I was interested to read the letter in a recent issue from the young man who wrote that he would love to be dressed in baby clothes, and then exposed to the teasing and laughter of a group of little girls. I wonder whether he would enjoy it as much as he thinks?

For the past four years now, I have been in charge of a young nephew who has been subjected to petticoat discipline. He came to me at fourteen on the death of his mother, who used to indulge his love for pretty clothes by allowing him to dress up at home in pretty frocks and little lace-frilled petticoats and knickers, and treated him always as her 'dear little daughter'. I knew of this, and I told him that he would be allowed to continue dressing up, but that I was now in charge, and that he would have to wear the sort of clothes that I chose for him, and wear them whenever I instructed him to.

Naturally, he agreed, but he looked a bit disconcerted when, a week later, his new outfit was produced: a very short, very babyish little pink silk frock, with a high smocked bodice and tiny puff sleeves, edged with a deep frill of lace round the hem, and crisp lace frills around the neck and armholes; and a Princesse style, broderie anglaise petticoat.  Even he could recognise how childish they were, and it didn't help matters when, after putting the petticoat on and fastening up the buttons at the back, and tying the the tapes at waist and neck in a double knot, I smilingly pointed out to him that he was now quite firmly imprisoned, and that as there was no way he could undo the buttons or tapes himself, he would have to remain petticoated until I chose to release him. The frock fastened in a similar way, imprisoning him even more securely, and by the time that was on, he was looking most upset and unhappy.

But I don't think he realised, even then, quite what was in store for him, for when I went over to the dressing table and produced from a drawer a very large thick towelling nappy, he gave a gasp of horror and said, 'Oh, Auntie! No...I don't want to be a baby!'

'Perhaps not, but that's what I want you to be - a baby!' I replied. 'So, go and lie down on the bed, and Auntie will powder her little babykins and put his nappies on!'

He started to cry as he very reluctantly went over to the bed and lay down on it on his back, and the tears flowed even faster as I slipped a baby's dummy from my pocket, and pushed the little rubber teat between his trembling, pouting lips. 'There, there, darling! Baby suck his little dummy tit and he'll feel lots better', I whispered mockingly. I powdered him gently between the legs and then pinned him tightly into his nappy, by which time the poor lad was sobbing uncontrollably like the big cry baby he was.

All that was four years ago. He is now eighteen, and still subject to petticoat and nappy punishment which, since he left school, is now carried out full time, day and night.However much he may have enjoyed being dressed by his mother in little girl frocks and frilly petticoats, I can assure readers that he gets little pleasure from his present situation. Every day he has to face the misery and humiliation of constant babying, and the laughter and teasing not only of myself and my many woman friends, but also, quite often, of young girls, which he finds even worse.

I love of pretty clothes is one thing, but to be actually imprisoned in them as my nephew is, with a dummy in your mouth and pinned up in nappies, and having to face the jeering and taunts of young girls, is a very different matter. Many men, and boys, do indulge in fantasies of domination at the hands of an older woman. But if 'petticoat punishment' is carried out in the way that I myself use it, with the added humiliation of nappies and baby treatment, very few of them, I am sure, would really enjoy it.

As I have stressed, the lure of wearing swishy, frilly petticoats may be a very tempting one, but how many young men could face being dressed and treated as a baby? It is not just the matter of the clothes themselves - the awful humiliation of being fastened up in nappies, the shameful knowlege, which one can never escape, that your frock and petticoats are too short to hide them - but it is also the thousand and one babyish indignities that have to faced every moment of the day:

'Naughty baby isn't using his dummy - he must be smacked!'

'Go and give the nice lady a big kiss, baby, and ask her nicely if she will please put on your pinnie!'

'Goodness, just look at that bib! What a messy baby you are - he can't even take his bottle properly yet!'

'Not wet again? That's the third time today - no wonder you have to be kept in nappies!'

'I know what baby wants - a proper  baby feed at the breast. Much nicer than that silly dummy. I'm sure he'd like that!'

What teenage boy, let alone a grown man, could possibly enjoy the never-ending humiliation of such treatment? Helpless in his pretty baby clothes, shamefacedly sucking the dummy that he is too frightened not to use, and horribly conscious all the time of just how ridiculous he looks, it would surely be impossible for him to get any pleasure or satisfaction from such a situation.
Yours sincerely,

(Miss) Angela J.

It is a real tragedy that the lad's mother died when he was so young, because she sounds like a mother in a million. How many mothers would happily tolerate and encourage their son's preference for pretty girls' clothes, although it must be said that she sounds like one of those petticoating mothers who really wanted a daughter, and petticoated their sons for that reason. Anyway, it must have been an idyllic household.

I doubt if the boy would have really minded his soft, pretty baby clothes, in fact they sound just darling. But the torments and teasing of relentlless dummy discipline may have been a different matter. Still, it would have trained Miss Angela's nephew to be an ideal housewife for a srong-minded girl, and I am sure baby's nappies and dummies would have been folded and ready in a nearby drawer, just in case he were to give her any cause for concern.

By the way, did anyone notice that the frock described in paragraph three could easily be the same one that the darling, blushing little lamb on the front cover is wearing?
Susan