A nice little dress up today #latexskirt #petticoat #stocking #suspenders #highheels

Welk im glad that's over till next year x

I still remember the afternoon I found them, tucked inside a dusty cardboard box at the flea market on the edge of town. The vendor had labeled it simply "Old Paper Ephemera, 50 pence each" but when I lifted the lid, a soft waft of aged paper and faint vanilla greeted me like a long lost friend. There they were: a stack of vintage 1950s fashion postcards, each one measuring that perfect little four by six inch's, small enough to slip into a pocket, big enough to make your heart skip. The first one I pulled out showed a woman who looked like she had stepped straight out of a Technicolor dream. Her dress was a riot of floral patterns, deep roses and soft peonies exploding across a cream background, the full skirt flaring out in that classic New Look silhouette. She posed with one hand on her hip, the other delicately holding a string of pearls to her smiling lips, her victory rolls perfectly coiffed, red lipstick glossy even in faded ink. The caption at the bottom read something cheerful like "A Lovely Day in the Garden," but it was the way the flowers seemed to bloom right off the card that got me. I could almost smell the imaginary perfume. I bought the whole stack twenty of them, no haggling. Back home, I spread them across my kitchen table like treasures. One after another revealed mid century magic, a pinup housewife in a polka dot dress, red spots dancing over crisp white, apron tied in a perfect bow, winking as she held a cherry pie like it was a trophy. Another wore a geometric wonder, bold atomic era diamonds and zigzags in turquoise and coral, the pattern so sharp it felt modern even now, her pose confident and playful, one eyebrow arched as if daring the viewer to keep staring. There was the one in the sunshine yellow swing dress with tiny scattered daisies, cinched waist showing off curves that the 1950s celebrated without apology. She leaned against a pastel kitchen counter, frilly apron spotless, a feather duster in hand like a scepter. "Keeping House with Style," the back proclaimed in elegant script, the space for a message blank and waiting for secrets that never got posted. I couldn't stop touching them, the cardstock thick and creamy, edges softly worn from decades of careful handling (or perhaps neglect). Some had faint crease lines, tiny bends where thumbs had once held them dear. Others were pristine, as if printed yesterday. I imagined the women who once received them: a birthday girl giggling over the pinup in the cherry print halter dress, or a newlywed pinning the geometric beauty to her refrigerator as inspiration for her first dinner party. That evening I sat with my junk journal open, glue stick in hand. I layered one postcard onto a page with bits of lace and old ticket stubs, another beside pressed flowers from my own garden. The floral pinup became the centerpiece of a wedding themed spread vows unspoken but visualized in every perfect curl and blooming rose. The housewife with the pie? She headed a birthday collage, surrounded by retro recipe cards I'd scribbled myself: "How to Bake Happiness, 1955 Style." As night fell, I propped a few on my shelf like tiny paintings collectible mid century decorations glowing under the lamp. The room felt warmer, softer, like stepping into an era where women wore their femininity boldly: full skirts twirling, patterns popping, smiles bright and unapologetic. Those postcards weren't just paper; they were little portals to a time of optimism, glamour in the everyday, and quiet rebellion wrapped in petticoats. I still flip through them when the world feels too fast. Each one reminds me that beauty can be small, collectible, and endlessly charming pure vintage love.

Making a brew x #latexskirt #petticoat #fishnets #suspenders #highheels

#laceskirt #pettiskirt #stockings #suspenders #highheels

#latexskirt #petticoat #stockings #suspenders #highheels

I feel so cute in my lil black dress

I love being used by men who crossdress to fill their wants and needs. It's my favorite when they use me for a nut and nothing more. I know my place.

Hi ladies x

Happy Valentines to all the Beautiful Ladies on here.

Well I had another good day buying lady things-got two new dresses but failed to get shoes-high heels. So I will have to have a mooch in a real shoe shop. Let me know if you like my new dress

Sorry for last post ...

Hi ladies x

Happy #ValentinesDay

Love from Melanie

Glad rags on. Hope you all have a wonderful weekend x

Lets get ready to play

((Feel Free to Share if you like 🩷))
No Ai or Fake Pictures, What you see is me and mine. Nothing more or less.

Why do I love Co ck......
This is a good question and I guess it's personal to me ...
Co ck that has the head fully showing to me look amazing, small medium or large just look incredible and if Smooth Shaven and in Stockings or Holdups then I'm Week and I must have them in my mouth.
The way the skin behind the head moves with your lips, the feel of the rough edge of the Head.
The taste of a clean **** is amazing.
The way it shows you it enjoys what you started by getting hard, what a turn on
The best thing of all is how after all this fun sucking and playing it rewards you again with the most amazing Pre Cum then followed by a juicy mouth full of Cum for me to Swallow and enjoy...
Damn I love them so much ....

If you are local to Derby or Nottingham then get in touch, get those Co ck Photos and
Send them my way
------------------------------------------------------------
Further Slutty Reading

As someone that on the odd occasion meets other CDs, I think it is important to know how I feel about you if we meet up.
Well it's very important to understand before we meet a few things.
I'm meeting you for my own pleasure entirely,
I'm not interested in you looking like a Female entirely... Let me explain
Before we got to the meeting point we would have chatted extensively about it, and swapped Pics as you do.
So now we know I'm only interested in your Co ck, but only Smooth Co ck and in Lingerie.
Unfortunately I DON'T do beards, not on my Co ck.
So now we know, You need to be Smooth, in Lingerie and have a **** I WILL use.
That means I will be Sucking that Co ck Dry and Swallowing the Content, No Ifs, No Buts...
Now the next thing is what you may want me to do or of course do to me.
The 2 rules I have will have been discussed with you before now anyway so...
My Co ck 'WILL' be Emptied and 'WILL' be Swallowed by You, No Ifs, No Buts...
I get asked, but I wanted you to **** my Ass, that's fine but the rule above still applies so remember that...
I get asked, But I wanted to **** your Ass, well again that's fine but you WILL Cum in my mouth and Feed me, No Ifs, No Buts.
You are a Toy for my pleasure.... That's it
You may become a friend and we may meet very regular, but everything above ALWAYS stays the same....Never Ever any Mess or Waste...
Now you know..


All my best pictures and Stories in one (FREE) Private Group <a href="https://www.flickr.com/groups/14871084@N25/">www.flickr.com/groups/14871084@N25/</a>

Seeing as some dirty tosser, thought it would be appropriate to post a pic, of their 'Chocolate Starfish' There's really only 1 way of retaliating so, here's a lovely pic, of my bald pu*sy xx

I woke up to the low groan of the radiator and the peculiar hush that February brings to old apartments. My bedroom smelled faintly of cold wax and the sweet chemical ghost of fabric conditioner. The first thing I did, as always, was reach for the bundle on the chair. The rainbow satin headscarf came first. I tied it carefully, pulling the shimmering folds forward so the colours caught the weak morning light from the half closed blinds red bleeding into orange, yellow fracturing into green, then the deeper bruise of indigo and violet. It framed my face like a Renaissance halo gone wrong, the slippery material cool against my temples. Next the nightie. It slithered over my skin, heavy and liquid, clinging where it wanted and floating where it didn't. The hem barely brushed mid-thigh; the bodice stretched taut across my chest and stomach, every breath making the satin ripple in waves of prismatic colour. I liked how it forced me to move slower, more deliberately, as though the garment itself demanded ceremony. The housecoat went over that long, sweeping, sleeves wide enough to swallow my hands if I wasn't careful. More rainbow, more shine, the kind of decadent excess that felt almost violent in the grey half light of my living room. I left it open. No point pretending modesty at this hour. Then the opera gloves. Elbow length at minimum, but these reached nearly to the shoulder, twenty inches of glossy rainbow tubing that made my arms look elongated, artificial, expensive. I flexed my fingers inside them; the satin resisted, then gave, whispering with every small movement. My hands didn't feel like mine anymore. Finally the tights. Sheer enough to show skin tone beneath, yet dense with that unmistakable satin sheen. I rolled them up each leg slowly, smoothing out every phantom wrinkle, watching the colours shift and recombine as thigh met hip. Once they were on, the world narrowed to the sound of my own stockings sliding against each other with every step. I padded into the living room like that. On the longest wall where most people would hang a generic landscape or a framed concert poster hung the canvas. Massive. Unapologetic. An abstract oil painting that someone, maybe me, in a past life I no longer recognize had decided deserved to dominate the room. The brushstrokes were furious, almost angry: thick impasto ridges of crimson and turquoise crashing into one another, black shadows knifing through like storm damage. Yet somewhere in the chaos a figure refused to dissolve completely. A woman. Big. Beautiful. Unafraid. Her body was suggested rather than spelled out great soft curves implied by the way the paint bulged and receded, rolls and swells given form by violent highlights of rainbow satin. A headscarf bled off the top edge of the canvas. Opera gloves climbed impossibly high. The nightie and housecoat fused into one cascading shape, liquid and armored at once. Her legs were suggested only by vertical streaks of glossy color that could have been tights, could have been spilled paint, could have been blood for all the painting cared to clarify. Grimdark realism bleeding into abstraction; beauty that felt dangerous. I stood in front of her for a long time, dressed almost exactly as she was. Sometimes I wonder if I bought the painting because it looked like me, or if I started dressing this way because the painting demanded a witness. Either way, the ritual is the same. I become the afterimage. The room becomes a gallery with only one visitor. The satin warms slowly to body heat until it feels like a second, more honest skin. Outside, the city is gunmetal and salt-streaked concrete. Inside, everything shimmers. Violent colour against violent shadow. No apologies. I turn slightly so the light catches the gloves, the headscarf, the long liquid lines of my thighs. The painting stares back. We regard each other the way old lovers do knowing too much, saying nothing. Then I go make coffee. Still wearing every piece. Still matching the wall. Still not quite sure which one of us is the copy.

Becca reported and blocked as they just posting stolen pictures. lack of information on their profile suggests scammer. amazing, people on this site messaging and drooling over the pics like they are the real person.

No Ai or Fake Pictures, What you see is me and mine. Nothing more or less.

Why do I love Co ck......
This is a good question and I guess it's personal to me ...
Co ck that has the head fully showing to me look amazing, small medium or large just look incredible and if Smooth Shaven and in Stockings or Holdups then I'm Week and I must have them in my mouth.
The way the skin behind the head moves with your lips, the feel of the rough edge of the Head.
The taste of a clean **** is amazing.
The way it shows you it enjoys what you started by getting hard, what a turn on
The best thing of all is how after all this fun sucking and playing it rewards you again with the most amazing Pre Cum then followed by a juicy mouth full of Cum for me to Swallow and enjoy...
Damn I love them so much ....

If you are local to Derby or Nottingham then get in touch, get those Co ck Photos and
Send them my way
------------------------------------------------------------
Further Slutty Reading

As someone that on the odd occasion meets other CDs, I think it is important to know how I feel about you if we meet up.
Well it's very important to understand before we meet a few things.
I'm meeting you for my own pleasure entirely,
I'm not interested in you looking like a Female entirely... Let me explain
Before we got to the meeting point we would have chatted extensively about it, and swapped Pics as you do.
So now we know I'm only interested in your Co ck, but only Smooth Co ck and in Lingerie.
Unfortunately I DON'T do beards, not on my Co ck.
So now we know, You need to be Smooth, in Lingerie and have a **** I WILL use.
That means I will be Sucking that Co ck Dry and Swallowing the Content, No Ifs, No Buts...
Now the next thing is what you may want me to do or of course do to me.
The 2 rules I have will have been discussed with you before now anyway so...
My Co ck 'WILL' be Emptied and 'WILL' be Swallowed by You, No Ifs, No Buts...
I get asked, but I wanted you to **** my Ass, that's fine but the rule above still applies so remember that...
I get asked, But I wanted to **** your Ass, well again that's fine but you WILL Cum in my mouth and Feed me, No Ifs, No Buts.
You are a Toy for my pleasure.... That's it
You may become a friend and we may meet very regular, but everything above ALWAYS stays the same....Never Ever any Mess or Waste...
Now you know..


All my best pictures and Stories in one (FREE) Private Group <a href="https://www.flickr.com/groups/14871084@N25/">www.flickr.com/groups/14871084@N25/</a>

Last from the Winter Warmer

Not dressed in a while, wondering if a new wig and knickers will help. Shopping always helps right? I'm thinking long straight black hair and lace....

Laying here. Love to chat

Good morning all you lovely ladies

Playtime this morning

Praise Be to St Mounjaro! Lost 7 kilos, BUT.....

My fave shirred "respectable" skirt needs re-shirring, went to a swinger social and every time i stood up it slid gracefully to my ankles...
Sewing machine time planned for the weekend.

Good Evening......!

#BlackSatinBlouse again......!

Evening. We have nearly made it. One more day then time to relax over the weekend! Come say hi.

Somedays since becoming a Sissy Crossdressing Widower, this is often how I feel, the laughter carries me through.

https://youtu.be/Zos-Da_hhj4?si=1esar7dvwGTFbYvP This would be my dream! To dress up in a huge pink victorian dress and invite my victorian lady round for tea in her big victorian dress!

POMPÖÖS Couture Living in a Satin Wonderland of Sissy Satin Dresses, Sissy Satin Gowns, Sissy Satin Gloves and Big Mirrors. Oh My!

Got home from work stuffs, kicked off my pumps and started playing yakuza 3 kiwami didn't change or take my makeup off.. it's almost 4am and im going to shower, shave stuffs, and play some more when i get out.. hope you're all doing well

My latest charity shop buys

How was everyone's 'Hump Day' today?

#BlackSatinBlouse #StilettoHeels #MelanieCox

Got rid of my nets in my last purge. And my denim shorts.

Here’s me trying to be daisy duke xx

2/2 collage

Here’s a question, should this site just be an instagram style layout rather than Facebook type layout? People seem to engage with pictures more. (I wonder why). But in all seriousness would it be better for it?

1/2 collage

Come in for crossdresser class now

Cressdresser, who like to chat should text me. (405) 292-4699 I'm available for nice chat

Trying to figure out this new site layout. I am guessing it is a program upgrade. Took me quite a while to my my own page.

I am sixty four, unemployed after caring for the last few years for my wife, and a widower of exactly three months. My wife died from a long ilness on the 12th of November 2025. The house is a 1970s terraced end of row in a quiet Midlands estate, two up, two down, pebble dash front, UPVC windows, the kind of place where neighbours know when you put the bins out. No children, long grown up and moved away, nor other family members, just me and the central heating that clicks on at six-thirty every morning whether I want it to or not.
We were married forty five years. I worked in the same warehouse until they made me redundant in 2020, she kept the books for a small solicitor until her diagnosis. After the funeral I sold her car, cancelled the window cleaner, and the weekly supermarket internet shopping and started drawing on my tiny pension. The days are long and the nights are longer.
Most evenings I sit in the front room with the curtains drawn and the television on mute. Tonight the house feels smaller than usual. The clock on the mantelpiece says 21:17. I stand up, switch off the lamp, and walk upstairs in the dark.
In the spare bedroom her sewing room that became my dressing room I open the tall IKEA wardrobe. The left side is still her dresses and coats. The right side is mine: the secret side. Rows of satin headscarves in every colour, polyester foulards bought on eBay, oversized satin hijabs in midnight black and charcoal, metres and metres of sheer chiffon voile in black, graphite, and the deepest ink. Some still smell faintly of the fabric softener she used.
I undress slowly. The mirror on the wardrobe door is cheap and slightly warped, but it is honest. Naked, sixty-four, soft belly, thin legs, the body of a man who has outlived his usefulness. I reach for the black satin corset first, cheap second hand eBay corset lingerie, lightly boned, size 3XL. I hook it closed until my waist and soft belly shrink and my breathing turns shallower. Then the high waisted black satin knickers, the sheer black stockings with the wide lace tops, the long line black satin slip that whispers against my skin like a promise.
Next the dress: a full skirted 1950s style mourning day dress made from heavy black polyester satin, high collar, long sleeves, hem that brushes my ankles. Over it I tie a wide black satin sash that cinches across my contained belly. The fabric is slippery, cool, obscene in its shine.
Now the head. This is the part that matters most.
I choose the largest satin hijab first, jet black, 140 cm square, heavy bridal satin that catches every stray bit of light. I fold it into a triangle, drape it over my head so the point hangs down my back, then bring the two ends under my chin and tie them in a tight knot at the nape of my neck. The satin lies glossy and taut across my forehead, smooth over my ears, covering every grey hair. It feels like being sealed.
Over the satin I pin a second layer: a sheer black chiffon voile scarf, almost transparent, 120 cm square. I drape it loosely so it falls across my face like a mourner’s veil from another century, but softer, more sensual. The chiffon drifts against my lips when I breathe. I can see through it, only just, but the world is softened, blurred, intimate. I add a third scarf, a smaller polyester foulard in charcoal, tied bandana style over the top to weight the chiffon down and keep it in place. The layers stack: satin underneath, chiffon floating, polyester binding. My face is gone. Only eyes, mouth, the suggestion of a nose remain.
I step back. The mirror shows a figure that is neither man nor woman, neither past nor present. A black satin widow from a fever dream. The train of the dress drags on the cheap carpet, the petticoat beneath it rustles. Every movement makes the satin sigh.
I walk downstairs like this, tiny steps because the corset and the long skirt will allow nothing else. The chiffon veil brushes my lashes. In the kitchen I pour a large whisky with gloved hands, black satin opera gloves that reach my elbows. I carry the glass into the living room, sit on the sofa, cross my legs at the ankle the way she used to. The layers of satin and chiffon settle around me like a second skin.
Outside, a car passes. Inside, the only sound is the soft hiss of fabric when I breathe.
Three months a widower. Forty five years a husband. Sixty four years a man who has always, secretly, wanted to disappear inside silk and satin and the soft prison of a veil.
I lift the edge of the chiffon just enough to sip the whisky. The taste is sharp against the sweetness of the fabric against my mouth. Then I let the veil fall again.
In this house, in this year 2026, no one is watching.
No one will ever know.
And for the first time since November, I feel almost at peace
perfectly veiled,
perfectly hidden,
perfectly hers.

I ordered my new outfit. I hope you like it. Im much excited and i hope it will fit perfectly...

#crossdresser #cosplay

Good evening ladies x

A Man's Feminine Side Should Be CLASSY and FABULOUS #crossdressing #trans

You know what I’m realising as I get older. And it can probably be applied to every generation… But if you were born in the 80s like me we will probably get a long. We probably lived very similar lives, music, school experiences and probably started crossdressing the same way. That’s not to say I won’t or don’t get on with older or younger people, it's just 80s is the sweet spot.

Hello Ladies
XX

Hey. Let’s chat stories or whatever. I’m a night owl so here till late for who ever needs the company.

Hi girls, I'm just chillin again tonight, making some pork kebabs with chilli and garlic, potato salad and corn on the cob. All Iv'e had to eat all day was a Greggs steak bake! So bloody starving! Oh, and yes, I have cracked a can of hazy IPA