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I’m Not a Little Girl! Really!
We make mistakes in life. I am certainly not immune. As a for instance, I put Mary in charge and gave her full disciplinary control. I may not have done that if I had known then that diapers, according to weird people named Mary, are a behavior improvement tool. Worse, I didn’t know Mary would come to think of me in a diaper as the cutest thing since they invented ducklings.
But I’ve gone along with it, and why? Because once when I was very young, I fell into a looking glass on my way to Grandma’s house and a forest witch cursed me an erotic humiliation kink. I do not care for the diapers, I do not care for green eggs and ham, and I do not care for wetting myself. But that I do not care for them, and that not a day goes by when I don’t have to defend my adulthood, honor, and sterling reputation as an upstanding citizen, just creates all the conflicted feels needed to sate an erotic humiliation fetish.
Another reason I go along with this nonsense? Because I am a good girl, and Mary is in charge. I am such a good girl that the other good girls roll their eyes at my goodness. I am the poster girl for goodness (setting aside all my alleged misbehavior, which has never been proven in a court of law). I like being good for my Mary. I am a submissive after all, and I want to be in her good graces always and to make her happy cuz I loved her and stuff. It’s not easy being Mary’s good girl cuz, according to Mary, sometimes I have a little devil in me and can be quite the handful. But I try to be good. Really. And then Mary has to go and declare it a diaper day the moment I emerge from the shower.
I only pouted a little (in a very good, dignified way that one could only see as little girl behavior if their reasoning was motivated. Really.) And Mary just smiled back at me. Rude? A little. But rather than say anything, I simply stared longingly at my underwear drawer as Mary sealed the last tape. I reminded myself it makes Mary happy, and here’s a secret: she’s the love of my life. I married her for just that reason. I even felt a rush of pleasure hormones as Mary told me, “Such a good girl for holding still.”
“What did you call me?”
“A good girl,” Mary replied with another one of those beguiling smiles of hers. She’s always beguiling me and stuff. She knows just how much I like being called a good girl. “I have to work for a little bit. Are you going to be okay on your own?”
I may, and this is a she said/she said dealy so we’ll never know the truth, have rolled my eyes. “I’m thirty-three. I’m not a little girl.”
“You’re my little girl, and if I’m not mistaken, you have some chores to do today.”
“I know. I’m the one who wrote the chore calendar.” Really.
“Little Miss Sassy pants. Up,” Mary told.
I don’t need to be told to do chores (anymore … mostly … or at least much less often than in the past). Me and Mary divide the housework, and ever since I quit my job, I’ve taken on a larger share and actually learned to enjoy it. It’s nice having clean things, plus it’s been very pleasant not finding myself over Mary’s knee getting my butt spanked for not doing my chores and not cleaning up after myself. “Am (spank) I (spank) getting (spank) through (spank) to (you), little (SPANK) girl (SPANK)?” And it turns out the answer is yes. Took a dozen-and-a-half trips over her knee for it to sink in, but yes, it finally, finally did … so I got that going for me.
I cleaned for an hour, and the doorbell rang. It was just a delivery person dropping off a package on the porch, but nothing quite like a doorbell to remind a person they’re not wearing any pants. And nothing quite like an exposed diaper to remind a person they should not be so casual with the no-pants wearing. “I’m getting too used to this,” I mused out loud cuz there was no one to talk to. The door to Mary’s office was closed. For reasons I do not understand, and I will forever regret doing this, I texted her, ‘Can I put on some pants?’
I’m allowed to choose what I wear unless Mary lays something out for me, and she has (almost) never made me go pantsless. And yet, because I’m a deeply imperfect yet somehow also perfect person, I asked for permission anyway. I regretted it even before Mary texted me back: ‘Nope .’
I could just picture my wife smirking as she tapped out that reply. She loves it when I just walk into trouble and was ever so damn delighted (I assume) picturing me making a grumpy face and waddling from room to room as I straightened up, put away, and cleaned. She was probably considering having me go into the basement and find the French maid costume I’d worn for Halloween years ago. Or maybe I was thinking that … Or thinking of Mary thinking that … which is still her fault somehow. She’s so mean to me, and only like it almost every single time.
The doorbell rang again, another delivery. “We’re popular today,” I said to myself as I watched the delivery person through the peephole. Glad nothing needed my signature. I looked down at Mary’s diaper that she was making me wear. “Pants would be a lot of fun. Just saying.”
And girls just wanna have fun. I really can’t say what kind of integrity the music industry has today, but Cindi Lauper circa 1983 wouldn’t have sung that if it wasn’t true. So I texted Mary again. ‘ Can I go put on panties yet? I … did the thing.’ I still can’t always bring myself to say it.
Mary the Smartmouth replied, ‘You piddled your pampers? They can hold more than one tinkle.’
‘I need changed.’
‘Already? That’s a thirsty diaper I put you in.’
I swallowed down my urge to brat back. I was very mature and dignified for a grown woman in a wet diaper getting teased by her wife. ‘Yes, already.’
‘I don’t know if a little girl is the best judge of when she needs her diaper changed,’ Mary answered, probably holding in a belly laugh during a zoom call with all those colleagues who don’t even know how evil she is. She doesn’t ever regret her misdeeds. She just regrets that she doesn’t always get to see me blushing o so adorably. It’s hard to be Mary’s good girl when I just wanna smack her with a pillow sometimes.
‘Then can you come check? Or I could just go change into underwear if you’re busy.’ See how helpful I am? Certainly not at all the type of person who makes suggestions out of self-interest while framing them as being beneficial to others who are not me. Um, really.
‘It’s not really an underwear kind of day, Daffy.’ Like, what the heck is that heccin supposed to even mean!?!
And the better angel of mine who lives on my shoulder told me right then not to take Mary’s bait. I should listen to her more often. I’m a good girl, a great girl, even the best girl, but I’m not perfect (for very brief moments. Rest of the time? I’m a role model for humans everywhere). Besides, life is boring when you always listen to your better angel.
So I texted back, ‘But you’re wearing underwear.’
‘Tone,’ was all Mary replied with.
‘Tone? What tone?!? I’m texting!’
“Ugh! She is so … hmmph!” Yet I swallowed down the metallic taste of indignation and very politely texted back, ‘When are you gonna come check me then?’
‘At lunch time.’
‘But this is getting uncomfortable, and that’s an hour away!’
‘You’re such a cutie. I’m gonna brag to all our friends that my little girl can tell time.’
Ugh! ‘Fine, but I’m putting on pants.’
‘You’d better not.’
I was uncomfortably wet (my butt was cold!), Mary has pushed my buttons, I wasn’t best pleased with her, and I wasn’t so happy with myself for letting Mary get my goat even when it was so clear that’s what Mary (who is so mean and pretty and nice to me but also so mean sometimes) was trying to do. So with all those reasons in mind – and they are reasons (good ones) and not excuses – I don’t think it should be counted against my to-this-day perfect record of good judgement that I turned in the direction of Mary’s office and declared, “I’m not a little girl! I can wear pants if want to!”
Diplomatic? Mayhaps not, but neither was the continental congress when they wrote King Georgie to say, “Go suck a fat one, Kingy Boy!” Didn’t make the final draft, but it made it through several rounds of edits. Really.
So I went and put on pants. I can do that whenever I want cuz I am an adult, an agent of my own fate, a decider of my own destiny … and stuff. And not afraid of Mary. Really. She just works for me actually (but please don’t ever tell her I said that). Independence declared and pants on, I finished my cleaning.
“Nice job cleaning,” Mary called out from the kitchen when she emerged from her office. She peaked around the corner and saw me absolutely not pouting on the couch. Really. I was feeling downright giddy; freedom of pants is such a rush. Certainly wasn’t at all nervous what her reaction would be. And sure, maybe I should’ve thought ahead a little more and not given into a bratty impulse just cuz Mary teased me, but on the other hand, I fear no woman named Mary. Farthest from my mind was the hope that she’s actually a T-Rex and wouldn’t be able to see that I’d disobeyed so long as I didn’t move. Really.
I suspected trickery cuz Mary isn’t one to just let these things slide, but she was gone for a few minutes. Maybe she decided not to make a thing out of it. The plot thickened, as they say … whatever that means.
And then (gulp) Mystery Mary re-appeared in the hallway holding the barstool and that sunuvabitching evil bath brush. I may be a good girl, but I am NOT a surrender monkey. I was on my feet freedom fighting (verbally) in a way that wasn’t, as some witnesses to whom I am married describe it, whiny and pouting. “I can wear pants if I want to!”
“Of course you can, just so long as you’re willing to face the consequences.”
“What consequences? There are no consequences! You almost never don’t let me wear pants!”
“You never ask,” Mary replied calmly as she set the stool down in the middle of the room. I hate that stupid stool. My hands and feet don’t even touch the floor when I get spanked over Mary’s knee on that thing. ! I’m just over her lap like a little kid draped. I mean, sure, like all fine things I drape well, but I heccin hate it and that’s exactly why Mary brings the damn thing out when she quote “wants to teach me a stupid lesson” unquote (I may have added the ‘stupid’ part).
“That doesn’t even make any sense!”
“I said no. You disobeyed. What kind of top would I be if I didn’t spank my defiant little bottom’s bottom? Besides, everyone knows little girls like you need consequences when they make naughty choices.”
“You are the grumpiest little girl,” Mary scoffed at – again, this is her characterization and it’s just so not even accurate – my outburst. “A spank on your reset button is gonna do you a world of good. Come to me.”
I hate that stool, and I heccin hate that heccin bathbrush. All the speed and sting of a hairbrush plus the thud of a paddle like some mutant spawn from a hairbrush hate-screwing a school paddle and they weren’t even married, and that stupid mutant shouldn’t even live with us! It should go live with the X-men and fight crime or something with the other mutants. It hardly ever comes off the wall cuz it’s so next-level with the pain and the hurting and o I hate it so much! I may be a spanking enthusiast, and I may like a good hard spanking a whole lot more after than during, but that thing hurts too much to like it ever. All conflicted again trying to be a good girl and Mary’s mean decree and the barstool and that friggin weapon of ass destruction. Hmmph!
But I’m brave. I’m decisive, and I’m brave, so in a stentorian voice of certainty, I said, “Nuh-n-no.” Decisive, right? Yes right.
Mary’s eyebrow arched. She’s not used to hearing me say no. Maybe that’s the problem. I’ve been too good a girl for too long. “Excuse me, little girl? Get your butt over to me now.”
I’m cool as a cucumber under all the circumstances ever. Wasn’t like I felt my heartbeat rising or anything … and stuff. “N-no. Cuz I didn’t, um … do … anything.” In fact, I’ve actually never misbehaved in my life. Really.
“I’m the one who decides when you’ve earned a spanking. You disobeyed, you know it, you need a sound spanking, and you’re getting one right this instant, young lady. Don’t make me come get you.”
“Daphne Ann, I’m going to count to three. If I have to walk over to …”
“I’m not a toddler! I’m not impressed by counting!” I had just enough time for stupid angel (who never makes her case well; this was all her fault) in my head to say r uh roh before Mary was on her feet and had me by the elbow. She spun around, sat herself down on the sofa, and twirled me over her lap in one motion. Think hard before you marry a spanking ninja ballerina who’s bigger than you. I mean, it’s the best decision I ever made and I wouldn’t change it for all the gold in Narnia, but in the moment, I was wishing very much that her hand-eye coordination was just a little off. I almost couldn’t hear her scolding me over the thwump of the frantic but expertly delivered spanks she was landing on the seat of my Forbidden Pants.
“Not a toddler? Then why are you over my knee getting a spanking over your diaper?”
“Lemme go!” I’m not a brat, but sometimes I do perform acts of brattitude, and I must’ve woken up on the bratty side of the bed that morning, I guess. I tried to swim off Mary’s lap as the spanks rained down. Not that I could feel them through my pants and Mary’s diaper (that I was kind enough to wear and, um, utilize on her behalf, and where is my thank you for that, btw?), but it was embarrassing. And stupid age play-esque erotic humiliation fetish and the spanking and the conflicted feels and it’s not like I wanted to be so obstinate, but I do hafta to defend my adulthood and independence and honor and nobility and stuff. It’s actually a full-time job since I live with Mary. She keeps me on my toes.
“When I tell you no, little girl, that means no. Up.” She spanked me to my feet, and no, I wasn’t sniffling and I didn’t wipe away a single embarrassed, regretful tear. Rumors and innuendo. Propaganda from the Regime of Mary, Queen of Making-Up-Rules-As-She-Goes actually … and stuff. Nor did I just stand there chastened and obediently holding still as Mary took my freedom pants down. “All this fuss over a pair of pants. Do you feel like a big girl now, getting your pants taken down so I can spank your bare bottom?” Like I was even going to dignify that with a response … until she smacked my thigh.
“Other girls your age who still get spanked are allowed to take their own pants down for their spankings, but are you allowed to do that?”
“That’s right. You’re too little to bare your own bottom. Step out.” Mary picked the pants up after I stepped out of them and started to fold them neatly as though even she respected their symbolism (or was just trying to rub it in and make my consequence last). She paused, and I saw this smile spread across her face. Very impolite. I married a tall, strong, ninja ballerina with hardly any manners at all.
“Daffy,” she said sweetly as though my what-embarrassing-thing-is-she-gonna-do-or-say-to-me-next antenna wasn’t picking up all the signals, “did you wanna put pants on cuz you were embarrassed for me to see your leaky diaper?”
“It’s not leaky!” Defending one’s reputation is hard sometimes. Especially when it’s futile, like if you’re me and live with Mary. Nonetheless, I wasn’t wearing a leaky diaper. More propaganda (that happened to be true, I found out later … dammit).
“Then how did your pants get wet? Just goes to show little girls don’t know when they need a diaper change.”
“Marrry! I told you I needed a change!” I stomped my foot. I know it’s adorable, and I hate being adorable when I’m trying to be tken seriously, but I can’t help it sometimes. Even I, the very paragon of forbearance and equanimity, let some less than sterling mannerisms slip out when my Mary pushes the right buttons, and the I’m-so-sweet-to-this-helpless-little-girl tone of voice definitely pushes a right button or four. But I didn’t, for the record of truth which is what I always tell, pair my foot stomp with a clenched fist and a “Hmmph!”
“I know it’s hard being a girl your age still in diapers, but you know I’d never judge you for needing your pampers.”
“I don’t need them! You make me wear them.”
“Because you need them.”
“I don’t need them!!”
“Yes, you do. Of course you do, because I say so. It’s just the cherry on the sundae that they make you so cute I can hardly even stand it. And usually they keep you out of trouble, but I guess a leaky Luvs just brought your grumpy out, didn’t it?”
That wasn’t an actual question, and I wasn’t going to dignify it with with an answer. I just stood there … not pouting and not avoiding eye contact. Really.
“Was your bottom just so uncomfortable you just couldn’t help but act out, hmm? I know little girls have trouble controlling their impulses when they’re tired or uncomfy. It’s just such a shame cuz your bottom is about to be a whole lot more uncomfortable, but it will help you learn.”
“Marrrry, none of this woulda happened if you had just let me change.”
“None of this would’ve happened if you had listened and obeyed, but you didn’t, so it’s happening,” Mary said, her tone returning to that of a calm, firm, determined disciplinarian. It’s so unfortunately arousing when does that … dammit. “We’ll keep that diaper under you just in case you piddle during your spanking.”
“I will not and you know it,” I declared in a declaratory way befitting declarations that declare you’re not about to wet yourself while your wife has you over her lap for a bare bottom spanking. Mary led me toward the stool and sat herself down.
I know a thing or two about poise and aplomb in the face of adversity, so I was all prepared to submit (like a good girl – I am too such a good girl!) … until I saw the bath brush again. Not that I panicked. I just exclaimed in a very exclamatory way, “Not the bath brush!”
“Please not the brush,” I asked (didn’t beg; fake news … but I did dig my heels into the carpet and, um, try to pull away).
“What has gotten into you today?”
Wow, that is such a good question. What bee got into my bonnet today?
It took a little more of tug than usual, but Mary – tall, strong, athletic, brunette, married to me and I like her a lot and stuff but do not care for the bath brush or that stupid stool either – got me over her lap despite my heroic (and maybe slightly half-hearted cuz I really am a good girl and love my Mary) resistance.
“Raise your hips,” she said to me. Like hey, can we at least acknowledge my heroic resistance and also leave that diaper up and, ya know, not spank me bare bottom? Or at all?
“Not the brush!”
“Daphne Ann, you need to calm down, hold still, and listen to me.”
“I will, but not the brush. I hate the brush and I hate this stool and I hate this diaper and you’re just being mean today! Mean Mary!”
I may be small, but I’m also fierce and stuff. I wasn’t just gonna let Mary hold me over her lap without at least expending some real effort. Can’t just meekly submit (at least not all the time; what fun is that?). She got a firm grip on my hip, and again with the rudeness, delivered a few thunderspanks to the back of my thighs to the tune of, “Settle! Down!”
“Make me!” I probably shouldn’t have said that. I should try to figure out what exactly got into me today, assuming I survive.
Witnesses get confused, documents get lost or destroyed by the accidents of history (or by submissives who don’t want certain things recorded for posterity). All of which is to say that historians weren’t there, so you can’t fully trust them when they say Mary did, in fact, make me settle down and hold still.
She skipped the hand spanking warm-up (which is in the Geneva Conventions, btw), and went straight to the bath brush. Perhaps, in her view, my behavior warranted a lot more spanks (and harder) spanks than she usually gives me with that thing.
And I don’t mind admitting how much it hurt. I’m the wronged party here, and people should know just what she did to me (but also please don’t spread this around – so humiliating!).
It took two spanks to produce the first sobs.
It took three more to provoke real tears.
Ten more, and I stopped thrashing. “Finally holding still,” as Mary grumbled. She sounded a little out of breath. Almost like, as a random for instance, she was perched precariously on a bar stool trying to hold on to a grown woman who was trying to get the heck off her lap, and spank said grown woman at the same time. Glad I made her work for it at least (further proof I’m not a little girl). Also glad she held onto me and that I didn’t tips us over. Anyhoo …
Eight more spanks, and my wailing turned into a sobbing moan as I laid limply over my Mary’s knee.
And ten more until, I guess, Mary was confident whatever naughtiness and yucky feelings had provoked such bad choices were all cried out of me.
“Shhh,” Mary cooed, “it’s all over.” She rubbed my butt and my back as she surveyed the scene. The diaper was on the floor, I was a sweaty mess, and so was Mary. She’d need to comb my hair again before her next Zoom meeting. And how the heck did I manage to kick a sock off?
“Can you sit up?”
Of course I could. I’m very big and brave and capable. I didn’t need but did accept Mary’s help as I pivoted straight into her lap, put my cheek against her shoulder, and continued my crying (which I was only doing cuz my butt and pride her; I’m not a little girl! Really!!!). “I’m sorry I was ba-a-a-ad,” I (allegedly) sobbed. Very big and brave and … stuff and things.
“You weren’t bad, Daphne. You just made some bad choices. You’re my good girl.”
“Aww, sweetie.” She chose to rock me a little. I didn’t ask for it or need (not that I hated it but also yes I did cuz I’m not a little girl). “You always cry harder when I spank bottom and call you my good girl.” And yet she always says it, which is good cuz I’d be an unhappy Daffy if she didn’t say it.
“Cuz I love you and I’m trying to be good for you and I’m sorrrrrryyyyy!”
She chuckled. “You silly goose. I love you too, and you’re always my good girl and always will be, even when you make bad choices.”
Did you hear what she said? She said I’m always her good girl! Heck yes! My diaphragm cramped with the occasional sob and sniffle, but the tears dried up.
“Are you going to obey me?”
“Are you ever gonna fight me again when I decide you need your bottom spanked?”
“No,” I meeped.
“Good. I don’t like having to give you such hard spankings. If I had my way, the bath brush would go in the trash, but it can’t do that until your behavior tells me you won’t ever need me to spank you with it again. Do you understand that, that I don’t spank your bottom just because?”
“Good. And you got your consequence, and everything is forgiven. How about we make lunch together?”
“Mmm-mmm? You wanna snuggle longer?”
“Okay. Your Mary loves you very much.” Ooo, with the soft kissing. I think she likes me. Maybe even like likes me
“I love you too.” Mary held me for a few more minutes. Told you she likes me and stuff.
“Alright, up you go.”
“Do you need me to keep hugging bad feelings away, or are you just trying to delay getting diapered again?”
“Um, no … really.”
“I think someone’s fibbing. You know what fibbers get?”
“I’m up!” I sprang to her feet. “I’m up and my butt really hurts.” Heccin seriously! Ouch and stuff!
“And your huggies are gonna hold the heat in longer. Let that be a reminder to make good choices. Lie down.”
I resisted mentally, for the record, if not physically or verbally as Mary got a dry diaper from the changing basket under the coffee table and put me into it. “Let’s go blow your nose and wash your pretty face, then we’ll have lunch together. Sound good?”
“Mhmm … Mary? Can we have sex as soon as you’re done with work?”
“Ha! Of course we can.” I know this is crazy, but I’m pretty sure she was just as aroused as me by the whole episode. Weird, right?
“Can I get started without you?” I was asking for my friend.
“You can go crazy on yourself so long as that diaper stays on the whole time … Are you making uwu faces at me?”
“No, I swear … um, really.”
“My silly little girl.”
And my butt (and pride and stuff)! My poor, poor butt (and pride and stuff)! And I didn’t even do anything (except for all that stuff I did)! I’m a good girl! Really!