Wednesday, April 16, 2014

Bent, Bared, Beaten. What's Next? Spanking "Aftercare" Analyzed

Dear 1950s Wife:

I recently acquired a wife and am training her. I seem to have a handle on the pre-spanking scolding, and, judging from how she hops around frantically rubbing her bottom shouting "Ouchy! Ouchy!" after I've given her a dose of the "naughty girl paddle," the spanking part is coming along nicely as well.

But colleagues at work and the gym who practice the 1950s lifestyle talk of providing "aftercare" to their wives following a spanking. I fear I may not be up to speed on the procedure. Can you elaborate?

Kind Sir:

Certainly. Just as in every aspect of wife training, ritual is key.

Once she's done entertaining you with her "after-spanking dance," your wife must perform a display of affection and a recitation to show she's truly remorseful for her misbehavior and properly thankful for her loving correction.

Depending on how hard you spanked, she may need a few moments after dancing for her sobs to cease and nose snot to dry. Then, after you've granted your wife permission to pull her panties up, she must curtsy sweetly, kiss you softly on the cheek and recite a saying of gratitude.

As my housekeeping is sterling and adherence to my husband's commands nearly always absolute, Hubby normally spanks me each night after dinner for my general well-being, not for specific rule violations. (As Hubby says, "spanking is for the wife's benefit and the husband's pleasure" and I've learned not to question the reason why.)

Consequently I'm required to say "Thank you Daddy for spanking me so long and hard. I know you do it because you love me and care about how I behave," rather than show remorse for specific misdeeds.

The recently married wife, however, is more apt to actually break her husband's rules, though usually due to the carelessness that stems from a woman's flighty mind rather than willfulness. Thus, you may want your wife to specifically account for each misdeed and solemnly promise to try her best not to do it again, always paying close attention to her tone of voice to ensure genuine remorse.

Even the slightest hint of insincerity in her recitation should be dealt with severely. Rare is the wife to be so bold as to roll her eyes or to let a note of sarcasm slip in during her apology. But if you feel your wife is not properly enthusiastic in saying sorry, return her to her customary place across your lap and spank away.

Once trained, a wife will accept spankings as a matter of course and a sign of her husband's love.

But the young wife, less sure of her self and desperate to please the man who gives her life purpose, often needs reassurance of forgiveness following a spanking. So, after recitation is done, you may want to allow your wife to sit in your lap for a few minutes with her head against your chest as you soothingly say "there, there" and wipe the boo-hoo stains from her cheeks with your handkerchief.

Next comes the post-spanking blow job.

Some couples new to the 1950s lifestyle are curious why this particular sex act is an essential component of post-spanking aftercare. Reasons are twofold:

One, a wife kneeling before her husband to take the 9-to-12-inch penis typically sported by the "Alpha Male" while erect deep into her throat till it tickles her tonsils is the ultimate act of sexual submission. (The more modern among us may argue for anal sex as an alternative, but I'm an old-fashioned gal and never have been too fond of that particular procedure.)

Two, as a red-blooded, virile man, the sight of your wife's round behind turning crimnson as it bounces up and down from application of the naughty girl paddle (and the feel of her soft, warm skin if you spank her with your hand) will naturally produce a raging hard on. And you certainly can't be expected to suffer the discomfort of a "stiffy" left unattended, or the humiliation of self-abuse, during your wife's several minutes of post-spanking cornertime, also an essential component of aftercare.

Once your wife has swallowed your love juice down to the last drop, wait a minute so she can savor the flavor before allowing her to go the the bathroom and brush her teeth. Once she returns, cornertime is next.

If you're the mood to admire your handywork, yank your wife's panties down and have her stand facing the corner of the living room holding her skirt up.

(My assumption is that you administer discipline in the living room, but a special "punishment room" is OK. However, don't use the bedroom, as your wife should associate that room solely with the pleasures of sleeping and sex. And by no means conduct the disciplinary process in your "man cave," as that room should be reserved entirely for watching sports on TV, smoking cigars and other hardy masculine pursuits with your wife never allowed to enter except to vacuum and dust.)

As standing is more onerous than sitting, adjust the amount of cornertime accordingly. But whether she stands or sits in the naughty chair, make sure your wife understands that if you catch her peeking out of the corner just once she'll be soundly spanked again with her time starting over.

As with the blow job, post-spanking cornertime serves two purposes.

One is to allow your wife time to somberly reflect on why she's been disciplined. The second is to allow your vigor to return so you can undertake the subsequent hours of carnal pleasure that is your right as a man to expect each night and your wife's duty as a woman to provide.

If you're like most Alpha Men younger than 40, you'll only need five minutes or so before your husbandly desires return. But, nevertheless, have your wife serve at least 15 minutes cornertime and preferably up to a half hour if you can stand waiting that long. It's a sacrifice you must make for her sake!

Once cornertime is done, send your wife to the bedroom to freshen her makeup, tease her hair and change into a baby doll nightie, the standard sleepwear of the submissive wife. (I have seven of them in separate colors, one for every night of the week.)

Your wife's eager cry of "Honey" will signal it's time for you to come to bed. Once you've entered the bedroom and stripped down to your birthday suit, you may want to entertain your wife for a minute by flexing your biceps and your six-pack abs.

Then climb aboard for the most essential, and most enjoyable, component of post-spanking aftercare: three hours of bed-shaking sex!

And for more observations from talented spank fiction writers on the exciting subject of post-spanking aftercare, click on the following link: spankingromance.com/spanking-round-table-discussions/













Saturday, March 22, 2014

Naughty Wife Caught in Pajamas During the Day. Spanked that Night!

Dear 1950s Wife:

Until recently I was a hard working associate at a high-powered corporate law firm. Then the senior partner made my dreams come true by rewarding me with an engagement ring!

Of course I said "yes" to his wedding proposal, happy to trade my sad career gal status for the life of happiness for a woman: laundering my husband's clothes, cooking his meals, cleaning our house, being spanked for my faults and three hours of bed-shaking sex every night.

Along with giving up that silly lawyering stuff for the much more meaningful life of a housewife, I assumed another advantage would be wearing more comfortable clothes during the day than attorney's business suits. But my husband, a practitioner of the 1950s lifestyle, had other notions.

Upon our return from our honeymoon, Hubby told me to visit the dressmaker to have five smart dresses made in the 1950s style as my weekday housekeeping outfits. Of course, heels, stockings and pearls are also worn For weekend yardwork, I dress in Lilly Pulitzer floral shifts and plain white tennis shoes.

I quickly adapted to housewife life. After six months, my husband decided he could trust me to go to the gym in the afternoons and not waste time after exercising chit-chatting with my gal pals at the juice bar instead of hurrying home to vacuum the morning's dust and get dinner on the table. So I put away my "Richard Simmons Stepping to the Oldies" tape and bought several sets of Lululemon workout clothes. (Their hot pink line goes so well with pearls.)

All was well until I progressed to advanced Zumba class. Upon my return home that afternoon, I found myself so tuckered out that I selfishly decided to finish my afternoon chores in my workout clothes, rather than showering right away and putting my smart dress, heels and stockings back on as my husband expects me to. (I never take my pearls off even in the tub.)

I made sure to get housework done and dinner ready in plenty of time to shower and change clothes before my husband got home. Hubby was so pleased with the state of the house and meal I prepared that he didn't give me any punishment swats with the "naughty girl paddle" after dinner, just a 20-minute warmup spanking with his hand before taking me upstairs for our customary three hours of bed-shaking sex.

Though I "got away with it," I woke up the next morning filled with remorse that I had deceived my husband in such a callous manner and vowed never to slip up again.

But, like the desperate alcoholic formerly on the wagon who takes her first drink, the lure of vacuuming in the comfort of Lululemons was so overwhelming that there I was that afternoon and the next days thereafter not changing after getting home from Zumba.

Believe it or not, my tale of shame grows worse!

After a few weeks of advanced Zumba, a gal pal talked me into staying for 30 minutes of "hot yoga," which felt wonderful but also left me so sweaty that I simply had to take off my Lululemons and hop in the shower.

Once clean, I walked into the bedroom sincerely meaning to change into formal housekeeping attire. But then I felt a comfortable set of pajamas calling my name.

My husband believes a good night's rest is best had by keeping the window open and sleeping in the nude with no covers. I found that a bit chilly, so he generously allows me to wear a gossamer thin baby doll nightie

Hubby threw out most of the clothes I owned before we got married. But he did allow me to keep a couple of sets of old pajamas to wear in lieu of a baby doll nightie in case I catch a cold or the flu.

So ratty, but comfortable, PJs is what I began wearing for afternoon chores. I became so addicted to the comfort of keeping house in pajamas that I soon began changing into them once my husband left for work in the morning.

And I might have gone forever living my shameful double life, my poor deceived husband being none the wiser, if car trouble hadn't caused him to return home one morning before getting to work so he could borrow my car for the day.

Hearing the sound of his car entering the driveway, all I could think to do was run upstairs and hop into bed. I heard my husband walking up the stairs and began moaning and groaning feigning illness as best I could.

"Car's acting up. Need to borrow yours," my husband said as he entered the room. Seeing me in bed, he asked what was wrong.

"Oh honey," I moaned, "I must have caught a bug. I was feeling queasy when I got up and as soon as you left for work it really came on strong."

"Poor baby," my husband said as he sat down beside me. He placed his palm against my forehead.

Ut oh!

"That's odd," Hubby said. "You don't feel warm. But I better take your temperature just in case."

"Oh sweetheart, that's not necessary," I cried. "A few hours rest and I'm sure I'll feel fine."

"Now, now," my husband said as he returned with the rectal thermometer. "I need to check you out. Be a good girl, pull your pajama bottoms down and roll over."

I did as commanded and Hubby stuck the thermometer in my crack. And it wasn't long after that I found myself over his knee getting my bare ass cracked with the naughty girl paddle.

It only took a few swats before I began sobbing out the story of my deception.

While confession may be good for the soul, it's not so great for the bottom. My husband spanked me so long and hard that I had to spend the first hour after he returned for work icing my bottom in the kitchen sink. Then it was upstairs to change into my smart dress, stockings and heels.

You better believe the house was neat as a pin for Hubby's inspection upon his return home from work and the dinner I prepared for his consumption that night was the best he's tasted. I didn't eat any of it, as I dined on oatmeal, dry toast and water as further punishment.

I thought that would be the end of it. But my husband informed me that, as I like spending daytime hours in pajamas so much, I must wear a baby doll nightie all day for the next month, including when I go to the gym and grocery shopping, as well as when we go out to eat Friday night and lunch at the country club after church on Sunday.

I must also wear a homemade placard around my neck saying "Ask Me Why I'm Wearing Pajamas" and give an honest account to anyone who asks.

Being an important man in town, my husband called the mayor and asked him to tell the police chief why I'm going about in public in a baby doll nightie so I won't get ticketed for public indecency. Having run for office on a "family values" platform, the mayor heartily agreed, noting that any prurient stares that result from my wearing PJs in public that barely obscure my nipples and bush would be far outweighed by my accompanying explanation of my failure to be a properly submissive wife.

My husband also required me to send you this note as warning to all submissive wives who can't resist the lure of comfortable clothes, especially pajamas,
during the day.

Good woman:

How fortunate you are to have a husband who cares so much for your moral development. And a merciful man as well. A lesser man presented with such a sordid deception would likely commence divorce proceedings.

I'm certain your sad tale shall serve as warning to all submissive wives. Gals take heed: no matter the comfort that may be had in performing your housekeeping duties in comfortable clothes, particularly PJs, standards must be kept!

Many's the time I've been tempted in the late afternoon when piloting "Ol' Betsy" around the house vacuuming up the morning's dust to slip out of heels into a soft pair of slippers. But, no matter how much my bunions ache, the aching buns I regularly receive from Hubby's many spankings during our twenty happy years together train me to obey his dress code rules without question.

Authors message: this story is dedicated to Celeste Jones and Tara Finnegan, fellow spank fiction writers extraordinaire with strong feelings about the propriety of wearing pajamas during the day. Check out their blogs at writercelestejones.blogspot.com and tarafinneganromance.blogspot.com

My apologies, dear readers, for the inconvenience, but I wrote this story on a tablet so you'll have to "cut-and-paste" to make the links work, as I don't know how to make a hyperlink.



Friday, February 28, 2014

Too Much Watching "Oscars Night" Means Spanking and Cornertime for Naughty Wife

1950s Wife is on vacation. In the meantime here's an "oldie but goodie" appropriate for this time of year.

Dear 1950s Wife:

As sunny SoCal residents, I take it as a matter of course that my husband and I spend the first Sunday night of March each year watching the Academy Awards.

So I was a bit surprised when Hubby called me on the way home from the golf course near supper time yesterday to advise that the other members of his foursome and their wives were coming over to watch Los Angeles suburbanites’ favorite sports team, the Anaheim Mighty Ducks, play hockey on TV.

I’d spent the afternoon preparing beef Wellington for dinner. But, as a proper submissive wife, I told Hubby it’d be no problem at all to put it in the freezer and whip up plates of pigs-in-the-blanket and fried beef jerky for the men to eat while watching the game and slice up carrots, celery and other “rabbit food” for us wives to snack on.

My husband realized the gals would be disappointed not to watch the Academy Awards. And he also knew we’d disturb the men with our girlish chit chat during the game. So Hubby graciously allowed that we women could watch the Oscar presentations in the kitchen via streaming internet on one wife’s hand-held mobile phone, while the men watched hockey in the living room on our plasma TV with 60-inch screen.

(These new "smart phones" are so amazing! I wish my husband would let me have one but he knows I'd waste too much time "Facebooking" and "Twittering" when I should be cooking his meals, cleaning house and washing his clothes.)

I say we girls were "supposed" to watch the Academy Awards in the kitchen because it didn't work out that way.

After four hours spent preparing a beef Wellington that was now going in the freezer, I selfishly
decided that, instead of getting right to breading the beef jerky and other cooking tasks, I deserved a few minutes break to watch red-carpet interviews on TV of Hollywood celebrities arriving for the Oscars

I know I shouldn't have tarried, but the chance to see the beautiful actresses in their wonderful evening gowns and the handsome actors in their tuxedos was too much temptation. Before I knew it, I completely lost track of time.

Boy oh boy, did I hang my head in shame when my husband arrived home and I told him the hors d’oeuvres wouldn't be ready until five minutes after the guests were scheduled to arrive.

Hubby immediately turned me over his knee, bared my backside and soundly spanked my bottom cherry red. He let me up and I knelt before him, kissed his hand and said "Thank you Daddy for spanking me so hard. I know you do it because you love me and care how I behave."

I hoped that would be the end of it. But my husband made me change into a French maid's outfit to greet the guests and apologize as they arrived for snacks not being ready in time.

Once everybody was there, Hubby gave me twelve licks on the bare with the "naughty girl paddle," then sent me to stand in a corner of the living room for the entire hockey game with my lacy skirt tucked up, frilly panties down and blistered backside on display.

The only time my nose wasn't in the corner was hurrying to kitchen to get more appetizers for the guests whenever Hubby called out "Wife. Treats. Fetch!"

The wives couldn't watch the Academy Awards in the kitchen because my husband insisted I miss the show as part of my punishment and knew I'd be tempted to sneak a peek when I fetched treats for the men. The girls sure were mad at me and would have been even more steamed except each was allowed a small scoop of beer ice cream that I prepared for the men for desert to make up for not seeing the Oscars.

I know from reading this blog that you agree I deserve such punishment.

But I missed the Academy Awards and, as revenge for making them miss the show, the other wives aren't talking to me for a week. Could you happen to tell me who won the Oscars for Best Actor and Actress and which movie was named best film of the year?

Good woman:

I have absolutely no idea, nor do I care in the least, who won the Oscars.

My husband and I agree that the cinema has been in a drastic state of decline for decades and "Hello Dolly" was the last decent movie made.

We haven't been to the moving picture show in years. And, unless the studios release a well-made boxing documentary that would suitably entertain my husband or a decent "I Love Lucy" remake that would suitably entertain me, we won't be patronizing our local theater in future.

As far as your punishment is concerned, of course you deserved such stern correction.

By selfishly setting aside your cooking to watch the pre-Oscars "red carpet interviews," you subjected your husband to horrible embarrassment of guests waiting five full minutes for snacks to be ready. How can Hubby hold his head high before other 1950s-style couples when they know he has such a lazy wife?

By paddling you in front of the guests and making you stand in the corner except when fetching treats, Hubby was at least able to retain some measure of dignity and assure the other couples he's not neglecting your discipline. As evidence you've learned your lesson, you should write each couple a letter of apology.

But I am curious: who won the hockey game?

Monday, February 10, 2014

And the Gold Medal for Best Chick's Butt Goes to ...

1950s Wife is busy preparing a refrigerator full of fried beef jerkey and a freezer full of beer ice cream for Hubby to snack on during the 2014 Winter Olympics men's ice hockey tournament starting Wednesday. In the meantime, let's hear from Our Man on the Scene in Sochi, Hornee Hanly.

Hornee, the Winter Olympics event that everybody cares about, men's ice hockey, has yet to start. But competition in lesser events is underway. Update us on what's happened in these minor sports, such as ladies figure skating.

Panties! Heh, Heh, Heh. Panties!

"Hornee, for shame! Ladies figure skating, though of minor interest compared to men's ice hockey, features some of the best female athletes in the world. Yet, all you care to talk about is competitors' underwear. A more nuanced analysis please.

The chick from Canada should've gotten the gold medal because she has the best butt and wore a thong.

Moving on, your impression of the gentlemen's figure skating competition to date.

Dudes figure skate?

Moving on again, Canada and the United States are once again dominating women's ice hockey competition and most certainly will meet in the gold medal game. But which other country do you see having best chance to take bronze?

Chicks play hockey?

Again moving on, are media accommodations in Sochi really as bad as reported?

Yes, it's awful. We must pay for our beer and only plainly seasoned chicken wings are available, no barbecue style.
On the bright side, every guest in the media's hotel is provided a free gallon of vodka per day for drinking and bathing to make up for lack of running water. And the motel's outhouse is amply stocked with toilet paper.

Once again moving on, media speculation is rife that, should Canada and Russia meet in the latter stage of the men's hockey competition, famed Canadian hockey broadcaster Don Cherry and Russian President Vladimir Putin will engage in a ceremonial scrap on the ice prior to puck drop. Any truth to the rumor?
And, as the United States and Russia will definitely play each other in the group stage, are the Americans pussies for not sending an emissary to fight Putin?

As answer to the first question, I'm unable to confirm the rumour but then again I haven't bothered to ask anybody. As far as the second question is concerned, yes Americans are pussies.

Finally Hornee, should Canada and the United States, as in the 2010 Games, meet in the gold medal match in men's ice hockey, who prevails?

Canada, bro. Canada.

I'm a woman Hornee. Please don't refer to me as a "bro".

Sorry. When it comes to old chicks like you, chicks who are 30 and older, I can't tell the "bros" from the "hoes."



Sunday, February 2, 2014

Wife Gets Ball Gag to Keep Her Properly Quiet During Super Bowl

A Gentleman writes:

Our beloved Seattle Seahawks football team plays the Denver Broncos in the Super Bowl today and we residents of the Evergreen State are confident that victory will be ours.

My wife doesn't watch football except for the Super Bowl, so in Seahawks games this season up till now I've not faced the prospect of my concentration being disturbed by her asking silly questions such as "why do they call it football if their feet rarely touch the ball" and "what inning is it."

In years past, when my wife watched Super Bowls with me not featuring the Seahawks, I've relied on threats of a spanking and a lengthy time-out in the naughty chair to keep her properly quiet during the Big Game. But, my wife being a loyal Washington stater, I'm concerned that her enthusiasm over the inevitable Seahawks win will encourage her to talk during the game thus taking my attention from the TV screen where it belongs.

Consequently, I've decided my wife will wear a ball gag during the Super Bowl. As the goal is precautionary discipline rather than punishment, my wife will wear a moderately-sized ball gag rather than the super-sized, drool-enhancing one I make her wear for gossiping on the phone, interrupting me when I'm trying to tell an important story and other violations of my rules.

The ball gag is colored Seahawks-style green and features a pleasant mint taste. Moreover, she may remove the gag to rest her jaw during half time, as long as she doesn't bother me about not being allowed to watch the silly Super Bowl halftime show, as I intend to use the 30 minutes catching up on highlights of the "lingerie bowl" on another channel.

Nevertheless, when I told my wife the other day of my decision, she complained that she least ought to get the chance to watch the game in silence first and not be gagged unless she messes up.

Of course, I turned her over my knee, lifted her skirt, lowered her panties and spanked her bottom cherry red for questioning my judgment. However, as game time nears and gag time beckons, I'm wondering if perhaps I'm being a bit too strict.

You've always struck me as being pretty smart for a woman. What your opinion? Give my wife a chance or button her tight beforehand?

Kind Sir:

You, of course, know your wife's predisposition to "jibber jabber" far better than I. But I'm of the firm opinion that it's better to stray on the side of caution.

What if during an important play, your wife blurts out some typical female comment while watching sports such as "that player's cute" or "he's got a nice ass." You might turn away from the screen to chastise her just as the game-winning touchdown is made, thus denying yourself a cherished memory of seeing the Seahawks clinch the Super Bowl the moment it happened.

By allowing your wife to wear a moderately-sized ball gag, particularly a mint-flavored one, rather than a super-sized, drool-maker, you've already shown yourself to be a kind and loving husband.

I would pop that ball gag on her without giving it a second thought. And, if she voices even a whisper of complaint during the break about not being allowed to watch the silly Super Bowl half-time show, spank her bare bottom beet red and put her in the corner in the naughty chair for the second half, ball gag in place.

I won't be watching the Super Bowl, as my husband no longer allows football on TV in our house due to adoption of the face mask and other so-called reforms that make a mockery of the sport. Instead we shall take in the professional wrestling matches at the town auditorium.

But good luck to the Seattle Seahawks and the Denver Broncos. May the best team win!





Wednesday, January 1, 2014

Presenting the 2014 Spanked Wives Winter Games, a "Winter Spanks" Blog Hop Happening

Dear 1950s Wife:

As hardy upper-Midwesterners, residents of our fair city don't let Ol' Man Winter spoil our outdoor fun. Whether it's an unusually balmy day of 9 degrees (F) above or the more typical -9 (F) below, we're out and about ice skating, ice fishing and ice sculpting.

And, every year come January, our town's submissive wives join in the fun with the "Spanked Wives Winter Games."

The games take place on the frozen pond in the town square. Temporary bleachers are placed in a ring around the pond to allow townspeople to watch and, because the games are a bit naughty, to prevent children from sneaking peeks.

The games start with an opening ceremony.

No matter how cold, we wives wear our Winter Games uniforms of bosom-enhancing, midriff-baring red crop tops, white booty shorts and blue go-go boots. We perform a 10-minute routine standing together arm-in-arm as close as we can for the sake of warmth, kicking our legs in unison high into the air as we sing songs about what great guys our husbands are and how grateful we are that they spank us when we're bad.

Our go-go boots are slippery on ice and it never fails that a gal falls during the routine bringing the rest of us down in a leg-sprawling heap. The crowd takes great delight in this, particularly if a gal falls legs-up-butt-down on her booty-clad behind and cries out "boo hoo!"

Then the Games begin. First event is the "Paddled Posterior Ice Block Melt."

We wives stand in line by pond's edge as blocks of ice removed from the center of the pond for ice fishing are brought over and placed behind us. Then we touch touch toes as our husbands stand behind us, each armed with a "naughty girl paddle." Our husbands pull down our booty shorts and, when the referee blows his whistle, each guy gives his gal six sound swats.

We quickly sit on the blocks of ice. After 30 seconds, the referee's whistle blows. Tape measures are brought out and whichever gal melts off the most ice with her warmed-up butt is declared winner.

Next is the "Five Minute Simulated Cornertime Standoff." Our shorts stay down around our heels and our tops come off. We stand for five minutes with hands behind our back and smiles on our faces.

Our town being on the prairie, the wind blows. Boy oh boy I tell you it can be mighty hard to stand still with a smile plastered on my face for even a few minutes when my nipples are turning blue. Of course, any gal who fidgets or drops her smile for even a second is disqualified and must go over her husband's knee for a sound hand-spanking.

After five minutes, the referee blows his whistle. We may pull our shorts up. But, rather than letting us put our tops on right away, as a patriotic gesture, several of the oldest living veterans in town are allowed to fondle our boobs to warm them up. These guys are in their 90s and have circulatory problems, so it takes several minutes of rubbing before our tits are determined to be sufficiently toasty for us to don our tops.

Meanwhile, the judges confer. Whichever gal is determined to have shown the best combination of erect posture, pretty smile and perky nipples is declared champion of the event.

Next comes a 30-minute intermission while we wives change our outfits and touch up our hair and make-up for the final event: figure skating.

Being upper-Midwestern bred-and-born, all us gals know how to ice skate. But, for the Spanked Wives Winter Games, it's not the "figures we cut on the ice" that matter as much as the "cut of our figures." Plus the look of our cute ultra-short skating dresses, pretty panties, teased hair and painted faces.

We wives are judged on the sexiness of our routines as we twirl and spin on the ice showing off our undies. But most important is our performance at the event's conclusion.

Over the years, the televised spectacle at the Olympics and other important figure skating competitions of a skater following her routine by huddling close with her coach in a box by the rink, flowers and stuffed animals tossed by admiring fans on the ice held tenderly to her bosom, crying tears of joy (or bitter disappointment) and bestowing devoted kisses on her mentor's cheek while her scores are announced, has come to be known as the "kiss and cry."

The Spanked Wives Winter Games substitutes the "spank and cry."

After finishing her routine, wife skates off the pond and bends over the knee of her husband who sits in a straight-back chair at the edge of the ice. Hubby yanks down wife's panties (no need to lift her skirt as our skating costumes are so short) and pounds her posterior with his palm in frustration or joy as her preliminary scores are pronounced.

At spanking's end, wife gets a second round of scores based on the loudness of her screams and the copiousness of her tears and nose snot while crying. Many's the time a wife who has performed poorly in the preliminaries rockets to victory based on her ability to bawl like a baby while being spanked.

It's traditional throughout the many years of the Spanked Wives Winter Games for the winner to receive an inexpensive trophy. But with all the publicity from the soon-to-be-held Winter Olympics, this year we decided to seek corporate sponsorship.

The organizers were a bit a worried because companies initially contacted said their advertising dollars were committed. But, at the last minute, we were delighted to learn that Suck-it-Up Corp., manufacturers of the "Super Sucker " line of high-tech vacuum cleaners, will donate a 2014 Super Sucker as the event's grand prize.

Hubby gave me my Super Sucker as a ten-year wedding anniversary gift in 2005. And, as pleased as I've been with mine, when I learned that the 2014 model, with its power steering, voice activated on-and-off switch, and dual bags to allow separation between trash and recyclables, was the prize, I vowed this year's Spanked Wives Winter Games winner was going to be me.

We have some mighty talented spanked wives in our town and the best I've finished in past is third place. But for this year's competition, Hubby had me training before September's first snowflakes fell.

In preparation for the 'Five Minute Cornertime Standoff" I practiced standing naked in the back yard for a minimum of 30 minutes a day. By the time December came round, I could do six series of five-minutes nude in the backyard standing still as a statue with only brief warm-ups indoors between repititions. And, no matter how blue my nipples became in the artic chill, I kept a pearly-white smile on my face.

For the "Paddled Posterior Ice Block Melt," my husband trained me with this wicked paddle he only uses on me for being exceptionally naughty, like the time he invited his boss over to eat but I distractedly burned dinner while engrossed in my favorite soap opera and had to feed them microwaved hot dogs.

The paddle is a super-sized board with a 16-inch face and eight-inch grip with holes drilled in it that Hubby calls "Mister Blister Bottom Crisper."

It used to be just one swat and I'd jump up and down doing the "after-spanking dance" shouting "Please Don't Spank Me Anymore Daddy! I'll be good" and I never got more than a couple of licks with it as punishment. But, after working my way up slowly using yoga-inspired pain management meditation techniques, I can now take six swats with nary a peep.

As soon as it got cold enough, Hubby had me outside sitting on blocks of ice. Let me tell you, after six swats with "Mister Blister Bottom Crisper," my butt is hot enough to melt enough ice in 30 seconds to replenish a drought-stricken river.

Regarding the final event, figure skating, I'm not too worried about the "sexiness" aspect of the competition, as I'm by far the best-looking, curviest gal in town.

Hubby and I attend the county fair each summer. Some of the teenage entrants in the fair's beauty pageant might come to rival me in looks as they get into their 20s, but the exceptionally good-looking gals never seem to stick around very long after they graduate high school, as they're always running off to California to become movie stars or to Palm Beach to marry millionaires.

But I'm kind of worried about the "spank and cry" part. I've always been very stoic during my spankings (we Nordic types are like that) and usually don't yell and cry very much.

I've been forcing myself to shout out during punishment spankings and am proud to say that I now holler with the best of them. But I still can't bring myself to do more than sniffle when it comes to crying.

The couple next door recently moved here from Texas and boy oh boy does that gal have a set of lungs. Even during winter with doors and windows closed I can hear her weeping-and-wailing when her husband spanks her: "Boo, Hoo, Hoo!!! Please don't spank me anymore Daddy! I'll be a good little ol' gal, Daddy, honest I will."

And once this past summer when gardening in the back yard, I happened to see her being sent out by her husband to cut a switch. She bawled like a baby and she hadn't even been whipped yet.

This Texas gal has a Texas-sized behind, so I can't help but think she'll do well in the "Paddled Posterior Ice Block Melt' simply by covering so much surface.

Her husband works in the same office building as mine and the other day bragged to Hubby that he's paying for his wife to take skating lessons and she's getting pretty good. And he said he's spending big bucks for our town's best seamstress to fashion Texas gal an extra-sexy skater dress based on the outfits that $10,000-a-night Dallas hookers wear when they go on dates with oil millionaires.

Even though I think the Texas gal's unfamiliarity with cold will cause her to bail out when it comes to the "Five Minute Simulated Cornertime Standoff," what if by some miracle she's able to withstand five minutes of blue nipples? For months, I've had my heart set of winning that 2014 Super Sucker high-tech vacuum cleaner and now I may be out in the cold.

I'm pretty sure the Spanked Wives Winter Games organizers don't have funds to test entrants' blood for performance enhancing drugs. So I'm contemplating taking a decongestant just prior to the games in hopes it'll loosen enough mucous for me to produce a decent amount of nose snot during the "spank and cry," thus upping my score.

But I must admit to a prick of conscience. Does the end justify the means?

Good woman:

Goodness gracious no.

For just as we honor our husbands and ourselves with our selfless devotion to hearth and home, asking no more in return to our cooking, cleaning and laundering than a grunt of "thanks' from Hubby and three hours of bed-shaking sex every night, we who practice the 1950s lifestyle must strive to keep "honor bright" in all our affairs including the "Spanked Wives Winter Games."

You'll simply have to do the best with you can without aid of performance enhancing drugs and let chips fall where they may. If the Texas gal brings home the 2014 model Super Soaker high-tech vacuum cleaner, remember that it's better to spend a lifetime keeping house with a broom and carpet-beater than to cheat.

Be thankful for the gifts your husband has bestowed on you. I know I'd love to have a used Super Sucker high-tech vacuum cleaner, much less the coveted 2014 model that's getting rave reviews in the housekeeping mags. But my husband doesn't believe in squandering his hard-earned paycheck on luxuries. So I make do with my 30-year-old "low tech" vacuum, content in the knowledge that "Ol' Betsy" still has a few miles left in her.

Good luck to you and all the entrants in the 2014 Spanked Wives Winter Games.

And to you, dear readers, please remember this story is fiction and that some of the events described for the Spanked Wives Winter Games are risky. In particular, do not attempt to mimic the "Five Minute Simulated Cornertime Standoff" by standing out in the freezing cold until your nipples turn blue. Real-life frostbite is no laughing matter.

And for more hot spanking tales to warm your blood on these cold winter days and nights, check out the other entries in the "Winter Spanks" blog hop. Along with totally awesome stories, Winter Spanks gives readers a chance to win neato prizes, including a free Kindle or Nook e-book reader, gift certificates to Amazon and other e-book retailers and other cool stuff.

MOST FANTASTIC OF ALL, one incredibly lucky person will win a free 1950s-style domestic discipline spank fiction story written to your specifications by none other than me, 1950s Wife. The characters in the story must be depicted as adults and you must be willing to provide me an e-mail stating that you are at least 18 years of age or older to participate. I reserve the right to reject a story idea if it crosses my limits of acceptable taste.

The winner will be chosen by me and will be based on who, IMO, makes the most creative comment in response to this story.

For the compete rules of the Winter Spanks blog hop, including links to all the participants, use either of the following links: spankingromance.com or saturdayspankings.blogspot.com

I apologize, dear reader, if you have to cut-and-paste to make the links work. I'm composing this on a tablet and don't know how to do hyper-links.


















Saturday, December 14, 2013

"Jingle Bell Hell," a "Why I Hate Christmas Tale"

Dear Readers,

1950s Wife is recuperating with a sprained arm in a sling after getting caught in the scrum at a "Holiday Season Super Savings Vacuum Cleaner Sale." To tide you over, her alter ego, Claire Colinsgrove, presents this Christmas tale. It's a bit of a downer, but hey, so was "The Little Matchstick Girl."

This story is fiction.

Saturday, December 14, 1974

Dear Diary,

I take pen to paper at the conclusion of another day of joyous accomplishment. As I've previously written, it's my honor this holiday season to coordinate our Junior League chapter's annual project to give toys to underprivileged children.

With all this hullabaloo in the news about inflation, the OPEC oil embargo and high cost of gasoline, I was a bit worried that the poor economy might result in our offering falling short of the standard set in years past. But I must say that, after listening to my pep talk at the toy drive's beginning about our duty of "noblesse oblige" to the common folk, the gals in our chapter came through like troopers.

Such an abundance of marvelous toys we collected. How it warms my heart to envision an underprivileged boy on Christmas morning, who might otherwise go empty-handed, opening the smartly-wrapped box containing his holiday present from the Junior League to find his very own yo-yo to play with while sister takes delight in her gift of miniature crocheted Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls.

My station wagon became so crammed full with toys after I stopped at League headquarters yesterday to pick up the gifts that I could barely see out the back. Our chapter's president was there to let me in the office and graciously offered to come by today to help me wrap them.

But I turned her down. No need, I said, when I've got two extra sets of hands to help me, namely those of my 12-year-old daughter Claire and my nine-year-old son Charlie.

Well, Dear Diary, as might be expected, it turned out to be one extra pair of hands, as Claire, typical of her when there's work to be done around the house, was no help at all.

Such a surly, disagreeable child she's turning into, so different from the cheerful obedience that marked my relationship with my mother when I was Claire's age. The fuss she put up when I told her and Charlie at dinner last night that they'd spend Saturday helping me wrap gifts, you would have thought I was putting her to work picking crops on the plantation.

She didn't pipe down until I told her she might prefer spending the day in her room writing an essay on how lucky she is having parents who can afford to get her loads of expensive presents each Christmas, and how ungrateful she is compared to underprivileged children across town who must make do with yo-yos as gifts.

Claire presented herself at the breakfast table this morning in an acceptable mood, though she did object when I told her that she and Charlie could only watch one 30-minute cartoon on TV rather than their customary two. As they wouldn't outside playing with their friends today, I made them run laps around the yard the other 30 minutes for exercise.

After they cleaned up, I presented Claire and Charlie with what I naively expected would be a delightful surprise. Knowing how important fantasy is to children, to make their day as "Santa's helpers" even more fun, I purchased through mail-order elf costumes for them to wear consisting of green sweaters that fell to mid-thigh, red tights, blue felt boots with toes curling up, and knitted red caps with pointy "elf ears" attached to the sides.

Charlie was delighted with the gift and immediately ran upstairs to his bedroom to put his costume on.

Claire, however, absolutely refused to change, shouting at the top her lungs "I'm not gonna wear a stupid outfit like that!" It wasn't till I threatened to tan her backside with the "ouchy stick" that she begrudgingly agreed to don the costume.

When the children returned downstairs in their elf outfits they looked so darling that I simply had to get a picture made. Our next door neighbor is a photo buff, so I marched Claire and Charlie over to his house to get a picture taken with his fancy camera.

The neighbor told me the kids looked swell in their Christmas costumes. His son is in Claire's grade at school and he happened to come downstairs to the living room just as his father took the picture. Claire's face turned red as Rudolph's nose when the boy walked into the room. Deciding that her pretty blush added a festive look, I asked our neighbor to take another snapshot.

The neighbor said he'd bring me prints as soon as he got the film developed. He added that he did freelance work for the local paper and would like to submit a photo of my two jolly elves. I said that would be fine as long as he told the editor Claire and Charlie were dressed up to help their mother wrap presents for the Junior League's project to give Christmas toys to underprivileged children. Won't that be grand publicity!

As we walked back to our house, Claire complained that I had ruined her life, that the neighbor's son was going to tell everybody at school how stupid she looked in her elf outfit and if the paper ended up running the photo of her and Charlie dressed as elves she would just die.

In response, I told her she needs to get over worrying what other children think of her. The only people's opinions I cared about when I was growing up were my parents' and my teachers'. That's how I became house captain senior year at boarding school, president of the student disciplinary board with a straight-A average and admitted to a "Seven Sister."

Back at the house, I had Claire and Charlie fetch the boxed-up presents from my station wagon in the garage and bring them into the dining room while I retrieved wrapping paper, scissors, scotch tape and green and red ribbon from the sewing room.

I also retrieved the "ouchy stick," which is a 12-inch ruler affixed to a four-inch grip, from the coat closet. I needed a ruler for Claire to use to measure when cutting wrapping paper and seeing the ouchy stick would remind her to diligently attend to her task and not bellyache.

We gathered round the dining room table and I instructed the children on the procedure: Claire would cut paper, I'd wrap, and Charlie would use his finger to hold the ribbon down while I affixed it into a smart bow. We fell to work and soon became an efficient team, though I had to threaten a time or two to rap Claire's knuckles with the ouchy stick for cutting off too much paper. "Waste not, Want Not," the Good Book says.

After two hours, it was time for lunch, so we sat down to a nutrious meal of tomato soup and tuna fish sandwiches. Twenty minutes later we were back at work.

Claire was so placid and compliant during the first two hours of gift wrapping that I almost felt like I had a new child. But I suppose the tomato soup was a bit too spicy because it wasn't more than a few minutes into the afternoon session when "Lil' Miss Hot Head" made her presence known.

First she complained that she was sick of the Christmas music I was playing and wanted to put a Partridge Family record on. Well, even though I get more than my fill of that insipid show watching it each week with Claire and Charlie to make sure they shut their eyes and cover their ears during inappropriate parts, I graciously allowed her to play the record just to prove that I'm not, as Claire has impertinently called me more than once, "the world's meanest Mom."

We weren't more than two songs into the record when Claire said her hand was cramping and needed a break. So I allowed her to rest two full songs but almost immediately upon returning to work, she cried out that her wrist still hurt and I needed to put liniment spray on.

So up we went to my bathroom and I applied a generous amount of liniment spray even though I strongly suspected she suffered from a dose of "malingeritis" rather than a strained wrist.

We returned to the dining room and she managed to work through the end of side one of the Partridge Family record. But were only one song through Side B when she announced she needed to go to the bathroom.

Upstairs she went while Charlie and I continued to wrap presents. Charlie is such a good boy. He graciously offered to cut paper in Claire's absence but I don't trust a nine-year-old with adult-sized scissors.

Several minutes passed. The Partridge Family record droned on, the noise giving me a headache. Finally, I went over to the turntable and shut off the music. I called upstairs, "Claire, are you OK? Do you need me to come up there?"

"I'll be down in a minute," she shouted back.

Charlie and I returned to wrapping. Five more minutes passed and still no Claire. I walked to the foot of the stairs.

"Claire, get down here this instant," I called out in a sharp voice.

"OK. OK," she shouted back. "Gosh, I can't even take a few minutes break to use the bathroom."

Claire returned to the living room. "Can I put a 'Brady Bunch' record on?" she asked.

"No Claire, I need a break from the noise," I told her. "If you want music, play a Christmas record."

"I don't wanna listen to stupid Christmas music," she cried. "I wanna hear the 'Brady Bunch'!"

"Claire, you're pushing your luck," I scolded. "Get to work!"

"I don't wanna wrap presents anymore. I've wrapped enough," she cried. "This is so stupid. None of my friends would have to spend their whole Saturday wrapping presents for kids they don't even know!"

"Claire without our help, those unfortunate underprivileged children would get no presents at all," I chided. "Think how lucky you are to have parents who can afford to get you so many wonderful gifts at Christmas."

"I don't care!" Claire screamed, her face flushed red. "I'm not lucky. You're the lucky one. Grandma and Grandad are rich and you had a maid growing up to do all the work. You never had to do stupid stuff like this!"

"Claire, I've had enough!" I shouted. "Start wrapping now or Santa won't bring you any presents."

"I don't care about presents!" Claire screamed as she ripped her elf's cap off and threw it on the floor. "And I don't believe in Santa. There is no such thing as Santa Clause. Even Charlie knows that."

I looked over at Charlie and my heart nearly broke as I saw his lips quiver and a tear roll down his cheek.

"There is a Santa Clause," he said in a hurt tone. "Right Mom?"

"Yes Charlie. There is a Santa Clause," I reassured him.

Turning to Claire I told her, "Upstairs to your room, young lady, and take the ouchy stick with you."

"No Mom, I'm too old for that," Claire said, tears starting to flow.

"Save your tears, young miss," I scolded. "You'll have plenty to cry about in just a minute."

Claire ran up the stairs and slammed the door to her room.

I turned to Charlie. "I'm afraid Claire needs a spanking, Charlie," I said. "You're such a good boy. I'm so glad that you always behave and never need an "ouchy." Santa will be bringing you lots of presents.

Now go put a Christmas record on so the noise from me punishing Claire won't disturb you. But be careful and don't scratch it with the needle."

"Yes Ma'am," Charlie cheerfully replied.

I walked upstairs to Claire's room. While I'm a firm believer that the ouchy stick should be used sparingly, if outright defiance by refusing to do just a little bit of work to bring Holiday joy to children less fortunate than her, plus ruining Christmas for her little brother by telling him there's no Santa Clause, doesn't call for an "ouchy" than nothing else does.

I opened the door to Claire's room. Seeing the face of a child who just a few years ago ran down the stairs on Christmas morning shouting with delight at the many gifts Santa brought in the night softened my resolve.

I picked up the ouchy stick from where Claire set it on her nightstand.

"Last chance Claire," I told her. "If you apologize and come back downstairs to wrap presents, we won't have to go through with this. We're more than halfway done. It'll just take a few more hours. What do you say?"

Claire stared at me for a second. Then she spoke in a voice I scarcely recognized, the tone so calm and even.

"I'd rather be spanked with that stick than wrap one more stupid present," she said. "Why should I care about kids I don't even know? It's not my fault they're poor."

My mouth hung open in shock at her defiance.

"And there is no Santa Clause," Claire continued. "Charlie knows it. He's just playing you for a fool by going 'boo hoo' because he likes to see me get in trouble."

Well that did it. I'm afraid, Dear Diary, while my philosophy is never to punish in anger, I may have lost my temper a bit at my daughter's hateful words.

I grabbed Claire by the shoulder, turned her round and gave her backside six sound swats with the stick, scolding as I spanked "There is too a Santa, you little brat. He brings presents on Christmas Eve to good children like Charlie and leaves lumps of coal in the stockings of bad girls like you!"

Even though I spanked Claire longer and harder than I intended to, it didn't appear to hurt that much, as she didn't cry nor do the after-spanking "ouchy dance" like she sometimes does. I suppose the thickness of her elf sweater and tights spared her.

So, to make an additional impression, I told Claire she could stay in her room until she wrote a letter to read to me aloud apologizing to Santa for being bad and asking him to give her a second chance for presents by being extra good from now on.

Claire didn't write the essay, however, as her father, upon returning home from playing golf, told me she'd been punished enough. He went into Claire's room and told her she could come out. I also overheard him reassuring her that she was getting Christmas presents and that she should try to remember how much pressure her mother puts on herself when it comes to Christmas projects.

He also told Claire that she was too old for spanking and he was going to tell me so and to toss out the ouchy stick.

A few minutes later Claired headed out the door in a change of clothes to visit a friend, calling out "I'm eating supper at Sharon's. I'll be back at nine o'clock. Bye Dad. I love you."

After Claire left, my husband informed me that a "no spanking" policy was now in effect and to put the ouchy stick in the trash. He added that it was too much to expect children to work all Saturday wrapping presents when they wanted to be playing with their friends and I was putting too much pressure on the family by going overboard with Christmas projects.

Too much pressure! Doesn't he realize the strain I'm under? The entire Junior League is counting on me.

Enough writing for tonight, Dear Diary. Church in the morning. And no matter how much Claire complains, she's getting up early for Sunday school before services. I've been far too lenient about that.

And once we get home from lunch at the country club, I'm getting out the guidebook to private schools I ordered. I'm having second thoughts about no boarding school for Claire even though my husband says we can't afford it. He can always get a second job at night to help pay tuition.

Goodness knows Claire's surly attitude would make her a poor candidate for my alma mater where school spirit is placed at such a premium, but perhaps we can find a less-expensive second-tier school that would be a good fit.

I wonder if those military schools that advertise in the back of the "New Yorker" accept girls?