I have often written about how 15 to 20 years ago there were two sources of real life femdom material that shaped my dominance and lifestyle. The letters from lifestyle wives and girlfriends in the wonderful Madame magazines and also in the early years of the Petticoated.com website.
I have included on this website some material from the Madame magazines . (See the drop-down menu from the above Dommes’ letters above menu tab.) And some photos in another post.
Well I have now come across a website giving access to the letters from lifestyle wives and girlfriends from the early years of the Petticoated.com website. It is a slightly confusing home page. If interested in FORCED male maids, sissy maids, diapering, parody of a baby role, parody of a little girl role, or parody of schoolgirl role, then I suggest you click on an edition in the left hand column and then click on each individual letter in turn.
Some of the letters are gems of strict, pitiless wives and girlfriends using all their ingenuity and imagination to maximise the profound humiliation ans submission of wayward males.
I provide examples below, but there are far better than some of these that I came across during a cursory glance through. I confess though that the letter headed, Perfectly Proper Sissy Behaviour, was a hugely influential foundation for one of the themes of my treatment of my little puppet.
(I have mentioned specifically, the early years of the Petticoated.com website, because a few years ago it shifted from mainly letters from dominant women forcing males against their will into humiliating outfits, to letters from and about transvestites and other males who thoroughly enjoy dressing up in women’s, little girl and or sissy attire. I have nothing against them at all but I am not interested in them or their lifestyles.)
Letter 3 PERFECTLY PROPER SISSY BEHAVIOR
As a firm believer in dress discipline for males, I do not simply dress my husband in sissy clothes. I also insist that he behave in a manner befitting his very juvenile status in our household. When properly petticoated (or in one of his equally charming sissy pants outfits), he is required to speak in a soft, childish tone, and to use a vocabulary appropriate for a five-year-old. He must walk like a
proper sissy, mincing on tiptoes and keeping elbows pinned to his sides and wrists turned out. He must sit and stand daintily, with knees together and skirt kept modestly lowered. He must curtsey before entering or leaving an occupied room. He must ask permission to do most things, such as leaving the dinner table or “going potty.” He must keep his pretty clothes clean and mended, his appearance modest and neat. And he now answers to his sissy name, ‘Peterkins Winceyette’.
These and many other rules of ‘prissy perfect’ behavior enforce his petticoat discipline as effectively as his pretty clothes. He has become used to wearing girlish outfits, but he still blushes with shame at having to act like a proper sissy, particularly in front of others. Of course, I make sure he has plenty of opportunity to do just that.
The other day Peterkins was washing up in the kitchen after lunch. He wore one of his typical sissy outfits. A pink ruffled pinafore went over a crisply starched, back-buttoning white blouse with a broad Peter Pan collar. A precious little pink bow marked the front center of the collar. High-waisted, flyless velveteen burgundy shorts buttoned onto the blouse and showed a hint of the heavily frilled pink bloomers he wore underneath. A binkie hung on a prettily embroidered leash that buttoned on to his pinafore above the left breast. A lace-edged pink bonnet framed his lightly made-up face and tied in a big bow under the chin. Frilly white anklets and black Mary Jane shoes completed the pretty picture.
As he finished his cleanup chores, Peterkins was no doubt looking forward to his afternoon nap. That is the time when I am at my most gently maternal with him. I undress him down to his frilly undies, put him into his soft flannel nightie with the drawstring hem to enclose his feet, and tuck him into his adult-sized crib. But on this afternoon there was to be no nap and cuddle time, for just as the last of the dishes were being put away, the doorbell rang.
Peterkins has been taught to suck his thumb whenever he feels anxious, and the ringing doorbell made him very anxious indeed. His thumb leaped into his mouth, and he began sucking vigorously. (He is permitted to use his binkie only when directed to do so.) He looked at me fearfully, hoping against hope that I would not make him answer the door. One sharp glance from me dashed any chance of that. He knows from bitter experience that in his sissy clothes he simply cannot resist my wishes. If I want to display him to a stranger at the door, then I will do so. He knows, too, that any attempt at resistance will only make matters worse for him. Seeing my determined gaze, he realized there was no escape from his predicament. His eyes lowered, and his face registered sad resignation.
Terrified at having to answer the door, yet even more terrified not to, he was actually whimpering as he minced to the front hall. He reached the door just as the doorbell rang a second time. He opened it timidly, and in strode my sister Jean (whom I was expecting but he was not). Jean has often seen Peterkins in his sissy clothes but never fails to find new ways to embarrass him. He is dreadfully afraid of her – dreadfully for him, quite delightfully for Jean and me.
Removing his thumb from his mouth, Peterkins managed a timorous curtsey for Jean.
‘How very nice to see you again, Auntie Jean’. he said softly.
She smiled broadly, relishing the sight of this fully grown male dressed so babyishly and so obviously intimidated by her. She approached the shrinking sissy, untied his bonnet, and retied it tightly under his chin. His head moved under her firm touch. She fussed with the little bow on his blouse. She straightened the frilled, cross-over straps of his pinafore and fluffed out his collar. Satisfied with her efforts, she stepped back to view him again.
‘Oh Peterkins Winceyette’, she teased, ‘you look so very masculine today, with your cute little shorts. They are very sweet indeed, but I’m afraid they’re not really very adult, are they, dear?’
Moving behind him, she encircled his waist with her arms and toyed with the big buttons holding the shorts and blouse together. ‘Only very little boys wear button-ons like these, Peterkins — little boys and big prissy sissies. Which one are you, my dear? Hmmm?’
Peterkins looked as if he might swoon, and never did manage to answer her questions.
No matter. She got his full attention by clapping her hands sharply and announcing, ‘Teapot!’ Peterkins knew only too well what that meant. I have trained him to perform several children’s songs, as I believe they are another excellent way to instil in him the proper attitude and demeanor. At the top of the list is ‘I’m a Little Teapot’, complete with the appropriate hand gestures. Jean likes it so much that she insists on him performing it whenever she visits. He doesn’t like doing it, but of course, that makes his efforts only more entertaining. He knows he must perform with a pretty smile and a proper little girl’s enthusiasm, and this particularly embarrasses him. He is several years older than Jean, and there was a time when she considered him attractive. Now she can look at him only with amusement tinged with disdain, particularly when he becomes our charmingly reluctant ‘teapot’. It must be a cutting reminder to him of how far he has fallen in her eyes. I love watching him perform, his shyly lowered eyes unable to meet Jean’s commanding gaze.
Jean was not quite satisfied with his ‘Teapot’ rendition this time, so she stood him face to the wall in a corner and instructed him to keep practicing. She and I sat down to tea in the living room as his gentle childish patter serenaded us from the hall. She occasionally called out from the couch to correct him, a reminder that she was still keeping an eye on him. He made a fetching sight, chirping away in the corner and adding the obligatory curtsey after each rendition. His plump bottom, perfectly moulded by the sweet little velvet shorts, bobbed enticingly up and down with each curtsey.
When Jean was almost satisfied that he had achieved the proper little girly tone and gestures, the doorbell rang again. Of course Peterkins was now reduced to jelly again. Not knowing what to do, he put his thumb back in his mouth, and Jean and I couldn’t help laughing aloud at the silliness of it. His can be so sweet when he’s helpless.
Jean left him in the corner and answered the door herself. This time it was Grace, the 18-year-old young woman who used to babysit for Jean’s little girl. Grace had not met Peterkins, but Jean and I had told her about him. As she expressed continuing curiosity about him, we invited her around to see him when Jean would next be visiting – on this afternoon.
Grace took one look at Peterkins in the corner, paused in disbelief, and started to laugh. She tried to restrain herself, covering her mouth with her hand, but that only made her laugh harder. She could only point at him and continue laughing helplessly.
Poor Peterkins didn’t know what to do. He remained in the corner, furiously sucking his thumb and casting furtive sideways glances at Grace. He couldn’t bear to look at her yet couldn’t seem not to. He might have stood there all day if Jean hadn’t taken him by the hand and introduced him.
‘Grace’, said Jean, ‘I’d like you to meet Peterkins Winceyette’.
The absurd name prompted another titter from Grace, as did a shy curtsey from Peterkins. ‘How do you do, Peterkins Winceyette’, Grace smiled. ‘What a perfectly lovely name!’
It was all dreadfully and delightfully unfair. The poor sissy was trying so hard to be good but was finding only more embarrassment for his trouble. As Grace looked at him delightedly, Peterkins hung his head in defeat and began to cry.
Now it was my turn to comfort him. Following our usual routine for times like these, I put him next to me on the couch and cradled his head against my chest. I popped the pacifier in his mouth and made him nurse quietly as I soothed him with sympathy and baby talk.
‘Oo, poor ickle Peterkins. Mommy knows ‘ow tewwibly fwightening it is when big stwange ladies see just how ickle and pwecious oo are. . . .’
Peterkins does like to be babied but becomes ashamed when I do it in front of others and he is exposed as the complete baby he is. Closing his eyes, he managed to escape his shame momentarily, and melted into my arms as I cuddled him. Slowly his sobs subsided. Then he opened his eyes to discover Grace bending forward and looking directly at him only inches away from his face.
‘Boo!’ she said playfully and pressed her index finger against the tip of his nose. Grace could not have been more gentle, but her overture made the big baby dissolve into tears again. Jean and I roared with laughter.
‘Well, he may not be the ideal little girly-boy yet’, observed Jean, ‘but he does seem to be the perfect cry baby’. Turning to Peterkins, she nudged him and teased,
‘Ickle Peterkins has lost all his cuwwidge, hasn’t he? I wonder where it could be?’
This prompted a new game, in which Jean led the poor sissy around the room and made him look high and low for his lost ‘cuwwidge’. It didn’t seem to be on the mantelpiece, or under the couch, or in the magazine rack. Peterkins was required to inspect each area and to tell ‘Auntie Jean’ that no, his ‘cuwwidge’ wasn’t there and he didn’t know where it might be. Jean pretended to be stumped, but a mischievous sparkle in her eye told a different story. Announcing that Peterkins must have thrown his ‘cuwwidge’ away, she brought a trash basket from the den, placed it on the living room floor, and told Peterkins he had better look in there. Peterkins glanced nervously into the basket and said no, his ‘cuwwidge’ wasn’t there either. Jean wasn’t satisfied. She made him get down on hands and knees to look. When he still couldn’t see anything, she pushed his bonneted head deep down into the wide mouth of the basket. This prompted a fresh outbreak of tears from Peterkins, particularly when Jean wouldn’t let him up. What a prettily submissive sight he made! Fully debased and obedient, he kept his head in the basket where it belonged. When Jean finally allowed him to raise his head, she had a camera ready to record his woeful, tear-stained face as it emerged from the basket. When we saw that defeated, helpless expression, Grace and I couldn’t help laughing. I congratulated Jean on how thoroughly she had conquered my sissy.
A gentler soul, Grace took pity on Peterkins. She knelt beside him, cradled his head in her arms, and kissed his tears away. She obviously didn’t need any help from me in comforting him, so I left her in charge. As we sat down to tea, she decided to make Peterkins her little ‘sissy puppy’. She placed him on his knees beside her at the table and made him gaze at her with his ‘paws’ held at his chest and his mouth vigorously working his binkie. Every so often, she would reach down, pull the binkie from his mouth, and allow him to nibble a crumb or two from her fingers. Responding to her gentleness, Peterkins made a charming, docile pet and even formed a shy liking for his new mistress. All agreed that we found a new babysitter for Peterkins that afternoon.
The visit ended as Jean insisted on one more round of ‘Teapot’. Peterkins managed to get through it this time without blubbering, smiling timidly in response to our grins. He finally seemed to realize that a sissy can find satisfaction in pleasing the women in charge of him. Before leaving, Jean placed a well-placed pinch on his inner thigh, making him squeal one more time. For her part, Grace planted a very wet kiss on the lips of the startled sissy, then stuffed the binkie back into his mouth before he knew what had happened. With a giggle and a wave, she, too, was gone.
When put to bed that night, Peterkins did have to be spanked. That was because his little male symbol became entirely too excited when Peterkins was required to tell me how he felt about his babysitter-to-be. Of course, this kind of punishment is all part of his petticoat training as well. Perhaps I can devote a future letter to a description of my methods for keeping his little wee-wee under control.
Suffice to say, for the moment, that I do insist on perfectly proper sissy behavior.
Yours very truly,
Letter 2SISSY DISCIPLINE FOR CONCEITED MALES(from ‘Rubber Life’ 1970s)Dear Ms.Behr & LindaLatex,
I could not believe my eyes! At last, here in Canada, a publication dealing with what is, without doubt, the most effective method possible to control insignificant males who think they are really God’s gift to society. Diapers, didies, napkins, or, using the most effeminately babyish possible term, nappies.
These, combined usually with rubber panties, are accessories which, when worn by a man of conceited demeanour, cannot help but render him a helpless, quiet, shy, cowering, blubbering reduced shadow of his former appraisal of himself.
My reason for writing is to set out a few things which I consider to be basic to baby discipline, and perhaps a criticism or two as I ramble on…
1) Any boy or man under petticoat or diaper discipline must feel very little boyish, sissyish, and helplessly so.
2) He should always be shaven from neck to toe. Especially cleanly about his pubes.
3) He should not been able to masquerade as a woman or girl. His hair should be short (boyish as of old). If in dresses he should have no wig. In truth, he is better dealt with in sissy clothes than in dresses.
4) He should never have access to his own privates. Thus, all clothing covering his trunk must button down the back. Rather than buttons, unless very small, hooks and eyes or small domes are the most difficult for him to handle, and still very easy for his mummy, nurse, or governess.
5) Baby doll pajamas are worn by girls and women nowadays. They are not for big boys, or men, in diapers and rubber panties. Such males should wear baby style nightdresses without openings for their hands, or else one-piece sleepers buttoning down the back with a drop seat and, of course, feet and hands covered. The baby nightdress should be longer than the man or boy, and should have a tape in the hem so that it may be closed at the bottom so that he cannot walk, and creeping or crawling would be very difficult. The big baby’s nightie should be so fastened, and sleepers should have a blind front, thus denying the male access to that part of his anatomy he must never, ever, touch for any reason.
6) Many of his outer garments should be locked about his neck and/or waist using a light chain and padlock.
7) Little boy rompers, sailor suits, side-fastening satin shorts with wide leg openings buttoning to one of two rows of large buttons sewn to a blouse, are excellent sissy wear. Fastened to the upper row of buttons, these shorts leave room for only his rubber panties, and cradle and pull up between his bottom cheeks. Without rubber panties or a rubber concealing device, his privates would be in danger of showing at the leg openings. Fastened to the lower row of buttons, his little satin shorts would allow room for good bulky diapers, but those, along with his shiny rubber panties, would protrude well below the leg openings of his little shorts. If the punished one has a Little Lord Fauntleroy outfit, even the jacket should be permanently buttoned or tacked in front, and would in fact fasten by a row of hooks and eyes down his back.
8) He must not be permitted use of the toilet. He might be permitted use of a potty – once a day, but not more often. Lots of bottle fed milk and water, fed with a rubber-nippled nursing bottle, will assure wet nappies. On special public shame days, he may be deprived of his rubber panties so that his wet state will be clearly displayed.
9) His baby harness should be fitted so that his wrists may be fastened there too, so that his hands cannot get into mischief. A night harness is a good idea too.
These have been just a few thoughts which might be useful. All men and boys should be kept the babies they are.
My 16th journal – LINK