A small set from yesterday.
Not chasing perfection here. Just sharing where I’m at right now.
Confidence looks different depending on the day.

#crossdresser
#genderexpression
#femmeenergy
#softconfidence
#selfexpression
#quietmoments
#personal
#lgbtq

Last post for today. Something a bit different. Which combination is your favourite? All paired with my very cute knee high socks.
Loafers; White Dress Shoes; Ankle Boots; and Converse. :)

Random question. Has anyone here ever worn shoes or heels for that matter in mud? I know it might sound a bit random but let me explain. Ever since I can remember I've always loved playing in mud. Having had a semi country upbringing. I was always playing in mud. First it started with Rain Boots but then overtime I decided to try different shoes. I think I remember wearing my leather ankle boots in mud as well as my Converse Sneakers. Both an amazing experience. More recently I wore my Mary Jane Flats in mud and that was so much fun. Would be interested in hearing your thoughts and opinions on this anyway. :)

I remember the exact moment I decided the night belonged to me alone. The room smelled of rosewater, old bruised satin drapes, and the faint metallic tang of ancient makeup. Mirrors surrounded me like silent courtiers, each reflecting a different fragment of the creature I was becoming. Tonight I wasn't just performing, I was ascending. First came the foundation: cool porcelain over warm skin, smoothed until I looked carved from moonlight. Then the eyes. Oh, the eyes. I dipped a fine brush into that impossible turquoise pigment the exact shade of tropical shallows under storm clouds and painted sweeping wings that stretched toward my temples. Eyelashes like black lace fans. Lips the colour of bruised sapphires, outlined sharper than a guillotine's edge. Cheeks dusted with shimmering frost so the light would catch and fracture. The hijab went on next. Heavy turquoise satin, cool against my scalp. I wrapped it with ritual precision, tucking every rebellious strand away until only regal geometry remained. Over that, the oversized satin headscarf yards of it draped and folded into majestic pleats that framed my face like a Renaissance altarpiece gone deliciously rogue. Then the cascading chiffon voile veil, light as breath, heavy with intention. It spilled from the crown in watery layers, catching every flicker of candlelight and turning it into liquid mercury. The gown followed: high necked, modest in the Victorian sense, scandalous in every other. Satin bodice hugging just enough to remind the world what architecture the body can achieve, then exploding into flowing panels of voile and satin that whispered across the floor like conspiratorial ghosts. Ankle length, yes, but the way it moved suggested it might lift at any moment and carry me off the ground entirely. I stepped into the main chamber. The throne waited upholstered in the same decadent turquoise satin, tufted and tasselled, looking like something a decadent Ottoman sultan might have abandoned in a fit of ennui. I arranged myself upon it slowly, deliberately. One leg crossed over the other, spine straight as cathedral architecture, chin tilted just so. Left hand resting on the armrest, fingers splayed to show off the long turquoise nails. Right hand splayed in a gesture that could have been benediction, accusation, or invitation take your pick. Then came the lighting. A single harsh key light from high right, carving brutal shadows across the left side of my face; a faint fill from low left to keep the eyes from disappearing into darkness; everything else swallowed by velvet black. Chiaroscuro taken to theatrical extremes. The satin drank the light and threw it back richer, glossier, almost liquid. My skin glowed like moonlit marble. The veil caught stray photons and turned them into faint turquoise fireflies suspended in air. I struck the pose. Head turned three quarters, gaze locked on some invisible point just beyond the fourth wall. Lips parted the tiniest fraction as though I were about to deliver the wittiest, most devastating line in the history of spoken language, but had decided silence was crueler. One eyebrow infinitesimally raised. The veil drifted slightly with my breath, a slow, hypnotic undulation. Somewhere in the darkness, I heard a stifled giggle. Good. Let them laugh. Let them gasp. Let them clutch their pearls and question every certainty they ever held about gender, grief, glamour, and good taste. Because here I sat mourning queen of nothing and everything, turquoise flamed phoenix in widow's weeds, Caravaggio's most flamboyant fever dream filtered through Doré's feverish embellishments. The shadows deepened around me, thick as ink. The satin throne gleamed like wet paint. My makeup shimmered, defiant and absurd and utterly regal. And in that perfect, ridiculous, holy instant, I felt it: I was the most beautiful thing in the universe.

Another couple of different coloured tops with the same skirt

Same top....different animal print skirt
I love both, but the longer one is more figure hugging, so for me I it has a slight advantage

The case came in sideways, like everything else north of the equator these days.

Over the irradiated murky Atlantic pond, Glasgow didn’t rain so much as accuse. The drizzle slid down the soot-stained tenements like it knew every sin committed inside them. Post-war, post-bomb, post-everything that ever pretended to be civilized. The apocalypse didn’t flatten Scotland the way it did Los Angeles, it hollowed it out instead, left the bones standing and filled the gaps with whisky, guns, and ghosts.

I wore black that night. Not the practical kind.
The statement kind.

A black oversized tartan satin headscarf wrapped tight around my hair, catching the light like wet ink. Over my face, a sheer black chiffon voile veil, the mourning lace thin enough to breathe through, thick enough to hide regret. The rest of me was Victorian grief dialed up to eleven: glossy black tartan blouse with rococo frills, satin panels hugging me like a second conscience, skirts whispering every time I moved. I looked like a widow who’d buried the world and decided it deserved it.

In Glasgow, that bought me anonymity.

They called me Han here too, though the locals said it like a question. I’d followed the trail across the Atlantic after a shipment of American surplus hardware went missing, Tommy guns, plasma pistols, a few toys left over from the end of the world. Fallout New Vegas tech, Hollywood Hills money, Highland routes. Someone was running iron through the glens and washing it down with single malt older than the war itself.

The back streets off Trongate were crooked enough to make a Dutch cameraman weep. Buildings leaned in close, sharing secrets. Gas lamps flickered like they were afraid of what they might illuminate. I walked slow, heels deliberate, veil fluttering just enough to let the right people notice and the wrong people hesitate.

That’s when the femme fatale found me.

She leaned against a doorway like she’d been waiting for the end of the world to catch up. Hair platinum under a cloche hat, lips dark as a closed casket. Scottish, sharp, and carrying herself like a blade wrapped in silk.

“You’re far from Hollywood, sweetheart,” she said. “And you’re dressed for a funeral that isn’t yours.”

“Everyone’s funeral is mine eventually,” I said. “I just like to dress appropriately.”

She smiled. That was the mistake.

Her name was Moira Blackwood. Whisky broker. Gun runner. Mourner by trade. She dealt in Highland routes, smugglers who knew every fog bank, every forgotten rail spur left behind when the bombs fell south. The Americans supplied the firepower. The Scots supplied the patience.

And someone was skimming.

Bodies were turning up in the lochs. Empty bottles floating beside them like punchlines. Moira wanted to know who was cutting into her business before it turned into a clan war with automatic weapons.

We took a train north that barely remembered being a train. Through valleys drowned in mist and radiation snow. I kept the veil on the whole way. In the Highlands, superstition still worked better than bullets.

The smugglers met us in an abandoned distillery, barrels stacked like tombstones. The tartan of my outfit mirrored theirs, same pattern, different intent. They watched me carefully. Men always did when they couldn’t decide what category to put me in.

That hesitation saved my life.

When the shooting started, I was already moving. Heels skidding on stone, skirts swirling, revolver barking from beneath layers of satin and sorrow. Moira went down fast—winged, not dead. The real culprit bolted for the back door, carrying a ledger thick with names and lies.

I caught him by the loch.

The water reflected us in stark monochrome: him shaking, me looming, veil rippling like smoke. He confessed quickly. They always did when faced with someone who looked like death had chosen tartan satin couture.

I left him there for the deep dark water to judge.

By dawn, the Highlands were quiet again. Moira paid me in whisky older than memory and ammunition stamped with American lies. Fair trade.

Back in Glasgow, I stood in a cracked mirror in a boarding house that smelled of coal and grief. I removed the veil last. Always last.

Another city survived. Another secret buried. Another outfit stained with rain instead of blood.

The world was still tilted. Still broken. Still rolling on at the wrong angle.

But as long as there were shadows to walk and clothes that told the truth my mouth didn’t have to, I’d keep going.

Mourning never goes out of fashion.

Pink Leopard Chiffon, Different Looks, Which is Best?

The dress had lived in my saved folder for weeks: an elegant plus size kaftan, long and sweeping, described in loving detail online as a “maxi robe style” masterpiece. Bold geometric shapes danced across it, interrupted by playful polka dots, all in the richest shades of brown, deep coffee, and warm beige. No stretch, just pure, structured non stretch fabric that would drape and flow with quiet authority. Off the shoulder design that could be worn modestly high or slipped gently down for a more relaxed silhouette, and those perfect short sleeves. And then the detail that had sealed it for me a matching set of satin accessories: a hijab, a headscarf, and an oversized satin scarf, all in the same lush coffee beige family.
I’d imagined myself in it so many times. Not just wearing it, but being in it moving through a room and feeling the hem brush my ankles like a whispered promise.
The sales assistant smiled when she saw me lingering near the display. “That one’s new in,” she said, lifting the hanger with the kind of reverence usually reserved for museum pieces. “It’s even more striking up close.”
She wasn’t wrong.
Up close, the patterns were alive. The geometrics felt almost architectural, like tiny tiled courtyards from some ancient medina, while the polka dots added a mischievous modern wink. The colours were deeper than the photos had captured less flat beige, more toasted almond and espresso swirling together. I ran my fingertips over the fabric. Crisp, cool, luxuriously matte except where the satin accents caught the light and turned molten.
I asked to try it on.
In the fitting room, the kaftan slipped over my head like cool water. The weight of the non stretch fabric gave it presence; it didn’t cling, it enveloped. I adjusted the off shoulder neckline until it sat just where I wanted respectful yet softly open, framing my collarbones without apology. The short sleeves ended exactly where they should, leaving my forearms free. I turned slowly in front of the mirror and watched the skirt flare and settle, the patterns shifting like a living mosaic.
Then came the satin pieces.
I draped the hijab first, letting the silky coffee coloured length glide over my hair and shoulders. The texture was heaven smooth against my skin, cool and weightless. Next the headscarf, wrapped and tucked with practiced care (I’d watched enough tutorials to fake confidence). Finally, the oversized satin scarf, which I looped loosely around my neck and let trail down my back like a royal train in miniature.
When I stepped out of the cubicle, the assistant actually gasped quietly, politely, but it was there.
I felt… regal. Not in a loud, glittering way, but in the way old Islamic manuscript illuminations are regal: intricate, deliberate, quietly commanding attention through beauty rather than volume. The kaftan moved with me like an extension of breath. Every step sent gentle waves through the fabric, the geometric lines bending and realigning, the polka dots catching tiny sparks of that golden-hour light pouring through the shop windows.
I bought it. No hesitation.
Now, when I wear it at home in the evenings, I light a few low lamps to recreate that same warm glow. I walk slowly across the hardwood floor just to feel the hem sweep behind me. I arrange the satin scarf different ways draped over one shoulder, wrapped as a belt, left to float free and each time the mirror shows me someone new, yet completely myself.
It isn’t just a dress.
It’s the version of elegance I’d been quietly sketching in my mind for years, finally given shape in brown, coffee, and beige.
And every time I put it on, I remember that afternoon in the boutique when the light hit just right, and I finally recognised the person looking back at me.

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

These Are AI photo of me, face and pose is me, just thought I would see how I look in various different outfits, really like the wedding dress ones

I got logged out and when I logged back in the feed layout was different. Anyone else have the same?

Lighting is abit dim, but messing around with the different lighting effects

I'm debating whether to go out on Thursday afternoon or not I might Wetherspoon or somewhere different what do you think

As promised the first pics from the weekend. My Mis tress Lana Steins was surprised it was totaly different from what she has seen before on me. What do you think? Is it a good dress for a wedding party? 🫣 #sissy #crossdresser #sissyslut

I don't think glams gets it. She can keep starting new accounts with different numbers but will still get reported and blocked. Go on a BDSM site, no one is interested

A number of years ago, I walked into a small back street Charity Shop on the edge of town. I wasn’t really looking for anything specific just browsing, killing time, letting my eyes wander over the racks the way I always did when I felt that familiar restless itch under my skin. Then I saw it. Hanging slightly askew on a padded hanger near the back wall, half-hidden behind a row of sensible navy blazers, was a floor-length satin bridal gown. Ivory, not stark white. The bodice was structured but not boned, the skirt a gentle A-line that flared softly rather than ballooning into tulle insanity. A modest neckline. Delicate lace overlay on the shoulders and upper chest. And pinned to the hanger was the tag: Size 32 Worn once £49. My heart gave a hard, guilty thud. I’m a UK 18" collar with a 50" chest in men’s shirts. But dresses… dresses measure differently. Especially wedding dresses. Especially ones made to accommodate curves most people would call “plus size.” I glanced around. The shop was quiet. An older woman with silver hair was sorting bric-a-brac at the counter; a younger volunteer early twenties, purple streaks in her hair was steaming something in the corner. I lifted the gown off the rail. The satin felt cool and liquid against my palms. Heavy in the right way. I carried it toward the changing cubicle like I was smuggling contraband. “Would you like to try it on, love?” the silver-haired woman called out. Her voice was kind, matter-of-fact. No trace of surprise or judgement. I froze for half a second. “Yes please,” I managed. My voice sounded smaller than usual. She smiled. “Curtain’s already drawn back there. Take your time. Shout if you need a hand with the zip.” The cubicle was narrow, just a full-length mirror screwed to the wall, a single hook, and a thin beige curtain that didn’t quite reach the floor. I hung the dress on the hook and stripped quickly out of my jeans, hoodie, socks, boxers, down to bare skin that already felt too warm, too alive. My **** was already half-hard just from touching the fabric, from the sheer improbability of this moment. I reached into the pocket of my discarded jeans on the floor and found the condom I always carried now just in case. Fingers trembling, I tore the packet, rolled the latex down over my throbbing length, making sure the reservoir tip was positioned correctly. The relief of containment was immediate. No stains. No evidence. Just secret, pulsing heat trapped safely inside. I stepped into the gown. The skirt whispered up my calves, over my thighs. I pulled it past my hips slowly, carefully and the satin glided over the soft roundness of my belly without catching. I tugged the bodice up over my chest. The cups were generously cut, there was room. Actual room. I reached behind and found the long invisible zip. It slid up smoothly, no resistance, no straining. When I let my arms drop, the dress settled around me like it had been waiting. I looked in the mirror. The reflection showed someone soft and full and blushing furiously beneath ivory satin. The modest neckline framed the gentle swell of my chest and the faint shadow of cleavage created by the way the bodice pushed everything together. My hips looked wide and womanly beneath the smooth fall of fabric. My belly made a soft, proud curve against the front of the skirt. I turned sideways. The line from back to front was lush, generous, unapologetic. It fit. It actually fit. A small, involuntary whimper escaped me. I heard footsteps outside the curtain. “Everything alright in there?” It was the younger volunteer this time. I swallowed. “Yes. Um… could you, could you maybe check the zip? Just to make sure it’s all the way up?” The curtain parted a few inches. She peeked in, eyes widening for only a heartbeat before her face softened into a genuine smile. She stepped inside careful, professional and fastened the tiny hook-and-eye at the top of the zip I hadn’t been able to reach. Her fingers were gentle. “There. Perfect. It’s like it was made for you.” I couldn’t speak. My **** was fully hard now, straining painfully against the satin lining. A bead of pre-cum had already escaped and I could feel the slippery warmth of it against the inside of the dress. I smoothed the front of the skirt with both hands. The satin gleamed under the fluorescent light. I looked sill looked like a bloke in a dress. A big, soft, blushing, overweight very happy bride. When I finally stepped out, both women were waiting. “I’ll take it,” I said. Whilst the younger woman unhooked and unzipped me, the silver-haired woman rang it up. “£49. Cash or card, love?” I handed over my card. I left the Charity Shop with the dress folded carefully in a large carrier bag, the memory of satin against every inch of my skin still electric. And for the first time in years, I didn’t feel like I was hiding. I felt like I was finally beginning to find myself.

Why ??? ...

I often think
About girls
Who like
To live
Me with...

Who I am?
Prince in funny dress?
A doll?
Or just Caprise?
Or do they feel in me
Princess
Who's different and soft?
Not too agressive at the end
"With money , tools and worth..."

I do not know...
When I'm dressed
Some look on me
With interest...
So I am not
Prevert for them...
But who?
Hermaphrodite?
Not yet?

Or maybe many are
Just blind....
Attracted to my legs?
Or envy?
I did never mind
If girls have interest

Some few who knew me
In the past
Are still confused
And cold...
I do not know
Should or must
I take off all my shorts?
Should I be naked
Or be in tights?
What difference it makes?
Or visous circle locks so tight... in there
By witch spelt...?
Why we're rejected
Being in tights?
Why liked to be just naked?
This problem's wondering
My mind
Why it is sin to be so stright.
To walk
To show legs...
Why it is frightening
For whem
If not about sex...?
I do not know
In my brain
There is perhaps a gap ..

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

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...

Has today as 2026 been any different apart from years which was 2025
For me
I changed my knickers x
Happy 2026 all

Well finally, it's dressing-up night tonight - with 100s of pics being taken in no less than FOUR different outfits!

Hope you all had a great day yesterday
Different hair and todays chosen wear no makeup except for eye shadow have a great day

important info! I got a notification from my malware app. Relating to a link to a printer software link on here. I had not yet seen it but blocked it, scrolled down and the post was there! So just like the one below 'flighs help guide'. BLOCK BLOCK BLOCK. It's scammers trying a different route to your money!

I love trying different color combinations 💃🏼

and from a different perspective

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.

"Mwah, mwah! Good Morning! How are you, dahlings?" Just got back from a hotel changeaway to recharge my sissy batteries and an attempt to manage my mourning feelings. It has been over two weeks since my Wife passed away, I'm slowly coming to terms with it and finding ways to cope with being on my own, but it's not easy. A bit of sightseeing and new company has helped. At a different time it would have been wonderful as I met a lady staying in the hotel and we got on very well, but in the circumstances I've had to put any thoughts of a romantic friendship out of my mind. We will keep in touch and if my grief recedes it might be nice to see her again.

Neighbor saw me in lingerie. I didnt realize that he could see me through my bedroom window. When i noticed him noticing me, he quickly looked away. I keep thinking what I shouldve done differently. Hmm

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??

Looking for something different Leeds area

heh, friend's hairdresser today was telling her about the swingers at the pub, she had to act all innocent (as hairdresser's not aware of what SHE gets up to!)
i asked OMG, did i get a mention - yes, someone called Jacqui exactly matching my description and very complimentary, so i said "Nah, different pub, different swingers, different Jacqui...!

Will be posting a different outfit soon xx

Same top, different skirt, a more sensible look I think.

Santa & Mrs. Claus: Threeway at the North Pole Continued: I was too nervous to answer but nodded. "Good," he exclaimed, "now its my turn. Ho, ho, ho!" With that, Santa took his clothes off, exposing his huge, rock hard, wrinkly magical dick that I knew so well, knew so intimately. He walked over to the bed, grabbed my head from the back of it, and forced us to kiss, his tongue exploring my throat. His free hand felt down my chest and tummy, down to my naked crotch where he pulled on my ****. "I see you're ready," he commented.

I could see out of the corner of my eye Mrs. Claus feeling herself up and down, moaning. She fingered her own *****...
Santa then bent down and put my penis into his mouth. He sucked me off...slurping....licking my shaft., squeezing the head with his lips, shaking it with his hand...I was already so aroused that it didn't take me long to cum and fill his mouth up. Santa swallowed it all...smiling, moaning, saying "yum!" and, of course, "ho, ho, ho!" "Get on your hands and knees," the jolly old elf, Santa, demanded. I did, my bare-naked ass now exposed upward at him like a dog in heat presenting herself to a mate. Santa mounted me and like last Christmas, slamming his huge, magical dick into my tight, little boypussy hole doggy-style, making me his. Mrs. Claus came up to the side of the bed and then crawled under me to where she could put her mouth around my ****. So as Santa Claus fucked my ass Mrs. Claus was sucking my dick. When Santa climaxed, seeding me with his semen, I came too, almost choking Mrs. Claus with my boyjuice, who was able to swallow all of it.

Santa layed on the bed next to me, his fat, hairy arms around my skinny, smooth ladyboy body, Mrs. Claus layed on the other side next to me, her wrinkly but feminine arms also around me. "I wish you would touch me like that Santa, as you touch Chrissy," Mrs. Claus said, making me uncomfortable.
"Ho, ho, ho!" Answered Santa. "It's okay, We have Chrissy now." What did that mean? That I was to continue satisfying both of them? "Not for very long," I added. "Just until I am able to get home."
"That will be at least a year," Mrs. Claus commented.
I sat up more in shock. "A year? Why?"
"No one leaves Santa's Village but Santa and that is only on Christmas Eve." said Mrs. Claus.
"And since this Christmas Eve is over, you'll have to wait until next year," Santa added.
"I can't wait until next year! I got a life to get back to. People will miss me!"
"I'm sorry, Chrissy, but we just don't have any way of getting you home otherwise."
"You can't just take me anytime? Have an elf fly the sleigh?"
"If people saw Santa's sleigh flying around on any other night than Christmas Eve that would be a scandal."
"But a whole year!"
"You're not a prisoner. You can walk away anytime. But this is the North Pole. You won't get very far." said Mrs. Claus. "And I couldn't bear to see my baby boy get hurt again." She kissed me on the forehead, while groping my ****, as she said this.
"But you have it good here. Free food and board...a warm bed...hot cocoa...and Mrs. Claus and I to sexually satisfy you, ho, ho, ho!" Santa said. "All you have to do for a year is relax and enjoy great sex. Ho, ho, ho!"
"And the elves can have a break, Santa," Mrs. Claus said.
"Well, we'll see about that. Chrissy is hot and all, but I do like my little elves," said Santa, "ho, ho, ho!"
"But not me..." Mrs. Claus said sadly.
"Oh, honey, I do love you," Santa said. "But yes, I need something else sexually. Heck, half the reason I took the job I do on Christmas Eve was to be able to **** so many different people. Like Chrissy! Ho, ho, ho!"
Santa grabbed my face again and kissed me, saying, "don't worry. You'll like it here. Ho, ho, ho!"
Mrs. Claus grabbed my dick again and got close to me too, whispering, "I guarantee it."
And that was my experience with Santa and Mrs. Claus. Ho, ho, ho!

My last outfir but different ✨️ haha

Pretty femboy . Three different pictures which one is the best

I never really got into crossdressing until about 7 years ago, (I am 47) but it always in me and sometimes it would come out, Halloween especially, another reason I love that season.
But looking back, one of my first memories was locking myself in my older sister's room and getting caught in her dress. I think I was born to crossdress.
Now I have been single a long time and I live alone so I am free to express myself I find Cat was definitely always there, I am not one for regrets, but I wish I had set Cat free years ago, but it was a different world then.
I am pleased and thankful the Cat can come out of the bag now, even if the bag is hidden in closet.

Hey guys some story time
I was home alone so wanted to dress as g i r l but also was feeling so h o r n y so i took my new pair of revealing outfits wore them and got as much drunk as i could and then i took my you know the toy and did it 3 times in 3 different positions it felt so good it felt like heaven and also more drunkness added that extra icing to it
that was it
I think you should try it too
Ok bye

Cross-dressing allows individuals to explore and express different facets of their personality and identity that they may not be able to in their everyday lives due to societal expectations. This can lead to a greater sense of honesty and congruency with their inner feelings, helping them to feel more complete and authentic.