Mary and Daphne #16

Scene #16

I regret nothing. Totally worth it. So totally worth the spanking I just got and the one I’m gonna get when I get home. I snapped, and it was so worth it.

Video games probably result in a statistically significant share of the world’s spankings. Not that I ever got spanked for it growing up, but I got in trouble for swearing at the TV while playing (you should’ve heard my grandma swearing at the TV during baseball season - holy shit), and for fighting with my brother and sister over whose turn it was. Standard stuff. 

I think part of my mother’s impatience with the thing was just that she had an outdated view of video games in general. If she really believed a word she said when she was chasing me outta the house to go play, then she must still be wondering why my brain hasn’t melted. As opposed to classic board games with their compelling narrative arcs (“Sorry!” Really? Why don’t I play “Sorry!”?). She never minded us playing those (I will admit Battleship has a certain degree of drama if you use your imagination - those poor souls.)

And she just didn’t understand how I could like video games. Give her a break because it was a long time ago and video games at home were still kinda new, but to her they were boys’ toys. I had my share of Barbies (nothing happens when you bump Barbie up against Ken, but when you bump Barbie up against your other Barbie, you can kinda see how that would work in real life), so I wasn’t playing in dirt and dressing as He-man for Halloween or anything. She’d ask what I wanted for Christmas or my birthday, and I’d say a video game, among other things, and she’d say, “How can you like those,” but one would show up under the tree for me anyway. 

Still, by the time I was fourteen, I wanted to say, I just do, every time she asked me how I could like video games. By the time I was sixteen, I was ready to say, Guess what else I like! And then I did when I was 17. Not in the context of video games, but in the context of the world’s most overdue and awkward “talk” anyone’s ever tried to have.

Mom, looking like she studied early 1990s after school specials and YouTube videos on tone and body language for this occasion: “Honey, you’ve been a woman for some time now, and it’s time we talk about birth control.” 

Dad, looking like he’d agreed to not shoot boys on sight only to make Mom happy: “Just ... Jesus Christ almighty.” And then he put his head in his hands.

Me: “Can we not have this conversation if I tell you I’m a lesbian?” Awkward pause. “Good news for all of us then.”

Two hours later, after I’m done teaching them, the last question my dad has is, “Is ‘lesbian’ spelled with a capitol L?”

“Yes, Dad. It’s a proper noun, like the Dodgers.” Went right over his head. I’m almost positive he would capitalize it if he ever had a reason to write the word.

Anyway, it started out as a normal day. Actually, there’s nothing abnormal about me getting spanked, so it was normal a day all day. I met my friend Jane to go shopping. Just plain vanilla shopping. Jane is a little and her wife slash big is Lisa. Lisa is on Mary’s “May Spank Daphne” list, and Mary has put Jane over her knee when she needed it. Jane isn’t a spanko like me and Mary. She’s just a little, and getting spanked happens to naughty littles. Sometimes she tries to get one, but more often she just brats because she loves being a brat and then she finds herself in the corner wondering exactly where she crossed the line. 

I think I told you about the party we went to that ended with Jane goading me into snapping at her, and then Mary spanked the crap outta me and played the gentlest game patty cake ever on Jane’s butt because she’s “just a little girl.” She’s thirty-freakin-three.

We finished our shopping trip, and went back to her house, where Lisa had lunch waiting for us. I don’t know when Mary and I crossed the line from domestic discipline to ageplay. I’m not even sure if we have, but Lisa has treated me like a middle ever since Mary blessed her with spanking privileges. I don’t mind. It’s endearing, really. 

Jane transformed from little-pretending-to-be-an-adult to very-tall-kindergartner the moment we got inside, and five minutes later, there was a glass of milk and a peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich in front of me; Jane’s sandwich was in the shape of a kitty, sort of, and I assured Lisa she didn’t need to cut the crusts off mine. She may think of me as a middle, but I have a grown up palate. I’m probably not alone when I say that somehow peanut butter and jelly goes great with Cheetos and I wanna know why. Really, a very grown up palate. Grown up enough to know that PB&J is just three different forms of sugar, which is why virtually everyone likes it so much.

I thanked Lisa, and I even offered to wash the plates, but she showed me out of the kitchen with a pat on my butt and I cringed because no way she didn’t feel the pull-up Mary had me wear for the day. Jane and I sat down to play some video games in the living room. I don’t know how she and Lisa divvy up household responsibilities or if cleaning while Jane plays just makes Lisa feel even more like a mommy, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen Jane clean anything, ever. 

Anyhoo, Jane and I like some of the same games (yes, adults play video games, to all you boomers out there with your cable news and your questions about which remote does what). I’m more than happy to play her little games - it’s fun to play with littles, to a point; they just get so happy at small stuff - and we did. I’m not sure what my little pony’s name was, but we played, and then we switched to a game both of us like.

I don’t know if Jane got bratty because she was losing or just because she has fun bratting. I do know that beating the pants off someone at a video game is fun as hell. Used to beat my brothers, used to beat my friends when I could convince them to play, and used to beat my dad when he’d try video games just to spend time with me; golden memories. Three different skill levels, and the worse they were at it, the more fun it was for me in a sadistic sorta way. Maybe Jane figured if she couldn’t beat me at being mean on screen, she could beat me at being mean off screen 

“This is stupid. All your games are stupid,” she said, and I didn’t point out that this was her game, literally.

I will admit to not exactly responding in the most mature way. You can’t enjoy all the pleasures schadenfreude has to offer if you’re mature about it. It’s like sex: it’s not all about the orgasm, but ya get lot more outta the experience with it than without it (if you take your time). So perhaps, “The game’s not stupid. You just suck at it,” wasn’t the most clever response, but all in good fun. At first.

“You’re stupid.” Littles are so clever.

“I know you are but what am it.” I’m not proud.

“Stupid.” Touché.

Lisa heard our witty banter and called out from the kitchen, “If you can’t play nice, I’m gonna take it away.”

“Sorry,” we said in unison.

It’s funny how when Jane is being bratty and she gets frustrated, her little age goes from about five to middle-school mean-girl. “You’re cheating,” she accused me, which I wasn’t. Not even sure how a person could cheat at that game.

“I am not. You just never play against anybody who’s good.”

“You can be such a bitch sometimes.” I hit pause. Part of our job sometimes is to watch out for littles.

“What will happen if your mommy hears you say that?” 

Jane is a cutey. I don’t know if she does it on purpose or if it’s natural to her, but she makes the most ridiculous sad faces. “Wash my mouth out and give me a spankin’.” I don’t know how she just loses her Gs like that. Littles are weird animals.

“I won’t tell her, but you need to use nice words.”

“Sorry. I’ll be nice.”

See? I can be the more mature person when necessary, and I can play along with bratting littles, and I can even enjoy it. We went back to playing, and in a best-of-five game, I scored four points and then let her get three I did a pretty good job of making it seem like I wasn’t throwing the game. Now she was having a blast. I might have even let her win (probably not).

She got cocky. The game went from stupid to “You suck at this” and “You’re not so happy now, are ya” and I just kept my smile to myself. I could’ve won at any point. I let her get her fourth point, and I’ll admit that I was kinda letting her get close because it would make it that much more fun when I took my fifth (not really kinda; that’s exactly what I was doing) but she was having so much fun I was wavering. Sometimes ya gotta throw a game; it’s nice, and it’s also crucial if you ever want that person to play with you again.

Then she sealed her fate. Never do a victory dance until you’re the victor. Part of our job is teaching littles, and that’s the lesson I taught her. 

Pow. Game over. So sorry. Maybe next time. Probably not though.

I don’t know where Lisa was. Upstairs or outside, because she didn’t hear (1) Jane’s controller bounce off the floor or (2), “I hate those game and you suck and you are too a crap head!”

So maybe I deserved that. I set a trap, and she walked into it, and it was fun for me, and not fun for her. Or it was briefly, but when you get so close and lose, it takes away the fun. I couldn’t help but chuckle at her little outburst though, which in her headspace apparently pissed her off something mighty, and nothing I could say could calm her down.

“It’s okay.” She may have believed that, but it didn’t change her opinion of me as a crap head, apparently.

“It doesn’t matter who’s better at the game.” I didn’t believe that - ha! 

“I least I don’t wear pull-ups.”

Gee, thanks a lot, Mary, both for making me wear them and for letting word get around.

“Jane, that’s not nice.” Calming down pissed off littles (and kids younger than 10) lesion #1: if you show them they found a weak spot, they find a stick and start poking at it. 

“Jane...”

“Pull-up pull-up pull-up!”

“Honey...”

“Pull-up face!”

“I’m gonna count to three ...” Jane slipped into her headspace when she walked through the door. When did I slip into my headspace and start responding to her like she really is five and I’m, I don’t know, her big sister or babysitter or something, who knows? Nothing happens after three. Well, normally. When Mary counts to three, woe unto my ass if I don’t take heed.

“Diaper butt!”

I swatted the outside of her thigh. I would never in a million years hit a child, but she’s not a child. She’s a little. A very long time ago, she told me if she was in her headspace, that’s how she wanted me to treat her, like a little, if I was comfortable with it. I gave her that swat without a second thought.

She stopped, looked at me kinda funny, and practically screamed, “DIAPER BUTT!!!”

Welp, I promised her one day I’d spank her for real, and I told myself it would be worth it. I don’t know what constitutes a spanking between her and Lisa. Probably more than what Mary gave her at that party (like, six spanks; I get twice that in ad hoc smacks just walking through the living room over the course of a week).

I tipped her over, yanked up her skirt, gave her a mother of a wedgie, and started spanking that butt. I don’t even remember the last time before that that I gave a spanking. Shoot, it may have been to myself. But you don’t forget how. You may forget in the moment that Lisa is there, though.

I like to think I got in fifty hard and fast ones before Lisa stopped me; it was probably just twenty-five. Between the smacking sound and Jane squealing, I didn’t even hear Lisa until she grabbed my wrist.

“Daphne Ann!” I’m pretty sure Mary has inadvertently taught almost everybody we know what my middle name is. Lisa had Jane in her arms like a mama bear protecting her cub, and suddenly I was on the defensive. I was no longer the “oldest” person in the room. Can’t exactly say I was sorry though. It’s hard to tell the difference between tears and crocodile tears when they’re coming from a little. I had my suspicions.

“What on earth is going on in here?” Poor little Jane retreated back to her I’m-so-traumatized-I-can’t-speak-and-need-my-mommy routine.

“She was throwing a tantrum,” I defended myself. “I was just pushing her reset button.” Mary uses that term with me. My butt: a behavioral reset button. 

“Who does the spanking in this house?” 

Jane magically recovered her powers of speech. “Mommy!”

“That’s right.”

“But,” I tried to think of something else relative mature sounding, but instead I said, “she was making fun of me.” So I started out as trying to justify myself by playing the reasonable adult who unfortunately had to give the little a spank on her reset button, and then I kicked the shit out of the stool holding up that (weak) argument and made myself the middle who got angry because the little was making fun of her. Also something I’m not proud of, but I’d still do it again.

“It that true,” she asked Jane.

“All I said was she wears pull-ups and she does!”

“She called me diaper butt!” I’m pathetic. I admit this and am still glad I spanked her. 

“She is,” Jane said again. “Diaper butt!”

Lisa sort of sighed. It seemed like a very genuine mommy sigh. She led Jane to a corner and told her to stay there. My satisfaction was brief. I sat there and didn’t anticipate the ear grab (fucking ow!) and then I was in the other corner. “You two stay where you are.” I let out a very genuine Daphne sigh. In the corner again. Woopty doo.

“Don’t turn around until I tell you,” Lisa said. Yeah yeah. Like I don’t know the rules of corner time. Probably beat the pants off of Jane at corner time, too.

At least I didn’t have to go first. I stood in my corner and smiled because finally Jane was going to get the spanking she deserved. I just listened while Lisa lectured.

“You know better than to name call. We do not say mean things, do we?”

“But ...”

“Do we?” You tell her, Lisa!

“No.” Great big sniffles. Is the little girl scared of her spanking? Well, too bad.

“And we don’t make fun. We especially do not make fun of people because they’re not ready to stay dry. Everybody grows at their own pace.” Low blow, Lisa. Low fucking blow.

“And you have your share of accidents, so you especially shouldn’t be making fun of Daphne because she needs pull-ups.” That’s a fun bit of information. Mental note to follow up on that later.

“I may put you back in pull-ups if you start having accidents again. We do not make fun in this house. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Jane said in the most pathetic voice. Any other day, I’d rush to comfort her. Not that day.

“Mommy is going to pull your undies down and spank your bottom.” Jane squeaked, and I figured that was her panties coming down. I probably gave her a worse wedgie than spanking.

And finally, FINALLY, I got to see (hear) Jane get her comeuppance for the years of bratting iI endured. Good friend or not, I was ready for this a long time ago. Mary may have held back because Jane wasn’t hers, but now the piper would be paid. I hoped Lisa left and got the hairbrush. That would be sweet.

I heard the skin on skin first spank. Warm up with the hand, then straight to the brush. Classic. Two. Three. Four. Five. Jane was whimpering. Here we go!

“Now, you stand in the corner while I tend to Ms. Big Britches here.”

MOTHERFUCKER! THERE IS NO JUSTICE IN THE WORLD!!! ARRGGGH!!!!

Lisa had me by the ear again before Jane even shuffled to the corner. At least it would just be a hand spanking.

Nope.

She did go get a hairbrush, and, worse, a bar stool. I hate - HATE - being turned over a knee on a bar stool. I won’t even sit in one at a bar. I feel ridiculous with my feet just dangling there and trying to scoot the thing close enough to actually reach the bar. Being spanked over one means my feet and hands are just hanging in the air. Nothing makes me feel more like a little girl than dangling there while I get my butt spanked.

Now, the four of us have known each other a while. Lisa knows I enjoy erotic humiliation. I didn’t know she was actually good at it. I don’t even know if she was trying to be good at it. I just stood there and felt that strange, but fun, feeling of my brain pulling in opposite directions, hating and loving every second (probably more like 70/30). And also probably making my situation worse by rolling my eyes and sighing like a pouty teenager, but ya know what, I had just found out there was no justice in the world. That’s a pretty damn good reason to be pouty.

Down came my skirt. I stepped out. Old hat for me.

“Are you dry?” She didn’t wait for me to answer (good, because my mind was blank; how do you even respond to that?) and put her hand on the front of it and around the back. “All dry. Good for you, Daphne. I’m sure you won’t need these much longer.” There wasn’t the faintest hint of sarcasm in her voice. Was she in her ageplay headspace, or is she just a natural at this? She’s so good I still don’t know what she thinks the pull-ups are for or what I do in them. I want to clarify that with her, but also really, really don’t ever wanna talk about it with anyone.

“Look at me.” I lifted my chin to look her mostly in the eye. “Honey, I know it must be so hard having to go back to pull-ups at your age. It must be so frustrating, and of course you’re embarrassed. It’s not your fault, and I hope you know that your mommy and me...” 

Excuse me? My what? She must be talking about a sixty-year-old woman named Beth because Mary is not my mommy. “... know that. We don’t blame you. You’ll be ready when you’re ready, and we’re all going to help you. It was very wrong of Jane to make fun of you, and I’m very sorry she did that. Do you understand all that, honey?”

“Um, yes?” Well, not really, but okay. Anything to speed this up.

“But it was even more wrong of you to spank her for it. You do not give the spankings in this house. In fact, Daphne doesn’t give anyone spankings anywhere, does she?”

At least I knew the answer to that one. “No.”

“If Jane is misbehaving, you tell me or your mommy or another adult ...” 

I’m just a middle around here, apparently.

“... and we’ll take care of it. Now I have to give you spanking for what you did. I’m going to pull down your pull-up and put you over my knee and spank your bottom. Do you understand?”

I just nodded. And rolled my eyes. Do we really need the production? I’m not a little. I don’t need it explained to me, I don’t need a pep talk about a non-existent potty - bladder! I meant bladder - problem, and could we skip to good part? Or mostly good part?

“Do you need to go potty before your spanking?”

Don’t ask me. I just work here. Maybe I could get a job at the post office. I guess Lisa took my not-immediate as a maybe.

“Let’s go try.” She had me by my upper arm, and I was speechless, not my usual condition. I wasn’t surprised by the talk about the pull-up but this was out of left field. She was taking me to the bathroom. To pee. Mary takes me to bathrooms all the time, to spank me. Suddenly that didn’t seem so embarrassing. Yet I walked along side her and never even gave a thought to saying “red light.” It never even crossed my mind. I can’t remember the last time I said it.

“I’ll wait out here,” she said and nudged me, and there I was in the bathroom. I have no idea who was in the mirror. Daphne, kinky minx, or a middle with potty problems? Yes? 

I did pee (why not? I was there.) and washed my hands and (heaven help me) pulled the pull-up back on, and there was Lisa waiting for me when I opened the door.

“Um, I peed.”

“I heard! Good for you.” I prayed for a sinkhole to swallow the house. I was blushing so hard I think the top of my head was red. 

“But we still have this spanking to take care of.”

Back we went to the living room, where I could tell from the back of her head that Jane was laughing at me, and while I was contemplating some devastating comeback, Lisa whisked the pull-up to my feet. Damn near gave myself whiplash turning from Jane to my ankles.

“Step out.” I did, and then - I swear, Lisa was either a mile deep in headspace or just is a natural at humiliation or else is just a natural mommy who does see me as truly a middle - she held the thing up and looked inside. It was perplexing (who does that?) until she said, “Good job wiping.”

Forget sinkholes swallowing me. Just murder me. Murder me dead.

“Do you have any questions before I spank?”

“Yeah. Since you’re gonna spank me anyway, can I finish spanking the brat?” What is it with people who are just about to give a spanking? Do they have no sense of humor? That was funny! No outward sign she thought so. And it was a legitimate question! If I was gonna do t he time anyway, at least let me finish the crime!

She sat, said “Over”, and there I was, naked below the waist, hand and feet dangling, with that friggin pull-up a foot in front my face, just perfect there for me to look at, and Lisa gave me the spanking some may feel I deserved. I am not among those. She didn’t spank me like Mary would, but she spanked me like she was spanking a spanko, not a little. I don’t know, maybe that’s the spanking she would give any naughty middle. 

Not like I haven’t had worse, but I came off her lap (really, was eased off her lap so I wouldn’t fall off the stool) with a red behind. I didn’t give Jane the satisfaction of so much as an eep from me, and Lisa didn’t get to see me do the spanky dance. 

I got a hug, she patted and squeezed my butt, and she picked up that Goodnite and put it back on me. Notable not my skirt.

“Jane, come here. What do you have to say to each other?”

I tried to go first, but Jane beat me to it. Stealing my thunder. And she did it on purpose, too, because what she said was, “I’m sorry I made fun of your diaper.”

Gotta give her credit for being good at bratting. Like, a world champ gold medalist wins all the sports dishes good at it. I’m good, but I can admit when I’m beaten. I win video games. She wins bratting.

“I’m sorry I spanked you ... and it’s a pull-up, not a diaper.” Someone’s gotta stick up for Daphne, and I guess that person was Daphne that day.

“Hug and make up.” We did. “I’m going to get my keys, and I’ll drive you home.” Really wishing Jane hadn’t picked me up, not that it would make any difference to my butt, but a little less embarrassing. Could’ve stopped and gotten Mary some flowers. Or seen a couple movies. Star Wars marathon, perhaps.

And just to rub it in, because she knew the answer, Jane asked, “Is your mommy gonna give you another spanking when you get home?” That’s the rule: spanked by someone other than Mary away from home, get another spanking when I get home.

“Yes. And she’s not my mommy. She’s my wife.” 

Because I’m a big girl. I am. Really!

One day I really am gonna spank Jane, a real one. Some time when her mommy isn’t around to save her.

I regret nothing!