Mary and Daphne #14

Scene #14

Mary nudged me out of bed the morning after that horrible spanking when her alarm went off and sent me into the shower first, which meant I couldn’t dawdle without making her late. She gets out the door faster than I do. It didn’t occur to me until later in the morning that she had purposely not just left when she was ready. She could have, obviously. She waited for me to be ready and helped me along. 

She laid out clothes for me while I was in the shower, which she does sometimes, more of a weekend thing though, like she wants me in something specific or is just trying to be helpful. I went to bed - or really, was sent to bed right after dinner - thinking Mary was going to run a quick load of laundry. Not that I asked her to or that she said she would or that I was dumb to ask when I woke up after our “discussion” about chores, but Mary laid out a pull-up for me with my clothes. I just accepted it. For one, she threw out the remaining circa 2010 panties in my drawer and all my other ones were still dirty. For two, she laid the stupid thing out and I didn’t want to risk so much as a swat in what was left of my butt. Mom used to say to always wear clean underwear in CSR you go to the hospital; least of my concerns if I end up in the hospital.

Anyway, I got dressed while Mary was in the shower and decided to just wait on the bed. I never told her, but part of hey I’m slower to leave the house most days is because I like watching her get dressed. It’s my version of The Today Show.

I did get a pep talk when she got done dressing, totally expected. Bad spankings usually lead to a reminder lecture he next day, but I like it more as a pep talk. Not that I didn’t have butterflies in my tummy when Mary said, “C’mere, honey.” I got off the bed (still hurt just to stand), and Mary maneuvered me in front of her facing the mirror. Arms around me, her chin on my shoulder. There’s a engagement photo of us just like that on our mantle; it’s one of my favorites.

“New day,” she said. Just once I wanna be a morning person like she is, all perky and glad to conscious. “Who woke up this morning? My sweet girl or the bitch monster?”

“Your sweet girl,” I told her. Her sweet girl who really wanted to have a talk about the pet names she has for me, but another time. She kissed my neck.

“Who am I gonna come home to?”

“Your sweet girl.” She kisses my neck again.

“Who am I gonna go to bed with?”

“Your sweet but just a little slutty girl?” She kissed my neck again and again and I think we both wanted her to be late to work. She wouldn’t be Mary if she wasn’t responsible nine days out of ten, though, which to her means no later than 9:15, at her desk.

“I hope so,” she told me. “Everything I said last night still stands. Let’s not tie any records today.” I just nodded. “And it would probably be a good idea if the hairbrush came back from vacation today.” Brilliant idea, actually.

There’s never time in the morning for a real breakfast before work. We always share a smoothie on weekday mornings, and Mary long ago declared herself in charge of them. Her way of ensuring we both get enough protein and fiber. I’d have Frosted Flakes for breakfast every morning if she’d let me. Adding Fruit Loops to the smoothie is apparently enough of an offense to make her fine being at her desk by 9:30 and me at my desk on a warm bum. “But I made you a treat” didn’t dissuade her.

Into our Hydroflask tumblers the smoothie went, and I thanked her, hugged her, kissed her, and said, “Have a good day at work.”

And then nothing happened. I looked at the clock. 8:20. When Mary is ready, Mary leaves for work. And she looked ready to me. I gave her a quick once over, and yeah, ready. And she sat down at the table.

“Is everything okay,” I asked. Sweet girl this morning, remember? Concerned wife. Break in routine. What’s happening?

“Yeah, honey, everything is good. Why”

“I thought you were leaving for work.”

“I told Mrs. Wilson you’d be over at 8:30.”

“I remember.”

She shrugged and said, “We’ll wait five more minutes.”

It’s funny that there are people that Mary has designated as disciplinarians for me, including Sandy who basically acts as a babysitter, sometimes pretty explicitly with the role play, but I don’t think I ever felt so much like a kid as when Mary took me by the hand (that’s pretty frequent, us holding hands) and walked me to Mrs. Wilson’s house, also known as the house next door. It definitely felt like being dropped off on the first day of school school. All I was missing was a little Elsa backpack (how I hate Disney musicals, except Newsies) and some Mary Jane shoes. At least no one saw us waiting on the doorstep, still hand in hand, Mary looking ready to go run a ten-person team of tech workers and me looking ready for day camp.

“Good morning,” Mrs. Wilson said as she opened the door. “Come on in.” I went first.

“Morning.”

“Good morning,” Mary said. “Thanks again for spending the day with her.”

“I thought she was spending the day with me,” Mrs. Wilson laughed. 

“Thanks either way.” Mary leaned close to my ear and whispered, “Behave today,” before she leaned back with her arms out. I got another hug and a “Have fun today.”

“We will,” Mrs. Wilson said.

“Have a good day, Mary,” I said as she left. Mrs. Wilson closed the door behind her. Much as some folk, like, say, Sandy would’ve been quite pleased to see me lose my shit and scream ‘don’t leave me, mama,’ I somehow against all expectations managed to remember that I was, in fact, 31, and hadn’t just been left at daycare. Even if I had gotten dropped off at the doorstep and had every intention of asking Mary if I could walk to kindergarten on my own next time (maybe at more like 10:00), I was actually looking forward to spending the day with Mrs. Wilson. We’d never spent a day together, but I do enjoy her company and I didn’t want to spend the whole day at home either.

“Don’t stand in the doorway,” Mrs. Wilson said as she waved me over, “come in and let me fix you something.”

“O, you don’t have to do that. I got my breakfast.” I brandished my smoothie. People at work are – I guess were – jealous of my smoothie. Of course, they didn’t have to drink the same smoothie at least five days a week, but whatev.

“You young people and your little life hacks. Suit yourself. I’m just going to make three eggs and two pieces of toast and some fruit and whatever happens to what I don’t eat is just gonna happen.” 

“Thank you,” I acquiesced. “Can I at least help?” Although eggs and toast aren’t really a two person job.

“Sure. You can sit down and cut up this orange.” Not the same table as the night before, but the same chairs. People who say they’ll spank you until you can’t sit down are full of shit. Of course you can sit down. You just don’t wanna. Or you wanna a little, if we’re talking about me and I’m being honest. 

I gasped a little when my butt met the chair and eased myself down slowly. Still a good pain; just maybe too much of a good thing all at once. If I’m not allowed to hide spanking implements, maybe I can just nail the bathbrush to the wall.

Mrs. Wilson cracked the eggs and then turned to me. “Look up,” she said and guided my eyes up with her hand under my chin. “Your eyes look much better this morning.”

“Thanks. And thanks again for dinner last night.”

“My pleasure. And thank you for spending the day with an old woman.”

“You’re not old.”

“Well, unless I live to be 120, I’m not middle aged either. What should we do today.”

“O, whatever you usually do or needed to do today. Don’t let me get in the way.”

“Funny,” she said. “that I never see any sign of the naughtiness Mary sees.”

“Grandmas usually don’t,” I said under my breath. Or thought I said under my breath. Mrs. Wilson smiled at me funny in a way that I could tell she heard me. I tried to cover up with, “Don’t worry because Mary is right. I got myself out of sorts last week.”

“These things happen sometimes. And we’re not doing what I do every day. What fun is that? Let me take you shopping or something.”

“I couldn’t let you buy anything for me.” Or did she not mean it that way? I’m not always that awkward. Just, ya know, some days. But it was my first vanilla play date (that’s what I decided this was) in twenty years. I was rusty. So a little awkward is excusable. A little.

“I didn’t mean it that way, sweetie, but friends can buy friends presents, can’t they?”

“Yeah,” I said. She dished up the eggs right on top of the toast on two small plates and sat down next to me.

“You don’t have to finish it all,” she told me. Which was good, because I did need to finish the smoothie. That’s a rule.

“Smells good.” 

“Everything okay this morning,” she asked me. Perhaps because I was being kinda weird, and quiet, which is weird for me. “Are you still in trouble?”

“No. Well, sorta. I’m not in trouble from the stuff I got in trouble for yesterday, but I’m all out of warnings for the next … lifetime.”

"Well, she won’t get any bad reports from me. I left behind my tattle tale reputation when I was nine.”

“I just feel a little weird is all. I’m ... I’m just not great at ... This just feels a little like I got dropped off at daycare or something.” And then I laughed nervously, as though reading from a script that said to laugh nervously. She laughed like I’d told the best joke she’d ever heard. For a second I thought she was gonna be the first person in history to shoot scrambled eggs out her nose. 

“Honey, I taught daycare once upon a time,” she said when she’d recovered from the hilarity. “I don’t think this is daycare.”

“I didn’t mean ... not literally.” Which she knew, and yet I said it anyway. Instead of dropping me off, Mary should’ve spanked me and sent me to Mrs. Wilson’s through the back yard. I never have so much trouble talking to Mrs. Wilson when that happens. It’s like there was some kind of awkward turtle transformation portal around her front door that morning.

“I know, honey … Would it help if you talked a little about what got you in trouble? That usually makes you feel better.”

“The same stuff I’ve been getting in trouble for. Quitting my job turned out not to be the panacea we hoped. Or maybe I hoped. Not getting yelled at by an abusive boss has been good, obviously, but I’ve still kinda been treating Mary poorly. I didn’t do my share of the housework and … I just had an attitude.”

“That doesn’t seem like so much to get you in as much trouble as, well, you seem to have gotten into, from the way you were squirming at dinner. In fact, that sounds like a marriage to me. There as phases.” True enough, but our marriage had a way to resolve those phases before they turn into long term problems. Or at least we thought we did.

“I’m underselling the details a little. I didn’t realize just … part of my problem sometimes, I guess. I don’t always realize how difficult I’m being until Mary points it out.”

“Maybe Mary can be too hard on you sometimes.”

“Not lately. I mean, she’s not infallible, but I … I don’t like being the person I’ve been lately.”

“Maybe you’re too hard on yourself.”

“Probably. Anyway, I didn’t think I was in so much trouble when we were talking on the porch yesterday.”

“But you were?”

“Yeah. And I made it worse without exactly meaning to.”

“Say something you shouldn’t have?”

“Tried to get out of something, sort of.” I wish I had just said something I shouldn’t have. I can’t think of anything I could’ve said that would’ve gotten the bathbrush involved. Friggin mutant sonuvabitch. There was nothing I could’ve said within reason to get that thing taken down off the wall.

She shook her head at me and sighed. “You were an awfully sorry sight last night. I wanted to give you a hug.”

“Hug would’ve been nice … Thought I hid it a little better than that…”

“Can’t hide eyes that puffy from a mom. And you were walking a little stiff.” 

“I … Mary knows how to … handle me, I guess.” I took a deep breath and thought to myself just screw it, let’s just use the S word. Mary has no problem using the word with Mrs. Wilson. “I got spanked pretty hard but … it’s when she tells me how I’ve disappointed her … that’s … that’s what got me crying so hard. Seems like all I can do lately is disappoint her.” 

“That’s not true, honey. I know that’s not true. She is so proud of you for leaving that awful job, and,” she stopped and sighed, “honey, she loves you like … I’ve never seen a couple as in love as you two. It’s just … different.” 

Mary and I aren’t exceptional. Lifestyle couples tend to be that way, a different kind of bond layered over the traditional partnership. Doesn’t make everything perfect, but it certainly makes everything more intense.

I took a deep breath. “I usually feel better after a spanking … Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Why … How come … How come you play along with this? I mean, it’s … ya know.” Question the next: any theories on how I’m so damn articulate in my head and can barely get a sentence out of my mouth sometimes?

“I don’t think of it as playing, Daffy. When you told me all about the two of you I never thought you two were playing.”

“We’re not,” I started to say and she talked over me.

“I just … how else would we be? You and Mary are who you each are, even if you never meant for me to find out. If you’re okay with it, it’s only right for me to see you as who you are.”

“But … no one else does.” On the other hand, no one else knows but our friends in the kink community. Still, there’s zero chance of any vanilla just embracing who we are, and we don’t particularly want anyone. Mrs. Wilson just fell into our lap. Once I came clean to her, she just embraced it. Mary’s in charge, I’m me and all that entails lately, and Mrs. Wilson just started engaging with us on the same level that I see Mary and that Mary sees me. Kismet, I guess.

“I’m not anyone else,” Mrs. Wilson said, “and I like helping people. You’re one of my favorites to help.”

“I like it, too,” I whispered. I think I won the neighbor lottery.

“I hope I am helpful, but if you want me to butt out …”

“No! I just … didn’t understand. It’s really helpful, having someone to talk to. Our friends who know, it’s just not the same talking to them like when we talk … I just don’t wanna burden you with it. It’s our lifestyle, doesn’t always feel right talking to you about it.”

“This is how it used to be. Neighbors helped each other. Your neighbor needs to talk about something, you talk. And we were all confidantes. The moms talked about being moms; we talked about our marriages. People kept more secrets than is healthy, but we talked, too.”

“Talked about stuff like this?”

“Well, maybe when the neighbor is a lot younger than you, but if that’s what they needed to talk about, yeah. I had a neighbor when I was growing up who I’d talk to when I needed a neutral grown up to just listen. You’re right, too. It was like having another grandma … And maybe I’m out of line, but years on a calendar don’t seem to mean much to the two of you.”

“I guess not.”

“And at my age, I can’t let them mean much to me or I get too depressed.” I laughed at that. “Can I ask you something?”

“Yeah,” I said, though depending on what she asked I might not have answered.

“How come Mary calls me ‘Mae’ and you call me ‘Mrs. Wilson?’”

“Mary told me to when we moved in. She said it wasn’t, um, appropriate for me to call you by your first name.” And then Mrs. Wilson grinned at me like I’m o so adorable. I am, but people don’t have to go round pointing it out all the time. I blush, and then that’s adorable, and then I giggle, and then that’s just too much to stand, and that’s how I wound up being labeled an adorabilibuddy in one of our kink groups. Like I’m a toy that lights up when you rub its tummy. Though I do perk up when Mary does that.

“You can call me ‘Mae’ if you want,” she told me.

“I’d get in trouble.”

“It can be our secret. Or you can call me something else.”

“You don’t like being called ‘Mrs. Wilson?’”

“Makes me sound like the old lady who lived next to Dennis the Menace.”

“Does that make me Dennis the Menace?”

“Goodness, no.”

“Maybe a nickname would be okay with Mary.”

“Or I could tell her I asked you to. You wouldn’t get in trouble for that, would you?”

“No. She’d be okay with that.”

“That’s what we’ll do then.” That seemed to bring the conversation to a stopping point.

“Can I do the dishes at least?”

“If it will make you happy,” she said and slid her plate toward me. I do need to go run an errand,” she said. “Let’s go together, and I am gonna buy you a present so you can just accept that right now. Then maybe we can just come home and talk a little more. How does that sound?”

“Okay. If you insist.” I gave up. And friends do buy friends presents.

“Know what I wanna get you,” she asked. I shook my head. How could I know? “After seeing you in those ancient skivvies yesterday, we’re gonna get you some new undies.”

And then I dropped her plates into the sink (they didn’t break), and I’m sure my ears turned even more red (you’d assume a person could only blush so much before they get lightheaded – nope) and I saw Mrs. Wilson as the kindred spirit she is (a very sincere smartass).

I smacked my lips without meaning to and said, “Well, if that’s not a grandma gift …”

“I am a grandma. I’m just not yours … Would you rather call me ‘Nana’ than ‘Mae?’ Would that be more comfortable for you?”

“I’d like that.”