Too Many Upsets in "March Madness" Results in Wife's Well-Spanked Ass

A Gentleman Writes:

As a life-long resident of a Major Metropolis with requisite NFL, NBA, NHL and MLB teams, I consider enthusiasm for college sports an infliction shared by unsophisticates living in in Alabama, Kansas and other dullard states forming the "Pumpkin Patch." (Or as those of us important enough to fly first-class on business travel sometimes say "Flyover Country.")

As hiring partner for the firm, I do inquire as to an applicant's interest in sports, as effete fellows who spend weekends hunting butterflies and practicing the violin rather than cheering the home town's professional football, basketball, baseball and hockey teams won't fit in with the jocular nature of firm culture.

But I take a hard look at interviewees who express undue interest in college sports. Our firm consists of professionals at making money. Why take a chance on applicants who care about sporting efforts of amateurs?

So I was surprised when word got round that some of the younger fellows at the firm formed a betting pool based on results of the so-called March Madness college basketball tournament. I considered firing them all for wasting time on such nonsense. But, after discussing the matter with a younger partner with more insight as to the ways of the "Milennial Generation," I changed my mind.

The fellows playing the pool don't actually care about the teams, only about the games' results, the younger partner explained. Similar to how we at the firm don't care about our clients, only the money we make off them. And while betting on March Madness games used to be the province of employees at saving-and-loans, office supply stores and other rubes, in recent years even those talented enough to work in Big Business have gotten in on the action.

We partners aren't slavedrivers with our associates. In the course of the 16-hour work day, associates are permitted a stray minute here and there to glance at the internet and visit the water cooler or restroom. So long as associates aren't watching or listening to games at work via streaming media, just checking on scores, "March Madness" wagering is an acceptable diversion, I decided.

Moreover, as it's good management practice for a boss to take notice of his employees' outside interests, I decided it would boost office morale if I participated.

Initially I was at a loss as to how to fill out my bracket. Of course, I hadn't watched any of the teams on television. I doubt any of the associates watch much college basketball either, though as long as an associate clocks his 80 hours Monday through Friday, plus 12-hour "half days" on weekend, what he does in his spare time is his own business.

From their conversation, I gathered the associates based their picks on high-powered analysis of team statistics. All well and good, I decided. The firm is in the number-crunching business, after all, so this March Madness activity is practically a training exercise. I contemplated billing the matter to a deep-pocketed client but realized that would be a bit of a stretch.

However, I haven't used a spread sheet since I made partner a decade ago, so preparing my own analysis wasn't an option. Finally, I decided to go with the experts and base my picks entirely on the brackets' official seeding.

Playing it safe has always done well by me, as attending the right sort of preparatory school and college, choosing the right sort of major, entering the right sort of profession and choosing the right sort of first wife and her trophy successor made me the success I am today.

For a high-powered, Type A, successful businessman such as myself, there's only one way to watch televised sports: sitting on my luxurious leather-upholstered couch before my movie-projector style TV with 120-inch screen, my shapely trophy wife spread across my lap so I can vigorously spank her bottom throughout the game to express joy for good play by my favored team and disappointment for bad.

While I require my wife to be completely naked during games, I decided it would be fun to decorate her a bit. So for each game she must wear nipple clamps weighted with a locket resembling my favored team's mascot, plus a ball gag in team colors. (It's amazing what you can buy on the internet these days!)

While interviewing for a trophy wife, demonstrating an affinity for taking a sound spanking and the requisite round rump ranked high in the job's criteria. My trophy wife certainly meets the requirement and is a far improvement over her predecessor. (Wife number one wasn't into spanking and would only accommodate me by stuffing a pillow under her pants, hardly a satisfying option.)

But I hadn't counted on so many upsets. We're only through round one and already several favored teams have been booted from the field. These so-called experts who prepared the official seeding of the tournament brackets obviously aren't Big Firm material.

I've spanked my wife so hard in frustration that she must cool her blistered behind in icy water in the bathroom sink for several hours post-game while I stick my aching hand in next to her. And my wrist hasn't hurt this much since we fellows at prep school realized they were spiking the cafeteria milk with saltpeter and quit drinking it.

At round one's conclusion, I assigned our firm's token female associate, who's not participating in the March Madness betting pool, with a top secret assignment. She crunched the numbers and with so many upsets the odds of my winning the pool are unacceptably low.

You strike me as pretty smart for a woman. Would it be bad form for me to cancel the betting pool and tell the associates to get back to work?

Kind Sir:

While we normally have little in common with the moneyed set, I must admit that my husband and I share your disdain for college athletics.

Hubby was far too busy during his college years selling encyclopedias door-to-door during the day and attending class at night to pay attention to his school's athletic teams. Meanwhile, I went on scholarship to a private women's college, St. Scholastica Heart of Mary Sisters of Mercy School of Education and the Secretarial Arts. (Among my work-study obligations was serving as whipping girl so students training to be teachers could practice with the ruler.)

Though my college, the Novitiates, was at one time a small-school volleyball power, the stubborn refusal of the NCAA to allow us to continue fielding teams clad in the traditional knee-length gymslip caused us to abandon sports.

So while we watch in the humble living room of our 800-square-foot Chicago bungalow on a 12-inch black-and-white TV, professional sports, namely da Barez, Bullz, Hax and Sax, are what's televised in our home. (There is another well-known Chicago team, but they're famous mainly for losing and playing in a nostalgia-ladened park popular with tourists and we don't care about them.)

But, no matter how trivial college sports may be, I certainly would call foul if you cancel your firm's March Madness betting pool. Such action would make you a poor employer, for just as you allow your trophy wife to enliven her day by mixing in trips to the gym and beauty parlor with overseeing the servants cooking and cleaning -- I assume a man of your means employs household help -- your firm's hardworking associates deserve their momentary recreation.

While I don't know if you plan to watch the  tournament's remaining games, I certainly don't feel you're obligated to continue spanking your wife during the contests. As my husband likes to remind me, spanking is for my benefit and his pleasure, and if neither end is being met perhaps you should try an alternate means of entertainment.

Instead of spreading your wife across your lap for spanking, perhaps you can allow her to forego a ball gag so she can kneel before you sucking your Big Unit. During half-time she can entertain you by doing cheers causing her nipple-clamped boobs to bounce up and down.

While my husband normally doesn't make me wear nipple clamps during discipline, the idea of wearing a pair weighted with a locket bearing resemblance of our favorite professional sports teams does sound appealing. Putting that on my list for an anniversary present.

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

Dear 1950s Wife,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was a good girl at first.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Crisis resolved. My husband beamed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good woman:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

World Cup Blows: Literally

A Gentleman Writes:

I normally don't watch soccer on TV as I prefer more rugged sports such as American football, ice hockey and professional wrestling for my spectating entertainment. But, as a proud American, I will cheer for the USA in the World Cup.

When it comes to televised sports, I'm rather lenient with my wife and let her join me on the couch to watch regular season games and non-marquee wrestling match-ups.

But when football and hockey playoffs and high-priced pay-per-view wrestling are aired, my wife sits in the naughty chair facing the living room corner with ear muffs on so she won't distract me with silly questions and observations such as "why do they call it 'football' when players feet hardly ever touch the ball?," "hockey players have sexy butts," and "professional wrestling looks fake."

With the World Cup consisting of so few fixtures -- if the USA doesn't make it out of the group stage we'll only play three games -- I naturally consider televised matches to equate to "naughty chair time" for the little woman.

So I was rather taken aback when my wife complained that she should at least be allowed to watch USA play its three "group-stage" games. Of course I turned over over my knee, lifted her skirt, lowered her panties and spanked her bottom cherry red for challenging my decision.

But, as I've mentioned, being on the permissive end of the husbandly spectrum, I ultimately decided a compromise could be reached.

Instead of sitting in the naughty chair wearing ear muffs, once the TV is switched on, my wife will place herself naked across my lap on the couch. During the pre-match analysis, I'll give her plump behind a resounding spank with my hand every time a commentator says the word "ball."

This will ensure my wife is in proper submissive mindset and my manhood properly charged for her task during the Big Game: blowing my Big Unit.

Once the match begins, my wife will kneel before me, unzip my fly and take my nine-inch shaft deep into her throat, sucking diligently throughout the game. And, every time USA scores a goal, I'll celebrate the occasion with a Fourth-of-July-worthy explosion, blasting my love juice down my gal's throat.

(I'll permit a five-minute break after each goal to allow my wife to gargle with mouth wash and brush her teeth and for my batteries to recharge. I'm also allowing her a break at half time, as long as she maintains complete silence so I can concentrate on the experts' game analysis. The first peep from her and she's sitting in the naughty chair till the second half begins.)

Must sign off. USA's first match of the tournament is about to start. (I'm typing this message on my smart phone with my left thumb while using my right hand to spank my wife. The commentators said "ball" several times during the pre-match analysis and my wife's backside is beet red.)

Hoping for lots of American goals. Let the fun and games begin. USA!! USA!! USA!!

Kind Sir:

What a loving husband you are, allowing your wife to enjoy the audio portion of big soccer game and the pleasure of sucking your Big Unit at the same time. Two treats in one!

My husband no longer makes me sit in the naughty chair while sports are on TV, as I've learned from many spankings over the years not to disturb his concentration with silly questions and observations that untrained wives are apt to make.

But I found your plans for the Big Game so intriguing that I asked Hubby to treat me to the same.

As we're nearing our golden years, we normally require more preparation before indulging in such recreation. My adrenalin is pumping, though, and I've managed to loosen my jaw with the aid of a banana held in my left hand while typing this reply with my right. Now I'm off to the "powder room" to put on a shade of "blow-job red" lipstick and fetch Hubby an ED pill from the medicine cabinet.

Hubby just turned on the TV. I can hear the crowd's chanting. It's almost like being in Brazil.

USA!! USA!! USA!!

No Football Championship for Crimson Tide Earns Alabama Wife a "Crimson Hide"

Dear 1950s Wife,

As an Alabama gal, I'm no stranger to being spanked. Daddy turned me over his knee and tanned my tailfeathers when I was naughty up through my college years and passed the job of maintaining discipline to my husband after I got married.

As a proper Southern wife, I graciously submit to my husband's stewardship of our happy home and let him make decisions regarding finances, weekend activities, sex and the like. I content myself with keeping the house clean, clothes laundered and supper on the table, knowing full well that if I fail in the slightest in my household duties or ever come across as other than cheerfully obedient, Hubby will put me over his lap, lift my skirt, lower my panties and spank my bottom as red as the britches of our University of Alabama Crimsonettes majorettes.

So, after reading on your blog that your husband spanks you OTK during Chicago Blackhawks hockey games to celebrate home team's goals and wins, and swats you with the "naughty girl paddle" to express his frustration with visitor wins, Hubby decided to adopt the practice this season when we watch on TV the only sport that matters to us Southern folk: college football, specifically the University of Alabama Crimson Tide.

Here's our game routine: Just prior to kickoff, I change out of my cooking clothes of stockings, heels, pearls and a smart dress into my cheerleader outfit of a tight-fitting white halter top with a maroon "A" across the chest, maroon short shorts and white go-go boots. I fetch a big platter of pulled-pork barbecue sandwiches and a tub of cole slaw I made for Hubby to snack on, pop the top of his beer and position myself over his lap as he reclines on the couch.

There I stay, his firm hand resting atop my perky posterior ready to beat my bottom like a bongo drum whenever Alabama scores. Except when Hubby shouts "Beer. Wife, Fetch!" Then I roll off his knee and scamper into the kitchen as fast as my shapely legs will take me to bring him a malt beverage.

I'm also allowed to get up during halftime. As Alabama's "Million Dollar Band," accompanied by the Crimsonettes majorettes, perform on TV, I put on my own show for Hubby as I pop my top and jump up and down singing our fight song "Ramma Jamma, Yellowhamma, give 'em hell, Alabama."

After the inevitable Alabama win, I slide off Hubby's lap onto my knees, unzip his fly and give him a celebratory blow job. Hubby typically stays hard throughout the post-game interviews with players and coach, ejaculating into my mouth moaning "Roll Tide" just as the broadcast ends.

I put away Hubby's left-over barbecue in the fridge and toss his empty beer cans into recycling. Then I go upstairs to brush my teeth and change into sexy lingerie. I climb into bed with a romance novel to pass the time, as Hubby usually spends an hour post-game on the computer reading several sports blogs and posting opinions as to whether the margin of victory was sufficiently wide enough to uphold Alabama's honor and, if not, which players should be demoted to second-string and which assistant coaches fired as a result.

Once done, Hubby joins me in the bedroom for our customary Saturday night session of hours-long bed-shaking sex. (Though he could go longer, I ask him to stop at midnight, so I can get a good night's sleep prior to being up at 5:00 am to prepare a hearty breakfast of biscuits, grits, eggs, hamhocks and gravy for Hubby then attend to my beauty preparations for church.)

Naturally, Alabama won its first 11 games this season so I wasn't too worried when I put myself over my husband's lap to watch the regular season finale last Saturday against our arch-rival Auburn. Though Hubby's certainly enthusiastic when he spanks me with his hand to celebrate Alabama's big plays and scores, hand spanks don't hurt that much for a well-spanked wife such as me, particularly when I'm wearing my cheerleader-style booty shorts.

But after Auburn came back to tie the game 28-28 with just a few minutes left I started to get worried. You see, my husband decided it would be such a calamity should Alabama ever lose that he would have no choice but to express his dismay by paddling me with the "Master Blaster Bottom Blisterer."

That's the nickname Hubby gave this super-sized paddle that he only uses to punish me for extreme misbehavior like the time I didn't put enough lard in the collared greens I made when his parents came by supper and his mama said they tasted "stringy."

We bought the "Master Blaster Bottom Blisterer" at an estate sale after the high school principal passed away. It's got a two-handed grip with the spanking part being 16 inches long and four inches wide. "OUCH" is written in big block letters on the face of the paddle and the rest of it is filled with signatures from students who got whipped with it over the years including "Jimmy Joe," "Johnny Joe" and "Janey Jo."

The few times I've been spanked with it sure did leave me feeling sorry for those "Joe" kids because that paddle stings like the dickens. But I relaxed after Alabama moved the ball down the field.

With one second left, the Tide kicker came on the field for what I was sure was the winning field goal. I could tell Hubby was confident too because I felt his boner poking me in the stomach. As soon as the referee put his hands up signaling good, I'd slide off Hubby's lap, unzip his fly and give him the sort of blow job that an undefeated regular season record and entry in the college football national championship game for the third year in a row deserved.

Well I suppose you don't have to be a football fan to know what happened next. Such cries of agony my husband made. I don't think I ever yelled in pain that much even when Daddy whipped my hind parts with a peach tree switch when he caught me sneaking a cigarette as a teenager.

What made it worse is our next-door neighbors are Auburn fans. They went out on their driveway shooting off fireworks and making fun of our "Rammer Jammer" cheer by singing "Ramma Jamma, Alabama, we just beat the hell out of you!"

After my husband finished crying, he went into bathroom to wash his face. When he came out, he said he felt bad about doing it, but he knew I wouldn't respect him as a husband and a man if he didn't live up to his promise to properly paddle my posterior for an Alabama loss. (He's right.) So he led me by the hand out to our sound-proofed woodshed where we store the Master Blaster Bottom Blisterer.

I sure am glad we decided to soundproof the shed because I'd hate those obnoxious Auburn fans next door to hear me holler as Hubby heated my hiney. He gave me 34 swats, one for every Auburn point, as he scolded "Missed field goals. Dropped passes. Sloppy tackling. Missed blocks," etc...

I spent the rest of the night icing my bottom in the kitchen sink. Hubby said he'd make do with cereal in the morning so I could sleep in till 7:00 am. What a kind, thoughtful, caring man I have!

I could have done with a pillow sitting in the church pew for Sunday services, but other than that I wasn't too worse for wear.

We attend a mixed congregation and our pastor was very solicitatious of each side's feelings. He reminded we Alabama fans that in times of crisis we must turn to The Lord for comfort while encouraging both sides to love our neighbor as we would ourselves. To that end, Pastor preached, we would best further the cause of social justice by sending e-mails to sports editors of major newspapers arguing the fairest result would be to place one-loss Auburn, should it beat Missouri in the SEC championship game, and one-loss Alabama in a "do-over" for the national championship game come January, despite other teams finishing with undefeated regular-season records.

My husband doesn't allow me to use the computer except to read your blog, as he wisely realizes I'd waste time "Facebooking," "Twittering" and "You Tube-ing" when I should be cleaning house, cooking his meals and washing his clothes. So I wasn't able to send out e-mails to sports writers urging a "do-over" and I quickly put Saturday's disappointing loss and college football from my mind.

So imagine my surprise when my husband came home the other day with an Auburn football jersey on. He said one of the guys at work gave it to him as a joke, but, after pondering Pastor's sermon, he decided it was incumbent to show loyalty to his state and root for Auburn against Missouri.

My husband reminded me it's my wifely duty to support him by donning a slutty cheerleader outfit in Auburn colors and going over his lap for the big game against Missouri. I'm to be soundly spanked with Hubby's hand for every Auburn point. And, should the unthinkable happen and our beloved Auburn Tigers, aka War Eagles, aka Plainsmen, lose the game, I can expect a repeat session with Master Blaster Bottom Blisterer.

As a proper submissive wife, I know it's my duty to obey my husband without question. Still, I can't help but wrinkle up my nose as the thought of being spanked for Auburn's sake. Should I try to talk my husband out of it.

Good woman,

As a confirmed northerner, I can't help but be bemused by you southerners and your folksy ways, including your infatuation with something as silly as college football.

Still I must encourage you to graciously submit to your husband's will. For it is not up to us wives to question the decisions of our "superior officers." God intended man to rule over woman. That's why He gave us soft behinds and men strong arms and firm hands.

Besides you may luck out and Auburn win the game, thus sparing you a date with Master Blaster Bottom Blisterer.

Naughty Wife Spanked for Being "Puck Slut." A "Love Spanks" Blog Hop Event

This story is now one of ten included in my anthology "The Best of 1950s Wife," 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"

Naughty Wife Spanked For Reading "Vanilla Porn"

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"