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This is the text of a letter which I sent to poor Susan shortly before her tragic and untimely death and was never published. It details how I used my husband's sissy tendencies to take full control of my marriage and of him. I am afraid it is rather long but I hope you will be able to use it. I am delighted that you are stepping into the breach left by Susan's sad demise and will be carrying the torch for the power of petticoating. In 1982, during the acrimonious break up of a disastrous first marriage, I went to work as a secretary at a local engineering firm and it was there that I met my husband to be, James. I could tell at once there was something different about him, today we would say he lacked social skills but back then we just called it being shy, he had the sort of impeccable good manners that I thought had gone out with the ark, unlike most of the others who were either brusque to the point of rudeness or all wandering hands and cheesy chat up. He always said please and thank you, and held open doors for even the most junior female staff, he even apologized for my mistakes saying things like. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to correct one or two errors. Because this is a specification and might later become a contractual obligation it has be spot on you see, sorry about that. Don't worry, you'll soon get the hang of things," before slinking off looking embarrassed. In short he was a gentleman. He was universally respected by his male colleagues as a brilliantly talented engineer, but nearly all of the women joked about him behind his back, some tried to tease him and several were openly rude to him which I found annoying partly because I have always believed that courtesy cuts both ways, but also because I found his diffident good manners rather sweet. Several months after I started I found myself sitting next to him in the pub at lunch time, liquid lunches were almost de rigueur in those days but on this occasion we were celebrating the fact that he had won some sort of engineering award. I congratulated him and tried to make small talk but he just seemed embarrassed and kept trying to sidle away. As the pub filled up our little group became quite tightly pressed together and I became aware of something hard digging into my leg. I looked down and through the tightly stretched material of his trousers I saw the unmistakable outline of a suspender clip. I said nothing at the time but was intrigued and spent that afternoon quietly scheming as to how to use this knowledge to my best advantage. That evening I stayed late until all the other secretaries had left and went to his office. I asked him if he could do me a favour; to which he replied yes he would if could, and I said could he give me a lift home. He then said something about being rather busy at the moment but that he could arrange for someone else to run me home. Taking the bull by the horns I said, quite brazenly for me at the time, "No I would much rather it was you because I wanted to ask you about the suspender belt you're wearing." He blushed the most spectacular shade of red I have ever seen, his ears went almost beetroot in colour, and he stammered some nonsense about everyone at the rugby club doing it for a bet. I replied along the lines of "I think we both know that's not true, see you in about five minutes then," and returned to my desk. I was elated when he appeared a couple of minutes later with his coat on, I remember to this day with perfect clarity the exquisite thrill of knowing that for the first time in my life I had a man completely under my thumb. We didn't speak during the journey home except for my giving directions but when we arrived I told him that I would like his help to move a couple of heavy items. When he demurred saying he had to get back to work I responded that we still hadn't discussed his choice of underwear. To my surprise he agreed without further argument and for the next two hours I kept him busy rearranging the furniture to my satisfaction and unpacking the last few boxes from my recent move. When it became obvious that there was nothing left for him to do he began saying that he really had to be getting back, to which I replied there was no way he was going anywhere until I had seen what he was wearing under his trousers. He looked aghast and refused point blank. This was, and is, the only time he has ever wilfully refused to comply with my instructions or disobeyed me, and the only time I have ever threatened him. I told him that the price of my silence was a sight of his underwear followed a meal in the town's best restaurant, he could agree or it would be all round the building by tomorrow lunch time, the choice was his. With great reluctance he dropped his trousers to reveal a pair of black stockings, a lacy red suspender belt and plain red briefs. Nothing fancy or outrageous, it could all have come from M&S. At the time I was amazed at how easy it was to get him to acquiesce, he could have just left and denied everything for I had no evidence. Over time I have become convinced that he actually wanted to confess his guilty secret to somebody and I became that somebody. In response to my questions he told me that he had wanted to dress this way since his early teens and had been doing so regularly ever since he left school, and that he liked to wear something different every day. When I asked why he did it he suddenly burst into floods of tears and wailed that he didn't know but that it just felt right, and good, and comfortable. Now it was my turn to be embarrassed. I told him not to worry, that his secret would be safe with me as long as he did what he was told and to hurry up and compose himself because I wanted to eat. Over dinner that evening he told me his rather sad life story: remote and undemonstrative parents, boarding schools from the age of seven, the navy, the exclusively masculine world of engineering in which he had excelled but never felt at home. I began to feel guilty about my plans to blackmail him into becoming my meal ticket and regretted having deliberately chosen the most expensive items on the menu. I told him of my own bad experiences and he was genuinely sympathetic and said if I needed anything of a practical nature doing around my new flat he would happily do them for me, I think he was still frightened that I would expose him. To cut a long story short, after that evening we gradually became what is now termed "an item," and it was wonderful: he simply couldn't do enough for me, driving me home every evening, taking me out, re- plumbing and redecorating my flat, doing my shopping, and my shoes always shone better than new. Each night when he dropped me off I would tell him what to wear the following day and then make some excuse to visit his office to check that he had complied and give him a list of things I wanted him to do or buy for me. Ironically when people at work began to realise that we had become a couple my female colleagues became jealous, and the man whom they had hitherto derided as a creepy weirdo suddenly became an eligible bachelor that I had "stolen" from under their noses. Exactly one year after that first awkward outing he proposed, he slid an open ring box across the table and asked me to marry him. Well I wasn't having any of that, I made him go down on one knee in the middle of the restaurant and propose properly. I told him that I would only accept him on my terms and he replied "you can do whatever you like as long as you let me love you." As soon as my decree became absolute we were married. For the ceremony I insisted he wear under his suit a waspie and long French knickers in white duchesse satin together with white stockings. For our wedding night I purchased a pair of matching nighties, dark blue satin for me and diaphanous virginal white for him. Before allowing him into the marital bed I made him kneel and solemnly swear to respect, honour and obey me at all times and in all things. This set the pattern for most of our married life, I disposed of all but one set of his male underwear, which I kept under my control, and I stipulated which set of feminine things he would wear under his day clothes and which nightie he would wear in bed. Around the house I did the cooking and delicate laundry and he did everything else. Very occasionally I would find it necessary to put him over my knee and slipper his bottom and make him stand in the corner with his hands on his head, but generally we were both content in a quietly happy marriage and raised two perfectly normal well adjusted children. This cosy routine would probably have continued indefinitely but for two things, firstly he was made redundant and secondly I discovered the internet. It was a revelation. I had no idea just how common cross dressing was among men, never heard the term petticoat discipline although I had observed its effects, became aware that I had only begun to scratch the surface of a complex subject, and most of all I realized that I had been far, far too lenient with him. All the old desires to make him squirm under my complete control re-emerged with a vengeance, and I began to realise that what I had been doing all these years was simply indulging his fantasies. After extensive internet research I decided on three things; that from now on he would be doing all the housework and the cooking, that I would totally feminise/sissify him, and that he would be kept in chastity. The first two proved remarkably easy, I just bought him a maids uniform as a birthday present and told him I would like him to wear it whenever he was doing the housework, he was delighted so I increased the amount of housework he did to maximize his opportunity to wear it. He didn't object so I got him a "best" uniform in taffeta with bouffant petticoats and told him he must wear it on special occasions and curtsey to me whenever he had it on. He began to ask questions but I told him to trust me and that all this was leading up to something special. That something special was the Curve chastity device which was already in my handbag. I knew that he would be, at best, reluctant to accept the idea so one evening at bedtime I simply told him I had a surprise for him and made him close his eyes and instructed him not to move. It took longer than I expected to fasten and lock it position but when it was securely in place I told him he could open his eyes. He begged, he pleaded, he wept, he promised me anything, but I was implacable. I outlined his new regime and he told me that he would have done all of it willingly and didn't need to be restrained, to which I replied that if he was willing then it didn't make any difference, he would be restrained until I saw fit to release him and that what I was doing was for his own good and he ought to be grateful. Since then I have revelled in the power this has given me, he now has three domestic outfits, a plain cotton working uniform with pinafore, his best taffeta uniform, and an outrageously girlie pink satin uniform for when he is attending to my personal needs, he is required to wear one of these at all times around the house. I have also obtained a wig, but he just looks silly in it. I have also acquired some more severe instruments of correction which I keep on display on my bedside table and do not hesitate to use. Any back chat is rewarded with a spoonful of mustard or an hour in the corner with a piece of soap under his tongue, or both. The ultimate punishment is a day spent in hessian knickers which he hates, and I love. Watching him wriggle in discomfort as he goes about the housework is pure delight. He keeps telling me that he would do anything for me and doesn't need coercion, to which I reply "then wear your Curve in the knowledge that it is giving me pleasure and be happy." Having taken inspiration from your contributors such as Lesley and Jennifer, I am now quite keen to show off my sissy husband for what he is. I am undecided as to whether to get a walking out costume and send him on a few errands, or to invite some friends round and have him wait on us in his best uniform. As a result of reading Stephanie-Jane' s diary I am tempted to reveal all to our daughter and maybe enlist her aid in regressing him back to schoolgirl status or perhaps even younger, but this would be a major step about which I have serious reservations. I am also thinking of insisting that he be made up when in uniform as this seems to have had the desired effect on Vanessa's son in law. Finally does anyone know where I can obtain UK size 11 shoes that do not have ridiculously high heels and would be suitable for street wear. Best Wishes, Sallyann What a delightful letter Sallyann. I hope it will serve as an inspiration to wives out there to take control in their homes. Auntie Helga |