Mary and Daphne #154

“Leemee lone. I wun sleep.”

“Daphne, it’s time to get up for church. Come on. Up you get,” Her Holiness prodded me.

“I’m tired.”

“We went to bed on time, and literally all you have to do it roll over and watch on the iPad.”

She oversimplifies everything. I’d have to roll over, sit up, and pay attention to the iPad. That’s a rule – pay attention in church. If you don’t, you get taken down to the cloak room in the basement for a spanking, or at least you used to pre-pandemic. We don’t want to be in that crowd yet every Sunday, and church is a lot less fun without the singing. We tried singing along to the iPad, but without a couple hundred other parishioners to drown us out, we have to listen to ourselves … and we suck. Really. And I actually like church, but I just wasn’t feeling it.

But church attendance is a rule; oddly more of a rule in our house than the actual church, which is (you’ll be shocked to learn this given our lifestyle) very non-conformist and free-spirited and full of weird people (at least two of whom are super gay). Nothing at all like our buttoned-down, old-fashioned-values lifestyle. Um, really.

Lucky for me there are exceptions to the church rule. It was too late to tell Mary I was out of town, so that left, “But I don’t feel good.”

“Are you not feeling well, or do you just not want to go to church?”

“Just put the iPad on my back and I’ll listen with my eyes closed.” See? I am a peacemaker, a problem solver, a resolver of differences. Who knows? I might have even heard the sermon in my dreams. Wouldn’t be the first time I encountered Pastor Sara in Dreamland. Just don’t call her ‘the hot pastor’ in front of Mary cuz you’ll get a long lecture about respect, and halfway through your timeout, so I’m told, you’ll realize you’re not sure if she’s being serious or if she’s just using it as an excuse to put you in timeout.

The Grand Inquisitor repeated herself. “Are you not feeling well, or do you just not want to go to church?”

Moment of truth. Literally. “… Not feeling well.”

My face was buried in the covers, but I could feel Mary making her o-really face at the back of my head. “O really,” she said to the back of my head. She really telegraphs her thinking sometimes “Then we’ll have to see what can be done to make you feel better.”

Funny how I was suddenly awake and alert and ready to run far, far away. If only someone or something could’ve warned me she’d see right through my mistruth and call me on it. Something like experience or deductive reasoning or even, heck, an aversion to fibbing could’ve warned me (I said I was tired, dammit, and I don’t think so good when I’m tired). But perhaps all was not lost. Perhaps I could backpedal, misdirect, or stall.

“No,” I tried to insist, “You go watch church in the living room, and I’ll be fine.”

“Daphne Ann, of course I wouldn’t leave you all by your lonesome when you don’t feel well. Let’s just get to the bottom of this, and maybe we’ll make the afternoon service if you’re feeling better.” I wonder if today’s sermon is about how hurtful sarcasm is. How fitting would that be. Or the consequences of fibbing. Which wouldn’t be at all relevant to our lives. Really.

“Um … no thanks. It’s one of those things you just gotta ride out … in bed … alone.”

“You sound awfully alert now.”

“But it’s taking all my strength. Um, so why don’t we just plan on me doing the afternoon service if I’m feeling up to it?”

“Because Pastor Mike does the afternoon service, and you dislike how boring he is even more than you dislike being tired. Or are you not being truthful?”

Wow, that was kinda direct to the point of not being nice. “Are we back on that again (cough)? … (cough hack sniff) (re-cough-eally) … Your mistrustful expression isn’t making me feel any better.”

Hey stupid, my better angel said. She’s a sassy angel. Yeah, you, the STUPID one. Stop digging the hole deeper. And maybe next time don’t dig any hole at all or at least dig better ones. She’s very blunt and judgmental for an angel, and remember she’s the good ones. The bad one spends her Sunday mornings day-drinking at a biker bar.

“O dear, am I making it worse? That’s just not good. Let’s deal with this right now.”

“No,” I said as she walked away from me. “No please,” I said as she went into the bathroom. “No pretty please,” I said as she … she couldn’t hear me, not that I think it would’ve made a difference. O crud, she’s coming back. And where did that bag come from?

“I wanna go to church now.”

“You can’t, sweetie. You don’t feel well.”

“I feel better. It’s a miracle, and that’s what church is all about. See, I’ll even stand up.” Which I did. Look at me, head to toes all standing and healthy and pious. Church please, and step on it.

“Not until we make sure you’re okay. Lay back down.”

“I’m sorry?” I mean, might as well try to apologize, even if just to get out of whatever mean thing she was gonna do to me while pretending to be sweet as summer rain.

“For being sick? You don’t ever have to be sorry for being sick.”

“I didn’t say I’m sick. I just said I didn’t feel well. Can we please …”

Did you know Mary can cut you off in mid-sentence with just a look? For instance, her too-late-I’m-gonna-teach-you-a-lesson-and-you’re-gonna-cooperate-if-you-know-what’s-good-for-you look. And then you shudder a little and make a barely audible sound as your mouth opens again as she turns her head sharply to glare at you with her make-my-day-say-one-more-word eyes. Eep.

Which is when my better angel said, Best to just lay back down now. If my worse angel ever just rides off into the sunset at the head of a phalanx of bikers, that’ll be fine cuz sometimes I think that’s cuz I’m my own worse angel.

“Poor, poor girl. We’ll get to the bare bottom of this.”

So that’s why some people would rather not know what their diagnosis is. Huh.

“Mary,” I said from flat on my back while she was in the closet getting stuff, “I’m trying to backpedal here.”

“Bicycling is no good for sick little girls.”

“So that’s a no on the backpedaling?”

“It’s a no,” she told me as she returned with – guess what!?! – diaper changing supplies.

“What’s in that bag?”

“O look,” was her response as she took notice of the pacifier she keeps on my nightstand, right next to the paddle she calls mine but is really hers. “Open up … Good girl. Keep this in, sweetie. Pacifiers keep little girls from crying; why, I bet if it comes out before I tell you it’s safe to, you’ll end up crying very hard.” Threatening subtext, that. “Lift your hips.”

If I could pray for anything, I’d pray for X-ray vision. It’s not entirely unheard of for Mary to just produce from thin air (or under the sink) things with which to mistreat me (see, for example, pull-ups). When she went into the bathroom, I feared she was getting the enema kit ready, not that I’m ever afeared of anything, but the mystery of the mystery bag just sitting there next to me being all Orwellian like it could contain anything was … distracting.

“You’re becoming quite the experienced diaper wearer.”

What the heck does that mean?

“I’d call you a Class A Diaper Girl if I didn’t know how much you hate being called that.”

Aw come on! Now you’re just trying to get me to spit the pacifier out.

“Just a few taps of my hand, and we can do a whole diaper change without even speaking.”

O yeah? Prove it and stop speaking. Smack. Oof! That part of me is not for smacking, even lightly … except sometimes it is which is so much of the fun and stuff but only when there’s been some warm up rubbin’.

“When you say you don’t feel good, is it because of potty problems? Does it hurt when you tinkle?”

It was then that I heard a voice from the heavens, and it sounded exactly like David Attenborough: Note the tone of the taller and more dominant of the two females lacks the mischief characteristic of its mating ritual and ceremonial displays of dominance. The less dominant female, our old friend Red, must have noticed this, or surely, she’d have taken out her pacifier to answer back. She rarely lets a slight against her honor go unanswered. Instead, she merely shakes her head no and side-eyes the newcomer on the scene, the faux-leather bag.

Someone should tell Dave that the friggin pacifier is not mine.

“And I don’t see any diaper rash or even a sign of diaper rash. Must be because I take very good care of you and diaper area.”

Cue Dave: Those of you who have followed this bonded pair since the beginning of our series know that when Athena – so named by you, the viewers, because of her powerful aura and hardass physique – says something sarcastic without a hint of sarcasm in her tone, as she just did, she’s very likely growing more bloody ticked off by the moment. You’ll also note Red, who actually seems to be getting ever so slightly smaller during this confrontation, appears conflicted. It looks as though she wants very badly to point out that she doesn’t wear diapers often enough to get a diaper rash, that the possibility would be exactly zero if Athena didn’t make her wear them, and that anyway, the diapers are not even hers. At the same time, she is experiencing a nascent but rapidly growing sense of regret at the mere mention of how well Athena cares for her as it becomes clear Athena is no longer playing along with Red’s earlier pretense, a sure hint that something besides her decision to try to weasel out of church is at issue.

“Turn over.”

And guess who? Dave, that’s who: Showing signs of trepidation, Red slowly turns to her tummy, keeping an eye on her alpha until the last possible moment, knowing how vulnerable she is in this position: face down, bottom exposed. She looks intently at the bag again, clenching and unclenching her little fists as she watches Athena reach for it, seemingly in slow motion to her, but to the rest of us, with the surety and relentlessness of a freight train. It is too much for the younger female, who takes a calculated risk by flipping back over onto her back, letting the pacifier fall from her lips, unironically making her uwu face, and bleating out the high-pitched noises even casual viewers must surely recognize by now as her vocal expression of sincerest regret.

“I’m sorry I’m sorry what’s in the bag and I’m sorry and I won’t do it again!”

Ol’ Davey boy heard from: Nature, we must remember, may be pitiable, but it is not pathetic. Actually, Red is quite brave, stalwart, and true; always honest, never bratty, and mighty not just for a female of her size but relative to the species as a whole. What she lacks in making better choices the first time, she more than makes up for in always being prepared to cave, sometimes without even putting up the show of a fight. And also she’s really put off by the mystery bag. Really. More to the immediate point, she feels awful for what’s she done and wishes to make amends and seek forgiveness because she doesn’t take Athena being upset with her very well. Like, at all. True story.

And me: O my god! Shut up, Dave! There’s only room for one narrator, and it’s heccin not you!

Mary (who looks a little like Athena; I could totally see that and maybe for next Halloween), looked at me with a rather cross expression. It was more than a little unsettling how quickly she went from not buying my BS but going along with it to teach me a lesson to seeming actually upset with me. She was taking deep breaths through her nose. She’s gotten well and truly pissed at me just a handful of times, and while she’s never raised her voice at me (hard limit!), she’s had to try not to before, and she always took deep breaths through her nose when she did that.

“Daphne Ann, I am … Sit up. Right next to me. Last week I sat right in this spot and watched you sleep. For three days, I did everything I could to take care of you and make you feel better because you really didn’t feel well. And it …”

Not so much of the verge of yelling at me now as on the verge or crying. O god, don’t cry cuz I’m gonna cry so much harder if you do.

“I was trying to teach this lesson in a little more fun way, but … It’s not funny, okay? Don’t you ever fib to me about not feeling good again. It … Don’t.”

“Mary … I’m so sorry. I didn’t think … I’m … sorry.” Ever feel so ashamed of how you made someone else feel, intentionally or not, that you wanna throw up? Me too.

“I know. I don’t mean to … be so serious. It just … It’s scary. It’s not … I knew you were just trying to get out of … It’s still scary.”

“I didn’t think about it that way.”

“I know you didn’t. I just …” Speechless Mary. I mean, this is the same woman who is rarely at a loss for words, the same one who has so many words that she just loves to continue whatever words she’s saying even after I’ve interrupted her with points that are very on point.

“I won’t do it again.”

“I know you won’t.”

Which is when I hugged Mary very hard cuz she needed a very hard hug (and so did I). We stayed liked for a few minutes, and I was nervous to say it, but I plucked up my courage and asked, “Will you go to church with me? We only missed a little.”

“I’d like that very much. I have half a mind to ground you to this bed for the rest of the day after.”

Ugh. “That’s … fair.”

“But then I don’t get to spend the day with you. Your punishment is being grounded to my side all day.”

O gawd my feels! “(Suppressed crying noises).”

“(Also suppressed crying noises).”

I needed more than that though. “May I please have a bedtime spanking tonight?”

“Of course, sweetie.”

“With the bathbrush?” I hate that thing so much, but it does have its uses, like reducing me to a limp, sobbing, sweaty mess that needs to be helped up and showered off. Not that I’m a crybaby. Really.

“No.”

“But …”

“You didn’t mean to. I like you too much to use the bathbrush just because you feel guilty. We’ll get those feelings out, and we’ll both have a good cry with just my hand, okay?”

“Okay.”

“And after church you need to try to use the potty for anything you don’t want to do in your diaper. I want my baby girl glued to my hip all day.”

“Okay … What’s in that bag?”

“I’ll show you next weekend if I don’t have to give any bad girl spankings.”

And let’s not question how what’s in that bag can can make me apologize like a rapid apologizer person and inspire me to be my bestest self at the same time. That’s just one of the burdens of being kinky me.