I had just finished fastening the last hidden hook at the back of my turquoise gown when the knock came. Five soft raps. Familiar. Unhurried. For a moment my heart stuttered, the old reflex, the ancient fear and my hands flew to the veil as if I could suddenly disappear beneath it. No one ever came unannounced anymore. At sixty four, surprises usually meant doctors or delivery drivers. Then I recognised the rhythm. Only one person still knocked like that. “Don’t answer,” I whispered to myself. But I already knew I would. I moved toward the door, satin whispering around my legs, chiffon brushing my cheeks. Each step felt like a small confession. When I opened it, there she stood, Margaret. “Well,” she said gently, taking a long appraisal at me from headscarf to hem, “you’ve finally gone back to turquoise.” The relief hit me so hard I had to grip the doorframe. She didn’t gasp. Didn’t stare. Didn’t ask. She stepped inside as if this were the most ordinary thing in the world. Margaret and I had known each other forty years. We met in a crossdressing support group that didn’t dare use honest language, two frightened middle aged men pretending we were only “curious.” We had survived marriages, divorces, children, funerals, health scares, church shame, private wardrobes, public disguises. She was the only one who knew about her, the other side of me and about my wife, about the promise I made to bury this part of myself with her. Then she laughed a low, delighted laugh I hadn’t heard in years. “Well,” she said, stepping back to take me in properly, “someone’s been practising.” “And someone,” I replied, eyes dropping pointedly to her coat, “is hiding something under there.” She raised one eyebrow, theatrical as ever, and swept inside without another word. In the sitting room she removed her coat slowly, with ceremony. Underneath, she bloomed. Lavender satin skirt, soft as spilled dusk. A pearl-grey blouse with tiny buttons marching down its front. Her shoulders were draped in a pale mourning shawl, but beneath it shimmered a corset modest, yes, but unmistakably intentional. Her hair still stubbornly silver and short was crowned with a small violet fascinator tilted at a hopeful angle. We stared at each other. Then, at exactly the same moment, we burst into laughter. “Oh my God,” she said, clutching the back of a chair. “Look at us.” “Two antique chandeliers,” I said. “With arthritis.” She crossed the room and turned me gently by the shoulders toward the mirror. “Look properly,” she said. And I did. Two elderly figures in satin and chiffon and stubborn colour, layered with grief and courage and too many decades of silence. My turquoise against her lavender, mourning shades learning how to speak joy. “I never thought,” I said quietly, “that I’d be doing this at sixty four. With company.” “Better late than embalmed,” she replied. We helped each other settle in the armchairs, cushions adjusted, skirts arranged, veils tamed. She fixed my eyeliner with the same tenderness she’d used the last time we met. I fastened a hook she couldn’t quite reach at the back of her corset. Our hands lingered, not with desire, but with recognition. Tea became sherry. Sherry became stories. We spoke of first dresses bought in secret, of wigs hidden in lofts, of wives who never knew and wives who half knew and one who knew everything and loved anyway. We spoke of shame, of church halls, of changing rooms we never dared enter. At one point she stood and curtsied, wobbling dangerously. “Behold,” she announced, “the ghost of femininity past.” I applauded, carefully, so I didn’t spill my sherry. Later, when the light softened and the veil cast turquoise shadows across the wall, we grew quieter. “I was so lonely after Shirley died,” she said softly. “Not for another woman to replace her. For… this.” She gestured between us. “I know,” I said. And I did. Before she left, we stood by the door together, adjusting each other one last time, smoothing frills, straightening shawls, checking lipstick like two conspirators before a masquerade. “We should do this again,” she said. “Regularly,” I said at once. “Before courage changes its mind.” She smiled. “You know,” she said gently, “we don’t have to call it mourning forever.” I watched her walk away in lavender, support cane tapping, skirt swaying stubbornly against time. When I closed the door, the house no longer felt like a place of echoes. It felt like a dressing room. And for the first time in a very long life, I looked forward not to remembering, but to the next time I would become myself with someone who truly understood.

Hello I just dropped by to say hello. My bio explains why I’m here .

Nice to meet you

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.

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.

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."

Want to talk to some sexy crossdressers, profile wont let me load photos so if you would like drop me a message and maybe we can exchange some sexy picts

After my MTF Transition, I’m dating as a girl now. Do I have to tell guys I wasn’t born one? Yes or hell no? Like and drop your answer here https://youtube.com/shorts/cxgVdgL0sxw?si=eQ8IjWxrZnLCRZix #crossdresser #crossdressing #femboy #crossdressers #sissy #dating #nylon #heel

Good morning! Sending love to anyone out there who is happy to accept it. Hope your Sunday is silky smooth and puts a smile on your face. I've got a lot to do today, but if anyone would like to distract me with a bit of chat, naughty or nice, drop me a line. Xxx

Thought I'd drop another pic of my assassin suit. Might delete

(For those that can Read)
No Time To Waste

A CD that I've been chatting with for some time got in touch and asked if I had time to pop over for a very quick visit, he only had a 40 minutes window of opportunity.
We were both on the no mess side of fun in both ways, we knew it was all about pleasure and I made sure it was also about Feeding.
With a short 40 minutes window I knew I would have to be ready when I arrived at his place, my lingerie was on under my Joggers, I made is as simple as possible, Stocking Tights, Sheer Thong, Tight Black matching lace Crop top under my Hoodie, that just left my Stilettos in my bag of guddies.
I arrived at his at the exact time, 9:30am and he let me in, I could see he was also dressed ready under his robe, oddly enough he went for a Bodystocking with Thong and Stilettos also in black, while removing our normal clothing we chatted more and agreed to just get on with it.
We stood in the living room and I bent over and pulled his Thong down and off, like me if he is cold or nervous his co ck starts off very small, I love this bit, because just for a little moment I can get all his Sacks and Co ck in my mouth in one, rolling them round giving them a good sucking and gentle stretch, this only lasted a couple of minutes before he started to get hard, at this point he got me up and removed my Thong and pushed me onto the sofa, grabbed my knees in each hand, spread me wide and sucked me in exactly the same way, a few minutes later I was solid, he then got me up and took me into the bedroom where he got on the bed, lay down lifted his legs back and spread ready, I climbed on top and placed my arms in front of each leg holding them back, sliding down ready to work my Feeding Stick in front of me, he had reached round to my legs which I spread either side of his head (69) our favourite feeding position, he pulled my legs apart a little more until I was already in his mouth, he wasted no time at all in starting his extraction, me also, dropping down onto his valve, working it best I could, I loved being on top as you always seem to get more co ck to suck, but when Feeding I prefer to be underneath so I get every drop.
He was really going for it on my Feeding Stick, he knew my weekness, putting his lips just behind my head, sucking 2 or 3 inches back and forth up and down my shaft, tight as he could, I knew his weakness was his sensitive Co ck Head, so I sucked extra on his head between shaft slides, then back to his head again, I could tell he was doing better than me as only about 15 minutes had gone when I was getting close, he knew it too, sucking faster and tighter, in my excitement I got faster too, I shot my little load into his mouth which went down instantly, he kept sucking till he had every drop, I quickly said swap, and we rolled over, so his Feeding Stick was now in my mouth, I carried on from underneath sucking on his head and shaft, a few minutes later he started to moan, I knew my gift was on its way, my gift of food for my hard work, I was so thankful when his shaft started to pulsate and pump, he filled my mouth twice, I felt quite bad that I could not give him as much... After I extracted every drop and thanked him for his generous deposit, he got ready for work and I left for home, ready for my next feed....

Coz I lyk attention n ppl on ere r borin wit the whole this isnt a porn site crap drop me a message n tell me wat u wnt 2 c lol

Good evening sweets! I'm off to work. But thought I'd leave you with a story. More: http://chrissyinsd.hotviber.com/
#crossdresser #sissy #sissyboy #crossdressers #sissies #shemale #ladyboy #femboy #femman #femboys #crossdressing #gurl #trans #transgirl #transwoman #transgender #tgirl #gay #lgbtq #nsfw #adultsonly #adultcontent

Chrissy on the Hillcrest Bus

The bus hissed as it opened its doors on University Avenue, right in the heart of Hillcrest, San Diego’s famous gay neighborhood. I climbed aboard, heart racing a little faster than usual. On the outside I was in my “boy clothes” — plain pants, a simple shirt — but underneath I was my secret self: Chrissy Marie Tunnell. Pink floral panties hugged my smooth hips, a matching bra cupped my chest, and tiny flashes of trans-colored jewelry — a ring, a dangling earring — shimmered in the afternoon light.

I wasn’t fully comfortable living openly as a girl yet, but I loved leaving little clues for anyone observant enough to notice.

As I walked down the aisle, I felt eyes on me. One man’s gaze dropped to where the pink waistband of my panties peeked above my pants. Another tilted his head just enough to catch the faint outline of my bra straps beneath the thin cotton of my shirt. My jewelry glinted when the bus jolted, and I knew they’d seen the colors.

Their eyes followed me hungrily as I slid into a seat halfway down. Even the bus driver, watching through the mirror, licked his lips and adjusted in his chair.

“Hey…” one man finally said, his voice a mix of awe and lust. “You’re Chrissy… the trans model, aren’t you?”

My cheeks burned, but I gave a shy smile. “Yes.”

A low whistle came from the back. “Damn. You should take those clothes off.”

I laughed nervously, shaking my head. “I can’t here…”

Then the driver’s voice, gravelly but warm, floated down the aisle: “It’s okay. I won’t say anything.” His eyes met mine in the mirror, daring me.

A shiver ran through me. My body trembled with a mix of nerves and arousal as I stood up slowly, the bus swaying beneath my feet. I grabbed the metal pole for balance, slipped off my shirt one button at a time, and slid my pants down my thighs. Gasps and murmurs spread as I revealed my pink bra and panties, smooth legs, and the bulge already straining with need.

“Goddamn…” someone whispered.

I posed for them, turning so they could see the curve of my ass, bending just enough to make my cheeks round and full under the thin fabric. I arched my back, running my hands down my torso, teasing myself for their eyes. The air hummed with catcalls and whistles, every sound feeding my arousal.

I felt powerful. Desired. Exposed.

The driver adjusted his mirror again, his eyes glued to me. My **** twitched inside my panties, leaking, the wet spot spreading. A chorus of moans and encouragement filled the bus as I spread my legs, cupped myself through the silky fabric, and let them watch my face flush and my chest rise and fall with each deep breath.

I was their show, their Chrissy, their secret ******* on wheels.

Chrissy’s Bus Show – The Climax
The bus swayed along the road, but I barely noticed. Every set of eyes was on me — hungry, wide, devouring. I stood in the aisle in nothing but my pink floral bra and panties, my smooth skin glistening under the fluorescent lights, my **** straining the damp satin.

“Do it, Chrissy,” someone whispered, voice husky with need.

“Yes… show us,” another begged.

The encouragement hit me like waves of heat. I hooked my thumbs under the band of my panties, tugged them tight against my bulge, and let out a trembling gasp. My **** pulsed, the wet spot spreading. The riders groaned, some openly rubbing themselves as they watched.

I spread my legs wider, arched my back, and cupped myself through the silky fabric. The friction was maddening. My hips bucked, the panties darkening with each spurt of precum.

“God, look at you,” the bus driver moaned from the mirror, his knuckles white on the wheel.

The passengers cheered me on, clapping, catcalling, shouting my name. “Chrissy! Chrissy!”

I slid one hand up my chest, over my flat stomach, to my bra — tugging at the cups, making my nipples stand hard under the lace. My other hand rubbed furiously over the soaked bulge, grinding, stroking, teasing myself to the edge.

The entire bus rocked with my moans. My thighs quivered, my lips parted, sweat dripping down my temples. I was lost in it, lost in them, lost in the rush of being seen.

Then it hit.

“Ahhh—!” My body seized, **** jerking uncontrollably as I came hard in my panties. Hot, sticky release poured out, soaking the pink fabric, running down my thighs. Gasps and cheers filled the air, some passengers clapping, others moaning with me as if they’d climaxed, too. (continued in comments below):


-Chrissy

Good afternoon my darlings. I hope the week is winding well towards the weekend for you. If you find yourself twiddling your texting thumb drop me a line for a chat

Joanne's kinky night on the golf course.
Joanne (48, a librarian by day, a siren of the twilight by night) adjusted the black lace bra & panties set and stockings, its delicate fabric a stark contrast to the rough texture of the damp grass beneath her bare feet & slipped on her black heels. The golf course, usually a scene of quiet precision, was her personal stage tonight. A setting sun cast long, skeletal shadows, transforming the manicured greens into an ethereal landscape. Tonight’s performance featured a selection of rather… large props nestled in her oversized handbag: a collection of vibrant, sculpted silicone anal toys, each promising a different kind of ecstatic violation of her arse. Her camera & tripod, a trusty Canon EOS, hung from her shoulder, ready to capture the all the moments of her self-expression, her daring exhibitionism & dizzy hights of pleasure under the watchful gaze of the setting sun. She hoped, with a thrill that sent a shiver down her spine, that someone, some stranger, would stumble upon her, witness her transgressive ritual.

Suddenly, a flicker of movement in the periphery – a woman, stood silently among the shifting light and shadows, motionless all but a slight movement under her top, was she caressing her breast, Joanne couldn’t quite see through the lengthening shadows cast by the warm light now fading sun, she walked silently towards her, her eyes transfixed upon Joannes hand, now clutching a black 18 inch silicone dildo, dripping with lube, with an unnerving glance and a very slight but nervous smile, she said nothing, her hand was on her breast squeezing it quite intensely. Joanne, momentarily startled, didn't scream or run. Instead, a perverse curiosity overcame her fear. This was unexpected, far beyond her usual nocturnal escapades, but something she had fantasised about for many years.
The woman approached, gazing at her discarded panties laying on the grass, then curiously picked them up & inspecting them, “nice” she softly said, “ don’t mind me, I’m happy to see what you intend doing with your toys” Joanne tried to talk, but her mouth was dry with fear and she trembled with anticipation of what this evening may become, one of the anal toys she had not long before putt in her arse was slipping, she could feel the lube running down her leg, then it did, it dropped from her & their it laid out on the dew-kissed grass! OMG, I’m so embarrassed Joanne squeaked like a fool, the woman smiled as she gazed upon the size of the slippery escapee, the woman took a few more steps towards Joanne, she was just inches from her trembling body, she could smell her musk perfume hanging in the air, she wasn’t young, perhaps in her early fifties with dark but dies hair, pale skin and piercing blue eyes “turn around” she spoke in soft Irish accent that was calming and sweet. Joanne obliged and turned her back to her, she felt the woman’s hand upon hers slowly taking the long black snakelike toy from Joanne’s hand, with a gentleness Joanne hadn’t felt since being in the company of her mother she felt a hand gently caress her back and ever so gently pushed her into a bent over position, in that moment she felt she was in the most amazing place had ever known, to her amaze the woman slowly pushed the toy into her arse, not working it in and out but with one long slow determine push, it slid all the way into her arse. With the lady now leaning into Joannes back, her perfume intense in Joanne’s nose it was almost like a drug, sending her into a heavenly blissful trance. The woman took her other hand reached around to grasp Joannes ****, it was so cool, soft and gentil, almost childlike, slowly teasing her fingers over the tip, playing with a small drop of precum that she found dripping from the head, this seemed to go on for a eternity, slowly increasing the rhythm and grip, Joanne could feel her pleasure building as her shaft grew harder and harder, she slipped one hand behind her and found the top of the woman’s shorts and panty line, slowly she slid her hand down to the woman’s neatly shaved vulva, but just at that brief moment of contact Joanne burst bout a great grown and stood shaking all over from head to foot, her hot moist seamen flowed from her the woman’s grasp, falling to the floor and landing on Joannes discarded panties.
Feeling a little faint, Joanne fell to her stocking clan knees, then to her hands, panting like a hot hound and quivering like a leaf on a tree she couldn’t believe what had just happened, composing herself she turned to face the mystery woman, she had gone, as silently as she had appeared, the sing that she had ever been present was a small white flower laying next to Joanne’s now spoilt panties.

Hello there!
Anyone still awake for a chat?
My head's full of fun, fetish and fantasies. If you wanna tap into that and can handle a little sass, drop me a line xxx

So I try to make it a habit of not showing over the top nudity most know stuff like that I pm them,but get on Instagram and the buttcheeks plugged buts everywhere,so tbh cant say my pics are ligit that horrible,also ig is not a porn site either,its social media...like this,so the next person who tells me this isn't a porn site and my pics are gross how about keep your personal feelings out,I get some of use aren't feminine nor have the booty to make panties look right but if you feel good enough about to post it im happy for you truly but if your to self conscious about don't go and berate someone on guidelines and nudity and totally drop the ball because there really isn't any....just keep it to yourself if your insecure some of will help you but there also not our issues

Just passed 1000 views on this. Thank you to anyone on here who watched it. I’m keen to make more vids so drop me your suggestions.
https://m.youtube.com/shorts/Sy-03IyrXD0

Messy knickers
Drop me a messege if you wanna see the end result

I think this is how every sissy slut should stand in front of a strong Alpha man who wants too use us as they see fit.
#drop your panties.

When in Bournemouth I thought I would get some beach ware xx
Some of you girls on here are absolutely stunningly drop dead gorgeous and the romantic in me wishes we could go on a flirty date I know I can’t compete but I am just a guy exploring an exciting new feeling and world xx
Thank you all for kind words since I have been here

Lip gloss that shines like her obedience Thigh-highs clinging to her shame A collar that says "I'm owned" Blush that never fades, just like her need to please“When you're made to be seen, not heard.”Silent. Soft. Stunning. Just how ******** likes her — Which one’s your favorite, princess? Drop it in the comments —#ObedientPrincess #SissyMoodboard #FeminizationFantasy #SissyAesthetic #SoftGirlObsession #LipGlossObedience #ThighHighDreams #CollaredCutie #MadeToPlease #BimboMood

#h Lip gloss that shines like her obedience Thigh-highs clinging to her shame A collar that says "I'm owned" Blush that never fades, just like her need to please“When you're made to be seen, not heard.”Silent. Soft. Stunning. Just how ******** likes her — Which one’s your favorite, princess? Drop it in the comments —#ObedientPrincess #SissyMoodboard #FeminizationFantasy #SissyAesthetic #SoftGirlObsession #LipGlossObedience #ThighHighDreams #CollaredCutie #MadeToPlease #BimboMood
#horny
#video call

Lip gloss that shines like her obedience Thigh-highs clinging to her shame A collar that says "I'm owned" Blush that never fades, just like her need to please“When you're made to be seen, not heard.”Silent. Soft. Stunning. Just how ******** likes her — Which one’s your favorite, princess? Drop it in the comments —#ObedientPrincess #SissyMoodboard #FeminizationFantasy #SissyAesthetic #SoftGirlObsession #LipGlossObedience #ThighHighDreams #CollaredCutie #MadeToPlease #BimboMood

Hello ladies
I spent the day trying on all of my clothes and deciding which items I just don't reach for anymore
I made up a bag of clothes and dropped them off to my local charity shop....as is always the way I made the mistake of having a browse through the racks. I was good though, only bought three items, this black faux suede jacket (so soft to touch) the dusky pink mini skirt and a blue cocktail dress which is brand new with tags....score

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

Listen up, world, catch this brand new verse,
'Bout love that has no limits, no curse.
Doesn't matter who you are, boy to boy, girl to girl,
If a spark ignites, throw prejudice out of your world.
The heart doesn't choose by old rules they wrote,
It just beats on, giving its special light, note by note.
And if your world is colored not like the rest,
It means you're unique, truly blessed.

Let the haters hate, let them whisper behind,
Your truth is the power, always with you, you'll find.
Raise the flag of your soul high, don't be shy,
'Cause in this diversity, real life does lie!

The rainbow beat pounds in the chest, can't be stopped,
Love is love, it can't be forbidden, can't be dropped!
Two hearts in unison, whatever their gender's call,
It's pure magic, the greatest thrill of all!
So live and love, breathe deeply, be bold,
The world gets brighter from the truth you hold!

Someone will find their happiness where others didn't expect,
Build their own world, where only good laws connect.
Two hands will intertwine, two gazes find their reply,
And in this union, no doubt or sorrow will lie.
This is the path to yourself, through thorns to your stars bright,
Being honest with yourself – that's our main instinct and light.
And everyone deserves to be understood, accepted right here,
'Cause in each of us, a special song is clear.

Let the haters hate, let them whisper behind,
Your truth is the power, always with you, you'll find.
Raise the flag of your soul high, don't be shy,
'Cause in this diversity, real life does lie!

The rainbow beat pounds in the chest, can't be stopped,
Love is love, it can't be forbidden, can't be dropped!
Two hearts in unison, whatever their gender's call,
It's pure magic, the greatest thrill of all!
So live and love, breathe deeply, be bold,
The world gets brighter from the truth you hold!

'Cause we're all under one sky, by the same moon's light,
And everyone seeks warmth, understanding, love's true height.
Not walls to build, but bridges across hearts,
So the music of life plays without end, without starts.
Acceptance – that's the key that opens all doors around,
My friend, this is the truth, on solid ground.

The rainbow beat...
for everyone...
without limits...
Roxana said it - so it is...
Peace and love.

Good morning my femme fashioned friends. If you fancy a bit of a natter over a cup of tea then drop me a line xxx

These just arrived
Little tight but I don't mind stretching things out a little so..
higher than my usual, but that makes them great for slut drops lol

Hey babes!

Lately I’ve been thinking about maybe starting a long-term connection with a boy — nothing super serious right away, just building something sweet and deep over time.

I’m definitely a princess at heart (and proud of it!) So if anyone’s thinking about stepping into my world, they better be ready to treat me like royalty!

What do you think, lovelies? I’d love to hear your thoughts — drop a comment or slide into my DMs!

Evening everyone. Enjoying the sun? I really need to get lithe again, want that beach body! Anyone free for a chat, drop me a line xxx

Drop me a follow on YouTube x
https://www.youtube.com/shorts/rAbZFvDf5EU

drop me a follow on YouTube:
https://www.youtube.com/shorts/-ev7-YAIUdE

Hey I’m bored come entertain me drop me a message if you think you can handle me

Oops dropped my phone

My car broke down, can you drop me off in the city? Video: https://youtu.be/wQF86HYp3Ck?si=nBdwHsqGWQgW2LYa #crossdresser #crossdressing #femboy #crossdressers #mtf

(Visit from Tanya) STORY

I got chatting to Tanya a while back, I won't use her real name as it's not for me to do so.
One of the things that brought us together was our interest in our other Hobbies, in this case Model Building and Retro Games Machines, we chatted for hours about the subject and one day he was working away and passing Derby, after chatting about not being dressed up and that the Wife was here and the simple excuse for him popping round, that's exactly what he did.
He arrived and my wife just assumed he was a friend from work into modelling, we headed into my workshop where we shut the door and I showed him all my models and was leaning over my work table when he noticed my Tights above my Joggers, he just reached over slid his hand down my joggers and round to the front where he gently grabbed my co CK in his hand..
This startled me as it was sudden and unexpected but it soon changed, before I knew what happened my joggers were at my ankles, he spun me round revealing my hard co CK in Stockings Tights, Black with sheer stripes, I was not wearing any underwear as usual so my co CK was in his mouth immediately, sucking up and down my shaft.
At the same time he was messing with his joggers and before long they were off revealing Tights, he pulled them down revealing a larger Hard ****, probably about 7" ISH, he was already hard, he was playing with his co ck at the same time as sucking mine, after several minutes intense non stop sucking I was getting close, he knew it and got quicker and more intense, I could not hold it any longer and Shot my juice into his mouth, he swallowed every drop without question...
He then pulled me down to my knees and stood up, sliding his co CK into my mouth, he grabbed my head either side and used me as his Fu CK toy, thrusting my head up and down his shaft, each thrust catching the back of my throat, my head sliding forward and back constantly with his hands, after several more minutes I could sense he was getting close, he started to moan, and suddenly my mouth was filled with his juice, I swallowed as fast as I could but it was full again, three more swallows before I could get it all down...
FFS wow that was Amazing... I said, thank you..
We got ourselves composed and back to normal just in time for a knock on the Workshop Door, my wife shouting A cup of Tea for you both, we went out for our drinks and a regular chat with the wife....
.............
Hope you enjoyed this Story, plenty more Stories in the "CD Stories Group" xx

I am off out for the day, but will leave you with a banging tune! Feel free to drop any song suggestions in the comments as i love hearing new songs! any genre welcome. https://youtu.be/j34juXrJWqw?si=gAPNUEfb-lIK4ITQ

Good Monday morning to all you beautiful souls Hope you all had a pleasant weekend. I know mine was definitely short but sweet. Did some online shopping & dropped a couple hundred dollars on some fantastic fem fashions at my favorite place, Am**on. Photo sessions coming up soon 🙆🏼‍♀️
Have a great safe week!

Hi guys and girls. If you get the chance could you drop me a follow on YouTube xxx
https://m.youtube.com/channel/UCiiNCFK_iz3bS9sxCqU8K8g

Please like and share my videos on YouTube. Also drop me a follow x

https://m.youtube.com/shorts/UFtVRDEE00o