Thank you so much for your site.  I await your updates with bated breath. Having herself enjoyed it so much, my mistress Nicky thought it about time I contributed.

My own petticoating was self-inflicted from the age of seven or so, but I gave it up to join the RAF.  During that time I met a much older lady who enjoyed dressing me for her pleasure, often picking me up at the guardroom and having me change en route to her house for weekends of "forced" femininity.  I was at her beck and call, indeed at her mercy because, after a while, when sufficient wardrobe had been acquired, she would drive to the train station and deposit my one set of male clothing (the set I was wearing when she picked me up) in a left luggage locker, keeping the key until Sunday evening or early Monday morning.

Margaret often had me out and about, often arriving and departing her terraced house wearing WRAF best uniform.  I actually enjoyed being taken for a girl, Margaret's friend "Debbie", but like all good things it came to an end when I was posted elsewhere.
Some years later, I was a minicab driver in Hounslow.  I lodged with my business partner and Nicky, his wife.  I worked nights and her husband days, using the same car.

Nicky and her friend Sharon were often to be found drinking coffee while I was preparing to sleep during the day.  One day they were laughing about a documentary shown the previous evening about feminised men, and the women who keep them, and I happened to mention some details about Margaret and me. Sharon immediately asked if she could make my face up, and Nicky begged to do my fingernails, and I of course didn't object - being the first time in a long time and with two young and pretty women.

Having completed their work I said that I had to sleep, and they insisted that I go to bed in a nightdress.  I thought nothing of it and went to sleep soundly for six or seven hours.  When I awoke however there was a different mood. Sharon had gone home and Nicky was really bitchy.  She produced 24 blown up photos of me in bed in her ivory satin nightdress, hair in bunches, face made up, and fingernails shining out like pillar-boxes.

She told me that she didn't believe my story about being "forcibly feminised" no matter how willing a participant I had been, and as a punishment she was going to feminise me for real under pain of publishing the photos, taken from all angles, in the cab office and the local free press.

That evening I was given a pair of cotton knickers to wear beneath a pantie girdle, and a pair of lacy tennis knickers to wear over both garments.  I was of course "tucked", as she described it, and had to get into a pair of grey, sheer tights, but with no socks, before being allowed to dress in my usual outer clothes for work.

I had to scrub the cosmetics from my face, but was sure that there was more than a trace of mascara and eyeliner still apparent when I was ready.  I was just about to leave for the cab office when I realised that my nails were still painted bright red. I asked her for some polish remover, but she just laughed and told me that Debbie had better buy some from Claire (a mutual friend who worked in the local chemist's shop) on the way to starting work.

I was dumbstruck.  I couldn't be seen outdoors with painted nails!  Of course in my youth, I had been out accompanied by Margaret, and indeed alone, dressed in nothing but female attire, but I was much younger then and could confidently pass for a girl (until I spoke), but now I was thirty-something and a bit overweight. What would I say?

I walked to the chemist's shop with my hands in my pockets and asked Claire for the polish remover, but of course I had to pay.  I handed over the £1.50 with a hand which humiliatingly revealed why I was buying it. Claire asked me what the hell I was playing at and I, cleverly (I thought) lied, telling her that I had got drunk and that this was Nicky's revenge.  She laughed openly at me and took the money.

As I was leaving the shop she called after me to ask if I had forgotten something.  I had no idea what she meant but was so grateful when she pointed out that I had no cotton wool to use.  So grateful was I that when she asked me to climb a stepladder in the storeroom to retrieve some for her (ostensibly to restock the shelves) that I didn't hesitate.

At the top of the small steps, and while I stretched upwards for the box, she said, "Nice tights Debbie, what else are you wearing?" and with that gave a sharp tug to my trousers.  I stood no chance, the trousers just slid down, the sheer nylon tights offering no resistance. It had all been a set-up and I had fallen into the trap.

So there I was on the top of a stepladder, trousers round my nyloned ankles, wearing frillies and nail varnish, and blushing fit to match it. I heard the shop door bell go but Claire didn't move.  She glanced into the shop (checking that it wasn't her boss no doubt) and then put her hand over the flattened front where my penis should be.

Nicky walked into the storeroom uninvited and asked Claire what was going on.  Claire told her that she had to see and feel for herself after Nicky had phoned and told her the whole thing, in warning of my arrival. I was terrified, embarrassed beyond measure and completely humiliated as Claire asked how Nicky had hidden "his" little willy (as if I wasn't there), only to be to be told that "hers" was much too small to be a penis, and that furthermore "she" wouldn't be needing it for the foreseeable future.

Obviously, over the ensuing months I was a "requested driver" for three special ladies, Nicky, Sharon, and Claire, none of whom paid a fare, and all of whom greeted me by checking between my nylon and pantie-clad thighs for "no willy", since that day was the start of a long period of truly forced femininity, during which my working uniform was as I have described above.

Nicky's husband left her but I was not allowed to leave, and Nicky changed my name from Debbie, as given to me by Margaret, to 'Kara Loft' since, as she says, I am the complete antithesis of Lara Croft! I now understand petticoat discipline since I have had to endure countless humiliations and unendurable frustrations, but I think I am better for it, and am only too willing to concede the power of women over the male sex.
Sincerely,

Nicky's driver, 'Kara Loft'

I must confess that my misspent youth belongs to the 1950s and early 1960s, and I know nothing whatsoever about computer games. I had no idea who Lara Croft was when I read this letter, although she sounds vaguely like a minor heroine from the James Bond books. However, I have now been enlightened. Lara is a computer games character of adventuress mien, a sort of updated 'Perils of Pauline'. I reproduce a picture of her below: