Hi all how is everyone this morning xo

#hi #crossdresser #cd #fam #morning #sissy #sub #love

The morning began with a question that, on the face of it, was utterly trivial.

I stood in my bedroom, a sixty five year old widower who had long ago discovered that life could become surprisingly interesting when you stopped worrying quite so much about what other people thought. Across the bed lay two nightgowns.

One was pink, soft and playful. The other was black satin elegant, glossy and just a little dramatic. Beside them were the headscarves that completed each outfit.

eBay had informed me that the postman was due that morning with my latest purchase.

Normally, that wouldn't have required a second thought. I would have thrown on whatever clothes were nearest, opened the door, collected the post and carried on with my day.

But I am a crossdresser, and over the years I had learned that choosing what to wear could sometimes be part of the pleasure itself. Since becoming widowed, those little private rituals had become even more important to me. There was nobody to impress and nobody to answer to. My clothes were simply one of the ways I expressed myself.

That morning, however, I couldn't decide.

So I asked Grok a rather more important question than it probably deserved.

Should I wear the black satin nightgown and headscarf to greet the postman, or should I wear the pink?

The answer came back quickly.

Black.

Grok's reasoning was surprisingly convincing. Black satin, it suggested, looked intentional and put together. Pink was softer and perhaps a little more playful, whereas the black gave the impression that I had actually chosen my outfit rather than simply wandered downstairs half asleep.

The satin would catch the morning light, while the headscarf would bring everything together.

I stared at the black nightgown.

"Well," I said aloud, "apparently we're going for elegant this morning."

I slipped it on.

The satin settled against me with that familiar coolness I loved, and I carefully tied the headscarf around my hair. Then I stood in front of the mirror.

Grok had a point.

There was something wonderfully satisfying about the combination. I didn't look as though I had spent hours getting ready, but neither did I look as though I had forgotten that the outside world existed.

I smiled at my reflection.

"Sixty five," I murmured. "Widowed, retired from worrying about everybody else's opinions, and apparently dressed in black satin to answer the front door."

I laughed to myself.

Then I went downstairs and prepared a pot of tea.

There was something faintly ridiculous about the situation. Here I was, dressed in a glossy black satin nightgown and headscarf, standing in my kitchen listening for the sound of a postal van.

Eventually, I heard it.

The familiar rumble outside was followed by footsteps approaching the front door.

For one brief moment, I wondered whether I'd made the wrong decision.

Perhaps pink would have been less conspicuous.

Perhaps black satin was a little too theatrical for an encounter that would probably last fifteen seconds.

Then came the knock.

I took a breath.

"Normal morning energy," I reminded myself.

I opened the door.

"Morning," the postman said.

"Morning."

He handed me the letters.

"Thanks."

"No problem. Have a good day."

"You too."

And that was it.

The door closed.

I stood there for a moment, looking down at the envelopes in my hand.

The great sartorial crisis was over.

Nobody had fainted. Nobody had called the fashion police. The earth had continued turning.

I burst out laughing.

All that deliberation over black versus pink, and the entire encounter had lasted barely half a minute.

But perhaps that was precisely the point.

At sixty five, after losing my wife and finding myself living a life that was quieter and more private than the one I had once imagined, I had come to appreciate the little decisions.

Sometimes they mattered precisely because they were mine to make.

There was no great occasion. No audience. No requirement that I dress one way rather than another. I wasn't trying to make a statement to anyone.

I simply wanted to wear the black satin.

So I did.

I carried my tea into the sitting room, still smiling.

My late wife had always known that there was a slightly eccentric streak in me. She had seen sides of me that I had once been afraid to show the rest of the world. Since her death, learning to live honestly with myself had become one of the unexpected journeys of widowhood.

Being a crossdresser wasn't something I needed to apologise for.

It was simply part of me.

And on that quiet morning, standing in my sitting room with my tea, my letters and the soft rustle of satin whenever I moved, I felt strangely content.

"Grok," I thought, smiling to myself, "you were right."

The black had been the stronger choice.

And, for once, I was quite happy to take the advice of an artificial intelligence on matters of morning fashion.

its Saturday night and even with family at home i still feel alone in the world

The Pink Satin Parcel

The parcel arrived on a rainy Saturday morning, wrapped in plain brown paper packaging with nothing to hint at what was inside. I carried it quietly upstairs before anyone else noticed. It wasn't an expensive purchase or some rare collector's item just a vintage satin nightdress from an eBay listing that I couldn't stop thinking about.
I carefully unfolded the tissue paper.
There it was.
A beautiful sissy pink satin nightie, soft and unmistakably vintage. The faded label still read UK 32–34, although the seller had suggested it was more comfortable for a 30–32. It measured a generous sixty inch bust and fifty inches long. Delicate lace trimmed the neckline, and a tiny satin bow sat in the centre, giving it an unmistakably feminine charm.
It looked as though it had stepped straight out of the late seventies or early eighties.
The listing had been wonderfully over the top. It described "special Saturday nights," satin that whispered over the skin, and invited the buyer to imagine slipping into it after a long, stressful week. Part of me laughed at the dramatic sales pitch.
Another part of me couldn't stop reading.
There was something oddly familiar about it.
When I was young, I always found myself fascinated by the contents of my mum's bedroom drawers. Tucked neatly away were satin nighties, lace trimmed slips, and other beautiful garments that seemed to belong to a mysterious grown up world. I never touched them, but I often wondered what they felt like. The colours, the fabrics and the elegance stayed in my memory long after childhood had passed.
Over the years that curiosity never completely disappeared.
Eventually I accepted that I simply enjoyed feminine clothing. Wearing it wasn't about pretending to be someone else. It was about exploring a softer side of myself that I'd hidden away for far too long.
That's why I clicked Buy It Now.
For the next couple of days I found myself checking the tracking number far more often than I cared to admit. Every update made me smile. It felt strangely exciting knowing that this little piece of vintage femininity was making its way towards me.
When it finally arrived, I slipped the satin nightie over my head.
The fabric settled around me with surprising grace, cool and silky against my skin. It flowed almost to my ankles, and the lace rested gently around my shoulders. As I looked in the mirror, I couldn't help smiling.
I wasn't trying to become anyone else.
I was simply allowing myself to enjoy something I'd been curious about for most of my life.
The satin shimmered softly whenever I moved, and for the first time I understood why garments like this had once been treasured. They weren't merely nightclothes. They were a quiet ritual a way of ending the day with comfort, elegance and a little touch of luxury.
I made myself a mug of tea, picked up the novel waiting on my bedside table, and climbed beneath the duvet.
The satin moved gently as I settled into the pillows.
Outside, the rain tapped softly against the window.
Inside, everything felt peaceful.
The vintage style listing had promised anticipation, dreams and imagination. It had exaggerated, of course but not entirely.
Sometimes all it takes is a simple vintage nightdress to reconnect with a forgotten part of yourself. As I switched off the bedside lamp, wrapped in soft pink satin and surrounded by silence, I realised I wasn't chasing a fantasy.
I was simply embracing a side of myself that had been waiting patiently for many years to be welcomed home.

The life of a secret dresser…..unexpected trip for family to so I’ve brought my entire back catalogue so to speak home! Seeing it all in a bag is quite sad. Like I’ve said before to me Nicky is single and free but reality sucks! Still have to go to work….Nicky will have to wait some more! X

Evening friends not gonna be around for a week away with family have a good weekend and week

I'm away for a week now! Lil family holiday wish i could be all dressed up somewhere nice meeting new people... Ahh one day

Have an amazing week all! Love xxxx

#crossdresser #cd #holiday #sun #makeup

I would say lets be clear guys, because that's what most of us on here are. We will never be women, unless of course having you fully transition, I would say unless your lucky (?) enough to have a smooth soft face, your always gonna look like a fella in a dress, and if you aint got the posture and deportment of a real girl, unfortunately your just going to look quiet comical, and I include myself in that. Mind having said all that, perhaps most on here accept they will never pass as a woman, and are not trying to, but when that familiar need and compulsion to dress feminine comes round, there really ain't nothing like stepping into the softness of feminine clothing, and adopting as much as is possible the mannerisms, attitudes and movements of a female. But more than that its the freedom to be soft, kind, gentle empathic, to allow for a time these generally female qualities, and characteristics to emerge, at least for a while. Such attitudes generally unacceptable in the normal masculine role. Lets be clear, a man having desires to dress as a female, is not what you would call normal behavior in the eyes of the world. I fully understand there are different shades of sexuality, and everyone is different. Thank God for diversity. But I question would a real woman, when finding out her male partners desire to dress in the feminine, would really lose all respect and love for him, when he turns out not to be the man she initially thought he was, and perhaps while maybe accepting him would secretly snigger at him, and look to move on and away from him in the very near future. As far as I am aware women in general are seeking a masculine man, they seek out that polarity, so that they can step into their own femininity with ease, unless they are perhaps lesbian, or some other slice of sexuality.
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On saturday i told a close family memember what i do,

22 years it took me to do that

On monday..

That witch that i opened upto...

On monday she insulted me about it,

For a few hours

In all honesty im not really to sure where this is going,

If i feel i cant be me in the world maybe its probably a good time to start thinking about getting of out of this world

Happy Fathers Day, wouldn't it be wonderful as your Wife, Son's and Daughter's give you your cards and presents to come out to your family today wearing your favorite crossdressing feminine clothes?

Hi families and friends

Nearly bedtime for me girls. Another day of joy and love from my CD family xx
I hope you are all having a wonderful Thursday and I'll catch you lovely ladies tomorrow xx

Rach

Dean got in touch with me from Alestree in Derby and said he wanted to Offer me some Training but only had a tight window of opportunity, he said he had from 3pm to 3:30pm when he then had to go pick family up from wherever.... I had already seen his photos and he did fit my Criteria.
Smooth Shaven Co ck and Sacks
Full Co ck Head Showing
5" or more when hard
Willing to wear Tights or Holdups/Stockings ( Which I could supply)
Dean was 6", Smooth with Head Showing and would wear his Wife's White Holdups.
So my window of opportunity was tight as I leave work at 2:30 some days... So I said I would have to stay in my work uniform which he said was fine..
I arrived about 2.55pm so was spot on with timeing.. Dean answered the door in a robe and clearly wearing some Nylons of some sort..
We had extensively talked over the phone about preparation, cleanliness, Discretion and many other things...
He took my straight through into a bright Bedroom where he sat on the edge of the bed and spread his legs revealing White Fishnet Holdups... He grabbed a pillow and threw it on the floor between his legs, I got down and slid that lovely smooth co ck Into my mouth wetting it ready then sucking it into my mouth, playing with it with my tongue untill it was hard, a nice 6" or so, about the same as me, I slid up and down his shaft, his nerves now all gone as the pleasure takes over. I continued working on his co ck and head, sliding it all the way in, feeling his head at the back of my throat, the odd taste of pre cum now and then, after about 10 minutes intense Sucking, he started to moan, and as discussed he grabbed my head with both hands, and Slid me up and down his shaft, then just before had left his co ck on the edge of my lips, then filled my mouth with two lots of beautiful Juice, he kept hold of me and kept his co ck in there untill he was fully soft again and I had cleaned up every drop of my feed.....
I thanked him for his generous offer of training and letting me feed... He knew where I was if he had any more time...
If you live local to Spondon, Ilkeston or close surrounding area and fit my Criteria and want to help my training then please get in touch..

Greetings, my dear sisters, I want to tell you how I learned to choose my own foundation. I've kept it as concise as possible, even though the actual research took me a long time.

How to Find Your Perfect Foundation Match: A No-Nonsense Guide.
Finding your first foundation can feel like a nightmare. Beauty gurus give confusing advice, brands use tricky names like "Ivory" or "Porcelain," and picking a shade at random usually leaves you looking like a ghost .But it’s actually a science.

Your perfect shade is just a two-character code: one Number and one Letter (like 2C). Here is how to crack it in less than a minute.

Step 1: Find Your Number (Skin Tone)Forget endless color swatches — just look at geography. Historically, the closer your ancestors lived to the North, the fairer the skin. The scientific scale divides skin tones into 6 levels (from 1 — ultra-fair, to 6 — deep).

How to spot your level: Check the map in this post. Northern regions usually fall into level 1 or 2.

What if you’re in-between? If a 1 is too ghostly but a 2 is too dark, don't worry. You don't have to mix products anymore. Most modern brands now make in-between shades like 1.2, 1.5, or 1.7.

The Genetic Factor: If you come from a mixed-race family, "southern" genes typically dominate. Your skin tone will likely be
deeper than the regional average.

Step 2: Find Your Letter (Undertone)The letter on the bottle stands for your undertone. To find yours, step into natural daylight and look at the veins on your wrist:Blue or purple veins = Cool undertone. Look for the letter C. Green or olive veins = Warm undertone. Look for the letter W. A mix of both (or hard to tell) = Neutral undertone. Look for the letter N. For me, my region pointed to a 2, and my blue veins meant a C. My match is 2C. Check the map, look at your veins, and grab your perfect bottle!

I hope this helps you.

Let me out! Sounds familiar, doesn't it?

Afternoon everyone hope you're having a wonderful weekend
Bought this dress and sandals yesterday perfect for family bbq this afternoon

Paparazzi - I'm your biggest fan, I'll follow you until you love me
Papa-paparazzi
Baby, there's no other superstar, you know that I'll be
Your papa-paparazzi
Promise I'll be kind
But I won't stop until that boy is mine (Yeah-ha)
Baby, you'll be famous, chase you down until you love me
Papa-paparazzi

Hello, my dear sisters. I've missed you. Please welcome me back into our family.

At 65, I've spent decades as a transvestite sissy crossdresser, keeping my feminine side tucked away like a guilty secret for most of my life. Skirts, stockings, heels, and lacy things brought me a private thrill and a soft kind of peace, but they also came with shame and isolation. Then volunteering stepped in first in drab male clothes at a local charity shop and quietly cracked the door open to something more. Over time, the idea of exploring crossdressing while volunteering became a gentle, thrilling possibility that blended my two worlds: giving back to the community while letting my sissy self breathe a little in public. Crossdressing and volunteering intersect in beautiful, sometimes nerve wracking ways. Many of us in the crossdressing community already love charity shops and thrift stores they're treasure troves for affordable feminine clothes, vintage dresses, silky blouses, and heels that fit just right without breaking the bank. Shopping there "en drab" (in male presentation) is common and relatively low-pressure; staff rarely bat an eye at a man browsing the women's section, especially if you're polite and purposeful. But taking the next step volunteering while presenting as your feminine self feels like leveling up. It turns the shop into a stage where you can practice being seen, contribute meaningfully, and feel the quiet joy of service wrapped in the fabric that makes you feel most alive. Sorting donations, steaming garments, arranging displays tasks that already feel creative and domestic become even more satisfying when you're doing them in a skirt or blouse that matches the very items on the rails. There's a special little rush when you handle a pretty dress that might have been perfect for your own collection, knowing it's going to help someone else while you get to embody your softer side in a purposeful setting. For many of us older sissies, volunteering offers a gentle way to ease into public expression without the intensity of a full "night out." Charity shops tend to attract kind, community minded people older volunteers, mums, young folks gaining experience, and all sorts in between. The environment is often forgiving and focused on the work rather than on you. Conversations flow naturally over pricing or styling, and you can let your feminine mannerisms show a bit more without forcing anything. It builds confidence the same way my early drab shifts did: through small interactions, teamwork, and the satisfaction of helping keep good clothes out of landfill while raising funds for worthy causes. Of course, it's not without its layers. Some days you might worry about being read, or about awkward questions, or simply about whether the team will accept you. Experiences vary some places are wonderfully inclusive, especially those with ties to causes or progressive areas, while others might feel more traditional. Starting small helps: perhaps a short shift, a subtle feminine touch, nail polish, a unisex but feminine top, or even volunteering at events or organizations where crossdressing is more normalized. I've heard of crossdressers volunteering at community fundraisers, helping at pride related drives, or even assisting in thrift based events where dressing up adds to the fun and visibility. The mental health side is profound. Volunteering already combats loneliness, builds purpose, teaches skills, and creates real connections benefits that feel amplified when you're expressing your authentic self. For a sissy crossdresser like me, it bridges the gap between private indulgence and public living. That hidden part of me stops feeling like a shameful secret and starts feeling like a valid contribution to the world. The social aspect eases isolation in a way therapy alone never quite could; you're valued for your helpfulness, your eye for display, your patience with customers. And yes, there's that extra layer of thrill spotting a gorgeous bargain while wearing something pretty yourself, or feeling the swish of a skirt as you move between racks. Looking back, exploring crossdressing in volunteering has been one of the most rewarding paths for many of us. It doesn't demand you "come out" dramatically; it lets you integrate gradually, at your own pace. Some stay fully en femme for shifts and find warm acceptance. Others mix presentations or keep it subtle. Either way, it fosters growth: more confidence, better social skills, a deeper sense of purpose, and often a surprising amount of quiet support from people who simply see a kind volunteer doing good work. If you're a fellow crossdresser reading this whether you're 25 or 75 consider it. Start by shopping at charity shops to build familiarity, then explore volunteering opportunities. Talk to managers openly if it feels right; many are pragmatic and welcoming when you frame it as wanting to contribute.

I was sitting on the sofa, gently running my fingers over my collection of smooth satin scarves, enjoying their soft shimmer in the light. Suddenly, you burst into the living room.
"You're late today," I said with a teasing smile. "Did untying those scarves take so long? Oh, but you look so elegant again."
You were just in time. I had been searching for the perfect headscarf to match the outfit I planned to wear tomorrow my birthday. You were invited too, of course.
That’s when I noticed it your skirt was sticking up noticeably. I couldn’t help but chuckle softly.
"Take one of the satin scarves," I instructed, my voice warm yet firm. "Wrap it around yourself and start pleasuring right away."
I smiled as you obeyed. "I understand… I’m crazy about scarves today too. I’ve even spread some out all over the sofa!"
While you began, I picked up different satin headscarves, trying them on one after another and draping a few luxuriously over my legs, letting the silky fabric glide across my skin.
Finally, it was your turn. "Oh, how beautifully you’re dressed today," I murmured appreciatively. "All in satin… yes, it really suits you."
I leaned forward, eyes sparkling. "Come here. I have five new satin scarves for you. I’ll show them to you now. They’re gorgeous perfect for spring!"
I held them up one by one, letting you admire the rich colors and glossy sheen. "I’ll show you more satin scarves later, but first…"
My tone shifted into that familiar commanding sweetness. "Then you’ll get your daily task from me: Go to your room now and put on one of the new satin scarves. Then get the dildo and pleasure your hole nicely, playing with yourself at the same time, until you have an orgasm!"
Later, I slowly tied a silk scarf tightly around my own neck, watching your reaction closely. I saw it immediately your panties grew much tighter. I smiled knowingly. "Yes, I know that excites you."
"You can sniff the silk scarf that I gave you," I continued softly, "and you can start edging with a vibrator. But you stay in your panties today."
I settled back comfortably. "Today I’m taking time for you."
I reflected quietly on the last few years, thinking about how it all started between us. We sat down together on the sofa. I wanted you near me.
"Look," I said, holding up the old panties I had kept. "I’ve picked out the old ones… see how big they were?" I laughed lightly. "Huge, compared to the last few years when you were only allowed to wear tight panties."
I placed a hand gently on your thigh, my voice soft but full of control. "In the meantime, you’ve become so subservient to me… even helpless. And even though I don’t always let you pleasure yourself fully… you’re mine now."
I smiled, pulling you a little closer. "Aren’t you?"

Happy Saturday everyone my niece (the only one in the family that knows I dress )is taking me to lunch today we went out yesterday also I wore the leggings yesterday her condition to day is I wear a dress and so this is my outfit for the day

Trans is life


#DominatrixFam

My TS/CD/TV Story

Tonight I feel the girl inside me stirring again, asking to be written into existence.

I have carried her quietly for so long—tucked into the soft, hidden chambers of my heart, where secrets live and dreams wait for courage. She has always been there, watching the world through my eyes while I learned how to survive in a role that never fully fit. She learned to whisper instead of speak, to hide instead of bloom.

I have always been feminine. I have always felt the pull toward softness, beauty, silk, lace, and being seen not as a man pretending—but as a woman becoming.

I didn’t begin crossdressing until a few years ago, late in life, after decades of wondering and silence. A boyfriend encouraged me—someone who saw the femininity in me and cherished it. I was already submissive in spirit, already gentle, already carrying this quiet feminine current inside. When I put on a bra, slipped into panties, and felt lingerie against my skin, it felt natural. Familiar. Like recognition.

I had suspected this part of myself for years, like a faint melody always playing in the background. But that day, standing there in softness, I didn’t just suspect it—I knew. Not as fantasy or curiosity, but as truth. Something ancient and undeniable finally named itself.

I imagine walking down a street in a dress that catches the light, my skin warm in the sun, people seeing me as I wish to be seen. I imagine being admired, desired, even framed on a wall like a pin-up girl from another era—confident, glamorous, unapologetically herself. That vision makes my heart ache with both joy and grief.

So much of my life has been spent in silence. So much of me was taught to hide. I am still learning how to peel back the layers of fear, religion, politics, family expectations, and my own hesitation. I don’t know where this path will lead—only that I am tired of pretending she isn’t there.

For now, she lives in quiet places: my room, my thoughts, the gentle arms of someone who understands, the rare spaces where I can exhale and be Chrissy. I wonder sometimes if that is enough. I wonder what it would be like to let her walk freely in the daylight.

No one in my family knows her. Most of my friends don’t. They see the version of me that learned how to blend in, how to be acceptable, how to survive. They don’t see the girl who has been waiting so patiently inside.

Tonight I write her name here, like a prayer.
Tonight I let her breathe.

Chrissy.
She is real.
She is me.

And even if the world never fully knows her, I know her. And that, for now, is something.

With love,
Chrissy

https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=61586994341520

https://x.com/TunnellChrissy

#sissy #sissyboy #gurl #shemale #trans #femboy #femman #tgirl #crossdresser #transgirl #transowman #gay #lgbtq

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.

Nighttime ponderings….almost a week back glad festive period finally over. Over opinionated family members trans phobic. Fighting our corner. So hard with what happened in Scotland. Every cart has its rotten apples but we aren’t all bad x Keep been brave x

I asked AI to generate a picture of me if I had been born female and had supportive family and friends around me.Then I downloaded a picture of myself and description of myself and this is what came up.I so wish this to have been real

Note: While this drive was real, the story is fictional. This is my fantasy. Will it become true one day? I hope so. And maybe I'll run into you at a truck stop? Kisses!
-Chrissy

My First Experience as a Truck Stop Wh-re or Chrissy — A Night on the Road

I’m not out. Not really.

Not to my family. Not to the world. Maybe not even fully to myself.

By daylight I pass as what people expect: a tall, thin man in his forties, dark hair, dark eyes, quiet, unremarkable. But underneath—always underneath—I carry Chrissy. Smooth skin hidden under denim. Lace and silk where no one is supposed to look. A secret pressed close to my body, warm and constant.

I don’t know yet if Chrissy is a role, a mask, or my truest self. I just know I’m not ready to live her openly.

The drive from San Diego to Prescott was long and lonely, the kind of drive where your thoughts stretch out across the desert like the road itself. I left late—too late, really—and by the time I pulled into the truck stop it was just after four in the morning. Christmas was only days away. The air was cold. The place was nearly silent.

Except for the trucks.

Rows and rows of them, idling and dark, their drivers asleep inside. A whole hidden world resting while the rest of America slept.

Inside, fluorescent lights buzzed. I bought coffee I didn’t really want and a hot dog I didn’t really taste. That’s when I felt it—that familiar sensation on the back of my neck. Being seen.

He was older. Weathered. The kind of man whose life is measured in miles and nights like this. His eyes lingered too long. Not crude—curious. Knowing.

When I stepped back outside, he followed—but not aggressively. He spoke softly, close enough that his voice stayed between us.

“Chrissy,” he said, like it was a question and an answer at the same time.

My heart kicked hard in my chest. Fear and thrill braided together.

We talked. Quietly. Honestly. About boundaries. About money. About what I was—and wasn’t—willing to do. Nothing rushed. Nothing forced. When I followed him to his truck, it was because I chose to.

Inside, the cab was dim, warm, insulated from the world. I shed my outer layers slowly, deliberately, revealing what I’d hidden all night. His attention wasn’t violent—it was reverent. Hungry, yes, but controlled. I felt myself settle into Chrissy fully, like slipping into a familiar skin.

What happened between us stayed there, contained within the cab and the dark and the hum of the engine. Time stretched and blurred. I was present in my body in a way I rarely allow myself to be.

When it ended, I didn’t feel used.

I felt… seen.

He paid me without haggling. Then something unexpected happened: he didn’t boast, didn’t leer. He simply told a few others—men like him, tired men, lonely men—who understood discretion.

I made my own choices again. And again.

Not a dozen. Not chaos. Just a handful of quiet encounters, spaced out across the early hours of the morning. Each one brief. Each one negotiated. Each one leaving me with cash folded neatly into my purse and a strange, steady calm settling in my chest.

By sunrise, I was exhausted—not just physically, but emotionally. Chrissy had been fully awake all night. And she was tired.

Under the Dashboard Lights

The cab door closed behind me, sealing us into a private world of low light and humming machinery. The dashboard cast everything in a muted red glow, like we were suspended inside a heartbeat. I could feel it then—how small the space was, how large he felt in it, how nowhere I could go made everything sharper.

He reached for his phone almost casually.

“Stand right there,” he said.

I obeyed.

My hands shook just slightly as I slipped off my jacket, then my shirt. I could feel his eyes tracking every inch of me, lingering, memorizing. When I was left in my bra and panties—the ones I’d chosen carefully before the trip, just in case—I felt a rush of heat flood my chest and face.

The phone came up.

A soft click.

Then another.

He moved slowly, circling me, telling me to turn, to arch my back, to lift my chin. Each instruction felt like a pull downward, stripping away the version of myself that hides. I wasn’t performing anymore. I was presenting myself. Offering. More to cum....

#crossdresser #sissy #sissyboy #crossdressers #sissies #shemale #ladyboy #femboy #femman #femboys #crossdressing #gurl #trans #transgirl #transwoman #transgender #tgirl #gay #lgbtq #nsfw #adultsonly #adultcontent #sissy #crossdresser #crossdressing #femboy #sissyboy #sissygirl #trans #transgender #shemale #transgirl #transwoman #transfemale #tgirl #model #modeling #gay #bi #lgbtq #queer #genderfluid #pantymodel #panty #panties #meninpanties #ladyboy More: http://chrissyinsd.hotviber.com/

Back home after a night away to family, thankful Christmas is over with now, so dressed up just for me, love this dress

"Dear family, as we find ourselves once again on the threshold of another Christmas this December 24, 2025, it's impossible not to pause for a moment to look back and give deep thanks for the immense gift of having one another. Christmas doesn't truly reside in the bright decorations adorning our home, nor in the feast we share, much less in the wrapped presents under the tree; true Christmas pulsates in each of our laughs, in the support we've given each other on gray days, and in the shared joy that multiplies our happiness. May the spirit of unity be the guest of honor at our table this holiday season. My most fervent wish is that each of you feels the warmth of a sincere embrace and that peace fills your hearts, reminding us that, no matter how far our individual paths may take us throughout the year, there will always be an invisible thread of love that keeps us unbreakable. May this year's end be the prelude to a 2026 filled with health and fulfilled projects." And above all, many more moments to continue building this story we call family. Merry Christmas to all."

Morning friends and followers finally heading home after visiting family
Can’t wait to be georgette x

Hi girls last posts going away later to see family for Xmas back 23rd have a good day to my friends

Santa & Mrs. Claus: Threeway at the North Pole Continued: She jumped up and down on my ****, as she was doing that I was massaging her boobs. Then I sat up and kissed her, we exchanged tongues and sucked on each other's lips as I groped her backside. Her age was far from my mind. I was able to force her on to her back on my bed so I could top her. It has been way too long since I was in that position over anyone, especially a woman. It felt so good to be the dominant alpha, the one in control, for a change. Normally I am very submissive and only receive...again, being treated like a girl. And I could tell Mrs. Claus was enjoying it, too. The moans, cries, screams, and yells and other sounds she was making, plus the huge smile on her face, told me she was in Heaven.

I plowed her over and over....the bed was shaking back and forth as I thrusted into her again and again...getting deeper each time...her old but wet ***** felt like a moist velvet glove around my rock hard penis and I wanted very much to seed her and leave my DNA in her. I was going to conquer Santa's wife, Mrs. Claus!
"Ho, ho, ho!" Just then we heard that now familiar and loud, hearty laugh come from outside the room. "Damn!" Exclaimed Mrs. Claus. "Santa is home! He's early!"
I didn't climax, but pre-cum did leak into her vag as I asked, "what do we do?"
She pushed me off her and got up, fixing herself. "Cover yourself back up," Mrs. Claus instructed. "Try to look innocent."
I did.
Just then Santa walked in. Again, looking like the stereotypical Santa from every commercial and holiday movie or story. "What is going on here?" he demanded.
"We found Chrissy hurt after a bad crash and brought him back her to recoup," Mrs. Claus explained.
"Chrissy?" Santa asked with a smile, obviously reminiscing about the time he fucked me. He then saw me laying in bed. "CHRISSY!" he then yelled joyfully. "Ho, ho, ho! Imagine you being here! Ho, ho, ho!"
We were able to relax now knowing how happy Santa was. "Did Mrs. Claus take good care of you?" Santa asked me..

SO SORRY FOR NOT CHATTING BACK SOONER, AS BEEN ON A LONG BREAK WITH FAMILY XXXX

Yesterday I went for my nephew’s birthday party. As usual I wore g-string under my regular jeans. The party was for the family so all my close relatives were there. At some point the discussion started about wearing the string and hot it is not conformable etc. I was silence, just smiling and nodding, but each and every time aunt, uncle or whoever glanced at me or We got an eye contact I heard the voice in my head THEY KNOW, YOU CAN NOT HIDE, THEY ALL KOW. SHAME. SHAME. As you might have guested it…….. turned me on (not aunts nor uncles for those curious!). The obvious morale of this story is that what a relief that, with all the masks and pretends, it’s good to know that our brain does not limit you… Picture is unrelated, posted just to bring more attention to the story

Malfuncton ...

I am asexual
That still
Prefer be
Famme
I had enough..
Enough
Bullying for
My legs
My body
I am not a Whore
My door is shut
My garden door
Is hidden by
Brick wall
I do not at
Lough
I strictly
NOT
Admire
That you repeat
Love mantras
Over all.
....
I am dressing
Not for sex
It is excile
I want forget
Bullying
After all
Yes now I am
Acting as a girl...
That s all!
Enough!!
Just look and smile ..
...

You think
I look revealing
Like
Street whore
Presentig
*****-Butt
For money...?
I am not
Whore at all
I do confess...
I wear just
Too risky
Dress
That
I do Love
For nice
Warm
Talk
With
Girl
Who's
Able
For
Love
Spoke
Who wish
Not sex
But be together...
My dress
Is short
Yes,
Short as
NO
Forever...

Anyone want me to wear this to town and let your friends and family see me around them like this

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

What i wore for my hook up, my ass looked so famn good

Morning all will post later got to strip a bathroom out for family half the cost of course lol

With my friends, almost all the time, family... 90 and 93, don't want to kill them with the shock, bt they *may* be starting to twig...
And dressing as myself is an essential part of my life, not just "cosplay" or a fetish!

It would be nice to see reblog if you crossdress when your with your friends and family

Date to Wait ...

I wait so long
For her to come
She always always late
I am still not used
To rules of Famme
To make ther others wait...

anyone want me to go hang out with yall in public while i wear this around your friends/ family or when I go hang with yall. Also do you like, this mama fox also wears a Wolf tail, butt plug in public

I have thought about showing off my feminine arms. Muscles? Tell me what you all think? Love your comments. --- Had a guy tell me I was in the wrong bathroom just last week. I really like the unisex or family ones - so much easier as most guys think they are in the wrong bathroom when I use the men's one. Or they want me to leave.