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A Mary and Daphne Haloween Special
🕑 Added 2021-10-30 20:32:38 +0000 UTCI really gotta stop letting Mary make decisions. I mean, they’re not terrible. They’re just not as good as the decisions I make. I’m a great decider. I see the forest and the trees. I see the whole board. I see … other stuff … and things too.
And how amazing that I can see so much from the corner. Bare bottom corner time isn’t my favorite. It’s boring. And it’s kinda cold. There are goosebumps on the back of my front. And the kicker is I don’t even know what I did. May just waltzed in like the decision making belle of the ball – and plebeian that she is, she’s never even been to a ball! – took me by the arm, marched me to the corner, pulled my pants and panties down and left me there. She didn’t even need to tell me to stay; I know that part by heart.
She didn’t answer me when I asked what I did. That means one of two things: I did something so egregious she’s not ready to talk to me about it or she put me timeout just because. To which I say hmmph! on both accounts. I know when I’ve done something that egregious … most of the time. And when it’s just cuz, yeah, I like the arbitrariness of domination, but my butt still gets cold in that corner. There’s a vent!
Also, not fair to me. It’s really unsettling being in a lot of trouble and not even knowing what I did. You may be surprised to learn this, but I don’t do so well with Mary not being happy with me. Like, not that I crave her approval or anything, but it’s sorta super important in a way that doesn’t make me pathetic that she think I’m a good girl. A very good girl. At all the times.
I heard her walking over to me and kept facing the wall, knowing I’m not supposed to turn around. “Hold still,” she said when she was right behind me. “Close your eyes. There,” she said as she slipped a blindfold over my eyes.
“What,” was my clever response.
“Step out,” she said and knelt down to pick up my ankles one at a time and take my jeans off from around my feet.
“What are you doing? Am I in trouble,” I said like the dread had balled up in my tummy and was making be anxious.
She responded by (I’m visualizing this part) tilting her head over my shoulder to kiss my neck and sliding her hand down my back to caress my butt.
“No, sweetheart, you’re not in trouble. You’re my very good girl.”
Ooo, not to jeopardize my reputation at the most humble person ever, but my wife thinks I’m a good girl. Squeeeee!
“And you’re a silly goose.”
“I am not a silly goose! Why did you put me timeout?”
“You’re a silly goose because you have goose bumps on your butt, and I put you in timeout because your Halloween costume came, and I didn’t want you to see it.”
“What? I don’t get to pick it out? And you coulda just told me not to look.”
“You woulda tried to peek.”
“Well, yeah. But I hate being in the corner when I don’t know what I did. It’s like waiting in the hall by the principal’s office.”
“When did you go to the principal’s office?”
“Never, but I read about.”
“Where?”
“ … Spanking stories.”
“I knew you were gonna say that, and I’m sorry, baby,” she said and gave me an apology kiss. “I promise your costume is worth it. Hold my hand.” She took my hand, held me close and led me up the stairs.
“This is tricky. Maybe you could’ve waited for the blindfold until we got upstairs.”
“If I could lift you onto my hip, I would.”
“So your ninja powers have their limits.”
“Ninja powers? We’re at the top.”
“The way you’re always flipping me and snatching me out of the air and stuff.”
“Left turn. The bed is right in front of you; turn around and lay back.”
I did and went, “Grrr.”
“What grrr?”
“There’s a changing pad under me. Already not liking this costume. And you don’t even need a changing pad. You just like using it to make me feel even more childish.” Which, yes, is humiliating and tickles this specific spot in my brain, but also no. Humiliation kink is friggin hard. So many conflicted feelings.
“We’ve had to wash that pad plenty of times,” Mary countered.
“Not for stuff that got on it during changes.” We got other stuff on it … doing other things … like stuff … and things too. Good times …
“Your costume doesn’t involve your binky, but it can if you’re gonna be fussy.”
“So unfair.”
“Lift.” I did and heard a crinkly something being slid underneath me. “Down.” I opened my knees without being told because I’m a good girl, not because I like this. “What’s that,” Mary asked.
“What’s what?”
“I think … I think this is what they call a pussy.”
“Marrrrry! You know I don’t like dirty words.” Especially when they’re applied to me. I get all blushy and embarrassed and just hmmph! “And don’t you roll your eyes at me. I’m complex. I can be kinky as heck and embarrassed by the words at the same time.”
“Heehee. We better get some rash cream on it.”
Ooo … heeheehee! That’s the spot. Still the spot. Keep doing stuff to the spot.
“There. No diaper rash for you.”
Dammit!
“You suck so much sometimes,” I told my beautiful bride.
“Just for that, I should let you get diaper rash one of these days, but if your nana saw it, she’d call uwu protective services on me. And one tape and two tapes and three and four (pat pat). If I didn’t know better, I’d say you looked just like a little girl.”
“Marrry! I’m not a little girl!”
“That’s right. Of course you’re not. You’re a grown woman wearing an adult diaper with princesses on it.” Her fingers started walking around my tummy, poking here and tickling there. “And do you wear them because you want to? No. And do you wear them because you need them? No. You wear them because I make you and you’re too smol to stop me. Aww, such a squirmy thing.”
“I’m ticklish!”
“I know the difference between your tickle wiggles and the way you squirm when your little buttons are getting pushed,” she said like she was so damn proud of herself. I mean, I was proud of her, but I’m proud of her all the time.
“This had better be going somewhere good,” I huffed.
“Sit up.” She reached out a hand and helped me up. “Arms up” shirt came off. “O look, nipples.”
“Marrrrry!”
“Heehee! Stay right there.” I heard her walk over to her dresser.
“If you’re dressing me up as a baby you and I are gonna have some serious words when this blindfold comes off.”
“No we won’t. You’re too little.”
“So heccin serious!”
“Gimme a footsie.”
“Not until you say it right.”
“Gimme a footsie, please.”
“I don’t have footsies. I have feet.” Slap. “Ouch.”
“And a handprint on your thigh and a sassy mouth too.”
“Fine,” I said and stuck a foot out.
“Point your toes for me. Other one.”
“Tights?”
“What a smart girl you are. Some pretty tights to keep your legs warm when we go trick-or-treating.”
“We never go trick-or-treating.” The one time I suggested we go and tell everyone we were collecting for our son who has the flu, I got a super long lecture about honesty and how I don’t need that much sugar. I wasn’t even motivated by the sugar; I can afford all the candy I want. I was motivated by it being freesugar, which just sweetens it somehow. But even more, I thought it would be fun to go out and see all the cute kiddos and decorated houses. I was even going to wear an SFW costume.
“Maybe this year will be different.”
“R-really?”
“I swear your ears just stood to attention.”
“They do that.” True story. My ears really do perk up.
“Like a golden retriever hearing kibble hitting her bowl.”
“I’m not a golden retriever … But if I was, you’d be lucky. They’re very loyal and snuggly.”
“These aren’t the easiest things to get on a person. Gimme your hand and stand up slow.”
“Why slow?”
“So you don’t knee me in the face.” She did that to me once, but being fair, it was an accident during an attempt at unsolicited oral.
“O.” I sat up and gave her my hand, which she put on her shoulder so I could balance.
“Up we go,” she said … to the tights, I’m guessing, as she rolled them the rest of the way up. I like the way tights feel. Always have. Used to wear them under jeans back in Wisconsin even inside because I was cold from October 1stthrough May 15th. My grandmother, proudly of Scandinavian descent, always used to say I must’ve gotten recessive genes. I didn’t take it personally. The rest of my family is tall, too. I did get the fair skin, perfect for sunburns.
“And that’s your costume,” Mary said as she stood, which I could tell because her voice was in front of me.
“Har har.” Me in a diaper and tights. I think maybe this was an exhibitionist pervert costume? Not judging.
“Cold?”
“Mhmm.”
“You look it.”
“Marrry! Stop laughing.”
“Awww. I’m sorry. Let’s get your top on you. Put your hand back on my shoulder.”
“Huh?”
“Just trust me.” Her voice disappeared down by my feet again. “Lift; now the other one.”
Something very form fitting was threaded up my legs and seated firmly against the diaper … one might even say much more firmly than it needed to be. My heels came up a little. I don’t know about carrying me up the stairs, but Mary can definitely toss me around a little. Which I don’t hate (sorta kinda definitely love). Nothing is as fun as being submissive to a dominant who can physically make you do stuff. Not that she has to very often. I’m very biddable when I’m not being a brat.
“Give me this arm.” See? She threaded my arm through an opening and laid a strap over my shoulder before doing the same to the other side.
“I know what this is,” I told her. I knew what it was.
“Shush. Don’t guess until you see the whole thing.”
For her, anything. Including not spoiling the moment. I could tell her heck no and to return it as soon as the moment was over. Had that unpleasant feeling like she’d be really disappointed cuz the whole time she’s dressing me she sounded so excited.
“There,” she said as she put something around my waist. “I guess we can leave the shoes for later,” she said, sounding impatient in her excitement. “Ooo, you are so adorable! Come see.”
She led me in front of the mirror and ducked behind me. “One, two, three,” and the blindfold came off (really just a slumber mask but we call it a blindfold for effect).
And there I was: pink leotard, short lavender skirt, and white tights. “What am I,” I asked.
“A ballerina.” I was afraid of that. Also afraid of how happy she looked. I don’t like disappointing her, but I really didn’t want to wear this over to Brenna’s house on Halloween. We have a trove of Halloween costumes in our basement, because we sorta take Halloween too seriously, and the running theme of my collection is sexy. I was conflicted about this outfit.
On the one hand, not sexy. On the other hand, my one-piece fetish is also a leotard fetish. But that’s sexy to me, whereas my previous costumes were sexy to others. I looked positively wholesome, like I was on my way to poorly toddle my way through a dance recital. Wholesome, hoo boy, am I not. Could totally nail the uncoordinated-doesn’t-know-the-choreography-anyway bit though.
“What do you think,” Mary asked me. I can see her now, checking measurements to make sure the skirt only hid the diaper if I didn’t move.
“Um, thank you for putting a lot of thought into it.”
“You don’t like it.” So much for letting her down easy.
“No, I do, but, um, do you think maybe it sends the wrong message? I mean, isn’t it sorta problematic.” Great word. Too vague to really mean anything, but people are frightened of it. Good on me for thinking that up so fast.
“How?”
Dammit! “Um, the whole girls-wear-pink thing just being so sexist.” How very lame of an excuse. Total fail.
“And who will you be a bad influence on exactly,” she asked me with a skeptical no-really-try-to-think-of-an-answer look on her face. It’s a very smug look. Really telegraphed that she didn’t even buy the premise, let alone whatever answer I might give. That’s called bait, and I took it knowingly.
“Jane. She’s … just a little … They’re very impressionable at that age … thirty-six.”
Mary stepped right into my personal space with this grin like she had me cornered and ran a finger from my elbow to my shoulder. “I think you’re just embarrassed to be seen in such a cute costume. I think you love this costume and just don’t wanna say cuz you’re embarrassed.”
True story about Mary: she only has two hands. Perhaps it was the lycra, but they seemed to be in six places all at once. She got even closer. I could feel hot breath on my ear. “In fact,” she said breathily, “I remember this woman I dated who was so excited to show me a video of a woman doing lewd things to herself in a leotard. In fact,” she said as those hands of found their way from the small of my back up to my shoulders, “she had a whole playlist like that.”
“I hate hearing about your old girlfriends,” I muttered. THWUMP! her hand went against my butt and stayed there, squeezing. “That would work so much better without the diaper,” I reminded her.
Her hand came back around to my front. “I’ll just hafta press harder.”
Here’s a fun fact, ladies and other ladies, tights on carpet are like a banana peel on oil. She pressed harder and paired it with one of those oxygen-deprivation-this-mouth-isn’t-big-enough-for-two-tongues kisses, and when she let me go, my heel slipped, and I fell flat on my ass. Yep … felt like one of the cool people for sure.
“Are you okay,” she said while chuckling.
“Yes.” I held out a hand.
She helped me up and said, “You look like a figure skater who fell down.”
“The end of my Olympic dream aren’t funny.”
“Awww. More like your first lesson with that padded butt. Hope it broke the fall. Wanna me to kiss something and make it better?”
“I like this outfit, but I don’t wanna wear it to Brenna’s. Everyone will ooo and aww and make funna me.”
“Anyone who tries to make fun of you is going to have a very bad time,” Mary said in her reassuring I’m-making-a-promise-to-you-and-threatening-others tone. “Besides, I think you’re wrong. I think that they’ll think you look hot. Aren’t you also the one who practically drools during the Olympics anytime you see someone in a leotard?” And her hands doing the hand thing again. Definitely know one person who apparently shares my leotard fetish. She just never really leaned into it before. There’s something oddly satisfying in getting someone into a new fetish, like you should be proud of corrupting them or something.
“Fine,” I told her. I did like it; little leery of being seen in it, but I did like it hugging in all the right places and its apparent effect on Mary. “What are you going as?”
“This is a couple’s costume.”
“You got one of these too?” I would like to see my Mary in a leotard more often, but I don’t think I could handle seeing my Mary as a pretty ballerina. Too much conflict with my image of her as domme.
“No, silly. I’m your ballet coach, and little girls who don’t practice hard enough get turned over my knee for a spanking they won’t forget.”
Oooo, when did this diaper get wet?
“Um,” I said as I stepped forward and got into Mary’s personal space like she was a Walmart and I was a Black Friday shopper, “you … good. Good idea.”
“Somehow I just knew you’d like that.”
“Do you think, um …” I leaned forward to whisper in Mary’s ear.
“While you’re wearing it,” she chuckled in a sultry, seductive way. “On the bed, on all fours.” Heck yes! “And you better be a good girl, because if it gets torn, I’m gonna blister your butt.”
Sigh … she always knows just what to say.
