Dear Susan,
 
I am delighted to have discovered your website, as it has shown me that I am not the only woman who has taken charge of her husband by the application of a little (well, quite a lot really) lace and satin.

I married David five years ago. We had grown up together in Lincoln but he had gone on to university and was now working in Nuneaton in Warwickshire. As his job was very well paid, I gave up my job when we married, but fully intended to find a new job in Nuneaton. As the years went by though, I just didn't get around to it. My days were filled with washing, ironing, cleaning and cooking, together with coffee mornings three times per week.

After three years of what I thought was a blissfully happy marriage, including a full and active sex life, I discovered that David was having an affair. To say that I was livid was an understatement. When he came home from work that evening I fairly flew at him. David, of course, immediately reverted to his small boy tactics: trying to shift the blame, and saying that he was very sorry. I told him that it simply wasn't good enough. I had been a perfect wife to him and I wasn't prepared to do it any more. When he said that he would do anything to make amends, an idea jumped into my head.

"Ok then," I said. "You can do all the cooking and washing and cleaning. I will become a lady of leisure. You can start by making me a cup of tea." He shot into the kitchen like a rabbit down a hole. Unfortunately, as he brought the cup of tea to me, he slipped and spilt it down his shirt. "You idiot!" I shouted at him. "Look at the mess that you have made of yourself. Go and get yourself cleaned up and, for goodness sake, put an apron on."

The only apron in the house was a full-length pinafore that my mother had given me, and that I wore to protect my dress when I was baking. It was made from white cotton and had a deep broderie anglaise frill around the apron, and on the straps that supported the top. David emerged from the kitchen wearing the pinafore and carefully carrying a cup of tea. I couldn’t help but burst out laughing at his ridiculous appearance. This made him turn deep red in embarrassment and humiliation. After he had set down the cup of tea, I made him turn round. I retied the sloppy bow that he had tied with a large, neat double bow that he would be unable to undo and, as a further precaution, put a safety pin through the middle of the knot. Now he would stay in the pinafore until I decided otherwise. I then sent him into the kitchen to prepare dinner while I enjoyed my cup of tea.

When he had prepared dinner, David called me through into the dining room. I immediately noticed that he had set two places at the table. “I’m sorry, David,” I said “but I’m not prepared to eat with you. You will eat your meals in the kitchen from now on.” David meekly removed his place setting and took his plate back into the kitchen. About two minutes later I called for him to come back. Then I told him to fetch a bottle of wine and pour me a glass. When he had done this, I sent him back into the kitchen. Each time that I finished a glass of wine I made him leave his meal and pour me another glass until the bottle was empty.

At this point I have a small confession to make. Usually, when we had a bottle of wine, David would drink four glasses and I would drink the other two.  Drinking a whole bottle of wine had made me a little tipsy and had set my mind running. While David cleared the table and did the washing up, I took a pair of pinking shears from my sewing box and went upstairs to our bedroom. I took all his underpants and, with the pinking shears, cut them in half from crotch to waistband. I then called David upstairs. When he arrived I told him to remove his trousers and underpants. When he stared to argue I reminded him that he had said that he would do anything to make amends. This brought him up short. He paused for a second, and then off came his trousers and underpants. I made him pass the underpants to me and then cut them in half and threw them down with the other ones.

“David,” I said, “you obviously have difficulty keeping your trousers on in female company. I am going to help you to stop. Take a pair of my knickers out of the drawer and put them on. You will be much less tempted to act the he-man with women’s knickers on.”

He grabbed the first pair out of my drawer and, turning brick red once again, pulled then on. “Now let’s have a look at you,” I said. He lifted up the apron and slowly turned round. Apart from looking slightly ridiculous, I could see two problems. Firstly, I am a size 16 and it was obvious that David was no more than a 12. The knickers were already starting to slide down his hips. Secondly, I have always chosen my underwear for comfort rather than style. My plain cotton knickers didn’t look much different from his underpants and he might feel that, particularly in a dark room, another woman might not notice. I would have to go shopping tomorrow.

I let David put his trousers back on, and then sent him downstairs to throw out his old underpants and to finish clearing up, while I had a bath and went to bed. I was in bed reading when he came back upstairs. He started to get undressed but, when he was stripped down to my knickers, he stopped. “I usually wear my underpants in bed,” he said.
“Well, you’ll have to wear the knickers instead.”

He didn’t look very pleased with that, but he got into bed. When I had finished the chapter of my book, I turned out the light and snuggled down under the covers. Almost immediately I felt his arms around me and his pelvis pushing against my bum. Well, I wasn’t going to have any of that! I sat up and turned the light on. “David,” I said “from now on you don’t do anything without my say so. I will decide if, when and how we have sex. Now go and get me a couple of pairs of tights.” When he brought then to me I made him lie face up on the bed and put his arms above his head. I then tied his hands to the bed-head with the tights, turned the light out and got back under the covers.

The next day I sent David off to work and then went shopping. I couldn’t find what I wanted in Nuneaton or Hinkley but it was suggested that I should try a lingerie shop in Leicester. I went into the shop and asked for the frilliest panties that they had. The shop girl looked under the counter and produced some pretty knickers in nylon and lace. They looked ok, but I felt that I could do better. I asked the girl if these really were the best that they had. She explained that they did have frillier ones but they were made from silk rather than nylon, and cost almost £15 a pair.

Since it was David’s money that I was spending, this didn’t matter to me at all, so I asked her to show them to me.  She reached down and produced another tray. These were what I had been looking for. Beautiful soft silk knickers with a high waist in a range of lovely pastel colours. The knickers all had a double layer of lace at the leg, overlapping layers of lace down the front and a bow at the waist. I asked for a dozen pairs in a variety of colours in a size 12. The girl looked pointedly at my hips and asked “are you sure that you want them in a 12?”

Without really thinking, I replied “Oh, they’re not for me, they are for my husband.” We then had a conversation where I tried to explain that I wasn’t married to a transvestite, and that I had decided that he would wear women’s undies from now on, to make certain he was faithful and well-behaved in the future. I’m not sure that she was fully convinced but as she had a sale worth more than £150, she didn’t really care.

When David came home from work, I made him change into a pair of the new knickers before putting on his pinafore. When he started to argue, I pointed out that he had offered to do anything to make amends and that I would be the only person who knew unless he chose to remove his trousers in someone else’s presence. But when he turned away from me I realised that this wasn’t strictly true. David has always worn thin, rather tight trousers, presumably to show off a sexy bum. Now he had an obvious and feminine panty line and, unless I was imagining it, you could make out the lace trim of the leg. Oh well, his problem not mine.

I gave him a rota which told him when to clean, dust, do the washing, and when to do the ironing. I explained that he would have plenty of time for all his new marital duties, as watching television, going down the pub, and sitting around smoking were no longer on the agenda. I then sent him into the kitchen to make me a cup of tea before cooking dinner. He had obviously paid attention to me because, when I went into the dining room he had only set one place and he had his meal in the kitchen.

He kept his knickers on when we went to bed and, as I had the previous night, I tied his hands to the bed-head with tights. While I was doing this he asked me how long I was going to keep it up. I explained that this was going to last forever and that from now on, all his punishments would last forever. We did make love, but with me very much in the driver's seat, and with him lying helplessly underneath me. He now has to spend ages pleasing me orally, which he never bothered to do before, and only then will I allow him his pleasure.

It took David about a week to realise that he had a panty line and, being David, he tried to solve it in a typically sly way. He took the knickers off as soon as he got to work and went round all day with nothing on under his trousers.  Unfortunately for him, he forgot to put the knickers back on before coming home. I had gotten rather used to admiring the outline of his frillies framing what is a rather cute bum, and noticed immediately. I made him put the knickers back on and told him that I would think up an appropriate punishment, and that I would find some way of preventing a recurrence.

Two days later I had the solution. The girl that he had had an affair with worked in the same office as he did. I phoned her and told her that I knew that she and David had had an affair. I also told her what I’d done about it.  Since she wasn’t very pleased with David as he had forgotten to mention that he was married, and had also been quite offhand with her at work once he got her into bed, she was delighted. She was even more delighted when I told her what I wanted her to do to help me. About ten minutes later the phone rang. It was David. “What have you told Susan?” he asked.

“The truth,” I replied.

“She says that she is going to take me into a storeroom every morning and make me pull my trousers down to check that I’m wearing panties and, if I refuse or I’m not wearing them then she’ll tell everybody in the office that I wear girls' undies all the time. Well I can’t do it, it's just too humiliating.”

“Well I’m sorry that you feel that way, David. But either to do as I say or you will be someone who everybody thinks is a transvestite and who has nowhere to live. Do I make myself clear?” With that, David meekly gave in. Now when he comes home each day he has a dated note written in ballpoint at the top of his leg: “Checked by Susan” and three kisses. It isn’t strictly necessary for reasons that I’ll come to, but it's an extra little humiliation for him to have his underwear checked by his (very) ex-girlfriend.

But how would I punish him? The previous summer I had bought myself some hold-up stockings to wear instead of tights in the hot weather, but I had never really got on with them. I still had four or five pairs in their wrappers in a drawer. David could wear these instead of socks. I went upstairs and threw out all his socks. When David came home I told him what I had decided and made him remove his socks and put the hold-ups on. As I had suspected, the black stocking was hidden by his trousers when he was standing, but it was easy to get a glimpse of stocking when he walked or sat down. David hated it. I was delighted. Over the next few weeks he developed a short, mincing walk to try to hide his ankles, and sat down slowly with his knees pressed together to try and stop his trouser cuffs riding up to reveal his stocking clad legs. All this failed as, before long, David was complaining that none of the men at work would talk to him about anything other than work, the women kept giggling when they chatted with him, and somebody was leaving a copy of Women’s Weekly on his desk every Thursday. I told him that he had created the problem and he would have to live with it.

More sins followed and more punishments. He ruined a blouse while ironing it.  For that I made him wear a camisole top under his shirt. It was really funny watching him try to prevent it showing. He didn’t succeed. He then managed to let a casserole cook dry and burn. In return I made him wear a short, flared black dress with stiff petticoats under it during the evenings and at weekends.

This had a couple of other effects. Seeing his hairy legs encased in black nylon was quite unpleasant. So the next time that I was at the beauty parlour (having nothing to do around the house meant more time to pamper myself), I asked Tracy the beautician if she would mind waxing a man’s legs. She told me that not only did she not mind, she already did two men, and not only their legs!

So the next Saturday David and I went to the beauty parlour. David sat there with a bright red face while Tracy and I discussed his treatment. Then he went into a cubicle and Tracy set to work. Full leg, underarm and groin wax. He was as smooth as a baby’s bottom between his legs when Tracy had finished down there. Then she shaped his eyebrows into thin arches, tinted his eyelashes and applied a permanent eyeliner. Finally, she applied nail extensions and painted them pillar-box red.  I was amazed when he emerged. If it wasn’t for his short hair and a stronger jaw than one would expect, he could be mistaken for a woman. David was miserable. He hated sitting in the parlour while he was being discussed; he hated the fact that I was in control, and he hated this obvious feminisation. I realised that, to maintain the control and humiliation I would have to continue his feminisation, and do it publicly with me in control. As we walked back to the car David couldn’t bring his eyes up, as he was completely unable to meet anybody in the eye. Perfect.

On Monday morning I received a phone call from Susan. “What have you done to David? He looks really sweet and almost pretty enough to eat, although you would have to be a raving lesbian to fancy him.” I pointed out that that was the general idea. She then told me that she had overheard their boss discussing David with the HR director, who had pointed out that because of the council’s non-discrimination policy, David could come to work dressed in female attire if that was what he wanted, and that it was the responsibility of his colleagues to adjust to the situation, not David. I must confess that I had completely overlooked this consideration, but it did mean that there were no external restrictions on my control over David.

When David broke a Meissen vase while dusting I decide that he could wear women’s trousers instead of men’s and, so that it was obvious that they were meant for a lady, all his trousers would zip up at the back. That weekend I took him into the co-op store in Nuneaton. We looked at the ladies' trousers until I had found four pairs that I liked in a size 12. I then told him to take them to the shop assistant and ask if he could try them on. She looked at him until he went bright red and then asked him if he was sure. He blushed even more and stammered that he was sure. She checked the changing room and then let him in, telling him to come out when he had the first pair on so she could check the fit. When he came out she burst out laughing. “They fit perfectly dear, but you’re not exactly flat at the front are you?”

When I looked I could see exactly what she meant. There was a bulge which was pulling the front of the trousers out of shape. “I really think you should wear a panty girdle under those little man." she said. “What do you think?” I asked her if she had one to fit, and she said that she was sure she had. So she took him, still in the trousers, by the hand and led him into the foundation wear department. She measured his hips and waist and then proceeded to lay out eight or nine panty girdles for my inspection. I chose a firm control panty with a satin panel in the front and a lace trim around the waist, leg and around the satin panel. “I don’t think he will find that one very comfortable” said the assistant. “It is very firm and there is no give at all in the front panel. It will squash everything up very tightly.”

He was ordered into the changing room. After a couple of minutes of grunting, David called out that he couldn’t get the panty girdle on. Before I could say anything, the shop assistant went into his cubicle saying that she would sort the little nancy out. Sixty seconds later she pulled back the curtain to reveal a smooth fronted David with a mixture of pain and embarrassment written on his face. Now when he put the trousers on and zipped them up the back they looked perfect, hugging his hips and bottom and sitting smoothly at the front. From the waist down he looked like a woman. I bought the trousers, another three pairs after David had tried them on, and six panty girdles. He wouldn’t need to wear one at weekends, as he would be wearing a dress where everything would be lost in the full layers of petticoat.

The shop assistant was obviously something of a saleswoman because, no sooner had David paid for the purchases, she said that he really should have shoes that went with the trousers. I looked down. She was so right. David’s trousers tapered smartly down his legs to end about two inches above his ankles. Then, instead of a pair of court shoes with heels that one would expect with a woman, there were a pair of battered men’s brogues. So off to the shoe department.

My immediate thought when we walked into the shoe department was to buy him some black patent leather court shoes with a four inch stiletto heel. However, I realised that David’s punishment was to wear ladies’ trousers and he had already found himself in a panty girdle as a result. Instead I had him try on and buy two pairs of penny loafers, one pair in black and the other in dark blue. His face was an absolute picture as he proffered the display shoe to a pretty assistant who couldn’t have been more than eighteen years old, and asked if he could try them on in a size 7.

While he was walking up and down to check that they fitted, I noticed that his trousers, which had fitted so neatly a few minutes ago, were looking a complete mess. The waist had slid down to his hips leaving them to sag around his bottom. I called David over and told him to sort his trousers out. He explained that as soon as he sat down to try the shoes on, the top of his panty girdle had rolled down, and that it was now sitting in an uncomfortable ridge across his hips. This was obviously a problem that I would have to sort out because, while I wanted him to look ridiculous and effeminate to prevent him from wandering, I still wanted him to look smart.

When we got home I made David remove all his outer clothing. He pulled up the panty girdle to its natural position an inch or so above his belly button.  Then I told him to sit down. As he did so, his stomach pushed forwards and the girdle rolled down to his hips. I had him try sitting down with his back straight and holding his tummy in but the result was the same. I wondered if it was because the panty girdle was elasticated so I had David remove it and put his knickers back on and then one of the new pairs of trousers which were not elasticated. The trousers immediately slid down under his stomach to sit the same way that men’s trousers sit. Back to the drawing board.

I made him remove all his clothing and stand up straight so that I could look at him. The problem was his male shape. He had no hips and waist to speak of and his stomach protruded slightly above his belly button whereas mine protruded more below it. As soon as he sat down the panty girdle and trousers were moving to his narrowest point which was about half way between his waist and groin. I told him to put his knickers and pinafore on and go and make me a cup of tea while I thought about the problem.

It was as I was tightening the pinafore at the back the solution came to me in a flash. If he didn’t have a natural waist in the right place, I would have to give him one. While David busied himself in the kitchen, I went upstairs and took off my dress and slip and stood looking at myself in the mirror. The top of my tights was sitting on my natural waist which was about an inch above my belly button. I rolled the top down until it was about two inches below my belly button and sat down. The tights unrolled themselves and returned to their original position. How could I get David’s body into the same shape? A corselet would be too elastic and while it couldn’t roll down, I didn’t think it would stop his trousers slipping down. A basque or corset would work but, like the four inch stilettos, it seemed to be a bit unfair. I thought about the problem as I got dressed.

It was as I was doing up my belt that I thought of the solution. When I tightened his pinafore, it nipped his waist just as my belt was nipping my waist. If David wore a strong thin belt pulled tight under his clothes, his waist would be in the right place. I searched through my wardrobe until I found what I wanted: a one and a quarter inch wide leather belt with a smooth, flat buckle. I took it downstairs and sat down to drink my tea.

When I was finished, I undid his pinafore and had David remove his knickers. I then put the belt around him so that it was about two inches above his waist and pulled it tight. The result was exactly what I had hoped for. He now had a clearly defined waist and his tummy protruded in a gentle curve below the belt. I then made him put his new panty girdle on. The waistband just covered the belt. I made him sit down and stand up twenty times and the panty girdle didn’t move a fraction. I told him to put his stockings and trousers on and repeat the exercise. Again nothing moved. The problem was solved. I sent him upstairs to put a dress on but told him to keep the panty girdle on as he would need to get used to wearing it as he would be in it all day at work on Monday.

David still had the panty girdle on when we went to bed. He was tied up with tights and I made love to him with him lying passively on the bed as usual. Before we went to sleep I told him that I has seen some lovely, fluffy pink slippers while he was buying his new shoes, and that he should meet me in town after work on Monday so that we could go and buy him some to wear in the house.

Susan phoned me on Monday morning to tell me how lovely David looked in his new trousers and what a nice, feminine touch it was to put him in ones that zipped up at the back. She also told me how embarrassed he had been when he lowered his trousers to reveal a panty girdle which completely removed any trace of masculinity. She asked me how long it would be before she saw David in a skirt. I told her that it was up to David. I would only add another layer of femininity when he misbehaved and, if he managed to be good then he would stay as he was.

That evening I got my first temper tantrum from David. In truth, I was surprised that it had taken so long. He complained that all the men at work talked to him as if he were a girl, while the girls were happy to talk but only talked about babies, clothes, makeup and men and, worst of all, one of the girls had pinched his bottom that day, and he couldn't endure it any more. As far as he was concerned, he had paid for his error and he was going to go back to normal.

I waited until he had finished. I told him that if he felt that way then he should leave immediately. Perhaps his Mum and Dad would be pleased to see him looking the way he did? Even if he did find somewhere to live and returned to a masculine appearance how did he think he would be treated at work? Would the men welcome him backor would they think that he was still some sort of fairy?  Would the girls let him chase them around and go to bed with him? I suspected that the answer to all this would be no. He was stuck with what he had become.

He could see that I had beaten him and his anger gave way to tears. I took him on my knee and kissed and cuddled him and told him that I would always love him and care for him. Then I told him the good news. Although he would have to be punished for his outburst, it would be less embarrassing than usual. The afternoon movie on the television had been 'The Pajama Game' with Doris Day. At one point she had been dressed in a pretty set of baby doll pyjamas and I had decided that we would go to Leicester on Saturday and buy him some to wear in bed. As an aside, he looks really cute in them and I have to really struggle with myself to keep my hands off him.

Over the next few months more errors led to more punishments. One night he decided not to wash up until the next morning. His punishment was makeup and perfume. After much experimentation I settled on Miss Dior for him. A soft, feminine fragrance that worked with, rather than against, his natural musk. He also makes up beautifully, and wears very pretty patent leather court shoes.

When he slightly scorched a pair of my panties while ironing them, I decided to replace his shirts with blouses. The blouses that I wanted him to wear were see-through nylon with a frilly or lacy neckline such as those traditionally favoured by barmaids. Unfortunately, all the ones that I could find had a shaped bust and David didn’t. He was going to have to wear a bra.

I was certain that the shop that I had bought his first knickers and his baby dolls from also provided prostheses  for ladies who had had mastectomies so I took David over to Leicester once again. David was served by an older woman who was very sympathetic; I think that she thought that David was planning a sex-change. She asked him what cup size he was. He looked to me in confusion and I replied that I felt that he should be a D cup if possible. (I took the view that the larger his “boobs”, the sillier he would feel.) The shop assistant then said that she would recommend a full cup bra without underwiring, as otherwise the prostheses would tend to slip out. As I have always worn a Wonderbra I asked her if she had a particular bra in mind. She said that the most popular bra was the Triumph Doreen and proceeded to take one out of its box to show David and me. I felt that it was completely satisfactory because, although it was plainly styled with a broad back-strap and wide shoulder straps, the cups were covered in lace and would show nicely through his blouse. The assistant then measured David and decided that a 36D would be the right size. She took one from its box and led David into a changing room to fit it on.

While David was being fitted I thought about the name of the bra. Doreen. A plain, simple, slightly old-fashioned girl’s name. I rather liked it. In fact, I liked it so much that I decided that David would now be Doreen. When he emerged from the changing room with his new bust tenting out the front of his shirt I told him his new name. The humiliation of being called a girl’s name, on top of the humiliation of having a huge bust sticking out was just too much for him. He went from being slightly red with embarrassment from having a perfect stranger put a bra on him to being almost purple with humiliation. In fact he was so humiliated that he was meekness itself when I picked out some blouses for him and he had to go and ask to try them on. Now with his large bosom under a frilly blouse, his rounded bottom in tight trousers with perfect makeup and mincing along on high heels, it was only his short haircut that gave him away as being a man.

The next mistake that Doreen made was to go to bed without removing his makeup. He now takes every fourth Thursday morning as holiday. This is my coffee morning. Doreen, dressed in his short, black dress and pinafore, opens the door to my friends and then serves them with coffee and the biscuits or cakes that he baked earlier in the morning while we sit round and chat. At first there was much hilarity with the girls giggling at his big boobs, and raising the hem of his dress to look at his petticoats and knickers or stroking his legs to enjoy the smoothness of his stocking over freshly waxed skin, but now the girls don’t really notice him and he just gets on with being a good maid for the morning.

For the last year Doreen’s behaviour has been perfect, so Susan has yet to see him in a skirt. I have been thinking of inviting her for a coffee morning so that she can see how good he looks. Doreen is now an ideal companion. He doesn’t drink or smoke. He talks intelligently to girls, and is very demure in the presence of men. It has been hard work teaching him how to cook and needlework and dressmaking, but he has been very attentive and is now quite accomplished.

He has made new pinafores with frilled lace trim which are shorter than the original one, to go with the shorter skirt of his dress. He has also made himself three or four dresses, completely off his own bat for him to wear if we go out to dinner. He has also made some beautiful cotton, and broderie anglaise, layered petticoats to wear under his working dresses. He is now an avid reader of 'Women’s Weekly' and often tries new recipes from it. He often asks me if I will let him grow his hair and have it styled in a feminine style as his short hair makes it easy for him to be recognised as a man in women’s clothing and, while he loves being feminine, he finds it very embarrassing when a waiter alternates between “Sir” and “Madam” when speaking to him. I have explained to him that this cannot happen as I want people to know that he is male and that I have complete charge over him.

Last summer we went on holiday to Denmark. There was some confusion at check-in when Doreen handed over his passport and the stewardess had a bit of a laugh during the safety demonstration when she said that “ladies wearing high heeled shoes, or any men that are wearing them, should remove them before sliding down the chute”. Doreen was a little embarrassed on the first night as I had ordered room service and then gone for a shower. When the waitress knocked on the door, Doreen had to open it while wearing his baby doll pyjamas.

I would recommend my treatment of Doreen/David to any woman who is having problems with a philandering husband who smells of cigarettes. I now have a sweet-smelling, well-behaved partner who not only satisfies me in bed but also does all the chores.
Yours sincerely,

Gillian Dupree

This would have to be very close to the longest letter that PDM has ever published, but it gives an excellent account of how petticoat punishment can make a tiresome and unfathful husband helpful and devoted. I think that a chastity corset with Gillian holding the key would be the final touch, and would give hubbie's ex-girlfriend at work a good laugh. From the pantie sizes that Gillian mentions, I don't think she would have any trouble at all controlling her 'little man', or giving him a sound over-the-knee spanking if she felt like it.
Susan