? Standing in front of the tomb of a dead Medici wetting your pants. That is a thing that feels weird in every way it can, most of all mentally. I’m peeing next to a casket; o look, a fresco; gee, hope I don’t leak on this 500-year-old porphyry tile slab that costs more than my car; my life is weird.

So is my wife, who I swear has like an ageplay radar. Anything ostensibly little, and she just senses it. For the record, of which I am the keeper and your ever true and honest and transparent and accurate recorder of things and deeds, I didn’t pee in the diaper because I was being little. I peed in it because I was being submissive: Mary told me I had to wear and use the diaper; she is my domme, I am her sub; I followed the rules because I am a good rule follower. The best, actually. True story.

But does my wife distinguish between little and submissive? Yes but not consistently or always accurately, dammit! “Did you just potty in your pants,” she whispered to me.

“Marrrry,” I hissed, “shush!” Telling your domme to shush is a totally okay thing to do even for the best rule following sub there ever was. True story.

“I thought I recognized your potty face. Will your diaper hold up through dinner time?” I was looking past Mary when she said it, and I saw this lady (whom I instantly labeled a Karen even though they hadn’t done anything but I resented her anyway), looking at us out of the corner of her eye!

O. My. Gawd! That lady heard! She heard! She’s looking cuz she heard! All the blood is draining to my face; I’m gonna stroke out; I’m gonna stroke out and they’re gonna bury me next to that Medici. Tourist dies of embarrassment in church; they buried her under that porphyry slab that cost more than her house. What is even happening? Has meaning lost all meaning?!? I can’t stand for this crap; it’s only our first day; draw a line in the sand and tell Mary no! Tell her she’s being a bad girl! Bad girl Mary!

“Nurnensnooger. Nurnensnooger, Mary!” And she knew exactly what I meant! EXACTLY WHAT I MEANT! She didn’t even pretend she didn’t!

She just leaned a little closer to me, probably grinning one of her Cheshire Cat grins but I couldn’t see cuz the stroke took my vision, and said only a little more quietly, “I tried my best to whisper. Those renaissance church builders really understood acoustics, huh?”

Wipe that smile off your face this instant young lady! Which came out, “Luusifegirico!”

And if she thinks she can make up for it just by kissing me on the forehead “(Kiss)” and putting her arm around me “(Sound of arm being put around me)” then she’s … not wrong. I mean, I wouldn’t say she made it up to me, but I would say I wasn’t mad at her. But only because I was too tired to be mad. Not because I have a humiliation fetish that just so happens to go really well what she said. And if you hear otherwise, tell that person they are mistaken and that if they repeat their mistake again you shall fetch them a very sharp blow upon the nose.

We left and walked back up the street our hotel was on and stopped in a trattoria that looked good. I mean, it’s Tuscany so the food is pretty much all good. Sure, some places look fancier and the places farther from the big piazzas supposedly serve better food at lower prices to a more local clientele, but our priority was speed and proximity to our hotel. Eat, unpack, shower, sleep for twelve hours.

Know what’s a nice reminder that no matter how good you think you’re getting at a language, you really aren’t? When you order in Italian and the waiter answers back in English. We had pizza (and I’m sooooo good at pronouncing ‘pizza’!). I don’t know why the pizza in Italy is so good; I’ve almost never had bad pizza in Italy; I’m guessing the freshness of the ingredients is why. The mozzarella forms this milky pool on top that blends with the fat from the salame and if they just poured that off into a cup, I’d pay €8 for it. True story.

“The wine was a mistake,” I yawned.

“Go right through your tummy and out into your pants?”

“I (yawn) swear to (yawn) god, Mary.”

“We have one more stop to make and then we can go back.”

“Where?”

“The pharmacy.”

We walked to the end of the block, made a right, went two more blocks, made another right, and there was the pharmacy. The man greeted us, naturally, in Italian, and while I contented myself to look around the store and notice all the differences between what an Italian pharmacy carries versus an American, Mary was showing something on her phone to the man. He said something, and Mary said, “Piccola,” and I thought if Mary ever learns to speak Italian fluently I’ll never let her stop saying pretty words to me. And then I turned around.

Gobsmacked. Like some smacked me right in my gob, and I don’t even know what one of those is.

Mary, the woman who claims to love me more than anything and says she takes care of me and that I am the sun in her solar system was in the process of buying … adult diapers.

So I stepped right up next to her and said (quietly cuz I have manners dammit!), “Whuh whoduh frup for serious are you serious right here right now?!?”

To which Mary said (in the black speech of Sauron cuz I guess she’s just done pretending to be anything other than evil), “What? We couldn’t pack you a whole two weeks’ worth … Isn’t it interesting that they keep diapers for girls like you behind the counter here?” I was in damage control mode so I let that go even though I wanted to pull a Jesus-in-the-temple right then and there. The man gave Mary her change, which makes me wonder if maybe I should even let Mary have money ever again, and she picked up the bag and started walking away.

“Marrryyy!”

“Need a change before we leave?”

“Bag! Hide them,” I panic-whispered.

“They’re already in a bag, sweetums. And see, they even have this carrying handle. C’mon.”

We got outside, Mary carrying a bag of adult diapers (adulto pannolini and dammit it all to friggin heccin heck and stuff!) right down the street past all these people! And I just had to go with her!

“You planned this,” I accused her. “You … you … plotter! Nefarious! Notorious!”

“For a little girl who still needs diapers, you sure know a lot of big words.”

“Treasonous! And would you finally shush!”

“I don’t think anyone can hear us over the vespas.”

“Which is just how you planned it!” J’accuse, mon ami!

“I looked up the hotel you booked, checked Maps for the nearest pharmacy, found their website, searched it for Daphne-sized diapers, and bookmarked the page to page to show the pharmacist just in case. If you wanna call that planning and be all histrionic about it, I guess yeah, I planned it.”

“Stop being so proud of yourself.”

“I did it for every hotel we’re staying in too,” she said so smugly I wanted to … to … to unsmug her good!

“Could you please hide those or something?” I. Even. Said. Please. Because. I. Am. So. Much. More. Polite. And. Considerate. Than. Mary!

“Yeah, Daff, I’ll hide a big square bag the size of a small suitcase under my shirt; that’ll draw less attention.”

“And stop calling me unreasonable.”

“I didn’t.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“Hold up.”

O my gawd what now what now what now!??

“Want some gelato,” she asked me like she wasn’t carrying a bag of diapers.

“What? Not now I heccin don’t,” I said to the batshit crazy person I married.

“Well, I do. Hold these.”

Stupid politeness reflexes making my arm just go out all on its own and hold the stupid bag of diapers.

And dammit but Mary knows me cuz she ordered me some gelato too. And dammit but I want Mary to say cioccolato fondente too me in her sexy voice over and over and over again.

“Put that on the ground at least,” I ordered her when she sat down with our gelato and put the bag right on the table.

“No.” How dare she disobey my orders! Insubordinate! Obstinate! Meanie head! She continued cuz her defiance knows no bounds, “I want everyone to see. I want them to know I love my wife so much, I don’t even mind changing her diapers. But of course no one is paying attention, silly goose. Most don’t even know what’s in that bag.”

“It has a diaper on it,” I spat through my teeth.

“If they see it, which they won’t because they’re too busy doing their own thing.”

“We are in one of the people-watching capitals of the world, Mary. Everyone comes out for the passeggiata just to see each other.”

“You’re so knowledgeable. You’re like a little crinkly tour guide. A tour guide with a messy face.”

Which is when she spit on a napkin and started wiping my face. Just … great. So I told her, “Gelato melts faster than ice cream because it’s made of milk instead of cream.” So, I, uh, yeah, put her right in her place. “Which is also why the flavor is more intense; there’s less fat to coat the tongue and block the taste buds.” Take … that?

“My little foodie tour guide … Hey, Daffy?”

“Yeah?”

“Ya know that spot on your collarbone that turns red when you’re aroused? How big is it right now?” I just glared at her. “Is it this big?” She made a circle with her thumb and forefinger. Glare. “Is it this big?” Glarier glare. She made a circle with both her hands. “Is it this big?” Snarl. She threw her arms all the way out.

“Marrry.”

“Sooooo big,” she sang like she was asking a toddler how big they are which she has way too much fun doing to me.

“And it’s awful,” I told her because, yeah, the spot was huge and it was awful. Awful!

“And why is it awful?”

“Cuz I’m too tired to do anything about it.” So. Damn. Aroused.

“Wanna me to fuck you in the shower? I’ll do all the work.”

“… Yes, but don’t read anything into it.”

“We’ll get you all fucked and into a fresh diaper, and tucked in bed.”

O. My. God. Just O. My. Gawd. “I’m gonna throw a tantrum.”

“Save it for the shower.”

“Marrry!”