Mary and Daphne #200

Heaven forfend someone complains or something that a cute redhead can’t just watch her show without some big, tall bully walking into the room like she owns the place even though both their names are on the deed and just order me to stand up. And gawd forbid anyone point out the cute redhead put the big bully in charge and likes it that way. And from no lips let the secret pass that I’m that redhead (but I am).

Ooo, I thought, she looks determined, with her long strides and solid grip on the hairbrush. I bet this leads to great sex. Or something.

Why? Why would I believe this? Because I didn’t do anything to deserve a spanking. Of this I was certain … mostly certain. Not that I keep a list of my misbehaviors (mostly cuz it could be used as evidence against me – if you’re gonna do crime, don’t keep records) but I have a steel trap (sieve) for a memory bank (piggy bank). And not that I always know if something I’ve done or am doing or am about to do is going to qualify in a certain someone’s eyes as a “poor choice” deserving “a consequence,” but I do know that we don’t have a rule against watching crummy dance competitions on TV, so I thought my butt was safe. Not safe-from-a-spanking but safe-from-a-real-spanking safe.

She’s building anticipation, I thought when she yanked my yoga pants down like they were on fire. She’s setting the mood, I assumed when she wordlessly pulled me over her lap.

She’s not giving me a warmup, I realized when she went straight to the brush and proceeded to paddle the stuffing out of me!

“Mary ow Mary oof Mary! Ow ow ow ow o ow ow ow OW HEY WHAT THE YIPE AIEEEEE EEEEEEEEEE! What’s (sound bats use to communicate with each other) and (panicked chipmunks) and (mournful mooses)! (Sad wookie noises). (Steel rending). I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry ow ow ow ow ouch!”

My working theory as to why I was being spanked like I stole a Michelangelo DaVinci commemorative plate is my friend Ralph dropped an F bomb and told Mary he heard it from me. “Maryyyyyyyy! What I do?”

Mary replied as only Mary can: “(SPANK SMACK SWAT SPANK SPANK!)”

And I replied as only I can: “Waaaaaaahhhhhhh!” You think it’s just tears, but it snot too.

“Are you going to bring them back,” Mary asked.

“What are you talking eeeeeeeeee waaahhhhhhhhh!”

“Are you going to bring them back?”

Well, I heccin knew the correct answer to that question. “Yes!”

“Are you going to take them ever again?”

“No!”

“Up you get.” And she manhandled me right to my feet. She had me by my elbow, and I was hobbled by my yoga pants (good old yoga pants; sweatpants woulda been hanging from the ceiling fan). “Show me where you hid them.”

“But I (sob) don’t (choke) know (snurfle) what you’re talking about-ou-out.”

And through my tear-blurred eyes I saw Mary do not quite a double take of recognition as if to say, O, she really didn’t do it. “… You … haven’t been hiding my panties?”

“(Sad head shake).”

And I’ll tell you this for free: seeing Mary embarrassed for once did NOT make up for how much my butt hurt. Not even close; that was a ninety-second ass burning. Butts aren’t like kidneys and lungs. You only get one! And mine was out of commission for at least half a week!

But I handled it well. All grace and poise, that’s me: “My butt hur-ur-ur-ur-urts (snort snurfle sob snort)!”

“O, Daffy,” she said like she loves me or something (she does, which is all the kinds of great), “I’m so sorry. I thought you’ve been hiding my underwear.”

Now, recall that this woman – She-Tyrant! – has been hiding my underwear faster than I can replace them for, like, three years. All I have left as of this writing is five pairs from the Junior Miss department that I would’ve thought were too cutesy and embarrassing twenty years ago. And you might be thinking, huh, that ironic. But it’s not. It’s what we in the business call BULLSHIT.

I did what submissives do when then they’ve been wronged: clung to the dominant who wronged me and demanded, in my regal, weepy-mouse-with-hurt-feelings voice, “Make it better.”

Making it all better is quite the production. It begins with all the kisses. Forehead; hair; cheeks; neck: temple. Then there’s the forehead-to-forehead apology, a ritual movement in which the big mean bully lady leans forward so that her forehead touches that of Her Most Gracious and Forgiving Highness (who is me), and says, “I’m so sorry, Daffy.”

The proper response, and I am nothing if not a proper lady – manners, decorum and that all crap even with my pants still around my ankles and my princess bits just hanging out there – is, “I’m VERY mad at you (sniff).”

But rituals are more than words, of course (of course said the horse said the horse), so I followed the protocol of time immemorial and hugged her tighter. It is in this way, new generation of followers, that Mary was made to understand that (1) I wasn’t very mad at her, (B) but I was displeased, and (Purple) she owed me presents and comforts.

“Let’s go wash your face.”

“Take ‘em off first,” I commanded in a very commanding, not at all self-pitying tone. I mean, she pulled my pants down; the least she could do was take them the rest of the way off and not make me shuffle to the bathroom or, ya know, do it myself.

Getting my face washed involved, for me, nothing more than being told, “Look up. Lemme see those rosy cheeks … There’s my pretty girl.”

“Even with puffy, red eyes?”

“Especially with puffy red eyes.” And I knew she wasn’t just saying that. “Can I get you anything,” she asked when I was freshly scrubbed.

“Ice cream.”

“Why don’t you go back to your show, and I’ll bring it to you? We have two kinds; which would you like?”

“Neither. We need to order it … And cookies.”

“You’re gonna make me spend $60 on DoorDash, aren’t you,” she said knowingly.

“You bruised me,” is all I said in response to her back talk. I won’t stand for back talk. That’s when she just handed me her phone and gave me a pat on the head. I mean, a bruised butt is virtually body art for me, but if I’m not going shopping for it, I at least like to deserve it.

“I’ll meet you downstairs,” she said, so downstairs I went. Did you know a sound spanking can make walking hurt? Cuz I’ve known for a very long time.

It’s a fact of commerce that the value of ice cream and cookies delivered to one’s house is pegged to the price of gold. It’s also known that it’s much more delicious than whatever you have in the fridge even if sometimes it’s literally the exact same ice cream. I’m not that profligate, however. I at least ordered something we didn’t have at home, and though I was feeling very righteous and knew this was probably the only time doing so wouldn’t earn me a spanking, I fought off the temptation to order a whole cake.

“Mary,” I called upstairs, “it hurts to sit on the couch and it’s your fault.” Just wanted to remind her. I was only just beginning to milk her guilt, which yes, ran a risk of overdoing it and getting spanked again, but I was still a good ways from crossing that line.

“You don’t seem very sorry,” I said when she came downstairs. Big honkin’ step toward the line.

“Do I ever make you say sorry twice,” she asked me and gave me The Look.

“No, but my butt does a lot of the apologizing for me,” I sassed. Yep, straight up sassed. I’m very brave, I know; go forth and spread the word of my bravery and courageous deeds.

And I wasn’t at all afraid when Mary’s eyes and lips narrowed like a gunwoman in the big shootout scene in of those horse-and-dust movies, not when she strode right past me and got …

“Mary, no, please?”

… a diaper from the basket under the side table.

“I’m sorry,” she said again, “but not very, very sorry. Wanna guess why?”

“Cuz I probably did something to earn that spanking but got away with it?”

“Yep, and because I know even though your butt hurts, you’re getting more turned on by the moment.”

“ … You … shouldn’t talk about other people’s bodies. It’s very rude.” Very true, in this instance, but very … forgivably rude.

She unfolded the diaper. “You’re thinking about how silly you looked turned over my knee getting your bare bottom paddled. And about how submissive you are, the way you didn’t even ask why you were about to get spanked. You just let me pull you across my lap because you’re the subby little sub and I’m the big, cool domme, and you didn’t even try to stop me from taking your pants down like a naughty little girl who needed a long, hard, bare bottom spanking.”

“I’m not a little girl.”

“Until you cried. Until your cried like a well-spanked little girl getting all her guilt out through those tears to make room for the lesson she was being taught. How embarrassing to cry like that, too. Carrying on like a girl a third of your age.”

She sat down next to me and spread the diaper, business side up, down the length of her thigh. She has … nice thighs. Surprisingly sturdy for such slender thighs; it’s, ya know, one of those pleasant surprises. “If sitting on the couch hurts, why don’t you hop up on my knee,” she said all casual like. “You can face whichever way you want.”

She’s good. I will give her credit for that. I mean, you try saying that line all casual like. You can try, but you won’t succeed. I tried and started giggling a quarter of the way through. True story.

“Hmmph,” I hmmphed as I climbed aboard.

“Want help?”

“I can do it myself … the first time.”

“Such a quote unquote big girl grinding her sore bot-bot against my knee on her diapie.”

“I’ll quote unquote you.”

“You want me to feed you your ice cream while you ride my knee?”

“… Yes.”

“And when you’re all wore out, we’ll just tape that cummy diaper on you for bedtime. Just a well-spanked little girl in her cummy diaper. How … embarrassing.”

“Marrrrrry!”

Mary’s a goooooood helper. Later, when I was satisfied that I’d taught her thigh a lesson about stuff and things, I asked her, “What is it with you and panties?”

“You mean why did I take it so seriously when I thought you were stealing my underwear? Because submissives should never do something like that, for starters, which is a conversation we’ve had before when you’ve appointed yourself Household Underpants Gnome. And because in this house, only dominants get to wear panties. Do you get to wear panties?”

“Most of the time.”

“Daffy, those aren’t panties. Remember what we call them?”

“I don’t wanna say. I hate that word.”

“I don’t know why my little girl hates using little girl words …”

“Cuz I’m not a little girl.”

“… but I think you should say it unless you want to lose them for a couple days. What do you get to wear when you’re not in your pull-ups and diapers?”

“… Undies.”

“That’s right! Cute undies with seahorses and unicorns and hearts and things on them.”

“Hmmph.”

“Open for more ice cream.” I only did because I like Mary, she told me to, and I like ice cream, in that order.

“Suzie’s been taking your underwear,” I told her.

“How do you know that?”

“Well, Mary, see, underpants gnomes don’t really exist, and she’s the only other sentient creature in the house … Also, cuz she hides them under her bed.”

“Daphne Ann!”

“I’m not in trouble; you already spanked me,” I replied and parted my lips for more ice cream. Definitely not toeing the line across which resides a second spanking. Really.