Many times one hears what a severe and terrible punishment petticoat discipline is.  Of course, it is very severe and the humiliation is terrific.  But, in my opinion, I underwent a punishment that was even more humiliating.  In fact, before it was through I begged for dresses.  I wish to tell your readers about it.

As a youth I looked feminine in some ways, but I was not feminine.  My buttocks were very pronounced for a boy, and I had long eyelashes, long shapely legs, and a very smooth white, clear skin.  My hair was blond and wavy.  The girls loved it.  However, I was a real boy, except that I was a rather timid weakling: and even if I got a splinter in my finger I would cry.  I had a low threshold for pain.

My mother had been watching my fears as to facing things, and I did several foolish things, such as taking my spite out on younger and weaker boys, and even at times on girls.  I was a terrible tattle-tale, and I would run crying to teacher at the least physical encounter with another boy, like a shove or a punch.  I had to be taken from school and placed under a private tutor because I was such a worry to the teachers at school.

I was a long-legged 16 when the climax arrived.  I had a sweetheart who liked me in spite of it all.  One day she and I  were walking down the street when some boys from the rough part of  town met us.  They said they were going to rough us up, and the leader said to me, 'Well, pretty boy, shall we let her go and rough you up?'

I had no control to my shame, and I replied, "Oh, no, no, let me go..." without any attempt to defend my girlfriend.  The boys looked at me in scorn, and my girlfriend of 16 wept, more I think in shame for me than in fear.  Well, just at that moment the local police officer came upon us, and the boys ran.  The marshal looked at me in disgust and took me by the arm, and to my utter shame took me home.  I was fairly mincing as he marched me along.  My girlfriend followed, embarrassment on her face.  Once home, the officer told my mother the whole thing.  She looked grim.  Her remark worried me.  She told the officer, 'Now seems the time to invoke the old English punishment, officer, and rest assured it shall be done.  Please pass the word...'

Mother didn't touch me.  I had my supper and went to bed.  Mother came to my room, and in my pajamas I was measured with the utmost care and efficiency.  I was puzzled, to say the least.  I spent a worried night, and the next morning, mother came in and locked my male garments away in a trunk in the storage shed.  I was ordered to stay in bed.  Mother seemed to be relieved and acted as if the some situation had been resolved.  She looked satisfied.

In a matter of only a few hours on this Saturday morning mother returned with some garments.  She told me, 'Now my dear, you have lost the right to boys' trousers and clothing, and the right to be called a boy after all the things that I have listened to about you.  You will have a private teacher as you know, but we have decided to make it a governess.  Shame on you, a big boy of 16!'
Long black, sheer silk hose were pulled on my long legs.  A narrow corset was laced tightly around my waist, and I felt that I could hardly breathe.  My corset supporters were adjusted, and, with hose seams straight, my stockings were pulled up tautly by my corset-hose suspenders.  An athletic supporter was next, and this was thin and firm and tight.  It did an efficient job of making me flat in front.  A lacy bra filled with falsies followed.

Next came what Mother said were the sort of pants I had earned for my self.  She said, 'My dear, since you are a pantywaist, you are going to wear a ‘sissy suit’ so that everyone will know just what you are. Now get into your ‘trousers’, Miss Sissy'.  I truly sobbed and on my knees begged my mother not to dress me this way, but she just looked at me in contempt. The trousers were terrible!  They were short black velvet pants that just reached a bit below my hose tops and suspenders.  Skin tight, they fitted every curve of my body.  On they went, and each detail of my hips, buttocks and body was accented to the utmost.  The shoes, black high heels, would make it even worse.

Next, my blouse was put on.  It was a white blouse with long, lace-trimmed sleeves and embroidery at the wrists.  It had a wide lace collar, frills down the middle, and delicate little pearl buttons down the back.  The blouse reached just past the top of my skin-tight black velvet pants, so there was no need to tuck it in.

The governess and a group of ladies and girls were in the parlor and living room when I was marched in, mincing and sobbing in my uniform of shame.  The governess announced, 'Now, Miss Sissy, you are going to get the thrashing of your life'.  My mother nodded her approval.  My tutor (now governess) put me over her knee, pulled down my velvet pants, and smacked my bottom in front of everyone as I cried like a baby.

After this episode, my girlfriend actually took a new interest in me.  My mother asked her for a pair of her lace-trimmed panties so that I could wear them.  With a superior smile on her face, my sweetheart said she might be willing to provide a pair if I asked for them.  My mother was delighted.  She told me to get onto my knees and beg my sweetheart to let me wear her panties.  Oh, how terribly shameful!  She made me beg for what seemed like an hour, and I was crying like a baby again before she was finally satisfied. The pair that she provided were long enough so that  that the lace at the edges showed below the legs of my velvet short pants. My girlfriend smiled with approval and acted as if she owned me.

All females were welcomed in our house to see me in my horrid outfit, and I was required to be perfectly polite to them, even when they teased me, as they often did.  I dared not rebel, and if I ever became the least bit impolite, my governess was quick to pinch my ear and drag me over to the offended party to apologize.  I quickly learned to be a simpering sissy, but that only made matters worse, because now the ladies - particularly older women - liked to sit me on their laps for kissing and petting. Finally, I felt so girlish that I went to mother and begged her to put me into dresses. Eventually, she did, and I was not so aware of my legs and bottom.  So you see there is a worse punishment than having to wear petticoats.

Time has passed, and today I am a successful engineer with a large aircraft company.  I am married to the sweetheart of that period when I wore the sissy suit.  When I get out of line, there is still a sissy suit waiting for me in my clothes closet.  As my wife says, I am still her -

“Miss Sissy"

It is all a matter of taste I suppose - personally, I prefer a frock and petticoats to the Little Lord Fauntleroy style of dress described here. Miss Sissy does not tell us if he was made to grow his hair long, or whether it was curled into ringlets, but making a boy have his hair long and curly was often an accompaniment to the discipline of Little Lord Fauntleroy suits in the 1920s and 1930s.
Susan