Mary and Daphne #162

“We need to talk,” Mary said to me.

“No.”

“No?”

“I don’t wanna talk. Besides, we’re married. It’s too late to break up.”

“We’re very married. That’s why I want to help you with your problem.”

How the heck did I end up as the one always accused of being up to something? I was literally doing dishes, and there’s Mary putting her latest plot into motion. Does she even work anymore? Is this what it’s like being married to Homer Simpson, one misadventure after another when you’re just trying to be a good homemaker (and am I turning into Marge cuz … love her but would rather not be her)?

“What problem?” I don’t even know why I asked. It just encourages her.

“Your out-of-control libido.”

“My libido is not …” Shush! We’re about to get laid. “Help me how, exactly? Asking for my friend,” which is a thing I said while running a soapy finger lightly down the front of Mary’s shirt.

“A very special kind of therapy.”

Torn: of course she was up to something, and of course it would be something possibly more fun for her, but the question was whether I would like it more than dislike it. The way she was looking at me didn’t help clarify that at all. “You’re grinning at me like a jackal. Did you know that do that?”

“Won’t you be my good girl and trust me?” Avoiding the question and pushing my buttons – classic Mary.

“Don’t … Grr! If you push that button too often, it’s gonna wear out.” Jackals are always doing that! Hmmph!

“Has it yet?”

“… No.” For the record, I didn’t stick my tongue out at anybody. That’s just a lie.

“Then let’s go upstairs, and we’ll see if we can’t get it all out of you.”

Warning lights started blinking. “Get what out? Out of where?” She withdrew the blindfold from her pocket and twirled it around her finger. “No, but what out of where?” I repeated it for emphasis.

“You’ll see.” Um, no, I won’t with a blindfold on. Stupid irony.

She walked around behind me like a predator circling prey, and lemme tell ya this for nothing – as someone very used to being the biggest, baddest shark in these waters, the look on her face right before she disappeared from my sight sent my fight-flight-or-freeze response into a tingly overdrive. I wouldn’t say I chose freeze so much as my body chose for me. Probably why I suddenly felt very cool and shuddered a little as she put that blindfold over my eyes and paused to breathe all hot and stuff on my neck and nibble my ear lobe. I wasn’t scared. I just had an excess of adrenaline, which happens to all of us badasses when an apex predator like Mary decides it’ll be more fun if you can’t see what’s she’s doing to you.

“Y-you’ve been getting that out a lot more.”

“The blindfold? I guess I have.”

“Don’t you have to work today?”

“Mhmm. But the company is very understanding of caregiver responsibilities.”

“Yippy?” But also, what caregiver responsibilities. She’s not my caregiver. Though if the care she’s giving is sex therapy I’m not gonna be dogmatic about labels because reasons.

We had previously decided not putting the blindfold on until we got up the stairs was smarter and safer, but I guess my Mary was an eager beaver and just forgot. She led me up the stairs, and I didn’t even stub my toe so one of us must’ve been doing a good job. “You and yoga pants,” she said to me as she took my yoga pants off and away. I mean, I’d get them back later, but I was actively using them to not be cold.

“It’s cold in here,” I let her know.

“You’ll be warm in a second, sweetie.”

“Maybe if you lay on top of me…”

I got no response. Instead, she raised my arms and took my shirt off. Let me advance a notion: if my libido is too high, the cause is a chronic and debilitating case of Mary. Symptoms include undressing, heavy petting, pinching, grabbing, nibbling, and all that even before she steered me toward the bed.

“Face down, Daffy.” Another symptom: firm cupping sensations around the butt and thigh areas. “Your diaper is a little wet. When did that happen?”

“It’s yours, and recently. And did I mention your punishment for my alleged rebellion sucks?”

“You’ll wear them til you learn.”

“Learn what?”

“To obey forever and always right when I tell you to do something.”

Ah. Touché.

“Spread your arms and legs out,” my libido therapist instructed me.

“Has this treatment been peer reviewed,” I asked while complying. I’m an active healthcare consumer, but not so active I forget I’m a submissive whatever-Mary-wants-to-do-to-me consumer (most of the time). And unlike, say, a health insurance company, she really does have my best interest at heart.

“No, but if you wanna video tape it for some of our peers, we can do that, Daffy. Do you wanna contribute to science?”

“Um … Will I ever receive this treatment again?”

“Maybe.”

“Then maybe for this first one, we, um … Can we record it for posterity but maybe not share it with anyone?” Perhaps I should’ve also asked what she was going to do to me (like, hey, it might be relevant), but I guess I trust her that it would be something worth watching again just in case we learned anything to submit to the New England Journal of Medicine or the Lancet or … maybe a scrapbook. We should keep a scrapbook (that we never show anyone).

“What a good idea. Better to have it on video and not need it than need it and not have it. That’s what I like about you, Daffodil; all those raging hormones, and you’re still thinking of the good of humanity.”

“I’m very nice. … Hey, Mary?”

“Yes, my love?”

“Couldn’t help but notice you’re tying my wrists to the bed.”

“You’re a good noticer.”

“But why? Are you gonna hit me with something?” I wasn’t in the mood for that. It’s like chocolate: I love chocolate, but I don’t want it all the time … Bad example. It’s like … … something … that I want but not all the time … of which there must be … something, probably. Wow, maybe my appetites really are outta control.

“No, sweetie, I’m gonna do nothing but nice things to you. Lift your hips for me; okay, down.” I heard velcro. Then I was laying on something hard. And then I felt something being fastened. I had a theory. “Is that too tight?”

“No.”

“Are you comfy?”

“Mhmm.”

“Gimme a footsie.”

I have feet, for the record, two of them, each of them quite adept at playing footsie but neither of them a footsie. Very different. I’m an adult, after all. For proof, my wife tied me spread eagle to the bed, face down with what was so obviously the magic wand put backward into the strap-on harness so it was pressed against me (firmly). That is no way to cure an overactive libido, but I didn’t want to tell her that cuz it might hurt her feelings (and make her change her mind – perish the thought).

“Turn this way,” she said, and when I did, someone – not sure who cuz I was blindfolded – gave me the sweetest kiss on my cheek. And someone – could’ve been the same person – ran a fingertip from my neck all the way down my spine to butt. I don’t mind telling you it made me wiggle a little cuz it tickled and stuff and I like it when she caresses my back. My mom would do that when I was very little when she was putting me to bed, and Mary very happily picked up the habit. Not that we should read too much into that connection cuz Mary, as I’ve said repeatedly and sometimes loudly, is not my mommy.

“Anything you need,” Mary asked me.

“I don’t know how to answer that right now.” True story. I was strapped to the bed with a heavy-duty vibrator strapped to me, so not sure what I might have needed. Like, always up for a cookie? But no, nothing I needed right then.

“I love you muchly. I’m going to put your headphones on, and I’ll come check on you in a little bit. Shout if you need me.”

“But what happens now,” I asked because, um, just seemed like the sort of treatment your therapist should stick around for. Maybe even participate in.

“Try to get some rest,” is all she said to me. Not terribly helpful, if you wanna another true story.

She put my headphones on me and turned on the noise canceling, but she didn’t put any music on. I got another kiss, and she pulled a blanket over me.

So just me blindfolded, noise canceled, tied to the bed, and with the vibrator pressed against my happy place through a punishment diaper that I so did not deserve. To the extent I appreciated it in the moment, it was solely because I wouldn’t need to change the sheets after this so-called therapy.

And ya know, I don’t think Mary even has a license to practice medicine.

You know how when you go to the doctor, they’re always running behind? Like, you show up on time, and then wait. And they take you to the exam room, and you wait. And so-and-so will be right in, and you wait. Well, when Mary plays doctor, she goes for the realism; I waited. I waited. And then I waited. And then I started to fall asleep.

I was in that weird sleepy space where your brain starts to dream while you’re still conscious, and this may surprise you what with my record of being very serious at all the times and never straying into the land of fantasy and nonsense, but when my brain starts dreaming while I can still hear what’s happening in the dream, it some crazy stuff. It’s very entertaining, and I’m loathe to miss a word, which is exactly what happened when this faint buzzing sound interrupted my inner monologue. Not just a sound, mind you, but a sensation.

Details get fuzzy after that. Drifting consciousness, interrupted napping, space travel, seeing stars, spirit animals, communing with the gods, time travel, and I think I almost achieved Nirvana. Really. And those are just the parts I was awake for.

And I’m pretty sure at least once I was being observed by my therapist. She sat down on the bed for a few minutes (and I think she was touching herself? Like, hello, licensing board, is that allowed?) and then left again. Not that I blame her, cuz if my hands were free, I woulda been touching myself. At least at first; even I have my limits. Really.

“(Kiss). Wake up, Daffy.”

“Hrrrm.”

“You make the cutest sleepy noises, but it’s time to get up. Where did your headphones go?”

“I dunwunnagouh (snore).” Or at least I’ve been told that’s what I said. I doubt the veracity of that account, what with me being very composed at all the times.

“You need a bath.” She untied my wrists and ankles, and I took the opportunity to bury my face in my arms. So tired. So limp and flaccid and tired.

“Where did your sleep mask go?”

Look, where does anything ever go? What purpose do such questions serve? And who is even in the room with me? And where even is this room?

“You’re freezing,” she said, and okay, true story cuz the blanket mostly came off at some point. “C’mon, open those peepers and let’s get you cleaned up.”

Velcro was torn asunder, and with a violent tug that jangled my jingle, the hard, bulbous thing I’d been laying on was wrenched out from under me. It was quite the jolt, which is why I exclaimed, “Kuumphhh!” and sat up so quick I got dizzy … Or maybe I was already dizzy. Wasn’t sure where I was what with all the star voyaging and time portals I slipped through, but I recognized my person when I saw her. “Hi, Mary,” I said.

“Welcome back to the land of the conscious. Did you sleep well … Daffy? Earth to Daffy.”

“Mary.” How fuzzy the world is. And since when does our bedroom have so many right angles? … Tired …

“Are you okay?”

“I’m thirsty.”

“I got a drink for you waiting on the rim of the tub. Let’s go.” She helped me up, and glancing behind me, I saw that I’d be doing laundry after all. For some reason, and who knows what it is, I seem to have sweated through all the bedding during my journey to the field of reeds … and the other field of reeds … and this place with all the clouds. I musta visited five or eight places. They say traveling is about the trip and not the destination, to which I say – they’re both pretty damn awesome and why haven’t we as a society considered the magic wand as a mode of transportation because, folks, it took me places. Good places. No wonder I got so sweaty.

“I’m cold,” I told my Mary.

“It’ll be a warm bath, and then we’ll get you some dinner. It’s almost six.”

“I had dreams.”

“Good dreams or bad dreams?”

“And you were there, and this lion … my childhood dog … a woman named Glenda who had this special wand.”

“What else happened in your dream?”

“Bright lights, colors. Lots of different pinks. I tasted some of it.”

“Some of what,” Mary asked me as she started untaping the diaper she’d put me in against my protestations (hmmph!).

“The colors.” Always wanted to taste colors. I made grabby hands for the bottle of water and practically tore the nipple off. Maybe Mary wanted me to be little and nurse a bottle just then, but I needed the water a lot faster than that.

“I think your therapy was a success,” Mary said as she seemed to (gross) inspect the diaper. “I’ve changed lots of your diapers, Daphne, and this is by far the cummiest diaper you’ve ever made.”

“More,” was my response and I held the empty bottle toward her. I made a mental note to have a word with her about what she’d just said and all the reasons she should apologize for slighting my very dignified dignity and never say it again, but first, water.

“Such a thirsty girl.” She refilled it at the sink. “Into the tub.” I sat down and resumed my gulping.

“How do you feel now?”

“Still sleepy,” I yawned.

“Hmmm. Maybe three hours is too much therapy for you.”

“You said it’s close to six.”

“Mhmm.”

“That’s more than three hours.”

“Three hours of therapy. I gave you some breaks in between.”

“O … Can we have sex later?”

“ … Are you … Really?”

“Yes really.” I mean, sure, I was exhausted, felt weak as kitten, and sore like I’d been riding a horse all day and doing kegels the whole time I was sitting on top of the sweaty beast, but I couldn’t let Mary think she’d gotten the better of me. True story.