Wednesday, May 3, 2017

May Day Dance of the Rising Dong

Dear 1950s Wife,

People in other parts of the country can expect warm weather this time of year but here in the frosty upper Midwest there's no guarantee. So I was especially pleased with blue skies and sunny temps we enjoyed for our town's May Day festival this weekend.

Among the many activities is crowning May Day Queen: a senior girl from our local high school who exhibits best mix of beauty, brains, and citizenship.

This year's queen more than met the criteria: head cheerleader; salutatorian of her class with an intended major of home economics at State University (she actually posted the highest GPA but our school board members are a traditional lot and maintain the long-standing rule that the high school valedictorian be male); and participation in several civic-minded organizations, including president of the school's Student Virgins Society and treasurer of Future Republican Women Homemakers club.

How grand the queen looked in her ankle-length gown with minimal d├ęcolletage designed by our town's popular dressmaker, Christian Couture, with tiara on top. The crowds along Main Street for the May Day parade cheered with joy as the queen passed on her float accompanied by a military escort of young men from the high school ROTC program and girls in her court: fellow cheerleaders as well as the student honored with school yearbook senior superlative of "Jolliest Fat Girl."

After the parade, the crowd gathered by the town square gazebo to hear speeches by local dignitaries followed by an excellent barbecue lunch prepared by the high school's Culinary and Future Pig Meat Producers of America clubs.

Then at night mutual dances: one for farmers and townies at the local firehall where cider flowed and polka music played and a country club gala for our community's doctors, lawyers, agribusiness executives and their wives with music provided by our town's nationally recognized barbershop quartet, "The Mellow Fellows."*

But, as exciting as Saturday's festival activities are, they still can't can't top the Sunday afternoon ceremony featuring myself and my fellow submissive wives and our husbands: the May Day Dance of the Rising Dong.

As soon as we returned from church, my husband and I changed into our workout clothes and drove to the dance site at a field just outside town where temporary bleachers were erected.

But we weren't planning to jazzercise. The workout clothes were merely for modesty's sake because once we reached the dance (an adults-only affair) we stripped down to our birthday suits.

Participation in the dance is limited to 21 sets of dominant husbands/submissive wives in the 21-to-39-year-old age bracket. As the 1950s lifestyle is quite popular in our town, selection for the dance is very competitive. A committee of town elders chooses the dancers based on such criteria as church attendance, participation in civic organizations and, of course, looks. The less attractive are certainly entitled to frolic naked in the privacy of their own homes but nobody wants to see a pigeon-chested man and his buttocks-sagging spouse in the buff in public.

The ceremony begins with us couples standing at attention before the bleachers as the crowd rises for a stirring version of The National Anthem sung a capella by The Mellow Fellows barbershop quartet. Then introductory comments by the mayor before he hands our husbands commemorative foot-long paddles with "2017 May Day Dance of the Rising Dong" written on the face of the boards.

Then, to accompaniment of a retired Marine Corp bugler provided by the local VFW Hall, the Mayor commands: "Wives assume the position."

Each husband puts a foot on the first step of the bleachers and places his wife across a bent knee.

"Husbands," the mayor shouts, "Ready. Aim. Fire!"

Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack!

"Thank you beloved husbands," we wives cry. "May we have more?"

Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack!

We wives repeat our refrain, though this time much sniffling goes with.

Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack!

The 21-sets-of-buns-spanking-salute is done.

We wives take a moment to dry our tears, then gambol to the middle of the field where the May Pole lies. At this point the plastic pole lies deflated behind a pair of two-foot rubber balls colored red-white-and-blue.

But as we wives gyrate before the pole accompanied by sexy songs by The Mellow Fellows the pole slowly fills with air till at last it reaches it's ten-foot red-white-and-blue glory with a drawing of our nation's chief executive covering its head.

Twenty-one sets of streamers are attached to the shaft of the pole just underneath its presidential head. Once erect, each wife grabs a streamer and skips around the shaft in the traditional "May Day Dance of the Rising Dong."

After five minutes of dancing, the mayor again shouts "Wives assume the position."

We prostrate ourselves before the pole and our husbands mount us from behind to perform vigorous doggy-style fucking. Once husband-and-wife reach orgasm, the wife rises and throws herself against the balls surrounding the shaft. Eventually enough wives press against the May pole's balls forcing air pressure causing cream inside the pole donated by the local dairy to burst through the top giving us a symbolic semen shower.

Thus the May Day Dance of the Rising Dong is done.

Our town's May Day festival was such a success this year. Though contraception is not forbidden for participants in the dance (our town's Catholic and Protestant clergy agree-to-disagree on the subject, a fine example of our community's  all-get-along attitude), many wives are hoping for a bun-in-the-oven to come from the dance.

I know I am. Counting the days till it's that-time-of-the-month for me and so hoping the red river runs dry.

I so want to be a featured attraction in our town's other big festival, The Great Baby Birthday on the first weekend of February. A little May would be fine but the child would be our first. So we're really hoping for a little Dick.

Good woman:

That sure is a freaky May Day festival. Our town's springtime parade of homes and gardens seems tame by comparison. But to each his own.

*The name "The Mellow Fellows" is used fictitiously.

Tuesday, April 25, 2017

"The Handmaid's Tale": Must See TV for Husbands Who Discipline and Wives Who Obey

Dear 1950s Wife:

My husband forbids me television during the day as he wisely realizes I'm apt to squander valuable time watching soap operas, game shows, "Dr. Phil" and other low-brow fare that's better spent laundering, cleaning and cooking.

And our TV set is reserved for Hubby's use at night and on weekends so he can keep up with his favorite teams and athletes in football, basketball, hockey, baseball, professional wrestling and golf.

Consequently I take little interest in television and am rarely up to speed on the latest TV shows. But my ears couldn't help but perk up when I overheard my gal pals at the gym gabbing about the latest release on Hulu network, "The Handmaid's Tale."

In shocked tones they discussed the show's depiction of a dystopian America where Type-A men rule over subservient women confined to the home. (Females who refuse to abide by the patriarchal rules are afforded career gal status cleaning toxic waste dumps until they die of exposure. And men who're wimps are executed.)

An environmental calamity has rendered nearly all women infertile. The few who aren't must serve as handmaids to dominant men undergoing ritualistic sex while their wives look on in the hopes of producing offspring.

The other infertile women not lucky enough to be married but fortunate not to labor at toxic waste dumps serve as household servants or as "aunts" at prisons used to indoctrinate fertile women for future roles as sex slaves and baby makers. And among the training tools are cattle prods!

Naturally, when I heard the show's description I knew it would be just the sort of wholesome TV fare that my husband would let me watch.

But just to be sure, after I dropped my workout clothes in the laundry machine, showered and changed into my customary evening wear of little black dress, stockings with garter belt and five-inch stilettos, I put an extra splash of vermouth in Hubby's martini and made sure to tongue his balls during his pre-dinner blowjob. And of course I served him his favorite meal of meatloaf and mashed potatoes with gravy spilling over and apple pie with ice cream for desert. (I dined on a yummy asparagus-and-yogurt casserole.)

After my husband emitted a healthy belch at the end of the meal to let me know how much he enjoys my cooking, I cleared the plates, washed the dishes then walked into the living room where Hubby was enjoying his customary after-dinner brandy and cigar.

I popped the question regarding "The Handmaid's Tale" and was delighted when my husband said yes to watching it. In fact, Hubby was so enthusiastic about the show that he only made me spend 30 minutes rather than the usual hour serving as a footstool as he sat back in his favorite chair with his feet propped up to read the evening paper.

When he was done, my husband folded up the paper and swatted me playfully on the behind before escorting me into his man cave so we could watch "The Handmaid's Tale" on Hulu network via streaming service on the computer.

I must admit I was a bit turned on before Hubby even turned on the computer at being allowed in his man cave for another reason aside from vacuuming the floor and dusting his knickknacks.  I sat in his lap and curled up into his arms as the show began.

The show was interesting from the beginning, though the premise of a future where people's fear of terrorism and desire for law-and-order results in the overthrow of democratic government and the establishment of theocracy could never happen in real life. This is America for Pete's sake!

But as the show got into the training of the fertile handmaids as sex slaves my attention strayed from the plot to how wet I was getting. And when the warder whipped out the cattle prod, I couldn't help but turn myself over Hubby's knees and plead for him to spank my bottom as red as the handmaids' robes.

Which he did. And how!

Afterwards, I dropped to my knees, unzipped Hubby's fly and gave him his second blow job of the night. Then he lifted me up and put me over his shoulders and carried me up to the bedroom. Hubby ordered me to undress and slipped out of his clothes to recharge his batteries and mine by doing nude calisthenics for several minutes. Then he climbed aboard for three hours of bed-shaking sex!

So I didn't get to see the end of the first episode of "The Handmaid's Tale," much less episodes two and three that Hulu has available for viewing.

The rub of it all is, after a short break, the National Hockey League Stanley Cup playoffs resume tonight and Hubby will be preoccupied before the TV nightly maybe till the tournament is done in mid-June.

I so much want to keep up with my gym gal pals' gab about "The Handmaid's Tale" but I don't know much about what takes place. Did you happen to watch the entire three episodes that Hulu has for streaming so far and, if so, can you give me a synopsis?

Good woman:

I'm afraid I can't give you the update you seek. As is your husband's dictum, the television in our house was used only to view sports, specifically our beloved Chicago Barez, Bullz, Hacks and Sax. But thanks to the federal government high-handed ruling some years ago forbidding the use of analog TVs, even that recreation is no longer available. We watch our sports the old-fashioned way: on the radio!

But I googled "The Handmaid's Tale Hulu" and see the show got excellent reviews. I also recommend the novel by Margaret Atwood published in 1985 which I bought several years ago but never got around to reading, as it's supposed to be really good too. I plan to read it soon.

I hope you enjoy rest of "The Handmaids Tale" on Hulu once your husband allows you to watch the remaining episodes.

And take heed, dear readers, of the cautionary tone of "The Handmaid's Tale." Cherish our liberty! God may or may not have blessed America. But the framers of the Constitution certainly did.

Monday, February 1, 2016

Bernie Sanders Spanked My Bottom

Dear 1950s Wife,

When it comes to presidential primary campaigning, we New Hampshire residents get lots of attention.

But I don't keep up with politics. As a proper submissive wife, my husband chooses my candidate on primary day and in the general election. It's never a matter of disagreement among us, as I'm far too busy with my daily regimen of cooking, cleaning, laundering, exercising, being spanked by Hubby for my faults and three hours of bed-shaking sex every night to keep up with public affairs.

In fact, I'd be hard pressed to tell you the name of the president of the United States. But I do remember he's tall and handsome with good posture and well-barbered, just like the several presidents who've come before him.

So when this stubby, stoop-shouldered old-man with buck teeth and a mange of frizzy white hair surrounding his otherwise bald head knocked on the door mid-morning the other day to advise that he's running for president and would like a moment of my time, I naturally assumed he was an Alzheimer's patient who'd wandered away from the nearby old folks home.

I invited the supposed-candidate to sit down in the living room while I brewed a fresh pot of coffee, as I figured I could call the home from the kitchen phone and ask that attendants come over and take him away. But I'd no more than taken a few steps when he announced in a tone a bit too brusque for my liking that if my coffee beans weren't certified organic and grown under fair-trade conditions I needn't bother.

That just further convinced me that I was dealing with a crazy man, as the good housewife knows "organic" and "fair-trade-grown" are merely misleading labels meant to trick her into wasting Hubby's hard-earned money on overpriced groceries that spoil too soon.

I turned and smiled and tried to think of another excuse to get to the kitchen. But before I could speak, he launched into a speech:

"It appears your cupboard is bare of appropriate beans. After I'm elected president, all coffee consumed in our great country will brewed with American-made-certified-organic beans grown by workers making the minimum living wage of at least thirty dollars per hour."

He continued: "How will I accomplish this? With Bernie Sanders' five-point plan to cure the coffee crisis: 1) ban importation of coffee beans from 'sweat-shop countries' such as Columbia and Vietnam; 2) acquire through power of eminent domain under-utilized and vacant auto-manufacturing plants and all national-chain coffee shops; 3) convert the property into coffee-bean fields, coffee-manufacturing plants and government-run shops serving free coffee; 4) put laid-off auto workers back on the job growing and grinding the beans and serving coffee at acceptable salaries; 5) cover the cost by raising taxes on the wealthiest one percent of Americans."

"Not only will this provide desperately needed free coffee for the middle class and return Michigan and other Rust Belt states to prosperity, but my accompanying proposal that coffee and fast-food beverages be served in American-made reusable ceramic cups manufactured by workers paid at least the $30-per-hour 'living wage' will solve the solid waste crisis. Moreover, my plan for free college tuition and living expenses, including 'gap year,' for all 18-to-25-year-olds will ensure that no young person suffers the indignity of working in a coffee shop to help pay for college."

I continued to listen to candidate Sanders with a smile frozen on my face as he spoke of changes he'd make once president. They sounded to me like providing free stuff most people could pay for on their own with a reasonable amount of effort, all of it afforded by raising taxes on the wealthiest one percent. But what do I know? I'm just a housewife.

At last candidate Sanders said he must leave.

"Rather than coffee, I'd ask you for a cup of water," he said as he rose from the chair, "but the shocking failure of the federal government to enforce environmental regulations has rendered all tap water unfit to drink. This will certainly change once I'm president."

"In the meantime, I suggest you and other Americans do as I do and purchase bottled-water mail order from 'Maple Springs Water Company'* This family-owned, union-friendly, Vermont-headquartered company provides 'Sanders-standard' drinking water at the reasonable price of $25 per quart bottle. The remainder of your 64-ounces-per-day fluid intake needs may be had by boiling your urine to cleanse it of impurities."**

Candidate Sanders paused for a second, then added:

"Which reminds me, I'm thirsty and need to go. May I make use of a pot and your stove?"

"Certainly not!" I replied, my face flushing red with anger.

"I'm sorry. I know you're old and addle-brained, but this charade has gone on long enough," I said. "Please sit down while I call the old folks home to send an attendant to get you."

"What are you talking about? I don't live in a old folks home!" he shouted.

"I have an apartment in D.C. for when Congress is in session and a house in Vermont for when it's not. Though they're not easy to pay for on the pittance I'm paid. How am I expected to survive on a measly $174,000 a year? It's hardly a living wage!"

"Sit down!" I shouted as I pushed him back in the chair.

"How dare you," Sanders said as he stood back up.

"No woman talks to me like that! You're as loud and obnoxious as Bernardine Dohrn at an SDS meeting. And I'm telling you what I told her back then. Cross me again and I'll put you across my knee and spank your bottom."

"I'd like to see you try grandpa," I replied.

Apparently I pushed Bernie's button. Before I knew it he had me pinned with his left hand across the blazer of his wrinkled suit while vigorously patting the seat of my skirt with his right.

"This will teach you little missy," Sanders shouted. But after a dozen pats he suddenly stopped and let me free.

"Oh my goodness. What have I done?" he cried. "I'm acting like a member of the patriarchy! It's like the chicks, I mean girls, I mean women at the commune were always telling me: Bernie you've got to learn to contain your male ego."

He pulled a card from his pocket that had nothing but an e-mail address on it.

"Take this," Sanders said as he handed me the card. "It's my private e-mail. Please let me know what mid-tier country you want to be named ambassador to in exchange for keeping silent about this regrettable incident. We must keep this out of the press for the good of The Movement."

Then he left.

I returned to my housework and thought little more of the incident. It certainly didn't seem worth complaining about it to my husband. Compared to his spankings, the dozen hand pats from Bernie Sanders might as well have come from a gnat. I figured Mr. Sanders would find his way back to the old folks home eventually and they'd keep him under closer guard once they realized he escaped.

Imagine my surprise when I learned from Hubby at the breakfast table today that Bernie Sanders really is a candidate for president. Apparently he's running against some gal named Hillary Clinton for the Democratic nomination.

Hubby grimaced as he looked up from paper.

 "I can't believe half the Democrats in Iowa voted for this Sanders clown," he said. "The corn crop must have fermented."

Well I know we're not voting for Bernie Sanders come primary day. And I know we're not voting for this guy named Donald Trump in the Republican primary either because Hubby says Trump's a clown too.

But no matter who my husband says we're voting for I'm kind of hoping Bernie Sanders becomes president. Not because I want to be ambassador to a mid-tier country because I could never leave Hubby behind and give up my fulfilling housewife life.

But I would like to make lots of money writing a tell-all book about the time USA President Bernie Sanders spanked my bottom. In the meantime, please don't tell anybody. It's our little secret.

Good woman:

Sorry but I'm afraid I let the cat out of the bag.

But I doubt if you'd ever be able to make much money writing a tell-all book about President Bernie Sanders because the chance of self-described socialist and political zealot Bernie Sanders being elected Chief Executive of this Great Land of Ours are about as much as your story being true: zero.

*A Google search shows no results for "Maple Springs Water Company." The name is used fictitiously.
**Don't try this at home.

Wednesday, December 23, 2015

Wife Sings Naughty Song While Neighborhood Christmas Caroling. Will Santa Bring Switches?

Dear 1950s Wife,

My husband regularly spanks me for my silly stunts. I was extra naughty recently and Hubby spanked my bottom Yuletide red. And he says Santa is going to get in on the act.

For several years now, our condo association sponsors a Christmas caroling party for the neighborhood with prizes going to the best singers. It was fun the first few times. But I've gotten really bored singing the same old songs year after year.

Plus I've never been chosen as best singer, which is really unfair because I've got a great set of lungs. Hubby always tells me so as I yell and scream while he's spanking me after my harebrained schemes go awry!

The top prize for best female singer this year is a state-of-the-art set of electric egg beaters I've always yearned for. So, with the help of my best gal pal Edith who lives with her husband Frank in the condo unit above us, I decided to sing a satirical Christmas song that I was sure make my fellow carolers bust a gut and bring me those egg beaters.

After we finished circling our condo community singing "We Three Kings of Orient Are," "Twelve Days of Christmas," and other chestnuts, I told the group to hush up and gather round because Edith and I had a special Yuletide song to sing: a brilliant satire of "I'm Getting Nuthin' For Christmas." Edith sang the song's traditional refrain while I belted out hilarious revised lyrics for the rest of the number.

But after we finished I was shocked to hear no clapping and cheering. In fact, the night air was completely silent until my husband began profusely apologizing and saying I was "going choo get a good talking choo." (Hubby's from Cuba and his accent becomes more pronounced when he's upset.)

Frank took Edith by the arm to lead her away muttering that he hoped they wouldn't be fined by the condo board because it was all my fault and that I'm always talking his wife into going along with my silly stunts and harebrained schemes.

Hubby marched me back to our building and up the stairs to our unit.

Boy oh boy did he give me a good talking to, shaking his finger at me all the while as he scolded me for my inappropriate juvenile humor. Then he put me over his knee, lifted my skirt, pulled down my panties and spanked me soundly with his hand.

Hubby's hands are very calloused and his arms quite strong from his weekend job of many years playing bongos for a salsa band. So a handspanking from him is no laughing matter. In fact, I was crying "Wah!" the whole time.

After he finished spanking me, Hubby marched me to the bathroom and washed out my mouth with soap. Then he told me to change into my babydoll nightie and get into bed.

As he sat on the bed next to me taking off his clothes prior to our usual nightly session of three-hours of bed-shaking sex, Hubby kept saying I shouldn't be surprised if Santa adds to my punishment by leaving a bundle of switches and lump of coal in my Christmas stocking.

I wouldn't mind getting the former as it would save me the effort of walking down three flights of steps and 200 yards to the common area to cut a set of switches when Hubby decides to punish me that way. But I can't see the benefit from a lump of coal, though I suppose I could use it to put soot on my face should I decide to dress as a hobo next Halloween.

Plus I really want enough room in my stocking for the

set of extra-nice potholders that I asked Santa to bring in the letter I sent him.

What do you think? Did singing my satirical Christmas song put me on Santa's naughty list? I'm quite nice most of the time.

The song sung, naturally, to the tune of "I'm Getting Nuthin' For Christmas":

"I'm getting nuthin' for Christmas
Mommy and Daddy are mad
I'm getting nuthn' for Christmas
Cause I ain't been nuthin' but bad!

Told the boys that I give head
Somebody snitched on me
Hid my drugs neath sister's bed
Somebody snitched on me

Smoked up all of grandpa's weed
Sold hand jobs to men I meet
Dropped ecstasy: that was sweet
But somebody snitched on me!

I'm getting nuthin' for Christmas
Mommy and Daddy are mad
I'm getting nuthn' for Christmas
Cause I ain't been nuthin' but bad!

Skipped school for days playing in the sack
Somebody snitched on me
With Ben Wa balls up my crack
Somebody snitched on me

Told the truant officer to get fucked
That's when I ran out of luck
In juvy lockdown I am stuck
Somebody snitched on me!

I'm getting nuthin' for Christmas
Mommy and Daddy are mad
I'm getting nuthn' for Christmas
Cause I ain't been nuthin' but bad!"

Good woman:

Judging by the way Santa shouts "Ho, Ho, Ho," he has a good sense of humor. Plus he's known for being jolly. So I suspect he'll cut you some slack and that set of extra-nice potholders will be in his Christmas sack.

Thursday, November 26, 2015

Spanking and the Single Gal

Dear 1950s Wife,

I've been a faithful reader of your advice columns for several years. Next to the textbooks for my undergraduate studies in domestic sciences at State U, there's no better primer than your blog to prepare a gal for her post-graduate career in married life.

But it seems you never post advice for those of us unfortunate enough to still be single after college.

Back in the good old days, nearly any co-ed plain or fair could count on catching a man at college and leaving school with her "Mrs" degree. But now even a good-looking gal must sometimes wait to the advanced age of 24 or 25 before Mr. Right is ready to pop the question.

I thought I had the matter settled, but my ex-beaux Billy broke our engagement off via text message late in senior year leaving me so bereft that I could barely hold my head up high at graduation.

With no husband to cook and clean for, I had to move back in with my parents. It's OK, though Dad paddles my backside for breaking curfew or not doing my chores.

But now that it's been six months, Dad says I must start paying rent. I never thought I'd need a job after college otherwise I would have trained to be a teacher or a nurse.

Whatever am I to do?


Your situation is indeed heartrendering!

But you're better off without boorish Billy. And take heart. It's only been six months post-college. You've got a good two more years at least to get hitched before you risk turning into an old maid.

In the meantime you need to find suitable employment.

Ideally, the job will provide discipline and structure to better prepare you for married life, plus the benefit of limited prospects for advancement. Otherwise you might be tempted to climb the ladder and risk turning into one of those sad "career gals" in her 30s who, though she may have money, power and prestige, has only her pet cats to come home to.

I've researched the matter and these jobs stand out:

Wealthy Family's Whipping Girl

A whipping girl is the latest must-have accessory for the household of means.

Her behind provides a suitable target for a wealthy wife to vent frustration for her and spouse not receiving coveted dinner party invitations from the most prominent power couples, not being named to board of directors of the most prestigious charity balls, Junior not being admitted to Harvard, Yale or Princeton and other stresses of Top 1-percent life.

Husband typically spanks the whipping girl as a sexual release should wife be recovering from an exceptionally intense spanking the night before or an extra hard-pounding session of anal sex.

And if a whipping girl happens to be placed with a traditional family that believes in corporal punishment as a parenting technique, she goes over Mom and Dad's knee when the children are naughty.

"Breastaurant" Waitress

The "breastaurant" is the 21st-century's greatest dining innovation. Whether dressed as Catholic schoolgirls, cheerleaders or sluts, waitresses at these establishments wear skimpy outfits that highlight their ample bosoms, curvy bottoms and shapely legs.

Wearing such uniforms prepares a gal for her future career wearing sexy outfits husband insists she don prior to sex, when serving him fried beef jerkey and other comfort food while watching the Big Game on TV in his "man cave," scrubbing the bathroom floor on her hands and knees and other wifely duties.

Plus serving drunken men beer and chicken wings with a smile on her face while at the same time slapping their hands away when they try to pinch her bottom prepares a gal for those Friday nights when her future husband invites other men from the office over to watch boxing on TV or play poker.

Secretary for Church or Funeral Parlor

While some may question why I don't promote the job of a secretary in general, a gal who aspires to marry a man of quality and thus must maintain a reputation of virginal innocence while single faces far too much temptation working in an office outside the limited arena of church or funeral parlor.

Mondays through Thursdays generally don't pose a problem.

But how many a gal has seen her marriage prospects lessen after throwing caution to the wind when the boss breaks out the bourbon when the Friday 5:00 pm whistle blows? Once someone gets a reputation for being the sort of gal willing to Xerox her bare behind on the office copier it's hard to lose it!

Churchmen and funeral parlor directors are known for their propriety.

But a gal should keep her distance from the embalmer, as the job carries risk of getting contact highs from inhaling too much formaldehyde, thus rendering him overly frisky. And avoid employment in a Catholic church. Those priests know how to party!

Good luck to you in your search for Mr. Right. Be sure to send me a wedding invitation.

And for more useful information on this subject, check out my Pinterest board "Sassy Single Gals and Secretaries Spanked," a tribute to the erotic pin-up art and spanking cartoons of the 1950s and 1960s at I'm sorry dear readers, but I can't make a hyperlink with the iPad blogger app so you'll have to copy-and-paste. Or check out the Links List at the upper right-hand side of this page.

Friday, September 18, 2015

Brace Yourself for "Dental Discipline"

This is one of the more extreme stories I've written, so be warned. Also, such activities are dangerous, don't try them at home, yadda, yadda, yadda. Final caveat: This story is fantasy. I have great respect for the dental profession.

A Gentleman Writes:

As a first-rate cosmetic dentist, of course my wife has a dazzling set of white teeth aligned in a perfect bite.

While she presented an acceptably pretty smile when we first met, the result of good genes and decent dental care growing up, once she accepted my marriage proposal I naturally felt entitled to tinker with the the works. With an extraction here and there, several crowns, power bleaching and six months in braces during our time engaged, I happily walked out the church aisle to the clapping of the wedding attendees with a smiling bride at my side with teeth so sparkly white they lit up the cathedral.

During early months of marriage, I supervised my wife's brushing following breakfast, lunch, dinner and at bedtime, spanking her bottom soundly if she didn't do it just right. Eventually, I felt I could trust her to do a proper job on her own following meals, so I no longer come home for lunch during the work week.

We do, however, continue with our bedtime ritual of "Daddy's little girl" presenting her freshly brushed teeth for inspection as we sit down together on the bed.

I tinker a bit with my curettes making sure the last little bit of plaque is gone. Then I kiss my little girl sweetly on the lips, turn her over my knee, lift the hem of her baby-doll nightie, lower her ruffled panties and spank her bottom cherry red. I then tuck her into bed with stern instructions to go straight to sleep and not touch her nether parts while I spend an hour in my study drinking brandy and smoking a cigar before I return to the bedroom to retire.

Of course, as a red-blooded man, more often than not I find the brandy reinvigorates my libido such that I poke my wife to wake her up, pull down her panties and climb aboard for a final ride of the night. This is typically my sixth orgasm of the evening, as our nightly routine includes a blow job for me during martini time before dinner with two-to-three hours of bed-shaking sex following supper and watching my favorite show on TV.

Once the night's last sex is done, I roll over for the six hours of sleep that is all a high-energy fellow such as I need to function. Though if our last act of lovemaking includes oral sex I do require my wife to hurry to the bathroom to brush her teeth and gargle with mouthwash, just like after our martini-time blowjob. Semen is chock-full of bacteria!

With all the time and care I devote to my wife's smile, you might be surprised that I require her to spend a substantial amount of time with her pretty teeth covered up. Well just because I take pride in my work as a dentist doesn't mean I neglect my wife's discipline.

As a dominant man, I require my wife to present a proper posture of sweet submission and follow my rules at all times. And one misdemeanor I simply can't abide is the offense of "talking too much."

For example, when I come home from a hard day at work looking into patients' mouths and being assaulted with their smelly breath, I simply can't stand being disturbed during martini time with girlish chit-chat from my wife about neighborhood gossip, which of her gal pals at the gym lost or gained weight and other inconsequential matters.

Instead, she must sit demurely on the floor by my easy chair, massaging my stocking feet (after eight hours standing at patients' side at the dental chair you can be sure my "dogs are barking"), the only sounds coming from her being "oohs" and "ahs" of appreciation as I regale her with tales of an especially tricky tooth extraction, crafty crown and other accomplishments. The only other time her mouth should be open is, once my martini is finished, when she gets up on her knees, leans in, unzips my fly, takes my fully-erect, foot-long Big Unit into her mouth and swallows my "love juice" down to the last drop.

Also, if I generously allow my wife, once she's finished making my snacks, to sit on the couch watching the football game with me, I certainly can't be expected to put up with silly questions such as "what inning is it?,"why do they call it 'football' if the players feet hardly ever touch the ball?" and the like.

Prior to getting married and putting my wife under my complete control (she did take a vow to "obey" after all), I asked several dominant husbands what punishments they administer when their wives are chatterboxes. While all agreed that a sound spanking is the first step, several men insisted that an additional punishment tailored to fit the crime is necessary.

One fellow offered that he inserts a ball-gag in his wife's mouth to be worn during an hour of cornertime following a spanking for the offense of excessive talking. Another said he marches his wife to the bathroom, orders her to strip naked, lathers up her mouth with a soapy rag and is entertained by her doing the "ouchy dance," sudsy drool rolling down her chin, as he beats her bottom with the bath brush.

While I certainly enjoyed yanking my crank during my bachelor days while looking at internet photos of pretty women wearing drool-enhancing ball gags, administering such punishment to my wife would subject her jaw to undue stress thus putting her at risk of developing "TMJ." Also, the chemicals in soap, no matter how mild, can damage gums.

I thought for a bit, then the answer came to me: braces!

A cosmetic dentist of my caliber can certainly fashion "punishment braces" to affix to my wife's teeth without causing injury or misalignment. And for my wife, who already took great pride in her beauty when we met and became even more vain once I improved her smile, the humiliation of showing off a mouth full of metal is punishment indeed.

A typical punishment scenario is as follows: Last Sunday afternoon while watching the football game with me, my wife foolishly blurted out in reference to the opposing team's tight end "he's got a nice ass." My wife's grin fell to a frown as I wagged my finger at her scolding her for breaking the "no silly comments" rule.

During a TV timeout, I turned my wife over my knee, lifted her cheerleader outfit's skirt (I always make her dress that way for football games), lowered her bloomers and soundly spanked her bottom. Then I placed her in the naughty chair facing the corner of the den. When I reminded her that she had an appointment with me following the game in the garage where I keep a spare dental chair, she started shaking so badly she nearly fell out of the naughty chair.

"Please darling, please," my wife wailed. "No braces! Please!"

It was only after I warned her several times that 'braces time" would be increased from one week to two if she didn't pipe down that she managed to button her lip.

Following the game, I took my wife firmly by the arm and marched her out into the garage. Though the dental chair I keep there has restraints affixed to allow for treatment of the reluctant patient, my wife was thrashing around so much as she weeped and wailed "no braces, please, no braces" that I decided to administer laughing gas.

Once sedated, I was quick as a jiffy affixing my wife with a mouthful of metal. Though the task was done, I waited several minutes for my wife to sleep off the gas before releasing the restraints, as I wanted her to be completely alert for an important component of braces discipline, the lecture and paddling before the bedroom mirror.

The gas was nearly out of her system, so I freed my wife from the dental chair. Enough effect remained that she didn't struggle as I led her up the stairs to the bedroom and retrieved the "naughty girl paddle" from the chest-of-drawers. But by the time I had her looking into the mirror above the chest, she was fully awake.

In times past, I had to administer several paddle swats before my wife would comply with my demand to "smile pretty." But she's experienced enough with braces discipline by now to know resistance is futile. Still, she can't help but weep copiously at the sight of her metallic smile as I stand by her side holding her by her hair as I sternly scold about the inevitable result of disobedience, reinforcing my comments with paddle swats.

My wife bawls like a baby, but after several minutes she cries herself out. Then, as I don't wish to be cruel, I take her into the bathroom to wash the boo-hoo stains away with a damp washcloth, consoling her in a warm, gentle voice that the punishment is for her own good and I only do it because I love her and want her to be a good submissive wife.

Then, to reaffirm my wife's sense of attractiveness, I take her into the bedroom, remove her clothes, place her on the bed and climb aboard to give her a good pounding.

Though she's been through the process several times, a week in braces is still quite the ordeal for my wife. Early on, neighbor ladies thought the braces were for cosmetic purposes. But, as they know my wife is firmly under her husband's discipline, they now realize she's wearing braces because she's been naughty and can't help but smile at her when they spy her at the grocery store or jogging on the treadmill at the gym, thus causing my wife great embarrassment.

Even the next-door-neighbors' son Timmy gets in on the act, shouting "brace face" and "metal mouth" if he happens to see my wife gardening in the yard when he returns from school in the afternoon.

Normally, if a neighborhood child is impertinent with my wife, I have a chat with the father encouraging him to rectify the matter with his belt. But little Timmy's teasing does my wife good, so I leave the matter alone.

Besides Timmy may grow up to have a submissive wife of his own some day. He needs to learn how to treat women.

Kind Sir:

Wow. That was a twisted tale. You must be some kind of nut! Still as you, and I, are but figures of the author's imagination, I suppose there's no harm in it.

Tuesday, July 28, 2015

The Execution of Barbie: Mean Mom's Punishment

1950s Wife is on summer vacation. In the meantime enjoy this nostalgic childhood tale by her alter ego, Claire Colinsgrove

This story is fiction, mostly. And dedicated to the memory of my father.
"Thump. Thump. Thump."

"Boom! Boom! Boom!"

"Thump. Thump. Thump."

"Boom! Boom! Boom!"

Even with noise that comes from my usual morning activity this summer of 1974, the year I turn 12, smacking a tennis ball against the garage door pretending to be star player Chris Evert, I recognize the other sound.

Firecrackers! From a yard down the street. I drop my tennis racket and ball and hurry out my driveway.

No need to go inside first to ask Mom’s permission. In the 1970s, neighborhood kids and our dogs play in packs free to run from yard to yard with minimal adult supervision. Younger children of six and seven are told not to go beyond next-door yards, but kids my age can acceptably roam in areas forming concentric circles around our houses of approximately one square mile without getting in trouble for “going too far.”

I walk quickly to the back yard of the house where I heard the explosions coming from. No need to announce my presence to the property owners and request permission to recreate on their grounds. In the 1970s, a crowd of children in a back yard is open invitation to any child of comparable age to come by and play.

Just as I come round the house into the back yard, I hear the explosion. An action figurine flies into the air.

“Far out,” a boy cries. “That was cool, man! Really cool!”

I come closer. Several boys and a few girls, most my age but a few younger ones, gather round a partially destroyed “GI Joe” figurine. An arm is missing and his Army uniform frayed.

“Is he still alive, corporal?” a boy shouts.

“Barely,” another kid says. “He’s got a pulse but he won’t last long.”

“Give him a morphine shot,” the boy-in-command says. “I’m radioing the MASH unit to send a chopper.”

“But there’s enemy fire,” another kid screams. “We’ll never get a bird in here.”

“Damn it, private,” boy-in-command says. “We need that helicopter. I’m not losing another of my men to the fucking Gooks!”

“Those are bad words,” a girl cries, genuinely shocked. “You shouldn’t say those words!”

“My older brother was in the ‘Nam,” says boy-in-command with an authoritative tone befitting an officer. “That’s what they called ‘em, ‘Gooks’.”

“Well, you shouldn’t say the ‘F word’,” the girl scolds. “It’s bad.”

I know the girl from school, but don’t consider her a friend. Susan is a goody-goody who never has her name put in the “talking box.” I, on the other hand, hold the school record for being punished this way more than any other student.

The “talking box” is my elementary school’s primary means of student discipline. Repeated misbehavior, particularly talking without permission, results in a student’s name written in box on the chalkboard and subjects the offender to five minutes after school. Additional misbehavior places a check mark by a kid’s name meaning five more minutes of detention up to a maximum of twenty minutes after school.

Serving maximum sentences of after-school punishment was such an everyday occurrence that Mom for most of elementary school didn’t show until 20 minutes after school ended to drive me home. On the rare occasion when I only served five- or ten-minute detentions, I stood around by the school entry door waiting for her.

Susan’s scolding the boys for cursing and using racist slurs makes no effect. A boy carries a toy helicopter through the air pretending to transport injured GI Joe to the MASH unit. After running several feet, the boy slams the helicopter down on the ground.

“Motherfuck,” boy-in-command says. “The fucking Gooks shot down our bird. Two proud American soldiers dead.”

Boy-in-command carries the GI Joe figurine over to me.

“Mrs. Colinsgrove, I regret to inform you that your son perished in combat in Vietnam,” he says, handing me the battered figurine. “He died a hero.”

I take the bait. “Oh my God!,” I wail at the top of my lungs.

“My son. My son. My beautiful baby boy. Dead. Damn this senseless war. Damn President Nixon. If only McGovern won the election my child would be alive today.”

“Claire, it’s illegal to talk like that about the president,” goody-goody Susan cries. “I’m telling.”

“I don’t care if you do tell because it’s not illegal,” I shout at her. “We have freedom of speech in America because of the First Amendment.”

Susan looks at me with a puzzled expression on her face. She’s probably heard the term “First Amendment” but I’m sure has no idea what it means. Afraid to look foolish in her reply, she shuts up.

I hand GI Joe back to boy-in-command.

“Hey Claire,” he says as he takes the doll back. “I thought you had a tennis lesson today.”

“No that’s Wednesday,” I say.

I feel a strange sensation, a tingling, shoot through me. I think this boy looks cute, at least as cute as a 12-year-old boy can look to the eyes of a 12-year-old girl who still agrees with her friends that boys are “icky.”

He knows I take tennis lessons, I say to myself, feeling pleasure at the thought that this boy knows something about me.

Boy-in-command walks a few feet over to a burned-out area in the grass. He puts a firecracker under GI Joe’s behind and pulls a cigarette lighter out of his pocket. I feel the tingling sensation again as I see the boy’s familiarity with a contraption kids our age are forbidden to use.

The firecracker explodes and GI Joe flies high in the air. Boys cry “Far out!” and “Cool, Man!” The chopper again attempts to transport dying GI Joe to the MASH unit only to again crash to the ground to shouts of “Fucking Gooks.”

Boy-in-command tries handing dead GI Joe to prissy Susan, but she’s either too shy or too stupid to engage in make-believe grieving over a dead soldier’s passing.

GI Joe is blown up a couple more times. Now just a torso is left. Boy-in-command carries the doll’s body parts to the garden in the back yard, kicks up dirt, tosses down the toy and smoothes the loose soil over it.

GI Joe, proud American soldier who lost his life in the senseless tragedy of Vietnam, is committed to the ground of make-believe Arlington Cemetery.

“One firecracker left,” says boy-in-command. “Let’s catch a stray cat and tie it to its tail and light it.”

“You better not!” Susan shouts. “I’ll tell.”

“OK I won’t,” boy-in-command says. He takes the cigarette lighter from his pocket preparing the light the firecracker.

“Hey wait,” I shout. “I’ve got an idea.”


I enter my house still having second thoughts. I’ll get in a lot of trouble with Mom if I get caught, maybe even whipped.

As soon as the words pop out of my mouth, I regret it. But the tingle I feel at boy-in-command’s gleeful look and encouraging words cause me to go through with it.

“I haven’t heard your tennis ball for awhile,” Mom says as I pass by her heading to the stairway. “What are you up to?”

“I was over at Sharon’s house,” I lie, knowing that my best friend is home now, is quick to answer the phone when it rings, and will cover for me if Mom calls asking about my whereabouts.

“I’m going back,” I say. “She wants to look at my Barbies. She’s thinking of getting her little sister one for her birthday.”

“Oh that’s sweet,” Mom says as I walk upstairs. “You haven’t played with your Barbies in a long time. You’re still my little girl.”

I enter my room and walk to the toy chest where stuffed animals and dolls are kept, marveling at my ability to improvise such a convincing lie to explain carrying my Barbies out of the house.

I grab all four of them. I don’t care which one is used. I not interested in playing with any of my Barbies anymore. I’m practically a teenager. I don’t want to play with dolls.

I walk back down the stairs with my quartet of Barbies. “Bye Mom,” I shout as I walk out the door. “Be back in a little while.”

I walk quickly down the street and round the house into the back yard. The younger kids and most of the girls have left leaving just the boys my age and the prissy Susan girl.

The boys belch loudly. “That’s so gross,” Susan scolds.

Boy-in-command spies me. “You got them,” he says delightedly. “Far out!”

“Which one do you want to use,” I ask.

“It doesn’t matter,” says boy-in-command. “Any of them.”

I toss him a Barbie dressed in a 1970s-style pants suit.

Boy-in-command picks up the doll.

“She’s a VC operative who hangs out by the base posing as a hooker,” he says. “She intentionally gives soldiers ‘the clap’.”

“That’s so gross,” Susan shouts. “You better not talk about that stuff. I’ll tell.”

I don’t know what “the clap” is except that it’s must have something to do with sex. But I don’t like the idea of Caucasian-looking Barbie being Vietnamese.

“She can’t be VC. She’s not Asian,” I say. “She’s ‘Hanoi Jane’.”

“Who?” asks one of the boys.

“You know, Jane Fonda, the movie actress,” I say. “She was one of those anti-war protestors in the 1960s. She visited North Vietnam and posed in photos with Ho Chi Min, the head of the VC. That’s why they call her ‘Hanoi Jane’.”

“Yeah, ‘Hanoi Jane.’ My older brother talks about her,” says boy-in-command. “She sold out the American troops. She’s a traitor.”

Boy-in-command holds the Barbie doll up in the air.

“We’ve gone on a mission deep into VC territory and discovered ‘Hanoi Jane’ at a base camp,” boy-in-command says. “She’s letting the VC officers fuck her.”

“You better not say that word again,” shouts prissy Susan. “I’m telling.”

“I’m a master interrogator, ‘Hanoi Jane’,” says boy-in-command. “Tell us what you know!”

“I will never ever talk, imperialist U.S. Army pig,” I shout. “Long live the third world. Long live Chairman Mao and Che Guevara!”

Boy-and-command walks over to me grinning.

“We have ways of making you talk, ‘Hanoi Jane.’ Confess or it will be all the worse for you.”

“I won’t,” I cry. “The boot of American imperialism will never crush the fighting spirit of the Viet Cong, true representatives of the Vietnamese people.”

“Confess or you’ll be tortured,” says boy-in-command.

“I won’t,” I shout.

“Very well. You leave me no choice.”

Boy-in-command lays the Barbie doll on the ground and sets the last firecracker under her plastic behind. “Last chance,” he says.


He takes the cigarette lighter and lights the firecracker. A second later, then “Boom!”

Barbie flies high in the air to cheers of me and the boys.

“Corporal,” shouts boy-in-command. “Is she dead?”

Another kid picks up the tattered Barbie. “Yes Sir,” he says. “No pulse.”

“Chop off her head and stick it on a post as a sign to locals of what happens when they defy the U.S. Army,” boy-in-command says. “But shave off the ears for you and the soldiers to keep as souvenirs.”

 “Yes Sir,” says the other kid. He tugs at Barbie’s head popping it off. He tosses the torso to me and the head to prissy Susan.

“That’s so gross,” she says.

“No more firecrackers,” says boy-in-command. He fishes in his pocket pulling out a loose cigarette.

“I stole one from my brother’s pack,” he says. “Who wants a puff?”

“I’m leaving,” declares Susan. “And you better leave too Claire or I’m telling on you for smoking.”

I look over at boy-in-command. “I better head home. It’s almost lunch time.”

I toss Barbie’s torso to him. “Can you throw this away for me?”

“Sure,” says boy-in-command. I turn to leave. “Hey Claire,” he calls after me. “Wait up.”

He catches up with me as we turn round the house into the front yard. We’re out of sight and sound of the other kids.

Boy-in-command looks bashful all of a sudden. “Um, Claire, um …”

He’s lost some of his “command presence.” But, thankfully, not all.

“Um … would you like to play tennis with me sometime?,” he finally stammers.

I feel my heart leap. “Sure,” I say excitedly. “Call me. We’re in the phone book.”

I turn to leave. “Hey Claire,” says boy-in-command.


He reaches one arm out to hold my shoulder then his other. My hands hold my remaining three Barbies, so I can’t help but let him pull me closer.

Boy-in-command kisses me lightly on the lips.

My first kiss! And it’s not icky at all.

“Bye,” says grinning boy-in-command.

“Byeee!!!,” I sing out.

I hurry home resisting the urge to skip instead of walk because I know he may be watching me and I don’t want to look like a kid.

What a great day!


I head out the back door the next morning, Tuesday, carrying my tennis racket and ball ready to do battle with the garage door.

As usual, I prepare with a hearty breakfast except this morning I had some of the yucky-tasting bran flakes Mom eats instead of sugared cereal. Got to watch my weight now that I have a boyfriend.

Boy-in-command telephoned yesterday night just as we finished supper. Today he has a baseball game, Wednesday is my tennis lesson, so our tennis match is set for Thursday. Mom shook her head “no” when I asked, but Dad overruled her.

“Tennis only,” Mom told me. “No going to his house after.”

Later that night, as I watched TV in the den, I overheard my parents talking in the kitchen.

“She’s only 12,” Mom said. “It’s harmless,” Dad replied.

 “She needs to begin learning how to interact with boys at some point. She knows not to do anything wrong,” Dad continued. “You’ve got to accept the fact that her life growing up is going to be different from yours. We can’t afford to send her to a girl’s boarding school for high school. She’s going to be in a co-educational environment.”

I’m about to walk out the door when Mom says “Claire, I need to talk to you.”

I walk back into the kitchen. Mom’s sitting at the table finishing her coffee. I’m not too worried. She hasn’t been my room since I returned yesterday for lunch. If she’d asked then, I was prepared to explain the missing Barbie by saying I left it with Sharon’s little sister to play with. But Mom didn’t notice that I only returned with three dolls.

My parents rarely interact with my best friend Sharon’s parents, who, unlike Mom and Dad, didn’t go to prestigious East Coast colleges and don’t belong to the country club. So, if Mom ever discovers the missing Barbie, I can likely get away with lying that it’s at Sharon’s house and Mom probably won’t ever follow up on it.

But, as the poet says, “The best laid plans or mice and man (and 12-year-old girls lying to their mothers) go oft astray and leave us not but grief and pain…”

Just how much pain I’m about to find out.

I stand a few feet from Mom. “What were you up to yesterday morning?” she asks.

This isn’t good. I try to sound confident, but I feel the bravado drain from my voice as I say “What do you mean?”

“Between when you quit bouncing the tennis ball against the garage door and lunch. Where did you go with your Barbies?”

“I went to Sharon’s house,” I say. “Her little sister wanted to look at them. I let her keep one to play with for awhile.”

“I don’t like you lending those dolls to other kids,” Mom says. “Other toys maybe, but not your Barbies. Santa brought them to you. Hurry over to Sharon’s house and bring it back.”

I feel a bit of hope. With a convincing performance I can get out of this. Maybe.

“But Mom,” I whine, “I told Sharon’s little sister she could play with it. A bunch of her friends are coming over later this week to put on a pageant with their dolls. What’s the big deal? I don’t really play that much with Barbies any more. They’re for younger kids.”

But Mom is unmoved. “Go and get it,” she says.

“I can’t,” I say, starting to plead.

“Why not?”

“I just can’t,” I mumble.

“Is this why,” says Mom, pulling my late Barbie’s head out of her dress pocket.

I flush, more with anger than fear, and feel my heart pound. That bitch Susan tattled on me! Oh she is so dead the next time I see her.

“Susan Miller’s mother stopped by early this morning before you got up,” Mom says. “Hanging out with boys who smoke and shoot off fireworks. How could you? Santa brought you that Barbie for Christmas!”

“I dunno,” I mumble. “I heard the firecrackers and went over. These kids were blowing up a GI Joe doll and it looked funny. They had one firecracker left and they thought it would be cool to blow up a Barbie.”

I continue: “I know I shouldn’t have been around firecrackers. I’m sorry.”

“What else are you sorry about?” Mom demands.

“What do you mean?”

“Are you sorry that you lied to me just now?”

“Yes Ma’am.”

Mom continues: “What is the punishment for lying.”

I feel the tears start to flow. I can’t believe it! I’m 12 years old. She can’t be planning on washing my mouth out with soap.

“Mom, I’m too old.”

“What’s the punishment?” she demands.

“I get a soapy mouth,” I mumble.

“Very well,” says Mom. “Let’s get you upstairs.”

Mom assists me in walking upstairs to my bathroom by grabbing an earlobe and tugging me along. Great. Nothing like the pain and humiliation of being “taken by ear” to the bathroom to get your mouth washed out with soap at age 12.

I sit down on the toilet lid. “Please Mom,” I cry.

No response. Mom is busy lathering up a soapy rag.

She turns from the sink to me. “Open,” she says.

I comply, trying to maintain my dignity in my mind by fantasizing that I’m at the dentist.

Mom would certainly make a great dental assistant. She’s very thorough: My lower teeth and gums, the upper set, across the tongue and under it, the top of my mouth, all soundly soaped.

Finally, she’s done and I stand by the sink. My whole being rebels at the horrible taste in my mouth, but I know from past routine that I better not spit yet.

“One minute,” Mom says looking down at her watch.

I count the seconds in my head of the longest minute in my life. At last Mom says, “Spit.”

I expectorate a load of soapy spit. Mom gives me a small paper cup from the dispenser. “Wash your mouth out,” she says. I comply, refilling the cup to wash my mouth out several times.

“OK,” Mom says. “Brush your teeth.”

I brush away, doing a much more thorough job than usual. At last the horrible taste is gone from my mouth. I spit one last time and wash my toothbrush off with water.

What next, I wonder. Hopefully, she’s not going to tell me my tennis date is cancelled.

“Now go fetch the “ouchy stick” and meet me in the living room,” Mom says.

“But Mom,” I cry. “I’ve been punished enough. I’m sorry!”

“What are you sorry for?” Mom demands.

“I’m sorry that I was hanging out with kids playing firecrackers.”

“What else?”

“I’m sorry that I lied to you.”

“What else?”

“Mom, that’s all I did. I said I’m sorry. Why are you being like this?”

“Apparently, you’re not sorry enough,” Mom says. “Go fetch the ouchy stick.”

I walk out the bathroom down the stairs to the broom closet. I feel a mixture of rage and fear, my stomach churning. I’ve already gotten one humiliating punishment. This is too much. It’s abuse.

I open the broom closet and retrieve the “ouchy stick” from its customary place hanging on the wall. Its purpose is obvious, so obvious that I’ve taken in the past year to make sure the broom closet is closed when friends visit.

Nearly all my friends got spanked by their parents as young children, no big deal about that. But those who still get it at age 12 are likely to be teased should other kids know. I’ve been working up my nerve the past several months to make a formal request to my parents to declare me “too old” for spanking and throw away the ouchy stick. But, not having been whipped in several months, I haven’t pressed the issue.

The ‘ouchy stick” got its name from Mom referring to the hand spanks I got as a toddler and young child on my backside as “ouchies.” By the time I turned ten, hand spanks were considered insufficient. So Mom acquired an “ouchy stick,” which consists of a 12-inch ruler with handle affixed. The handle has a strap allowing it to be hung on a wall.

I have no idea where Mom got the ouchy stick. She probably went around the neighborhood asking parents of grown children if they had an implement no longer needed she could buy from them so she’d have something handy to beat her daughter with. In the 1970s, parents were less hung-up about this sort of thing.

Applied to a 12-year-old bottom covered by panties and jeans, the ouchy stick doesn’t hurt that bad. Applied to bare legs, it stings like the dickens. Better to get the ouchy stick in winter than summer.

I walk into the living room and hand Mom the ouchy stick. By now, the fear has left. All that remains is anger. Because I’ve figured out what this whipping is about.

Mom holds the handle of the stick with her right hand and runs the fingers of the left along the face of the implement.

“If you tell me all three things you should be sorry about, we won’t have to go through with this,” Mom says.

“I’m sorry that I played with firecrackers,” I say. “I’m sorry that I lied to you.”

“What else?” Mom demands.

“That’s all I did,” I wail.

Mom walks behind me and cracks the back of each bare thigh twice with the stick.

“What else,” she screams.

“That’s all I did,” I holler back, tears rolling down my face.

“Crack! Crack!” on the right thigh. “Crack! Crack!” on the left.

“What else?” Mom again shouts.

 “Nothing else,” I say in a voice choked with tears.

“Crack! Crack!” on the right thigh.

“What else?”

No answer.

“Crack! Crack!” on the left.

Mom ceases interrogating and but continues spanking. The thigh cracks continue, by now I’ve had at least a dozen spanks on each thigh. I’ve never been beaten this bad before. The few whippings I’ve had before that came close I would have long since been jumping up and down doing the “Ouchy Dance.”

But I stand completely still. I know what she wants, but I’m not going to give it to her.
I’m not going to say “Sorry” about blowing up my Barbie.

It was fun seeing the GI Joe and Barbie dolls blown up. If was fun pretending to be the grieving mother of a dead soldier lost in the senseless tragedy of Vietnam. It was fun pretending to be “Hanoi Jane.”

But, most important, it’s a huge ego boost that I got the coolest boy in the sixth grade to like me, that he gave me my first kiss, that he asked me to play tennis. I’m not going to let my bitch of a mother steal my victory from me no matter how badly she tortures me with the ouchy stick.

At last, Mom stops spanking me. Nothing is said for several seconds. My tears stop.

“How could you, Claire?” Mom finally asks in a wounded voice. “How could you destroy your Barbie? Santa brought it to you.”

“There is no Santa,” I say firmly. “It’s my Barbie and I can do what I want with it. Possession is nine-tenths of the law.”

“What?” My Mom asks. Her tone of voice is genuinely perplexed, not angry.

“Possession is nine-tenths of the law,” I say, citing the maxim that we kids say when refusing to return another kid’s toy that was left in a neighboring yard. Though it’s mainly younger children who rely on this rule in settling disputes over found property, even to my more advanced 12-year-old brain the simple saying justifiably fits the situation I’m in:
It’s my Barbie and I can do what I want with it!

“Just go to your room,” Mom says. “I’ll call you when it’s lunch time.”

“Fine,” I shout as I depart.

 “I don’t want any lunch,” I call down from the top of the stairs as I prepare to go in my room and slam the door. “I hate you!”


Less than 30 minutes later, Mom calls up the stairs that my punishment is over and I can come out of my room. But I don’t reply and continue to lie on the bed reading the “Wizard of Oz.”

American POWs captured by the VC spent years inside tiny bamboo cages. I can stay in my room long enough to force Mom to come upstairs and beg forgiveness for spanking me too hard.

I’ve got the complete series of “Oz” books penned by the author L. Frank Baum and it’s been awhile since I’ve read all fourteen books back-to-back at breakneck speed to prove my mental prowess. I had ample bran flakes for breakfast to enable me to miss lunch without much discomfort, particularly as I didn’t burn any calories this morning knocking a tennis ball against the garage door. I can easily last till dinner time if I have to.

I’m about two-thirds through the “Wizard of Oz” when Mom calls out, “Claire, your lunch is ready.”

I don’t reply. Fifteen minutes and an impressive number of read pages later, I hear Mom coming up the stairs. I lay down the book and roll over on my stomach with the streaky red backs of my thighs displayed. I want Mom to see the full measure of her evil.

The door opens of my room opens, but I don’t look up as I hear Mom set down a tray on my night stand.

“Claire, honey, I brought you some lunch,” says Mom.

She continues: “I know I spanked you way too hard. I was upset about the Barbie doll. You were so happy to get it that Christmas. I can understand if you want to stay in your room this afternoon, but you’re welcome to come downstairs anytime you want.”

That’s it? No promises to never spank nor wash my mouth out with soap again and that she’ll burn the ouchy stick?

No reply from me. Mom might as well be a female President Nixon apologizing for the Watergate scandal by blaming her underlings and assuring the American public she’s “not a crook.” I know from watching TV news and reading the copy of the Washington Post that’s delivered to our house each morning that neither the American public nor Congress is in a forgiving mood. I’m certainly not.

Mom leaves. I wait until the sounds of her footsteps indicate she’s back in the kitchen, then get off the bed and shut my door. Then I check out the lunch tray.

Yum: Bologna and melted American cheese on white bread, one of my favorite style sandwiches!  And two large chocolate chip cookies, one more than usual.

I eat the cookies first dunking them in my glass of milk. Then I eat the bologna sandwich, dunking it in milk as well. Mom hates when I do that with a sandwich. For good measure, I peel off the bread crusts and drop them in the milk glass, which I leave unfinished. A nice soggy mess for Mom to clean.

Sated, I return to the “Wizard of Oz.” About an hour later I’m done. Next is “The “Land of Oz,” which introduces the seminal character of “Ozma,” princess of Oz, to Oz readers.

The celebration of the “Dorothy” character in popular culture is unseemly to Oz scholars such as me. “Ozma” is the true heroine when considering the literary qualities of all 14 books in their entirety.

But before I begin the “Land of Oz” I have to pee.

I open my door to walk to my adjoining bathroom. I can hear Mom talking on the phone downstairs. From the conversation, I can tell she’s speaking to Dad about me. But unlike usual when she calls him after I’ve been punished, she sounds sad rather than angry.

My bathroom needs completed, I return to my room, shut the door, lie on my bed and begin reading page one of “The Land of Oz.”


Three hours later and I’m nearly done. Boy oh boy, am I impressive! No one can read “Oz books” faster than me. Still, my brain is fatigued from the effort and I’d prefer not to start my third Oz book before dinner starts.

I hope Dad will be home from work soon. Then I can listen in enjoyment as Dad scolds Mom in a loud voice that’s she’s too strict with me, that she needs to cut me some slack and remember that I’m just a kid.

Mom’s excessive discipline has been a regular point of contention between my parents for the past year. I love Dad for defending me. My father is the “good parent.” He never punishes me. He doesn’t have to. Just a few words to me of disappointment from him are as painful as a dozen spanks with the ouchy stick.

To my pleasure, I hear the sound of Dad’s car pulling into our driveway at 4:30 pm, a good hour earlier than normal. Dad never works past 5:00 pm. “If I wanted to work late, I wouldn’t work for the federal government and federal government pay,” Dad is fond of saying.

Dad enters the house. I walk over to my bedroom door and open it a crack looking forward to the sounds of Dad giving Mom a good lecture. Hopefully it’ll end as it sometimes does with her screaming at him and running up to their bedroom in tears to slam the door.

Then I can go downstairs to give Dad a sympathetic look, as I usually do after Mom’s finished verbally abusing him, and go outside and put in good hour of smacking a tennis ball against the garage door before dinner. I’m feeling kind of logy from being cooped up inside all day.

But, to my disappointment, I can’t make out what my parents are saying as they speak in hushed tones. After several minutes they stop talking and I hear my Dad walking up the stairs.

I shut my door and hurry over to my bed and lie down on my stomach with my face buried in my pillow and the backs of my thighs visible. The red streaks have faded quite a bit in the several hours since my whipping, but there’s still convincing evidence of Mom’s crime.

Dad enters my room and sits down beside me on the bed. I keep my face buried in the pillow.

“Claire, I spoke to your mother,” Dad says. “I told her she had no business spanking you like that.”

I try to work up a sniffle as I whisper “OK.”

Darn it, the tears won’t come.

Dad continues: “Your Mom knows she was wrong. She’d come upstairs and apologize to you again but she knows you don’t want to talk to her now. We’ve talked and we agree you’re too old for spanking. You’re not going to be punished that way anymore.”

“I’m also too old to get my mouth washed out with soap,” I say in a voice slightly above a whisper.

“I’m going to tell her you’re too old to be punished that way as well,” Dad says. “So how about coming downstairs now? Mom is making your favorite for dinner: spaghetti.”

 I look up at my father for the first time since he entered the room. “OK,” I say in a normal tone.

I follow Dad out my room and down the stairs carrying the lunch tray into the kitchen. Mom is at the table arranging plates for dinner.

I wash off the plate that held my sandwich and put it in the dishwasher. Then I stick my fingers into the milk glass pulling out the soggy bread crusts and wash them down the disposal. Then I wash out the glass and put it in the dishwasher.

Mom doesn’t look up from the dinner table as she says “Thank you Claire.”

And, as much as I don’t want to say it, the words tumble out: “You’re welcome.”


I walk down the stairs and through the kitchen the next morning. It’s twenty minutes till nine, plenty of time to walk the mile to the country club for my tennis lesson.

Even though it’s 90 degrees and humid, I’m wearing sweat pants instead of a tennis skirt. There’s really no need, there are just a couple of tiny bruises remaining, nobody would know the difference.

Nobody but one, and her punishment isn’t quite done.

I pass by Mom. “Claire, why are…” Mom stops midsentence. She knows good and well why I’m wearing sweat pants on this muggy July morning.

I walk out the door without saying goodbye.

I’m halfway down the driveway when I hear Mom call after me:

“Have a good lesson!”

No answer. My walk turns into a jog. As I hurry along, I make a serving motion with my right arm.

Gotta get loose. Gonna ask the tennis instructor to help me work on my serve today. I’m one of the better girl tennis players of my age at the country club. I have a great top-spin forehand and a decent two-handed backhand.

But I haven’t really learned how to serve. When I hit the ball hard, it invariably goes into the net so I usually lob my serves in.

I’ve seen boy-in-command play tennis. He’s OK, but not great. We both need to pick up our game if we’re going to win the mixed-doubles category of the tennis tournament the country club puts on for kids our age at the end of the summer.

I’m going to ask boy-in-command to be my partner for the tournament after we’re done playing tennis tomorrow. Practicing together will maintain momentum of our budding summer romance. I want to spend as much time together with boy-in-command in the next two weeks because I have to go to summer camp in August and I know boys are fickle.

Maybe I can talk my parents out of sending me to camp. I’m really too old for kid stuff like that. I’m practically a teenager.

I enter the country club driveway and hurry to the tennis courts. Worries about boys, summer camp and a Mom who hates me enough to beat me with an ouchy stick leave as I anticipate the pleasure of smashing a tennis ball around the court.

What a great day!