Mary and Daphne #195

Splish-splash I was takin’ a bath cuz that’s now part of our holiday traditions. Me in the tub, bottle of sparkling wine, pink bubble bath, getting ready to roar across the house at whoever was detaining my Mary. I says to Mary, I says, “Will we have a repeat of last year when you got stuck on the phone and were twenty minutes late to our date? Cuz I’ll get on the other extension and really let ‘em have what for.”

And she says to me, she says, “It’s so cute when you talk like it’s still 2004.”

“Well, you could conference me in … or just put it on speakerphone.”

But did she? No. And was she late? Yes. And did I react in a reasonable, mature manner? Well, I’ll tell you.

First, I imagined how boring it would be to react in a reasonable, mature manner. Second, I imagined the consequences should I choose to react in a reasonable, immature manner, which seemed like fun. Thenly, I imagined the consequences of reacting in an unreasonable, immature manner. That seemed like the most fun.

Thusly, I continued imagining it. I’m a very good imaginationist (imaginationeuse?) I wrote, produced, directed, edited, and co-starred in a movie in my head, complete with sound effects and physical effects and special effects that were so real, it’s as though I felt and heard and also felt the events of the scene. And did I mention felt? So many different feels and one feel felt many times on the way to a great big feel.

‘How dare you talk to my boss like that,’ I wrote for Mary to say. ‘I promised her I would spank your bottom good and hard.’

I didn’t write any lines of my own cuz I’m a great improviser (improvisationeuse?), and I did an especially damn fine job of it.

‘You’re lucky my boss has a little girl of her own and understands what it’s like,’ Mary said as she took my pants down. ‘By the way, you have a play date with her next week, and you’d better make good choices or you’ll both get a sound spanking from the both of us. Imagine how embarrassing it will be standing there naked watching your little redhead friend get spanked knowing she’ll be watching you get it too in just a moment. I bet you’d be crying before you even went over her knee.’

And cuz I’m not just the co-star but also the screenwriter and casting director, I made a hasty edit. It turns out her boss’s little girl is my long-lost identical twin, which is a kink I didn’t know I had until just and it’s very possible – in actuality, it’s a real fact proven by science and stuff – that given two red-headed identical twins, one will be a little girl and the other will not be. Of course, I’m the one who’s not. I’m also the one who isn’t fictional, so I’m really coming out ahead of my imaginary identical twin, but I feel bad about it because we have one of those strong connections only identical twins can have. This is getting so meta …

“Daffy Dewdrop,” my smooth and shapely wife sang out from down the hallway, “guess what?”

Hmmm. I know this one! “Chicken butt?” If you know it, why did you say it like a question? … No, you shut up.

“What?”

“Chicken thigh?” That’s not how it goes … No, YOU shut up.

And there she was standing in the bathroom door, leaning against the frame, arm extended above her head looking slovenly and stuff cuz when she got out of bed that morning she said, and I quote (and you can rely upon me to be faithful and accurate about the quoting – really), ‘Screw it. I’m not getting on camera today.’ I know! Can you believe she said that?

“You weren’t doing the chicken joke,” I asked. She’s looking at you like you’re crazy … again. Her eyes darted side to side like there might be a hidden camera or audience for whose entertainment this exchange was meant.

She decided all on her lonesome to just pretend like the exchange never happened (very important skill in our dynamic, not to be used lightly but when needed, don’t hesitate to pretend happenings never happened). “Guess what?”

“Chicken butt.” There - said it with a quiet authority that time. “Heeheeheehee!” Zing!!! I zinged her good.

“It’s Christmas time!” O good; she ignored it again before it got even more awkward.

“It’s the best part of Christmas time,” I said. I’m a sucker for the very first day of Christmas vacation. “How do you feel?”

She started getting undressed, so I kinda had to scat the stripper music (it’s not in our marriage contract, but it’s just understood that I will sometimes do that when she gets undressed and she will just have to tolerate it every time). “Buhbah! Buhbah Buhbah buhbah buhbah BUHBAH! Chicka-chi-bow-wow!” Alas, I don’t know how to spell the other sounds. “Come get in the tub already.”

“Hold your seahorses. You want me to get my panties all wet?”

“You like it when it’s me so much, maybe I’d like it to.”

“I frown on little girls wetting their panties, Daff. That’s what your diapers are for. But if you want to try me peeing on you …”

“I’m good … And they’re your diapers.”

And then – get this! – she was naked. Like, totally. Right in front of me and everything. The wedding industry should really talk up seeing your spouse naked in their sales materials. It’s like, look at her! She’s pretty and all mine and stuff. Y’all can share if you want to, but I’m jealously bogarting mine (not that I ever get jealous).

And she slipped right into the water like a sexy sea otter. Ha! Rhyming … Anyhoo …

“Ooo, that feels so good,” she sighed. “Do you think Santa will bring the extra big tub we asked for last year?”

“I don’t know. Depends on what Santa’s bonus was this year.” Since becoming boss two years ago, Santa’s annual bonus is now bigger than my salary was before I quit working; granted, that’s not saying much but also, yeah it is. I should’ve gone into the elf industry like Mary.

“Well,” she started to say, “let’s just … How much champagne did you drink?”

“Like, ever? Hard to know exactly. See, memory is a …”

“No wonder you’re being so silly,” she said as she lifted the bottle to see how much I had. “Two whole glasses? Daphne Ann! Tut tut tut.”

“A glass and a half … I’m not a lightweight. I just happen to be small and light of weight and unaccustomed to sparkling wine.”

“Silly goose.” She poured herself a flute. We should all drink out of things called flutes more often; makes it sound like we’re perpetually feasting in a magical kingdom ruled by a stern yet benevolent brunette goddess-queen who doesn’t get on camera for last-workday-of-the-year zoom calls. “My … You’ve been masturbating! Daffy! What an afternoon you’re having all on your own in here.” And she chuckled at my expense.

“W-was … Nuh-huh!”

“I can see your spot.”

“No you can’t!” And I threw bubbles at her. Goddess-queen pretending she can see through bubbles …

“On your collarbone, doofus.”

“O … That one.” For as long as ever, when I’ve been feeling certain feelings, I get this little red spot on my collarbone. Mary thinks it’s the ultimate arbiter of truth, whereas I think it’s a tattletale snitch that tattles my tales and doesn’t know the difference between a truth and a lie. It’s always libeling me with its mistaken ideas about what I do and don’t like. But just this once, it told the truth. “Well, you were running late. And I prefer to call it ‘jilling off.’ You’re so crass.”

“Crass by using the actual words for things?”

“Yeah.”

“Vulva.”

“Marrry! I have …”

“Delicate little ears, I know.” Benevolent eye-rolling goddess-queen who looks so friggin hot sipping champagne naked in the bathtub… Sometimes I think I must’ve won her in a contest.

“Are you playing footsie with me,” I asked all coquettishly and stuff when her toes started poking me and things. I’m a Christmas coquette. I may even buy red stockings just to give Mary an eyeful as I slowly roll them up my thighs with care (it’s a coquette thing; you wouldn’t understand).

“Just making room for myself,” she said like she’s any good at playing hard-to-get except sometimes she kinda is cuz she likes to watch me get all hot and bothered and thirsty and pleading. Mary and her orgasm denial kink … But I can honestly say I’ve always won that game, mostly cuz she eventually lets me win, but sometimes I take the bull by the horns and just run full steam for the goal posts dragging poor Mary behind me as she clings to my ankle. True story.

“What are you smiling about,” she asked me.

“How we have almost three full weeks to do stuff together.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“I thought first I’d be super clingy and not give you a moment’s peace. Basically be so close to you at all the times so that we don’t even make separate shadows anymore.”

Mary’s making her squiggly I-love-Daffy-so-much face. Heehee!

“My dog growing up used to do that. He’d put his face right on my hip and follow me all day almost never not in physical contact. Maybe I should get you a collar and leash after all.”

“But I’m so super obedient I don’t even need a leash. I’m an off-leash puppy … Also, I’m not a puppy.”

“So you’re not a puppy.”

“Nope.”

“And you’re not a little girl.”

“Nope.”

“So what are you?”

“I dunno.” There I go being a coy coquette again. Who’s playing footsie now? Me. That’s who.

“Let’s see,” Mary said, putting her finger on her chin as if she had to think hard about it. She tries to play coy, but I don’t think that’s a thing dommes can do. “You’re clingy.”

“Mhmm, but in a good way.” Not everyone can pull that off. True story.

“And you’re obedient.”

“I do my best.” I always obey (when I want to, which totally counts. Really).

“And you’re a girl.”

“Woman, but go on.”

“And if one were to describe your behavior …”

“And general demeanor and personality and stuff.”

“How might one describe it?”

She wasn’t fooling me. She wasn’t talking about ‘one.’ She was talking about herself, about Mary, about my Mary. But I humored her. “‘One’ might call me good.”

“A good Daphne?”

“Yeah …” And I waited. I knew what she was leading up to. And I waited.

And I waited while she took a sip of her champagne. And I waited while she suppressed a smile … And waited.

“Say it,” I may have demanded.

“Say what?”

“You know what.”

“You’re a good Daphne.”

“Marrry – say it!”

“I just did.” Rumormongers may claim I splashed her, but I didn’t. Really. “Daphne Ann, what have I told you about splashing in the tub?”

“Not to do it.”

“Do I need to spank your bottom to remind you?”

“That’s what you did last time, and I guess it didn’t work. Think you need a new strategy.”

“That is not the kind of thing a good Daphne says.”

“I’ll stop being a brat when you say it. I know you wanna say it; I can see it in your eyes.” Omuhgawd, Mary’s eyes. Speaking of beautiful deep pools I could submerge in forever … Not that anyone was speaking of those until just now.

“Promise,” she asked me like I’ve ever in my life not kept a promise to behave forever and always.

“Cross my heart.

“You’re not only a good Daphne; you’re a good girl.”

Squeeeeee! She said it she said it she said it cuz she thinks it! Not to brag or nothin’, but my wife thinks I’m a good girl, and she’s in charge so it’s official. Validation! Certification! Credentialed and bona fide and stuff and all the things! Eeeeee!

“I said no splashing!”

“Sorry! Sorry. Excited splashing. Lost myself in the moment.” Splash-splash-splash!

“Daphne!”

“Sorry!”

“What was that one for?”

“Just struck me again that it’s Christmas time and I get to spend it with you.”

Squeeeeee! My feet just wanted to dance I was so excited. Splashing was unintentional and involuntary and doesn’t count against any recent promises cuz reasons. Mhmm – science and reasons.

“You’re lucky you’re such a good girl, or I’d yank you out of this tub, turn you over my knee, and spank your little wet bottom red.”

“My biggest objection to that is I’d be cold.”

“Someone just bought themselves a bedtime spanking.”

“Questions: is it a good girl spanking, and can I use my two-for-one coupon?”

“You’ll just have to wait and find out.”

“That means yes and yes. I broke your code a long time ago.”

She sighed and started playing footsie with me again. Is it still footsie if her foot is snaking its way up and down my thigh under the bubbles? Whatever that game is, she sighed and started playing it again. I swear on all my Christmas presents that she likes me to the moon and back. I’m not exaggerating; I never exaggerate; not once, not ever. Really.

“A long time ago,” she said all wistful and stuff. “How long have we been together?” She knows the answer; she just wanted to reminisce together. Sigh …

“Physically? Eight years.”

“Is there some way other than physically?”

“We’ve been together our whole lives. We just didn’t know each other yet. I’ve had a Mary-shaped place right in my heart just waiting for you.”

Mary made her I’m-not-gonna-cry face and swallowed hard. She got all misty-eyed. “I’ve just decided we’re redoing this bathroom.”

“Um, okay … semi-random response.” Like, hey, I’m pouring my heart out here.

“Because the tub is too small for me to be on the same side so I can hold you so close right now.”

O; I get it now. I gotta say, this whole being together with your soulmate thing is one of the few things in life that lives up to the hype.

“Awww. You love me so much you’ll hire plumbers. Is it okay if I search for a really butch lesbian plumber?”

“Whatever makes you happy.”

Comfortable silences with your soulmate are just so … perfect. But they must come to an end some time, so I asked, “What would you think if I grew my hair out again?”

“To impress the butch plumber? I’d be very upset.”

“And she calls me a silly goose,” I muttered.

“You know I love it when you grow your hair out. Remember last time?”

During the pandemic when I couldn’t get a haircut, my hair went past my shoulders. Mary really likes my hair that way, I think mostly because she love-love-loves sitting me down between her legs and combing my hair every night before bed. And braiding my hair; holy heccin Christmas fudge does she love braiding my hair. She’s so good at it too; I don’t understand how, but I take her at her word that the secret to braiding my hair so well is pausing every so often to nibble my earlobes and make soft little kisses on my neck and breathe in my scent. I’m sure she’s right; she’s Mary, and Mary knows so many things. As for me, I don’t like having to take care of my hair when it’s long, but I’m happy to pass the job off to Mary. Ear nibbles never get old; that’s just a fact of science and stuff (while the act of ear nibbling more art than science, and Mary is a master).

“This is gonna be such a good Christmas … Ya wanna get outta the tub?”

“I just barely got in.”

“Yeah, but the tub isn’t big enough, and I wanna start the clinging thing right now. We’ll put on our pajamas, order food, and writhe around in each other’s arms like two kittens.”

“Says she isn’t into kitten play,” Mary muttered.

“I’m into Mary and Daphne play.”

“Awww. Am I your fetish?”

“She says like she didn’t already know that,” I muttered.

“She muttered like I wouldn’t understand what she said,” Mary muttered.

“I said it the way I did specifically cuz I knew she’d hear what I said just fine,” I muttered. … “It’s so cool we can still be silly after all these years.”

“I picked you cuz you’re the silliest goosiest.”

“You picked me cuz lots of reasons. All the reasons, in fact. I was there; I remember.”

“Because you’re such a good girl.”

She said it twice during the same bath! Squeeee! “This is gonna be the best Christmas!”

“No splashing!”

“I can’t help it! Squeeeeeeee!”

“Did you actually just say ‘squee’?’

“I can’t help that either. All the feelings at once. I know it’s silly cuz we’re together all the time, but it’s two-and-a half weeks that I don’t hafta share you with work; it’s like I missed you or something, and now you’re home.”

Ooo; Mary’s making her I-will-do-anything-for-Daphne-up-to-and-including-all-the-crimes face. “We should get out of the tub before we both start splashing and crying.”

“I’m not crying.”

“I’m a gonna squeeze you so tight,” she said with a sniffle, “you’re gonna make that squeaky sound you sometimes make.”

Oooo. I love being her squeak toy at all the times and in all the ways. Gonna be such an awesome Christmas! Squeeeeeee!