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."

I'm scrolling while strolling down memory lanes in my deep dark lightening path I've chosen. I am visiting and viewing all your profiles. I am in awe. Humbled and almost weeping the fact I lost so many years to myself. Because of fear addictions I did NOT ask for. It's like @Adele sings....I was just a child. Didn't get the chance to choose. I've known since i was born i was different. Always the wise ass the funny one. Performer of claps that grew and grow to this day. If i told you who i was in my days and nights you would either laugh cry or just stare in amazement. I have wrestled and fought this reslity since i was was 4. I never knew the acceptance, love and satisfying self worth i alwsys held to close, to quiet, to damn fuckin quiet. I Am Me. You are you. I am grateful, humbled, amazed. Blown awsy. Pun intended. If ive mad you smile laugh identify or weep im #GLAD I AM SO OVERWHELMED AND EACH AND EVERYONE OF YOU NADE MY FUCKIN YEAR. 2026 IM UNSTOPPABLE. THANK YOU ALL. to every beginner novice medium and #Mistress i tip my #MichaelJackson Velvet hat. I grab my crotch and i saw. It dont matter if yojr #BlackOrWhite it just does NOT matter. Not then. Not now and not tomorrow. #Sisterhood #Light #Flow #Freedom and #EvenNow #BarryManilow even now. Xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo sincerely yours SisterSinDy

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

Just been gazing at the delightful photo of Ricky6. Mmmm!

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/

Note: While this drive was real, the story is fictional. This is my fantasy. Will it become true one day? I hope so. And maybe I'll run into you at a truck stop? Kisses! -Chrissy My First Experience as a Truck Stop Wh-re or Chrissy — A Night on the Road I’m not out. Not really. Not to my family. Not to the world. Maybe not even fully to myself. By daylight I pass as what people expect: a tall, thin man in his forties, dark hair, dark eyes, quiet, unremarkable. But underneath—always underneath—I carry Chrissy. Smooth skin hidden under denim. Lace and silk where no one is supposed to look. A secret pressed close to my body, warm and constant. I don’t know yet if Chrissy is a role, a mask, or my truest self. I just know I’m not ready to live her openly. The drive from San Diego to Prescott was long and lonely, the kind of drive where your thoughts stretch out across the desert like the road itself. I left late—too late, really—and by the time I pulled into the truck stop it was just after four in the morning. Christmas was only days away. The air was cold. The place was nearly silent. Except for the trucks. Rows and rows of them, idling and dark, their drivers asleep inside. A whole hidden world resting while the rest of America slept. Inside, fluorescent lights buzzed. I bought coffee I didn’t really want and a hot dog I didn’t really taste. That’s when I felt it—that familiar sensation on the back of my neck. Being seen. He was older. Weathered. The kind of man whose life is measured in miles and nights like this. His eyes lingered too long. Not crude—curious. Knowing. When I stepped back outside, he followed—but not aggressively. He spoke softly, close enough that his voice stayed between us. “Chrissy,” he said, like it was a question and an answer at the same time. My heart kicked hard in my chest. Fear and thrill braided together. We talked. Quietly. Honestly. About boundaries. About money. About what I was—and wasn’t—willing to do. Nothing rushed. Nothing forced. When I followed him to his truck, it was because I chose to. Inside, the cab was dim, warm, insulated from the world. I shed my outer layers slowly, deliberately, revealing what I’d hidden all night. His attention wasn’t violent—it was reverent. Hungry, yes, but controlled. I felt myself settle into Chrissy fully, like slipping into a familiar skin. What happened between us stayed there, contained within the cab and the dark and the hum of the engine. Time stretched and blurred. I was present in my body in a way I rarely allow myself to be. When it ended, I didn’t feel used. I felt… seen. He paid me without haggling. Then something unexpected happened: he didn’t boast, didn’t leer. He simply told a few others—men like him, tired men, lonely men—who understood discretion. I made my own choices again. And again. Not a dozen. Not chaos. Just a handful of quiet encounters, spaced out across the early hours of the morning. Each one brief. Each one negotiated. Each one leaving me with cash folded neatly into my purse and a strange, steady calm settling in my chest. By sunrise, I was exhausted—not just physically, but emotionally. Chrissy had been fully awake all night. And she was tired. Under the Dashboard Lights The cab door closed behind me, sealing us into a private world of low light and humming machinery. The dashboard cast everything in a muted red glow, like we were suspended inside a heartbeat. I could feel it then—how small the space was, how large he felt in it, how nowhere I could go made everything sharper. He reached for his phone almost casually. “Stand right there,” he said. I obeyed. My hands shook just slightly as I slipped off my jacket, then my shirt. I could feel his eyes tracking every inch of me, lingering, memorizing. When I was left in my bra and panties—the ones I’d chosen carefully before the trip, just in case—I felt a rush of heat flood my chest and face. The phone came up. A soft click. Then another. He moved slowly, circling me, telling me to turn, to arch my back, to lift my chin. Each instruction felt like a pull downward, stripping away the version of myself that hides. I wasn’t performing anymore. I was presenting myself. Offering. More to cum.... #crossdresser #sissy #sissyboy #crossdressers #sissies #shemale #ladyboy #femboy #femman #femboys #crossdressing #gurl #trans #transgirl #transwoman #transgender #tgirl #gay #lgbtq #nsfw #adultsonly #adultcontent #sissy #crossdresser #crossdressing #femboy #sissyboy #sissygirl #trans #transgender #shemale #transgirl #transwoman #transfemale #tgirl #model #modeling #gay #bi #lgbtq #queer #genderfluid #pantymodel #panty #panties #meninpanties #ladyboy More: http://chrissyinsd.hotviber.com/

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

Merry Christmas!!! And very Happy New Year For all of you!!! Folace Lust Lipsr all who support each other with a smie love and kind word that are espetially so important for stranger girls born with some unusual abilities... LOVE LIGHT AND JOY !!! Lace Lust Lips Dresses Tights Pleasure in hips... Kisses Bon Chance And Lots of Love Misses in dresses And sans ... Happy New Year for all you Kate

I see Flighthelpcenter is back offering fake Delta airline upgrade. Clearly a scammer. Reported and blocked, for the 4 time this year.

Melanie in her delightful pink satin blouse...... #SatinBlouse #Crossdresser

Ma Eternal Murnin' at Christmas in the Gorbals Tenement I've aye felt a queer pull tae this place—number 142 Balgrayhill Road, a weary auld sandstone tenement up in the Gorbals, wi' its shared stairheid an' that cauld tiled close that smells o' damp washin' an' yesterday's chip fat. The blizzard's ragin' the nicht, Christmas 2025, December 25th turnin' intae Boxin' Day proper—snaw drivin' sideways doon the wynd, howlin' roon the lum pots like a banshee, an' the whole estate blanketed in white, streetlights glowin' fuzzy orange through the flurry. For years, in the quiet o' ma sissy crossdressin' dreams—blethered in late-night internet chats an' hidden fantasies, I've yearned tae cast aff the ordinary an' embrace a wummanly self that's lush, commandin', an' pure voluptuous. The nicht, in this freezin' Scottish winter storm, wi' the wind greetin' doon the close an' snaw pilin' up against the door, that yearnin' finally becomes ma truth. I staun afore the cracked mirror in the back room, the wind rattlin' the single-glazin' windae, transformin' intae Evelina McTavish, the eternal widow o' the tenement. Ma body—mature, morbidly obese, overflowin' wi' soft curves an' generous fullness—is nae langer somethin' tae hide unner baggy joabies; it's tae be celebrated in this private ritual o' surrender, the cauld air bitin' at ma skin as I dress. The goon is aw I dreamed: a strikin' black Victorian murnin' A-line, ordered online an' altered masel', made frae shiny satin that catches the dim bulb light like wet tar. Multiple tiers cascade tae ma ankles, brushin' the lino; lang puffed sleeves hug ma airms, an' the high collar frames ma face wi' stern elegance. Ma satin opera gloves slide up smooth tae ma elbows, matchin' the satin heidscarf that covers ma hair in modest severity. Ower it aw drapes a delicate chiffon veil, flutterin' in the draught frae the ill-fittin' door, soaftenin' ma features intae a haze o' melancholy. As I smooth the folds, feelin' the heavy satin cling tae every abundant inch—the tiers flarin' ower ma wide hips, the bodice cradlin' ma ample bosom, the fabric cauld at first but warmin' frae ma body heat—a wave o' liberation washes ower me, mixin' wi' the smell o' coal smoke frae some neighbour's fire. Nae langer the secret sissy; I'm Evelina, a gothic matron o' sorrow an' quiet power, murnin' loves lost, yet revelin' in ma femininity. Wi' slow steps the goon rustlin' like whispers doon the narrow close stair I descend the creakin' concrete steps, cauld unner ma feet even through slippers, the snaw driftin' in unner the outer door. Ma faithful companion, a big black corbie I cry Poe (he's been comin' tae the back court for scraps for donkeys), flaps in through the open windae an' perches on ma gloved shoulder, his feathers iced an' cauld against ma neck. I step oot intae the estate's street, the blizzard whippin' snaw intae ma veil, stingin' ma cheeks, the ground crunchin' unnerfoot, distant bagpipes wailin' frae some hoose party, mixin' wi' the wind's roar. The abandoned swing park's chains creak in the gale; fairy lights frae a few windaes blink through the snaw. Here, unner the howlin' storm, I walk slow atween the bins an' parked motors, ma veil dancin' wild. Poe lifts aff, circlin' like a dark guardian afore settlin' back. In this cauld, sacred nicht—ma ain vigil—I whisper vows tae masel', hummin' a bit o' "Missletoe n' whine" unner ma breath, promisin' nae mair hidin'. Deeper intae the estate I drift, past identical closes an' satellite dishes buried in snaw, the satin shimmerin' faint unner streetlights, tiers heavy wi' meltin' flakes. I feel powerful, sensual, complete—ma morbidly obese form a throne o' gothic beauty in this freezin' Scottish nicht. As the bells approach midnight, faint through the storm, I return tae the tenement. Poe caws saft, like a private toast. Evelina McTavish'll bide here forever, in the heart o' this blizzard an' hidden desire. An' deep in ma soul, the sissy dreams'll whisper on, eternal as the corbie's cry. Never mair wull I hide, hen. No' even in this ragin' winter. Happy Christmas tae me.

Wow! One of my photos has hit 7,000 views. I am really honored to feel somewhat popular. Just finished going to my stylists. I have two of them now. One did my hair color today then braided it and also waxed my eyebrows. The other gave me a great manicure. Light pink nails. Getting me ready for holiday parties. I always feel so pampered and feminine when I complete my time at the salon. 🥰

Good morning, sisters.💋💋💋 Some tips on how to make your photo look better without resorting to AI. 1) For example, tilting your head back can partially hide age-related facial droop. Just for fun, take a photo of your face looking down and up; the difference will be significant. 2) The light source and its location are very important. Light can make a face look younger, or it can age it. Light can hide imperfections, or it can highlight them. 3) Makeup, at least foundation, and especially under-eye concealer. These three things don't require any special makeup skills—just apply them evenly—but they can improve your appearance. Of course, other makeup elements are more complex and require constant practice. But then, there's no need to use AI, although AI is certainly good. Interested in these tips?😊🤐

I wish you a pleasant flight......!

Good evening my lovelies. I don't know about you, but advent always lights my flame effect candles. Whether it's the talk of stockings, thinking about stuffing, or all that cream! Ah well, one day at a time through the calendar. Betta watch my waistline though I'm sure somone is going to give me the joke about them doing that 😁 xxx

"I am waiting for no men " Digitally remastered album with bonus track "White Heat, White Light." Kate Animal Recordings... White light Oh, white light Ah, white heat Oh, yeah, white light ... White light goin' messin' up my mind Don't you know, it's gonna make me go blind White light, goin' down to my toes Lord have mercy, white light had it, goodness knows...

Good morinig. Did you know that women have more color cones in their eyes, which are responsible for enhanced color perception? In other words, they distinguish color shades better. For example, if you ask a man to name shades of red, he might usually say, "This is dark red," "This is light red," or, at best, he'll remember a few more shades. But if you ask a woman, there are so many shades: red, scarlet, ruby, blood red, crimson, the color of ripe cherries, the color of young wine, the color of tomatoes, and so on and so forth. And they can give these shades to any color. Why am I saying this? Sometimes it can be very difficult to choose the color of makeup or clothes.🤔🤪

Dreams My morning dream To be still Kate To wear dress And pretty make Get up Not waking My girlfriend Have coffee Vogue, slim cigarette Put orange lipstick Light cream dress And walk Through park with interest Look on young girls Say No to man And feel so happy Under rain Return And change And feel no shame That I am girl A whole day...

First but not the last photo ... It was one of my first open trips as Kate, one of the first successful photo. All as I trully wanted blue lashes, choclate lipstick, long hair... I publish it now as I do not know if I am able to continue Almost a year of photo work came to sudden problem Security Seems to have camera in where I change Against any law and ordinary human sence Every time I lock to change late in the evening they immediately come to ask if anything OK with me... No it is not OK with me I want peacefuly lock myself make make up and chose dress. And live that little time as Kate... At First I thought an accident now I know not And I may easily loose my job too.For that I soend time in loo aftwr honestly done work... I need to make a pause Stop desining May be train myself better makeup somewhere The oublic baby changing room do not allow to lock yourself I would never fo it at home... Just nowhere to do what I like if only Kate on a trip... Wish you all peaceful time I might still write something or work on old photos but they are not so good any more for me Lots of Love Good Health and strong pleasant tights... Love Light and Joy. Kate

White Foundation... White Heat White light goin' down to my brain Hey, don't you know it's gonna make me insane... White light goin' messin' up my mind Don't you know it's gonna make me go blind ... Lou Reed.

Meeting Tina Cross (Tinakins), was one of the highlights of the holiday!

Shameless ... They call me shameless Shameless Kate Who's wildly walk the street Who has no skirt over her tights And bluches cheeks in pink... Yes I am walking Simply sans Sans shame And sans barriers... Some men are trying Steeet romance To offer one night Stand... And women put sad eyes away To hide some interest... Kate lost her touch She lost her taste And often She's madly strange ... Kate came to Earth from Io's space... One Fairy Lady asked me once What I have lost in past I answered I lost my pants My dress and wish to Love... She whispered me known words My Granny taught to me once: "You're Allien My dear girl And this is Pure fact... Word "boy" was only Coverup to hide your roots and past ... Remember Io Little girl The only place with Love... And if the acid rain begins Get rid of cotton dress And stay in tights However think With anger or impressed... ... Until you learn To hide your Love Be opened and undressed And never mind What other think... They are no interest... My little girl It's worth to fall To learn how Nice is flight... And when you landed Loosing skirt Just walk Not shy With pride... You're never looking For Earth sex It's hard to find true Love Just walk, Don't look aside or back Just walk your own Path...

Nanny Kate Nanny Kate is getting older Nanny Kate is still well holging Kate is pale Silver gray Even in the light of day....

Enter the light🥳 #sissy #nylon #crossdressser #transgender #feminization #bas #collant #pantyhose #stocking #pied #feet #lingerie #maletofemale #sexy #fantasme #lgbt #porn #soumission #bdsm #hosiery #trough #ladyboy #gartbelt #nails💅 #tits #boob #cock

Today I am just resting - but rest does not mean not doing a short walk or a short workout. Still nothing special. One of my favorite photos only slightly AI enhanced. 🥰

Hi ladies. The need for proper makeup skills is clearly a pressing need. I don't know if linking is allowed here, so I won't. But I can recommend a good app that can be very helpful in determining your skin tone, undertone, and so on. Just take a selfie in good lighting (this is important), and the app will then determine it for you. It will then select the appropriate colors for makeup, clothing, and hair. I'm not promoting it, but I use it myself. You can find it on many platforms, such as Google Play and the App Store. It's called Dressica. The logo for the app is included in the post to avoid confusion.

Christmas is cumming! Here is a traditional Christmas story! lol : It happened last Christmas Eve. Snow whispered against my window, blanketing the world in a serene hush as I drifted off under layers of warmth. The soft glow of the Christmas lights outside painted gentle colors on my walls, blending with the lace and satin of the red lingerie I had on. A sudden thud on the roof jolted me awake. My heart raced as I strained to hear more, the sound of bells jingling faintly and what could only be the sneeze of an animal carried through the stillness. I sat up, clutching my blankets closer. Moments later, a creak echoed from downstairs, like footsteps crossing the living room floor. Still groggy but alert, I reached for my phone, ready to call for help if needed. Peering cautiously into the hallway, I heard a deep, hearty laugh resonate through the house. “Ho, ho, ho!” The voice was unmistakable, rich and warm, and yet impossible. Santa? No, it had to be some burglar pulling a strange stunt. My skepticism flared as I crept down the stairs, each step measured and quiet. When I reached the living room, I froze. The space was bathed in a soft, unearthly glow, and standing before the tree was a man who looked every bit the part of Santa Claus—velvet red suit, snowy white beard, and a twinkle in his eye that seemed almost magical. He was munching on the cookies I’d left out as a joke, milk in hand. "What the fuck are you doing?" I yelled indignant. The man turned around to look at me. "Watch your language, Chrissy," he scolded me gently. "You're already on my naughty list." "How did you know my name?" "Ho, ho, ho! I know everything about you, including when you're sleeping and when you are awake. I'm Santa!" "Santa isn't real!" "So you don't believe your eyes?" "You're just some thug dressed up as Santa." "Ho, ho, ho! Look up at the roof and tell me how a thug got a magical sleigh and a team of magical, flying reindeer. Ho, ho, ho!" I didn't have to look, the noise I heard on my roof earlier lined up perfectly with that of reindeer. "But...but...you're not real." I stuttered. "Chrissy, I'm as real as you want me to be. And you have been naughty. Ho, ho, ho!" "If that's true," I challenged. "Why are you in my home?" "Ho! Ho! Ho! Because I love naughty boys, I give them a big gift! Ho! Ho! Ho!" With that he unbuckled his black broad buckled belt and unzipped his red pants. Out jumped his huge, wrinkled, snow-white penis, uncut of course with lots of foreskin, and it was hard and long. There was pre-cum already dripping from it. Santa winked at me then said, "cum get your gift, Chrissy. Ho! Ho! Ho!" Being the naughty ladyboy femboy slut I am, I complied and fell to my knees in front of Santa. I grabbed his rock-hard cock and squeezed it while placing my lips around it. It was so salty, vinegary, wet and sticky. His manjuices were already leaking into my mouth as I sucked on him. slurp slurp slurp I stroked his dick as I sucked, then started fucking him with my mouth...going up and down, up and down on his penis...my tongue would lick the tip and shaft at times. Santa's dick started to swell and throb...but he pushed my head away. "Ho, ho, ho! He said, "I finish in naughty boy's ass." (Continued in next post) #sissy #femboy #transgender #gurl #sissyboy #tgirl #CD #crossdresser #crossdressing #transgirl #transwoman #adultcontent #nsfw

Zara skirt, slightly longer than my other plaid skirts 😉, looks brand new, only cost £3.95 at the Salvation Army charity shop 😁👍

Sweet or naughty? Yeah, with this pic it sounds a lil' dirty—but honestly, I couldn’t care less! Forgive me, boys, I’m completely booked—hopping straight from one party to the next! Just yesterday I was lighting up the Bahamas, and now we’re deep into Halloween celebrations day after day! When the future’s all foggy, you’ve got to master living in the moment—and that’s exactly what I’m doing!

Right Mind - Wrong Light

Good evening sweets! I'm off to work. But thought I'd leave you with a story. More: http://chrissyinsd.hotviber.com/ #crossdresser #sissy #sissyboy #crossdressers #sissies #shemale #ladyboy #femboy #femman #femboys #crossdressing #gurl #trans #transgirl #transwoman #transgender #tgirl #gay #lgbtq #nsfw #adultsonly #adultcontent Chrissy on the Hillcrest Bus The bus hissed as it opened its doors on University Avenue, right in the heart of Hillcrest, San Diego’s famous gay neighborhood. I climbed aboard, heart racing a little faster than usual. On the outside I was in my “boy clothes” — plain pants, a simple shirt — but underneath I was my secret self: Chrissy Marie Tunnell. Pink floral panties hugged my smooth hips, a matching bra cupped my chest, and tiny flashes of trans-colored jewelry — a ring, a dangling earring — shimmered in the afternoon light. I wasn’t fully comfortable living openly as a girl yet, but I loved leaving little clues for anyone observant enough to notice. As I walked down the aisle, I felt eyes on me. One man’s gaze dropped to where the pink waistband of my panties peeked above my pants. Another tilted his head just enough to catch the faint outline of my bra straps beneath the thin cotton of my shirt. My jewelry glinted when the bus jolted, and I knew they’d seen the colors. Their eyes followed me hungrily as I slid into a seat halfway down. Even the bus driver, watching through the mirror, licked his lips and adjusted in his chair. “Hey…” one man finally said, his voice a mix of awe and lust. “You’re Chrissy… the trans model, aren’t you?” My cheeks burned, but I gave a shy smile. “Yes.” A low whistle came from the back. “Damn. You should take those clothes off.” I laughed nervously, shaking my head. “I can’t here…” Then the driver’s voice, gravelly but warm, floated down the aisle: “It’s okay. I won’t say anything.” His eyes met mine in the mirror, daring me. A shiver ran through me. My body trembled with a mix of nerves and arousal as I stood up slowly, the bus swaying beneath my feet. I grabbed the metal pole for balance, slipped off my shirt one button at a time, and slid my pants down my thighs. Gasps and murmurs spread as I revealed my pink bra and panties, smooth legs, and the bulge already straining with need. “Goddamn…” someone whispered. I posed for them, turning so they could see the curve of my ass, bending just enough to make my cheeks round and full under the thin fabric. I arched my back, running my hands down my torso, teasing myself for their eyes. The air hummed with catcalls and whistles, every sound feeding my arousal. I felt powerful. Desired. Exposed. The driver adjusted his mirror again, his eyes glued to me. My cock twitched inside my panties, leaking, the wet spot spreading. A chorus of moans and encouragement filled the bus as I spread my legs, cupped myself through the silky fabric, and let them watch my face flush and my chest rise and fall with each deep breath. I was their show, their Chrissy, their secret goddess on wheels. Chrissy’s Bus Show – The Climax The bus swayed along the road, but I barely noticed. Every set of eyes was on me — hungry, wide, devouring. I stood in the aisle in nothing but my pink floral bra and panties, my smooth skin glistening under the fluorescent lights, my cock straining the damp satin. “Do it, Chrissy,” someone whispered, voice husky with need. “Yes… show us,” another begged. The encouragement hit me like waves of heat. I hooked my thumbs under the band of my panties, tugged them tight against my bulge, and let out a trembling gasp. My cock pulsed, the wet spot spreading. The riders groaned, some openly rubbing themselves as they watched. I spread my legs wider, arched my back, and cupped myself through the silky fabric. The friction was maddening. My hips bucked, the panties darkening with each spurt of precum. “God, look at you,” the bus driver moaned from the mirror, his knuckles white on the wheel. The passengers cheered me on, clapping, catcalling, shouting my name. “Chrissy! Chrissy!” I slid one hand up my chest, over my flat stomach, to my bra — tugging at the cups, making my nipples stand hard under the lace. My other hand rubbed furiously over the soaked bulge, grinding, stroking, teasing myself to the edge. The entire bus rocked with my moans. My thighs quivered, my lips parted, sweat dripping down my temples. I was lost in it, lost in them, lost in the rush of being seen. Then it hit. “Ahhh—!” My body seized, cock jerking uncontrollably as I came hard in my panties. Hot, sticky release poured out, soaking the pink fabric, running down my thighs. Gasps and cheers filled the air, some passengers clapping, others moaning with me as if they’d climaxed, too. (continued in comments below): -Chrissy

Good evening sweets! I'm off to work. But thought I'd leave you with a story. More: http://chrissyinsd.hotviber.com/ #crossdresser #sissy #sissyboy #crossdressers #sissies #shemale #ladyboy #femboy #femman #femboys #crossdressing #gurl #trans #transgirl #transwoman #transgender #tgirl #gay #lgbtq #nsfw #adultsonly #adultcontent The Meeting That Got Out of Hand I showed up to the office dressed in my “Supervisor” uniform — black polo shirt tucked neatly into black pants, shiny work shoes. On the outside, I looked like any middle manager headed into a boring meeting. But under it all, I wore my little secret: a lacy pink bra and panties. Just knowing they were against my skin made me shiver with anticipation. The room looked like an office conference space, complete with a long table, chairs, and quarterly reports scattered around. Five others were waiting — three men in polos like mine, and two women in skirts and blouses. I sat down and kept tugging at my shirt, worried my bra straps might show. That’s when one of the women leaned over and smirked. “Chris… is that lace I see under your collar?” My stomach flipped. I froze, heat rushing to my face. Everyone’s eyes snapped to me. The strap had slipped just enough to peek out. One of the men chuckled, leaning forward. “No way… are you wearing a bra under that uniform?” My hands fumbled at my collar, trying to hide it. “I… maybe.” My voice cracked. The woman reached over and tugged my shirt down just enough to reveal the delicate strap, then the curve of lace against my chest. Gasps, then laughter, but not cruel — hungry. Aroused. “Stand up,” another man said. “Show us.” I hesitated only a second before rising to my feet. Heart pounding, I pulled my polo up, exposing the pink bra stretched across my chest. The room went silent, then filled with low groans of approval. “Fuck, Chrissy,” one of them whispered. “Turn around.” I obeyed, bending slightly. My waistband had slipped low enough that the lacy panties showed above my pants. Someone reached out, tugging them down just enough to expose the curve of my ass. The first touch made me gasp — a hand sliding over the silk, squeezing, then pulling my pants down around my thighs. Now I was standing in front of them in bra and panties, my cock already swelling against the lace. They closed in. A woman pressed her lips to mine, lipstick smearing as her tongue slid into my mouth. Hands roamed everywhere — groping my ass, tugging at my nipples through the bra, cupping my cock through the panties. “Get on the table,” the tall man ordered. I climbed onto the polished surface, lying back as they surrounded me. Someone yanked my panties aside, freeing my cock, already dripping. A hot mouth enveloped me, sucking hard, while another tongue flicked over my nipple, teeth grazing until I cried out. My legs were spread wide, panties shoved down, and I felt a slick finger pushing into my ass, stretching me open. I moaned around the cock one of the men slid between my lips, gagging as he held my head and thrust deep. It was a blur of sensation. One man fucking my throat, another pumping into my ass, their bodies grinding against me while the women took turns riding my face and jerking my cock. The table shook with every thrust, papers scattering like a storm. “Good little slut,” someone growled in my ear as they pounded into me from behind, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing in the office. My cock spurted across my stomach, hot and sticky, but they didn’t stop. They used me until I was soaked with cum inside and out, my bra twisted, panties torn, lipstick smeared across my face. When it was finally over, I lay sprawled on the table, trembling, dripping, utterly used. The others buttoned their shirts, straightened their skirts, laughing softly as though the meeting had gone exactly as planned. I wiped the mess from my lips, my chest still heaving. “So…” I whispered, voice raw, “should I type up the minutes?” The room erupted in laughter — and I knew I’d just passed my first real office initiation. -Chrissy

A poem hoping many of you will relate,tell me if you relate. Mirror to my soul,don’t flinch- Show her:the girl the glass denies. Lashes like dusk on velvet skin, Cheeks brushed with dawns first rose surprise. Beneath the lie of broad,hard lines she arches-swan neck,lilac throat, breasts soft as secrets,hips that shine in satin light no stranger wrote. The world sees stone;a few hearts know the mirrors truth:her feminine glow.

light games

Another cute new dress 😍 hope everyone is having a great week! 🥰 sorry if I went overboard with the filters, just trying things out and playing with lighting levels 💋💋x

Got my hair and my eyebrows done yesterday. I so love to go to the stylish and living in a girls world. My hair is highlighted and is now 1/3 of the way down my back. So neat because years ago the military cut it all off - But look at me now. Feminine styled so soft my hair is. Tell me what you think? - Two photos to see - AI clothes and background on my body, and my clothing wear as I sat in the salon. No changes to my body, just all me under this look. Friends please give me comments? I will post another remarkable photo of my hair tomorrow. So what do you like the most? Me on the podium? or just in my back yard without enhancement. 🥰

Good day everyone. Today I am modeling an outfit that was given to me as a gift. I really like this sports wear, the look. Light Blue is me today. Hope you all like seeing me in it. 🥰 ---- My bra is a Jockey Brand - is slightly padded. Really love how it feels and would highly recommend to my girlfriends.

Just got my nails manicured and a pedicure. My nails are light pink - almost natural looking and my toes are seasonal. Love the royal treatment I got. Everyone wanted to look at my feet and see the super design on my toes at the beauty salon where I go to. 🥰

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

Greetings, my dear submissive sissy slut to be owned as a great property to Mistress. I am Superior Discipline, your Dominant Mistress I take this lifestyle very seriously and expect honesty, devotion, and obedience. I am seeking a dedicated submissive male who is ready to be trained, owned, and perfected for my pleasure when I choose to engage I am a confident, compassionate, and experienced Dominant who delights in guiding submissive sissyslut through transformative journeys of self-discovery and growth. I am passionate about submissive training and development and skilled in sensual domination, tease and denial. My devotion is to creating safe, fully consensual, and deeply meaningful power exchange My interests as a Mistress include protocol and etiquette training, service and domestic discipline, sensual control, sensory play, ritualized submission, and long-term psychological transformation. If you are honest, humble, and prepared to submit, prove your willingness and show me why you deserve to belong 💅💃🍆💺🌈🎀👗👘👙🩱🧤👔🧣👛👚👡👠👜👝🥿🩰💄👢💍✂️🔐🔏🔓🔒🔑📍📌💊💉🛏️🪒🛁🧻🚬🪥🚻☯️🛐⚧️♀️🏳️‍🌈🏴‍☠️

Greetings, sissy. I am Superior Discipline — your confident, compassionate, and experienced Dominant Mistress. I take this lifestyle seriously and delight in guiding devoted submissives through transformative journeys of surrender, training, and growth. I specialise in sensual domination, tease and denial, and precise, disciplined instruction designed to hone obedience and devotion. Safety, consent, and meaningful connection are mandatory — submit with honesty, discipline, and a willing heart. If you crave rigorous training and to belong as my property, prove your devotion and prepare to be shaped. DM 🆔 for the training platform t.me/DisciplineMommy discord.gg/HUdsz726 ‎#Feminine #sissy #crossdresser #femboy #sissyboy #sissygirl #sissycaptions #feminization #sissytraining #sissyfication#femdom #findom #mistress #Sissytraining #Sissy #feminization #sissyfication #Sissyslut #humiliatrix #Femboy #slave #sissyslave

Just in for a moment. Had the most wonderful time at the stylist. Hair highlighted and brows waxed. I am showing my worst photo and my best. Worst is me in the chair with foils on. Best is me out running in a new peach/pink running outfit showing off my wonderful looking hair. Love your comments. 🥰

I promised myself no more heels, but omfg they light up different colours and look so amazing, I love these ILLUMINATOR-709 Pleaser Black Platform heels, 🤩🤩🤩🤩🤩, i must treat myself 😍😍😍