May I compliment you on your publication. Di and myself Simon (Simone) have been accessing the site for some time now, and Di thought that we ought to contribute. I have been addicted to petticoating since childhood. I was, to put it bluntly, a pain in the proverbial to my older sisters as a boy, and on school holidays was sent to stay with a widowed childless aunt, widowed at a young age and not remarried. She was my father's sister but they were not close, they were friendly but not demonstrably affectionate. She was the kind of aunt that children dream of. She made wonderful cakes and sweets. In my mind being naughty meant being packed off to this lovely aunt who would always tell my mystified mother, bless her, that I had behaved impeccably. Was this the same boy? Well actually it was not. Auntie kept me occupied with wonderful pastimes. The turning point came when she decided to teach me to bake a cake. To protect me from the flour a pinafore was brought out.

My aunt only had very feminine ones, but it did not seem out of place that I should wear one. At the end of baking I really did not want to take it off. Auntie let me keep it to wear when I was not playing outside. She began talking to me about girls' clothes, and before I knew what I was doing I had confessed to trying on a dress belonging to my younger sister, and to having done it more than once. I cried when I realised what I had said, but she comforted me and said that she would not tell.

I could not wait for the next school holiday. I was sure that Auntie would have forgotten my confession, but hoped that the pinafore would still be there. Never had a term dragged so. The next holiday duly arrived with my sisters waving 'Goodbye you little toad, don't hurry back'. I get on extremely well with them now, but then...well, you know brothers and sisters. My parents drove me to the house and stayed a while chatting while I went upstairs to unpack. In due course goodbyes were said to Mum and Dad and off they went.

It was quite late by then so I had supper and a bath, and, feeling tired, I went to bed, tucked in by the world's best aunt. Next morning I was woken for breakfast. Auntie said that she had a surprise for me. I could hardly wait. Still in my pyjamas, we went to another room where I was shown a pretty yellow dress. Auntie wanted me to try it on. I trusted Auntie implicitly, and did. I still had my pyjama bottoms on under the dress. Auntie produced a pair of white panties and suggested that I put them on instead of the pyjamas. I felt good I have to say, and when Auntie asked if I would like to keep the dress on I dumbly nodded.

So Auntie turned me into her niece. I found myself lifting my dress near mirrors to peek at my panties, as Auntie saw on more than one occasion. Knee socks and girls' shoes were added. My hair, quite long, as boys' hair was in the mid 70s, and was styled into a bob. Auntie re-christened me Simone. I played in the house and helped Auntie with the housework.

Then one day she said we were going to the supermarket. I panicked; I did not want to go, fearing attack by other boys. Auntie spent an hour assuring me that no one would know, and that I looked like a normal 10 year old girl. I went. What a marvellous outing! Alas, the holiday was half term and only a week, but the summer holiday was next. Normally I spent two weeks with Auntie, but when she told Mum that she would like to have me for the whole holiday Mother went for it, and can't say that I blame her. The day I arrived was the last day for almost six weeks that I wore any boys' clothes. I found that I had a whole wardrobe and drawers full of panties, petticoats and socks. Auntie had really gone to town.

I learnt all the household skills and it was fun. We went for walks, and we went shopping. I had a complete alter ego. The bob hairstyle did not change, as when I returned home it would just straighten out to a boys' style. This pattern continued right through my teens, and even after I started work I would visit Auntie, but did not dress as I considered that I had grown out of it, and Auntie understood. Auntie kept a photo of me on her mantelpiece in a party dress, and another in a winter coat with little ankle boots and a fur hat. Mother has seen these but it has never registered that it is me. I began to date girls and always took them to meet Auntie. The girls never lasted, and until I met Di I never found out why. Auntie would show them my photos and that would be it.

Di, on the other hand, was intrigued. One day after we were married Di presented me with a big version of a little girl dress. I feigned horror but Di could see through it. All kinds of longings were brought back. As soon as I put it on I reverted to Auntie's little helper, and Di was delighted. It is no wonder that Auntie and Di are real friends now. Di will drive me to Auntie's with a dress on, but I am six feet tall so I wear a long waxed drover coat over it in the car, as I have no wish to draw attention to myself. When at Auntie's I revel in serving them tea, making cakes and joining in girly talk. Di even takes me shopping to ask my opinion on clothes for her.

We now have children of our own, so my dressing is by circumstance limited, but I can go to Auntie's anytime and my children do go off on some weekends to a grandparent which gives us a petticoating opportunity. While the children are about I have male outer clothing, but feminine undies. Commands from Di are couched in code words as a request, but they are really orders.
Yours sincerely,

Diana and Simone

How many boys were petticoated by an aunt, especially one with no husband? It seems to be more common than by mothers or sisters, and one can see why. There is less sense of ultimate responsibility, and more sense of holiday fun, and the aunt is often a maiden aunt who may have yearned all her life for a daughter. Aunts seem to be particularly adept at using the need for a pinafore as a natural introduction to frocks and panties and so on.

Done up in a pretty dress and curls, mothers may take a few minutes to recognise their sons in real life, and in a photograph it would not be possible for a mother with no suspicion. It must be funny knowing that those pictures are on Auntie's mantelpiece, but your mother is not even considering the possibility that the little girl in them is really a boy, and her own boy at that.
Susan