Tuesday, 15 December 2015

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mrs Franks patted his nappies through his teddy bear pyjama.

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

Monday, 14 December 2015

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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."