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How I Learned to Love Bows
#1
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How I Learned to Love Bows

Bows.  So lovely, so feminine.  But today’s modern woman rarely wears outfits with bows on them, and most avoid adorning their hair with bows unless they wish to present a particularly feminine look.  Even girls these days don’t go for bows like their predecessors of only a few decades ago once did; nowadays girls largely limit them to special formal outings and occasions demanding ‘pretty’ dresses and the like.  By the time most girls reach adolescence, most if not all bows in the wardrobe have been banished, alongside toy prams, dolls and stuffed toys.  

But in one setting, bows should be de rigueur.  And for good reason.  For if bows are associated with an inherently girly and gay (in the old sense of the word), feminine look, a fashion accessory that screams ‘Aren’t I pretty and sweet!’ then what better item to add to the outfits worn by sissies and petticoated males. 
 
I didn’t grasp this point until quite recently, when I came in to the expansive orbit of the beautiful and formidable, Miss Strickland.  But as I’ve learnt – sometimes painfully, sometimes willingly - much that may not initially appeal, often becomes desirable when Miss Strickland presents it to you.  And a cherished present it may well become.

Miss Strickland is very clever…and very insightful.  Within a few short lessons, she led me from schoolboy to full-blown sissy.  And now, I must admit, I’m rather smitten by this development, helped no end by the encouragement (certainly testing at times!) Miss Strickland always provides.  And a huge part of this smit of mine revolves around bows.  Big bows, little bows, bows in all shapes and sizes, bows in pink and creams and many other colours, bows in lace and taffeta, bows in satin and velvet, bows on dresses and panties, bows in hair, bows around the waist, bows around ankles, knees and wrists, bows on shoes, bows, bows, bows.    

Miss Strickland has shown me that a sissy without bows is like a night-sky barren of stars, a ship without a crew, a forest devoid of animals, a life lacking passions.  Yes, bows are a sissy’s bestest friend.  And why?  Because bows are so pretty, so delightfully girlish; they scream femininity; they lend the ultimate girlish appearance to any feminine outfit.  Yummy! 

But I would be telling fibs to say I’ve always loved bows.  So how did this thing for bows evolve?  I can merely recount my own experiences: only Miss Strickland truly knows.  
 
There I was, attending a lesson during winter, my school uniform replaced by a prim and proper, ‘little girl’s’ winter outfit: a fluffy yellow cardigan over a long-sleeved blouse (complete with lace-trimmed sleeves and collar), a knee-length, pleated tartan skirt, thick woollen tights and Mary-Jane shoes. 

But Miss Strickland decided this dress wasn’t enough.  Not at all.  She proceeded to put a frightfully horrid, short blonde and curly, lollipop of a wig on my head and then topped it off with a huge, creamy-coloured, satin bow.  After her laughter subsided she ordered me to stand in front of the mirror and take a look at myself.  I blushed at the sight before me.  She simply laughed again.

Then I had to parade in front of her and perform a play I had been made to write earlier in the day.  Naturally its theme centred on ‘pretty girly’ dresses and frilly outfits.  Girls at a party.  In the garden.  Playing and laughing and jollying about.  With cupcakes and lashings of lemonade and the like.  And as I moved about performing, the inevitable happened: the wig, and its satin sibling, slipped from my head.  I was immediately ordered over to the punishment stool and caned severely for my lackadaisical presentation.  Back on to my head went the wig and its partner; back on to the ‘stage’ I went, now much more fearful of what might happen should they fall off again.   Alas, tension doesn’t anchor wigs or bows to one’s head – they came off twice more, with increasingly painful consequences.  

My next lesson arrived a few weeks later.  As anyone who has ever sat a lesson under the watchful gaze of Miss Strickland knows, there is never any respite from her firmly applied discipline.  I arrived in my school uniform and following its inspection (I was caned for failing to have the ribbing on the socks sitting evenly), I was ordered over to a tall stool, wrapped tightly in a plastic cape and then had my hair reduced to a number one clip via a set of electric barber’s clippers.  I felt awkward, humiliated, my hair clumped over the cape and floor.  

But before the cape came off, Miss Strickland left the room with a chuckle and returned with something in her hand.  “This will look perfect!” she exclaimed.  She affixed a large black velvet bow onto my head, kept in place with a thin elastic chinstrap.  For that I was at least thankful – it shouldn’t fall off if I was ordered to do more dancing and prancing routines.  Then I was sent off to the mirror once more, utterly relieved to be leaving the cloying, clammy cape behind but aware the sight before me was likely to be equally uncomfortable.  Which it was.   My blush returned. 

And then I was ordered to stand before her.  Miss Strickland stepped in and adjusted the bow slightly.  “It’s now straight.  I expect it to remain this way for the remainder of the lesson.  However, you are not permitted to touch it, or the chinstrap at any time.  Do you understand why?”  I stumbled about for an answer, thoughts of crooked bows filling me with dread.  “Ah…because…umm…I’m not sure Miss.”  Miss Strickland’s eyes widened.  “Well you’ll be sure now.  Repeat after me:  My pretty sissy bow is perfect now, atop my little sissy head.”  I repeated her words.  “Good.  And now this: And there’s simply no reason why it won’t remain that way, for the rest of the day.”  I repeated this line too.  “Now say both lines together.”  I knew it had better be repeated word perfect or I’d be over the stool or her knee for a salient reminder of remaining attentive at all times.  I took a deep breath and repeated the lines slowly.  Word perfect – phew.  I felt a little pleased that I’d met the standards Miss Strickland was intent on imparting on me.  At least on this occasion… 

“Back in front of the mirror, hands on head.”  I did as I was told, or at least I thought I did.  “Your hands touched the bow.  Over to the stool.”   Six strokes of the cane followed.  “Back in front of the mirror, hands on head.”  I carefully placed my hands on my head.  “Now repeat the refrain I gave you about your bow.”  My very sore bottom acted as a strong reminder that I needed to remember it properly.  “My pretty sissy bow is perfect now, atop my little sissy head.  And there’s simply no reason why it won’t remain that way, for the rest of the day.”  “As expected.  Now keep repeating it until I tell you otherwise.”  “Yes Miss.”  I began the refrain.  Miss Strickland turned and left the room. 

I stood like this for perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes, my arms growing increasingly sore.  But that wasn’t the worst of it.  As the minutes passed the chinstrap started to annoy, then really irritate me.  Too tight, oh too tight.  But I knew I couldn’t go near it. 

I was still repeating my lines when Miss Strickland came back into the room.  In the mirror I could see her arranging some clothes - girls clothes - over the lounge chair behind me.    

“Enough of today’s signature tune for now.  Stand in front of the lounge chair and strip.” 

I lowered my arms carefully, aware that the blood would recirculate into them rather painfully. 

Stripped of my schoolboy outfit, I was quickly returned to another uniform, only this time it was a girls one.  A full winter kit.  A long-sleeved white blouse with rounded collar, dark green tie, a heavy, grey pleated woollen pinafore to my knees, thick woollen tights in dark green, brown shoes.  Miss Strickland handed me a green blazer and I put it on.  Instantly she looked displeased.  “Over to the stool and bend over.”  What had I done?  She lifted up the blazer and dress, lowered my tights and panties and said, “ Your blazer has a pen stain on it.”  I started to plead with her that I had nothing to do with it but her curt “Do you want a doubling of the six?” quickly shut me up.  “I’m very aware you didn’t stain the jacket but you need to be reminded that such sloppy behaviour is absolutely intolerable.  You’ll receive the six strokes as a lesson in neatness.”  I secretly cursed the idiot who’d made the mark, hoping Miss Strickland had dealt with them severely.

My short and extremely sharp lesson over, Miss Strickland had me remove the jacket, replacing it with a schoolgirl’s grey cardigan.  I had to button it up and make my way over to the school desk.  “You’ll spend the next three hours writing out your refrain.  Each word is to be written in different-coloured ink and all words containing a vowel are to have each letter written in different-coloured ink.  The order for both tasks is as follows:  blue, red, black, green, purple.  Five hundred lines.  Commence.”   Miss Strickland sat down opposite me and began reading through some papers.  A closely supervised detention…I sighed.  
 
It was a horrible afternoon on so many levels, not least of which was that chinstrap.  I barely managed to complete fifty lines what with all the mistakes I made. And every mistake is, of course, unacceptable to Miss Strickland and subject to swift punishment.  But by the end of the three hours, I knew one thing very well:  My pretty sissy bow is perfect now, atop my little sissy head.  And there’s simply no reason why it won’t remain that way, for the rest of the day.   I was sent home under strict instructions to complete the assignment within a week.       

I attended another lesson soon after.  After my school uniform was inspected (this time I received 12 strokes of the cane across my bottom; six each for the two tiny scuff marks on my shoes – I hadn’t even noticed them!), it was replaced with something far more frightening than a girl’s uniform.  I was made to endure intense nursery discipline but not before having my hair clipped very short again and another huge bow affixed to my bald scalp.  After the clippering the mirror was again called into use: I looked ridiculous in front of it, and not just because of the pink dummy, pink satin romper suit and hand-knitted booties I wore.  

Off I then went to meet with the many toys Miss Strickland had carefully arranged around the room.  Soon enough the bow on my head was replaced with a bonnet.  But Miss Strickland certainly wasn’t discarding bows:  a huge pink-lace bow was tied around my waist, while smaller ones went around my wrists. 
On went the baby ‘play’…and Miss Strickland's rigorous disciplinary regime.       
         
I cannot pretend that I am looking forward to my next lesson under Miss Strickland.  Except for one thing: I hope that whatever sissified outfit I am put into includes bows somewhere.  This is definitely a surprise, a delightful one in fact.  Never have I given bows much attention before.  Now I sense they are akin to a tiara atop any sissies head, a cherry to top off any pretty-frilly neckline or waist.  Yum! 

I laughed to myself when I first realised this.  And then I remembered that while bows might be yummy, in Miss Strickland’s presence they’re usually in association with not-so-yummy things.  Like humiliations, sore bottoms and aching wrists.  Mmmm; contrary feelings.  Still, I’m so grateful to her for helping me realise how wonderful bows are.  What a surprise! 

Miss Strickland has taught me that pretty dresses and frilly outfits are only ever pretty and frilly when they are worn properly.  So, just like any other part of a sissy’s outfit, bows must be worn properly at all times.  That is, they should be neat and clean, arranged correctly, tied perfectly, always straight, not allowed to fall off the wig, head or clothing and never, ever, removed without permission.  There are no exceptions: firm punishment measures are necessary whenever such simple presentation rules are flaunted.   And I don't want to disappoint her.  Ever!  
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#2
My first experience of bows was on the knickers my mother used to put me into as a punishment.


When she first made me wear panties they were ones belonging to my little sister, so were designed for a four year old. They always seemed to have a little bow on the front.


As my punishment became more frequent Lucy started to complain about me wearing her knickers, so I was bought my own. It seemed that unlike real girls, the bows on my knickers became more extravagant as I got older.

                   
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#3
(09-17-2018, 10:56 AM)Ali Wrote: My first experience of bows was on the knickers my mother used to put me into as a punishment.


When she first made me wear panties they were ones belonging to my little sister, so were designed for a four year old. They always seemed to have a little bow on the front.


As my punishment became more frequent Lucy started to complain about me wearing her knickers, so I was bought my own. It seemed that unlike real girls, the bows on my knickers became more extravagant as I got older.

I'd say you were a lucky boi, Ali.  Bows are ab-fab in my view, so absolutely feminine.  Yumm!
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#4
(09-17-2018, 10:56 AM)Ali Wrote: My first experience of bows was on the knickers my mother used to put me into as a punishment.


When she first made me wear panties they were ones belonging to my little sister, so were designed for a four year old. They always seemed to have a little bow on the front.


As my punishment became more frequent Lucy started to complain about me wearing her knickers, so I was bought my own. It seemed that unlike real girls, the bows on my knickers became more extravagant as I got older.

One certainly can't forget their first training bra with the little rosette and bow between the cups...
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#5
Ooooh, yes! Training bras!

Their only purpose was to make little girls feel grown up. I bet their makers never knew that they were also used to make boys feel sissyish.

I remember the first time I was made to wear one. It felt SO strange having that strap across my back. And yes of course the bow between the little cups.
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