Mrs Green always said that as long as Anthony lived under her roof he had to abide by her rules. Sadly for Anthony, at almost twenty two years old, he had never escaped his mother's malign influence. It was true, that on his twenty first birthday he had been granted a new bedtime of 9 pm, half an hour later than the 8.30 bedtime he had been given at age eighteen, but his pyjama time had remained at 7 pm since he was a thirteen. An hour ago, as she indicated it was time for his bath, Anthony had rebelled.

"Mother, I am twenty one. Far too old for a bedtime and a pyjama time. Also, I am quite capable of taking a bath unsupervised."

He had been sure this confident, adult approach would hold sway with his mother. Even though, at the time of his speech we had been wearing, red plastic sandals, white knee socks, and a pair of yellow, bibbed play shorts.

Sadly his mother had not been impressed with his outburst. Half an hour later, Anthony had been divested of his play clothes, and whilst being most intimately bathed, reminded by her with a mouth soaping, that he always had, and always would refer to her as mummy.

As she buttoned him into his pyjama jacket and stepped him into his pyjama bottoms, mummy mentioned that perhaps he was too immature for "big boy pyjamas," 

She would have a word with Aunty Angela and ask her to sew him some new jimmy-jams that were more suitable for little boys who have temper tantrums about pyjama times and bedtimes. Which, incidentally, now that he had mentioned it, would be changed immediately. From tomorrow, she told her twenty one year old son, his pyjama time would be put back to 5.30 and his bedtime would be 7.30. 

Then, she took him across her lap and re-introduced him to the services of Mr Paddle and regular bedtime spankings, just in case Anthony was tempted to question her authority again.

mogg stories. mogg has posted a brand new story on his site after a bit of an absence. Well worth a read.

Bathed and Pyjamaed by Miss Jacobson

My aunt was adamant that I should arrive early as she wanted me to attend her sewing club meeting. Unfortunately, work and getting caught in traffic because of the sunny weather, delayed my arrival until 1.15 pm.

Brandishing flowers hastily bought at a petrol station, I entered my aunts house. I was confronted by Miss Jacobson sitting primly on the sofa. “For me, ” She asked serenely, “I thought not,” she said, answering her own question.

"Flowers will not help your situation, your aunt is furious with you for being late, where have you been?"

Taken aback by her tone I became flustered. "I.. er, that is.. I tried to ring" I lied. She held her hand up and like a child I obediently stopped talking.

"Enough. Your aunt has gone to collect Mrs Gotobed and Miss Goodnight herself, a task she intended you to undertake, what do you have to say for yourself?" I stared at, then shuffled my feet.

"She never mentioned it." I mumbled, then rambled on again about the traffic. Miss Jacobson sighed as she listened as I dug myself a deeper and deeper hole. She amused herself by removing non-existent threads from her white cotton, long sleeved blouse.

She beckoned me toward her. "Your aunt has asked me to take care of you until she returns and I think the first thing you require is a smacked bottom."

Full of indignation, I became angry. "Absolutely not, I haven't done anything wrong apart from being late. In hindsight, it wasn't the best of arguments. Miss Jacobson stood up, towering as usual above me, she grabbed my chin and squeezed so hard that I thought my jaw would break.

"You silly little boy, do you really think you have a say in the matter? Well you don't. You don't decide if you are to be spanked, you don't decide when and what pyjamas you will wear and you don't decide your bedtime. Whilst you are here all your decisions are made for you. You're just a naughty little boy. Do you understand?"

She released her grip. "Yes Miss Jacobson," I whispered, my status well and truly established as she ordered me to stand still while she unfastened my suit trousers which immediately fell to the floor.

Miss Jacobson resumed her seat on the sofa. "Over you go." She commanded  pointing to her lap

Once I was balanced across her lap, Miss Jacobson pushed back my underwear and proceed to spank me in her usual manner. Before she began, she made circular motions on my buttocks with the palm of her hand. Suddenly, she give me six rapid smacks on each buttock.

"One, two, three, four, five, six." She shouted as she delivered the initial spanking.

"One, two, three, four, five, six."

I was writhing around on her lap but her firm grip held me firm across her lap.

Again the caressing of her palms before......"One, two, three, four, five, six."

"One, two, three, four, five, six."

The tears flowed as my body arched and twisted in a futile attempt to escape her grasp.

As her hands once more again circled my burning bottom, I knew I could take no more.

"Please stop, I apologise for being late and I'm very sorry for being a naughty boy."

I was full of contempt for myself as I admitted my guilt but my only wish was for the spanking to cease.

Miss Jacobson released me from her formidable grasp and wrinkled her nose in disgust. "The second thing you require, judging by the odour pervading the room is a good wash. Come along, it's bath time for you."

It was true enough, my shirt was sticking to me, my bottom was on fire and a bath seemed very appealing. I went to pull up my trousers, "oh no," she said, "leave them around your ankles, you can waddle upstairs like a naughty little boy."

Sniffling, I trudged slowly and with difficulty up the stairs with Miss Jacobson cajoling me from behind.

I undressed in the bedroom I used at my aunts, I heard the sound of water cascading into the bathtub cease. "It's ready." With a towel wrapped around me I walked past Miss Jacobson at the door and into the bathroom. I heard the door and realised Miss Jacobson was behind me. She ripped away my towel and gave my sore bottom a quick spank. 

"Ow! What are you doing? Get out," I shouted, attempting to cover myself with my hands. Miss Jacobson was smiling and tying on a bibbed plastic apron.

"Come along, in you get." She twisted my ear lobe, stepping me into the water. Kneeling alongside she lathered up the flannel. For the next five minutes I was subjected to a thorough and intimate wash. As much as I remonstrated she continued to clean every orifice and crevice on my body.

"Oh stop fussing, there's nothing to complain about, " she said as she none to gently inserted a flannel between my buttocks.

"Look at this, you dirty boy. Judging by this, you need to be put back into nappies." Miss Jacobson thrust the stained flannel under my nose and I blushed, looking away to avert my eyes from the evidence of my tardiness as I stepped out of the bath.

Miss Jacobson wrapped a towel around me and ushered me out of the bathroom. "Right, let's get you dried and into some lovely cosy jim-jams all ready for beddy-byes before your aunt returns."

"But it's too early for pyjamas. "I howled childishly.

"Do you want another spanking?" I shook my head. 

"Your aunt asked me to have you wearing pyjamas by the time she returns and I for one do not intend to let her down, unlike some."  She added pointedly. 

"But I don't want to put jim-jams on yet, I'm a grown up." 

 I only realised how childish I sounded when Miss Jacobson slapped my legs.
"A grown up? Don't be silly, you don't even know how to wipe your bottom properly. No you are and will always be a naughty little boy. And little boys like you have to put their jimmy-jams on after their bath, you don't get to decide, understand?"

Instead of asserting myself, all I could do was utter a very feeble, "yes Miss Jacobson."

"You will learn that it's never too early for you to be dressed in pyjamas and the sooner you realise that the better." Miss Jacobson then began to dry between my legs and unfortunately I began to rise to the occasion, enjoying the attention.

"Oh my, it appears someone needs their pyjamas on very quickly to hide this little problem," laughed Miss Jacobson. Then, to my utter horror, she grabbed my prominence in her hand and towed me to my bedroom. I blushed furiously as she made me stand to attention with my hands on my head, my short lived excitement rapidly diminishing.

She rummaged through my pyjama drawer. "Yes, these will do nicely," she exclaimed, brandishing triumphantly a pair of brown, paisley patterned Marks & Spencer winceyette pyjamas. My heart sank, I hated those pyjamas.

Miss Jacobson held the pyjama bottoms open for me to step into. Quickly, she tied the pyjama cord so tightly that I gasped for breath. 

"Oh stop whinging on, you don't want your pyjama bottoms falling down do you?" She teased as she offered up the sleeves of the pyjama jacket for me to slide my arms into.  She was obviously enjoying my discomfort as she slowly buttoned up the jacket. 

"There, that's better." She announced as she fastened the top button of my pyjamas. "A little boy wearing his little boy pyjamas Now, put on your slippers and we'll get you back downstairs."

We arrived just as aunty and her book club members returned. "Well, well," said my aunt. "I see you have turned up at last." She held up her hand to silence me as I began to speak.

"I don't want to hear any of your feeble excuses, I can see Miss Jacobson has been taking good care of you. I am very pleased to see you dressed in your pyjamas ready for bed." She then addressed Miss Jacobson. "Any tardiness in my nephews behaviour?" 

Miss Jacobson looked at me and then back to aunty. "I had to put him across my knee for a deserved spanking then he received a good scrubbing in the bathtub. I am afraid his personal hygiene is not all it should be so we may need to resort to nappies before long.  Then I put him into those lovely jimmy jams I found in his pyjamas drawer, doesn't he look very spankable wearing them?" 

Mrs Gotobed, upon seeing my paisley pyjamas caressed my bottom. "What lovely pyjamas you're wearing. I for one wouldn't mind spanking this naughty botty before the little boy's bedtime." She said, giggling the whole time.

Miss Goodnight joined in. "What time is his bedtime? I want to lower his jammies bottoms and put him over my knee too." Aunty looked at the clock on the mantelpiece.

"Let me see, it is 4 pm now, by the time he prepares and serves our afternoon tea and washes up it will be 5 pm, shall we say 30 minutes of corner time, so beddy-byes by about 5.30?" 

The ladies universally agreed that 5.30 was an ideal time for me to go to bed. Miss Arbuthnot then put in her two penny worth. "I have a little idea, why don't I pin a little sign onto the back of his pyjama jacket inviting anyone who feels the need to give him a spanking to do so?" Aunty clapped her hands in delight. "A marvellous idea Miss Arbuthnot. My naughty nephew should have plenty of spankings before bedtime."

Aunty sat down and patted her lap, "Come here," aunty sat me on her knee and putting her arm around my shoulder she asked. "Have you thanked Miss Jacobson for looking after you so well? She is an ideal babysitter for you, isn't she?" 

I shook my head, meaning I didn't think she should baby-sit me but aunty exclaimed, "well I definitely think you should thank her." Aunty drew me closer and whispered to me. "No aunty please, I don't want to." Aunty put me off her lap and ushered me toward Miss Jacobson who was now sitting on the sofa chatting to Mrs Gotobed.

Then, as aunty had instructed, I approached Miss Jacobson 

"Thank you for looking after me so well by bathing me and choosing these lovely pyjamas for me to wear." 

I put my arms around her and gave her a hug and kissed her cheek. Everyone laughed at my pathetic antics and I scurried off shamefaced to prepare the afternoon tea.

A Pyjama Punishment Monthly letter from an Agnes Jacobson, it couldn't be could it?

Dear Pyjama Punishment Monthly

I must tell you about my marvellous neighbour Madame Peine who, having spent many years living and working in France, only returned to these shores after being widowed. It is her that I have to thank for recommending the excellent methods that have been so efficient in disciplining my wayward son. 

Because she lived next door, and her own three daughters were the victims of some stupid jokes and cat-calls from Andrew over the back garden fence, she immediately recognised the problems I was experiencing with his behaviour and suggested that she would be willing to help implement the cure herself.


Since I worked each day, I eagerly accepted her offer and was amazed at how quickly her methods took effect, as I witnessed one afternoon.


Even though it was not quite 3.30 I could see Andrew being dressed for bed by Madame Peine. His pink gingham romper suit already lay discarded on the floor. I watched as she unfolded his winceyette, baby girl pyjamas. The cream ones with the sweet little frolicking lambs on and the darling little Peter Pan collar. Madame was having great success in fashioning a whole new baby girl wardrobe for Lambikins, his new sissy name.


Andrew had thrown a little tantrum at being dressed for bed so early in such babyish girls' pyjamas and I was amused at how quickly his demeanour had become that of a small child rather than his true age. Madame quickly stopped his nonsense by the award of one spanking ticket, her simple but effective way of maintaining discipline. Soon he was sitting cross-legged on the floor watching 'Bananas in Pyjamas' video while sucking obediently on his dummy. 


"Hello, Lambikins, Mummy’s home." Startled at my sudden appearance he jumped to his feet, the loose-fitting pyjamas hanging baggily upon him. His dummy fell from his mouth and swung loosely from the ribbon pinned to his pyjama jacket.


"G-Good afternoon Mummy," he stuttered. I bent down toward him proffering my cheek as he reluctantly kissed me, unwilling to forgo the attraction of the Bananas video.


You may wonder why an older boy like Andrew was avidly watching a toddler's' TV programme, well it is all down to the admirable Madame Peine. She has painstakingly compiled five questions on each episode of Bananas in Pyjamas, and each incorrect answer earns Andrew a spanking ticket, five tickets earns an over the knee spanking, usually administered for maximum humiliation in front of Madame's crème de la crème’ from her lady friends, who have been especially selected to witness and enhance Andrew's humiliation at being subject to babying and pyjama punishment. "One spanking ticket for not waving goodbye, that makes four today, Lambikins," Madame informed him with some relish. "Was Lambikins watching close enough I wonder?" Andrew sat on the floor; hands clasped together and back ramrod straight as Madame consulted her list of questions.I sat Andrew on my lap and admired the needle-craft of Madame Peine.


"Madame, Lambikins looks so sweet in these baby girl pyjamas I want him to wear them at his special tea party. Is everything ready?" I asked.


I had an extremely nervous Andrew on my lap. "Tea party, what tea party?" he asked, squirming in my arms anxiously.


I held him tightly as I told him about the invitations I had delivered to his friends; I showed him an invite; on it was a picture of a sweet little girl dressed in a swishy pink party dress holding a balloon, and she was saying:


Master Andrew Fairchild requests the presence of …… at four thirty for jelly and ice cream, followed by a concert of Baby Bunting, and other nursery songs. Little Master Fairchild will then be escorted to beddy-byes at six o’clock prompt.


His face turned pale. "What’s the matter?" I teased in baby talk, "Doesn’t my lickle Lambikins want to see his fwends, and sing Baby, Baby Bunting for them? There are some nice girls coming, Lambikins."     

Tears filled his eyes at the thought of singing his little song dressed in his baby girl jim-jams. "If you don’t want them to come I suppose you could ring and tell them that you will be too busy being my little Lambikins to see them."


Andrew seized the opportunity and I listened with satisfaction as he effectively excommunicated his friends.


"It was just a joke by my Mother there is no party. No, of course I don’t have a bedtime. Sorry I won’t have time to see you for a while. No, don’t ring or come round."

This was the gist of his frantic calls. Such was his relief at avoiding such a humiliating experience he almost welcomed the attention of Madame Peine. Fortunately, he was unaware of what was to follow.” Now then my poppet," said Madame as she hoisted him into her arms, "who is going to eat all this food now that your friends aren’t coming?" The table was full of childish food, jelly, cakes, and of course ice cream. "Will the little lambs want some do you think?"  She pointed to the lambs on his pyjamas as she slipped him into his high chair and lowered the food tray.


"Answer Madame Peine, Lambikins." I prompted.


"Maybe," he replied hesitantly, uncertain of how to reply. "Don’t be a silly Lambikins; the lambs on your baby jammies can’t eat ice cream, can they? Never mind sweet one," she laughed as she tied a pink towelling bib around his neck, "I know just the people to help you eat up all your lovely party food." She opened the window and called out, and across came her three little girls from next door, none of whom liked Andrew very much."Oh my, I like your pyjamas Lambikins, what darling little lambs, my baby cousin has a pair just like them but she’s only three," teased Melanie. '' Are you going to beddy-byes shortly? I do hope you are going to sing a song for us."


Andrew blushed furiously and was helpless as I enhanced his embarrassment by pouring juice into a big sippy cup for him to use. The girls giggled at Andrew and fed him ice cream that became smeared over his face. They messily wiped his chin with his pink bib, while he sat still in helpless embarrassment.


Quickly though they became absorbed in devouring the party food, and left poor Andrew to sit unhappily in his high chair until Madame Peine wiped his face properly clean and lifted him down from the chair. "Come along girls, time for our baby Lambikins to prepare for beddy-byes."


A mad scramble ensued as the girls rushed to find seats. Meanwhile, Andrew had begun to whimper, "Please Mummy, I don’t want to go to bed yet. Please send the girls away.” Now Lambikins, you know very well why you are being punished, so just do as you are told and concentrate on remembering your darling little song. The girls and I are looking forward to it immensely. Now off you go with Madame."


As we waited, the girls excitedly showed me the projects that Madame had set them to enhance Andrew’s new wardrobe. I was overwhelmed as I examined the gorgeous bonnet that was nearly finished, save for the frill to be added. Made from the same pink gingham as his romper suit, I commented on how it would protect Andrew from the sun when he began to take his naps in the garden.


The mittens and matching booties that had been knitted in soft white wool would complement perfectly his long, white flannelette nightie. Once Madame had supplied the lace for the bodice, we could enjoy a truly babified and petticoated Lambikins, snugly dressed for beddy-byes. 


Face washed, and teeth cleaned, Andrew appeared in front of us clutching his teddy bear. Madame Peine now asked him to recite his little nursery rhyme for the girls:


"Baby, baby bunting,


Daddy's gone a-hunting,


To get a little rabbit skin


To wrap our baby bunting in....." 

Just as Madame had taught him, the last line was his cue to give a little curtsey. The girls broke into spontaneous applause and laughter, urging us to order an encore. Andrew’s face was beetroot red with embarrassment, and I was sorely tempted to comply, but Madame was already beckoning Andrew toward her. "Well done Sugarplum," she praised, "but next time I want to see more enthusiasm at the final flourish."

Madame lowered his pyjama bottoms once again and settled him on her lap. Displaying her years of experience, she expertly powdered his bottom and pinned him snugly into his fluffy, white night time nappies.


"There, all ready for night-night aren’t we, tuppence." She gave him a babyish wet kiss on his cheek and then lay him face down across her knees. "Did Lambikins think Madame Peine had forgotten baby’s punishment?" she asked the hapless Andrew, as she gave him a few smacks on his heavily nappied bottom.


The girls were spellbound at witnessing Andrews’s spanking. He cried out for Madame to stop, not because she had hurt him, but because of his utter humiliation. He felt faint, and at last, he was beginning to learn his lesson.


Madame Peine effortlessly lifted Andrew into her arms. Her large frame easily allowed her to balance my diminutive son in the classic, carried-to-bed position. One arm supported his weight while the other, firmly clasped around his torso, kept him securely snuggled to her as his arm curled instinctively around her shoulders, the other hugging his beloved teddy bear. His dummy was inserted, and the girls oohed and ahhed at baby’s predicament. 

"Say goodnight to Sleepyhead girls, it’s after six o’clock now, far too late for tired babies to be up."


They each bade poor Andrew goodnight as if he was a sweet little baby girl being put to bed, instead of a much older male.


"Come back tomorrow afternoon girls, and I will show you how I bathe our little Lambikins." Andrew’s eyes widened in horror as he heard Madame’s words but the only reaction he could muster was to suck his dummy louder and faster.


Madame smiled as she carried the hapless pyjama-clad Andrew off to beddy-byes, and I could only reflect on how lucky he and I both were to have such an expert practitioner of petticoat and bedtime discipline.


Please continue to demonstrate to other desperate mothers, wives, and aunts, how your petticoating and babying methods can result in such a brilliant success as Madame has achieved with Andrew.

Thank you very much,


Agnes Jacobson

Husband's Early Bedtime.

"Now sweetheart we discussed this earlier. Didn't I explain that my friends were coming over for drinks at seven and I wanted you ready for bed by then. Yet here it is ten minutes past and you still haven't put your pyjamas on. Do you want me to undress you and put you into your jimmy-jams myself here in front of everyone? No, I thought not. So run upstairs like a good boy and put your Thomas the Tank pyjamas and slippers on then come down so you can say night-night to my friends. I want you in bed by seven-thirty, I'll come and tuck you in and we'll talk about what punishment I will administer for your disobedience in the morning."

My Weekend of Pyjama Corner Time

In the naughty corner for three consecutive afternoons from Friday and for what? Forgetting to bring Miss Jacobson's birthday presents down with me, that's what. Honestly, a new pair of slippers and a tin of Celebrations chocolates isn't worth three spankings, three afternoon pyjamarings, three corner times and three early bedtimes. Aunty and Miss Jacobson thought differently and their old slippers worked perfectly well on my backside I can tell you.

St Cuthbert's Residential Facility. Peter Amas has contributed a great story of Gothic Horror. An enforced pyjamaring ensues after a strange encounter.

The Visit

It was miserable outside. Condensation ran down the inside of the bus windows as the moisture from damp clothing evaporated in the muggy heat. It was impossible to see without constantly wiping the window for a glimpse of the passing countryside. 

The vehicle was busy as it was the only public transport route to St. Cuthbert's Residential facility. Running once a month exclusively for visitors, it was the only way without a car to get to the hospital tucked away in a wooded valley several miles from the village.

Ian Kirkpatrick had been on the bus for over an hour as it wound its way over mountain and heath. He had travelled up overnight on the train from the south and picked up the bus in the village. He felt exhausted but the rough undulating road kept him awake despite not having slept for many hours 

Having spent most of his life in care, Ian had spent years trying to piece together his past. In his small rucksack were the few artefacts he had managed to collect which illustrated his life. They were incredibly important to him yet he knew little of their significance or what they depicted. He had a number of old black and white photos, a heavily worn leather-bound Bible and a green felt patch with a picture of a saint sewn on a scrap of printed canvas.

Possibly, somewhere in these possessions lay his past. He was visiting St Cuthbert’s in the belief that a resident, a certain Agnes Grieg, may be able to give him some new information about his parentage, he hoped his photos may jog her memory. 

Surrounded by a twenty-foot-high wall St Cuthbert's was an old Gothic type institution. As the bleak, grey limestone building came into view, Ian thought how it was an anachronistic monolith to a bygone age and our inhumane treatment of those less fortunate than us. Yet here was a legacy of that age caring for people who would have nowhere else to go. 

The bus drew up outside the main entrance and the passengers began to alight and traipse up the steps in small groups. Ian was last to exit the bus. As he alighted, the driver was busy unfolding his newspaper and lighting up a cigarette.

“I’m leaving at three thirty so make sure you are back in time, it’s a long way back to the village.” Ian nodded and thanked him.

As the other visitors made their way to the main entrance, Ian paused to look up at the imposing edifice that was St. Cuthbert's. “What a gloomy place,” he murmured to himself before pressing on to catch up with the rest. 

As he entered the building he realised he had lost sight of the group. They had disappeared.

He turned full circle and saw he was being approached by two women in nursing whites. "Is this your first time here young man?" asked the tall one. Actually, they were both very tall, much taller than he was. 

"Y...y...yes,” he stuttered. He had always been nervous around authority figures.

“My name is Ian, I'm here about……." He fumbled for his documents.

Interrupted before he could continue, he was told curtly, "You will need to be registered, come along, we will escort you."

The two nurses fell into step beside him down a long corridor, passing through two huge oak doors and continuing until they came to the registration office. 

Stopping outside a panelled door, one of the nurses gave two knocks. He felt a little anxious as a loud, officious woman’s voice boomed, "come in." 

The three of them entered a room with oak panelling set around the walls and a large oak desk set off to the left. Behind a desk sat a humourless looking woman in a formal grey business outfit. A white blouse, fully buttoned to the neck and adorned with a cameo brooch particularly caught his eye. Around her neck was a lanyard with her ID. Ian already knew her title before she spoke. 

“My name is Dr Grimshaw and I am the chief administrator responsible for all the residents here.”

Positioned in front of the desk was a red, leather-covered chair. Behind Dr Grimshaw was a grey filing cabinet with three drawers. Another door, with half frosted glass, led off to the right of the desk. The sharpness of the light coming through the glass gave an impression of something beyond that was quite clinical. 

The nurses led him to the red leather chair that squeaked embarrassingly as he sat down.

Dr Grimshaw was staring at a form in front of her. "Mr Kirkpatrick, you are here for registration, you fully understand what this entails?” 

She asked, without looking up. Ian nodded as a way of reply while she continued to fill in the form. 

Ian again tried to explain the purpose of his visit but the nurses that remained standing on either side of him placed their hands on his arms and indicated for him to be quiet. 

After ten minutes of answering bizarre questions, Ms Grimshaw put the form in front of Ian and asked him to read and sign the bottom of the page. The form was over three pages long so he merely scribbled his signature and passed the form back to her.

Ian was mindful of the driver's words. ”Perhaps I can see Agnes now? I haven’t much time before I have to return for the bus back to the village.” 

Dr Grimshaw stood up and put the form in the second drawer of the filing cabinet marked K-S.

“Now, Ian,” she smiled falsely as she turned to face him. “Nurse Gotobed and Nurse Ratched will take you where you need to be, not to worry, you will be taken care of.

Reassured, the two nurses led him through the half frosted glass door. They walked for a minute before stopping outside what Ian thought was to be the meeting place, he was told to take a seat. Nurse Ratched left while Nurse Gotobed remained stood alongside him.

He was now seriously worried about missing the bus and was getting a little anxious. He had a habit of rubbing his hands along his thighs when anxious and was now doing this quite vigorously, he also had trouble getting his words out correctly when he was flustered and by now he was definitely anxious and flustered.

Two minutes later the door opened and Nurse Ratched asked Ian to enter. As he did the door was locked behind him. He was expecting to see Agnes but instead, found himself in a large room with two old fashioned ceramic white baths, one of which was filled with water. 

"What’s g..g..going on? I’m s..s...supposed to be v..v..visiting Agnes g..g..Grieg, I have to be b..b..back on the b..b..bus for half three."  He stammered.

Nurse Ratched held her hands up in conciliation. “Calm down Ian, we have to give you a bath and get you ready before we can proceed, it’s our policy.”

“B..b..but why do I need a b..b..bath," he blurted. Nurse Gotobed took his arm and propelled him forward.

“Enough of this nonsense. All new admissions are required to take a bath before they are admitted." 

The two nurses grabbed Ian by the arms and marched him toward a stainless steel gurney. He was strapped down as Nurses Ratched and Gotobed loomed over him brandishing two pairs of tailors scissors. Quickly, his clothes, his best-visiting clothes were cut from his body leaving him quite naked.

"W..w... what?” yelled Ian, I am not b..b..being admitted I am here to v..v..visit Ages. I wrote a f..f..few weeks ago and was told to c..c..come today. You’re m..m..making a m..m..mistake.” 

As he pleaded his case, his voice broke and he sobbed the last few words. 

"Don't be silly Ian, we know why you are here. We will have you better in no time once you accept you need our help."

Nurse Ratched approached him brandishing a syringe. He felt the needle enter a vein and within seconds he could feel the effects. His muscles relaxed and he stopped struggling. The nurses removed his restraints. He begged that they let him go and return to the bus, however his plea fell on deaf ears as they easily lowered him into the bath. 

The water seemed to sap more of his strength and he was helpless as the two nurses, none too gently, used brushes and carbolic soap to scrub his body into submission.

As they lifted Ian from the bath, his legs were unable to support himself and he felt grateful to be sat in a wheelchair.

Ian noticed a pair of old fashioned, red striped winceyette pyjamas on a cupboard shelf. Nurse Ratched took the pyjama jacket and slowly began to place Ian’s arms into the sleeves. Although his skin was still damp, he felt the warm winceyette against his body. It felt sublime and he became totally submissive as Nurse Gotobed slowly buttoned up his pyjamas jacket from the bottom upward until she finished with the final top button that ensured he was buttoned up to the neck. The pyjama top was very long and the sleeves extended far past his hands, indeed they flapped about as he curiously lifted his arms to examine the softness of the material.

“There now, doesn’t that feel better? “She cooed, as Nurse Ratched handed her the striped pyjama bottoms. Nurse Gotobed placed both his feet into the bottoms which had puddled on the floor and eased the length of both pyjama legs until they bunched around his calf muscles.

Nurse Ratched stood behind him and grasping his waist hoisted him upwards. The pyjama bottoms were then pulled up, great swathes of the pyjama jacket material were encompassed by the waist of the pyjama bottoms as the top was tucked into the bottoms. Ian couldn't help but feel a twinge of excitement as the winceyette material caressed his groin before the pyjama cord was tied securely. 

Nurse Gotobed placed a plastic bracelet around his left wrist, he had time to make out his name and a number before brown tartan carpet slippers were placed on his feet and a tartan woollen dressing gown placed around his shoulders. As the wheelchair began to move he noticed that ‘Property of St Cuthbert's' was embroidered on the pocket of the gown.  He wondered if that now also applied to him.

Despite his medication, he was aware that corridors and rooms contained men and women all dressed in pyjamas. Some wore red or blue striped pyjamas and some were wearing paisley pyjamas and some wore ladies floral pyjamas. The strangest thing was, some of the men wore floral and some of the women wore stripes and paisley. 

The two Nurses turned into a room and placed Ian beside a single bed facing a window. A vertical row of shelves held what Ian groggily perceived to be a  selection of various male and female pyjamas.

The two women easily lifted him from the wheelchair onto the bed, the bedclothes already turned back. His pyjama cord was unfastened and the bottoms yanked down. Nurse Ratched turned to the bedside cabinet and reached in. Ian’s legs were hoisted upwards and something was slid underneath him. It was only when he heard the sound of velcro fasteners that he realised he was being put into a nappy. He began to struggle but was still weak, Nurse Ratched easily pushed him back and his head sank into the pillow.

“Don’t be a naughty boy or nurse will spank his naughty botty." She scolded. "All residents must wear protection in bed until their needs can be medically assessed.”

Ian was compliant as his pyjama bottoms were pulled up and re-tied, too light-headed to protest further. The nurses pulled up the bedclothes and tucked him in. As the door closed, Ian heard a key turn in the lock.

With difficulty, he lifted his head. Looking out of the window he could see the gates where they had driven in. He watched the bus leave the grounds. 

The driver was right. It would be a long way back to the village.

Pete Amas has sent in another story that continues Peterkins adventures with Celia and Winifred.

Almost a year had passed since Peter had come under the spell of Winifred and Celia.

Not once during that time had he experienced getting up and dressing in normal day clothes.

His life was transformed into a simple routine of being awoken and divested of his pyjamas by Celia as Winifred ran a piping hot bath. Once he had been thoroughly washed and bathed he was dressed in an exquisite pair of soft winceyette pyjamas and taken down for breakfast.

Over the year, and due in part to Peter's complete lack of activity, he had put on a considerable amount of weight which Winifred and Celia dealt with by putting him into ridiculous oversized pyjamas. In addition, Peter had noticed some unusual changes in his body shape. He now had a rather feminine, pear-shaped bottom and was developing large breasts which sagged painfully beneath his pyjama top. It was also almost a year since his last erection, despite the deliriously sensual nature of his day time pyjamarings.

Winifred and Celia commented on his changing shape and the loss of his virility. They often teased that he was becoming a pretty woman.

The thought had occurred to Peter that both women were working toward just such an outcome but what could he do? He was completely in their power and no-one had noticed his disappearance. 

The morning had started just like any other with Peter being bathed by the two sisters. However, when it came to getting dressed, Peter noticed an unusual pair of pyjamas draped over the radiator. They were pale pink with little lavender and green flowers. 

Winifred helped him step out the bath as Celia wrapped a voluminous soft cerise bathrobe around him. The two women dried him vigorously and sprinkled rose perfumed talc beneath the folds of skin on his breasts and between his legs.

“Now Peterkins, we have an exquisite pair of women pyjamas for you to wear today. We have had them made especially and the time has come for you to begin your transformation.”

As Celia spoke, Winifred gathered the pyjamas from the radiator where they had warmed. Slowly, she shook out the pyjama jacket and approached Peterkins, holding the top by the shoulders. Celia offered his arms toward the jacket, as both his arms went into the sleeves together as Winifred pulled the top toward his back. Peterkins realised that the pyjama top buttoned up from behind and had a very sissy, pleated front. He blushed, deeply embarrassed but did not object at being forced to wear such pretty, feminine jim-jams. 

As Winifred fastened the top button he noted his hands were incapacitated. The sleeves were fitted with padded mittens, forcing his hands into helpless curled up balls. What on earth was he being made to wear?

Celia approached him clutching the pyjama bottoms and created a puddle of flannel on the floor but instead of being put into them, Winifred stepped him instead into an adult incontinence nappy.

It had been a while since he had wet the bed that first night and he had not felt the exquisite caress of a nappy between his legs since. Closing up the nappy with a sprinkle of talc, Winifred patted his manhood and instructed Celia to complete his pyjamaring. 

Celia guided his right foot as she began to pull up the pyjama bottoms. He could feel the softness of the flannel as it caressed his legs. He leaned on Celia's shoulders as she placed his left foot into the bottoms. He had a problem as he could not get his foot to the bottom of the leg. It was then he realised the ankles were elasticised and the bottoms footed. Celia helped ease the elastic over his ankles and swiftly pulled the bottoms fully up. She finished his pyjamaring by tucking and buttoning the top to the bottoms.

Turning Peterkins sideways to look in the full length mirror. He realised that with his hands immobilised, there was no way he could remove his pyjamas by himself. The only part of his body not encased in the softest flannel was his head. He was disturbed at how feminine he looked but he liked what he saw and felt strangely aroused. 

Over the year, his hair had grown quite long, almost to his shoulders and with his pear-shaped bottom and visible bosom he looked like a pretty, though slightly plump woman.

Viewing his entire pyjama outfit for the first time in detail, he saw how exquisite the tiny lilac and green flower pattern on the pale pink background was and the faux Peter Pan collar with pleats falling from his bosom. Not his usual bedtime attire at all.

He could not resist caressing his body through mitten clad hands but was somehow disconnected from reality. He felt incredibly sensuous and aroused but could feel nothing stirring below. His manhood now totally neutered.

Winifred's voice pulled him from his musings. “Now Peterkins, don’t you look sweet in your pretty feminine pyjamas?  We are well on the path to your enforced feminisation and women's pyjamas will now be your normal attire. Indeed, soon you will have no wish to wear anything other than female winceyette pyjamas.” 

This was the first time Peterkins had heard the term forced feminisation and was a little alarmed at what the future might entail. Both Winifred and Celia took Peterkins by the arms and gently guided him back toward his bedroom. As they did they spoke in the softest way, as if addressing a distraught child. 

“Now Peterkins, don't be alarmed. Both Winifred and I also went through the change many, many years ago and it all worked out fine. Indeed most of the women of Privit Drive came through our hands and now lead quiet lives with sweet adoring husbands who pander to their every need.”

Celia paused, and Winifred continued. “Over the next few months your transition to the fairer sex will be complete and in no time you will be with a doting husband who has succumbed to the world of pyjama discipline and awaits your every command. Once you have made the psychological switch and accepted your new status, we will arrange to have the last vestiges of your manhood removed and replaced with the beautiful feminine form. But don't fret Peterkins, or should we say Patricia, by that time you will feel like a woman in every respect.”

Peterkins sat on the bed trembling both in fear and arousal. He regretted ever entering this house and allowing the lure of vintage pyjamas to lead him into a life of pyjama servitude. He wanted to run but to where, to whom? He had no clothes but the pyjamas on his back, no money and no friends. He was totally dependant on Winifred and Celia.

The two women gently caressed his pyjama clad back and helped to calm him. Celia pulled back the bedclothes and Winifred helped him into bed. 

“Now Patricia, you have taken in a lot today. Have a nap and we can talk of this later,now you need sleep and begin to process the wonderful future that awaits you.” 

As Winifred and Celia left the room they pulled the curtains and he was left in darkness.

Exhausted from nervous energy yet comforted by the embrace of the winceyette pyjamas and the weight of the blankets he drifted off, thinking how beautiful he was in his floral pyjamas and how much better he looked as a woman. 

Perhaps the ladies knew him better than he knew himself?

Bedtimes and Pyjama Times are causing trouble for Gertrude

Does anyone have a solution to Gertrude's dilemma? A dose of Castor oil will be awarded for the best answer.

My seventeen-year-old son Robert has an earlier bedtime than his sisters despite the fact they are both younger than him. They are just aged fourteen and twelve and because they are female, are far more mature than he is. My son’s bedtime was 6:00 pm with his pyjama time preparation beginning at 5:15 pm. I expected him to be in his nightclothes by 5:30 pm. These consist of traditional cosy winceyette pyjamas. These are especially sewn by a friend in the style a very young boy might wear, as I do not consider him mature enough for, “big boys pyjamas”.

At weekends his routine varies. On Saturday his sisters invariably stay with friends and since I am softhearted I allow him to stay up until 6.30 pm, just in time to say night-night to Nana and Auntie Beatrice, my mother and sister who visit at that time. On Sunday, since it is school the next day he is bathed and ready for bed by 4:00 pm and safely tucked up no more than a half an hour later. Weekday’s, since I usually have not returned from work by 5:15 pm it befalls upon his sisters to ensure he adheres to his pyjama discipline. They oversee his supper, making sure he washes his own dirty dishes. They then supervise his nightly bath, a bone of contention as he considers it embarrassing for a seventeen-year-old to be bathed by his sisters. It took several smacked botties for him to finally realise I was not going to give way upon this matter and he now acquiesces without making a fuss.

The girls then assist with the choice of and the donning of his little boy pyjamas. I am always home in time to take him up to bed as I think that is very important for a boy of his age to have mummy there to tuck him in and kiss him night-night. Now that he is about to turn eighteen he requested that his bedtime should be moved to seven o’clock. Upon consideration I agreed to a trial period to begin immediately. Unfortunately that is where my trouble began.

My son was under the impression that a later bedtime also meant his pyjama time being put back an hour until 6:15 pm. This was not the agreement. When I arrived home I found my daughters had spanked him and gave him corner time when he refused to get ready for bed at his usual time. They had also dressed him in his special, “naughty boy pyjamas,” his footed teddy bear patterned pyjamas with a Peter Pan collar that he absolutely hates wearing. Amidst his tear-stained face and his sisters accusations and recriminations, the best I could do was pack him off to bed there and then.

I now find that my daughters were unhappy about spoiling our evenings together, they feel the best place for my son is to be tucked up in bed at his usual time and to continue letting them get him ready for bed, choosing his jim-jams etc. I have, for the moment reverted back to a 6 pm bedtime for my son which is something he is obviously not happy with but I do not wish to undermine my daughter’s authority over their brother.

Your advice on the matter would be most appreciated.
Gertrude Kirchgarten.



Carry on as usual. Letting allowing a later bedtime shows him you are willing to compromise and lose control. You must not slacken your disciplinary measures. I know my brother deserves to be treated like a naughty little boy. 

Kelly-Anne


Dear Gertrude;

Congratulations on your treatment of your errant son. How dare he act up in the presence of young ladies and girls? You were right to put him to bed immediately without dinner. After school, he should be bathed and dressed in pyjamas before his supper. Ideally you should let his sisters put him to bed too, with blinds and curtains tightly closed. Bedtimes should never be altered.

Janice Oryan


Dear Aunt Gertrude;

I am delightful to hear that your seventeen-year-old son is treated as the naughty boy he undoubtedly is. There is no harm in making him wear pyjamas that a child much younger than he is would wear as it will  teach him that "when you behave like a child, you get treated like one".
Certainly his defiance must be dealt with. His sisters are obviously more mature than he and as such it is only natural that they help in getting him ready for bed. I wish you well with your efforts and do please let us know what decisions you come to.

Sincerely

Hettie Wainwright



Well I must say my son appears to have taken leave of his senses. On Saturday his Nana and Aunt Beatrice arrived unexpectedly early. With them was eleven-year-old Alice who was being looked after by my sister. Alice immediately shouted out a cry of recognition. It appeared she was in the first year of my son’s school. My son of course had no knowledge of such a junior pupil. Since though they were fellow pupils, I suggested a game of ‘Ring a Rosie’s’ for the pair of them, and indeed, Alice was soon laughing and enjoying herself. My seventeen-year-old son for some reason appeared to be less than enthusiastic and I had to remind him to fall down on more than one occasion.

At 5:15 pm I went upstairs to select a pair of pyjamas for my son to wear, I was going to put him into his yellow Teddy-Bear pyjamas as he looks so cute in them but instead I selected his blue, Cowboy and Indian jim-jams as a reward for being a good boy.

 As I approached the pair I told my son it was time for him to be put into his jimmy-jams and informed Alice that they could play a less boisterous game before his bed-time once he was all pyjamaed. Imagine my surprise when he flatly refused to have his clothes removed, spouting nonsense such as he was to old to go to bed so early and that he was a big boy and wanted big boy pyjamas. You can imagine the shock I felt at being shown up in such a manner in front of my sister and mother.

I was so angry it took me no time to remove his shorts and pull down his underwear putting him across my lap for a spanking. He was not at all pleased to be spanked in front of everyone but I ignored his tears and sent Alice off to his room to retrieve his Teddy-Bear pyjamas.  When she returned my son was in full-blown tantrum mode and I had to elicit help from his Nana and Aunt to remove the remainder of his clothing as he tearfully wriggled and squirmed to avoid our grasp.

’How do you like these pyjamas then you naughty little boy?’ I asked, as Beatrice and I held his legs while his Nana manoeuvred his legs into his pyjama bottoms. There were more frantic efforts to escape as he realised he was being put into his most babyish brushed cotton pyjamas emblazoned with Teddy-Bears. We held him as my mother buttoned him into the pyjama top, fastening the top button to enhance the effect of the pretty Peter Pan collar. How he sobbed as I made him kiss everyone night-night, including Alice before asking her to help me tuck him into bed even though it was only 4:30pm.

Do you think I have been too harsh on him or perhaps too lenient? 

Your opinions are always welcome

Gertrude Kirchgarten.

Miss Jacobson enjoyed parading me around wearing a selection of nighties and pyjamas she chose on Sunday. Again you can choose and rate your particular favourites.

"I thinks it's time I chose my favourite beddy-byes outfits for you." 

(Miss Jacobson decides)

A weekend of pyjamarings begins with the purpose of aunty deciding which sets of pyjamas she is going to pack for our trip to visit her sister, my aunty Geraldine, next week. She is going to mark each pair out of ten to help her decide. Anyone can join her and mark them accordingly. Later on, I am going to have to model Miss Jacobson's selections.

My Surprise Birthday Pyjamaring

Miss Jacobson decided to celebrate my birthday by holding a pyjama party. She thought it would be amusing if I attended as a naughty girl ready for bed. My aunt eagerly agreed with her and I was taken upstairs and suitably attired in floral pyjamas, pink slippers and a pigtail wig. Miss Jacobson sent me to stand in the corner of the bedroom until the other guests arrived before I was taken downstairs. It was then that I realised I was the only one in pyjamas.

When I protested rather vociferously how unfair it was that I should pyjamaed when no-one else was, it was decided I was behaving like a naughty little girl and as such should be seen and not heard. 

Aunty placed a strip of tape across my mouth and I endured a full hour of humiliating taunts and teases from my Miss Jacobson friends. When the mantelpiece clock chimed six o'clock, Miss Jacobson announced that it was time naughty little girls were tucked up in bed. Aunty insisted I kiss everyone night-night and wave goodbye as aunty led me upstairs.

I was tucked into bed still dressed in my floral winceyette pyjamas and warned not to remove the tape across my mouth unless I wanted a bedtime spanking.

What a birthday.

Oversized Pyjamas Spanking

Strange as it may seem, pyjamas and nighties are not encouraged in UK hospitals these days, they prefer you to wear their a-sexual gowns instead.

Once I was well enough to leave, my aunt and Miss Jacobson were quickly on hand to collect me. However, instead of bringing me clothes to change into  they had bought me only pyjamas and slippers. Of course the pyjamas were far too large and I protested to my aunt but ultimately I had no choice other than to put them on.

During the journey I was shocked to find that instead of driving straight home, we were stopping off at Miss Williams house.  "But I'm in my pyjamas!" I protested as I was bundled out of the car up to the front door.

Miss Williams and her eighteen year old niece Geraldine, were expecting us and not at all surprised to see my dressed only in my jim-jams.

"Now don't be embarrassed," Miss Williams cooed as she handed me a cup of tea. "Miss Jacobson has explained about how you need to wear jimmy-jams all the time, you look very cosy, doesn't he Geraldine?"

"Oh yes aunty," Geraldine replied as she took a seat on the sofa beside me as the three women disappeared into the kitchen.

"Your pyjamas are lovely and soft," she said directly to me as she stroked my pyjama sleeve. "I bet those pyjama bottoms are ever softer too."

"Err maybe." I replied, edging away from her, not knowing how to respond to her strange behaviour.

"Now, now, don't be a naughty boy, you're not trying to get away from Geraldine are you?"

I had reached the arm of the sofa and had no further room to avoid her.

"No..no, of course not it's just that...."

Geraldine changed from stroking my arm to taking a firm grip on it. "I think you are being very rude and need to be punished for your misbehaviour."

She pulled me toward her and I found myself across her lap. "Geraldine please...."

"Rude boys need their bottoms spanked." Ignoring my protests Geraldine began to smack my pyjama clad bottom.

"You're a very...very naughty boy." As her blows intensified, my howls of protestations increased. Aunty, Miss Jacobson and Miss Williams were quickly in the room.

"Oh well done Geraldine, his first post hospital pyjama spanking, keep at it." Encouraged my aunt.

Miss Williams took off one of her slippers. "Here try this."

She handed her niece the slipper  and the three women sat down to enjoy the spectacle.

Miss Jacobson leaned forward as I wriggled and writhed upon Geraldine's lap. 

"Welcome back Wincy. We've missed you."

Miss Jacobson has been irritated by recent comments and wants to make clear certain things.

Serving Pyjamas

Serving Pyjamas

Bedtime Pyjamas Tucked

Bedtime Pyjamas Untucked

I have been made aware of comments that appear to cast doubt on the efficacy of pyjamarings and pyjama discipline for males of all ages. 

Let there be no doubt that myself and Wincy's aunt, along with Mrs Sykes-Patterson, Miss Helen Good and countless other women, have successfully developed Pyjama Punishment to ensure men fulfil their obligation to obey all females.

A good pyjamaring relies on the male being humiliated by being dressed in ridiculous looking pyjamas. As in the first image, Wincy is seen wearing a pair of his serving pyjamas. 

When we entertain guests, we like Wincy to wear a smart waitress apron or a mumsy floral apron to emphasise to our guests that he is present merely to provide to our needs. Please also note how the top button is neatly fastened on his garish patterned winceyette pyjamas. Serving pyjamas should not be too oversized as the pyjamaed male needs to be able to serve tea, drinks, sandwiches etc without tripping and spilling things. 

Once the dishes are washed and dried, Wincy will be sent off to fetch his bedtime pyjamas. These, compared to the serving pyjamas, are at least three times too large and are generally striped. We care nothing for his modesty, and he is usually divested of his serving pyjamas before being buttoned into his bedtime pyjamas. 

Amongst the ranks of the pyjamaring society, there is a difference of opinion as to whether the pyjama jacket should be tucked or untucked into the pyjama bottoms. I myself am in the untucked corner and Wincy's aunt prefers tucked. This is purely up to the female who is performing the pyjamaring and is down to personal choice.

Wincy's bedtime can be anytime up to seven o'clock depending on his behaviour but never later than that. Bedtime spankings are obligatory naturally and any rule breaking is also punishable with spankings.

We are hopeful that Wincy will soon give up the ludicrous idea that he can live independently without the supervision of mature women and can return to his aunts where he will be permanently pyjamaed and receive upwards of four pyjamarings daily. 

I hope this has clarified the situations for the doubting Thomas' out there and I don't wish to read any further comments that somehow males subjected to pyjama discipline are somehow doing this to themselves. This ludicrous suggestion is an insult to all the females who are dedicated to pyjamaring and its benefits.

Yours

Miss Jacobson

A Pyjama Punishment Monthly Letter To Matron

Dear Matron

My mother insists on very early bedtimes even though I am now almost seventeen. It doesn’t matter who is present in our house, my bath time is seven P.M. (after teatime and homework). I then have to be in my pyjamas which she insists have to be the kind that have tie-cord bottoms and a jacket that buttons to the neck and they make me look ridiculous. For seven nights a week I have to be ready for bed by 7:30, in bed by 7:45 with lights out by eight. If I try to protest I am spanked across mother's lap as if I was a little boy.

This bedtime routine applies not only on school days and weekends, but holidays too which I think is particularly unfair. If we are attending a party or function, we always leave early with my mother explaining to everyone that it is getting near to my bedtime and she need to get me home so I can be bathed and put into my pyjamas.

What is even more humiliating was what occurred last Christmas. We were at a family party and my aunt, at my mothers suggestion, had gifted me striped pyjamas, dressing gown and slippers. Mother insisted on changing me into my new bedtime outfit before leaving the family party so she could, "just pop him straight into bed when we get home.”
I have two younger cousins, Peter and Rebecca and I shudder to think how embarrassed I was sitting in my night attire like a little boy while they were still dressed in their day clothes.

Mother thinks children should not grow up too fast and has never considered my early bedtimes to be a punishment. However, when I am being put to bed at 8 pm in the middle of summer with the sound of much younger children playing in their back gardens until after dark it certainly feels like one.

Mother had indicated that my early bedtimes will continue until I am at least eighteen and it is nothing to do with me what kind of pyjamas I wear.

Would you please write to my mother and persuade her to stop treating me like a little boy and let me have a later bedtime?

Michael.

Matron Replies

Dear Michael

Under no circumstances will I be writing to your mother recommending that she change your bedtime. I may well write to her to tell her about your letter and to advise she imposes an even earlier bedtime and increase the amount of spankings she administers. Who do you think you are questioning your mothers decisions? If she thinks you need an eight o'clock bedtime then that is her decision to make. At seventeen you are still a minor and must obey your mother, it is up to her what pyjamas you wear and what time you go to bed so knuckle down, do as you are told and she may let you stay up until nine o'clock when you turn eighteen.

Matron