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