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Dear Auntie Helga, I'm Michael, in my mid-forties, living in the north-west of England. I grew up in the south-east with a sister, 20 months older than me and a brother 30 months younger. One of my earliest memories is of my mother coming into the bedroom and, upon finding me secretly putting on a pair of my baby brother's plastic pants, asking if I would like to come downstairs and put them on by the fire. She was clearly unfazed by my action; I guess I was about 4 at the time. I don't remember ever trying them on again. As I got older, my interest turned to female clothing, in particular ladies panties. Whether this attraction arose from the variety of fabrics, styles or colours available even in the 1970's, I neither know nor care to trouble myself with. Suffice to say, I just found them pretty and had an overwhelming desire to wear them. I can't say for sure at what age I started but, by the time I was 11, I was occasionally sneaking into my sisters room, taking a pair of her panties and, sometimes a petticoat and skirt and locking myself in the bathroom to try them on. I knew this was wrong, yet, in spite of almost being caught several times, I could not stop myself. Perhaps it was the knowledge that it was wrong, maybe it was a latent desire to be caught and punished, or perhaps it was just another facet of my mind's wiring, that led me to start self-spanking while wearing the female garments. I found this arousing and experimented with a variety of implements, progressing from my hand, through slippers, rulers, mum's trusty clothes brush, a riding crop and eventually to a length of bamboo garden cane; each producing a signature sensation. However, more rewarding than their sensation, was the comfort I found from caressing my glowing cheeks through the sensual fabrics of the clothing. Over time, I started avoiding family outings or shopping trips so that I could be alone to pursue my secret activities. I recall watching the car and, no sooner than it had left the drive, I would be headed for my sister's wardrobe and panty drawer. Because both my parents worked, a favourite trick was to be the last to leave the house in the morning. This allowed me about 15 minutes solitude, but it also carried the risk of late arrival at school which, after three instances in a term, earned you an unwelcome appointment with the headmaster. Needless to say, at the age of 12, I was eventually caught. My sister, having forgotten to take her p.e. kit returned home to find me in her room, with her spare school skirt around my waist, massaging my recently slippered bottom through her blue lace slip. I don't know which of us was more shocked, but she recovered first yelling at me to get out of her clothes and out of her room. I changed quickly and chased after my sister, pleading with her all the way to school not to tell our parents. It was to no avail. I felt sick to my stomach all day and did not want to go home that evening but eventually knew I had to, thinking it better to face my mother before my father came home. My mother took me straight to her bedroom and closed the door and immediately began questioning me about the incident that morning. I was hugely embarrassed and just wanted to receive the inevitable spanking that was due me and get out of there as soon as possible. I embarrass and blush easily and so my mother saw straight through my lie when I claimed that morning was the first occasion that I had worn my sister's clothing. She soon had the truth out of me and questioned me extensively about why I had done this, although I could not satisfactorily explain this to myself, let alone my mother. Eventually she called my sister to bring the panties that I had been wearing that morning. My sister brought the garment; a skimpy (by 1970's standards) pair of lime green / yellow, patterned knickers with a slight lace trim at the legs, and my mother instructed her to give them to me and leave us. She told me these were now mine and I could wear them anytime I wanted but that I was never to touch any of my sister's clothes again. To my great relief she also told me that not a word of this was to be mentioned to my father as she did not think he would be so tolerant. She then sent me to put the panties in my drawer and return with her wooden clothes brush. After the hiding I was given, it was probably 6 months before I succumbed to the lure of my sister's room again. In the interim, my mother, when we were alone or in the presence of my sister, would often tease me asking whether I had worn my pretty panties yet as she hadn't seen them in the laundry. To my sisters unconcealed delight this invariably caused me to blush furiously. In time I occasionally started wearing the panties, especially on school days as I found the risk of being caught particularly exciting. I once made the mistake of wearing them on a p.e. day and had to pretend I had forgotten my kit which earned me the slipper from the games teacher. I never put the panties in the laundry though, preferring to wash them by hand encouraging my mother's belief that it had just been a phase I was going through and that I had now grown out of it. Fine as they were, the one pair of panties, with no other clothing was never going to satisfy me so, some months after my discovery, I found myself irresistibly drawn once more to my sister's room. Though on these occasions I was much more careful to avoid detection than previously, usually taking the items I desired, concealing them in my room and returning them a day or two later, so as to avoid being caught in her room. This worked successfully for some months until, one Saturday morning while watching TV with my brother and sister, my mother came into the room brandishing a pair of my sister's newest briefs; purple criss-crossed with white with lines and adorned with lots of little flowers and a delicate lace trim on the legs. She told me she had found them when changing the sheets on my bed, hidden between the mattress and the base and asked me straight out whether I had been wearing my sister's knickers again because I thought they were pretty. My cheeks burned and I denied any knowledge, saying they must have been tangled in the sheets when my mother had made the bed. I could tell she didn't believe me, but she did not pursue the matter. I thanked my lucky stars that the skirt had not still been there and resigned myself to finding a better hiding place. Within a couple of weeks my resistance crumbled yet again, and I found myself back in possession of the same panties that had been found stashed under my mattress, they really were incredibly pretty. I had decided to wear them to school but had to wait longer than usual for my mother to leave for work which meant that, by the time I had obtained them from my sister's drawer and put them on, it was getting perilously late. In spite of running, I arrived late and, to my horror, when the prefects on the gate took my name, I was told it was the third time I had been late that term and I had to go and wait outside the headmaster's office until he returned from morning assembly. This I did, and, to add to my woes, my sister, leaving assembly, passed me while I was waiting there. She must have realised immediately that I was there for the cane, the significance of which escaped me at the time. I received my 2 strokes, never the best way to start the day, but not altogether unpleasant to soothe the soreness from the bottom by rubbing through those panties. I got a lot of stick from classmates because, for obvious reasons, I refused to follow the time-honoured tradition of showing off my stripes. That afternoon, when I got home from school, my sister was already at home in the kitchen telling my mother that I had been caned. I tried to sneak upstairs but my mother called me to join them which, reluctantly, I did. My mother asked whether it was true and I said yes and that it was for lateness, explaining about the three late arrivals in a term rule. My mother was a step ahead of me though and asked why I had been late that morning and if I had been in my sister's room again which, in spite of my vehement denial, my blushing must have given truth to the lie. Eventually she asked to see whether my bottom was alright or if it needed any cream applying. I said it was fine, but she insisted on seeing it at which point I refused. She then asked point blank if I was wearing a pair of my sister's panties and I propagated my lies by categorically stating that I was not and had not done so since the day my sister had caught me. My mother said she didn't believe me and that I could either take my trousers down there and then or wait until my father got home from work and have him take my trousers down. This was unthinkable. I told my mother that I was embarrassed at removing my trousers in front of my sister so she was sent to check her room for missing underwear. I remained in the kitchen with my mother and began to lower my trousers. I think it was at this point that I started crying. As the trousers dropped and my sister's panties were revealed my mother slapped my face, hard, called me a liar and told me to fetch the clothes brush and go and wait in her bedroom. I started to pull my trousers up but she told me to take them off and go there in my sister's knickers. Before I left the kitchen my sister had called down from her room that her purple flowery panties were missing. I ran, passing my sister on the stairs, and heard her calling to our mother that I was wearing her missing panties. I waited an eternity for mum to arrive; I think she was trying to calm herself down before she punished me. When she eventually arrived, she lectured me at length. Although she was very upset about me wearing my sisters panties after she had given me a pair of my own and made me promise not to take my sisters again; it was my constant lying to her that angered her more. There were tears from both of us as we discussed what we were going to do about it as she could not have me taking and wearing my sister's clothes. In the end she decided that I should have my own set of panties to wear all the time, including some plain navy and white ones for sports days at school and some hand me down skirts and trousers from my sister to wear evenings or weekends when I wanted, or, when instructed. With this agreed, she gave me one of the hardest spankings I ever had from her clothes brush, for the lies I had told her throughout the previous year. This lesson was all the more painful in so much as it taught me that, no matter how pretty, women's panties provide poor coverage and scant protection for a spanked bottom. That weekend, true to her word, my mother took my sister and me shopping. First port of call was the building society where I had to withdraw my birthday and Christmas money to pay for my new clothing. From there it was straight on to Marks & Spencer, where, crimson faced and terrified that a school friend might see me, I had to walk around the girls underwear section with my sister, my mother a few paces behind and select 10 pairs of panties for myself while my sister chose two pairs for herself to replace those of hers that I had now acquired. Apart from two plain pairs for sports, the others were vetted by my sister and mother to determine if they were too plain and I was forced to replace several pairs with more girly designs. This caused what should have been a 15 minute trip to extend to about an hour, dragged out by my mother holding up and examining each pair in a fashion that would have made it obvious to anyone watching that they were being bought for me. My final humiliation came when my mother propelled me, carrying my basket of purchases, to a middle aged shop assistant and told me to ask the nice lady if they were the right size for me. I still hear myself stammering those words out and having to repeat myself as either she didn't understand me, or she didn't believe what I had just asked. She looked at my mother who simply nodded to confirm my question and then back at me; she picked up the panties and checked the sizes, saying that she thought they would be alright. Finally, I had to take my basket, together with my sister and her two pairs of panties to the till and pay for them with my money. On our return from M&S, my mother confiscated all my male underpants and said that, if I wanted them, I could have them back in a year. Well, the years passed, and I never did ask for them back and, up until I turned 18, I received from my mother a selection of pretty panties in a separate parcel each Christmas and birthday; and, as far as I know, my father was never told, or if he was, he has never mentioned it to me. On turning 18, I was told that it was time that I purchased my own underwear. Ever since that day at M&S, I have had a terrible phobia of lingerie shops or sections in clothing stores, dying a thousand deaths before I can even go in. For years in adult life I would try to make out that the purchases were for a partner but my crimson cheeks must have betrayed the truth on many occasions. In recent years I came clean to the proprietors of a lingerie shop in a nearby town, though not the one in the town where I live as that is too close to home. Since then I have enjoyed many happy visits to browse, chat and inevitably purchase. Sorry about the length. Hope it is of interest. It has been most cathartic to finally write this down and share it. Kind regards Michael Thank you for your letter Michael. We appreciate that it might have been difficult for you to tell us your story, though I hope it brings some comfort to you for doing so and perhaps to readers who find themselves in a similar situation. Auntie Helga |