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.

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.

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.

Presenting "The Best of 1950s Wife Vol. 2"

Gals can't stop gabbing about 1950s Wife and her hot tales of naughty wives getting red tails from stern spanking spouses. Her first short-story anthology, "The Best of 1950s Wife" cracked the coveted Top 100 sellers list in the Amazon category Humor & Entertainment>Love, Sex & Marriage.

And whether you're a gal or a guy, her latest release "The Best of 1950s Wife Vol. 2" has something for everybody!

Baseball fans may savor the flavor of corporal-punishment-style comeuppance given to a snotty socialite in "Naughty Northshore Madam Taken Out to Ball Game. Then Taken to Woodshed." Nordic sports enthusiasts can cheer competitors in the "Spanked Wife Winter Games." Legal scholars may pleasurably peruse the plain text of traditional values promoted in "Supreme Court Affirms 1950s Lifestyle: Back to the Kitchen Bitches!" Fashion mavens may cheerfully "cluck cluck" at the "Naughty Wife Caught in Pajamas During Day. Spanked that Night."

All this plus more, including a special guest star appearance by The Rev. Hornee Hanly, totally awesome dude, delivering his learned opinion on the fascinating subject of "Christian Domestic Discipline."

Don't delay. Get your copy today from Amazon.com for the reasonable price of $2.99 by clicking the following link: The Best of 1950s Wife

US Supreme Court Affirms 1950s Lifestyle: Back to the Kitchen Bitches!

This story is now included in my latest anthology "The Best of 1950s Wife Vol. 2," which may be purchased for ready read on your Kindle from Amazon.com for the reasonable price of $2.99 by clicking this link: The Best of 1950s Wife Vol. 2

"Miss ENFP" Meet "Mr. ISTJ," the Perfect Psychologically-Matched D/s Couple

Dear 1950s Wife:

Have you heard of the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator test? My gal pals, submissive and non-, say it’s essential that a couple contemplating marriage take it to ensure they’re appropriately matched.

Boy oh boy, I sure hope they’re right because I recently kicked my fiance to the curb based on his shocking result on the exam.

You can find the quiz online and we took it together the other night. I went first and wasn’t at all my surprised to learn that I’m an “ENFP” with strong psychological preferences for extroversion vs. introversion, intuition vs. sensation, feeling vs. thinking and perceiving vs. judging.

As a vivacious “girly girl,” naturally I love chatting and texting with my gal pals on my smart phone and flirting with handsome men at social gatherings.

If it wasn’t for the fact that Daddy checks my cell phone usage, even though I’m 26 years old and pay the bill myself, and spanks me soundly for exceeding my allotted minutes, I’d probably be on the phone 16 hours a day.

And since we became a couple, my ex-fiance kept my innate desire to be “belle of the ball” in check by turning me over his knee when I engaged in excessive conversation with other men at dinner parties.

As a woman, naturally I use my intuition and feelings to make decisions, knowing that I can always rely on Daddy or a boyfriend to correct me if I stray. As my Mama says, “God made men stronger thinkers compared to women for a reason, the same reason He blessed women with soft bottoms and men with firm hands.”

As far as perceiving vs. judging is concerned, as a selfless individual, I refrain from judging others except when it comes to bad haircuts or fashion faux pas. And I advocate looking beyond the plain meaning of a rule to achieve a just result tempered by mercy, especially when I’m trying to talk Daddy or a boyfriend out of spanking me.

Prior to taking the test, my friends told me that it didn’t matter that much if my fiance was shown to be an extrovert or an introvert.

But, as I’m a submissive woman looking to make a lifetime commitment to a dominant man, it’s essential that he show strong preferences for the manly characteristics of sensation, thinking and judging vs. the feminine psychological qualities of intuition, feeling and perceiving.

My fiance's scores were acceptably strong in sensation and judging. (And, FWIW, he showed a slight preference for extroversion.)

But imagine my horror when the test showed him having only a moderate preference for thinking over feeling!

With a lifetime of marital satisfaction at stake, I certainly couldn’t risk getting hitched to a “softy.” With such affinity for “feeling,” he might embarrass me by tearing up at sad scenes in movies or similar unmanly emotional displays.

And if he’s that in touch with his feminine side, for all I know I might surprise him coming home early from a “girls night out” to find him staring at the bathroom mirror dressed in a set of my pink panties, bra and camisole.

I must say that he certainly didn’t “take it like a man” when I took off my engagement ring and told him to hit the road. The way he carried on as I ushered him out the door bawling and blubbering that I had broken his heart. What a crybaby!

My parents were a bit upset when I broke the news, particularly as the wedding was only two days away and they’d already paid for the arrangements. But once I explained to them the importance of the test in predicting psychological compatibility, they understood.

To recover money spent paying for the wedding, Daddy fired the maid and I must work it off spending my weekends for the next six months cleaning my parents’ house. And Daddy says I’m getting spanked at the end of each weekend as punishment for not taking the psychological test before I accepted my ex-fiance's proposal.

If I knew six month’s worth of spankings were in store, I’m not sure I would have made the same decision. What do you think?

Good woman:

First let me say that your comment about possibly catching your fiance wearing your underwear as one of reasons for breaking your engagement is completely unfounded.

Cross-dressing is a perfectly acceptable hobby for the dominant man, as it’s attitude that counts, not choice of underclothes. If adorning himself in pink frillies in the privacy of his home gives a man pleasure, it’s the duty of the wife to support her husband in his choice.

That being said, of course you made the right decision in calling off the wedding. I’d not heard of this test before, but if men of science declare the proper match for an “ENFP submissive woman” is an “E or I + strong preference STJ dominant man,” then it’s folly to do otherwise.

(For you gals who don’t understand the part of the previous sentence that reads like an algebraic equation, get your husbands or boyfriends to translate.)

Besides, my quick internet research on the topic shows that the legendary psychologist Carl Jung had a hand in designing the test and everyone knows he was into spanking.

And for more info about this sort of personality test, here’s the Wikipedia link: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Myers-Briggs_Type_Indicator

Naughty North Shore Madam Taken Out to the Ballgame. Then Taken to Woodshed.

This story is now included in my latest anthology "The Best of 1950s Wife Vol. 2," which may be purchased for ready read on your Kindle from Amazon.com for the reasonable price of $2.99 by clicking this link: The Best of 1950s Wife Vol. 2

 

"Christian Chicks" Take Note: It's Cool to Submit

This story is now included in my latest anthology "The Best of 1950s Wife Vol. 2," which may be purchased for ready read on your Kindle from Amazon.com for the reasonable price of $2.99 by clicking this link: The Best of 1950s Wife

 

Required Reading for Wife Sentenced to Spend Labor Day in Naughty Chair: "Underwear Probation" by Spanking Erotica Writer Celeste Jones

A Gentleman Writes:

As all married men should, I rightly rule the roost at home and put my wife over my knee to soundly spank her bottom whenever she breaks any of my many household rules or otherwise fails to please me.

But sometimes spanking alone isn't enough.

My wife, a former child tennis prodigy used to getting her own way growing up with her soft-hearted parents and coach, can be particularly headstrong. So I regularly incorporate additional punishment to accompany spankings to make sure she gets the message.

Mouth-soaping, writing sentences, punishment outfits, long hours sitting in the corner in the "naughty chair" are among the supplemental disciplinary measures accompanying bottom blistering to remind my wife to be sweetly submissive at home and limit her aggression to the tennis courts at our country club.

My wife's attempt at dinner the other night was not quite up to par. The meal was properly cooked but I felt the food could have been arranged a bit more artfully on my plate. Consequently, as my wife cleared the table at meal's end, I informed her she would be soundly spanked once she finished washing the dishes.

I retrieved the "naughty girl paddle" from the upstairs bedroom then sat down is my easy chair in the living room. The washing-up done, my wife came and knelt before me. I lectured her at length about her culinary short-comings then put her over my lap, lifted her skirt, lowered her panties and properly paddled her pert posterior.

As her offense was not especially egregious, I decided that 24 hours in "punishment panties" was sufficient additional punishment.

The panties have rough sandpaper sewn into the backseat that rubs against sensitive skin of a spanked bottom. Stitched into the outer-face of the bloomers' backside is an excellent likeness of my wife's face with a tear rolling down her cheek and cursive lettering that says "Hubby Spanked My Bottom For Being Bad."

My wife went upstairs to put on her punishment panties and a nightgown then came back to the living room. I enjoyed an after-dinner cognac and cigar while my wife sipped a sherry.

Then it was off to bed. I limited our love-making to three hours rather than the usual four as we had a big day ahead of us: my wife was playing for the championship of our country club's annual ladies’ doubles tennis tournament.

We arrived at the club plenty early to allow time for my wife to warm up and for me to talk strategy with her partner.

This woman is not a very good tennis player; in fact, she's quite awful. I asked her to play with my wife because she agreed to my plan. All she's expected to do is put her serves in play and try to return the opponents’. The rest of the time she stands to the side and lets my wife take over.

My strategy worked like a charm in previous matches and was going well in the final round. We were winning two games to love when it came time for this woman to serve.

Then disaster struck. The woman threw the ball high in the air, then totally mishit the serve and pinged my wife right in the ass.

My wife lay sprawling before the net. I ran to her aid and carried her off the court. I sat down on the tennis bench and put her over my knee to check for injury. And when I lifted her skirt, was shocked to see regular sports knickers instead of punishment panties!

Were it not for the purplish bruise from the ball striking her behind, and the fact that I spotted in the audience some of the more "politically correct" members of our country club who aren't particularly accepting of the "1950s-lifestyle," I would have spanked my wife right then and there.

Instead I waited until we got home from the match -- my wife carried on despite her injury but not able to dominate play as before and we lost 6-4, 6-4 -- to pronounce punishment.

I was not sympathetic to my wife's excuse that she worried other women in our club’s ladies locker room might tease her if they saw her wearing punishment panties. As she was too sore to spank and may be for some time, I sent her to bed with no supper as soon as she fixed mine.

As added punishment, once she's served me breakfast, prepared my lunch and dinner and put it in the fridge for me to eat later, and whipped up a batch of fried beef jerky for me and my buddies to enjoy in our Labor Day poker game, my wife will sit in the naughty chair with her nose facing the corner for the remainder of the day. (If she asks nicely, she’ll be allowed 15 minutes out for lunch and another quarter-hour for dinner, plus bathroom breaks.)

While this punishment may sound strict, I'm concerned that my wife's tennis injury lets her avoid a spanking. Can you think of a task for my wife to undertake while sitting in the naughty chair to ensure she learns her lesson?

Kind Sir:

Yes I can. Your wife should be required to read "Underwear Probation" by the spanking erotica writer Celeste Jones. Perusing this torrid tale of disciplinary measures taken towards another silly wife who violated her husband's commands concerning underwear will remind your wife not to remove punishment panties in future.

"Underwear Probation" is available in e-book format and reasonably priced at $2.99. Copies may be purchased by visiting her website www.writercelestejones.blogspot.com.

Ms. Jones' other excellent spanking erotica novellas, “Twenty-One Days to a Better Attitude” and “Legal Briefs: Over the Knee Justice,” as well as her fine collection of spanking erotica short stories, “The Long Arm of the Law,” are also available in e-book format and may be purchased by visiting her website.

Ms. Jones includes several free samples of her writing on her website to whet your appetite.

I’m sure you spent many hours coaching your wife for the ladies’ doubles tennis tournament at your county club and are justifiably disappointed she didn’t bring home a first-place trophy to display in your “man cave” as proof of your accomplishment. Better luck next year.

Spanking and Soap Paste for a Wife Who Won't "Swallow"

This story is one of ten that is now part of my anthology, "The Best of 1950s Wife," which may be purchased for ready read on your Kindle via Amazon.com for the reasonable price of $2.99 by clicking this link: "The Best of 1950s Wife"

Sloppy Cleaning Earns Wife a Sound Spanking and a Week of Nude Housekeeping

Dear 1950s Wife:

My husband performs a "white-glove inspection" of our house when he returns from work each evening.

Normally I keep the home spic-and-span. But I'm so engrossed with my favorite soap opera’s latest plot twist that I sat down to watch this afternoon with the sound turned on. (I usually rely on our TV's "closed captioning" feature so I can vacuum the den while watching my program.)

I'm afraid the 30 minutes I sacrificed to television viewing forced me to hurry through my chores. Everything was ship-shape in our 4,000-square-foot three-story home except that my husband found a tiny speck of dust on the window sill in the attic.

Naturally, he turned me over his knee, bared my behind, and spanked my bottom cherry red. As a proper submissive wife, I accept my husband's right to spank me soundly for such an offense. But he says I have additional punishment in store.

I'm not allowed to watch my soap opera for a week. And for the next seven days, I must do my cooking and cleaning in the nude.

It's bad enough to be denied my program. But it will be really embarrassing if the milkman sees me through the screen door when he makes his deliveries each morning.

Don't you think my husband is taking my punishment too far?

Good woman:

Goodness, gracious me, certainly not! You should thank your lucky stars that your husband showed mercy on you and didn't make your punishment worse.

Your wifely duty is to properly clean the house so your husband, upon his arrival home from his busy day at the office, can partake of his evening relaxation in elegant surroundings. How can Hubby enjoy his cocktail, dinner and TV time watching the boxing matches if you've left the house in a shambles??!!

A speck of dust on the window sill of the attic: What a disgrace!

If I ever left our house in such a state, my husband would spank my bottom hard so hard that I couldn't sit down the rest of the night. And, during my week of nude-housekeeping, I'd wear six fresh cane stripes administered each morning.

Moreover being restricted from watching your soap opera for a week is hardly undue punishment. I'm forbidden to watch any TV during the day while my husband is at work. (Though I can't help but sneak peeks at "I Love Lucy" re-runs now and again. Shush, don't tell.)

So I certainly don't consider your punishment excessive.

One caveat: your husband should call the dairy and inform the milkman of your punishment. Hubby should request the milkman, when making his deliveries, be careful not look through the screen door and inadvertently catch a glimpse of you naked as you clean house.

I've never, ever heard of a milkman taking undue liberties with a housewife while husband is away at work. So you may rest assured that your milkman won't be sneaking a peek at you in your birthday suit.