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.

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  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."

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 up front 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 certainly suits him," she had said, using her pet name for him before disdainfully pinching his cheek and speaking 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 weddy for night-night in his cosy-wosy jimmy-jams."

Pamela, whose older brother Oliver had previously been despatched so humiliatingly to an early bedtime, decided she would accompany 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 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 required to she could dictate his pyjama time, his bedtime, when he was due for a haircut and how short it should be, what food he could eat, oh, and she could even choose a suitable little song for him to sing before his bedtime to those assembled if she so desired. Yes, 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 play shorts.

Now, as she sat beside Stephen, she patted, then squeezed his pyjama clad thigh. "It's been a while since I have babysat you, little one, is seven thirty still your beddy-byes time Steviekins, or has mummy decided you become overtired easily and need an earlier night-night hmmm?" She teased, speaking in that syrupy, babyish manner that people usually adopt when speaking to toddlers.

Stephen was about to complain to his mum that Aunty Pamela was teasing him but Miss Ledbetter began to engage her in conversation about sewing so he held his tongue.

As the vicar fought to discover first gear, his thoughts turned to the previous 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 for one of the usual ladies holidays. Stephen had naively thought this would mean he would be left to his own devices for the few hours she would be absent, instead, his mum had agreed that Pamela that she would come to, "keep an eye on him".

Even worse, his mum had made it clear that Pamela, who he was to address at all times as Aunty Pamela, had full "grown ups" authority over him. His mum made it quite clear that Aunty Pamela's word was law and any disobedience on his part would not be looked on favourably. Stephen protested that it was not fair 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 of course had ignored him, once her decision was made she was not going to change it.

Pamela had arrived earlier 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 subject to one week, "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 his most babyish, little boy pyjamas. 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 slight smile seeing Stephen in his infantile night-attire before recovering her composure and solemnly offering to,"take Stephen upstairs to get ready".

In his bedroom, she rummaged through the clothes in his dresser looking for a suitable play outfit for him.
"I can dress on my own you know Pamela, I am almost 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 six 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 retorted, "almost a man? Don't be silly. You're fifteen, you're wearing little boy Winnie the Pooh winceyette pyjamas and you go to bed at seven thirty. And if you forget to call me Aunty Pamela once more I'll smack that naughty bottom of yours for you."

Stephen was deflated at her admonishment, he certainly didn't want to be spanked by her so he silently obeyed when she urged, "come along then, 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 had probably only an inch of actual leg length and were so tight that most of his bare bottom was on display. Pamela had run 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 murky water. 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 run 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 wet 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. Manoeuvring 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 your 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.

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

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.

mogg has posted a fantastic new part to Scott's Story on his blog. It features a terribly strict thirteen year old girl who disciplines an older boy. Look out for a very dominant pyjama time sequence. Below are Scott's brand new pyjamas fresh out of the bag and also his jim-jams and slippers seen warming ready for him to be dressed ready for his early bedtime. Scott narrowly escaped receiving a smacked bottom from Emily earlier but sadly for him a tamper tantrum as she was tucking Teddy into bed beside him resulted in a trip across her lap.

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

I'm afraid the, guess which pyjamas, was a cheat. Miss Jacobson didn't include the picture of my pink floral pyjamas. She took a leaf out of Mrs Sykes Patterson's book. I did the ironing in a pair of pyjamas Aunty bought me back from her trip to Boston some years ago. I spent a while ironing quite a few pairs of my pyjamas as you can see.

Oliver is safely tucked up in bed and the ladies attentions turn toward Stephen who becomes hopping mad at his treatment at the hands of Mrs Evans and his mum, plus some interference from the vicar! Another instalment of the Oliver & Stephen story. As before, I have posted the story so far from the beginning.

Mrs Wilding smiled indulgently at Oliver then looked at her son Stephen. "You see how a lovely short haircut can make you look extra smart?" Stephen remained silent, he always tried to be non-committal to his mum's questions, it was his way of trying to avoid trouble. It rarely worked. His mum continued to eulogise about Oliver. "And his amazing smooth legs, do you have to shave him, you know where Vera?"

Mrs Evans blouse expanded as she enjoyed the praise being heaped upon her. "On no, luckily Oliver has shown no signs of sprouting hairs anywhere thank goodness. His legs are as smooth as his face, the only thing I have to look out for is the odd hair at the base of his penis and on his scrotum. I soon whisk them out with my tweezers."

Both boys stared resolutely at the floor. Oliver because he was actually becoming quite annoyed at hearing his most intimate details being discussed and Stephen because he was wincing at the thought of hairs being extracted by a pair of tweezers. He was disappointed to learn that seventeen-year-old Oliver had such a hairless existence, he could not contribute anything to the hair growing competition, his own body being quite hairless but he was hopeful that by the age of seventeen he would be positively hirsute.

"Oh yes, and how delightfully smart Oliver looks from head to toe Vera, you must be very proud of your son. Now I must have a keepsake of such a smart boy, especially as he is wearing his lovely yellow play shorts." Mrs Wilding pointed her camera at Oliver.

"No!" Oliver Evans stretched out his hand as if he could snatch the image from the air.

It was bad enough that his mother had sent him to school wearing a pair of his play shorts but now he had returned home and discovered Felicity Wilding and her son Stephen had come "visiting" and Mrs Wilding wanted a photo as a keepsake for goodness sake.

It had all started last evening when Oliver decided that at seventeen years of age, as he was the man of the house, it was his job to open the new jar of mayonnaise. Unfortunately, he opened it all over himself, covering his regulation, grey flannel short trousers with a large dollop of mayonnaise.

His mother had not been best pleased and as his shorts were quite ruined, he was dispatched to school that morning wearing his yellow play shorts, along with a note for his form teacher.

It must be pointed out here, that the school had no policy enforcing sixth formers to wear short trousers. That particular rule applied only up to fourth formers, such as Stephen. It was Mrs Evans herself who advocated that boys should continue to wear shorts, not only for the health benefits, (Oliver had never found out exactly what these were), but also because although Oliver was seventeen, she took the view that as long as he was living under her roof, she would decide what he wore. Without argument.

Oliver's day had been disastrous. His form tutor, Miss Ledbetter, had read out his mother's note to the entire class.

Dear Hyacinth

Please excuse Oliver's appearance. I have had to send him to school today in a pair of his play shorts as he was a very naughty boy last night, he soiled his school short trousers rendering them unfit for purpose. 

Yours sincerely 

Vera Evans.

Miss Ledbetter had silenced the guffaws that came from her class as she read out the note but she then called Oliver out to the front.

"So Oliver, you were a naughty boy last night and soiled your shorts, that was careless of you. I shall have to check to see that you have not soiled yourself again."

Miss Ledbetter proceed to examine his yellow play shorts thoroughly. Her left hand felt the material of his shorts while her right hand rested on the inside of his smooth, hairless inner thigh. Hyacinth Ledbetter had always been intrigued by Oliver, she wondered why he meekly accepted his mother's decision to dress and apparently treat him as a little boy. She promised herself she would find out more about Oliver and his mother.

Miss Ledbetter then deliberately placed her body in the way of the watching class, blocking their view, then let her hand linger on his thigh, visibly increasing his discomfort.

"P.p..p..please Miss, it wasn't like that. I..I..I didn't...really s..s...soil...." He attempted to explain himself whilst the class laughed at Miss Ledbetter's successful attempt to humiliate him.

Oliver desperately tried to divert his thoughts before he was thankfully sent him back to his desk with a light swat on his bottom and a remark about, "managing to survive the day without soiling yourself if you please Master Evans."

Everybody had laughed themselves silly and Oliver had experienced a quite awful day of teasing about being pee-pee pants and worse. No wonder then, that he was annoyed at returning home and finding Mrs Wilding there attempting to capture his appearance on camera.

Almost immediately Oliver knew he had made a mistake.

"Oliver! How dare you talk to Auntie Felicity in such a manner. You know very well not to be rude to grown-ups."

Mrs Evans apologised to Mrs Wilding. "I am so sorry Felicity, I know exactly what lies behind Oliver's behaviour. Because of all the upset with his school shorts last night, by the time I got Oliver bathed and into his jimmy-jams, it was nearly eight thirty before he was tucked into bed. Of course, with his usual bedtime being eight o'clock it meant Oliver missing out on a full night's sleep, and as you have just witnessed, he becomes very irritable and bad-tempered as a result."

Felicity Wilding said there was no need to apologise, confirming that Stephen was exactly the same and that was why it was important that boys had a regular pyjama time and bed time. In fact, she added, if Stephen had a restless night, she would make sure he went to bed earlier the following night to make up for his lost sleepy time.

Vera Evans nodded in agreement as Stephen winced, he didn't like where this was leading.

Sure enough, Oliver's mother immediately turned to her son who was looking fearful and obviously full of remorse for his outburst and announced. "Come along then Oliver, let's get you undressed and into your jimmy-jams, you obviously need an early night to catch up on the sleep you missed."  Oliver visibly began to well up. "But mummy..."

Mrs Evans held up her hand to silence her son in a manner he knew was not to be argued with and she immediately began removing his blazer and unbuttoning his shirt as she spoke. "Stephen, would you run upstairs to the airing cupboard and bring me down a clean pair of pyjamas for Oliver please."

Up to now, Stephen had been a reluctant observer. He knew only too well how easy it was to fall foul of all the rules and regulations his own mother imposed on him so he wasn't about to put himself in the firing line by refusing Mrs Evans request. He went upstairs and opened the airing cupboard door, there on the shelf were several pairs of pyjamas. He closed his eyes, grabbed a random pair from the middle of the pile and went back downstairs.

Oliver was already bare naked and his mother was carrying a bowl of water and some wash flannels. "This is a good idea of yours Felicity, a pre-pyjama time wash will be much quicker than a bath."

Stephen watched as his own mum took a flannel, after rubbing in soap, she began to wash Oliver's legs.

"Yes, it's a lot easier, I often give Stephen a quick pyjama time wash with a flannel rather than wasting all that hot water. Don't I Stephen?" Mrs Wilding continued to move the flannel up Oliver's naked seventeen-year-old body.

"Yes mum, he said, sheepishly handing Oliver's mother the pyjamas he had randomly chosen. It was only then that he realised he had not done Oliver any favour with his pyjama selection.

Mrs Evans proffered the pyjamas to Stephens mum.

"Would you mind starting his pyjamaring Felicity? I'll just get rid of this." Mrs Evans scurried away with the bowl of water. Stephens mum held up the pyjama jacket. "How lovely, Toy Story jimmy-jams.


Stephen himself was subject to a strict pyjama and bedtime regime and his mum made him wear pyjamas that were far too childish for a boy of fifteen, but Oliver was seventeen.

Stephen made brief, apologetic eye contact with Oliver as his mother unbuttoned the pyjama jacket, held it by the shoulders and jiggled it. As any boy who is regularly dressed in his pyjamas knows, a female jiggling a pyjama jacket initiates a response where the pyjamaed one automatically inserts his arms into the sleeves and prepares to be "buttoned up".

From experience, Stephen knew his mother would start with the top button.
"Was Woody your favourite or Buzz?" His mum enquired of the hapless Oliver as she worked her way down the buttons.

"Actually it was Jessie the cowgirl. He had quite a crush on her. That's why I bought those pyjamas for his birthday this year, didn't I Oliver?" Mrs Evans had bustled back into the room just as Stephen's mum finished buttoning up Oliver's pyjama jacket. Luckily for him, his pyjama top was just long enough to reduce his embarrassment slightly by concealing his penis. He did still look ridiculous, as only the tips of his fingers were exposed due to the length of his pyjama jacket sleeves.

Oliver visibly blushed upon hearing his mother's words. To have it announced, that not only did he have a crush on a fictional, pixelated character, but also that he had received a pair of Toy Story character winceyette pyjamas for his seventeenth birthday was excruciatingly embarrassing. Stephen sympathised.

His mum smoothed the pyjama collar of Oliver's pyjamas and ran her hand down the front of the pyjama jacket. "Lovely and soft and cosy," she said. " I think Stephen would  look lovely in a pair..."

Felicity Wilding paused mid-sentence, her hand resting on Oliver's crotch. Stephen was grateful for the distraction whatever it was, he certainly did not want a pair of Toy Story pyjamas.

"Vera, I think you need to see these."

Stephen had sensibly taken out his school book and now sat half peeking, half cringing behind it as his mum lifted up seventeen-year-old Oliver's penis. "You see, three, no, four hairs sprouting. I expect you want to do something about them before you put him to bed?

Oliver had to suffer the indignity of the two woman peering at his testicles as though they were in the local butcher's shop examining the produce. "I was in such a hurry to get him to bed last night that I let him wash himself down there when I went to fetch his pyjamas. Why didn't you tell me you had sprouted hairs?" She scolded crossly.

"Sorry mummy." Oliver was attempting to be as contrite as possible but Stephen was not the only one to notice his use of the infantile, "mummy".

His mother grabbed one of the rogue curly hairs with her tweezers as Stephens mother held his penis out of the way. Peeking over his book, Stephen was close enough to see Oliver's skin extend outwards as the hair resisted Mrs Evans pulling action. "Ow, it hurts," Oliver yelled as the hair refused to yield.

"Don't be such a baby Oliver." She pulled harder and the newly sprouted pubic hair was plucked untimely from its rightful place. "That has it, now, only three to go."

Eventually, the hair had submitted and was triumphantly scrutinised by Mrs Evans before she returned her attentions to the remaining hairs. Having realised resistance was futile, the three other hairs feebly conceded defeat and succumbed to Mrs Evans tweezers without much of a fight. Stephens mum ran her hand over the now hairless region and lowered his penis.

"All nice and smooth again Vera, we can finish getting him into his pyjamas now and tucked into bed well and early. Oh....."

There were three inches of material after the last button on Oliver's pyjama jacket and into that space his penis began to rise. It formed a V in the material, as first of all, it extended horizontally before slowly rising vertically to about forty-five degrees before pausing as if it were a dockyard crane in the middle of a funeral salute. From the tip of his penis began to ooze a gooey substance commonly known in the school playground as pre-cum. It dribbled over the edge of his penis as gravity sent it towards Mrs Evans front room carpet before it stopped and elastic like retracted slightly upwards.

"Oliver! Stop that at once. How dare you show me up like this." His mother was annoyed and ashamed of her son when less than fifteen minutes ago she had been bursting with pride.

"I can't help it, I was trying to be good when Mrs Wilding had a hold of my thingy and then I started thinking about Miss Ledbetter.... and.."

His voice gave way as tears began to form. "I said stop that. Hands on your head at once."

Mrs Evans had armed herself with Oliver's school, ruler. Twelve inches of clear plastic that she slapped his still part raised penis with very firmly, once on the shaft and once on the tip from where the goo was still emanating.

"Onto your naughty stool immediately you disgusting boy." Oliver had doubled up as the slaps to his penis were received, but he straightened up again almost immediately with two slaps to the back of his legs that were delivered with more force than the first two. He stepped on the rickety looking wooden stool and placed his hands on his head as instructed. Even now the urge to please and obey his mother was forefront in his mind.

Stephen peered from behind his book at the seventeen-year-old perched on a wooden stool with his hands on his head. The act of which, raised his Toy Story motif pyjama jacket just enough to expose his sticky, now shrivelled penis. And then Stephen had an insight. His book was George Orwell's 1984 and there was no doubt in Stephen's mind that he now understood why Winston Smith was prepared for Julia to suffer his mortal fear. Stephen was pleased that it was Oliver up there, pleased that it was not him that had been punished and humiliated in such a fashion.

Stephen was eager to leave the Orwellian scene behind, unfortunately, Mrs Evans insisted Oliver was to stay half naked perched on his naughty stool while the two women took tea. Eventually, Felicity drained her cup.

"Well, I think it's time we got this naughty little boy of mine finally tucked into bed."

Oliver's penis was subjected to a rather rough flannel wash before his mother went to the sideboard cupboard and returned with a packet of Dry-Nites pyjama pants Oliver looked distressed but he had been punished and humiliated enough and now just wanted to be put to bed out of harm's way.

"Pyjama pants are required because once Oliver has been on the naughty stool his bedtime is a confined one, that means no getting out of bed unless there is a flood or a fire, Oliver understands this don't you?"

 "Yes mummy," replied the subdued seventeen-year-old as his feet were threaded into the Dry-Nites.

Stephen was still intrigued enough to notice the pattern on the front of the pyjama pants was the dinosaur version.



He recognised them since those were the very same pattern as his own Dry-Nites pants.

As "compensation", for his behaviour, Stephens mum was given the task of finishing what she started and helped him into his Toy Story pyjama bottoms, pulling the elasticised waist up high and letting it ping under his rib cage.

"There, all ready for beddy-byes. Oliver, thank Auntie Felicity for putting you into your jimmy-jams and apologise for being such a naughty little boy," requested his mother. Stephen recognised the look of anguish on Oliver's face as he mumbled, "thank you, Auntie Felicity." His mother looked exasperated. "That's not what I said, try again."

Oliver took a deep breath. "Thank you for putting me into my jimmy-jams Auntie Felicity and I am very sorry for being such a naughty little boy."

Satisfied at making her son act like a six-year-old, Mrs Evans took hold of Oliver's wrist in readiness to escort him upstairs to bed.  "I wonder how much longer we will have to continue putting naughty boys into their pyjamas then putting them to sleepy-byes for early bedtimes Felicity," she mused.

"Oh, I am sure for a long time yet Vera, a very long time," ventured Mrs Wilding looking at Stephen, "goodness knows when we will be able to stop looking after them, probably never."

Vera Evans appeared very pleased with the response and tightened her grip on Oliver's wrist. "Up the wooden hill, we go then."

"Come on mum, let's leave" urged Stephen. Mrs Wilding looked at her watch, "goodness you're right Stephen, if we don't catch that bus, we'll be lucky to get home for your own pyjama time. Say night-night to Oliver and give Auntie Vera a night-night kiss."

"Actually I would like you to come upstairs, just until I get Oliver settled, it will only take five minutes."

Mrs Wilding checked her watch again, "just a few minutes, then we must be off."

If truth be told, Felicity Wilding was very interested in Vera's disciplinary techniques and was happy to continue witnessing Oliver's punishment. Stephen meanwhile was extremely worried as he too was ushered upstairs. His mum was too involved in this for his liking.

Stephen felt awkward being in Oliver's bedroom and stayed just inside the doorway.
It wasn't right, not under the circumstances, he fervently wished he could be somewhere else. However, curiosity allowed him to look around. It was certainly not the bedroom of an ordinary seventeen-year-old.

There was certainly no computer or laptop, nor any sign that Oliver listened to music in his bedroom, Stephen mused that even he had an old CD player, and he owned six CD's to play on it too. Without seeing or knowing the age of the occupant the bedroom could have been the sleeping space of a seven-year-old rather that of a seventeen-year-old. Buzz Lightyear posters adorned the walls that themselves were papered in a nursery style print of rather disturbing looking clowns. One large image of Jessie, Woody the cowboy's girlfriend, was pinned to the wall directly facing Oliver's bed.

This was the bed that featured bedclothes portraying an ebullient Bob the Builder triumphantly waving a spanner and Stephen had no doubt that there was a Buzz Lightyear set of bedclothes too, lurking somewhere in the six drawer dresser that stood against the far wall. All in all thought Stephen, his own was far more of a big boys bedroom than this infantile horror. And those pyjamas? He shuddered at the thought of having to wear and be seen, in a pair of Buzz Lightyear pyjamas.

Mrs Evans drew the heavily lined curtains and instantly the room was darkened. Only the bedside lamp offered enough light for Mrs Evans to see as she opened the third drawer down of the dresser.

Seventeen-year-old Oliver, standing by his bed clad only in his Toy Story, winceyette pyjamas, watched Mrs Evans remove a pair of white mittens.

"Handy Pandie please Oliver,"

"But mum…"  His protest was ignored as his mother pushed his left hand into the mitten. Stephen could see that Oliver had to make a fist before his mother could fit the mitten properly. There was a cuff of about three inches that extended to his wrist. Mrs Evans threaded the long lace into eyelets and fastened on the mitten. Stephen now saw that it was more of a mini boxing glove, not leather though, instead it was a sort of shiny vinyl. The same process was repeated with his right hand.

"You understand why mummy must do this don't you Oliver?" He nodded miserably.
"Being unable to control yourself just because Auntie Felicity wiggled your little peepee is unacceptable behaviour. I will not allow you to be a dirty little boy. Masturbation will not be tolerated in this house as long as I draw breath. Now, Handy Pandies by your sides"

Stephen shuffled forward slightly to see what was going on. There were two loops of material on the waistband of Oliver's pyjama bottoms and his mother tied the loose ends of the mittens fasteners to them, the result being that Oliver's arm movement was restricted to one or two inches, effectively pinning his arms and hands to the side of his body.

Stephens mum looked impressed as she turned back the Bob the Builder bed clothes and patted the bottom sheet, inviting Oliver into his cosy, infantile bed.

"In you pop Oliver, there's a good boy, there's no question of you playing with your little pee-pee now is there?"

Even if Oliver was supposed to answer he was not given a chance as his mother pushed him gently in the middle of his chest. Without the aid of his arms to balance himself he toppled backwards and gently bounced on his bed. Oliver was swiftly tucked tightly in by his mother on one side and Stephen's mum on the other.

"Who do you want to snuggle with tonight, Bibbity Bobtail or Mr Teddy?" Mrs Evans was waggling a bedraggled looking rag doll bunny rabbit with long floppy ears that appeared to be homemade, and a small Teddy Bear that was dressed in a pair of tiny blue striped pyjamas.  As Oliver's face was the only part of him visible after being tucked into bed it was impossible not to notice his embarrassment as his mother waved the two toys impatiently.

 "Come along Oliver choose, naughty boys shouldn't really be allowed to snuggle with a favourite toy at bedtime at all." Finally, Oliver answered in a barely audible voice," Mr Teddy please mummy."

"Night-night," she said tucking the bear in beside him and kissing his forehead.

"Stephen, say night-night to Oliver." Now it was Stephens turn to be embarrassed. He mumbled a good night and at last, he could escape the whole dreadful scenario.

"Oh you've left the bedroom lamp on", Stephen's mum cried as the bedroom door was closing. Mrs Evans reached to a switch on the landing.

"I had this moved when I caught Oliver reading long after he should have gone to sleepy-byes one night, so now his bedroom lighting is controlled from here. Oliver now knows that bedtime means bedtime."

Stephen's mum looked very impressed with this innovation as they headed back downstairs into the living room.

"Before you go I must give you these for Stephen, Mrs Evans handed a bundle to Stephen's mum just as he was putting on his new gabardine Mackintosh in readiness to leave. "They are too small now for Oliver but they would be perfect for Stephen probably a bit big for him in fact."

Mrs Evans grinned at Stephen and patted his head condescendingly as he stood uncomfortably, he hated his name being mentioned.

 "I don't know if Stephen wears shorty pyjamas, but he is welcome to them and then there's these." She paused for a second, "the footie winceyette pyjama romper suit is the one I had Mrs Frederick make for Oliver, you know, she used to have the shop on the high street? It was specially created by her to help curtail his naughty nocturnal habits, sadly though, he soon outgrew it and when I went back for a replacement the shop was closed, she retired I believe."

Stephen felt faint, as his mum had her back to him he couldn't see properly, what on earth was a pyjama romper suit he wondered? If only they had left for that bus on time they would be almost home now.

Of course, his mum was enthusing. "Oh, look Stephen, a lovely pair of shorty pyjamas, actually if you don't mind Edith, I will use them as a play outfit for Stephen, how sweet, you like Bob the Builder too, don't you Stephen?"

He was aghast, the thin cotton pyjamas consisted of a short sleeved buttoned top and a pair of skimpy shorts, they were light blue and emblazoned with the motif of a cartoon character he liked when he was approximately five.

"I don't like him that much these days mum, I can't see me wearing those to be honest…."

His mum gave him one of her looks. "Stephen! Don't be so ungrateful, you will wear them and be pleased to do so. Now, let's have a look at the other jim-jams….."

Before Mrs Wilding could continue..."Hello, hello." Two heads appeared peering into the living room. "Pardon us, we did knock…."

Are people born unlucky? At that moment Stephen certainly thought he was as the Vicar and Oliver's form teacher entered the room.

Part Three

"Come in, come in, don't be shy." Mrs Evans ushered her two additional guests in and urged them to sit down.

Hyacinth Ledbetter immediately recognised Stephen as a pupil from her school, of course, his short, grey flannel trousers were unmissable, not least because of how incredibly short they actually were. There was perhaps a mere two inches of actual flannel material that comprised the legs of the trousers, Stephen's smooth, milky white skin was visible almost to the very top of his legs.

Gladys Emmanuel had been a nurse who had received a calling and joined the church as middle-aged, recently appointed as vicar of the parish she was building bridges and making contacts within the local community.
She was a large woman of ample proportions and Stephen, who had been inveigled to join the choir, had suffered twice at her propensity to put out of tune hymn singers across her lap for what his mum had said when he had complained, was a "playful spanking".

It turned out that the vicar was liaising with Hyacinth about attending a school assembly later that month and mentioned she was visiting Oliver's mum next, about her role on the parish council. Hyacinth had jumped at the opportunity to accompany the vicar, ostensibly to inquire about Oliver's well-being following the yellow play shorts incident and she was annoyed to learn that Oliver had already been pyjamaed and put to bed.

She was even more upset when she discovered the details that lay behind his early bedtime, to think she had missed witnessing the whole affair. She, therefore, was quite happy to turn her attention to the nervous looking Stephen.

"Mum... the bus," he urged. Felicity Wilding picked up her coat. "Yes, I am afraid we must be off, I need to get Stephen home for his pyjama time." As she spoke she pushed the items donated by Oliver's mum into her bag.

"What times are Stephen's pyjama and bedtime Felicity?"  Enquired the vicar.

"I usually put Stephen into his pyjamas by six o'clock and like him to be tucked up in beddy-byes by seven thirty, so you see we really must catch that bus vicar," Mrs Wilding replied as she began to button up Stephen's gaberdine mackintosh who was, by the way, mortified that his mum was divulging what he considered to be personal information to all those present.

"Well it's twenty to six now," the vicar said looking at her watch, "I can't see you getting Stephen into his jimmy-jams before six thirty at the earliest if you use the bus."

"Don't you have some pyjamas for Stephen right there?" Asked the vicar, pointing at the linen bag his mum had momentarily put aside.

Stephen now began to sense real trouble for himself. He tugged at her sleeve." Mum....., come on, the bus."

But Gladys Emmanuel had an agenda that she was not to be deviated from.

"If you wish," her words came out slowly, "you could put Stephen into pyjamas here, then I can drive you home in plenty of time for little Stephens beddy-bye time."

Apart from the fact that he didn't want to be put into pyjamas at Oliver's house, he had not even seen the damn pyjamas yet. Stephen was also annoyed at being described as "little Stephen", but sensibly he held his counsel as he knew this situation, as far as he was concerned was out of his control.

His mum hesitated, then finally gave in. "well, if you really don't mind, that's very good of you vicar, I wouldn't want to be that late with his pyjama time and it would save such a rush. Isn't it kind Stephen? Say thank you to the vicar," she prompted.

Stephen muttered subdued thanks as his gabardine coat was removed. Why oh why had they been delayed. Stupid Oliver, he thought. All his sympathy for the boy lying trussed up in his bed upstairs had evaporated.

"That's settled then," the vicar confirmed before staring purposefully at Stephen and saying, "Miss Ledbetter and I have no objection to seeing Stephen put into his jimmy jams, do we Hyacinth,  It will be much more convenient for you that he will be jimmy-jammed, all ready to be tucked into bed when you arrive home."

Stephen was outraged at the fact the vicar and Miss Ledbetter had no objection to him wearing pyjamas. What about him? He had no wish to be paraded around in pyjamas in front of Oliver's mum, the vicar and Miss Ledbetter, a teacher from school!

"Mum no, please can't we get the bus home I don't want to put pyjamas on here in front of everyone."

Stephen's mum delivered two quick slaps to the back of his legs, "you're putting pyjamas on and that's that. His mum gave him another slap on his left leg to emphasise her irritation with him. "I've always said that little boys like you overhear too much grown up talk. When will you learn that you don't argue with grown ups?"

Hyacinth Ledbetter almost felt sorry for Stephen as she watched his obvious distress. What amazed her though, was the other women's total acceptance that a fifteen-year-old could be treated as if he were instead, a five year old. Still, she thought, it would be wonderful to see how the situation developed.

Vera Evans poured tea and looked on as her friend Felicity Wilding began to undress Stephen. It had been decided that Stephen, as Oliver before him, would also be subject to a pre-pyjama time wash. His shoes and socks were taken off and his flannel shorts lowered to his ankles, there were red marks on the backs of his legs, courtesy of his mums slaps. He dutifully stepped out of the shorts and his mum removed his shirt and tie before she raised his arms in readiness for his vest to follow suit.

"You know Oliver said the funniest thing the other day as I was getting him ready for bed," Vera Evans began as she handed the vicar a cup of tea. He told me some fanciful story that some boys at school didn't wear pyjamas at all and that their mothers let them stay up late, sometimes until after midnight, would you believe." She laughed.

Mrs Wilding had paused from her task to listen to Oliver's mum. Stephen, his arms still raised in anticipation of his vest being removed couldn't help blurting out. "It is the truth mum, honest it is, I have heard about it too."

Now you must remember that Stephen, at fifteen years of age, had only once in his entire life, not been tucked up in his bed by seven thirty, and that had only been because the taxi taking them home from the wedding had turned up late; and he had already been put into his pyjamas at the reception, and they were his little boy, Thomas the Tank engine winceyette pyjamas too. He still cringed at the memory of that particular humiliating day.

Indeed his bedtime had only been changed twice in his entire life, from six-thirty to seven when he was ten and just recently, to his current seven thirty when he turned fifteen.

In addition, he had certainly never gone to bed without first being dressed in his pyjamas. And I mean dressed. His mum had always taken it upon herself to actually button him up into his pyjama jacket and step him into his pyjama bottoms, now that he was in his sixteenth year she showed no inclination to stop this nightly ritual. No wonder then, he was so eager to believe the stories he had listened to from boys that were often younger than him, that in their world, pyjama times and bedtimes did not exist. Of course, he never admitted that he was subject to just such a strict bedtime regime, instead, he made extravagant claims of late nights and sleeping naked.

"Oh Stephen," his mother said looking amused at Mrs Evans. "They are just teasing you and Oliver, believe you me, every boy at your school has a pyjama time and a bedtime. Isn't that right vicar?"

Gladys Emmanuel smiled benevolently at the almost naked fifteen-year-old, "Of course mummy is right Stephen," she confirmed. "No little boy of your age, or even Oliver's age, would be allowed to stay up so late, only naughty boys would even suggest such a thing, and the very idea of  going to bed without jimmy-jams is... well it just doesn't happen."

"But mum it is true...." Another two sharp slaps to the back of Stephen's legs brought his protests to an abrupt end.

"Now that's enough of this nonsense, " his mum answered sharply, "are you contradicting the vicar? The very thing. Well, I know one little boy who is definitely wearing pyjamas for beddy-byes and that's you. It's pyjama time for you right now."

Seconds later he was divested of his vest and underpants and there he stood, fifteen years old and bare naked in front of four women.

Hyacinth Ledbetter was astonished at the three females complicity in infantilising the boys in their care. she realised the boys at the village school appeared less aggressive than boys she had taught previously and generally they were a lot less mature than the pupils from the girl's school, but one or two of the older boys were tall, with deep voices and the first signs of facial hair. Although now she came to think of it, those boys all came from outside the village and tended to stick together, not mixing with the local pupils. Hyacinth had no doubt that it was those boys who had taunted Stephen and Oliver with their tales of pyjama-less late nights.

Hyacinth had queried with other staff members as to why none of the boys had mobile phones or iPod's and had been told that poor internet connection in the area made them pointless and for that reason, there were few laptops either.

Stephen was standing in four inches of lukewarm water and a sense of despair overwhelmed him. It wasn't too long ago that he had hidden behind his book as Oliver was being stripped and bathed, thankful that it was not him being subjected to the humiliation of a pre-pyjama time wash and now, thanks to bus timetables and the vicar, here he was suffering the same fate.

"I'll just pop his new jimmy jams on the radiator to warm," His mum said, then I just need to pay a visit, could you deal with Stephen please Vera?"

"Mum no!" It was bad enough that here he was, a fifteen-year-old stripped naked and about to be washed and pyjamaed in Oliver's house and now his mum had asked Mrs Evans to actually bathe him.

His mum disappeared, ignoring his protestation. "Stop fussing Stephen," Mrs Evans berated him as she lathered up the flannel. Stephen spluttered and closed his eyes tightly as she gripped his chin.

Stephen, although distraught at the turn of events that had put him in this position, was nevertheless, still programmed to obey and please "grown-ups", it was what his mum had instilled in him over the years, so he stood obediently in the bowl of water as the flannel enveloped his face,  probing behind his ears and the back of his neck. Stephen let out a whimper at the roughness of the cloth flannel.

"What babies you boys are when it comes to being washed," scolded Mrs Evans as her flannel continued its descent down his body.

She worked her way down, lifting his arms up, in turn, to wash under them, then soaping and rinsing his back and chest. "Bend!" She ordered, pushing his neck forward to so that his white skinned bottom presented itself like a new full moon to the vicar and Miss Ledbetter who were watching his ablutions intently.

"Typical boy, why don't you ever wipe properly," tutted Mrs Evans as she inserted the corner of the flannel into his rectum, twisted it a few times and shoved the result under his nose to reveal a tell-tale stain.

"Looks like we will have to tell mummy she will need to start wiping a certain little boy's botty again doesn't it?" She suggested, looking knowingly at the vicar and Miss Ledbetter.

"Goodness me, not another job for mummy to do." Felicity Wilding had returned just in time to overhear the discovery that Stephen was not as diligent as he could be in the bottom wiping department.

"Dirtiness and boys are forever soul mates," said the vicar and ex-nurse Gladys Emmanuel ruefully, as if quoting from the bible.

Stephen now desperately wanted Mrs Evans to finish washing him and his mum to take over, but to his dismay, his mum told Vera Evans to carry on.

"I'll fetch his pyjamas and Dry-Nites." his mum suggested and Stephens embarrassment simply increased as Oliver's mother turned her attention to his crotch. Hyacinth Ledbetter looked on, once more adjusting her position, mesmerised by the tiny, smooth, hairless set of genitals Mrs Evans now had cupped in her hand.

The flannel rapidly went in between his legs several times before she roughly wiped his scrotum as if they were plums in a fruit bowl before she took a hold of his penis.

"Hold still Stephen whilst I wash behind your foreskin, let's hope there is not a cheese factory down there." Mrs Evans pulled his foreskin back to reveal his unsheathed penis.

Vera Evans was obviously very experienced at intimately washing naughty little boys as she wrapped the flannel around his pee-pee. "Goodness what a little tiddler," she laughed somewhat unnecessarily as far as Stephen was concerned.

Stephen was now acutely aware of being on his best behaviour, sometimes, sitting in the bath as his mum washed him down in his special place, he experienced a frisson of pleasure and excitement, he had learnt not to let his mum realise any of this but now he was desperately turning his thoughts to anything other than the reality he was experiencing as Mrs Evans caressed him in his most intimate spot. Having the vicar and Miss Ledbetter watching him closely didn't help.

Finally, Mrs Evans proclaimed, " there, all done, one sparkly clean little boy ready for his jimmy-jams."

His mum moved toward the radiator, "you might as well see if he'll go while I fetch them."

Oliver's mum grabbed hold of his penis again, "come along Stephen, time to make tinkle, there's a good boy."

To his absolute horror, Mrs Evans had grasped his penis and was aiming it for him toward the water in the bowl.

" Why can't I use the toilet?" Stephen cried out. He was mortified as she wiggled his penis around as if she were trying to put out a fire, meanwhile, he was conscious that the vicar and Miss Ledbetter were looking on too because actually, he did need to go, quite badly as it happened.

"Come along Stephen, at this rate it will soon be past your bedtime, never mind your pyjama time." Stephen's mum cajoled.

Despite the bizarre circumstances, Stephen's bladder overruled any qualms he had about peeing in front of four women. "Clever boy," Mrs Evans praised, as she aimed his stream into the water he had just been standing in as if peeing was an accomplishment a fifteen-year-old needed praise for.

It was still disconcerting for Stephen to have her direct his aim for him and even more so as retracted his foreskin to give it a final wash with her trusty flannel.

Hyacinth was astounded to witness the infantilising of Stephen by the three other women, and even more puzzled as to why he was so compliant.

His mum held out the pair of dry-nites pyjamas, taken from Oliver's packet, for him to step into.

"Oh look, Stephen, they're the same ones as yours at home, isn't that sweet." She then made a dinosaur roar sound as if bringing the image on the nappy, for that is what they actually are, to life.

Stephen had noticed this phenomenon before, when his mum was in the company of other women, her behaviour toward him became even more infantile than when they were alone together.

"I don't really need pyjama pants mum, I have just been and...." His mum cut him short as she settled the pyjamas pants on his waist.

"Now Stephen your new pyjamas are special footed one piece pyjamas, once you are wearing them there is no way you can take them off to go to the bathroom so you will always need to wear your dry-nites with them."

It was then, for the first time, as Stephen caught his first glimpse of the monstrosities that his mum held in her hands, that he realised how Oliver had inadvertently paid him back for picking those Toy Story pyjamas from the airing cupboard.

"Let's get those tootsies-wootsies in first in shall we?" His mum asked rhetorically as she placed his pyjamas in front of him. Mrs Evans stood behind Stephen as his mum lifted first one foot, then the other and placed them into the pyjama feet. As she pulled them up, Stephen gasped as the softness of the winceyette material enveloped him. The footed pyjamas were primrose yellow and were emblazoned with faded blue bunnies hopping gaily around a field.

"Oh, how sweet he looks," the vicar volunteered, " he's a darling little boy in his footy jim-jams isn't he Hyacinth?" Miss Ledbetter smiled but she was far too excited by the events unfolding in front of her to do anything other than nod in agreement.

Mrs Wilding beamed with pleasure as she continued dressing her fifteen-year-old son in the most infantile nightwear imaginable.

Vera Evans held Stephens shoulders firmly as she said. "You can see they have been washed many times, I insisted Oliver wore them all the time as they not only stopped him masturbating he also looked so adorable in them too, I was most disappointed he grew out of them last year. I wish I could track Mrs Frederick down so I could get him another pair."

Stephen too was disappointed Oliver had outgrown the ridiculously babyish pyjamas he was currently being dressed in. Unfortunately, Stephen realised he would have to do a lot of growing before he himself could pass them on to some unsuspecting soul, but if Oliver's mum was dressing him in these pyjamas when he was sixteen, Stephen would probably still be wearing them when he was twenty-one he thought ruefully.

If Stephen could have read his mum's mind, he would have learnt she was thinking something similar.
She had loosened the reins too quickly she thought, as she lovingly handled the soft winceyette fabric and looked adoringly at the little bunnies hopping hither and thither. Stephen was becoming a little bit too independent for her liking, it was time, she thought, to tighten those reins again and these pyjamas were the ideal beginning to that end.

With his feet and legs safely surrounded by bunnies, the pyjamas were raised to his midriff. Stephen was told to extend his arms by his mum.

What she actually said was, "hold your handy-pandies out so the little bunnies can climb aboard."
He cringed at her words as his hands wriggled down the soft winceyette sleeves of the bunny pyjamas. His hands pushed past some fairly tight elastic at the cuffs of the sleeves and he was forced to ball them into a fist as they came to a stop. He continued to push, somehow expecting his hands to appear before he realised this was not going to happen, his balled up hands were encased in what looked like a plastic orb of shiny white plastic, to Stephens dismay his hands were now rendered useless, he decided he had had enough.

"Mum, take these off me, these are pyjamas for a baby and I won't wear them......."

At last, the boy is showing some fight thought Hyacinth Ledbetter, not knowing if she was pleased or not.

Felicity Wilding, however, was in no mood to compromise.

"Nonsense Stephen," began his mum, "my little bunnikins looks adorable in his footie jimmy-jams, you will be wearing them all the time from now on, you look so...so.... so ready for bed!"

She was so excited by the sight of her fifteen-year-old son wearing his bunny rabbit, winceyette footed pyjamas, she could barely find her words.

Mrs Evans meanwhile, was busily buttoning the pyjamas up from behind him as he made his protest.

"Oliver was just the same, complaining about the lovely bunny rabbits, boys are such silly-billies aren't they? Now, just let me just set that collar correctly, then there's this last button to go."

Stephen didn't think he was a silly-billy at all although, while making his futile protest, he had forgotten that Mrs Evans was still buttoning up the pyjamas from behind him. Somehow he had failed to notice the large Peter Pan collar trimmed with lace that now sat smugly below his chin. It had been sewed onto the neckline of the pyjamas and the last button at the back of the pyjamas closed the collar around the wearer's neck, below the collar was there was also a small ruffled bodice of lace, presumably to enhance the collar, or perhaps Mrs Frederick just has some lace left over. Either way, Stephen was not a happy bunny, and who could blame him?

"It's lacy.... mum the collar has lace on it!" Stephen almost shouted his distaste at the effeminate conclusion to the infantile pyjamas.

His mum smoothed down the bunny emblazoned collar. "Oh Stephen, you look adorable, hop over here and come and see," she urged leading him toward a cheval mirror that stood in Mrs Evans front room.

Stephen was appalled at the sight of himself. The lacy trim to the pyjamas was the final humiliation. He was fifteen years, he had been stripped then intimately bathed in four inches of water by his friends mum, then dressed in a pair of the most ridiculously infantile, babyish, footed pyjamas possibly ever sewn, primrose yellow winceyette material, sporting frolicking, stupid blue bunnies, while his hands were confined in vinyl mittens.

"I hate them," he said, as he stared disbelievingly at himself in the mirror.

"Well you had better get used to them, as I said, I expect you will be wearing your lovely pyjamas more often than not, besides, your page boy outfit has a lace collar and you love wearing that to church, don't you? Now, go and say thank you to Aunty Vera for giving you your lovely new pyjamas."

Stephen knew not to argue and compliantly recited his mum's words to Mrs Evans in front of Miss Ledbetter and the vicar. "Thank you, Aunty Vera, for giving me my lovely new pyjamas."

Hyacinth knew that Stephen was merely doing as he was told, but she was aware the three other women thought that a fifteen-year-old boy, saying thank you for being dressed in a baby bunny romper pyjama suit was perfectly acceptable.

"You're quite welcome Stephen, I am so glad they fit and suit you so well." She beamed a glorious smile at him and patted his head. She was genuinely delighted that he was wearing her sons cast off pyjamas.

"I shall get Stephen to write a thank you note to you and Oliver tomorrow too," his mum proclaimed.

Stephen took a deep breath, forcing himself to remain calm, after all, what else could possibly happen to make matters worse?