Mary and Daphne #202

Ow. Ow. Ow! This is so unnecessary. I didn’t – ow! – even do – dammit! – anything remotely worthy – OW! – of a spanking.

“Are you learning your lesson,” Mary asked me.

“Y – ow! – es! Yes!”

“Sound a little bratty to me still.” Spankspankspankspank!

“Owowow!!!”

“Tell me what you learned.”

“All spoons – ouch! – are soup spoons.”

“One more time without the dramatics.”

O. My. Gawd! Which of us was being dramatic? I’ll tell you who – Mary! “All spoons are soup spoons.” This is without doubt the dumbest argument we’ve ever had.

“And spending thirty dollars on ‘soup spoons’ is not a smart use of our funds, is it?” Mary and her stupid oral air quotes.

“N-eep! No!”

And with one final spank, she let me up. I wanted o so badly to point out to her that the wooden spoon she’d administered that spanking with was not, in fact, at all suited for soup (the eating of; the making of it does quite well), especially having been applied to my butt. But did I make my very valid point? I did not. I stood quietly rubbing my butt and giving Mary my signature I’m-grumpy-at-you look. O, the times I’ve rubbed my butt and given her my I’m-grumpy-at-you look; I could write a book; a 10- or even 12-volume series, actually. I know I shouldn’t have been making grumpy faces at Miss Mary If-The-First-Spanking-Didn’t-Work-Let’s-Try-Another but the plain truth of the matter is I wasn’t repentant at all. In fact, I’m going to make soup for dinner (after thoroughly washing the wooden spoon), and I’m going to put a regular spoon at Mary’s place setting and one of our new soup spoons at mine and we’ll just see who enjoys her soup more. Take that, Mary!

And before you even think it, that is neither feeble nor passive aggressive nor ridiculous; there, I saved you the trouble of having a specious thought. You’re welcome.

“Someone is feeling her oats today,” Mary replied to my withering dirty look that didn’t wither her at all. I’m secretly glad of that; who wants a withered Mary? Not me; that’s who doesn’t. And I didn’t even touch my oats! Really! Whatever that means …

“I didn’t deserve that spanking,” I sassed. That’s the second bravest sass a spanking bottom with a spanked bottom can sass (the first is “that didn’t even hurt,” which I’m brave enough to say but wise enough not to. Brave and wise, that’s me and I’m awesome). “It’s not like I broke the spending limit rule.” Which still hasn’t been adjusted for inflation, which was problematic even before it became a problem.

“No, you called me a name. Little girls who resort to name-calling get their little girl bottoms spanked.”

“You just called me a little girl! That’s name-calling! You just called me a name!”

“I know this is hard for little girls to understand, Daffy, but an accurate description isn’t name-calling just because you don’t like it.”

“You … You … Hmmph!” For the record, I called her a philistine for not appreciating the pleasures of soup supped from a true soup spoon at soup supping time … which are myriad and complex and that sophisticates, such as myself, have neither the time nor the obligation to explain to those not given to a preternatural understanding or the powers of logic to deduce on their own. And shut up! I do too know what they are, and I’m not a snob. I’m merely a petit scioness of the petit bourgeois getting a little bourgeoisier (?) the longer I live off the largesse of my dear darling wife.

And I’ll tell you another thing before getting back to the main story line – I have not and do not and will never make any malapropisms. Nyeh!

“I thought,” Mary said cuz she likes to say stuff to me (true story – I’m her favorite person to talk to), “a pink bottom would remind you of just what a little girl you are, but I think you need to be taken down a peg or three still.”

“I don’t need that,” I didn’t whine.

“Said the whiny little girl.”

“Marrrrryyy, I do notttttt whiiiiiiiine,” I definitely positively cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-live-long-and-prosper did not whine. Realllllllyyyyy!!!!

“Come along, little one,” she said and just took my hand without even asking and led me up our stairs.

“I’m not little; I’m just waiting for a growth spurt.”

“I was referring to your maturity rather than your size. Now,” she said as she spun us around and put both her hands on my shoulders, looking down her (cute) nose at me (cuz I’m short and she’s tall and that’s how spacial relations work); I knew what she was going to do before she even did it cuz she had her I’m-gonna-push-you-down-onto-the-bed look on display. “On the bed.” And then she pushed me down onto the bed. Saw it coming; literally.

“Yipe!” Flat on my back. She can only do that cuz I let her and because she’s bigger and stronger and my pants are so often tangled around my knees and/or ankles.

“My little girl makes little girl sounds,” she said as she disappeared into the closet to get one of her diapers. They are SO hers. Just because I wear them doesn’t change the fact that she owns them. She owns me too, which is consensual and delightful and all the stuff and things.

If, for a random instance, Mary says, “You’re wearing diapers for the rest of the day,” then I, being obedient and a good rule follower and all the stuff and things, say, “No! Mary! No! Bad, Mary!” And I pound my fists and heels into the mattress to show her that I am (1) my own person and (B) not a little girl and (blue) displeased.

“I am this close to medicating you at bedtime tonight,” she said like … Hmmph! “You tossed and turned all night, and you’re the grumpiest little girl today because of it. I’m gonna lace your nighttime baba with melatonin.”

“I don’t have a nighttime baba,” I didn’t pout.

“You do if I say you do.”

Aw. Touché.

“It’s sweet of you to cooperate,” she said as I lifted my butt to receive her diaper, “but I don’t need you to.” For the record, I was only cooperating cuz I’m a good girl. She yanked my jeans and panties off my legs in one go, magically leaving my socks in place and making me wonder if she can do that magician trick where they rip away the tablecloth without disturbing the place settings. She is a sorceress, after all.

“I,” she said as she lifted my ankles, “can diaper an uncooperative little girl just as easily as a cooperative one.”

“Wait.”

“Nope,” she said meanly like a meanie.

“I need to go to the bathroom first.”

“O,” she said with this sudden she-wolf look in her eye. Ruh-roh.“Have you had to potty for a while?”

“Y-yes?”

“It’s so cute when little girls aren’t sure if they have to potty.”

“But I am sure.”

“Then why you’d say it like a question? I guess I should count myself lucky you didn’t lose control of your little girl weewee while you were across my lap getting your bottom spanked pink. Wouldn’t that have been awful for you? All your big girl illusions taken away in one sorry episode of fraidy cat pants peeing over a widdle smacked bottom.”

“Marrryyy!”

“Are you whining cuz you’re trying so very hard to hold on to your big girl illusions or cuz you’re trying very hard to hold on to your little girl bladder? Will you piddle a little if I do this,” she said and put her hand right over my bladder and pressed.

“Eeeep!” I eeeped. Despite being a good girl, I tried to roll away, but Miss Mary I-Still-Have-You-By-The-Ankles Taylor held fast.

“Told you I can diaper uncooperative little girls just fine. Little girl ankles down; little girl knees wide; little girl diaper area covered by the little girl’s diaper, and tape and tape and tape and tape. Doesn’t my little girl look so cute in her pampers? Yes you do! A-yes you do!”

“But I hafta pee!”

“You can do it now, or you can do it while you’re asleep cuz it’s nap time.”

“I’m not a bedwetter!”

“Not yet, but who knows? Maybe you’ll grow into it. Don’t make that pouty face at me.”

“I’m not pouting … I’m sulking.”

“And I’m covering you with this blanket and rescinding your pants privileges for the day.”

“But it’s cold.”

“You can carry your blankie around. In fact, if you wanna spend thirty dollars so bad, you can pick out five potential security blankets, and I’ll pick one out for you after work. But first, nap. If I come up here and find you out of bed, your cute little pink tushy is gonna be red.”

“Hmmph.”

And get this – she kissed me! Such effrontery from a philistine peasant woman. She should be carrying sheaves of wheat on her back and gleaning the fields, not being the boss of me like I asked her to be. It’s almost like she loves me or something or like I’m the most precious thing in her world and stuff. Weird.

Anyhoo, fast forward through twenty minutes of tossing and turning …

“Daphne Ann,” she called out before she even opened the bedroom door, “what did I tell you about being out of …”

“I’m not,” I said as she opened the door to find me still in bed. Told you I’m a good girl. Nyeh!

“I heard you from downstairs.”

“I haven’t gotten out from under the blanket! Really!”

“Why is your face flushed? You must’ve been doing some …” Away she tore my blanket. Very rude. “And why is one side of your diaper untaped? You got up to use the potty, didn’t you? You are in so much trouble, young lady.”

“I didn’t!”

“Uh-huh. Up.”

“No, really! I didn’t! Look. It’s wet.”

“What is … O, it sure it. Your yellow stripe is green.”

Never have I ever wanted to wipe the look of self-satisfaction off her face so badly. Ever and never.

“Just barely,” she smugly said. “You piddle the cutest little puddles in your pampers. Are you done?”

“I resent that question so much.”

“Why is your diaper untaped?”

“I, um, was just adjusting the fit.”

“Are you saying I didn’t do a good job diapering my little girl?”

Wow; there’s no right way to answer that.

She took my hand cuz she’s a She-Sherlock who suspected something based on past experience and knowing me very well and I won’t tell you how she deduced what she deduced; I’ll just tell you the deduction. “I think,” she said cuz she’s one of the all-time greatest thinkers, “a certain little girl who says she’s not a little girl was jilling off in one of her diapers she claims to hate so much. Is that what you were doing?”

“ … I resent that question … so, so much.”

“Up.”

“But I didn’t get out of bed,” I said as I got up. “I don’t deserve a spankinggggg,” I whined (but righteously, so it’s okay and doesn’t make me a whiner).

“Over my lap,” she said as she sat down in my place.

“But I didn’t do anythinggggg,” I resoundingly resounded in a very stentorian, non-whiny way cuz my earlier righteous whine was just a transitory phase I was already so totally over even as I put myself across her knees.

“I leave you alone for twenty minutes, and you wet your diaper and start masturbating in it.” She let that hang there a moment. “Good girl.”

Huh? I mean, squeeee! My wife thinks I’m a good girl! But huh?

And then she took her hand and … she did these things. And she did them to me. With her hand. From behind and underneath. These … things.

“Was it your spanking, your diapering, your wetting, or the many reminders of what a little girl you are that had you so aroused? … Or was the whole greater than the sum of its parts, hmm? … My-my, Daffy. The back of your ears are turning such a pretty shade of red. Is it cuz you’re embarrassed or cuz you’re about to cum? Cat got your tongue?”

For the record, no, I had my own tongue, thank you very much. I was biting it to keep from making noises I’d regret.

“From now on, little girl, if you wanna tickle yourself after I put you in your huggies, then you do it through the diaper or in it, but those tapes stay on or the bath brush comes off the wall. Understand? Make a sex noise if you understand.”

“Ehemmmmm-eh.”

“Good girl.”

Heard what she called me? Cuz I certainly did. “Eh! Hhhhh!”

“Can’t control her cummies or her weewee, but that okay cuz you’re in a diaper. My good little girl.”

“Ahh! Hhhh! Eh! Mmmm!”

“That’s it; let it all out. Your diaper will get it all. Good girl.” Her hand slowed down slowly, until I was, um, spent, which was much appreciated, and then she pushed my shirt up and start rubbing and tickling the small of my back with her fingertips, which is just delightful.

“(Yawwwwwwn!)”

“Just needed to take care of that before you could sleep, is that it?”

“Mhmm.”

“I’m sorry I got cross with you. On your feet … Aww, you look a little wobbly there, Daff. Back in bed.”

“Stop (yawwwwn) drawing mis-conclusions and (yawwwwwwwwn!) go back to work.”

“Feisty to whiny to feisty. Maybe after your nap, you’ll be my sweet little girl again. Hold still … there. I better not see you’ve moved that tape again when I come back up here.”

“Or what (yawwwwwn!)? You’ll make me cum again?”

“What do we say?”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now, close those peepers and stay in bed, and I just might make you a snack when I get you up.”

Ya’ll are gonna think I’m weird for saying this, but I’m pretty sure Mary likes me.

Post script: I caught her eating ice cream with a soup spoon! I have so much work to do civilizing her.