#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 #Mistresses #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

Last night was rough truck shut down about 10 pm in 7 degree weather company sent wrecker he said 7 hours 14 hours later he pulled up lost heat about 4am 1 degrees 3 candles 4 blankets and coveralls save my life thx lord for watching out for me

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 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

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 🤩

Chilling on the sofa watching the MotoGP.....no wig or make up....so I cheated and used an AI filter to get the desired effect.....not even a Hollywood make up artist could make me look better, the power of AI....mind blown 🤯

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

Seems to me I'm not gonna get much done today if I don't get my horniness behind me.. time to play! Wearing 2 cock rings with a cock-sock made from the foot of a super-stretchy stocking and currently hard as iron. Watching CD's take huge cocks.. 🥵 If someone could just turn up right now.. no questions... just walk through the door, come upstairs and slide something huge and warm into me.. Maybe after letting me choke and slobber over it for a little while first.. Daydreams 😋🥰 DM for a pic of current state, I can't post it here 😉🤩

Good morning my lovelies. Not that it is good. Cold grey and wet. Makes me want to retreat into fuzzy slippers and pj's with a hot chocolate laced with brandy! But there's no rest for the wicked (and I am VERY wicked 😁) so I'm out and about doing errands avoiding big brollys and watching ladies heels click though the reflective puddles on the pavement. If anyone fancies brightening my day with a bit of chat it will be very welcome! 😊 Xxx

First and foremost please dont message me if your a single male looking for 'fun' /or want to try and act out your fantasy whilst your wife/girlfriend is asleep next to you and has no idea of what you are upto,and especially if you dont dress up. I am a punk/goth/fetish CROSSDRESSER who loves seeing my hard pierced cock in the outfits i wear. Mostly Dom and Top,, but will sub in the right settings. I am not a sissy and my cock is my cock and not a clitty. I dont cage my cock,i like it hard,and i dont want it hidden away. Absolutely love wearing fishnets,BIG BOOTS,mainly the punky goth look. Whether its me wearing them or anyone else, it looks amazing and feels amazing to wear. Cock rings,any piercings and tattoos are beautiful to see,especially if the above clothing is worn. Would love to meet/chat with like minded folks who also love to dress in fishnets etc too. Love outdoor play. Love masturbation,love being watched as i play with my cock,and love watching others masturbate too. Couples/single females/cd's etc where we all dress up,please get in touch Message me,friend me if you are interested and like my pierced cock and the outfits that I wear. Lets play.

I am a masculine man but is thee someone who can forcefully feminize me cause i am really feeling to be and after watching all of you . please someone do it

Downstairs playing dress up while everyone is upstairs watching t v.

Hi everyone hope your friday is going well. I am out with a dear friend in Manchester Bridgewater Hall watching James Martin.