"You really do look very pretty, you know?" Amelia said as she took yet another photograph of me. She was sitting on the sofa in our lounge, whilst I perched uneasily on the edge of the big armchair mum usually sat in, trying not to cry anymore. Mum and Auntie Barbara were in the kitchen, gossiping and making tea for all of us. "If I didn't know better, I would think you were a girl...a sweet little girl?"
"You're really loving this, aren't you?" I muttered, chewing on my bottom lip.
"Manners, Sebastian?" She snapped, with a big grin on her face. "Mummy would not like it if you are rude?"
"Sorry...Auntie Amelia."
"The picture of you in your first dress has two hundred likes already on Instagram...and your school uniform and pushchair pose has even more?" She giggled, her eyes flicking from me to her screen, enjoying tormenting me. Mum had let her undress me in the kitchen, after giving me my pacifier again to stop my desperate protestations and completely ignoring my floods of tears. Then she removed my clean nappy herself and took me into the downstairs loo to make me comfortable, as she put it. I had to sit down to pee, like a girl, and then she wiped me with a tissue. I was not allowed to do anything for myself. After that, it was time to dress me, and I knew what that would mean, of course. Petticoated boys wear dresses. It is like the damned law or something for the freaks who believe in such nonsense. Freaks like my dear mother, it seemed, because she was following all the rules. "Sweet Sebastian in his pink sailor dress and white wooly tights...and those adorable pink Mary Janes...I just wish I could show them your frilly knickers...but I am too mature to do that...and you just stood there and let us dress you up...didn't you? Like a living doll...it was hilarious?"
"I don't want to be spanked...or kept in nappies, Auntie Amelia?" I whispered piteously.
"And all those tears...so much for big boys don't cry?" She laughed, finally putting the phone down and concentrating all of her attention on me. "I mean, I never actually believed that this petticoating lark would work...but you're truly pathetic...I bet those stupid losers who got you into this mess are pissing themselves?"
"Thanks to you sharing those pictures...Auntie Amelia...I thought you were my friend?" I complained, but politely. I really did not want to get into any trouble. I did not want to make things any worse than they already were. Not that I could see how that would ever be possible at that moment in time.
"Yeah, so did I...until you dropped me like a stone when you got into your little gang...and I told you that they would get you into trouble, didn't I?"
"Yes, Auntie Amelia," I admitted, reluctantly. Looking back on it all, I suppose I had sort of dumped Amelia when I started hanging out with the bad lads from the estate. We used to walk too and from school with each other, and muck around together more or less all the time. It was not a boyfriend and girlfriend situation, although Amelia was drop dead gorgeous, because we had known each other as long as either of us could remember. Mum had pictures of me as a very little baby lying with Amelia on a mat, before she could walk or talk, with her arms wrapped around me like she was holding me, so we were more like brother and big sister than anything else. But things had started to change when we moved up to big school, and she had warned me that my new mates were troublemaking idiots. I had resented her view and ignored her advice, which certainly suggested that she was the mature one, and that I was a total bloody fool for not listening to her.
"And now...you are...something else...and it's weird, and I don't understand you...but your mum says it will help you grow up to be a much better man?" Amelia said, frowning at me as she looked me up and down. The dress was horrible. It was not the sort of thing that she would ever wear, because it was childish and impossibly girlie. Amelia was no tomboy, and she liked to look nice, but my pale pink sailor dress was really not her style. "Your mum lent us some information on petticoating...Mum wanted to read it and she showed me...and I've looked at the Burnham website...so, I think I understand what she is trying to do with you...but I never thought that you would just roll over and accept it like this? I thought you would run away from that school...and I never thought you would arrive back here in that pushchair, sucking on your dummy?"
"If Auntie Barbara tells you to do something, you do it, right? Even if you don't really want to do it...Auntie Amelia?" I pointed out, just about remembering to mind my manners, trying not to show how angry she was making me.
"Yeah...I get that...but I'd make it unpleasant for everyone...when I saw you in that stroller earlier, in your skirt, wearing that stupid hat, all red-eyed and sucking on your dummy like a good little baby...well, no way would I ever be like that?" She insisted, and she was probably right, in a way. Amelia was quite tall, much taller than me. She had her first period when she was ten, and her figure was quite developed, if you know what I mean, so she did not look like a child anymore. When she bothered with proper makeup and got dressed up, she could easily pass for seventeen or eighteen, and she had always been sensible and responsible. But she had a temper like most teenagers, and when she fell out with her parents, everyone knew all about it, because there were slamming doors and full-on screaming matches that mummy and I could hear through our party walls. In comparison, I was still very much a small boy. I would not be fourteen until the end of August, when Amelia would be almost fifteen, and no one was going to need to buy me a razor for my birthday. And mum and I did not really argue. She got cross with me sometimes, but I always retaliated with the silent treatment, and just carried on doing whatever I was doing to annoy her behind her back, if possible. If she pinned me down, and gave me a good telling off, I usually just surrendered, I suppose. It had been like that when she took me up to the College, and it had been like that when she made me use my nappy at East Croydon station, really. "So...what are the other boys at this College like? Have you made any decent friends?"
"Most of my year have been there since they were eleven, Auntie Amelia...so they are sort of used to being petticoated, I suppose." I replied thoughtfully. "Some of them even like it now I think, although they would never admit it...they are like proper sissies? But I have one mate who is pretty decent...Chris Baker...he is in his third year, and he does all this stuff when he is at home, because his parents make him...but he helped me a lot...like showed me the ropes and helped me get through it?"
"Your mum says you are staying there until the end of year eleven, you know that, right?"
"She told me that today, Auntie Amelia."
"Oh, and she also says I can babysit you, if she goes out...she thinks I am a bit young, but as mum and dad will only be next-door, she says it will be okay...you'll like that, right?"
"It won't matter if I like it or not, Auntie Amelia."
"No, I don't suppose it will...come on, sounds like tea is ready...hold my hand like a good little boy, Sebastian?" She said, as mum called out to us, holding out her hand, and I took it of course, so that she could lead me to the table. Mum tied a bib around my neck, to protect my dress from any careless spillage, and she put my apple juice in a sippy cup as well, for the same reason.
"I've cut your chicken up to make it easier for you, Sebastian...and remember, you clear your plate, just like you have to at school...petticoated boys do not get likes or dislikes and we will spoon feed you, if we have any nonsense?"
"Yes, Mummy...thank you, Mummy." I whispered, unable to argue.
"I think someone needs an early night...his emotions are all over the place?" Auntie Barbara suggested, smiling kindly at me. I knew her so well, because I had been in and out of her house all my life. And she knew me. "Getting upset like that...several times in one day...it is pretty exhausting?"
"Yes...it has been quite a day for him, and he hasn't even seen his new room yet...so, I am sticking to the College bedtime for year nine...we might keep him up a bit later occasionally over the holidays, but I want to keep him in some sort of routine." Mum said casually. "It will make it easier for him to go back in January."
"Oh, what time do you go to bed at College, Sebastian?"
"Seven-thirty, Auntie Barbara."
"Do you share a room with your friend Chris, Sebastian?"
"Sort of, Auntie Amelia...there are eight of us in our dorm and Chris is one of them..."
"Such a lovely little boy...and I really hit it off with his mummy...I have invited them over on Saturday, Sebastian...Christopher's daddy has his work Christmas party, so they are going to stay the night...won't that be nice?"
"Yes, Mummy."
"And I think we will go out to dinner...with you, Barbara, of course...so Amelia is going to babysit the two of you...it will be the perfect way to get the festive season underway?" Mum said, clearly very pleased with herself.
"Sounds good to me...do I get paid twice for two of them, Auntie Caroline?" Amelia asked and the three of them laughed, before moving on to other things. I just sat there, clearing my plate and sucking at my juice, wondering if my life could possibly get any worse. But Auntie Barbara was right, I was worn out, and I was used to my early bedtime, so my eyes were really starting to droop as the clock reached seven o'clock. I got to kiss both my aunties good night before they left, and then mum took me upstairs, to the main bathroom.
"You've done quite well today, Sebastian?" She said as she turned me around and started to unzip my dress. My dress. I still found it hard to think about that, because at school, we always pretended that our skirts were kilts. I mean, they were kilts, that was even what the teachers called them, and Scottish men wore kilts. So, even though we knew that they were the sort of kilts that schoolgirls wear, rather than William Wallace or Rob Roy, we could fool ourselves that we were kilted boys, not petticoated boys. It was not much to cling onto, and the nappies and the nighties sort of ruined the pretense, but it was something. I had short hair, a boy cut, so I could look in the mirror and tell myself that I was a Scottish school boy. Others were not so lucky, of course. Boys like Chris Baker and Richard Munroe had suffered for years, and their parents had reinforced the process at home. But my mindset was still that of a normal boy at that stage, and even if I conformed to save my bottom after my three beatings, I was resisting inside my head like a mad thing. However, Mum had totally destroyed that internal rebellion in a couple of hours.
"Why are you treating me like a baby girl...Mummy?" I demanded, just about remembering my manners. But my tone was a little sharp, and she noticed, of course.
"Sebastian Montague...for the last time...I am treating you like a child, and you are now a petticoated boy, following a programme designed to stop you becoming a thug...and teach you that gender stereotyping is no longer appropriate in this day and age. This dress is designed for boys...and more and more schools like Burnham are opening up all over the country...mixed girl's schools they call them, and it is very much the latest thing." She sighed as she let the dress drop to the floor. "Some things will seem quite strange to you at first...I know that, and I will make some allowances for that...but take that tone with me again young man and you will not enjoy sitting down for a very long time. Petticoating will bring out your sensitive side and teach you respect, obedience and self-confidence. Last summer, you were being led astray by the wrong sort of people...you did not seem to know right from wrong...and that was a sign that you were not ready to be a teenager. So...now...you are a little boy again, back to square one...and we have a chance to rebuild you as a person in a more positive image. Everything I am doing to you now will make you a better man in the future...and one day, you will thank me for having the courage to save you, darling."
"I don't think I will, Mummy." I protested, but mildly, without the attitude, as she pulled my frilly pink knickers down and sat me on the toilet. But mum had obviously had enough of me for one day, because as soon as she had cleaned my teeth, she pushed the pacifier back into my mouth to stop any further complaints. She gave me a quick wash with a warm, damp flannel and then quickly helped me into a pull-up and a pink nightdress, before picking me up and actually carrying me into my room. It had been decorated, of course. It was pink and white, but I was not given a chance to take a proper look, because she put me down into what I could only describe as a cot, kissed my hair and turned out the light. I did not have time to look at my new room, and to be honest, I was too tired to take much interest in my surroundings. My head hit the pillow and I was gone, out like a light, totally spent.
I stirred as the first light of dawn poked through a gap in the curtains, convinced that I had been having a bad dream, until I felt the thick nappy between my legs and realised that it was all true, it really was happening to me. With a sigh that was more of a weak moan, I rolled over onto my side, holding the duvet tight around me, and took my first proper look at my bedroom in the gloom. For a start, I really was in a cot, with raised sides, or because of my size a cot bed, I thought, because although I was small, I would never fit in a baby's cot. My cot bed was white, wood painted white, and the little bars were supposed to keep me in, until my mummy decided otherwise. Petticoated boys were not allowed to get out of bed without permission anyway, but mum had decided on a physical barrier. Not a very meaningful one to be honest with you, because I could climb over them quite easily enough, I thought, but I knew that such a crime would get me spanked, so I would not do that to myself. So, the cot bed and its bars were purely symbolic, I decided, another trick designed to help change my whole mindset for the better, probably. And the rest of the room was furnished and decorated to leave me in no doubt about what I was, I suppose. The carpet was a deep pink, the walls a paler shade, and the furniture all white. Amelia would have found it too girly, too fussy, but it was a sissy's dream bedroom, maybe. I lay there thinking about Richard Munroe, with his long hair and his prissy attitude, and wondered what he had been like before he was petticoated, whilst realising that I needed to pee.
Not badly, at that stage. But it felt quite early, and as I was on holiday, I did not think that mum would get me up before nine. Maybe even later. She worked from home, writing technical documents, so if I slept in, she would have more time to concentrate. So, I could be lying there for several hours. At Burnham, we were always woken up at six thirty, which meant my bladder had to last eleven hours, and I had always managed that, easily. As soon as matron came into our dormitory, I would leap out of my bed and run to her to have my nappy pulled down with the rest of my dormies. It had been embarrassing at first, of course, but when you are wearing a nappy you cannot touch, for fear of a beating, and you needed to pee, it was necessary and I joined the race every morning as enthusiastically as everyone else, begging to be freed from my pull-up before I had to pee. But at home, I had no idea when mum would come in to wake me. However, as she was not a morning person, and it was the holidays, I did not expect to see her early.
Staring up at the ceiling, resisting the feelings down below, I considered calling her. Burnham had monitors in our dormitories so we could call for assistance, or they could hear if anything was going on, I suppose, and I reckoned that mum would have bought me a monitor. But it was a sign of weakness to call out like a toddler. And I did not want to look weak, because some of the things Amelia and Mrs Blackstone had said the day before were preying on my mind, a little. Amelia had said that I was pathetic, whilst Mrs Blackstone had suggested that I might be a natural sissy. Amelia could not believe that I was giving in so easily and just letting mum turn me into a pitiful petticoated boy. Obviously, she had not been spanked three times. Our housemaster was a big burly man, and his hand was like a lump of wood, so it was a serious deterrent, but it was not just fear. I did feel a bit pathetic after the day before. I had never been a crybaby. I was small, and I was not much of a fighter, but no matter what other boys did, I never let them see me crying. But really from the moment I saw mum standing on the platform with my pushchair, the tears had flowed like rivers. In front of Mrs Baker, in front of my sissy friends, in front of Auntie Barbara and even in front of Amelia, I had sobbed and wailed and sniveled, until I was so exhausted, I could not keep my eyes open at seven-thirty.
So, that morning, which was really my first full day as a petticoated boy proper, I did not want to be weak, or pathetic, and calling out for my mummy or wetting myself would be weak and totally pathetic. Amelia would certainly think so and I did not want anyone to think that I was broken, like Richard Munroe and David Sharpe. I had to do better. I had to be brave. But it was so hard, as my stomach started to churn and tears of frustration started to form in my hot eyes. Because I could not win, really. Even if I lasted until mum came in to get me up, I knew that I would have to beg her to take me straight to the toilet, just as quickly as possible, which seemed pretty weak to me. I began to think about climbing out of my cot bed and running to the loo, about taking my nappy off myself and relieving myself, which would mean a spanking for sure. But maybe it would be worth it. Maybe it would show mum, and Amelia, that I was not feeble and pathetic. I think I was about to do it. I certainly pushed the duvet back and started to sit up, but I had left it too late. As soon as I moved, the dams broke. I felt the warm rush of urine, and then my bowels opened and the smell of my capitulation filled the morning air, just as my howls of despair brought my mummy running to my rescue.