Why I Hate Pajamas

Part Two

Image from girlsinpyjamas.com

(Our story began here: http://auntcarlascorner.blogspot.com/2013/05/why-i-hate-pajamas_18.html)

In the temporary sanctuary of my room, my tears spilled over and fell down my cheeks. My embarrassment was profound: I’d just been scolded like a naughty little girl and sent to change into my pajamas for punishment-- all in front of Ben and Kyra!

I sobbed at the injustice of it as I disconsolately pulled open my underwear drawer and tried to choose the least of objectionable pair of pajamas in which to make a public appearance. Unfortunately, none of mine were of the sort likely to be confused with a jogging outfit or other garment: they were unmistakably pajamas, pjs, symbol of immature naughtiness. Knowing that unnecessary delays meant an irritated spanker, I stripped quickly to the skin. I reflexively covered my small breasts and my blonde landing strip with my hands; in that moment I felt almost as if those on the other side of my door could see through walls.     

Feeling terribly vulnerable in my unclothed state, I swiftly donned my baby-blue pajamas. Wiping away a tear and sighing heavily, I forced myself out the door.

My younger sister Beverly had joined the throng, no doubt alerted and lured downstairs by my mother’s unmistakable tone. Bev, like everyone else, was dressed comfortably in casual clothes. I alone wore the raiment of the shamed and demoted, the impulsive teenager who was soon to be upended in the living room for an embarrassing bottom-toasting.

Sitting on the couch beside my brother, Kyra took in the sight of a barefoot 16-year-old in baby-blue pjs and gave me a look of genuine sympathy. My mother pointed at “The Naughty Corner” -- a confluence of two living room walls that had been the site unhappy meditation for three kids for as long as they could remember. Feeling my face go brick-red, I tiptoed over to the spot. Without having to be told, I took down the little ribbon hanging from a hook on the wall (right beside the infamous “Lickin’ Stick”) and held it against the wall with my nose. By force of long-established habit, my hands went to the top of my head, causing my pajama top to ride up in back. And there I stood in shamed silence, my face burning, waiting for the call to come to the dinner table.

It seemed like forever before that call came, not that I was exactly looking forward to facing my audience at the table. Still, come it did at last. I dropped my hands, replaced the ribbon on its hook, and walked, head down and face burning, toward the table.

I tried to dodge the barely-concealed smirks of my dear siblings. Because there was a pajama-clad kid at the table, the dinner conversation was dominated by discussion of McCormick family discipline past and present. Kyra, goddess that she was, deflected attention away from me by asking questions about her fiancé’s disciplinary record.

“So when was the last time Ben got his tail roasted, Mama McCormick?”

Now it was my brother’s turn to blush.

“Oh, it was when he was Maddie’s age,” Mom replied breezily.

“And what did my macho man do to deserve a bottoms-up trip over his mama’s knee?” Kyra asked sweetly, looking at the suddenly-uncomfortable lad with a gleam of wicked delight in her eye.

Mr. McCormick laughed. “As I recall, that was the occasion of my son’s first and only experiment with tobacco products.”

Beverly giggled, and even I managed a small smile as Ben seemed to try to disappear into his chair. I felt a small sense of vindication; having been right out there with his schadenfreude at my predicament, I felt he deserved to be embarrassed in front of his fiancée.

“We take a dim view of ‘experimentation’ with controlled substances,” Mom put in, then--looking at me--”especially when the experimenters are underage.”

“And I suppose the youngest McCormick has always been nothing but a perfect angel?” Kyra inquired. She winked at me; in that moment, I intuited what she was up to: deliberately calling attention to my siblings’ close encounters with my mom’s lap so I wouldn’t feel so isolated. I loved her more than ever.

“Are you kidding?” my mom said with an incredulous expression. “This young lady has gone bottoms-up more times than I can count!”  

Beverly went beet-red in an instant.

“Don’t feel bad, Bev,” my future sister-in-law said with a sympathetic smile. “We’ve all been there.”

I was in love. My brother was going to have to fight me for this woman’s affections.

“You?” my little sister squeaked. I suppose if I idolized Kyra at age 16, to a 14-year-old she must have seemed like a genuine goddess. I saw on her face the attempt to wrap her mind around the idea of this supreme being kicking and squawking over someone’s knee. My current predicament notwithstanding, I couldn’t help but smile.

“Oh, yeah; my parents are definitely old-school,” Kyra replied. And there’s a ‘Naughty Corner’ at our house, too. I’m sure my little brother still spends quite a bit of time there, in fact.”

“How long since you were there?” My brother seemed to sense an opportunity to get some of his injured dignity back.

“That’s for me to know and you to never find out!” Kyra laughed. You got served, Bro.

“Speaking of Naughty Corners,” said my mother, “it’s time for a certain young lady to return to hers while we clear the table.”

I sighed and my face flared anew. I wasn’t surprised: the minimum McCormick “reflection period” on either side of a spanking was twenty minutes; due to the imminence of dinner time, I’d only served about half that earlier.

“Yes, Ma’am,” I said, rising and feeling all eyes on the pajama-clad girl once again. I caught Kyra’s look of sympathy and wink of solidarity, and returned to my corner feeling much less ill-used by the universe. I still had the profound indignity of a witnessed spanking in my immediate future, of course, but Kyra had gone out of her way to point out that everyone at the table under the age of nineteen had recently shared the experience. Standing with my nose to the wall and my hands on my head, I felt oddly comforted.

[End of Part Two]

Copyright Ⓒ 2013 by Aunt Carla

All rights reserved

Why I Hate Pajamas

Part One

image from girlspyjamaspanking.com

My name is Madeleine McCormick, and I’ve never been a big fan of pajamas. When I was 16, something happened that turned my already-established dislike of the garment into a lifelong revulsion.

For as long as I could remember, I’d associated pajamas with being punished. This was no accident: in my family, punishments almost always began with the command, “Go change into your pajamas!” My older brother, younger sister and I knew all too well what that meant: our misbehavior had crossed the Rubicon; we were definitely going to get spanked.

We’d always whine and plead, but deep down we knew at that moment that there was no going back. After the dread “pajamas” command sounded, no amount of apologizing could come between us and a sore, red bottom (and an equally red face). You see, by parental decree, all spankings occurred out in the living room with the whole family in attendance. The putative reasoning behind this was that they (our mom and dad) could teach all three kids a helpful lesson with just one spanking. What it meant for us in practice, of course, was a huge serving of embarrassment to go along with the already-unpleasant experience of being spanked. On the occasions when we were obstinate enough--or dumb enough--to seriously misbehave in the presence of aunts, uncles, grandparents, and cousins, the embarrassment factor went through the roof. Never in our family history was an appeal granted on the basis of who was there to witness our shameful comeuppance-- notwithstanding our heartfelt pleas on those occasions to be spanked in our bedrooms. “Misbehave in public, get punished in public” was a maxim my parents lived by. The only (slight) saving grace was that this had always meant “in the presence of extended family,” not actually “in public.”

The other thing that fueled our embarrassment was the fact that our parents never made the shift from over-the-knee discipline to other forms of punishment as we grew older. If you deliberately, seriously misbehaved, you had an over-the-knee trip in your immediate future, whether you were six or sixteen. When we reached our teen years, things became infinitely worse for us, especially if our cousins happened to be visiting. In keeping with the discipline philosophy guiding the McCormick house, we’d get it in front of them and their parents-- who had in fact made the switch to grounding, removal of privileges, and the like. The barely-covered grins and muted giggles of our cousins seeing us go bare-bottom-up in the living room was as bad as--if not worse than--the spanking itself.

But nothing in my experience compared to the devastating embarrassment I suffered  when I was sixteen.

My brother Ben was nineteen at the time, and home from college for winter break. On the evening in question, his fiancée Kyra had come over for dinner. She was a beautiful college freshman, and in my eyes, the walking epitome of female maturity and coolness. I wanted to be like her, and I wanted her to see me as an equal. It was that yearning that was at the heart of my downfall that evening.

Kyra drank alcohol-- in moderation and with restraint. She was not at all the typical college “party girl” who got drunk and acted irresponsibly. At sixteen, I have to admit I didn’t quite get the distinction yet. I’d had my share of beer and cheap wine at parties and while out with girlfriends; this was, of course, a closely-guarded secret. My parents had been clear about this: their kids were decidedly not to consume alcohol before reaching legal adulthood. So far, I’d kept my flouting of the family rule under wraps. The chickens  were about to come home to roost, and I was completely clueless.

Before dinner, I was chattering away with Kyra. In a half-unconscious effort to project my maturity and worldliness before her, I pulled a Miller Lite out of the refrigerator and popped the lid. (A singularly dumb move, considering the fact that Mom was bustling about in and out of the kitchen at the time.) Heedless, I knocked back a deep swig of the beer.

“Madeleine Rae McCormick, what do you think you’re doing?” my mother demanded as she walked into the kitchen. Her hands went to her hips (always a bad sign) and she skewered me with a look that would have made Attila the Hun tremble.

“I, um, I was just having...” my voice trailed off as embarrassment flowed through every inch of my being. I was being scolded in front of my brother’s fiancée--and I was sixteen! Of course, it was about to get a whole lot worse.

Kyra had the grace to look almost as embarrassed as I felt, but that did little to assuage my feelings. Ben came into the kitchen (he’d been chatting with my dad in the living room) at the dread sound of my mother’s “someone’s in trouble” voice. He was less gracious than Kyra (girls are always more mature than boys); he saw the beer in my hand and grinned, making “tsk-tsk” sounds and shaking his head.

“You’re toast, little sis,” he said.

“How long has this been going on, young lady?” This from my father.

My face was as red as a beet. I stared at my feet, unable to speak.Then came the words from my mom that turned my stomach to a quivering mass of jelly:

“Go put your pajamas on, young lady.”

I gasped. She couldn’t be serious!

“Mom! We have company!”

“Kyra is family, not ‘company.’”

“But...”

“No ‘buts,’ young lady. PJs on right now; we’ll take care of this after dinner, since  we’re almost ready to eat.”

My world had crumbled around me in the course of about ten seconds. I was being promised an after-dinner spanking in front of Ben and Kyra, and I would somehow have to survive the intense humiliation of eating dinner with them in my pajamas at 8:00 pm on a Friday night. I looked at the determined look in my mother’s eyes, and knew no reprieve was possible. My face flaring like a house on fire, and ran for my room as my eyes filled with tears.

[END of Part One]

Copyright Ⓒ 2013 by Aunt Carla

All rights reserved

All These Things and More

It’s the fact that you’re wearing a shirt and tie, while I’m as naked as the day I was born.

It’s that I can’t help but struggle over your lap like a naughty little girl.

Kicking wildly.

Crying soulfully.

Pounding my fists in the air.

It’s that we both know I deserve it, I need it, I want it.

(With more than just a touch of reluctance.)

It’s the delicious helplessness I feel hanging over your knee.

The hot-faced shame of that juvenile position.

It’s the crying, the tears, the promises of eternal obedience...if you’ll just put out the fire.

But it’s also that I can completely let go there, over your lap.

Be a little girl again, under a strong man’s protection.

(Even if my behind is burning up-- the price I pay for these amazing feelings.)

It’s the way you send me to the corner afterwards to think about my misdeeds,

My hands on my head, denied even the right to wipe the tears away--

The ultimate catharsis.

It’s all these things and more, but most of all...

It’s knowing there’s someone who cares enough to spank me whenever...

...and wherever I deserve it.

Regularly, faithfully, hard.

You’re my rock in a constantly-changing world.

My God, how I love you.

Copyright Ⓒ 2013 by Aunt Carla

All rights reserved

Lacey in the Corner

A Lori and Lacey Story

“This is ridiculous,” Lacey grumbled under her breath.

Her sore bare behind was planted on a hard wooden chair facing the living room corner. She had a notebook in her left hand and a pen in her right; she was writing the sentence “I must not let my mouth get my bottom in trouble” for the twentieth time-- twenty out of one hundred. Lori had hung a large bar of soap from a string on the wall directly in front of her as a reminder of how things might escalate if Lacey failed in her present task.

As much as Lacey wanted to prove herself the equal of Lori’s ex Kelley in being able to “take anything you can dish out,” her sore butt, cramping hand, and the inescapable reminder that she could well be performing this task with a big bar of soap in her mouth combined to give her second thoughts.

Lacey was adventurous by nature, but ever since she and Lori had agreed to make discipline and punishment part of their domestic arrangement, Lori had frequently pushed the limits of that adventurousness. Lacey’s current state of dress was a case in point. She wore a pink tank top that read, “I just need to be spanked and sent to bed early.” A matching pair of panties declared its wearer to be a “Naughty Girl.” The discipline outfit had been a recent birthday gift, when Lacey turned 25. Lori had teased her by saying, “We’ll start with this. But knowing how bratty you are, you’ll probably wind up wearing nothing else inside the house; I’ll have to order at least three more sets.” Lori had insisted that she try on her present immediately (something Lacey actually enjoyed), and had given her a lusty birthday spanking in her new attire. Lacey loved it.

But she did not love writing lines with her bare, just-spanked butt planted on the hard wood of this chair, facing the corner for God-knew-how-long. One hundred times? She was only up to thirty-five now, and her hand was already cramping. She shook it out, cracked her knuckles and resumed writing with a sigh.

She knew Lori was watching her. After ensconcing her in the corner and giving her this assignment, her girlfriend had sat down in her comfortable recliner and begun reading a novel while sipping a ginger ale. It just wasn’t fair.

Well, that wasn’t quite true Lacey had to admit that her girlfriend had given her fair warning. After a Saturday morning of sustained brattiness from Lacey, Lori had eventually announced that her limit had been reached by declaring, “You need a spanking. Go change into your punishment outfit.” When Lacey remained defiant, her girlfriend responded, “Oh, I see; you’d rather be naked. That can be arranged.” A loud, “You wish!” from Lacey; a look from her lover that said, “Just keep pushing me;” a deep, put-upon sigh, and Lacey was soon in the pink outfit and going over Lori’s lap.

“You’re lucky I don’t take you out on the deck for this, brat,” Lori had said just before delivering a long, hard hand spanking. That had caused Lacey’s stomach to flip over, roller coaster-riding-style. As adventurous as she was, she kept silent; she had no wish to push her lover into doing that.

Or did she? Shifting in a fruitless attempt to find a comfortable position on the chair, writing the 50th line with her panties around her ankles, she found herself getting wet at the thought. Would Lori actually do it? Had she ever given Kelley a semi-public spanking? If so, pushing Lori into doing the same for her was a moral imperative.

But not today-- her butt was too sore. And Lori had explicitly made inquiries into her sex life with her ex off-limits, saying, “I’m with you. I love you, you crazy brat. No more questions about the past.” That had given Lacey a warm feeling inside, and considerable moisture between her legs. The sex that followed was flat-out amazing. In fact, ever since they’d introduced a disciplinary element into their relationship, their sex life had taken off like a rocket.

Lacey winced as she shifted uncomfortably again, but the wince was followed by a smile. Once she was released from this penitent’s position, she planned to go down on Lori and send her into the stratosphere. And if she finished her current assignment to Lori’s satisfaction, she was sure to return the favor.

Smiling broadly despite her smarting tail, Lacey began her 60th line.

[END]

Copyright 2013 by Aunt Carla

All rights reserved

Jan and Sofia at the Disciplinary Studio, Part Three

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The Book Is Out!

Sizzle!

A Dozen Hot Spanking Stories

Here be the link:

http://www.amazon.com/Aunt-Carla/e/B00CMMHTSA

:)

Jan and Sofia at the Disciplinary Studio, Part Two

Partners in Punishment

(Alternate Ending)

“You have one minute, ladies. I need to see two naughty ladies out here and properly attired for correction in less than sixty seconds, or there will be consequences!”

Aunt Carla issued the warning from just outside the door of the changing room. Sofia and Jan had visited the girls’ room and were almost ready to come out in their punishment outfits. Truth be told, they were dawdling a bit, not wishing to emerge in the embarrassing clothing any sooner than they had to. But at Aunt Carla’s warning, they completed their (literal) last-minute adjustments. Unfortunately, there was nothing they could do to make their attire any less embarrassing.

The door opened, and from her settee in the Studio, Aunt Carla saw two unhappy ladies creeping out of the changing room with their heads down, each wearing a white camisole and matching panties. Aunt Carla smiled, silently approving of Mr. Allan’s adherence to protocol. Both their sizes had increased since their last visit to the Studio 18 months before, and Mr. Allan had invested in new punishment clothing for both ladies, one size smaller than their new sizes. The camisoles ended above the women’s navels and hugged their chests tightly. The panties were small and tight; Aunt Carla was sure that too much of their bottoms were “hanging out” for either woman’s comfort.

“Ah, there you are, ladies. Cutting it a bit close, are we not?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” the unfortunate duo mumbled, looking at their bare toes.

“Well, you just made it. Kindly twirl for me and let me get a good look at you both in your new outfits.”

There was much inward groaning and bright blushing at this command, but they both obeyed it. Aunt Carla’s expectations were spot on: the negligible panties left a good deal of bottom flesh exposed, especially in Jan’s case. So far, so good. The humbling effect of the punishment attire was an important part of Aunt Carla’s carefully designed punishment protocol.

“Very good, ladies. Your pre-spanking corner time begins now. Kindly report to the reception area and ask for instructions from Miss Amelia.”

They shuffled forlornly toward the reception area, their faces flaring. Miss Amelia was delighted to see the two of them reporting once again for “special” corner time. She wouldn’t repeat the mistake she'd made last time, letting her schadenfreude run away with her; that would mean a trip over Auntie’s lap for her. When they were properly ensconced with their hands on their heads (the disciplinarian-in-training noted with pleasure that neither woman needed a reminder about that last bit), the picture could not have been more perfect: mother and daughter, co-conspirators  in crime, partners in punishment. Miss Amelia smiled; all was right with her world. Then the door to the Studio opened, and it got even better.

“Ah, very nice, Miss Amelia,” said Aunt Carla, walking out and regarding the two penitents with a smile. Then she winked at her assistant and said, “But what’s this? Did little Sofie fail to inform you that she had an appointment with Mr. Ivory?”

“Oh...Yes, apparently so, Ma’am. She said nothing about soap.”

“Well, well. Have you a bar in your desk drawer?”

“Yes Ma’am, I do.”

“Would you be a dear and put it in its proper place?”

Amelia wasn’t sure, but she could have sworn she’d just died and gone to heaven.

“Certainly, Ma’am,” she said brightly, setting about the task con brio.

Sofia visibly stiffened at Amelia’s approach.

“Please turn and face me, Sofie.”

The girl turned, her hands still on her head, and her expression was a mixture of anger and fear. The two emotions seemed to be wrestling for dominance over her face.

“Have you ever had the Mr. Ivory Treatment, Little Miss Sofie?”

“No!”

Amelia smiled. “Well, I have. I can assure you it will clean up that dirty mouth of yours, and put a stop to your backchat, as well. Open wide!”

Anger won out for the moment; Sofia stamped one bare foot petulantly. Unfortunately, in her current state of dress and posture, she only managed to make herself appear more of a spoiled child having a tantrum. Aunt Carla watched to see how her assistant would handle the situation.

“Perhaps you didn’t hear me,” Amelia said, still smiling and keeping her tone even. “I said, ‘open wide.’”

Fear and anger continued their wrestling match, but Sofia eventually obeyed.

“Good girl!” said Amelia, as if praising a small child. “A little wider, please...” She placed the large bar of soap into the girl’s mouth and pushed it in until it filled her. “There we go! Bite down, now, Sofie, so it won’t fall out. A little harder...good! Now, let’s have both you ladies facing out, so we can all see the good job Mr. Ivory’s doing on this dirty mouth.”

Aunt Carla smiled broadly. Amelia had had the “Mr. Ivory Treatment,” more than once, and at her hands. By confessing her own experience with the punishment, she was keeping her pride in check while keeping control of the situation. Ever since Aunt Carla had punished her niece for going overboard with Sofia when she first served corner time in the reception area, she had been growing by leaps and bounds. It had helped that she’d endured not only a spanking and corner time, but had also been required to write a detailed account of her punishment for the Disciplinary Studio’s website. The humbling effect of that experience had produced a sea change in Amelia’s professionalism, which in turn had prompted Aunt Carla to entrust some of the disciplinary duties of the Studio to her. Today, she had been given the opportunity to discipline the same girl with professional restraint, and she had passed the test admirably. The two co-conspirators were now facing outward (precisely what Aunt Carla would have done in Amelia’s place), and neither seemed to be having a very good time. Judging by her facial expression, the younger of the two seemed to find Ivory soap quite unappetizing.

“Well done, Amelia! Have we any other clients today?” Aunt Carla asked her assistant.

“Thank you Ma’am, and yes: Mr. and Mrs. Phelps are due in ten minutes for their regular couples’ session.”

“Oh, of course, they rescheduled, didn’t they.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Fine. To save time, why don’t you ring Mrs. Threnodie next door and ask her to drop by. That way we can take the girls in and spank them together.”

“Sure, great idea, Auntie!”

Mrs. Threnodie ran the hobby shop next door; she sometimes dropped in to visit, or to watch over things for a few minutes while Amelia ran a quick errand. This wouldn’t be the first time she’d “minded the store” while the two disciplinarians were otherwise occupied. Amelia rang her, and she said she’d be right over.

Amelia caught the twinkle in her aunt’s eye and responded with a wink. Meanwhile, the two cornered ladies tried to process these latest, unwelcome developments. Unsure who would be going over whose knee, they were in a riot of anxiety. Neither one of them enjoyed being spanked, but each would have gladly traded two spankings or more over Aunt Carla’s knee for one over Miss Amelia’s. The humiliation of taking a bare-bottom spanking from a girl young enough to be her daughter would be atrocious for Jan, yet it would be worse still for Sofia. She had three years on Amelia, and going over the younger girl’s lap would simply be intolerable for her, especially following so quickly after this “Mr. Ivory” humiliation. And a woman from next door popping in as they stood in their humiliating outfits, facing the room? If they hadn’t already deeply regretted falling back into their old ways at Mr. Allan’s expense, they certainly did now. The emotions the two soon-to-be-spanked women were riding caused them to stiffen their bottoms such that either of them could have cracked a nut with their gluteal muscles alone.

“I’m going to have a cup of coffee,” Amelia told her aunt, “would you care for some?”

“Oh, that would be lovely, thank you.”

The two women chatted while Amelia brewed the coffee. The other two stood their posts in misery, hoping against hope that they would be ushered into the next room before this neighbor appeared and added to their embarrassment.

[End Part Two...Conclusion to follow]

Copyright Ⓒ 2013 by Aunt Carla

All rights reserved