Mary and Daphne #148

“I can’t believe you did that,” I told my wife because I couldn’t believe she’d do that. I mean, honestly, get some manners, Mary!

“You can, too, believe I did that,” was her astute if not very clever response because, well, yes, I can believe she’d smack me on the butt in the airport. More than once (maybe five times?) she’s taken me to a single-person restroom in an airport to adjust my attitude with way more than a playful smack. So I get tired when I travel and cranky when I get tired. If spanking grumpy passengers was a thing, Mary could literally set up a kiosk outside the terminal.

But I didn’t actually do anything to earn that smack. I’d been nothing but cheerful. She just wanted to smack my butt, and sure, no one saw, probably, but, well, I gotta complain a little. A little protest is just de rigueur for paragons of propriety such as me. And it was kinda a loud smack, or it would’ve been if we weren’t in an airport with all that background noise. And why was it kinda loud? Why did it make a distinct pop sound?

“C’mon,” Mary said. “Let’s get you changed.”

“How do you even know I need changed?”

Hey Daphne, a voice in my head said as soon the words were out of my mouth, ever think of just shutting up?

And yes, I do … Just after I’ve already said something I should’ve kept to myself. Really.

Mary gave me one of those predatory looks of hers, like I was a little woodland fur bearer and she was a she-wolf whose chase instinct I’d triggered. “I could check you right here,” she said like she was being helpful (which she wasn’t). “Or I could not, and we can risk meeting your parents at baggage claim with you in soggy huggies.”

“Mary!” I hissed. “We’re in public.”

“Can you hear anyone? I can’t. It’s all one big din.” I chose not to respond to that except with some mild pouting. “Or I can just assume you need a change after a four-hour flight, but even if you’re dry, wouldn’t you rather greet your parents wearing something else?”

“Yes,” I said with just a little pout in my tone, and I deserved to be a little pouty, and did I mention I was in a great mood? Because I was. Really. “I hate it when you’re logical sometimes.”

“I’m not smarter than you, Daffy. I just think of these things because it’s my job to take care of you. You don’t have to think very far ahead ahead because that’s what I’m here for.”

“Yeah…” That is pretty much how it works. “I keep you around for other stuff too.”

“Like what,” she asked me as we scanned the terminal for a companion care restroom.

“Emotional intimacy and feeling like you make me whole and just because I like you and stuff.” True story.

“Here we are,” Mary announced as she opened the restroom door for me. I choose to not care if people see us going into family restrooms together. But sometimes the things we choose don’t work out, so I care a little. My imagination wanders to what their imagination is imagining and that’s just a whole spiral right there, so I just minimize that line of thought as best I can.

What happened next, for no particular reason, reminded me of the many times Mary has locked a door behind us and moved like lightning to get my pants off me. No particular reason I should’ve been reminded of that just then. Really.

“You’re barely wet.”

“I’ve been holding it.”

“Why?”

“You mean other than the obvious?”

“Do you wanna go in your diaper or the potty?”

I gave Mary my unimpressed face. That seemed the safest thing to do rather than saying what I wanted to say (which would’ve gone, ‘what the @:;$:@ kinda @-&$;,?:&; question is that!?!’). My unimpressed face must not have gotten that message across because Mary just looked back at me. I gave in. “Toilet.”

“Potty,” she enunciated like I was still learning the language which is just … ugh! She can be so ugh sometimes, and I only like it all but a few of the times.

“Whatever.” And then once again, nothing happened. “Will you excuse me, please?” I asked it very politely. There goes Daphne, people say, always so polite when asking to use the toilet in private. Or actually no one says that, and that’s a good thing. I don’t want people knowing enough about me to think that’s a thing I hafta ask.

“Don’t be silly,” Mary responded. I don’t think I said anything silly, and I’m an expert on silly. That’s a thing people do say about me. Really. Silly; whimsical; nonsensical. Those sorts of words.

“Marrry!”

“Don’t get all whiny. Santa still has time to put you on the naughty list. Keep your hands at your side.”

Never marry a ninja sorceress. One moment you’re standing there glaring at her and the next, your diaper (hers! DAMMIT! HERS!) is on the floor and she’s pivoting you around and maneuvering you right down onto the toilet seat before you can even say, “Hey! Whoa!”

“Alright. Go potty, Daphne.”

“Kernuhmoppler frijilian hramit, Mary!” Hmmph!

“No sweetheart. A potty. Pot-tee,” Mary condescended like a professional condescender. “Use your words: pot-tee. Go pot-tee.”

“Turn around at least?” Didn’t mean for that to be a question, but that’s how it came out.

“Don’t be shy. Show me what a big girl you are and tinkle in the potty.”

“Marrry,” I whined and I’m not ashamed to admit it. I had every right to whine. “I really hafta go.”

“Are you not ready for the potty? Do you want your diapie back on? Because it’s okay to not be ready. We’ll just keep you in diapers until we fly back home.”

“Urgh!”

“Yeah! Grrr! You show that potty who’s boss!”

“O my god. Just O. My. God.” So much blood rushing to my face with the furious blushing. I put my head in my hands cuz I guess that was all the privacy I was gonna get. I don’t think I could’ve gone with someone looking at me without the last two years of practice I had going in my pants (DAMMIT!) that Mary forced on me. Me! A queen! An empress, actually, but I don’t like to brag. I’m very humble. Really.

But I did it. And not that it was on purpose, but if she was going to watch me do it, I was gonna do that thing that dogs do and just glare right back at her: you watch me, and I’ll just watch you watching me right back. But sigh … that just made it more awkward.

“All done,” Mary asked because, or in spite, of having ears to capture sounds and the lack thereof.

“I’m this close to being done talking to you for five whole minutes,” I warned her.

“Open your legs.” I don’t know why she bothers telling me to do stuff when she’s just gonna do it herself anyway. Not that she’s strong enough to open my legs without my help … which I gave her … because reasons.

“Marrrry,” I whined while complying. Which is a thing you can do without just giving in. Somehow. I didn’t just give in. Really.

“If I can wipe your fanny when you’re lying on the changing mat getting a fresh diapie, surely I can wipe you when you’re on the potty,” she said with that super annoying logic of hers again. “And like you’re suffering,” she scoffed because she found some evidence, that I never saw which is a basic right of the accused in this country so her evidence was inadmissible (inadmissible!), that I perhaps didn’t a thousand percent dislike what she was made me do. But I did! Really! … And stuff.

“Up you go,” she bade me. I stood, and she, like a crazy person who I don’t even know, held her arm up, palm facing me. “High five!”

“Give me the strength,” I muttered in prayer because dealing with this one requires like, all the strength. There should a be a Chicken Soup for Mary’s Submissives book for us, by which I mean me cuz I’m the only one, to read when we need to shore up our emotional fortitude.

“High five! You did so good and I’m so proud of you!” Something told me she would keep us in the airport restroom forever or until I gave her a high five, whichever came first.

So I gave her one, not that it solved anything because no more than a split second after I did, she squatted down in front of me and said, “Lift up.”

“Hey,” I said because I’m verbally nimble like that, “what are you …”

“I can’t get you into a pull-up with your pants around your ankles, Daffy,” she responded like I – not her, me! – was the crazy one.

“You brought one of those too?”

“Yeah. Hand me the diaper bag.”

Excuse me, the what? “Fribberty, Mary!” I said as I handed her her purse. Said it because reasons I wouldn’t expect the likes of you to understand, person reading my diary (rood!).

“We’re late,” I reminded her. Like, our ride was waiting in baggage claim.

“All the more reason for you to cooperate. Put your hands on my shoulders. Be very careful; we haven’t done this with your shoes still on before.”

“So if I accidentally tear the sides, I can wear my panties?” As in the panties she took away from me at the airport on the way here, which came totally by surprise. It was exactly this whole process in reverse.

“Of course not, silly. If you’re gonna ruin your pull-up, how could I trust you with undies? We’d wrap that freshly spanked butt of yours in another diaper.” Spanked, what? Who, me?I changed the subject.

“How many did you put in your purse?”

“Enough,” she said in a way that came out as a tad bit threatening. “Just be glad I didn’t make you wear one through security.”

“O gee thanks,” I said while she pulled that thing up snug against my … me. She did the same for my pants next, albeit it less snug.

“Wash your hands while I tidy up,” she bade me again. She’s always bidding me do this and bidding me do that because I’m very biddable and stuff. When I was done, she washed her hands, and back we ventured into the airport having spent only ten minutes doing what should’ve taken three. Hmmph.

“Ready to go see your mom and dad,” Mary asked me like nothing abnormal had just happened. I know from abnormal. There goes Daphne, people say, if anyone knows from abnormal, it’s her. People say that. Really. And it’s complimentary when they do.

“I need a minute,” I answered.

“Do you have to go again already,” she joked because she didn’t see my face, because if she had seen my face in the moment before I turned to her and buried my face in that soft place where her arm meets her body, she would’ve known I needed a minute to calm down.

“Hey,” she said softly in my ear when she realized I wasn’t kidding, “you okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Was that too intense?”

I shook my head. “… off guard.”

“Are the lights changing?”

“Uh-uh. Just …” I sighed while she stroked my hair in a sea of people breaking right and left to go around us.

“You were a very good girl.”

Aww! Did you hear what she called me? Maybe we could find the person who does the announcements on the PA and have them let the whole terminal know my wife thinks I’m a good girl.

“I’m okay. Sorry,” I said as I let her go.

“Don’t be sorry.” She bent down a little to look me in the eye and brushed away a tear that wasn’t there cuz I wasn’t crying. I just needed a minute like I said, but Mary, see, she dotes on me and stuff. Probably because she likes me. At least I think she likes me. Pretty sure. Anyhoo…

“Ready to go see your parents?”

“Yeah. And thank you.”

“For what?”

“For keeping me on my toes and being nice to me and stuff.”

“I like being nice to you … Do you think maybe you got a little overwhelmed for a moment because you’re not feeling old enough to use the potty and want to stay in your pampers? After all, you are just a little girl.”

“You’re this close to sleeping on the couch. I mean, I’d sleep on the couch with you, but our backs would hurt in the morning, and it would remind you to be nice to me.”

“Kinda like how a hurt butt reminds you to behave?”

“Exactly.”

“You going to jump into your dad’s arms when you see him?”

“Probably.”

“You gonna cry,” Mary asked me.

“Uh-huh.”

“You’re gonna make me jealous someone else is drying your tears for you.”

“I’ll cry for you later if you want.” I kinda do that easily these days, and Mary knows the spots to poke (and smack) to make it happen.

“Crybaby.”

“Now you’re just being mean on purpose.”

“Glad you brought me with you?”

“Always.”