Thursday, 8 April 2010

The pyjama game

Story from The Roue 02.

The pyjama game

Alone in the darkened room, girl lay curled up in bed gazing apprehensively at the razor of light sneaking through the crack in the door from the landing beyond, where lay the stairs..... and down the stairs, the hall..... and leading off from the hall, the dining room, with the meal, cold and untouched, still on the table. And at the table, she was sure, he'd still be there, seated, arms folded, grim and unforgiving – just as he was half an hour before when, with the meal about to commence, she'd said or done something or other to displease him and he'd banished her instantly from the room.

So suddenly, so inexplicably had he yelled at her that, in dumb dismay, she'd fled the room and scampered like a frightened rabbit up the stairs, little bottom gyrating beneath the short blue games skirt. Hot, pearly tears of indignant disbelief gathered in her eyes as she smarted from the bitter blow of being so summarily and so arbitrarily rejected – excluded from the warmth of his affection. What had she done, she asked herself, in God's name what had she done?

She was cold, frightened and hungry. As if to underline the latter deprivation, her tummy gave a sympathetic rumble. Jugged hare! Her favourite meal of all! She'd been looking forward to it all day, and the memory of its appetising aroma mocked her in her misery.

Like a petulant child she'd slammed her bedroom door vindictively, not caring if he, still seated in judgement downstairs, heard the noise. She'd practically ripped off her skirt and, standing in just aertex shirt, little white cotton pants and ankle socks, had bent her firm young body taut as a bowstring to untie her shoes. Kicking them off her feet, noisily and rebelliously, she'd peeled off her knickers and socks, likewise her shirt, flung them in an untidy heap on the floor, leapt into bed, flicked off the bedside light and pulled the cold quilt up over her head, as though to blot out the harsh, cruel world.

"Why, oh why did he always have to set such impossibly high standards?" She tried so hard, so very hard, to match up to them; but she was, after all, only a girl. She'd never be a paragon of virtue, that she knew, and she resented him for still demanding that of her. Why couldn't he, for once, meet her half-way? But no, it was always this. Sent to bed instantly: utterly dejected, and hungry for more than just good food. Then the long, lonely wait in bed – cold fingers of fear creeping up her spine every time she heard a rustle or creak downstairs, imagining that her time was near and he was preparing to come up to see to her. And those ridiculous little pyjamas she always had to wear, that made her feel about ten.

"Oh Christ, the pyjamas!" She'd forgotten. She fumbled frantically for the light switch, scrambled out of bed and ran across to the dressing table. She was lithe and leggy, pert-bottomed, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders. She opened the drawer and there they were, in the left-hand corner, neatly folded: fleecy, cuddly, pink-flowered girl's pyjamas, child size thirty-two. They looked so tiny she was always amazed that they fitted her at all, though by no stretch of the imagination could it be said that they fitted her comfortably. The jacket was O.K., that went on easily, even if the arms were on the short side. But the trousers were always a bit of a problem. They clung to her legs, particularly the tops of her thighs, and stretched drum-tight across her dainty seat, like a second skin. They nestled in the crack between her cheeks and rubbed insinuatingly against her pubic mound. She studied her trousered bottom in the mirror behind her, and reflected bitterly on how blatantly erotic, yet patently punishable they made it appear. That, she supposed, was the idea. Not so much plump as cheekily prominent, her bottom seemed bigger than it really was only because the rest of her was so delicately small. She looked fragile yet she was by no means weak, and had often surprised him by the wildcat struggle she would put up, the energetic kicking and flailing before giving in and allowing herself to be thoroughly spanked into abject, tearful submission.

Painstakingly, she'd coaxed herself into the pink flowery pyjama trousers, stretching the elasticated waistband perilously close to snapping in order to accommodate the full firm flare of her girlish buttocks. They didn't quite reach her waist, and the trouser bottoms ended just a little way below her knees. She'd touched the well-worn, threadbare seat of them with a curious fondling motion. They were drawn tight across that part of her person that was going to be so shamefully, so relentlessly punished. She'd felt more exposed than if she were naked. She'd come to associate the wearing of these pyjamas with the prolonged, painful tannings she so dreaded. She only had to put them on to feel her stomach starting to churn and her bottom acquire that nervous twitch it always seemed to develop just before he spanked her. It unsettled and unnerved her, having to dress as a little girl again – she could practically feel herself regressing. She had a sudden, overwhelming desire to suck her thumb, and to go to the cupboard and fish out her ancient, dog-eared teddy........

She looked down at the untidy heap of clothes strewn on the floor, thought better of it, stooped to gather them up, and arranged them neatly over the chair. Then she remembered that was the chair he'd use, so she lay the garments carefully on the dressing table before climbing back into bed. The tightly clinging pyjama trousers accentuated every move she made: every swing of her hips, every wiggle of her bottom. Even when snuggled once more under the quilt, she was still acutely aware of the provocative dimensions of her cheeky little bottom, and the cruel fate that awaited it, because the taut cotton trousers were a constant reminder of its existence.

Would the spankings ever cease? They seemed to have been going on for years now. He insisted, even ordained, that her frequent lapses from grace warranted, positively demanded, them.

"Little girls must be treated like little girls!" he'd hiss venomously, and she'd shudder and wriggle anxiously in her seat.

Then there was the matter of the mirrors. He'd invariably position the chair so that he could watch himself spanking her in one of the wings of the dressing table mirror. She knew this because of the full-length mirror facing her as she lay across his knee. If she wanted to, she could actually watch him, watching himself spank her. She could even, if she craned her neck, see her own bottom – so that, as well as feeling the discomfort and pain of the spanking spreading across her cheeks, she could also watch them reddening into burgundy colour under his hot, punishing hand. But she preferred not to, choosing instead to close her eyes, grit her teeth, and try to imagine how blissful and serene it would be when it was all over and he took her into his arms. It was like having a tooth filled at the dentist's. You had to steel yourself, discipline yourself to cope with the nagging discomfort and sudden stabs of pain. Strange, she thought, how he liked to watch himself smacking her..... perhaps studying her outspread bum, her cleft, her secret places at leisure; gloating when, near the climax of the spanking, she abandoned herself involuntarily to a paroxysm of vulgarly suggestive bum-wigglings, with no thought to what she was displaying, because by then her trousers would always end up around her ankles, or else discarded completely, lying crumpled on the floor – just to add to her embarrassment.

In fact the mere thought of the excruciating ordeal ahead – of heaving to go, blushing and bare-bottomed over his knee – was enough to make her wet the pillow with a sudden onrush of hot little tears. For comfort she put her hands between her legs and tried to rock herself off to sleep, but every time she shifted slightly in the bed the trousers caught in her crack, nudging her back into anxious awareness of the impending spanking hanging over her like the sword of Damocles.

Then the sound she dreaded. The heavy, measured treat slowly ascending the stairs. This was it! Now she was for it!

"Oh God! Oh God!" she began to blubber helplessly, as the door swung open and the big light from outside flooded in and dazzled her.

"Big baby!" he scoffed contemptuously. "Fancy crying before I've even started!" He could be cruel with words as well as with his hand. He came over to the bed and stooped to regard the pathetic, huddled figure clutching the top of the quilt as if her life depended on it. Then he reached down and tore back the quilt from her grasp so that her curled-up, defensive attitude was fully revealed.

She was lying facing away from him. One tightly trousered bottom cheek presented itself coyly, tremblingly. He scrutinised it for a second, then slapped it hard and derisively. She let out a little whimper of alarm and reached behind to shield her bottom from any further attack.

"Come on. Over my knee," he said quietly, and she froze in sudden panic as he seated himself in the usual chair and waited for her. She had no alternative but to obey. If she refused or even hesitated he'd only drag her by the ear out of bed and fling her face down over her lap. So she pulled herself miserably up from the bed, wiping away the fresh tears from her eyes, and arranged herself blushingly across his knee – anxious only to get the distasteful business over with as soon as possible, even though she knew that afterwards she'd be too sore to sleep for hours.

The odour of his thick tweedy trousers, redolent of pipe tobacco, engulfed her, and their coarse texture itched and prickled her through the thin nylon of her pyjamas. She was ever so conscious that her bottom must be presenting a ludicrous spectacle, dramatically emphasised as it was by the tight nylon pyjama trousers, worn threadbare of their fleeciness by the many, many times he'd spanked her. Some day, no doubt, his heavy calloused hand would prove too much for the flimsy material and it would split beneath the impact, and he wouldn't need to make her take them down, but carry on resolutely smacking the raw, red bottom flesh – rather like peeling a tomato.

Now he was rubbing his hand up and down her bottom and between her thighs, and with an upward movement, tracing with his finger, the well-defined division of cheek from cheek: once again petting her used to the feel of his hand on her bottom, to remind her that its pert, prominent outcrop of female flesh was going to experience the force of male justice so thoroughly, so intimately that very soon she'd be yelling her head off, begging and pleading with him – her vocal protests jostling with the loud reports of the smacks. Small wonder that she got such funny looks from the neighbours. Even passers-by outside the window would be left in no doubt that here, at least, was one stroppily disobedient girl who was getting her just deserts.

Pulling her even further across his knee, like he always did, only made her feel even more helpless than before, because it left her dangling in mid-air, with no safe, reassuring anchorage of floor to brace herself against. Everything seemed to conspire to make her feel a helpless, vulnerable little girl again – right down to the childishly pink floral patterns on her pyjamas. The only conflicting factor was the hot stickiness she was starting to experience between her legs, and already she was dreading the moment when he'd make her lower her trousers, in case he noticed it too.

Then suddenly he was smacking her, hard and fast, and the unique stinging sensation that only a spanking engenders began to invade her loins. Remembering what he'd said about her being a baby, she resolved to make him eat his words, by enduring the awful, smarting indignity with stoical calm and fortitude. But, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't rid herself of the appalling sensation of degradation and shame that always seized her while being spanked, and it was that, as much as the unpleasantness of a hot stinging bottom, that caused her to break her resolution and give way to whimpers and pleas of:

"Not so hard! PLEASE not so hard!"

But that only served to arouse the fury in him, and he gave her half a dozen stingers right across the summit of both cheeks that had her wriggling frenetically and screeching like a cat that's been trodden on.

She opened her eyes and cast a beseeching look at him through the mirror, but his head was tilted the other way. He was obviously observing the whole thing through the dressing table mirror: the saucy spread of her bum and its frantic gyrations, his descending palm repeatedly punishing her melon-like pulchritude, walloping it into subservience, chastening it for the sexual provocativeness of its inviting recesses.

Now he wanted her bare-bottomed. He wanted her to display herself before him in the full flower of her red-cheeked disgrace. Awkwardly, painfully, the weeping girl slid off his lap and stood upright. She was always allowed a few moments' respite in which to massage the parts of her bottom and upper thighs that hurt her the most – and tonight she took full advantage of this. Then she tugged the little pyjama trousers down to her knees, hotly blushing at having to reveal herself so completely, so ignominiously, and fighting back fresh tears at the thought of the most painful part of the spanking still to come. He made her turn round so that he could study in close detail the full effects of his handiwork. The blush on her bum far outdid the blush on her face. Fierce strawberry blotches made curious patterns on what was once a virginally white bottom. The cheeks still twitched and trembled uncontrollably. Most men would have been content with that and said: "Enough's enough!" But not he.

Over his knee again she had to go, a forlornly trouserless, scarlet-bottomed girl, biting her lip in dread of the next stage in the proceedings. Having to put on those childish pyjamas was bad enough. But then to undergo the ordeal of offering a nakedly-ashamed, well-spanked bottom for further punishment.......... well, that was just too much, even for the bravest of brave girls! Her cries and sobs acted as a backcloth to the loudly reverberating impacts of his hand on her bare bottom. He knew she couldn't possibly take more on the ripe extremities of her cheeks, so he turned his attention to the darkly sensual cleft that divided them, and, by angling his hand sideways, was able to 'refresh the parts of the bottom that other spankings couldn't reach.'

This momentarily stunned her into silence, but she soon let him know, at the top of her lungs, how she felt about this rude intrusion into her maidenly privacy. She never dreamt he'd spank her there: Oh, it was awful, awful! How could she ever look him in the eye again?

Outside in the street, a man and woman, locked together against a wall, heard every smack, every girlish cry of distress that issued from that upstairs room. The woman felt embarrassed, even indignant, that such things in this day and age could still happen, and wanted to move away. But the man was fascinated, spellbound by the sounds of the girl being spanked, and it so galvanised his lust that he pushed her to the ground, hoisted up the front of her summer dress, pulled aside the gusset of her knickers and entered her, brusquely, almost savagely – although despite her show of indignation she was far from being unreceptive and unready.

Long after the lovers had departed, sated, yet puzzled by their own reaction to the incident, the well-spanked girl in the room upstairs tossed, sore and restless, in her bed – trying in vain to blot out the shameful memory of what had occurred.

"You never learn, do you!" had been his parting shot as he'd stalked from the room, leaving the rosy-bottomed girl face down on the bed, sobbing her heart out, pathetically calling out his name long after he'd gone. No, she'd never learn. But, then, did she really want to?

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