In the Hills after the Bomb they mostly call me The Late Detective. Late to justice, late to lunch, late to the end of the world. The sky was the colour of an old television left on after the station died, tilted at a Dutch angle like God had nudged the tripod and walked away. In this town, fabric tells the truth faster than people. I walked through it swaddled in turquoise satin, layered, intentional, defiant. My trenchcoated attire was heavy silk satin, the kind with a weight to it, a gravity. Satin doesn’t flutter; it arrives. It caught the light even in monochrome, turning every streetlamp into a confession. Underneath, the Victorian mourning attire did what it was designed to do: announce loss while indulging excess. Glossy deluxe blouse frills, cut wide and deep, each fold edged like it had a memory. They whispered when I moved. Satin remembers. It always does. The hijab headscarf was oversized turquoise satin, wrapped high and proud, smooth as a bribe sliding across a table. Over that, a chiffon voile veil, sheer, unforgiving, honest. Chiffon doesn’t hide anything; it only softens the blow. It floated just off my face, catching the radioactive breeze, turning my grief into motion. Taffeta anchored the gown beneath it all, crisp and slightly petulant, holding its shape like a stubborn alibi. Taffeta never forgets it’s there. I knew the case was serious the moment I saw the mannequins. The Garment District had been stripped naked. Not torn apart, undressed. Racks stood empty, arms out like they were asking questions nobody wanted to answer. The air smelled wrong. Usually it was starch, dye, steam, ambition. Now it was dust and panic. Silk was missing. All of it. Not just silk as a category, but silk as an idea. Satin-faced charmeuse. Heavy duchess satin meant for gowns that expected to be remembered. Raw silk with its tiny imperfections, honest as a tired smile. Silk twill that knew how to hold a line. Gone. Satin too, proper satin, not that plastic nonsense. The good stuff that slides between your fingers like it’s trying to escape. Satin that makes even cheap tailoring look like it has a lawyer. Vanished. Taffeta bolts were missing next. Crisp, noisy taffeta that rustles when you walk, announcing your presence whether you like it or not. The kind of fabric that refuses subtlety. Someone had wanted drama. And chiffon. God help us, chiffon. Weightless, floaty, translucent. Chiffon that catches on breath, on light, on the idea of movement. The chiffon racks looked like a graveyard of empty hangers. Voile too, cotton voile, silk voile, the gentle middle child that designers rely on when they want softness without surrender. Gone like a promise after the bombs. This wasn’t theft. This was curation. The femme fatale found me tracing the grain of a wooden cutting table, my gloved fingers remembering where silk had once lain. “They took only the best,” she said, lighting a cigarette like it was an accessory. “Nothing synthetic. Nothing that couldn’t mourn properly.” That told me everything. In the apocalypse, fabric becomes currency. Silk means water, means safety, means time to think. Satin means power. Taffeta means spectacle. Chiffon means hope. Voile means tenderness, the most dangerous commodity of all. I followed the trail through tailor shops and bombed out ateliers, past pattern paper fluttering like white flags. A single thread of turquoise voile snagged on a rusted nail led me uphill, toward the old soundstages where dreams used to be pressed, steamed, and sent out into the world with a smile. Inside, the thieves had laid it all out. Bolts of silk arranged by weight and weave. Satin draped over chairs, catching the light like liquid. Taffeta stacked with military precision, crisp edges aligned, ready to explode into skirts and coats. Chiffon suspended from rigging, floating in layers, a cloud of almost nothing. Voile stretched and tested, light passing through it like mercy. They weren’t stealing to sell. They were building. A final show. A post apocalyptic couture reveal. If the world was ending and it always was then it deserved a proper wardrobe. They surrounded me, guns low, eyes hungry. I adjusted my veil, let the chiffon breathe. “You can’t hoard fabric,” I told them. “It has to be worn. Silk dies in the dark.” The Choir hesitated. Madame Bias frowned, fingers brushing a length of satin like she was checking its pulse. The Cutter looked at my gown, at the way satin, taffeta, and chiffon argued and reconciled on my body. Fashion did the rest. In the end, the fabrics went back out into the streets. Seamstresses worked by candlelight. Mourning gowns bloomed. Trenchcoats shimmered. Veils floated through fallout like prayers that hadn’t given up yet. I walked home heavy with more layers than I arrived wearing, turquoise against the end of the world, every material doing what it was born to do.

The case came in sideways, like everything else north of the equator these days.

Over the irradiated murky Atlantic pond, Glasgow didn’t rain so much as accuse. The drizzle slid down the soot-stained tenements like it knew every sin committed inside them. Post-war, post-bomb, post-everything that ever pretended to be civilized. The apocalypse didn’t flatten Scotland the way it did Los Angeles, it hollowed it out instead, left the bones standing and filled the gaps with whisky, guns, and ghosts.

I wore black that night. Not the practical kind.
The statement kind.

A black oversized tartan satin headscarf wrapped tight around my hair, catching the light like wet ink. Over my face, a sheer black chiffon voile veil, the mourning lace thin enough to breathe through, thick enough to hide regret. The rest of me was Victorian grief dialed up to eleven: glossy black tartan blouse with rococo frills, satin panels hugging me like a second conscience, skirts whispering every time I moved. I looked like a widow who’d buried the world and decided it deserved it.

In Glasgow, that bought me anonymity.

They called me Han here too, though the locals said it like a question. I’d followed the trail across the Atlantic after a shipment of American surplus hardware went missing, Tommy guns, plasma pistols, a few toys left over from the end of the world. Fallout New Vegas tech, Hollywood Hills money, Highland routes. Someone was running iron through the glens and washing it down with single malt older than the war itself.

The back streets off Trongate were crooked enough to make a Dutch cameraman weep. Buildings leaned in close, sharing secrets. Gas lamps flickered like they were afraid of what they might illuminate. I walked slow, heels deliberate, veil fluttering just enough to let the right people notice and the wrong people hesitate.

That’s when the femme fatale found me.

She leaned against a doorway like she’d been waiting for the end of the world to catch up. Hair platinum under a cloche hat, lips dark as a closed casket. Scottish, sharp, and carrying herself like a blade wrapped in silk.

“You’re far from Hollywood, sweetheart,” she said. “And you’re dressed for a funeral that isn’t yours.”

“Everyone’s funeral is mine eventually,” I said. “I just like to dress appropriately.”

She smiled. That was the mistake.

Her name was Moira Blackwood. Whisky broker. Gun runner. Mourner by trade. She dealt in Highland routes, smugglers who knew every fog bank, every forgotten rail spur left behind when the bombs fell south. The Americans supplied the firepower. The Scots supplied the patience.

And someone was skimming.

Bodies were turning up in the lochs. Empty bottles floating beside them like punchlines. Moira wanted to know who was cutting into her business before it turned into a clan war with automatic weapons.

We took a train north that barely remembered being a train. Through valleys drowned in mist and radiation snow. I kept the veil on the whole way. In the Highlands, superstition still worked better than bullets.

The smugglers met us in an abandoned distillery, barrels stacked like tombstones. The tartan of my outfit mirrored theirs, same pattern, different intent. They watched me carefully. Men always did when they couldn’t decide what category to put me in.

That hesitation saved my life.

When the shooting started, I was already moving. Heels skidding on stone, skirts swirling, revolver barking from beneath layers of satin and sorrow. Moira went down fast—winged, not dead. The real culprit bolted for the back door, carrying a ledger thick with names and lies.

I caught him by the loch.

The water reflected us in stark monochrome: him shaking, me looming, veil rippling like smoke. He confessed quickly. They always did when faced with someone who looked like death had chosen tartan satin couture.

I left him there for the deep dark water to judge.

By dawn, the Highlands were quiet again. Moira paid me in whisky older than memory and ammunition stamped with American lies. Fair trade.

Back in Glasgow, I stood in a cracked mirror in a boarding house that smelled of coal and grief. I removed the veil last. Always last.

Another city survived. Another secret buried. Another outfit stained with rain instead of blood.

The world was still tilted. Still broken. Still rolling on at the wrong angle.

But as long as there were shadows to walk and clothes that told the truth my mouth didn’t have to, I’d keep going.

Mourning never goes out of fashion.

The rain hammered down on the cracked pavement like a thousand accusations, each drop a reminder that the world had gone to hell in a handbasket back in '52, when the bombs fell and turned the City of Angels into a monochrome nightmare. I adjusted the strap of my garter belt under my trench coat, feeling the silk stockings whisper against my skin like a forbidden secret. Name's Tracy with a Dick, wait, no, that's too on the nose. Call me Hanimefendi Basortulu, or just Han if you're buying the drinks. By day, I'm the hard boiled gumshoe pounding the shadowed alleys of this irradiated husk of Los Angeles, dodging mutants and mobsters in equal measure. But when the neon flickers out and the Dutch angles of my life tilt just right, I'm something else entirely: a crossdressing sissy in satin, chasing skirts instead of skirts chasing me.
It started with a dame, like all my stories do. Or at least, that's how I tell it to the mirror while I paint my lips ruby red in the dim glow of my office bulb the one that swings like a noose in the wind howling through the boarded up windows. The apocalypse had stripped the city bare, leaving behind skeletal skyscrapers leaning at crazy angles, their glass eyes shattered from the blasts. Food was rationed, water was poison, and hope? That was a luxury for the pre war fools. Me? I survived by sniffing out secrets in the fog of fallout, my fedora pulled low over eyes shadowed with kohl I swiped from a ruined department store.
She slinked into my office that night, a vision in tattered mink and desperation. "Mr. Basortulu," she purred, her voice cutting through the static of my battered radio spitting out old jazz tunes. "I need a man who can handle... delicate matters." Her eyes flicked to my desk, where a stray lipstick tube had rolled out from under some files. I snatched it up quick, heart pounding like a tommy gun. If she noticed, she didn't let on. Her husband, a big shot fallout bunker baron hoarding pre war hooch, had vanished into the undercity the labyrinth of sewers and subways where the real monsters lurked, glowing with radiation and grudge.
I took the case because rent was due, and because her perfume smelled like the lilacs that used to bloom before the sky turned perpetual gray. Slipping out the back door, I ditched the coat for my real armor: a frilly silken blouse tucked into a satin pencil skirt, heels that clicked like gunshots on the debris strewn streets. Crossdressing wasn't just a kink in this apocalypse; it was camouflage. The goons patrolling the ruins looked for tough guys in suits, not a mincing minx batting lashes from the shadows. I'd learned that the hard way, back when the first riots hit and I hid in a drag queen's bunker, emerging reborn in marabou feathers, silk, satin, lace and lies.
The trail led me to the Dutch Tilt District, where buildings leaned like drunks at last call, their angles throwing everything off kilter just like my life. I tailed a suspect through the monochrome haze, my wig itching under the fedora I'd crammed back on. He was a weasel faced rat, peddling black market estrogen shots to the desperate. "Where's the baron?" I hissed, pressing a stiletto heel to his throat after I cornered him in an alley reeking of rot.
He spilled like cheap bourbon: the husband wasn't missing; he'd been snatched by the Shadow Syndicate, a cult of irradiated freaks worshiping the bomb as a god. They operated from the old Hollywood studios, twisting pre war films into propaganda reels that played on loop in the bunkers. I infiltrated at dusk, dolled up in a Lamé cocktail dress that hugged my curves like a guilty conscience. The guards bought the act hell, one even wolf whistled as I sashayed past, my .38 snub nose tucked in my garter.
Inside, it was a fever dream of tilted cameras and flickering projectors. The baron was tied to a chair, force-fed their twisted sermons. But the real twist? The dame was in on it. She emerged from the shadows, gun in hand, her mink shedding like a snake's skin. "You should've stayed in your lane, detective," she sneered. "Or should I say, crossdressing doll?"
We tussled in the projector light, our shadows dancing at mad angles on the walls, her nails raking my stockings, my fist connecting with her jaw. I got the drop on her, tying her up with her own pearls. "In this world, honey," I growled, voice husky from the hormones I'd been sneaking, "everyone's got a secret identity. Mine just fits better."
I dragged the baron out, collected my fee in canned peaches and ammo, and vanished back into the rain. Back in my office, I peeled off the layers, staring at my reflection in the cracked mirror. The apocalypse had taken everything, my city, my withered manhood, my illusions. But it gave me this: a gumshoe in girdles and satin, tilting at windmills in a world gone sideways. And in the end, that's all any of us have left. A story, a smoke, and the next case waiting in the wings.

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I never chose this life so much as it chose me, one silken whisper at a time, across sixty four slow turning years. It began in the hush of boyhood, fingers trembling as they brushed the cool satin of my Mother’s Sunday slip, the fabric sighing against my skin like a secret finally given voice. Midnight experiments followed stolen dresses in dim bedrooms, heartbeats loud against lace, the mirror a conspirator that never judged. Then came the decades of careful folding away marriage, children, the steady performance of an ordinary man while upstairs, behind false panels in the attic, a private gallery of satins and chiffons dreamed in silence. Now the children have flown, my Turkish wife of forty five winters slipped away on the softest November breath two months past, and the last tether has loosened. At sixty four I have stepped fully into the role I have always carried inside. No audience remains to disappoint. Only the mirrors, patient and kind. I have become Hanimefendi,(Turkish for Lady) the sissy Victorian housemistress of this quiet manor of memory and candlelight. I have worn Black Satin Widow's Weeds for the previous two months, now I am working through my own colour spectrum. I dallied with Pink and enjoyed the experience but as a Cityzen, Turquoise, Marine Blue and shades of Sky Blue, has always called to me as a long time supporter of Manchester City. The ritual begins at dusk. First, the high waisted, long leg panty girdle in deepest turquoise satin firm yet forgiving, a decadent embrace that smooths time’s gentle rounding into elegant lines. It clasps me with theatrical intimacy, promising glamour in every restrained breath. Then the gown descends: floor sweeping turquoise satin, reborn from widow’s weeds into defiant opulence. The bodice clings like liquid moonlight through the torso before cascading into extravagant gypsy ruffles that bloom at the hips. Sleeves impossibly long, sissy long billow from shoulder to deep, rose trimmed cuff, swaying with each gesture like languid waves. The fabric catches every flicker, its subtle sheen tracing molten highlights along every fold, turning motion into shimmering poetry. Over shoulders and throat drifts the sheer turquoise chiffon voile veil, gossamer as exhaled breath, floating a hand’s span from my face. It softens the lines age has etched without concealing them grief veiled, yet radiant. Last, the oversized turquoise satin hijab headscarf, wrapped and pinned with reverent precision. Its rich, glossy folds frame my features like a reliquary of lapis and sea glass, the colour chosen deliberately: mourning need not be monochrome. Sorrow, too, can blaze jewel bright. I move through the rooms by candlelight alone. Tall silver holders spill pools of gold, dramatic chiaroscuro carves deep satin shadows into ruffles and pleats while the satin itself ignites vibrant, unearthly turquoise glowing against the gloom like bioluminescent tide. Each step sends a soft hiss of fabric across oak boards, the veil drifts behind me like sea mist following a ship of ghosts. I dust phantom mantelpieces, rearrange crystal that asks nothing of me, murmur instructions to maids who exist only in the echo of my voice. Sometimes I pause before the tall pier glass in the upper hall and simply regard the figure there. In its depths I see the frightened boy who once quaked at satin’s rustle. I see the husband who learned to fold himself small. And I see her, me Hanimefendi sixty four, unapologetic, swathed in extravagant turquoise like a proclamation stitched in light. The world beyond these walls may still insist on its muted uniforms, but here, in these shadowed chambers, I have rewritten the grammar of grief. It is not devolved from mourning black to ash-grey. It is this fierce, swimming blue green that drinks candle flame and gives it back brighter. It is theatrical, shameless, mine. Tonight, as ever, I lower myself into the worn leather armchair beside the tall window. Ruffles settle around me like spilled ink, veils float, then still. The silence enfolds me, tender as old satin. No one watches. Except the mirror. And in my mind's eye it has always approved.

My own outfit tonight is the usual liturgy of satin devotion: full length satin slip beneath a long, bias-cut satin kaftan in the same deep cocoa family, sleeves falling past my knuckles in heavy, liquid folds. Satin gloves to the elbow. Satin socks sliding inside satin lined house slippers. Even the thin belt I tied at the waist is doubled satin cord. I have not worn anything else cotton, wool, denim, polyester in years. Skin has forgotten every texture but this one. There, resting on a perfectly smooth, shimmering brown satin pillow, sits the mannequin headform. Draped across it is the headscarf fresh from its tissue paper cradle only an hour ago. The silk satin is so densely woven, so exquisitely finished, that it looks poured rather than cut and stitched. I approach the mannequin headform with deliberate slowness, my satin gloved fingers trembling just enough to send faint shivers through the fabric. The spotlight above casts a warm, golden halo, making the brown satin headscarf and hijab gleam like polished mahogany. The pillow beneath them is plush, yielding slightly as I lift the scarf first careful, so careful not to crease its pristine folds. It unfolds in my hands like a living thing, cool and heavy, the weave so tight it feels like liquid silk against my palms. I pause, holding it up to the light. The edges are hemmed with invisible stitches, the kind only a master tailor would bother with. No fray, no flaw. Just endless, unbroken sheen. My breath catches as I imagine the transformation ahead the ritual that turns ordinary skin into something exalted, wrapped in satin sanctity. First, the preparation. I glide to the satin draped vanity nearby, where my tools wait: a small satin pouch of pins, each head coated in matching brown mother of pearl, a fine misting bottle of distilled water scented with a hint of vanilla to enhance the fabric's natural luster; and a full length mirror framed in burnished brass, its surface polished to reflect every nuance. I sit on the satin stool, my kaftan pooling around me in soft waves, and begin with my face. A light dusting of translucent powder to mattify the skin no shine but satin's own allowed. Then, the undercap: a simple brown satin skullcap I slip on, smoothing it flat against my scalp until it's seamless, invisible. Now, the headscarf. I fold it diagonally, creating a perfect triangle, the hypotenuse edge aligned with mathematical precision. I drape it over my head, the point falling down my back like a veil of night. The front edge rests just above my eyebrows, cool against my forehead, and I cross the ends under my chin, pulling them taut but not tight enough to hug, to cradle. The hiss of satin on satin is intoxicating, a whisper that echoes in the quiet room. I tie a loose knot at the nape, then tuck and pin the excess fabric into soft pleats, fanning them out like wings. Each pin slides in with a satisfying click, securing the shape without piercing the illusion of fluidity. I stand and turn to the mirror. Already, the transformation stirs: my features soften under the frame, eyes sharper in contrast to the rich brown. But it's incomplete. The hijab waits on the mannequin, its longer lengths beckoning. I retrieve it next, unfolding the rectangular expanse yards of satin, bias cut for drape. This is the heart of the ritual, the layer that envelops and defines. I position it over the headscarf, centering the wide edge along my hairline, letting the bulk cascade down my shoulders and back. The weight is luxurious, grounding, like being swaddled in opulence. I wrap one end across my chest, over the opposite shoulder, then bring the other around to meet it, creating a crossover that hints at modesty but screams indulgence. Pins again strategic, hidden hold the folds in place: one at the temple, another under the chin, a third securing the tail at my back. Adjustments come in waves. I smooth with gloved hands, coaxing out ripples until the surface is flawless, a continuous flow of brown that catches the spotlight in undulating highlights. A spritz from the bottle, just enough to set the sheen without dampening. I step back, then forward, turning side to side. The mirror shows perfection: head to toe in satin, the new pieces blending seamlessly with my kaftan, as if I were carved from a single bolt of fabric. The ritual peaks in movement. I walk the room's perimeter, feeling the hijab sway with each step, the subtle friction of layers building a symphony of sound rustle, slide, sigh. It's meditative, this pacing, a communion with the texture that owns me. No exposed skin, no interruption; just satin encasing, protecting, obsessing. Finally, satisfaction settles. I return to the spotlight's center, the mannequin now bare beside me, its pillow dimpled from absence. The darkness beyond swallows everything else, leaving only this: me, ritually reborn in brown satin, ready for whatever devotion the night demands.

My TS/CD/TV Story

Tonight I feel the girl inside me stirring again, asking to be written into existence.

I have carried her quietly for so long—tucked into the soft, hidden chambers of my heart, where secrets live and dreams wait for courage. She has always been there, watching the world through my eyes while I learned how to survive in a role that never fully fit. She learned to whisper instead of speak, to hide instead of bloom.

I have always been feminine. I have always felt the pull toward softness, beauty, silk, lace, and being seen not as a man pretending—but as a woman becoming.

I didn’t begin crossdressing until a few years ago, late in life, after decades of wondering and silence. A boyfriend encouraged me—someone who saw the femininity in me and cherished it. I was already submissive in spirit, already gentle, already carrying this quiet feminine current inside. When I put on a bra, slipped into panties, and felt lingerie against my skin, it felt natural. Familiar. Like recognition.

I had suspected this part of myself for years, like a faint melody always playing in the background. But that day, standing there in softness, I didn’t just suspect it—I knew. Not as fantasy or curiosity, but as truth. Something ancient and undeniable finally named itself.

I imagine walking down a street in a dress that catches the light, my skin warm in the sun, people seeing me as I wish to be seen. I imagine being admired, desired, even framed on a wall like a pin-up girl from another era—confident, glamorous, unapologetically herself. That vision makes my heart ache with both joy and grief.

So much of my life has been spent in silence. So much of me was taught to hide. I am still learning how to peel back the layers of fear, religion, politics, family expectations, and my own hesitation. I don’t know where this path will lead—only that I am tired of pretending she isn’t there.

For now, she lives in quiet places: my room, my thoughts, the gentle arms of someone who understands, the rare spaces where I can exhale and be Chrissy. I wonder sometimes if that is enough. I wonder what it would be like to let her walk freely in the daylight.

No one in my family knows her. Most of my friends don’t. They see the version of me that learned how to blend in, how to be acceptable, how to survive. They don’t see the girl who has been waiting so patiently inside.

Tonight I write her name here, like a prayer.
Tonight I let her breathe.

Chrissy.
She is real.
She is me.

And even if the world never fully knows her, I know her. And that, for now, is something.

With love,
Chrissy

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The dress had lived in my saved folder for weeks: an elegant plus size kaftan, long and sweeping, described in loving detail online as a “maxi robe style” masterpiece. Bold geometric shapes danced across it, interrupted by playful polka dots, all in the richest shades of brown, deep coffee, and warm beige. No stretch, just pure, structured non stretch fabric that would drape and flow with quiet authority. Off the shoulder design that could be worn modestly high or slipped gently down for a more relaxed silhouette, and those perfect short sleeves. And then the detail that had sealed it for me a matching set of satin accessories: a hijab, a headscarf, and an oversized satin scarf, all in the same lush coffee beige family.
I’d imagined myself in it so many times. Not just wearing it, but being in it moving through a room and feeling the hem brush my ankles like a whispered promise.
The sales assistant smiled when she saw me lingering near the display. “That one’s new in,” she said, lifting the hanger with the kind of reverence usually reserved for museum pieces. “It’s even more striking up close.”
She wasn’t wrong.
Up close, the patterns were alive. The geometrics felt almost architectural, like tiny tiled courtyards from some ancient medina, while the polka dots added a mischievous modern wink. The colours were deeper than the photos had captured less flat beige, more toasted almond and espresso swirling together. I ran my fingertips over the fabric. Crisp, cool, luxuriously matte except where the satin accents caught the light and turned molten.
I asked to try it on.
In the fitting room, the kaftan slipped over my head like cool water. The weight of the non stretch fabric gave it presence; it didn’t cling, it enveloped. I adjusted the off shoulder neckline until it sat just where I wanted respectful yet softly open, framing my collarbones without apology. The short sleeves ended exactly where they should, leaving my forearms free. I turned slowly in front of the mirror and watched the skirt flare and settle, the patterns shifting like a living mosaic.
Then came the satin pieces.
I draped the hijab first, letting the silky coffee coloured length glide over my hair and shoulders. The texture was heaven smooth against my skin, cool and weightless. Next the headscarf, wrapped and tucked with practiced care (I’d watched enough tutorials to fake confidence). Finally, the oversized satin scarf, which I looped loosely around my neck and let trail down my back like a royal train in miniature.
When I stepped out of the cubicle, the assistant actually gasped quietly, politely, but it was there.
I felt… regal. Not in a loud, glittering way, but in the way old Islamic manuscript illuminations are regal: intricate, deliberate, quietly commanding attention through beauty rather than volume. The kaftan moved with me like an extension of breath. Every step sent gentle waves through the fabric, the geometric lines bending and realigning, the polka dots catching tiny sparks of that golden-hour light pouring through the shop windows.
I bought it. No hesitation.
Now, when I wear it at home in the evenings, I light a few low lamps to recreate that same warm glow. I walk slowly across the hardwood floor just to feel the hem sweep behind me. I arrange the satin scarf different ways draped over one shoulder, wrapped as a belt, left to float free and each time the mirror shows me someone new, yet completely myself.
It isn’t just a dress.
It’s the version of elegance I’d been quietly sketching in my mind for years, finally given shape in brown, coffee, and beige.
And every time I put it on, I remember that afternoon in the boutique when the light hit just right, and I finally recognised the person looking back at me.

In this year of Our Lord 1885, I, a gentleman of four-and-sixty summers and considerable corpulence, find myself irrevocably committed to the most elaborate and humiliating semblance of a widow in deepest mourning, nay, a sissy crossdresser, every contour of my person exaggerated into an absurd excess of feminine propriety at the unyielding command of Madame. My unwieldy frame is confined within a voluminous gown of black bombazine, its lustrous silk bodice drawn so severely that my affixed bosom rises and falls in mock matronly dignity. Upon my head sits an immense crape bonnet, enveloped in multitudinous folds of black crepe veiling that descend softly over my countenance and shoulders like the very pall of perpetual bereavement, its diaphanous gauze quivering with each breath and rendering me a figure of spectral, enforced delicacy.
Beneath this sombre raiment, a prodigious crinoline encircles my ample waist, distending the skirt to such extravagant breadth that every halting step discloses the lace-fringed hems of my cambric under-drawers and the delicately trimmed tops of my black lisle stockings, secured by embroidered satin garters. At times madame requires silk hose of the sheerest texture, yet the mortification endures undiminished. My feet, protesting and swollen, are imprisoned within patent leather ankle boots of four inches’ Louis heel, their pointed toes permitting a glimpse of my varnished nails in pitiable vulnerability. Should indolence be suspected, Madame fastens the straps with black satin ribbons, forestalling any attempt at relief. My hands, bearing permanent false nails of gleaming pearl, are gloved in lace mittens, adorned with rings upon every finger, while a jet choker of frilled design encircles my thick neck as a badge of submission. The whole attire is so profoundly girlish, so burdened with widow’s frippery, that it would provoke scandal even among the most devout matrons of Her Majesty’s court.
I descend from our Brougham in the crowded precincts of Covent Garden, With utmost caution I arrange my skirts, the heels resounding sharply upon the cobblestones, and proceed with mincing steps, hips swaying perforce beneath the crinoline’s dominion and the boots’ perilous elevation. Soft laughter ripples along the stallholders. Smiles of polite astonishment. Complimentary remarks follow. “La, madam, what a most becoming habit of mourning!” one declares. “The veil is exceedingly elegant, and those boots quite the mode!” They suppose it a seasonal fancy. I colour deeply beneath the crepe, threading my way through the ordeal with measured tread, aware that I shall return in seven days, and seven again thereafter, clad precisely thus, bereft of any festal pretext merely a creature wholly subject to his lady’s will.
I procure the articles enumerated upon Madame's list, tea of finest quality, spices, and provisions discharge the account, and retire with mincing gait to the carriage, crinoline whispering, veil fluttering like a mourner’s sigh. Madame directs that I convey her thither beforehand, yet she commands me first to enter and obtain her broadsheet and sweetmeats. As I totter across the thoroughfare, heels clacking, a lady seated in an adjacent Hansom calls out: “Those boots are positively ravishing, madam!” I turn, the veil shifting with ethereal grace, and reply in a low, submissive tone, “I am most obliged to you, Madame is pleased to attire me in this manner at all times.” She laughs with genuine delight. “Would that I might prevail upon my own husband to exhibit such commendable obedience!” Having restored Madame to her residence, I repair to the wine merchant’s. The moment I enter, eyes fix upon me chuckles, prolonged gazes. The proprietress cannot forbear a smile at my boots, her glance ascending to my carefully plucked brows, arched with precision. “Heavens preserve us,” she exclaims, “this is no mere passing fancy of costume. You have worn it for a considerable period, have you not?” I venture a faint, veiled smile. “Indeed, madam… it is the garb prescribed for me upon every occasion of shopping. I endeavour, by degrees, to grow reconciled to it.” A youthful clerk conveys the case of port to the carriage. He chuckles softly. “You bear it with uncommon grace, sir.” Madame assures me that habituation shall ensue. “In due course, the sense of mortification will diminish,” she declares with quiet conviction. “You will become thoroughly accustomed to your station as my devoted maidservant.” She contemplates the future with satisfaction: I, attending to the household in full uniform, discharging her every errand, awaiting her return in patient seclusion. Upon her entrance, I must execute a profound curtsey and relieve her of mantle and parasol. At every ingress or egress from a chamber curtsey. All domestic duties devolve upon me, performed amid the perpetual rustle of bombazine and crinoline.

Had a great day, here’s my Sunday outfit. I wore a nice long leather trench coat over this outfit and of course some lovely silk underwear. Smoked a few cigarettes and yes Linda is a happy girl tonight. xx

If you would like to see pics of me being naughty and peeing over my silky pink frilly knickers feel free to message me x

The room was silent except for the soft rustle of fabric and the slow, deliberate rhythm of her breathing.

She had asked for one thing tonight: to disappear completely into herself.

The first layer came as a whisper cool, liquid like satin poured over her bare skin. A full-length slip of deep midnight blue, heavier than it looked, sliding down her body like cool water that refused to evaporate. It kissed every curve, every hollow, then settled against her with possessive weight. She exhaled long and low as the hem brushed her ankles.

Then the second skin.

A thicker satin robe followed, floor-length, wide-sleeved, the kind meant for royalty who never intended to leave their chambers. Deep indigo, almost black in low light. He fastened the inner ties first slowly, methodically cinching her waist just enough that every breath reminded her of the fabric’s embrace. The outer sash wound around her twice before being tied in a wide, flat bow at the small of her back. She felt the slight tug travel all the way up her spine.

“Arms,” he murmured.

She lifted them like someone already half-asleep.

A third layer: a long, hooded cape of the same midnight satin, lined with silk so fine it felt like cool breath against her neck. The hood was generous, cut wide and deep. When he drew it forward, the satin edges curtained her peripheral vision until the world narrowed to a soft, shadowed tunnel. Only her face remained visible for now.

He stepped back to look at her.

She stood motionless in the centre of the room, gleaming faintly under the single lamp, already beginning to look like something carved from night itself.

Then came the veil.

Not lace, not tulle pure satin, sheer enough to see the outline of features beneath, dense enough to blur every detail into dreamlike softness. He draped it over the hood first so it cascaded down the front and back of her body in long, liquid folds. When he smoothed it across her face, the fabric settled like a second eyelids. She felt the faint pressure against her eyelashes, the hush of her own breath trapped and warmed against her lips.

He tied it gently at the nape, then again lower, securing it beneath the layers of satin already cocooning her throat. The knot was small, decorative, almost ornamental. But it anchored everything.

Now she was covered.

Encased.

Hooded.

Veiled.

A single continuous surface of satin from crown to toe shimmering, unbroken, reflective swallowing light and returning only muted echoes of it.

He guided her to the wide, low bed. She moved slowly, each step a muted hiss of fabric sliding over fabric. When she reached the edge, he helped her lie back, arranging the excess satin around her like spilled ink. The hood framed her face in a perfect oval of shadow; the veil softened her mouth into something distant and serene.

He pulled a final piece from the drawer: a narrow length of the same midnight satin. Not a blindfold something gentler. He laid it across her eyes, not tying it, just letting the weight rest there. Enough to make the world behind her eyelids even darker, even quieter.

Then he sat beside her.

No words for a long time.

Only the slow tide of her breathing, growing deeper, slower, heavier with each cycle. The satin moved with her rising, falling, whispering against itself. Every small shift sent fresh waves of cool smoothness gliding across her skin, then settling again, reminding her she was held, contained, nowhere left exposed.

Minutes passed. Maybe more.

Her hands, hidden inside the wide sleeves, eventually stopped searching for anything. They curled loosely against her stomach, cradled by layer after layer of satin.

Her mouth parted beneath the veil just enough for the softest sigh to escape.

She was gone now.

Not asleep, not yet.

Somewhere softer than sleep.

Somewhere the world could not reach.

Only satin.

Only weight.

Only hush.

And the long, slow pulse of total, satin surrender.

I am sixty-four and the grief of the past two months has carved me hollow. Every morning I wake with the same violent start as though my heart has forgotten, for one merciful second, that she is gone. Then memory rushes back like cold water poured into cracked lungs. I cough on it. I always cough on it. Tonight I no longer pretend this is costume. The black satin mourning gown weighs thirty pounds if it weighs an ounce. The sleeves are so enormous they make my arms look like broken wings. The skirt is a black tide that drags behind me, heavy enough to drown small regrets. When I move, the silk screams sharp, wet slaps against itself, the sound of something being torn apart over and over. I have wrapped my head in a midnight black satin headscarf so vast it feels like I am being buried from the crown downward. The fabric is cool against my scalp, almost tender, the way her palm once was when she smoothed my hair before sleep. I pull it brutally tight underneath my chin. I want the tightness of the choke to hurt a little. I need to feel something that isn’t absence. Then the veil. Three sheer layers of black voile chiffon. The first kisses my eyelashes like soot. The second presses against my lips until I taste funeral flowers. The third falls to my waist and beyond, turning the room into a world seen through smoke and tears. Through it everything is dying again, softly, perpetually. My hands tremble as I button the twenty-four jet buttons of the double layer bodice rising from my belly to neck of the mourning gown. Each click of the button is a small gunshot in the quiet house. When I am finished my fingers inside my satin gloves are tired, elegant, useless. I cannot even touch my own face without feeling like I am trespassing on someone else’s sorrow. I descend the staircase one deliberate step at a time. The hem catches, drags, catches again. Silk on oak. Silk on oak. A dirge with no mercy. Halfway down I have to grip the banister because the weeping comes without warning, great, ugly sobs that make my whole body heave against the buttons of the bodice. I let them come. Let them tear through me. There is no one left to be ashamed in front of. In the drawing room I do not sit in her chair. I kneel. The skirt pools around me like spilled blood. I press my gloved palms flat against the carpet where her feet once rested. I lower my forehead until the veil puddles on the floor between my hands. I breathe in the ghost of her perfume, the ghost of her skin, the ghost of the mornings when I still woke as someone she recognised. “I’m sorry,” I whisper to the empty room. The words taste like rust. “I’m sorry I waited so long to become her. I’m sorry you never saw me like this. I’m sorry I’m still here breathing when you’re not.” The veil sticks to the wet tracks on my cheeks. I do not lift it. Let it cling. Let it choke. Let it witness. Outside, the night presses against the windows like a second, colder widow. A car passes. Headlights rake the room in white knives, illuminating me for one merciless second, an old crossdresser in extravagant widow’s weeds, kneeling, shaking, face hidden behind layers of black illusion, crying like something newly orphaned. I do not rise. I stay there until my knees scream, until the sobs turn to the small, broken hiccups of someone who has cried until there is almost nothing left to give. Only then do I speak again, so quietly the words barely disturb the veil. “You would have loved her,” I tell the dark. “You would have loved me.” And for the first time since the funeral two months ago, the silence does not feel like punishment. It feels like the last gentle touch of someone who finally understands.

In the dim afternoon light of my bedroom, I sit before the antique dressing table that once belonged to my Wife. The black satin headscarf rests across my lap like spilled ink, its oversized folds still carrying the faint lavender I keep tucked inside the drawer. The veil those fragile layers of sheer black chiffon voile hangs from the wardrobe door, trembling slightly whenever the January wind finds its way through the sash window. Outside, the town lies quiet under the grey sky of the 16th of January 2026.
I run a lace gloved finger along the jet beading on the bodice, the little beads cold at first, then warming as though they remember my body heat. Why this? The question rises again, steady as my own heartbeat. It isn’t only the crossdressing; that word feels too narrow, too modern for what moves through me. This is mourning chosen, worn deliberately, as though putting on these heavy black satins lets me grieve properly, not just for my Wife, but for the version of myself I kept locked away all those years.
I see flashes of the past: my Grandmother’s photograph album, those stern Victorian and Edwardian women in crepe and veils, faces made beautiful by sorrow. I used to stare at them longer than any boy was supposed to, feeling something stir that had no name. Later, during the decades with my Wife, the secret grew in silence satin bought at antique fairs, a chiffon veil ordered late at night from sellers who asked no questions. My Wife never knew, or if she guessed, she let it lie. She would smile when I came home with yet another silk or satin scarf, teasing me about my “fancy tastes,” and I would laugh along, the words both a comfort and a small, private wound. Did I steal something from her by never speaking the truth? Or was the silence kinder, preserving the life we built of Sunday dinners, walks up on the hill across the fields, the kettle whistling in the kitchen while we listened to the afternoon play on Radio 4? The clothes themselves seem to answer me. The satin is cool against my skin at first, then softens, accepts me. It wraps around the shape I carry inside, the one that never quite fitted the name Tony. When I wear it, I become Tonya the widow I sometimes feel I have always been. The mourning isn’t only for my Wife’s death two months ago, it is for all the years I lived half hidden, for the conversations never had, for the evenings I stood alone in front of the mirror trying on fragments of this other life. Out in the town, beneath the veil, the world blurs into gentle greys. People nod with quiet respect, the way they would to any Victorian widow stepping out of time. In those moments the doubt falls away and I feel something close to power, loss made visible, made dramatic, made mine. Yet when I come home and sit here, the questions return. At Sixty Four, is this foolishness or finally honesty? The mirror shows silver hair escaping the satin folds, lines carved by time across my face. Is it too late to become who I have always been inside? Then I remember my Wife’s hand in mine during those last weeks, her voice thin but certain: “Be happy, love. Whatever that looks like.” Perhaps this is what it looks like layers of black satin and chiffon, the headscarf framing my face like a dark halo, the veil softening everything until even my doubts feel bearable. I rise slowly, fold the headscarf with the same care I once used to fold my handkerchiefs after ironing. The reflections will come back tomorrow, and the day after. They are complicated, tangled, sometimes painful. But they are mine, and for the first time I am not afraid to hold them. The wardrobe waits, patient and open. So do I.

I sit motionless in the dim parlor, the heavy velvet drapes drawn against the January gloom outside. The only light comes from the tall candelabra behind me, its flames trembling as though they, too, are in mourning. My reflection stares back from the tall gilt mirror across the room a stranger wearing my face, yet not quite mine anymore. The black satin gown clings to me like spilled ink, cool and liquid against my skin. Each subtle shift of my body sends faint gleams racing along the fabric, silver whispers in an ocean of midnight. The high collar bites gently at my throat, edged with fragile black lace that looks as though it might crumble if I breathed too deeply. The sleeves are puffed at the shoulders, then narrow cruelly down my arms until the cuffs grip my wrists like velvet manacles. I feel both imprisoned and exalted. The chiffon voile veil floats over my head, so fine it seems spun from smoke. It softens the edges of the world, turns the candlelight into a gentle, diffused halo. Through its haze I can see the portrait painter’s easel, the careful arrangement of shadows he is trying to capture. He keeps glancing at me as though he fears I might vanish if he looks away too long. My lips are painted the colour of old blood left to dry blackened plum, almost truly black in this light. The lipstick feels thick, ceremonial. Each time I press them together I taste the faint metallic bite of the pigment. My eyes are rimmed with kohl so dark it seems to drink the light; the sharp wings of liner make my gaze look both wounded and dangerous, like something beautiful that has learned how to bite. In my hands I cradle the bouquet. Once they were perfect crimson roses, the kind lovers press between the pages of forbidden books. Now they are dying in slow, exquisite agony. The stems bend wearily, heavy with the weight of their own decay. Petals loosen one by one, drifting down like drops of blood onto the polished floorboards. I can hear them fall soft, deliberate sounds, the quiet punctuation of something ending. I do not cry. There are no tears left for what I have become, for the man I buried beneath satin and shadow. This is not grief in the ordinary sense. This is something older, more deliberate a ritual of exquisite surrender. I chose every detail of this costume, every inch of mourning silk, every wilting bloom. I dressed myself for my own funeral, painted my own face for the wake, arranged my own flowers. And now I stand here, perfectly composed, while the painter tries to trap eternity in oil and canvas. Sometimes I think I can hear the roses whispering as they die. They do not beg for water. They do not ask to be saved. They only sigh, petal by petal, accepting their beautiful collapse. And I understand them perfectly. The veil stirs slightly as I exhale. A single crimson petal catches on the sheer fabric, trembling there like a ruby tear that refuses to fall. I do not brush it away. Let it stay. Let it be seen. Let the portrait show exactly what I have chosen to become: A widow of my former self, dressed in the most exquisite grief, holding death’s bouquet with steady, loving hands, smiling just a little behind lips the colour of finality.

I must say I have been away for a while and I’ve missed dressing so much.
But tonight I feel I’m back to where I want to be, as I’ve just got ready for bed in pink silk cami set and dressing gown and my gorgeous breasts xx

I stood in front of the full-length mirror in my dimly lit bedroom, my heart pounding with anticipation. At 64 years old, my body had softened over the years—my ample belly and wide hips a testament to a life of indulgence, now embraced in my secret world as a sissy crossdresser. Layers of shimmering satin enveloped me like a cocoon, not restraining but caressing every curve. A voluminous satin nightgown draped over my frame, its glossy fabric pooling around my thighs, while beneath it, satin panties hugged my skin, and a satin slip added another silky barrier. I felt shrouded, encased in luxury, every movement sending whispers of fabric against fabric.
My hands trembled slightly as I reached for the condom on the nightstand. I tore open the packet with care, the latex unfurling smoothly. Sliding it over my hardening arousal, I savored the initial cool tightness, a prelude to the symphony of sensations to come. It fit snugly, ready to capture the climax of this intimate ritual.
Now, I turned my attention to the fabrics that called to me. My fingers glided over the satin nightgown, tracing the smooth, slippery surface that clung to my obese form. The material shifted with each breath, rubbing against my skin in waves of electric silkiness. I ran my hands down my sides, feeling the layers bunch and slide, the overwhelming sensuality building as the satin whispered promises of ecstasy. My belly, soft and round, pressed against the inner layers, amplifying the friction—cool satin warming to my body heat, turning into a second skin that teased every nerve.
I moved to the dresser, where my collection of headscarves awaited. First, I selected an oversized satin one in deep crimson, draping it over my head like a veil of night. It cascaded down my back and shoulders, the edges brushing my neck. I tied it firmly under my chin, the knot secure but gentle, then looped the excess around my neck in a loose bow, adding another layer of encasement that framed my face in glossy folds. The satin pressed softly against my cheeks, its texture so smooth it felt like liquid silk pouring over me.
Not satisfied, I layered another—emerald green, even larger, overlapping the first. I repeated the process: over the head, tied under the chin with a double knot for that extra hug of fabric, then wrapped around my neck in elegant loops that nestled against my throat. The combined weight was delicious, the satins rustling together with every turn of my head, sending shivers down my spine. A third layer followed, ivory white and billowing, tied and looped in the same manner, now creating a multi-hued shroud that muffled the world outside, focusing all sensation inward.
To complete the encasement, I added the sheer voile chiffon veils. These were lighter, almost ethereal, like mist. I pulled the first one over my head as a hood, its transparent layers fluttering down to my shoulders, veiling my vision in a hazy dreamscape. The chiffon whispered against the satin scarves beneath, a delicate contrast to their heavier gloss—airy and teasing, brushing my lips and eyelids with feather-light touches. I added a second chiffon veil, then a third, each one encasing my head further, the sheer fabric layering into a translucent barrier that heightened every breath, every subtle movement.
Encased now from head to toe, I lay back on the bed, the satin sheets beneath me adding to the chorus. My hands explored freely: sliding under the nightgown to feel the panties' slick embrace, then up to my chest where the slip's fabric bunched against my skin. The sensations overwhelmed me—the cool slide of satin on satin, the warmth building where layers met my body's curves, the chiffon veils shifting like a gentle breeze across my face. My arousal throbbed within the condom, begging for attention.
I gave in, my hand wrapping around myself through the thin latex. The strokes were slow at first, savoring how the satin panties amplified each motion, the fabrics around me rustling in rhythm. The headscarves tugged slightly with my movements, their knots and loops a constant reminder of my shrouded state. Faster now, the sensations cresting—silky textures merging into a tidal wave of pleasure. With a muffled gasp beneath the veils, I released, filling the condom in blissful waves, my body quivering in the satin embrace until I lay spent, utterly satisfied in my encasement.

So comfortable in soft and silky stockings
Happy New year to all of you
Best wishes for 2026
May God bless and protect you.

Well I did quite a bit of knicker and bra shopping today-I bought nice matching bra and knickers set, some purple knickers (favourite colour) from Next, then went to buy more knickers from M+S-came out with black and purple. I have only done a couple of photos but will do more. I returned the silky French knickers and body form knickers that my mother in law loaned me-she said that I can go in her knickers drawer anytime and borrow he panties-I said thanks and yes I will

Note: While this drive was real, the story is fictional. This is my fantasy. Will it become true one day? I hope so. And maybe I'll run into you at a truck stop? Kisses!
-Chrissy

My First Experience as a Truck Stop Wh-re or Chrissy — A Night on the Road

I’m not out. Not really.

Not to my family. Not to the world. Maybe not even fully to myself.

By daylight I pass as what people expect: a tall, thin man in his forties, dark hair, dark eyes, quiet, unremarkable. But underneath—always underneath—I carry Chrissy. Smooth skin hidden under denim. Lace and silk where no one is supposed to look. A secret pressed close to my body, warm and constant.

I don’t know yet if Chrissy is a role, a mask, or my truest self. I just know I’m not ready to live her openly.

The drive from San Diego to Prescott was long and lonely, the kind of drive where your thoughts stretch out across the desert like the road itself. I left late—too late, really—and by the time I pulled into the truck stop it was just after four in the morning. Christmas was only days away. The air was cold. The place was nearly silent.

Except for the trucks.

Rows and rows of them, idling and dark, their drivers asleep inside. A whole hidden world resting while the rest of America slept.

Inside, fluorescent lights buzzed. I bought coffee I didn’t really want and a hot dog I didn’t really taste. That’s when I felt it—that familiar sensation on the back of my neck. Being seen.

He was older. Weathered. The kind of man whose life is measured in miles and nights like this. His eyes lingered too long. Not crude—curious. Knowing.

When I stepped back outside, he followed—but not aggressively. He spoke softly, close enough that his voice stayed between us.

“Chrissy,” he said, like it was a question and an answer at the same time.

My heart kicked hard in my chest. Fear and thrill braided together.

We talked. Quietly. Honestly. About boundaries. About money. About what I was—and wasn’t—willing to do. Nothing rushed. Nothing forced. When I followed him to his truck, it was because I chose to.

Inside, the cab was dim, warm, insulated from the world. I shed my outer layers slowly, deliberately, revealing what I’d hidden all night. His attention wasn’t violent—it was reverent. Hungry, yes, but controlled. I felt myself settle into Chrissy fully, like slipping into a familiar skin.

What happened between us stayed there, contained within the cab and the dark and the hum of the engine. Time stretched and blurred. I was present in my body in a way I rarely allow myself to be.

When it ended, I didn’t feel used.

I felt… seen.

He paid me without haggling. Then something unexpected happened: he didn’t boast, didn’t leer. He simply told a few others—men like him, tired men, lonely men—who understood discretion.

I made my own choices again. And again.

Not a dozen. Not chaos. Just a handful of quiet encounters, spaced out across the early hours of the morning. Each one brief. Each one negotiated. Each one leaving me with cash folded neatly into my purse and a strange, steady calm settling in my chest.

By sunrise, I was exhausted—not just physically, but emotionally. Chrissy had been fully awake all night. And she was tired.

Under the Dashboard Lights

The cab door closed behind me, sealing us into a private world of low light and humming machinery. The dashboard cast everything in a muted red glow, like we were suspended inside a heartbeat. I could feel it then—how small the space was, how large he felt in it, how nowhere I could go made everything sharper.

He reached for his phone almost casually.

“Stand right there,” he said.

I obeyed.

My hands shook just slightly as I slipped off my jacket, then my shirt. I could feel his eyes tracking every inch of me, lingering, memorizing. When I was left in my bra and panties—the ones I’d chosen carefully before the trip, just in case—I felt a rush of heat flood my chest and face.

The phone came up.

A soft click.

Then another.

He moved slowly, circling me, telling me to turn, to arch my back, to lift my chin. Each instruction felt like a pull downward, stripping away the version of myself that hides. I wasn’t performing anymore. I was presenting myself. Offering. More to cum....

#crossdresser #sissy #sissyboy #crossdressers #sissies #shemale #ladyboy #femboy #femman #femboys #crossdressing #gurl #trans #transgirl #transwoman #transgender #tgirl #gay #lgbtq #nsfw #adultsonly #adultcontent #sissy #crossdresser #crossdressing #femboy #sissyboy #sissygirl #trans #transgender #shemale #transgirl #transwoman #transfemale #tgirl #model #modeling #gay #bi #lgbtq #queer #genderfluid #pantymodel #panty #panties #meninpanties #ladyboy More: http://chrissyinsd.hotviber.com/

I was sixteen, maybe seventeen, on that raw December afternoon in the mid-1970s, standing at the back of a small cemetery in southern Manchester. The light was thin and melancholy, the sort that turns everything slightly blue and makes shadows linger too long over the leaning stones. I barely knew the man we were burying, some Uncle twice removed, so the ache in the air never reached me. Grief felt like something that belonged to other people, grown-ups who understood loss. For me, the day was something else entirely, an accidental invitation into a world I hadn’t known I was hungry for.
They were everywhere, those women. Mature, composed, dressed in layers of black that seemed to absorb the weak winter sun and give back only a muted gleam. Silk dresses that clung and released with every breath, satin blouses catching stray glints of light, chiffon and voile drifting like smoke whenever the wind found them. Rayon, acetate, fabrics I didn’t even have names for then, but I felt them all the same, the way they moved, the soft sounds they made against one another. They stood in quiet clusters around the grave, gloved hands clasped, heads bowed beneath hats and veils. To them I must have looked like just another awkward boy in a borrowed tie, but inside I was burning with a fascination I couldn’t name and didn’t dare examine too closely.
And then there was her.
She stood slightly apart, as though even in mourning she needed space. An enormous black satin scarf, far too large, almost theatrical—draped over her shoulders and spilled down her back like spilled ink. Over her face, a sheer chiffon veil, so fine it trembled with every breath. I could smell her from where I stood, carried on the cold air, the sharp bite of Elnette hairspray holding her hair in perfect waves, and beneath it the heavy, amber warmth of Youth Dew. It was the scent of adulthood itself, complicated, slightly dangerous, utterly out of reach.
I watched her the entire time. I told myself it was curiosity, nothing more. But even then, in the thick of it, some quieter part of me knew better. There was something about the way these women carried their sorrow, elegant, controlled, yet undeniably physical that stirred a longing I didn’t understand. It wasn’t just desire, though that was certainly part of it. It was deeper: a wish to be close to whatever it was they possessed experience, certainty, the weight of years lived fully. I felt small beside them, unformed, all sharp edges and unspoken questions. They seemed to know secrets I hadn’t even learned to ask about.
Later, at the wake, coats and scarves were abandoned in a side room as the women moved on to tea and murmured condolences. I lingered near the pile, heart thudding so hard I was sure someone would notice. No one did. My fingers closed around two pieces: the oversized satin mourning scarf, still holding the warmth of her body, and the delicate chiffon veil. Both carried that same intoxicating blend of Elnette, Youth Dew, and something earthier, the faint salt of skin after hours in the cold. I slipped them inside my coat and left before the guilt could catch up with me.
That night, and for many nights through that long winter, I'd ascend up the narrow stairs to my attic bedroom. I’d lock the door, my one small claim to privacy in my parent’s house, draw the curtains and unfold the satin across my pillow. Sometimes I’d press the veil to my face and breathe slowly, letting the scent settle over me like fog.
In those quiet hours I began to understand what I’d really taken that day. It wasn’t just fabric. It was a fragment of a life I could only observe from the outside, a life of composure and ritual, of perfumes chosen deliberately and clothes worn with intention. Holding those scarves, I could pretend, for a moment, that some of that poise might rub off on me. That the confusion and restlessness I carried everywhere might quiet, just a little.
I never felt truly ashamed of stealing them. In my mind they were abandoned, after all, no longer needed once the performance of grief was over. But more than that, they had become mine in a way they could never have been hers again, totems of a feeling I was only beginning to name. Desire, yes. But also envy. And something closer to reverence.
Years later I can still close my eyes and smell it: hairspray, perfume, the faint trace of a woman’s skin on black satin. It takes me straight back to that cemetery, to the boy I was, watching, wanting, trying to understand what it meant to grow into someone capable of wearing mourning like it was made for them.
I’m not sure I ever fully did. But those scarves kept me company while I tried.

I have just woke up wrapped up in our satin nightdresses, at a time before her illness made sleeping together a problem, we had matching satin pink nightdresses. Last night I pulled the suitcase down from the top of the wardrobe and laid them out on the bed. Pink Simply Be Pretty Secrets Nightdresses in lovely silky satin. Full covered shoulder to capped sleeves with lace piping and spread across the breast. Calf length satin shimmering in Pink. My wife's is regularly worn in UK size 32/34, mine is newer UK size 20/22, I liked a slimmer tight nightdress that hugged my skin, my wife wore hers two sizes bigger than her usual larger dress size to make it easier to slide around in bed. I slipped mine on and shimmied the satin down my moobs and hips to rest around my calves. My wife's was like a tent on my body, lots of voluminous extra satin material hanging loose. The double layer feeling of all the satin was wonderful and I admit the erection had to be contained within a condom because pre cum started instantly. I lay on the bed and was overcome with both longing and grief, I laid there on the bed with tears in my eyes and sobbing in my chest. When I had calmed down the sensual aspect of the double layer satin took over and led to the inevitable masturbation. Physically and emotionally I was drained and fell asleep waking a few hours later needing to take off the condom and go to the toilet for a wee. As I walked back from the toilet to the bedroom the satin reminded me of our sensuality and our love. Wrapped in the double layer of satin underneath the quilt I felt comforted and slept deep until this morning. For me this needs to become my new deeply tender and bittersweet mourning ritual, one that holds both the sharp pain of loss and the soft warmth of memory all at once. Wearing her nightdress over mine, letting all that extra satin envelop me like a tent, felt almost like being held by her again. The way the fabric moved, the shimmer, the slide of it against my skin… it’s no wonder my body responded so immediately and so completely. And now I’ve found a ritual: pulling down the suitcase, laying the nightdresses side by side on the bed, slipping into both, letting the satin hold me in that bittersweet double embrace. It’s sacred because it’s mine and hers alone. It keeps the connection alive in the most embodied way possible through touch, through memory, through the very fabric we both wore against our skin when we made love, laughed, slept, lived. Grief and desire live right next to each other; one doesn’t cancel out the other. The tears, the arousal, the release, the comfort, it all belongs within my psyche. I honored her, our love, and the sensuality we shared by allowing myself to feel everything that came up. For my state of mind, there’s something sacred in keeping those satin nightdresses layered together, in pulling them out when the longing gets too heavy, in letting them carry me back to the nights when sleeping tangled together in satin was simply how life was. I'm keeping the connection alive in the most intimate, embodied way possible. I loved her totally, and I'm still loving her beautifully in my mourning.

anyon remember Mrs Silk's Milking Parlour?

Good morning! Sending love to anyone out there who is happy to accept it. Hope your Sunday is silky smooth and puts a smile on your face. I've got a lot to do today, but if anyone would like to distract me with a bit of chat, naughty or nice, drop me a line. Xxx

Orange Dreams ...

Orange Ball
Orange Dress
Orange Lipstick
Confess
Orange tube
White cold gel
Orange dreams
Orange smells
Blue parfume
Allien
Blue my night
Gel is white
I so wish
Feel the smell
Smell of
Pleasure
And Life...
I so wish
Feel inside
Nerves
Of Vaginal
Dreams
You will
Lough
I will try
Orange dress
And white cream..

Orange dress to confess
I am sexless as nun
Tibet monks
Will protest
Or accept
Kate is fool
I so wish
Song of Breast
I so wish touch of tights
Just white cream
To immerse
Feel what
Orange silk hides...

I was 18 curious to know what my sisters sexy panties felt like and her silk panties felt amazing and instantly aroused and hooked

Hey sweets,
I wanted to open up and share something real with you—something raw, honest, and close to the bone. If any of this resonates with you, if you’ve ever felt the same hunger, the same questions, the same ache—I’d love to hear from you. You're not alone. Leave a comment, share your truth.

With all my heart (and a few kisses),

I’ve hated my dick for as long as I can remember—not just for how it looks or what it symbolizes, but for how it keeps me tethered to a version of myself that never felt real. It’s not that I want to erase my body—I just want it to feel like mine. I want softness. Curves. A place to be entered, to be held, to be loved in a way that matches how I feel inside. I want to be her. And in many ways, I already am.

I haven’t transitioned. Maybe I never will. But I live in the space between genders like it’s home. Most people have no idea. They see what I let them see. But under my clothes, I’m wrapped in the truth of who I am—lace panties, a matching bra, delicate straps across my chest, sometimes a garter if I need to feel extra pretty that day. It’s not just for arousal. It’s for survival.

And always, always, I wear my prosthetic. My fake *****. My secret salvation.

It’s made of silicone—soft, skinlike, shaped just right. The slit is subtle but perfect. There's a hole you can enter, if you know how to treat me. When I slip it on and feel my **** tucked away, my heart slows. My body goes quiet. I look down and see smoothness, femininity, me. Not a fantasy—reality. My reality.

I wear it all the time. Not just for sex, not just when I’m alone. It’s part of my daily ritual, part of how I make peace with a body that’s caught between what it is and what I wish it could be. It keeps me close to her—the woman I am when no one’s looking, and sometimes even when they are.

Most lovers don’t know how to handle that part of me. They want either a woman or a man, and I’m both and neither. But some—some—see me. They touch me with reverence. They kiss my neck like it’s sacred. They press against the silicone, kiss me through it, call me beautiful. And when they slide inside that prosthetic slit, I feel... loved. Not just fucked. Chosen.

Other times, they want what I hide. They pull down my panties and take me as I am. My ass becomes my *****. They call my **** a girl ****, and I let them, because in those moments it belongs to the version of me who still needs to be worshipped, still deserves to be adored. There's no shame in it. I’m done apologizing for the way I live in my body.

But the most powerful moments are the quiet ones—alone, silk between my thighs, hips swaying as I move through the world with my little secret pressed tight against me. The prosthetic warms to my skin. I forget it’s there, and yet I’m constantly aware of it. It doesn’t just hide what I hate. It shows me who I am. Every soft curve, every subtle line—it’s mine.

I’ve had men fall in love with me through it. Not just because of how I look, but how I let them in. Emotionally, physically, spiritually. When I let a man undress me slowly, kiss down my stomach, slip his fingers over that smooth slit... he doesn’t just touch silicone. He touches me. He touches the part of me that’s always been waiting to be seen.

And when he enters me there, when he moves inside me through that perfect opening, I close my eyes and feel a kind of peace I’ve never known. A feeling that says, This is what it means to be wanted. This is what it means to be a woman. This is what it means to be loved in the body you’ve built for yourself, on your terms.

It’s not a costume. It’s not pretend. It’s truth, wrapped in silicone and lingerie and longing. And it’s beautiful. More: http://chrissyinsd.hotviber.com/
#crossdresser #sissy #sissyboy #crossdressers #sissies #shemale #ladyboy #femboy #femman #femboys #crossdressing #gurl #trans #transgirl #transwoman #transgender #tgirl #gay #lgbtq #nsfw #adultsonly #adultcontent

Good evening sweets! I'm off to work. But thought I'd leave you with a story. More: http://chrissyinsd.hotviber.com/
#crossdresser #sissy #sissyboy #crossdressers #sissies #shemale #ladyboy #femboy #femman #femboys #crossdressing #gurl #trans #transgirl #transwoman #transgender #tgirl #gay #lgbtq #nsfw #adultsonly #adultcontent

Chrissy on the Hillcrest Bus

The bus hissed as it opened its doors on University Avenue, right in the heart of Hillcrest, San Diego’s famous gay neighborhood. I climbed aboard, heart racing a little faster than usual. On the outside I was in my “boy clothes” — plain pants, a simple shirt — but underneath I was my secret self: Chrissy Marie Tunnell. Pink floral panties hugged my smooth hips, a matching bra cupped my chest, and tiny flashes of trans-colored jewelry — a ring, a dangling earring — shimmered in the afternoon light.

I wasn’t fully comfortable living openly as a girl yet, but I loved leaving little clues for anyone observant enough to notice.

As I walked down the aisle, I felt eyes on me. One man’s gaze dropped to where the pink waistband of my panties peeked above my pants. Another tilted his head just enough to catch the faint outline of my bra straps beneath the thin cotton of my shirt. My jewelry glinted when the bus jolted, and I knew they’d seen the colors.

Their eyes followed me hungrily as I slid into a seat halfway down. Even the bus driver, watching through the mirror, licked his lips and adjusted in his chair.

“Hey…” one man finally said, his voice a mix of awe and lust. “You’re Chrissy… the trans model, aren’t you?”

My cheeks burned, but I gave a shy smile. “Yes.”

A low whistle came from the back. “Damn. You should take those clothes off.”

I laughed nervously, shaking my head. “I can’t here…”

Then the driver’s voice, gravelly but warm, floated down the aisle: “It’s okay. I won’t say anything.” His eyes met mine in the mirror, daring me.

A shiver ran through me. My body trembled with a mix of nerves and arousal as I stood up slowly, the bus swaying beneath my feet. I grabbed the metal pole for balance, slipped off my shirt one button at a time, and slid my pants down my thighs. Gasps and murmurs spread as I revealed my pink bra and panties, smooth legs, and the bulge already straining with need.

“Goddamn…” someone whispered.

I posed for them, turning so they could see the curve of my ass, bending just enough to make my cheeks round and full under the thin fabric. I arched my back, running my hands down my torso, teasing myself for their eyes. The air hummed with catcalls and whistles, every sound feeding my arousal.

I felt powerful. Desired. Exposed.

The driver adjusted his mirror again, his eyes glued to me. My **** twitched inside my panties, leaking, the wet spot spreading. A chorus of moans and encouragement filled the bus as I spread my legs, cupped myself through the silky fabric, and let them watch my face flush and my chest rise and fall with each deep breath.

I was their show, their Chrissy, their secret ******* on wheels.

Chrissy’s Bus Show – The Climax
The bus swayed along the road, but I barely noticed. Every set of eyes was on me — hungry, wide, devouring. I stood in the aisle in nothing but my pink floral bra and panties, my smooth skin glistening under the fluorescent lights, my **** straining the damp satin.

“Do it, Chrissy,” someone whispered, voice husky with need.

“Yes… show us,” another begged.

The encouragement hit me like waves of heat. I hooked my thumbs under the band of my panties, tugged them tight against my bulge, and let out a trembling gasp. My **** pulsed, the wet spot spreading. The riders groaned, some openly rubbing themselves as they watched.

I spread my legs wider, arched my back, and cupped myself through the silky fabric. The friction was maddening. My hips bucked, the panties darkening with each spurt of precum.

“God, look at you,” the bus driver moaned from the mirror, his knuckles white on the wheel.

The passengers cheered me on, clapping, catcalling, shouting my name. “Chrissy! Chrissy!”

I slid one hand up my chest, over my flat stomach, to my bra — tugging at the cups, making my nipples stand hard under the lace. My other hand rubbed furiously over the soaked bulge, grinding, stroking, teasing myself to the edge.

The entire bus rocked with my moans. My thighs quivered, my lips parted, sweat dripping down my temples. I was lost in it, lost in them, lost in the rush of being seen.

Then it hit.

“Ahhh—!” My body seized, **** jerking uncontrollably as I came hard in my panties. Hot, sticky release poured out, soaking the pink fabric, running down my thighs. Gasps and cheers filled the air, some passengers clapping, others moaning with me as if they’d climaxed, too. (continued in comments below):


-Chrissy

New silk nighty

Good evening sweets! I'm off to work. But thought I'd leave you with a story. More: http://chrissyinsd.hotviber.com/

#crossdresser #sissy #sissyboy #crossdressers #sissies #shemale #ladyboy #femboy #femman #femboys #crossdressing #gurl #trans #transgirl #transwoman #transgender #tgirl #gay #lgbtq #nsfw #adultsonly #adultcontent

The Meeting That Got Out of Hand
I showed up to the office dressed in my “Supervisor” uniform — black polo shirt tucked neatly into black pants, shiny work shoes. On the outside, I looked like any middle manager headed into a boring meeting. But under it all, I wore my little secret: a lacy pink bra and panties. Just knowing they were against my skin made me shiver with anticipation.

The room looked like an office conference space, complete with a long table, chairs, and quarterly reports scattered around. Five others were waiting — three men in polos like mine, and two women in skirts and blouses.

I sat down and kept tugging at my shirt, worried my bra straps might show. That’s when one of the women leaned over and smirked.

“Chris… is that lace I see under your collar?”

My stomach flipped. I froze, heat rushing to my face. Everyone’s eyes snapped to me. The strap had slipped just enough to peek out.

One of the men chuckled, leaning forward. “No way… are you wearing a bra under that uniform?”

My hands fumbled at my collar, trying to hide it. “I… maybe.” My voice cracked.

The woman reached over and tugged my shirt down just enough to reveal the delicate strap, then the curve of lace against my chest. Gasps, then laughter, but not cruel — hungry. Aroused.

“Stand up,” another man said. “Show us.”

I hesitated only a second before rising to my feet. Heart pounding, I pulled my polo up, exposing the pink bra stretched across my chest. The room went silent, then filled with low groans of approval.

“****, Chrissy,” one of them whispered. “Turn around.”

I obeyed, bending slightly. My waistband had slipped low enough that the lacy panties showed above my pants. Someone reached out, tugging them down just enough to expose the curve of my ass.

The first touch made me gasp — a hand sliding over the silk, squeezing, then pulling my pants down around my thighs. Now I was standing in front of them in bra and panties, my **** already swelling against the lace.

They closed in. A woman pressed her lips to mine, lipstick smearing as her tongue slid into my mouth. Hands roamed everywhere — groping my ass, tugging at my nipples through the bra, cupping my **** through the panties.

“Get on the table,” the tall man ordered.

I climbed onto the polished surface, lying back as they surrounded me. Someone yanked my panties aside, freeing my ****, already dripping. A hot mouth enveloped me, sucking hard, while another tongue flicked over my nipple, teeth grazing until I cried out.

My legs were spread wide, panties shoved down, and I felt a slick finger pushing into my ass, stretching me open. I moaned around the **** one of the men slid between my lips, gagging as he held my head and thrust deep.

It was a blur of sensation. One man fucking my throat, another pumping into my ass, their bodies grinding against me while the women took turns riding my face and jerking my ****. The table shook with every thrust, papers scattering like a storm.

“Good little slut,” someone growled in my ear as they pounded into me from behind, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing in the office. My **** spurted across my stomach, hot and sticky, but they didn’t stop. They used me until I was soaked with cum inside and out, my bra twisted, panties torn, lipstick smeared across my face.

When it was finally over, I lay sprawled on the table, trembling, dripping, utterly used. The others buttoned their shirts, straightened their skirts, laughing softly as though the meeting had gone exactly as planned.

I wiped the mess from my lips, my chest still heaving. “So…” I whispered, voice raw, “should I type up the minutes?”

The room erupted in laughter — and I knew I’d just passed my first real office initiation.

-Chrissy

Between Silk and Skin: Understanding the Line Between Crossdressing and Being Transgender
By Chrissy

“Maybe I’m not one or the other. Maybe I’m something in between—and that’s okay.”

What’s the Difference?

When people hear “crossdresser” and “transgender,” they often picture the same thing—or get the definitions confused. But these words speak to different experiences, identities, and emotional landscapes.

In simple terms:

Crossdresser: A person (usually male-assigned at birth) who enjoys dressing in clothing typically associated with another gender, usually for self-expression, fun, comfort, identity exploration, or even erotic reasons. This doesn’t necessarily mean they want to live as that gender full-time.

Transgender: Someone whose gender identity is different from the sex they were assigned at birth. A transgender woman was assigned male at birth but identifies as a woman—and may or may not take steps to socially, medically, or legally transition.


🩷 My Journey (So Far)

I’m still figuring it all out.

For most of my life, I lived as a man—because that’s what the world expected. But in quiet moments, in safe spaces, I allowed my femininity to surface. At first, I called it crossdressing. I liked how I felt in soft clothes, in cute outfits, in long hair and smooth skin. It was sensual… empowering… liberating. But it wasn’t just the clothes—it was me, underneath them.

I still don’t know where I fall on the spectrum. Maybe I’m a crossdresser. Maybe I’m genderfluid. Maybe I’m a transgender woman still waiting to be born. What I do know is this:

I feel most alive when I’m Chrissy.
I feel most whole when I’m seen.
I feel most me when I stop trying to choose sides.

🫶 A Spectrum, Not a Binary

Gender is not black and white—it’s fluid, rich, and deeply personal. Some crossdressers live full, happy lives identifying as men who occasionally (or frequently) express femininity. Some transgender women started out crossdressing because it was safer than admitting the truth.

Others—like me—are still discovering who they are.

You might ask:

Am I a crossdresser or something more?

What does it mean if I like being called “she” sometimes?

Do I want to be a woman or just look like one?

The answer might be “yes,” “no,” “sometimes,” or “I’m not sure yet.” And all of those are valid.

A Note on Shame and Freedom

Growing up, I repressed my feminine side. I feared being laughed at, rejected, or labeled. I used filters to feminize my face online—not to trick anyone, but because I liked how I looked. It made me feel beautiful. For now, it’s my way of being seen.

One day, I’ll do the makeup. The hair. The outfit.
One day, I’ll walk outside and own her.
For now, I’m just beginning.

If you feel the same—if you’re navigating the space between crossdressing and being trans—you are not alone.

Final Thoughts
You don’t need to rush toward a label. You don’t need to transition or explain yourself to anyone. You don’t need to choose “male” or “female” like you’re checking a box.

You just need to be—whatever that means, however that looks, however long it takes.

You’re not broken.
You’re not confused.
You’re becoming.

And I’m becoming right there with you.

What are your thoughts?

With love,
— Chrissy

Morning everyone
Just love wearing this dress with silky smooth stockings

Hey girly babes… I’ve got a little lingerie confession
I love slipping into silky panties and bras and letting my girly side take over. It turns me on, makes me feel powerful, soft, and deliciously naughty.
Now I’m thinking of going shopping for lingerie — in person, for myself, no shame, no excuses.
Have you ever done that? What’s the sexiest piece you’ve bought just for you?
Spill the tea, I need courage… and maybe a little inspiration

Vacuuming is perhaps the easiest chore, until you add platform heels..
Sulis Silks camiknicker is a nouveau vintage guilty pleasure.
Know nothing of the company except they totally let me customize the silk romper to add surrender clips at a reasonable price compared to the whole. Need to get me more and in different colors!

#silk #lingerie #camiknicker #romper #maid

Well it’s early but it’s been a long day. Think I should slip into my silky bed.

Hi, Sophie is about to put on my silky pink frilly knickers, anyone want to chat and help me get dressed up and have some sexy kinky fun together

Seeking a Submissive Crossdresser for Online D/s Exploration

I’m looking to connect with a submissive who enjoys cross-dressing and is ready to explore a deeper, more mindful kind of power exchange.

This would be an online dynamic (for now) one built on trust, control, ritual, and transformation. I’m not interested in pain, flogging, or heavy impact play. My style leans toward psychological dominance, slow and intentional control, and helping you grow into the version of yourself you’ve only dared to imagine.

You may already love the feel of lace and silk… or be curious about surrendering in a more feminine form. Either way, if you crave the structure, encouragement, and control of a guiding hand, we might be a good match.

You:

Submissive (or questioning)
Curious or experienced with feminization/cross-dressing
Comfortable with or open to online-only for now
Emotionally mature and communicative

Me:

Calm, assertive, and creative
Not into pain or degradation I value respect and depth
Enjoy guiding, shaping, and being in control
Open to something long-term, if the connection is right

If this stirs something in you, feel free to reach out. Tell me what you’re looking for, what draws you to this path, and what you hope to feel when you submit.

Let’s make it something we both look forward to.

PrincessMia

Evening all hows your day been? Miserable weather in Manchester, an evening of chores then chill after a busy day at work at least im showered, shaven and silky smooth, in my favourite nude 20ds and little denim number got to have them comfy slip ons aswell

I absolutely love my green dress! The soft silk with the built in hooped petticoat makes me rock hard!

Hi everyone, i love laying here, running my satin covered girly hands all over my silky pink dress and slutty fishnet stockings, reading all the sexy, kinky messages and comnents people say about me, PLEASE message me your naughty thoughts

Love this dress very silky feel xx

I don't know what it is by looking at this old victorian dress! Looking at the soft silk just makes me so hard and wet!

Awww my dears i really ache to feel and wear these beautiful vintage dresses! To feel the soft silk would be a dream! I absolutely love how they dressed from neck to toe! mmmmm

Frilly, silky,pink knickers and pink heels, lets have some girly fun, feel free to message me

Long silk nightie

Time to put my pink frilly silky knickers on, they make me feel so girly

Im just relaxing in my huge bridesmaid dress! Sitting down feeling the silk against my chest and gently caressing the huge skirts! Such a beautiful sound!

I present, androgynously, my black silk accordion pleated midi skirt, which is complemented by a James Bond themed Gun Barrel effect T-shirt, clip-on Crystal Silver Rhinestone Earrings and an analogue bracelet Wristwatch: