The Art of Petticoat Punishment by Carole Jean

Part 19 - Kristy Leigh



Kristy Leigh is a former teacher and graphic artist who has been illustrating on a professional basis for over thirty years. Since the advent of the World Wide Web, she has turned her attention towards fetish-related material, concentrating primarily on spanking, tickling, bondage and transgendered imagery. Roughly twenty-five percent of her output involves TG content, although there is considerable overlap between the various genres.

Working in a variety of different styles, she has contributed to a number of British and European magazines, employing various pseudonyms to protect her privacy. By 2007, she had established her own website, publishing original fiction under the Lakehurst imprint. Basing her visual approach on old-school "thrillers" of the 1960s, Kristy's stories covered a range of interests including Caught With Consequences, Magical Transformations, Surgical Reassignment, Transhumanism, and Cyberfemme to name but a few. Despite a generally positive response from readers and enthusiasts, the Lakehurst website was shut down by a well-known internet watchdog group in 2008, based on false allegations of "sexually inappropriate material."

Kristy has subsequently become an outspoken critic of digital censorship, defending the artistic and literary rights of gay, lesbian and transgendered individuals. She remains a controversial figure within the online community due to her unwavering and often confrontational stance on the issues of free speech and unrestricted expression.

In this article, we will analyze the development of Kristy's transgendered artwork, with particular emphasis on the areas of Petticoat Punishment and Pinafore Discipline. Please note that as much of the older printed media is no longer extant, many of the images presented here have been reconstructed from surviving sketches and illustrations. Except where otherwise stated, every attempt has been made to restore each example to its original condition.


Kristy's first attempts at exclusively transgendered art were stiff and somewhat cartoonish, characterized by stark line work and a minimal attention to detail. Backgrounds were noticeably absent, and figurework marred by problems depicting hands and faces. Scant attention was paid to tone or rendering, although later Photoshop revisions display minor shading to emphasize certain anatomical features.
According to Kristy's (now defunct) website, her main reference materials were 1950s advertisements, employing an illustrative style she considered most appropriate to the subject matter. Alternative sources included glossy women's magazines, British schoolgirl comics and "saucy" postcards of the post war era.

Kristy started out illustrating her own short fiction, written under various pseudonyms including Transfemme, Angie Holbrook and Erica Lakehurst. Typical of this period was A Pledge in Petticoats (1990), a six-page feminization piece featuring four pencil sketches. The narrative explored several themes common to the transgendered genre, such as The Dominant Matron, The Absent Father, The Wicked Sisters, The Family Conspiracy, The Secret Betrayed and The Dark Twin, amongst others. The main plotline established a basic formula for many of the stories that followed.


Young Dominic Spencer has been raised as a sissyboy from an early age, alternating between male and female roles for as long as he can remember. This poses no problem during his first five years, as he believes it to be a game played with his mother and older sisters. Dominic's difficulties begin at the age of six, when he enters school for the first time. Despite wearing a traditional schoolboy uniform, he is subjected to continual bullying over his feminine appearance and mannerisms. He is equally baffled as to why he only has one parent, unlike the majority of his classmates.

Upon questioning his mother, he is informed that his father – a "no-good, philandering layabout" – deserted their family when Dominic was little more than an infant. Subsequently, he was brought up as both a boy and a girl to prevent him repeating his father's mistakes.

Dominic gradually begins to rebel against this unjust treatment, but defiance simply leads to a stricter regimen of petticoat discipline. Worse still, his older sisters, Denise and Diana, begin taking him out dressed as a young girl, referring to him as "Dominique" in public. This arrangement is whole-heartedly supported by their Mother, who is determined that the boy will accept the feminine regime she's spent years imposing upon him.

Things come to a head on Dominic's eighth birthday. Inviting all of his erstwhile schoolmates to the party, Mother and sisters join forces to humiliate him into complete submission. Following carefully laid plans, Dominique's feminization starts early in the morning:

Once they'd finished bathing me, I was taken back to my room, choking down tears of shame with every step. Standing me before the full-length mirror, Mommy peeled the towel from my waist while Diana and Denise went off to prepare my ensemble. I knew precisely what they had planned for me: there was no need to ask or even guess; it was plainly inscribed on their gleefully derisive expressions.

"No, Momma, please no," I wept, naked and trembling in the cool morning air, "don't make me do it today, PLEASE don't. I'm not a girl, Mommy – I'm a boy!"

"No, you're not," Mommy replied, turning my face gently towards the cheval, "take a look at yourself. You're a girl, always have been. Except for that one tiny little part, you're the just about prettiest little girl who ever lived."

"And that part is hardly even worth looking at," Diane commented with a laugh. She was approaching from the bedside, carrying an armful of satin flounces.

"Quite so," Mommy agreed, glancing back over her shoulder, "Denise? Do you have Dominique's underwear?"

"Yes, Mother," Denise answered from slightly behind me, a silvery giggle tinting her voice. Stepping up to the mirror, she laid a set of frilly intimates out on the dressing table, placing one beside the next for close inspection.

My heart skipped a beat when I saw what I had to wear – delicate, gauzy remnants that shimmered in the moody autumn sunlight. Pristine white panties with a dainty, floral trim; a matching, nylon vest, sheer as gossamer against the flesh. Worst of all – a rush of flimsy, gossamer petticoats, whispering with layers of pink lace.

"No, Momma, please," I wailed in helpless protest, "don't make me wear all that, I don't want to!!"

"Maybe you'd rather go to the party in your birthday suit," Diana suggested, gazing intently at my slim, white reflection in the mirror. I stumbled back in a sudden panic, feeling the blood practically freeze in my veins.

"Noooooooooo!" I cried, crossing my hands in front of myself. It wasn't fair, they were leaving me no choice. I could imagine nothing worse than parading, nude and weeping, before my entire class. They would do it, too: there was no doubt in my mind about that. If I refused to follow their orders, my body would be placed on open display to everyone I knew.

"Stop looking at me!" I sobbed, attempting to hide myself from the girls' prying glances. It was an utterly futile effort; both smiled knowingly at my obvious discomfort.

"Well, you'd better put your panties on, then," Mommy remarked, reaching for the sheer, satiny knickers, "the sooner you have them on, the sooner they'll stop laughing at you."

At that point, my fragile male ego collapsed into despair. Mommy knelt down, holding the panties open for me while the girls stood point on either side. Crying softly under my breath, I slipped each foot into the sleek, white girlie-pants, leaning against my sisters for balance. Butterflies were wheeling through my tummy; gooseflesh stood out on my bare thighs…

Dominic is then dressed in a garish red party dress, complete with frilly girl socks and sequined black mary-janes. His siblings spend the morning styling his hair, dolling him up "like a human plaything." The final transformation is frankly astonishing; although he'd always been petite and feminine in appearance, the illusion is visually perfect. A beautiful young girl stares back from the mirror, her fine, sensitive features framed by thick blond locks.

By the time the first guests arrive, nobody suspects "Dominique" is actually a boy. Even his former schoolyard tormentors mistake him for a girl, totally failing to recognize their former victim. Diana and Denise play along, presenting Dominique as their shy younger sister.

The party progresses in this fashion –with Dominic forced to dance about in a puffy crinoline – until his Mother unveils the birthday cake. Calling her beloved sissyboy forward to blow out the candles, she gaily reveals her "daughter's" secret to the assembled crowd, unleashing a torrent of shocked amusement. Dominic's hopeless attempts to avoid detection come to nothing; his friends, family and worst enemies all join in the general mockery (although many agree that "Dominique" makes an undeniably beautiful young girl). Incredibly enough, this is not the full extent of the boy's ordeal: he soon comes to understand that the "best" is yet to come.

Dominic's suspicions are confirmed when his Mother produces an instamatic camera, instructing him to prepare for his birthday photos. Pushed along by his jeering sisters, "Dominique" reluctantly poses for the lens. Half a dozen snapshots later, the show really begins:

At this point, Momma decided it was time to photograph my outfit.

"Hold your dress up higher," Mommy said, adjusting the camera, "we need a shot of everything you're wearing." My lower lip started to quiver.

"But Momma – everyone will see my panties!" I stared wildly around the living room, blushing to the eyebrows at the ensuing laughter.

"Oh, that's OK, honey", Mommy grinned, "this is your special day, remember?"

"But Momma – " I started to cry, crimson roses burning on my cheeks. Mommy cut me off with a dismissive gesture.

"Hush sweetie, don't make a scene," she warned, impaling me with her wild blue eyes, "Now hold your dress up over your waist so we can see your brand new birthday underwear." I knew this was not a request, and that any further delay would result in the most severe repercussions.

Moaning with embarrassment, I followed her orders, hiking my frock all the way up to my chest. Cries of delight circled round the room as I displayed my frilly pink petticoats and shiny white knickers. The camera whirred as shot after shot was taken, documenting my virginal white girlie-pants from every possible direction. I flinched with each blaze of the flash bulb, imagining how the album was going to look.

As the grand finale, I was ordered to bend over and throw my dress back over my head. A storm of applause broke out as my panty-clad bottom was exposed the crowd. This was, without exception, the most humiliating moment of my life up to that moment…

Needless to say, Dominic's tribulations are far from over. In a minor deviation to the birthday plotline, "Dominique" meets his second cousin Simon, whose family his just moved back from the North Country. Although neither has met the other previously, Dominic feels an odd kinship with the quiet, reserved young man, noting his long black hair and openly feminine mannerisms.

Dominic is also introduced to his Aunt Julia, a tall, stunning brunette he describes as "one of the most attractive women" he'd ever seen. Simon appears extremely subservient to his mother, hiding behind Julia's skirts throughout most of the party and avoiding contact with almost everyone else. Dominic himself feels somewhat intimidated by his domineering new aunt, but loses track of her as the "festivities" continue.

After all of guests finally leave, Mommy escorts Dominic upstairs for an early night, telling him she has "one last birthday surprise" in store for him. Upon entering his sleeping quarters, he discovers it has been redecorated as a girl's bedroom. Gaping around at all the Barbie dolls and purple unicorns, Dominic notices that all of his male clothing has been replaced with blouses, skirts and dresses: not a trace of his former existence remains.

The awful truth dawns on him almost immediately; from this time on, he will be required to live as a female. The birthday party was a farewell celebration or sorts – Dominic is gone, only Dominique now remains.

Over the next month, Dominique is subjected to an intense program of "gender reprogramming" – all hint of latent masculinity is ruthlessly quashed by her siblings, while appropriately feminine behavior is reinforced with praise and rewards. Dominique is forced to sleep in a brief, transparent nightie, play with toy ponies, and associate exclusively with girls her own age. Come the new year, she will be enrolled at Lindhurst Academy, an exclusive private school with a long history of petticoat punishment. This last revelation fills her with abject terror; apparently she'll be fitted for a traditional schoolgirl uniform and subject to corporal discipline.

Several weeks after the birthday party, Dominique is packed off for a visit to Aunt Julia's new place on the outskirts of town. Mommy explains that Julia is running a small dressmaking business out of her home, and that they'll both be lending a hand. Dominique is uncertain as to what her Mother means, but surmises that it probably involves needles, threads and sewing machines.

Upon arrival at Julia's ivy-covered cottage, Dominique is greeted by an extremely attractive young girl in a short gingham pinafore, introduced as her cousin Simone. Modest, unassuming, and exceptionally well-behaved, ten year-old Simone seems the archetype country girl, right down to the wildflowers in her sumptuous black hair. Dominique considers her much prettier than she herself is – and is literally dumbstruck to discover that "Simone" is actually a boy: the very same cousin Simon she met at the birthday party six weeks before.

Following a rather awkward luncheon, the women sit down to discuss business, sending the "girls" upstairs to play in Simone's bedroom. To prevent them rumpling their clothes, both are ordered to strip down to their socks and panties, leaving their Sunday dresses neatly folded on the living room sofa.

Dominique is initially reluctant to comply: for reasons she can't explain, she wants nothing to do with her sissyboy cousin, and the idea of undressing in front of "her" seems humiliating beyond words. Simone obeys without question, but Dominique only surrenders after being threatened with a "nice, long spanking" on the knickers.

The two play in silence for some time before Dominique's curiosity finally overcomes her hesitancy. Tentatively initiating a conversation, she soon realizes that their life stories are practically identical; Aunt Julie started feminizing Simon shortly after his first year. This was partly an act of revenge; Julia's fiancé abandoned her when she fell pregnant, an act of cowardice she never forgave or forgot. All men were liars, cheats and thieves, and Julia was determined that history would not repeat itself.

However, it was also done to protect her new born child from interfering relatives. Simon's father might have had no interest in his existence, but his fraternal grandparents considered Julia an unfit mother, attempting to sue for custody. That was how she ended up in the North Country, hiding out in a sleepy rural village where an unmarried mother could pass a widow and an infant boy as a pretty little girl.

Simone's "conditioning" had been far more extensive than Dominique's. A strict disciplinarian in every sense of the word, Aunt Julie had explained – in no uncertain terms – that Simone could only adopt a masculine role on very special occasions. This was no game of dress up: there were people out there who would gladly tear them apart. Even after the in-laws had given up their custody claims, there was still a chance that child services might pay unwanted attention to their case.

(this was the main reason why Simone had come to the party dressed as a boy. Having only recently moved back to town, Julia wasn't sure how the locals would react to the presence of a juvenile cross-dresser in their midst. The revelation of Dominique's true identity had served to quell her fears. Further observations had convinced Julia she could safely raise her son as a daughter… at least within this community)

Dominique listens with growing interest, strangely fascinated by her enigmatic playmate. The rest of the afternoon is spent exchanging muted confessions, allowing the girls to bond on a fundamental level. After several hours of circular chitchat, Dominique eventually broaches the issue they'd both been so carefully avoiding:

"Do you…like dressing as a girl?" I asked in a conspiratorial whisper. It was difficult to tell. While Simone seemed to have accepted her life in panties, I sensed she was extremely unhappy with her situation. She glanced nervously around, as if worried someone were eavesdropping on the conversation.

"No, not really," Simone answered after a momentary pause, "it's kind of lonely, pretending to be a girl all the time. Mom used to keep me in the house all day, wouldn't let me play with other kids unless she was around." She looked down at her tea set, shifting the empty cups around on the play table, "I'm glad you came over today, Dominique."

I guess I felt a little sorry for her then, knowing she'd never had any true friends. Despite my earlier reservations, it was easy to see her as a real girl, now. The boy I'd first met at the party was completely submerged. In his place was this incredibly pretty young girl in pink nylon panties. Rolling my gaze up and down her slim, lithe figure, I saw there was nothing even remotely male about her.

We talked a little longer, comparing experiences, discussing our mutual sense of shame and embarrassment. For Simone, the worst part was being alone; for me, the worst part was being rejected. By the end of the conversation, there didn't seem to be much difference. We were both alone, both outsiders, both facing an uncertain future. After the Christmas break, she'd be enrolling at Lindhurst Academy, two grades ahead of me. Having been home schooled most of her life, she was terrified of being mocked and bullied as a sissy.

Once again, her undisguised fear inspired a spark of compassion. I tried to reassure her as best I could, telling her we'd both be starting out as girls. From what Mommy had told me, nobody would know we were least not to begin with. It was a small consolation, but it was better than nothing.

We played quietly for a while, and during that brief silence we somehow became friends. Looking back now, I think I felt closer to her at that moment than to my own sisters.

"Dominique?" she asked in hushed tones.

"Yes?" I replied, looking up at her.

"I promise I won't tell anybody your secret."

"Me too, Simone."

And sitting there in our socks and panties, we each linked fingers and made a solemn vow never to betray the other for as long as we lived.

As the year draws to its conclusion, the girls maintain regular contact, largely due to their parents' business expanding beyond Julie's cottage. Opening a shop in the High Street, the women begin specializing in childrens' wear, using their feminized offspring as living mannequins. Needless to say, Dominique is totally mortified, especially after Mommy informs her that she will be modeling underwear for their Christmas catalogue. Adding insult to injury, her sisters torment her to the edge of human endurance, spreading news of The Big Photo Shoot around the entire district.

Dominique's sole relief is the knowledge that her cousin will be forced to share in this blatant humiliation. Being two years older and slightly more curvaceous, Simone has been conscripted for the upcoming lingerie parade, which will include a public demonstration of Aunt Julie's custom-designed training bra. Simone admits that she's horrified by the idea of posing before the camera in her vest and panties, but lacks the courage to defy her mother's wishes. Dominique confesses to similar trepidations, agreeing that refusal is out of the question.

As the final countdown begins, the girls are brought down to the shop for dress rehearsals. Simone has grown quite attached to her younger cousin by this time, viewing her as the "sister" she never had. Dominique, by contrast, is still slightly ambivalent towards their relationship, frequently oscillating between pity and disdain. While she likes Simone well enough, her presence is a reminder of the incessant ridicule she undergoes. All the same, bizarre circumstances (and maternal domination) have thrown them together, and Dominique knows she has to make the best of it.

The girls are ushered into the shop around 11.00 am Sunday morning, ten days before their grand performance. The interior has been extended to encompass a display center and two fitting rooms, the smaller of which is located at the back of the store. A semi-circle of chairs has been set up on the main sales floor in anticipation of the main event. Although only a modest turnout is expected, Dominique imagines half the town will see her strutting about in her bare knickers. Bad enough that her sisters force her to undress before them on a daily basis; she even feels uncomfortable stripping off in front of Simone. As usual however, her pleas go unheeded as the girls are sent out to prepare for their rehearsal:

"Alright you two," Mommy waved us off towards the back rooms, "time to get ready. Use the fitting salon. Your things are laid out on the chaise-long."

"Momma, can't I…can't I get changed alone this time? I don't want Simone to –"

Mommy held up her left hand, silencing me in mid-sentence.

"You've seen each other naked hundreds of times before," Mommy smiled, eyes blazing their hidden warning, "would you prefer I undressed you myself?"

"Nooooooooo!" I exclaimed, stepping back in rising panic. I hated it when she treated me like a baby.

"Then off you go RIGHT NOW," she told us in mock anger, applying two well-aimed smacks to our derrieres as we turned and ran screaming out to the changing room. "I'll be in to check on you in five minutes," she added ominously. Neither of us doubted her meaning: the slightest delay would lead to a pair of red-hot bottoms.

Twittering with child-like dread, we cantered into the fitting room, hysterically tugging at our clothes. Off came our plain cotton house frocks, followed by t-shirts, singlets and slips. Soon we were stripped all the way down to our silky little panties, absently chattering about the day ahead. Our new outfits had been set out on the sofa, along with some petticoats, vests and hair ribbons.

Simone immediately climbed into her light nylon crinoline, adjusting the band around her waist. It was so sheer that her thighs and panties were clearly visible through the material. I was still dawdling about in my underpants, wondering what I should put on next. Suddenly, I noticed some parti-coloured bangles around Simone's wrist.

"Gee, those are pretty," I said, leaning in for a better look, "are they new?"

"Yeah, Mom bought them for me last week. She says they're 'friendship' bracelets." Simone paused, working one carefully down her forearm, "I want you to have this one, because you're my best friend."

"What, really?" I replied without thinking, then slipped the bangle over my right hand.

"Now we'll be friends forever," Simone told me, then stepped forward and kissed me on square on the right cheek. Caught off-guard, I could only gasp in slack-jawed surprise. This was the first time we'd exchanged more than a handshake, her body felt unexpectedly soft and warm against mine. "What are you doing?" I thought in mute shock, but paradoxically found myself relaxing in her arms.

Just at that moment, Mommy appeared at the doorway, just in time to see our impromptu cuddle fest. A huge smile spread across her features; there were few things as heart-warming as the sight of a couple of sissyboys snuggling in their underwear. She immediately called out to Aunt Julie.

"Julia, come over here! Just look at these two – getting ready in their little panties!"

Aunt Julie appeared in the doorway next to Mommy, a measuring tape looped about her neck. She burst out laughing at first sight of us.
"Oh, aren't they just adorable? Quickly, Eve - let's get a snapshot of them!"

"Good idea. Girls – look over here! Mommy's going to take your picture."

We both shrieked in high-pitched alarm, knowing we were about to be photographed in our underwear. I was particularly embarrassed, knowing I'd been caught in nothing but my pettipants. At least Simone had her frilly little slip on!

"Momma!" I trilled in outrage, "we're not ready yet!"

"That's OK sweetie," Mommy replied with considerable amusement, "little girls are allowed to run around in their undies."

I'm NOT a little girl! I almost shouted, but managed to restrain myself at the last second. I'd learnt through painful experience not to raise my voice to my mother, the consequences being too dire to contemplate.

"OK, then," Mommy told us, "big smiles!"

Simone beamed obediently at the camera, her arm still wrapped lightly around my waist. She'd had far more experience hiding her emotions than me, giving the impression that she honestly enjoyed her unending humiliation. I wasn't quite so adept.

Noting my hesitation, Mommy strode further into the room, focusing the camera on my baby-blue girlie-pants. Firing off seven or eight shots in rapid succession, she instructed me to turn around and present my knickers to the lens. Stifling a scream, I doubled over from the hips, thrusting my panty-covered bottom out towards her. Knowing what was coming next, I gnawed my lip, awaiting the inevitable order.

"Good" Mommy commented in great satisfaction, "Now - wriggle your tooshie from side to side."

Squealing with exasperation, I pumped my firm, round bottom-cheeks back and forth, blushing beet-red at the laughter that followed. For a moment I hated Simone and Aunt Julie. They were enjoying this, and Simone had just sworn to be my best friend! I hoped she got a lot worse than me when her turn came.

"Alright – let's try that again," Mommy teased.


"One more time, sweetie".

Once my ordeal was finally over, Simone was asked to take center stage. As usual, she agreed without comment, unwilling to risk her mother's ire. Aunt Julie and Mommy exchanged some familial banter for a few seconds, discussing which kind of pose Simone should adopt, then decided she had to hold her petticoat up to her chin.

"Good," I thought rather uncharitably, "let's see how SHE likes it!" I hovered quietly to one side, barely concealing my thinly-veiled pleasure. Now it was my turn to laugh.

Standing on her tippy-toes, Simone raised her slip to reveal her shiny nylon panties. Her posture recalled a cancan girl, long tapering legs outlined by intricately ruffled frills. The camera whisked off six shots while Simone practically danced with outrage.

"This sooo embarrassing!" she warbled in her keen, chirping voice, but couldn't resist smiling all the while. Despite her protests, I suspected Simone secretly enjoyed showing off her underwear this way. Feeling somewhat cheated, I hid my resentment behind a rather infantile pout. Why did she get off so easy after everything I'd been put through?

"Dominique!" Mommy quipped, still fidgeting with the camera, "stop that sulking and get dressed!"

"Yes Momma," I answered, hurrying across to the chaise-long. Nothing escaped Mommy's attention, she had eyes like a hawk. 'Play time' was over, it was time get down to serious business. Simone and I slipped on the rest of our ensembles, preparing for the dress rehearsal. I watched her with a quizzical gaze, confused by her strangely indifferent attitude. None of this seemed to have affected her; as a matter of fact, she appeared to savor the experience.

Clearly, there was far more to my older cousin than I'd previously supposed.

A Pledge in Petticoats concludes shortly after this scene, omitting the anticipated "lingerie parade" in favor of a brief outline of forthcoming events: Aunt Julie's business taking off; ongoing humiliation for Dominique; the girls' enrollment at Lindhurst Academy, and hinted rivalries with their new classmates. The story ends with the statement that despite increasing tensions between them, Simone and Dominique stayed true to their original vows, remaining steadfast friends well into their teenaged years. Evidently, the piece was meant to be expanded into a more complex narrative, but the full volume never materialized.

However, some of the characters were revived for two later stories, A Night to Remember and From Knee Socks to Nylons, both of which featured Simone and Dominique in their later teens. In the former title, Simone is revealed to be a willing participant in her mother's marketing schemes, planning to undergo gender reassignment surgery and re-enter society as a transsexual catwalk model. Dominique, however, is still a reluctant prisoner of her mother's dominating influence, fighting a losing battle to establish a male identity. Each scenario maintains a loose continuity with the initial storyline, although (by necessity), Dominique's internal struggles remain largely unresolved.


By the end of 1992, Kristy was making regular contributions to the swiftly emerging online community, beginning with USENET and IRC before moving on to early transgendered websites such as TGL and the long-defunct Transposition (later renamed Sophia Press). Around this time, Kristy began experimenting with short vignettes she referred to as "Five Minute Fiction". Ranging in length from 500 to 2000 words, each vignette featured a single image, drawn in the same minimal style seen in A Pledge in Petticoats. These pseudo-anecdotes were the digital equivalent of filler pieces, padding out unused space between serious articles on gender transitioning and lifestyle advice.

In 1993, Transposition/Sophia Press introduced a download facility, allowing users to print out the site's content from PDF files. Kristy submitted a number of short stories to the archive, intended as "hooks" for the lengthier material. Most were formatted in COMstat, a precursor to CBR, and configured for A4 page settings.

These vignettes tended to be somewhat formulaic in structure, employing stock themes, familiar settings and unsophisticated language recalling childrens' story books. Times and places were never fully specified, although occasional references suggested postwar Britain from the late fifties to the early seventies. Little, if any, continuity existed between stories, although a number of ideas and concepts would be developed at a later stage.

The lead characters were somewhat ambiguous in nature. Although biologically male, they were often girlish in the extreme, passing as female to the casual glance. Their attitude was equally open to question; while usually reluctant to undergo petticoating, they nonetheless experienced a sense of "guilty pleasure" during their supposed ordeal. In at least one scenario, the hero(ine) is already a practicing transvestite, cross-dressing in private until his Aunt decides to expose his secret to the world. In Her Tender Mercies, twelve year-old Chris Matthews faces an archetype "caught with consequences" situation when he lets his guard down once too often:

A bolt of panic shot down my spine when I heard the key settling in the lock. My eyes flickered over towards the door: it had to be Aunt Cathy! What was she doing home so early? She'd headed off to her bridge club less than fifteen minutes ago; I wasn't expecting her back for several hours. My pulse leapt into overdrive as key slid into place with an audible clack!

NOOOOOOOOO! I thought, feeling the colour rise in my cheeks. My lips parted in a silent gasp. My greatest fear was about to be realized; my deepest secret revealed. I stepped backwards in rising alarm, nearly tripping over the coffee table.

This couldn't be happening. Not here, not now, after I'd spent so many months hiding my true identity in the shadows. I glanced wildly about the room, mentally calculating the odds of making it across to the stairs unseen. Every nerve in my body started screaming with electric fire. Aunt Cathy was home, I could almost see her standing out on the landing, chatting way with her friends from the bridge club. Any second now, the door would open and they'd step inside, eyes widening at the spectacle of a twelve year-old sissy-boy dressed in frilly blue panties...

Turning away from the door, I caught sight of myself in the cheval mirror I'd set up near the sofa. It showed me as I truly am; a petite little girl with long blond hair and full, crimson lips. How could I explain this, account for my sudden metamorphosis? In all the months since I had come to live with her, Aunt Cathy had never seen me as my real self. She would never understand: very few people could, even in this day and age. I've never really understood it myself.

The door swung open.

Aunt Cathy stepped across the threshold, adjusting her sunglasses and leading a flock of gabbling matrons into the living room. Frozen to the spot, I turned to face them, self-consciously covering my mouth with both hands.

A deafening silence fell upon the house as half a dozen babbling voices halted in mid-sentence. The moment seemed to spin out to eternity: how was I ever going to explain this?

An infinite span of time later, Aunt Cathy decided to shatter the tension with a single word.

"Chris?" she asked in a voice laced with honeyed arsenic. She stared me up and down with a long, measuring gaze, barely capable of hiding her amusement. I nodded, opening my mouth but unable to form a reply. What was she thinking? I could read nothing from her expression, apart from the faintest trace of mockery.

She knew! I realized in sudden, breathless clarity, she knew all along! Worse still, she'd set me up for this gratuitous humiliation.

Cathy's matronly companions are instantly captivated by "Chrissy's" girlish figure, immediately demanding he model the flimsy little underthings he has amassed over the preceding months (apparently, all elderly women love to see sensitive young boys dressed up as pretty little girls). Coerced into an impromptu lingerie parade, Chrissy feels a wildly conflicting array of emotions, even collapsing into hysterical giggles at one point. The story ends with the suggestion that this initial shaming becomes a regular event as Aunt Cathy engages Chris as the Bridge Club's resident panty-maid.

The borderlines are blurred even further in Bunny-Hop Belle, where the protagonist's misconduct leads to a more traditional form of "pleated discipline". When local school authorities attempt to curb little Stacy Williams' rambunctious behaviour, the final results are more than a trifle contradictory, as implied during the first paragraph:

The Everdale Junior Bunny-Hop had been scheduled for April the first, and everybody was looking forward to the festivities - even some of the boys. Possessing a long history of pinafore discipline, the school had more than its fair share of petticoated students; young Stacy Williams being one of its best-known offenders. Barely a week went by when he wasn't spanked and skirted over some cheeky misdemeanor.

His recent behaviour had been so incorrigible that his Mommy had been called in to talk to the headmistress. After some discussion, they agreed that Tracy should attend the bunny hop in full petticoats to deter further misconduct. Naturally, Stacy was somewhat reluctant to accept this well-deserved penalty, but the threat of a good, hard spanking soon quelled his objections.

Once the fateful night arrived, the school auditorium glittered with coloured lights and fluorescent posters. Dozens of giggling children flocked around the jukebox, overseen by chattering adults. Everybody teased Stacy over his high-waisted party dress and bright scarlet hair-bows, making him blush redder than a summer tomato. Worse still, his Mommy forced him onto the dance floor, reminding him to prance and whirl with the rest of the girls.

Soon after the dancing began, a discussion broke out amongst the mothers as to which little girl was wearing the frilliest dress. There was certainly a huge range to choose from; every last bunny was decked out in her prettiest party dress, literally covered with ribbons and bows.
When the girls picked up on the conversation, they all started vying for their Mommies' attention, spinning and twirling about the dance floor like their skirts were going to fly away. It was no easy decision to make, as they all looked so cute and funny!

But then Tracy decided to settle the matter once and for all. Sporting an impish little smile, he spun around and flipped his skirt high up over his back. Displaying his plump, pantied bottom to the entire room, he proved that some boys have more frills underneath than the girls do

Wrapped in a cloud of alabaster petticoats, Tracy shimmied his tail back and forth, much to the delight of everybody present (though some of the girls were understandably annoyed at being upstaged).

"What a little show off," the mothers all agreed, and promptly crowned Tracy the Frilliest Bunny at the Hop. He was rewarded with a bag of sweets and some huge, delicious cuddles from his Mommy, who swept him up in a haze of gleaming nylon.

"I think those panties need a good spanking," Mommy said, patting him fondly on the bottom. She was joking of course; there was a twinkle in Mommy's eye, so Tracy knew he wasn't in any real trouble. Returning to the dance floor, he quickly joined in the fun with the rest of his friends, many of whom were busy revealing their crinolines in emulation of Tracy's cheeky antics.

All things considered, it turned out to be a perfect evening. Best of all, Little Tracy Williams started a something of a tradition that year. Although he may have been the first boy to be crowned Frilliest Bunny at the Hop, he certainly wasn't the last!

In common with many of Kristy's protagonists, Stacy Williams is something of a covert exhibitionist, discovering that petticoating has certain advantages over other forms of punishment. The image of Stacy baring his "plump, pantied bottom" to the crowd is one Kristy would explore in many subsequent tales.

A more conventional approach to the subject matter may be found in 1995's Conscripted into Panties, as nine year-old Jayden Taylor is…well, conscripted into panties by his business-oriented mother. Once more told from a first-person perspective, the narrative drops the reader more or less directly into the action, setting the stage for Jayden's humiliation within the first two paragraphs:

My very first experience with girls' lingerie occurred during the summer of my ninth year. I was assisting my mother around her department store, dressing mannequins and attaching price tags in the women's section. This was common practice back in those days, female staff often brought their children to work during the school holidays. I wasn't the only child on hand either, at least two of my classmates were rambling around the stock room, frequently emerging from the depths to see what I was up to. We were all pretty excited, the store was a veritable wonderland, and I'd been waiting all year to accompany my mother in her duties, feeling very important and self-assured. I had no idea how much embarrassment I would suffer by the end of the day!

My ordeal began when the floor manager approached Mommy and told her there was a problem with the latest shipment of girlswear. Evidently, the manufacturer had misplaced one of our orders: everything they sent was the wrong size. Nothing seemed to fit the mannequins we had for the window display, and nobody was sure which models to requisition from the warehouse. This was a disaster in the making, as the July Sale was meant to start the next day. Time was of the essence, and we had to sort the matter out immediately.

"Which order are we talking about?" Mommy asked, looking over the inventory sheet.

"Girls' cotton sun frocks, size 7," replied Mrs. Hannigan, thoughtfully adjusting her glasses, "also nylon panties, small to medium six." Mommy mused over the report for a few seconds, then appeared to come to a decision.

"I think I may have a solution," she remarked, looking over in my direction. "Jayden? Could you come over here, please?"

Having surreptitiously eavesdropped on the conversation, I had some inkling where this was leading, and already felt considerable trepidation.

"My son's small for his age," Mommy explained in her matter-of-fact tone, "roughly a six, give or take. If the order fits him, we'll know which mannequins we'll need."

"Mommy!" I cried in open horror, "I can't wear girls' panties!! I'm a boy!!"

Jayden's complaints are naturally swept aside as the boy is led away to the changing booth, witnessed by his jeering classmates and the Friday morning crowd. With his long black hair and petite figure, he is the perfect choice for the job, being indistinguishable from a real girl at the best of times. As with his predecessor Simone, Jayden is required to model a new line of underwear, only this time before a live audience. Once again, there is some question over precisely how humiliating he finds his newly feminized role. The story ends with the words:

"I forced a smile onto my face as I raised the frock up to my chin. Never in a million years had I imagined I'd find myself modeling Girls' Knickers in public!"

One of Kristy's final submissions to Sophia Press featured several departures from her usual formula. The story itself was considerably longer than her normal output, abandoning the simplistic language and structure of her earlier works. The main graphic was rendered in watercolour pencil and copic markers, with the final image enhanced in Photoshop. Crossing the Boundaries dealt specifically with femdom, spanking and petticoat discipline, leaving no doubt that the main character was an unwilling participant in the events that unfurled:



"All right, that's IT, young man!!"

Marion Hoskins was at the end of her tether. She'd had the worst day in recorded history and the last thing she needed was another screaming match with her nephew. The boy had been testing the limits for more than a week now, and she'd finally decided it was time for some direct action. All she wanted was a little old-fashioned respect, after all. Recognition for the long hours she put in at work; for her senior status within the household. Sixty hours a week in the office from hell and all she could look forward to was a mouthful of Jess's sneering contempt. Well, all that was about to change. At the end of the day, she deserved better than this. She was the one who brought home the bacon, after all!

"Get up to your room this instant," Marion growled, scowling down at the boy from withering, arctic heights, "You have ten minutes to get ready!"

Jessie's eye widened with dawning horror. Ten minutes head start could only mean one thing.

"Noooooo!" Jess cried, knowing precisely what she had in store for him, "PLEASE, Aunt Marion - anything but a SPANKING!!" His posturing, male pride had evaporated in a matter of seconds; Jess had good reason to fear Marion's anger. If only he'd managed to keep his mouth shut on the way home. He knew from painful experience that she wouldn't tolerate any of his snide backtalk. There were certain boundaries that should never be crossed; the consequences were too severe to even consider.

Unfortunately, the time for negotiations had long passed. Marion had already made her decision, and nothing would alter her verdict. And that was one thing Jess could count on.

"Get up to your room NOW!!" she snapped, leaning in close to the boy and pointing towards the staircase. A single vertical line appeared on her forehead, directly between her eyebrows. Jess's heart sank; he knew that sign. His Aunt wasn't simply angry - she was downright furious. A chill of suspense played his spine like a xylophone. Whimpering in protest, he turned and fled for the staircase, his long, blond ponytail flaring out in his wake.

Marion watched him hit the stairs at a full run. A tall, athletic woman in her early thirties, she stood with one hand on her hip, forcing her pulse to drop back to its normal pace. Jess was long overdue for discipline, and she wanted to be completely calm when she entered his bedroom. The task ahead would require her full concentration, and she intended to savor every squirming, twitching moment to its fullest extent.

Where was that brush? she thought, glancing around the living room. The one with the teakwood finish, as smooth and dark as baby grand. She usually kept it on the mantelpiece over the fireplace, where it would always be within easy reach. Marion normally applied her open hand to Jessie's errant bottom, but today, she felt the circumstances required a little something extra. A grim smile touched her full, red lips. I'm going to enjoy this, Marion thought, walking across to the fireplace.


Jess bolted up the stairs in tears, his expensive Nike sneakers pounding the steps two at a time. He was literally overwhelmed with shame and fright; it had been more than four months since his last spanking, and he knew this would be far worse than a couple of glancing smacks on the tail. His Aunt was utterly livid. He never should have picked that argument with her on the way home. What had he been thinking, testing her patience over such a trivial matter?

She's going to SPANK me!! Jess thought frantically, wiping the moisture from his cheeks. He sprinted along the upstairs passage way and headed for his bedroom door. He couldn't afford to drag his heels. He had to prepare for his punishment. If he wasn't finished by the time she arrived, things would probably go a lot worse for him.

At barely eight years of age, there were very few things Jess hated more than a spanking. He would gladly have endured grounding for a year to avoid going over Marion's knee. Of course, no such options were available on this occasion. Nothing could temper her judgment once she'd made up her mind. Hot tears began to fill his eyes. He could already feel her wide, scarlet handprint burning into his pantied buttocks.

Running through the doorway, Jess paused a few feet from his bed and stood looking around the room, his face a mask of trepidation. How much was it going to hurt this time? Was she going to use the brush, that long black heirloom she kept on the mantelpiece over the fire? He'd only felt its touch a handful of times, but he dreaded it more than any other implement his Aunt employed. The last time she'd applied it to his tender young bottom-cheeks, he'd had to eat standing up for nearly three days. Sobbing in misery, Jess went over to his study desk and started dragging the old, straight-backed chair into the middle of the floor. He'd come to think of it as THE SPANKING CHAIR, the site of a thousand red-bottomed torments. It was a constant reminder of his juvenile status within the family hierarchy, the fact that Marion was his Aunt and he would always be subject to her authority.

Shifting the chair to its venerated position, Jess went over to his built-in closet. He hesitated before the folding door, his belly tensing up in apprehension. Now came the part he loathed the most; the thing he despised more than any other part of this ritual of disgrace.
It was time to get changed.

Stealing a glance at the clock (less than six minutes to go), Jess began to undress, pulling off his t-shirt and unbuckling the belt of his jeans. He bit his lower lip, whimpering in consternation. Why did he have to do this? It seemed so unfair, so terribly unjust. Everyone deserved at least some measure of dignity, no matter what they'd done to incur the familial wrath. Even convicted criminals were accorded better treatment than this.

Tossing his jeans and underpants into the laundry hamper, Jess reached back to remove the band from his ponytail. And at that moment, Jessie Hoskins no longer looked like an eight year-old boy. He didn't look like any kind of boy for that matter. With his long, curvaceous limbs and his slightly protruding belly, he seemed slim, petite ... vulnerable.

Sniffling like a child lost in the rain, he folded the closet doors back into themselves and surveyed the interior. His soft, child-like features melted with dismay. He'd known what was awaiting him, but a vast wave of despair overpowered him nonetheless.

The closet was full of dresses. And there it was: the ultimate humiliation. Marion always insisted he dress up as a young girl whenever he was due for a trip over her knee. She had instituted this rule nearly three years ago, and had enforced it ever since, brushing aside his protests with barely a second thought. It was the most degrading thing he could imagine, a betrayal of his budding masculinity - being forced to slip into a pair of lace panties and a frilly sun-frock ... prior to having his bottom tanned the color of a ripe raspberry.


Five minutes.

Racing the clock, Jess pulled out a sheer pink dress and a handful of dainty white underthings, laying them out carefully on the bed the way Marion had taught him. Despite his rising hysteria, there was a ritual he had to follow when dressing up, a sequence his Aunt insisted on, even when he was preparing for a spanking. Everything had to be kept clean, fresh and utterly pristine. A single wrinkle on the frock could earn him a little extra "attention" over her lap, and he had no desire to try her patience any further.

Running back to the closet, he fished about until he found the glossy red shoes his cousin Shirley had bought him for his last birthday. They were high heeled pumps, the kind little girls wore during their first public debut. Cousin Shirley owned a fashion boutique called Young Miss; she was always buying things for Jesse to try on (Jess sometimes imagined his entire family was in on a conspiracy to turn him into a sissy, molly-coddling him into a state of helpless femininity).

He scrambled back to the bed, placing the shoes on the floor. He looked down at the garments spread out on the bedspread, making a mental note of everything he needed: shoes, socks, underpants, vest and dress. A place for everything, everything in its place. Only four minutes left; no time to waste! Marion would be here anytime now. He had to get dressed. Now.

(she's going to SPANK me!!)

Jess picked up the flimsy nylon panties, feeling a rich, crimson blush saturate his complexion. Shimmering white full briefs, they were covered with pale blue flowers and edged with a dainty pink frill. The very sight of them set his pulse racing. His tummy swirled with warm, fluid shame. The thought of wearing a pair of girl's underpants had him trembling with outrage. He was a boy! What right did she have to humiliate him this way?

(hurry up!! she'll be here any second!!)

Closing his eyes in childish denial, Jess stepped into the sheer, gossamer knickers, gliding them slowly up his thighs. The sleek material rustled against his flesh. He felt a rush of fearful excitement - the touch of nylon always preceded the agony of a spanking. His head began to swim with conflicting emotions - embarrassment, guilt ... and excitement. That was the strangest contradiction of all. Much as he despised being paddled like a naughty schoolgirl, he invariably experienced a thrill of wild exaltation when his discipline was imminent.

(the singlet! quickly!)

Of course, it wasn't a singlet, not the sort any boy would want to wear. It was a white floral vest, a perfect match for the panties, right down to the rosy trim around the edges. Jess pulled the vest on over his head, taking a few seconds to smooth out the creases, and tucked it carefully into his panties, precisely as he'd been taught since early childhood. Everything had to be perfect, a single mistake would incur the severest penalties. He turned to check himself in the mirror - And Jessie was no longer a boy.


Jessica Hoskins stood scrutinizing her reflection, her sumptuous golden hair cascading down past her shoulders. With the late morning sunlight streaming in through the bay windows, she was a fragile, delicate nymph, her alabaster flesh shining like polished marble. Her figure was taking on the lush contours of dawning womanhood: from her slender, tapering legs to her wide, curving hips, she was blossoming like some ripening, succulent fruit.

Illuminated by a subtle backglow, she stepped back to her bed and picked up her brief, pastel sun-dress. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she drew the frock on over her head and settled it lightly into place. Jessie was scared: she'd been unforgivably naughty on the way home from school, and Aunt Marion was going to smack her bottom. She swiped her eyes with the heel of her palm, sobbing in open fear. It just wasn't right, she didn't deserve this. Couldn't Marion see that?

She sat down on the bed and pulled on her prim white girl-socks, the ones with the pretty lace frill around the top. They were sweet, lovely and very, very feminine; the kind of things worn by rosy-faced girls with long, curling pigtails. Of course she had no time to dwell on such things right now - she was getting ready for a spanking, and the last thing on her mind was how her socks looked. She cocked an ear towards the doorway, listening in rising panic. Footsteps were ascending the staircase. Ominous, determined footsteps.

Marion was on her way up.

Moaning with desperation, Jessie squeezed her feet into the slick red pumps and tightened the straps about her ankles. In a matter of seconds, her Aunt would walk in through the door and her spanking would begin. She would be turned over Marion's knee with her pantied young bottom-tops on rude display. The image froze her pulse in mid-beat. It was going to hurt. So much!

Why did she always get herself into trouble like this? This wasn't the first time she'd been punished for her incessant backchat. Getting her Aunt angry always led to a painful finale, and today it would probably be much worse that usual. Today, she'd almost certainly get the hairbrush.

Those heavy, clocking footfalls were in the hallway now.

Nooooooooo, Jessie whispered to herself. She stood up and ran a last minute check over her dress, hair and shoes. She hadn't had time to tie a bow through her thick, blond tresses; she could only hope her Aunt wouldn't notice this single, insignificant oversight. Not much chance of that, though; Marion's eyes were sharp. She never missed a thing.

Jessie skittered over to stand before the SPANKING CHAIR with her face downcast and her hands clasped behind her back. She tried to shrink inside herself, look as small and harmless as possible. It wouldn't do any good, wouldn't lessen her sentence by even one stroke; she was aware of that, but hopes of a twelth-hour acquittal tortured her nevertheless. She didn't want a spanking, didn't deserve it!!

Marion's footsteps were right outside the door now. Jessie turned to face her, choking down her tears and all but praying for divine intervention. Please not the brush, she thought over and over, the words filling her mind in gigantic neon letters, please not the brush, please not the brush.

Aunt Marion appeared in the door.

She was carrying the brush.


Jessie lapsed into a litany of desperate pleas as Marion entered the room, tall and grim and full of purpose. She strode towards the spanking chair, her face calm but etched with hidden thunder. The antique ebony hairbrush glinted menacingly in the sunlight. It was the realization of Jessie's worst nightmares, a sign that this would be an extremely long and painful spanking indeed.

"No, Auntie, NO," Jessie wailed in a high, quavering voice, "not the BRUSH, please not the brush, it HURTS too much, PLEASE don't SPANK me with the HAIRBRUSH -"

Marion ignored Jessie's fervent pleas, seating herself comfortably on the chair and steeling herself for the task ahead. She had to be firm, both with Jessie and herself. In spite of the satisfaction she would undoubtedly feel, corporal punishment was no easy matter for any woman. Jess would shriek and struggle over her lap, kicking his (her) feet and screaming for mercy. No woman enjoys seeing a child in pain, and Marion was no exception. She would need all her strength to see this through.

"Alright, that's enough!" Marion exclaimed, slicing through Jessie's breathless entreaties with a stern, unforgiving glance, "you worked very hard to earn this reward, young lady, and you have no one to blame but yourself." Emphasis on the words young lady; as far as Marion was concerned, if Jessie insisted on behaving like a naughty little girl, she'd be treated like one as well. Considering the situation, it wasn't difficult to view her wayward nephew as a willful young niece. At the end of the day, he - she - was a natural for the role.

"Now," Marion continued, testing the brush against the flat of her palm, "I've put up with enough of your sullen moods and disrespect, Jessica. It's high time you were taught a lesson in common courtesy. I've tried to reason with you, talk you through these temper tantrums. That was a complete waste of time - naturally enough - and I'm sick to death of your attitude. Well, if talking isn't having the desired effect, there's always the alternative isn't there? Let's see if a good, long SPANKING won't solve your little communication problem."

On the pronouncement of this verdict, Jessie's nerve broke completely.

"No, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it, really I didn't, I take it all back, PLEASE don't be cross,-"

Marion listened to her nephew's quailing petitions, vaguely amused by the radical change in his character. The transformation hadn't been confined to his appearance; his whole personality seemed to have altered. His strutting, boyish animosity had vanished the moment he donned the sun-frock. Twenty minutes before, he'd been screaming abuse at the top of his lungs, now he was begging her forgiveness with tears in his eyes. It was amazing what an hour or two of 'Jessica-time' could do for the boy's normally belligerent temperament - particularly when a hot, throbbing bottom was on the cards.

Which brought her back to the issue at hand. Punishment should never be tempered by remorse, no matter how sincere. Jessie had been inexcusably rude on the drive home, and Marion was determined to see that justice was done in this case. Leaning forward on the chair, she transfixed her simpering ward with an impaling glance.

"Stop that crying RIGHT NOW!!" Marion instructed, brandishing the brush in her right hand, "You're going over my knee whether you like it or not, young lady. You DESERVE a spanking, and that is PRECISELY what you're going to get. Now -" she paused, slapping the brush into her hand to reinforce her point, "I want you to come over here, bend over and lift up your skirt."

Jessica gasped, shaking her head in childish denial. It was time to BARE her PANTIES! She hated this almost as much as the spanking itself: it was so juvenile, so embarrassing, so utterly degrading.

"No, no, please no!!" she begged in keening, frantic tones, "don't make me do it, spank me over my dress, please don't -"

"DO as I SAY right NOW!!"

Groaning in utter humiliation, Jessica doubled over from the hips, flipping her dress over her back like a can-can dancer. Her virginal white underpants were immediately thrust into view; her plush, yielding cheeks literally bulging through the gossamer fabric.

Marion nodded to herself in evident satisfaction. All those years of training and reinforcement had payed off; despite her obvious fear and trepidation, the thought of refusal had never really crossed Jessie's mind. She stood doubled over in abject submission, her pert young bottomtops jostling back and forth.

Well, can't stand around congratulating myself all day, Marion thought wryly. She had a job to do - one she now found much to her liking, truth be told. No point waiting any longer: business before pleasure, as her dear departed father had been fond of saying.

"All right, my girl," Marion said, taking Jessie by the right hand, "let's get you over my knee".

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!" Jessica wailed as she was led over her aunt's lap. Marion guided the helpless, sobbing child into place, settling her into the central position. Heart literally hammering against her ribcage, Jessie whispered her final, tearful pleas, knowing her spanking was only moments away now. Her firm, ripe bottom clenched with anticipation.

"No, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it really I didn't please don't ..."

Marion raised the brush, tensing the muscles along her right arm. "OK - hold still and stop that wriggling", she warned, "you've had this coming for weeks now, and this is one lesson you won't forget in a hurry!!"

The brush streaked down, faster than the eye could follow.

Jessica screamed.



Between 1995 and 1997, Kristy committed herself to post-graduate study, leaving her little time for more creative pursuits. She did, however, research transgendered subcultures such as the Kathoey of Thailand and the Xanith of Oman, providing content for some of her academic writings.

Upon completing her MA in 1998, Kristy embarked on an extended Asian tour, observing local societies first hand and supplementing her income via language instruction. She eventually settled into a full-time university position in Bangkok near the end of 1999.

At this point, Kristy returned to illustrated fiction, revitalized by new perspectives and experiences. Her first major undertaking was arguably her most ambitious to date, employing a synthesis of traditional and digital media. The resulting project was a tribute to the "golden age" of transgendered literature. In this pastiche, Kristy revisited many of the classic tropes associated with petticoat discipline and added a few elements innate to late twentieth century. For this venture, Kristy adopted two additional pseudonyms; Angie Holbrook as writer and Transfemme as artist.

Cynosure follows the story of young Angel McConnor, a highly effeminate male entrusted to the care of a domineering matriarch. Rejected by his parents at the age of thirteen, Angel is initially placed in foster care until his Aunt Julene Mayfield arranges to adopt him. Wealthy, affluent and intractably single-minded, "Aunt Julie" slowly erases the boy's identity through psychological reprogramming and hormone treatments.

The story opens with a brief synopsis of Angel's current situation. Speaking in the first person, Angel glosses over the details of his gender reassignment, concentrating more on his menial status within the Mayfield household:

I moved in with my Aunt Julie just over two years ago. I used to be a boy back then. Well...a boy, more or less. It was hard to tell at times. With my thick blond hair and slender build, I might've been one or the other. That's one of the reasons why my folks sent me away. They didn't want any nancies swanning around the house. Brought the family name into disrepute, they said.

For a while I started over-compensating for my effeminate mannerisms – I cut my hair short, swaggered around doing bad Marlon Brando impersonations, the way any adolescent boy does in his early teens. It was all doomed to failure; I was just too feminine by nature and appearance. More than that, Aunt Julie refused to tolerate any masculine behaviour on my part.

Julene Mayfield had taken me in because I possessed so many androgynous characteristics. While my parents "didn't want no nancies swanning round the house," Aunt Julie didn't want any anything else. She'd accepted custody on the sole understanding that I would be raised as a girl - the daughter she'd never had.

Almost from our first week together, Julene had started the long and sometimes arduous process of gender reconditioning - gradually recasting me into a female role. Needless to say, I was somewhat less than enthusiastic about the procedure - which involved corseting, deportment and hormonal therapy - but Aunt Julie was utterly inflexible on these points.

First, there were the sailor suits, followed by the unisexual clothing. Within two months I was slipping on pink nylon panties with barely a word of complaint. That was the hold she had on me. I hated being treated like a little girl, but I felt as though I had no other choice.

By the time he turns fifteen, Angel has been transformed into a stunning young sissyboy, passing for female under even the closest observation. The deception is so effective that he has been working as a fashion model for the past seven months, swiftly gaining prominence under his Aunt's ever-vigilant tutelage. This burgeoning success is little consolation for Angel, who sees little of the money he earns. In point of fact, his life has become something of a nightmare.

Julene now controls virtually every aspect of his existence, being both his legal guardian and business representative. Angel has become both subservient to her will and dependent on her charity, rarely questioning her decisions and never defying her instructions.

Unable (or unwilling) to resist his Aunt's authority, Angel is reduced to a helpless, vulnerable child; denied the most basic rights enjoyed by young men his age. Julene literally oversees his every action, refusing him even the privacy of bathing alone. When Angel complains that he is capable of washing himself, Julie replies that she wants to make sure he does it right.

His morning ablutions finished, Angel is taken, naked and dripping from the bathroom, to prepare for their appointment at the photographic studio:

Holding me by the hand, Julene led me back to my bedroom. I followed with downcast features, my hair still moist from the bath. I was terribly conscious of my nudity, the chill morning air caressing my bare flesh.

"Aunt Julie, I'm not feeling well," I murmured, still seeking an excuse to avoid my forthcoming humiliation, "can't I stay home today?"

"Oh, nonsense" Julene replied dismissively, "you've just got the butterflies, dear. Now - let's get you dressed." Despite her offhand tone, I knew there would be no arguing the point. She'd made up her mind, and I was going to follow her instructions. No questions, no negotiations, no debate.

Entering the bedroom, she sent me off to the dressing table with a brisk slap on the bottom. I bit my lip, holding back a tiny gasp of surprise. I knew it was a gesture of affection, but being treated like a child always filled me with embarrassment.

"Alright; let's see what we have here," Julene said, rifling systematically through my underwear drawer. "Pretty as you are, you still can't go to work stark naked," she added with a laugh that raised gooseflesh on my tummy. After close on a minute rummaging around, she found what she was looking for.

"Here, put these on, baby. You'll need your prettiest undies for the shoot this afternoon."

Oh No!! I thought, looking across at the sheer black panties dangling from her fingertips, Not AGAIN!!

She was going to make me wear the black satin bra and knicker set she'd bought me last month - probably with matching garters and stockings! Julene had had them specially made based on my projected measurements. I'd tried the brassiere on earlier in the week; designed like a corset, it squeezed my flesh into a more girlish shape. The panties weren't as uncomfortable, but I couldn't stand them all the same. At fifteen, I could conceive nothing more humiliating than being forced into sleek, black lingerie.

Well, at least they'd be covered by the deep red sundress I'd be modeling this afternoon, one of a number of expensive pieces chosen for the summer catalogue. The frock was excruciatingly short, I desperately hoped it would be long enough to conceal my stocking tops.

Unknown to Angel, dress length will not be an issue on this occasion. As Julene helps her nephew into his underwear, he begins to suspect that she's arranged something very special for today's fashion shoot. Judging by her comments, it appears that Angel will be graduating to an entirely new level in the modeling business. Potential economic benefits notwithstanding, the boy is less than enthusiastic over his Aunt's managerial strategies:

Julene clipped me into the custom designed bra, modified to give the appearance of a slight cleavage. I scrutinized my reflection in the mirror, apprehensively searching for the slightest defect or imperfection.

"Aunt Julie, I'm really worried about this. What if someone realizes I'm not really a girl?"

"Don't be silly," she replied, diligently adjusting my bra-straps, "once we get you into a maidenform, nobody will be able to tell the difference. Not even when you're walking around in your bra and panties."

What?! I thought, barely concealing an involuntary flinch, She expects me to - to parade around in -?

"Can't I at least wear my jeans?" I suggested, feeling a faint, rosen blush stealing across my features.

"Of course you can't, dear," Julene answered brightly, "we don't want anyone mistaking you for a boy, now, do we?"

No chance of that, I admitted to myself. The image was flawless, all the months of training and estrogen had lent me a frail, waif-like appearance. Worse still – I'd be wearing NOTHING but my bra and knickers for the photo shoot this afternoon. The thought of modeling these skimpy little things before the camera made my head swim with panic. Once the catalogue was published, literally thousands of people would see me in my underwear.

No amount of pleading on Angel's part can change his Aunt's mind; Julene is adamant that he will honour his contract (as she'd previously arranged), regardless of how embarrassing he finds the experience. The remainder of the story is taken up with a series of gratuitous stripteases, as Angel is required to pose in a variety of bras, pants, bustiers, corsets, suspenders and stockings before a roomful of camera-wielding strangers. Adding to this abject humiliation is the ever-present fear of discovery – nobody apart from Julene knows that he's actually a boy, and every moment before the lens increases the risk of detection.

The story finishes with the two driving home in Julene's classic E-type Jaguar.

Angel chokes back tears of shame, knowing that his troubles have barely begun. Aunt Julie has already booked his next appearance; a live catwalk parade at Ceres Department Store, strutting his undies before a crowd of hundreds.

Oblivious to her nephew's misery, Julene chatters merrily away about their forthcoming vacation. After all their hard work, they both deserve a holiday, preferably in an exotic tropical paradise, surrounded by the most opulent of luxuries. Their destination is Brazil…where the boy will undergo a complicated medical procedure which will ensure his biological gender will never be revealed.

Angel weeps in silence as he comprehends the true meaning of Julie's words. He has neither the strength nor courage to resist: the past two years have devastated his ego, leaving him a hollow vessel into which she can pour her desires. In every sense of the word, he has become her slave, her possession, her thing. And very soon – he will be her girl.


Cynosure: Angel's Story was a clear rewrite of 1990's A Pledge in Petticoats, employing an almost identical scenario and stock-similar characterizations. Angel is a composite of Dominique and Simone, while Julene Mayfield stands in for the politely intractable Aunt Julia. As with the original, Kristy's inspiration included spicy pulp magazines, British tabloids and women's journals, although in this case, most of the artwork was unreferenced, drawn largely from imagination. In common with Crossing the Boundaries, the visuals combined traditional media with Photoshop CGI.

Kristy Leigh viewed Cynosure as the first of a series of stories set in a fictional English town known as Lainsbury (a locale recycled in several later pieces, collectively titled The Lainsbury Chronicles). To this end, she planned to create a group of interrelated characters, each of whom would represent a specific theme within the transgendered continuum (forced feminization, intersexuality, metamorphosis, dual persona, panty fetishism, etc).

Writing a detailed outline of the concept, she merged previous characters and plotlines into a single coherent infrastructure. The scope of the project allowed for the addition of more contemporary subtexts such as virtual identities or cyber sexuality, conforming to the growing demand for sci-fi and supernatural elements.

Between 2000 and 2002, Kristy approached a number of publishers with the proposal, which included sample illustrations and literary extracts. All of her submissions were eventually rejected as being too ambitious, the wholesale fusing of unrelated genres considered particularly problematic. After every potential venue had been exhausted, Kristy decided to strike out on her own.

Creating two websites on MSN Groups, Kristy began publishing under the Lainsbury imprint, offering examples of her work for free download. She also established discussion forums and invited submissions from amateur writers hoping to break into the field (mirror sites were set up on Geocities and Tripod, though neither offered the same interactive facilities available on MSN).

Lainsbury Publications met with modest (if intermittent) success for around three years, attracting a small group of devotees and substantial contributions to the sites' communal galleries. At the same time, however, in-fighting arose over perceived "inappropriate content", leading MSN to close down one of the groups and issue an "official warning" to the other. These controversies resulted in a significant drop in traffic as users returned to more secure archives such as Big Closet, Fictionmania and ASSTR.

The final nail was struck in 2005, when MSN cancelled all its adult groups in a calculated move away from the sphere of online communities. Although provision had been made for transfer to more "G-Rated" services, Kristy opted to terminate the Lainsbury project, judging that transgendered material would never be accepted on any SFW network.

Somewhat disillusioned by her experiences, Kristy abandoned TG fiction entirely, dedicating herself to collaborative projects such as Wikipedia, TV Tropes, and Anime News Network for the next twelve months. During this self-imposed "retirement", she reviewed most of her art and literature, streamlining her ideas back to basic principles and mapping out a new chain of novellas based around an exclusive private school specializing in pinafore discipline. This centralized focus would draw together all the disparate ingredients of her previous efforts, amalgamating them together into a single, unified whole.

Having amassed a body of work and the prerequisite financial capital, Kristy was now ready to launch an independent publishing venture.


By the time Lakehurst Press went online in 2007, Kristy Leigh was writing under no less than four different pseudonyms: Angela Holbrook, Tracy Lane, Hannah Delveaux and Transfemme. Extracts of her fiction were available on many of the larger TG sites, although most of the related images had vanished into the digital ether. Fortunately, the original pencil sketches were still on file, and armed with an improved knowledge of Photoshop, Kristy was able to reconstruct many of her earlier illustrations.

Lakehurst's primary goal, as stated on the site's home page, was "a return to the golden age of transgendered literature, with an emphasis on excitement, narrative and storytelling." While the artwork and language could be described as risqué, there was no reliance on hard core or shock-based imagery.

Cover designs were suggestive rather than graphic, inspired by small publishers such as Bristol, Liverpool or Chelsea. Interior layouts were given a "vintage" appearance recalling the lurid "potboilers" of the late fifties, complete with age-yellowed paper, misaligned text, and registration marks. The overall effect was that of a cheaply printed paperback bought under the counter at the local railway newsvendor. Files could be downloaded in either PDF or CBR format, though published as short story collections rather than full length novels.

As mentioned above, Lakehurst's main plot device revolved around a prestigious "Private College", in which male students were subjected to intense feminization by staff and residents. This premise was established in a faux newspaper article displayed on the site's home page:

Courtland District, Oct, 1959:

"A recent survey conducted by the National Bureau of Statistics indicates that the city of Lainsbury has the lowest divorce rate in the country. Figures also suggest that the surrounding suburbs are virtually free of violent crime and juvenile delinquency. Bureau analysts attribute this to traditional family values and strong community ties amongst other related factors.

"Located on the east bank of the Courtland River, Lainsbury is the largest regional centre of the north east region, boasting a population of over 20,000. It is one of the few places where petticoating is still practiced within domestic venues. According to local sources, the custom is so widespread that pinafore discipline has been adopted as official school policy in numerous districts."

- Everdale Register, 14 October 1959.

Lainsbury is thus presented as a semi-rural paradise in which the status quo is maintained by feminizing the younger male population. In recent years, the city has become a beacon for liberated women wishing to raise their children in an environment of "Matriarchal equity."

While long-term inhabitants openly accept this quasi-feminist philosophy, newcomers often find the experience quite traumatic, especially young boys enrolling for the first time at prestigious Lainsbury Academy. Such is the case with Cassidy Weaver, the unwilling protagonist of 2007's The Fitting Room.

In common with many of Kristy's reluctant heroes, Cassidy is a newly-orphaned child sent to live with a privileged female relative – here represented by the emotionally distant Delia Matheson.

Arriving at stately Matheson Hall, Cassidy is welcomed into the family by "Aunt Delia" and his elder cousin Irene (coincidentally a junior prefect at the Academy). Cassidy is initially grateful for this unexpected hospitality; coming from an impoverished background, he marvels at the mansion's gothic opulence.

However, he quickly begins to realize that nothing is quite what it seems. His Aunt is often cold and brusque, while Irene views him with a mixture of amused contempt. Even the chauffeur and housekeeper, Mr. and Mrs. Sanders, seem to regard him as a petty nuisance.

Matters quickly spiral out of hand when Delia orders the servants to burn all of Cassidy's clothes, declaring them "unfit to touch human flesh." When the boy objects that he has nothing else to wear, his cousin jokes that "we'll soon take care of that". Her tone is almost as threatening as it is jovial.

Later in the day, Cassidy is whisked off to the grand bathroom, where Irene and Mrs. Sanders forcibly strip him naked and scrub him from crown to heel – none too gently in the process – reducing him to tears of shame and fright. This symbolic 'baptism' is intended to wash away all vestige of masculinity from his pubescent body: Mrs. Sanders warns him to do exactly as he is told, or she'll put the strap around him. Genuinely terrified at the thought of being spanked in the nude by the elderly housekeeper, Cassidy promises to obey without question. He is then left alone in his bedroom, sobbing into his pillow over this inexplicable treatment.

Several hours later, he is summoned to his Aunt's private sitting room, where Delia is waiting for him; a tall, handsome woman with a rather severe widow's peak. In response to Cassidy's unspoken questions, she tells him that no male is permitted to live on her property – all men are by nature cruel, filthy and devious, the worst vermin in the human species, and she refuses to harbour any on her premises.

"But…what about Mr. Sanders?" the boy asks haltingly.

Sanders, of course, is an exception; Delia tolerates her faithful chauffeur due to his years of outstanding service. Efficient, reliable and trustworthy, Sanders has proven himself a good man…but that is something that Cassidy will never be.

The boy simply blinks at her, barely comprehending the conversation. What does she mean? Is she going to send him to an orphanage? Throw him out on the street? Sensing her nephew's wordless confusion, Delia patiently continues:

"This is your last day as a boy, Cassidy. Tomorrow, you'll wake up as a girl. You'll wear skirts, dresses, vests and panties. We'll teach you to think, talk and act like a young woman of breeding. You will answer to the name Cassandra, behave in a manner befitting your station, and bring honour to your family name. And most of all – you will be grateful for the opportunities we are granting you."

Still shaken by his recent bereavement, Cassidy is no match for his Aunt's steely temperament. He humbly agrees to all her terms and conditions, unable to meet her gaze or query her judgment. Concluding the interview, Delia dismisses him for a late supper with Mrs. Sanders.

Over the following months, "Cassi" proves to be a remarkably apt pupil, adopting feminine mannerisms and soaking up etiquette like a sponge. "She" even begins bonding with Irene and the Sanders after a fashion, helping out around the kitchen and doing his chores without a murmur of complaint. This is partly because he fears Delia's frigid rage, but also because his activities are confined exclusively to Matheson Hall. As long as Cassi stays within the mansion, there is no chance of discovery.

However, this innate docility turns out to be his undoing. Close observation reveals that Cassi is unusually bright for his age. Despite his recent losses, the boy has adjusted to his new gender role in an amazingly short span of time; a clear sign of high intelligence. With the school year approaching, Delia decides to enroll "Cassandra" at Lainsbury Academy, where "she" will study under the finest educators in the country.

Three months after his arrival at Matheson Hall, Cassi is once again summoned to his Aunt's sitting room for a private audience. Over the past ninety days, he has transformed into a strikingly pretty young girl: petite, demure and impeccably well spoken – eminently qualified for this year's scholastic intake.

He will, however, be required to wear a traditional navy gymslip – the mandatory uniform specified by the Lainsbury academic code. At first, Cassi believes she is referring to a naval outfit with an open-neck collar and trousers, but Aunt Delia quickly shatters his illusions. A gymslip is a classic British schoolgirl uniform; a box-pleated tunic with a dropped waist and a red sash.

Cassi listens in mounting horror as his Aunt continues.

"This afternoon we will go downtown for a fitting at Lockwoods on the High Street," Delia explained in clipped, icy tones, "there, you will be measured up by Mrs. Lockwood herself, to make sure the garment is a perfect fit. Now – go to your room and prepare for your trip. Be sure to wear black stockings and white briefs beneath your dress. I'll expect you to be ready within the next hour."

Cassi's nerve final breaks upon hearing this news. He's never set foot beyond the front door dressed as a girl, and now, with barely the slightest warning, he's about to be dragged out in public, fully garbed in panties, garters and suspender hose. The prospect of exposure is absolutely terrifying. How can she expect him to go through with this?

Delia silences his frantic pleas before they even leave his mouth.

"Go to your room now. Irene and Mrs. Sanders will help you into your clothes. Don't give them any trouble."

The boy complies without further comment, knowing that any further backtalk will be rewarded with an extremely thorough strapping.

One hour later, Cassi and his Aunt are standing outside Lockwoods on the High Street ("chief suppliers for Lainsbury Academy and all outlying districts"). The boy is dismayed to note that the store is full of customers, mainly women and young girls around his age. Apparently, there will be witnesses to the spectacle. Delia orders him to come along, they have a busy day ahead of them.

Inside, Cassi is introduced to Mrs. Gloria Lockwood and her assistants, Belinda and Melody. Mrs. Lockwood is, apparently, a lifelong friend of Aunt Delia's, sharing all her beliefs regarding discipline and upbringing. Checking the "girl" over with a hawkish eye, Mrs. Lockwood gets straight down to business, instructing Cassi to strip down to his underwear:

It was, without exception, the most degrading moment of Cassie's life. Stepping hesitantly out of the discarded dress, he walked across the room in his panties and stockings, struggling to control his oncoming tears. Warm, fluid heat seemed to course through his veins like a fever; a fine, crimson blush spread across his features. "Alright then, let's have a look at you," Mrs. Lockwood said, approaching the boy with her tape measure in hand. Cassie downcast his face, desperately trying to avoid the curious stares of the other customers.

Over by the display stand, Aunt Delia sat down in an armchair, reaching for a fashion magazine. A simple glance in Cassie's direction ensured his obedience. She payed little attention to him after that.

Cassie's head was spinning with shame, guilt and disbelief. He simply couldn't believe that he was standing here with his full brief panties on open display to the entire store. His breath came in short, gasping spurts. Maybe it was the oppressively tight garter-belt; it must have been at least too sizes too small. He repressed an urge to cross his hands in front of himself, knowing that it wouldn't really cover anything.

"Raise your arms, dear," Mrs. Lockwood instructed. Cassie complied, his heart racing like a triphammer. His body was on clear display like a living manniquin, he could hear the shop assistants whispering to each other, cupping their hands and giggling. They were talking about him, laughing at his humiliation. Mrs. Lockwood slipped the tape around his waist, tutting to herself in approval.

"Twenty four inches", she nodded, reading the tapeline, "very good."

Cassie blinked several times, feeling the first tears sting his eyes. How could Aunt Delia do this to him? She had betrayed him, reduced him to a sobbing child in front of half the town. It wasn't fair; he'd done nothing to deserve this. Why had she brought him here, forced him to undress before a room full of total strangers? He shook his head in child-like denial, his vision blurring with liquid shame.

Mrs. Lockwood looked Cassi over once again, still tutting to herself, then turned him so he was facing the front of the store.

"Elbows up," she ordered, touching his arms with her laquered fingertips, "take a deep breath and hold it." Cassie obeyed without comment, knowing that his ordeal wasn't over, not by a country mile. The seamstress looped the tape around his chest. Cassi gasped involuntarily as the cool material whispered over his flesh.

"Well, that's coming along well," Mrs. Lockwood remarked, idly writing the measurement down in her fitting pad. She looked over at the boy's aunt, eyebrows raised. "The serum seems to be working fine, Delia."

Cassie stared around in confusion. Serum? What did she mean, what serum? Aunt Delia made no reply to Mrs. Lockwood's comment, simply nodded in agreement and returned to her magazine. It was yet another mystery he had to contend with, another secret they were keeping from him.

The seamstress stepped back, putting a hand to her face and assessing Cassie's figure with a long, thoughtful glance.

"I think we'll need to get you into a training brassiere," she said after a pause, then turned to her lead assistant, "size 10 trainer, cross-your-heart style, Belinda."

"Right away, Ma'am," the girl replied, and headed out towards the storeroom, favoring Cassie with a vaguely derisive smile...

Not all of Kristy's characters were waifs and foundlings. In The Feathertouch Contract, eight year-old Allie Benson leads a relatively normal (for Lainsbury) life until his mother lands a lucrative contract designing children's underwear for a major outlet. Like Jayden Taylor before him, Allie's androgynous physique makes him the perfect clothes-horse for the new range, sparing his Mother the cost of hiring professional models.

Discussing his post-war childhood in the first person, Allie provides a brief summary of the events leading up to his unexpected transition from hen-pecked schoolboy to runway princess:

My Mother started dressing me in girls' clothing very young, long before I entered elementary school. The exact details are rather hazy, but I recall modeling some frilly little outfits she made on her Singer sewing machine. That was her job; Mommy ran a small dressmaking business out of her home, specializing in childrens' wear. She often used me as a mannequin due to my slender proportions and somewhat feminine appearance, so you might say we engaged in a family business.

Her designs proved popular enough to pay the bills throughout my early childhood, by the time I turned five we had our own home a few blocks from the center of town. She converted one of the larger rooms into a studio-workshop where she could complete her orders, and kept me close at hand whenever she needed to check some measurements.

I should mention that pinaforing is still quite common in our part of the country. Lainsbury was something of an anachronism; the last gasp of an era when strict gender roles weren't applied to prepubescent children, meaning it wasn't unusual to see young boys decked out in frocks and flounces. It was sometimes practiced as a form of discipline (both in home and school), but in most cases it was simply the fashion of the day.

After a while, Mommy allowed me to grow my hair out, resulting in long, wavy blond tresses cascading down to my shoulders. Paradoxically, this was considered rather revolutionary by polite society – hair length being one of the few ways to distinguish a beribboned girl from a pinafored boy – but for my Mother, it was a matter of financial expediency. Not long after my sixth birthday, I'd started modeling for our wealthier patrons, most of whom wanted custom attire for their daughters. As I later discovered, there was a growing demand for girlswear, and Mom had managed to corner the market in our district. With dresses outselling pants by nearly ten to one, it made sense to capitalize on my more androgynous features. The illusion was virtually perfect: most of our newer clients never suspect I was actually a boy.

Mommy took it one step further, correcting my posture and training me to walk with grace and confidence about the showroom. Over time, I grew accustomed to my new position within the "company," climbing into a sun frock and mary-janes whenever a prospective customer wanted to see the latest outfit. It turned out to be one of the most lucrative strategies Mom had so far come up with. By the end of that year, she was literally swamped with orders and was negotiating a deal with the Feathertouch Corporation.

Up to that point, I'd had very few objections to my intermittent cross-dressing sessions; after all, it was in the privacy of our own home and I'd been wearing miniskirts for years. Nothing out of the ordinary, from my perspective, and I'd always been well rewarded for my efforts (normally with mouth-watering "bribes" of cake and candy).

All that changed the day Mommy signed her contract with Feathertouch. She was now poised to market a line of designer underwear.

I have extremely vivid memories of the afternoon Mommy called me to her studio to see what she'd been working on. The business had expanded considerably over the past two years; Mom had added two extensions to the original workroom and hired two assistants, both sharp faced, professional women in their late thirties. They were huddled around one of the display tables when I walked in, talking together in conspiratorial tones. Momma glanced in my direction, alerted by my soft-tapping footsteps.

"Allie!" she said crisply, beckoning me closer with her left hand, "come over here, I want you to try something on."

The assistants stood aside while I approached, allowing me to see what was laid out on the table. For a moment, I paused in mid-step, not quite sure what I was looking at. For a moment, I almost drew back in surprise, literally doubting my own senses. I stared up at my Mother in open-mouthed confusion, breath catching at the back of my throat. She wanted me to wear – those?

"Momma?" I asked in growing apprehension, silently praying that she wasn't serious, knowing already that she was.

She ushered me forward for a closer look, a hint of amusement touching her lips. I sidled hesitantly up to the table, staring down at the lacy, delicate things fanned out on the polished surface. A single glimpse confirmed my worst fears. It was underwear. Girl's underwear.

"Well?" Mommy asked, eyebrows raised inquiringly, "What do you think?"

"Momma, I can't wear these!" I gasped, feeling the blood rushing to my cheeks.

"Why ever not?" she demanded in feigned amazement, "you wear skirts and dresses all the time."

"But this is different!" I exclaimed, covering my mouth with both hands, "they're – I'm – Momma, it's not the same!!"


I stared wildly around the studio, uncertain how to proceed. I was only eight years old, it was too complicated to explain in even the simplest of terms. I'd started school the previous summer; in the ten months since, I'd endured almost incessant teasing from my classmates. As the moving target of every schoolyard bully in the district, I'd become hypersensitive to the cries of "sissy-boy" and "nancy" that plagued me from pillar to post. Whatever Mommy had in mind was certain to make things a thousand times worse!

This theme of pretty young males press-ganged into ostensibly female activities became a recurrent motif in Kristy's literature, particularly during her Lakehurst period. Some characters make their debut fully feminized, based on the assumption that petticoating is commonplace in Lainsbury.

In The Hypatia Club, twelve year-old Dale Watkins has been living under the thumb of his formidable Aunt Camilla for several months. His introduction to suspenders, stockings and crinolines is merely alluded to at the beginning of the story. Much as Dale resents his forced cross-dressing, he lacks the courage to resist his Aunt's demanding personality.

That said, Dale's true ordeal begins when a local philanthropic society (the eponymous Hypatia Club) starts planning a charity event for Everdale Convalescent Home. The committee decides on an Olde Tyme Music Hall, for which the main drawcard will be a climactic can-can number. The only problem is that the routine will require a lead dancer of considerable gymnastic skill, and their usual star performer is unavailable due to prior commitments.

Fortunately for all concerned, Camilla offers the services of her highly talented nephew, who just happens to hold several gold medallions. An audition is arranged at Willmont House, the Hypatia Club's unofficial meeting place. Much to his consternation, Dale is trussed up in full costume, including a gartered waist cincher with black seamed stockings. To make matters worse, the Committee expresses doubt over Dale's suitability – not so much due to his gender (he passes perfectly well as a female) – but rather his age and relative inexperience:

Mrs. Willmont raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Are you sure he's capable of performing the routine?" she asked doubtfully, "the acrobatics are quite complex, especially for a boy his age."

"I'm certain he is", Aunt Camilla replied with an airy wave, "he studied gymnastics for three years at his last school." She looked across the parlour at her nephew, seated discretely by the bay window.

"Dale – could you join us here, please?" she called, beckoning him with her right hand, "Mrs. Willmont would like to see a demonstration of your abilities".

Dale rose in a flutter of pink lace, straightening his dress with swift, experienced fingers. He glanced around the room in a state of confusion, wondering what his aunt had meant. Demonstration? What kind of "abilities" could he possibly demonstrate in here?

Every eye in the room was now fixed on him: the ladies from the Hypatia Club and their daughters, Mrs. Willmont and her straight laced companions. They scrutinized him with an expectant gaze, their features set in vague amusement. Dale felt his colour rising. He had little desire to be the centre of attention, especially in a gathering such as this. He paused a few feet from the chaise-long, repressing a childish urge to shuffle his feet. Aunt Camilla placed her cup down on the side table with a soft, porcelain clink, absently appraising his slim, girlish figure.

"Very good," she nodded approvingly, then impaled the boy with a neon-blue gaze. Dale shifted uncomfortably, reading her expression. Whatever she had in mind, he knew it wouldn't be particularly pleasant.

"Now: Mrs. Willmont doubts your gymnastic skills," Camilla continued, "So we'll need to convince here that you're up to the challenge." Pause. "I'd like you to step back a few paces and show us how to do a handstand."

Dale's breath caught in his throat.

"A handstand?!" he gasped in open-mouthed surprise, "but Aunt Camilla – I'm wearing a dress!"

A rash of giggles broke out across the room; sweet, mocking laughter that made Dale's pulse quicken. She couldn't be serious; there must have been at least a dozen girls present. A deep, crimson blush darkened his complexion, the thought of revealing his pristine white underwear made his head whirl with embarrassment. "Oh, I'm sure that's alright, dear," Camilla replied offhand, "we're all girls here, aren't we?" A chorus of agreement met her remark, the Hypatia Club expected a virtuoso performance. Even Mrs. Willmont was regarding him with considerable interest, despite her earlier misgivings.

"But…I…Aunt Camilla –" Dale stammered, eyes wheeling wildly from face to face. Panic swept over him in thick waves, chill fingers seemed to skitter up and down his spine. He had to find some avenue of escape, some plausible excuse to escape this treadmill of shame.

"There…there isn't enough r-room," he stammered weakly, knowing it wouldn't be anywhere near enough. More tinkling laughter from the Hypatias; Camilla dismissed his words with a casual toss of her hair.

"What are you talking about? There's a mountain of space right behind you." She was right, of course. The parlour was vast, even by contemporary standards. He could have thrown a triple handspring across that polished teakwood floor with no problems whatsoever.

"A-A-Aunt Camilla," Dale started to plead, teetering on the brink of tears. He felt trapped, helpless, abused. He didn't want to do this, didn't want them to see his panties and stockings and frilly pink petticoats on open exhibition. He could already hear their sly, derisive comments whispered from hand to ear. By next Monday, word would be out, the entire school would know. He would never live it down.

"Now Dale," Camilla instructed in a voice that brooked no resistance, "I won't tell you again." Her eyes were bright and catlike, literally glimmering with immanent threat. Defiance was completely out of the question, he knew from experience that any further refusal would result in the most painful consequences. Camilla wouldn't hesitate to take him over her knee right there on the chaise-long. If worse came to worse, she'd flip back his skirt and spank his pantied bottom in front of everybody!

The Hypatia Club would play a major role in later stories, having close ties with both Lainsbury Academy and the Feathertouch Corporation. A highly influential organization with a history dating back to the Suffragette Movement, it is the main source of income for many of Lainsbury's educational and humanitarian institutions. As the Society's relationship with the city is gradually revealed, it becomes clear that they are responsible for the survival of petticoating into the late twentieth century.

The series' continuity also introduced elements such as The Everdale Register, Lainbury's community newspaper, Ceres Department Store, the region's main clothing supplier, and The Evelyn Deane Performing Arts Centre, home to many of the city's cultural festivals. All of them held strong affiliations with the Hypatias, along with the Courtland District School Board.

During its two years of operation, Lakehurst Illustrated Press expanded on this "shared universe", featuring multiple crossovers and reworking many of the concepts originated in the Five Minute Fiction vignettes. In addition to The Lainsbury Chronicles, the site offered a range of free content, including flash-based paper dolls, colouring books, and user galleries. Regular updates were supplied via a mock-up of The Everdale Register, which also featured faux lingerie advertisements for Cameo and Feathertouch:

You know how it is. No matter how well you have him trained, he'll always be reluctant to take that first step outside. After all, it only takes an idle breeze and a flash of lace to expose his secret to the whole wide world!

Well, there's only one way to allay those lingering fears. When a fresh spring breeze decides to lift your boy's fluttering hemline, make sure he's wearing something you can be proud of.

Cameo Classics are hands down the prettiest sissy pants on the market. Soft and sleek and white as snow, Cameos are woven from only the purest Rylene, the miracle fabric that guarantees a perfect fit for pretty boys of any age. Once he has them on, he'll be practically begging to show them off!

At only 68 cents a pair, Cameo Classics are the favored choice of Mothers, Aunts and Housewives across the nation. Don't delay: show him you care! Put your boy into Cameo's sassiest panties right now! It's the one decision you'll never regret.


Lakehurst Illustrated Press is known to have published at least sixteen transgendered pieces, ranging in length from 2500 to 5000 words. It also offered an additional 19 cross-genre stories with transvestic undertones, along with reprints of the original Sophia Press material. Distributed in serial form, roughly half of the content remained unpublished due to the website's premature shutdown in 2008. This included over seventy monochrome sketches and an unfinished edition of colourised "pin-ups" based on the vignette images.

Although Lakehurst itself is long gone, Kristy Leigh has continued producing illustrated literature well into the present day. Following recent negotiations with Carole Jean, Petticoat Punishment Art will now be the official host for all of Kristy's forthcoming projects. Feel free to check this page for ongoing additions to the Lakehurst Gallery as more "lost examples" are reconstructed in Photoshop. In the meantime, previously unseen samples of Kristy's art and illustrated stories are available for order from me.