Sunday, July 25, 2010

letters

Dear Miss Candida,
I have always been Interested in the idea of 'petticoat dominating' the male sex ever since, as a young girl, I visited the home of one of my friends and saw her 16-year-old brother dressed up in a little-girl frock and frilly petticoats and knickers, which was his mother’s way of controlling him and keeping him in order within the home.
Poor Vernon! He was really quite a nice-looking lad but dolled up like this, with all those lacy frills showing under his frock and his long legs bare, except for a tiny pair of white silk ankle-socks, he looked so ridiculous that I giggled with laughter at him, which of course made him blush even more, and literally squirm with embarrassment. Even though he was used to his mother and sister seeing him like this, it must have been an awful experience for him to have another girl of his own age teasing him and laughing at him, and when I christened him “Priscilla” and kept talking to him as though he were just a little baby girl, he was so ashamed that in the end he actually started blubbing.
Of course, after that I used to visit them a lot, and Molly and I would play games in which “Priscilla” was our darling little baby sister, and we found him some dolls and other childish toys to play with. Sometimes his mother would join in, and for hours at a time he would be teased and made fun of till he would whimper pitifully, just like a baby, to be allowed to get away. One day I bought a baby’s dummy for him and, when he started crying, I pushed it into his mouth to comfort him, and his humiliation was so intense that he went as red as a beetroot and began to tremble. After that, we always made him use a dummy and what with that, and his short frock and little frilly petticoats, the poor darling looked absolutely ridiculous.
Having tasted petticoat domination like this as a girl, and enjoyed it so much, I was determined when I married to put my husband under similar control, and it was not difficult to find a meek and very submissive man who would be prepared to accept female authority. Profiting by Vernon’s reactions to the use of a dummy-teat, I decided that It would be fun to put him into complete baby attire, and so to his intense mortification my great big husband has to wear tiny baby frocks with lots of lacy and be-ribboned petticoats underneath, and—the crowning misery of all—he is kept to the permanent wearing in the house of baby’s nappies.
Oh, how he hates it! As soon as he gets home from work each day, he is taken upstairs and bathed, then led along to the nursery and fastened up in his nappies and dressed up in all his pretty baby finery. Quite often, to add still further to his humiliation, some of my women friends are present and to be bathed like this in front of them, and then to have to suffer the awful indignity of being diapered and put into baby clothes to the accompaniment of their joking comments and merciless teasing never fails to reduce him to tears.
He wears nappies and baby dress not only every evening but throughout the weekend. Luckily I have sympathetic neighbours on both sides, who know about my methods of handling him and fully approve, so if it happens to be a nice day, he can be put out in the garden and he need not be confined just to the house. This really upsets him, as it means that he is exposed all the time to the mockery of outsiders; I make him sit on a pink blanket in a play-pen, and he is given dolls and other baby toys to amuse himself with, and of course he must always have his hated dummy. On warm days he is stripped down to just his nappies and vest, but otherwise he wears his usual baby frock and petticoats, and a pretty bonnet with a big brim and long ribbons if the sun is out.
He is unlucky I suppose, that my early experiences with Vernon made me realise just what jolly fun could be derived from this form of domination. But he was aware, before we married, that I intended to be the boss, and although I don’t imagine that he ever realised just how far my domination over him would be carried, he has only his own weakness of character to blame for the situation he is in. Generally speaking. if there is no-one else present he accepts baby treatment without too much fuss, and even seems sometimes to enjoy being nursed and given his bottle, but it is when there are other ladies watching, and laughing and blowing mocking kisses at him, that he really feels the humiliation of it. In any case, whatever his feelings, I have every intention of keeping him in nappies and baby dress, and that he will remain my baby for as long as I wish him to be so. Yours in nappies,
‘Mummy’

PETTICOATED HUMILIATION GOOD FOR HIS SOUL
(From Madame)
Contributed by Saffron
Dear Miss Candida,
I was very pleased to see in your excellent magazine how many wives are bringing their men under proper control and how quite a few have found the merits of petticoating. I too have found it to be an infallible method. Men will endure anything rather than be exposed to the derision of women. It crushes their ego as nothing else can. My husband has many times implored me to give him the cane rather than face the ordeal of my girl friends. But I really enjoy watching a petticoated male cringing under the ridicule of laughter of women. He is soon reduced to a spineless jelly, ready to obey my every wish. I am sure there must be many ladies amongst your readers who would welcome some guidance in finding and training a submissive. Look around for the shy ones who never push themselves forward. "Mother" him a bit and make him feel wanted and secure, and utterly dependent on you. Once you have him in this state he is already in invisible chains. Whatever indignities or service are imposed, he finds it impossible to face the alternatives of separation, and accepts his humble position. Many submissives have hidden TV tendencies which makes petticoating that much easier. However, it is wise to break him in slowly. I began by inviting my husband to dinner, and afterwards he helped with the washing up, and was soon adorned in one of my aprons. I let him get used to that, then on one occasion I spilled soup over his suit. I had a large sized dress ready which I said was my mother's and persuaded him to wear it. Soon he was completely hooked and I brought the subject around to marriage. I own two dress shops and am kept quite busy. I needed a husband who would stay at home and do the housework. So I insisted he gave up his job and place his savings in a joint account. He didn't like it, but he was much too far gone to be able to break away from me. Shortly after the marriage, I took all his suits with me to the shop, leaving him only dresses to wear. Thus he was confined to the house without money and no will to escape. He soon began to enjoy his domestic role.
Most men are really only little boys and prefer a woman to dominate and control them. I have never been addicted to the cane although I do use it when quick, sharp discipline is called for. I prefer more subtle means and decided to use humiliation. I arranged a coffee morning and invited several of my girlfriends, My husband wore his usual black dress with white lace collar, to which I added a particularly frilly apron. I was careful to leave his head and face normal so that he was obviously a petticoated male and looked even more ridiculous. I shall never forget the first time I pushed him, protesting, carrying a tray of coffee into the living room. He seemed to freeze and shrink under the laughter of the women. His face went scarlet and if I hadn't been behind him he would have run for his life! As it was there was no escape and we kept him running about, fetching and carrying like a maid. I enjoyed it all and, as a refinement to his torment, I made him curtsey every time a lady gave him an order. This caused further convulsions of laughter, and afterwards we all agreed that taunting and teasing a helpless, petticoated male was the most satisfying sport any woman could imagine. My friends insisted on coming again and hubby goes through hell quite regularly, which is, I am sure, good for his soul. Recently it was his birthday and one of the girls made him a sweet, pink, baby girl dress and bonnet. So we decided to dress him up and have some more fun with him. I didn't tell him but simply dressed him, then tied his legs to a chair. I stood back to admire my handywork and spent a few minutes making fun of him. Imagine his panic when he heard the girls coming up the front path. I enjoyed every second of his desperate pleading not to let them see him like this. As the door bell rang, I silenced him with a dummy, secured with elastic so that he couldn't eject it. The women had the time of their lives that day. After the initial teasing and laughter had died down someone christened him "Mandy" and produced a doll she had brought. Of course, while we all had tea he had to nurse it and suck his dummy. All he got for his tea was a baby bottle and a few rusks!
After tea I got out my camera. He looks funniest when he is crying with shame, so while we all watched, Carol and Anne began to tease and pinch him. They soon had him in a terrible state and I was ready with the camera. We have all had so much fun with him I am enclosing the photo so that other wives, especially Mrs. J.S. (London), can enjoy the sight of a man in baby clothes. Perhaps if enough dominant ladies take up this sport, we may be able to hold a "baby" show one day! I enjoy your magazine immensely and look forward to accounts of other petticoated males. Yours sincerely,
Mrs. M.B., Birmingham.
A Mother's Answer
To sum it up, it would seem that your lady writers use petticoat discipline, both sissy wear and actual wearing of petticoats, to augment corporal discipline to bring unruly and objectionable boys, and even youths, to heel. Its purpose is to control, to subdue, to train, to inculcate manners opposite to those already in the boy. In other words, to try to turn a boisterous, rude boy into a dainty and well-mannered miss.
If I were writing about just another case of such petticoating, my letter would be redundant, but I write because I think the experience I have with my son is different. Some mothers who wrote do hint that they had wanted a daughter, and had been disappointed when a son came along, and that they petticoated their son for that reason, having to apply corporal punishment and other stern measures to get their boy to co-operate.
I confess that I too petticoated my son to take the place of the daughter who did not materialise, and because I lost my husband shortly after the birth of my son. I pondered the situation for a few years, then when the longing for a daughter did not decrease, I made the decision to have my son become my darling daughter. My closest friends helped me that Paul was far too lovely a child to be wasted in nasty trousers, and as he was fair of complexion, and small of stature for his age, I turned him into a cute little girl.
He is fourteen years old now, and yet when dressed up in his pretties, he looks just like a darling little six year old girl, and he has adapted to that status and role. I was so charmed when I saw him leaning out of the window recently. In leaning, his short little girl frock not quite covering his bottom, showing his little petticoat and sweet little lace-frilled rhumba panties.
Yes, I am truly the mother of a boy-girl, and I have never had to use corporal punishment once in all that time. Never has he rebelled, but has sweetly acqiesed to petticoating. It is not that he does not know that he is a boy, but he considers my wishes first. What pleasure we have discussing all his dainty clothes: what undies he shall wear, whether he needs a new frock. Can he have a new dolly, and so on. Mindful of his status as a little six year old miss, he has a suitably early bedtime, wears adorable little nighties, and often sleeps with me in my bed. Like any six year old, he likes to help about the house, folding his own undies and even the nappies which he wears to bed. I am so lucky to have such a sweet little boy-girl.
'Proud Mother'
Petticoat Boysby Emily Ross

While my husband Marvin was away at a conference, I had subjected both my sons, eleven-year-old Jack (now called Jodie) fifteen-year-old Jason (now called Kelly-Ann) to petticoat discipline.
Previously their behaviour had been disgraceful and at my sister Jill’s suggestion I had got both of them into dresses. Within a matter of hours this had had a really beneficial effect on their conduct and on their manners.
Not only that but they seemed to enjoy being prettied up and on this afternoon were wearing matching baby blue little girls’ dresses with just a hint of petticoat lace showing, matching white ankle socks and matching Mary Janes. They both wore their matching wigs each tied in two matching pigtails and tied in baby blue ribbons. They wore the same shade of lipstick and nail varnish and I guess they were even wearing matching panties.
I didn’t know exactly when Marvin was coming home but I expected that he would phone me and tell me of his travel plans and I could explain about the boys. In fact he caught an early plane from Glasgow and arrived home in mid-afternoon.
The ‘girls’ and I were sitting in the kitchen. I was having a reviving cup of tea and the ‘girls’ were daintily sipping orange squash when Greg came in, tired out by his journey. As a result he was in a bit of a bad mood before he saw how his sons were dressed.
"Hi, darling," he said to me. Then he noticed the dresses. "Jason? Jack? What the fuck is going on?"
He was livid. "Calm down, darling. I can explain."
"Explain! Explain! There’s no way you can explain why my two sons are wearing fucking dresses." He was shouting. "You look like a pair of fucking sissies," he said to the children, "and your fucking petticoats are showing."
I was upset. I didn’t want to start a slanging match with my husband in front of our kids. I couldn’t put my feelings into words and I didn’t want to shout back. A tear welled in my eye and I noticed that Jodie was crying too.
Then I noticed that Kelly-Ann was the calmest of the four of us. "Mommy," he said to me matter-of-factly. "Daddy’s sworn in front of us. And he’s also shouted at you. You said that every time we misbehave, we get three days in a dress. Very bad behaviour or repeat offences get seven days. You can’t have one rule for us and another rule for daddy. If petticoating is good for us, it must be good for him too."
Jason always had been a barrack room lawyer. Kelly-Ann went on, "I think he deserves six days in dresses. What do you think, Jodie?"
"Good idea, Kelly-Ann" Jodie said through his sniffles.
"Kelly-Ann? Jodie?" said Marvin. "Your names are Jason and Jack."
"I think I should take him upstairs and get him dressed up. What shall we call him?"
"I like the name Mary-Jo," said Jodie whose tears were turning into smiles.
"OK, then, Mary-Jo," said Kelly-Ann to his father. "You better come upstairs with me." Marvin meekly stood up and obeyed. There was something that prevented any of my family protesting about being put into dresses. As they left the room together, I heard Kelly-Ann say, "Now you go and take a bath. Shave your legs and armpits. Then put on a robe and come into my bedroom. I’ll get you all prettied up. OK?"
Marvin was a few inches taller than me but he was very slim. Some of Kelly-Ann’s stuff would fit him and so would most of mine. I wondered what Kelly-Ann would get him to wear.
An hour an a half later I was introduced to my new husband, Mary-Jo. He was wearing a little girl’s party dress, in case you couldn’t guess. It was the cream one I’d bought Kelly-Ann. He wore Kelly-Ann’s second pair of Mary Janes. (A tight fit he told me later.) I never told him that I’d deliberately bought Kelly-Ann two dresses and two pairs of shoes hoping that I might get Marvin into them. He wore white ankle socks, the short brown wig, a little make-up, pink nail varnish of course and a little jewellery.
He would never have passed as a little girl. After all his outfit would have suited an eight year old and he was five feet ten. But he did look cute and I don’t know why, but he looked sexy. I wanted to make love to him there and then.
"Wow, Mary-Jo," said Jodie who was in the living room with me, "you look fantastic."
I whistled. "You look cute in that dress. It’s definitely your colour. I like your hair. Nice legs."
"Thank you," Mary-Jo replied. "I’m so sorry I was rude to you all earlier. It won’t happen again. Now I’d like to cook you all dinner to try and make up for it. I’ll go and see what’s in the freezer."
Mary-Jo looked adorable in his apron when I checked on him a few minutes later. He cooked a super meal and we all enjoyed it. It was great to have all the family around the table again.
"That’s one day off," said Kelly-Ann to his father. "You’ve done a good job by cooking the meal so you only have to do five days in dresses. Today’s Friday so that will take you up until Tuesday, OK?"
"Yes, Kelly-Ann but I have to go to work on Monday. Please can I be let off as I don’t want to wear a dress to work?"
"That’s OK," I said. "Jill tells me that her rule with Greg is that he can wear his male clothes to work but he has to wear panties underneath and as soon as he gets home from work he has to get prettied up. I’ll expect that from you on Monday and Tuesday, Mary-Jo. OK?"
Mary-Jo nodded. "And of course, you’ll have to be Mary-Jo all weekend."
"Sure. Kay darling," he said, "this dress is kind of OK for the day time but I want to dress up a bit more for the evening. Would you mind if I went upstairs and changed?"
He was so polite I couldn’t refuse. "No problem, darling. I think all three of you girls should change into something more suitable for the evening. And Mary-Jo, honey, you can wear anything of mine that you like."
"Thanks, honey," he said.
The three ‘girls’ headed upstairs to change while I cleared up and washed up. Jodie was first one back down. He’d found the training bra and tights that I’d bought him the day before. In a denim mini-skirt and sleeveless top with ‘babe’ written on it, he looked like a striking fifteen-year-old.
Kelly-Ann appeared next in a little black dress with spaghetti straps that fell to mid-thigh. He wore black tights and black stilettos. If anything he was wearing a little too much make-up but he was still learning about being a girl. He could have easily passed for eighteen and looked like a teenage boy’s dream and not a teenage boy.
Finally Mary-Jo appeared, smelling strongly of my favourite perfume. He wore a black skirt of mine that I no longer wore as I thought it too short for someone my age. On me it was three or four inches above the knee, on Mary-Jo who was a little taller it was more like five or six inches. But what thighs! He had legs to die for, sheathed in black fishnet tights. He too wore black stilettos having squeezed his feet into a pair of mine. Painful.
He wore a black top, mainly made of a lacy material that made it nearly transparent. I rarely wore it as I found it a bit too risqué but it looked great on him with a black bra clearly visible underneath. Gold sparkled on his fingers and wrists. His face was exquisitely painted with creamy foundation, bright lipstick, plum eye-shadow and black mascara. The wig looked so natural and so feminine. His nails were long and painted a deep red. Whereas Kelly-Ann and Jodie looked older, Mary-Jo had lost ten years and looked like their big sister.
I had never seen a man looking so good. I wanted to eat him there and then but I knew I would have to wait until we were in bed. When we made it upstairs I insisted he made love to me dressed as he was. It was wonderful the best sex ever.
I didn’t want it to stop. I wanted to keep my sexy husband in skirts even after his punishment was up. I wanted my beautifully behaved boys to stay in dresses and stay beautifully behaved. I knew that after this life would not be the same again.

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