Dear Miss MacDonald,
 
First of all let me say how much I appreciate PDQ. Informative and insightful, it is a wonderful inspiration to all of us who, in our own small way, are trying to improve the world we live in.
 
However, the recent references to the use of kilts as a means to petticoating demonstrate some misconceptions about this garment that compel me to sound a word of caution. It is tempting to perceive the kilt as a form of skirt but this can lead to problems. The kilt used to be, until feminism threw off all restraint, an exclusively male garment. Its male tradition is long and when worn ‘properly’, as defined by its devotees, it has been associated with some decidedly macho behaviour. Remember that many an unfortunate has been cleaved from head to navel by a male in a kilt wielding a claymore. Now, please believe me, I am not implying that every, or any, male wearing a kilt is intent on murdering us all in our beds. Oh, dear me, no! Things have changed. Most seem to be quite mild-mannered and affable these days. I am merely suggesting that the application of a kilt may not achieve the degree of feminization desired.
 
We were unaware of these implications when my dear niece’s boy, through some irrational nationalist impulse we now believe, requested a kilt. I did have some reservations but my niece was delighted so I helped her accommodate him even though kilts are quite expensive. We were immediately nonplussed by his wish to eschew underthings but his mother soon put a stop to that nonsense and insisted that he must protect his modesty for which purpose she purchased several pairs of cotton-knit knickers in muted shades of green and navy blue. True, they were girls’ school knickers, and he complained bitterly, but I thought they were quite becoming and a most practical solution. Underwear is underwear. What difference does it make? Fortunately my niece knows how to be firm with him and indeed, in spite of my misgivings, I perceived a noticeable improvement in his behaviour. Much less into tree-climbing and rough-housing.

When changes came they were quite subtle, and passed unnoticed, until we were finally alerted that all was not well when he requested for his birthday a very realistic simulated claymore that he had seen in a local store.
 
When we interrogated him he admitted that he had been surreptitiously defying his mother and omitting to wear his knickers under his kilt. Well. That did it. He was out of the kilt and into a dress (and knickers) that very day. There have been no problems since.
 
The important inference here is that it is not the kilt that feminizes. It may even be counterproductive. It just so happens that knickers or panties are sufficiently feminine to overwhelm its potentially undesirable effects. Now, I would be the last to claim that our observations are definitive or conclusive. General observation and direct experience of a sample of one is hardly a scientific study. But surely prudence would dictate the greatest care in choosing this route to petticoating. Perhaps your contributors can add to the body of evidence and provide insight with their own experiences.
 
However, I do recognize that the ladies whose burden it is to guide male children to maturity must make their decisions according to their local circumstances and that a kilt may be line of least resistance. All I would counsel is that they choose one of the parodies of kilts, no longer than mid-thigh, favoured by cheerleaders and other young women. Close supervision is then essential to ensure that it is never worn without the protection of some form of knickers or frilly panties, perhaps even reinforced with a short petticoat. If I appear to denigrate the feminine variety of kilts let me say that I have never approved of women aping male garb, however feminized. Trousers certainly should have no place in the feminine wardrobe. Call me old-fashioned if you will but I believe that ladies are best served by dresses, are as those those for whom they are responsible. On the other hand, we must recognize that petticoating has its failures like anything else. Some males are just too incorrigible, particularly if their early upbringing has been deficient. However, a distinct male garb at least has the advantage that one can recognize them at a distance and prepare to treat them accordingly.
 
It does give me comfort that the instances described appear to have been implemented with forethought and deliberation and are, in fact, perfectly in line with the above advice. Nevertheless, given the risks of regression to a less feminine condition, I feel it incumbent on me to raise the issue.
Yours very sincerely,
 
Lavinia Marshbanks (Miss)


Dear Susan,

“The way you were handled by your mother when you where a boy has a name,” my wife said to me a few weeks ago when she surfed the net. “It is called petticoating.” She found your site when she was searching for a vintage apron pattern.

We read some strange but also cute stories on your site, and my wife said I should write mine too.

I was born in 1947 and until I went to the infant school as long as I remember I had to wear a bib. I said at the age between four or five years that I did not like it any more.

“Well,” my mother told me, “I think it is better from now on that you wear your big sister’s apron when we have dinner. She has grown out of it.”

My mother was very careful with her and our clothes as we had no washing machine at that time. I had only one sister, my father was a sailor and not often at home. Vaguely I protested, but so it was done.

By the age of six she bought me a type of Belgian boy’s school apron, dark blue satin, a kind of pinafore that closed in the back. I asked my father what to do but he told me, “If your mother wants you to wear an apron during meal times and washing up, like herself and your sister, it has to be done. She is the boss at home.”

Before I went to secondary school I hoped that I was released from the dinner apron. But when I came back from school there was a white pinafore as used in the house-keeping schools for girls. Mother insisted that I should wear an apron at the table until I was at least sixteen,

When I reached sixteen, we got a washing machine, and new kinds of clothes so it was T-shirts and jeans for me, and no aprons any more. My mother told me often she never had any intention of punishing me, but only to teach me how to be very clean with my clothes.

And than a silly thing happened when I was seventeen. I had a small accident and I broke both my arms. Two weeks in hospital and at meal times I got a…bib.

When I came home, there was really a need for an apron for me, because now for the first time I became a messy eater. My sister bought me a ladies’ nylon overall, with no arms and a zipper in the front. We could happily laugh about it.

Till I left home at twenty I was a good boy and put on my apron when it was dinnertime.

I have never made a secret of it and that’s also why my wife surfed the net for an apron pattern. Now I am sixty I have a small problem with my eyes and therefore I became a messy eater again. My wife asked me very prudently if I could wear an apron when having dinner. Things had turned full circle. I agreed, and she made me three aprons in the colors dark red, blue and white.

Niko
Holland


Dear Susan,
 
From 1961 to 1965 I attended a very strict Church of England junior school.  Here the most usual punishment was receiving the slipper touching your toes in front of the class, which included my twin sister.  My favourite female teacher, who slippered me about five times a week always said, “If it doesn’t go in your head, it goes in the seat of your pants.”  Fortunately, I thoroughly enjoyed the slipper.
 
Another source of slipperings was my fascination with watching the girls doing handstands and admiring their knickers, which I was frequently caught doing in the girls’ playground.  As a punishment for this, I had to dress as a girl, wearing navy blue knickers under a bottle green skirt, and touch my toes in front of my sister’s class for a good whacking on the seat of my navy pants.  The girls were always concerned about how sore my bottom was, and often wanted to re-enact the scene at home when I played at school with them.
 
Also, as I was frequently too slow getting out of the swimming bath, I had to touch my toes in front of the class of girls using the baths next for a whacking with a polystyrene float, the girls then pinching my bottom when I squeezed past them on my way to the changing room.
 
I hope that this interests your readers.
Best wishes,
 
I. T.


Hi Susan,

As you know I am fan of anything tactile, especially soft touchy-feely fleece clothing.

The family are getting Christmas footed pajamas from Snug as a Bug, an American company who sell mail order. They do matching red or tartan fleece all-in-one sleep-suits including your feet, for all the family including the daddies.

I hope the link might be fun for younger readers who might have families, and they want to all look snuggly together on Christmas morning:

http://www.snugasabug.com/snuggle.8.main.htm

Click on ‘Christmas pajamas’ on the page which comes up.
Best wishes to all, thank you as ever for such a lovely site.
Stay warm and fleecy; love

'Ben'


Dear Susan,

I am going to tell you a story from my early days.

When my mother was washing clothes in a ringer washer in the bathroom, with five sisters plus myself and my mother, there were a lot clothes to wash, so that was when I tried on my sisters’ nightgowns and dresses. This was when I got the feel for wet flannelette nightgowns, I was only seven years old at the time. Now I love the feel of wet flannelette nightgowns.

I put a plastic sheet on my bed, pin on a diaper and my best flannelette nightgown, then I can wet myself all night long. Then I have a shower in the morning with my nightgown still on.

Christeen’s art is the best I have seen - I wish I was her little boy, and Aunt Julia would dress me up and take me shopping. I like baby flannelette prints - you women are so lucky dress any way you want, as a man you can’t do this so I dress as much as I can when time allows.                                        
Susan and Christeen, take care I love you both,

Dennis in Calgary


Dearest Susan,

I hope this email finds you well. You are such a dear one to our little spot on this big blue marble we call Earth. In my last message posted in your on-line magazine I promised to write on my experiences in going to work dressed as a female.  A promise made is a promise kept.

A little background if I may add first. I came out at my workplace in 1993. Soon my so-called ‘official portrait’ of me dressed as a female was placed by me on my desk at work. At that same time I helped organize an employee group of transgender employees at work. This group was officially sanctioned by management.

One day shortly before Halloween, a fellow employee noticing my female picture on my desk dared me to come to work dressed as a female. I figured I was already out so I took up his dare. That Hallowe’en I managed to have a friend do me up early in the a.m. and I took a taxi from his home to work dressed as your basic career girl.

As I stepped in the front door at work I was a bit nervous. Yet, soon any nervousness was replaced with happiness.  Needless to say I shocked a lot of people at work that day. My company includes three buildings in a sort of campus-like setting. Soon my appearance was spread like wild fire amongst the three buildings. The cat was out of the bag.

Well, I did have loads of fun that day. It was strange doing my work dressed as a woman, especially seeing my painted and manicured nails at the keyboard of my work PC.

Sure, there were some employees that were negative, but all the positive feedback I got from other employees outweighed any negativism. Later on my supervisor forbade me from ever doing that again, as he deemed it to be a disruption to the workplace.

However, upper management eventually gave me the green light to have a choice of male or female attire as long as it fitted into the workplace environment. I think their initial fears were that I'd come to work in some sort of fetish costume. So, to fit in as much as I could I always appeared totally dressed female (clothes, makeup, woman's wig, accessories, etc.) wearing what an average woman would wear to work.

So from that time onward I had so many what I called, ‘my freedom days’, at work as just one of , ‘the office girls’.  There was nothing like going to lunch at noontime as a ‘working gal,’ and strolling the avenue in pure freedom. On those marvellous days I'd always make it a point to have dinner downtown after work.

Usually on my freedom days I'd spend about 14 hours dressed as a woman. One curious fact I noted was when I got home, took everything off and hit the shower, for two or three hours afterwards I felt a peculiar after-glow. For two or three hours, even though back in male attire, I still felt totally dressed as a woman. Another curious effect was it seemed that the same things in the same order began to irritate me after a long time dressed female. My earrings were first, then came my panty-hose, then my bra and then my wig.

There were some very positive side effects that occurred.  A lot of woman at work just treated me as, ‘one of the girls’, whether I was dressed male or female. Some actually sought me out for fashion advice and I went clothes shopping with a few of them. I even got requests from some people at work to come to work as a female. I gained a lot of new-found respect from a lot of my fellow employees and even from the building police. I even was presented with a length of service award and I was fully dressed as a woman.

Hopefully my petticoated adventures will continue. My peace and love to you and your readers.

Nancy Jo

.P.S. Please, dear Lesley, update poor Penelope's wigs. I think he has a right to look and feel pretty and the prettier he is the better presentation to your friends will be. It will show your commitment and concern that  he lives up to your high set of standards to be as cute as he can be.

Nancy Jo’s letter has prompted me to add a few words as an employer. It sounds utterly incredible to say such a sacrilegious thing today, but employers have rights too. The employer has created the job, and has the right to require certain things, dress requirements being one of the most important. When the prospective employee accepts the job there is an implied agreement on these things.

If Sainsbury’s (or Wal-Mart in the United States) objects to an employee coming to work dressed n the clothing of the opposite sex, then they have a perfect right to insists that it not happen in the future – meaning a moral right of course. What legislation says I don’t know, but the law these days in most Western countries is a sick joke.

Remember that PDQ is a tasteful and friendly place for cross-dressers. However, it is not a political advocacy magazine, and I am a conservative who does not support the more Byzantine demands of the ‘transgendered’ community.

 These comments were inspired by Nancy Jo’s letter, but are not a criticism of Nancy Jo, who has long been one of PDQ’s strongest supporters.

Dear Susan,
 
I was recently surfing the internet looking for true stories of anyone who have had a similar forced cross-dressing experience to my own during their younger years, and I duly came across your wonderful site. After reading through and thoroughly enjoying your back issues, I thought I would tell you and your readers my story of enforced feminization.
 
It all happened back in the early nineties when I was thirteen. At the time I lived with my parents on the outskirts of a small town. As I had no siblings, I was an only child. But every month or so, I would cycle out into the country to visit and stay with my grandmother for a weekend. She lived on her own in a two bedroom bungalow in a small village. It gave me a chance to catch up with my only locally-living grandparent, and to give my parents some time to themselves, I suppose.
 
So, every fourth Friday I would set out to my gran’s on my pushbike after finishing school that afternoon. The trip, on average, took me two hours. But I didn’t mind. I always looked forward to visiting her, because she wasn’t an authoritarian grandparent at all, but a sweet, kind and loving one.
 
The fateful day that changed my life forever came one autumnal afternoon. It was the Friday I was due to visit my gran, and so I duly set off on my bike to spend the weekend with her. It was a mild autumn day, so I set off without a coat, just wearing a thin sweater over a t-shirt. But after about an hour, halfway into my trip, the weather suddenly changed for the worse. It clouded over and started to rain, lightly at first, but then it started to pelt down. I stopped, and debated whether to turn back or not. After a minutes thought, I decided to forge on. I had two changes of clothes in my backpack, which was reasonably waterproof, and I knew my gran would be disappointed if I didn’t turn up. I really didn’t want to let her down, as she always said she looked forward to my visits.
 
Over an hour later, because the rain had slowed me down, I finally arrived at my grandmother’s. The rain didn’t lighten at all for the remainder of my trip, so now I was soaked to the skin. My bag and the change of clothes inside were also drenched, due to the amount of rain that had fallen on me for over an hour.
 
After putting my bike in my gran’s garage, I walked round to the front of her bungalow and rang the doorbell. I can still picture the horrified look on her face when she opened the door to me. I must have looked like a drowned rat.
 
“Oh, my poor boy. You must be soaked to the bone,” I can remember her saying like it was yesterday.
 
“It rained pretty hard on my way over here,” I meekly replied.
 
“Come inside before you catch your death,” she said, ushering me inside to her hallway. “Now put your bag down, and take off your wet shoes and clothes while I go get you some towels.”
 
I did as she asked, stripping down to my underpants, while she went off to her airing cupboard. When she returned with the towels I wrapped one round my body and used the other to dry off my hair.
 
My gran looked down at my soaking wet rucksack. “I presume your changes of clothes are soaking wet as well?”
 
I nodded.
 
“Don’t worry, I’ll go find you some fresh clothes while you have a warm shower. There’s plenty of hot water. I’ll put them on the end of your bed in your bedroom for you to get changed into once you are done.”
 
“Okay,” I replied, and set off down the hall to her bathroom. At the time I didn’t think too much about what she said. I think I just presumed she kept a few men’s clothes in some drawers somewhere in case of situations like I was currently experiencing ever cropped up. How wrong I was…
 
I toke a long shower, enjoying the warm water against my skin. Once I had finished I stepped out and pulled a fresh large towel around my body and a smaller one for my hair. Then I stepped out into the hall and made my way to my bedroom.
 
When I walked into my bedroom I got the biggest shock of my life. Laying on the end of my bed was a light blue dress, a cream camisole, a pink pair of ladies’ knickers, a pair of light brown tights and a pair of lightly heeled white sandals. Were these the clothes I was supposed to get changed into? I can remember thinking to myself at the time.
 
Once I had got over the initial surprise at seeing the last thing I ever expected to see, I gulped and called out to my gran, whilst praying that this was some kind of hideous mistake. I knew she would hear me no matter where she was, as her bungalow was pretty small.
 
“Gran! You’ve put women’s clothes on my bed!”
 
“I know, dear,” she came to my door and said. “I put them there for you to get changed into. All your clothes are soaking wet.”
 
“But they are women’s clothes!” I almost shouted, slightly exasperated by the fact she couldn’t see what was blindingly obvious.
 
“I’m sorry, but I don’t have any men’s clothes. I do live here on my own, except when you visit. Why would I?”
 
Reluctantly I acknowledged her point. She was right, why would she? It was then I started to regret not turning back for home rather than forging on to my gran’s. Starting to get desperate to avoid my fate, I realized she may not have any masculine clothes, but at least she must have some trousers and socks, surely?
 
“Don’t you have any trousers or socks, gran?” I asked, clutching at straws.
 
My gran went silent for moment, thinking. “I do, but very much doubt they would fit you.”
 
She was right. I was only thirteen, but even at that age I was taller and larger than she was.
 
“Don’t worry, though,” she continued, “the dress will fit over you okay - it’s quite wide. And the tights will stretch over your feet without any trouble. Just be careful pulling them up your legs, because they might ladder otherwise.” Her tone then turned serious, I think she was starting to get impatient with my vain protests. “Now hurry up and get dressed, so you can help me with dinner.”
 
I tried one last time to reason her with her. “But Gran!”
 
“Don’t be silly, I’m the only person who’s going to see you wearing those clothes. Either put them on or walk around naked. It’s your choice. I know what I would rather do.”
 
After saying that she walked away. After a few seconds, I went and sat on the edge of my bed while I looked down at the clothes I was supposed to get changed into. I remember wondering to myself as I sat there how I had managed to get myself into this situation. At the time it felt like the end of the world. After a few minutes thought, though, I realized I wasn’t going to get out of this situation no matter what I said or did and that it wasn’t the end of the world and that I should try to make the best out of the situation. Also I have to admit a little part of me was curious about what the clothes would feel like to wear.
 
Reluctantly but resigned to my fate, I stood up and let the towels around my head and body slip to the ground. First I picked up the knickers and pulled them up my legs. They felt soft and smooth against my skin and a little cold at first. They felt quite unlike the cotton y-fronts I was used to wearing. Next I picked up the camisole and pulled it over my head and through my arms. Again, like the knickers, it felt completely different to the t-shirts I was used to wearing. It felt soft and slinky, and the bottom hung just over the top of my knickers. At that moment I felt a strange tingle go through me.
 
Sitting back down on the bed I picked up the tights and started to roll up one of the legs in my hands. My mum was a secretary at a solicitor’s office, so she used to wear tights quite a lot under her formal skirts, and I had seen her put them on a couple of times, so I knew how to do it. Once I had finished rolling up one of the legs I placed it over my right foot, and then did the other. When I had put both sides on, I slowly and gently pulled them up my legs, being careful not to ladder them like my gran had suggested. I finally nestled the top around my waist. Unlike normal socks I was used to wearing, they felt very light and airy and fitted like a second skin.
 
After putting on the tights, I suddenly found myself enjoying the new sensations I was experiencing. At that point, all my reservations about wearing women’s clothes evaporated. I then quickly picked up the dress and pulled it over my head. The bottom of the skirt fell to just below my knees. Finally I pulled on the strapped sandals and fastened them around my ankles. They felt a little tight, but at that point I didn’t care.
 
I stood back up and started to walk around my bedroom, savoring the new sensations the clothes gave me. I loved the way the skirt of the dress hung over my legs giving them complete freedom. I suddenly felt liberated from my rough, stuffy male clothes. I now dreaded the thought of putting my old clothes back on, surprising myself a little.
 
I bounded out my bedroom with a big smile on my face. My gran greeted me in the kitchen, as she started to prepare our dinner. She kindly didn’t bat an eyelid at seeing me in the female clothes for the first time. But she did notice the big smile on my face.
 
“You look happy, dear,” she said.
 
“That’s because I am,” I replied, and went up to hug her.
 
As the dinner cooked, she taught me how to conduct myself when wearing a dress or a skirt. She showed me how to cross my legs when sitting down, so nobody would see my knickers, how to bend at my knees when picking something up from the floor, and how to go to the toilet in a proper lady-like fashion, as she put it.
 
I stayed dressed in the women’s clothes for the rest of the weekend, with a fresh pair of knickers and tights everyday, as my soaking wet normal clothes dried. I reluctantly got dressed back into them Sunday evening, before setting off back home.
 
Needless to say, I couldn’t wait to spend another weekend at my gran’s. When the fourth Friday finally came round, I arrived at hers pretending to have forgotten my change of clothes. Sure enough, the clothes I had worn on my previous stay were waiting for me Saturday morning.
 
By my second trip after the original happy incident, the pretence was over and my new clothes were waiting for me once I arrived at my gran’s.
 
I spent many happy years weekend cross-dressing at my grandmother’s. I even spent two weeks during the summer holidays one year at my gran’s, indulging myself in all things feminine. Although, I never did pluck up enough courage to venture out into the outside world dressed in my female clothes. My gran did buy me some make-up and a wig one year to encourage me to at least have a walk around her village as her ‘grand-daughter’. She promised she would make me up to look like a real girl, but I guess I was just too shy. I wish I had now though. But I did put the wig on and let her make me up on several occasions, and she always took a picture of me when she did. She framed one and put it on her fireplace next to a picture of me dressed as my usual self.
 
Sadly, my grandmother fell ill when I was eighteen and died shortly afterwards. Although I don’t cross-dress half as much as I did when she was alive, but whenever I do I always think of her and the wonderful weekends I spent with her dressed as her grand-daughter.
 
Paul


Dear Susan,

How good to see the PDQ updates continuing at such a high standard, it was particularly pleasing to see the contribution from one of my favourite correspondents, the much-admired Chrissy, in the latest (15th July) issue.

I thought I should write to update further the story of the petticoating of my good friend Vanessa’s errant son-in-law Steve, following the progress reports that you kindly published in May and June.

You will doubtless recall that Vanessa had requested that I arrange that my dressmaker friend, Ros, make up a ‘special occasions’ housemaid costume for Steve, modelled on my Penelope’s very elaborate pink outfit. Ros had thought that it would be amusing to be involved in another petticoating so we duly arrived at their house one evening for an initial measuring.  I was delighted when Steve answered the door to us dressed in the white and black ‘uniform’ in which Vanessa and Christine kept him when on duty. After he had shown us in and politely offered us refreshments Ros quickly got down to business.

We, I must say, had a great time at Steve’s expense as he was subjected to the indignity of being measured for his dress, as we discussed in front of him what style would suit him best, how many layers of petticoats were to be used, how frilly his pinny was to be etc. Ros produced samples of various coloured materials on which we forced Steve to comment as to his preference. Vanessa and her daughter really favoured a nice girly pink, but decided that Penelope had really made pink his own so a very nice pale yellow was chosen, the dress to be what I could best describe as in the style of a little girl’s party dress, with a full pinny in the same colour but with plenty of pale lime green frills to complete the outfit, all topped off with a matching frilly mop cap.

As you can imagine we kept Steve very much on his toes with virtually non-stop teasing and humiliation throughout the process and to see him visually squirming with embarrassment at each new indignity was ample proof, if needed, of the wonderful effects of petticoat discipline on a previously arrogant young man. Ladies, if you’ve never experienced the feeling of having your man so completely subjugated you’re missing a treat.

Last weekend Ros and I went back, complete with her creation, for the final fitting. Steve was soon stripped to corselette, frilly knickers and stockings to try on his new outfit. I really thought he was going to burst into tears as he viewed for the first time the super-feminine outfit into which he was about to be imprisoned. Vanessa and her daughter had specified several layers of white net petticoats and he was first required to step into these (purchased on the internet) before the beautiful frilly short dress was lowered over his head and fitted fussily about him by Ros. (How deliberately humiliating this was, having a stranger, a much older woman, intimately fitting him into a dress in this way).. The the wonderfully elaborate pinny was secured in place, very tightly tied, before he was required to kneel for the befrilled mob cap to be placed on his head.

He struggled back to his feet in the unaccustomed froth of frills and petticoats as we all stood back to admire Ros’s handiwork. I can tell you it would be difficult to imagine such a completely feminised man as the one who stood before us. Readers will have all seen my Penelope’s original pink costume, this was in a very similar style, but much shorter, and with the skirt far more flared by stiff petticoats. The frills on the dress, pinny and hat accentuated superbly the desired effect of a thoroughly petticoat-disciplined husband. I had commented to Vanessa that I didn’t think that the outfit would be terribly practical but she had just smiled wickedly and said that practicality wasn’t the point – it was complete humiliation and domination that she wanted to achieve. Steve must never be allowed to forget his new situation in life.

If ever one was looking for an illustration of the effectiveness of petticoat discipline, then the petticoating of Steve is a superb example. Thanks to the clever planning of mother-in-law and the co-operation of a few like-minded and strong-willed ladies he has been transformed from an arrogant, womanising, lazy spendthrift into my idea of an ideal husband.

The cunning idea of insisting on him being a petticoated housemaid every day that he wasn’t working has resulted in him miraculously obtaining far more work for his business so that he now makes a far bigger contribution to the household budget, as well as which Chris, of course, insists that he shares with her the household duties, suitably attired of course. She is still not aware of the hold her mother has over him that makes him so pliant and obedient, and the threat that she might is of course what keeps Steve very much in line as the perfect housemaid/husband. He certainly now has no time, or inclination, to follow his previous errant paths – he is terrified at the thought of being discovered and exposed to Christine’s circle of friends in his new, ultra-humiliating, punishment outfit. I somehow think, though, that her mother will find some reason for this to happen. She deserves the enjoyment.
Very best wishes,

Lesley


Dear Susan,

I must write to congratulate Carol for the ‘outside party outfit’ that she has her male maid Sarah dress in (see PDQ July 22) 

Ladies’ slacks, polo-neck sweater and shoes may not be all that appealing to some of your readers who prefer a more ‘frilly’ and ‘high-heeled’ approach to petticoat discipline, but in my opinion Carol’s choice of dress for Sarah is wonderful, and very clever. 

Traditionally it’s males who wear trousers – Carol has inverted this ‘rule’ by having Sarah wear women’s ‘trousers’, i.e., slacks.  Carol also uses the broad ‘unisex’ nature of shoes and polo-neck sweaters to draw attention to Sarah’s status – he wears a ladies’ polo-neck sweater; he wears ladies’ shoes.  Carol has the added delight of knowing that hidden under the polo-neck and slacks are all manner of feminine undergarments reinforcing Sarah’s status and role.  An observer may look twice at Sarah’s dress, wondering;

But Carol knows there’s much, much more to it. Brilliant.

I also adore Carol’s general approach to maintaining Sarah’s submissive outlook such as her tone and language when addressing Sarah, reinforcing Sarah’s cross-dressing tendencies, parading Sarah in front of other ladies, and the use of chastity.  It appears they’ve all helped deliver the ideal partner for Carol.
 
Hopefully we will soon be treated to more of Carol’s delicious approach to womanly ‘home rule’, as well as finding out how her friend Ngaire progresses with her troublesome male partner.       
Warmest regards,

Andrew


Dear Susan,
 
I have just discovered your fantastic website and I had to write and let you know how much I enjoyed it, especially the letters from Lesley and Penelope. I was petticoated or put into skirts during my childhood in the 1960s, and I still recall with pleasure the close relationship I had with my mother during that time.

I wanted to wear skirts for as long as I can remember, and my mam was the only person who really understood. We lived on a council estate in Newcastle, where the men were very masculine, and sissy boys like me had a really hard time at school. Home was a place of safety and security where I was protected from the ridicule and bullying of the other boys.

I didn't have much opportunity to dress up at first, but I liked to help around the house and I always took an interest in her clothes. My life changed when we were on holiday in Edinburgh, and she took me into a shop which sold kilts. Of course I complained at first and said I wouldn't wear a skirt, but she was very firm and I left the shop wearing an attractive little kilt with navy blue knickers underneath. I remember it seemed very short, and I was shaking with excitement and red with embarrassment as we walked down Princess Street. I seemed to be the only boy wearing a kilt and women kept saying how cute I looked. Mam said I had to wear the kilt everyday when we were on holiday, and I went everywhere in it. She even wanted me to wear it on the bus home. I was terrified of being seen wearing it in Newcastle, and cried the night before we went home, begging her not to make me do it.

Mam was firm yet kind and loving, and I knew she would be pleased if I wore the kilt so at last I agreed. The worst part of the journey was the walk down the street to our house. It was raining and I wore my green duffel coat so the kilt didn't show much except at the front when I walked. I tried to hold it shut when we passed groups of boys and girls from my school and hoped they didn't notice anything unusual about the big sissy holding his mother’s hand. I wore the kilt a lot after that, at home, and on special trips out to York, Berwick or the seaside.

Mam said the kilt was our secret. She was glad I wasn't like the other rough boys from the estate who smoked and hung around outside the shops. She bought me lots of different kilts, and had them ready for me to put on as soon as I got home from school.  Family friends and relatives got used to seeing me wearing kilts. I helped her a lot around the house, and always wore one of her pinnies to keep my clothes clean. When I was in my teens I was just her size and I got used to wearing skirts and dresses as I was her model for home dressmaking. But that's another story. I'm in my fifties now, and I still wear skirts whenever I can. I would have loved to married Lesley, she would have made me a truly petticoated husband, but I remain a frustrated girly bachelor boy to this day.
 Love and best wishes,
 
Kathryn


Dear Susan:

A few minutes ago I visited PDQ to check on the updates. My heart flipped over when I saw my story published.  I almost wept from joy.

I really appreciate the time you took to read through my story and post it at your beautiful site and will be grateful forever.  I am very glad to know the site is being weekly-updated which makes me wonder that you are feeling better.
Very truly and affectionately yours,
Panty-Belle

PS:  Please, if you possibly can, add my birthday on May 24.

Done!


Dear Miss McDonald,
 
Usually you like to have games and puzzles in your Christmas issue. Can we have Christmas in August?  I have a puzzle for you and your readers. I have always enjoyed the ‘find the word’ puzzles.  I thought it would be fun to create one for the readers of PDQ.  I have never created one before, so please forgive my amateur effort. 
 
There are sixty-eight (68) words and short phrases.
 
I know most of our readers will print the puzzle off as soon as they see it and start solving it right away.  Please let’s make it a little game and have some fun.  Here is a chance to express your sissy self. 

Before you even look at the puzzle get in proper dress.  Take a bubble bath and shave all that hair.  Dust with sweet powder or baby powder.  Put on your frilliest undies in the brightest color.  If you enjoy being a baby make that a diaper and plastic panties.  Put on that slip and petticoat, panty hose or pink lace socks.  Shoes should be either Mary Janes or ladies’ flats.  Wear a pearl necklace and a girl’s bracelet.  Paint you nails with bright pink or red polish.  Over this wear your prettiest dress or baby frock.
Have fun,
 
Cissy Williams



Patrick is our newest artist.