Mary and Daphne #208

“I am so mad at you,” Mary said to me. “Do you understand? Not disappointed. I am actually mad at you.”

I’m very wise, ya know, like I have wisdom and stuff? I was drawing upon that wisdom when I didn’t answer her question even though, yes, I did understand cuz she had me by my elbow kinda hard as she marched me up the stairs. But I kinda sorta knew when I did what I did that she’d be super mad about it. I just decided to do it anyway.

And Mary’s not dumb. She knew that I knew she’d be mad and that I did it despite that, which probably explains why after she parked me in the corner she went into the bathroom and (dammit!) got the bath brush.  It should be banned; I think the United Nations went so far as to designate it a weapon of ass destruction, but like Mary even listens to intergovernmental organizations.

Behind me, Mary kept making these noises like she was about to start lecturing me at a high volume and rapid cadence, but she kept cutting herself off after half a syllable. In other circumstances, I would’ve been pleading not to get the bath brush and maybe, if I were feeling the right combination of bratty, sassy, wronged, and righteous, arguing with her. But like I said, I knew I was way in the wrong. I stood in my time out and didn’t interrupt Mary’s not-quite-a-tirade.

Depending on how you use time to mark events, either this whole thing started when I hired a landscaping company to install a sprinkler system in our yard and gardens without asking or telling Mary, or when she found out, which happened five minutes prior to my corner time when she glanced up from her work computer and saw strangers team digging a hole in the yard.

A terse exchange of words followed in which I verified that, yes, I hired them; no, I didn’t ask permission to alter our home or break the spending limit; yes, it was expensive; and no, we couldn’t undo it cuz I signed a contract and gave them half the cost as a deposit.

Mary was pacing behind me making her I’m-so-angry-I’m-speechless sounds for about two minutes, and when she stopped, even before she said anything, I wished my butt a fond farewell. So long, girl. It’s been a heckuva party.

I wasn’t scared. At least not until Mary said, “No. After.”

“What? What after?”

“We’ll talk about this after your spanking,” she almost hissed but it was too loud for a hiss. Like, she invented a whole new tone of voice right on the spot, and not a fun one.

“You should calm down first,” I helpfully (hopefully) suggested. First rule of disciplinary spanking is don’t spank when you’re mad.

“I’m calm.”

“Um, are you sure?”

“Come over to me.”

“Mary?”

She did one of those forceful sighs that says patience is about to be a thing of the past. “Daphne Ann, walk your butt over here right now.”

O, so like, right now? Um, okay … Dammit!

I got within arm’s reach and was naked from the waist down so fast I think she did a magic trick. That would be so like Mary (who is a sorceress), learning magic tricks to de-pants me. I must’ve looked (what’s the understated word for scared?) distressed cuz she said to me, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Kinda silly when you think about it; she was so going to hurt me. But she wasn’t going to injure me. Count on Mary to be so self-possessed mere moments after getting past her angry muttering.

“Lie down on the bed, on your back.”

“Buh … Does it have to be the diaper position?” And there was Mary’s this-is-the-worst-time-ever-to-say-or-do-anything-except-what-you’re-told face. It’s all in the eyes. And the tight lips. And way she managed to scowl with her whole head. How does she even do that?

I gave myself a quick pep talk. I said to myself, I said, Self, you knew this would happen. You didn’t know it would be the bath brush, but you were pretty sure. You knew enough, and you did it anyway, and you still think it’s worth it. Two weeks from now, when your butt is back to its normal color and it doesn’t hurt to sit anymore, you’ll be laying in the sun admiring your flowers that will look so much better because of the sprinkler. Go to your happy place. [*insert harp music here] Happy place. Happy place.

Well, that was a flawed pain management strategy. My happy place is anywhere Mary is and especially our bedroom. I was literally in my happy place, and lemme tell ya, neither of us was happy.

But I was determined to take my consequence with the stoicism and poise I’m known for. ‘There goes Daphne,’ people say, ‘I bet those ancient Greek stoics would have a lot to say about her and her lifestyle.’ I was even gonna hold my legs up for her, but she got there first.

But if she beat me to that, raising my ankles so high she had spanking access to my whole butt, I beat her to tears. I was crying way before (a fraction of a second) the bath brush even connected the first time. It was just nerves; nerves, and knowing that while I had my reasons, it really was a crummy thing I did.

Neither of us was especially verbal. I let out some cry-inflected ows, and Mary let the brush do all her talking. It’s … quite an orator. If the trick to getting your point across is repetition, it’s the Cicero of spanking implements cuz I understood exactly what it was trying to convey (scratch that – it didn’t try; it just conveyed) the first time and proceeded to say it about thirty more times for emphasis. And I was rapt. It had my total attention. I was glued to my seat (figuratively; in a more literal sense, my sympathetic nervous system took over and did it’s darndest to move my whole body out of reach while Mary demonstrated just how strong and adept she is at holding down subs getting their bottoms roasted).

I like to think I took it it well. I mean, yeah, I was sobbing and, yes, there was moaning and, kinda, there was wailing. So when I say I took it well, what I mean is I did all those things really, really well. Almost like I had experience taking a super hard spanking. Which of course I don’t. Um, really. Cuz I’m well behaved and way too old to be subject that kind of discipline or any discipline at all except self-discipline which I have in spades. Doubt me not.

Mary sat down next to me, all calm and tender. They say to calm down before you spank, but spanking is also a way Mary calms down. She stroked my hair while I rolled over and buried my face against her thigh. When I was able to speak, she asked me in her I’m-not-sorry-I-did-that-but-I’m-sorry-you’re-in-pain voice, “Why did you that?”

I’m a very self-aware person. No, really. True story. I knew exactly why I did that because I had five whole weeks between doing it and that moment to think it over. “Cuz I’m not a little girl and don’t need permission to do stuff so long as I accept the consequences and I did.”

Before you say anything, and like you even get a say (which you don’t!), I’m aware how that sounds. But you’re wrong! It’s not something a little girl would say. It’s what a middle would say. And I’m not one of those either and I should know because, and I already said this but no one seems to listen to me, I’m very self-aware. ‘There goes Daphne,’ people say, ‘She’s very much herself.’ Whatever that even means, but it’s so obviously a compliment we don’t need to interrogate it much or at all really. Really.

More importantly, as I understand it now, my misbehavior was an attempt to convince myself that just cuz I have a mommy doesn’t mean I’m not an independent adult. Pretty sure I convinced myself; also pretty sure the only person who needed convincing was me. So the whole thing was about catharsis, and it was still very wrong of me and I got what I deserved.

Mary sighed one of her I’m-sorry-you-get-so-deep-into-your-own-head-that-you-do-such-silly-things. “You know spending that much money, and doing something that big to our home, without asking me isn’t just breaking the rules. It’s also and more importantly not what partners do. Not even if it’s their way of saying something they don’t know how to say.”

“I know. I’m so sorry. I won’t ever do anything like that again.”

“I hope not. This time you got a spanking; if there’s a next time, we’re just gonna have a fight.”

Hoo boy. You think I cry hard when I get battered by the bath brush, but only because I’ve never chronicled a real fight between me and Mary in my diary (which you shouldn’t even be reading, pervert).

“Let’s get you re-dressed,” Mary said. She got up and I rolled over onto my back again and winced but, uh, not because it hurt. Why didn’t I stand up instead? Because Mary went to the closet, where the things live.

“Your consequence isn’t over. You’re wearing your diapers for the next five days. If you need to go number two, you need to come find me. I’ll take you to the bathroom.” She unfolded the diaper, a big thick one she got a sample of and I think was waiting for the right time to put me in it. She lifted my ankles again. “You’ve got quite the bruised bottom, little girl.” She got the diaper under me. “I’m going to check the bottom after you use the potty, and if you don’t do a perfect job wiping, you’re going to lose the privilege of doing that yourself. Understand?”

Aw geez!! “Yes. I’m sorry.”

“I know, sweetie, and I accept your apology. You’re also not allowed to be alone the entire time you’re back in diapers.”

“You’re grounding me?” That’s a new one. Huh.

“If that’s what you want to call it. If you want to go somewhere, you have to ask permission.”

“Is that because I did this to make the point I don’t have to ask permission?”

“Yep. And you can only go somewhere with me, Nana, or a friend. Not alone and not with another little, either. It has to be Nana or someone who has permission to discipline you. Same if I need to go somewhere. You can come with, go to Nana’s, or go to a friend’s house, or a friend needs to come over to babysit. There, how’s that diaper feel?”

“Like you spanked me really hard.”

“You needed a really hard spanking.”

Instead of picking my shorts up off the floor, Mary went to my dresser and fished through one of my drawers until she came up with the shorts I bought for the ten minutes I thought beach yoga might be my new thing.

“You have one more consequence today. You’re going to put these on, you’re going to go write a check for the other half of the sprinkler system, and you’re going to go give it to them.”

O! My! Gawd! She’s evil! She’s evil and and … and … stuff! The shorts won’t hide this diaper! The diaper is bigger than the shorts and it’s not even close and they’re gonna know! And I’ve been crying! They probably heard me crying! They might have heard my spanking! I’ve been crying and getting spanked and I’m gonna waddle out there and they’re gonna know I’m wearing a diaper under these … these … They’re not even shorts! They’re practically swim bottoms! How can Mary be so evil! It’s not even ethical!

“But Mary!” Do you know how opposed I have to be to whatever Mary is making me do to actually say so after the kind of spanking she gave me? Heccin opposed!

“Daphne Ann, no.”

“Can you give it to them?”

“You know that’s not the point. Besides, this is your chance to prove you’re a big girl. Little girls don’t write checks, right?”

“Buh … Fine.”

“And when you come back inside …”

“If I don’t have a humiliation aneurism.”

“… I’ll wash your face, and then you can do whatever you want to do today, but you’re still grounded.”

I didn’t, just so my future biographers (especially the unauthorized ones) know, let out the longest, whiniest whine in the history of whining. Didn’t happen.

All that happened was I asked Mary, “Um, after you wash my face, can I come hang out in your office?”

She smiled. “You’re always my little shadow after a big spanking. You can come in, but you have to do something quiet.”

“Okay.”

“Should I buy you an activity table so you can hang out in my office and color and stuff?”

“… Yes, but not cuz I’m a little girl. It’s just cuz I like hanging out with you.”

“Even when we’re not even talking or doing the same thing?”

“Of course.” What a weird question.

“Me too.”

Sigh. She loves me. Now to work up the courage to go face those guys. Crap.