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Mary and Daphne #214
🕑 Added 2023-08-29 00:44:31 +0000 UTC“Wake up,” this lady I took on vacation said.
“Ehhhh fubbit,” I grumbled without opening my eyes.
“Time to wake up.”
“Govay.”
“Do I need to tickle you out of bed?”
“What’s even feffeh moog in (snore).” I’m so pretty and coherent in the morning. Really.
“Daffy!”
“What?!? I’m awake!”
“We have to go in thirty minutes if you want to go on the very expensive winery tour you booked.”
I did book it, and I did want to go, and I knew when I decided I wanted to go and booked it that the moment would come when I’d have to get out of bed early. Getting out of bed is inherently traumatic.
“I’m sleeping on the bus,” I mumbled after sighing deeply to let the world know how put upon I am (European vacations, wine tours – how I martyr myself) before flipping the covers off me in a melodramatic fashion as befits the melodrama that is getting out of bed. It’s literally the worst part of most of my days, which I guess means I lead a very easy life but the coming of the dawn before I’m ready for it still sucks.
“You’re moving like a little old lady,” Mary said to me. She had a point, but like I’d ever admit it.
“The bed is too hard. My back hurts.”
“You’ll loosen up with a hot shower.” And then – get this! – she swatted my butt. Right on my butt! She thinks that makes me move faster, and just because she’s right doesn’t mean I’ll ever admit it. I was thinking, during my shower, that I really am one oppositional, pissed-at-the-world bitch when I get up before I’m ready. The shower did loosen my back a little, and it woke me up … right before it made me very sleepy. Dammit.
When I came out of the bathroom, who should I find sitting the bed waiting for me? Mary. She’s very pretty in the mornings. “Let’s get you dressed,” she said to me.
“Ahh, Mary, do I hafta,” I said because reasons all the perverts and voyeurs reading my diary must assuredly know by now. Stupid diapers.
“Of course you do. We’re gonna be on a bus.”
“You just say stuff like it explains other stuff,” I shot back as I obediently dropped my towel and got on the bed. She’s lucky I’m a good rule follower or I’d fuss so hard she’d wish I wouldn’t fuss so hard.
“Of course I do. The sky is blue. Hey, I’m a poet and I didn’t know it!”
“How are you like this in the morning!?!”
“I’m just so excited I get to spend the day with my bambina. Lift your butt.” Mary won’t stop calling me her bambina. Woman can barely order gelato without my help but zeroed in on the word for “baby girl” and it’s bambina thisand bambina that. I don’t mind it, but I’m afraid she’s gonna shorten it to just calling me Bambi, and while I’ve been known to make adoring Bambi eyes at her, I hate that name.
“Now,” she said and helped me sit up, “I’m taking your diapee bag, and I’ll check you bunches to make sure you don’t leak. Wouldn’t that be embarrassing, having a leaky diapee in front of a whole tour group?”
“Some time today,” I said, “and I don’t know when but it will be today, I’m gonna bite you. I’ve decided.” She may be bigger and stronger than me, but I can still bite.
Totally unrelated, did you know ninjas did ballet? The ninja I married ballet-twirled me around, smacked me on the butt twice, and said to me – she really said this! – “You better wake up from your nap on the bus in a much better mood or I’ll have to find a semi-private place to spank your little bottom.”
There’s lots of ways to interpret that when you’re into spanking. “So … do you want me in a better mood or the same mood?” Or I can be in an even worse mood. Really. Well, not really cuz what she said sounds fun and was already making me cheer up, but I can pretend. I’m good at pretense. Pretense is one of the foundation stones holding up any BDSM lifestyle relationship.
“You just be you, and I’m sure it will be a fun day,” is how my Mary responded to me. A point is what she has cuz I’m all the kinds of fun when I’m not being none of the kinds of fun.
Mary decided she needed to dress me the rest of the way, which I’m 90% sure had nothing to do with not being late and all the things to do with fondling me from top to bottom. By way of evidence, I can put my bra on without cupping or squeezing or pinching anything, but Mary needed to do all three twice, once surreptitiously and once, after I called her on it, totally titiously.
You know who has a hard job? Tour guides. How many espressos do they need to be in such a good mood first thing in the morning? Bless his little heart, but the talking was making it very difficult to sleep on Mary. That’s when I got the idea for the solution to the hard hotel beds: Mary sleeps on the bed, and I’ll just sleep on Mary. She’s just the right amount of soft yet firm (in body and BDSM style … sigh …).
I woke up to the sensation of someone slipping their hand up my skirt. I hoped o so very much it was Mary and wanted o so very much to tell her I’M NOT A BEDWETTER AND SHE DOESN’T NEED TO CHECK THE STUPID DIAPER SHE MADE ME WEAR WHEN I’M ASLEEP! Would’ve been a good time to bite her; she’d never see it coming. But I merely snapped my knees closed.
“Good morning again,” she said to me like I didn’t just catch her with her hand in the cookie jar. Know what happens to me when I get caught with my hand in the cookie jar? I get told I’m gonna spoil my dinner and smacked on the butt with a wooden spoon. Scolded, swatted, and maybe a cookie – I don’t think she understands sometimes what motivates me to be on my worse-than-average behavior.
“It’s dry,” I said as the light entered my pupils and made me feel momentarily hung over. Did I ever mention busses make me a little motion sick?
“But for how long? Heehee! And don’t you worry your little piddle pants,” she said as she set her day bag on her knees and unzipped it to show me what she brought, like I didn’t already know. “I got everything we need for a diaper change, even if you have one of your poopy accidents.”
“Marrrrryyy,” I hissed. “I don’t and be quiet. We’re stuck with these people all day.” To which she responded by taking out the hairbrush. “Put that away. You’re gonna get us in trouble.”
“It’s also used to comb hair, bambina,” she whispered to me. Or maybe mock whispered. Slight chance she was mocking me and what, I’m sure, she would characterize as my histrionics. The meaning of that word is ‘overly theatrical or melodramatic in style’ and well she may think that, but no one has ever claimed she dirties her diapers. And in point of fact – facts being things I care deeply about and for which Mary cares not a whit – if I ever said such a thing about her I’d be bare bottomed over her lap getting paddled like a canoe before the last syllable left my lips, so which of us is histrionic about these things? I ask you, and I answer, MARY IS AND NOT ME AND I NEVER DID THAT IN ONE OF MARY’S DIAPERS EVER!
“Turn around,” she bid me, and I did but only because I’m biddable and stuff. She started combing my hair and said to me, “Did I ever thank you for growing your hair out again?”
“Mhmm.” She did, many times.
“Can I braid it when we get back to the hotel tonight?”
“Mhmm.”
“You wanna get naked and sit between my thighs while I do it?”
“Yes. Yes, that is a thing I wish to have happen.” And then she kissed my neck. Sigh …
Any hope I may have had about keeping the diaper dry was dashed by the day’s chosen activity. No one goes on a winery tour without having to pee at some point. There’s a specific method for tasting wine: give it a swirl in your glass to expose every molecule to oxygen; smell it; take a sip; hold the wine against the inside of your cheek; purse your lips and inhale with the wine still in your mouth like you’re slurping; swish it around; spit it out. You spit it out because your ability to taste all the tastes declines along with your other senses when you have alcohol, so to maintain your tasting faculties, you don’t actually drink the wine. I know this because I am a sophisticate. One thing people weren’t doing on our tour, though, was spitting it out, and I wasn’t either because I wasn’t judging a wine competition. I was there to experience the Tuscan wine country while maintaining a low-key buzz. I am hardly a lightweight when it comes to alcohol, but also I am, is the thing. I pack a lot of feistiness and fierceness and basically all the good qualities into a small package. I had a delightful buzz and it was only ten in the morning.
“You’re making your potty face,” the evil temptress I married whispered into my ear from behind.
I whirled around very discreetly and told the witch-queen of ageplay town, “I don’t have a potty face, and you can’t even see from back there.”
“So if I gave you a spontaneous hug and goosed your diaper, it wouldn’t be warm and wet?”
“… No,” is the answer I chose to give.
“Mhmm. You know what fibbers get?”
“Show me later.”
And she did after lunch. She leaned over and whispered to me, “You have a sopping wet diaper.” Seriously, going on vacation with her is all the kinds of fun and also all the kinds of embarrassing. She’s mostly good about not letting others hear the humiliating things she says but she can’t guarantee it won’t happen. I, on the other hand, am equally good at being humiliated and at being aroused by it because Mother Goddess of the Universe blessed me with a humiliation kink and paired me up with Mary. “Let’s go take care of that.”
The wineries are made out of stucco and have high ceilings. Things echo. It was for this reason that once in the restroom Mary slapped the hairbrush into her palm and made her thinking face. “Too much,” she said to me. “Guess I’ll hafta spank your naughty bottom with just my hand.”
“Naughty? I wasn’t naughty. I’ve been in my best behavior all day.” In fact, if anyone was pushing right up against the line it was Mary.
“You fibbed earlier. I heard it with my own two ears.”
“Would it help if we laid down in the vineyard and I nibbled on them?” I’m very good at ear nibbling, like we sapphics tend to be. Lots of practice making perfect and all that.
“It would help,” Ninja Ballerina Barbie said as she did a twirly thing so I was bent under her arm staring at my feet with my skirt flipped up, “if you take your spanking like the big girl you so obviously are not.”
A spanking over a diaper is a loud affair. A Ph.D. student in physics should do their dissertation on why. It hardly hurts though, especially when your domme seems more intent on reminding you you’re wearing a diaper and that it’s wet than on the actual spanking.
“This is an anniversary of sorts, Daffy. Do you know why?”
“No ow!” That one got my thigh.
“The very first time I put you back in diapers was for a trip to a winery. Don’t you remember me changing you into a dry pull-up in the lady’s room?”
O gawd yes I do. Ech! “I only peed it cuz I thought it would gross you out and you’d never make me wear one again,” I confessed.
“I figured that out a long time ago, little girl.”
“I’m not a little girl.”
“O, so it’s a big girl I have tucked under my arm getting spanked in her soggy pampers? Or …” She abruptly stopped and let me up. “Or did you not even realize your diaper was wet? Did you have accidents and not even know it? Is that what happened to my little girl?”
“Marrrry!”
“You should tell Mommy these things. I would never spank for real accidents even if you did fib about not having them. I understand how embarrassing it is to be a little girl your age who can’t keep her pants dry. That’s why you’re back in diapers.” Like, all the pretense ever supports the entire superstructure of our lifestyle relationship (which is super).
“We should play games I can win sometimes,” I didn’t mutter but didn’t really address to Mary either.
“My poor bambina. Let’s change your diaper.”
Now, maybe Mary was lost in her headspace. Maybe what she said triggered what she said next without thinking. Maybe she’s evil (if so, I love her anyway). Cuz there was a knock at the door, and Mary called back, “Just a minute – I’m changing a diaper.”
Instant hot-cold ball of excited anxiety in my stomach, racing heart, clammy skin, the metallic taste of adrenaline in my mouth. “M …” was my sole response to the look Mary gave me when she adjusted my skirt after taping another of those things on me.
“Feel better,” she had the nerve to ask me. We’re married; she can pretend to be super confident and poised at all the times, but she couldn’t hide from me the nervousness in her expression.
She threw the diaper away and washed both our hands while I felt as small (and smol) and submissive and anxious and humiliated as I’ve ever felt. The only thing that could’ve made it worse (better?) is if she spread a blanket out in the vineyard and changed me there.
“Maybe they don’t speak English,” Mary said as she zipped up her backpack, put an arm around my shoulder, and took us to the door. What was she nervous about? It would be rather obvious to anyone outside the door which of us needed a diaper change (or maybe not but it sure feels that way when you’re me and with Mary). And if she were accused of playing kinky games in the public restroom, I have no doubt in my soul Mary would go mama bear mode and lash out claiming her wife (that’s me) has a disability and how dare they and so on. Thank goodness for pretense. Or maybe Mary was afraid I’d be angry with her when I regained my power of speech.
We stepped outside, and I concentrated my eyes on the floor. Several pairs of vacation-sensible walking shoes were waiting in line for the restroom. We neither rushed nor dawdled but walked straight outside where Mary gave me a good squeeze and asked, “How ya feeling?”
“Turmerfuzzit.”
“Could be worse. Imagine if you’d had a dirty diaper. I’d still be wiping your bottom, and the smell would make it obvious to the next person just what kind of diaper you made.”
“Frugger nuggin.”
“So cute when you get so twitterpated you forget to use your words. Remember what happened when we got home from the winery the first time I put you in pull-ups?”
Yes. Yes I did. In fact, the muscle I pulled putting my leg back behind my … anyhoo. “We’re gonna do that later,” I asked.
“Yeah, if you want.”
“Okay.”
“You mad at me or just stunned?”
“The second thing you said.”
“Is your diaper the other kind of wet right now?”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what? Don’t ask anymore embarrassing questions about your diaper cuz it might make you cum? Daffy, look at me – ya gonna cum? In the fresh diaper I just put on your bottom in case you have more accidents? Ya gonna Number Three in your luvs? Hmmm?”
“Hhhhh … Fffffff!”
“There’s my good girl. I know you can’t help what you do in your diapers.”
Awww heck heccin yes! She called me a good girl! And no to the other thing she said. Um, really.
