New pink bodysuit top! Feelsgoodman clap!

How come nobody shows there chest, its hot lol

In the dim parlour of a narrow terraced house on the edge of town, where the January dusk pressed against fogged windowpanes, Hanimefendi (once Tony, though the name now felt like an old coat left in the attic) sat perfectly still before the tall cheval mirror.
At sixty four, the body that looked back at her was soft and heavy, rolls of flesh pressing against the seams of her chosen mourning. Yet every inch of it had been reclaimed in Barbie Pink the violent, unapologetic pink of bubblegum, flamingos, and little girls’ birthday dreams. She had buried the muted blacks and charcoals of conventional widowhood the same afternoon she buried her former self. Grief, she decided, deserved better than drabness. Grief deserved to scream.
Her long gown swept the floorboards in heavy, liquid folds of pink satin. The fabric caught the lamplight in subtle, expensive highlights shimmering like wet sugar or the inside of a seashell. Tiny seed pearls marched along the modestly high neckline and down the front in orderly, virginal rows. The sleeves ended in deep cuffs of gathered pink chiffon that trembled with each slow breath.
Over the gown rode the blouse: glossy, deluxe, almost liquid in its sheen. Frills cascaded from throat to waist like a waterfall of spun sugar ruffles upon ruffles upon ruffles, each edge finished with the thinnest piping of darker rose. The cuffs alone could have doubled as christening bonnets.
But the true crown was the headscarf.
An oversized triangle of blush pink satin, almost cartoonishly large, draped from the top of her head and cascaded past her shoulders in glossy waves. She had tied it under the chin with an extravagant bow, the ends trailing like rabbit ears. Pinned beneath it floated a sheer pink chiffon voile veil long enough to brush the upper swell of her ample chest, fine enough that her features showed through like a watercolour left in the rain. The veil softened the male jawline she had once hated, blurred the double chin, turned every blink into something theatrical and tender.
Her mouth was a dramatic wound of matte fuchsia, outlined sharper than a paper cut. Above it arched brows drawn in powdery rose, while the eyelids shimmered with pearlescent pink shadow and were rimmed in vivid bubblegum liner that flicked outward in exaggerated Rococo commas. Cheeks bloomed with circular rouge like a porcelain doll painted by an over enthusiastic child. The overall effect was sissy maid meets Marie Antoinette in full defiant mourning feminine, excessive, absurdly pretty, and deliberately inconsolable.
He, her male persona had hated the colour pink. Called it childish. Called it weak. On the nightstand sat the little brass urn containing what remained of him, his cremated wardrobe of male clothes, positioned so that the urn had no choice but to stare at her forever.
Hanimefendi lifted one plump, ring laden hand. The nails were lacquered the exact shade of strawberry marshmallow. She touched the veil where it lay across her lips, pressing the satin bow against them as though kissing herself goodnight.
I wore navy coloured clothes for forty-one years, she whispered to the mirror, voice low and cracked from crying and cigarettes she had given up in 1998. Navy and sensible shoes and ‘yes dear’ and ‘not now.’ You had your funeral in charcoal. Mine is pink. Barbie bloody pink. And I’m not sorry.
A tear escaped, cutting a bright path through the rouge. It hung on the veil like dew on candyfloss before soaking in.
She rose slowly, arthritic joints protesting and moved to the ancient radiogram in the corner. The needle settled onto an old 78. A scratchy soprano began to sing something unbearably sentimental about lost loves and rose gardens. Hanimefendi began to sway. The gown whispered against itself. The frills trembled. The veil floated like breath.
In the mirror a vast, pink, glittering figure danced alone widowed, overweight, outrageously made up, and for the first time in six decades entirely herself.
She was mourning, yes. But she was mourning in colour. And the house, for one evening at least, smelled faintly of rose talc, hot satin, and the sweetest kind of revenge.

The same thing that on us girls mind, trying to be girly, feel feminine, look sexy, be naughty . I hope everybody is have some me time, it always makes me feel so happy

The room was silent except for the soft rustle of fabric and the slow, deliberate rhythm of her breathing.

She had asked for one thing tonight: to disappear completely into herself.

The first layer came as a whisper cool, liquid like satin poured over her bare skin. A full-length slip of deep midnight blue, heavier than it looked, sliding down her body like cool water that refused to evaporate. It kissed every curve, every hollow, then settled against her with possessive weight. She exhaled long and low as the hem brushed her ankles.

Then the second skin.

A thicker satin robe followed, floor-length, wide-sleeved, the kind meant for royalty who never intended to leave their chambers. Deep indigo, almost black in low light. He fastened the inner ties first slowly, methodically cinching her waist just enough that every breath reminded her of the fabric’s embrace. The outer sash wound around her twice before being tied in a wide, flat bow at the small of her back. She felt the slight tug travel all the way up her spine.

“Arms,” he murmured.

She lifted them like someone already half-asleep.

A third layer: a long, hooded cape of the same midnight satin, lined with silk so fine it felt like cool breath against her neck. The hood was generous, cut wide and deep. When he drew it forward, the satin edges curtained her peripheral vision until the world narrowed to a soft, shadowed tunnel. Only her face remained visible for now.

He stepped back to look at her.

She stood motionless in the centre of the room, gleaming faintly under the single lamp, already beginning to look like something carved from night itself.

Then came the veil.

Not lace, not tulle pure satin, sheer enough to see the outline of features beneath, dense enough to blur every detail into dreamlike softness. He draped it over the hood first so it cascaded down the front and back of her body in long, liquid folds. When he smoothed it across her face, the fabric settled like a second eyelids. She felt the faint pressure against her eyelashes, the hush of her own breath trapped and warmed against her lips.

He tied it gently at the nape, then again lower, securing it beneath the layers of satin already cocooning her throat. The knot was small, decorative, almost ornamental. But it anchored everything.

Now she was covered.

Encased.

Hooded.

Veiled.

A single continuous surface of satin from crown to toe shimmering, unbroken, reflective swallowing light and returning only muted echoes of it.

He guided her to the wide, low bed. She moved slowly, each step a muted hiss of fabric sliding over fabric. When she reached the edge, he helped her lie back, arranging the excess satin around her like spilled ink. The hood framed her face in a perfect oval of shadow; the veil softened her mouth into something distant and serene.

He pulled a final piece from the drawer: a narrow length of the same midnight satin. Not a blindfold something gentler. He laid it across her eyes, not tying it, just letting the weight rest there. Enough to make the world behind her eyelids even darker, even quieter.

Then he sat beside her.

No words for a long time.

Only the slow tide of her breathing, growing deeper, slower, heavier with each cycle. The satin moved with her rising, falling, whispering against itself. Every small shift sent fresh waves of cool smoothness gliding across her skin, then settling again, reminding her she was held, contained, nowhere left exposed.

Minutes passed. Maybe more.

Her hands, hidden inside the wide sleeves, eventually stopped searching for anything. They curled loosely against her stomach, cradled by layer after layer of satin.

Her mouth parted beneath the veil just enough for the softest sigh to escape.

She was gone now.

Not asleep, not yet.

Somewhere softer than sleep.

Somewhere the world could not reach.

Only satin.

Only weight.

Only hush.

And the long, slow pulse of total, satin surrender.

Hello everybody. Good here isn’t it?

Hi girls I'm trying to tuck so i don't have a bulge when I wear a body hugging dress or skirt i love to wear one on valentines night any help please

Hello all you gorgeous people. Bit of a long shot but does anybody know of other trans friendly places in Southampton other than the London.. ?

Good evening everybody we are in the grip of January and it is cold and wet here but it is at least a good excuse to put on a nice dress and some warm and soft opaque tights xx

Love this bodysuit

I am sixty-four and the grief of the past two months has carved me hollow. Every morning I wake with the same violent start as though my heart has forgotten, for one merciful second, that she is gone. Then memory rushes back like cold water poured into cracked lungs. I cough on it. I always cough on it. Tonight I no longer pretend this is costume. The black satin mourning gown weighs thirty pounds if it weighs an ounce. The sleeves are so enormous they make my arms look like broken wings. The skirt is a black tide that drags behind me, heavy enough to drown small regrets. When I move, the silk screams sharp, wet slaps against itself, the sound of something being torn apart over and over. I have wrapped my head in a midnight black satin headscarf so vast it feels like I am being buried from the crown downward. The fabric is cool against my scalp, almost tender, the way her palm once was when she smoothed my hair before sleep. I pull it brutally tight underneath my chin. I want the tightness of the choke to hurt a little. I need to feel something that isn’t absence. Then the veil. Three sheer layers of black voile chiffon. The first kisses my eyelashes like soot. The second presses against my lips until I taste funeral flowers. The third falls to my waist and beyond, turning the room into a world seen through smoke and tears. Through it everything is dying again, softly, perpetually. My hands tremble as I button the twenty-four jet buttons of the double layer bodice rising from my belly to neck of the mourning gown. Each click of the button is a small gunshot in the quiet house. When I am finished my fingers inside my satin gloves are tired, elegant, useless. I cannot even touch my own face without feeling like I am trespassing on someone else’s sorrow. I descend the staircase one deliberate step at a time. The hem catches, drags, catches again. Silk on oak. Silk on oak. A dirge with no mercy. Halfway down I have to grip the banister because the weeping comes without warning, great, ugly sobs that make my whole body heave against the buttons of the bodice. I let them come. Let them tear through me. There is no one left to be ashamed in front of. In the drawing room I do not sit in her chair. I kneel. The skirt pools around me like spilled blood. I press my gloved palms flat against the carpet where her feet once rested. I lower my forehead until the veil puddles on the floor between my hands. I breathe in the ghost of her perfume, the ghost of her skin, the ghost of the mornings when I still woke as someone she recognised. “I’m sorry,” I whisper to the empty room. The words taste like rust. “I’m sorry I waited so long to become her. I’m sorry you never saw me like this. I’m sorry I’m still here breathing when you’re not.” The veil sticks to the wet tracks on my cheeks. I do not lift it. Let it cling. Let it choke. Let it witness. Outside, the night presses against the windows like a second, colder widow. A car passes. Headlights rake the room in white knives, illuminating me for one merciless second, an old crossdresser in extravagant widow’s weeds, kneeling, shaking, face hidden behind layers of black illusion, crying like something newly orphaned. I do not rise. I stay there until my knees scream, until the sobs turn to the small, broken hiccups of someone who has cried until there is almost nothing left to give. Only then do I speak again, so quietly the words barely disturb the veil. “You would have loved her,” I tell the dark. “You would have loved me.” And for the first time since the funeral two months ago, the silence does not feel like punishment. It feels like the last gentle touch of someone who finally understands.

In the dim afternoon light of my bedroom, I sit before the antique dressing table that once belonged to my Wife. The black satin headscarf rests across my lap like spilled ink, its oversized folds still carrying the faint lavender I keep tucked inside the drawer. The veil those fragile layers of sheer black chiffon voile hangs from the wardrobe door, trembling slightly whenever the January wind finds its way through the sash window. Outside, the town lies quiet under the grey sky of the 16th of January 2026.
I run a lace gloved finger along the jet beading on the bodice, the little beads cold at first, then warming as though they remember my body heat. Why this? The question rises again, steady as my own heartbeat. It isn’t only the crossdressing; that word feels too narrow, too modern for what moves through me. This is mourning chosen, worn deliberately, as though putting on these heavy black satins lets me grieve properly, not just for my Wife, but for the version of myself I kept locked away all those years.
I see flashes of the past: my Grandmother’s photograph album, those stern Victorian and Edwardian women in crepe and veils, faces made beautiful by sorrow. I used to stare at them longer than any boy was supposed to, feeling something stir that had no name. Later, during the decades with my Wife, the secret grew in silence satin bought at antique fairs, a chiffon veil ordered late at night from sellers who asked no questions. My Wife never knew, or if she guessed, she let it lie. She would smile when I came home with yet another silk or satin scarf, teasing me about my “fancy tastes,” and I would laugh along, the words both a comfort and a small, private wound. Did I steal something from her by never speaking the truth? Or was the silence kinder, preserving the life we built of Sunday dinners, walks up on the hill across the fields, the kettle whistling in the kitchen while we listened to the afternoon play on Radio 4? The clothes themselves seem to answer me. The satin is cool against my skin at first, then softens, accepts me. It wraps around the shape I carry inside, the one that never quite fitted the name Tony. When I wear it, I become Tonya the widow I sometimes feel I have always been. The mourning isn’t only for my Wife’s death two months ago, it is for all the years I lived half hidden, for the conversations never had, for the evenings I stood alone in front of the mirror trying on fragments of this other life. Out in the town, beneath the veil, the world blurs into gentle greys. People nod with quiet respect, the way they would to any Victorian widow stepping out of time. In those moments the doubt falls away and I feel something close to power, loss made visible, made dramatic, made mine. Yet when I come home and sit here, the questions return. At Sixty Four, is this foolishness or finally honesty? The mirror shows silver hair escaping the satin folds, lines carved by time across my face. Is it too late to become who I have always been inside? Then I remember my Wife’s hand in mine during those last weeks, her voice thin but certain: “Be happy, love. Whatever that looks like.” Perhaps this is what it looks like layers of black satin and chiffon, the headscarf framing my face like a dark halo, the veil softening everything until even my doubts feel bearable. I rise slowly, fold the headscarf with the same care I once used to fold my handkerchiefs after ironing. The reflections will come back tomorrow, and the day after. They are complicated, tangled, sometimes painful. But they are mine, and for the first time I am not afraid to hold them. The wardrobe waits, patient and open. So do I.

Anybody up

My fingers tremble, just a faint quiver, as I reach for the foil packet on the nightstand. It’s almost weightless, a promise in silver. I tear it open with deliberate care (the small rip loud in the stillness), and the condom unfurls like liquid mercury. Cool and impossibly thin, it glides down over my already aching ****, sheathing me in a trembling second skin. Safe. Secure. A fragile barrier between me and the avalanche of satin to come. A bead of pre-cum kisses the latex tip; I smile. Patience, little sissy. You’ll have your reward.
The first layer is a whisper-pink satin chemise, so fine it feels wet. I let it slither over my head, down my chest, until the hem brushes mid-thigh. Instantly it warms, clings, releases, and clings again with every breath. My palms chase the fabric, front and back, greedy for the slick heat blooming beneath my touch.
Next, the Black nightgown (double-layered, heavy, devotional). I step into it and draw it upward. The inner lining kisses the chemise, and they sigh together: shhh, shhh, my private lullaby. It falls to my ankles in a perfect liquid column. When I move, both layers ripple, cool against cool, warmer where my body heat pools.
The robe is deep rose, quilted satin outside, and champagne gloss within. Arms slide into sleeves, and the lining floods over my skin like chilled cream poured slow. I cinch the sash, and the world contracts: four surfaces of satin now stroking one another with every heartbeat (chemise on nightgown, nightgown on robe lining, lining on skin). I walk barefoot across the room, and the fabrics answer in overlapping waves: the chemise clings, the nightgown glides, and the robe slithers and sweeps. A private orchestra of frictionless lust.
In the mirror I’m only blush and ivory shimmer, face flushed above an ocean of gloss. I lift my arms; sleeves fall back like slow-motion waterfalls. When they drop, the collapse is a soft, wet thud against my body that I feel in my teeth.
I sink onto the midnight-blue satin duvet and let the robe bloom beneath me. On my back, layers flatten and spread, cool against my shoulder blades, my thighs, and the arches of my feet. I arch (just slightly) and the slide is obscene: satin on satin on satin, endless, merciless.
Knees drawn up, fabric pools thick and warm between my thighs like molten candy. My palms smooth down the front (quilted diamonds, slick columns, clinging chemise, skin), and every layer moves with me, against me, inside me.
Now the first of my headscarves, ballet-slipper pink, three feet of pure satin. Folded triangle wide, draped, pulled beneath my chin, crossed, and knotted tight. It cups my jaw and seals my throat. A second knot sits just under my lower lip like a soft gag. The world muffles instantly.
Second scarf, ivory and heavier. Over the first, tied again triangle wide. Four thicknesses now cradle my head, press my cheeks, and frame my face in a gleaming oval.
Third, a deep rose bandeau wound low, looped twice, and knotted at my nape. My chin is forced gently down; swallowing makes every layer glide against my throat in one slow, liquid swallow of its own.
Then the veils.
Pink chiffon, so sheer it’s barely there, yet it turns every texture beneath into a caress. Ivory voile next, pinned high, floating like breath. Last, pale mint over my face alone, tucked beneath the lowest knot. The room becomes watercolor. Breathing through it is filthy intimacy: the fabric flutters against my lips, tasting faintly of dye and my own heat.
A final white satin ribbon, narrow and merciless. Three coils around my neck over every knot, until only a thick, glossy band remains, pulsing with my heartbeat.
From crown to toe, only satin and chiffon speak. When I turn my head, the scarves whisper, and the veils drift like perfume. Pressure under my chin is constant, loving, and absolute.
One sleeved hand slips beneath the pooled folds at my thighs (satin, satin, satin then the cool, taut drum of latex). The contrast is blinding. I stroke once, slowly. My breath flutters the veil against my lips.
Knees higher. The other hand presses the stacked knots beneath my chin (gentle ownership). I begin: lazy circles that turn greedy. The condom translates every ridge of fabric into bright, liquid fire. Veils drift across my chest with each ragged inhale. Heat blooms, trapped, multiplied, sacred.
Faster. Hips rock. The robe lining slithers against the duvet in one long, wet slide. Scarves tighten as my head sinks deeper into the pillow; the ribbon collar throbs.
Release crashes silent and total. I bite down on nothing but chiffon, a muffled whimper swallowed by layers. Pleasure pours into the latex sheath in thick, obedient pulses, trapped and perfect, echoing through every fold until my whole body is one long satin tremor.
After, I lie glowing. The condom keeps me immaculate (another reverent layer). My chest rises and falls beneath quilted satin and drifting voile; tiny aftershocks ripple like quiet tides.

I sit motionless in the dim parlor, the heavy velvet drapes drawn against the January gloom outside. The only light comes from the tall candelabra behind me, its flames trembling as though they, too, are in mourning. My reflection stares back from the tall gilt mirror across the room a stranger wearing my face, yet not quite mine anymore. The black satin gown clings to me like spilled ink, cool and liquid against my skin. Each subtle shift of my body sends faint gleams racing along the fabric, silver whispers in an ocean of midnight. The high collar bites gently at my throat, edged with fragile black lace that looks as though it might crumble if I breathed too deeply. The sleeves are puffed at the shoulders, then narrow cruelly down my arms until the cuffs grip my wrists like velvet manacles. I feel both imprisoned and exalted. The chiffon voile veil floats over my head, so fine it seems spun from smoke. It softens the edges of the world, turns the candlelight into a gentle, diffused halo. Through its haze I can see the portrait painter’s easel, the careful arrangement of shadows he is trying to capture. He keeps glancing at me as though he fears I might vanish if he looks away too long. My lips are painted the colour of old blood left to dry blackened plum, almost truly black in this light. The lipstick feels thick, ceremonial. Each time I press them together I taste the faint metallic bite of the pigment. My eyes are rimmed with kohl so dark it seems to drink the light; the sharp wings of liner make my gaze look both wounded and dangerous, like something beautiful that has learned how to bite. In my hands I cradle the bouquet. Once they were perfect crimson roses, the kind lovers press between the pages of forbidden books. Now they are dying in slow, exquisite agony. The stems bend wearily, heavy with the weight of their own decay. Petals loosen one by one, drifting down like drops of blood onto the polished floorboards. I can hear them fall soft, deliberate sounds, the quiet punctuation of something ending. I do not cry. There are no tears left for what I have become, for the man I buried beneath satin and shadow. This is not grief in the ordinary sense. This is something older, more deliberate a ritual of exquisite surrender. I chose every detail of this costume, every inch of mourning silk, every wilting bloom. I dressed myself for my own funeral, painted my own face for the wake, arranged my own flowers. And now I stand here, perfectly composed, while the painter tries to trap eternity in oil and canvas. Sometimes I think I can hear the roses whispering as they die. They do not beg for water. They do not ask to be saved. They only sigh, petal by petal, accepting their beautiful collapse. And I understand them perfectly. The veil stirs slightly as I exhale. A single crimson petal catches on the sheer fabric, trembling there like a ruby tear that refuses to fall. I do not brush it away. Let it stay. Let it be seen. Let the portrait show exactly what I have chosen to become: A widow of my former self, dressed in the most exquisite grief, holding death’s bouquet with steady, loving hands, smiling just a little behind lips the colour of finality.

Any body want to chat

Evening girls, update the FLU is no better still got aches and pains through my body.
Xx

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."

Hold me by my hips and run you hand over my body curbs.
help me spred my legs for you and feel you slide in.
Be my lead CD friend that I'll trust and give you all.

Evening everybody anybody from the northeast x

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.

No Ridiculous FaceApp, Snapchat Filters, Ai Face/Body Fake pics, always Smooth Shaven.
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--------------------
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Exception ...

I've lost my peace
I've met a Miss
She's suddenly
Undressed...
She was so beautiful and
Said
Please, please...
I want to be impressed
I want to see you
All,
Be doll,
Pull off your top
And pants
I want to feel
Your body
Girl...
And
Kiss
And feel
Romance...
My lips
Responded
In the dark
We trembled
In tight hug...
I whispered
I wish I could...
She answered
My Love...

She was so passionate and
Strong
And gave me wisdom
Stroll
I beg her kissing palms and feet
I always be your girl...

Nobody?

Hello Ladies & Admirers

So, this may come as a shock to...well, pretty much nobody on here. However, New Years Eve wasn't the first time I have ever crossdressed . Back in 2022, I bought my first place and for the first time in my life I felt I had my own 'safe space' to explore and do things like this. I was 35, never properly done anything like this before and the desire to look in the mirror and see a woman looking back was pretty strong.
So...meet 'Khlöe'. The name this side of me was known as back then.

More to come, I just didn't want to flood the site all at once. Be kind to her xx
#crossdresser #lingerie

Soul and Body...

Soul or Body?
Body or Soul?
I met nobody
I lost my goal,
Wish to be close
Wish to be with...
Soul remains
Body hardly
Forgive...
Pill after pill
Makes the different
Shapes
Smiles
Emotions
Wishes
Heat waves

Empty
Just
Soul
All gone what has stayed
Nobody
Soul
Of Girl
That was pale
Girl
That was boy
For no reason
too long
Boy who was hiding
All wishes
Too strong...
Yesterday
Boy
And tomorrow
Just girl
Soul
Unchanged...
Body-
Just
One more doll...

No Ridiculous FaceApp, Snapchat Filters, Ai Face/Body Fake pics, always Smooth Shaven.
"Join the Naughty CD Stories Group Chat"
--------------------
All my Very Naughty Pictures here xxx
https://www.flickr.com/people/11512300@N05/

What???? Nobody loves me ????

Nobody helps me all i need a friend who can guide me through getting an asylum in uk so i can be free not oppressed

I have a date tonight! The guy wants to tie me up and spank me! I have to shave my whole-body smooth again to be fem, take a good shower with lots of girly bodywash, put on my most girly lingerie and perfume along with a wig and maybe even some makeup? I'll share the details afterwards. I can't wait! I haven't been with a man in a couple of weeks! Kisses!

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 #sissygirl #transfemale #tgirl #model #modeling #gay #bi #lgbtq #queer #genderfluid #pantymodel #panty #panties #meninpanties

Good evening, sweets

I want to take a moment to clarify something important about myself, honestly and openly. Deep down, I do wish that I could transition and live fully as a woman one day. That desire is real and has been with me for a long time. However, at this stage of my life, I also have to be realistic. Because of my age, potential medical and surgical risks, the complexities of hormone therapy, and the fact that so many people in my everyday life know me and relate to me as male, I don’t believe a full public transition is something I can truly pursue.

So for now—and likely for the foreseeable future—my feminine side expresses itself in more private ways. Crossdressing, embracing my sissy identity, and allowing myself to feel soft, feminine, and girlish happens in specific spaces and safe arenas, like this website. It’s not about shame; it’s about boundaries, safety, and navigating the world as it is, not as I wish it could be.

That said, I want to be very clear about one thing: I do love being perceived as feminine and being treated like a girl. Emotionally, relationally, and romantically, that’s where my heart lives. Because of that, I am not looking for a fellow sissy, crossdresser, or trans girl as a romantic partner or spouse. I respect them deeply, and I’m absolutely open to friendship and community with them—but romantically, I want to be the girl.

In a relationship, I want to be the feminine partner. In a marriage, I want to be the bride.

I am attracted exclusively to men—very masculine men. Broad shoulders, solid chest, bear-like body hair, a deep voice, confidence, and a take-charge presence all make my heart flutter. I’m drawn to strength, grounding energy, and masculinity that feels protective and assured. That dynamic matters to me, both emotionally and romantically.

Thank you for taking the time to hear me out and understand where I’m coming from. I believe clarity is a form of kindness—to myself and to others.

Kisses,
Chrissy

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 #sissygirl #transfemale #tgirl #model #modeling #gay #bi #lgbtq #queer #genderfluid #pantymodel #panty #panties #meninpanties

First try wearing a body

My name is Wem Martyn. I’m a UK-based musician, producer, and writer.

Today marks two years since I began developing my own work under my own name. It’s been a quiet, deliberate process — one built on patience, reflection.

This is my first release, “She Has a GUN.”
This track is the opening statement of a wider body of work and sets the direction for everything that follows.

Thank you to everyone who has supported me, shared encouragement, and been part of this journey. The friendships formed along the way mean a great deal.

Thank you



https://www.facebook.com/share/p/1BtXKM7DhD/

Happy New year everybody.

I must apologise for not being on here a lot recently and especially to a certain few who may think I’ve ghosted them or lost interest, you know who you are and its all me not you and I’m truly sorry.

It finally happened my wife and I have split and I am no longer “ married “

There’s lots to sort and I’ll apologise in advance im im hit and miss again but I’m trying for new year new me

I love you all and hope you all got what you wanted for Christmas and had a fab new year.

Here’s to 2026

I am going to repost my top 10 photos from last year. But first I have a photo that AI helped me with. I asked AI to add make-up and this is the result. Putting make-up on can take me at least an hour to do it right. Of course AI may have also taken my face lines away but the face is still mine. Totally amazing. Please comments. And yes this is my body, arms, legs, tummy, hair with a little added on top byAI! ( I think it made me a size D and I am a actual size B)

Happy New Year everybody! I wish for health and good luck to come to all in 2026 and may you fill it with fun, happy and sexy moments!

No Ridiculous FaceApp, Snapchat Filters, Ai Face/Body Fake pics, always Smooth Shaven.
"Join the Naughty CD Stories Group Chat"
--------------------
All my Very Naughty Pictures here xxx
https://www.flickr.com/people/11512300@N05/

Happy New Year Everybody!

No Ridiculous FaceApp, Snapchat Filters, Ai Face/Body Fake pics, always Smooth Shaven.
"Join the Naughty CD Stories Group Chat"
--------------------
All my Very Naughty Pictures here xxx
https://www.flickr.com/people/11512300@N05/

I have been wondering... Hear me out! Crossdressing has been a way for me to escape "reality" and relax, be myself and to explore my better side (feminine). Every time I dress up, I am transported to another realm of existence, a better realm so to speak.
For me, dressing in Lace panties, making sure everything is tucked and covered. depending on my mood, a nice bra with my inserts, making sure it is covered, and then an elegant dress, gown, suit or whatever, with my dark hair wig.

For me, this is proper Cross Dressing: Elegance, Graceful, Attraction, the Contours of your Body, Expressing yourself to others the best way possible.

For many, Crossdressing is only a way to (please excuse the term) "Get Laid" or a show of their spanners and backsides. Yes you do get spanners and backsides that are just too yummy to ignore, if cleaned properly, you don't want oily hands.. But that is my point. Being a lady is taking proper care of yourself, and putting your best foot forward.

I believe that Crossdressing, Transgenders and many more are an escape for people that was forced into a mindset that didn't/doesn't suit them, an idea that makes us feel that we do not belong.

And we are wearing these "labels" that they gave us, with pride and our chin held high!

Disclaimer: I do apologise if I stepped on any toes today, it is not my intention!

Look everybody! I made the cover of Plygirl

Im loving my new smooth body

Well I did quite a bit of knicker and bra shopping today-I bought nice matching bra and knickers set, some purple knickers (favourite colour) from Next, then went to buy more knickers from M+S-came out with black and purple. I have only done a couple of photos but will do more. I returned the silky French knickers and body form knickers that my mother in law loaned me-she said that I can go in her knickers drawer anytime and borrow he panties-I said thanks and yes I will

No Ridiculous FaceApp, Snapchat Filters, Ai Face/Body Fake pics, always Smooth Shaven.
"Join the Naughty CD Stories Group Chat"
--------------------
All my Very Naughty Pictures here xxx
https://www.flickr.com/people/11512300@N05/

Why Do We Like Butts?

This question stuck with me after seeing a dumb Facebook meme. A guy tells a woman she has a great ass. She replies sarcastically: “Thank you! I keep poop in it.”

Crude—but true.

We defecate through our butts. And yet, across cultures, centuries, genders, and sexual orientations, humans are deeply attracted to them. Straight, gay, bi, queer. Cis, trans, gender-nonconforming. People admire them, desire them, sculpt them, and eroticize them relentlessly.

So why?

The answer isn’t about function. Attraction doesn’t work that way. It’s about signal, shape, and meaning.

From a biological and evolutionary standpoint, there is broad scientific consensus that humans are drawn to certain body shapes because they act as visual cues of health and fertility. Research in evolutionary psychology shows that hip width, fat distribution, and lumbar curvature correlate with reproductive health. A pronounced lower-back curve visually emphasizes the buttocks, and a favorable waist-to-hip ratio is widely perceived as attractive across cultures.

The brain isn’t thinking about anatomy or waste. Just as people don’t look at mouths and think about digestion, attraction filters out function and locks onto form.

That resonates with me. I’m attracted to butts—the curve, the fullness, the way the lower back opens into flesh. It’s immediate and bodily. I’m especially drawn to very feminine women and their hips and butts. Their embodiment feels like a distilled expression of femininity—grounded, confident, complete. There’s desire there, but also admiration and longing.

At the same time, I’m keenly aware that men are attracted to my ass.

I feel it in their gaze, in how attention lingers. That awareness shapes how I inhabit my body. As Michel Foucault argues, bodies are never neutral—they are read, eroticized, and positioned within systems of power (Foucault, The History of Sexuality). When my body is desired for a part culturally coded as feminine, I’m not just being wanted—I’m being located as receptive.

This is where gender theory becomes personal.

I’m a sissy crossdresser. I don’t yet know if I’m trans, and I’ve stopped treating that uncertainty as a problem. What I do know is that my gender has taken shape through repetition, recognition, and power. Judith Butler argues that gender is constituted through repeated acts that solidify into identity over time (Butler, Gender Trouble). When I soften my posture, present femininely, and allow myself to be read in certain ways, I’m not pretending. I’m performing gender into being.

My attraction to men is structured around masculinity, dominance, and control. I’m drawn to men grounded in their power. Submission, for me, isn’t weakness—it’s orientation. Yielding clarifies my femininity rather than erasing it.

This connects to why attraction to butts often overlaps with interest in anal sexuality. For some, anal sex symbolizes dominance, possession, or control—access to a guarded, vulnerable space. For others, it represents intimacy, trust, and bonding. For many, it’s a mix of both. In heterosexual contexts, it allows penetration without pregnancy; in male-male contexts, it is the primary site through which penetration and possession are symbolically enacted. In every case, the butt becomes a site of power, vulnerability, and meaning.

From an embodiment perspective, this makes sense. Maurice Merleau-Ponty argued that the body is not an object we possess but the medium through which we experience the world (Phenomenology of Perception). My body learns who it is by responding—by yielding, being read, and being desired.

So yes—we poop through our butts. That’s true.

But humans have always been capable of holding multiple truths at once. The same body part can be mundane and symbolic, functional and erotic. What matters isn’t what the body does, but what it means when another human desires it—and how that desire shapes who we become.


What are your thoughts??
-Chrissy

https://chrissyinsd.blogspot.com/

#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

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/

Any body want this let me know