It's all about the effort you make .....

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

NO AI filters required....simply me with makeup.

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

Love this cute outfit !
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.

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.

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.

I live within a sanctuary of reflection, a shimmering Satin Wonderland of towering, gilded mirrors that capture every fold of my existence. I am a creature of history, a mature queen of a certain vintage, and my world is defined by the rustle of fabric. Here, I am swaddled in an endless supply of sissy satin dresses, gowns that trail like silken rivers, and gloves that reach toward my shoulders, smoothing the passage of time.
"Oh my," I whisper to my reflection, my voice a raspy cello. "Today is the day for the hallowed turf."
But one does not simply walk onto the pitch at Wembley Stadium to play British football without the proper armor. This is not a match for jerseys and cleats; this is a clash of POMPÖÖS Couture.
I began my transformation with the foundation of my "entity." First, I stepped into the ivory white modest high neck satin evening dress. It is a plus size masterpiece of elegance, the long balloon sleeves puffing out like clouds of cream, the flowing tulle skirt whispering secrets against my ankles. But as the London air turned crisp and the fog began to roll off the Thames, I felt the call for more.
I reached for the wedding gown, its chiffon veil a ghostly mist. I wrapped a heavy ivory satin headscarf tightly around my skull, securing my wisdom and my wig beneath its weight. Then, I layered. I pulled on the Victorian style black ankle length dress a triumph of high necklines, puffed bell sleeves, ruffles, and intricate lace trim.
As I pulled the black gown over the white, the layers merged. I was no longer wearing two dresses; I was wearing a singular, monumental entity composed of Satin, Taffeta, Georgette, Chiffon, and Organza. To finish the silhouette, I added the poofy, extravagant, ultra femme large ladies’ flamboyant satin skirt over the hips, creating a volume so vast I could barely fit through the mahogany doors of my dressing room.
I looked at my vanity. Seven large headscarves black and white laid out for the week. I chose a heavy black Georgette to wrap over the white satin, pinning it with a rhinestone crown. I slid on my newly found long opera gloves, the silk pulling tight against my skin, and stepped into my elegant shoes.
Wembley was a sea of POMPÖÖS madness. Twenty two drag queens, each a monument to Glööckler’s baroque vision, stood upon the emerald grass. Rhinestones caught the stadium lights like a thousand stars fallen to earth. There was Trixie in a gold leafed bodice and Bella in a crimson velvet train that required two ball boys to carry.
"Right then, girls!" I shouted, the wind catching my chiffon veil. "Let’s show them how a lady tackles!"
The whistle blew. I didn't run; I glided. The multiple layers of my dress the Georgette over the Taffeta, the Organza beneath the Satin created a rhythmic shush shush sound that drowned out the roar of the crowd. When the ball came toward me, I didn't kick it with the grace of a sportsman; I met it with the immovable force of three hundred yards of couture.
The ball hit my flamboyant satin skirt and simply died, swallowed by the sheer volume of my ruffles. I pivoted, my bell sleeves catching the wind like sails. I saw an opening. With a flick of my opera-gloved hand to steady my headscarf, I sent the ball flying toward the goal with a delicate tap of my elegant heel.
As the net bulged, the stadium erupted. I didn't celebrate with a slide on the grass heaven forbid, the grass stains on the ivory tulle would be a tragedy. Instead, I stood at the center of the pitch, surrounded by my sisters in their crowns and silks, and looked into the imaginary mirrors of the sky.
In my Satin Wonderland, I am a queen. At Wembley, in my POMPÖÖS layers of black and white, I was a princess of the game. Oh my, indeed.

All this horrible weather the last….forever! With me working outside I’ve not been feeling very femme recently unless I think mud wrestling is appropriate! Nothing a trip to the city hasn’t sorted though so many gorgeous styles outfits just brought me back my mojo! Love to you who need it x

A small set from yesterday.
Not chasing perfection here. Just sharing where I’m at right now.
Confidence looks different depending on the day.

#crossdresser
#genderexpression
#femmeenergy
#softconfidence
#selfexpression
#quietmoments
#personal
#lgbtq

Name's Delilah "Dolly" Malone, private eye by trade, sissy by nature. Obese, overweight, and unapologetic about it, I waddled through this apocalypse in a Barbie pink ankle length trenchcoat that billowed like a parachute in the fallout wind. Underneath, my pink Victorian mourning attire clung to my rolls, a long pink satin gown with subtle sheen highlights that caught the dim rad lights just right, making me shimmer like a forbidden dream. My oversized pink satin headscarf framed my face, tied in a bow that screamed Rococo excess, and a sheer pink chiffon voile veil draped over it all, misting my vision in rosy haze. Glossy shiny deluxe blouse frills peeked out at the collar, frilly as a sissy maid's apron. Dramatic pink lips, pink eyeliner I painted myself like a doll in a world gone gray. Hard boiled? Sure, but with a soft center that melted at the wrong touch. It started like any other gig in this irradiated hellhole, the kind where the client slinks into your office smelling of desperation and cheap perfume. My office was a gutted bungalow on what's left of Sunset Boulevard, walls papered with faded starlet posters glowing faintly from the rads. She walked in or slithered, more like a femme fatale straight out of the old reels, but twisted by the apocalypse. Tall, gaunt, with skin like irradiated porcelain and eyes that could melt lead. Called herself Veronica Voss, heir to some pre war studio fortune, or so she claimed. "Dolly," she purred, her voice like velvet over razor wire, "I need you to find my husband. He's gone missing with a stash of pre-war gold the kind that could buy us a ticket out of this wasteland." I should've walked away. But her gaze lingered on my pink ensemble, a smirk playing on those blood red lips. "You look... exquisite," she said, tracing a finger along my frilled blouse. Love or money? Hell, in my line of work, it's always both. I took the case, lured like an innocent lamb to the slaughter. Average? Me? Law abiding? In this world, survival's the only law, but yeah, I was tempted. She dangled promises, a cut of the gold, a night in her arms, where I'd be her pretty little doll. My heart, buried under layers of satin and fat, fluttered like a trapped bird. The trail led to the ruins of the Hollywood Sign, now a jagged "HOLLYW D" mocking the sky. Dutch angles everywhere, the ground tilted under my heels, my pink gown swishing as I lumbered up the hill, veil fluttering in the toxic breeze. I found clues: a scorched map to a vault in the old MGM lot, whispers of a heist crew Veronica's hubby had assembled. Perfect crime, they thought crack the vault, grab the gold, vanish into the Mojave like ghosts. But greed's a hungry beast. I pieced it together from rad scorched notes and bullet riddled bodies: internal betrayal, bad luck from a radstorm that fried their getaway vertibird. The hubby was dead, double crossed by his own femme fatale wait, no. By Veronica? My gut twisted. That's when it got personal. Digging deeper, I uncovered photos in the vault pre war snapshots of a man who looked too familiar. Me? No, couldn't be. But the face... my face, slimmer, harder, before the bombs, before the pink. Amnesia hit like a sledgehammer. I'd blacked out chunks of my past after the fallout, waking up in this body, this craving for satin and veils. Identity crisis? You bet. Turns out, I wasn't always Dolly. I was that hubby or a clone, or some rad mutated twin. Veronica had lured me in before the war, manipulated me into a heist for her studio's hidden fortune. I stole, I killed, she betrayed me, left me for dead in the blast. Now, post apocalypse, she'd tracked me down, not knowing it was me under the pink, the fat, the frills. She wanted the gold I'd stashed in my fogged memory. Corruption seeped in like fallout rain. The case turned dangerous her goons on my tail, corrupt Enclave remnants posing as authorities, accusing me of the old murders. Innocent man on the run? Wrongfully accused in a world where justice is a loaded .45. I evaded them through the twisted streets, my trenchcoat snagging on barbed wire, pink satin tearing like my sanity. Hiding in a bombed out mansion, I confronted her. "You," I gasped, veil askew, lips smudged. "You did this to me." She laughed, that velvet razor slicing deep. "Darling, you were always a pushover. A little love, a little money and look at you now, all dolled up." She drew a pearl handled pistol, the trap sprung. The heist gone wrong? This was round two. I lunged obese, but fueled by rage knocking the gun away. We tumbled in Dutch angled chaos, shadows twisting like my gown's sheen. But greed won. She grabbed the gold map from my pocket, shot me in the gut. As I bled out on the irradiated floor, pink staining red, I realized: destruction was always the endgame. For the lured innocent, the doomed detective, the betrayed sissy in a world of gray. Fade to black, darling. Fade to pink.

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.

Thought I'd try less high femme clothes

Unzipped
Uncertainty
Unanswered
Undone...
I just
Have walk
To feel
My de Nimes
Skirt...
My knees
My tighs
In tights
I feel myself
Young Femme
Do not afraid
Come close
For girl smoke...

Unzipped
Unansweeed
Undone...
You like to see
Some lines
And curves
Of Femme...?

You wish to talk
To me?
Or even more...?

Ohh Darling...
Little pure Doll...
Who did it so?
For you at all
Come here
Let me cuddle
You
With gentle touch
And Love
As few...

Soggy lonely day at work…..but did get to try one of my new dresses!…..well actually lots but that’s another story! Femme fatale Velvet underground x light not great but to dark at home too x

Hi, I'm new here. In fact I am new to crossdressing. I'm looking for genuine trans / crossdress people to chat to and discuss the whole thing. I did wear women's underwear when I was a young Naval rating, but was terrified of getting caught. Then I got married and had kids. Recently I found myself on my own and feeling inclined to become more femme. I am not attracted to men, but I have always wanted to be a woman.

Hi all good day out as kitty in skgness with a,good friend and a bit femme shopping lol

Santa Goes Femme for Christmas
Santa’s feeling a little extra festive this year… and we’re absolutely here for it!
Nothing wrong with slipping into something soft, sparkly and femme for the holidays.
If Santa can enjoy a bit of Christmas crossdressing magic, so can you.

Who else is planning a festive femme moment this season?

#crossdressing #femmechristmas #festivefemme #christmasdress #holidayfun #crossdresserstyle #santafemme

Femme Fatale
Phomme fragile

Life's more fun in femme mode, also new boots and stockings

Feeling a lil femme tonight but just saying home and playing with myself

I understand that as Crossdressers we like and want to look like women. While we can look very femme fully dressed unfortunately our bodies are not the same as a females so what looks good and sexy on a real woman very rarely looks as good when we wear the same. What may look fabulous on a woman will not look as good on us and in most cases can be quite off putting.

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

Wanna be someones goth femme girlfriend

I wish it was more accepted to be trans/femme when i was younger like it is today, id be a full girl by now and life would be bliss, i hate having to live my urge in my imagination, hope someone understands what i mean

Femme fatale vibes today

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

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

What is it with the majority on here, obsessed with sex. Crossdressing isn't about sex it should be about dressing to look and feel good not to get a sexual thrill. While sex is fun it isn't the only thing there is. Thought this is supposed to be a SOCIAL site to exchange ideas about dresses, make-up and ideas about being more confident dressed femme. Not everyone wants to suck c**k or get f**ked up the rear.

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

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

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

about last night !
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

Love these heels . . .

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

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

Love this cute outfit . . .

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

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

Love this cute outfit.....

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. Find me on FB also. Comments are always welcome.

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

About last night.....

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. Find me on FB also.
Comments are always welcome.

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

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

Il y à t'il des femmes ici? Faites vous connaître !! Nantes? Paris? Rennes?

I cant wait to leave my boring life to become more femme first thing im doing its getting some heels

Sur mon lit j'attends une ou des femmes

While I understand that Crossdressing encompasses many smaller fetish groups, submissives, sissies, Dominants, adult babies etc etc, but they are not crossdressing as such but extra sub sections that grow from dressing femme. I am no prude and have tried most of the sub sections, but out of respect for other girls and myself I will ONLY chat about my experiences and show risque pictures in private chat. Like a lot of girls here I don't want to see cocks or nude asshole while I am enjoying a meal. There is a time and place for everything but not on the main wall. This is supposed to be a SOCIAL site not a porn one

Honestly when I'm fully settled in my new place I'm thinking of always been femme at home

I had a very nice walk en femme around Harrogate town centre yesterday. Apart from one neanderthal, who made a stupid comment then had a good laugh at his own incredible wit (tw*t), nobody gave any hint that they had even noticed. Walking around in a dress in the hot weather is wonderful. Very liberating.

Hot Cossdressing Poses! Hurry to watch! https://youtu.be/lxMHzSDayCM?si=bYIvcTVkttDaPttb #crossdresser #crossdressing #femboy #crossdressers #mtf #sissy #femmeboy

Leggy Crossdresser Veronica wanna... https://youtube.com/shorts/C-8IFTRHJEo?si=R4ehb2ave5D9L7NV #crossdresser #crossdressing #femboy #crossdressers #mtf #sissy #femmeboy