Mrs RA in Her own words
I never had ambitions to be in charge; indeed the first decade of my marriage was in the other direction, Christopher, with the approval of my mother, being a strict Head of Household. By the time of the first Covid lockdown, however, he had been redundant awhile, and was drifting, and I was being physically and emotionally drained in the front line of the Health Service. Chris had always helped with the housework (though not as much as he thought) and was a great cook (when he fancied it) but what we needed now was a good housewife and that had to be unemployed Chris and not breadwinner me. I feared the meaningful conversation but I was delighted to find him responding to my spider chart, taken straight from a management course, which spelt out the target requirements for the shopping, the cooking, the cleaning, the washing, the management and the tidying up, and how we needed him to step up to the plate.
Sadly, and despite the removal of his distractions; entire days spent in the pub with middle-aged topers, days on the golf course, he had not understood the hard work involved to meet the standards he used to enjoy nor the groundhog day nature of housewifery and, as many before me have discovered, I had to get firm to get him away from lazing about watching television much of the day. I had to institute job lists, rules and, before too long, consequences for failure. I am not a spanker and imposing the discipline that I had once accepted did not come naturally, but it was all I had when reason and negotiation failed, and a language we both understood. He whinged that it was humiliating and difficult for a man in his forties to write lines or go to bed early or go over my knee with his jim-jams round his ankles but it was in private and it was no more humiliating than it had been for me as a thirty year old woman, and he seemed, albeit reluctantly, to understand that in a way he had asked for this solution with his own lack of self-discipline.
We had some difficulty when the prospect of an end to Lockdown approached, because he imagined he was going to go back to his lazy friends and his lazy thinking, but by now I could afford to spend a little more time on running the home, and I drew out spider diagrams for more meaningful and long term change. One was selfishly aimed at little things which irritated me; the toilet seat and the state of the bathroom, the constant waste of electricity leaving lights on, the waste of running water, the putting-away of clothes, the constant answering back, dirt from his shoes on the carpet. The other chart was drawn up with his own long-term interests in mind; the man I had loved was going down the tubes, whether he understood it or not; his drinking, the watching of too much dull and mindless television, his lack of exercise, his unhealthy diet, his inability to find work, his lack of financial husbandry. Thus he handed over control of the finances, a burden he was glad to shed until, too late, he realised it meant that from now on he would be living on pocket-money which would be dependent upon his behaviour, and accounting for every penny of it. Thus we set out on a journey, a journey made easier by the second lockdown, which effectively grounded him.
I had never wanted to be Head of Household; my management style at work has always been one of teamwork, set within a hierarchy. My purpose is simply to make order out of chaos and to have a clean, stable, well-run house in which to live, and since Chrissie feels his career is done, to concentrate on mine; my work gives me great satisfaction. In order to achieve this, however, I find myself enjoying, and being rather good at, authoritarianism and autocracy. I consistently take the view that I want to spend as little time as possible running the house; I impose the necessary discipline as efficiently as possible.
I have been lucky in that one of the data clerks at work, a jolly, and jolly imposing, woman in her fifties, advised me years ago to spank my husband and when I said I could not, told me to send him round to her. It took some courage for me to ask her if she was serious about something she had said three years before in a social setting with a couple of glasses wine inside her, but she was thrilled with the prospect! The net result is that if ever he goes over my knee, Chrissie knows now he is going to be sent with a note to his Auntie Victoria and boy, does she enjoy spanking, and does she do it thoroughly. And if he has been brave and done his corner time and accepted his suppository he can stay at hers for a while and play with the train set her little boy husband has and be given Marmite sandwiches for tea. Everybody is a winner! When I considered the need for more formal, school-type corporal punishment I found a “schoolmaster” on the internet. The fees get partly docked from Chrissie’s pocket money and the only snag with this one is that in order for the schoolmaster to cover himself legally, I have to take Chrissie in person, so that we can both sign consent forms. This is enjoyable for me, but can be time-consuming.
I am not sometimes sure whether corporal punishment is a punishment or a reward for Chrissie, so I use it in both ways. This is confusing for a little boy/girl but all I mind is that it works. Similarly, I have a pragmatic cleaning arrangement. I employ a cleaner two days a week, but her role is not to do the cleaning but to enjoy a cup of tea or a glass of my wine while she supervises Chrissie doing it, in detail and to the highest standards. The only onerous task she has is to provide me a written report on the results and on his attitude. She loves working for me, the jobs get done properly, I get to concentrate on the things I want to do and Chrissie gets bossed around by a woman. Another win-win!
Goodness knows why, but I worked out between the two lockdowns that Chris responded well, behaved better, when we had him in women’s clothes. It started with aprons, but I found out that he was wasting time and energy playing with his winkle quite a lot. I am not a prude about this, so long as I don’t actually see him do it; nor do I mind the staining, sine he does the laundry and washes our clothes separately but it began to detract from his duties. I tried getting Chrissie a high-waisted, long-legged pantie girdle and it works a treat on several levels. Getting to reach his winkle for wasteful and debilitating self-abuse is almost impossible without almost completely undressing. Moreover, because he feels that housework is “women’s work” he seems to be less resentful doing it when he is “made” to behave like a woman and the pantie girdle makes standing to urinate in public completely impossible without almost completely undressing. His objections, I knew, were half-hearted because like a lot of men – and goodness knows why – he likes the feel of women’s clothes. He used to try on mine when I was not around, he still has not cottoned on that I knew all along! But his behaviour improves no end when he is wearing these things, so they are here to stay but I don’t want to waste my time playing dress-up games so he wears dull, ordinary clothes that we buy from the charity shop. If he wants frillies or sexy stuff he can save up his pocket money or ask for them at Christmas and he can wear them in his own room or when I’m not around.
But now I am discovering that I enjoy the power, especially the vibes surrounding the tension that comes from awarding punishment. It is not retribution, or bullying (though to the outsider it might seem a bit like both). The corner times, the lines, the myriad little (and not so little) humiliations, the effect they have on him really turns me on and I am becoming inventive and bolder, so that little by little we are going public. Here lies a quandary. Do I like the person I am becoming? I console myself that Chrissie seems to like her very much.
Sadly, and despite the removal of his distractions; entire days spent in the pub with middle-aged topers, days on the golf course, he had not understood the hard work involved to meet the standards he used to enjoy nor the groundhog day nature of housewifery and, as many before me have discovered, I had to get firm to get him away from lazing about watching television much of the day. I had to institute job lists, rules and, before too long, consequences for failure. I am not a spanker and imposing the discipline that I had once accepted did not come naturally, but it was all I had when reason and negotiation failed, and a language we both understood. He whinged that it was humiliating and difficult for a man in his forties to write lines or go to bed early or go over my knee with his jim-jams round his ankles but it was in private and it was no more humiliating than it had been for me as a thirty year old woman, and he seemed, albeit reluctantly, to understand that in a way he had asked for this solution with his own lack of self-discipline.
We had some difficulty when the prospect of an end to Lockdown approached, because he imagined he was going to go back to his lazy friends and his lazy thinking, but by now I could afford to spend a little more time on running the home, and I drew out spider diagrams for more meaningful and long term change. One was selfishly aimed at little things which irritated me; the toilet seat and the state of the bathroom, the constant waste of electricity leaving lights on, the waste of running water, the putting-away of clothes, the constant answering back, dirt from his shoes on the carpet. The other chart was drawn up with his own long-term interests in mind; the man I had loved was going down the tubes, whether he understood it or not; his drinking, the watching of too much dull and mindless television, his lack of exercise, his unhealthy diet, his inability to find work, his lack of financial husbandry. Thus he handed over control of the finances, a burden he was glad to shed until, too late, he realised it meant that from now on he would be living on pocket-money which would be dependent upon his behaviour, and accounting for every penny of it. Thus we set out on a journey, a journey made easier by the second lockdown, which effectively grounded him.
I had never wanted to be Head of Household; my management style at work has always been one of teamwork, set within a hierarchy. My purpose is simply to make order out of chaos and to have a clean, stable, well-run house in which to live, and since Chrissie feels his career is done, to concentrate on mine; my work gives me great satisfaction. In order to achieve this, however, I find myself enjoying, and being rather good at, authoritarianism and autocracy. I consistently take the view that I want to spend as little time as possible running the house; I impose the necessary discipline as efficiently as possible.
I have been lucky in that one of the data clerks at work, a jolly, and jolly imposing, woman in her fifties, advised me years ago to spank my husband and when I said I could not, told me to send him round to her. It took some courage for me to ask her if she was serious about something she had said three years before in a social setting with a couple of glasses wine inside her, but she was thrilled with the prospect! The net result is that if ever he goes over my knee, Chrissie knows now he is going to be sent with a note to his Auntie Victoria and boy, does she enjoy spanking, and does she do it thoroughly. And if he has been brave and done his corner time and accepted his suppository he can stay at hers for a while and play with the train set her little boy husband has and be given Marmite sandwiches for tea. Everybody is a winner! When I considered the need for more formal, school-type corporal punishment I found a “schoolmaster” on the internet. The fees get partly docked from Chrissie’s pocket money and the only snag with this one is that in order for the schoolmaster to cover himself legally, I have to take Chrissie in person, so that we can both sign consent forms. This is enjoyable for me, but can be time-consuming.
I am not sometimes sure whether corporal punishment is a punishment or a reward for Chrissie, so I use it in both ways. This is confusing for a little boy/girl but all I mind is that it works. Similarly, I have a pragmatic cleaning arrangement. I employ a cleaner two days a week, but her role is not to do the cleaning but to enjoy a cup of tea or a glass of my wine while she supervises Chrissie doing it, in detail and to the highest standards. The only onerous task she has is to provide me a written report on the results and on his attitude. She loves working for me, the jobs get done properly, I get to concentrate on the things I want to do and Chrissie gets bossed around by a woman. Another win-win!
Goodness knows why, but I worked out between the two lockdowns that Chris responded well, behaved better, when we had him in women’s clothes. It started with aprons, but I found out that he was wasting time and energy playing with his winkle quite a lot. I am not a prude about this, so long as I don’t actually see him do it; nor do I mind the staining, sine he does the laundry and washes our clothes separately but it began to detract from his duties. I tried getting Chrissie a high-waisted, long-legged pantie girdle and it works a treat on several levels. Getting to reach his winkle for wasteful and debilitating self-abuse is almost impossible without almost completely undressing. Moreover, because he feels that housework is “women’s work” he seems to be less resentful doing it when he is “made” to behave like a woman and the pantie girdle makes standing to urinate in public completely impossible without almost completely undressing. His objections, I knew, were half-hearted because like a lot of men – and goodness knows why – he likes the feel of women’s clothes. He used to try on mine when I was not around, he still has not cottoned on that I knew all along! But his behaviour improves no end when he is wearing these things, so they are here to stay but I don’t want to waste my time playing dress-up games so he wears dull, ordinary clothes that we buy from the charity shop. If he wants frillies or sexy stuff he can save up his pocket money or ask for them at Christmas and he can wear them in his own room or when I’m not around.
But now I am discovering that I enjoy the power, especially the vibes surrounding the tension that comes from awarding punishment. It is not retribution, or bullying (though to the outsider it might seem a bit like both). The corner times, the lines, the myriad little (and not so little) humiliations, the effect they have on him really turns me on and I am becoming inventive and bolder, so that little by little we are going public. Here lies a quandary. Do I like the person I am becoming? I console myself that Chrissie seems to like her very much.