Mary and Daphne #101

Mary is sweet as sugar candy, maybe even almost as sweet as me, and I’ve been described sometimes as being cloying and treacly what with my tendency to cling to partners like a koala to a tree. And that’s fine and dandy for Mary to be sweet as sugar candy. She’s very attentive when she’s feeling that way. Ever since our little (pretty big) talk, the phrase do you need anything has been coming outta her mouth pretty much any time she’s nearby. And the answer to that question was yes, I needed my domme to do stuff and things to me.

See what I mean about a red light throwing everything off for a while? She was nervous to go back to her usual loving yet strict (and arousing) discipline of me. I mean, it had been more than a few days. She knows what she can and can’t do. We talked about it; we talked about it again later. And yet no one has touched my butt in days. My butt needs physical affection. It’s what keeps it so perky. And that’s to say nothing of my psyche. As Mary has been eager to tell so many people over the years, the key to a happy Daffy is a perpetually pink bottom and a blushing face (the latter perhaps being why she was so eager to tell other people – see how she takes care of me?).

But really, as confident as I am – and why should I, your fearless narrator and warrior princess – not be confident – the part of my brain that told me Mary was slowing down because she was nervous was not entirely drowned out by the part of my brain that wanted to tell me I’d hurt her feelings or that she didn’t want to keep up our lifestyle. I’m not insecure. I’m just an anxious person who rarely (sometimes) has a difficult time (the medication helps) shutting down the cognitive distortions (bitch monsters) that cause some self-doubt. Which is different than being insecure. Really.

It’s not that I need the approval of just anyone. I can think of plenty of people whose approval I do not have, and this doesn’t cause any self-doubt. But that bitch monster in my head that always seems ready to find a chink in my armor and poke its bitchy finger through is always on high alert for any chance to make me worry about my relationship with Mary, Queen of my Heaven. I know the bitch monster tells lies and nothing but lies, but that doesn’t always make it easier to ignore her.

But it does make it hard sometimes to be direct. Red lighting and the convo that followed were super direct. I was running low on directness. My directness batteries needed to recharge. And not that I ever brat or anything, but seeing as I was seeking attention (which I also don’t do – attention just comes to me naturally somehow, especially when I make what Mary calls ‘naughty choices’) I did employ some brat-like behavior, which my lawyers (and I am acting as my own counsel) have advised me to characterize as acts of brattiness, that escalated over the past several days.

And still nothing. Not so much as a scolding or a “little girl” or a “you’re in so much trouble.” My anxiety was turning into being miffed, and since I didn’t want to say something I would regret (and I regret nothing, to be clear – someone as confident and anxiety-free and uber-competent as myself has nothing to regret) I went outside to lay in the sun. And one-piece fetish aside, I put on a two-piece to do it because tan lines. I spread out my towel, I put on my sunscreen, I put in my earbuds (the ones I bought without permission and got paddled for, and there was some short-lived regret after that, but it went away, so that doesn’t count), and was soon snoring adorably (except I don’t snore, so it was more of the noise Disney princesses make when they sleep).

I was awakened from my light slumber by a silhouette casting a shadow over me. I could not see the owner of this shadow against the sunlight, but I could make out it was a she and that her arms were crossed. “Daphne Ann,” this silhouette said to me.

“Hi,” I said from flat on my back and feeling rather defenseless, which is how I like to feel until I feel that way, and then this low-level sense of (temporary) regret sets in (that fades with time and so doesn’t count).

She sat down next to me, which is when I noticed she’d brought that wicker basket with her, the one she started keeping in the living room. “I think we need to have a little talk.”

“Um, what about, pray tell.” Hmm, that just came out that way.

“About some of your choices this past week. Sit up, please.” Which I did. “I let a few things slide, which is my fault, and I can tell you’re on the verge of a serious streak of bad behavior, little girl.”

“I’m not a … What choices?” The key to stellar act of brattiness is subtlety. She might not have discovered all of said acts. I wanted to find out if we had the same list of misdeeds as I did, just, ya know, to find out how much I’d bitten off.

“Let’s start with what I found in the back of the cabinet behind the canned goods.”

“More canned goods?”

“Daphne Ann, we can have this conversation with you over my knee. Is that what you want?”

“Nutella.”

“Are you supposed to buy Nutella?”

“No.”

“And why not?”

“Because it … It doesn’t really, though. That’s just …”

“Fine, have it your way.”

“Really? Tha…” Hey, how did I end up over Mary’s knee? SMACK! “Ouch!”

“You’re not allowed to have Nutella (SMACK!) because it’s basically your Fentanyl, Daphne Ann.”

That is so an exaggeration. It’s more like my … crack. It’s just … See, the thing is, it’s like peanut butter but it’s made with chocolate, and while I like peanut butter mixed with chocolate, chocolate with the consistency of peanut butter – creamier, actually – is just so versatile and I first tasted it in Europe and it fueled several days of sightseeing I don’t fully recall and it comes in crepes and in gelato and in more gelato and also in crepes and I wasn’t too wound up and that nun at the Vatican raised her voice at me first and besides, I wrote a really nice letter to His Holiness apologizing for the whole thing even though it wasn’t my fault.

“But I like it,” I said in defense of my right to trip balls on creamy chocolate that’s practically just chocolate-flavored sugar. And that nun had an attitude, and the Swiss Guard totally took her side.

“Doesn’t matter. It’s a rule, and also strike one.”

“Just so I can strategize, how many strikes did you identify?”

“We’ll just lump that little remark in with all the other sass.”

“Pshaw! What other sass?” And that doesn’t count as sass, before you go and take Mary’s side.

“And I can’t seem to find my favorite red panties,” Mary said to me as I moved a small rock that was under my arm. I was paying attention. Really. It’s just that we never got around to punishment-prepping our yard.

“Well,” I said, “they’re my favorite too. I just wanted some alone time with them. And I’m keeping them somewhere safe, promise.” I was going to write a ransom note the next day. Really.

SMACK SMACK SMACK!

“And do you want to tell me what I found on the wall under the calendar in the kitchen?”

“O, did you finally get around to putting up the 2021 calendar?” Like 2020 ever ended, right? We didn’t exactly feel a burning rush to hang it up.

“Well, Daffy, you unwrapped it and left it on the table, and I guess the mood just struck me, like I’m guessing it did you when you decided to draw on the wall.”

“Tell me that drawing wasn’t hot. Seriously, I dare you.” I’m not a great artist, but I’m pretty good for an amateur who doesn’t do it almost ever and naturally, I drew something NSFW (Not Safe For Walls). This is the kind of behavior that has gotten me labeled impish in the past, but I prefer to think of myself as just a dirty ol’ lady trapped in a dirty young lady’s body.

“And I saw you put two hundred dollars on our debit card for something from Etsy that I’m guessing isn’t a necessity.”

“Eye of the beholder, Mary.” It is necessary. It is.

“Just proves my point,” she said while taking a handful of my butt and squeezing it the good kind of hard. “When’s the last time you got a spanking?”

“Ten days, give or take.”

“And you just can’t go unspanked ten days or even a week without a serious drop-off in your behavior.”

“Funny, Mary, that you don’t sound all that upset about my behavior,” I said hopefully.

“Of course I’m not upset with you. I understand why you did those things.”

“Good.”

“It’s because you’re just a little girl, and sometimes little girls have a hard time making good choices when they don’t get frequent reminders.”

“That statement isn’t wholly accurate, but please continue.” I’m very polite when I’m over her knee (sometimes), and I’m not sure why. Really. Just something about that position brings out my politeness (occasionally). Also, she was fondling me. She’s a recidivist when it comes to fondling me. It’s like she’s hopelessly attracted to me or something. Really.

“So I’m going to have to punish you,” she said with a certain lilt in her voice suggesting she was not going to punish me very hard at all. Which was okay, I guess. But on the other hand, really needed someone to smack my butt a buncha times. It was dangerously unspanked.

“How,” I asked, turning my head over my shoulder to cast a come hither look at her and wiggling my butt for good measure.

“I’ma smother you with affection.”

“Okay, but how?” I girl can only wiggle her butt so much. Like, geez, take a hint.

“By putting you in the new diapees I got you.”

I take this pause to point out those are not necessities and easily cost over one hundred dollars in the quantities she sometimes buys them if you add up the quantities over a few months.

Anyway, I shut my eyes for a moment. Diapers were exactly the kind of response from her I wanted. Yes, as I said, I like the humiliation that comes with the diapers, but you can only tap that well so many times before it runs dry. Just wearing one around Mary just wasn’t all that embarrassing anymore. It could be. She could make it be. But that particular day I needed more, and did I mention my need for a good, hard spanking was practically a medical condition?

“O,” I said, letting all the disappointment come out. “Is that, um, all?”

“And letting you pick out which onesie you want for the day.”

“Marrrry.”

“I’m going to snuggle you all afternoon and deep into the evening.”

“ … Fine.”

“And I’m gonna make you cut a switch from the magnolia bush and stripe your butt all the way down to your knees.”

What now?

“And then I’m going to paddle your little welted bottom.”

“O,” I said, letting all the conflicted feelings come out. All the feelings. All the conflicted. All coming out in a single syllable that started low, went high, and settled down with a a little reverberation that I feel did a good job expressing all the feelings. Which were conflicted. The switch? And paddled? I do need this butt to live, ya know.

“And I’m going to take pictures to share with some kinky friends.”

“(Sound of me biting my lip).” I don’t bite my lip often. Say pretty much whatever is on my mind. More biting my lip so I didn’t make any involuntary arousal noises. We don’t share pics hardly ever. For obvious reasons but also because if we did, I’d probably do it way too often.

“And I bought a big thing of oatmeal, Daffy, and you’ve lost pants privileges for a couple days.”

“Ugh.” The oatmeal thing. I … ugh.

“It gets worse.”

“It does?” Those short-term regret feelings … they can be powerful. Maybe I shouldn’t have taken her panties. That did get a pretty strong reaction the last time … from both of us.

“Yes. I forgot the sugar. Once I do all these nice and mean things to you, I’m going to need you to go over to Nana’s to get a cup of sugar.”

Well, not ashamed to say that made me a little dizzy in an I-wish-that-didn’t-sound-sorta-fun kinda way. “Marrry. I … Does she know?”

“Mhmm. She and I talked about it. After I told her about your shenanigans, she understands you need a firm reminder that I’m still in charge.”

She talked about the oatmeal thing with Nana? Sjgorhvkfhgfpbfgh! (I don’t resort to the keyboard smash ever, but she talked about the oatmeal thing with Nana? Ohbelbghspjfdfj!!!)

“Can there be something else besides that?” I … the oatmeal thing with Nana? She … I’ve developed a sudden case of tinnitus, I said to myself as I considered the oatmeal withing with Nana (yowhfgjhprtdghhj!!!!!)

“I read about this thing some diaper fetishists do with bananas, if you wanna try that instead.”

“What do they do with them?”

“(Sound of Mary giving me a pointed look).”

My lips made a pop sound as they parted when I grasped her meaning and felt some of my brain circuitry short out. There was a moment of us just looking at each other. She had that I’m-a-very-nice-person-but-I-will-not-be-dissuaded look of hers. And whenever she has that look, it reminds me that while she’s a very nice person, she’s not going to be dissuaded.

“We can try both if you can’t decide.”

“What kind of sugar?” Well, I answered that quick fast and in a hurry.

“Whatever kind you need to make cookies. That’s the day’s plan: spank you silly, diaper your butt, fill your pampers, send you over to Nana’s, bake cookies, and snuggle. How does that sound?”

I considered possible replies. “Is there any answer I can give that won’t make me seem like a total weirdo?”

“I hope not. If there was, then I’d be the only one in the house, and that just wouldn’t be fair to me. Besides, you strung together some of your greatest misbehavior hits. I think that calls for some of my greatest consequences hits.” She gestured for me to roll off her lap. “Stay here. I’ll be right back with the paddle.”

“We’re doing it outside!?!” I’ve been switched outside. That’s quiet (the switch; less so me with the being quiet when there’s a switch involved; I’m a yelper). But paddled? That makes noise. An unmistakable noise. And I was gonna make my own unmistakable noise. We have the privacy fence, but passersby might hear. I didn’t even know if there were any passersby passing by. How could I? How could Mary!?!

“Of course. It’s a nice day,” is what she said.

“But …” She waited for my rejoinder, and I sucked it up and told her something I didn’t want to tell her yet. “Don’t you wanna know what I got on Etsy?”

“What?”

I may have inadvertently (somewhat advertently) twisted my toe into the dirt in an ostentatious display of cuteness (which has gotta work in my favor sometimes, right?), “I got us necklaces. Mine says ‘Mary’s Little Girl’ and yours says ‘Daphne’s Mary.’”

I was saving that as a surprise, but I was hoping the revelation would move my overdue chastisement indoors or even save at least my thighs from a switching. I had my own (bratty) reasons to maybe push more buttons in a short period in my quest to get a reaction. I didn’t think about whether Mary would have her own post-red-light issue besides feeling nervous about giving me a firm hand, but it occurred to me sometime between her description of the switching and her insistence on sending me waddling over Nana’s with a pantload of Quaker Oats that she had apparently decided she needed to reassert who was in charge and do it like the boss’s boss.

Note that I wasn’t exactly putting up a fuss about it, but don’t go reading into that. It’s not like I enjoy the way she mistreats me except for pretty much all the time or at least shortly after the fact.

Anyway, the revelation of my unlawful expenditure led to getting the kind of kiss where she makes it so abundantly clear she’s not concerned if she’s holding me so tight I can hardly move and kissing me so hard I can barely breathe, and when she let me up for air, I don’t mind telling you I did some swooning (and not just because I was mildly hypoxic).

She had me by both arms and was holding me right up against her. She kissed my forehead and just rested her head against mine. O, possibly the best way she ever holds me except there are so many best ways. Sigh …

“Just for that, Daffodil, I’ll let you keep the Nutella this time.” And she kissed me again before telling me, “Stay right here while I go get the paddle.”

Aww, she really likes me.