Petticoat Discipline Quarterly
 ~ updated frequently ~

Another RLM Hosted Website

Click above to visit another great RLM hosted website.
Write to:

March 2007
roses and lillies
Roses and Lillies
by Mary Louise MacMonnies
from Lucy's Celebration of Femininity

PDQ panties
Our trademark picture, beautifully prepared by ChrissieLuv. Click on the picture to visit her site.


A very happy birthday to Nikki on March 12, and Mark on March 25.

Previous issues

February 2006: not published


Christeen's Gallery

Sunday March 25 2007

I have put a lot of effort into this, so that there is a March issue. Please do not assume that the site is back to normal.

Thank you to so many readers for the kind and concerned letters that I have received. I am sorry that I have not been able to answer them all.


Dear Susan,

Although not strictly petticoat discipline as such, your readers may well identify with an amusing incident that occurred to me when I was a teenager. Well, amusing for others, but it certainly wasn’t very amusing to me. My name is David, but I have changed my surname in writing this letter.

It was back in 1957, when I was 15 years old. At the time, I attended the local boys’ high school, while my 18 year old sister Susan had just left Sion Convent Girl’s School and started working as a reporter on the local weekly newspaper.

I had an unusual hobby. I liked dressing up as a girl. I didn’t actually want to be one you understand, but I did get a thrill out of dressing as one. It was a very private thing though, and I was always terrified that one day someone might find out. Nevertheless, whenever I was sure that Mum and Susan would be absent from the house for some time, I used to creep into Susan’s room and blissfully try on her now redundant school uniform. For some reason it held an attraction for me, probably because she’d had to wear it, even though she detested it because she felt it was too childish by the time she was in her final year at Sion Convent. I could understand what she meant.

The maroon and white check summer dress had a row of white buttons up the front and a broad white collar. The short sleeves had white cuffs to match and a belt around the waist with a white plastic buckle. The same style was worn by al the girls from the age of 5y when they first attended Sion Convent, right through until they left aged 17y, and it was this aspect of looking like a little girl that irritated Susan so much. It certainly did look pretty childish.

But that’s what attracted me to it. I imagined that I was being forced to wear it by some Sion girls and then taken out for a walk around the town, where everyone would laugh at me, so my private little fantasy included a proportion of humiliation as well. I enjoyed it in my imagination, but shuddered at the thought of actually doing it. Fantasy is one thing, but the reality? That’s something quite different, and I was only too well aware of the difference.

There was one other item that helped to turn me into a convincing looking like schoolgirl. Susan owned a mid brown page boy style wig, and when I wore it with her school uniform, the illusion was complete. I had quite a girlish face, and had twice taken the girls’ parts in my all boys’ school plays, which gave me more pleasure than any of my mates at school realised. Had I had the nerve and gone out into the street dressed like that, no-one would have doubted that I actually was a Sion schoolgirl.

One wet afternoon during the first week of the school holidays, my mother had gone to visit a friend, and I was alone at home wearing Susan’s school dress, a pair of white ankle socks, and her childish brown leather T bar school sandals. They were indistinguishable from the sandals worn by small girls, and fastened with buckles at the side of the foot.

I stood at the window and watched the rain pouring down, and it was then that I toyed with the idea of going out for a walk. Normally I wouldn’t have dared of course, but I suddenly remembered that on wet days, Susan had worn her school raincoat with the hood up, which made it impossible to see her face unless you were directly in front of her. A perfect disguise I thought with a grin, and I went into the hall to where we hung our coats.

There on a hook hung Susan’s school raincoat, and I took it down and held it up for a moment to examine it. The raincoat was a typical, single-breasted girl’s school mackintosh made of unlined light grey rubberised cotton. It had a buckle belt supported by two keepers attached to the mac, one on either side of the waist. From the shoulders hung a non-detachable hood with a square top, a common style on girls’ school raincoat hoods, and the hood had a maroon lining, and tie tapes to secure it under the chin.

I hesitated for a brief moment, and then in a moment of decision, put my arms into the sleeves, pulled the raincoat on over my shoulders, and fastened the buttons up to my neck. Then I passed the belt through the buckle, pulled it tight around my waist, and fastened a securing buttonhole at the end of the belt which prevented it from loosening.

I looked at myself in the hall mirror and grinned. With the wig framing my face I looked every inch a Sion Convent girl, and realised that with the hood up as well, I’d fool anyone who didn’t know me into thinking I was a girl. I grinned with self-satisfaction at the thought, and now full of confidence, I went up to my room and put my keys in my dress pocket. It wouldn’t do to lock myself out of the house dressed like that.

I went back downstairs, looked at myself in the mirror, and carefully pulled the mackintosh hood up over my head. I brought the tie tapes together under my chin, and tied them in a bow as I’d seen my sister do on countless occasions as she got ready to go to school in the rain. I took another look at myself in the mirror, and nodded with satisfaction at my appearance. I was ready to venture forth.

'”Oh well, here goes.” I thought to myself, and going to the front door, I opened it and grinned with pleasure to see that it was still pouring with rain. Hesitating for barely a moment, I stepped out into the torrential downpour and closed the door behind me with an air of finality.

I walked down the path to the front gate and stepped out onto the wet, rain swept pavement. I looked up and down the road and saw that it was deserted. This made me more confident, and with a determined grin, I began walking along the street in the direction of the town centre.

The rain drummed down on my hood and ran down onto my bare legs as the hem flapped around my calves, but I have to say that the waterproof mac made a good job of keeping the rest of me dry.

With my face well hidden under the hood I felt quite safe, and as I approached the town centre I was aware of an increasing number of people. Nobody gave me a second glance, and I began to realise that my confidence in my appearance as a Sion Convent schoolgirl was well justified.

Reaching the town’s museum, I decided to take a break from walking in the rain. I went in but decided to keep my hood up for obvious reasons. I began wandering through the galleries at a leisurely pace, and was soon absorbed in the impressive collection of fossils, in which I was particularly interested. There were several other people in the museum, but they all seemed to ignore me, which suited me just fine.

Then it happened. I nearly jumped out of my skin when a female voice behind me said “Didn’t I tell all of you to stay with the group young lady? And why on earth have you still got your hood up? It isn’t raining in here is it?”

I obviously had no choice but to turn and face her, desperately hoping that I could bluff my way out of the situation. Barely a few feet in front of me was a middle-aged lady, but of much more concern to me was a group of about twenty Sion Convent girls standing just behind her. It was obviously a school excursion, and my interrogator was their teacher. I gulped nervously, completely at a loss for words. What could I say? I knew that the moment I opened my mouth I’d give myself away, but that wasn’t going to be necessary anyway. The teacher took one look at me, her eyes narrowed, and she said, “Just a minute, who are you? You’re not in this class, so...?”

She paused in mid-sentence, stepped up to me and said “Just a minute, you’re not even a girl!” Her perceptive eagle eye had seen through my disguise 

Before I could stop her, she reached up and untied the tapes under my chin, pushed the hood back off my head, and then whisked the wig away. Suddenly exposed without any doubt as a boy, I felt suddenly naked as the girls took one look at me and shrieked with laughter while I blushed crimson with embarrassment. The teacher couldn’t help grinning with amusement herself, and chuckled as she said “Well, what have we here? Is it a girl or a boy? Let’s see what she’s wearing under that mac.”

I stood there helplessly as she unfastened the raincoat belt and began unfastening the buttons down the front. Then she pulled the raincoat off me, revealing the summer dress I was wearing underneath.

An outburst of giggling ensued as there was now no doubt that I was a boy dressed as a girl, and I cringed with humiliation.

Her face suddenly more serious, the teacher said “So what’s this all about young man? Why on earth are you wearing a Sion Convent uniform, and where did you get it?”

What could I say? I daren’t tell her about my fantasy, so I decided on a half truth. “I...I just wanted to see what it would be like to wear my sister’s school uniform,” I said hesitantly, “And when I put it on I dared myself to go out in it.”

“And whose your sister? I assume she attends Sion Convent?”

“Susan Turne,” I said almost in despair as I knew that this would now inevitably get back to my mother and sister. “She left last year.”

“Susan Turner? Yes I remember. She was a good student. And rather cleverer than you I suspect. So you’re her brother are you? And what’s your name?”

I saw no point in lying, so I replied “David Turner.”

She looked at me carefully for a moment before she smiled and said, “Well young Master Turner, since you’re so curious to find out what it’s like to be a Sion Convent girl like your sister, I’m going to oblige you. You can spend the rest of the day with me, without that wig and mackintosh hood to hide under. We’ll soon see how much you enjoy that. Somehow I don’t think you’ll want to try on your sister’s school uniform again after what I have in mind. And I’ll take care of these,” she said, putting the wig into her bag and hanging the raincoat over her arm.

“I’ll return them to your home later this afternoon when I intend to have a word with your mother. In the meantime you can join the class. I’m sure the girls will look after you, won’t you girls?” she said to them with a grin.

“Oh yes Miss Carter, we’ll look after him all right,” said one girl with a mischievous grin. I shuddered at the prospect.

But there was nothing I could do now, and I reluctantly went over to the group of girls and joined them to a chorus of giggles and titters of amusement.

The tour then continued, as the teacher instructed the girls on the world of prehistory. I barely heard what she was saying being far too preoccupied with my own self-inflicted misfortune, and I cursed myself for my rashness.

The tour finally finished, and the group went to the entrance of the museum, where Miss Carter thanked the museum staff before we stepped out into the street. By now the rain had stopped and the sun was shining, and I suffered the extreme embarrassment of walking with the girls in crocodile to where a school bus was waiting to take them back to Sion Convent. Miss Carter made me sit next to her on the bus while I endured the teasing comments of the girls that she indulged with an amused smile.

We reached the school entrance, and after alighting from the bus, went into the main building and along a corridor to a classroom. It seemed that it was time for the last lesson of the day, and Miss Carter made me sit down at a desk at the front of the class where she said that she could keep an eye on me. The girls were given the task of writing out a report on what they’d learned at the museum, but although I was given a pen and an exercise book, I found it impossible to write anything. It was a strangely similar situation to being at my own school, but the incongruity of sitting in a class of schoolgirls dressed as one of them was where the similarity ended.

The class ended when a bell signalling the end of the day’s lessons rang, and the girls surged eagerly out of the classroom. Miss Carter looked at me and smiled.

“All right then David” she grinned, “You can go now. I imagine your walk home will be one to remember, and somehow I doubt if you’ll ever want to repeat the exercise. I’ll drop off your sister’s wig and mackintosh on my way home, and since I’m driving, I may well be there by the time you arrive home. Off you go now.” I felt doomed as I rose to my feet and walked out of the room.

Dreading what I knew was going to be a long walk home exposed to the ridicule of every passer by, I reluctantly went out through the door of the building and made my way out through the main gate and into the street. As I stepped out onto the pavement I was met by a barrage of giggles and laughter of the girls I’d just spent the afternoon with. They’d been waiting for me, and without the inhibiting influence of a teacher, they obviously intended to have some fun at my expense.

It was impossible to ignore them as I began walking home. Unfortunately I lived on the other side of town, so it was unavoidable that I’d have to walk through the crowded shopping precinct and out the other side before I’d reach the safe haven of my house.

The girls’ banter was predictable, and blushing crimson with humiliation I had to endure their endless teasing as they told me what a sweet little schoolgirl I made, and how I should attend Sion Convent permanently. One of them put her school hat on my head, and by then I was so far past caring I didn’t even try to stop her. I was thoroughly mortified, and by now bitterly regretted my foolhardiness in venturing out in Susan’s school uniform. Too late now though.

We reached the town centre, where the owner of the hat retrieved it off my head, and the girls left me to walk on home on my own, thankfully free of their teasing at last. I still attracted plenty of amused comments from many who saw me, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as the teasing of the girls.

I finally reached home, and with a sigh of relief, unlocked the front door and went inside. Hanging on its hook in the hall once more was Susan’s school mackintosh, so it seemed that Miss Carter had been. This was confirmed a moment later when my mother’s voice came from the kitchen. “Is that you David? Come in here please.”

I walked reluctantly into the kitchen to find my mother sitting at the table with Susan and Miss Carter. I sat down while Mum poured me a cup of tea.

“Well,” she said, putting my cup down in front of me, “It seems that you’ve had an interesting afternoon, haven’t you? What on earth possessed you to go for a walk wearing Susan’s school uniform? In my experience, the very last thing that any boy wants to do, it’s to be dressed as a girl! So what was the idea?”

I just couldn’t bring myself to admit my private little fantasy, so I simply said that I’d been curious to see what it was like.

“Well I hope you’ve learnt your lesson,” grinned my sister, “You look quite cute actually. I take it you won’t want to repeat the exercise?”

“No way!” I said, “Those girls saw to that. I’ve never been so humiliated. It was terrible!”

“Good,” smiled Miss Carter. “That’s what I intended. It seems that my little lesson has succeeded, in which case it’s served a useful purpose and no harm done. It certainly gave the girls some amusement.”

Satisfied that I’d learnt my lesson, she got up from the table and prepared to leave. As soon as she’d gone, Susan took me out into the garden and made me pose for a couple of photos “Just for the record,” she chuckled.

After that I was allowed to go upstairs and change into my own clothes, and it was with a feeling of overwhelming relief that I hung Susan’s school uniform back in her wardrobe.

And that was the first and last time that I ventured outside dressed as a girl. I still continued dressing up in private of course, and still do. But never again did I risk turning my little fantasy into reality. Once was quite enough.

David Turner


It all started when I was ten years old. My dad was in the army, and stationed in Germany. My mum had just landed a well-paid job in Birmingham, but as this was the school holidays, she'd persuaded her second cousin (Aunt Janice, as I had to call her), who was a widow and short of money, to look after me for payment, and, in order to be nearer, Mum had managed to rent a house in the same street. Part of the arrangement was also that my cousin Fiona, who was thirteen and wanted to be a teacher, should give me lessons to make up for the schooling I'd lost through moving about so much. Fiona had a sister whose name was Barbara.

That wasn't my idea at all, and on the very first day I waited till my aunt had gone out shopping and then spent a happy time plaguing the girls and especially enjoyed making the younger sister, Barbara, run about squealing with fright. After an hour of this, I ran to the front door to go out to play with some lads I'd heard in the street. On opening it, however, I ran into Aunt Janice. She had just come back from shopping. The girls tearfully told her what I'd been doing, and I said I didn't care and that I was going out to play with the lads whenever I got the chance.

“That's all right. Do what I tell you, and I promise you can go out to play with the lads any time you like!”

Then she took me upstairs to a playroom. The girls followed, obviously puzzled at all this, but my aunt had a word with them and sent them out. Then she told me to take all my clothes off. I didn't like the idea, but remembering what she'd said, soon stood naked. Then, to my amazement, she went to an open window and dropped my vest and underpants out. Just then, we heard the girls outside, and my aunt picked up a pink silk lacy pantie and vest set.

“Quick, put these on!” said my aunt. I didn't like the idea of this either, but I didn't want the girls to see me naked and, anyway, I knew I could cover them later with my shirt and trousers, so I obeyed. But then the girls came in. In my embarrassment, I didn't hear a click, but my aunt told me that Fiona now had a Polaroid photograph which the lads in the street would love to see, so I had better do as I was told from now on. 

Then I saw that the girls had also come in with some of Fiona's old school clothes. There were dark blue gymslips and cream shirts and a tie with stripes of the same colours. They'd also brought several pairs of blue shoes and white socks. They soon found things that fitted, made me put them all on, and put ribbons in my hair, which was rather long. How they enjoyed it! And how they laughed when they took me over to a mirror. Except for the scowl and the aggressive stance, I looked just like a girl, and I was made to pose for more photographs.

“Now you can go out and play football if you like!” said my aunt.  But obviously, I didn't.

Aunt Janice then said that the girls would now be in charge of me, and that I was to obey their orders as if they were hers. Broad smiles lit their faces, and their first order was for me to repeat "My name is Christina" ten times. Then they made me wear a pink frilly pinafore for lunch and help with the washing up. With the threat of exposure from photos, I gave up all resistance, hoping to be let off later. The rest of the day passed well enough, though, with some lessons in deportment from Fiona, who also gave me some tests to see where I was weakest - in maths and English. At six, it was time to go home.

“You can't go back looking like that,” said my aunt.

“Oh, good,” I thought, “'now back to my own clothes.”

“Everyone knows the schools are off. You shouldn't be in uniform, so I'll put you in something different.”

She'd obviously planned all this, and held up a medium length, summery dress, light blue with a flower pattern and short, puffed sleeves and white, frilled hems.

“Take off your uniform, and put this on.”  Still shocked, I complied, and set off home in the dress, my aunt carrying my clothes in a bag.

“Well, this time,” I thought, “I will be back in those.”

Over tea, however, my aunt told my mum what had happened.  She also pointed out that nobody in the street had seen me yet to know whether I was a boy or a girl, and having nothing but girls’ clothes to wear would prevent my normal practice of running off to play football. Mum, with past experience of my arriving home dishevelled and late for meals, readily agreed. I then found that what was actually in my aunt's bag were some more of Fiona's clothes and a pink night dress with ribbon ties. The clothes I'd gone out in were now locked up at her house, and she left with a suitcase full of all the rest. Now I was helpless, and my heart sank.

Next morning I went back to Aunt Janice's in the same dress as before, terrified in case someone would see me and realise what I was, but I got there safely. At the house, the girls made me change into the uniform again. Fiona then gave me more lessons on walking and moving like a girl, and this time I paid more attention. After lunch and washing up, it was time for lessons. In the playroom there was a corner with a little desk which they used for games of school, but now it was to be mine.

By now though, I'd thought of another way of rebellion. After an hour of learning spelling, Fiona gave me a test, but of course, I deliberately got them all wrong. The girls showed them to Aunt Janice, and she said that since we had come to the question of discipline, one of the girls was to be in charge of that, but I had to choose - for the rest of my training, should it be Fiona or Barbara? I thought of Fiona, slightly taller than me and rather severe and distant, and then of little Barbara, two years my junior, with long hair and big brown eyes and who I'd terrified the day before and, quite obviously, chose her. Ha, ha ha! I thought, this is going to be easy. I was wrong.

“For insolence and bad work, you will have to be spanked!” said Barbara. “Stand in front of the desk, bend over the lid and hold the seat.”

I did so. Then she lifted up my skirt and slip, pulled down my knickers and gave me half a dozen slaps on my bottom. They were quite painful, and I felt terribly embarrassed being spanked like a naughty little boy by a girl younger than me.

Barbara soon thought up more humiliations. First I was to address them as “Miss Fiona” and “Miss Barbara”. Next, I was to ask permission to speak, and curtsy every time I did, and also whenever I came into or left a room.  In between lessons, for cleaning and tidying she put me into a long-sleeved, red plastic overall with a pink frilled hem and tapes that fastened round the back, and if ever she heard the lads outside, she'd threaten to send me out in it to sweep the drive by the house, right where they could all see me. I dreaded that. She demanded total obedience and respect.
Just about the end of the holiday, mum got another good job with a branch of the same firm in Derby, so I thankfully left, leaving the little tyrant behind. Thanks to Fiona's teaching and my dread of mistakes, I passed a scholarship to a good school. I did well and when I had been there two years, I was made a junior prefect, the duties consisting mainly of keeping order among the smaller boys and girls.  By then, I had only occasional memories of the nightmare I'd left behind when, to my horror, someone came up behind me and said:

“Hello, Christina.”

It was Barbara! They too had moved to Derby and she'd got into the same school. “You'll be pleased to know I've kept all those photographs. Shall I bring them in and show them to all your friends?”

I knew I was beaten and asked what she wanted of me.

“I'm going to a little party next week, so you can come and be the maid.”

I said I couldn't because I hadn't got a dress, at which she just tossed her head and said that I'd better get one somehow, or she'd show the photo's round. In terror, I went home and told my mum. We couldn't find a proper uniform, so she got me a mid-length black dress with a white collar, and also a frilly white apron and of course I had to try on several in full view of everyone. The party was a nightmare because the guests were mostly the little girls who I'd sometimes had to tell off for making too much noise.

Once or twice a term for the rest of my time at that school, I had to dress as a maid and wait on Barbara and her friends. Luckily, Barbara had made them all promise not to tell anyone. For most of the holidays, she put me in a dress to keep me in the house and help my mum, who still worked full time.

I did well at school and when I left at eighteen, I decided to do my National Service in the army before trying for university. There, I applied for and got a commission. One of the tests was to see how I would manage when we had to deal with victims of ethnic conflict. The actors were very realistic, and while some of the other cadets were rather cavalier with the 'pathetic women refugees', I, as you can imagine, was very respectful and helpful and got a good mark for 'Community Relations'.  That, I was told later, had just tipped the scales and got me through.

I got into university to study history. Partway through the course, my tutor told me that he was sure I'd get a good degree, but confided that, although they hadn't originally thought I was quite in the top flight of applicants, they'd admitted me because my experience as an officer would be a steadying influence on what otherwise promised to be a rather immature year. At any rate, I was soon chairman of the History Society and also captain of the year rugby team.

After I graduated I met Barbara again, as my mother still saw Aunt Janice of course. Our relationship was different now and, even though we were distantly related, I felt strongly attracted to her. I think you can guess the rest. We started going out together - by now, she was tall and slim and a real stunner, and I soon fell deeply in love with her. Eventually we became engaged, and married soon afterwards.

We started married life in the usual conventional way, but I'm afraid it wasn't long before things changed. To my great surprise, I one day found myself shyly asking her if I could wear dresses and skirts again. She smiled and agreed - on condition that I always obeyed her totally. Soon, whenever she felt like it I became her maid again, and gradually the rules became more rigid and the punishments more severe. But it's a very loving relationship and as she says, the strict discipline is all for my own good.
Thank you for such a wonderful site,


Dear Miss MacDonald,

Once as a young teenager I had an accident and wet the bed at a friend of my mother’s house, while my parents were away. I remember being really embarrassed, and wondered how to hide my accident. My mum’s friend came into the room, switched on the lamp to see me there in my wet pants and pyjamas. She told me to take them off, took them from me along with the wet bedding, and took me to the bathroom. I was blushing and apologising.

I don't know whether she did it to embarrass me or just because it was in her nature, but she knelt beside the bath, and pulled up her sleeves. She told me to kneel instead of sitting and washed me. Because I was around puberty, I can remember getting excited, although also very embarrassed. I remember her gentle soapy hands washing the area which had been wet.

She left the bathroom for a minute or two and came back with a big bath towel. She then took me back to the bedroom. I blushed like mad because the bed was remade, but laid out on the bed were some different clothes. Because I was only staying for the night, I only took a pair of pyjamas. On the bed were some things obviously from her daughter’s wardrobe, and a nappy. I complained but couldn't make too much noise because I would wake everyone up, and they would know I'd wet the bed.

Still with the towel around my waist she explained to me that she was going to put me to bed in her girl's clothes. She told me to put my arms up and slid a very pretty pink chiffon nightie over my shoulders. It felt lovely and soft as it floated down my torso. She took the towel off me and draped it over her lap and patted it, suggesting I climb onto her lap. I tried to step back, but she gripped my wrist and pulled me close. Then, raising the hem of the nightie, she pulled me onto her lap, cleverly cradling me back into her arms.

She reached behind and took hold of a pre-folded soft cotton nappy. I whined and pleaded with her not to make me wear it. My wriggling in her lap seemed to help her to slide it beneath me. It was so soft and fluffy.

I remember tears trickling down my cheeks as she reached for baby powder and sprinkled it on me. I kicked the soft pretty bedding as she shushed and cooed me. After gently patting the powder all over, she pulled the nappy taut and pinned it. My struggling stopped. The click of the nappy pin was somehow final. I had no chance now, I was well and truly nappied already, and sat crying as she rustled a pair of plastic pants up over the nappy. She wiped my tears and said it was for the best before tucking me into bed with a kiss good night.

Since then, I have grown up to have a craving to have this happen to me. Can you tell me how common is this among the world's male population? I can't believe that there may be people who wouldn't love the gentle caring of a beautiful elegant woman.
Thanks in anticipation,

It is a lot more common than people think, although it is impossible to quote figures.


Hello Susan,

I recently came across your website by mistake when doing research for a project at college. I guess I should say that I'm a little obsessed with panties and the idea of me in them. Ever since I was ten I've a fascination with panties, but never an opportunity to be petticoated, or try a girl’s pretty panties on. I have no sisters, my parents are divorced, I live with my dad, and all my cousins that are girls are on my mom’s side of the family.

So here I am faced with a dilemma: How do get into girl’s clothing? When I have gotten into a dress before, I have become extremely embarrassed, and yet have been secretly enjoying it the whole time. My favorite panties are these super cute frilly pink panties. I always wish I could buy some knickers to wear secretly, but it doesn't seem reasonable. I like any girls’ clothing that very lacy and/or frilly, it is even better if it is pink.

I'm not sure of a way to get petticoated, since it doesn't seem very well-known these days. I would be grateful if you could post this letter and see if you have any suggestions for me. I can hardly stand not having any knickers. You have a great site, and it has helped me come this far. Thank you.


pink panties


Hello Susan,

I recently discovered your website and I've greatly enjoyed reading some of the contributions from your readers. I love to dress in feminine clothes whenever I get the chance, but nobody ever imposed this behaviour on me. I discovered it myself as early as three years old. I appreciate that your site is angled towards petticoating as punishment, rather than as a willingly chosen activity, but I suspect that the results are pretty similar. Silky skirts are so much more fun that jeans.

I'm writing to ask if any of your members might be interested in contributing to a survey that I'm hosting on my website, This survey has been running for over two years, and although one of the questions "Why did you start dressing?" includes 'Punishment' as a possible answer, nobody has yet given that as a reason. I'm offering your members the chance to redress the balance by adding their own views.

I intend to publish the results of my survey in a book I'm writing and I would like your permission to include a reference to your website in a short section on the issue of enforced petticoating.
Kind regards,

Celebrate your femininity,



Hi Susan,
Andrew’s description of bobbed hairstyling as a means of petticoat discipline reminded me of an incident back in my high school days in the early 1970s.  Back then, there were many boys growing their hair long, and there were undoubtedly many fights between unruly teenage boys and their parents about the length of their hair.
Anyway, one tenth grade boy who had long, approaching shoulder length, unkempt hair showed up one Monday in a blunt chin-length bob with very heavy bangs and front 'flips' that extended several inches in front of his face.  His hair was perfect, shiny and obviously conditioned and was stongly permed in place as you could not detect any movement in his hair at all.  Obviously he had lost the hair fight with his parents.
He was kept in that style until his hair eventually grew out.  As time went on, the perm was losing its effect and he had to constantly brush his hair away from his mouth as the ends of his flips were constantly hitting them.  He started wearing hair clips to keep his hair away from his face.
It was a very exquisitely creative and cruel punishment that boy endured.
There were several other boys who sported decidedly girlish-looking hairstyles, perhaps as a condition of them keeping it long.  I don't know.  Again, this was in 1973 I believe.
Here is a picture that is pretty close to the style given that 14 or 15 year old boy.

pageboy style


Dear Miss MacDonald,

I would like to respond to the letter that you published on 25 February from Baby Polly and her lack of a girlfriend or wife. She is correct to say that women are put off by men who want to dress as babies and little girls.

My marriage broke up as a direct result of my wife being unable to accept my love of dressing as a little girl. I was 30y and she was 26y when we tied the knot.  I had dressed as a girl occasionally in my twenties, but I did not tell my wife about my desires. After we married I kept my dresses and other girlie clothes hidden in some boxes in the attic, and would dress up when my wife was away on business. She was a successful sales executive who travelled abroad a lot thereby providing me with frequent opportunities to spend time as a sissy little girl.

This continued for several years until one day she arrived home unexpectedly early to find me in a satin pink child’s party dress, white socks and baby girl shoes, with ribbons tied in the wig on my head. I do not know which of us was more shocked, but it was impossible to talk my way out of the situation and I was forced to admit to that I enjoyed dressing as a young girl.

Our marriage went rapidly downhill thereafter, as my wife was completely unable to reconcile herself to my behaviour. She repeatedly told me she found it incomprehensible that a grown man would want to dress as a little girl and that she thought she had married a man and not a pansy. She could no longer abide the thought of physical contact, and I was soon banished to a spare bedroom. A few months later she demanded a divorce. She warned me that if I did not agree, and we did not separate on her terms, she would reveal my ‘perversion’ in the divorce courts.

After five years of marriage I meekly accepted her conditions and went quietly, although I know she told several of her women friends about my cross-dressing, and it soon became common knowledge among her family and friends that I was a transvestite.  Two of her women friends, encouraged by my wife, cruelly taunted me by calling me names such as ‘girlie’, ‘sissy’ and ‘pansy’ which was extremely humiliating.

After the divorce, which was twelve years ago, I had to move away from the area and start a new life living on my own. I was so traumatised by what had happened that I could not bring myself to put on a frock for three years. After that I gradually started to dress again, and now spend a good deal of my free time as a little girl. At least living on my own I can be myself. I have not been out with a woman since I spilt up from my wife, and have no confidence with the opposite sex. I regret having married, and consider I might have been better off like Baby Polly who has never been with a female.

I would advise any other ‘little girls’ who are planning to marry either to tell their future spouse before the wedding, or give up cross-dressing altogether. Although transvestism is much more out in the open these days with tv clubs and groups, there are still many men and women who are turned off by a man dressed as a female especially if it is as a little girl.
Yours sincerely,



Dear Susan,

The picture of Colleen Moore in the February issue brought tears to my eyes. She spent her early years in Port Huron Michigan in a house on Erie Street, around the corner from my mother's house on Rawlins street. My mother often told the story of them playing with fireworks under the front porch of her house, and accidentally setting it on fire. My mother lost her eye lashes in the flash, and spent years gluing on false ones.

Colleen's movie career ended when talkies came in, because her voice was dreadful. Her other claim to fame is her doll house that is probably the grandest ever. It travelled extensively, and made frequent appearances at Sperry's department store in Port Huron. A beautiful book has been written about the house. My mother had only one brief contact with Colleen as an adult, but always admired her. Fortunately Colleen's family cared for her as she grew older. Wonderful times, gracious world, lovely memories.
Brenda T.

Andrew has sent in another picture of Colleen Moore:

Colleen Moore

Dear Susan,

Just now I am checking out a website with vintage catalogs (Sears, J.C. Pennys, etc.) They have entire catalogs for specific years, some 1940s, some '50s, some 60s.  They are great quality pictures too.



Some more pictures from Joey's unique collection:

marvel shoes 1901
Marvel Shoes 1901

aunt jemima 1962
Aunt Jemima 1962

paper doll 1965
McCalls Paper Doll 1965


Dearest Susan,

Chastised in Petticoat Discipline Quarterly (July, 2006) for rudely referring to one of his wife's friends as a "sex kitten," Michael B. managed to stay on the straight and narrow throughout the remainder of the year, and the first couple of months of 2007. He tried so hard to comply with his wife Catherine's wishes, but recently blundered into another embarrassing faux pas.
The incident involved Margo, a dear friend of the family, and her daughter Amy, a particularly attractive young woman in her mid-teens. One evening, during a visit from Margo and her daughter, Michael blurted a clumsy remark about Amy looking like ‘jailbait.’
He had meant only to say that she was very attractive, but when he saw the faces of Catherine, Margo, and Amy, he realized a black cloud was forming in the room. He stumbled through a weak attempt to recover, making the situation worse instead of better.
His remark was doubly hurtful because Margo was a matron at a local correctional institution for young women. There, she taught cosmetology, one of the courses offered by the prison facility in order to give its young inmates an opportunity to upgrade their job skills.
For his insensitive indiscretion, Michael was made to volunteer as a client at the institution. The accompanying graphic allows us a glimpse of his day with the budding cosmetologists. The young women have gone on a lunch break, promising to bring him a sandwich upon their return. When Margo checks in on Michael, she is not impressed by his self-centered whining, and decides he more than deserves the full treatment she earlier had been reluctant to order.


Lana 250307




An avid reader from Canberra, Australia, sent these in. Obviously the Australian Capital Territory is supplied with a shop where strong-willed wives can take their naughty hubbies.




The New Maid
by Derek

I realise now that it was a conspiracy.  I think it began around my fifteenth birthday.  I lived with my Mum, so up to then the only source of female clothes available to me were hers, and I made as much use of them as I could.  I am sure now that my Mum knew, or guessed, I was trying on her undies and, as I got bigger, her dresses. 

One of my favourite things was a blue rubberised satin rain cape that she bought when capes were fashionable, and was now confined to the cupboard under the stairs, so it was easy to slip into and put away again.  Why I am sure she knew is that around my fifteenth birthday she got a new job as secretary and personal assistant to an American gentleman, Mr Bailey, who was the managing director of a company that belonged to a large American corporation.  She had a large increase in salary, and she substantially increased my pocket money.

It was then she said to me, “Now Peter in future you can buy your own clothes so there is no need to borrow any, is there?” 

I just replied, “Thanks Mum okay.”

Of course the only clothes I had ever borrowed had been hers.

So two things started to happen. I started to build up a nice feminine wardrobe, and with Mum working longer hours I did more of the housework, partly of my own volition, but mainly under Mum’s instructions.  I did stop borrowing clothes but came to the conclusion that the cape did not count, as she not longer wore it. Nor did her collection of pretty aprons as they were household equipment.  I am sure she never saw me in the cape, but I was often wearing one of her aprons when she came in from work.

I was in my final year in the sixth form and we had the opportunity of doing drama.  How could I resist, as they had a large wardrobe with included lots of female clothes.  The drama teacher was a Mr Webb, and it just shows how preoccupied I was with my own affairs that I made not connection with him an Eileen Webb who was the sales manager with Mum’s firm.

As we neared the end of our final term Mr Webb decided we would put on a play.  We had a number of girls in the class, but to my delight and surprise he decided that I could have the part of a parlour maid. The girls were not too displeased as, apart from a “Yes Madam” and a “No Sir” it was a non-speaking part. At the time I could not understand why he had given me the part, but I do now.  He said that he wanted me to stand and move like a girl and as I had finished all my exams so had the rest of the term free it would be a good idea to take the uniform home and practise in the house provided my mother would not mind.  I said I would ask her.

I did and she smiled and said, “Of course Peter. I don’t mind helping. You are doing a lot of the housework anyway, so you could do it in uniform.  There is one condition though. If you are going to practise being a maid then I will treat you as one which will include punishment if necessary.” And she laughed

“Yes all right Mum.” I said, “But I don’t want to spoil the uniform before the performance.”

“Oh don’t worry about that I can borrow some domestic uniforms for you suitable to doing housework.  What is your name in the play?”


“Right I will get you the uniforms tomorrow and we will call you Alice.” She stopped looked at me and with a grin she said, “I suppose you have suitable undies?”

I felt my face blush bright red and I mumbled, “Yes thank you Mum.”

She chuckled and said, “I did not hear you Alice. Say that again and don’t mumble.”

“Yes thank you Mum.” I said again but a bit louder.

“You need some long-legged modest bloomers, pink or white, with perhaps some lace at the legs, a vest, a white cotton petticoat, and thick black tights. You have all those things?”

“Yes Mum.”

“Now that is better Alice and it’s not Mum, it’s M’am or Madam if you like.”

I was now entering into the spirit of the thing and said, “Yes thank you Madam.”

“That’s better.” she said and patted me on the cheek “Now pop your apron on and you can help me get dinner ready.”

The next day I was given a list of chores to be done that morning. In the afternoon there was a rehearsal and I helped build some props. I told Mr Webb that my mum would help with my performance. When I got home carrying my uniform, Mum was already there.

“Now Peter, hang that uniform in your wardrobe. I have put some outfits there. Tonight I will give you a list of which ones to wear at what time, and tomorrow you can start being Alice.”

“Yes Mum.”

I and rushed upstairs to see what she had brought me.  I could not believe it. Where, I thought, had she got them from at such short notice? Of course I should have been suspicious, then but I was too excited to even think about it.

We sat at the dinner table and Mum started to give her instructions.

“There are two blue striped dresses,” she said. “They are for general housework. You wear a plain-bibbed apron for general duties including serving breakfast or lunch, and you put a blue tabard over the apron for dirty work such as cleaning windows.  The plain blue dresses with the waist apron you change into after you have cleared up after lunch and that is for light afternoon duties such as any sewing tasks, ironing, or serving light refreshments.  You will also start preparing dinner in that dress but with a white tabard over it.  You can wear the maid’s uniform the school provided to serve dinner, but you must again put a tabard on when you clear and wash-up. Is that all clear?”

“Er…yes Mum I think so.”

“Well don’t worry I will write it down when I do your list of chores.”

“Yes thanks Mum.”

“For the next few days I will dine alone and you will have yours in the kitchen after you have served my coffee in the lounge.”

“You mean like a real maid?”

“Of course. We only have just over a week until the performance and I want you to be a perfect maid by then.  And you never know I might entertain a guest to dinner.”

I blushed at that as the thought both excited me and frightened me. Mum noticed that and she laughed.

“Oh Peter - or should I say Alice - you are going to have to get used to being seen in public, so why not?”

The next few days went like clockwork, at least as far as I was concerned. Dressed as a girl every day all day - what more could I ask for?  I had to work of course, but I enjoyed that because I was dressed for the part.  The only real hiccup was the windows. Mum had put ‘clean all the windows’ on the list but our front windows faced onto the road, so I left the outsides of the panes.  Mum was not pleased

“When I said all the windows I meant all of them inside and out,” she said

“But Madam,” (I was in uniform) “I can been seen by anyone passing.”

“So what?  Now you get right out here and clean them.”

I looked down and my nice clean afternoon uniform I had just put on.

“Put your blue tabard on,” she said “That will keep you clean.”

I don’t know why I was so nervous. I far as I could tell nobody gave me a second glance, and it cost me an hour in the hall facing the wall with my hands on my head.

After dinner Mum said. “I have a treat for you Alice. I have a guest to dinner tomorrow and you are going to serve.”

“Oh no, Mum.” I blurted out.

“Now don’t be silly, Alice. In a few days you are going to appear in front of everyone you know.  This will be good practise for you.”

Of course she was right, so I said. “Sorry Madam. Please, who is your guest?”

“It is our sales manager, Mrs Webb. Now you can serve my coffee in the lounge and after you have had your meal and cleared up you can stand in the hall for the rest of the evening.”

Despite my nervousness, the following evening when like clockwork.  Mrs Webb practically ignored me and treated me like the maid I was fast becoming. I thought Mum would explain who I was but she never said a word nor did her guest asked. They just seemed to talk business.

The play was a great success and, even if I say so myself, my performance was perfect.  Of course I had had a lot of practice.  Mum came in early with me to give a hand and as I already had the uniform I got ready before we left.  I stood in the hall while Mum inspected me and put some finishing touches to my wig and makeup.

“We better put something over that uniform I suppose, “ she said and my heart gave a jump as she went to the cupboard and brought out the blue rain cape. “This will do nicely.” She said as she put it over my shoulders. The feeling of wearing it was so incredible that I could not move and she buttoned it up for me then pulled the hood over my head.

It was only when we got to the hall that I remembered I had not got any of my male clothes.

“Mum what am I going to change into after the performance?”

“Oh don’t you worry about that. It’s all in hand.”

After the performance we all gathered back stage for a glass of champagne.  It was only then the penny dropped. Standing with our teacher Mr Webb was Mrs Webb, and then I realised they were married.  Also with Mum was Mr Bailey.

We all drank a toast then Mrs Webb said to her husband, “We will go on home and finish getting dinner ready. You come home as soon as you have cleared up here.”

“Yes darling,” he replied.

Suddenly Mum had my cape in her hand and was putting it on me, and a few minutes later we were driving out of the school car park but not towards home.

“Where are we going Mum?”

“To Mrs Webb’s house for dinner. Henry should be just behind us with Mrs Webb.”

I looked back and Mr Bailey was indeed following us.

“Oh I see.” I said slowly as things began to dawn on me.

Mum said, “Yes Alice, you are serving dinner and I have got some news, but not till after dinner.”

When we were in the house Mum said, “Do you want a hand with dinner Eileen?”

“No that’s okay. You entertain Henry. Alice will give me a hand.” And she took my arm and steered me into the kitchen.

“Pop your tabard on Alice. It’s on the chair.”

Indeed it was, and I was sure it was one I had been wearing.  I soon slipped into the now familiar routine and by the time Mr Webb arrived dinner was just ready to serve.

 I served, poured wine, swallowed my dinner in-between serving, and eventually stood by the wall, hands clasped across my apron while the now very relaxed diners drank their coffee and brandies. Then Mum said, “Henry has an announcement to make.”

“Thank you Grace.” Mr Bailey said “First I have to tell you Grace has agreed to be my wife.”

There were cries of congratulations and another toast drunk.

“Also,” he went on, “My company have offered me a position in head office so Grace and I will be leaving for the States at the end of the month.”

Shocked as I was to hear this I was still able to be aware that this was no surprise to Mrs Webb, as Mr Bailey went on, “Also, I am pleased to say that Eileen has accepted the post of managing director of the English company.”

More toasts and congratulations then Mum said, “Well it has been a good evening but it’s time to get home I think.”

“Had we better ring for a taxi?” Mrs Webb said

“No that’s okay Eileen. Henry’s place is only half a mile, and the walk will do us good.  Come on Henry darling.”

As they got up from the table Mrs Webb said “Alice, go and get the coats.”

I was in a total state of confusion but I had an order so I obeyed it and soon found myself in the hall with my Mum helping her on with her coat.

“What am I going to do Mum?” I said

She turned to me smiling. “Oh, sorry Alice. I suppose should have told you before. With her new job Eileen is going to be very busy and she is going to need some full time domestic help. I am selling the house so we thought the best thing for you is to stay here as Eileen’s live-in maid. Actually the past week or so was not so much to prepare you for the play as to find out how you would perform as a maid.  I know you like wearing girl’s clothes and you are good at housework so this is ideal for you.”

“Oh I see Mum.” I said and in truth the idea was making me excited. “When do I have to decide?”

“No Alice you don’t understand. The decision is made. All your uniforms are up in your room here. You are now Mr and Mrs Webb’s housemaid.”

I just said “Oh” and Mum gave me a kiss on the cheek and said

“Don’t worry Alice you’ll soon settle in. Just a word of advice - Eileen is not so easy going as me, and she keeps a strap on the back of the broom cupboard door. Which is probably why she has not been able to keep any previous maids for very long.”

At that moment Mr Bailey came into the hall. I picked up his coat and he took it out of my hand and swept Mum out of the front door with the Webbs calling their goodnights.

Then Mrs Webb turned back to me. “Right Alice, you had better clear away and wash up. When you have done that I’ll show you your room.  We’ll have tea in bed at 7.30, and breakfast at 8.30, just toast, tea and cereal. I’ll give you orders for the day at breakfast.”

“Yes Madam,” I said, and for the first time in my life I curtsied to a real mistress and went to start my new life.

The End

girl reading
Girl Reading

from Lucy's Celebration of Femininity

Sunday March 18 2007

I am sorry to have to announce this, but I am not really well enough to attend to this site now. Whether is stays up is up to the hosting service - hopefully they will find a way, because there is a lot of wonderful material here. PDQ has been going for more then seven years, and I have made many precious friends via this site.

I have closed the PO box, no please do not write by the ordinary mail.

the end
More next week...


Image from Mary Beth & Jacqueline

Publisher and Consultant: Susan MacDonald
Acting Manager: Marcia Bottomley
Production Manager: Julie Anne Elliott
Librarian and Curator: Saffron
Director of Human Resources: Dennis
Information Technology Officer: Tara
Advertising and Promotion: Tutu, Pansy Frills
Promotions and Events Coordinator: Tammie
Tea Lady and Catering: Hectorina Gribble; Victoria Prettybows
Security Guard and Gatekeeper: Angus MacDiarmid 

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, Sissy Julia, Nancy Frillypants.

International Representatives
North America   Anne & Timmy
Australia   Barry
Turkey Fiona
Grimsby - Louth - Hull
Leading the world in domestic discipline

Search this site...
   Search this site      powered by FreeFind
Indexed by the FreeFind Search Engine