Saturday, 27 May 2017

A Nanny Smackbottom letter from the extremely rare very first edition of PPM. (Images were provided by the management)

Dear Nanny Smackbottom

Please accept my thanks for your help in turning my husband Peter into a delightful little babykins, these days he is completely unrecognisable from the unruly spoilt brat he once was.

I have followed your advice to the letter. At 5 pm exactly I run his bath and lay out his pyjamas. Last night he wore the yellow bunny rabbit pyjamas that you thoughtfully recommended for him. After his bath I soon had him dressed ready for bed. Once he is wearing his jim-jams he must, as you recommend, be addressed by and answer only to his baby name.

It was great fun, each of us devising a name and as you advised, we ended up putting them into a hat and making him "choose" his own baby name. Peter Pee-pee pants, Lindy Lollipops and Susie Sugar Plum were all excellent but my mother's suggestion, Peterkins Pyjamakins was the one that came out of the hat. (His baby bonnet actually).

At first, he was quite reluctant to answer to his baby name but luckily my mother spent twenty minutes with him draped over her lap while she persuaded him otherwise. Mother only has to take off one of her pink furry slippers and he rushes into my arms, fearful of yet another nursery style spanking squirming helplessly on “nanny’s” lap.

"Is Peterkins Pyjamakins fwightened of Mrs Slipper den?" She will tease, laughing as he clings babyishly to me while she brandishes her slipper mischievously.

My sister never misses a chance to tease him either. She called at 5.30 last night when of course he was already dressed for beddy-byes.

"Oh look at the ickle baby in his pwetty jim-jams, whoever could it be? Tell Aunty Susan what your name is sweetheart?" She asked.

He shuffled his bunny-slippered feet and turned beetroot red and just stared at the floor but Susan was prepared to persevere to get the response she wanted.

She placed her finger under his chin and made him look at her.

“Come along now, be a good little boy for Aunty Susan, tell me what your name is and I shall give you lots of hugs and kisses as a reward.”

My husband ‘s voice was barely audible as he whispered. "My name is Peterkins Pyjamakins Aunty Susan."

"Oh dear, Aunty Susan knows you can do better than that, I could hardly hear you and Nanny certainly couldn’t. Let's try again shall we?"

His eyes flickered from me to my mother. "Mummy and Nanny can't help you, now, what is your name?"

Finally, even though his voice was breaking with emotion, he blurted out quite clearly.

"Please, Aunty Susan my name is Peterkins Pyjamakins."

The three of us howled with laughter while my husband stood with his head bowed and looking very foolish and babyish wearing his bunny rabbit pyjamas and slippers.

After he had kissed and waved night-night to Aunty Susan and Nanny and they have fussed over him, adjusting his pyjama bottoms and smoothing down his pyjama jacket collar, I take him up to bed at 6 pm. As you so rightly suggested, Peterkins has benefited greatly from a regular bedtime.

He now sleeps in the spare bedroom. Nursery rhyme paper decorates the walls and apart from a soft pink carpet, there is only a baby cot that he easily fits into and a chair that I sit on to read bedtime stories. I make sure the curtains are tightly closed so that no chink of daylight can intrude. Of course, at first he was upset at having to go to bed at 6 pm every night but I was able to cure him of that.

One evening despite having already received a spanking for being a naughty boy at bedtime, Peterkins was still having a tantrum about having to go to beddy-byes so early.

“So be it,” I told him, “if you want to stay up you can come along.”

I took his hand and marched him outside into the garden and tethered him to the washing line by putting baby reins over his n jim-jams and left him there, unable to hide his infantile appearance.

Peterkins had nowhere to hide. Miss McPherson our neighbour spotted him over the garden fence and decided to have a little chat about his unusual choice of night attire and to admire his bunny slippers. I  calmly returned and explained that Peter was being punished with early bedtimes as his behaviour was that of a little boy.

Since then, there has rarely been a murmur of objection from him about his pyjama time and early bedtimes. If there ever is, I just have to threaten him with his baby reins and a trip out into the garden and he complies meekly“

Before bedtime, I pin him into his nighttimes nappies. Since you recommend two baby bottles of milk at bedtime it has become essential that he is securely encased in his nappies and protected with plastic pants.

Once he is safely tucked into bed I pin the ribbon attached to his dummy to his pyjamas and pop the dummy into his mouth. These day's he accepts it quite readily and there is no need to tie it in place. I tuck his Teddy Bear Mr Flopsy, in beside him and spend ten minutes reading from his book of bedtime stories that my mother thoughtfully bought for his birthday until his eyes begin to flutter drowsily.

Then, it's light out and off to sleepy-byes for Peterkins Pyjamakins.
As you suggested, at the weekend he is punished for any misbehaviour with over the knee spankings, dressed in his pyjamas and put to bed immediately regardless of the time of day.

Often on a Sunday when I return from my afternoon round of golf, I am met by my mother dealing with a spanked, tearful, and pyjama clad Peterkins begging not to be put to bed at such before tea-time. Of course, his pleadings are ignored and on these occasions, I always follow your advice not to overrule any decision made by my mother or sister or indeed any female who has reason to discipline Peterkins Pyjamakins.

Mrs Harcourt

Dear Mrs Harcourt

Congratulations, your letter is the first to be published in Pyjama Punishment Monthly, our new publication that aims to educate and inform women of all ages about the benefits of Pyjama and Early Bedtime Discipline. 

The meeting we had over tea and your delicious homemade cakes where we determined your strategy was most enjoyable. Perhaps you could now teach Peterkins Pyjamakins to bake fairy cakes for us? 

I am very pleased you took my advice on how to proceed with the transformation of your husband into a contrite and obedient little boy and I must congratulate you on your choice of name for him, although all the suggestions were excellent, Peterkins Pyjamakins is definitely the most appropriate. Including your mother and sister in his initial training is another excellent idea as the more dominant women in his life to maintain and enforce his new way of life the better. 

Don't forget to be consistent in your approach by maintaining discipline and not giving into his pleading to be dealt with in a less infantile manner. Remember, all men remain babies and little boys at heart, so you must be firm continuing with regular spankings, infantile pyjamas and early bedtimes and you will soon be rewarded with a docile and compliant Peterkins.

Please write again soon with an update on his progress.

Nanny Smackbottom

Monday, 22 May 2017

Punished Wearing Blue Striped Winceyette Pyjamas

It's now 4 pm on Sunday and I have been ready for bed dressed in my blue striped winceyette pyjamas since 1 pm. I am being put to bed at 5 pm tonight because I embarrassed my aunt this morning when we went shopping. We met Mrs Lister and her daughter and since it was so wet this morning it was decided to take refuge in a nearby cafe. Aunty, Mrs Lister and Catherine who is 14 years old all ordered warming coffee, when I tried to order the same my aunt said, "no, you can have some warm milk instead, coffee makes you too excitable." I was annoyed and told aunty I would have coffee if I wanted to. Aunty said I was a very naughty boy for answering back and I deserved an over the knee spanking. Catherine sniggered and I told her to shut up. "Right young man you will be putting your pyjamas on as soon as we get home and it's bed for you at 5pm all this week." I had to sit quietly while Catherine teased me, "eighteen years old and you have to wear pyjamas when you get home and go to bed at 5pm. What a baby, I think I will come and visit you at 4.30 to see you go to bed." Aunty nodded and said that was a very good idea and she would make sure I was wearing the stripy pyjamas Mrs Lister had given me at Christmas. Aunty says she is going to spank me in front of Catherine and her mum as she should really have spanked me in the cafe. So here I am sitting in my pyjamas just waiting for the doorbell to ring.

Some very naughty boys under strict discipline

‘Yes well, you only have yourself to blame Robert. Perhaps this will teach you not to tease young girls. Janice and her friends will be taking you down to the park in your pushchair to feed the ducks. When they bring you home they will bathe you, dress you in your baby footed pyjamas and put you straight to bed in your cot at four o'clock!’

Robert regretted objecting when Aunty began discussing his pyjama time and bedtime with his girlfriend Lisa. The discussion centred on whether he should wear his cosy,  blue Teddy Bear motif winceyette pyjamas that chilly night, or his yellow, Winnie the Pooh footed pyjamas. Lisa voted for Winnie the Pooh and his Aunty agreed, this angered Robert but when Lisa suggested his bedtime be brought forward to 6 pm and his pyjama time to 5 pm he objected most vehemently. Aunty had little option other than to bare his bottom and spank some manners into him. Of course, he only had himself to blame as Lisa and Aunty ensured he was tucked into bed at 6 pm wearing his footed Winnie the Pooh pyjamas.

“Oh no, you don’t. Where on earth do you think you are going babykins. When I say four o'clock is your bedtime I mean four o’clock! Now say night-night to the nice ladies then we will get you into your
jimmy-jams and tucked into beddy-byes.”

“Stop that sulking at once. Just because you are eighteen I see no reason why you shouldn't wear your pretty baby clothes for many a year yet. Now I want to see that dummy being sucked for the duration of my friends visit or you will be spanked and put to beddy-byes very early!"

"What have I told you about being ready for bed when I get home at 4 pm? Yet I find you not wearing your pyjamas at 4.30! Well, this spanking should help remind you, and just in case you forget again I have arranged for Melanie from next door to come and supervise your pyjama time. Yes, I am quite aware she is younger than you but she is much more mature than you will ever be."

Thursday, 4 May 2017

Stephen's Pyjamaring Journey by Pete Amas

(This is a re-post of Pete's story as there were formatting problems with the original)

Stephen’s wife had gone to visit her sister in Kingsley; he would be alone for two possibly three days. She had left strict instructions that no parties or any other such frivolities should be held in her absence and she had also asked Miss Letherbridge, the elderly spinster next door, to keep an eye on him. After three years of marriage, he was getting weary of being henpecked but he had made a vow and he felt morally bound to live by it. Asking Miss. Letherbridge to keep an eye on him was further proof of the increasingly subservient path his life was taking.

Miss Letherbridge was a tall and elegant lady, in her early sixties, who seemed to have cast a spell over his wife shortly after they moved in. In his wife’s eyes, Miss Letherbridge was a pillar of the community and her advice was always taken.

Stephen found her strangely attractive for a woman of her vintage. She was always immaculately dressed although her style was somewhat dated, crisp white blouses fully buttoned to the neck, cuffs neatly buttoned too and knee length black pleated skirts. She wore nylon stockings that did not completely conceal her still excellently shaped legs and on her feet, she wore her trademark sensible black brogue shoes. With her greying, but still, mainly auburn hair, tied up and pulled back in a bun that exposed her surprisingly unwrinkled face to scrutiny, for Stephen she epitomised his fantasy of a strict disciplinarian nanny figure.

Conversely, he had witnessed her private, beyond public view appearance. From their bedroom window, he could see her hanging washing out on the line in her nightclothes and was surprised at how aroused this made him feel too. Her pyjama clad legs that were exposed below her dressing gown made him feel strangely attracted to her old fashioned nightwear and he secretly fantasised about wearing her pyjamas. He often looked longingly from their bedroom window at the back of the house over the privet hedge at Miss Lethbridge’s numerous winceyette pyjamas and nightgowns billowing seductively in the wind. He would amuse himself while enjoying the view and frequently fantasised about what it would feel like to put on a pair of her pyjamas.

The thought occurred to him that with his wife away an opportunity might just arise for him to borrow a pair from her line. As it transpired, Miss Letherbridge was hanging out washing in her back garden including a pair of winceyette pyjamas with pink and blue flowers and a lace trimmed Peter Pan collar and what looked like a quilted floral house coat. As she pegged out the nightwear she frequently glanced up at the bedroom window as if she could sense he was there. Thankfully he was hidden behind the net curtains and could not be seen, however, he felt strangely uncomfortable, it was almost as if she was watching him.

Boldly, he decided that after dark he would sneak through the hedge and take a pair of her pyjamas, sleep in them and have them returned before dawn. His decision excited him and he was highly aroused. The evening wore on and the time of Stephen’s escapade drew near. In preparation, he placed fresh sheets on the bed and cleaned the bedroom. He also sprinkled rose-water on his sheets; a smell he always associated with Miss Letherbridge.

Just after dark Stephen took a stroll out the back garden to check on Miss Lethbridge’s house. it looked like all the curtains were pulled and the lights were out. Moving back toward the house he found a gap in the privet hedge, it was not easy, but with some effort, he squeezed through. With great stealth and some trepidation, he crept toward the line.

He reached for the floral winceyette pyjamas and gasped at their softness as he took them from the line. With his prize in hand and great excitement, he crept back toward the house and the gap in the hedge. Just as he was about to make his escape the entire garden lit up. Standing there, three feet in front of him, and blocking his escape route was Miss Letherbridge, dressed in her trademark blouse and skirt.

“Hello Stephen, may I ask what you are up to?” Startled and feeling completely exposed Stephen sputtered something about thinking it was going to rain and how he had come down to take in her washing.

Smiling at his discomfort Miss Letherbridge thanked him for his concern and asked him to leave the washing in the kitchen while she fetched the rest from the line. Hesitantly he entered the kitchen and left his prize on the table; his hand lingering a little too long as he surrendered the prized winceyette pyjamas. As he turned to leave, Miss Letherbridge entered the kitchen and locked the door behind her.

“Now Stephen, let’s get to the truth of this matter shall we?” She picked up the winceyette pyjama jacket from the table and moved toward him.

“I..I don’t know what you mean,” he stammered.

“Come, come now darling, I've seen you watching my clothesline from your bedroom window for quite some time. I know you fantasise about wearing my winceyette pyjamas, isn't that correct?”

By now she had backed him up against the kitchen wall and stood inches away from him. She stared down at him and he felt intoxicated by her rosewater fragrance. Staggered at her directness and the fact that his secret was out his voice quivered as he blurted out, “please don’t tell my wife I..I never meant any harm.“

As the words came out Stephen realised he had confirmed her suspicions; he was shaking with nerves and anxiety. Miss Letherbridge stroked his face with the pyjama jacket, "there-there little one. Don't be afraid, Nanny is going to take care of her sissy babykins and make everything right."

He struggled for breath, knowing she had him under her control but deeply and visibly, excited too. She took him by the arm and led him toward the stairs.

“Let’s get you undressed and into a warm scented bath shall we? Then we can talk this through when you have, err, calmed down. Despite his anxious state, he was visibly aroused by her suggestion and the dominant manner In which she took control of the situation. He acquiesced and meekly let himself be led upstairs.

Filling the bath, Miss Letherbridge poured copious amounts of rose scented bath salts as the room began to fill with steam.

“Let’s get those nasty big boy clothes off shall we?”

She began to strip him, starting with his jeans and underpants. As he stood there semi-naked, he cupped his hands over his manhood to protect his modesty. Miss Letherbridge gently pulled his tee shirt off over his head forcing his hands apart.

“Don’t be embarrassed my darling, “I've seen many a naked male in my time,” she whispered. Sitting him on the edge of the bath she slid him into the piping hot water. The water felt luxurious, like silk, against his skin. As he sank lower into the bath Miss Letherbridge grabbed a soapy sponge and plunged it deep into the water. Gently she began to wash his body.

“Now darling, let’s talk about your secret desires shall we? Let’s talk about your love of my winceyette pyjamas and your need to be mothered and treated like the helpless child you are.”

Stephen was already relaxed with the heat of the water and her words made him become deeply aroused. His manhood grew as she spoke and softly cleansed his body; bringing him to a state of excitement and arousal he had never experienced before. He was just about to reach orgasm when she withdrew the sponge.

“Please Miss Letherbridge……” He moaned in frustration.

“Now darling, you relax while I go and get something soft and exciting for you to wear; but don’t touch yourself or I shall be very annoyed and you won’t like me when I'm annoyed.”

Stephen was frustrated, he desperately wanted to relieve himself but was fearful of Miss Lethbridge’s reaction should he do so. He sat there with his enlarged member teasing him as it poked its head through the bath foam. Two minutes later Miss Letherbridge returned carrying a beautiful pair of white winceyette pyjamas with a large red rose pattern and a pink cotton velour bathrobe. Holding up the robe she invited him to step out of the bath. She wrapped the bathrobe around him and vigorously began to dry him. Stephen could not take his eyes off the pyjamas he so desperately wanted to touch them.

She followed his gaze. “Don’t worry darling it won’t be long now before you feel their soft embrace,” she promised.

Having completely dried him she began to sprinkle talc on his private parts and bottom. Finally removing the bathrobe she took the pyjama top and offered it up to his left arm. “Now let’s see how these fit shall we?” As she slid the winceyette pyjama sleeve up over his arm his body tingled with excitement and his member became further engorged. Slipping his arm into the other sleeve she began to close the tiny satin covered buttons working from the bottom up. Fastening the top button she told him how sweet he looked and how she had kept these extra large pyjamas, especially for his first pyjamaring. She finished by flattening down the lacy Peter Pan collar and adjusting the pyjama jacket’s sleeves.

Then she reached for the bottoms. Creating a little puddle of winceyette on the floor she took his right foot and placed it into the bottoms. Slowly she slid the bottoms up his leg holding them open at his knee. Resting his weight on her shoulder, he willingly put his left leg into the pyjamas. As she pulled the pyjama bottoms up, Stephen could not believe the height of his arousal as the winceyette caressed his penis before she finally rested the waistband high above his belly button. She looked deep into his eyes as she tucked his pyjama top into the bottoms; he was now completely encased in the soft, feminine pyjamas. Grasping his now enlarged member through the winceyette, Stephen finally ejaculated with a cry of ecstasy. He was spent and elated and wanted no more than to spend the rest of his days embraced by soft, cosy winceyette, snuggled in the bosom of Miss Letherbridge. She, however, looked with disdain at the growing wet patch on his pyjama bottoms.

“Stephen darling what are we going to do with you? I had just washed and ironed those pyjamas especially for your pyjamaring and you have already ruined them. There is nothing to be done but to get you a clean pair; come with me.”

Taking him by the hand she led him into a box room, now lie on the bed while I select you another pair of pyjamas. Opening a chest of drawers she took out two pairs of pyjamas, one pink floral pair with a ruffle neck and one lemon yellow with little brown teddies. “Now my angel, which pair of pyjamas would you like to wear?” She asked. Stephen’s hand reached out tentatively to touch the pink floral pair.

“Oh what a wonderful choice darling, you will look so pretty wearing the jim-jams. Now, let’s get those soiled pyjamas off and get you ready for beddy-byes. However this time I think we should put you in a pair of nighttime pyjama pants to capture any nocturnal secretions; don’t you agree?”

Stephen was beyond caring at this stage, he was totally under her spell as his deepest desires were being met. He lay on the bed and accepted his fate as she once again stripped him and put him into the oversized winceyette pyjamas, this time safely ensconced in an adult nappy. Could his world get any better he thought?

“Now my little pyjama clad hero, let me tuck you into bed and get you to sleepy-byes. In the morning we can discuss how our relationship will proceed, but first, you need a good night’s sleep.” She said, lifting his legs up and positioning him on the bed.

“After all, now that your little secret is out we shall have to ensure pyjamaring becomes an integral part of your daily routine shan't we?” As he lay back in the bed she straightened out his pyjamas ensuring his legs and torso were fully covered. She then pulled the blankets high up to his chin and tucked him tightly in.

“Night night little one,” she whispered turning off the light as she left the room. Stephen lay in total darkness knowing he was completely under her control but dressed in the pinkest, softest winceyette pyjamas and in exquisite comfort.

Stephen awoke. He lay in bed squirming against the softness of the winceyette while admiring his floral patterned, pyjama clad arms as he lay beneath the candlewick bedspread. However, despite his obvious physical pleasure, he had an uncomfortable sense of guilt; as if he had done something wrong or did something that could not be undone. He realised he was ashamed that he had allowed himself to be pyjamaed by Miss Letherbridge and felt he had betrayed his wife Jennifer.

He heard Miss Letherbridge turn the door handle, she entered, Immaculately dressed, as usual, carrying a quilted housecoat and a pair of pink slippers.

“Good morning darling, did you have a lovely winceyette pyjama clad night’s sleep? I bet you did but now it’s time to get you out of beddy-byes and ready for breakfast.“ She pulled back the bedclothes to reveal his pink floral, pyjama clad body. “That’s a good boy Stephen, I can tell that you weren't naughty during the night.”

Following her instructions like a subservient child, he stepped out of the bed and she gently placed the slippers on his feet and draped the housecoat over his shoulders slipping his arms into the sleeves. “Do I have to wear this?” he protested.

Looking sternly into his eyes she proceeded to tightly close the top two buttons around his neck. “Those kind of decisions are no longer yours to make, little man,” she replied.

Taking him by the arm like a little child, she led him down the landing. At the top of the stairs, they paused as Miss Letherbridge placed her hands upon his shoulders. She turned him toward a full-length mirror and for the first time, he saw the transformation he had undergone. In front of him stood a meek, emasculated man dressed in women's pink floral winceyette pyjamas a floral housecoat and pink, feminine slippers.

He realised for the first time how large the pyjamas were and how the bottoms
gathered around his feet covering the slippers. In the cold light of day, he
felt that he looked ridiculous and was ashamed. The excitement and arousals of the previous evening were evaporating.

Sensing his mood Miss Letherbridge patted his manhood through the winceyette pyjama bottoms and nappy whispering, “we are not so virile now, are we darling?” Feeling a sense of panic well up in his stomach he asked if he could have his clothes back.He wanted to go home.

“Don’t be silly darling, male clothes will be a rarity for you from now on, soft feminine winceyette pyjamas will be the only clothing you are permitted to wear.”

She led him down the stairs and into the kitchen. There sitting at the table was his wife Jennifer. Stephen was ashen faced and he feebly attempted to blurt some the pathetic excuse about ruining his clothes.

She stood and put her finger to his lips. “Now darling not a word, I just want to enjoy how helpless and exquisite you look in your jim-jams. Miss Letherbridge rang last night to tell
me of her success in completing your first pyjamaring. We have planned this moment so long and I'm just sorry I was not here for your very first time. But now that it has occurred there is no going back. I will have the pleasure, with the advice and guidance of Miss Letherbridge of course, of conducting your pyjamaring education.”

Jennifer unbuttoned his housecoat and removed it before placing her hands on his pink pyjama clad shoulders. She ran her hands down his arms, caressing the winceyette material as she did so, before continuing to his thighs then across his groin where she paused, pressing her palms against his pyjama bottoms and nappy through to his by now
growing excitement.

“You were a good boy for Miss Letherbridge weren't you?” she asked, increasing the pressure. He gasped then she quickly took her hand away. “Now, now Stephen, the whole point of pyjamaring is to make you subservient, we will use pyjamas to control you and make you obey without dissent. Miss Letherbridge, how shall his pyjamaring education proceed?”

Miss Letherbridge smiled, Jennifer would make an excellent student and would soon be an expert at pyjamaring her husband.

“Well the first thing,” she began, “is to set out Stephen's daily routine and chores. In my experience early to bed and early to rise are central to a strict disciplinary regime. He should rise every day at 6.30 am, bringing you your breakfast in bed by 7, followed by four hours of chores. All while wearing the winceyette pyjamas you have chosen for him of course. I suggest a visit to Mrs Bagshott’s ladies wear shop on the high street, she will be able to show you a variety of pyjamas and Stephen will be ably supplied with his own female winceyette pyjamas. Of course, he can keep the pair he's wearing as a
reminder of his first pyjamaring.”

Miss Letherbridge delivered a sharp slap to Stephen’s face.”Stand up straight, I have no time for slovenliness.” Stephen cried out but received no sympathy as Miss Letherbridge continued.

“At 12.00 he should make you lunch followed by more chores such as washing, drying and ironing. 4.00 will be his bath time which you can either supervise or not. Regardless, you will then take charge of his afternoon pyjamaring when he will have his jim-jams changed and put into his nappy. His bedtime is your decision but I would recommend a bedtime no later than 6 pm. You may also want to administer a smacked botty at this time. I have found sending pyjamaed males to bed with a pyjama spanking is an excellent reminder of their subservient, menial position. You will  then want him tucked up and off to sleepy-byes as quickly as you can, I recommend heavy blackout curtains as it can be difficult to get them off to sleep during the summer.”

She paused to slap Stephen’s hand away from fiddling with the buttons on his pyjama jacket.

“Stop that, hands on head!” Jennifer noted how quickly her husband had obeyed Miss Letherbridge as he stood blushing in his pink floral winceyette pyjamas and with his hands on his head like a naughty child. Miss Letherbridge shot him a disapproving look and continued.

“Eventually, you will want him to serve afternoon tea to your female friends and then they can have the pleasure of seeing him dressed in his pretty feminine winceyette pyjamas and perhaps you may want one or two of them to dress him and put him to bed, thus introducing the idea of pyjamaring for other women to adopt our methods.”

As Stephen listened to the two women discuss his new life, all the pleasure he had experienced in willingly stepping into Miss Letherbridge winceyette pyjamas dissolved as he realised he had trapped himself into a life of winceyette servitude. “Please Jennifer, let me go home and get dressed in my normal clothes,” he begged.

“Don’t be silly darling, “ she said stroking his reddened face, “you’re already wearing your normal clothes. Now, we shall walk hand in hand out into the street and home to begin your new life.”

Jennifer and Miss Letherbridge took him by the hand and moved him to the front door. Realising his situation was about to become public he tried to resist and dug his slipper-clad feet into the carpet.

Miss Letherbridge twisted his ear, “you see Jennifer, never hesitate to impose discipline,” he yelled in pain as he was marched out of the front door.  Across the road, Mrs Daniels watched the scene as a winceyette pyjama clad Stephen was paraded for all to see. Other neighbours watched as Stephen tried to hide behind the two women. However a smack to his pyjama clad bottom from Miss Letherbridge seemed to cure his reticence.

“Don't worry Stephen, she announced,“I've had the pleasure of pyjamaring all the gentlemen on this road and they now know how to behave in the presence of females, just as you will learn in the coming years.

Soon you will be so conditioned and comfortable with your pyjamaring that you will be content to be permanently dressed in your pretty winceyette jim-jams, you won't want to wear big boy clothes anymore, and you will join the ranks of subservient males in our little neighbourhood. What heavenly fun we will have then shan't we?”

Weeks passed since Stephen's first pyjamaring at the hands of Miss Letherbridge. In all that time not once had he been allowed to wear day clothes. Indeed one of the first things his wife Jennifer did after his embarrassing parade through the street was to donate all his clothes to the local charity shop.

Everything was gone, he also had to endure the daily embarrassment of being stripped and bathed, treated as if he was a little boy constantly dressed and re-dressed in his ridiculously feminine jimjams, indeed he could not recall the last time he had been allowed to make a decision; his life had changed radically.

What was perhaps more worrying, was that all forms of intimacy with Jennifer had ceased, it was apparent that she no longer saw him as an equal partner but as a helpless man-child that needed protecting from the world.  Initially following his first pyjamaring, Miss Letherbridge had provided a steady supply of soft, feminine winceyette pyjamas. However one morning, Jennifer announced he would be accompanying them into town to visit Miss Bagshot's drapery shop to purchase a new supply of feminine winceyette pyjamas.

The shame he felt travelling on public transport wearing oversized white winceyette pyjamas with little pink flowers, pink slippers and a cerise quilted dressing gown, was the most humiliating experience of his life, particularly as his two chaperones kept fussing with his attire and commenting on how sweet he looked.

The shop itself was an anachronism; like something from the 1950’s. He was marched up to the counter that was festooned with glass and oak, rows of drawers displayed their intimate contents. Behind the counter stood Miss Bagshot, a woman who could well have been Ms Letherbridge's sister such was the resemblance.

 “What a delightful sight ladies. It gladdens my heart to see yet another male introduced to strict pyjama discipline, I do hope you brought him here by public transport?”

Jennifer confirmed that indeed Stephen had endured the bus journey dressed in his ‘going out’ pyjamas and Stephen realised this large, intimidating female was fully supportive of his their pyjama discipline regime.

“I assume ladies that you are seeking suitable jimjams for this ridiculous little man, am I correct?” Miss Letherbridge answered. “Of course Gwyneth, please show us your prettiest, most feminine winceyette male subjugating jimjams.”

Gwyneth Bagshot perched her spectacles on the edge of her nose before looking Stephen up and down.

“Hmm,” she began, “Looking at his modest build, I'd say size an eighteen long would be most appropriate wouldn't you agree?”

Without waiting for a reply she busily began opening drawers in the units behind the counter and began to place a range of women's winceyette pyjamas on the counter top.

Stephen was aghast at what he was witnessing. He had been forced to wear
Miss Letherbridge's nightwear since his pyjamaring began but the thought of Jennifer having access to a plentiful supply of frilly, feminine winceyette pyjamas to continue his enforced emasculation made him feel utterly despondent and he realised his independence would be gone forever.

After just three weeks of being subjected to pyjama discipline, he was aware that his confidence and ability to make simple decisions was rapidly disappearing, what, he wondered, would he be like in a year's time?

Looking at the sea of winceyette being unfolded in front of him he realised his yearning for the soft caress of feminine pyjamas was now greatly diminished, what lay spread out in front of him was a future of domestic institutionalisation.

Gwyneth's voice pulled him back to his present bizarre situation.

“May I suggest we remove his lovely going out pyjamas so we can proceed?”

Stephen stood there helplessly as the ladies removed his quilted dressing gown and begin to unbutton his pyjama top. He immediately began to shiver, he realised the shop was cold and he desperately tried to cling onto his pyjama jacket, but as he did so Gwyneth pulled down his bottoms revealing his manhood. He could not resist three pairs of female hands and within seconds he was standing naked, a pool of winceyette gathered at his feet.

“Stop this,” he pleaded. “You have no right to treat me this way.”

Jennifer laughed. “Darling what do you mean? We have every right to treat you this way, you wanted this remember? You longed to be swathed in soft feminine winceyette, this is your dream, so stop making such a fuss or do you want to go over my knee for a smacked bottom?”

Miss Bagshot had completely ignored his outburst and held up a pale blue and white floral pyjama top with a high ruffled collar and elasticated frilly cuffs.

“Let’s try these on for size shall we?” She began to undo the buttons while commenting on the softness of the pyjamas and how sweet they would look on Stephen.

As Gwyneth slipped the pyjama top up his arms and around his shoulders, Jennifer and Miss Letherbridge noted that despite the obvious sensual nature of the act and circumstances it was having no effect on his manhood. They smiled at each other.

Gwyneth also noticed and commentated that Stephen was, “such a well behaved little boy. You ladies have done a wonderful job on Stephen, you should be very proud. Few of the wayward males who experience a pyjamaring here are so passively accepting of their new, pyjama clad life.”

Then, looking directly at Stephen as she began to button up the pyjama jacket. “There now, doesn’t that feel nice and cosy?” Stephen welcomed the warmth of the winceyette and as Gwyneth finished closing the top button she ran her hands along the sleeves pulling them down Stephen's arms. The top flared outward and the bottom of the hem nestled on his manhood, softly caressing it but Stephen felt nothing but anxiety.

He held out his arms and looked aghast at the outfit he found himself wearing. The sleeves were obviously too long and extended way past the tips of his fingers and the lace on the collar scratched at his neck.

However, Miss Bagshot enthused. “Oh ladies, that looks perfect, doesn’t he look sweet? Now, shall we try the jimjam bottoms?”

Gwyneth began to unfold the bottoms which seemed inordinately long. Kneeling before him she held them open at his feet. Meekly he stepped from one puddle of winceyette to the other. Slowly Gwyneth pulled the bottoms up past his calves, his thighs, his manhood and his navel. Eventually resting the elastic just below his chest as the bottoms tightened under his crotch. She then proceeded to tuck the top into the bottoms. He looked down the length of his body and despite the elastic of the bottoms almost touching his nipples there were inches of excess winceyette pooling around his ankles.

Smoothing down the winceyette Gwyneth ran her hands down the outside of his legs and up the inside to his groin. He was drawn out of his anxiety as he felt the warmth of her hands through the soft winceyette.

“Well, I do believe there are some stirrings down below ladies. He's not fully emasculated yet I perceive. But doesn't he look divine? I would say they are a perfect fit don't you think? We have worked very closely with the manufacturers and local women to ensure we have the best range of jimjams suitable for our pyjamaed men. There is no other town in the country that has such success in this department.”

Jennifer was delighted with the result. There stood her husband, publicly stripped of his masculinity. She would ensure he was permanently pyjamaed and dependent on her for the rest of his days.

“How many pairs of pyjamas  would you suggest we purchase?” she asked

“Well, we usually recommend two sets of jimjams per day so 14 in total but can I suggest you also take some of our pre-loved range? We frequently take donations from other ladies whose husbands have outgrown their jim-jams and require larger sizes. Unfortunately, this can be a downside of pyjama discipline, particularly if you don't enforce a strict diet and ensure plenty of domestic chores. Some poor unfortunate chaps pile on the weight after pyjamaring and years of domestic servitude.”

She had led them through to the back of the shop. “Here we have our preloved range, you will find they are the softest winceyette jimjams we can offer and after numerous cycles of washing, tumble drying and ironing they are quite exquisite. Shall we say seven new and seven preloved? I will order you a taxi to take you and your purchases home, I have an account with a young woman who just loves driving pink winceyette pyjama clad males home.”

“Thank you, Miss Bagshot that would be wonderful.” Jennifer turned to her husband.

“Well Stephen you look positively ridiculous wearing your oversized female winceyette pyjamas but that is how you will be permanently dressed from now on. You will spend your days doing household chores for Miss Letherbridge and myself until 5 pm when you will be bathed, dressed in clean pyjamas and put to bed. Yes, you will be tucked up in bed by 6 pm every night. No more nights out with the boys, no more football matches just lots of housework and early bedtimes. Welcome to your permanent life of pyjama and early bedtime discipline!”

Sunday, 23 April 2017

Aunt Betsy Part 2 by Randy

It wasn’t long before Tommy’s maths teacher once again had cause to advise Aunt Betsy that his performance in the maths test was not up to standard. Driving us home she began her lecture.

"You see, Tommy, your troubles have more to do with your attitude than your teacher and I have just the remedy for a boy who doesn't know how to work hard enough. It's just as well that Billy is here, especially since his mother and I see eye to eye on these matters. Young man, I am going to give your bare bottom little lesson in paying attention and I'm not going to stop until it's clear you've learned a lesson from me. Do you understand? Then you'll be going straight into your jammies and put to bed for a nap. I'll get you up for dinner, of course, but then it's right back to bed after your bottom receives a second reminder of what happens to bad little boys who don't do their school work. You're going to have lots to think about before you fall asleep tonight, young man, do you hear me?

This set off a chorus of pleading and excuses which fell on deaf ears. Aunt Betsy took hold of Tommy's hand as if he were a small child and marched him into the house, opened the front door she strode in pulling Tommy behind her and telling me to follow her and close the door behind me.

With his voice taking on a new urgency, Tommy begged:

"Please mummy, don't spank me in front of Billy, please." But Aunt Betsy only replied in a calm, businesslike manner.

"You should have thought of that when you weren't doing your homework, young man. Your cousin might as well see what happens to bad boys in this house. And anyway, Billy needs a good reminder of what to expect if he's naughty from now on." Eyeing me directly, she added:

"I rang your mother today, Billy, and we agreed you are long overdue a good spanking yourself. From what your head teacher has told me about all the trouble you've been getting into at school, now give me your hand as well. I want you to come upstairs with Tommy so you can see exactly how I handle bad little boys in this house."

With that, Aunt Betsy began to lead us to the stairs, only to struggle as Tommy began dragging and twisting on her arm. Almost immediately, she whirled around, let go of me, and in one, quick gesture, pulled Tommy's shorts and underpants inside out and halfway down his thighs. Bending over his back, she quickly applied a series of hard spanks to his bare bottom, each timed to go with a group of scolding remarks.

"SMACK Young man, SMACK you had SMACK better not SMACK give me any trouble SMACK unless you want me SMACK to get out SMACK your paddle. Now, are you SMACK going to obey your mummy? SMACK Or are you going to earn SMACK yourself extra spanks and even a paddling? SMACK"

At the very first spank, Tommy cried he would stop resisting and repeated those cries with every spank. Seeing that she had made her point, Aunt Betsy released Tommy, took our hands again, and began climbing the stairs with the two of us in tow behind her. Tommy waddled along as best he could, his bare bottom twisting back and forth framed by the white tangle of underpants and shorts below. After those sharp spanks, his physical resistance had given way to the soft crying many children adopt when they know they are about to be spanked no matter what they do or say. With Aunt Betsy leading me just as firmly by the hand, I realised I also had no choice in what was about to happen. And though I assumed I was going along only as a witness, I could not help feeling I too was about to get spanked. My mind flashed back to the many times I had waddled along, pants at half-mast just like Tommy, as my mother led me by the hand towards my bedroom or the living room sofa. By the time we reached the top of the stairs, it was all I could do to keep the growing tightness in my chest from turning into the same sort of soft crying I heard from Tommy.

Thinking back, I believe that I experienced a kind of empathic reaction with Tommy when my aunt took me by the hand. No doubt, that was exactly what she wanted. As she led us both down the hall, the truth of Aunt Betsy's earlier warning hit home. She wanted me to see how she handled bad boys because she really was planning to handle me the same way. By the time we reached Tommy's room, my sympathetic reaction had deepened and I began to sniffle along with my cousin's crying. At that moment, I understood I really was on the verge of a spanking, just like Tommy. My situation was different only in that my first spanking would come, when? Perhaps in a week or two, perhaps even that weekend. But the decision had already been made. As soon as my aunt decided the time was right, I too was going to be bare bottom spanked over her knee. Tommy's spanking was only a dress rehearsal for what I could expect from now on at Aunt Betsy's home.

These thoughts were interrupted as we entered Tommy's room and Aunt Betsy sat me down in a chair near his bed. She then marched Tommy over to the dresser. Still holding Tommy's hand, she opened a drawer with her free hand and pulled out a pair of light pink sleeper pyjamas before taking him over to the bed and sitting down. Tommy just stood there crying and begging his mother not to spank him even as she began to work the buttons of his shirt.

"Now hold still, Tommy Springer. Raise your arms so I can get this off ... that's my good boy. If only you were as adept at doing your homework. Now keep those hands up high and don't give me any trouble while I get these shorts and underpants off.

With that, she slipped the garments down to his ankles and made him lift each leg so she could slide them off his feet. By now tears were streaming down his cheeks and he was crying openly like a little boy. As I stared in dread and fascination, I realised that this was exactly how I must have looked just as my mother readied me for a spanking.

“Now let's get these socks off. I'd say your bottoms long overdue a good spanking, even more than Billy's." Then, looking directly at me, she gave Tommy's bare bottom a couple of additional sharp spanks as if to remind me of what I could expect.

Once Aunt Betsy had slipped off Tommy's socks, she again lifted each ankle and slid the pyjama sleeper over his feet before pulling the lower part all the way up to his waist. Next, she placed each arm into the sleeves and drew the top around his torso before buttoning it up. Bringing Tommy to her right, she pushed her dress up out of the way, so as not to wrinkle it, drew him across her lap and moved him forward until his head hung down near the floor and his legs waved helplessly in the air. Finally, she announced:

"And now, young man, it's time for mummy to teach you a good lesson about doing well in school. Let's undo these buttons and bare that naughty bottom of your's so we can start your spanking. I don't think we're going to take your temperature this time because your naughty bottom cannot wait another minute. Billy, pay close attention because you're going to get the same when you misbehave from now on. I have half a mind to put you in a pair of Tommy's “naughty boy jammies” and give you some of the same medicine after I finish with him. What do you think about that?"

Without waiting for an answer, she turned and began spanking Tommy's white, round bottom which bounced and juddered with each blow. His crying immediately doubled in volume and pitch and he kicked his pyjamaed feet furiously, other than that, he made no effort to wriggle off his mother's lap. On and on Aunt Betsy spanked, with a slow, deliberate pace just like Tommy had described. Within a few minutes, his plump bottom turned into a pair of pink mounds of dancing jelly, matching the colour of his pyjamas and which danced with every smack. As I continued to watch, it soon changed to a reddish tone and then a bright red. After a few minutes, Tommy was reduced to a sobbing child. With his scarlet bottom showing through the flap of his toddler's pyjamas, he looked and sounded more like a toddler than someone in his teens. Finally, after at least five minutes, Aunt Betsy stopped and asked:

"Tommy, are you learning a good lesson from mummy?"

When he managed to stammer out a yes, Aunt Betsy replied:

"Good, then I'm sure you won't have any problem continuing this lesson since it seems to be working so well. Now tell me how sorry you are and ask for the rest of your spanking. And ask me the way you've been taught or we'll start all over. Billy might as well learn what bad boys have to say halfway through their spankings."

Tommy managed to stop crying enough to stammer out his apology.

"I know I've been naughty, mummy and that I deserved this spanking. I promise I'll do better... I promise."

"What else, young man? Haven't you forgotten something?

"Yes, mummy... I know... I know... Please, mummy, I'm ready for the rest of my spanking. Please... spank me now and don't stop... until... until I've learned a good lesson."

"That's a good boy, Tommy, that's what mummy needs to hear. Now let's finish up the rest of your spanking and make sure you really have learned something this time. I don't want to have to spank you again after your next maths test, do you understand me?"

With a glance in my direction to make sure I had heard, she resumed her steady spanking rhythm which immediately brought forth a new round of sobbing and frantic kicking. Only after another five or six minutes did Aunt Betsy finally stop. For the next three minutes, she held Tommy over her lap until his crying subsided, all the while gently rubbing his scarlet bottom. Then she buttoned his flap, raised him up to sit on her lap, kissed him, told him how much she loved him and how his spankings were for his own good before standing up and tucking him into bed with a final kiss.

Turning to me, she said, “let's leave Tommy alone so he can think some
more about his lesson while he takes a nap until dinner."

My mouth was completely dry, my heart was pounding and I felt dizzy. It was partly what I had just witnessed but even more the sense that I had escaped getting a spanking myself. As a result, I was all but frozen to the floor and completely unable to speak or move when Aunt Betsy asked me to leave. Fortunately, she wasn't cross when I didn't respond. Instead, she came over, her face softening with concern, and remarked on how flushed I looked. Running her hand over my forehead, she told me I seemed hot and asked me if I felt sick. Again, I was unable to give much of an answer. Seeing my state of confusion, she steered me out of Tommy's room, closed the door, and took me down the hall before feeling my forehead again. Then she reached a decision and announced:

"Young man, we've better take your temperature. Come along with me."

With that, she escorted me into her bedroom at the other end of the hall, closed the door, and led me over near her bed before disappearing into the bathroom. After rummaging around for a while, she emerged carrying a jar of vaseline, a box of tissues, and a special thermometer which I immediately recognised from my own mother's medicine cabinet. It seemed Aunt Betsy shared quite a few ideas with her sister. Under normal circumstances, I might have protested and asked for an adult thermometer. But after what I had just witnessed, I was still in quite a dazed state.

As if foreseeing my reaction, Aunt Betsy explained. "This is the best way to take children's temperatures, especially naughty children. Since I know your mother handles you the same way, you won't mind, will you Billy? When Tommy's earned a spanking, I often take his temperature first this way just to give him another reminder of how I treat bad little boys. Your mother and I discussed this along with other methods of punishment and we both agree any boy who still needs spankings is not too old for a rectal thermometer."

With that, Aunt Betsy sat down on the bed, placed the tissues beside her, opened the jar of Vaseline and stuck the thermometer into it before setting it aside. All the while she hummed cheerily to herself. It was clearly a fairly routine process here just as it was in my home. Then turning her attention to me, she smiled and drew me over until I stood directly before her. Soothing me with caresses to the face, she continued speaking in reassuring tones as she loosened my belt and took my pants down to mid thigh. I was still in a half-daze as I watched as she pulled up her skirts, "so as not to wrinkle them" and gently steered me across her lap so that my upper and lower body extended out quite comfortably on the bed. More embarrassed than ever, I buried my face in the soft, down duvet and yielded to her motherly administrations.

"Now you just relax and lie quietly, Billy, and your Aunt Betsy will take good care of you. This will only take a few minutes."

Though embarrassed by my predicament, I also felt secure and loved, a little like I felt at home, long after a spanking, when the smarting had turned into a warm glow under the covers. I also wanted to please my aunt and yet get this whole thing over as fast as possible. Thus I lifted my hips the moment I felt her fingers at the waistband of my underpants. Noticing my cooperation, Aunt Betsy tousled my hair with her left hand and exclaimed.

"That's a good boy, Billy. That's good ... lift up so Aunt Betsy can get these underpants down."

After dragging my underpants down to my ankles, Aunt Betsy gave my bare bottom a few smacks and told me I was lucky I wasn't over her lap for a spanking. For my part, as I felt my bare torso against the soft, warm pillow of her thighs and the cool air on my bottom, it seemed as if I really was there for a spanking. My attention quickly turned elsewhere as Aunt Betsy gently pried opened my bottom cheeks and began rubbing a dab of vaseline deeply between them. Using the tip of her little finger, she gradually probed all the way into my rectum, asking me again to relax so she could finish getting me ready. As her finger slid in and out, I was horrified to feel the onset of an erection which I was powerless to stop.

By the time she slid the thermometer in and held it in place by cupping my bottom with her warm hand, I was quite stiff. Aunt Betsy seemed not to notice and said nothing, preferring instead to hum to herself as she stroked my head with her left hand and rested her right hand on my fanny. When three minutes were up and she pulled the thermometer out, I was actually throbbing against her soft thigh, my red face buried in the duvet. After checking my temperature, Aunt Betsy declared me fever free. Then, changing to a more serious tone, she added.

"Billy, though I'm glad to see you are not sick, I'm shocked at how you have reacted to this thermometer. It sometimes happens with Tommy as well. Of course, when he really does have a fever, it's not fair to punish him for such naughtiness and the same would hold true for you. But if he's well, that's a different story. Since you know I believe in firmly correcting bad little boys and since you're being very, very bad right now, you're going to get that spanking I've been promising. Normally I would put you into little boy jammies first, but since I don't want to disturb Tommy's nap, we'll have to postpone that until he gets up. Then it's dinner for both of you and straight to bed after a bedtime spanking.”

She paused and began to rub my bottom with the palm of her hand, first one cheek, then the other. “I find,” she began again. “That Tommy learns much more from an early bedtime if it comes with a warm bottom, even after he's already been spanked earlier that day. And your mother has told me how well the same thing works with you. Now please don't give your auntie any trouble because it will only make things worse. If there's one thing I won't tolerate in this house, it's boys fussing like babies when they're about to get spanked. Tommy knows what to expect if he puts up too much of a fuss or tries to get off my lap. He goes into nappies and plastic pants for the rest of the day. Would you like me to try nappy discipline on you? We've got the whole weekend ahead of us."

After what I'd been through the last twenty minutes, I was completely unable to protest this new turn of events and I frantically shook my head. Already I was crying softly and had been from the moment Aunt Betsy had announced her new plans for me. It was as if the gates to pent-up emotions had been opened and the knowledge that I was about to be spanked allowed me to release certain feelings. Recognising this as the passive, pre-spanking crying that it was, Aunt Betsy went about her preparations, shifting me off the bed and further over on her lap so that my head hung down near the rug. Only then did she begin the spanking itself. Like Tommy, and every other naughty child getting spanked, my cries immediately became sharper and more earnest.

"Young man, if you don't keep that noise down, you're going to wake Tommy from his nap. And if that happens, you'll be going to bed early tomorrow with afternoon naps tomorrow and Sunday. Of course, all naps and early bedtimes in this house come with a good bottom warming. You'll also be well nappied under your jammies. Now lower your voice unless you want to spend the whole weekend in nappies, jammies and bed.”

I was able to comply to a certain extent, it helped to bury my face in the bedding. True to her word, the spanking was not as long as Tommy's though she did stop halfway and make me ask for the rest of it. Long before then, my "problem" in front had completely subsided so that I felt no shame when Aunt Betsy eventually lifted me up from her knees, sat me back on her lap with my pants still tangled around my ankles, and held me close with comforting words.

"There, there, Billy. It's all over now. Your spanking is finished. You really were a brave boy the way you took your first spanking. It wasn't that bad, was it? Are you going to be a good boy for Aunt Betsy from now on?"

When I nodded, still crying into her shoulder, she continued:

"I thought so, Billy. It's clear you needed that spanking a lot and that you've learned a good lesson. Now if you don't want more spankings from me, all you have to do is stay out of trouble at school and do as your aunt tells you to. You know what will happen to you if you don't behave, don't you? You're going to go back over my knee every time you act up, just like Tommy. Is that clear, young man? It's obvious you still need regular spankings to help keep you in line and your aunt Betsy is going to take care of that for your mother from now on."

After wiping away my tears and kissing me, she stood me on my feet, rubbed some more of the sting away from my bottom, and pulled up underpants and my pants.

"Now do you promise to be a good boy for the rest of the weekend?"

"Yes, Aunt Betsy". I replied through my tears.

"Good. It's all too clear to me you are one of these immature boys like Tommy who needs regular discipline. I gather your mother has never used nappy discipline on you or early bedtime and pyjama punishment but she did say I should try it if I think it might help. Tommy hates being nappied, especially when I go out for the evening and leave his babysitter, Kathy, in charge. He always needs changing by bedtime and by then he usually has a spanking coming from her as well. I am sure she wouldn’t mind at all babysitting two nappied naughty little boys in their jammies and giving them both a bare bottom spanking before putting them to bed early, hmmm?”

At the time, the full implications of this didn't register with me. I was too busy nursing a sore bottom and being comforted by my aunt's soothing words and caresses.

A few hours later, we went in later to wake Billy and I found myself changed into punishment jammies just like him, mine were yellow and so very soft and comfortable, I enjoyed the sensation of wiggling my toes that were confined in the pyjama feet. Yet instead of humiliation, I felt strangely secure in my new cosy outfit, secure because it matched Billy's and made me feel I was now completely part of Aunt Betsy's home, all the way down to the warm glow of my bottom. Billy too seemed less embarrassed by his spanking and babyish pyjamas once he saw me dressed the same way.

After dinner, Tommy and I cleared the table and did the dishes as expected, all the while exchanging silent but knowing glances. When the whole kitchen was spotless, we reported to Aunt Betsy who was knitting quietly on the sofa in the living room. Although I was embarrassed standing before her dressed in my yellow toddler jammies, I was even more red-faced when I had to repeat Tommy's formal request.

"I'm sorry I was such a naughty boy today, Aunt Betsy. I'm ready for the rest of my spanking." Despite my embarrassment, the thought of going over Aunt Betsy's lap again was no longer terrifying. After all, I would have Billy right there to share the punishment this time. And however much the second spanking might smart, Billy and I would both drift off to sleep afterwards with warm bottoms, snug in our jammies in a house where naughty children were as well punished as they were loved.

Pyjama trouble in the dormitory

Matron swept into the dorm, her pink quilted dressing gown fully buttoned but revealing six inches of her pink floral winceyette nightgown, the frilled hem of which nestled on her fur trimmed red slippers.

"Pyjama inspection boys, stand at the bottom of your beds, come along quickly.!"

Three bleary-eyed boys stumbled out of their beds, two of them clad in school regulation stripey pyjamas, the third trying comically to conceal his nakedness.

Matron glowered at John as he cast his head downwards and cupped his hands to conceal his embarrassment.

Surprisingly she then chose to ignore him and turned to face the other two boys.

"Well done Jeff, pyjama jacket tucked into your pyjama bottoms and top button fastened, excellent, back into bed with you."

Next up for inspection was PP. " Can you explain to me why your pyjama jacket is hanging loose outside your pyjama bottoms boy?" She tugged at the hem of his pyjama jacket to emphasise her point. "Not up to anything untoward I trust?"

PP swallowed deeply, " matron, honestly, I have just visited the bathroom and must have forgotten to tuck myself back in properly."

Matron stared into his face, looking for tell-tale signs of mendaciousness.

"Hmm... well, don't just stand there, get yourself tucked in and get back to bed."

Relief swept through PP and he quickly adjusted his pyjamas and hopped back into bed where he could enjoy the show.

Matron turned to face John who by now was shivering as the coldness of the dormitory floor penetrated his bare feet.

"Look at me boy," she commanded, "hands on head."
John's head slowly rose, then he hesitated slightly before conforming fully to her instructions.

"Where are your pyjamas, John?" She enquired.
"Under my pillow matron," he answered nervously.

"May I ask why they are under your pillow instead of adorning your diminutive body."

Her eyes lowered as she spoke and PP blushed deeply.

"I..I.. don't know matron," he stammered.

"Well get them on now, at once boy," her voice rising as she spoke.

She watched him intently as his fingers fumbled buttoning up his red striped pyjama jacket and as he struggled to put his feet in his pyjama bottoms. His hands shook as he knotted the pyjama cord and he finally stood successfully pyjama clad facing matron.

"Right into bed with you John. You will report to my study after lessons tomorrow wearing correctly adjusted pyjamas and your slippers and I look forward to hearing your explanation as to why you were not wearing your pyjamas this evening before you are punished, Do you understand?"

John gripped the blanket under his chin with both hands as he whispered a timid, "yes matron."

Matron headed for the exit, her quilted dressing gown billowing slightly revealing more of her nightie.

"Good night boys, and straight to sleep!"

The three boys chorused, "good night matron," in reply as the light was extinguished and two boys snuggled smugly down.

The third, however, shivered slightly even the heavy winceyette material of his recently adorned pyjamas could not warm him, his feet were still chilled. He sneezed.

"Hope you haven't caught a cold John? Ventured PP.

Jeff laughed. "Well, he's certainly going to catch something from matron tomorrow!"

Saturday, 22 April 2017

Aunt Betsy Part 1 by Randy

Moving to a new school is always difficult, especially when your mother is leaving to work abroad for a year. Aunty Betsy lived in the north and I was to stay with her and my cousin Tommy until my she returned.  

My cousin Tommy and I were both small for fourteen-year-olds. We looked about two years younger - and were unathletic in a school which placed an emphasis on sports, we found ourselves somewhat excluded from the rough and tumble clubbiness of school. This situation along with many common interests and family ties drew us together and we were quickly inseparable.

About two weeks into the term, Tommy got a D on the first maths test and fretted for the rest of the day as if he had failed the final exam. At some point, I finally asked:

"What's the problem, Tommy? It's just the weekly test, you can easily make it up next week by swotting up."

He mumbled something about how he was, "really going to get it at home" and changed the conversation. Since my mother had still spanked me once or twice a week and frequently mentioned how her sister used the same methods, my curiosity was instantly aroused. Eager to find out more, I pressed Tommy further. But he only put me off with more vague answers.

"It's nothing, Billy. It's just that my mum has my teachers call her whenever I get anything less than a C- and then I get in trouble."

Knowing there was more to it than that, I asked him as innocently as I could:

"What do you care if you can't watch TV tonight or lose this week's pocket money?"

"Never mind, Billy ... it's not a big deal." He said evasively.

"Only after you tell me what happens to you at home when you get bad grades. Come on, Tommy, you can tell me. Since when do good friends have secrets?"

"I suppose they don't... but really... it's not anything. I'd just rather not talk about it."

Since he was obviously embarrassed, I realised the only way to get the truth out of him was to tell him about my own experiences.

"Tommy, I get the feeling your mother still uses the same kind of old-fashioned methods that my mum uses at home. My mum warned me to mind my manners when I came north or your mum would handle me the same way."

At this, Tommy's eyes widened.

"What do you mean handle you the same way? What are you talking about?"

Realising I would have to spill the beans first, I looked around to make sure no one was nearby and lowered my voice to a whisper.

"Tommy, cross your heart and swear to die you won't ever tell anyone?"

After Tommy gulped and nodded nervously, I continued,

"I think I know what happens to you because it still happens to me. I'm talking about getting punished like little boys even though we're fourteen,  I'm talking about... you know... about... about... getting spanked. You're the first person up here I've ever admitted this to. Now fair's fair, Tommy. I've told you my secret. You've got to tell me yours?"

After looking around nervously and swearing me to absolute secrecy in return, Tommy nervously admitted he too was still spanked at home. After further prodding encouraged by additional disclosures on my part, he even admitted that spankings were a regular occurrence at home.

Like Tommy, I was just as eager to keep my own mother's methods a secret from my school classmates once I had arrived at my new school. I had long since taken for granted that naughty children of all ages were spanked and it was only in recent months that I began to realise just how embarrassing it really was for a boy of my age to be taken over his mother's knee like a little boy and spanked on his bare bottom.

Once we got over the initial embarrassment of admitting we were both still spanked, our mutual confession led to a whole series of whispered discussions after school. We compared notes on spankings we had received, the different methods used by our mums, and the prominent role of a demerit chart tied to a regular, weekly spanking time. We also swapped stories about our most embarrassing spankings such as the times when we were punished in the living room with family friends present or the spankings received from babysitters. Like my mother, Aunt Betsy believed an extra witness or a surrogate disciplinarian added to the humiliation of a spanking. Over the years, many of my mother's closest female friends had witnessed my spankings including neighbours and school teachers as well as cousins and playmates. While Tommy and I had both been spanked by babysitters, no one else had ever spanked him. Consequently, he took a special interest in my accounts of being spanked by the school nurse, Sunday school teachers, and even the Akela of my Cub pack. It was, perhaps, no accident that all of these women were good friends of my mother and regular visitors to our home.

Fortunately for me, my weekly experiences across my mother's lap had ended with her departure, I supposed I was completely safe as long as she was away. I adored Aunt Betsy for her loving yet firm manner and the way she always kept a cheerful disposition. Even when she scolded Tommy, a real gentleness came through. No wonder Tommy worshipped her and seemed genuinely disturbed when he let her down. We also liked her because she spoiled us so with delicious meals, funny stories, and lots of outings. 

While it was clear most boys our age would have been horrified at the idea of regular spankings, it did help knowing that my best friend was disciplined the same way.

Unfortunately, all of his mum's friends seemed to know he was still spanked, especially since Aunt Betsy talked about it so openly. Some of Aunt Betsy's friends seemed to go out of the way to embarrass him by asking direct questions about his last spanking. If that weren't enough, there was the demerit chart and paddle his mother hung conspicuously on the kitchen wall (again, just like my mother). If any visitor inquired, they always got a detailed explanation. 

Demerit charts linked to a weekly spanking hour seem to have been more common in the sixties. In many ways, the chart was a special monthly calendar, with a page for each month. Descending on the left was a long list of chores and behaviours covering everything from housework and homework to obedience. Before putting us to bed each night, our mums would mark a plus or a minus on the chart for that day with a number next to every minus for the number of spanked earned. When Sunday came, we fetched the chart and the paddle after dinner so they could tally the spanks earned and enter the number of spanks earned. Attentive visitors to our homes could see exactly how many spanks we had earned the previous two or three weeks, and if they flipped the pages, for other months as well. This tended to generate more embarrassing comments and questions at home.

Needless to say, with so many categories for misbehaviour, we almost always faced a spanking on Sunday nights. The worst effect of the demerit chart then was to create what was basically a permanent spanking sentence which hung over us every week. Even before the sting of one Sunday spanking faded, we both knew the ritual would be repeated in seven days, if not before. And over the years, each Sunday night spanking would revive memories of all the preceding spankings going back years while promising an infinite series of future lessons. Though we got older, the Sunday night ritual created a firm tie to our past and reminded us we were still in some ways treated like little boys.

Despite such embarrassing routines, Tommy and I accepted our punishments because our mothers always spanked out of love and made that clear whenever they put one of us over their laps. According to Tommy, Aunt Betsy never spanked hastily or in anger and never without a good reason. If she felt his correction couldn't wait until Sunday night, she informed him in a firm tone that he had earned an "extra bedtime chat" and left it at that. Tommy knew he would be put to bed early on those nights and that his mother expected him to take his evening bath directly after doing the dinner dishes.

Despite ten years of such bedtime chats with his mother, Tommy almost always got butterflies in his stomach while taking his bath. After drying off and brushing his teeth, he reported to his room wrapped in a towel. By then, Aunt Betsy was always sitting on his bed with his special "naughty boy jammies" laid out beside her, the jammies he always wore on Sunday nights. This was a light blue, one-piece, sleeper outfit his mum had made especially for him with enclosed feet and a button-down flap in back. Except for its size, it was identical to the kind of pyjamas he had worn as a toddler.

Aunt Betsy believed spankings were more effective if they came with additional reminders of what happened to little boys who didn't act their age. For the same reason, she usually took his temperature rectally after she changed him into his jammies and before his spanking. Tommy absolutely hated this since it really made him feel like a toddler. And indeed, while she lubricated him with Vaseline, inserted the thermometer, and held it in place for five minutes, Aunt Betsy always scolded him thoroughly for needing to be treated like a little baby. To make matters worse, she always insisted that his babysitters put him into his "naughty boy jammies" right after dinner as a reminder of what to expect if he misbehaved. And she always left the Vaseline jar and thermometer out on the bathroom sink in case the babysitter needed it.

As for the spankings themselves, Tommy said she always spanked slowly and patiently, reinforcing the spanks with a lengthy series of questions and sharp verbal reminders using language normally reserved for younger children. Methodical and thorough, her sessions usually lasted twenty to thirty minutes including the post-spanking time lying over her knees until any real crying subsided. Sometimes, she made Tommy stand in the corner afterwards with his jammies flap down, his reddened bottom on display for another fifteen minutes. 
Whether he did corner time or not, she always sat him on her lap at the very end for a final cuddle and kiss. Aunt Betsy would remind him again of how much mummy loved him, what a good little angel he was most of the time, and why mummy had to spank him whenever he was naughty. He, in turn, had to promise mummy to try to be good in the future. Only then was he put to bed.

Except for Tommy’s special, “naughty boy jammies”, my mother had similar ideas along with a few special twists of her own. She often combined spankings with punishment naps, early bedtimes, and rectal temperature taking. (She had a strange theory that boys misbehaved when they were sickening for something.) Additionally, she reviewed my behaviour once a week in addition to giving out extra spankings which couldn't wait until Sunday. 

Like Aunt Betsy, she postponed most extra spankings until just after dinner. That way, she rarely spanked in anger. After I finished my dessert, she led me to my spanking corner in the living room and lowered my pants and underpants to mid-thigh before returning to the kitchen to wash the dishes. After ten or fifteen minutes of leaving me waiting bare bottomed, she would return and take me by the hand over to the couch and spank me right there in the living room. In the summers, the windows were always left open so that the neighbours and their kids could hear everything.

If I was being put to bed early, she would lead me upstairs to my bedroom instead, moving slowly because my half-lowered pants forced me to waddle childishly. Keeping hold of me from start to finish, she would sit on my bed and stand me in front of her while she finished undressing me and putting on my pyjamas. As she often explained, any boy naughty enough to earn a spanking was not allowed himself to undress when he was about to be spanked. Only then would she take me over her lap, pull down my pyjamas and begin my spanking. Afterwards, I was always put straight to bed so I had extra time to, "to think about the lesson I had just learned." 

When I was particularly naughty, she would sentence me to a "pink bottom weekend". That meant I was confined indoors and dressed permanently in my pyjamas. On pink bottom weekends, each day began with a spanking in my bedroom. After lunch, I was usually spanked in the living room, even if mum had a visiting lady friend. Of course, I was always put to bed early after dinner with another spanking. By Sunday night, I was always one very contrite and well spanked little boy.

On those occasions I had earned an extra spanking for misbehaviour at school, mum felt it was fair that the teacher in question should know exactly how a "pink bottom weekend", operated, so she would then invite the teacher over for Sunday dinner. 

"Would you like me to invite Miss Billings for dinner this Sunday so she can see firsthand how mummy takes care of bad little boys in this house ... would you?"  She would ask.

There's nothing quite so embarrassing as sitting through dinner, wearing your pyjamas, chatting about various normal subjects with your mum and a female teacher from school knowing full well you will soon be kicking and crying over your mother's lap with a red bottom with your teacher sitting watching on approvingly. 

Before the spanking took place mum would ask me if I deserved my punishment. I always knew what answer she expected.  "Please, mummy, I know I've earned a good spanking and I’m very sorry for being a naughty little boy. I'm ready to be taught a lesson, mummy."

Finally, once my pyjama bottoms had been pulled back up,  I had to say to my mother through my tears. "Thank you, mummy, for spanking me and I promise I'll be good from now on".