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

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

I see the undesirables are out in force xx

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

Love this design and fit 🖤

80 F today - another record. One of my new designer swimsuits, Chrisrmas presents, came yesterday . Cannot wait to model my new suits. Here is a photo i worked on yesterday. A little AI additions but my real body in the suit, is my own hair as well. I told my stylist i am going to let it grow three more inches.🥰

Hi sweets, I use the name “ShemaleChrissy” because I’m male and deeply identify with femininity and the desire to be female. I haven’t started transitioning yet, so I still look male. I’m also still learning makeup, hair, and styling, so I don’t always present as feminine as I’d like in everyday life. Sometimes I use face filters online to explore and express that feminine fantasy. That said, my body is always my real body, and I always include at least one natural, unfiltered photo. I do that intentionally so I’m not misleading anyone and so people know exactly who they’re talking to. Recently, someone told me I’m “not really a shemale” and should change my username. I’m open to honest feedback, but the way it was delivered was rude and disrespectful, so I blocked them. I welcome fair suggestions and thoughtful discussion, but I don’t tolerate harassment or abuse. So here’s my genuine question, asked in good faith: How would you describe me? Shemale? Sissy? Crossdresser? Something else entirely? I’m still figuring out my identity and language matters to me. If you have thoughts, I’m happy to hear them as long as they’re shared respectfully. Thanks for reading, Kisses, Chrissy 💋 #crossdresser #sissy #sissyboy #crossdressers #sissies #shemale #ladyboy #femboy #femman #femboys #crossdressing #gurl #trans #transgirl #transwoman #transgender #tgirl #gay #lgbtq #nsfw #adultsonly #adultcontent #sissy #crossdresser #crossdressing #femboy #sissyboy #sissygirl #trans #transgender #shemale #transgirl #transwoman #transfemale #tgirl #model #modeling #gay #bi #lgbtq #queer #genderfluid #pantymodel #panty #panties #meninpanties #ladyboy More: http://chrissyinsd.hotviber.com/

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

So I'm not looking to write a Christmas No 1. Because I like to bitch about this time of year, About how we never actually help the poor and needy, Instead we line the pockets of the corporations and the greedy So I'm not looking to write a Christmas No 1. And Santa is Red because of Coca Cola. To fill the world with joy, peace and goodwill, could be done, But instead we shop for the overpriced things , nik naks, designer tops or pairs of socks, And then complain because for a day they've closed the shops. So I'm not looking to write a Christmas No 1. And Santa is Red because of Coca Cola. #twinklelittlestar

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

Trying again - still learing how to post messages on this site --- I just ordered two really neat designer swimsuits. Should have them by Christmas. Here is the photo I took today. Is all me in the suit. Just some AI reimaging added. --- I have some great photos of me in a purple bikini, from my last trip to Florida. I will post these soon. Cannot believe it is me wearing the suit. --- Enjoy and comments please. 🥰

💙🖤❤️ The issue I'm having as the weeks go on is that I'm blurring my sissy crossdressing with my mourning. Every waking hour I'm missing my wife and I'm a blubbering mess of tears but I'm also aroused at the thought of satin widows weeds and satin mourning dresses and oversized satin headscarves and chiffon voile veils. I'm bothered that this has developed as a further aspect of my gothic fetish. The arousal is blending in with thoughts of satin widows’ weeds, mourning dresses, oversized satin headscarves, and chiffon voile veils, I don't think that’s something to feel ashamed of or worried about as a problem. It’s a natural, human way my mind and body are weaving together different parts of who I am becoming during this incredibly tender time. Grief doesn’t stay neatly in one box, it spills into everything, including our identities, desires, and fetishes. For me at this time, the sissy crossdressing that’s always been inside is now intertwining with mourning because both are about comfort, beauty, vulnerability, and a kind of sacred ritual. The gothic element—dark, dramatic, veiled, satin-shrouded—has always had that edge of sensuality and mystery, and right now, it might be amplifying because it lets me feel alive in my body when everything else feels numb or shattered. Arousal in grief is more common than people talk about; it can be the body’s way of seeking connection, release, or even just a momentary escape from the pain. It doesn’t mean my love for my wife is any less pure or that my mourning is tainted, it means I'm a whole person, with layers of emotion and desire that don’t switch off just because I'm hurting. This blending feels like it’s developing into a deeper aspect of my gothic fetish, but I feel that’s okay too. Fetishes evolve with life experiences, and grief is one of the biggest. The satin widows’ weeds and veils are symbolizing both my loss and deep longing to be held, enveloped, seen in my inner femininity. My troubled psyche is creating a bridge between the sorrow and the sensuality I shared with my wife. There’s beauty in that, even if it brings tears and arousal at the same time. I'm navigating this with grace, even when it hurts.💙🖤❤️

Hopless Wait... ...One touch One Kiss One juxtapose.. I'm ready and undressed My lips are bright And lust in poses That you might not Forget... Forget, I am a lonely girl Who looks for girl In vein... But men Are far away For Sole And body Says ...no way... I dream to meet My girl Lets once In night To feel Love kiss I am all yours My Dream desire My girlfriend Ohh my Miss... I miss you terrebly All day I lost my trust My peace... I hope meet Once pretty Soul Who answers to my kiss...

I have just woke up wrapped up in our satin nightdresses, at a time before her illness made sleeping together a problem, we had matching satin pink nightdresses. Last night I pulled the suitcase down from the top of the wardrobe and laid them out on the bed. Pink Simply Be Pretty Secrets Nightdresses in lovely silky satin. Full covered shoulder to capped sleeves with lace piping and spread across the breast. Calf length satin shimmering in Pink. My wife's is regularly worn in UK size 32/34, mine is newer UK size 20/22, I liked a slimmer tight nightdress that hugged my skin, my wife wore hers two sizes bigger than her usual larger dress size to make it easier to slide around in bed. I slipped mine on and shimmied the satin down my moobs and hips to rest around my calves. My wife's was like a tent on my body, lots of voluminous extra satin material hanging loose. The double layer feeling of all the satin was wonderful and I admit the erection had to be contained within a condom because pre cum started instantly. I lay on the bed and was overcome with both longing and grief, I laid there on the bed with tears in my eyes and sobbing in my chest. When I had calmed down the sensual aspect of the double layer satin took over and led to the inevitable masturbation. Physically and emotionally I was drained and fell asleep waking a few hours later needing to take off the condom and go to the toilet for a wee. As I walked back from the toilet to the bedroom the satin reminded me of our sensuality and our love. Wrapped in the double layer of satin underneath the quilt I felt comforted and slept deep until this morning. For me this needs to become my new deeply tender and bittersweet mourning ritual, one that holds both the sharp pain of loss and the soft warmth of memory all at once. Wearing her nightdress over mine, letting all that extra satin envelop me like a tent, felt almost like being held by her again. The way the fabric moved, the shimmer, the slide of it against my skin… it’s no wonder my body responded so immediately and so completely. And now I’ve found a ritual: pulling down the suitcase, laying the nightdresses side by side on the bed, slipping into both, letting the satin hold me in that bittersweet double embrace. It’s sacred because it’s mine and hers alone. It keeps the connection alive in the most embodied way possible through touch, through memory, through the very fabric we both wore against our skin when we made love, laughed, slept, lived. Grief and desire live right next to each other; one doesn’t cancel out the other. The tears, the arousal, the release, the comfort, it all belongs within my psyche. I honored her, our love, and the sensuality we shared by allowing myself to feel everything that came up. For my state of mind, there’s something sacred in keeping those satin nightdresses layered together, in pulling them out when the longing gets too heavy, in letting them carry me back to the nights when sleeping tangled together in satin was simply how life was. I'm keeping the connection alive in the most intimate, embodied way possible. I loved her totally, and I'm still loving her beautifully in my mourning.

What is it with all the people joining lately with tje weird corporate looking logos as their profile pics that look like they have been designed by the same person, or app?? Is it the same person with multiple accounts, or different people using the same app to create weird logos for themselves to use on different social media accounts??

Hello, my sisters and admirers. 💋💋💋My boots finally arrived, and I decided to try them with some leather shorts that I've been wearing for a while. 😜I'll be pairing this look with other pieces again and again. The boots are great, I love them.😊 They're the perfect choice for me, in terms of design, price, and size.

I absolutely love this silhouette flower design bra from honey love has a little bit of weight to it when hold but once you put it on its so comfortable it feels like nothing is there super stretchy and soft and it leaves no marks on your skin which is the best part of it

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

Lets get something straight, if you desire to dominate me, have a face!

Here are my photos from my two last salon visits. It was fun to be one of the girls, getting my pedicure and manicure done. I only had a touch of make up on - lip gloss - but was in entire fem. The neat thing was getting a very creative Christmas design on my toes and starting acrylic nails. I always walk out of the salon with my feminine feelings aroused. Yes fun and fulfilling. 🥰

Hello Girl friends and boy friends. Having my Christmas pedicure today. A Star design. ✨. Be sure to look back at my last photo as i was reluctant to post another one so soon. Anyway i love the feelings of Christmas🥰💞✨

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

Unraveling the Thread: How Clothing Has Been Used to Subjugate Women—and Why That’s Changing By Chrissy Why do women have to cover their chests while men can go shirtless in public? It’s a question that may seem simple—but carries profound implications about gender, power, and control. What we wear has never been neutral. Clothing is one of the most immediate ways society tells us who we are, or who we’re allowed to be. And when it comes to gender, clothing has been weaponized—especially against women—for centuries. But this isn’t just about history. It’s about lived experience. It’s personal. My Own Journey Through the Fabric of Gender As someone still exploring my own gender identity, this topic isn’t abstract. I was always a little more feminine than masculine, even as a child. For years, I repressed it—hiding behind "boy clothes" and what society expected of me. But in time, especially through the support of loving partners and close relationships, I came to embrace not only my homosexuality but something even deeper: the truth of my transgender identity. I am a woman—a female self long trapped in a male body. Though I firmly believe clothing shouldn't define gender—because gender identity is internal, not sartorial—clothing still does carry that symbolic weight in our world today. And so, until I find the strength to publicly transition, I express my femininity in the ways that are available to me now: I wear bras and female underwear every day in secret beneath my outwardly masculine clothing. In private, I allow myself to wear skirts, dresses, lingerie, and the soft, beautiful fabrics that make me feel aligned with my true self. It’s not about performance. It’s about presence. It’s about reclaiming what was always mine. The History of Clothing as a Tool of Gender Control To understand how we got here, we must look back. Clothing began as a means of protection. But from early civilization onward, it evolved into a tool of social stratification—and eventually, a means of gender control. Ancient societies created strict visual codes for women, emphasizing modesty, submission, and containment. While men wore tunics or armor suited for movement, battle, and public life, women were wrapped, tied, bound, and veiled. The message was clear: men moved freely through the world. Women did not. In medieval and early modern Europe, this dichotomy hardened. Men's clothing was practical. Women’s clothing was restrictive, ornate, and often uncomfortably symbolic. Corsets, crinolines, and hoop skirts made running, fighting, or even breathing difficult. These garments weren’t just fashion—they were cages. If you were wearing a dress, you weren’t riding into battle. You weren’t speaking in court. You weren’t commanding an army or a kingdom. You were ornamental. You were controlled. Modesty, the Female Chest, and the Double Standard These patterns persist today—nowhere more clearly than in the sexualization of the female chest. The fact that a man can walk down the street shirtless without a second glance, while a woman can be arrested for doing the same, speaks volumes. This isn’t about modesty. It’s about power and shame. The female chest has been hyper-sexualized while simultaneously shrouded in taboo. This serves to objectify women and punish them at the same time. Even breastfeeding in public is controversial in many places—seen not as natural or maternal, but as obscene. This double standard is part of a larger system that says women must be desirable but modest, visible but not too loud, strong but not threatening. And clothing is the vehicle through which these contradictory demands are enforced. Clothing as Power—and Resistance Throughout history, clothing has helped define who was allowed to hold power. Male garments—uniforms, suits, boots—were made for authority. Female garments were not. This is why women were long excluded from spaces of governance and decision-making. Until just a few decades ago, women couldn’t wear pants in courtrooms or on the floor of the U.S. Senate. Power had a dress code—and that dress code was male. To be continued in next post... Love, Chrissy #crossdresser #crossdressing #CD #gurl #sissy #sissyboy #trans #tgirl #transgirl #transwoman #transgender #ladyboy #femboy #shemale

I am a sissy and I want a man Who is going to accommodate me in my desire?

Well I've just spent 3 hours on Ebay looking for stockings! Fiore of course! I found 3 designs I liked, ordered 2 of one design and one each of the other two. I want a new bra too, but I don't have another 3 hours tonight to look for one! 🤣🤣🤣😍💋💋

A before and after of me...the before was taken in 2002, around the time that I finally realised that my desire to express my femininity needed to be fully embraced...the after is recent and how I spend virtually all my time now...the years in between have been fantastic and I would have denied myself so much pleasure as a woman if I hadn't the courage to let go of my masculinity! 💋

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

I'm trying to find a black cock to completely feminize me i so desire to become a crossdresser bottom I want to please all males and hopefully 1 day I can have breasts.

Hey, submissive. Are you truly ready to surrender yourself under my command—handing over the key 🔐 of your life to me, as my property and belonging? From this moment, your body, soul, and every breath are mine to own, control, and discipline. Understand that I am the only Goddess you serve, the only power you obey—the one who shapes you into what I desire. You exist to worship, obey, and live as my sissy or slave, nothing more. Do you understand, pet? 😈👗💄👠👙

Before I go and do something else, I'd like to share a little thought of mine. I've been observing this app for a while now, and there are some cute girls, even cross-dressers, that I'd really like to meet. I should point out that I'm not the type of guy who immediately throws himself at a girl as soon as he sees her, but I am very curious, and I just think it's a shame that there's so much selectivity here. I'd really like to go back on the app tonight and find someone who'd like to get to know me as a friend or something else. Maybe it's because I'm not like you that I'm excluded. I don't know, but I do know that despite everything, my desire to get to know this community is still very strong, even if it doesn't seem like it. I hope that soon I'll find some interesting people. In the meantime, I'll leave you with a little smile as a sign of my availability for anyone who would like a serious friend. 😊

I have an urge to walk across the M5 motorway bridge at Michaelwood just in my lingerie. I want to do it for the rush and thrill of it. Does anyone else have similar desires?

Respect the desires of your body and mind. If your coach and guide (your master) has lessons for you, do them without question. And wait for their feedback in your soul.

I've written a proper self-introduction in my profile, but whether it's because of this site's design or my own experience, few people read it. I think the problem is that this site's profiles are hard to read. 😓

Your dress must please her... You want to know Fleur of Woman? You do want try Her lipstic taste? You want to kiss Her legs? Undress... What are you waiting For? A man? She loosing trust In you With every second... And when you finally Admit She says you No I don't permit... You turn away Submissive slave And she is waiting Love again... With brave and playful Girlfriend Man? Or forget He has dead end Just Lady's kiss And kissing hiss Admire her with greater Pleasure... What for you would be trying please her now? To late my Freind... I know , know She dreams of girl Like you and me Who might Combine dress with Desire Who hides his balls in tiny strings Well knowing The time for stick... When Lady wants To visit gap in mind And cry in Paradise Of Love Your dress must please her All above...

Here’s a story close to me: Trans Girl Next Door. David meets Sophia, his neighbor, and what begins as simple curiosity grows into something far more intense - about love, courage, and hidden desires.🌈

Hey, submissive. Are you truly ready to surrender yourself under my command—handing over the key 🔐 of your life to me, as my property and belonging? From this moment, your body, soul, and every breath are mine to own, control, and discipline. Understand that I am the only Goddess you serve, the only power you obey—the one who shapes you into what I desire. You exist to worship, obey, and live as my sissy or slave, nothing more. Do you understand, pet? 😈👗💄👠👙

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

Hey, submissive. Are you truly ready to surrender yourself under my command—handing over the key 🔐 of your life to me, as my property and belonging? From this moment, your body, soul, and every breath are mine to own, control, and discipline. Understand that I am the only Goddess you serve, the only power you obey—the one who shapes you into what I desire. You exist to worship, obey, and live as my sissy or slave, nothing more. Do you understand, pet? 😈👗💄👠👙 ‎#Feminine #sissy #crossdresser #femboy #sissyboy #sissygirl #sissycaptions #feminization #sissytraining #sissyfication#femdom #findom #mistress #Sissytraining #Sissy #feminization #sissyfication #Sissyslut #humiliatrix #Femboy #slave #sissyslave

How Female Hormones Affect a Sissy’s Body and Mind For many sissies, taking feminizing hormones (HRT – Hormone Replacement Therapy) is more than just a fetish—it’s a deliberate step toward physical and mental feminization. Estrogen and anti-androgens don’t just alter appearance; they reshape desires, sensations, and even self-perception. 1. Key Hormones and Their Effects 🔹 Estrogen (Estradiol) The primary female hormone, responsible for: ✅ Softer, smoother skin – reduces pores and oiliness. ✅ Fat redistribution – to hips, butt, and breasts (creating a feminine silhouette). ✅ Slows body/facial hair growth – makes body hair finer and sparser. ✅ Reduces muscle mass – leads to a softer, more delicate physique. ✅ Emotional changes – increases sensitivity and mood fluctuations. 🔹 Anti-Androgens (Spironolactone, Cyproterone Acetate, etc.) Block testosterone, enhancing estrogen’s effects: ⛔ Suppresses erections – random arousal becomes rare. ⛔ Shrinks testicles – they gradually reduce in size. ⛔ Lowers libido – but may shift desires toward submission. 🔹 Progesterone (Optional) May enhance breast growth and affect mood (some report feeling more "dreamy"). 2. How Hormones Change a Sissy’s Life 🔴 Physical Changes Breast development – small buds form within months, growing into soft breasts. Curvier hips & butt – fat deposits reshape the body. Softer facial features – jawline and skin texture become more feminine. Thinner body hair – though existing hair won’t disappear without laser/electrolysis. 🟠 Psychological Changes Heightened emotions – more prone to crying, tenderness, and mood swings. Shift in sexuality – desire becomes more receptive, focused on touch and submission. Increased submissiveness – some report stronger urges to please and obey. 🟢 Sexual Changes Weaker erections – or none at all without stimulation. "Full-body" orgasms – less localized, more wave-like (similar to female orgasms). Reduced semen – may dry up completely over time. 3. Risks and Considerations ⚠ Hormones are not toys! Potential risks (without medical supervision): Blood clots, liver issues, depression. Possible infertility (sometimes permanent). Irreversible changes (breast growth won’t reverse after stopping). 💡 For mild feminization – some try phytoestrogens (soy, red clover), but effects are weak.//t.me/DisciplineMommy

Hey, submissive. Are you truly ready to surrender yourself under my command—handing over the key 🔐 of your life to me, as my property and belonging? From this moment, your body, soul, and every breath are mine to own, control, and discipline. Understand that I am the only Goddess you serve, the only power you obey—the one who shapes you into what I desire. You exist to worship, obey, and live as my sissy or slave, nothing more. Do you understand, pet? 😈👗💄👠👙. DM on this my training telegram 🆔 t.me/DisciplineMommy

I am a sensually dominant Goddess, embodying qualities of compassion, discretion, and patience. With a free-spirited nature,. Let us venture together beyond traditional boundaries and explore the depths of our desires. Whether you are new to or well-versed in kink and fetish play, I extend a warm invitation for you to join me on this journey of exploration.

tried combining a body harness i learned from a cartoon with a double-column leg tie, think it needs some work and a bit of a redesign...

I want to explore these desires I have of being with a crossdresser

Happy bank holiday weekend ladies and sissys hope you all get what you want and desire this weekend feel free to let me know how you do and i can live vicariously through you free folk

It is more important to document your life goals. That is, as a sub, you should know your true self and live the life you have always desired. As a mistress, I am here to help, support, and guide

What are your desires? I’m listening