Who love a bit of ASMR Long satin Gloves videos on YouTube

Just been redecorating my Bedroom im taking the month off Crossdress . soon get new long satin Gloves dresses and skirt and some youtube stuff. i a new Samsung galaxy s26 ultra all good lol

Rain had only just stopped when I stepped into it, the bricks to my left sweating out the day’s cold like they were ashamed of it. Red light bled down the wall from some unseen sign, staining the mortar like an old wound. The ground was slick, puddles trembling at the slightest whisper of wind, turning every flicker of neon into a broken mirror.
And there I was wrapped in black satin.
People imagine cloaks like this are heavy wool or ancient velvet, something dragged from a crypt or stitched by candlelight. Mine isn’t. It’s polyester with a satin silk touch finish. It gleams like midnight oil. It flows like water. It clings when the air grows damp. Practical, really. Fantasy aesthetics, modern materials.
Still, when it moves, it sounds like secrets.
The hood sits low over my face, not because I’m hiding, but because it feels right. The fabric drapes from my shoulders in deliberate folds, catching the dim light and holding it for a heartbeat before letting it slip away. The hem trails behind me, drinking from the wet pavement. Each step pulls a faint whisper from the ground, a soft shhh as though the alley itself is urging me onward.
I pause midway down.
There’s a particular stillness in places like this an out of season quiet, the kind that makes even distant traffic sound like it’s happening in another life. My reflection shivers in a puddle at my feet. The cloak makes me look taller there. Broader. Almost mythic.
That’s the trick of it, really.
You put on something like this and the world rearranges itself around you. The bricks become castle walls. The fire escape above turns into a wrought-iron battlement. The neon haze thickens into enchanted fog. And the ordinary act of walking home from a late shift becomes a pilgrimage through shadow.
But here’s the truth: I wear it because I like how it feels.
The satin lining is cool against my skin at first, then slowly warms, molding to me. The weight isn’t oppressive it’s reassuring. Like being wrapped in night itself. The gloves at my hands shine when I flex my fingers, catching the blue glow from the streetlight at the far end of the alley.
I hear footsteps behind me.
Not close. Not threatening. Just distant enough to remind me that I am not the only story moving through this city. I don’t turn around. The cloak does that work for me, rippling slightly as I shift my stance, letting whoever it is see only a silhouette.
Let them wonder.
There’s power in ambiguity. In becoming a shape rather than a person. In letting the wet pavement carry your reflection farther than your shadow.
A gust of wind slips down the alley and catches the cloak’s edge. For a moment, it billows out behind me like a dark sail. The fabric flashes with a slick, liquid sheen, then settles again, obedient and heavy.
I step forward.
The puddles part around my boots. The bricks watch without comment. The neon hum continues its low, electric chant.
I am not a sorcerer. Not a vigilante. Not a figure from some ancient order.
But in this alley, under this light, wrapped in satin black that drinks the world and gives nothing back, I am something close enough.
And sometimes, close enough is all you need.

I live within a sanctuary of reflection, a shimmering Satin Wonderland of towering, gilded mirrors that capture every fold of my existence. I am a creature of history, a mature queen of a certain vintage, and my world is defined by the rustle of fabric. Here, I am swaddled in an endless supply of sissy satin dresses, gowns that trail like silken rivers, and gloves that reach toward my shoulders, smoothing the passage of time.
"Oh my," I whisper to my reflection, my voice a raspy cello. "Today is the day for the hallowed turf."
But one does not simply walk onto the pitch at Wembley Stadium to play British football without the proper armor. This is not a match for jerseys and cleats; this is a clash of POMPÖÖS Couture.
I began my transformation with the foundation of my "entity." First, I stepped into the ivory white modest high neck satin evening dress. It is a plus size masterpiece of elegance, the long balloon sleeves puffing out like clouds of cream, the flowing tulle skirt whispering secrets against my ankles. But as the London air turned crisp and the fog began to roll off the Thames, I felt the call for more.
I reached for the wedding gown, its chiffon veil a ghostly mist. I wrapped a heavy ivory satin headscarf tightly around my skull, securing my wisdom and my wig beneath its weight. Then, I layered. I pulled on the Victorian style black ankle length dress a triumph of high necklines, puffed bell sleeves, ruffles, and intricate lace trim.
As I pulled the black gown over the white, the layers merged. I was no longer wearing two dresses; I was wearing a singular, monumental entity composed of Satin, Taffeta, Georgette, Chiffon, and Organza. To finish the silhouette, I added the poofy, extravagant, ultra femme large ladies’ flamboyant satin skirt over the hips, creating a volume so vast I could barely fit through the mahogany doors of my dressing room.
I looked at my vanity. Seven large headscarves black and white laid out for the week. I chose a heavy black Georgette to wrap over the white satin, pinning it with a rhinestone crown. I slid on my newly found long opera gloves, the silk pulling tight against my skin, and stepped into my elegant shoes.
Wembley was a sea of POMPÖÖS madness. Twenty two drag queens, each a monument to Glööckler’s baroque vision, stood upon the emerald grass. Rhinestones caught the stadium lights like a thousand stars fallen to earth. There was Trixie in a gold leafed bodice and Bella in a crimson velvet train that required two ball boys to carry.
"Right then, girls!" I shouted, the wind catching my chiffon veil. "Let’s show them how a lady tackles!"
The whistle blew. I didn't run; I glided. The multiple layers of my dress the Georgette over the Taffeta, the Organza beneath the Satin created a rhythmic shush shush sound that drowned out the roar of the crowd. When the ball came toward me, I didn't kick it with the grace of a sportsman; I met it with the immovable force of three hundred yards of couture.
The ball hit my flamboyant satin skirt and simply died, swallowed by the sheer volume of my ruffles. I pivoted, my bell sleeves catching the wind like sails. I saw an opening. With a flick of my opera-gloved hand to steady my headscarf, I sent the ball flying toward the goal with a delicate tap of my elegant heel.
As the net bulged, the stadium erupted. I didn't celebrate with a slide on the grass heaven forbid, the grass stains on the ivory tulle would be a tragedy. Instead, I stood at the center of the pitch, surrounded by my sisters in their crowns and silks, and looked into the imaginary mirrors of the sky.
In my Satin Wonderland, I am a queen. At Wembley, in my POMPÖÖS layers of black and white, I was a princess of the game. Oh my, indeed.

POMPÖÖS Couture Living in a Satin Wonderland of Sissy Satin Dresses, Sissy Satin Gowns, Sissy Satin Gloves and Big Mirrors. Oh My!

I am sixty four, unemployed after caring for the last few years for my wife, and a widower of exactly three months. My wife died from a long ilness on the 12th of November 2025. The house is a 1970s terraced end of row in a quiet Midlands estate, two up, two down, pebble dash front, UPVC windows, the kind of place where neighbours know when you put the bins out. No children, long grown up and moved away, nor other family members, just me and the central heating that clicks on at six-thirty every morning whether I want it to or not.
We were married forty five years. I worked in the same warehouse until they made me redundant in 2020, she kept the books for a small solicitor until her diagnosis. After the funeral I sold her car, cancelled the window cleaner, and the weekly supermarket internet shopping and started drawing on my tiny pension. The days are long and the nights are longer.
Most evenings I sit in the front room with the curtains drawn and the television on mute. Tonight the house feels smaller than usual. The clock on the mantelpiece says 21:17. I stand up, switch off the lamp, and walk upstairs in the dark.
In the spare bedroom her sewing room that became my dressing room I open the tall IKEA wardrobe. The left side is still her dresses and coats. The right side is mine: the secret side. Rows of satin headscarves in every colour, polyester foulards bought on eBay, oversized satin hijabs in midnight black and charcoal, metres and metres of sheer chiffon voile in black, graphite, and the deepest ink. Some still smell faintly of the fabric softener she used.
I undress slowly. The mirror on the wardrobe door is cheap and slightly warped, but it is honest. Naked, sixty-four, soft belly, thin legs, the body of a man who has outlived his usefulness. I reach for the black satin corset first, cheap second hand eBay corset lingerie, lightly boned, size 3XL. I hook it closed until my waist and soft belly shrink and my breathing turns shallower. Then the high waisted black satin knickers, the sheer black stockings with the wide lace tops, the long line black satin slip that whispers against my skin like a promise.
Next the dress: a full skirted 1950s style mourning day dress made from heavy black polyester satin, high collar, long sleeves, hem that brushes my ankles. Over it I tie a wide black satin sash that cinches across my contained belly. The fabric is slippery, cool, obscene in its shine.
Now the head. This is the part that matters most.
I choose the largest satin hijab first, jet black, 140 cm square, heavy bridal satin that catches every stray bit of light. I fold it into a triangle, drape it over my head so the point hangs down my back, then bring the two ends under my chin and tie them in a tight knot at the nape of my neck. The satin lies glossy and taut across my forehead, smooth over my ears, covering every grey hair. It feels like being sealed.
Over the satin I pin a second layer: a sheer black chiffon voile scarf, almost transparent, 120 cm square. I drape it loosely so it falls across my face like a mourner’s veil from another century, but softer, more sensual. The chiffon drifts against my lips when I breathe. I can see through it, only just, but the world is softened, blurred, intimate. I add a third scarf, a smaller polyester foulard in charcoal, tied bandana style over the top to weight the chiffon down and keep it in place. The layers stack: satin underneath, chiffon floating, polyester binding. My face is gone. Only eyes, mouth, the suggestion of a nose remain.
I step back. The mirror shows a figure that is neither man nor woman, neither past nor present. A black satin widow from a fever dream. The train of the dress drags on the cheap carpet, the petticoat beneath it rustles. Every movement makes the satin sigh.
I walk downstairs like this, tiny steps because the corset and the long skirt will allow nothing else. The chiffon veil brushes my lashes. In the kitchen I pour a large whisky with gloved hands, black satin opera gloves that reach my elbows. I carry the glass into the living room, sit on the sofa, cross my legs at the ankle the way she used to. The layers of satin and chiffon settle around me like a second skin.
Outside, a car passes. Inside, the only sound is the soft hiss of fabric when I breathe.
Three months a widower. Forty five years a husband. Sixty four years a man who has always, secretly, wanted to disappear inside silk and satin and the soft prison of a veil.
I lift the edge of the chiffon just enough to sip the whisky. The taste is sharp against the sweetness of the fabric against my mouth. Then I let the veil fall again.
In this house, in this year 2026, no one is watching.
No one will ever know.
And for the first time since November, I feel almost at peace
perfectly veiled,
perfectly hidden,
perfectly hers.

My own outfit tonight is the usual liturgy of satin devotion: full length satin slip beneath a long, bias-cut satin kaftan in the same deep cocoa family, sleeves falling past my knuckles in heavy, liquid folds. Satin gloves to the elbow. Satin socks sliding inside satin lined house slippers. Even the thin belt I tied at the waist is doubled satin cord. I have not worn anything else cotton, wool, denim, polyester in years. Skin has forgotten every texture but this one. There, resting on a perfectly smooth, shimmering brown satin pillow, sits the mannequin headform. Draped across it is the headscarf fresh from its tissue paper cradle only an hour ago. The silk satin is so densely woven, so exquisitely finished, that it looks poured rather than cut and stitched. I approach the mannequin headform with deliberate slowness, my satin gloved fingers trembling just enough to send faint shivers through the fabric. The spotlight above casts a warm, golden halo, making the brown satin headscarf and hijab gleam like polished mahogany. The pillow beneath them is plush, yielding slightly as I lift the scarf first careful, so careful not to crease its pristine folds. It unfolds in my hands like a living thing, cool and heavy, the weave so tight it feels like liquid silk against my palms. I pause, holding it up to the light. The edges are hemmed with invisible stitches, the kind only a master tailor would bother with. No fray, no flaw. Just endless, unbroken sheen. My breath catches as I imagine the transformation ahead the ritual that turns ordinary skin into something exalted, wrapped in satin sanctity. First, the preparation. I glide to the satin draped vanity nearby, where my tools wait: a small satin pouch of pins, each head coated in matching brown mother of pearl, a fine misting bottle of distilled water scented with a hint of vanilla to enhance the fabric's natural luster; and a full length mirror framed in burnished brass, its surface polished to reflect every nuance. I sit on the satin stool, my kaftan pooling around me in soft waves, and begin with my face. A light dusting of translucent powder to mattify the skin no shine but satin's own allowed. Then, the undercap: a simple brown satin skullcap I slip on, smoothing it flat against my scalp until it's seamless, invisible. Now, the headscarf. I fold it diagonally, creating a perfect triangle, the hypotenuse edge aligned with mathematical precision. I drape it over my head, the point falling down my back like a veil of night. The front edge rests just above my eyebrows, cool against my forehead, and I cross the ends under my chin, pulling them taut but not tight enough to hug, to cradle. The hiss of satin on satin is intoxicating, a whisper that echoes in the quiet room. I tie a loose knot at the nape, then tuck and pin the excess fabric into soft pleats, fanning them out like wings. Each pin slides in with a satisfying click, securing the shape without piercing the illusion of fluidity. I stand and turn to the mirror. Already, the transformation stirs: my features soften under the frame, eyes sharper in contrast to the rich brown. But it's incomplete. The hijab waits on the mannequin, its longer lengths beckoning. I retrieve it next, unfolding the rectangular expanse yards of satin, bias cut for drape. This is the heart of the ritual, the layer that envelops and defines. I position it over the headscarf, centering the wide edge along my hairline, letting the bulk cascade down my shoulders and back. The weight is luxurious, grounding, like being swaddled in opulence. I wrap one end across my chest, over the opposite shoulder, then bring the other around to meet it, creating a crossover that hints at modesty but screams indulgence. Pins again strategic, hidden hold the folds in place: one at the temple, another under the chin, a third securing the tail at my back. Adjustments come in waves. I smooth with gloved hands, coaxing out ripples until the surface is flawless, a continuous flow of brown that catches the spotlight in undulating highlights. A spritz from the bottle, just enough to set the sheen without dampening. I step back, then forward, turning side to side. The mirror shows perfection: head to toe in satin, the new pieces blending seamlessly with my kaftan, as if I were carved from a single bolt of fabric. The ritual peaks in movement. I walk the room's perimeter, feeling the hijab sway with each step, the subtle friction of layers building a symphony of sound rustle, slide, sigh. It's meditative, this pacing, a communion with the texture that owns me. No exposed skin, no interruption; just satin encasing, protecting, obsessing. Finally, satisfaction settles. I return to the spotlight's center, the mannequin now bare beside me, its pillow dimpled from absence. The darkness beyond swallows everything else, leaving only this: me, ritually reborn in brown satin, ready for whatever devotion the night demands.

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

Cleaning my kitchen in marigolds. You know, when I pull on my rubber gloves, I feel like I'm wearing part of my maid's uniform x

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

I love wearing satin gloves with my lovely dress! The last pictures are of me swishing about in the dress!

They're actually very comfortable, like gloves on your feet, until you stand up

My favorite activity is to strip down to my bodysuit and laced gloves with a pair of fishnet leggings and heels and red and black bra and panties and go out in public and go for a drive it's so liberating. I would be wearing only a short laced lingerie dress that exposes my red and black laced bra and panties. The liengere dress barely covers my panties. I also wear a crotchless/breastless bodysuit with fishnet leggings with my heels and laced gloves And Wolf tail and ears. my heels click would be clicking as I walk

My favorite activity is to strip down to my bodysuit and laced gloves with a pair of fishnet leggings and heels and red and black bra and panties and go out in public and go for a drive it's so liberating. I would be wearing only a short laced lingerie dress that exposes my red and black laced bra and panties. The liengere dress barely covers my panties. I also wear a crotchless/breastless bodysuit with fishnet leggings with my heels and laced gloves And Wolf tail and ears. my heels click would be clicking as I walk

Good morning all. i just like to ask you all what tips of gloves do you wear??

#lingerie #gloves #heels #highheels #stiletto #stilettoheels

Just relaxing going for a little late night walk to the Post office in my liengerie. I love going out in public wearing this. #Bodysuit #Fishnet #leggings #RedandBlackBraAndPanties #heels #LacedGloves

just love going to town dressed in a short laced lingerie dress that has hole in the breast area that exposes my red and black laced bra The liengere dress barely covers my red and black panties, i also wear a liengere bodysuit with fishnet leggings with my heels and gloves

I just love going to town dressed in only a short laced lingerie dress that has hole in the breast area that exposes my red and black laced bra that my size 38d breasts are under. The revealing liengere dress barely covers my laced red and black panties, i also wear a liengere bodysuit with fishnet leggings with my flat top heels and laced gloves

#dress #minidress #pinkdress #costume #nurse #gloves #stockings

Just relaxing going for a little drive in my liengerie. Anyone want to join or ok with me driving in this?#Crossdresser #Shemale #lingerie #leggings #lewd #exhibition #breastplate #leggings #RedandBlackBra #RedandBlackPanties #Lacedpanties #LacedGloves

Just relaxing outside in my liengerie. Just got these new fishnets #Crossdresser #lingerie #leggings #RedandBlackBra #RedandBlackPanties #Lacedpanties #LacedGloves

#lingerie #bra #skirt #miniskirt #leather #puleather #fauxleather #gloves #fishnet #fishnetgloves #stockings #fishnetstockings #boots #longboots #thighhighboots #overthekneeboots

#croptop #skirt #miniskirt #leather #puleather #fauxleather #fishnet #fishnetgloves #stockings #fishnetstockings #choker

#lingerie #gloves #heels #highheels #stiletto #stilettoheels

#lingerie #bra #skirt #miniskirt #leather #puleather #fauxleather #gloves #fishnet #fishnetgloves #stockings #fishnetstockings #boots #longboots #thighhighboots #overthekneeboots

#lingerie #bra #skirt #miniskirt #leather #puleather #fauxleather #gloves #fishnet #fishnetgloves #stockings #fishnetstockings #boots #longboots #thighhighboots #overthekneeboots

#lingerie #gloves #heels #highheels #stiletto #stilettoheels

#lingerie #leather #puleather #fauxleather #gloves #boots #longboots #thighhighboots #overthekneeboots

#lingerie #bra #skirt #miniskirt #leather #puleather #fauxleather #gloves #fishnet #fishnetgloves #fishnetstockings #boots #longboots #thighhighboots #overthekneeboots

#lingerie #bra #sheercatsuit #leather #puleather #fauxleather #gloves #leathergloves #choker

Dressed to punish and accessorized down to the gloves. Alana B

This is work after work

This lost tampon:
"I was really horny, so I drove 45 minutes to my ex's house to have sex. The next morning, I realized I never took out my tampon. His penis was so big that it pushed the tampon up too far, and I couldn't get it out. After 30 minutes, I gave up and called the guy, asking for a favor. I went to his office, locked the door, pulled out some medical gloves and a towel, and I spread my legs on his desk so he could pull out the tampon. He fished around for 15 minutes and finally got it out."

—lauront

#lingerie #gloves #heels #highheels #stiletto #stilettoheels

#lingerie #bra #sheercatsuit #leather #puleather #fauxleather #gloves #leathergloves #chain #chained #collar #collared #choker

#lingerie #leather #puleather #fauxleather #gloves #boots #longboots #thighhighboots #overthekneeboots

#lingerie #gloves #heels #highheels #stiletto #stilettoheels

#lingerie #bodysuit #leopard #leopardprint #gloves #stockings #heels #highheels #opentoeheels #sandalheels #stiletto #stilettoheels

#lingerie #leather #puleather #fauxleather #gloves #boots #longboots #thighhighboots #overthekneeboots

#lingerie #bodysuit #leopard #leopardprint #gloves #stockings #heels #highheels #opentoeheels #sandalheels #stiletto #stilettoheels

#lingerie #leather #puleather #fauxleather #gloves #boots #longboots #thighhighboots #overthekneeboots

#lingerie #bodysuit #leopard #leopardprint #gloves #stockings #heels #highheels #opentoeheels #sandalheels #stiletto #stilettoheels