Mary and Daphne #41

Jane and I, and Mary, had a good time after our nap (or Jane’s nap, Mary’s finishing up work, and my creeping around the bedroom with a sharpie in hand and ‘DIAPER BUTT’ on my diapered butt). I think Mary had an especially good time playing the big to Jane’s very willing little, and Jane easily slid up and down her fake age range from toddler to adult as suited her in the moment.

I honestly don’t get it, the whole regression thing where she can just shut off the adult part of her brain. The only way I can be entertained by little stuff is by doing it with Jane, because it’s fun to play with Jane when she’s little (most of the time, meaning most of the time when she’s not bratting but sometimes when she is also), and maybe that means I have more in common with Mary’s end of the age play spectrum than Jane’s.

To the extent I allegedly, but not really, and may be, but really am not, and sort of, but I’ll punch you in the nose if you say so, am starting to, but not very much, enjoy (but absolutely hate) some of Mary’s blending of ageplay with our domestic discipline, it’s more because it rubs my humiliation and submission happy spots, which is not the same thing as liking ageplay or some of the particular manifestations of it that had made their way into my home, like the one wrapped around my waist (for the last too many hours, which is a number of hours that begins with ‘any’).

And I get how it could look from the outside, particularly if you’re looking at and understand the nuances of my outsides and their relationship to my insides. I understand how that could lead one to mistake my liking those particular contributions to my humiliation and submission fetishes for the same thing as liking ageplay and these incontinence aides, and to thinking those are my jam.

But those are just lies and misnomers and malicious rumors started by my enemies and perpetuated by social media, word of mouth, and the 24/7 news cycle. There’s zero truth to it at all. Really. My being confused by it is also one of the rumors, and I call on the faithful to be part of the solution and not the problem. (Please?).

So, like they always say, don’t let the sun go down on unresolved issues, like, as a random for instance not driven by recent events that I inadvertently caused, letting your wife think you’ve crossed into a new level of not just acceptance but active and happy participation in a fetish you’re not jazzed about. And yet just typing that makes me wanna do jazz hands, but who doesn’t always want to do jazz hands? 2020 needs more jazz hands. Anyway…

“Um, Mary,” I ventured from the door of our bedroom.

“What’s up, buttercup,” she sunnily asked me from our bed where she was reading a book and looking ready for sleep, all shiny and showered.

I stayed in the doorway and innocently inquired, “You know that rule where if I confess to something I don’t get in trouble for it?”

She grinned at me and closed her book. “We don’t have that rule.”

“Well, not, like written down, but more as just an … understanding … maybe please?”

“How ‘bout no,” she said and smiled at me like I was the Snack Pack pudding in her lunch. I could tell her spanky sense was tingling, but pretty sure just about anyone woulda looked at her and thought, ‘There’s a woman about to slap a butt. Repeatedly.’ And, to be clear, totally worth a smack bottom if in the course of it we dispelled any mistaken notions about who did what for reasons not true. “But to encourage your honesty, why don’t you stop fidgeting in the doorway and tell me what it is you want to confess, and I promise to be merciful?”

“Do you mean merciful or kinky merciful?” Color me a skeptic what with having my butt colored red so many times.

“Daffy, just c’mere.” She scooted over and patted the bed next to her.

“I am not a silly goose,” I said while making my way confidently to her side. I’d projected nothing but stern and steely poise from the moment I walked in the room (right?) and wasn’t about to shrink before her now.

“I didn’t say you were.”

“You were thinking it,” I sassed, but not really because I don’t sass. Another rumor perpetuated by not just my enemies but the enemies of truth itself. They are legion these days.

“Yeah,” Mary deadpanned, “I was.” I sat down beside her. I hadn’t fully sunk into the mattress before her hand was on my shorts. “How are you not more wet?”

Like I was going to dignify that with a response, much less the truth (been (mostly) holding it until bedtime). “About today,” I began, pointedly ignoring her query.

And stopped, because I hadn’t figured out exactly how to say this. Should I frame it around my quest for justice or go straight at the misperception I allegedly (totally) fostered (dove head first into like a cartoon animal running at a wall, and STILL had no roadrunner to show for it).

“Mhmm,” Mary said. Or asked.

“I, um …”

Dammit! She was giving me The Look. Not the look that says ‘bend over my lap’ or the one that says ‘you’ve really done it now’ or the one that says ‘you’d better knock it off (or not) if you know what’s good (wonderful) for you.’ But The Look, the one she’d been flashing so damn often since the start of the whole quarantine mess, the one that says ‘I’m the happiest person in the world because you’re all mine.’ And this is just an aside, but I have a look like that, and when I look like I’m looking like that I just look dopey (did you follow that?), and she looks like a World Conquering Chief Love Officer. It’s so not fair.

And when she looks at me with The Look, my spirit animal, which is also me because I am my own spirit animal, channels its inner golden retriever and just wants to do anything to make her happy. Bring her her slippers? On my way. Kill a rabbit and leave it on the doorstep as a gift? I’ll do it even if I’m crying over the poor bunny the whole time. Dive over her lap and present my bottom for her ministrations? Sure. Lay on my back and let her put a diaper on me? Apparently, which is how this whole hot mess get started in the first place. Although I did put up a little more resistance than that the first time, now that I think on it. She did have to spank me first and threaten me with a lot more. And I resisted some other times. Not in a while. But in general, we (me, my spirit animal which is also me, and my spirit animal’s inner golden retriever) aim to please. And she had so much fun that day…

“Daffy!?! Do I need to tickle it outta you,” she asked when I spaced out thinking of how to approach the issue.

“You’d better not,” I said in an oddly, cutely grumpy way.

“Then…”

“I was lost in thought.” There’s, like, fifteen thousand miles of synapses in the human brain. It’s a miracle more thoughts don’t get lost trying to navigate those railroad tracks.

“So what is it you wanna say…”

“Um, see, ya know how I put on a pullup without you telling me today?”

“I vaguely recall.” Smartass.

“And, uh, how it, was, um … damp.”

“You leaked all over your shorts.”

“It was not ‘all over!’”

“If you say so.”

“Well, I just did. So there.” For the record, because you may hear differently from the rumor mill later, I was not pouting.

“Do you have some more to this story,” she asked me.

“And when I drew on Jane’s picture, and you thought I did it because I was embarrassed?”

“Well, mostly I thought you did it because you were trying to act like a little and thought the best way to do that was to be a meanie head.”

“I am not a meanie head!” You are! Is a thing I would say, I mean, if I were the type of person to call others meanie heads, which I am not.

“I know you’re not. Of all the ways you make naughty choices, being a meanie head is rarely one of them.” And then she kissed me. And I will confess to liking that without any hesitation, because that’s normal. About the only normal thing about me lately, but anyhoo…

“Um, well, thank you. I always try to be kind.”

“And you are. But that’s not what you wanted to talk to me about. Or is it still a confession?”

“Both. I, uh, you seemed to have a lot of fun and be really happy when you noticed my … ahem, choice of attire, which is fine, but I didn’t want you to think that I wanted to wear that … Because I didn’t.” In fact, I don’t know how I came to be wearing that. It’s a mystery, like the Holy Trinity or where baby storks come from. Or do storks just bring each other baby storks?

“You didn’t?” She looked skeptical. A whole bunch skeptical. “I see. So …”

“I was trying to get you to spank Jane.” There. I confessed. And did not feel better. Well, not much. And then Mary was wearing that other look which had also become a go–to of hers during quarantine, the look that says, ‘I married a crazy person.’

“You … put on a pullup … so that I would spank Jane … I don’t … nope, I don’t get it.”

“You said you’d spank Jane if she got in trouble when she was over. I was trying to get her to make fun of me … and it woulda worked, too, if you hadn’t enlisted her as your helper … and it was water in that pullup … mostly.” And with the slightest, almost indiscernible wrinkle around the eye, she takes on the I-married-an-adorable-crazy-person’ look. She has so many looks. I have many looks, but almost all of them are variations on dopey, mopey, awkward, confused, nerd-trying-to-get-laid, or but-I-don’t-wanna-spanking!

She didn’t say anything. She seemed to be mulling that idea over in her head. Well, if she wasn’t sure what to make of it, that made two of us. “Well, Miss Fibber McGee … you were awfully … acquiescent after she agreed to be my helper.”

“Well, duh … I mean, yes, because I was still hoping she’d make funna me. And that’s why I drew on her picture. To pick a fight so she’d get in trouble. I didn’t mean to make her cry … I meant for you to make her cry.”

“Why?”

“For all the times she got me in trouble and got off with a game of tic tac toe on her butt while I got spanked like, like …” Dammit, where did my gift for similes go?

“Like a naughty little girl?”

“Maybe…”

“Naughty little girls shouldn’t try to get their friends in trouble.”

“Paddle or hairbrush,” I moaned.

“Topping from the bottom again?”

“Just trying to be helpful.” I’m very helpful. My first grade teacher put it right on my report card: Daphne is a very good helper. First grade teachers are experts at spotting good helpers.

“And are you sure you’re telling the whole truth? You’re not leaving anything out?”

“Like what?”

“Like any other mischief.”

“Well, you’re gonna think this is funny. And maybe also that I’m an evil genius, but I’m not. Evil, I mean; genius, yes. And actually, I’d like to take a step back …”

I really need a lawyer for these things, because I meant to start this off with a key talking point: “What you just labeled ‘mischief’ was actually a quest for justice. A sacred quest, actually, not that I’m being sacrilegious but just, uh, it was a justice mission to get, um, justice for, ahem, all the times she got me in trouble when I, um, didn’t really deserve it … fully … Not that you’ve ever been unjust! You’ve just, um, acted sometimes without all the, um, pertinent facts, a few times, not many. Never, really, but once or twice. In fact, you’re very just, like the lady in the front of the courthouse except, um, hotter … love you.”

I am so pathetic. I don’t know whatever made me think I could be a general in a war for justice. At best I topped out at ensign. Navy uniforms being way sexier, but anyhoo…

“Okay,” Mary said, looking bemused because she loves it when I get all flummoxed and squirmy. If there was a streaming service that was just me squirming, she wouldn’t even bother with the free trial. She’d just shell out that $9.99 a month and count herself lucky to live in the age of streaming. “So on this little quest, what else did you do?” There she goes throwing around the word ‘little’ again like it’s not a big deal.

“I was, um, going to frame her, since she didn’t make funna me and didn’t …”

“Take your bait?”

“Yeah.”

“Frame her for what, exactly.”

“Making funna me.”

“How do you frame someone for making fun of you?”

Wow, so this is a lot more embarrassing than even I thought it would be. I slid off the bed, opting not to verbally explain or, ya know, look my wife in the eye in that moment, dropped my shorts, and asked, “Can you see it?”

“See …” I bent over a wee bit. “Ha! Hahahaha!”

“Stop laughing!”

“Aww, I’m laughing at how clever you are. You are a little evil genius,” she said and held out her arms for me.

“I’m not little,” I said as I accepted her invitation to snuggle. People who are not little snuggle … while wearing a diaper. Dammit…

“So,” I said by way of summary, “today was not a cry for being treated like a little. It was all part of an elaborate scheme … that woulda succeeded if Jane had stayed true to character. Am I in trouble?”

“No, you’re not in trouble.”

“And you’re not mad?”

“Of course not. Why would you be worried I would be?”

“Well, you’re not disappointed?”

“About what?”

“That … you had so much fun today. I don’t … that I got your hopes up that I, I dunno, that I finally bought into the diapers and being a little thing.”

“I did have fun today, and you definitely had me wondering what was up, but I thought you probably just wanted to play with little Jane. You haven’t gotten to play with another little in so long.”

“Marryyyy!”

“You heard that, huh?”

“Every time … so you’re really not disappointed?”

“No.”

“And you don’t wish I was little like Jane … You had a lot of fun with her.”

“Jealous?”

“No … in a ‘yes’ way, a bit.”

“I had a lot of fun with Jane, but I don’t wish you were a little like Jane. I’m surprised you haven’t figured that out by now.”

“Haven’t figured what out?”

“That I like you the way you are.”

“And how am I?”

“Adorably befuddled.”

“I am not befuddled!” Fuddled, maybe. But befuddled? No way.

“O, my mistake. Here I thought that sometimes when you’re squirming and blushing in embarrassment, you were also writhing and getting all flushed and hot and bothered … or was I perhaps right?”

Of course, telling the truth is no fun at all. In a game of cat–and–mouse, the mouse can’t just stand there and tell the truth. Takes all the fun of out … being eaten, I guess. Which has a certain verisimilitude …

“I don’t know where you’re getting that from,” I said coyly.

“You don’t?”

“Nope. Way off base.”

“So that little streak of red, running from your cheek down your neck to this little spot on your collar bone, that’s all embarrassment?”

“Mhmm,” I said a little breathily.

“That’s odd, because that spot always get red when I make you cum.” Heehee. She noticed that spot, too, huh? "And the way you spontaneously shudder when I trace my finger down that pretty little back of yours when you’re over my me knee, that’s always you squirming in embarrassment, too?”

“Yes.” We take what the good lord gives us, like how when Mary is aroused, she looks like Athena in perfect control of the universe, whereas I react like a loyal but not very bright golden retriever who collapses in a puddle if someone rubs my belly the right way.

“And you hate everything about how I enlisted your friend to help change your potty pants, which you’ve been wearing all day without a word of complaint, or being put in time out for acting out, and drawing pictures to hang on the fridge?”

“I do! Really!” Maybe she has a point about me being befuddled. At a minimum, I was feeling a least a little kerfluffled.

“That’s too bad then,” she said. And took her hand away.

Hey! Hey lady! Finish that belly rub! Finish it! I’ll do tricks! I’ll balance a cookie on my nose! TOUCH MY BELLY!

“I guess we’ll just turn the light off and go to bed,” she teased

“You are such a tease,” I whined while neither squirming nor writhing. It was a small seizure is all. Really, she shoulda been gravely concerned for my health, if she was paying attention at all.

“And you are such a diaper butt. It says so right …” POP!

“No fair.”

“So let me get this straight then. You were going to frame Jane.”

“Yep.”

"And I shouldn't regard those antics as something one would expect from, o, say, a middle?"

"Not even a little. I mean, no! No." Ha! Also, oops.

"Uh huh, if you say so. And then you wrote on your own butt.”

“Uh huh.”

“And then changed your mind?”

“Pretty much.”

“What made you change your mind?”

“She’s my friend.”

“Aww. See? Not a mean bone in your body.”

“Nary a one, unfortunately.” Which is why so many of my rants collapse under their own weight before they even get going. See, for example, my most recent employment experience.

“How did you manage to write on your own butt?”

“I took the diaper off, silly.”

“Excuse me, little girl? You did what?” Crap. With a capital C, which stand for crap. “Who is allowed to take your diaper off?”

“You and anybody you say.”

“And did I say you are allowed to take your diaper off?”

“No.”

“No. In fact, I made it very clear that once your butt is in a diaper, it stays on until I say.”

“I put it right back on.”

“And before you put it back on, it was …”

“Off. But I was on a sacred quest for justice?”

“Uh huh.”

“Sometimes goodness needs the help of a little badness?”

“Uh huh.”

“Paddle or hairbrush?”

“I think my hand will be sufficient for this reminder.” She let go of the hug she had on me, and I obediently laid myself over her lap.

“Don’t you feel like a naughty little girl, getting a spanking on her diapered bottom.”

“Yes.” THWOCK!

“Good. Because I’m …”

“NO! NO! HA! STOP! PLEASE! I’M TICKLISH!!!”

“O, having been living with you for four years, I didn’t notice!”

“AHH! HEEHEEHEE! MAR… I’M GONNA PEE!” Which I’d never done (five times?) while being tickled before in my life (after age six, except two of those times) when sober (except one of those times).

“Like you’re a stranger to wetting your diaper. Little Miss Piddle Pants!”

“AHH! AIEEE! MARYYYY!”

“But!” She exclaimed, her hands stopping their assault, “I am just, and not a meanie head, either, so I’ll observe the mercy rule.”

“My hero,” I said. THWOCK! How Mary perceived that as sarcastic, I’ll never know. She was just off her perception game that day. “Can I get up now?”

“No.”

“But I really do hafta pee.”

“I know, and if I were you, I’d do it now before bedtime so you can go to sleep in a dry diaper.”

“I hafta wear a diaper to bed?”

“Yep.”

“But I thought I wasn’t in trouble.”

“You’re not.”

“O.”

“So…”

“I can’t do it lying over your legs.”

“Yes ya can … but if it will help…” She let me sit up. “Gimme a footsie.”

“Marrryyy!”

“There you go again with that little red spot on your collar bone. So easily embarrassed.”

“What do my feet hafta to do with anything … Maryyyyy! That tickles!”

I'm beginning to suspect one of us has the other's number, but I'm not sure which.