Omg! I would love to wear this with a nice wig and tights and shoes,I nearly came watching that lovely dress in motion! Mmmmm
https://youtu.be/skJLywVUTec?si=SEVa_a_A4fCZ4f-j

The dawn’s light, pale and meagre, stole through the curtains like an uninvited thought. My fire had long since expired, leaving my chamber in that peculiar half chill which seems neither of death nor life. There, upon the table, lay my mourning attire, folded with the reverence one affords to relics rather than garments.

The Black Satin Tartan gleamed faintly even in that dimness, threads of shadow crossing one another in solemn geometry. My fingers lingered upon it as one might upon the pages of a sacred book. How deftly I remembered the press of another hand guiding mine, long ago, when love was still unashamed to breathe in daylight.

“Gökçe,” I murmured, and her name rang through the silence, strange and sweet as the chime of a music box long unopened.

She had been of fragile constitution but radiant humour, a nurse by occupation, yet a poet in spirit. When first we met, it was under the discreet roof of a friend who hosted assemblies for kindred souls ill fitted to the rigid forms of the age. There, amid whispered laughter and the scent of spiced punch, she first beheld me crossdressed as myself, not the half version polite society demanded. Her smile, so unafraid, so brilliantly defiant had unstitched my fears as though they were loose threads upon a cuff.

Our meetings became the secret rhythm of our lives: letters written in unseen ink, evenings stolen beneath the mist‑wreathed arches of the Cathedral close, where even the saints carved upon the walls seemed complicit in our forbidden contentment.

Then came the pandemic fever. The city coughed and trembled beneath its pall, and Gökçe torn from me within a week was laid among the cold stones of St. Chad’s yard. In her final moments, as I sat cloaked at her bedside, she had whispered through cracked lips, “Promise me you will not hide yourself from the world in mourning. Wear beauty for both of us.”

Yet how could I do so? Beauty, to the bereaved, becomes a cutting blade.

Thus it was upon this morning, four months hence, that I sought to honour that vow. I made my way through the quiet lanes of the Cathedral City to McRae & Daughters, Purveyors of Mourning and Formal Attire. The shop’s brass bell gave a low, reverent note as I entered.

Mrs McRae herself appeared, a tall woman of genteel bearing, her hair silvered but her eyes bright as cut glass.

“Good morrow,” she said softly. “You come for mourning, I think?”

“For remembrance,” I replied. “Not of death, but of what death could not take.”

She inclined her head, understanding blooming behind that merchant’s polish which age cannot quite conceal. From the cupboard behind her she drew forth two treasures: a Black Tartan Satin headscarf, its sheen as moonlight upon coal, and a sheer chiffon voile veil, so fine that breath seemed likely to scatter it.

“Exquisite work,” she murmured, laying them before me.

“I require them for a pilgrimage,” I told her. “To the resting place of one whose heart yet governs mine.”

Her lips did not move, but a flicker of softness crossed her expression, a compassion seasoned by decades of watching others purchase attire for grief.

When I placed the scarf upon my head, its coolness brushed my temples like benediction. The veil descended over my eyes, dimming the world into softened outlines. For a moment, I believed I glimpsed Gökçe reflected behind me in the mirror, a faint silhouette, smiling through the satin haze.

Outside, the bells of noon tolled low and heavy across the square. I crossed the flagstones toward the Cathedral, that great monument of patient sorrow, its stones blackened by both rain and memory. The wind played with my attire, lifting the edges of my veil in gentle mockery, as if inviting me to dance once more through the shadows of our secret youth.

At the gates of the graveyard, I paused. A gypsy lady selling flowers approached shyly, clutching a handful of violets.

“For your lost love?” she asked, her accent plain as clay.

“For my beloved,” I said, and pressed a coin into her palm.

At the grave, a modest stone softened by the dew, I knelt. The fabric of my skirts rippled like dark water about me.

“Gökçe,” I whispered, “I have done as you bade me. I wear what beauty remains, though the joy of it burns like frost upon my breast.”

The wind answered in a voice not unlike laughter. The veil brushed against my lips once more, fluttering as though stirred by a sigh too gentle for this world.

When I rose, I did not feel the weight of sorrow so keenly as before. It seemed to me that in the gleam of the tartan, in the satin’s melodic rustle, something of our love still lived, a pulse across the gulf of years.

Watching from a distance, the gypsy lady would say later that she thought she saw two figures leaving the yard that day: one in mourning black, the other in pale reflection, hand‑in‑hand beneath the shrouded sun. Perhaps she was right.

I've blocked numerous chats today that were started by so-called interested people who were eager to chat or meet and then don't bother to answer after initiating the chat. So be warned, if you don't chat, then your blocked. i don't have time for watching paint dry.

Instead of sitting here watching snow and crap on TV in my nightie I'm gonna get dressed and watch the snow and crap on TV

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.

Why is it when I'm watching TV by myself there are constant adverts for creams for vagin*l dryness. Yet when we watch TV together, nothing.

#BlackMen coming over friends #Futballers #Ballers #Sissy #Bimbo #Properly #Submissive #Silly #Watchin #Comedian #MaxAmini and #aughing hes sooo funny and inclusive. Check him out after you get bored with #RuPaul watch something funny while your #Beauty #Routine and #Lingerie #Silk #Panties #Pink #Juicy #Coture #MinkCoat #********** #CarefulOutThere #Bitches from this #Beyotch #CockSucker

Patti has a fantasy of walking on the beach watching the sunset with another cross dresser and making out on the beach

My TS/CD/TV Story

Tonight I feel the girl inside me stirring again, asking to be written into existence.

I have carried her quietly for so long—tucked into the soft, hidden chambers of my heart, where secrets live and dreams wait for courage. She has always been there, watching the world through my eyes while I learned how to survive in a role that never fully fit. She learned to whisper instead of speak, to hide instead of bloom.

I have always been feminine. I have always felt the pull toward softness, beauty, silk, lace, and being seen not as a man pretending—but as a woman becoming.

I didn’t begin crossdressing until a few years ago, late in life, after decades of wondering and silence. A boyfriend encouraged me—someone who saw the femininity in me and cherished it. I was already submissive in spirit, already gentle, already carrying this quiet feminine current inside. When I put on a bra, slipped into panties, and felt lingerie against my skin, it felt natural. Familiar. Like recognition.

I had suspected this part of myself for years, like a faint melody always playing in the background. But that day, standing there in softness, I didn’t just suspect it—I knew. Not as fantasy or curiosity, but as truth. Something ancient and undeniable finally named itself.

I imagine walking down a street in a dress that catches the light, my skin warm in the sun, people seeing me as I wish to be seen. I imagine being admired, desired, even framed on a wall like a pin-up girl from another era—confident, glamorous, unapologetically herself. That vision makes my heart ache with both joy and grief.

So much of my life has been spent in silence. So much of me was taught to hide. I am still learning how to peel back the layers of fear, religion, politics, family expectations, and my own hesitation. I don’t know where this path will lead—only that I am tired of pretending she isn’t there.

For now, she lives in quiet places: my room, my thoughts, the gentle arms of someone who understands, the rare spaces where I can exhale and be Chrissy. I wonder sometimes if that is enough. I wonder what it would be like to let her walk freely in the daylight.

No one in my family knows her. Most of my friends don’t. They see the version of me that learned how to blend in, how to be acceptable, how to survive. They don’t see the girl who has been waiting so patiently inside.

Tonight I write her name here, like a prayer.
Tonight I let her breathe.

Chrissy.
She is real.
She is me.

And even if the world never fully knows her, I know her. And that, for now, is something.

With love,
Chrissy

https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=61586994341520

https://x.com/TunnellChrissy

#sissy #sissyboy #gurl #shemale #trans #femboy #femman #tgirl #crossdresser #transgirl #transowman #gay #lgbtq

The Erebus Veil has always been more mausoleum than starship, but tonight she feels like a confessional. I press my forehead to the viewport again, the cold glass a thin barrier between me and the churning nebulae that swirl like spilled ink and blood. My breath fogs it in ragged bursts each one a small rebellion against the vacuum waiting outside. Sixty four years, I rasp to the empty deck, voice thick with the kind of ache that settles in bones and doesn't leave. Sixty four years of rewriting myself sentence by sentence, and the universe still hasn't bothered to notice. Or maybe it has. Maybe that's why it left me here to watch the stars burn without apology. My gloved fingers curl against the pane, kid leather creaking. The gown of satin so dark it drinks light, chiffon whispering like secrets I used to be afraid to keep shifts with the faint tremor of the hull. The high-waist satin panty girdle beneath bites just enough to ground me, to say: You are here. You chose this shape. You paid in blood and time and nights spent crying into star charts. I laugh once, sharp and wet. It echoes off the pitted bulkheads. You know what the cruelest part is? I ask the ship, or the nebulae, or the ghost of the girl I used to bury every morning. I finally like the sound of my name in my own mouth. Hanımefendi. It used to taste like ash. Now it tastes like victory and no one’s left to hear me say it. A distant fusion coil whines in sympathy, or maybe that's just my pulse in my ears. I dreamed of this, you know. Not the derelict part. The space part. Vast and indifferent and beautiful. I thought if I could just get out here away from gravity wells and small minded gravity bound people I’d finally breathe easy. Instead I learned the void doesn’t care who you are. It doesn’t applaud your courage. It just… waits. My reflection stares back: sharp jaw softened by decades of estrogen and stubborn hope, eyes lined in kohl that’s run from earlier tears, raven cameo pinned like a medal over my heart. The chiaroscuro light paints me half angel, half wraith crowned in bruise purple nebulae fire. I swallow hard. But I’m still here, I whisper, fierce enough that it hurts my throat. Still standing in this ridiculous, glorious dress I sewed myself on a ship that’s falling apart. Still breathing air you recycled for me when no one else would. Still choosing every damn day to be this trans, tired, terrified, and incandescently alive. The flare comes again brighter this time, gold and merciless. It floods the deck, turns every jet bead to molten starlight, every fold of chiffon into rippling shadow and flame. My silhouette burns against the glass like a brand. I don’t flinch. Look at me, I snarl at the cosmos, at the empty chairs where crew once sat, at the woman in the reflection who finally stopped flinching. Look at what survives when everything else leaves. A trans woman in a Gothic mourning gown, orbiting a nebula that doesn’t give a damn. And I’m not done yet. Tears cut fresh tracks through the kohl. I let them fall. I loved once, I confess, softer now, the words cracking open like overripe fruit. Her name was Mara. She called me ‘starlight’ when no one else dared call me anything at all. We used to stand right here, hands linked, watching these same nebulae. She said we’d outlive the stars. I believed her. My voice breaks completely. She’s gone. Everyone’s gone. But I’m still wearing the earrings she gave me the ones shaped like tiny crescent moons. I’m still carrying her in every stitch of this gown, every bead I sewed while crying over star maps. And if that’s all the legacy I get a solitary trans woman adrift in opera-scale darkness, dressed for the funeral of a life I refused to let kill me then let it be enough. I straighten. Shoulders back. Chin up. The girdle holds me like armor. So keep turning, you beautiful, heartless nebulae, I say, voice steady at last. Keep your silence. I’ve got enough words for both of us. I’ve got enough me for whatever comes next. The light fades. Shadow returns, satin soft. But this time, when I meet my own eyes in the glass, they’re blazing. No more apologies. No more smallness. Just Hanımefendi trans woman, space wanderer, survivor in satin and lace standing defiant against the dark opera of the stars. And for the first time in years, the silence doesn’t swallow me. It listens.

I'm a total bottom, I like to be controlled I like collars and leashes, I love toys especially buttplugs with tails, I enjoy being restrained, I love giving head, I am a good sub, I like to lay in my partners lap and tease through their pants or shorts or skirt while watching tv, I like pet play but that really falls into the collar and leash thing, and I do my best to learn every Hotspot or anything I can do to please my partner because that's where I get my pleasure. Knowing I I did a good job is the ultimate reward for a sub in my opinion what do yall think makes a good sub?

I feel you watching my ass from behind 🫣

I tell people I like watching WWE for the stories and the wrestling.

Honestly? I'm just jealous of the ring gear the ladies get to wear...

Morning still watching the ashes

Back in Glasgow with my pals watching the old firm derby
And it’s my birthday too have a good day all

https://youtu.be/iFAMxxa6Xuw?si=YI1oC9Ivw2E8a31Q
Im watching this video trying not to cum imagining myself wearing that dress and wig while doing the washing without getting caught! Mmmm

So, watching the darts and seeing all the guys in fancy dress. Wondering if I’d get away with wearing this as a “costume” to the darts?
https://www.youtube.com/shorts/rAbZFvDf5EU

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.

Just in Lacey panties watching the ashes

Just sitting in my pantyhose and watching TV

I have a couple that lives with me and when they're gone I dress up, so today I looked out the window and their truck is gone, they always park out front and I listen for when they come home, their truck is real loud and I'll run into my room and change, so today their truck is gone so I put my little pink satin nighty on, my white thigh highs, pink high heels and my little pink panties, I go out into the garage because I like the sound of high heels on concrete, I'm watching some trans porn, doin my thing, I get done, change back to guy cloths, I throw the dress and stuff in my trunk and just then both of them walk out into the garage, startled I said "did you guys just get home? " where did you guys go,? they said nowhere, I said "but your truck was gone, they said, " we had to park down the street cuz someone was in our spot, we were in the room taking a nap, OMG! 5 minutes earlier and they would have caught me watching trans porn wearing pink panties,OMG!

Morning my dears! Just watching bleak house while my heart beats fast looking at the huge dresses with massive full skirts https://youtu.be/JY-5Lbg-jr4?si=j8dl4BjlBAPPpcGi

Ok you lot! I’m going to have a relaxing evening watching Netflix! Maybe chat again later. Love you all your all a good fun bunch of dear friends xxxxx

Awake watching the ashes so posting a few pics

Good evening ladies ( or whatever the case maybe? ) had a wonderful day out at the theatre! Watching the Michael Jackson stage production absolutely amazing xx

Well that's enough of horror movies for me! not seen one for like 1oo years and just had the stupid idea of watching Salem on Disney+ Omg! 20 seconds in and some poor fecker is being whipped for looking at a lasses naked body and committing the sin of self pollution I'll never go there for a holiday!

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 **** 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 ******* 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 **** 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 **** 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, **** 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

Watching monster on netflix

Attempt at Rock Chick Chic, out watching a tribute band (Hoaxwind) playing some of my faves from the 70s and 80s and having quite a bit of a bop - got a bit "moist", and discovered that if i hold a beerglass in each hand and stretch that skirt slowly slides down my legs as i cross the bar... Oops.

Relax watching tv , who wants to join me ???

Miss Cindi is watching you! Behave yourselves gURLs

Afternoon everyone, hope your weekend has got off to a good start. Staying at a lovely place on Canal Street in Manchester and having a blast. Anyone who has never ventured out or unsure about going out in public thinking that everyone will be watching and judging you.... DON'T!! Canal Street is the LGBT friendly area in Manchester and is fantastic, give it a try. Shame i'm going home tomorrow but having such a good time. Take care everyone xx

So with these new laws around age ID and the monitoring that goes with it, is anyone else using VPN's that disguise your location, so that the internet police cannot spy on you and see what you are looking at ? #1984 - big brother is watching !!!

Dancing in my pink short skirt and bra with no panties watching videos of sexy muscular guys in skimpy bikinis

Nearly had my eye out but now i cant stop watching hehe xx

Whats your first thought watching that mine is i need bigger boobs hehe xx

Just watching tv in my favourite dress before going to work breathing so hard

One of the new dresses bought in Tesco sale plus discount voucher. Have had a few rums too so little inebriated. Been watching Sleep Token at Download festival on youtube too. Good times

Wanna get closer than just watching?
Subscribe to my YouTube channel Leggy Veronica and drop a comment — I talk back!
Real connection starts there
https://www.youtube.com/@LeggyVeronica

Just watching one of my home made movies and this outfit got me hot under the collar.

Morning everyone! Im just relaxing in my new dress watching tv before i go to work!

I've always had this reoccurring fantasy that I'm in a sexy dress watching Chippendales dancers at a party

Been watching Lorna Shore videos for 2 hours. If you dont see the point of screaming and growling music definitely ignore this. If you do they have an awesome new song/video out.
Will Ramos is an absolutely f****** incredible singer and handsome as f*** too!

No dressing up tonight - finished work late- so had wine (not unusual for me but anyway), shop bought cheesecake slices, and watched Netflix ( not watched anything TV related for a week -too busy watching this site or having online conversations).
Finishing off the night in this one piece camisole sleepwear.
No underwear required down below

Last night relaxing watching eurovision 1st semi final with a glass or 2 of red

Showed off my arse about 3 times because the wind kept blowing the back of my dress up, and there were lots of men of senior age watching me as they drove past. (Naughty !) Not that i didnt revel in it

Evening ladies hope you enjoy your evening just laying having a relax watching bit of naughty stuff on TV