Dear Miss MacDonald,

Your web-site is most interesting. I thought my experiences as a petticoated boy were unique.

I was a small, thin, sissy boy. I used be tormented by my three sisters often, and was sent to stay regularly with Mother’s lonely, spinster friend, Aunt Agnes, who 'adopted' me as her child. Whether she had always wanted a daughter, or whether she instinctively picked up on my needs, I don’t know. But during my overnights at her house, almost without noticing, I came to be treated as a little girl. I can't recall the exact words of our conversations, but I believe I am fairly close.

In the beginning, it developed as a dressing-up game. There were giggles and secret jokes shared in the privacy of her large, detached, country house, where we would be alone for twenty four hours or more, without television, making our own fun. I was ten years old the first time I wore knickers. I had been in her attic one wet afternoon, a bored little boy playing with old toys and examining bric-a-brac. There were several tea-chests and two steamer trunks full of clothes.

I rummaged through them, trying on a white pith sun hat that my late uncle had brought back from Africa, and pretending to be an explorer. Then I dressed as a witch, fitting on a long, black velvet frock. When I discovered a pair of pink, directoire, cotton knickers, it seemed natural to take off my shorts and underpants and slip on the ladies' underwear. They seemed too large, but there was something nice about them, a feeling of great comfort.

I was so absorbed with my role as a witch that I did not notice when Aunt Agnes entered the attic and was behind me before I knew it.

"What on earth have you got on?" she said, as she held my shoulders and spun me round.

I gasped with humiliation. There I was, in black velvet, with a black hat and veil, and court-heeled women’s shoes. She sensed my embarrassment and giggled in a reassuring way. Running her hands over my hips to fix the frock in place, she felt my knickers. Without a word, she raised my skirt and peered curiously at the oversized, baggy, long-legged knickers underneath.

"You look like Sinbad the Sailor," she exploded in fits of laughter. "Those were my sister Maud’s. There are lots of clothes your size over here".

She reached into a steamer trunk that I hadn’t yet got around to exploring. It was filled with girls' clothes, left-overs from when her niece, Margaret, had lived there. In a daze, I felt her remove the pink directoire knickers. Obeying her instructions, I lifted my foot, and felt one leg of a pair of school panties slip over my ankle. It was only as she pulled the navy knickers over my hips and let the elastic waistband twang that I realised what was happening. Aunt Agnes had not only put a pair of school knickers on me, but she was standing back, holding the frock up around my waist, in a studious fashion, determining if they fitted.

She got another hat, one which looked more like a witch’s, and a black shawl, and pinned the dress so I didn’t trip on it. We went downstairs where we played a game of Wicked Witch of the Forest. But all the time my mind was elsewhere – on those navy knickers, the snug warmness of the interlock cotton on my hips and bottom, and the alien tightness of the elasticised legs.

That was the beginning. For ages, I asked if we could play that dressing up game again. But Aunt Agnes seemed disinterested..
Weeks later, school summer holidays came, and my mother went into hospital. I was to stay with Aunt Agnes until Mother recovered.

On the first day I sulked. I was a ten year old missing my mother. I was so upset I had forgotten about the dressing up game.
But Agnes hadn’t. After trying vainly to console me with hugs, she said she was going to make apple tart, and I could help.
As we prepared the dough, she pointed to the flour on my woollen sweater, saying I needed an apron.

She disappeared upstairs, returning with a flowered pinafore. Since it was my size, near enough, I guessed it was from Margaret’s steamer trunk in the attic. I pulled off my sweater and put on the apron. Then, I felt Agnes tug my shorts and trunks down from underneath my pinafore. As if in a dream I heard her say, "Lift your foot. Now the other". And suddenly there was the most exquisite sensation of school knickers being pulled up.

In a daze, I helped with the baking and cleaning of the utensils. When we finished, we sat listening to the radio, while I had warm milk and biscuits. It was the start of something which was to last for four years – until after my 14th birthday. I wore the pinafore and knickers until bed-time. At breakfast next day, I asked if we could bake. Aunt Agnes laughed at the idea, but from the glint in her eye it was clear she knew what I wanted.

"We’ll do some cleaning today", she said. "You can wear your pinafore, darling".

Her use of the term "your" pinafore caused a shiver of excitement. I dashed upstairs and tore off my pyjamas. Fastening the tie strings of the pinafore, a stepped into "my" knickers. Aunt Agnes entered into the game with enthusiasm. In fact she seemed to get a bigger buzz out of it than I did. As we polished brasses, she called me 'Chrissie', not Christopher or Chris, as I was usually called. A new intimacy seemed to grow between us. I asked her why brass had to be polished. When she explained, I asked what "brass ears" were. I knew what they were of course, women wore them on their breasts, but I wanted to know more about them. I wanted her to share the secrets of a woman’s world with me. She explained that a brassiere was to hold breasts in place and keep them from flopping about.

The mood between us had become so confidential that before I knew the answer already, but I whispered, "Do you wear brass ears?"

She lifted her sweater nonchalantly and displayed a well-filled pink satin bra. The feeling between us was magical as we eyed each other, absorbed in a mutual intimacy which defies description. After what seemed like minutes, but which was probably only seconds, Aunt Agnes pulled her sweater down in a business-like manner, and changed the subject. I sensed that she thought she had gone too far.

"You’re not supposed to know about these things, never mind see them", she said after a little.

"Why not?" I asked with disappointment.

"Because little boys tell tales".

"But I don’t tell secrets – and besides I’m not a little boy, not at the moment".

Agnes burst into a fit of laughter.

"You really are never stuck for answer", she said, running a hand under the pinafore and feeling my knickers. "We’ll have to call you Christine – the girl who keeps secrets!"

We both laughed. Then she said, "Come up and we’ll see if we can sort out some proper clothes for Christine".

The steamer trunk in the attic was a treasure trove of girls' clothes and underwear. Her niece Margaret was three years older, but some of her earlier cast-offs were small enough to fit me. Agnes pulled out bundle after bundle of summer dresses, shoes, knee socks, long lisle school stockings, and knickers. Most of the knickers seemed to need mending. A pink pair had a hole at the gusset which wanted darning, while a green pair had a tear at the waist band, and the white elastic was showing.

"There’s lots of mending to be done, Chrissie", said Agnes, gathering up an armful of clothes she seemed to think suited.

"What about this brass ear? I asked, pulling a liberty bodice, grey from repeated washing, out of the trunk.

Agnes held it against my shoulders for size. One suspender was missing – the other three dangled from it like all twisted up.
"It’s too big for you", said Agnes, "and besides, it’s not a brassiere, it’s a liberty bodice which girls wear before they grow up and their breasts get big enough to need a brassiere".

We spent most of that day sorting and mending my "new" clothes. Some we discarded as dust bin fodder, others were repaired. As Agnes darned a hole in the pink knickers, I used a safety pin to thread new elastic into the waistband of the green pair, later sewing closed the opening carefully under her instructions with matching cotton. We pressed the wrinkles from a pink, gingham school frock and ironed a fine-knitted woollen vest with opera top and satin shoulder-straps, which had taken my fancy because it looked so feminine.

I wore the pink knickers, with the vest tucked in, and a white petticoat which had seen better days. White ankle socks and a pair of down-at-heel bedroom slippers completed the picture. When I glanced in the mirror I couldn’t believe the transformation.

Aunt Agnes peered over my shoulder and whispered, "You look nice, Christine, but you we must get you some of your own clothes soon".

She was to keep her promise. At a department store where she had an account, Agnes ordered several new outfits. It was embarrassing watching from a chair in the corner of the intimate little alcove where schoolgirls’ clothes were kept. The assistant brought out glass-fronted wooden drawers packed with knickers and vests. Agnes, her open hands thrust into the waistbands, expertly checked the strength and elasticity of the interlock cotton. It was nice to be there, watching such secret intimacy, knowing these things we being bought for me. But when Agnes asked me to stand, a wave of panic swept over me. She held a gleaming white liberty bodice against my shoulders to judge the size. I was terribly embarrassed. I wanted the ground to swallow me, I was so humiliated.

"His twin sister is exactly the same size", Aunt Agnes was telling the assistant, "so it’s easy to measure clothes for her when he is with me".

She fitted a pair of black patent girls' shoes on me, and the assistant nodded approvingly as I walked up and down. It was fortunate, the assistant said in a bored voice, that I was so helpful. Many boys wouldn’t do that. I heard my aunt explain that my twin was in hospital and that we were very close, especially since she was in hospital. By the time I was measured for my "sister’s" school gym frock, all three of us, the assistant, Aunt Agnes and myself, were blasé about the procedure. As usual, Auntie held the garment against my shoulders while the assistant pushed the hem against my leg to measure length. Then they reversed places so that Aunt Agnes could note how far the hem was above the knee.

I couldn’t wait to get back to Agnes’ house. Once there, it took just minutes to tear off my hated shorts, trunks, boy's vest, and sweater, and kick off my heavy boy’s shoes. In a new swoon of ecstasy, I scrambled into my new pretty vest, pulling the pink satin straps carefully over my shoulders and adjusting the straps, just like I was wearing a bra. My new navy knickers felt fabulous. I tried tucking my vest in, had a look in the mirror, then tried it outside. Eventually I settled for keeping it outside. Next came my white petticoat – with a fitted, broderie anglaise bodice and rayon taffeta skirt. Finally, I stepped into my blue gingham dress, pulling it onto my shoulders and fixing the little white buttons all the way up to my neck.

When I slipped on my white ankle socks, and buckled the strap of my patent leather shoes, I couldn’t believe the transformation! I brushed my hair forward and watched as the ten year old me became a lovely little girl. Downstairs, Aunt Agnes greeted me as though I had always been a girl. After admiring at a distance she came over and with a routine, "Do those feel comfortable, Christine?" She fumbled under my dress to straighten the petticoat, hitching my knickers a little higher in an affectionate gesture.
I had a feeling that I had at last come home - that I was where I needed to be.

Things were to change, of course. Not that day, but much later, when I discovered that Aunt Agnes had a secret which was as deep and as mysterious as mine – she liked to put me across her knee and spank hard with a large, wooden-handled hair-brush which was a family heirloom.

It all began by chance, or so it seemed. Aunt Agnes and I were baking a cake weeks later when I spilled some milk. Instinctively, I swore.

"What did you say, Christine? What did you say?"

"Nothing, " I muttered, as I was dragged by the hand from the kitchen to the living room.

"That’s a bad word that boys use", she hissed in a voice that frightened me. "How dare you use that word, and then tell me that you didn’t".

As she spoke I was pushed down on her knee. I couldn’t believe what was happening as my apron and frock were curtly pulled up to my waist and a hand swept down with a whack on my bottom.

"How dare you? How dare you?" was all she said as her hand smacked again and again against my buttocks.

"I didn’t say anything," I protested. "Honest, Aunt Agnes, I didn’t say anything!"

My lies roused her to greater anger. She seemed beside herself with rage.

"Please, Aunt Agnes, I’ll not say that word again. Promise. Honest".

As if in slow motion I felt her raise me from her knee and stand me facing her. She pulled up my knickers and fixed my clothes in place.

"Don’t be naughty again. Promise Christine?"

I promised never to say that word again. Never to be naughty, like a boy. That made Auntie smile, and she gave me a big hug and kiss. I didn't like being spanked, but I was grateful that I was still her little girl. She had given me a precious gift that has lasted my whole life.
Yours sincerely,
 
'Christine'

Thank you very much for sharing those precious memories with us, Christine. Auntie was very good to you, and it is clear that you were ready for such thorough petticoating, because of your memory that slipping on a pair of pink bloomers had filled you with 'a feeling of great comfort', to use your own words. Boys often yearn to wear girls' clothes, and escape for a time the stresses of boyhood, and you were fortunate to have had the chance to do so. Auntie must have loved you very much, and you became the daughter that no doubt she had dreamed of having.

We don't hear enough about how pretty and soft and feminine girls' vests can be. Most of my correspondents seem to write a good deal more about knickers. So I am especially happy that Christine has mentioned them:
'...a fine-knitted woollen vest with opera top and satin shoulder-straps...', and, I might add, very soft lambswool , and with a little pink bow at the neck. That is how girls' vests generally are, and many even have a little lace trim at the neck too.

I must say that Aunt Agnes handled buying clothes in the department store brilliantly - petticoat punishment often involves humiiation in front of shop assistants, who often enough have seen this form of discipline before, but Agnes did not want to go that far. In contrast to most cases one reads about, it made the shopping experience a heavenly pleasure for her nephew.
Susan