The Rules of Petticoating

Hello readers... I'd like some help in compiling a list of rules for petticoatees.

As a few examples, there's...
  1. Petticoatees must wear what they're told, when they're told. No ifs, no buts.
  2. Petticoatees must sit whenever they use the lavatory.
  3. Bath time for petticoatees should fall between 6pm and 7.30pm every night.
  4. Bedtime should be no later than 8pm for teenagers and 7pm for younger petticoatees.
  5. Bedtime means 'bed' time and a suitable 'night' nappy/daiper must be worn. 
  6. Nappies/daipers may not be removed until permitted by your parent or guardian.
  7. Parents and guardians must be addressed properly and politely. eg. Mummy, Daddy.
  8. Petticoatees must look after their things. Deliberate or accidental damage will not be tolerated.
  9. Disobedience, deviousness, discourtesy, impolite and immoral behaviour will not be tolerated.
  10. ???

I'm not looking for any physical punishments... petticoating shouldn't require any of that.

If you've got any ideas, please post them in the comments and I'll cherry pick my favourites.

Thanks :)

On the Radio

“This week on Weekend Woman's Hour, we talk to Denise and Robert Matthews; a couple who've completely reversed their traditional roles. Denise works full time as an estate agent whilst husband Robert works full time at home doing the laundry and ironing, cleaning, gardening, grocery shopping, cooking, washing up... everything.” presenter Janine Murphey introduced. “Now, Denise... can you talk us through a typical working day?”

“Of course Janine, and hello.” Denise replied. “I get up around six-thirty, seven AM and have a quick shower before breakfast, which Robert has lovingly prepared for me. He straightens the bed and gives the bathroom a once over before laying out my clothes for the day...”

“He chooses your clothes?” Janine quizzed.

“Oh no, not at all.” Denise said. “I tell him what I'll be wearing and he'll lay it out and whilst I’m dressing, he's clearing up the breakfast dishes and preparing my packed lunch...” she goes onto describe him handing her her case and coat, seeing her off, briefly explains her working day which ends at 5pm. “I return home to a cooked dinner and we dine together, and whilst Robert's clearing the table, cleaning the kitchen and washing the dishes, I'll either catch up on some paperwork or put my feet up in front of the TV.”

“And Robert... what's your typical day like?” Janine asked.

A Teaser...

I've decided to be really mean and put this opening up as a teaser.
It sets the scene, gives some background and just hints at what's in store.
Imagine it's a trailer for a movie that hasn't been made yet...
because the rest of the story hasn't been written yet.

It could take days, weeks or months, but it's something to think about.


We used to have the best holidays... Dad said he was preparing us for the zombie apocalypse and took us off the grid for a camping adventure on an uninhabited private island owned by a family friend. When we were young he'd build a raft using driftwood and discarded plastic bottles; whatever was laying around, lashed together with anything he could find amongst the flotsam and jetsam on the beach. Once he could only build a small raft and ferried us and the bags across one by one, swimming and pushing the makeshift vessel the entire half a mile to the island on which we'd spend the week. Another time we found loads of buoyant fence posts and made a raft big enough for three plus the baggage, and paddled us across... that raft made a great bonfire, which was what we always did on arrival. “Burn your boats and burn your bridges...” Dad claimed. “...those zombies aren't far behind.” he'd say. Dad also claimed that zombies can't swim so an island is somewhere we'd be safe, but I'm not so sure... in Pirates of the Caribbean the zombies can't swim but they can't drown either, so they can walk on the seabed. Being a clever clogs, Dad points out that in that movie, they're un-dead rather than zombies and assures us that the island will be safe. It's just a game anyway... we always knew there wouldn't be a zombie apocalypse but the idea made our camping holidays a real adventure.

The island is two miles wide with a craggy coastline and one short stretch of sandy beach. There's fresh water, wild meadows, an untended copse as well as scrub and bushland. We ate dried soups and stews, tinned sardines and beans, brought over from the mainland, but also foraged for mushrooms and leaves, nuts, berries and edible seeds. As we got older, Dad taught us to fish and fashion workable spears as well as making bait traps... and once we were strong enough to swim across, we no longer needed to waste our time building a raft. “If you're running from zombies... they'll have eaten your face off before you'd even gathered enough driftwood.” Dad used to say. “ the quickest way across is to swim.” We'd tow our tent, sleeping bags, clothes, equipment and supplies in dry-bags. They're waterproof and float but are a struggle to tug... but tug them we did.

My brother and I always got on but when he got to the age where he began thinking he's a man, he started to get really annoying. I can swim as well as him, run as fast as him, climb as well as him and am probably more successful when fishing and foraging, but he seems to think I'm inadequate at everything because I’m a girl. The last time we spent a week playing survival on the island, he kept pushing me out of the way and butting in... claiming that lighting the fire or gutting the fish was 'boys' work, or climbing the trees to gather nuts or chopping wood was 'a job for a man'. Keeping an eye on the stew, fetching fresh water from the stream and washing the pots and plates was OK for a girl to do... according to my brother anyway. Dad tried to tell him that girls are just as capable as boys but my brother was just at that age when he thought he was the great 'I am'.

This time Dad's not coming with us... so it's just gonna be me and my brother. Dad drives us to the shore with our baggage already packed in dry-bags, and since there's three sizeable bags and only two of us, we decide to make a small raft to tow them on. Peter's so far being OK... he hasn't told me that he should do something because I'm just a girl, but he did claim that the way I’d lashed the bags to the raft wasn't tight enough... and after redoing it himself, it wasn't any better. Of course he claimed otherwise and I did feel patronised... but I didn't react. Having already changed into my swimsuit and packed my clothes and shoes into my dry-bag, I smugly pointed out that if he'd left 'my' lashing alone, he'd have been able to pack his clothes and shoes into his bag without having to undo the ropes. “Oh yeah.” he grumbled as he stripped down to his swimming trunks. Rather than doing the sensible thing and undo the lashings and pack his pants and top and plimsolls in the bag, he decided to haphazardly wedge them here and there... stuffing his plimsolls deep into a void between the dry bags and wedging his clothes under the ropes. I told him they'd get wet but he claimed that didn't matter. “They'll dry out in no time when we get to the island.” he said. Maybe so... it's a hot summer day so I didn’t bother advising him otherwise.

After tethering ourselves to the raft with ropes tied around our waists, we said our final goodbye to Dad before getting in the water. We've swum the half mile distance numerous times, and dragging luggage with us so there's no doubt in anyone's mind that we won't make it. We swim some ten or fifteen feet before the ropes become taught and we begin tugging the load. It's quite choppy in places and about half way across, I notice that my brother's pants and top are slowly working loose as the raft rocks and yaws on the turbulent surface. “Pete!” I say as I begin treading water.

“What?” he asked.

“You might want to secure your pants.” I said. He turned and looked then looked some more, before realising that he had to swim toward the raft and secure his clothing... but it was too late. By the time he'd got there both his jeans and T shirt had hit the water and quickly sunk. “Shit!” he growled, before quickly getting over it... he'd packed spare clothes so all was not lost, and his plimsolls were still tucked safely in their niche between the luggage on the raft. I feigned disappointment but was quietly grinning from ear to ear that he'd lost both his pants and his T-shirt due to his own stupidity... I was planning on burning them when we burnt the raft anyway.

Sunday School

We'd moved here a few months ago and I quickly made new friends, both at school and in the neighbourhood. There's a place called Cooper's Quarry which is now a formal garden with paths, benches, flowerbeds, an orchard and a glade. It used to be an adventure playground and according to the group of kids I'd befriended, it was 'totally ace'. They spent many hours playing there, and the more dilapidated it became, the more fun they had... then the council decided it was dangerous and removed all the fun stuff, replacing it with flowerbeds and benches which are only good for OAPs and parents with pushchairs.

A few weeks ago, we were passing through Cooper's Quarry and reminiscing about how much fun they had there, as well as grumbling about how boring it is now. I could only take their word for it since the space was redesigned before we moved to the area. Climbing frames, elevated walkways, rope swings and a 'death' slide sounded loads better than what there is now. Looking back, I'm not sure who started it, but it didn't take long for the rest of us to join in; stomping on the flower beds, uprooting shrubs, breaking branches, booting the bins and benches over and generally destroying or disturbing whatever we could.

The act of vandalism was front page news in the local paper, which stated that one of the gang had been caught at the scene and the others ran off. That one was me, but I didn't grass my mates up. I'd have got my head kicked in if I had, and no one wants to be friends with a grass... so keeping shtum and taking the rap all on my own was, I believed, in my best interests. Being a minor meant they they couldn't print my name in the paper, nor could the authorities fine me for the damage caused, make me do x hours of community service or anything much... the most they could do was make me attend Sunday School which sounded really boring. The judge who heard my case said that I'd have to attend Sunday school for a period no less than 48 weeks and no more than 48 months, and that my attendance period would be closer to 48 weeks if I did the decent thing and gave the authorities the names of my accomplices. I refused and claimed that they were some kids I’d just met and I didn't know their names or where they lived... but they knew I was lying, I knew I was lying, and I knew that they knew I was lying.

The Charboy's Apprentice

This is a follow up story from Studying Servitude: An Article.'s probably worth reading that before this.


It's half term and Charles is busy following his daily rota and pottering around the house. His mother is at work. His big sister Emily stayed over at one of her friends and isn't expected back until the afternoon, and eleven year old Samantha is playing on her games console. Charles only had to make one packed lunch whilst he prepared the family breakfast, and the mornings aren't quite so much of a rush since he doesn't have to leave for school this week... but on the downside, no school means he has to wear his corset beneath his housekeeping uniform as well as a full face of make-up.

As usual, he quickly vacuums the landing and runs the hoover around his bedroom, his mother's bedroom and his sister's rooms. In spite of the fact his elder sister's not even been in the house since yesterday, her bedding still needs straightening and she's left her tights tangled up in her underwear again. After a quick tidy round, he pushes the hoover to Samantha's room where he knocks and enters. “Aren't you dressed yet?” he asked, finding her slumped on her bed in her pyjamas and fully focussed on her hand-held console.

“You haven't put anything out for me yet.” she replied with raising her eyes from the screen.

“It's the holidays... I only put your clothes out on a school day.” he reminded her. But knowing that Samantha would spend all day in her pyjamas if she could, he opened her closet and asked if she wanted jeans or leggings. Following her instructions he put out some leggings, some underwear, a pair of socks and a T-shirt for her, before quickly running the vacuum cleaner around. She tutted at the noise, and tutted again when he asked her to move so he could straighten her bedding.

After quickly cleaning the family bathroom and the en-suite in his mother's bedroom, Charles carried the vacuum cleaner downstairs and parked it in the hallway. He grabbed a stiff brush from the cleaning cupboard and proceeded to sweep the stairs from top to bottom. Perched on his knees, he quickly and briskly swept every step, letting the dust fall on to the next one down. Samantha emerged from her room, fully clothed and carrying her console. “So... you got any plans today?” he asked.

“Not really.” she replied. “Apart from this.” she added, raising the games console which these days is seemingly glued to her hand.

“You could give me a hand if you fancy.” Charles suggested

“Nah.” she bluntly replied. “Housework's for boys.” she said as she went on her way.

PJs Caption Corner

Dominated, petticoated, domesticated, prettified, chastised, feminised, hypnotised, shaved, groomed, blackmailed, bribed, coerced or worse... there's lots of reasons why and there's over three hundred of my captions available on the Caption Corner blog.

Many of my old captions are still knocking around on Pinterest, but I missed having my own board where I could keep them all in one place. My 'pictures' page has gotten way too big so I've made a new blog for my captions. I've removed most duplicates from my Pictures page, which means if you can't find an old favourite caption, you'll find it in the caption corner. 

I'm trying to recreate all my old pin-boards as best I can, boards such as Domestic Menswear, Educational Attire and Boy's Bedrooms... which are now labels on certain captions. If you're looking for male maids or school uniforms, boys attending a ballet class or a peek inside their bedroom, just follow the labels. They're accessible from the pop-out menu on the sidebar and are listed on the About PJ's Caption Corner page.

I'll miss getting a constant feed of captions from all the pin-boards I followed, but I'll just have to get used to that. I will continue adding my old captions over the next few days/weeks, then I'll be posting plenty of new captions over at the caption corner, as well as posting new stories here.

Enjoy... and feel free to 'pin'  :)

a new caption

My pictures page is getting too big and my Pinterest pages have gone... so here's a new caption:

A Newspaper Cutting

A Tight Spot

Mrs Spencer is wiping the windowsill of a back bedroom window when she notices two schoolgirls walking down the alley at the back of the house. She doesn't recognise either of them so they certainly don't live on this terrace, and it's not an alley that leads to anywhere so they can't be taking a short cut. She thinks they're acting suspiciously; the girl with the French braids appears nervous and keeps looking over her shoulder. Mrs Jackson steps back from the window and keeps a covert eye on them. “What are they up to?” she asked herself as they drew to a halt by the back gate. When the gate began to open, she darted down the stairs to find the two intruders sneaking in through the back door “What are you doing in here?!” Mrs Spencer barks. “Get out of my house now or I'll call the police!”

“Mum it's me.” the girl with the French plaits says, looking up at his mother and gulping.

“James!” his mother realises. “What are you doing? Why are you dressed like that?” she gasped, looking him up and down. A pair of black leather ballet shoes are on his feet. His thin legs are clad in thick back tights and a short pleated skirt hangs from his waist. The girl who stands sheepishly beside him is dressed almost identically, although she wears a lilac winter coat whilst he wears a school blazer; and a girls one at that. “You've got make-up on too!” his mother states as she peers into his timid eyes. 

“I can explain.” James says.

“Well it'd better be good!” his mother barked. “Come on!” she said, before herding them both into the parlour.

“Can I get changed first?”


Two lads, Wayne and Alan are playing truant from school. They spent the morning lurking around the railway sidings until a workman told them to clear off. They loitered around the town centre, avoiding policemen and panda cars. They pooled what little money they had and shared a bacon bap from one of those cheap caf├ęs that caters mostly for taxi drivers, claiming they had a dental appointment when quizzed about not being in school. Later in the morning, they loiter at a bus stop and wonder what to do for the rest of the day.

A lady who lives nearby notices them from an upstairs window. Twenty minutes later they're still there and after half an hour, she's deduced that they're not waiting for a bus since three have gone past now. Knowing that they probably should be somewhere else, she dons her overcoat, exits her home and approaches them. She loiters as if waiting for a bus for a few moments before breaking the ice. “No school today boys?”

Play Nice

Felicity is visiting her sister's family one Sunday afternoon. Penelope's husband is playing golf and her two children; Alice (8) and George (9) are playing noisily on the staircase and landing. They spend more time arguing than getting along and Penny frequently has to interject before their behaviour gets out of hand. George is forever teasing his sister and Alice is always on the defensive. “Why can't he just get along nicely with her?” Penelope says after breaking up yet another spat.

“I was round at a neighbours the other day and she has one of each.... you'll never guess what she does to 'encourage' her son to play nicely with his sister.”

“What?” Penny asked.

“Well... I called around and I could hear the kids playing upstairs... we sat at the kitchen table having a coffee and a chat. The kids were playing hide & seek. We could hear footsteps and doors opening and closing and in the background the daughter loudly counted backwards from fifty...” Felicity described. “The footsteps come down the stairs and all of a sudden, her son enters the kitchen looking for somewhere to hide... I don't think he knew I was there because he froze and looked absolutely mortified when he saw me.”