Dear Auntie Helga,

I don't know if you realize how important your site is to the many men like me who harbor secret interests in, and desires for, petticoating. Every month I look eagerly forward to the latest issue, to read the letters from others who are actually living the kind of life I can only, secretly, dream of. Reading those letters is incredibly comforting, helping me feel reassured that my own feelings and desires are shared by others. Thank you from the bottom of my sissy heart.

I'm now a recently retired professor and a widower, after over thirty years of a very happy marriage to a woman I adored. What I'm about to write about, however, is something I never told her about, for fear about what she would think.

When I was eleven, for about a year, I was subjected to a regimen of systematic petticoating at the hands of my mother's housekeeper/nanny. My mother was a single mom, and I have one sister, but my sister is twelve years older than me, and so I was basically an only child, especially from the time I was seven when my sister went away to college. My mother owned her own quite successful small business which kept her very busy and which required a lot of travel. As a result, much of my child care was done by a succession of live-in housekeepers.

One reason my mother hired so many housekeepers over the years was that, at least until the year when I was eleven, I was rather incorrigible, so the housekeepers charged with my care typically quit every two years or so. My poor behavior extended to school, and by the time I was eleven, when Mrs. Broadbent was hired, I had attended one public school and two private schools, and had gotten in serious trouble in each of them.

Mrs. Broadbent was in her 40's and had worked as a housekeeper and nanny and as a teacher in England just prior to coming to the U.S., when she was hired by my mother. By that time my mother had decided I should be home schooled, so Mrs. Broadbent seemed perfect for the job. As I later learned, she had demanded a very generous salary and had demanded, as a condition of her agreeing to care for me and supervise my schooling, that she be given completely free rein regarding the use of discipline with me. My mother had basically had all that she could take with my misbehavior by that time, so she agreed. The night before Mrs. Broadbent moved in, my mother also told me that this would be my last chance, and if things did not work out with Mrs. Broadbent, that I would be sent to a military school, which was something I quite desperately did not want.

It did not take long for me to learn that Mrs. Broadbent was not like any of my other caretakers. I actually tried to be on my best behavior with her, but during the afternoon of just her second day on the job I reverted for a moment to my usual pattern of insolent misbehavior. I had made quite a mess of my room and Mrs. Broadbent told me to clean it up, but instead of a polite "yes ma'am" followed by doing it, I told her I was doing something else and might do it later or might leave the mess for her to clean up. Liker I said, I was a pretty unpleasant kid. But talking that way to Mrs. Broadbent was a huge mistake. She told me in no uncertain terms that when she told me to do something she expected it to be done immediately and that she would not abide any backtalk of any kind, and then took me literally by the ear to her bedroom, and while still holding me by the ear she retrieved her hairbrush and then sat down on a chair and told me to get across her knees for a spanking. I couldn't believe what was happening, and was about to object when said that if I did not do as I was told immediately, she would report my misbehavior to my mother, and she reminded me that the result of that would be military school. So, I did as I was told. And anyways, I thought, how bad could a spanking from Mrs. Broadbent be?

I quickly learned the answer. Bad. Painful. Very painful. And shameful. Mrs. Broadbent made me first pull down my pants to around my ankles, and then when I lay across her lap she pulled the back of my underpants down with one hand as well, and then used the other hand to spank me with her hairbrush. I did my best to try to show her that she couldn't make me cry, but as one blow after another landed on my bare rear, at some point all my false bravado gave way to what I can only describe as uncontrollable weeping and begging for her to stop while promising to be a good boy for her.

What happened next shocked me even more than the spanking, and it's the reason why I remember all the details of that day as if it was yesterday. When Mrs. Broadbent finally ended the spanking, she told me to stand up, then told me to take off all of my clothes. I couldn't believe it. But when I hesitated she repeated her command in a tone that made it clear to me that I had better do as I was told. When I tried to cover my self after removing my underpants, Mrs. Broadbent just laughed and told me to put my hands by my sides. She then led me to my room and opened the top drawer of my dresser, and astonished me by taking out a pair of pink panties. To this day I don't know when that pair, and a number of others, were put in my dresser and when my own underpants had been removed. I assume my mother did it after speaking about discipline with Mrs. Broadbent. In any case, there they were, and Mrs. Broadbent told me to put them on.

Slowly, I stepped into the panties and pulled them up my legs. I'm not sure a woman can really appreciate how intense the feelings of shame and humiliation are that a boy feels in that kind of situation, being forced to submit to first a spanking and then petticoating, putting on pink panties at the direction of a woman. Making my shame even worse was that, as you might guess, my boyish penis got hard as I felt the silky softness of the panties, and although I had not yet started to mature at all and I was small even for a boy my age, Mrs. Broadbent could easily see what had happened and she commented on it, telling me that she could see that I liked wearing girl's panties and telling me that it meant that deep down I was a sissy at heart. As she said that, I just started to cry again, not from pain, but from shame, and I felt that something deep within me had changed. Any capacity I might have still had to resist Mrs. Broadbent was washed away with the tears, and she and I both knew that from then on, anything she told me to do I would do.

Mrs. Broadbent then opened my closet to reveal that all the shirts and pants and sweatshirts and sweaters and jackets that had been in there were gone, replaced now with skirts and blouses and dresses and hand-me-down-from-my-sister girls sweaters and nighties. On the floor, in place of my running shoes were some of my sister's old shoes and sandals and puffy pink slippers. Mrs. Broadbent took a yellow dress out of the closet, handed it to me and told me to put it on. I complied. She then led me into her room where she brushed my hair (this was the era when boys wore their hair quite long, so mine was almost shoulder length at the time) and put it into pigtails tied with red ribbons. She then stood me in front of her, looked me in the eyes, and told me in a calm but commanding voice that after years of being a bad boy for all of the previous housekeepers, it was her intent that I was going to be a good girl for her.

Well, to make a long story short, after that, and for as long as Mrs. Broadbent was in my mother's employ, I was fully petticoated at all times. Over time, wearing panties and skirts and blouses and nighties became second nature to me. Of course, I could never have friends over to the house and never went out to play with friends. Instead, I stayed home and spent my days doing schoolwork and helping with the household chores. Mrs. Broadbent taught me how to do the laundry, including hand-washing sweaters and lingerie delicates and how to do the ironing, how to vacuum and dust, how to do the dishes after meals, and even how to cook. She also taught me sewing and needlepoint and knitting and crocheting, and I learned how to give her and my mother manicures and pedicures (at least in terms of applying nail and toe polish). My days were busy, though I was usually able to have an hour or two of TV in the evenings with Mrs Broadbent, but even my TV-viewing and reading was strictly controlled, limiting me to girls books (like Nancy Drew mysteries) and TV shows.

Even after I became accustomed to my new petticoated existence, I harbored a dread that Mrs. Broadbent might take me with her shopping or to do other errands, and that I might then be seen by my friends or other people who knew me or my mother. Thankfully, that singular humiliation was not visited upon me. However, from time to time, especially when my mother was traveling, Mrs. Broadbent and I would stay for a few nights with Mrs. Broadbent's sister, who lived about forty minutes away. You would have laughed if you had seen how quickly I would try to run from house to car when we left for each of these trips, and how I ran to get back into the house when we returned, in desperate fear that a neighbor night see me. But unlike at home, when we stayed with Mrs. Broadbent's sister, I was regularly brought along on shopping outings and just on walks around the neighborhood. The first few times this happened I was terrified that people would see that I was a petticoated boy and would stare and laugh, but that never happened. I was quite small for my age, and given how I was always dressed, no one ever suspected that the child, walking along holding Mrs. Broadbent's hand, wearing, for example, a pleated skirt and white blouse and bobby socks and cross-strap shoes with long hair in a pony tail tied with a large pink ribbon, was anything other than a pretty girl. So after the first few such outings, I stopped fearing what people would think, and in fact, I came to feel quite complimented when people would mention to Mrs. Broadbent or to me directly what a pretty young girl I was.

What I should also mention is that as I became accustomed to being petticoated and to living as a girl, I also developed very strong feelings of affection for Mrs. Broadbent. Rather than resenting or being angry with her for how she treated me, I quite admired and adored her, and so it was with great sadness when I learned that she had decided to leave my mother's employ, almost exactly a year after she had been hired.

After Mrs. Broadbent left, I was never pettioated again. But she forever changed me. I became a very thoughtful, obedient, and hard working teen boy. I was able to return to public school, where I now excelled. I was also particularly respectful of women, an attitude I have carried with me to this day. And interestingly, although I was not athletic and therefore was not one of the "A" list boys in school, I was always quite popular with girls, who seemed to find me good looking, albeit in sort of a slightly feminine way. So I always had a girlfriends in high school and college, and then married the woman who was the love of my life after completing my doctoral studies and obtaining a job in academia. But what Mrs. Broadbent also left me with was a lifelong yearning to be once again petticoated in the service of a dominant woman. Thoughts of that have filled my fantasies for my entire adult life, but not every desire can be fulfilled in life, and that is one I doubt ever will be.

I hope this letter has not been excessively long. Putting the details of my long secret experience with being petticoated has felt very cathartic. And again I thank you for all the work you do on your site, which brings so much comfort to men like me.


Thank you for your letter Andrew and for your kind words about my site. Your mother was a wise woman hiring your very capable nanny Mrs. Broadbent, a formidable woman that knew and understood the power of a strict petticoating and obviously it worked, the polite respectful person you are today is living proof. Readers with troublesome lads take note of this success and consider it for your own reaccelerate son.

Auntie Helga

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Letter 8