Petticoat Discipline Quarterly

This is the first week of the new 'update page' which will be gathered together as an annual towards the end of the year. This idea came from Nancy Jo, who had first suggested it a few years ago. I think now that it is my best choice.

It means that the site can no longer imitate a real paper magazine, but I think that the readers will be happier.
Susan

Anne and Timmy have sent in a lovely photo of a boy taken in the 1880s. It was common for boys then to wear the most beautiful dresses. He tragically died before attaining adulthood. As Anne and Timmy write, "Sadly he died in the great Johnstown, PA flood of 1889."

Graham has sent me a new picture of Robert, about whom readers will be hearing a great deal more in the future. Robert, like Chris with Aunt Julia, has a very firm mummy who makes sure that he is always attractively dressed. This is his new corset:

Dear Susan,

Thank you for taking the time to read this letter, and hopefully publishing it in PDQ ! My name is Gertrude and I'm writing from the USA. I did find your site some time ago, by accident actually, and was truly surprised to find so many interesting, some unusual, disciplining letters! Honestly, it was the first time I had read anything like it.

I do not have any experience regarding "petticoating" boys, however I do understand the reasons behind these acts of discipline/punishment . My personal, real story has to do with girls instead, as myself and my husband employ similar methods with our own children: three teenage daughters as follows : Georgiana age 16, Matilde 14, and Svetlana 13 (for privacy reasons I had to change their real names), and I would like to share my sincere thoughts and opinions with your readers.

I would like to begin by saying that as a parent and former teacher (we moved to the US from the former Soviet Union), I am very disappointed and upset as regards the sad and unhappy state of most of our youth these days. It's an issue that continues to disturb me, and I'm sure it does so many other parents, and it's not getting any better - on the contrary.

Particularly, the lack of discipline among teenagers. It is truly unbelievable. I am even more shocked as we used to live until 12-13 yrs.ago in a different society and environment (ex-Soviet Union), where children were brought up quite differently as opposed to what happens here. I was raised myself quite strictly, and I do not regret it, now looking back at those years.

Isn't it outrageous the way many girls, in particular, are allowed by their parents to present themselves in front of school class and their teachers ? Half-naked almost, in full-makeup, more like going to a night-club. As a mother I say the parents must have firm control over a child, in all aspects, including clothing, in order to raise him/her properly...and, as a former teacher, I am 100 % in favour of compulsory school uniforms, and I hope your readers will agree.

Unfortunately, the compulsory school uniforms for all grades were abandoned in 1991-1992 in the Soviet Union/ Russia, however schoolchildren of all ages (including high-school ) still wear the old uniforms, but only during certain days, like First Day of School in September, some other holidays, and the Graduation Day in May, as a school tradition rather than as an obligation anymore. I attach a few photos to give readers an idea of good school uniform discipline:

Our case, I am glad to say has been a success so far, even though not always easy! That's one reason my husband and I decided from the beginning to make our girls follow a proper dress code all the time, and we're still strictly enforcing it through their teenage years. Since we have girls, only classic girls' clothes are allowed; and nothing else. Forget about the"fashion industry", WE, parents have to raise and influence our children, not others.

Our girls must be dressed decently and appropriatly for their age, therefore the following are some of the rules they have to obey:

*** NO T-shirts. They must wear instead, plain, buttoned shirts or blouses, usually Peter Pan-style (round collar), long or short sleeve. If T-shirts are needed in school or otherwise, they get plain white ones.

*** NO pants / trousers ( plain ones, and only if extremely cold) Only decent, appropriate dresses and skirts are permitted. Do not forget the length issue. I always make sure the hem reaches their knees at least, or longer.

As for leg-coverings, during winter, the best for girls is to wear thick, opaque tights, and for the rest of the year I highly recommend white knee-high socks, which are ideal for a teenager, and which go well with the classic footwear, that our girls wear with the socks almost daily.

*** Footwear is another issue as well. High-heels are NOT for teenage girls. Low heel, preferably dark-colored, conservative style, quality leather shoes is what I always get the for the girls, and I strongly suggest to other mothers the lace-up style, it's best overall.

For winter, lace-up booties are a smart choice...NO need to spend much money on expensive Adidas or Nike sport shoes. Plain canvas and rubber tennis shoes are more than enough...As for other girls' "accesories", absolutely NO tattoos, jewelry, piercings, etc. I currently only allow them a simple watch. Nails must be kept clean and short, NO polish. Obviously, NO make-up or even clear-lip gloss allowed, at least through to the age of 18.

As head covering nothing is more appropriate for any occasion than the classic white or dark beret.

*** The issue of hair is very important. If your daughter(s) has short hair it's much easier to be styled and taken care of, however as I used to have myself long, thick hair as a girl, and loved it, I am blessed to have the girls too, with healthy, straight, thick hair, so I decided to raise them with long hair, all three girls still have the same hair length, almost to their thighs.

It's always a challenge to take care of so much hair, but it's worth it. Proper hair discipline should be enforced by parents at all times, especially with girls. I have always required, and still do, proper hair discipline from the girls, meaning NO bangs or fringes at all - instead, since they have long hair, it must be either braided or plaited or tied in ponytails or possibly bunches. Loose hair is NEVER an option.

Even at home the I make the girls wear at least a ponytail. For any messy hair problem your daughter may have, she really only needs a brush, a comb, a couple of bobby pins and 2-4 elastics, and she'll look perfect. No other complications.

But to move on to the issue of pinafore discipline. Actually we didn't have any problems with our three daughters until the spring of 2004, when our oldest one,Georgiana,15 at the time, began being influenced quite rapidly in certain negative ways by some of her friends, and even by some classmates (though she attends a good Catholic school), and started coming home late from her girlfriends' houses, not respecting the curfew, fighting over clothes, hiding lipsticks, even talking in a very very vulgar way to her sisters (which I have always strongly prohibited).

I even found tobacco in her room. For me it was too much. On top of that, I caught her coming back from school with unkept hair, even though I carefully supervise girls' hairstyles for everyone every morning, so when I asked the nuns at school about those braided pigtails she was supposed to have in class, they complained instead of her unruly, loose hair.

Consequently we did decide to take action, we didn't want her sisters to become more exposed to such wrong behaviour, so when the punishment day came eventually, as first measure I gave Georgiana corner time every day for two full weeks, then I took away all girls' TV viewing for one month. I moved even earlier their bedtime, which is now at 9:30pm for both school and no-school days ( with very few exceptions), and currently there are no more visits to girlfriends. They can come over, but under proper supervision. Also these days I give the girls more things and activities to keep them busy (TV is extremely limited overall), like having them learn advanced sewing, knitting, crocheting and cooking, which will be very useful later, obviously.

But nothing changed our daughter Georgiana for the better as much as the new clothing items I made her wear. Since she was "ashamed"of the way she looked, I thought the best punishment would be to actually bring to life the old, Soviet school uniform of the type I used to wear myself throughout my school years.

Fortunately with the help of a few relatives back in Russia I was able to buy custom-made uniforms for Georgiana and her sisters, a few sets for each girl (it's quite cheap in dollars), basically : plain black dress, knee-length, with long sleeves (colder season), and short sleeves for warmer weather, and with a big, round,white lace collar attached to dress, and certainly the most important item of all - the pinafore, which is typical Russian, white cotton or silk, with ruffles and straps that cross at the back, where a big bow is tied.

This type of outfit is always completed with hair bows, white, round, chiffon bows secured on hair with elastic /strings. Since girls have uniforms in school, I don't have to worry about that aspect, however I had to force Georgiana to wear her new outfit, and after tears and arguments she had no choice.

As we go to church almost every week, the first time she went dressed like that was on a Sunday last autumn, and I didn't stop until I made sure she had the black dress, the smart satin white apron in place, white tights, black lace-up booties and as hairstyle I chose two french plaits in which I plaited white ribbons. Complete with her white beret, for me it was exactly the right 'petticoat punishment'.

All this as I allowed her younger sisters to wear their usual Sunday clothes, so to make the punishment more visible. Needless to say I was asked by other mothers after church service about Georgiana's new clothes,but I didn't go in to details. A week after that I had the other daughters dressed like that for church, and currently they wear this outfit more at home than outside, however it's worn very often, and it works wonders, believe me.

Even for school I chose a punishment for Georgiana, but regarding hair, since she had a uniform already. Sounds too strict for a 16 year old maybe, but since she started the school year last September, every single school morning nowadays I make her braided pigtails, and nothing else - sometimes with childish ribbons.

Georgiana in particular is again the good, obedient,daughter she was before, and her sisters learned (I hope) from her mistakes. My main advice to readers/parents is that clothes, among other things, can be used very wisely and effectively in raising an ideal child, but you need to be firm and enforce your authority as a parent.

Thank you for the letter...I had no idea that schoolgirls in imperial Russia dressed so sweetly. These outfits would provide excellent discipline for children of either sex.
Susan

I can vouch for the effectiveness of petticoat punishment, having been subjected to it myself some years ago, when I was 11 years old.

One evening I was round at my friend Michael Chapman’s house, and when it was time for me to go home it was pouring with rain, so his mother insisted on lending me one of his older sister Susan’s raincoats to wear. It was a white translucent plastic mac, with a tie belt, and an attached hood with the top cut square across the top, typical of the style worn by countless numbers of younger girls at that time.

I rather looked down on girls, so the idea of having to wear it home filled me with horror. But Mike’s mother wasn’t someone to argue with, and I reluctantly submitted to her putting me into it. She fastened the press studs up the front, tied the belt in a bow at my waist, and finally pulled up the hood and fastened the tie tapes under my chin, I blushed scarlet with humiliation. She gave the hood a final tug forward to make sure that my head was properly covered, and saw me out of the back door.

I walked round to the front of the house, and decided that there was no way that I was going to walk home through the streets dressed in a girl’s raincoat, so I took off the humiliating garment, left it on the ground next to their front door, and walked home in the pouring rain.

Susan was furious when she found her raincoat on their doorstep the next morning, and so was her mother. I didn’t know it at the time of course, but I certainly found out one Saturday morning a few weeks later. I was at Mike’s house again, and when it was time for me to go home, it was pouring with rain. And once again, I didn’t have my raincoat with me – like most boys I always hated carrying a raincoat. Susan looked at me, grinned, and suggested that I should borrow the mac I’d discarded before, but this time with a difference.

Mrs. Chapman told me that they’d discussed the previous incident in full with my mother, and she’d suggested that my rather immature attitude to girls was probably the reason why I’d discarded Susan’s mac previously. Unfortunately, I’d recently said a number of particularly rude and nasty things about girls in general to Susan, and being particularly stung by my arrogant behaviour, she came up with an appropriate punishment to cure me of such unpleasantness.

She suggested that I wouldn’t take the mac off if I was dressed entirely as a girl underneath. They saw the logic in this, and felt that such a salutary lesson would certainly teach me some humility. They decided that to teach me a lesson for my anti-female attitude, the next time I forgot my raincoat I would go home wearing Susan’s mac, but dressed as a girl underneath to ensure that I didn’t take it off.

Incensed with outrage at the suggestion, I defiantly said that no way was I going to dress as a girl, but Mrs. Chapman said that if I refused to co-operate, she would ask the two men next door to help dress me. I realised then that there really was no way out, so with as much dignity as I could muster, I capitulated.

They took me upstairs to Susan’s bedroom, and as we entered the room, Susan’s mother told me to undress. Too stunned to protest, I obediently removed my clothes as if she’d been my own mother. In a few moments I was standing there without a stitch on and, with a huge grin on her face, Susan handed the items I was to wear one by one to her mother, who dressed me as if I were her own little girl.

First came a pair of white cotton briefs and a vest, and then - horror of horrors - Susan carefully selected the most childish dress she could find, with the comment that she’d last worn it when she was eight. By the little girl style of the dress, that was fairly obvious. It was pale pink, with a pattern of small rosebuds. The style couldn’t have been more little girlish, with short puffed sleeves, a peter pan collar, a long back fastening of small pearl buttons, and a tie belt that fastened in a bow at the back. With a broad grin on her face, she took it down off its hanger and handed it to her mother.

In her no-nonsense way, Mrs. Chapman told me to raise my arms, and with a sigh of resignation I did as I was told. She pulled the dress down over me before fastening the buttons up the back and tying the sash belt in a neat bow behind me. Next came my feet, and she sat me down before pulling a pair of white cotton ankle socks onto my feet that she turned down neatly, followed by a pair of childish red leather T-bar sandals, that she buckled on securely.

Susan obviously intended to make the most of her personal revenge for my arrogance, and suggested to her mother that I should have two bows of hair ribbon tied in my hair. So I then had to put up with the supreme humiliation of Mrs. Chapman tying two bows of pink hair ribbon tightly in my hair, along with two white plastic hair slides in the form of little bows. As a finishing touch, she combed my hair forward in a neat, even fringe. That done, she told me to stand up for inspection, and as I looked at myself in the mirror I almost have cried with humiliation.

Susan looked at me and giggled as she took my hand firmly and led me downstairs. I cringed back, terrified of being seen like this by Michael as I was taken into the lounge. He may have been my friend, but on this occasion, any sympathy for my plight wasn’t forthcoming.

Then came the bombshell. Mrs. Chapman said that a short walk home was far too easy a punishment for me, and therefore, she and Susan were going to take me shopping down the town centre first.

I couldn’t believe it. It was bad enough to be dressed up as a cute little girl, but to be taken around town like it was to me the stuff of nightmares. Forestalling any protest, Mrs. Chapman said that if I didn’t cooperate she would take me to the local sports field where my school was playing, dump me there, and leave me to my fate. That was a prospect even worse than going into town, and I glumly nodded my head in obedient submission.

Mrs. Chapman phoned my mother to tell her what she had in mind, and then said that we should be on our way. We went out into the hall and she put on a beige poplin raincoat, while Susan put on her navy blue gaberdine school raincoat, before holding up her plastic mac for me to put on. I groaned as I meekly put my arms into the sleeves, and in a few moments she’d fastened the press studs down the front and tied the belt around my waist in a bow at the front.

Mrs. Chapman opened the door, and I could see that it was pouring. Susan put up the hood of her school raincoat, and turning to me, she put up my hood and tied the tie tapes in a bow under my chin. I looked out from under it, blushing furiously. Mrs. Chapman put up her umbrella, and with a firm hand took my arm and propelled me out into the rain. Mike said that no way was he going to risk being seen with me by one of our school friends, so he just closed the door behind us, leaving me to my fate. I walked between Susan and her mother and we set off down the street. I kept glancing furtively around me, hoping desperately that I wouldn’t be seen by anyone I knew. If the kids at school heard about this I’d never live it down.

Susan looked at me and grinned, saying that the good thing about me wearing her translucent plastic mac was that everyone could see my pretty little dress and the cute ribbons in my hair through it. She certainly was obviously enjoying this chance to get her revenge for my previous contempt.

As we approached the town centre, people began to notice me, and the grins on their faces showed that they were in no doubt that I was a boy. One or two of them laughed quite openly, and one girl looked at me and said what an adorable little girl I made. I blushed with humiliation.

A moment later we went into a women’s clothes shop, and Susan put down her raincoat hood. Then she turned to me with a grin and said that I didn’t need to have my mackintosh hood up either, so she unfastened the bow under my chin and put down my hood, revealing to everyone that I was definitely a boy dressed as a girl. The immediate laughter of people nearby was mortifying.

Mrs. Chapman and Susan made me walk slowly around the shop with them for the next hour, and I felt hideously embarrassed by the amused stares of the mainly female customers. On one occasion, a shop assistant asked Mrs. Chapman why I’d been dressed as a little girl, and when she told her she said that it was an exquisitely appropriate punishment.

I didn’t think things could get any worse, but how wrong I was! Looking at her watch, Mrs. Chapman suggested that we go for a cup of coffee, and as I walked out of the shop with my hood down, I was acutely aware of the humiliating hair ribbons tied tightly in my hair. It wasn’t long before the laughter started again, especially from little girls who had bows in their hair. They seemed to find it excruciatingly funny, which is hardly surprising.

In a few minutes we reached an old-fashioned tea room, went in, and I blushed as Mrs. Chapman removed my mac and hung up our coats. I was now in clear view of everyone in my pretty little dress, white ankle socks and T bar shoes, together with pink ribbons in my hair. I blushed to the roots as we sat at a table in the corner and was made to sit conspicuously, with my back to the wall, facing into the room. At first glance we made a typically pleasant sight. A mother with two girls, properly and demurely dressed. Until one quickly noticed that one of the little girls was a boy, that is. People began to stare at me and grin, and I was acutely aware that I was becoming the main topic of conversation.

A lady sitting at the adjoining table turned to Mrs. Chapman, and with an amused smile asked why I was dressed as a little girl. She gave the lady a brief explanation, and when she’d finished, the woman said that she used to be a primary school teacher, and believed that petticoat punishment was far preferable to the strap for naughty boys. So on a number of occasions, she’d punished boys (with the consent of their parents) by making them attend school dressed in the girl’s school uniform. She added with satisfaction that she’d never had to apply that punishment to any boy more than once, and dressed as I was at that moment, I wasn’t surprised.

Susan and her mother had a cup of coffee while I quietly drank a strawberry milk shake, trying desperately to ignore the amused onlookers. Finally we got up to leave, but in a moment of refined humiliation, Susan suggested that since it had stopped raining, there was no need for my pretty little dress and hair ribbons to be hidden by my mac. My heart sank as Mrs. Chapman agreed, and handed Susan’s plastic mac to me, telling me to drape it neatly over my arm and carry it. I looked daggers at Susan for suggesting it, but there was nothing I could do about it as I placed her plastic mac over my arm. Mrs. Chapman paid the bill before we went outside and made our way further along the shopping precinct.

Then came the one thing I’d been especially worried about. I suddenly saw Jenny Carey, Hilary Gibson and Anne Norton, three of the girls in my class at school, walking straight towards us. I quickly tried to hide behind Mrs. Chapman, but Susan saw what I was up to, grabbed me, and held me conspicuously in front of her. As soon as they spotted me they ran across and burst into shrieks of laughter. They quickly introduced themselves to Susan and her mother, and Susan took great delight in explaining the situation to them, and how naughty I had been.

Hilary grinned with undisguised delight, saying how sweet I looked. Jenny said I was adorable, and began fumbling in her bag. Anne chuckled, and said she wished that all our classmates could see me like this, and that she looked forward to my predicament being all over the school by Monday lunchtime.

But ever-thoughtful Jenny had something far more devious in mind. She took a camera out of her bag and, asking the girls to hold me still, took several photos of me. Then she explained her bright idea. She said that I was the most annoying boy in our class (which I think was unfair). To teach me a lesson, from now on I was going to spend many more days dressed as a sweet little girl, except this time, with them for company.

She said that I could come over to her place, and they would have great fun dressing me in some really frilly party frocks, with layers of petticoats, and white ankle socks and Mary Jane shoes. Of course I would have to wear big hair ribbons as well, and a fluffy pink cardigan if it was cold. I would be their guest for the whole afternoon, and would have to play with them – or them with me!

And Jenny didn’t want to waste any time to begin her fun. She looked at me, grinned, and said that I was to be at her house the following Saturday morning. That would give her time to find me a really cute little party frock to wear, and that she couldn’t wait to tie some cute ribbons in my hair. It was like a nightmare, but by now I knew I’d been totally outmanoeuvred and there was nothing I could do about it. Grinning at my dismayed expression, the girls cheerfully said goodbye, and walked off up the street laughing among themselves.

Just then it started to rain again, and Mrs. Chapman quickly dressed me in Susan’s mac again. As we walked up the road in the direction of my house, the grins and smiles of passers-by continued to follow me until we thankfully reached the front door of my home and rang the bell.

My mother opened it, took one look at me, and grinned broadly. She asked us to come in, and a moment later, our wet macs had been hung up in the hall and we all went into the lounge. Mum was eager to hear how the day had gone, and Susan lost no time in describing the day’s events with relish. As her narrative progressed, my mother kept smiling and nodding her head with approval, and I realised that she had no sympathy for the plight I’d found myself in.

When Susan had finished, Mrs. Chapman said that she felt the experiment had been an unqualified success, and with the threat of a repeat performance, there was little likelihood of my erstwhile anti female attitude continuing. But just in case, Susan gleefully offered to leave the outfit I was wearing with my mother, so that she could keep it for future use if required. My heart sank as she accepted the offer.

Then came a sharp reminder that it wasn’t over yet. Susan recalled our encounter with the three girls, and explained that I was expected to be at Jenny’s house the following Saturday so that they could have their fun with me. I groaned inwardly as she said with a smile that she would personally drive me over to Jenny’s home to make sure that I would be there.

My fate was sealed, and Susan looked at me with a triumphant grin as Mum asked them if they’d like to stay for tea. They accepted her invitation with pleasure, and Susan took my hand and made me sit on the sofa next to her with my feet together and sit up straight like a polite little girl. The two ladies beamed with delight at my already improved behaviour, and I dreaded the coming weeks. And so I should. It was going to be a nightmare for any boy.

Thank you for producing such a wonderful publication for we "petticoat penitents".

Ever since the age of about 10,earlier in fact, I have been fascinated with the old-fashioned school bloomers with short elasticated legs, being the type my sister wore in the late 50s and early 60s.

It all began when I used to watch girls in the infant school running about in their little knickers,which were various colours,then when I started Grammar School, I began to borrow my sister's navy school bloomers,wearing them when the opportunity arose.The very first time I did this I was standing in the hall at home,and had slipped a pair on. The feeling of the lovely soft material, and the elastic in the legs as they were drawn up my thighs, was very exciting. As I was enjoying this, I saw my mother coming down the road, and I had to remove them very quickly.

But the attachment was made. Because I then associated sensual excitement with wearing soft cotton school knickers with elastic in the legs (Cherub brand), I developed a love of wearing them which has stayed with me for nearly fifty years.

In later years,when I couldn't get hold of this style, I started buying Directoire knickers in cotton interlock and silky rayon,.then when these went out of fashion I bought, and stil buy, ladies' full briefs in pastel shades, in soft cotton, at Marks & Spencers.

When they stopped stocking them a few years ago, I even wrote to them saying I was a woman, and how much I enjoyed their comfort, and the fact they were the waist-high style which were the nearest I could get to my lovely bloomers. Following my letter, some months later, they started stocking them again. I currently have 25 pairs, and I also many pairs of old-fashoined directoires, as well as quite a number of navy blue school bloomer style knickers, and I just cannot stop wearing them when I feel the desire.

I am now 59, and cannot imagine ever stopping this habit, because I still love wearing them, although now it is sometimes only for their warmth and comfort. Do you think I am unusual?

I also like to wear soft nighties, mostly soft brushed cotton, full and mid length, around the house and in bed. I find it very relaxing, and I always wear my soft nighties with a pair of knicks underneath.

For many years I thought it so unfair that women and girls wore such lovely soft undies and nighties, whilst we men were not allowed this great pleasure, especially as it makes one feel very sexy at the same time.

What do you think of this habit of mine? Would most women think it ridiculous,and get angry if their partner was discovered wearing women's undies,especially my favourite type, which probably do look silly on me.

I would value your views, and any advice you could give me.
Yours in knickers,
John

Well, I think it is not as unusual as you might think. And I am sure that my readers would agree. The comfort of soft, cuddly nighties and fleecy schoolgirl knickers is very therapeutic for a great many males.
Susan

I have published an essay on Anna Tambour's site, about the film director Edward D. Wood Jr, who is much loved for the low budgets and sheer amateurishness of his films. It can be found here:

You need to go to the right-hand column and scroll down to 'Previous Guest Features'.

I suspect that I may have been tights punished as a boy of 8. I was enrolled in a drama class. There were moments when I would act out of line, or refuse to follow the teacher's instructions. Months later, there was a play being produced with only girls and women in it.

Somehow, my teacher said that she wanted me to open the curtains of this play. I had to wear green tights, green leotard, and green ballet slippers. Actually, I felt quite exposed and vulnerable, being seen by the audience opening and closing the curtains.

The teacher's son was a year older than I was. He was very misbehaved and he was dressed just like me too. Also, he was opening and closing the curtains on the opposite side of the stage. It is my opinion that he and I were indirectly being punished. Never was I told that I was being punished, but it must have given the teacher great satisfaction knowing that I was giving up free time, dressed in garments which made me feel vulnerable in a public situation.

I am sorry to hear about your recent troubles. This extract from National Geographic may interest you.

And I have received another picture of Robert, this time tring on his new navy blue school knickers. He doesn't seem to like them very much...

Many thanks for the fabulous 2004 Christmas Annual. It has certainly been worth the long wait. I am so sorry to hear you have had a lot of other pressing matters with which to deal and, of course, I fully appreciate that this has made life difficult for you in terms of producing regular editions of the magazine over the last year.

It would be awful for we sissies and pansies if the publication was to fall by the wayside altogether, as you mentioned in your introduction. I am sure that it would also be very sadly missed by the many petticoating wives and other strict lady enthusiasts, who must undoubtedly draw such great inspiration from the website. I really do pray that you can keep the whole thing going, but I also think we all have to be very understanding, and grateful for what you have given us, if it does come to an end. In the meantime, I would like to support your call to readers to contribute as many petticoating letters from old magazines and journals as possible, as well as whatever other contributions they feel able to make.

I contributed the letter from 'Dora' ('Reminder of His Baby Status') which you were so kind to include in the current edition of Dummy Discipline Digest. It really is a treat to see it published, with my name by it and everything, for all to read and enjoy. It is a super letter, even if I say so myself! Unfortunately, I don't think I have much other suitable material of this nature available. I will, however, attempt to write a story or two and if I consider them to be of decent enough quality I will forward them to you.

The regular item I most look forward to in each edition are the letters from Lesley, detailing her treatment of her maid and husband 'Penelope', and the terrific photographs which always accompany them. Wow! I am so jealous of his enforced position and lifestyle! Having said that, like him, I would literally be near fainting with embarrassment were the same fate that has befallen Penelope, ever to happen to me!

And yet I want it so badly. Therein, I think, lies the real power and exquisite beauty of enforced petticoating. It is the fact that the recipient, deep within himself, really wants it to happen, which is the source of his cringing and blushing shame. It must be awful for Penelope to have to curtsey prettily before the gales of laughter and cat-calls of Lesley's women friends, in all his delicate frilly finery, knowing that they must know his petticoated condition could not have happened without him secretly desiring it.

Yes, I know Lesley has masses of photographs of Penelope which she threatens to distribute to unsuspecting business colleagues and friends, should he ever rebel. But I feel that this is merely an additional psychological re-enforcement to the main issue, which is that he is absolutely addicted to his wife's treatment of him and yet, as I say, suffers such overwhelming shame. All the same, I doubt whether Penelope would dare to put Lesley's threat to the test.

I must say that, without a doubt, Penelope's photographs are the greatest enforced 'petticoating' pictures I have ever seen. With most others which purport to be of petticoated pansy husbands, I usually experience a slight sense of disappointment. They always seem like prancing drag queens who take to being dressed in this manner like ducks to water.

This is not the case with Penelope. When I look at him there is no doubt in my mind that I am looking at the genuine 'enforced' article, a regular 'down the pub and golf course' type of bloke who, through the mistake of confessing to his wife his occasional liking for wearing women's undies, has been transformed by her into becoming her obedient frilly housemaid, to the delight and laughter of her mother, sister and close female friends.

It is also highly likely that, despite his rather commonplace little secret, never in a million years might it have entered his head that things could have been progressed to the stage to which Lesley has brought him. That she has done so is something for which I can only offer my sincerest congratulations.

The final picture in Lesley's most recent contribution (Christmas 2004) is a case in point. In this photograph, as with so many others, his enforced submissive housemaid status is obvious. I don't think that Lesley has ever intended that Penelope should be able to pass as 'a woman'. That would have given him something to hide behind. As things are, his masculine blushes go completely unspared.

The wonderful aspect of Penelope's photographs, and this particular one is a marvellous example, is that the actual effect of the clothing upon the male wearer is starkly apparent. One can almost feel his trembling humiliation as he obediently poses before Lesley's camera lens in all his pretty housemaid finery, knowing full well that this will be yet another addition to Lesley's 'hall of shame' photo album. The timid, nervous facial expression says it all - cringing embarrassment mingled with submissive resignation.

One can readily appreciate how such treatment engenders feelings of helplessness in a 'victim', and makes him so much more amenable to a wife's authority. For let us not forget, Penelope is kept very busy with his housework duties, and not just in the marital home either, but also in those of Lesley's mother and sister. Oh, he looks so sweet in that silky, pink costum! It really is an absolute winner, perhaps the best yet! How lovely to hear that he feels all shivery whilst wearing it. Another great job by Ros, Lesley's dressmaking friend, and partner in petticoat justice. And in answer to Lesley's question: yes, I do think it a good idea to have his petticoat and frilly knickers showing!

As you, Susan, encouraged, it was a great decision for Lesley to have Ros give Penelope dressmaking lessons, with the intention of the results being duly displayed and modelled for the gratification of PDQ's readers by their blushing creator, as the first ones now have been. This seemed a very apt progression in Penelope's domestication, and husband-training program. The pictures of him busy at work at the sewing machine and cutting out material in his pretty pink gingham outfit and aprons are just darling!

I do agree with you, Susan that it would be nice to see some more "fuller, frillier styles" than those shown here, such as a pretty full-length apron but it must be remembered that these are Penelope's first attempts and, as such, I think he's done very well. Bravo for Penelope! I am sure Lesley and Ros will progress him to more elaborate and frilly designs when they consider the time is right. I do look forward to seeing him model those!

Another encouraging fact, as Lesley mentions, is that with all of his housework duties, his dressmaking, his secretarial work for Lesley, and, of course, his ordinary employment outside of the home, he now has very little time for his erstwhile male acquaintances and leisure activities. This is great news! Nothing for Penelope, other than work outside of the home and petticoated domestication and housework within it.

I am quite enthralled to hear that Lesley permitted Ros to give Penelope a couple of spankings during his dressmaking lessons. I'm not absolutely certain, but I don't think I've ever previously read anything as regards Lesley's attitude to corporal punishment. It would be interesting to hear more about this aspect of Penelope's training if, indeed, there is more to tell. I have to say that I do think the cane is sometimes appropriate when dealing with housemaids, as a last resort sanction at least. The threat, I think, keeps a maid on his toes. It would certainly keep me on mine!

I know, Susan, that you have previously been quite critical of anything other than the mildest spanking. Yet on a couple of occasions in the Christmas 2004 edition of PDQ, including a reference to Penelope, you have alluded to the use of a wooden spoon. This is a great traditional instrument of 'maternal' discipine, what with its immediate associations with a 'mother's work', and can be very
stingy indeed! Naturally, I fully approve of its use. Anyway, sorry to be a bit controversial, but these are just my views and I can't help but feel that many other 'petticoating' enthusiasts share this interest.

A new development in the world of PDQ has me agog with anticipation. It seems Penelope has, as you say, a "rival" in the shape of Pamela A's 'Fifi'. I feel sure this spells very interesting times for Penelope and, I should imagine, Fifi himself. The prospect of Lesley and Pamela going head to head for the title of owning the 'star' PDQ pansy is simply mouth-watering. Both maids will surely have to be on their mettle for what might follow if such a friendly contest ever does arise between the two ladies.

I have to say, I nearly died of disappointment after reading that Pamela had supplied photographs of Fifi only to find that, at the lady's direction, they will be published in future issues. I can barely stand the wait! The fact that you, Susan, assure us that Fifi's outfits are "petticoat discipline masterpieces" and that Penelope will be "jealous" when the photos are published, makes me feel certain we are in for a treat.

Pamela mentions the prospect of Penelope and Fifi teaming up. I think that would be a wonderful idea and, as Pamela indicates, the stories and photographs that might follow from such a meeting are likely to be nothing other than sensational! I also think it would be very nice for Penelope to have a lovely pansy friend like Fifi, and I'm sure that Fifi would benefit likewise. Perhaps the two could be photographed together sharing nice warm cuddles!

Pamela also mentions something which I think an excellent practice to be used on males undergoing full petticoat discipline and domestication. She says that Fifi is kept in "chastity" under her "lock and key". This is not such a draconian measure as some might believe. There are some ingenious little devices on the market nowadays, discreet, aesthetically pleasing and very effective. Nothing at all like the medieval instruments of torture one might picture them to be. Whatever method is used, I do think it imperative that action be taken in this department, as sissies are likely to become very excited in their pretty feminine frillies, and suppressing and channeling these feelings is a very important aspect of a petticoating woman's control. I would be interested to read Lesley's thoughts on this matter.

A while ago, Lesley was casting around for ideas for 'public' humiliation treatments for Penelope. One of the problems seemed to be that his ordinary domestic costumes would just cause too much of a stir if he were to be let loose in a crowded street. I have a suggestion that she might or might not wish to take up. Has she thought of asking Ros to make him up a nice 'kiltie boy' costume? I think kilts are excellent for the purposes of publicly humiliating pansy males.

They are skirts, and yet they are male clothing. Any male wearing them, especially outside of Scotland, will certainly stand out and attract a degree of attention but without causing absolute pandemonium. This is something Penelope could wear outdoors with great sissy pride.

Of course, the traditional kilt outfit may be just a wee bit too masculine for him. I am thinking of something more along the lines of the drawing by that wonderful petticoat discipline artist 'Vancy' in the Christmas 2003 edition of PDQ (there are two great drawings by him in the current edition also). The picture shows a sweetly bonneted Scottish youth wearing a kind of tartan sleeveless tunic with splayed pleated skirt, (one presumes there to be petticoats beneath), a frilly be-ribboned white blouse, some form of 'tights' type leggings, be-ribboned at the knees, and single strap girls-type sandals.

It is a darling picture, and a beautiful costume. Put together with the lad's facial expression and stance, the artist has really captured the essence of effective petticoat discipline, just like Penelope's photographs! In itself, I think Lesley might find it a little extreme for her purposes. But I do think it would give Ros some ideas to work on.

One such thing that occurs to me would be to make sure that Penelope was wearing long frilly bloomers and one or two lacy petticoats under his kilt, reaching just above the hem. That way he would have to be very careful and self conscious about how he deported himself, especially on a windy day! But I have an additional idea. Once suitably attired in his lovely new kiltie outfit, perhaps Lesley, Ros, and Lesley's mum and sister, could take Penelope out on a pleasant Saturday afternoon's car ride.

A nice journey to a city or town, say, a hundred miles from where he lives and where it is unlikely that he would be spotted by anyone who knows him. Then direct him to the lingerie section of a large store, one that is sure to be quite crowded with women shoppers. Before he goes, issue him with money to be carried in a pink purse, and instructions to purchase a number of items of women's underwear and be specific about colours and sizes so that his task will be more complicated. A lovely, strong, high-waisted and long-legged panty girdle comes to mind as one good item.

The four women could then follow him into the store in such a way that no-one will suspect that they have anything to do with him. There they could observe his ordeal with absolute discretion. They could even stand quite close, and take part in the amused stares and whispered remarks which would be sure to greet him. He could also be instructed beforehand that any attempt to make eye contact with them will be met with a repeat of the exercise the following week. If Lesley was feeling especially bold she could even take photographs of him. The new generation of picture-taking mobile phones are extremely discreet. It would be fantastic to actually see photographs of him during his anguished flutterings and flounderings amongst the knicker racks in a future edition of PDQ! If Lesley did actually go so far as to carry any of this out, I'm sure I would hold a very special place in Penelope's affections …

Some may think my proposals a bit too extreme, or even cruel. They are, however, designed primarily to give Lesley some ideas for consideration. Of course, if she were to carry them out to the letter, I would be only too delighted! I actually think that, from time to time, it is a very good idea to submit sissies to some particularly strong humiliation therapy (as I'm sure Dora from Avon would agree!), so long as the humiliation provided connects with their psychological attachment to petticoating.

It weakens them, and makes them more helpless and dependent on the woman who imposes the regime and thus, more malleable to her command. In short, it is good discipline. Afterwards, they can be rewarded by lots of nurturing kisses and hugs, and be told how much they have pleased the woman in their life, maybe even be given an opportunity to please her in the bedroom. That, to my mind, is the true beauty of petticoating as a form of husband training. It is such a gentle and loving method for keeping silly males in their proper place, and yet so devastatingly powerful.

I hope that you, Susan, and anyone else reading this, will not be too quick to assume that I am merely some kind of nasty person who is out to get some kicks at poor Penelope's expense. The truth is I envy him so much, even though I would die if I were subjected to his treatment. But I would go to heaven happy! As I have pointed out, isn't this the central paradox of petticoat discipline and its great power?

I, therefore, wish to make it known that if there are any strict petticoating ladies out there in the North West of England reading this letter who would like the opportunity to enforce their discipline upon an ordinarily masculine type, forty-something male, in a way similar to Lesley's training of Penelope, you are more than welcome to contact Miss MacDonald at petticoated.com, if she indicates that such a contact is welcome. She, in turn, has my permission to forward my email address to any ladies interested. Who knows, maybe one day I too can find stardom in Petticoat Discipline Quarterly, just like Penelope!

My deepest appreciation to Lesley, Ros, and Pamela and, of course, to you, Miss MacDonald.

I saw your website by mistake, and think it’s really good. The only thing is, a lot of the victims on there didn't have a choice of being a baby, or being petticoated. This may be weird, but for some reason I want to be babied 24/7. I want to permanently wear nappies, be made to wear a nice pretty pink dress, and be taken outside to shops and places in my baby attire and with my dummy.

I would also like to be made to wet my nappy and to be changed in baby changing rooms like a proper baby, even also made to have my bottle in public when my 'nanny' is having something to eat, or just enjoying a sit-down.

My girlfriend has tried to do some things: she's made me wear nappies, and makes me suck on a dummy every now and then, but I am still not satisfied, because I am still not really being treated as a baby! I want to be totally humiliated, be made to sob like a baby, and it just isn’t happening! I am just curious to see if you can help me out.
Thanks for listening. Love,

Dear Susan,

Please allow me to thank you, your staff and contributors for helping me resolve a lifelong struggle with the guilt associated with my fondness for feminine frills, and my desire for forced feminization. As a direct result of discovering your website three years ago, I learned to accept my submissive nature and deal with the guilt by devoting myself to a life of service to my lovely wife. I am now a happy sissy maid, and my better half is increasingly happy with her dominant status in our relationship.

The events that led to my happy submission have their roots in my childhood. When I was a toddler, my mother returned from an evening out with my father to discover me sleeping in one of her nightgowns. As I was growing up, she would on occasion recount to visiting relatives or friends of the family the “cute” story of my foray into her silky sleepwear. I wore it, she reasoned, to ease the discomfort of her absence.

Mum was a school teacher and was often away from home during the day. She must have told the story of the nightgown to my nanny, who I can distinctly remember teasing me with nylon stockings when I was three or four years old. She would roll up to the tops of the stockings and then draw them up my legs. Then she’d have me hold them up and try and dance for her. They made my legs tingle, and I thought they were great fun. We would both laugh, and she would giggle gleefully as I twirled ‘round on the hardwood floor.

Nanny also had what we called ‘cut-outs.’ They were paper dolls dressed in their undies, which I thought was funny. She showed me how to carefully cut out with scissors their supplied outfits—pretty dresses and gowns mostly—which I was shown how to attach using folding tabs that wrapped ‘round the dolls. I spent hours at the kitchen table dressing and playing with the dolls while Nanny baked cakes and cookies. It was a very happy time indeed.

One of my best friends during my preschool days was my cousin, Nicole, a pretty little blond-haired girl my age. When we were four, she and her parents visited our family after church service on Easter morning. Nicole and I were particularly excited because we would be allowed to sample our Easter candy after brunch with the adults. Nicole was in a cute little semi-transparent yellow organza dress, of the type so commonly worn for special occasions by little girls in the 50s. When she leaned forward to examine the contents of her Easter basket, her panties where exposed. They were exquisite little confections in white nylon, with row on row of yellow lace, matching her dress. I was amazed and immediately fell in love with them. I ran to Mum and grabbed her hand to get her attention and blurted, “Mummy, I want pretty panties just like Nicole’s!”

My pronouncement put an abrupt end to adult conversation in the room and Mum quickly advised me, “Don’t be silly, dear. Panties are just for little girls.”

I was devastated. They were so pretty. I wanted them, and could see no reason why I shouldn’t have some too.

Nicole hadn’t noticed the fuss and was playing happily. I joined her, but my disappointment stayed with me. Thus began what would become a deep yearning for girls’ things that would stay with me throughout my childhood and adolescence. By the time I reached adulthood, I was a guilt-ridden mess, and I secretly hoped my ‘weirdness’ would be discovered, punished and purged.

Luckily, in the early 1970s, I fell in love with a beautiful and gentle woman, Louise. She was extremely attractive, feminine and graceful. She was also intelligent, having earned two university degrees. As we got to know each other, I discovered she believed in women’s liberation and did not appreciate male chauvinism.

Once I realized I wanted to marry Louise, I was faced with a dilemma. It seemed necessary to tell her about my penchant for women’s clothing, and I was afraid it would disgust her and possibly end our relationship. Finally, I mustered enough courage to tell her, and thankfully, if didn’t scare her off. We married, and we’ve now been together for thirty-five years.

My love has always been open-minded, but she doesn’t like to consider me a transvestite. While she has always ‘put up’ with my need to occasionally cross-dress, she wasn’t able to be comfortable with my desire for feminization until we discovered your website three years ago.

At the time, Louise and I had just purchased a new home and were preparing to move in. The house had never been smoked in, and it was remarkably clean.

“They’ll be no smoking in this house,” she announced. “You’ll have to go outside to smoke.”

Her firm tone told me she meant business, and it excited me and got me thinking. Maybe it would be a good time to quit smoking, something I’d tried not been able to do on two previous attempts.

“Maybe you should make me quit,” I suggested.

“Oh, right,” she quipped, “I’m sure you’d quit just because I would want you to.”

“I would,” I responded, “You’ve been good to me all my life, and in this new home, your wish will be my command.”

A discussion ensued, and it was decided the new house would be her domain. She would set the rules, and I would abide by them. She would be dominant and my role would be to please her and take care of her needs.

When we moved into our new home my cigarettes were discarded and replaced with a little girl’s pink pacifier. I was given a delightful nylon, baby blue, full-sweep nightgown to sleep in.

“From now on,” she told me, “you are my sissy. The instant you start smoking again, you’ll lose your soother and the soft, pretty nightgown you love so much.”

Since then, I have risen first each morning to prepare coffee and make breakfast, iron and lay out our clothes for the workday. She showers and then sits next to our bed while I kneel before her and massage her feet with lotion. After finishing my chores, I am allowed to change into my day clothes and go to work.

As soon as we return home in the evening, I must don panties and do housework until bedtime. On weekends or holidays, I am in panties all the time, including trips out of the house to run errands. My duties expand constantly and I have become a quite proficient housemaid. I clean and dust, make the bed, do laundry, wash floors and windows, mend and sew.

I wear a full housemaid’s outfit, including a chiffon petticoat and I made a nice dress for Louise. She loves it and sometimes wears it to work. At the moment, she has me sewing my own lacy apron to wear during the performance of my kitchen duties and while serving tea when she relaxes with the evening paper or watches television.

On occasion Louise surprises me. One morning, she went into the bathroom and returned with a package that she said had been left at the door.

“I can’t use these,” she said, “but they’ll be perfect for you. Put them on.”

The package contained a pair of plastic ‘security’ panties designed for women affected by mild incontinence. The special panties could be padded with one of two inserts provided.

“You’ll be so busy washing floors and housecleaning today, you may not have a lot of time to piddle,” she grinned. “They should help keep you dry.”

Later, as I washed the kitchen floor on hands and knees, and remarked that the bulk between my legs was uncomfortable, she smirked and said, “You want to be careful what you wish for. You wanted to be feminized. Bear with it like a good girl. Now you know what we women have had to put up with all these years.”

Incredibly, an effusive feminine feeling washes over me when I wear my lovely feminine undies. I feel an intense closeness to Louise and want more than ever to please and serve her.

I am always happy in my panties, even as I carry out repetitive tasks once considered ‘women’s work’ by most husbands. In our household it is sissies’ work, and it is done without complaint in a properly considerate feminine manner, without expectation of reward.

Once again, Susan, thank you for the loving inspiration you provide. Thank you so much!

Yours respectfully,

Sissy Lana

I have prepared the following impression of you working on a new issue of Petticoat Discipline Quarterly. I hope that you like it.

Rachel’s letter struck such a chord with me. I seem to share a lot with her, in the sense that I never regarded being dressed in knickers and girls' clothes as a punishment so much as a thrill – something to look forward to. The pleasure of going up to my room in my aunt’s and tearing off my shorts, rough school shirt, and baggy trunks, and opening my dresser to stare at a row of neatly-ironed school knickers in various colours is something that is hard to describe.

I still glow with excitement, almost fifty years on, when I think of buttoning up my liberty bodice and fastening my black cotton stockings to its four suspenders, before bending to step into my interlock cotton knickers (pink or navy or green), and pulling them up around my waist so that the elastic legs tightened against my thighs.

Rachel’s experience of being in the Ladies, and being terrified of discovery, also rang a bell. I went through that fear as well, but just for the first time. After a few visits to the Ladies, I became quite blasé, and didn’t think twice about it.

But, back to the beginning: I’m now 58 years old – and I live alone as a man. When I was about ten years old I had my first girlie experience. My mother had a long-standing friend who my three sisters and I called 'Aunt Ann'. She was what in those days was called a spinster, and lived alone in a large, detached house, which had been her family home. She worked as a teacher, and had lived with her sister, Mary, and Mary’s 12-year-old daughter, called 'young Mary'. Because of some family upset – I think it may have been a divorce, but these things were not told to children then - Mary and her daughter abruptly moved to the Midlands. They just seemed to disappear overnight.

My mother sent my 14-year-old sister to stay with Auntie Ann, to keep her company at nights. But after a couple of weeks, she became homesick and I was sent instead, initially for a weekend.

I loved the old, rambling house – and I liked Auntie Ann, who gave me freedom to roam and do what I wished. Soon, I had persuaded my mother to let me stay in Ann’s almost full time. One wet Sunday afternoon, I discovered various steamer trunks and tea-chests packed with household items, and left-over clothes, in her attic.

One trunk was full of girls' clothes, neatly ironed and packed – which I guessed to have been outgrown by her niece, Mary. It was as though I’d found the door into a secret world. Something compelled me to try on a few things. Having removed my jumper and shorts, I pulled on a pair of green school knickers. There was a flutter – and then a breath-stopping sensation as I felt the elastic in the legs slide up my thighs.

I rummaged around and found a white petticoat, with a little lace hem and fitted bodice. I slipped it on, and for the first time discovered the sensation of a skirt touching against my knees. Another search in the trunk produced a green gymslip. This was too big, but that didn’t matter. I fastened the two buttons on each shoulder and tied the waist belt the way I’d seen my sisters do many times. I was smoothing the gym tunic skirt and feeling pleased with myself, when the attic door opened – and there
stood Auntie Ann.

I blushed, I stammered, I wanted the ground to swallow me. Then I started to cry – a flood of tears – terrified that Ann would tell my mother, who would be so cross. But far from scolding me, Ann advanced into the room and threw her arms around me. We hugged for what seemed hours, with Ann periodically patting and stroking my back and bottom. As I calmed down, I could feel her hand slip under my skirt and petticoat and travel tenderly up the back of one thigh. When it reached my knickers, she gave a peal of laughter. Holding me at arms length she said: “You’re a little devil. What will you think of next?” Then she said dinner was ready and that it would be cold, because she had been calling me for ages.

I made to pull the gymslip over my head – ready to change into my boys' clothes. But she just said: “Come on, you can do that later.” She took me, still snivelling, downstairs by the hand.

Over the meal, I became less self-conscious. Ann asked if I would like to be a girl. I said I didn’t know. She said: “I think you would – don’t you?” I said I supposed I would, and she replied:

“Curiosity killed the cat. You can play at being a girl if that makes you happy – but if you tell your mother, she'll kill me. So it must stay a secret.”

That was the start of things. By the time I turned eleven, I dressed as a girl every day. I wore Mary’s hand-me-down dresses, school uniform clothes, and interlock knickers at first. Many were too big: others needed mending. Ann showed me how to darn lisle and woollen long stockings, and summer ankle socks. She also got me to mend several pairs of knickers, discarded because the waist or leg elastic had broken. It was easy to thread new knicker elastic through the waist seam using a safety pin.

Sometimes she showed how to deal with gussets which had ingrained streaks – using Sunlight soap and nail-brush or a blue-bag. The white and pink knickers were easily dealt with, but the navy and green, with persistent whitening at the gusset, were sometimes beyond restoration. I wore them anyway: they seemed more “lived in.” Over the next few months, Ann bought all sorts of clothes for me.

She gave me a girl’s name, Hazel, and bought girls' comics (School Friend, Girls Crystal) and soft cuddly toys. I had always been quite small and feminine, but in my girls' clothes (thanks to Ann’s expertise) I was undetectable. I first went outdoors as a girl when I had just turned 11. As a birthday treat, Auntie Ann took me to the cinema in her car. I don’t know whose idea it was that I stay in my girls' clothes for the trip. Probably mine, but she could read my mind, and I’m sure she encouraged me. I remember Ann brushing my hair (it was long for a boy, and was easy to style as a short-haired girl’s, which was fashionable for girls of my age that time). I wore a unisex Burberry raincoat, which was actually my own navy school mac, buttoned to the left, of course. I had little black patent shoes with a strap and silver buckle, and white ankle socks.

At the interval, Ann asked if I wanted to use the lavatory. When I muttered yes, she took my hand and marched to the Ladies. It was full of girls and their mothers, all with the same idea of having a wee during the break. We had to stand around for several minutes until a WC was free. I stole glances at the gabbling girls and the women with them – terrified in case they would notice me. They didn’t. One mother smiled, and complimented Auntie Ann on my hair-clasp, which she said was lovely.

Then a WC was free. Ann pushed in – dragging me by the hand. I fumbled up my skirt at the front (I was wearing a dark tartan tweed skirt with matching twin set) and pushed my pink knickers down a little to go the boys'way. Ann gave a giggle – and spun me round by the shoulders. With a quick flip she had the back of my skirt lifted to the waist and my knickers down to my knees. I had secretly sat down when I did a wee before this, in privacy, but I did not want to go like a girl while Ann was watching. But she soon took care of that. Next door, I could hear the tinkle of another girl relieving herself. Auntie Ann reached me some paper - and I wiped dry before hoisting my knickers.

As we washed our hands, a girl of about 10 asked if I liked the film (it was a new Disney movie). I said it was brilliant. Whatever fears there had been before about discovery had melted away. As we were leaving the Ladies, one of the women still there said to Ann: “Excuse me, your little girl has dropped her hankie.” It lay below the wash basin where it had fallen from my cardigan sleeve while washing my hands. When we got back to our cinema seats I was thrilled. My first visit to the Ladies had been fear-inducing, but it felt all the better for that. I had been accepted completely by everyone there – as a little girl. It made me feel so special.
Yours sincerely,

Time to officially unveil Penelope’s latest uniform, of which I sent you a sneak preview which you passed on to your readers in the Christmas Special Issue. The difference with this one is that Penelope was actually involved in its production, a further development of his previously-described dressmaking tuition. He did much of the machining, and added the main frills himself. Perhaps next year he’ll be making the complete thing!

I really think that this is probably Ros’s best yet. So silky and feminine, Penelope just seems to shrink when he is zipped into it, and becomes even more submissive than usual. The look in his eyes, the unspoken plea to be released from his petticoat prison, is a joy to behold. (And just makes me prolong his petticoat time – he is so grateful and excited when released!) As you can probably see Ros found still another frilly petticoat to add to the usual frothy mass, and the idea of insisting on his satin bloomers being worn, and visible, with the costume was a master stroke. The effect, I think, is stunning, quite the most overpowering example of a petticoat discipline outfit I have yet managed for Penelope.

I thought you might find this of interest. It is from Victorian times, but I'm sure that a 'Daily Telegraph' reader like you would approve!

Thank you for sending this. I now have it framed on the wall of my mezzanine office.
Susan

Here is a picture of me in my blue velvet Little Lord Fauntleroy suit, and hugging my Raggedy Ann doll. I hope that you like it.
Best wishes,

Scenes should be of Chris and his beloved Aunt Julia, or could be at a Mademoiselle venue.

Entries close on August 31st. I will release further information on the method of choosing the winning caption in the coming weeks. Captions should be in good taste.

After a long search in life for some meaning, I finally accepted and came to terms with that fact that I am a "sissy".

Of all the terms, "sissy", I feel fits me best. I simply adore that term, and always have. I can remember back to childhood somebody calling me, "a sissy". Outwardly I natually reblled against being called that term, but, inwardly my hear pouded with such joy it was undescribable. I simply loved that shivery word.

At that time my life long preference for female clothing, attire, accessories, hairstyles, perfumes and scents and makeup began. I truly adored all feminine things, and loved to wear them at every given chance. I admired, and was severely jealous and envious of, women and girls as they were ever so lucky to have such pretty and lovely things.

As I said I longed for a term that best describes me, my feelings, my internal being and everything else. The only term that did make any sense to me and what-so-ever to me was, "sissy". I even simply adore the alternate terms such as "pantiwaist" and "pansy" ever so much also.

Most men and people would be appalled at a person accepting and adopting the term, "sissy", to describe themself. To me, I really don't look at it in any derogatory or negative way . I truly don't. In fact I look at being a sissy as a very positive state of being. I maybe submissive in my nature, but, I won't allow anyone to abuse me because of my natural submissiveness. I maybe effeminiate or girlish in nature, but that's just me. I'm always very adverse to all vlolence in life, and I prefe the softer and gentler pursuits in life. These things I cannot change, and nor do I want to, ever. They are my nature.

The one thing I've noticed when I'm all dressed up in pretty clothes, like I love to be, is the fact that there is this magical thing that happens. There is this continual, delicious wave after wave of what you might call "complete and utter sissiness", that washes over me down to the very core of my being. It is ever so wonderful, and I never want it to stop. It just feels so good.

So, I'm very proud and happy to say that "I'm a pantiwaist", "I'm a pansy", and most of all, "I'm a sissy". And I love it ever so.

I am sure a lot of PDQ readers are familiar with those euphoric waves that make you feel so happy and free of stress. That is the really therapeutic side of petticoating.
Susan

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Art & Visual Graphics Department Christeen Petticoats, Paul, Chrissy, Mary Beth Sanford and Vancy (visiting artists)
Content Consultant & Puzzlist Charles

Head of the Typing Pool Maid Angela
Typists and Sub Editors Christy, Pansy Anne, Stacey, Cliff, Baby Janet, Korri Elizabeth Lane, Hillary, Bruce, Renee, Bob, Kristin Lynn, Julia, Fani, Philip, Renee, Framlot, Dena, Diana, Pansy Clare, Clarence, Victoria Prettybows, Sissy Julia.

International Representatives
North America   Anne & Timmy
Australia   Barry
Fiona Turkey

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