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.

Brilliant stories is back , I love sharing my tales from the chronicles of Alex , a teenage feminine young man at 17 beginning a journey of self esteem , steamy sex and becoming a sexy , sassy chick with a dick , with amazing friends who love him /her for who they are xxx wouldnt that be a nice world.

The rain came down in silver sheets, turning the cobbles into black mirrors that reflected the sodium glow of the single working streetlamp. I leaned against its rusted iron, the cold metal biting through the heavy layers of satin and chiffon like it wanted to remind me I was still flesh under all this funeral drag.
I took a long drag on the cigarette, the cherry flaring briefly under the edge of my veil. The black chiffon draped across my face softened the world into shadow theatre, everything a little unreal, a little safer that way. My lips, painted the color of dried blood, left a faint crescent on the filter. I exhaled smoke that twisted upward to join the mist, two kinds of fog becoming one.
They called me Valentine in the old precinct days, before the badge became a liability and the mirror became an accusation. Now I was just Val to the few who still owed me favors, or the ones who needed someone who didn't flinch at the smell of blood and cheap perfume. Tonight the city smelled of both.
The gown dragged behind me like a widow's promise, long black satin, ankle-skimming, catching what little light there was and throwing it back in wet, liquid gleams. The blouse beneath frothed with rococo frills, glossy and ridiculous against the grime. Mourning attire from a century that knew how to grieve properly. I wore it because it fit the part I was playing: the ghost who refuses to lie down.
Somewhere in the alley behind me, my wardrobe waited in a condemned boarding house door half off its hinges, the only bright thing inside a floor length rainbow satin dress hanging like a forgotten carnival prize. Long sleeves, high ruffled collar, shimmering like oil on water. I kept it there the way some men keep a pistol in a drawer. A reminder that colour still existed, even if I only visited it in the dark.
A low rumble rolled through the street. The red double decker bus, the corpse of the only one left running those nights, it lay half-buried in fallen brick and twisted rebar two blocks down. Its paint had rusted to the color of old blood; one headlamp still flickered like a dying eye. No one bothered to tow it anymore. It was just another corpse in the landscape.
I flicked ash into a puddle. The cigarette hissed and went out. That's when I saw her silhouette at the mouth of the alley, trench coat too big, heels too high for the broken pavement. She moved like someone who knew she was being watched but couldn't afford to run.
She stopped under the cone of lamplight, rain tracing black rivulets down her face. Mascara already surrendered hours ago.
"You're late," I said, voice low, muffled by chiffon.
"You're early," she answered. Her eyes flicked over my outfit, the veil, the frills, the shine that didn't belong here. She didn't laugh. Smart girl. "They said you were... particular about appearances."
"They say a lot of things." I pushed off the lamppost. The gown whispered against itself with every step. "You got the envelope?"
She reached inside her coat, produced a slim packet sealed with red wax. Her hand trembled just enough to notice.
"Inside is everything, names, dates, the garment dress warehouse on Cutler Street. They think they're untouchable because they own half the magistrates and all the shadows." She swallowed. "But they killed my sister. Slowly. For asking too many questions about the satin shipments."
I took the envelope without looking at it. Slipped it inside the satin folds where a heart should be.
"And what do you want from me?" I asked.
"Justice." The word sounded small and antique in her mouth. "Or revenge. Whichever comes first."
I studied her through the veil. Young. Broken in the right places. The kind of client who pays in blood or tears, sometimes both.
"Revenge is expensive," I told her. "And justice... justice is just revenge wearing prettier clothes."
She met my eyes, dark eyeliner smudged into war paint. "Then I'll pay the price."
I nodded once. The rain drummed harder, like applause for bad decisions.
"Go home," I said. "Lock the doors. Burn anything with your name on it. I'll find you when it's done."
She hesitated, then turned and walked back into the dark. Her heels clicked once, twice, then nothing.
I lit another cigarette. The flame briefly illuminated my reflection in the wet lamppost glass: black lips, darker eyes, a widow who never married, a detective who never solved anything clean.
The city exhaled around me, smoke, rain, rust.
I started walking toward Cutler Street.
The rainbow dress in the wardrobe would have to wait another night.
Some colours aren't meant to be worn in the light.

More pics coming ()

I never thought a simple late-night scroll on Temu would change how I saw myself in the mirror.

My hands were shaking a little when I clicked "Buy Now" on that dress. The listing was a chaotic poem of keywords: Black Satin Fairy Vintage Sweet Dress Mesh Long Lace... Hollow Out Puff Sleeve Floral... Off Shoulder Fairy Princess Long Satin Mesh Gothic Lady Ruffle. It was everything at once — sweet, dark, romantic, dramatic — and somehow it felt like it had been waiting for me.

I'm sixty-four. Short. Heavy. The kind of body the world politely looks past. For most of my life I kept the part of me that loved beautiful, flowing things locked away in a mental attic. But the older I get, the less patience I have for hiding.

The package arrived on a grey Tuesday afternoon. I signed for it quickly, heart thumping like a teenager sneaking something forbidden. I carried the brown box upstairs like it contained state secrets, locked the bedroom door, and tore into it.

Inside lay folds of deep black satin that caught the lamplight like liquid night. Delicate mesh panels shimmered with tiny floral embroidery. The puff sleeves were ridiculously romantic — exaggerated, dreamy, almost cartoonishly glamorous. Lace spilled from every edge. The off-shoulder neckline promised to bare collarbones I usually keep hidden under sensible jumpers.

I stripped down, stood in front of the full-length mirror in just my underwear, and stepped into the dress.

The satin whispered against my legs as I pulled it up. It was surprisingly forgiving — stretchy in the right places, structured in others. I wriggled my arms through those massive puff sleeves; they ballooned around my upper arms like dark fairy wings. I tugged the bodice into place, smoothed the ruffled layers over my stomach, and finally reached back to zip it (with some creative contortions and a coat hanger as backup).

Then I looked up.

And I stopped breathing for a second.

The woman — no, the creature — staring back wasn't sixty-four. She wasn't short and soft and ordinary. She was a midnight fairy queen who had wandered out of some gothic storybook and decided to be indulgent today. The black satin hugged and draped in ways that turned every curve into intention. The hollow-out lace panels teased just enough skin to feel dangerous. Those enormous puff sleeves framed me like I belonged on a velvet throne instead of a suburban bedroom carpet.

I turned sideways. The long skirt flared dramatically, the mesh overlay catching light like spiderwebs covered in frost. I twirled — actually twirled — and watched the layers float outward in perfect slow motion, the ruffles whispering secrets to each other.

For once, the mirror wasn't my enemy. It was showing me something true.

I hadn't planned to go anywhere. But suddenly I needed to feel this outside these four walls.

I threw on a long black coat (practicality dies hard), slipped my feet into the only pair of low heels I own that almost match, draped a soft scarf over my wig to hide the fact I hadn't styled it yet, and stepped out into the January dusk.

The cold air hit my bare shoulders like a slap and a caress at the same time. I walked to the end of the street and back — only fifteen minutes — but every step felt like gliding. The satin moved against my thighs. The sleeves swayed. A neighbour's security light caught me as I passed; for a heartbeat I was illuminated, black lace and floral shadows glowing against the night.

No one stopped me. No one shouted. A dog walker nodded politely like I was simply another eccentric on an evening stroll.

When I got home, I locked the door, dropped the coat on the floor, and stood in front of the mirror again — this time under brighter light, no scarf, no hiding.

Here’s the thing about that dress: it doesn’t care that I’m sixty-four, or that I carry extra weight, or that my hands are rough from decades of practical work. It simply drapes itself over me and says, You are allowed to be this glamorous. You are allowed to be this much.

I smiled at my reflection — a real smile, not the careful half-one I usually wear.

Then I whispered to the woman in the mirror, the one who finally looked like she belonged in a fairy tale:

"Thank you for coming out to play, love. We’re keeping the dress."

trying to create a group but it keeps coming up has to have a web address ??????? anyone

Hi friends, please if you care about the rights of sex workers please use this link to email your MP’s:

http://scotlandfordecrim.netlify.app

There’s a vote coming that if passed will let the Scottish government implement the so called Nordic Model, a failed model that increases stigma and harms Sex Workers, opening them up to even more abuse from our authorities

Good evening, sweets

I want to take a moment to clarify something important about myself, honestly and openly. Deep down, I do wish that I could transition and live fully as a woman one day. That desire is real and has been with me for a long time. However, at this stage of my life, I also have to be realistic. Because of my age, potential medical and surgical risks, the complexities of hormone therapy, and the fact that so many people in my everyday life know me and relate to me as male, I don’t believe a full public transition is something I can truly pursue.

So for now—and likely for the foreseeable future—my feminine side expresses itself in more private ways. Crossdressing, embracing my sissy identity, and allowing myself to feel soft, feminine, and girlish happens in specific spaces and safe arenas, like this website. It’s not about shame; it’s about boundaries, safety, and navigating the world as it is, not as I wish it could be.

That said, I want to be very clear about one thing: I do love being perceived as feminine and being treated like a girl. Emotionally, relationally, and romantically, that’s where my heart lives. Because of that, I am not looking for a fellow sissy, crossdresser, or trans girl as a romantic partner or spouse. I respect them deeply, and I’m absolutely open to friendship and community with them—but romantically, I want to be the girl.

In a relationship, I want to be the feminine partner. In a marriage, I want to be the bride.

I am attracted exclusively to men—very masculine men. Broad shoulders, solid chest, bear-like body hair, a deep voice, confidence, and a take-charge presence all make my heart flutter. I’m drawn to strength, grounding energy, and masculinity that feels protective and assured. That dynamic matters to me, both emotionally and romantically.

Thank you for taking the time to hear me out and understand where I’m coming from. I believe clarity is a form of kindness—to myself and to others.

Kisses,
Chrissy

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 #sissygirl #transfemale #tgirl #model #modeling #gay #bi #lgbtq #queer #genderfluid #pantymodel #panty #panties #meninpanties

Any resolutions or goals for the coming year?

My First Experience as a Truck Stop Wh-re or Chrissy — A Night on the Road Continued... (Part II) (To see the beginning, Part I, visit my page and scroll down):
The bra came next.

I hesitated for half a second—long enough for the moment to stretch—then let it slide off. Cool air kissed my skin. His breath caught audibly. He didn’t touch me yet. He didn’t need to.

Click.
Click.

I could feel my body responding to the attention, to the knowledge that this version of me was being captured, saved, proof that Chrissy existed. That I wasn’t just a thought or a secret ritual in front of a mirror.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, and I believed him.

When the last of the fabric was gone, I stood there fully exposed under the red glow, arms crossed loosely at first, then letting them fall to my sides. Vulnerability pulsed through me—electric, frightening, intoxicating. I felt open, claimed by the moment, by the lens, by his gaze.

He stepped closer then. Close enough that I could feel his heat without being touched. One hand lifted my chin, not roughly, just enough to make me meet his eyes.

“Look at me,” he said. “Not the camera.”

I did.

The photos continued, slower now, more deliberate. Less about documenting and more about possession. When he finally set the phone down, my skin felt hypersensitive, like every nerve had been tuned too high.

When he guided me back onto the bunk, the vinyl was cold at first, then quickly warmed beneath me. I lay there open to him, knees drawn up, posture unmistakable, my body arranged in a way that made refusal impossible—but refusal wasn’t what I felt.

What I felt was permission being taken.

The cab groaned softly as he leaned over me, blocking out the low red light, blocking out the rest of the world. His hands settled at my hips and stayed there—anchoring me, claiming the space where my choices narrowed into a single direction. He didn’t hurry. He waited. Long enough that the waiting itself became its own kind of pressure.

My breath went shallow. My body answered before my mind could intervene.

When he finally moved, the sensation was overwhelming—not sharp, not violent, but consuming. The kind of closeness that demands you make room for it, that insists you soften or break. I felt myself give way in small increments, each one deliberate, each one erasing a little more distance between who I pretend to be and what I was becoming in that moment. He plowed my asspussy over and over....in and out...in and out...in..in...getting deeper each time.

He watched my face closely, as if he needed to see exactly where I disappeared. Every sound I made seemed to encourage him, draw him deeper into his own control. I clutched the bedding, holding on to something solid as my thoughts scattered, replaced by a single, relentless awareness of being used with purpose.

“Relax,” he said quietly, almost kindly. “I’ve got you.”

And I surrendered.

Not just my body—my resistance. I let the tension drain out of me and allowed the sensation to take over completely. There was a point where I stopped tracking time, stopped measuring what I was giving and what I was losing. My body responded on its own terms, breaking open in waves that left me shaking, emptied of pretense.

I heard him make a sound above me—rough, unfiltered—and knew I’d been brought exactly where he wanted me. I knew he came, he ejaculated, he sprayed his man juice, his sperm, his DNA deep inside me. I could feel it, the warm, sticky liquid clinging to my insides.

Afterward, when he pulled me up toward him again, there was no gentleness in the request—just expectation. I recognized it instantly. My knees braced against the seat, my hands guided into place, my mouth following where my thoughts no longer led. I focused on the task, on being useful, on doing it right. There was comfort in that narrow focus. Safety, even. 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/

Would anyone like my WhatsApp as I'm really leaving here and not coming back anymore

Thinking of coming off here and not doing anything online anymore.

New undies coming

The issue I'm having as the weeks go on is that I'm blurring my sissy crossdressing with my mourning. Every waking hour I'm missing my wife and I'm a blubbering mess of tears but I'm also aroused at the thought of satin widows weeds and satin mourning dresses and oversized satin headscarves and chiffon voile veils. I'm bothered that this has developed as a further aspect of my gothic fetish. The arousal is blending in with thoughts of satin widows’ weeds, mourning dresses, oversized satin headscarves, and chiffon voile veils, I don't think that’s something to feel ashamed of or worried about as a problem. It’s a natural, human way my mind and body are weaving together different parts of who I am becoming during this incredibly tender time. Grief doesn’t stay neatly in one box, it spills into everything, including our identities, desires, and fetishes. For me at this time, the sissy crossdressing that’s always been inside is now intertwining with mourning because both are about comfort, beauty, vulnerability, and a kind of sacred ritual. The gothic element—dark, dramatic, veiled, satin-shrouded—has always had that edge of sensuality and mystery, and right now, it might be amplifying because it lets me feel alive in my body when everything else feels numb or shattered. Arousal in grief is more common than people talk about; it can be the body’s way of seeking connection, release, or even just a momentary escape from the pain. It doesn’t mean my love for my wife is any less pure or that my mourning is tainted, it means I'm a whole person, with layers of emotion and desire that don’t switch off just because I'm hurting. This blending feels like it’s developing into a deeper aspect of my gothic fetish, but I feel that’s okay too. Fetishes evolve with life experiences, and grief is one of the biggest. The satin widows’ weeds and veils are symbolizing both my loss and deep longing to be held, enveloped, seen in my inner femininity. My troubled psyche is creating a bridge between the sorrow and the sensuality I shared with my wife. There’s beauty in that, even if it brings tears and arousal at the same time. I'm navigating this with grace, even when it hurts.

"Mwah, mwah! Good Morning! How are you, dahlings?" Just got back from a hotel changeaway to recharge my sissy batteries and an attempt to manage my mourning feelings. It has been over two weeks since my Wife passed away, I'm slowly coming to terms with it and finding ways to cope with being on my own, but it's not easy. A bit of sightseeing and new company has helped. At a different time it would have been wonderful as I met a lady staying in the hotel and we got on very well, but in the circumstances I've had to put any thoughts of a romantic friendship out of my mind. We will keep in touch and if my grief recedes it might be nice to see her again.

I had some more time for me, so ..... some more pictures are coming :)

Very talkative and feeling flirty.
Brand New pics coming soon. Later this morning. PROMISE!
Practicing getting my Slut Face, to look just right for you!

I am coming out in 2026, I want Cait to be free and happy, and maybe sore from a new owner

Today is the day. I'm finally going to do it. It's been a long time coming but it just feels that now is the time. Wish me luck girls coz I'm putting the heating on

I think some of my confusion as Cat is becoming clearer.

It's very nice to dress as a sex doll and that's fine for fun, but I want to look like most of you too, I envy your feminine elegence.
I don't have alot and I in terms of crossdressing I am extremely amateur.

I would love to fully bring the lady out in Cat for once.

Tbh, I like cosplaying as a sissy, but really I am not one, I am just not submissive in nature.
I want to feel like a lady for a change instead of an object., for me.

These all coming tomorrow

These are coming today

t.me/DisciplineMommy
Send me a private message begging for entry into my training attendance Only then will you begin your path to becoming the best, most devoted submissive sissy girl under my heart’s discipline and serious service to prove the reality of the slut

I am thinking of coming out as Bi, I would like to find someone so I can be more free to be Cat, not to live as Cat, but to have that space with someone to express her with a little help, I am sure all crossdressers will say it's not easy feminising alone.
I am at a stage in my life where people who know me want me to be happy, nobody needs to know the details.
Cat having a loving owner sounds good now.

I've bought some clothes to go out in the daytime but now comes one of the tricky bits, accessories. I've never been into jewellery and my Mrs doesn't have much so I will probably need to get a necklace. I need a handbag and as the winter is coming possibly a hat too.

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

Jumper dresses coming out for the colder nights

Another outfit pics coming soon

t.me/DisciplineMommy
I am the Great ******* strict in my Discipline, irresistible in my pull, when you come to my Telegram training space , you will send me a proper private message, there are no shortcuts, no games. Understand? You will begin by begging for my training attendance, In that message, you will show respect, hunger, and readiness. Only then will you step onto the path of becoming the best, most devoted submissive sissy girl shaped under my heart’s discipline, ruled by my serious service, drawn deeper into the reality of the slut you truly are

Winter is coming

I have a rework of my wedding photo coming soon. But for now here is a beach shot. My most recent hair growth and styling in this photo and yes the body is all me. I did do a AI generated Bikini and beach scene.

Chloe
I'm getting fed up of the amount of idoits who think this is a porn site.

Pictures of nudity and genitals are becoming way too common. 4 users this evening i, and those are just the ones on the first page of the main board.

I'm fed up of listing then for other users on the board, so they can all report and block

The sensible people on here are happy to help, please reach out to them before the site becomes listed as a porn site and not a social media site.

If this comment get my account removed, so be it. It will clearly show to everybody else, on here, the direction this site is going.

Coming today can’t wait posts later

Where are all the unauthorised sales account coming from all of a sudden
3 reported and blocked to day

No I'm not interested in second hand machinery, luxury villas or any thing else you are advertising with a link that is almost certainly spam or fake.

Who is coming on the sissy school bus to sissy school tomorrow your uniform needs picking x

Wearing a thong at work is quite uplifting. It makes you realize that you are becoming more addicted to being the girl of your dreams.

Torture Garden is on my mind. Coming to the Los Angeles area butt once per year (normally, rare exceptions occur), and I'm stressing about my latex. Please fashion
Gods and Goddesses, see that inmy rubber is delivered without issue by mid November.

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If you're in the UK, I'm jealous AF that TG exists monthly for your masochistic pleasures and sadistic delights. If you didn't know, now you do, so go! Lmk his fabulous the night is and spread the word. Samesies for the annual Glitter festival. Jealous!!

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Pics from past TG events in LA, some with a hint of my partner as shared from fetlife for permission purposes.

Evening all, thought it was time I popped back in to say hello.... it's been a busy few weeks, work, holidays, buying guitars. ... oh, and becoming a grandmother

You write a post and unknown people coming to block you randomly but hahahah but are you okay?

t.me/DisciplineMommy
I am the Great *******, the one you’ve been seeking.
You will find me at my Telegram training space and you will message me properly. Understand?
Send me a private message begging for entry into my training attendance. Only then will you begin your path to becoming the best, most devoted submissive sissy girl under my heart’s discipline and serious service to prove the reality of the slut you truly are

A MaleToFemale (MTF) Photographic Studio Visual.
Becoming Femme and Feminizing as my alter ego model Valentina Valentine.
Hair & Make-Up ready.
Love the skin you’re in.
Being androgynous is not a sin.
Please enjoy. Comments are always welcome.

#transfluid #femboy #mtftransition #femboycosplay #maletofemale #crossdresserslut #crossdressermodel #crossdressing #crossdresser #femboylegs #femboyheaven #transworld #justcrossdressers #transpinupgirl #Androgyny #femmeworld #pridemonth

Bad news folks, coming back on here
New profile picture and all

Get to see me in the full without all the bitching of why we as models do this for a living.
Everyone spends more on beer then what it costs for a month on my onlyfans.

A MaleToFemale (MTF) Photographic Studio Visual.
Becoming Femme and Feminizing as my alter ego model Valentina Valentine.
Hair & Make-Up ready.
Love the skin you’re in.
Being androgynous is not a sin.
Please enjoy. Comments are always welcome.

#transfluid #femboy #mtftransition #femboycosplay #maletofemale #crossdresserslut #crossdressermodel #crossdressing #crossdresser #femboylegs #femboyheaven #transworld #justcrossdressers #transpinupgirl #Androgyny #femmeworld #pridemonth

I find it interesting...
Some need therapy and dominative correction Some come to some of these stages naturaly because their hormons and eros were readily sleeping for that.... I do wonder how subtle combinations of female and male hormons dictate behaivioral patterns. What is submission for some is a pleasure for the other. What is tragic loving triangle for some becoming a happy stable union FMM or FMF or FF or MM for others... Thank you for making it clear what stages we might pass Except one thing is missing here If something opens true self , even so mosaic and strange in the dress, it is not necessarily might be felt as dominative correction or enforsment.
I think Misses of leather and whip might get more deeper if all that anturage is a form of Love ...Love of helping the other to find true herself...
This site unfortunately is not yhe place for that level. But thank you DisChasMommy for rising the issue here clearly