My name is Millie Martin. I am 68 years old. I have silver gray hair and blue eyes. I stand five foot two inches tall, and weigh 110 pounds. Given my age and diminutive stature, people often mistake me for a kindly little old lady. They don't know that in my professional life men literally tremble with fear and embarrassment before me. To them I am "Mistress Martinet", their correctional governess.
I have a wide circle of women friends who are subjecting their males to petticoat discipline and sissy training. My job is to enforce the program. If a woman needs a little extra help with her male, I am available to come and smarten him up. Customarily, governesses live in the households where they work. I operate differently. I make house calls. My visits rarely last more than a couple of hours, although I have been known to return for as many as three days in a row to make sure the miscreant has learned his lesson.
I wear tasteful, conservative clothing, normally a dark, skirted suit and a soft blouse with high neck and long sleeves. Such attire projects the businesslike image I require. I do bring along a bibbed apron because sometimes the job gets a bit messy. Before any visit, I get a full report from the woman in charge. We agree just what we will accomplish at any given session. I also keep comprehensive files on all my sissies, so I'm rarely surprised by a sissy's behavior.
I don't mind if the mistress is to be present at my sessions. After all, she is my client and so has a right to see the service she is getting. However, most of the mistresses prefer to leave me alone with their sissy, wishing not to distract or interfere. They know I will be giving them a full report afterward. Whether present for my session with their sissy or not, many of the mistresses look forward to my visits almost as much as their sissies dread them.
Often, particularly with first-timers, the sissy is not present to greet me when I arrive. I feel I can be more effective if he does not actually meet me until I have had a chance to get comfortable, and to confer with his mistress. Several mistresses have told me that their sissies become terribly nervous just to hear the doorbell ring when they know I am scheduled to arrive. This reaction is both charming and useful. An intimidated sissy is a pretty sight, and sissies must be intimidated to be properly disciplined. I love the thought of a fluttering little man anticipating my arrival. One mistress likes to have her sissy on his knees, next to his pink-quilted bed, literally praying for forgiveness, before I arrive.
I prefer my sessions to take place in a formal setting - the living room or a study, perhaps. I feel these locations emphasize to the sissy the seriousness of the matter. After I have made myself comfortable, the sissy is fetched or summoned by his mistress. This is the moment I enjoy most of all. Before I have even said a word, much less actually done anything, the sissy stands before me with downcast gaze and a look of utter defeat on his face. Normally the sissies will be dressed as a little girl would be for a party, which really makes the poor little lambs squirm and wriggle in their soft, lacy dresses and underwear. He knows I am observing him, standing there in his juvenile, effeminate dress, and he blushes with shame. I particularly enjoy seeing larger men because they seem to shrivel with embarrassment before me, a woman so much smaller than they. They know there is no place to hide and nothing to do to avoid the distress of the session to come.
Most sissies know enough to curtsey and say their how-do-you-do's. Some have to be prompted to do so. I insist on a dainty, smartly executed curtsey - neither a quick little bob nor an elaborate dip. I also require a sweet smile. Many a sissy has spent an agonizing several minutes doing his curtseys again and again until I was satisfied. The sissies are told that an inability to curtsey properly the first time means additional punishment. This advisement makes some of them quite nervous and even more inept. I sometimes have to hide a smile as they stumble about, so desperate to please. They really are terribly sweet.
As much as I adore seeing my sissies in their distraught, embarrassed condition at the start of a session, I realize that a punishment session cannot succeed unless a sissy releases his nervousness and trusts me as he would his own mother. He must become the little sissy he really is. My job is to help him surrender. He is a child, fretful and fidgety. I am an adult, reassuring him with calmness, control, and caring. I never raise my voice, and never use coarse or abusive language. I can be formal, even severe, but more often I am tender and nurturing. I believe the contrast between my gentle manner, and my harsh punishment, makes me seem to be all the more powerful to my sissies.
After the session, a sissy will recall with mighty embarrassment that he babyishly accepted his punishment without question. He will remember that a tiny woman reduced him to infantile dependence without so much as a whimper of resistance from him. It is partly a subconscious anticipation of this shameful capitulation that makes a sissy so nervous at the start. He dreads the moment, all too soon to arrive, when he will fully surrender to me.
To emphasize his childish dependence on me, I talk to a sissy as I would to a young child. I use simple, babyish words, a sympathetic tone, and an exaggerated inflection. Sometimes I employ hand signals as I speak, emphasizing to the sissy that in my view he will have difficulty grasping even the simplest concepts. He needs to understand just how little he does understand.
It is not enough for me to just treat him as a young child. He must respond in kind; he must become a young child. For example, I might sit him down on a rug, pop a dummy in his mouth, and make him shake a plastic baby's rattle. Most of all, he must assume a sweet, innocent expression. I coo encouragement, kiss him softly, and gently correct him until he is the picture of a little baby, now quivering more with docile expectancy than with fear.
Now it is time for his confession. "Mommy tells me her darling babykins has been a naughty little thing," I inform him. "You look so sweet now that I just can hardly imagine it. But I'm sure Mommy is telling the truth, isn't she?"
"Yes, Mistress Martinet", comes the inevitable reply.
"We can't have naughty baby sissies in Mommy's house, can we?"
"No, Mistress Martinet".
"Well then perhaps you can tell me how you've been naughty?"
This is the signal for him to confess his sins, completely and without regard for the consequences. The sissy is told to stand, and the game-playing atmosphere dissolves. This is one of the rare times in their lives when sissies need to talk a lot, prattling on to reveal every aspect of their misdeeds. Most sissies have difficulty achieving the requisite childlike enthusiasm. I interrogate them insistently until they realize there is no point in holding anything back. Again and again I summarize their admissions and make them repeat my words. Then I coax and cajole still more admissions from them. Finally, they must repeat everything, so that I have a final, complete confession.
I will not dwell on my actual punishment methods, as they vary widely with the requirements of my clients. Suffice to say that every session ends with the sissy standing very contritely in the corner, face to the wall, as I review his progress with his mistress and schedule our next appointment. The sissy can hear every word of our conversation, and well he should, for this, too, helps in his training. I often see the tell-tale sign of ears burning red with embarrassment as the sissy hears himself discussed like the little child he is. He comes out of his corner only to curtsey good-bye to me. Usually this curtsey is superior to the one he afforded me on my arrival. I reward him with a hug and nice wet kiss on his forehead, after which he is sent back to his corner for more penance.
I can report that most sissies really do improve under my tutelage. Occasionally, they do so well that my services are no longer required. But I am in no danger of running out of sissies to discipline. Word of my service has spread, evidently to good effect, because I am quite busy. It seems more and more women these days are imposing sissy discipline on their males, and they know I am always available when a little extra is needed.
Thank you for an inspiring magazine,
Wasn't Millicent Martin a singer? She would be about 68 years old too. I must say I have severe doubts about the bona fides of this letter. I have never heard of such a service. It would be a good idea, but please don't write in asking for Miss Martin's email address. I have it, but presently I doubt the existence of her (otherwise excellent) service.
Nevertheless, true or not, the blissful release of the 'confession' that the writer describes is remarkably reminiscent of the therapeutic effect of the confession which is one of the religious duties in the Roman Catholic Church. Catholics have a much lower suicide rate than non-Catholics, and expert psychiatrists believe it has nothing to do with suicide being a mortal sin. The suicide is in such a blackly negative state of mind that the thought of eternal damnation is unlikely to dissuade them. No, it is the act of confession; the regular lifting of the terrible burden of guilt and sin from the soul, that is responsible for the tiny suicide rate amongst practising Catholics.
It might seem that I am off on a discursive rave again, but I believe that these notions are relevant to the beneficial and life-affirming effects of petticoat discipline. It too is frequently is associated with a kind of relief, and a feeling of the lifting of guilty feelings, just as the confession is. And, like the confession, feelings of delight, and a special kind of freedom, can follow. This explains at least a part of the eternal attraction many feel for the loving afterglow of petticoating.
Much like the story around the fire, the occasional reprint from the past especially at Christmas can be a celebration of the season as Susan knew so well and offered a smile, this one is from our Christmas 2001 Issue.