Wednesday, August 9, 2017

Naughty Wife's Moon Shines During Solar Eclipse. Husband Puts A Stripe On It

Dear 1950s Wife,

As you might imagine from its name, not much happens in our little town of Baum Fawke, Illinois. Situated in the heart of Illinois' southern third, a region known colloquially as "Little Egypt,"* our community is in fact so boring that the phrase "Stuck in Baum Fawke Egypt," as signifier for being trapped in dull parts of America originated with us!

I'd always been a city gal at heart so imagine my dismay when my much-older husband Oliver told me a few years back he was retiring from his lucrative career as corporate lawyer for one of New York's biggest firms and moving us from our $20 million cooperative apartment on Park Avenue to the family farm he grew up on just outside Baum Fawke.

Though I reminded Oliver I'm allergic to smelling hay then pleaded I just adore our penthouse view when he refused to change his mind, I certainly whistled a different tune after Oliver turned me over the lap of his ten-thousand-dollar business suit, lifted the skirt of my hundred-thousand-dollar haute couture dress, pulled down my million-dollar panties made of finest Chinese silk and encrusted with diamonds, and spanked my bottom red!

In the past couple of years, I've busied myself with redecorating our dilapidated farm house's interior while Oliver tends to home repair and getting the farm up and running. I've come to appreciate the rustic friendliness of Baum Fawke folk. But I must say that, compared to my former life attending gala champagne-and-caviar charity balls with dinners prepared by Manhattan's finest chefs, being invited to our neighbors for supper of greasy fried chicken with lard pie for desert just doesn't seem as glamorous.

And I must add that I miss the sight of our gay manservant back in the Big Apple who owes his incredible physique to countless hours lifting weights in his off-hours in our penthouse apartment's fully equipped workout room complete with lap pool and running track. Our farm worker is certainly devoted, but his scarecrow-frame doesn't provide the same charge when I look at him, especially when he takes off his shirt during a hot day to reveal his three chest hairs and back full of pimples.

So imagine how pleased I was to hear that our town of Baum Fawke would be the epicenter of an upcoming very rare total eclipse of the sun!

Carbondale, the only town of any real size in downstate Illinois' "Little Egypt" region, intended to hog the spotlight with its celebration even though we in neighboring Baum Fawke would experience one more second of total darkness. Having helped plan numerous big-time Big Apple affairs, the snotty attitude of the supposed-city of Carbondale got my competitive juices flowing.

Under my direction, we'd throw a eclipse celebration that would show those cheeky Carbondalians that we Baum Fawkers can't be bullied. After our affair, instead of saying "Stuck in Baum Fawke" for being bored the new expression would be "Pumped as Baum Fawke" for being excited!

But my plans were foiled by our town's two leading ladies, Mrs. Baum and Mrs. Fawke, who appointed themselves head of the town committee to plan the eclipse party and vetoed all my sensible suggestions citing scripture to supposedly prove their points.

(If you listened to those two, the only acceptable evening wear for a lady is a Christian-and-fatty-friendly dress falling to mid-calf with ten-dollar flat shoes and inexpensive cosmetics bought from the Sears catalog.)

After that, I just assumed Oliver and I would go to Carbondale's afternoon eclipse activities where, as the city is site of a large state university and enrolls thousands of Chicago area students accustomed to eating things other than fried chicken or meatloaf and mash potatoes, I could also look forward to a decent restaurant meal.

But Oliver's vintage Mercedes wasn't running -- he got ripped off buying bad replacement parts from Baum Fawke's junk dealer -- and he vetoed catching a ride on the back of our farmhand's motorcycle. So we took our tractor for the two-mile ride to Mr. Fawke's farm where Baum Fawke's official solar eclipse party was held.

The eclipse took place in early afternoon, so first Oliver and I sat down with two dozen other people for a picnic lunch.

I wasn't very hungry so I just took a few bites. But Mrs. Baum and Mrs. Fawke must have had less than their normal helpings of breakfast pork chops and pancakes, as they each ate ten pieces of fried chicken and split a lard pie between them.

The duo of dumplings were too busy feeding to talk, though I could hardly care less about those two's conversation. But after they'd spooned in their final bites of lard pie and finished arguing as to who got to lick the tray -- Mr. Fawke settled the matter by taking it away -- I couldn't help but overhear their whispered conversation about how my husband must be henpecked to let me go out dressed like a Jezebel.

Such crust! In deference to rustic tastes, I'd worn one of my least showy outfits, a basic black dress I got for bargain-basement price of ten thousand dollars with a perfectly respectable hemline. And I wasn't even wearing my tiara.

Just because Mrs. Baum and Mrs. Fawke go about dressed in circus tents doesn't mean I and other conventionally-sized women of Baum Fawke must do the same. 
If they thought I dressed like a slut, they'd probably never seen a real one. I decided to show them.

About ten seconds after the eclipse began and the black of night came to afternoon, I put my plan in action. In my black dress, no one saw me as I walked several yards in front of the viewing party, particularly as everyone's neck was craned upward staring at afternoon stars.

Back when I thought Baum Fawke would throw a decent eclipse party, I'd bought online a special lipstick for the party in a lovely shade of phosphorus. With Mrs. Baum and Mrs. Fawke insisting on such a boring affair I hadn't even bothered to wear it

Thankfully it was still in my purse. After walking sufficiently far from the viewing party, I slipped my panties down and began. It took the whole tube and if my bottom was as large as Mrs. Baum's and Mrs. Fawke's I'd probably only cover a third of a cheek. But I had just enough to make it work.

Even from twenty yards away, I could hear viewing party spectators excitedly "oohing" and "ahhing" at the night sky and Mr. Baum, an optometrist, repeatedly warning people not to look directly at the eclipsed sun lest they go blind.

Mrs. Baum and Mrs. Fawke talked excitedly in loud voices that the astronomical event was sign of impending Rapture and they would soon be transported to Heaven and they must make a point in the next few minutes to say goodbye to dear friends at the party not sufficiently pious who are going to Hell instead.

But after Mrs. Fawke consoled Mrs. Baum for her impending fate spending eternity without her husband as he was going to Hell for having an affair with his secretary and Mrs. Baum angrily retorted that Mr. Fawke would join him as he is a closeted homosexual who slept with his last three farmhands, the two women started shouting insults at each other. Then Mrs. Fawke shouted scripture in proof that her husband isn't really gay because his bad back prevents him from having sex lying down and that he always fucks her standing up and does the same with his farmhands, while Mrs. Baum shouted a stream of nonsense syllables that I believe certain Evangelical Christian denominations refer to as "speaking in tongues."

But after Mr. Baum and Mr. Fawke angrily shouted at their wives to shut up, they stopped screaming. There were several seconds of awkward silence. I decided my turn had come to liven the party. I turned round and lifted my skirt, but first shouted:

"Yoo Hoo. Mrs. Baum. Mrs. Fawke. Look at the bum my husband fucks!"

I guess I took things a bit too far.

Mrs. Baum and Mrs. Fawke were certainly shocked. But not by my bottom. Instead they mistook my glowing orbs from a distance as Satan's eyes and, thinking they had been sent to Hell in the Rapture, fainted dead away.

Even from 20 yards, Oliver clearly recognized my ass. He commanded me to come quickly and dug into my purse to use my smart phone to call the Baum Fawke Volunteer Fire Department to send an ambulance to transport Mrs. Baum and Mrs. Fawke to the Carbondale hospital.

(I'm the only person in Baum Fawke who owns a smart phone. Oliver never owned one, as he relied on his secretary to get people on the phone at work and me now that he's retired. The other Baum Fawke residents consider the contraptions the Devil's handiwork. They use rotary phones and are connected through a "party line.")

But it turned out the two fellows manning the volunteer fire hall got drunk to celebrate the eclipse and didn't answer the phone. Everyone came to the eclipse party at Mr. Fawke's farm on tractors and, at five-miles-per-hour maximum speed, the two hours it would take to get to the Carbondale hospital put Mrs. Baum and Mrs. Fawke at risk of dying.

So Mr. Fawke hobbled to his barn as fast as his spindly arthritic legs would take him. After he returned in an off-road pickup truck, eight hardy men stepped forward to lift Mrs. Baum and Mrs. Fawke into the bed of the vehicle and off they went.

Oliver was none too pleased with my prank. Even though I got word on my smart phone just moments after my husband and I completed the thirty-minute journey back home on our tractor that Mrs. Baum and Mrs. Fawke were fine and needed no more than mild sedatives to be administered once they reached the hospital, Oliver decided I still needed to be punished.

Normally when I'm naughty Oliver puts me over his knee and spanks me on the bare bottom with his hand. But this time, he decided I needed more intense discipline that takes place in our woodshed.

Oliver marched me into the shed and ordered me to strip. I took off my dress, panties, stockings and heels and hung the clothes on a pegboard. Oliver retrieved the thick leather strap hanging on a nail on the wall.

He sure went to town on my backside, turning my formerly phosphorus-colored bottom a deep shade of red. I screamed and cried as Oliver beat me doing an enthusiastic rendition of "The Whipping Dance." I haven't moved my feet that fast since The Knickerbocker Society back in New York threw a disco-themed charity ball several years ago.

Once he'd throughly whipped me, Oliver ordered me to hang the strap back on the wall then kneel before him, kiss his hand and thank him for punishing me. Then Oliver lifted me up and carried me over his shoulder out of the woodshed and up the farmhouse stairs to our bedroom. He tossed me on the bed, took off his business suit and climbed aboard for three hours of fantastic makeup sex!

I thought that would be the end of it. But Oliver informed me a couple days later that, once the bruises on my backside heal, I will be taken to the Fawke farmhouse for a six-stripe caning with the Baums and Fawkes in presence.

I was surprised. So much good came out of the incident. Oliver gave me such a  pounding in our three-hours of post-whipping lovemaking that we literally broke the bed. I never liked sleeping in it. The bed was old and uncomfortable and used by Oliver's parents and grandparents before them, which made me feel kind of weird having sex in it.

I've ordered a king-sized replacement made out of California redwood with state-of-the-art computerized mattress stuffed with quail feathers and in-bed quadraphonic stereo system with 40-inch-screen pop up HD TV reasonably priced at one million dollars. In meantime, Oliver and I are sleeping in camping bags in a tent set up in the living room, as the roof leaks in that location.

Mrs. Baum and Mrs. Fawke also benefitted. While they were dozing in the emergency room under the influence of mild sedatives, their husband asked the surgeon on call to put the women under the gas and give them gastric bypass operations. The procedures went well and they should be slim-and-trim like me in no time.

But apparently I nearly spoiled Oliver's political ambitions. Baum Fawke's 95-year-old mayor is a holdover from the FDR administration and his free-spending ways with the town's tax coffers doesn't square with Oliver's economic conservatism.

Oliver cut a deal with leaders of the Baum Fawke Christian Coalition, namely the Baums and the Fawkes, that they'll support him for mayor if he lets other members of the Baum Fawke Town Council, namely Mr. Baum and Mr. Fawke, pass a resolution encouraging the counties comprising Illinois "Little Egypt" region to secede from the United States. In return, Oliver will be able to fight government waste by firing the town's sole municipal employee who doesn't do anything except sit eight hours a day in a rocking chair in front of the town hall chewing tobacco and whittling.

I thought Oliver was doing chores on our farm the day after my woodshed strapping when he actually took our tractor to visit Mr. Baum and Mr. Fawke. They agreed to continue supporting Oliver for mayor as long as he did his biblically-mandated duty of  chastising me with a whipping rod for not displaying proper family values in the mooning incident.

Six stripes of the cane is nothing for me. But Oliver also insists that I apologize to Mrs. Baum and Mrs. Fawke after being whipped and I don't look forward to that.

Oliver was so hot for me prior to getting married that he didn't insist on a prenup, so I could do pretty well if we split up. What do you think. Should I file for divorce?

Good woman:

Sounds like you've a good thing going on in Baum Fawke so I'd hold off on divorce proceedings for now. But Oliver certainly owes you a weekend vacation trip to New York!

*The town of Baum Fawke, Illinois is fiction, but the city of Carbondale is real, as is the phrase "Little Egypt" for the southern third of the state. And the city is the epicenter of a very rare total eclipse of the sun passing across the United States on August 21, 2017. I hope people within viewing distance enjoy the event. Or enjoyed if reading after that date.

Wednesday, May 3, 2017

May Day Dance of the Rising Dong

Dear 1950s Wife,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good woman:

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

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

Tuesday, April 25, 2017

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

Dear 1950s Wife:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which he did. And how!

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

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

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

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

Good woman:

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

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

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

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

Monday, February 1, 2016

Bernie Sanders Spanked My Bottom

Dear 1950s Wife,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At last candidate Sanders said he must leave.

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

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

Candidate Sanders paused for a second, then added:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he left.

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

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

Hubby grimaced as he looked up from paper.

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

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

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

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

Good woman:

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

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

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

Wednesday, December 23, 2015

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

Dear 1950s Wife,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Plus I really want enough room in my stocking for the

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good woman:

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

Thursday, November 26, 2015

Spanking and the Single Gal

Dear 1950s Wife,

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

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

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

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

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

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

Whatever am I to do?


Your situation is indeed heartrendering!

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

In the meantime you need to find suitable employment.

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

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

Wealthy Family's Whipping Girl

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

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

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

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

"Breastaurant" Waitress

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

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

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

Secretary for Church or Funeral Parlor

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

Mondays through Thursdays generally don't pose a problem.

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

Churchmen and funeral parlor directors are known for their propriety.

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

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

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

Friday, September 18, 2015

Brace Yourself for "Dental Discipline"

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

A Gentleman Writes:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kind Sir:

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