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Mary and Daphne #44
🕑 Added 2021-04-06 00:54:12 +0000 UTCLike I needed an audience. Not that it was her fault. It was Mary’s fault. We have a clothes dryer that works just fine. Having to put up a clothesline in the backyard to dry those stupid, idiotic, asinine, craptastic, fuck–my–life cloth diapers Mary got as punishment diapers is just bullshit. It’s an extra chore for an extra punishment, and Miss Mary I’m–So–Great will deny it was also meant to embarrass me in the off chance someone saw but that’s exactly what she was hoping. Not that it was Nana’s fault.
“Hi Daffy,” she said through the fence. She has ears like a bat. I mean, what, did she hear me opening a clothespin? And then she came through the fence. “Something wrong with your dryer? You can ... O.”
“Hi Nana,” I said kinda flatly. “Dryer’s fine.”
“Haven’t seen those in a very long time. Didn’t know they made them for ... sorry.”
“It’s fine,” I said while blushing all the way to the top of my scalp.
“Mary sure is, um, inventive.”
“She’s a regular Jane Edison.” And that’s when things got really embarrassing, because ... “Um, could you grab the other end of the, um ...”
“Bedsheet?”
Stupid, assing, fuckwadding, LEAKING cloth diapers! Arrrrgh! And there was a stain on my side of the mattress now.
“This is ... (hfff).”
“Wanna talk about it,” she asked me.
“Maybe later. Can I come over later?”
“Of course. I’ll be around.”
And before she got more than a few feet, I stopped her. “Wait. I don’t ... I’m sorry. How are you?” Because not everything in the world is supposed to be about me and Mary, or me being in trouble or upset or needing a personified wailing wall to vent to.
“I’m doing alright. I saw my grandbabies yesterday.”
“You did?!?”
“Mhmm.” She looked so happy.
“Did they remember you?”
“Ha! Yeah.”
“Told ya they would.” We chatted for another minute. I really did want to chat, and I also wanted to so we could have a normal friendship. Ya know, two adults talking about normal things, supporting each other in normal things. Partly because I want that period, but also because I think I need to make a point of being a better friend and not always taking my emotional stuff and dumping it on friends’ floors, especially Nana’s floor. I have a floor, and they’re welcome to dump on it too. Which are word choices I now regret.
Anyway, with our sheets hanging up for the whole world to see along with those TNINGS, I decided I needed to have a little chat with Miss Big for Britches about her choice of britches for me.
Now, in my memory, I went inside and changed into one of my work outfits (nice slacks, business–cute top, low heels) and made a PowerPoint any graphic designer would’ve been proud of, laying out via tables, graph, flow charts, heat maps, scatterplots, and the kind of brief but insightful bullet points that expert communicators tell you will wow your audience and leave them thinking whatever you want them to think and doing whatever you want them to do. I’d show it to you, but would you believe I lost the thumb drive? (I mean really, would you believe it? Please?)
In Mary’s memory, I slammed the door and threw a massive tantrum and set the carpeting on fire. Or at least, that’s my memory of what my Mary’s memory is. It would certainly explain the events that followed.
Anyhoo, I went inside and called, “Mary?”
“In my office, Daffodil,” she called back. Which felt a little like she was rubbing it in my face that she had an increasingly successful career going on whereas I did laundry and dishes and put out carpet fires (which I sometimes start). “We need to talk,” I called back.
“Can we talk after work? I’m in the middle of some things.”
“No, it can’t wait.” I’m friggin’ ten times as important as whatever she was doing to keep the internet turned on or whatever. “I need to talk now.” And I heard her footsteps coming my way. It made me wish I’d spent another couple of hours on my PowerPoint, awesome as it was. And I should’ve handwritten my talk track or something.
“What’s up,” she asked all confident and like she was just gonna shut down whatever my deal was and go right on back to handing down fiats like she’s queen of every damn thing. I’m an American, dammit! I don’t cotton to monarchy. It’s a new world this side of the Atlantic, and … “Daphne?”
“Mary.” Okay, at this point in my presentation, I made a conscious effort to maintain open body language and a friendly tone of voice. Just because I was proposing to impose a constitution on the queen was no reason to cross my arms, give Mary a dirty look, and spit out, “When those fucking diapers are done drying, you can bring ‘em in yourself and throw ‘em in the damn trash.”
Well, at least I got my audience’s attention, as evidenced by the saucer–sized eyes and the way Her Majesty’s head did a sort of a double take. She was coming up with her regal reply, or at least I think she was because her eyes got kinda narrow and she crossed her arms and suddenly we were in a weird lesbian-BDSM-domestic discipline-ageplay standoff. She took her phone out of her pocket and looked at something and then put it down on the counter.
And there I was fumbling with the clicker to move on to slide two of my PowerPoint. I know when it’s time to regroup. We can always reschedule meetings. Better to get it right even if it takes two tries then to come away with the wrong next steps because we tried to rush things. “I’ll be at … Mae’s.” Now to waltz past her like a boss. Scoff – silly weakened queen doesn’t realize that’s my arm she’s grabbing. Well she can just ow ow ow ow OW OW.
“You, Daphne Ann…”
“Ow! Stop! I OW!”
“… can plant your butt in the corner and stay there until I say. Do you (swat!) hear (swat swat!) me (swat!) little (smack!) girl (smack! Smack! SPANK!)!?! You have no idea how much trouble you’re in.”
What? Does being queen make your ears stop working?“I said I’m going to …”
i guess being queen is sorta the kinda job that gives you a lot of gym time, plus, if you recall, Mary is also a ninja. I didn’t catch much of what Mary said because I was too focused on how I came to be in the air with my bare butt hanging out, but the parts I did catch were, “Are you … damn mind … your bare … for a month!” And a whole lot of palm–smacks–butt sounds.
I said some stuff, too, and Mary could tell you what but there’s no reason to believe her because she didn’t bother to make a PowerPoint. Her mistake.
And suddenly I was back on my feet. It’s like she did that magic trick where the waiter yanks the table cloth out from under the water glass, or in this case me, and spanks the crap outta the water glass and it all happens so fast the water glass couldn’t tell you exactly what happened.
“Do you have anything else to say to me right now,” the snooty ninja queen magician waitress said. If I had that many titles I’d get a big head, too, I suppose.
I didn’t cry at least. That came later. Instead I thought back to all the times my asshole former boss said I needed to spend more time revising my PowerPoints, and I did that in the corner of the kitchen with my pinkened butt on display and probably covered in handprints. I ventured to turn around and didn’t even see my shorts or panties. Guess The Incredible Spanking Magicianess made them vanish.
I had plenty of time to wonder how she did that trick. Plenty of time. Like, enough time to think I solved that mystery and think about how maybe my PowerPointing skills really could use some brushing up after not having made one for six months. Or maybe the slides themselves were fine and just needed one fewer F bombs in the talk track. Or perhaps a more diplomatic approach to my attempt at dethroning. And I still had time to build a mental clock based on the shadow I cast on the wall. It was half past Daphne when she came back.
“Well, Seaman First Class Daphne Ann, who thinks she can swear at me like a sailor and tell me what for, I just canceled my entire afternoon to get to the bare bottom of this.” She was sorta in my peripheral vision. There’s no seamen in our home, but I had the good sense to stand at attention like one and keep my eyes on the wall and not turn around. “Do you have anything to say to me before your punishment?”
“I’m …” Don’t cry, dammit! “… sor–sorry.” You know what doesn’t help with the not crying? When I’m upset and Mary is upset and she does that thing where she sighs and any hint that she’s angry with me disappears and she just seems so ready to hug me till candy comes out (which really happened once and we’re not sure how! Really!). But she is just too damn responsible to let misbehavior slide.
“I know. And we’re going to have a long talk between punishments.” Ha! She loves me so much she forgot the singular form of … crap. “Upstairs. March.” Her and the military metaphors… I marched up the stairs while she totally screwed up the cadence with, “Straight to the bathroom.”
I have no idea where the term soapbox originated for when people are making a speech, but in our house, the soapbox is a little plastic box from the travel section of the drug store that holds a bar of soap. It’s amazing how long a bar of soap will last if you only wash mouths with it. I think we’ve had that one bar since we moved in together.
“Arms up.” I did, and she took my shirt off me. “So quiet now,” she said. “Could that be because you realize just how wrong you were?” She got the soap out and a lather going while continuing her lecture. “I have no idea – no idea! – what possessed you to come into the house and – seriously! – swear at me like that. Open.”
I was supposed to be working on revising my PowerPoint, so you can understand if I was a little tentative about getting pulled off that task to … eeewwwwwwwwww. O god it tastes like dead flowers and bitterness and astringent and regret. Maybe I’d get extra credit for not … eeeoooeeewwwugh it’s lathery enough without her – dammit not in my molars! awww fudge potatoes.
“I don’t care how old you are, Daphne Ann. You (smack!) do not (smack!) swear (smack!) at (SMACK!) me (SMACK!!!). Look at yourself in the mirror (smack!). Do you like what you see? Because I see a little girl who knows way better than to direct curse words at other people, especially her wife.”
Welp, floodgates open. “(sniff) (sob) (sob again) (another sob) (that thing when you're diaphragm starts to spasm and) Waaaah!”
“Whatever you wanted to say to me you could’ve said maturely. We could’ve sat down at the table like two adults. You could’ve told me what was wrong, and we could’ve fixed it together. But instead you threw a tantrum like teenager who was throwing a tantrum like a toddler. So here we are. Open … ah ah ah. I’ll hold it.”
And she held a cup of water to my lips and let me sip and spit and it’s never enough to get the taste out, not that I’ve had my mouth washed out that many times in my life. I’m not sure how many, but I know I have more fingers than that number. But I think only by one now. And to the bedroom we go.
She sat down on the bed where she had already laid out the hairbrush. And a hand towel. I didn’t know what for and was afraid to find out. “Over.” I put myself over her knee, and if at this point you’re thinking to yourself that my anti–monarchy rebellion sure got defeated quick, fast, and in a hurry, well, I was thinking the same thing. If you’re also thinking that I caved like a surrender monkey and didn’t even try to put up a fight, I’ll admit strategic errors and tactical mistakes were made, but it wasn’t as outright and crippling a defeat as it appears just because I was completely nude and over her lap about to get spanked with the hairbrush while trying to mind–over–body the taste of soap out of my mouth after a two–hour timeout.
I didn’t immediately and fully surrender even if it appears that way just because I hadn’t said more than two words since my opening salvo and those words were an apology. Nor does my allowing the appearance of these things to take hold suggest in any way that I knew I was sooooo in the wrong on, like, at least three levels. And not even really sure what had made me so angry to begin with.
“Daphne,” she said to me while starting to rub my butt. “I really want to know what the hell that was all about, and you’re going to have a chance to tell me, but first you are getting your bottom spanked. Do you understand why?”
“Because I swore at you.”
“Yes. I don’t care if you swear, but you do not. Swear! At me!”
I can’t say in good faith that she skipped the warmup because that would ignore the spanking I got in the kitchen and the swats I got in bathroom. I can say she didn’t do as good a job with the warmup as I would’ve preferred, but she’d just counter that with a reminder that it was a punishment spanking and warmups for little girls who didn’t F bomb their wife. And I’m not a little girl. Really. I’m just saying what Mary would’ve told me.
Back to the matter at hand, it was a blur of a spanking. Literally, it was blurry because whatever composure I had managed to maintain (which, good on me for not, for once, going straight to a blubbering mess as soon as I had a moment to reconsider my choice of words two hours prior), collapsed within five spanks. She spared no portion of my butt. Which is a shame, because it was a nice butt. We’d been together thirty–one years, and I didn’t relish the idea of butt shopping during a pandemic, but I had no choice because she beat my butt and set it on fire.
Fast, hard, and thorough. Which is exactly how I would’ve spanked me. And, btw, probably not a coincidence that the worst punishment back in the Old Country was reserved for treason. I should never have tried to dethrone the queen, even if all I wanted to do was impose a little control around the royal prerogative.
And a failed rebellion is a seriously emotional thing, so pardon me if I needed to lay there and wail a moment even after (I think) she’d stopped spanking me. Plus, for all her faults, my queen loves her subjects, and when she was done administering her terrible justice, she was kind enough to let me lay there and even (shuddery feelings) ran her fingers down my back to the smoldering red ruins of my butt and back again until I had stopped carrying on.
“Ready to sit up,” Her Majesty asked.
What I meant to say was, “Not just yet, your Queenship,” but what came out was, “Mmmarrrry.”
“C’mon, baby.” And she helped me to sit up, and I ignored how painful it is to sit on someone’s lap without a butt.
“Shhh. C’mon. Dry up those tears.”
Dammit, she may be queen of a buncha stuff, but she’s not queen of my tears. “Illstopryinweniwuntoo.”
“What?”
“I’ll stop crying when I want to.”
“So you can use your words.” And she kissed my head. You’d think she’d figure out that if I’m already crying and she kisses my head that just makes me cry some more. “Shhh. You’re okay, Daffy. Whatever is wrong, you’re okay.”
What’s wrong is my butt is beyond repair and I said horrible things to you and I’m sorry and pathetic and not okay! I.e., I needed another minute.
“Gotta headache,” she asked me.
“Yes,” I said in my thick I’m–just–barely–not–crying voice.
“Here.” She reached next to her and grabbed that towel and held it against my nose. “Honk.” And I did. “Can you sit up for me?” And I did that too. “You slimed my shirt,” she said as she pulled it off. She scooted herself to the top of the bed and patted her thigh. I followed, feeling my swollen once–was–a–butt ache with each step (is it a step if you’re crawling?). I put one leg over her one leg and one arm over her and one arm behind her and basically clung to her like I’d gone overboard and she was a harbor buoy and the tide was going out.
“Are you ready to tell me what that was all about?”
“I ... (sob) ... I didn’t mean to.”
“What did you mean to say?”
“That I hate those stupid diapers and don’t want that punishment anymore.”
“And why didn’t you just say that?”
“Because you didn’t listen to me when I said I didn’t like them.”
“When was that?”
“The very first time when you said they were for punishment. I said I didn’t like them.”
“Daphne, you say that about a lot of things.”
“Yeah...” What? Just because I say that about stuff when I don’t really mean it on a weekly basis I’m supposed to somehow make it clear when I actually mean it? Why do I hafta do all the work to make myself understood, besides, ya know, the obvious?
“Remember the last time you got upset because you felt things were moving too fast,” she asked me.
“Yeah...”
“And what happened?”
“I got angry and was mean to you.”
“And you got your bare bottom spanked, and do you remember what I told you then?”
“Not really.”
“No surprise there.” Sarcasm alert! No fair! “I told you when you feel that way you need to tell me and do it maturely, and ever since then I’ve been very careful about asking you if you have anything to tell me and even directly asking you if you need to red light anything.”
“And I said I didn’t like those.” Well, so I made a bad faith point.
“And that is not the same thing as a red light.” And she called me on my bad faith point.
“But ... eeeugh hmmpf!” Dammit! What the fuck is wrong with me! I was fine, like, two hours ago!
“Daffy, okay, seriously, what bee is up your bonnet today? Whatever is pissing you off, you just need to say it because now it’s pissing me off.”
I sat up. Fine. She wanted it straight? Fine. I was still pissed even if I was a weepy, headachy mess and even if I didn’t know why and even if I did regret what I’d said to her, so I turned responsibility for uncovering what was really bothering me over to the ancient lizard part of my brain in the hopes I’d just be able to say it if I stopped trying to be all clinical about it. Not surprisingly, it came out a little sharply when I said, “You made me into a bedwetter! Those diapers are thick and stupid and you made me wear ‘em and Nana saw and there’s a stain on my side of the bed and I slept in a wet spot and they’re babyish and I’m tired and I hate that punishment!”
And then I started crying again. I’m not normally such a crybaby (stop laughing!) but I really didn’t sleep well, and it really did bother me that Nana saw our sheets hanging out there. Literally airing our dirty laundry (that had been washed, so maybe not literally). And did I mention MY BUTT HURT!?!
But I wasn’t done ranting. I just did it through tears. “And I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to say that. I was ...”
“Rude, disrespectful, and a total bitch?”
“Mhmm.”
“You didn’t seem so upset when we got up this morning, honey. What happened?”
“Nana saw. She knows I’m a bedwetter.”
Mary scoffed at that. I was in no mood to be scoffed at. “You are not a bedwetter. Your diaper leaked. It happens.”
“But Nana saw.”
“Nana doesn’t care. She’s seen you waddling around with your diapered booty hanging out now, and she didn’t care then, did she?”
“No.”
“No, she didn’t. She thinks it’s cute. If she had her way, she’d be over here babysitting.”
“Not anymore.”
“Because she saw your wet sheets?”
“Because she has her grandbabies back.” Aww, crap. Tell me I did not just say that. The stupid shit we say when we’ve been crying so hard our heads hurt and we’re going on being naked for two hours, by the way, which was starting to make me feel a little more vulnerable than I like. I didn’t mean that about Nana. That was my lizard brain talking, and lizards are not logical, and I just forgot to tell my lizard brain its job was done. Silence prevailed in the room for a good forty seconds. I was about to correct my lizard idiocy, but Mary got there first.
“Nana doesn’t ... You’re not a substitute for her grandkids. She liked you before all this, too.”
“I didn’t mean that ... I just ...”
“Please don’t start crying again, Daffy.”
“I’m ... I don’t ... I just don’t like ... (throaty groan of frustration).”
“Can I try saying what I think you mean to say?”
“Mhmm.”
“I think what you’re trying to say is you don’t like that you like this so much. Is that it?”
“(silence).”
“Is that an answer?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, it’s an answer; or yes, it’s what you’re trying to say?”
“Both.”
“It’s okay to like these things if it’s what you like.”
“But I’m ... this is too hard.”
“What is?”
“Talking about it. We never had this much trouble talking about this stuff when it was just discipline.”
“Maybe that’s just part of it, you having trouble expressing yourself when ... You having trouble expressing yourself.”
“When what?”
“Nothing. Wrong train of thought.” Ugh. She’s usually a better fibber.
“No, what?”
“When you’re ... in your ... middle headspace.”
“I’m not a middle!” Even if I have in the past admitted to being a middle, I’m not. I mean, sure, I might have said something to that effect once upon a time, but it should be obvious by now that while I am one of the most reliable narrators there ever was, I also don’t know what the heck I’m saying sometimes. Really. Best narrator ever.
“Little girl,” she said in a very sweet cut–the–bullshit way, “it’s okay. It’s okay.”
“I’m not a little girl or a middle or a little or any of that.”
Sure, just because I’d been acting like one ever since I stopped working, but pandemic. It made everything so weird. My whole world shrunk down to our house for months, and we just ... It just happened. The trajectory we were on with all this just accelerated. We went deeper. It ... It just happened. It’s not who we are. It’s not. It’s not who I am.
“Daffy, look at me.” I tilted my head and she was smiling back down at me like she was oddly happy for someone whose wife had just told her to go fuck herself, essentially. “It’s okay to be a middle. Or a little.”
“But I’m not. I’m just me.”
“Of course you are.”
“I’m just me.”
“Okay. That’s all you need to be. I love you and your ‘me’ very much. Do you know that?”
“I love you too.”
“Can we keep talking?”
“Of course we can.” Why couldn’t we? Yawwwwn.
“If you hate the cloth diapers so much, they can be a just–in–case punishment.”
“I don’t want them to be a punishment at all.”
“Are you red lighting them? And I need you to be truthful.”
“No...”
She sighed. “Then, Daphne, I don’t understand what you want.” She sounded frustrated. Maybe I had been expecting her to read my mind mind a little (wayyy) too much.
“I want ... Not everything needs to be a punishment, ya know. Some things ... I do good things, too, ya know.”
“What does ... Sooo, you want them to be a reward?”
“I didn’t say that!”
“... Are you not not saying that?”
“(silence) (crickets stridulating) (the noise a black hole makes)”
“Okay ... okay. We can do that.” She traced her middle finger up my side from my hip to my ... o, that feels so good.
“I’m sorry,” I said again. “That was awful of me to say.”
“You apologized (kiss) and got your bottom spanked (kiss) and you’re forgiven (kiss).”
“Am I gonna get a second punishment like you said?”
“No. I don’t think we need that. Unless it’ll make you feel better.”
“Uh-uh.”
“C’mon.” She sat up. “Back to the bathroom.”
“What for?” She held my hand and walked me back to the bathroom.
“To clean you up, silly. You look like a wet rat.”
She wet a face cloth and wiped away the tear streaks (and snot streaks) from my face. God, I don’t think I’ve cried like that in ages. Really.
“Hold still, wiggle bug,” she laughed.
“I’m trying to see.” I twisted around trying to see the marks I’d so earnestly earned. Talk about who’s a bitch sometimes? Me. And the ass murdering I got for it… “Where ...”
“Where what,” she asked.
“Where’s the rest of it?”
“Huh?”
“It’s ... red.”
“Of course your bottom is red, sweetie. You got a spanking,” she said like I had short term memory loss. She must really think I’m dense or crazy sometimes.
“I mean ... It should be purple.”
“You start trying to top from the bottom and you’ll get that second punishment.”
“I mean ... I thought it would be worse.” I wouldn’t even have a bruise.
“I didn’t spank you that hard, baby.”
“Yes you did.”
“You are just oppositional today, Ms. Sassback.”
“But ... I cried.”
“You blubbered. I think you just needed a good cry. So much so that I think I know what will make you feel better.” She reached over and turned on the tub faucet. “And you really didn’t sleep well, did you?”
“No. I slept in a wet spot.”
“Why didn’t you get up? I would’ve helped you change the sheets.”
“Because then you’d know I wet the bed.”
“In you go.” I stepped over the edge of the tub and sat down. It didn’t hurt. Sorta felt rough against my skin, but nothing ached. I must be developing rhino butt or something because no way would I cry and carry on like I did unless she paddled me but good. I think. Unless I was an emotional mess for twenty different reasons and a hairbrush tap was all it took to make it come gushing out.
“Daffy, can we clarify terms for a second? When you say you wet the bed, were you awake for it?”
“What?!? Of course I was! Don’t be mean.”
“Just asking … Would explain why you’re so upset about it ... You could’ve just gotten out of bed, though, and I’d have helped you change the sheets and gotten you into something dry.”
“Bad enough as is.”
“You’d rather sleep in a wet spot than just tell me you need changed? You silly goose.”
“I’m not a silly goose. I just ... hmmph.”
“So you’re not a silly goose or a little girl or a silly little girl. Got it. Lay back.”
“I’m not,” I said as I laid back.
“And you didn’t throw a fit like a teenager who was having a meltdown like a toddler.”
“So what if I did?” Me oppositional? Pshaw. I mean, really: puh–shaw.
“So, you need a nap, and I’ll take one with you, and then I think we should see if your Nana wants to come over.”
“What for?”
“To spend time with you. We can order in and rent a movie.”
“Okay.”
“Arms up.” And I lifted my arms and soap just tickles when you’re the one not holding it, but at least I didn’t squee. “Daffy?”
“Mhmm?”
“Are there any more big talks we need to have before nap time?”
“Like what?”
“Like anything else at all you want to change? I’m serious, because if there’s something you want to red light and you don’t tell me and throw a tantrum later, or any other emotional crises we need to resolve before they turn into other tantrums, you need to tell me. Because next time, it’s going to be a just–in–case punishment. I think we’ve had enough of you holding things in until they come gushing out all at once.”
“No.”
“Nothing at all?”
“I don’t think so ... And you know I don’t mean to. It’s just ...
“I know (kiss). So many big emotions for such a little girl.”
“Ow! No fair pinching. I’m not a little girl.” But the emotions are definitely big.
“I think we need to get back to fundamentals for a bit. Let’s put the zero strikes rule in place for a little bit. See if we can’t stay on top of the little things before they become big things.”
“But ... for how long?”
“We’ll see.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I don’t know everything either, ya know.”
“I know.”
“We’ll just need to see. We need to leave a pitcher in here.”
“What for?”
“For when I wash that pretty red hair of yours.”
“Are we gonna make a habit of you giving me baths now?” Because you don’t hafta be a little girl to enjoy that.
“Maybe if you’re a good girl who makes good choices.”
“Am I a good girl even when I make bad choices, like telling you to ... I really am sorry.”
She put her hand under my chin and turned my head so I was looking her in the eye. “You’re always my good girl, Daphne Ann. Always ... No. You are not gonna start crying again after I just finished washing your pretty face.”
But I was having feelings! I didn’t mean to cry again!
She let out a big sigh. “Fine. Go ahead if you want to.”
“I’m just tired,” I said weepily. And hormonal.
“I know, baby. We’ll get you all snuggled up for your nap.”
“(Sniff). Thank you for taking care of me.”
“You’re very welcome. Taking care of you is my second favorite thing in the whole world. Know what the first is?”
“Me.”
“You.”
