Wednesday, December 24, 2014

A Brand-Spanking-New Chastity Belt: Perfect Christmas Gift for a Young Bride with Wandering Hands

A Gentleman Writes:

At the mature age of 39, I thought I was ready for the responsibilities of marriage. But I fear I made a major misstep in being far too lenient with my much-younger bride.

You see I intended to forbid my wife from watching daytime TV, as Dear Ol' Mom advised me that a new bride not yet accustomed to routine and drudgery of housewife life might be tempted to waste time watching soap operas, judge shows, hen party gab fests and other frivolous fare that should be spent cleaning house, cooking dinner and washing clothes.

When I informed my bride of the rule, tears streamed down her pretty face as she sobbed that she wouldn't be able to gossip with her gal pals at the gym about news from her favorite daytime talk show, "Jibber Jabbering with Jenny," the new show hosted by Jenny McCarthy now that she's been fired from "The View."

Seeing my wife cry tugged at my heart strings so that I'm afraid I put aside Dear Ol' Mom's warning about woman's ability to produce crocodile tears at will. Moreover, recalling Jenny McCarthy on TV from my college years in the 1990s as a fine specimen of femininity, I rationalized by telling myself that her show would likely include advice on breast-enhancement exercises, beauty tips, love-making skills and other useful information that would aid in my wife's role as help meet.

So, in exchange for my wife washing my Cadillac every Saturday, which will boost my time watching sports from my customary 15 hours to 18 per weekend, I agreed she could watch "Jibber Jabbering with Jenny" for 30 minutes per day during the week.

Alas, fool that I turned out to be, I didn't bother to program the TV with parental controls and left the matter on the honor system. All was well and good for a week until car trouble forced my return home shortly after I left for work one morning to use my sports car instead.

(In case you're wondering, my wife has no car of her own. I figure there's no sense buying her a mini-van till we have a "bun in the oven." And, as Dear Ol' Mom points out, having her own car would tempt my wife to indulge in illicit excursions to the shopping mall during the day to sample freebies at the perfume counter and what not. Our local grocery store is just two miles away, so it's no hardship for my wife to use a bicycle with buggy attached to haul groceries back.)

I was a bit perplexed when my wife didn't meet me at the door as I assumed she'd hear my Cadillac entering the driveway. I was further preturbed upon entering the vestibule to hear the TV blaring from the living room.

But I hadn't actually asked my wife what time of the day "Jibber Jabbering with Jenny" comes on. I'd assumed the program broadcasts in the late morning or early afternoon, rather than 9:00 am, but I could be wrong I told myself as I walked to the living room.

Imagine my shock then as I entered the room and saw a "Batman" movie starring George Clooney on the tube!

No wonder my wife didn't notice my return home, as she was lying across the couch, her eyes half shut and hands under her skirt, rapturously moaning, "Batman, oh Batman! Stick your bat pole up my butt hole, please dear Batman!"

My wife sat up on the couch with a startle as I shouted "Busted" at the top of my lungs. I switched the TV off, strode to the couch, threw my wife over my shoulder and carried her upstairs to the bathroom. After thoroughly soaping her mouth, scolding her all the while for masturbating without my permission, I grabbed hold of my wife's earlobe and marched her to the bedroom.

I ordered her to strip while I retrieved the "naughty girl paddle." Upon my return, I sat across the bed, ordered my wife across my lap and commenced to beat her bottom as red as Robin-the-Boy-Wonder's vest.

While she may have been fantasizing about George Clooney a few minutes earlier, there was no question my wife knew who attended to her bottom as I paddled her posterior.

"Oh Hubby, please Hubby, my bottom's on fire," my wife cried as tears rolled down her face. "Please stop spanking me. I'll be good!"

Her fanny fried, I ordered my wife to stand in the corner of the living room with her hands on her head while I considered the next phase of her punishment.

I walked downstairs to my study and closed the door. While I of course maintained my manly composure when disciplining my wife, as I sat alone in my study brooding over her betrayal with Batman I was the one with tears rolling down my face.

When a man's upset, there's no one better to seek solace from than his mother. Thank goodness I called. It took just a few minutes of Dear Ol' Mom's wise counsel to make me realize suicide was the coward's way out.

Divorce was discussed, but Dear Ol' Mom wisely noted I live in a community property state and thus would forego half my savings. I certainly didn't work my tail off the past 15 years building my successful insurance agency only to see half my wealth go to some silly woman who'd waste it all on a life of unearned luxury lying on the couch all day masturbating to George Clooney movies on TV.

No, after talking to Mother, I realized the problem was I simply hadn't put in the time to properly train my young bride. The manly thing to do was to "put on my big boy pants" (one of Dear Ol' Mom's favored expressions in encouraging me to face hardships), accept my marital responsibilities and attend to the task at hand.

First step was programming the TV's parental controls. Wise woman that she is, Dear Ol' Mom knew step two: outfitting my wife with a chastity belt to wear while I'm at work or otherwise away from her presence.

Astutely recognizing this problem may arise, Mother already researched chastity belts available for sale on the internet. While the modern chastity belt is certainly well manufactured, allowing the wearer to attend to her bodily functions while simultaneously preventing any erotic stimulation front or rear, leading brands can be quite expensive, Mother noted.

As she's talented at crafts, Dear Ol' Mom offered to create one for me.

There's nothing Mother enjoys more than putting her hands to good use. (The luxury cat house she built with its automatic food-and-water dispenser and self-cleaning kitty litter box that she uses to store her beloved pet "Whiskers" while away from home is a marvel to behold.) I could hear the excitement in her voice as she described the belt.

Mother said she'd attach paper machet to a pair of panties my wife's size to create a light and comfortable, but completely impenetrable, shell. She'd create a drawstring out of highly durable plastic very difficult to cut that can be drawn tight at the back and securely fastened with an attached lock. The legs of the garment would also be fitted tightly with durable plastic to prevent creeping fingers from below.

The belt would be dyed a feminine shade of pink with "Mustn't Touch" embroidered on the front and "Solely for Hubby's Use" on back.

Mother noted this style of chastity belt forces the wearer to ask permission for removal to attend to bodily functions, thus reinforcing the wife-in-training to accept that use of her private parts is subject to her disciplinarian's whim. A disposal diaper can be placed inside in the event of accidents with the disciplinarian to decide how long wife must suffer being "wet" and/or "stinky."

I must return to work the day after Christmas, but Dear Ol' Mom is flying in from Florida on December 26. (Mother insists on spending Christmas Day with her cat Whiskers.)

Mother's been on a tight budget ever since Dear Ol' Dad died and I know she was a bit embarrassed she could only afford to give us a modest wedding gift. Presenting my wife with a handcrafted chastity belt on Christmas would show how much Dear Ol' Mom cares for our happiness.

Mother also noted that spending two weeks after Christmas in daily company with my wife as she regularly lectures her about the evils of masturbating without permission and that the proper wife never fantasizes about anyone other than her husband would certainly strengthen their mother-daughter bond.

And once Dear Ol' Mom returns to Florida, the kindly spinster lady who lives next door can be recruited to be available to unlock the belt while I'm away should my wife need to ask permission to go. As a token of our gratitude, Mother can build a state-of-the-art dog house for the spinster's beloved pet "Spot."

Having Mother build the belt would save a lot of money and that way I can still present my wife with the new lawn mower I'd planned to give her on Christmas.

You strike me as pretty smart for a woman. What's your suggestion on a chastity belt: manufactured or hand-made?

Kind Sir:

I support the notion that prohibiting the submissive wife from masturbating without permission is reasonable.

Moreover a wife should be reminded whether by spanking or other suitable punishment that dwelling on a visage of someone other than one's husband when touching one's nether regions is a definite no-no, particularly if the imagined assignation is with someone as unattractive as George Clooney. (Can't stand a man with pomade in his hair.)

And I'm all for a mother-in-law taking a hand in training the new wife. In the early years of our marriage, Hubby insisted his mother stay with me while he was away on business trips to ensure I didn't slack on my housework nor watch forbidden soap operas and to spank me when needed.

But, while others may disagree, I firmly believe that interfering with a wife's ability to attend to her bodily functions, especially making her wear a diaper, is not an appropriate part of the 1950s lifestyle.

So I'd go with a manufactured chastity belt. With your income as a successful insurance agent I'm sure you can afford to give one to your wife as Christmas present and the lawn mower too.

Lastly, from the tenor of your note, I can't help but wonder if you might be a bit too reliant on advice from your mother. Now that you're a married man, perhaps the time has come to cut those apron strings.

Note: The name of Jenny McCarthy, a public figure, is used fictitiously. So is the reference to the TV program "Jibber Jabbering with Jenny."


Thursday, October 30, 2014

Naughty Wife Plays Halloween Trick on Hubby. Treated to a Spanking!

Dear 1950s Wife:

I thought I'd play a funny trick on my husband for Halloween. Boy oh boy, did I learn that some things are no laughing matter!

It all began a few days before Halloween when I overheard some gal pals at the gym talking about sexy costumes they'll wear for their husbands' benefit on Halloween night. It sounded like a neat idea, except I knew I'd need to think of a more-creative costume because the outfits they mentioned are what I wear everyday.

For example, I always wear a sexy French maid's outfit during the morning as I dust the furniture, mop the floors, vacuum the carpet and scrub the toilet and tub.

My husband enjoys checking in on me from work via Skype during this part of the day for a mid-morning tug, particularly when I'm bent over scouring the toilet bowel with my short skirt riding up my ass and frilly panties on display. And, even during days when he has meetings or otherwise can't keep his office door closed, doing housework in a teeny-tiny dress, stockings, garters, six-inch pumps and a cute little maid's cap atop my head reinforces my belief that there's nothing sexier than keeping a clean house for my man.

After lunch, I devote the afternoon to laundry, including ironing my husband's button-down shirts dollar-bill crisp, and preparing the evening meal.

I work up a sweat from the iron's steam, not to mention the physical exertion of pounding dough for fresh-baked bread I serve with dinner and tenderizing the beef. So, for my afternoon outfit, I wear a gossamer thin cooking apron over bra and panties. (For comfort's sake, I change into more sensible four-inch heels.)

Hubby usually likes to check in around three o'clock via Skype for a mid-afternoon tug. So, a few minutes till, I slip off my underwear underneath the cooking apron leaving my nipples and bush practically exposed.

I also hold ice cubes against my nipple for five minutes till they're rock hard. Thus, even if work duties don't afford my husband sufficient privacy to close his office door and enjoy the smart-phone sight of my nearly naked body as I pound dough and beat meat, my nipples practically poking through my thin apron, I still benefit from the cooling sensation of iced tits.

My husband arrives home from work at 5:30 pm. A few minutes prior, I change into a cocktail waitress dress for our hour of martini time and pre-dinner blow job.

Hubby likes to watch sports on TV after dinner. (With satellite TV we can count on a game being on throughout the year, even if it must be a cricket match played in India or sumo wrestling in Japan.)

So, after I've washed and put away the dishes, I change into a bosom-enhancing, midriff-baring, panties-peeking-out "naughty cheerleader" outfit. I spend the game bent over my husband's lap on the couch. He spanks me with his hand to celebrate good plays by his favored team and to vent frustration if the opponent does well.

During halftime, I roll off Hubby's lap to entertain him with cheers about what a great guy he is and how lucky I am to have a dominant man who spanks me soundly for my faults. At game's end, I'm either on my knees giving Hubby a victory blowjob or bent over a chair for swats with the "naughty girl paddle" if the opponent wins to remind me to cheer harder for the home team next time.

For the final act of the night, I wear nothing but my "birthday suit."

My husband takes me to the bedroom, puts me over his knee and spanks me long and hard. Then he tosses me across the bed, strips and climbs aboard so we can finish the day with the most important of my wifely duties, providing my husband with three hours of bed-shaking sex!

I was really stumped as to what to wear to surprise my husband when he came home from work on Halloween night. Then inspiration struck: instead of dressing sexy in my everyday style, I'd wear the scruffy outfit of the so-called "liberated" non-submissive wife.

I figured if I was going to play the part I might as well go all out.

Rather than hopping out of bed at 5:30 am as usual, I slept untill my husband got up at six and asked him if he wouldn't mind making himself cereal for breakfast as I wasn't feeling well. Hubby was so gracious in the way he mumbled "I guess I can" that I almost lost my nerve. But, as I thought about the good laugh we'd share after I let him in on the joke that night, my resolve returned.

As soon as my husband left for work, I changed into my "costume": raggedy jeans and tee-shirt and a pair of smelly sneakers that I usually only wear when I don't want to ruin good clothes doing really grubby work, such as cleaning the gutters.

I didn't bother to dust. Instead I turned on the TV. As my husband programmed the set to display only sports channels, it took awhile to figure out how to change to stations that broadcast shows non-submissive wives at the gym like to talk about.

Well, I must tell you that one morning of daytime TV is more than enough for me.

The morning news programs aren't too boring -- I'm particularly impressed by cute clothes and stylish blonde hairdos sported by the gals on 'Fox and Friends" But the way the people hoot and holler on the 'judges shows." So unpleasant. I'd find them all guilty!

My husband called at 10:30 am. I clicked "answer" and quickly positioned the phone's camera so it only showed my face.

"I hope you're feeling better dear," Hubby said with a big grin on his face. "I've got a boner that just won't quit and the tub could really use a good scrubbing."

His smile turned to a frown. "No makeup today?"

"Oh honey, I didn't have time to put any on," I breezily lied. "A friend from the gym called. She's a campaign volunteer for this man running for town council and I agreed she could come by this morning so I could help her lick envelops. He's a Democrat but he sounds very sensible."

I told my husband goodbye and hung up the phone before he could reply.

I watched TV for another hour then had lunch. I was starting to feel really bored and I almost took a roast out of the freezer. I could easily catch up on the morning's cleaning while the meat thawed.

But my resolve to play my prank to the end returned. I was going to spend the day as a liberated, non-submissive wife even if it practically killed me of boredom!

So I retrieved a trashy romance novel I hid under the bed that I'd been meaning to read for months.

I sprawled across the bed reading. The pages turned, but I couldn't concentrate. I looked at my watch. Twenty minutes to three, the time Hubby normally calls for a mid-afternoon tug.

Suddenly, I lept from the bed and tossed the romance novel under it. I tore off my grubby jeans and tee-shirt, retrieved my gossamer thin cooking apron and a pair of heels. I went into the bathroom and quickly put on makeup. Then I raced down the stairs to the kitchen and grabbed a couple of ice cubes.

No time for the roast to thaw, but I'll get something together for dinner, I said to myself as I held the cubes to my nipples. I was so preoccupied calculating how to get a day's worth of cooking, cleaning and laundering done in just two-and-half hours before my husband returned home that I scarcely felt the chill.

I looked at my watch. One minute to three. I tossed what was left of the ice cubes in the sink. I held my smart phone up so the camera faced my chest and waited for the call, my heart beating wildly with anticipation.

Seconds passed. I looked at the phone: 3:01 pm. More time passed. Another look: 3:02.

My heart beat slowed, replaced by a sinking feeling in my stomach. I waited three more minutes, then glum realization set in.

Hubby wasn't going to call for his mid-afternoon tug.

I felt tears fall down my cheeks. "Boo Hoo Hoo!" I cried. "I want my husband. I want Hubby!"

As I sobbed, the sting of iced nipples at last registered in my brain. I walked into the den and reached into the liquor cabinet to pour myself a stiff drink.

I downed the drink in one gulp. The warmth flooding through my body removed the chill in my tits, but didn't improve my mood. I poured another drink and turned on the television. Dr. Phil was scolding a marital couple about mutual misdemeanors.

As I sipped my drink, I felt a buzz come on and took an interest in the program. The wife appeared the more guilty of the pair and Dr. Phil was giving her a good talking-to.

"You tell her, Dr. Phil," I shouted at the TV. "She's a bad woman. Bad wife. Bad!"

The program finished. I looked at my watch. Five o'clock. Nothing to do now but wait.

I went to the kitchen sink, washed my empty glass, and returned it to the liquor cabinet. I walked upstairs and took off my cooking apron, undies and heels. I retrieved the "naughty girl paddle" and walked downstairs in my birthday suit.

I took a foot stool from the den and brought it to the entrance way by the front door. I bent over and laid the paddle across the crook of my back.

The twenty minutes I must wait here for Hubby to get home is part of my penance, I told myself.
"Honey, I'm home," my husband shouts as he walks through the door.

I awake with a start. I must have dozed off. Hubby looks at me with a bewildered expression.

"What are you doing bent over a stool naked like that?" he asks. "We usually have a drink before we get frisky."

"Oh honey," I cry not daring to get up. "I've been a very bad wife. I need to be spanked."

"There, there. It can't be as bad as all that," my husband consoles. "Now get up off that stool and tell me what happened."

I feel the tears begin to flow as I rush into his arms. As my husband holds me tight, I burble out my tale of woe.

"My friends at the gym were talking about how they were going to surprise their husbands by putting on sexy outfits for Halloween night, but I dress that way for you everyday cuz I love how you want me so much that you call home on your camera phone from work for a tug," I sob.

"So I thought I'd do something different and dress up as a lazy wife to prank you when you got home. And then I thought it would be cool to see what it's like to actually be a lazy wife. So I sat around all day watching TV and I haven't done a lick of housework and there's no dinner and by the time I realized it was a bad idea it was too late and I felt so guilty that I had a couple of drinks and now my head's all fuzzy. Oh boo hoo hoo! Boo hoo hoo!"

My husband just holds me and says 'there there" and "I'm not mad." At last I calm down.

My husband can tell I'm feeling better.

"Very well, young lady," he says. "I can tell from your tears that you feel bad but Daddy must still make sure his little girl learns her lesson."

"Yes sir, Daddy," I say.

"Now go upstairs and put on your 'spanking suit'. Then meet me in my study," he says. "'Lil' Miss Sassy Britches' needs to get reacquainted with 'Mr. Hairbrush'."

"Yes Daddy."

I walk upstairs to the bedroom and retrieve the little-girl-style party dress, ruffled panties, plain bra, white knee socks and Mary Jane shoes. This isn't an everyday outfit. I only wear it at special times like now when a special sort of discipline is needed.

I put on the costume and walk downstairs to the study. I knock on the door.

"Come in."

I enter the room and shut the door behind me. I take a few steps till I'm standing before him. I stand as I've been trained, with my hands clasped behind me looking straight ahead.

He stands and reaches out with his right hand to cup my chin with his palm lifting my head slightly so I look straight into his eyes.

"Do you know why I've called you to my study?"

"Yes sir, Daddy. Cuz I've been naughty."

"And what happens when you're naughty?"

"I get spanked. On the bare. With the hairbrush."

"Very well. Place yourself across my lap please."

I comply. He lifts the pleats of my party dress and pulls my panties to mid-thigh. He rests the face of the hairbrush on my bare bottom. Then come the inevitable words:

"I'm hate to spank you, young lady, but I wouldn't be a good Daddy if I didn't correct you when you misbehave. This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you."

He applies 25 firm spanks, twice my age and one to grow on. Not so much for the grown me, but more than enough to bring tears to the eyes of Lil' Miss Sassy Britches.

"You may get up," he says.

I rise and, pull up my panties, and wipe my eyes.

He opens his arms. "Give me my hug," he says. I rush into his arms.

After a minutes, we release each other from our grasp.

"I should make you do thirty minutes of cornertime, but not tonight," he says. "Trick-or-treaters will be here soon and Lil' Miss Sassy Britches needs to give out candy. Then she and Daddy are going out for hamburgers and ice cream."

"Hamburgers and ice cream. Hooray!" I cry. "Oh Daddy, I love you!"

He's made me go out dressed as Lil' Miss Sassy Britches before. Normally I don't like it. It's so embarrassing for people to see me like that.

But no worries tonight.

It's Halloween!

Good woman:

I can certainly tell that you've learned a good lesson from this experience. While I'm all for a good laugh, humor has it's proper time and place. Just as the operating theatre is no setting for a surgeon to make jokes, the wife who aspires to the 1950s lifestyle knows that the domain of hearth and home is sancrosanct and no place for pranks.

For next year's Halloween, might I suggest an appropriate prank such as playing "ding, dong, ditch," on an irritating neighbor's front door and leaving a lighted paper bag full of doggie poo for them to step on. Or perhaps TP'ing their yard.

Sunday, October 5, 2014

Naughty Wife Acts Up In Hubby's Tailgate Party Teepee. Gets A "Redskin."

Dear 1950s Wife,

I generally support a rule of no TV during the day for submissive wives, as we women are otherwise apt to squander valuable time watching soap operas, "Dr. Phil," "Judge Judy" and other empty-heady fare that would be better spent cleaning house, cooking dinner and washing clothes.

But as the spouse of a high-powered "Inside-the-Beltway" D.C. political operative, I make exception for myself, as I must be familiar with important current events to fulfill my role as a proper lobbyist's wife.

Consequently, from my 5:00 am wake-up to oversee cook preparing Hubby's hardy breakfast of flapjacks, scrambled eggs, biscuits, bacon and T-bone steak, throughout my busy day supervising the maid's cleaning our 10,000-square-foot home, my afternoon hour on the treadmill, during dinner and right up until 11:00 pm lights out following our customary three-hours of bed-shaking sex, Fox News plays loudly on all eight of our household TVs.

(I do turn the volume down during "martini time" after Hubby's return from work so I can listen appreciatively to his tales of the day's lobbying success before administering his pre-dinner blowjob. Also during the 30 minutes after supper he devotes to lecturing me for my faults and spanking me with the "naughty girl paddle" reminding me to be a better wife.)

As Fox News concentrates on serious issues, rather than "infotainment" and liberal blither-blather that dominates reporting and commentary on other networks, I'm as well-versed as a woman can be on all critical issues, including the subject that's dominating high-powered political discussion in D.C. at the moment: busy-body liberals' campaign to force Washington, D.C.'s professional football team to drop the nickname "Redskins."

How anybody can object to an east coast city using a caricature of a Great Plains Indian as team mascot is beyond me.

Sure the name "Redskin" had a bit of negative connotation back when cowboys and pioneers were settling this Great Land of Ours. But these days the term clearly means to honor the bravery of those marauding red raiders of the west as they descended on horseback on U.S. Calvary camps armed solely with bow-and-arrows, only to be sent to stay forever with The Great Spirit in the Sky after being mowed down by the Calvarymen's Springfield carbine rifles and Colt revolvers.

Besides, "Redskins" has been Washington's nickname for a long time, since 1937. If these "Johnny-come-lately Indians" don't like it, they can go back to wherever they came from.

With football season's return, Hubby and I are going the extra mile to show our support for our team and it's nickname.

As a high-powered lobbyist, Hubby considers it a wise use of firm funds to lease a 50-seat luxury skybox suite at the Redskins home stadium. It's a great chance to network with congressmen and their top-level aides, key players in the executive branch, high-powered corporate executives and other VIPs. And because we always give one of the 50 tickets to an underprivileged child, Hubby can write off the suite's cost as a tax deduction.

(By the way, I've been pleasantly surprised by the strong work ethic of the kids invited to the games who come from lower-income D.C. neighborhoods. Give them a broom and dustpan and promise of a dollar tip for sweeping up dropped beer bottle tops and cocktail napkins and they keep our suite as clean as a whistle. Obviously it's only the temptation of cushy welfare benefits as adults that prevents them from putting that work ethic to good use later on as high-powered professionals and business executives for Fortune 500 corporations.)

Along with the suite, Hubby's lobbying firm also shells out a pretty penny for a large block of parking spaces in the VIP section of the lot adjacent to the stadium. It's our custom to set up tables in the lot to serve our guests champaign, caviar, foie gras, oysters Rockefeller, frog legs and other tailgate treats prepared by one of D.C.'s finest chefs.

In years past, we've used a standard outdoor party tent to shelter the tables. But this season, with our team's venerated nickname under attack, we decided to show support by using a custom-made teepee in Redskins' team colors of burgundy and gold with the Indian mascot's war-painted face painted on it.

While my normal game outfit is a smart dress, silk scarf, stockings, heels and pearls, this season I wear a buckskin mini-dress that barely covers my bloomers, mocassins and a hairband with feather attached.

We got to the most-recent home game two hours early. I was pleased to see the teepee assembled --  my husband commandeered his firm's interns for the task and to serve guests drinks and food -- and the hors d'oeuvres prepared. Guests soon arrived and, as the champagne flowed, our teepee hummed with conversation and laughter.

Just for fun, men at the party greeted each other with "Indian names": "Him Whose Son Got Into Harvard" and "Him Whose Law Firm Grosses $100 Million in Annual Billing" are a few I remember. As more champagne was consumed, good-natured joshing took over and the names became dirty, including "Him With Puny Pee-Pee" and "Him Whose Squaw Won't Give Head."

Though my husband and I are ardent Republicans, I'm under strict orders to strike a bipartisan tone at social gatherings, as Hubby's lobbying efforts involve both sides of the aisle.

I was a good girl at first.

But, as I'm fond of saying, even though we've lived in D.C. twenty years now, "you can take the gal out of Orange County, but you can't take the 'Orange County' out of the gal." I'm afraid I had one too many glasses of champagne and, before you know it, I was in a heated conversation with a gal who didn't take too kindly to my descriptions of the many moral failings of our thankfully-soon-to-be-ex-President Barrick HUSSEIN Obama.

I didn't take her for a Fellow Traveler at first, as her blonde curls, pearls and Lily Pulitzer dress made her resemble the standard southern sorority girl a few years out of college working the Congressional GOP circuit. So I was taken aback when she wrinkled her nose when I cheerfully noted that the impending Republican takeover of the Senate in mid-term elections means a quick impeachment of Obama for his many high crimes and misdemeanors, thus sparing our country two more years of mismanagement and malfeasance.

"What high crimes are you referring to," she asked sarcastically in an accent far too "Bostonian" for my liking.

"Almost too many to mention," I said. "Saluting a proud member of the armed forces with a cappuccino in hand. Taking too-long vacations at taxpayer expense playing golf and walking on the beach in Hawaii rather than a quick weekend in a budget motel at places real Americans go to, such as Mrytle Beach and Panama City. Refusing to admit that he's a Muslim. The list goes on and on!"

Well, this "Jackie Kennedy wannabe" wouldn't back down, shouting at me that I sounded like a typical ignorant "Tea Partier" who gets all her misinformation from "F-A-U-X News." She spoke at me with such vitriol that finally I decided to cool her down by tossing my drink in her face.

She tossed her drink at me and the next thing you know we were in a full-on face-slapping, fingernail-clawing, hair-pulling girl fight!

This girl is several years younger than me, but shorter and not nearly as limber dressed in her knee-length Lily Pulitzer dress as I was in my buckskin miniskirt. And no Indian maiden put up as much fight wrestling a wild bear as I did battling this bitch.

After drawing fingernails full of blood clawing her face, I yanked her by the hair and dragged her across my knees. Then I lifted her floral skirt, yanked down her panties and spanked her bottom several times with my hand shouting "Say Uncle!"

But before she did, I heard a man shout "Girl Fight!" in a drunk voice and my combatant and I were sprayed with champagne. I wiped foam from my eyes to see the man is a well-known billionaire hedge fund manager fond of making large-scale political donations.

He stumbled over and poured the rest of his champagne bottle over us.

'Come on you bitches," he shouted. "Let's have a wet tee-shirt contest. Get up and shake your titties!"

Another man came by and led the hedge fund manager away. The rest of the party quickly dispersed from the teepee. The only ones left were me, my combatant, my husband and a person I recognized as an older Democratic congressman from an Appalachian state.

My husband lifted me to my feet and the congressman helped my combatant up.

My husband turned to the congressman and said "Congressman, I'm sure you'll agree that's it's best to keep this matter as quiet as we can. I'll pay for the dry cleaning of your aide's dress, any medical bills she may incur due to the scratches on her face, and, if you determine it's appropriate and consistent with House ethics rules, a gift of some sort to compensate for her pain and suffering."

Hubby continued: "An intern at my firm was helping out at the party. He's already used his cell to call my second-in-command and you can be sure our firm is treating this episode as an 'all-hands-on-deck red-button-crisis alert.' I can assure you that, as we speak, all who may have witnessed this unfortunate incident are being contacted and made to see the wisdom in not mentioning the matter to the media."

"Well, that's mighty thoughtful of you," the congressman drawled. "But I 'spect my aide and I don't have much to worry 'bout. This lil' gal is the daughter of one of my closest friends from my Army days, we were POWs together in Vietnam. He's on his death bed now, got the cancer, but I bet he'd be mighty glad to hear his lil' filly has a mess of fight in her, whether he reads it in the paper or hears it from me. And, while my constituents don't think too kindly of President Obama these days, they still think well of me. I'm not too worried about not being re-elected."

The congressman continued: "Young man, there's been a sad change in politics in our country since I first ran for Congress so many years ago after being released from that bamboo POW cage way over yonder in Vietnam. Oh sure, we Donkeys and Elephants had in our differences back then. But even in the darkest days of Watergate, a sense of politeness in public discourse carried the day. We respected the Office of the President, even if we sometimes disagreed with the actions and decision of the man holding said office. Nowadays, I'm afraid most of that civility is lost."

My husband interjected: "Congressman, you've given me a brilliant idea. A million dollar donation, with perhaps more to come, to establish a non-profit, bipartisan organization dedicated to restoring civility in politics with much of that money earmarked to pay the salary of your aide as executive director. What do you say?"

"Oh I don't think that will be necessary young man," the congressman said. "I'm grooming this 'lil gal to take over my job some day. Don't have children of my own you see."

The congressman continued: "I 'spect 'bout all we'll need is an apology from your wife to my aide. A heartfelt one. Then this matter shall go no farther."

Crisis resolved. My husband beamed.

"Oh, she'll apologize," Hubby said. "And it will be heartfelt. I can guarantee that!"

Boy oh boy did I get spanked hard. Hubby turned me over his knee, flipped up my little buckskin skirt, pulled down my bloomers and made my bottom so hot with his hand that I'm surprised it didn't send off smoke signals.

After he finished, I stood up and hopped from one foot to another, frantically rubbing my backside as I shouted "Ouchy, Ouchy!"

The congressman chuckled: "That's a mighty fine rain dance your squaw does. I hope the game doesn't get rained out."

After I settled down, my husband ordered me to kneel before the congressman's aide and kiss her hand.

Then I was made to say: "Please accept my humble apology for my atrocious behavior. I must always remember to be respectful to those with differing opinions when talking politics. I must also remember that, though I didn't vote for President Obama and I disagree with some of his policies, I must respect the Office of the President by not referring to the president, no matter which political party he or she represents, in rude terms."

The congressman's aide accepted my apology, though I could tell from the look in her eye that she was loving every second of my humiliation.

"Well that's settled," the congressman said. "Let's get going. Game's about to start. Go 'Skins! Take some scalps!"

But I had to sit in our Mercedes during the game as further punishment. My husband made one of his interns return to the car to keep an eye of me and make sure I didn't sneak a listen to the game on the car radio.

And when we got home, Hubby informed me that an underprivileged child will use my ticket for the remaining Redskins home games this season. I must sit in the naughty chair facing a corner of the living room during the games with no sound on the TV and our au pair watching me to make sure I don't peek out.

I know I was bad, but don't you think a spanking and sitting in the car for one game is enough punishment? I don't care about actually watching the games, but I love the pre-game tailgate parties.

And don't you agree that "Redskins" is a perfectly fine nickname for a football team?

Good woman:

Never do I cease to be amazed by the excesses of the moneyed set.

When my husband and I sit down on the sofa in the parlor of our 800-square-foot bungalow to watch our beloved Chicago Bears on our 12-inch black-and-white TV, we certainly have no use for champagne, caviar and other high-priced delicacies. He's perfectly content snacking on fried beef jerkey and beer ice cream I make for him, while the jello salad I treat myself to is more than sufficient.

But I take heart that, despite his lust for power and riches that accompany the lobbyist's lifestyle, your husband is still "down home" enough to recognize the need to properly punish you for your faults.

My wish is that, as you sit in silence in the naughty chair during remaining Redskins home games, you realize the error of your ways and resolve to forego foolish attachment to creature comforts. Perhaps then you may convince your husband to use his considerable political skills to benefit the commonweal, as evidenced by the wise Appalachian congressman and trusty aide you describe in your note, rather than pursuit of filthy lucre.

As far as the nickname "Redskins" is concerned, my alter ego recalls fond memories as a child and young adult living in the Washington, D.C. area cheering for the football team during its glory years in the 1970s and 1980s.

But, while not much heed was paid to the issue back then, there's no dispute that, unlike the no-longer acceptable words "colored" and "Negro" in referring to an African-American person, the term "Redskin" has from the beginning been a pejorative term meant to cast aspersions and it still carries that meaning. The time has come to give it up.

Or, as my alter ego has seen expressed on Facebook posts on the subject, change the mascot to a "redskin potato."

Monday, August 25, 2014

Submissive Wives Suffer "Ice Undies Challenge" for a Good Cause

Dear 1950s Wife:

My husband forbids me using Facebook, Twitter, You Tube and such because he wisely knows I'd waste precious time chitchatting with my gal pals about cute cat videos and other silly stuff that should be spent cleaning house, cooking his meals and laundering his clothes.

So I likely would never know about the craze crossing the country via social media of the "ice bucket challenge" in support for research into treatment of ALS disease except by overhearing a couple of ladies at the gym talking about their plans to participate.

Learning details from them, I decided that, even though our husbands forbid us using social media applications, our town's submissive wives should figure out a way to participate in such a worthy cause. So I dialed up the party line when I returned home and organized a coffee klatch the next morning at my house to discuss the project.

As we sipped black coffee -- sugar and cream aren't allowed on my diet and my husband wisely refuses the artificial stuff to be included in the grocery budget when beer, beef jerky, T-bone steaks and other necessities he enjoys cost so much -- we planned our participation in the challenge.

As we're used to our posteriors being painfully paddled by our husbands for even slight housekeeping errors, we agreed that subjecting ourselves to the momentary discomfiture of dumping buckets of ice over our heads was not much of a challenge.

Kneeling on peas for an hour or holding pennies with our noses against a wall for the same length of time were discussed -- my husband subjects me to both punishments at times as part of post-spanking reflection and, believe you me, neither are much fun -- but we decided a video of such activity wouldn't be very entertaining should we figure out how to sneak one up on You Tube.

One gal who lives out in the country suggested we poke ourselves with cattle prods but that idea was discarded as a bit too extreme.

Finally one wife who works part-time as a wedding planner came up with a brilliant suggestion: As elaborate ice sculptures are often part of wedding reception decorations, this gal figured it'd be no problem at all for the sculptor she uses to carve sets of bras and panties out of ice for us to wear.

Even on an extra hot summer day, ice undies would take an hour to melt, she explained. Subjecting our breasts and buns to icy cold for that length of time would be far more impressive than dumping ice over our heads. 

Moreover, the videographer this gal hires for weddings would be quite capable of producing a tasteful video of the event with no "full-frontal nudity" with the use of camera angles and special effects also obscuring our faces. The videographer would post the film on You Tube, thus sparing us from breaking our husbands' "no You Tube" rule and the inevitable spankings should they find out.

And the ice sculptor and videographer would likely be willing to do the projects for free as a way of publicizing their businesses, the wedding planner gal said.

I told her she could borrow the phone and she raced into the kitchen. I heard the tumble of her turning the rotary dial as fast she could and excited talking. A few minutes later arrangements were final.

We would undergo the "ice undies challenge" the very next day. As my husband insists on a privacy fence -- Hubby likes to spank me immediately rather wasting time marching me into the house if he discovers I miss a spot mowing the grass and obviously doesn't want neighbors who don't appreciate the 1950s lifestyle spying my discipline -- the event would be held in our back yard.

Wives, ice sculptor and videographer showed up the next afternoon right on time. I also noticed an elderly woman I didn't know.

The wedding planner explained that the woman is her maiden aunt who's a retired school teacher. Having taught back in the day in a rural school where "reading and writing and 'rithmatic were taught to the tune of the hickory stick," the elderly lady would serve as referee, the wedding planner explained.

It would take an hour for our ice undies to disappear. As time went on, a gal might be tempted to put hands over her partially-melted bra or panties to try to warm herself up. If so, the retired schoolmarm would restore her resolve not to cheat by delivering a scarlet stripe across the thighs.

On cue, the elderly lady looked over, smiled and waived her whipping rod in the air.

The ice sculptor unpacked a dozen sets of ice undies. Even though the sculptor and the videographer are men, we wives are so used to stripping on command for our husbands for discipline or sex that we weren't a bit embarrassed to pull clothes off and put frosty bras and panties on.

The videographer took his position and, on his cue, we assumed our poses of hands crossed over heads, chests thrust forward and bottoms arched back.

"This is our town submissive wives' 'ice undies challenge' to raise money in support of research into treatment of ALS disease," we called out in unison. "We challenge submissive wives across the country to undergo the same test."

Then we smiled pretty for the camera and waited for our undies to melt.

Even though it wasn't a particularly hot day for August, the dry ice of my bra and panties felt pleasant at first when pressed against my warm skin. But, as the undies began to melt, I felt discomfort, merely irritating at first but slowly becoming more and more unnerving.

To make matters worse, mosquitos seem particularly drawn to the taste of my blood. (It's because I'm so sweet, my husband likes to tease.) Of course, I covered my arms, legs and neck with bug spray and even dabbed a bit on my forehead and cheeks.

But I didn't think to put any on my boobs and butt. And wouldn't you know it, as soon as my panties melted enough to bare the tiniest bit of flesh, a mosquito swooped in and took a healthy bite out of my ass.

I grinned and bared it for what seemed like the longest time. But the itching bite coupled with the discomfort of what I imagine it would feel to wear a diaper dipped in ice water began to drive me crazy.

Finally I could stand it no more. I glanced out the corner of my eye. The schoolmarm didn't appear to be looking in my direction so I slid a hand behind me and started to scratch.


As usual with a cane stroke, I felt only a minor burning sensation across my thighs at first. A half second later, the pain flooded through me.

"Ouchy, Ouchy!" I cried as I hopped up and down. "That hurt."

"Get back in place with your hands over your head or you'll get another one," the schoolmarm scolded.

"But Miss," I whimpered "My butt itches!"

Despite the obvious discomfort the other wives were in -- I'd heard sniffling from most of them for several minutes before I dared scratch my bottom -- several of them giggled at my comment.

"I don't care. None of the other girls are scratching their behinds," the schoolmarm said. "Assume the position."

Mournfully, I put my hands back over my head.

The ice was starting to melt full force now, water streaming down my stomach from my disappearing bra and down my legs from my half-gone panties, but time still felt like it stood still. Some of the other wives progressed from sniffling to outright crying and moaning.

Finally my bra and panties were nearly gone. I estimated one minute of the ordeal was left.

"Hurry, God, Hurry," I said to myself. "Please melt my undies."

At last just a frosting of ice remained. I counted the seconds and at the tenth, the schoolmarm shouted:

"Time's up girls."

I immediately put my hands to my breasts and rubbed as vigorously as I could.

"Holy shit, feel my tits," one gal shouted at me, "See how cold they are!"

I complied. Before you know it, we were all feeling each other up and laughing uproariously. The we pulled each other together in a group hug, luxuriating in the warmth returning to our bodies.

After we were sufficiently warm, the wedding planner opened bottles of wine. (The liquor store she uses to supply wedding receptions donated it in an exchange for a promotional announcement in our video.)

I opened a patio door, pulled the stereo next to it and put a record on playing my favorite 1950s rock-and-roll songs. We had a sock hop on the lawn except we weren't even wearing socks, if you get my drift. After a couple glasses on wine, the schoolmarm got into the swing of things, stripped down to her birthday suit (circa 1930 if I had to guess) and did a vigorous jitterbug.

The party broke up around 5:00 pm. The wedding planner and the videographer were the last to go. The videographer said it would take a couple of days to prepare the video and post it on You Tube.

He again reassured me that the video would be tastefully done with no full-frontal nudity and our faces blurred. He also said he would put a caption in the video encouraging people impressed by our "ice undies challenge" to donate money in support of research into treatment of ALS disease that includes web addresses for organizations involved in such work.

I don't know how I did it, but in the hour I had left before Hubby returned from work I managed to shower, dress in my customary housekeeping outfit of stockings, heels, pearls and a smart dress, touch up my hair, put on makeup, get the roast that was cooking out of the oven and on the table and mix my husband a martini.

I just dropped an olive in the drink when I heard the "toot, toot" of his horn in the driveway. I met Hubby at the door with his drink in my hand and a kiss on the lips.

He took me by the hand into the den and sat back in his easy chair. As Hubby sipped his drink, I knelt before him, unzipped his fly and began massaging his "Big Unit" in preparation of administering a pre-dinner blow job.

"Boy oh boy, was the office boring today," Hubby sighed. "How was your day?"

"Oh, you know, same old same old," I said. "But I'm never bored. You know how much I love being your wife."

I rubbed for another minute till Hubby was hard. Then I opened my mouth and leaned in.


It seemed like forever for the two days pass for the video be ready to upload on You Tube.

I knew I dare not sneak on the site to look at it, as my husband checks our computer's history cache. But the wedding planner's husband lets her use You Tube for work-related purposes and her looking at our video certainly seemed within the spirit of the rule.

The wedding planner told me she'd call at noon. I was by the kitchen phone and answered on the first ring.

I was surprised to hear the wedding planner sound so glum.

"Go into your computer room and call up You Tube," she said in a solemn voice.

"I can't. My husband will spank me for using that site," I protested.

"Believe me that's the least of your problems," she said.

My heart pounded as I walked into the computer room. I knew to type in the web browser, but, never using the site before, was as a loss as to what to do next.

I picked up the phone next to the computer. When the wedding planner told me what to type into the You Tube search bar, I was shocked.

"Why did the videographer use such a dirty description," I shouted into the phone. "And what in the world is a 'MILF'?"

"It's an abbreviation for a disgusting phrase I don't even want to say out loud," the wedding planner said.

I typed the description into the search bar feeling like I should have my mouth washed out with soap for writing such naughty words. A video came up and I clicked to play it.

"Call me back when you're done watching," the wedding planner said.

The video was exactly what I expected at first. We wives, our faces blurred, stood in a row wearing our frozen bras and panties and shouted in unison that we were participating in the "ice undies challenge" in support of raising funds for ALS research.   

Though it took an hour for our underwear to melt, the video was just 20 minutes long. The film included a stop watch in the upper left-hand corner showing passage of time, including jumps ahead in the action.

The video was perfectly fine at the beginning. But, after the first jump ahead in time, it was clear the videographer's promise of no full-frontal nudity was just so much hot air.

Not only that, but there were plenty of close-up beaver shots, including one that I recognized right away. I knew my husband would recognize me from that shot alone, as he's very particular about how he likes me to style my hair, both up top and down below.

Of course the video included the whole incident of the schoolmarm whipping my thighs after catching me scratching my ass, including a close-up shot of the swelling cane stripe. The last part of the film included us gals feeling each other up to get warm at the challenge's conclusion and scenes from our nude dance party on the lawn.

The videographer even included a scene of the octogenarian schoolmarm doing her nude jitterbug.

The video done, I turned off the computer. I was so angry my face felt like it was on fire as I called the wedding planner back.

I rarely curse, as my mother had a real problem with young ladies using bad language and washed my mouth out with soap when I was a child for saying even mild profanities. But I must admit that I swore like a sailor as I cursed out the wedding planner for using such an untrustworthy videographer. If dear old Mom heard me talking, she would have used the whole bar as punishment.

After I calmed down, the wedding planner told me what happened. The videographer normally charges several thousand dollars for such a project, she said. As he worked for us for free, apparently he felt entitled to make an X-rated version of the event for his own personal use along with a tamer video to post on You Tube.

Unfortunately, the videographer posted the dirty version on You Tube by accident. He realized his mistake almost immediately and deleted it, but in the 30 seconds it was available someone else reposted it. The video went viral in a matter of minutes and was certain be one of You Tube's most-watched videos ever.

But the good news is that with so many people watching it, the "Ice Undies Challenge" was sure to raise a lot of money for ALS research, the wedding planner said. And at least the videographer had the decency to blur our faces.

The wedding planner pleaded with me to telephone the other wives and explain the situation so she wouldn't get yelled at, but I told her she'd have to call the gals and take her lumps like a good submissive woman should.

I hung up the phone and walked into the kitchen. I opened the refrigerator, took out a bottle of wine left over from yesterday's party and poured myself a glass.

I spent the rest of the afternoon sipping wine and munching sugar cookies that I normally only eat on special occasions. I didn't even bother with my afternoon chores. I knew I was going to get spanked hard when Hubby got home whether I cleaned house or not, so I figured I might as well give myself the day off.

I turned on the TV and flipped from station to station. News of our video being a You Tube sensation was played on several stations, including CNN, MSNBC and FOX News.

Thank goodness none of the reporters were able to identify us. I congratulated myself for having the good sense to only socialize with our town's couples who practice the 1950s lifestyle. The submissive halves of those couples were in the video and none of the them were going to call the news stations to confess that we did it.

As it got close to time for my husband to return from work, I put the wine and sugar cookies away. I'd drunk three glasses and had a bit of a buzz.

I walked to the closet where we store spanking implements. I knew my husband would have no  choice but to discipline me with the heavy wooden paddle that he uses when I've been exceptionally naughty.

The face of the board is 12-inches long and attached to a six-inch grip with holes drilled into the face to make it sting more. Hubby nicknamed it "Mister Blister Bottom Crisper."

I heard the "toot toot" of my husband's car entering the driveway. I prostrated myself by the front door with my face on the floor and "Mister Blister" resting on my back.

My husband opened the door. "What are you doing on the floor," he asked.

"Oh honey, I've been really, really bad," I cried from my spot on the floor. "I've disgraced myself."

"There, there, it can't be as bad as at all that," my husband said. "Now stand up and tell me about it."

I stood up with tears streaming down my face. I cried the whole time as I confessed my misdeed.

My husband is not the sort of man to be moved by a woman's crocodile tears. That's one of the many reasons why I love and respect him so much. So I was surprised that, once I finished my confession, he didn't march me right away into the soundproofed closet we use as "punishment room" for a session with "Mister Blister."

My husband pulled his handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit jacket and wiped my tear streaks away. Then he pulled me close to him.

"You didn't do anything wrong," Hubby consoled. "This was for a good cause and it's not your fault the videographer took advantage of you. Fortunately he has a line-of-credit for his business at my bank which I'm going to freeze as punishment."

He continued: "You gals' faces were blurred so most likely no one will ever recognize you. And I must agree with the wedding planner: the steamy version is getting so many You Tube hits that it will certainly raise far more money for ALS research than the tame version."

My husband told me to put Mister Blister away and meet him in the computer room. By the time I returned the implement and walked to the computer room, Hubby had called up You Tube and was chuckling at the video.

"You did right by fessing up," Hubby said with a grin. "You would never have gotten away with not telling me. I'd recognize that hair patch anywhere"

I knelt next to my husband with my head in his lap. As the video played, I felt his "Big Unit" rising to attention. I unzipped his fly and leaned in.

So I did get a mouthsoaping for my misdeed but with a different kind of "soap." And it certainly didn't feel like a punishment.

Good woman:

Though I'm normally not a proponent of "the end justifying the means," in your case I make an exception. I congratulate you and your fellow submissive wives on the success of the "Ice Undies Challenge."

And to you dear readers, may I remind you that this story is fiction and the "Ice Undies Challenge" is not safe to do, no matter how worthy the goal. Real-life frost bite is no laughing matter.

But just to prove that, unlike the videographer in this story, I'm not just full of hot air, I promise to donate all royalties from the next thirty days from sales of my anthologies "The Best of 1950s Wife" and 'The Best of 1950s Wife Vol. 2," plus a $50 matching contribution, to charity in support of research into treatment of ALS disease.

Copies of the books may be purchased by clicking on the following links: The Best of 1950s Wife and

 The Best of 1950s Wife Vol. 2

Don't delay. Get your copies today. Lots of laughs will come your way, plus you'll be doing a good deed too.