Mary and Dahne #56

“This is a stupid punishment and I hate it.”  I may have said that. Accounts differ. I don’t recall, or at least that’s what I’ll say if called to testify.

“Too bad,” Mary said. That much, I recall. “Up you go.”

“But ... urgh!”

“Little girl, I’m not the one who left a wet diaper on the bathroom floor, so don’t get mad at me.”

I was coming back for it! I just got distracted after my shower. It was there for maybe twenty minutes, not even. This, boys and girls, is called ‘Mary finds a pretense.’ And I’m NOT. A. Little. Girl!!! DAMMIT!!!

“But I’m not the one making a big deal out of it,” I grumped when I stood up wearing two – count ‘em – two of those stupid diapers of hers.

“Daphne Ann,” she sighed, “you’ve been talking back and a grump for two whole days. Enough. You’re getting your attitude adjusted. Find a corner and put yourself in timeout.”

“What? Noooo. I don’t wannaaaa spankingggggg urrrrrr,” I protested as my feet moved me toward my naughty spot. Stupid feet always being on Mary’s side.

I have not been a grump. I’ve just been grumpy and a pain to be around. Huge difference. And why shouldn’t I be grumpy? In case Mary Sexy–Goddess hasn’t noticed, every–damn–body is grumpy right now because pan-fucking-demic.

And I’d be a lot more amenable to having my attitude adjusted if she just started with that and didn’t go in search of a fake reason to give me a padded consequence. She knows I don’t (entirely) like when she goes pretense shopping, and she does it anyway to push me to the edge and then tip me over her knee when I trip over my tongue. And why the friggin frack I had to wait in timeout when her paddle is on her nightstand ...

I stood there and told myself I didn’t hear that sound. Must be the ocean, haha, please? We don’t live on the beach. Shut up! No, you shut up!

Mary came back in a moment and put her hand on my shoulder very gentle like. I turned ever so slightly and said in perfect earnestness, “I’m sorry I’ve been naughty. Will you please spank my bare bottom, Miss Mary?” She doesn’t make me ask because it’s not up to me when I get spanked, but backpedaling like a Tour de Franzia cyclist, I could damn well hope asking like a polite and o so good and repentant little girl would get me out of worse, I could hope.

“Hmmm, so now you want a spanking?”

“It’s not that I want it but that I know I need and deserve it. Please will you spank my bottom, Miss Mary?” I haven’t tried to suck up to her by calling her ‘Miss Mary’ since the last time she ...

“Um, how ‘bout no?”

“Why the hell not!?!” Oops. “Um, I mean, uh, pretty please?” And stop smirking at me with that predatory look like you’re gonna devour me, I chose not to say. It’s not nice to play with your food.

Stop smiling! I shouted in my head when she smiled at me before she said, “Spanking your bottom clearly isn’t motivating you to change your behavior and make better choices. I think we’ll retire that consequence,” she teased me, “and try some ... new old methods.”

“Inoatcode,” I mumbled under my breath. I probably oughta stop doing that when I’m in trouble.

“What’s that, sweetie? Use your words.”

“I said I know that code!” And stomped my foot because urghhhhh! Crap dammit and gyahhhh!

“Aww – there, there.”

O my god you did not just pat my head! You patronizing, excuse finding love of my life!

“Sometimes we act naughty because we don’t feel well,” she patronized me.

“I feel fine,” I whined.

“And sometimes we need a good cleaning out.”

“O,” I said in the very faint hope I could turn this around, “Why didn’t you say so? We’ll get you all cleaned out, Mary, don’t you ...” THWOCK! Dammit! “You said no more spankings,” which, btw, was a bald lie and empty threat and she’s not allowed to not spank me, but if she can preface all this nonsensery on bad faith, I can at least whine on bad faith.

“Changed my mind, which I get to do because I’m the one in charge. Now, into the bathroom with you.”

“But, um, I’m wearing a diaper so why would I need to go in there?”

“I already told you, sweetie,” she said and did a ninja move so she was behind me, “you need a good cleaning out.”

“No I don’t,” I replied as she reached her hand around and started rubbing my tummy.

“Yep you do,” she said as she started walking and made me move forward against my will. Stupid feet cooperating like a couple’a collaborationist surrender monkeys...

“I don’t, is the thing.”

“Mhmm.”

“Nuh-uh?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Uuughhhhh! Marrrry, this is a ‘just in case’ punishment.” Those are reserved for federal offenses.

“As in just in case you need something to snap you out of it, and I know you’ll feel better after, even if you don’t believe me.”

“I don’t neeeeeed snapping out of it.” Well, perhaps.

“Want to add up your punishments over the last two weeks?”

“But half of those were bullshit,” I whined. I think, or at least hope, accusing someone of bullshit in a whiny tone takes some of the sting out of it.

“You’re always so cooperative when it comes to proving my point for me.”

“I ... Marrr ... (sniffle) ...”

Mary stopped preparing things and hugged me very softly and sat me down on the edge of the tub with her. “There there. You’re alright, Daffodil.”

“I don’t like these (hhhh). They hurt (hhhh).”

“I know they’re uncomfortable (kiss) but that’s why it’s a consequence (kiss). It’ll be over before you know it.”

“Can’t I have a spanking instead?”

“Tell ya what – if you cooperate, you can have a good girl spanking before bed tonight (kiss). You can even be weepy and sniffle the whole time,” she said and wiped away one of my tears. Which was good because I was gonna be weepy whether she let me or not. I’m in charge of my tears. Not in control of them much these days, but definitely in charge of them.

She was rubbing my tummy again, pretty low on my tummy. “Are you ready or do you need another minute?”

“(Sniff). Ready.” Because I’m brave.

“You’re so brave.”

See? (Sniff). Well, brave enough to want to get it over with, not brave enough to look forward to it even a little, let alone to red light.

Mary sat down on the toilet lid, and I stood up in two gigantic diapers. “Over my lap, honey.”

Enemas are a borderline thing for me. It’s not a red light, but it’s a permanent yellow. I’m just not physically made for that. When I see people take two liters (Mary made me watch!) I wonder how the heck they do it and especially how they do it calmly. I’m not so much big with the calmness and the holding still and the not doing the potty dance like it’s Thriller meets Macarena. You think I exaggerate, which I do but only because I hate enemas so much I, your usually entirely reliable narrator, can’t be my regular objective and disinterested self. But there’s some truth because I definitely am not a holder–stiller when it comes to enemas.

I eased myself across her lap. It would be a heckuva lot more comfortable doing this somewhere else (or better yet, not at all), but Mary’s lap is at least one of my safe spaces. Kinda ironic probably if you’re not a kinkster.

She pushed my shirt all the way up, and I said, “W–wait.” You can tell how confident I was feeling because I only stammered the once. “Can we turn the heat up first?”

“Mhmm.” I got up, and Mary went to go do that, and like the best big girl ever, I didn’t even run and hide. She came back and said, “Arms up.” She took my shirt off. “And we don’t need both of these,” she said and slid the outer diaper off. “Step out. We’ll reuse that later,” she narrated and looked around to make sure she had everything she needed. She even checked the enema bag, which is what I’d heard her filling, to make sure it was warm enough still. “Okay,” she said as she sat down. “C’mere.” I shuffled to her, and she kissed my tummy before helping me back over her lap. I was marginally less weepy.

She rubbed my back with the tips of her fingers the way I like, just like my mom used to do when she put me to bed when I was a little girl (but I’m not a little girl, just sayin’ where the back–rubs–with–just–fingertips–calms–Daphne–down thing came from).

“We’ll go real slow, Daffodil.” She was being all soft and quiet and gentle, the way she is when she’s coaxing me into cooperating or just gettin’ all lovey and stuff. Someday I’ll tell you all about the stuff she’s talked me into letting her do or getting me to do.

I laid there with the blood rushing to my head and sniffing back a drippy nose as she tugged down my diaper, put a glove on, and opened up the KY. It’s the kind that warms up, so I guess I had that going for me?

“Be my brave girl and hold real still for your consequence,” she said to me, like o, yeah, this is all about consequences. Eye–roll–into–not–impressed–face. Or I would’ve but I just went “(Sniff)”

She spread my cheeks and squirted some lube on me. “We’re gonna get it nice and deep, baby,” she whispered. “1 ... 2 ...,” and when she went “3,” I went, “egh!” She is gentle when she does that, which isn’t often.

“Want to make sure we get that everywhere it needs to go,” Mary said as each of the knuckles on her ring finger disappeared one at a time. And then reappeared one at a time. And then disappeared one at a time.

“Mar...”

“Shh. You’re okay … Such a sweet girl when you remember to be.”

My sniffles gave way to, “Mmmm hhh! Mmmm,” and my toes did that thing where all ten of them curl up real tight and then try to flee in ten different directions and curl up again. I don’t exactly hate this part of the process, and Mary is rarely so thorough. The last time I got this consequence (and don’t worry, we’re getting to the consequence part) was when I had tried to hide a parking ticket from her. I’ll give her credit for being gentle, if not exactly taking her time like she was now, but only after she broke out the school paddle and beat my butt like a rug. And I wasn’t even dusty!

It seemed to me from my sensory experience of the passing minutes that Mary, as she often does, had gotten distracted. Not that I was complaining or in a rush to move on to the next step. If it were up to me, she’d just keep doing what she was doing, and I’d just keep doing what I was doing. I mean, for onesies, Mary didn’t seem to mind what with her, “You sure are a squirmy little thing today,” and for twosies, all she said about my continued verbal protest (which went “Mmmmmmm MMMmmmm MMMMMmmm eh eh ah ahhhh MMMMMMMmmmm oo,” and so forth) was “You sure are vocal today.”

But she didn’t let me. I don’t think I ever have that way, but I was willing to keep trying, but noooo, Miss Mary I’m–such–a–tease had to stop and remark (because of course she’s gonna make a smart remark) “That should do the trick. Anymore of that and we’ll need to add more lube and warm up the water.” My feelings on that subject were (1) I hadn’t done my trick yet, which Miss Mary Tease–and–denial was just loving, I’m sure, and (2) o yeah, the water. Dammit.

Mary rubbed and patted with her left hand and took the enema nozzle in her right. For my part, I did my best to not get weepy again, but she was taking forever, which was good and bad, and the butterflies in my tummy (whose minutes were numbered) were doing some weird caterpillian mating ritual and my dam broke when Mary unclamped the clamp thingy, which led to, “Eep!” when the water got on my back. I wasn’t expecting that, which was enough to make me go, “Ehaeh (sniff) (sniff) (big sniff). My nose is runny.”

“Sorry, Daf. Just checking the temperature. We’ll wipe your nose in a minute, sweetie.” And she parted my cheeks again and “Ya gonna hold still for me?”

“Mhmm (sniff).”

“And try to do your very best to let it work?”

“Mhmm (snifffffff).” Runny nose was getting to be a bit of a thing.

“Okay …1 ...”

The world’s smallest and softest enema nozzle touched me back there. I told Mary if she wanted to keep this consequence on the just–in–case list, that was the only way I’d let her. Yeah, we have bigger plugs, but I realllly, realllllly, realllllllllly don’t like this consequence and am just plain not good at taking my medicine, as Mary likes to say. It’s such a small nozzle, the hole in it is narrow and it takes longer for the bag to drain, but I insisted on it being slow because I physically can’t do fast. And the nozzle is so soft, it’s not so easy to insert, but Mary manages.

“ … Relax, baby girl, just relax …” I was trying my heccin best, darn it, not exactly a relaxing position or experience even if she had just tried to relax the heck outta me (ooo, ya think that’s why she was so, um, attentive back there?)

“Good girl … One” Oooh, you hear what she called me? She says that because it’s “ … Two …” And I lost my train of thought.

“ … and 3,” she said as she slid the nozzle home. Which is to say after the flange part was situated, which was a whole situation as far as I was concerned, but to Mary it’s just one more thing that happens to her wife who needs consequences and attitude adjustments. “Good girl, such a good girl.”

“Ehuh,” I sobbed. I don’t mind admitting I cry when I’m clearly the wronged party because sympathy is a small victory. I mean, maybe my attitude did stink, but I’m pro–science, and science has proven Mary’s course of action ain’t no cure for a brat. What all those parents in the thirties and forties were thinking about being backed up causing misbehavior was just a bunch of bull.

“It’s gonna hurt,” I squeaked out.

“You’ll be okay. Can you reach the towel?” I did manage to get it with my fingertips, and Mary said to me, “I’d help you honk, but I don’t think you want me to right now.”

Fair point, so I wiped my own nose. Demonstrating, I’ll pause to point out, that I can, in case folks were doubting. She just gets all grabby and likes cleaning me up, and my attitude is if what she’s doing or did made me cry, she can wipe my tears and kiss my boo boos and sigh ... I like her. Most of the time. Feelings are mixed when she’s doing …

“Are you ready?” O yeah, the present reality.

“Mhmm.” If I had to be.

“We’ll go real slow, baby. Here it comes.” I heard the plastic clamp open with a CLICK, and it’s such a weird sensation where for the first few seconds nothing seems to happen, and then you feel different but can’t really say how, and then it feels warm in your belly, way down low.

“Mary…” And she closed the clamp again. Click.

“Good girl,” she answered and stroked my back. “You’re so brave.” I didn’t feel brave anymore. Take me out in public and spank me on a park bench and I’m the bravest little toaster, but this? I’m the cowardliest lion. “You’re doing good … okay.” Click.

I was slowly sobbing while the bag slowly deflated and my belly collected more and more of the warm water. Mary uses just a tiny bit of peppermint soap. Anymore than a tiny bit, and nope. We’d have to move because no way could I hold that in. Click.

“Did I ever tell you how pretty your back is?”

“Eeelm.”

“Use your words, baby girl, remember to breathe.”

“Y–yes.”

“Very pretty. So smooth and soft and feminine.” Click. “Long, steady breaths, Daffy, try to stay relaxed.”  Though actually short, choppy breaths make it easier to take in more water. I imagine that works for people who don’t get so emotional when this is being done to them. We tried it once, and ever since, it’s been ‘long, steady breaths’ not to make it easier but so I don’t hyperventilate and get dizzy and smack my head on the tile floor. Granted the tile is just inches from my head in this position, but it still hurts.

Anyhoo, I was trying to take long, steady breaths, but nope. I panicked instead.

“Urgh. Mar …” I tried to push myself up. Click.

“Shhhhh,” she shhhed me and gently pushed me back down. “Shhhh. Just tell me when you need a break.”

I tried to twist around and couldn’t see the bag. I can’t do a whole one, but Mary always fills it up and tries for as much as I can.

“Wipe your nose again, sweetie. There you go. You don’t need to cry. You’re doing good. A little more.” Click.

I think Mary’s version of “a little” more enema can be best understood if you bear in mind I’m thirty-one and she calls me “a little” girl. At least that’s my opinion, and my opinion deserves a certain primacy in this particular circumstance.

“Mary!” Click.

“That was almost nothing. You’re okay. I promise.” … Click.

Long, smooth breaths became a pipe dream, and when I squirmed, my belly sounded like an unbalanced washing machine (slight exaggeration). But I couldn’t. Nope. Not gonna do it.

“Mary!”

“A little more … a little more …”

“Marrrry!”

“ … … okay.” Click. “Such a good girl. Hold on. I’m taking it out … keep holding it … up!”

Ya know how in the calf roping contest they throw their hands up the split second they’re done? Mary may as well have added “clear!” to that when the nozzle was outta me. I was up and on my feet faster than even Mary can ninja.

“You’re doing good,” she encouraged me. “Let’s get that diaper up.” She managed that while I clutched my belly and did an interpretive dance the meaning of which even the most uncultured could discern. “C’mon, in ya go,” she coaxed me as she guided me into the bathtub. Just to be safe. Not that I ever did, but that I damn near have.

“I need to go!”

“Ten minutes. You can do it.”

“Marrrry…”

“Shhh. You’re okay. You’ve done it before …” She patted my shoulder. “Just over half,” she said referring to the bag. “Good job.”

“Marrryyyy …”

“Ten minutes. That’s the rule. Don’t you wanna follow the rules?”

Urgh, yes, because I’m pathological about rule following for some reason. “Y–yes.”

“Because you’re my good little rule follower. I’m gonna wash my hands. Keep holding.”

Know who has unilateral power to suspend the rules? Mary. So I sacrificed some dignity (which I’ve been finding in the weirdest places lately) and turned so I could make weepy puppy dog eyes at her in the hope of moving her to mercy before I had a movement of my own. I’ve never had to make the choice between following the rules, bowling her over on my way to the toilet, or knocking 2% off the resale value of our home, but I don’t think I ever did more than half the bag before.

She dried her hands and plucked some tissues for me, ignored my puppy dog eyes, and wiped my tears, which were still leaking. Thankfully, only thing leaking.

“You’re doing good,” she told me and gave me a kiss. “And now you have your pampers on.” O, lemme count the things wrong with that sentence.

“They’re not pampers,” I whined. It was a nice distraction from the matter at hand.

“They’re not?”

“No … that’s a brand.” I may misbehave from time to time, but I respect intellectual property. “And they’re not mine, they’re yours.”

“Look awfully like yours the way they’re taped around your butt,” she said and rubbed my belly for me, making the stupid thing crinkle.

“You buy ‘em.”

“As a gift for you.”

“I don’t … o o ooooourgh …” Stupid cramps!  “Mary, please!”

“Just six and a half more minutes.” Stupid half!  “You can do it … You were saying something about your pampers…”

“Not …. oooooourgh! … (deep breaths) …  funny. You like ‘em, so they’re yours.”

“I like ‘em on you, so they’re yours.”

“I only wear ‘em because you make me.”

“You can red light anytime you want. I’ll be waiting.” Dammit it all to … ooooouuughhh. “It’s okay if you can’t, Daffy, I won’t be mad. Pampers are for that, too.”

“No … never … ouuuugh … okay, okay, breathe.”

“You’re more than halfway there.”

“Please!”

“But you’re doing so good.” I don’t know if the dance routine helps, but Mary turned off the music in my head with one of her signature safe harbor hugs. She may be a domme, and she may be my domme, but she’s only ever rough with me when I need (or want) it. She was rubbing my back again and pressing my face to her chest and shushing me.

When she stepped back, she took one look at my face, with me trying very hard to not burst into bigantic (new word) tears, and reached the same conclusion I did: in ten seconds, either the tears were coming out or something else was, and if not the something, just count to ten again.

“Okay. Good girl. Call me when you’re done,” she said over her shoulder as she flipped the fan on and closed the door behind her. I don’t think it was technically ten minutes yet, but my queen is merciful. And practical.

I’ll spare you the details.

To say I was relieved would just be a bad pun, because while I felt physically better, I didn’t feel so hot emotionally. ‘Nother bad pun: that’s a draining experience.

“Mary?” I’m not sure why she has me call her, except maybe because the embarrassment is part of the consequence. She hadn’t gone far and reappeared.

“All done?” I just nodded. “You’re sure?”

“Yeah.”

“How many times …”

“Marrry!”

“Okay. Just looking out for you.”

“Such a big,” I muttered.

“Yes you are a big girl,” she said, perhaps or perhaps not mishearing me. “Let’s wash your hands.”

“I can do it.”

“And I can help.” She washed my face for me, too. “There’s my pretty girl. Let’s get some clothes on you. Your tummy feel okay?”

“I think so.”

“We’ll get you all padded up and warm in a jiff.” There’s no gif of that. (No fighting over how you say it). Changing stuff was on the bed, of course. “Lie down for me …” She paused and appeared to think and then set aside the cloth diapers she’d gotten out. “For later. Let’s keep you in the ‘sposables for now.” What, you just dropping syllables now?

She took what had recently been the outer diaper and untaped it. I lifted and she slid it under me. “Keep your knees up; I got you a treat.” I tried to see, but it was hard to see, and anyway, I knew what she got me. “Know that smell,” she asked me as she rubbed the Desitin in, including on a spot that was a little … we’ll call it ‘exercised.’ Word has so many means, all of them apt to the occasion.

“Thank you,” I managed to say.

“And such a good job you did wiping!”

Aww, dammit! Just when you think she’s done with the making me blush so hard it starts to give me a headache …

“And tape and tape and tape and tape.” CRINKLE–PAT CRINKLE–PAT. “Lemme know if you need to go again. We’ll get that right off. Be right back.”

I heard her washing her hands and rolled over to crawl toward my pillows. I tapped my phone: 9:27. I remember Saturday mornings in the recent (but doesn’t feel recent) past when we used to have stuff to do. I grabbed a pillow and hugged it. I didn’t notice Mary carrying the diaper I had been wearing until she said, “Such a good job holding,” adding a wink to let me know, yep, she’d looked inside it. Into the wastebasket it went. “We’re gonna need a better solution than this,” she said as she set the wastebasket by the door to take to the trash downstairs. “Daffy?”

“(Sniff).”

“Aww, baby girl. Scoot over for me.” She spooned me, I spooned the pillow. She found a stray corner of cover and pulled it over me. “You were so brave.”

“(Doubtful and sad teacup beagle noise)”

“Yes you were. And you took so much. I bet you feel better inside.” Well, lighter? “And it cured your grumpiness.”

“It’s only been a few minutes.”

“Bigs can tell these things.”

Wait, did she just … Did she just admit … I rolled over so I could see if she was serious.

“What,” she asked earnestly. I can tell the difference. Mary has earnest–earnest, faux–earnest, and we–all–know–I’m–full–of–it–but–you–better–humor–me–or–your–butt–will–pay–the–price degrees of earnestness. When I didn’t say anything, she smiled at me and kissed me and brushed my hair out of my eyes even though it wasn’t in my eyes and kissed me again. I rolled back over.

“I’m proud of you for cooperating and trying so hard.”

Sigh … I do try to make good choices and do as I’m told. I like doing as I’m told (most of the time, when it doesn’t conflict with other things I like). And I think I’m good at it most of the time, and always when it really counts.

“Are you proud of me for regular stuff, too?”

“Of course I am, Daphne Ann, every single day … Well, why’d you ask if it was gonna make you cry again?”

“I’m sorry (sniff).”

“Don’t you ever apologize for needing to cry … And after I just washed your pretty face.” I was trying to stop. Really!

“Imrying.”

“I know you’re crying, sweetie,” she laughed softly.

“I’m trying,’” I repeated in my cry voice.

“Just let it all out, baby girl.”

“Okay!”

Offer–the–fuck–accepted. I rolled over and sob–wailed into Mary’s chest. Too damn many emotions packed into too damn short a time span. Grumpy to angry to scared to weepy to horny to scared to weepy to uncomfortable to scared to still weepy to hurt and still scared to relieved to weepy to sooooo in love with my wife, and I wasn’t even done with one emotion when BAM! The next one arrived.

And in less than an hour! I may be a big girl, but I’m not superhuman. I’m just a super human. And did I mention the emotional toll of being super?!?

But seriously … “Let it all out … there ya go … told ya we’d clean all the yucky emotions out (kiss). My very good girl.”

Welp, she was right again, even if she was wonderfully and purposely oblique about her meaning. I emoted all over the damn place. Mostly on our covers and Mary. Kept my pampers spotless though. Her pampers. Diapers! Absorbent briefs with hearts and ponies on them! (Dammit!!!)

“Waaaaahhhh….”

“(Kiss) We’ll get you a hot bath when you’re done … In the other bathroom … My very bestest good girl.”