Tuesday, 15 December 2015

Babykins falls into the clutches of a household full of women eager to welcome the new baby

Mrs Smith tightly tucked in his bedding. The bed was low but her face was only inches away from his. She crooked her index finger and gave his chin a tickle, kissing him lightly on the forehead.
‘Night–night babykins,’ she cooed, his eyes already fluttering, heavy with sleep.
Picking up his fleecy, light blue dressing gown from the Bananas in Pyjamas bedspread, she draped the garment over the wooden, white glossed bed end, arranging it neatly so that the smiling teddy bear she had painstakingly sewn onto the front patch pocket smiled up at her.


Mrs Smith checked the curtains were tightly drawn. From the slightly ajar window she could hear young voices laughing, she peeked out and clicked her tongue. Those children should be in bed she thought, and then decided not to worry. As long as babykins was safely tucked up in bed where he belonged at 6.30 she was content.

He stirred slightly, exposing a half pyjama-clad arm from beneath the neatly arranged bedding. Mrs Smith frowned. She untied his lambs wool mitten, pulled down the pyjama sleeve and re-tied the mitten on top of the pyjama cuff. She replaced his arm under the bedding without disturbing him and gave one final tuck to the thick woollen blankets. Rummaging in her apron pocket she produced a white baby’s dummy, teasing it gently over his lips until his mouth involuntary opened, embracing the comforting rubber teat.
‘That’s a good babykins,’ she murmured, seating herself in her rocking chair as she enjoying the sound of his rhythmic, somnambulistic use of his dummy.
It had been an eventful few hours. Of course she had known after a few minutes conversation that she had a room for him, in fact she had the perfect accommodation for him. It had been quite some time since there had been a suitable candidate for the attic room.

‘Just arrived today have you dear?’ She had enquired.

He had just turned eighteen, he readily explained, and needed somewhere to stay for a few nights before he set off on his great adventure around Europe for three months.
‘Is that wise?’ She had asked. He had become indignant when she suggested he looked far too young for such an escapade. Indeed she had insisted on checking his passport to verify his age. ‘And how tall is 150cm in real money?’ She asked, reading his particulars from the pristine document.
He had blushed, ‘five foot,’ he blustered.
‘Almost,’ she whispered as she ushered him inside. She had introduced him to her permanent guests. The four ladies of matronly age, shall we say, but not yet elderly, smiled and nodded their greeting to the diminutive young man.
‘Would you like some milk dear?’
Mrs Smith had felt four pairs of expectant eyes upon her as she returned with  a tray of cups of tea and one cup of milk. ‘That one is yours dear,’ She handed him a glass full of milk.
Her very special milk took effect after just a few sips.
Mrs Smith caught the cup as it fell from his grasp. She warned him not to try and speak as she helped him to his feet.
‘You can’t talk, but you can hear everything that is going on around you. The muscle relaxant affects the vocal chords too, you see.’ His boxer shorts were already wet by the time she had removed his trousers but fortunately Miss Trencher was in time with the potty and he was lowered onto it with seconds to spare. Completely voided now the ladies set about removing his remaining clothing with haste.
Mrs Kincaid removed the potty and returned carrying the pink plastic bathtub. He was sat in the tub, bewildered and scared as he was cleaned rigorously. 

The women competed around the bathtub to oil his body with a sweet scented fragrance, he tried to cry out  as they paid close attention to his private regions, all wanting a turn at cleaning his, ‘little pee-pee.’
His hair was rinsed and washed with baby shampoo several time from a separate jug of water before he was lifted helplessly out of the bath.
He realised his body was as smooth as a baby’s. What scance pubic and body hair he had previously had floated forlornly in the water.
Mrs Smith wheeled in the changing table, the plastic mattress cover, with its nursery rhyme characters appeared to beckon to him as he was lowered onto it.
A soft, deep pillow supported his head. Its embracing flannelette case reminded him of childhood.
Mrs Smith’s face loomed above him. ‘Now babykins, time to get you all nice and cosy for beddy-byes.’

She expertly and slowly worked the Zinc and Castor oil cream into his depilated groin area. Despite his fear of what was happening to him, he found he could now moan a little with unwanted pleasure and his pee-pee was able to respond to her touch.
‘Now now little babykins, we will soon have that covered up you naughty baby.’

Almost choking from the dust of talcum powder as she dusted his body, he was helpless to resist as two pairs of strong female hands raised his midriff, he gasped as he felt, for the first time in many years, the sensation of fluffy towelling nappies being pinned upon him. Plastic panties were raised over his legs and settled snugly over the bulky nappies that splayed his legs.
Mrs Smith raised his legs up as yet another female hand put his held his feet and slipped a one piece, footed pyjama romper suit up his legs before he was sat upright and his arms and torso was enveloped in the soft winceyette fabric.  

Still unable to speak clearly, he dribbled saliva down his chin as he attempted to remonstrate with the obviously excited women who faced him, buttoning up his pyjama romper. 

‘Not down your lovely clean pyjamas babykins,’ she scolded, wiping away the saliva with a tissue before tying a towelling bib around his neck to protect his pyjamas from the drool. 

He stared down at his pyjamas emblazoned with teddy bears as baby blue lambswool baby mittens were tied in place over his hands and felt as if he had been returned to his childhood as the soft winceyette material warmed his body and reminded him of evenings past sitting cosy and snug, safe and cuddled by his mother.
The rustle of his plastic baby pants bought him out of his dream as he was picked up as if he were a doll and for twenty minutes, according to the clock on the mantelpiece, he was pawed and petted and generally passed from female to female as each took a turn at setting him upon their knee, bouncing him babyishly before hugging him so tightly to their bosoms he feared he would suffocate.
They laughed, as he tottered on unsteady feet, to each of their outstretched arms in turn as plastics pants rustled noisily with each gingerly taken step.
Eventually however he had not felt so unsteady, he warily eyed the front door just a few steps away.
Mrs Smith smiled, easily scooping him up she deposited him into Miss Franks enormous lap, returning seconds later with a clean bib and a baby bottle full of her special milk.
He squirmed and twisted as the bib was tied over his pyjamas, but her grasp was too strong, cradled in her arms Mrs Franks fed him the bottle. Once again he felt the strength drain from his body and his nappies serve their purpose.


Mrs Franks patted his nappies through his teddy bear pyjama.

He felt tears begin to well. ‘There, there babykins, time for a nappy change and then it’s beddy-byes for you.’
His arms flopped uselessly by his side as Mrs Frank carried him up through the house to the attic room; a simple ceramic sign was affixed to the door. Baby’s Nursery.
Mrs Smith rocked her chair. She was looking forward to the days and weeks ahead. It would be nice to have a baby in the house again. Of course it meant a lot of work, the nappy changes, not to mention the washing then there was the feedings, the constant demands that babies require. Still, she had plenty of eager helpers, babkins was sure of the utmost attention.
And then, eventually he would leave. Saying nothing to nobody, after all, who would admit to his or her adventures in Mrs Smith’s nursery and not risk ridicule or disbelief?
Nobody had ever done so before.

Monday, 14 December 2015

I have been ill recently hence my recent absence but am on the recovery road now. Of course my alter ego is still battling the repressive Pyjama and Early Bedtime regime inflicted by his aunty and Mrs Jacobson

You may remember how aunty and Mrs Jacobson hijacked my "lonely hearts" advertisement. Unfortunately for me, there were several replies to their mischievous shenanigans. Eventually they selected settled on one of them and arranged for me to meet my "date".

Aunty had invited the respondent to arrive for tea on Friday and instructed me to be in attendance by 3pm, which was a bit of a dash from the office.

Upon my arrival, I noticed that a table for four had been set in the conservatory.

"I see it's to be an intimate meeting then." I observed sarcastically.

Aunty swatted my bottom with her bare hand, "enough of your cheek, upstairs into the bath with you, I want to make sure you are presentable for your guest, I know how tardy you are about washing behind your ears."

"Aunty, that was twenty years ago," I reminded her, thinking that this visitor was hardly my guest.

Huffed by her comment, I marched up to the bathroom. The bath was already half full and I added more hot water as I undressed. Just as I had stepped in, aunty entered the bathroom, tying on her long plastic apron as she did so.

"You should be ashamed that I have to bath a boy of your age," she scolded. Flustered by her presence, I replied that I wasn't ashamed, which was all wrong but still my face was suddenly enveloped in a soapy face flannel and I received a mouthful of suds for being insolent.

Aunty proceeded to intimately wash me, including of course, behind my ears.

I was extremely annoyed as aunty wrapped me in a towel and ushered me out of the tub. She guided me toward my bedroom and I was further outraged to find Mrs Jacobson waiting for me holding a pair of my striped pyjamas.

"We must supervise your appearance, you want to look your best for your date don't you?"

I took a step backward, straight into my aunt's arms.

"Come along now Wincy, we have decided you will wear pyjamas to your tea party, no doubt you will be tired out afterwards and we can get you tucked into bed quickly if you are properly attired."

I tired to look dignified, difficult seeing that I was totally naked. "Look here, even if I agree to meet this lady I will do so wearing proper clothes not..not those pyjamas, is that clear?"

Aunty patted my cheek, "how sweet," she cooed, "thinking you can decide for yourself. You know full well that if we say you are to wear pyjamas for your date then pyjamas it will be, now stop wasting time or you will pay another visit over my knee."

Despite my howls of protest, the two women were quickly dressing me in my pink, striped winceyette pyjamas.

Aunty buttoned up my pyjama jacket as Mrs Jacobson began stepping me into my pyjama bottoms,

She paused with the bottoms half way up my legs. "Tucked or untucked?" she asked aunty.

"Oh tucked I think, much neater," aunty replied as Mrs Jacobson drew the bottoms up to encompass the hem of my pyjama jacket, she then tied the drawstring on my pyjama bottoms into a double bow. "Slippers on," aunty ordered, pointing to my beige tartan slippers by the bed.

"Hmmm... somethings not quite right, ah.. I know." Aunty went to the wardrobe selected a paisley patterned tie that I often wore for work and fastened it around my neck.

"There much smarter, and just in time too, that's her now I believe."

Aunty went to greet our guest while Mrs Jacobson fussed with the collar of my pyjama jacket.

"I bet she has never been on a date where her suitor was so blatantly keen to get to bed," she mocked tweaking my nose in that irritating manner I disliked.

Aunty called to us to come down and Mrs Jacobson grabbed my hand and led me downstairs as if I were a small boy.

"Wincerind, this is Miss Cynthia Bracegirdle," said my aunt introducing me using my full given name.

"Pleased to meet you Wincerind, absolute wizard name by the way."

She was older than me, not by much, but definitely older. And taller, quite a bit taller in fact. She was broad shouldered and had a short, but feminine auburn hair style that complimented her facial features. Aqualine nose, brown eyes and a clear complexion, unadorned with makeup save for a light application of pink lipstick. She wore a grey jacket over a white blouse that was buttoned to the neck, the buttoned cuffs of her sleeves peeked an inch below the cuffs of the jacket. Her skirt reached just below her knees and was obviously suited to match her jacket. Her legs were covered in dark stockings of a light denier and were complimented by a pair of sturdy, but smart, sensible black brogue type shoes.

"P..p...pleased to meet you Cynthia," I stuttered nervously, holding my hand out toward her. "I prefer Wincy  actually."

"And I prefer Miss Bracegirdle, Wincerind" she added pointedly.

I had quickly become a quivering wreck and very self concious that I was dressed in pyjamas. Miss Bracegirdle however admired my tie. "It suits your outfit very well," she observed, deliberately ignoring the fact that my outfit was a pair of  pink, striped winceyette pyjamas.


MY DATING PYJAMAS

Quickly though I was eased out of the conversation on a personal level and the three ladies discussed their own agenda and I was thereafter referred to in the third person despite my presence at the table. I then made what was for me a silly mistake. I yawned. Instantly Mrs Jacobson seized upon my indiscretion.

"Tired are we?" She enquired in her syrupy tone, "perhaps an early bedtime is needed."

I could see Miss Bracegirdle looking at me, a mischievous smile played upon her lips and she made her first concession to my apparel. "Well he is already dressed ready for bedtime isn't he? Please don't keep Wincerind up late on my behalf." She said, maintaining the third person culture.

Aunty made her decision, "yes come along, an early night won't do you any harm will it? Say night-night to the nice lady."

I was furious, it was not yet five o'clock yet here I was being being sent to bed as if I was a four year old!

"This is outrageous, let me tell you I will not be going to bed for at least another hour....at least!"  I felt my last statement undermined my previous authoritative tone and I was proved correct when aunty hauled me across her knee.

"How dare you show me up in front of guests with your tantrums, you always become cranky before Christmas, I think you need a new set of bedtime rules Wincy." As she admonished me she had unfastened my pyjama cord. As I lay prostrate on her lap, Aunty pulled back my pyjama bottoms to expose my bare bottom.

It wasn't until ŧhe fourth spank that my legs began to flail, my slippers flew off and the empty legs of my pyjama bottoms began to flap wildly, like two flags in a strong wind.

I was sobbing quite audibly, embarrassed at my public humiliation and ashamed of how easily my defiance had been quashed. Aunty pulled up and re-tied the cord on my pyjama bottoms then she made me retrieve and put on my escaped slippers.

"Bed, now!" She ordered angrily, her hand positioned in the small of my back, ushering me toward the stairs.

"Perhaps....,"  Mrs Jacobson interjected, "before Wincerind departs for an early night, he should compensate Miss Bracegirdle for his disgraceful behaviour with one of his delightful  bedtime songs?"

My stomach lurched.

"Would you like that Miss Bracegirdle?" Mrs Jacobson asked, although she was looking directly at me as she spoke.

My singing stool was quickly found and although I was firmly against the idea, I knew a refusal would not be beneficial seeing as I had received one painful smacked bottom already.

I climbed onto the wooden stool, it was three legged and I never felt at all safe standing on it despite it being no more than six inches high. It also doubled up as my "naughty stool", I had spent many hours sitting upon it, my knees to my chest, with my hands on my head as I faced the wall.

Aunty clapped her hands, "feet together arms by your side, come along, be a smart soldier for aunty."

I adopted my required singing position, aunty liked me to stand smartly to attention before I began singing, like a soldier on parade she said, but as I faced the three females it appeared more like a firing squad.

Aunty continued. "I think we will begin with Twinkle Twinkle first of all, off you go."

As I began, I must admit my voice quivered and shook a little.

"Twinkle, twinkle little star,
How I wonder what you are.
Up above the world so high,
Like a diamond in the sky.
Twinkle, twinkle little star,
How I wonder what you are."
There was a faint ripple of applause, I had sang the verse twice before I stopped, by the end my voice had sank to a murmur and my eyes had been firmly fixed on my slippers.

Any thoughts on my behalf that I could escape with just the one song were quickly dispelled, I started to step down from my singing stool when Mrs Jacobson wave me back up.

"Hmmm, not too bad, but I am sure you can do better with your another one."  She paused, then said, how about Brush your Teeth?"

"Oh yes, that's a good one for just before bedtime, you can do the actions too," aunty enthused, "and this time let us see more enthusiasm!"



Raising my right hand, clutching my imaginary toothbrush I began to sing.

(If anyone wants to sing along the tune is jingle bells)

"Brush your teeth, brush your teeth,
Give them all a treat. Brush up and down and all around,
To keep them nice and neat.
In the morning and at night,
Brush them twice a day. Brush up and down and all around,
Keep fillings well away."

I had decided to give it everything I had so I could escape to bed and threw myself into the actions, after repeating the verse I stopped and this time received warm applause.

"Well done wincy, that's more like it, take a bow." Aunty was pleased with my efforts and I was allowed down from the stool.

As I approached Miss Bracegirdle to give her a night-night kiss she commented, "you have a lovely singing voice Wincerind, I look forward to hearing you sing again soon, it's been wonderful meeting you, sleep tight."

Her words were not comforting and since I had been pyjamaed, spanked and forced to sing nursery songs in front of her I was eager to get to bed as soon as possible but before I could I had to follow aunty's code of politeness and since I had been spoken to I had to reply.

"Th..thank you Miss Bracegirdle," I stammered, "it was wonderful to meet you to and an honour to sing for you." Then as I have been taught I hugged her and proffered my cheek for her to kiss.

"Night-night, Wincerind," she said as I felt the wetness of her lipstick on my face. "Night-night Miss Bracegirdle," I replied and scurried quickly away upstairs, pleased that my "date" was over."

Sunday, 25 October 2015

Another part of my story featuring Stephen, mogg's character.

Stephen sat uncomfortably in the back of the vicar's car as the middle one of three. His mum sat upfront while to his left sat Miss Ledbetter, to his right sat Oliver's sister, Pamela who had arrived home just as they were leaving.

Pamela had looked amusingly at Stephen as her mother, Mrs Evans, had given her a brief summation of what had transpired earlier and how Oliver had misbehaved so badly he been put to bed early in disgrace.

"I see Steviekins is wearing Oliver's old pyjama romper, it suits him," she had said using her pet name for him before she disdainfully pinched his cheek and spoke in such a babyish manner as to make him want to crawl away in embarrassment. Stephen's mum and the other ladies present readily nodded and confirmed their agreement that Stephen did indeed look," lovely and snuggly-wuggly all ready for night-night in his cosy-wosy jimmy-jams."

Pamela, whose older brother had been despatched so humiliatingly to an early bedtime, decided she would hitch a ride with the departing group as she had arranged to meet her friend Rachel, Stephens cousin.
Pamela was highly thought of by the local adult females as one of those girls who had been noted as, "sensible and mature for a girl of her age," so sensible in fact that she had long been one of the first girls to turn to when a babysitter was required, even when the "baby" in question was older than the babysitter.

Now, at the age of sixteen, she had for a long time enjoyed total authority over older brother Oliver. If need be she could dictate his pyjama time, his bedtime, when a haircut was due and how short it should be, what food he could eat, oh, and she could even choose a suitable song for him to sing to those assembled if she so desired. Pamela was privy to every aspect of her older brother's life, even down to taking him to the outfitters to be measured for such important things as his play shorts.

As she sat beside Stephen, she patted, then squeezed his pyjama clad thigh. "It's been a while since I have babysat you, is seven thirty still the time you're tucked up in beddy-byes Steviekins, or has mummy decided you get overtired and need an earlier night-night?" She teased, speaking in that syrupy, babyish manner that people usually use when speaking to toddlers.

Stephen was about to shout for his mum to complain that Aunty Pamela was teasing him but Miss Ledbetter began to talk to her about sewing so he held his tongue, and as the vicar fought to discover first gear, his thoughts turned to the last time he had had the misfortune to experience Aunty Pamela's authoritative nature.

His mum had volunteered to work on Saturday's at the charity shop on the high street to cover one of the usual ladies holiday period. Stephen had naively thought this would mean he would be left to his own devices for the hours she was away, instead his mum had agreed with Pamela that she would come to, "look after" him.

Even worse, was that his mum had made it plain to him that Pamela, who he was to address as Aunty Pamela, had full "grown ups" authority in her absence. His mum made it quite clear to him that Aunty Pamela's word was law and any disobedience on his part would not be looked on favourably. Stephen protested that it was ludicrous, that a girl who was a mere few months older than him should be in charge and designated a grown up when he was barely trusted to tie his own shoelaces. His mum had ignored him.
As usual, once her decision was made she was not going to change it.

Pamela had arrived early than expected that Saturday morning. This was upsetting for Stephen as he was still having breakfast wearing his blue, Winnie the Pooh pyjamas. Stephen was officially on one weeks, "naughty boy's pyjamas" punishment. His mum had found what she maintained, were suspicious stains on the inside of his pyjama bottoms. Even though he had vehemently denied her claims he had been punished by being made to wear pairs of his most babyish, little boy pyjamas for bed. This his mum proclaimed, was to make him realise he was not, "as much of a big boy", as he thought.

Pamela had allowed herself a large grin upon spying Stephen in his unbecoming night-attire before recovering her composure and solemnly offering to,"take Stephen to get ready".

Upstairs in his bedroom, she rummaged through the clothes in his dresser looking for a suitable play outfit for him to wear. "I can dress myself you know Pamela, I am sixteen." he said petulantly, adding, "I'm almost a man."

Stephen had tried to look tall and manly, a grave mistake when you are a good four inches smaller than your younger, female babysitter and wearing a pair of pyjamas a ten year old would have been embarrassed to be seen in.

Pamela laughed at his outburst, then scolded, "almost a man? You're fifteen, you're wearing Winnie the Pooh winceyette pyjamas and you have a seven thirty bedtime, and another thing, you are to call me Aunty Pamela if you please." Stephen was deflated at her admonishment. "Come along then," she urged, "let's get you out of those cute jimmy-jams and into some play clothes."

Pamela unbuttoned his pyjama jacket and slipped it off his shoulders, with a shake of his arms it fell to the floor then, she pulled down his bottoms until they lay bunched around his slippered feet.

 "Oh Stephen," she giggled, as she surveyed the smooth, hairless region of his genitals. "I am afraid you have no manly attributes here at all, none whatsoever, and what's this?" As she spoke she wiggled his penis between her thumb and forefinger. "My baby cousin has a pee-pee bigger than this, I shall have to start calling you Baby Steviekins from now on shan't I?" She laughed.

A few minutes later Stephen was being presented to his mum. Pamela had made him put on his red plastic sandals, worst of all, she had discovered his old yellow play shorts, he hadn't worn them for over a year and they were really, really short, they probably only an inch of actual leg length and were so tight that most of his bare bottom was on display. Pamela had ran the palms of her hands across the fleshy parts of his bottom before giving his buttocks a few robust slaps and proclaiming, "plenty of room in those yet, you can wear them for another year at least."

"Arms up," she ordered, as she pulled a pale blue singlet over his head, this was another item of his play clothes that he had considered well past their play by date, but Pamela had other ideas. The hem of his singlet, basically a sleeveless t-shirt, made no attempt to meet the waist of his shorts, in fact there was a good four inch gap that revealed his bare midriff to the outside world. Finally she had combed his hair forward, down into a boyish fringe and pausing only to pick up his discarded pyjamas, led him back downstairs to his mum.

Pamela had dressed him as she would a toddler and to most people, a fifteen year old wearing a red, yellow and blue ensemble would be a strange sight, but his mum had actually clapped her hands when she saw him.

"Oh lovely, the perfect outfit for a sunny day, what a lucky boy you are to have such lovely play clothes."

Stephen didn't feel lucky, in fact he felt downright humiliated as Pamela passed the Winnie the Pooh pyjamas to his mum who proceeded to examine them, as she did every morning, for tell tale-signs of Stephen having disobeyed her and played with his pee-pee during the time he was in bed.

This was something his mum had expressly forbidden and Stephen was always nervous as his mum closely inspected the crotch of his pyjamas, he knew he was under surveillance and took precautions, but he never knew if something had reared it's ugly head whilst he was sleeping, so to speak. Satisfied he had been a "good boy", his babyish pyjamas were despatched to the wash hamper.

His mum had kissed him goodbye and waved to him from the bottom of the garden path. "Don't forget to be a good boy for Aunty Pamela."

Soon Stephen was sent out to play, blushing as Aunty Pamela had ushered him out with the words, "off you go from under my feet Baby Steviekins,"  and with a warning not to forget to come home for lunch.

Stephen seldom played with his contemporaries, although he was almost a man, he still enjoyed playing games that needed youthful imagination and so he had been pleased to meet up with Cyril, Mavis and Granville. He enjoyed his games with this younger trio and they always accepted his somewhat strange apparel without comment and so, a game of Cowboy and Indians was quickly underway in the woods.

Stephen was the Ringo Kid, a mean ruthless varmint who had forcibly taken Running Deer, otherwise known as Mavis, from her tribe to be his squaw. Little Bear and Two Dogs had tracked them and had managed to capture the Ringo Kid and release Running Deer.

The Kid had been tied up and tortured to reveal the whereabouts of the cache of stolen winchester rifles, the torture had involved Running Deer lowering his play shorts as he was tied to a tree and tickling him with the feather from her headdress until he talked. He hadn't talked, instead becoming very excited and desperate to go home to cure this excitement.

Bizarrely, for some reason, Little Bear and Two Dogs decided that they too should be similarly tortured, unfortunately by the time Running Deer had tortured the three of them into submission he realised that he was late for lunch.

With one bound he was free. However the Ringo Kid wasn't much of an athlete, as he was making his escape he came to the rope swing across the stream, with the trio of injuns close to recapturing him, he slackened his pace just at the moment he should have quickened it.

Instead of sweeping Errol Flynn like across the stream and landing deftly on the other side, leaving his pursuers behind with a nonchalant wave, he found himself clinging to the rope, suspended over the murk.
Unable to hold his own weight, the rope slipped through his hands and he dropped into the water.

Stephen could see Aunty Pamela peering down the road from the bottom of the path as they approached.
Cyril and Granville had ran off, leaving Mavis to help Stephen home. He had stopped crying but the odd sob was still audible as he faced Aunty Pamela on the garden path.

Stephen's legs, arms and face were covered in grey slime and his hair was matted with the same slimy substance, what's more, his play clothes were now soaked and ruined.

"He fell in the stream," Mavis volunteered somewhat obviously.

Stephen had moved forward toward the door. "You can't come in like that you naughty boy, think of the mess you'll make indoors," Aunty Pamela had said, blocking his path.

"But...but.. I need a bath."

Aunty Pamela had smiled mischievously."Yes, yes you do, don't you." Stepping forward, she gingerly grasped the hem of his sopping singlet and pulled it up over his head.

"What... what are you doing? " he had asked, as she dragged his play shorts down to his ankles.
As Stephen bent down to pull his shorts back up, he was hit by a blast of icy water.

Pamela was using the garden hose to wash him. Manouvering the jet of water to back him up against the garden wall, she adjusted her aim to ensure the grey slime slid from his slender frame as she worked her way down his body.

"Stop...stop.. ," he struggled to get the words out as the cold water made him gasp for every breath, but she continued, using the power of the water to turn him around to clean the back of his body, paying particular attention to his bottom. "Have to make sure you are especially clean there," she said.

"There, that's much better," Pamela turned off the water as Stephen stood shivering. Pamela turned to the watching Mavis who was open-mouthed at what she had witnessed. "Thank you so much for bringing Stephen back," she took his hand and turned him toward toward the front door, "you may go home now."

Mavis however, stood transfixed, looking on as Pamela led Stephen to the front door. As his sopping wet shorts were still around his ankles, he had to shuffle slowly toward the door

"There's a good boy Steviekins," she encouraged. Stopping at the threshold Pamela bent down and removed his red plastic play sandals so he could finally step out of his shorts. "Wait there a moment," she ordered the completely naked, shivering boy and closed the door.

"Please.. I want to come in..." He wailed, but she was gone. By now, far from leaving, Mavis had been joined by some of the other kids who had been playing nearby and had heard Stephen's screams.

"Hoi, naked boy, I would sell you a pair of trousers but I can see you have no money on you." One wag shouted from amid the sniggering crowd.

Stephen, ignoring the jibe, knocked desperately on the door with his one free hand, the other was cupped over his genitalia. "Aunty Pamela, aunty Pamela, please let me in," he had begged.

Finally the door opened and Pamela began to lay a trail of newspaper pages on the porch floor.
"Step.. step... step, " she repeated as he made his way in.

Indoors she had berated him. "What on earth do you think you were up to. I was sick with worry. Wait until your mum hears about this. Your lunch is ruined."

Stephen's head was spinning as he listened to her scolding him, for some reason he became excited as she told him off and he could feel the stickiness of pre-cum against his palm.

Pamela stopped mid-sentence. "Hands on head this minute! Are you?... You naughty little boy, how dare you."

Stephen stood with his hands on his head, his pee-pee was protruding slightly and the gland glistened with pre-cum. Pamela took paper tissues from the box on the occasional table and used them as insulation as, to his surprise, she took hold of his erection. "You must be ill from swallowing dirty water, ill or just an extremely naughty little boy, and I mean little. Just what will your mum say when I tell her."

The thought of explaining himself to his mum diminished his excitement but Pamela still had hold of his penis as she led him toward the chair that faced the bay window. Pamela placed tissues on the seat and told him to bend over the chair and not to move under any circumstance.

The gathering of kids hanging around outside had lost interest but this new activity rekindled it as Stephen was clearly visible from the street lying prostrate across the chair.

He was anticipating a spanking, however, when Pamela returned she felt his forehead, "hmm, slightly warm, let's find out if you are poorly shall we?"

He was puzzled when he saw her dip her finger into the jar of petroleum jelly, he was startled when he felt the glob of jelly penetrate his rectum, he was surprised when his penis once again began to stiffen as she worked the jelly into his anus and he was frightened when he felt something penetrate him.

"Sssh..sssh..," she soothed as Stephen began to whimper,  "I'm just taking your temperature, doesn't your mum use the rectal thermometer when you are ill?" She inquired, adding. "Just stay still for two minutes, there's a good boy

Stephen had never heard of a rectal thermometer and outside, the audience of kids were equally puzzled, "up periscope," the wag quipped as the highly visible Stephen lay naked across the chair.






















Tuesday, 6 October 2015

A PPM letter from Paul to Matron about the benefits of adult short trousers. I am not sure Matron has interpreted the women's reaction in the image correctly though!

Dear Matron


In response to Geoffrey's letter about his mother’s decision and how he bemoans the fact that he will be made to wear short trousers and have early bedtimes until he is eighteen.


I was in a similar situation in that I wore short grey trousers as part of my Prep School uniform until I left aged 14. I was a year older than the other boys in my class as I started at the school a year behind as I had been living abroad.


My parents wanted me to wear short trousers but longs were part of the upper school uniform and I would have been the only pupil wearing shorts, so consequently a compromise was agreed. I would wear longs for school but shorts at all other times during the rest of my teens For example, I wore my school uniform with short grey trousers and schoolboy turnover top knee socks to church on Sundays and also to Sunday School and Saturday afternoon Bible classes.


I was finally permitted to wear longs outside of school when I left two months before my twentieth birthday.
Because I am small of stature and not at all hirsute, I could easily be taken for a 13 or 14 year old when in my short trousers and rarely received any adverse comments, although if people discovered my real age they were often astonished that I was still kept in shorts by my parents. Some approved but others felt I was too old to be dressed like this.


Initially I hated having to wear short trousers and felt deeply humiliated and ashamed, but gradually by the age of 16 or 17, I developed a liking for short trousers which I found to be more comfortable, less restricting and smarter than longs. This enthusiasm for short trousers and school uniform continues to this day and I regularly wear shorts around the home and often in public depending on the circumstances. Even as an adult I have received the occasional compliment on how smart I look wearing traditional clothing.


Throughout my school days my parents also insisted that I was subject to a strict 9 pm bedtime and this is another part of my upbringing that I have maintained in my adult life. I find wearing my short trousers by day and going to bed early each evening benefits my lifestyle greatly and in no way has my parents early bedtime and short trouser discipline been detrimental to me.


I suggest Geoffrey changes his attitude and looks upon this as a great opportunity to be an individual and to stand out from the crowd. I accept that his 7 pm bedtime may be a trifle early for a 16 year old but I am sure if he knuckles down and behaves himself his mother will see fit to extend it.


For now, I say embrace your short trousers and enjoy the freedom they give.


Best wishes


Paul


Dear Paul


It is so refreshing to receive a letter from a boy like yourself who has adopted a positive approach to wearing short trousers. I urge Geoffrey to take note of you comments and accept that his mother is making these decisions for his own good. I have been told many times that there is nothing better than for a boy to feel the wind and the rain against his bare legs and that even in the most chilling, biting wind it is a most invigorating sensation. However I cannot agree with you that his proposed 7 pm bedtime is too early. For an immature 16 year old it seems to me to be eminently sensible, however I will agree to differ with you since you have written such a supportive letter in general.


Regards


Matron


A good example of how smart short trousers can look on an adut male and how impressed women are by such a look.

Saturday, 3 October 2015

It was just my attempt to meet new people but Aunty and Mrs Jacobson turned it into an advertisement advocating early bedtime and pyjama punishment!

Aunty and Mrs Jacobson had discovered my online "lonely hearts" advertisement. I was mortified and stood totally embarrassed as they hooted with laughter as they read out my ad.
"Girls, want to live life in the fast lane? Come and join me. I am a well-endowed, independent male who is seeking a female to share my exciting lifestyle. OHAC. Only genuine thrill seekers need apply!"
“You silly little boy, a pokey one bed flat and a fifteen year old Fiesta will hardly impress will it?” Aunty asked with mirth.
“You forgot to mention that you spend most of your time here with us wearing pyjamas and doing the washing up before we put you to bed!” Added Mrs Jacobson.
“And well-endowed? If you think that tiny todger of yours is anything to brag about you are sadly mistaken. I doubt you could satisfy any woman with that teeny tiny thing.” She laughed before aunty continued.
“Thrill seekers? Fast Lane? My goodness, yesterday we had you in your pyjamas ready for bed by 3pm and you spent an hour with your colouring book before we tucked you into bed for an early night! Thrill seeker indeed, remember the last time I caught you trying to, “thrill” yourself I put you across my knee for a bedtime spanking and that’s why you wear that chastity device when we allow you to go home you ridiculous boy. And as for the fast lane, well if you count pushing a shopping trolley around the supermarket then yes, I suppose it is the fast lane!”
Once Aunty and Mrs Jacobson had composed themselves they then decided to re-write my ad. At first I refused to let them access my account but after a trip across aunty’s lap I suddenly remembered my password.
“Girls, want to go out with a sissy boy wimp? I own a pee-pee that my aunty encases in a CB6000S chastity device, the S stand for small. My life is so exciting; I am usually in my sissy pyjamas by 6pm at the latest and I enjoy taking my Teddy bear to beddy-byes, In fact Teddy is the only thing I have ever taken to bed apart from a well smacked botty. Only dominant females who enjoy making naughty little boys sing for their supper need apply.” 

Mrs Jacobson then produced the pictures she has taken of me wearing my most sissyish, infantile pyjamas and attached them to my ad. Aunty and Mrs Jacobson have promised to invite anyone who replies to the ad to visit and witness for themselves how I live life in the "fast lane" with my early bedtime and pyjama punishment imposed regime.











Friday, 4 September 2015

A Pyjama Punishment Monthly letter from "Peterkins" who is complaining about his strict babysitter being two years younger than he is. I am sure he wrote more than once to PPM, I will have to search the archives.

Dear Nanny Smackbottom


My name is Peter and I am 16 but currently being babysat by our neighbour Mrs Scott’s youngest daughter Ellen, who is only 14 years old, yet my still mother allows her to give me a bath and spank me with her special spanking slipper. Ellen has turned out to be the strictest of all the Scott sisters and when she babysits she treats me as though I were a real baby. Ellen has introduced new things to her babysitting technique, all of which were never done by any of her older sisters when they babysat me. The first new thing is that she insists on calling me Peterkins, something my younger sister has started copying and even my own mother! Even worse is the attire she now makes me wear after Ellen has given me my bath. It is bad enough that Ellen, like all of her sisters, always baths me at 4 pm, but she also bought two new pairs of pyjamas I must put on straight after my bath. The pyjamas are the traditional brushed cotton kind with the top having buttons down the front and the pyjama bottoms have an elastic waist The worst thing however is the design. The pyjamas are light blue cotton but they are adorned with cartoon characters from toddlers television shows. Ellen dresses me in these pyjamas after my bath and I must wear them for the rest of the evening until she puts me to bed.

Ellen has also given me a much earlier bedtime than previously and I am now sent to bed at 7 pm, a whole hour earlier than my younger sister. Ellen has also introduced corner time for me. It comes after the spankings she gives me with her slipper. It is must humiliating as I must stand in the corner of the living room for 30 minutes after my spanking with my hands behind my head and my childish pyjama bottoms pulled down to my ankles leaving my naked bottom in full view to anyone in the room. My little sister thinks the pyjamas are so funny, and when my mother saw them, she laughed as well, saying they were "adorable" on her little Peterkins, and how mature and responsible Ellen was to have bought them for me. But I'm not a little boy! I am 16, almost a man now.

Last Tuesday, I had the most horrible experience with Ellen, which shows you just how much control my mother has given her over me. I had a doctor's appointment at 4 pm, but my mother had to be at my younger sister's school to attend a play. My mother never misses any of our school functions, including mine, and since this was just a check up she felt totally safe in sending me to the doctor with someone else, Ellen of course.

I was told to be home immediately after school, Ellen arrived 5 minutes later, letting herself into the house with the key my mother had given her. My mother had also given Ellen money for a taxi. As soon as Ellen walked in the door, she hurried me up the stairs, telling me that a taxi was on the way and we had to get me bathed and cleaned up before my appointment. Moments later, I was in the tub being bathed by Ellen and minutes later being dried by her. 

I couldn't believe what happened next as she produced a pair of my cartoon pyjamas and told me that I would be wearing them to the doctor as I would be going straight to bed when we got home. My pleading with her to let me wear ordinary clothes fell on deaf ears, instead she buttoned me into my pyjamas and dropped my blue fluffy batman slippers at my feet. “Get those on, the taxis here.” She ordered.

You can imagine how I looked when we left the house dressed in my cartoon pyjamas and slippers.
I was so embarrassed as we entered the doctor's office waiting room with Ellen still holding on to my hand as if I was a toddler. I felt all eyes were on me wearing my babyish slippers and pyjamas as we took our seat in the waiting area. Soon however we were called through where I was shocked to discover the nurse was Ellen's oldest sister Julie, she used to babysit me when I was eight.

“Hello Peter, or is that Peterkins nowadays? My, don’t you look cute wearing your new pyjamas, Ellen told me she had bought you new special jim-jams, although come to think of it, didn't you used to wear pyjamas like that when I babysat you?" She laughed, then in a serious voice said, but since I need to check your weight I think you had better take them off.”


I was made to remove my pyjamas and stand naked on the scales so she could weigh me before she led me into an examining room and closed the door.

I remained naked through the whole exam, which of course Ellen watched from about two feet away, including my internal check. Finally, they determined that I needed a tetanus booster, that I was to receive on my bottom. After the injection, I was finally allowed to put my pyjamas back on, and Ellen led me from the office and we took a taxi home where I was put straight to bed even though it wasn't even my bedtime.


Please advise how I might convince my mother that I am too old to be babysat by a 14 year old.

Peter

Dear Peterkins

I'm sorry to hear you felt the need to write to me here at Pyjama Punishment Monthly. 
Your new babysitter does sound strict but I suspect she probably feels the need to emphasise her authority since she has to babysit a boy who is older than herself. The best way for her to do that is to be quite firm with you and not to let you get away with anything so that you understand who is in charge.

Even though I know having such a strict babysitter is not easy for you, it's important that you know that being very strict is not the same as being mean. Probably when you grow up and become a big boy you'll understand that girls need to be strict with boys, it's well known boys such as yourself need firm discipline for their own good.

Now about your new pyjamas Ellen has bought for you, I understand your embarrassment as they do sound a bit infantile for a boy of your age. On the bright side at least people seem to think that you look cute in them, so they must not be completely awful. It's probably another way for Ellen to underline that she is the one who has responsibility for you, but when you think about it, isn't it kind of her to spend her money on something for you? She wouldn't do that if she didn't care would she? I suggest that every time you are dressed in your new pyjamas, you think more about your own, immature behaviour and how you can improve upon it. Until then you will just have to accept that your mother thinks you still very immature and that you still need Ellen to be your babysitter.

Nanny Smackbottom