Mary and Daphne #192

Know how you’re visiting a relative or friend with little kids and the kids wanna show you their rooms, and you go look because you can’t say no but you also really couldn’t give a heccin hoot? Yeah, that.

Despite the ageplay turn our domestic discipline lifestyle took circa a while back, Mary and I actually don’t have many ageplayer friends. We haven’t played with many. There’s Tommy, the otherwise pleasant gentleman who turns into the most annoying pre-teen when he slips into his middle headspace, which he does in my presence and refuses to get it through his thick head that I’m not a little.

And there’s Jane, my bestie who identifies as a little and lives the lifestyle with her wife and mommy, Lisa. I’ve been around Jane a lot when she’s been little, but her play age ranges a lot. She doesn’t really commit to it the way Ann seems to; like she doesn’t dress like a little very often, her house doesn’t look like a kid lives there, she flips in and out of the mindset with ease (so much so I don’t think it’s a mindset all the time, more a behavioral choice), and it’s easy to see where her real personality stops and starts. Maybe that’s because I’ve known her for a long time, but I don’t think it’s just that.

I’d known Ann for an hour, sixty-five whole minutes if you count the five (actually less) during the play event we met at. She wasn’t dressed as a little there. I wouldn’t have ever known she was a little. They cleaned up their living room for our visit, I realize now, or I’m sure we would’ve seen her toys spread on the floor. Turn on the TV, and I’m betting it would be tuned to cartoons. Because if her room was any indication … I say ‘room,’ but Jo wasn’t overselling it when she said ‘nursery.’ And I’ve been saying ‘little,’ which Ann is, but ‘adult baby’ would be fittingly more descriptive.

Mary, among whose cognomens is The One Who Started It, is more familiar with adult baby stuff than I am. I don’t think she looks at ABDL porn … I don’t think. But I know she looks at ABDL stores because she buy things for me to (grudgingly) wear from them. I have steadfastly refused to look at those stores (steadfastness being one of my most stellarest qualities) because I have not wanted to give any hint that I’m supportive of the diaper wearing or the accessories that go with it. All to say that I didn’t know the stuff in Ann’s nursery existed.

“Do you like it,” Ann asked me.

Holy. Heccin. Muffin tops. This is … Really?

First off, a crib. An actual crib. The woman has a crib. Like, with a mobile clipped to the side and what I think is a video baby monitor. It’s on the opposite wall from a changing table. The table had a rainbow-colored padded top, and it ended in two padded legs (I guess is the best way to describe it?) which I quickly deduced made it easier for whoever was changing her to get closer to her, um, diaper area (kinda like the stirrups at the lady-doctor office). Diaper Genie. Toy chest. Bookshelves full of board books. Toys spread everywhere across a padded play mat. An activity table with … Gasp! Legos!

“Uh, yeah, I like it.” What was I gonna say? ‘No, it freaks me out a little?’ of course not; I’m ever so polite. True story.

“Jealous?” Ann, as far as I knew at that point, doesn’t talk in affected little voice.

Did she want me to be jealous? Would it be polite to say yes? Was I supposed to be humoring her like when a little kid shows you their room?

“It’s a very pretty room,” was my response of choice.

She sat, more like flopped, down on the floor and started playing with her stuffies. I did what I do best, stood there awkwardly and wished Mary would appear at my side. She’s good at relating to little kids and littles. Good thing watching her interact with little girls has never made me jealous or caused any feelings of resentment or envy. I mean, it’s not like Mary’s attention and affection are finite resources or anything … except that they are in the moment. And btw, I married her; I own her affection and attention. Legally binding vows we exchanged: love, honor, and protect (Mary’s) and love, honor, and obey (mine). But I’ve been generous with letting her share her attention with others … Except when she actually does it. Nope, changed my mind. Mary could stay downstairs.

“You don’t like stuffies,” Ann asked. She stood back up. “You wanna color instead?”

Not really. I’m good at drawing and have done my share of adult coloring books, but I didn’t want to color with her.

“C’mon,” she said to my uncertain silence. “It’s fun.” She took my wrist and tugged me to the corner of the room between the changing table and wall. Had it not been for the giant crib, giant changing table, smell of diapers, and stuff all over the floor, I would’ve probably already noticed that the corner – i.e., the wall – was covered in art. I’m guessing Ann’s art, drawn the way a little would (drawn, scribbled, same thing).

“Are we allowed to do this,” I asked. I remember well the spanking I got for coloring on the wall. Easy to remember cuz it was only two years ago (she was right and I did know better, but I was trying to make lockdown more fun for Mary and I succeeded).

“Yeah. When it gets full, Mommy paints it again.”

“Don’t they make paint you can draw on and wash off?”

“I dunno. I’m only thwee.” I can’t even with adults baby talking. Wanna raise the pitch of your voice? Fine. Wanna talk nonsense? Who doesn’t? But baby talk, ugh.

Not that I said anything. I wasn’t paying much attention. I was instead looking at her activity table with its selection of legos. I like legos. I used to play with my brother’s cuz he had all the cool legos. I had the pastel legos, the little ten-dollar box to build a lego kitchen. I wanted to build castles and ships and planes and things, and Mom, wise as she is, simply declared all legos in the household community property. My brother wasn’t happy about it, but my lego army defeated his lego army in The Battle of The Plastic Soldiers That Don’t Move. My soldiers just stared his down … That’s when Dad started making us play with other children more.

“You’re not drawing,” Ann said impatiently.

“Is this to get me in trouble?”

“Is what?”

“Drawing on the wall. You convince me it’s okay, then we get in trouble and you said it was my idea, and I take all the blame?”

“But there was stuff on the wall already when you got here.”

Fair point. “Aren’t you thwee right now? Don’t be so logical.”

“I wouldn’t get you in trouble on purpose.”

“Other littles do.” Tommy, wherever you are, you suck. And Jane, it’s … complicated.

“I would get us in trouble on purpose, but never just you. But I’ll tattle. I’m a tattle tale.”

“Do you wanna be a narc when you grow up? … I’m a smartass, by the way … And sometimes it’s not easy to tell when I’m being a smartass and when I’m just being awkward. But I’m never mean on purpose. I tried once, but I chickened out and just cried,” I told her.

Hey, Daphne, don’t tell her so much. You just met her.

Well she just met me, and she flooded her diaper on the floor.

Fair point.

“You keep looking at my legos. You wanna help me build?”

“Sure,” I said like a person pretending she wasn’t excited to play with legos cuz I hadn’t done it in many, many years. I resolved there and then to text my mom and ask her to send me my old legos, but then I remembered I’m a grownup and can buy legos myself … so long as they’re under $100. But also if they’re over, if I have Mary’s permission. Which is a very grownup thing to need. As are legos.

“What are we building?”

“A … house.”

Great thing about legos? They’re perfect for making new friends, by which I mean you can build together without talking, perfect for awkward people who don’t know what to say. The only downside is awkward people are often anxious people who sit quietly, looking outwardly calm, all the while wondering if they’re in a comfortable silence or if the other person is wondering what’s wrong with them and why don’t they say anything and if Miss Awkward is judging them and being rude, which Miss Awkward does not want them to think but also maybe they’re not thinking anything but how is Miss Awkward supposed to know the person’s signs and shouldn’t Miss Awkward say something cuz what if the other person is uncomfortable and it’s Miss Awkward’s responsibility to make people feel comfortable cuz she has this lifelong desire to please others that borders on pathological?

“I’m not judging you,” I said to break the silence. And just to clarify, I’m not Miss Awkward. My last name is Taylor. Mrs. Mary Taylor. That’s how I’m addressed in fancy mail. Do you think Mary told the post office to use her first name, or do junk mailers just sense she’s in charge?

“Um, okay. I didn’t think that.”

“Good. Cuz I don’t.”

“That’s a weird thing to just blurt out.”

“Not if you listen to the words I don’t say. Then it makes perfect sense.”

“Heehee. That’s weird too. I’m thwee so I get to be very direct and it’s cute.”

“Same, but cuz I’m delightfully offbeat.” That’s how Mary explains me to people sometimes, and she doesn’t know that I know that she does.

“Can I ask you something,” Ann asked me.

“Sure.”

“Are you a little or not?”

I wish I had something to drink so I could do a spit take and we could focus on that instead.

“Um,” I said because I’m clever and wasn’t at all embarrassed or uncertain what to say. “I’m … Why?”

“Mommy said you’re a little. And I saw you get a spanking, and you had diapers in your bag.”

“You wear diapers too.” I said not at all defensively.

“Yeah, cuz I’m a little.” She smiled like she was o so proud of that.

“Well, no. I’m not a little. I’m Mary’s little girl,” which I only agree with cuz Mary says so all the time and she’s in charge of me, “but I’m not a little.”

“So you’re a middle with potty problems?”

“No! I do not have potty problems. Not even for role play.”

“It’s okay to have potty problems. Mommy says so. She keeps trying to potty train me, but I don’t wanna, but don’t tell her or I’ll get in trouble.”

“Well, potty training is tough.”

“I have a training potty if you wanna see. Mommy put it in the closet cuz she said it was maybe too much for you guys.”

But a diaper isn’t? I’m so confused!

“But it was Mommy who decided I have to wear pull-ups all the time.”

“All the time? Even to work?” I assumed she had a job.

“You mean school? We don’t call it work. Everyday Mommy makes me lunch or gives me lunch money and sends me off to school with extra pull-ups. The worst is she makes me bring them all home so she can see if I had an accident.”

“What do you … What kind of school do you go to?”

“Human Resources school.”

“You don’t attend virtually?” See? See how good I am at picking up on these games?

“Some days, but I like school. I like helping other people get into my school. Do you go to school?”

“No. I used to, but I know everything there is to know.”

“You’re silly.”

“No you.” Ha! Got her.

“So I wanted to wear my big girl underpants to school, but Mommy says I’m not allowed anymore after this one time on the way home. But I don’t mind so much. No one knows at school, and I have a classroom to myself. At home I get to wear them unless I have an accident; then I hafta wear diapers, but I like my diapers. Sometimes I even ask, but most of the time I just potty in my pull-ups and wait for Mommy to find out.”

“Uh-huh.”

“How come you wear diapers?”

“Okay, so first, I don’t. Second, it started as a punishment. Now Mary just likes me in them.”

“You call your mommy by her name? Isn’t that naughty?”

“She’s not my mommy … It’s not weird to call your wife ‘Mommy?’”

“Why would it be weird?”

“I dunno. Just … feels like it should?”

“Mommy says I hafta call her Miss Mary until we get to know you better. She says I can call you Daphne. Heehee.”

Little smartass. “You don’t get embarrassed sometimes? Like in the living room? Not that I minded.”

“People in diapers wet their diapers. What’s to get embarrassed about? Why? Do you?”

“Yeah.”

“But you like being embarrassed.”

“Maybe sometimes.”

“No, you like it. I saw you get your bottom spanked. You like being embarrassed.”

“It’s complicated.”

“I get spanked sometimes too. We have a room for it.”

“Every room in our house is a room for it.”

“Are you talking about little girls getting their bumbums spanked,” Jo asked as she appeared over my shoulder.

“Yeah,” Ann replied. “Look at my house.”

“It’s a very nice house,” Mary said. “Is Daphne being a good helper?”

Is … is Mary baby talking to Ann? Is that … HMMPH!

“Uh-huh. She didn’t wanna play stuffies or color, but she really wanted to play legos. She was too shy to ask, but she did ask lotsa questions about my pull-ups and diapers and being little.”

O yeah – she did say she’s a tattle tale.

“Did she,” Mary asked with a twinkle in her eye.

“Uh-huh, and she says you make her wear diapers for punishment and just cuz and that she gets embarrassed by it. I don’t get embarrassed by it cuz I’m baby, but she does, but ya know what? Ya know what? I think she likes to be embarrassed.”

Hard to get mad at her for spilling the beans when she told Mary literally nothing she didn’t know already.

“You two can keep playing,” Jo announced like she’s the boss of me. Mary is the boss of me. And no, I wasn’t just getting grumpy with everyone. I wasn’t grumpy at all. I was … poised for grumpiness if the situation called for it. “What do you think,” Jo asked Mary.

“It’s an incredible nursery. You’ve got one lucky adult baby. I love the changing table.”

“It’s a life saver. My poor back.”

“I can’t even imagine. My back gets sore, and she’s not even diapered full-time. It’d also be nice to have the diapers right there. Hers are in the closet. Actually, I used to put some in her undie drawer.”

Quite a few pairs of my panties are missing and presumed hidden somewhere in the house. Mary steals. She’s an underpants gnome.

“And I love the crib,” Mary said.

Shut up your face!

“I can give you the name of the person who made it.”

Shut up your face too!

“O, thank you but no. Daffy and I are committed to co-sleeping.”

“Damn right we are,” I muttered. “We fuck a lot too.”

“Daphne Ann!”

Aw shit. I need to practice my muttering. Shit shit shit. Six eyeballs looking right at me. Dammit … and stuff.

“Um, doesn’t count cuz none of you were supposed to hear that.”

“I’m so sorry,” Mary apologized on my behalf. “She uses vulgar language as cover when she’s feeling vulnerable. We’re working on it.”

“It’s okay.”

“You’re getting a pass on that, missy, but don’t think I won’t paddle your butt in front of our new friends.”

“Speaking of, I promised to show you the punishment room,” Jo said. Ann’s eyes widening caught my eyes, the brow of which arched in curiosity. Ann even blushed. I don’t think I’d seen her blush yet.

Jo opened the walk-in closet. Of course I wanted to go in, and no amount of blushing little would stop me. It only made me more curious. Know what was in that closet? Well, I shall tell you what was in the closet.

Little girl clothes, bags of diapers and diapering supplies, and a door.

Narnia. Her punishment room is Narnia, I guessed. Not that I’ve read the book or seen the movie. Do they go through a door to get there? Is that even how the story goes? Never mind cuz Jo produced from her pocket a key.

Into the room I followed, and like Howard Carver almost exactly 100 years ago, I saw wonderful things. There’s more to this little than meets the eye.

“We wanted the room to be especially private, so we took out the hallway door and put one in the closet,” Jo explained. Personally, I think they got it backwards. Surely a veritable sex dungeon would spark fewer questions should a guest stumble upon it than an adult baby nursery, but I guess they had their reasons.

Just like they had their reasons for the many treasures in the sanctum sanctorum: furniture treasures; treasures that hang from ceilings; treasures that run on direct current; treasures that make pain happen and treasures that make pain go away. Treasures that would hurt me and not in a good way. I mean, Ann isn’t so much bigger than me, so how she could fit all … I mean, even if I could without doing myself a terrible mischief, I just don’t think getting punched in the lung from the inside would feel … anyhoo.

But that aside, “We should all misbehave so badly,” I said unbidden even by me.

“See something you like,” Mary asked me with her eyes a-sparkle with a thousand possibilities, all the hopes and dreams of generation upon generation of sexually frustrated, kinky lesbians flashing before her like the light emitted by the maternal smile of our almighty and benevolent god … and stuff.

“Um … Yes. Yes, I do.” I glanced back at our hosts, Jo watching us with her arm around Ann, who looked mortified. So if you’re looking for the difference between us, there’s one: I don’t mind talking sex stuff in front of other people, but I do mind wetting myself in front of other people. The opposite for Ann. I felt kinda bad for her. But it’s really important that Mary knows what I want for Christmas.

“This is, uh,” I said not bashfully but more in a made-wordless-by-a-religious-ecstasy kind of way and stuff, “we should consider.”

“We do have a spare room,” Mary said while touching this thing my eyes were fixated on. “I can just picture you now, lying on your changing table with your legs up, diaper under you to catch anything that might be leaking out of you, strapped down helpless while I’m downstairs turning the power on it up and down … and up.”

“I’ll be ever so good … or ever so bad, whichever makes that happen.” I’m flexible like that.

“Quite the set up you got here,” Mary said because one of us needed to before we forgot where we were and with whom and whose toys belong to which lesbian.

“Thought you’d like it.”

“I think we should go before we wear out our welcome,” Mary suggested.

“And it’s time for this one to go down for a nap,” Jo said, kissing Ann on the temple and making her blush again, but with a sort of starry-eyed look like she was very happy to have Jo for a mommy, and very happy for us to leave the punishment room, which isn’t entirely an accurate name for it.

As we were about to go back downstairs, Ann whispered something to Jo. Jo replied, “Do you want the big potty or little potty?”

Ann, not blushing anymore, only shook her head.

“Do you wanna get changed before or after nap time?”

“Before.”

I chose and continue to choose to not know what any of that meant. I guess Mom was right and some things are better repressed from our minds.

We said goodbye to Ann in her nursery, hugs all around (and don’t think I didn’t see Mary pat her diapered butt – HMMPH!!!), yet it was a brief goodbye because Ann seemed like she was trying to be very polite and couldn’t remain so genteel much longer. Personally, I chose and continue to choose to not know what I mean by that.

Downstairs, Jo showed us out. “Thank you for coming.”

“It was our pleasure. What do say, Daffy?”

“Thank you. I had a good time.”

“I’m sure Annie had a wonderful time playing with you.”

“I’ll text you about that party,” Mary said.

“Can’t wait. Have a safe drive home. I got a poopy diaper to go change.” I chose and continue to choose to not know what the heck that heccin even means! A little help with my denialism, please?!?

Mary chuckled, “Good luck. I know what that’s like.”

“Marrry! No, you heccin don’t!”

And I didn’t pout my way to the car, and I didn’t perk up when Mary called me a good sport.

“I think you and I have some online shopping to do when we get home.”

And no, I did not get excited and blurt out, “Legos!?!”

“I meant the fucking machine,” Mary said with this look on her face that she married someone weird, which she didn’t even.

“O. Maybe we can build one out of legos … teehee.”

I got a kiss for being cute (not awkward and cute, just cute). “I will happily buy my little girl some legos.”

“Sweet.”

“And the machine too.”

“Super sweet.”

“You think she’s up on her changing table right now getting her …

“Marrrry!”