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."
