Happy new month girls idk about you girls but this chica can't wait for summer time
Happy new month girls idk about you girls but this chica can't wait for summer time
Zoeken
Ontdek nieuwe mensen, nieuwe verbindingen te maken en nieuwe vrienden maken
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0 Reacties 0 aandelen 1K Views
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I'll be your fem boy num this months, happy New months of love to every one more days to explore a whole new world filled with love on hereI'll be your fem boy num this months, happy New months of love to every one more days to explore a whole new world filled with love on here 💋💋
1 Reacties 0 aandelen 1K Views
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shauna valentine gif https://tenor.com/view/happy-valentine's-day-valentine's-day-gif-1499979790527351718shauna valentine gif https://tenor.com/view/happy-valentine's-day-valentine's-day-gif-14999797905273517180 Reacties 0 aandelen 1K Views1
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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. xxHad 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
2 Reacties 0 aandelen 2K Views10
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The same thing that on us girls mind, trying to be girly, feel feminine, look sexy, be naughty . I hope everybody is have some me time, it always makes me feel so happyThe same thing that on us girls mind, trying to be girly, feel feminine, look sexy, be naughty . I hope everybody is have some me time, it always makes me feel so happy0 Reacties 0 aandelen 2K Views13
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I am happy to guide you, if you are a beginner, I love to open new doors and show you the kinky side of life hit me up and let's explore. #sissy #femboy
I am happy to guide you, if you are a beginner, I love to open new doors and show you the kinky side of life hit me up and let's explore. #sissy #femboy0 Reacties 0 aandelen 3K Views
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In Visibility
I ask myself
If I am lie
Pretending
Not be boy
If I am strange?
I don't deny
It's strange
To be doll toy
I often ask
Myself
If I
want be
Like them at all
And every time
Without thrust
I answer
Not like girl...
So all it is
A sense of tights
That make you
Much excite?
And warmth
And pleasure
Even lust...?
You ll name
Them all...
You might...
Am I just hiding
From my past
From Love
I never met?
I just not felt
At all
"your must"
Makes happy
At the end...
Am I afraid
To meet divorce?
Not really
All'd past...
So please explain
Why you are girl
When born another cast...?
Do you avoiding
World of men
Nor fitting
Nor in peace
And live on border
Of your ends
In tights
To feel like
Miss...?
I do not know
It is trill
To dress and go
Through...
Through
World
Unnoticed
At all
No matter ever
Boy or girl...
In Visibility I ask myself If I am lie Pretending Not be boy If I am strange? I don't deny It's strange To be doll toy I often ask Myself If I want be Like them at all And every time Without thrust I answer Not like girl... So all it is A sense of tights That make you Much excite? And warmth And pleasure Even lust...? You ll name Them all... You might... Am I just hiding From my past From Love I never met? I just not felt At all "your must" Makes happy At the end... Am I afraid To meet divorce? Not really All'd past... So please explain Why you are girl When born another cast...? Do you avoiding World of men Nor fitting Nor in peace And live on border Of your ends In tights To feel like Miss...? I do not know It is trill To dress and go Through... Through World Unnoticed At all No matter ever Boy or girl...
5 Reacties 0 aandelen 3K Views9
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I am happy to guide you, if you are a beginner, I love to open new doors and show you the kinky side of life hit me up and let's explore. #sissy #femboy
I am happy to guide you, if you are a beginner, I love to open new doors and show you the kinky side of life hit me up and let's explore. #sissy #femboy0 Reacties 0 aandelen 2K Views1
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Awwwww i still cannot stop thinking of the dress! I so ache to wear it right now and i was so happy wearing it last tuesday as the layers gently rubbed against my legs! MmmmmAwwwww i still cannot stop thinking of the dress! I so ache to wear it right now and i was so happy wearing it last tuesday as the layers gently rubbed against my legs! Mmmmm 💗💗🍆0 Reacties 0 aandelen 1K Views
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Shyness
I was too shy
When met girlfriend
To ask her
May I stay...?
She thought
I did not like
Her play
Or have another girl
We parted
I did cry a lot
She left without
Bye...
I felt
I am unhappy
Girl...
But why
She's left
But why?....Shyness I was too shy When met girlfriend To ask her May I stay...? She thought I did not like Her play Or have another girl We parted I did cry a lot She left without Bye... I felt I am unhappy Girl... But why She's left But why?....
0 Reacties 0 aandelen 3K Views
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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.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.
0 Reacties 0 aandelen 3K Views4
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Not happy, had to report another member for harassment today, for trying to discredit me, its no secret that some of my pictures are AI , however its my face feminined, a lot of us wear masks on here, some wear silicon masks some wear makeup two hide the face, I hide behind my AI image because I am not ready to show the world who I am, my wife and daughter know anout my cross dressing its created a mountain of problems more with my wife than my daughter, I almost have a non existent relationship with my wife now, two people know of me as Zara outside of here, however there are members on here I have seen out and about while I am the male version of me, I live in a very small town where a lot of people know each other being found out can destroy more than I am willing to loose, but if it means I will need to leave this site for my safety then that's what I will doNot happy, had to report another member for harassment today, for trying to discredit me, its no secret that some of my pictures are AI , however its my face feminined, a lot of us wear masks on here, some wear silicon masks some wear makeup two hide the face, I hide behind my AI image because I am not ready to show the world who I am, my wife and daughter know anout my cross dressing its created a mountain of problems more with my wife than my daughter, I almost have a non existent relationship with my wife now, two people know of me as Zara outside of here, however there are members on here I have seen out and about while I am the male version of me, I live in a very small town where a lot of people know each other being found out can destroy more than I am willing to loose, but if it means I will need to leave this site for my safety then that's what I will do1 Reacties 0 aandelen 2K Views
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A number of years ago, I walked into a small back street Charity Shop on the edge of town. I wasn’t really looking for anything specific just browsing, killing time, letting my eyes wander over the racks the way I always did when I felt that familiar restless itch under my skin. Then I saw it. Hanging slightly askew on a padded hanger near the back wall, half-hidden behind a row of sensible navy blazers, was a floor-length satin bridal gown. Ivory, not stark white. The bodice was structured but not boned, the skirt a gentle A-line that flared softly rather than ballooning into tulle insanity. A modest neckline. Delicate lace overlay on the shoulders and upper chest. And pinned to the hanger was the tag: Size 32 Worn once £49. My heart gave a hard, guilty thud. I’m a UK 18" collar with a 50" chest in men’s shirts. But dresses… dresses measure differently. Especially wedding dresses. Especially ones made to accommodate curves most people would call “plus size.” I glanced around. The shop was quiet. An older woman with silver hair was sorting bric-a-brac at the counter; a younger volunteer early twenties, purple streaks in her hair was steaming something in the corner. I lifted the gown off the rail. The satin felt cool and liquid against my palms. Heavy in the right way. I carried it toward the changing cubicle like I was smuggling contraband. “Would you like to try it on, love?” the silver-haired woman called out. Her voice was kind, matter-of-fact. No trace of surprise or judgement. I froze for half a second. “Yes please,” I managed. My voice sounded smaller than usual. She smiled. “Curtain’s already drawn back there. Take your time. Shout if you need a hand with the zip.” The cubicle was narrow, just a full-length mirror screwed to the wall, a single hook, and a thin beige curtain that didn’t quite reach the floor. I hung the dress on the hook and stripped quickly out of my jeans, hoodie, socks, boxers, down to bare skin that already felt too warm, too alive. My **** was already half-hard just from touching the fabric, from the sheer improbability of this moment. I reached into the pocket of my discarded jeans on the floor and found the condom I always carried now just in case. Fingers trembling, I tore the packet, rolled the latex down over my throbbing length, making sure the reservoir tip was positioned correctly. The relief of containment was immediate. No stains. No evidence. Just secret, pulsing heat trapped safely inside. I stepped into the gown. The skirt whispered up my calves, over my thighs. I pulled it past my hips slowly, carefully and the satin glided over the soft roundness of my belly without catching. I tugged the bodice up over my chest. The cups were generously cut, there was room. Actual room. I reached behind and found the long invisible zip. It slid up smoothly, no resistance, no straining. When I let my arms drop, the dress settled around me like it had been waiting. I looked in the mirror. The reflection showed someone soft and full and blushing furiously beneath ivory satin. The modest neckline framed the gentle swell of my chest and the faint shadow of cleavage created by the way the bodice pushed everything together. My hips looked wide and womanly beneath the smooth fall of fabric. My belly made a soft, proud curve against the front of the skirt. I turned sideways. The line from back to front was lush, generous, unapologetic. It fit. It actually fit. A small, involuntary whimper escaped me. I heard footsteps outside the curtain. “Everything alright in there?” It was the younger volunteer this time. I swallowed. “Yes. Um… could you, could you maybe check the zip? Just to make sure it’s all the way up?” The curtain parted a few inches. She peeked in, eyes widening for only a heartbeat before her face softened into a genuine smile. She stepped inside careful, professional and fastened the tiny hook-and-eye at the top of the zip I hadn’t been able to reach. Her fingers were gentle. “There. Perfect. It’s like it was made for you.” I couldn’t speak. My **** was fully hard now, straining painfully against the satin lining. A bead of pre-cum had already escaped and I could feel the slippery warmth of it against the inside of the dress. I smoothed the front of the skirt with both hands. The satin gleamed under the fluorescent light. I looked sill looked like a bloke in a dress. A big, soft, blushing, overweight very happy bride. When I finally stepped out, both women were waiting. “I’ll take it,” I said. Whilst the younger woman unhooked and unzipped me, the silver-haired woman rang it up. “£49. Cash or card, love?” I handed over my card. I left the Charity Shop with the dress folded carefully in a large carrier bag, the memory of satin against every inch of my skin still electric. And for the first time in years, I didn’t feel like I was hiding. I felt like I was finally beginning to find myself.A number of years ago, I walked into a small back street Charity Shop on the edge of town. I wasn’t really looking for anything specific just browsing, killing time, letting my eyes wander over the racks the way I always did when I felt that familiar restless itch under my skin. Then I saw it. Hanging slightly askew on a padded hanger near the back wall, half-hidden behind a row of sensible navy blazers, was a floor-length satin bridal gown. Ivory, not stark white. The bodice was structured but not boned, the skirt a gentle A-line that flared softly rather than ballooning into tulle insanity. A modest neckline. Delicate lace overlay on the shoulders and upper chest. And pinned to the hanger was the tag: Size 32 Worn once £49. My heart gave a hard, guilty thud. I’m a UK 18" collar with a 50" chest in men’s shirts. But dresses… dresses measure differently. Especially wedding dresses. Especially ones made to accommodate curves most people would call “plus size.” I glanced around. The shop was quiet. An older woman with silver hair was sorting bric-a-brac at the counter; a younger volunteer early twenties, purple streaks in her hair was steaming something in the corner. I lifted the gown off the rail. The satin felt cool and liquid against my palms. Heavy in the right way. I carried it toward the changing cubicle like I was smuggling contraband. “Would you like to try it on, love?” the silver-haired woman called out. Her voice was kind, matter-of-fact. No trace of surprise or judgement. I froze for half a second. “Yes please,” I managed. My voice sounded smaller than usual. She smiled. “Curtain’s already drawn back there. Take your time. Shout if you need a hand with the zip.” The cubicle was narrow, just a full-length mirror screwed to the wall, a single hook, and a thin beige curtain that didn’t quite reach the floor. I hung the dress on the hook and stripped quickly out of my jeans, hoodie, socks, boxers, down to bare skin that already felt too warm, too alive. My cock was already half-hard just from touching the fabric, from the sheer improbability of this moment. I reached into the pocket of my discarded jeans on the floor and found the condom I always carried now just in case. Fingers trembling, I tore the packet, rolled the latex down over my throbbing length, making sure the reservoir tip was positioned correctly. The relief of containment was immediate. No stains. No evidence. Just secret, pulsing heat trapped safely inside. I stepped into the gown. The skirt whispered up my calves, over my thighs. I pulled it past my hips slowly, carefully and the satin glided over the soft roundness of my belly without catching. I tugged the bodice up over my chest. The cups were generously cut, there was room. Actual room. I reached behind and found the long invisible zip. It slid up smoothly, no resistance, no straining. When I let my arms drop, the dress settled around me like it had been waiting. I looked in the mirror. The reflection showed someone soft and full and blushing furiously beneath ivory satin. The modest neckline framed the gentle swell of my chest and the faint shadow of cleavage created by the way the bodice pushed everything together. My hips looked wide and womanly beneath the smooth fall of fabric. My belly made a soft, proud curve against the front of the skirt. I turned sideways. The line from back to front was lush, generous, unapologetic. It fit. It actually fit. A small, involuntary whimper escaped me. I heard footsteps outside the curtain. “Everything alright in there?” It was the younger volunteer this time. I swallowed. “Yes. Um… could you, could you maybe check the zip? Just to make sure it’s all the way up?” The curtain parted a few inches. She peeked in, eyes widening for only a heartbeat before her face softened into a genuine smile. She stepped inside careful, professional and fastened the tiny hook-and-eye at the top of the zip I hadn’t been able to reach. Her fingers were gentle. “There. Perfect. It’s like it was made for you.” I couldn’t speak. My cock was fully hard now, straining painfully against the satin lining. A bead of pre-cum had already escaped and I could feel the slippery warmth of it against the inside of the dress. I smoothed the front of the skirt with both hands. The satin gleamed under the fluorescent light. I looked sill looked like a bloke in a dress. A big, soft, blushing, overweight very happy bride. When I finally stepped out, both women were waiting. “I’ll take it,” I said. Whilst the younger woman unhooked and unzipped me, the silver-haired woman rang it up. “£49. Cash or card, love?” I handed over my card. I left the Charity Shop with the dress folded carefully in a large carrier bag, the memory of satin against every inch of my skin still electric. And for the first time in years, I didn’t feel like I was hiding. I felt like I was finally beginning to find myself.3 Reacties 0 aandelen 5K Views4
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Thinking of getting into TikTok. Put up a couple of vids. Would appreciate likes and shares if you get a minute. I will be adding more vids. Happy to hear any suggestions x
www.tiktok.com/@whaletailedThinking of getting into TikTok. Put up a couple of vids. Would appreciate likes and shares if you get a minute. I will be adding more vids. Happy to hear any suggestions x www.tiktok.com/@whaletailed0 Reacties 0 aandelen 1K Views2
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Just couldn’t resist! Hopefully it cheers you up on a horrible night….channel your inner righteous babe. “If you’re getting older and your not happy you’re fxcxing up” xJust couldn’t resist! Hopefully it cheers you up on a horrible night….channel your inner righteous babe. “If you’re getting older and your not happy you’re fxcxing up” x18 Reacties 0 aandelen 5K Views
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Happy new year beautiful ladies. I hope this year is full of joy and happiness and love and that all your dreams come true.
Love you all so much. Gina.Happy new year beautiful ladies. I hope this year is full of joy and happiness and love and that all your dreams come true. Love you all so much. ❤️💋Gina.0 Reacties 0 aandelen 2K Views8
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Happy New year everybody.
I must apologise for not being on here a lot recently and especially to a certain few who may think I’ve ghosted them or lost interest, you know who you are and its all me not you and I’m truly sorry.
It finally happened my wife and I have split and I am no longer “ married “
There’s lots to sort and I’ll apologise in advance im im hit and miss again but I’m trying for new year new me
I love you all and hope you all got what you wanted for Christmas and had a fab new year.
Here’s to 2026Happy New year everybody. I must apologise for not being on here a lot recently and especially to a certain few who may think I’ve ghosted them or lost interest, you know who you are and its all me not you and I’m truly sorry. It finally happened my wife and I have split and I am no longer “ married “ There’s lots to sort and I’ll apologise in advance im im hit and miss again but I’m trying for new year new me I love you all and hope you all got what you wanted for Christmas and had a fab new year. Here’s to 20262 Reacties 0 aandelen 2K Views
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