I might slip this lace skirt on with a petticoat too xx later x
#laceskirt #petticoat
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4 Commentarios 0 Acciones 834 Views2
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women have it so good. it's not even fair how better the clothes are on their side. gave this little lace body a chance and wow! you can style this in so many ways!women have it so good. it's not even fair how better the clothes are on their side. gave this little lace body a chance and wow! you can style this in so many ways!2 Commentarios 0 Acciones 1K Views
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Got some lingerie through Amazon today. Was not expecting much-but the thong is lovely; crutchless and lets everything dangle but keeps pressure on my puss y and generally between my legs. The slip is much better than anything I have previously bought and will double as a dress. The lacey skirt and suspenders are gorgeous-tight enough to constrict and that means they will easily keep my stockings up. Am intending to wear them when I visit either mistre ss oor one of her trainers at the end of this week xxGot some lingerie through Amazon today. Was not expecting much-but the thong is lovely; crutchless and lets everything dangle but keeps pressure on my puss y and generally between my legs. The slip is much better than anything I have previously bought and will double as a dress. The lacey skirt and suspenders are gorgeous-tight enough to constrict and that means they will easily keep my stockings up. Am intending to wear them when I visit either mistre ss oor one of her trainers at the end of this week xx2 Commentarios 0 Acciones 3K Views
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The dawn’s light, pale and meagre, stole through the curtains like an uninvited thought. My fire had long since expired, leaving my chamber in that peculiar half chill which seems neither of death nor life. There, upon the table, lay my mourning attire, folded with the reverence one affords to relics rather than garments.
The Black Satin Tartan gleamed faintly even in that dimness, threads of shadow crossing one another in solemn geometry. My fingers lingered upon it as one might upon the pages of a sacred book. How deftly I remembered the press of another hand guiding mine, long ago, when love was still unashamed to breathe in daylight.
“Gökçe,” I murmured, and her name rang through the silence, strange and sweet as the chime of a music box long unopened.
She had been of fragile constitution but radiant humour, a nurse by occupation, yet a poet in spirit. When first we met, it was under the discreet roof of a friend who hosted assemblies for kindred souls ill fitted to the rigid forms of the age. There, amid whispered laughter and the scent of spiced punch, she first beheld me crossdressed as myself, not the half version polite society demanded. Her smile, so unafraid, so brilliantly defiant had unstitched my fears as though they were loose threads upon a cuff.
Our meetings became the secret rhythm of our lives: letters written in unseen ink, evenings stolen beneath the mist‑wreathed arches of the Cathedral close, where even the saints carved upon the walls seemed complicit in our forbidden contentment.
Then came the pandemic fever. The city coughed and trembled beneath its pall, and Gökçe torn from me within a week was laid among the cold stones of St. Chad’s yard. In her final moments, as I sat cloaked at her bedside, she had whispered through cracked lips, “Promise me you will not hide yourself from the world in mourning. Wear beauty for both of us.”
Yet how could I do so? Beauty, to the bereaved, becomes a cutting blade.
Thus it was upon this morning, four months hence, that I sought to honour that vow. I made my way through the quiet lanes of the Cathedral City to McRae & Daughters, Purveyors of Mourning and Formal Attire. The shop’s brass bell gave a low, reverent note as I entered.
Mrs McRae herself appeared, a tall woman of genteel bearing, her hair silvered but her eyes bright as cut glass.
“Good morrow,” she said softly. “You come for mourning, I think?”
“For remembrance,” I replied. “Not of death, but of what death could not take.”
She inclined her head, understanding blooming behind that merchant’s polish which age cannot quite conceal. From the cupboard behind her she drew forth two treasures: a Black Tartan Satin headscarf, its sheen as moonlight upon coal, and a sheer chiffon voile veil, so fine that breath seemed likely to scatter it.
“Exquisite work,” she murmured, laying them before me.
“I require them for a pilgrimage,” I told her. “To the resting place of one whose heart yet governs mine.”
Her lips did not move, but a flicker of softness crossed her expression, a compassion seasoned by decades of watching others purchase attire for grief.
When I placed the scarf upon my head, its coolness brushed my temples like benediction. The veil descended over my eyes, dimming the world into softened outlines. For a moment, I believed I glimpsed Gökçe reflected behind me in the mirror, a faint silhouette, smiling through the satin haze.
Outside, the bells of noon tolled low and heavy across the square. I crossed the flagstones toward the Cathedral, that great monument of patient sorrow, its stones blackened by both rain and memory. The wind played with my attire, lifting the edges of my veil in gentle mockery, as if inviting me to dance once more through the shadows of our secret youth.
At the gates of the graveyard, I paused. A gypsy lady selling flowers approached shyly, clutching a handful of violets.
“For your lost love?” she asked, her accent plain as clay.
“For my beloved,” I said, and pressed a coin into her palm.
At the grave, a modest stone softened by the dew, I knelt. The fabric of my skirts rippled like dark water about me.
“Gökçe,” I whispered, “I have done as you bade me. I wear what beauty remains, though the joy of it burns like frost upon my breast.”
The wind answered in a voice not unlike laughter. The veil brushed against my lips once more, fluttering as though stirred by a sigh too gentle for this world.
When I rose, I did not feel the weight of sorrow so keenly as before. It seemed to me that in the gleam of the tartan, in the satin’s melodic rustle, something of our love still lived, a pulse across the gulf of years.
Watching from a distance, the gypsy lady would say later that she thought she saw two figures leaving the yard that day: one in mourning black, the other in pale reflection, hand‑in‑hand beneath the shrouded sun. Perhaps she was right.The dawn’s light, pale and meagre, stole through the curtains like an uninvited thought. My fire had long since expired, leaving my chamber in that peculiar half chill which seems neither of death nor life. There, upon the table, lay my mourning attire, folded with the reverence one affords to relics rather than garments. The Black Satin Tartan gleamed faintly even in that dimness, threads of shadow crossing one another in solemn geometry. My fingers lingered upon it as one might upon the pages of a sacred book. How deftly I remembered the press of another hand guiding mine, long ago, when love was still unashamed to breathe in daylight. “Gökçe,” I murmured, and her name rang through the silence, strange and sweet as the chime of a music box long unopened. She had been of fragile constitution but radiant humour, a nurse by occupation, yet a poet in spirit. When first we met, it was under the discreet roof of a friend who hosted assemblies for kindred souls ill fitted to the rigid forms of the age. There, amid whispered laughter and the scent of spiced punch, she first beheld me crossdressed as myself, not the half version polite society demanded. Her smile, so unafraid, so brilliantly defiant had unstitched my fears as though they were loose threads upon a cuff. Our meetings became the secret rhythm of our lives: letters written in unseen ink, evenings stolen beneath the mist‑wreathed arches of the Cathedral close, where even the saints carved upon the walls seemed complicit in our forbidden contentment. Then came the pandemic fever. The city coughed and trembled beneath its pall, and Gökçe torn from me within a week was laid among the cold stones of St. Chad’s yard. In her final moments, as I sat cloaked at her bedside, she had whispered through cracked lips, “Promise me you will not hide yourself from the world in mourning. Wear beauty for both of us.” Yet how could I do so? Beauty, to the bereaved, becomes a cutting blade. Thus it was upon this morning, four months hence, that I sought to honour that vow. I made my way through the quiet lanes of the Cathedral City to McRae & Daughters, Purveyors of Mourning and Formal Attire. The shop’s brass bell gave a low, reverent note as I entered. Mrs McRae herself appeared, a tall woman of genteel bearing, her hair silvered but her eyes bright as cut glass. “Good morrow,” she said softly. “You come for mourning, I think?” “For remembrance,” I replied. “Not of death, but of what death could not take.” She inclined her head, understanding blooming behind that merchant’s polish which age cannot quite conceal. From the cupboard behind her she drew forth two treasures: a Black Tartan Satin headscarf, its sheen as moonlight upon coal, and a sheer chiffon voile veil, so fine that breath seemed likely to scatter it. “Exquisite work,” she murmured, laying them before me. “I require them for a pilgrimage,” I told her. “To the resting place of one whose heart yet governs mine.” Her lips did not move, but a flicker of softness crossed her expression, a compassion seasoned by decades of watching others purchase attire for grief. When I placed the scarf upon my head, its coolness brushed my temples like benediction. The veil descended over my eyes, dimming the world into softened outlines. For a moment, I believed I glimpsed Gökçe reflected behind me in the mirror, a faint silhouette, smiling through the satin haze. Outside, the bells of noon tolled low and heavy across the square. I crossed the flagstones toward the Cathedral, that great monument of patient sorrow, its stones blackened by both rain and memory. The wind played with my attire, lifting the edges of my veil in gentle mockery, as if inviting me to dance once more through the shadows of our secret youth. At the gates of the graveyard, I paused. A gypsy lady selling flowers approached shyly, clutching a handful of violets. “For your lost love?” she asked, her accent plain as clay. “For my beloved,” I said, and pressed a coin into her palm. At the grave, a modest stone softened by the dew, I knelt. The fabric of my skirts rippled like dark water about me. “Gökçe,” I whispered, “I have done as you bade me. I wear what beauty remains, though the joy of it burns like frost upon my breast.” The wind answered in a voice not unlike laughter. The veil brushed against my lips once more, fluttering as though stirred by a sigh too gentle for this world. When I rose, I did not feel the weight of sorrow so keenly as before. It seemed to me that in the gleam of the tartan, in the satin’s melodic rustle, something of our love still lived, a pulse across the gulf of years. Watching from a distance, the gypsy lady would say later that she thought she saw two figures leaving the yard that day: one in mourning black, the other in pale reflection, hand‑in‑hand beneath the shrouded sun. Perhaps she was right.
0 Commentarios 0 Acciones 2K Views1
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Been a while since my last post, been a bit busy with work and projects etc. But been a bit put off with things on here. I do think we have reduced the number of scammers, either by reporting them or the age verification, that's a positive.
But, I'm feeling uncomfortable with the amount of AI images being posted. To clarify, I think it's fine if you state you are using it, that's being honest. But the ones pretending to be that fake image are abusing the nature of the site. It is suposed to be a social place, somewhere to connect, discuss, and feel part of a community.
The individuals masquerading behind AI generated images suggest to me that they are looking for some kind of personal or sexual gratification, or attempting to mislead other members for their own gains. Is this not fraud, or misleading information? Open for discusion!
Do I, or we, call them out as fake AI posts, Or, accept the negativity of AI as part of what the tech world has become?
And yes, my images are real photographs taken with a real camera, and the subect is me!Been a while since my last post, been a bit busy with work and projects etc. But been a bit put off with things on here. I do think we have reduced the number of scammers, either by reporting them or the age verification, that's a positive. But, I'm feeling uncomfortable with the amount of AI images being posted. To clarify, I think it's fine if you state you are using it, that's being honest. But the ones pretending to be that fake image are abusing the nature of the site. It is suposed to be a social place, somewhere to connect, discuss, and feel part of a community. The individuals masquerading behind AI generated images suggest to me that they are looking for some kind of personal or sexual gratification, or attempting to mislead other members for their own gains. Is this not fraud, or misleading information? Open for discusion! Do I, or we, call them out as fake AI posts, Or, accept the negativity of AI as part of what the tech world has become? And yes, my images are real photographs taken with a real camera, and the subect is me!
11 Commentarios 0 Acciones 1K Views
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In the dim, tea coloured morning that passes for daylight in mid March, there sat not quite a man, and certainly not yet anything else entirely a person of careful middle years before an antique dressing table that had once belonged to his wife. The table itself had the air of something that knew far more than it was ever going to tell, its mirror clouded with the gentle patina of decades spent reflecting other people's private negotiations with gravity and grief.
Across his lap lay a black satin headscarf, arranged with the solemnity one might accord a papal bull or a very good slice of funeral cake. It spilled over his knees like ink that had decided, upon second thoughts, not to dry. Tucked inside its generous folds was the ghost of lavender, that most patient and reproachful of scents, the sort that waits years to remind you of drawers you have not opened often enough.
From the wardrobe door depended the veil layers of sheer black chiffon so fragile they appeared to be made of regrets that had been ironed flat. It trembled whenever the wind, that notorious sneak-thief of March, found the loose sash and slipped inside to have a look round. Outside, the town lay under a sky the precise colour of yesterday's dishwater, quietly convinced that nothing interesting was ever going to happen again.
He or possibly she, depending on which angle the light chose to take ran a lace gloved finger along the jet beading that marched across the bodice like a procession of tiny, well behaved mourners. The beads were cold at first, as beads will be when left to their own devices, but they warmed almost at once, as though the heat of long ago skin had been stored in them the way a teapot remembers tea.
Why this? The question rose inside him with the regularity of a heartbeat and about as much chance of being answered.
It was not, he reflected, merely crossdressing that brisk, modern word with its clipboard and its forms to fill in. No, this was something older, something chosen with the same deliberate care one might use when selecting the right sort of gravestone. To put on these heavy black satins was to grieve properly, not merely for the wife who had gone ahead into whatever lay beyond the last curtain call, but for the self that had spent decades locked in the attic of his own ribcage, tapping politely and being ignored.
Memory flickered like lantern slides: his grandmother's photograph album, those stern Victorian and Edwardian women staring out from behind veils and crepe as though sorrow were a particularly fetching hat. He had lingered over those pictures longer than any boy with a respectable future was supposed to, feeling something nameless turn over in his chest like a sleeper disturbed by moonlight.
Later much later, during the long, comfortable decades with his wife the secret had grown in perfect silence. Lengths of satin acquired at antique fairs with the furtive excitement of a man buying rare first editions; a chiffon veil ordered at three in the morning from a seller who asked no questions and probably knew all the answers anyway. His wife had never known. Or possibly she had known perfectly well and elected, with the generosity of those who love deeply and sensibly, to let the matter lie undisturbed.
She would smile when he returned with yet another silk scarf, tease him gently about his "fancy tastes," and he would laugh along, the laughter both balm and small, exquisite knife. Had he stolen something from her by never speaking the truth aloud? Or had the silence been kinder the careful preservation of Sunday dinners, hill walks above the fields, the kettle's comfortable whistle while the afternoon play murmured from the wireless?
The clothes themselves seemed to have an opinion on the matter.
The satin was cool against his skin when first it touched him, cool and slightly disapproving, like a maiden aunt meeting a disreputable nephew. Then it softened, warmed, accepted. It wrapped itself around the shape he had always carried inside the shape that had never quite fitted the available tailoring of masculinity, no matter how many times the measurements were taken.
When he wore it, properly, completely, he became not a man dressed as a widow, but simply the grieving widow he had, in some quiet corner of chronology, always been meant to be. The mirror regarded him without surprise. Mirrors, after all, have seen far stranger things than this between breakfast and bedtime.In the dim, tea coloured morning that passes for daylight in mid March, there sat not quite a man, and certainly not yet anything else entirely a person of careful middle years before an antique dressing table that had once belonged to his wife. The table itself had the air of something that knew far more than it was ever going to tell, its mirror clouded with the gentle patina of decades spent reflecting other people's private negotiations with gravity and grief. Across his lap lay a black satin headscarf, arranged with the solemnity one might accord a papal bull or a very good slice of funeral cake. It spilled over his knees like ink that had decided, upon second thoughts, not to dry. Tucked inside its generous folds was the ghost of lavender, that most patient and reproachful of scents, the sort that waits years to remind you of drawers you have not opened often enough. From the wardrobe door depended the veil layers of sheer black chiffon so fragile they appeared to be made of regrets that had been ironed flat. It trembled whenever the wind, that notorious sneak-thief of March, found the loose sash and slipped inside to have a look round. Outside, the town lay under a sky the precise colour of yesterday's dishwater, quietly convinced that nothing interesting was ever going to happen again. He or possibly she, depending on which angle the light chose to take ran a lace gloved finger along the jet beading that marched across the bodice like a procession of tiny, well behaved mourners. The beads were cold at first, as beads will be when left to their own devices, but they warmed almost at once, as though the heat of long ago skin had been stored in them the way a teapot remembers tea. Why this? The question rose inside him with the regularity of a heartbeat and about as much chance of being answered. It was not, he reflected, merely crossdressing that brisk, modern word with its clipboard and its forms to fill in. No, this was something older, something chosen with the same deliberate care one might use when selecting the right sort of gravestone. To put on these heavy black satins was to grieve properly, not merely for the wife who had gone ahead into whatever lay beyond the last curtain call, but for the self that had spent decades locked in the attic of his own ribcage, tapping politely and being ignored. Memory flickered like lantern slides: his grandmother's photograph album, those stern Victorian and Edwardian women staring out from behind veils and crepe as though sorrow were a particularly fetching hat. He had lingered over those pictures longer than any boy with a respectable future was supposed to, feeling something nameless turn over in his chest like a sleeper disturbed by moonlight. Later much later, during the long, comfortable decades with his wife the secret had grown in perfect silence. Lengths of satin acquired at antique fairs with the furtive excitement of a man buying rare first editions; a chiffon veil ordered at three in the morning from a seller who asked no questions and probably knew all the answers anyway. His wife had never known. Or possibly she had known perfectly well and elected, with the generosity of those who love deeply and sensibly, to let the matter lie undisturbed. She would smile when he returned with yet another silk scarf, tease him gently about his "fancy tastes," and he would laugh along, the laughter both balm and small, exquisite knife. Had he stolen something from her by never speaking the truth aloud? Or had the silence been kinder the careful preservation of Sunday dinners, hill walks above the fields, the kettle's comfortable whistle while the afternoon play murmured from the wireless? The clothes themselves seemed to have an opinion on the matter. The satin was cool against his skin when first it touched him, cool and slightly disapproving, like a maiden aunt meeting a disreputable nephew. Then it softened, warmed, accepted. It wrapped itself around the shape he had always carried inside the shape that had never quite fitted the available tailoring of masculinity, no matter how many times the measurements were taken. When he wore it, properly, completely, he became not a man dressed as a widow, but simply the grieving widow he had, in some quiet corner of chronology, always been meant to be. The mirror regarded him without surprise. Mirrors, after all, have seen far stranger things than this between breakfast and bedtime.0 Commentarios 0 Acciones 3K Views1
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Hi all. I know many for many here dressing is a secret and have wives and partners that would never understand. I have my own reasons for dressing but one thing for sure is that it is my secret and I wouldn't want anyone else to know and would never wreck my relationship because of it. So thought would give a few hints and what i do to keep it secret. Probably teaching you to suck eggs but all hints and tips welcome on how you keep it secret.
Shopping - I only order from Amazon and M&S purely because I can pick up and not have anything delivered to the house.Sane for returning items. I also only have an Amazon account for me, my mrs has her own account so no chance of her seeing what i order. We also have separate bank accounts, very handy.
Social - I am only on this site and Chaturbate. Limit which sites you are a member of and don’t go for big dating sites etc. where you could be spotted. Also don’t give your true location, i use the closest city but never my exact town.
Photos - Do not use full face in photos unless you trust who you are sending pics to. Blur backgrounds if you need to and make sure nothing identifying in pics. Tattoos etc. with names that might give something away.
Clothing Storage - The hardest thing to keep tabs on. Am lucky that only i can get into the attic so i have a box with all my gear in stashed up there. That’s where i would suggest if you have an attic. Otherwise garage is good place.
Mobile devices - I use a Samsung with Android so i use the secure folder for everything, pictures kept there, browsing done there as well. Don’t have them anywhere else unless you know secure.
PC - I am lucky that my mrs does not go on my PC as it is a gaming setup. I do have personal photos on there but they are well hidden in a secure folder deep in my game directories.
Hi all. I know many for many here dressing is a secret and have wives and partners that would never understand. I have my own reasons for dressing but one thing for sure is that it is my secret and I wouldn't want anyone else to know and would never wreck my relationship because of it. So thought would give a few hints and what i do to keep it secret. Probably teaching you to suck eggs but all hints and tips welcome on how you keep it secret. Shopping - I only order from Amazon and M&S purely because I can pick up and not have anything delivered to the house.Sane for returning items. I also only have an Amazon account for me, my mrs has her own account so no chance of her seeing what i order. We also have separate bank accounts, very handy. Social - I am only on this site and Chaturbate. Limit which sites you are a member of and don’t go for big dating sites etc. where you could be spotted. Also don’t give your true location, i use the closest city but never my exact town. Photos - Do not use full face in photos unless you trust who you are sending pics to. Blur backgrounds if you need to and make sure nothing identifying in pics. Tattoos etc. with names that might give something away. Clothing Storage - The hardest thing to keep tabs on. Am lucky that only i can get into the attic so i have a box with all my gear in stashed up there. That’s where i would suggest if you have an attic. Otherwise garage is good place. Mobile devices - I use a Samsung with Android so i use the secure folder for everything, pictures kept there, browsing done there as well. Don’t have them anywhere else unless you know secure. PC - I am lucky that my mrs does not go on my PC as it is a gaming setup. I do have personal photos on there but they are well hidden in a secure folder deep in my game directories.9 Commentarios 0 Acciones 2K Views5
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I was looking through loads of online CD pictures, yes I know, the ones with hard Smooth Co cks in Lingerie... The ones I'm addicted to and I found a really nice co ck only about 30 minutes drive away, that gives me time to leave work get there do my thing and get back for picking up the Wife from work... But will this CD be interested or not....
So I sent him a message giving brief details of what I wanted which was straight to the point... I said I was interested in feeding myself from his Co ck, making sure I leave no Mess, Waste or Evidence at all, I did say so long as he didn't mind letting me Swallow it all... I assumed I probably put him off straight away but was quite surprised when he got in touch with his Demands if I was still interested after this then he said yes...
His Demands were as follows...
He said he takes along time to build up trust in other CDs but he would let me do what I wanted so long as over the next few months I prove myself by completing the action at least 3 times a week for 3 months and if he was satisfied we would chat again about moving forward.....
I could not believe my luck, he wants me to....
So I said I agreed to his terms and we organised Tuesday, Thursday and Friday after work as I finish slightly earlier those days... He even promised to be ready to Spread on arrival, he even said he did not want me to dress untill after the trial period.... Wow I thaught how wonderful..
So I arrived for my first day and he let me in, he answered the door in a full black Bodystocking and matching Stilettos and nothing else, I followed him into the living room hardly keeping my eyes off his co ck swinging freely from behind him, he grabbed a pillow that was ready and placed it on the floor in front of the Arm Chair, he sat down, slid right to the edge, co ck hanging freely in front of me, he spread his legs wide onto each chair arm, he leaned over grabbed a book and started reading... Saying 'continue' just before reading...
I got down on my knees and gently lifted his co ck slipped it into my mouth and started wetting it fully sucking up and down his shaft, every now and then holding his balls in my left hand at the same time, he was now solid, occasionally I slipped my hands behind his legs so I could suck hands free, after several intensive minutes work I noticed a twitch or two, so I switched to sucking tight just behind his head a inch or two quick as I could, after a few minutes he started to moan and his Rock Hard Co ck filled my mouth twice, I made sure I stuck to my agreement and swallowed every drop till he was soft again....
He said that I was satisfactory for now and he would be ready for next time....
It's been nearly 3 months now and sometimes during my visit he makes me empty his co CK twice which is tricky as I only just get home in time for the wife...
But Im still not sure he is happy with my service but says there is always room for improvement but he did say he was happy to give me a chance and try again for another 3 months.... I was so relieved as I thought he was going to get rid of me saying I was no good..... So I will try harder and see how I go . .
I'm so lucky he gave me a second chance
I was looking through loads of online CD pictures, yes I know, the ones with hard Smooth Co cks in Lingerie... The ones I'm addicted to and I found a really nice co ck only about 30 minutes drive away, that gives me time to leave work get there do my thing and get back for picking up the Wife from work... But will this CD be interested or not.... So I sent him a message giving brief details of what I wanted which was straight to the point... I said I was interested in feeding myself from his Co ck, making sure I leave no Mess, Waste or Evidence at all, I did say so long as he didn't mind letting me Swallow it all... I assumed I probably put him off straight away but was quite surprised when he got in touch with his Demands if I was still interested after this then he said yes... His Demands were as follows... He said he takes along time to build up trust in other CDs but he would let me do what I wanted so long as over the next few months I prove myself by completing the action at least 3 times a week for 3 months and if he was satisfied we would chat again about moving forward..... I could not believe my luck, he wants me to.... So I said I agreed to his terms and we organised Tuesday, Thursday and Friday after work as I finish slightly earlier those days... He even promised to be ready to Spread on arrival, he even said he did not want me to dress untill after the trial period.... Wow I thaught how wonderful.. So I arrived for my first day and he let me in, he answered the door in a full black Bodystocking and matching Stilettos and nothing else, I followed him into the living room hardly keeping my eyes off his co ck swinging freely from behind him, he grabbed a pillow that was ready and placed it on the floor in front of the Arm Chair, he sat down, slid right to the edge, co ck hanging freely in front of me, he spread his legs wide onto each chair arm, he leaned over grabbed a book and started reading... Saying 'continue' just before reading... I got down on my knees and gently lifted his co ck slipped it into my mouth and started wetting it fully sucking up and down his shaft, every now and then holding his balls in my left hand at the same time, he was now solid, occasionally I slipped my hands behind his legs so I could suck hands free, after several intensive minutes work I noticed a twitch or two, so I switched to sucking tight just behind his head a inch or two quick as I could, after a few minutes he started to moan and his Rock Hard Co ck filled my mouth twice, I made sure I stuck to my agreement and swallowed every drop till he was soft again.... He said that I was satisfactory for now and he would be ready for next time.... It's been nearly 3 months now and sometimes during my visit he makes me empty his co CK twice which is tricky as I only just get home in time for the wife... But Im still not sure he is happy with my service but says there is always room for improvement but he did say he was happy to give me a chance and try again for another 3 months.... I was so relieved as I thought he was going to get rid of me saying I was no good..... So I will try harder and see how I go . . I'm so lucky he gave me a second chance
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5
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I'm So Lucky
I was looking through loads of online CD pictures, yes I know, the ones with hard Smooth Co cks in Lingerie... The ones I'm addicted to and I found a really nice co ck only about 30 minutes drive away, that gives me time to leave work get there do my thing and get back for picking up the Wife from work... But will this CD be interested or not....
So I sent him a message giving brief details of what I wanted which was straight to the point... I said I was interested in feeding myself from his Co ck, making sure I leave no Mess, Waste or Evidence at all, I did say so long as he didn't mind letting me Swallow it all... I assumed I probably put him off straight away but was quite surprised when he got in touch with his Demands if I was still interested after this then he said yes...
His Demands were as follows...
He said he takes along time to build up trust in other CDs but he would let me do what I wanted so long as over the next few months I prove myself by completing the action at least 3 times a week for 3 months and if he was satisfied we would chat again about moving forward.....
I could not believe my luck, he wants me to....
So I said I agreed to his terms and we organised Tuesday, Thursday and Friday after work as I finish slightly earlier those days... He even promised to be ready to Spread on arrival, he even said he did not want me to dress untill after the trial period.... Wow I thaught how wonderful..
So I arrived for my first day and he let me in, he answered the door in a full black Bodystocking and matching Stilettos and nothing else, I followed him into the living room hardly keeping my eyes off his co ck swinging freely from behind him, he grabbed a pillow that was ready and placed it on the floor in front of the Arm Chair, he sat down, slid right to the edge, co ck hanging freely in front of me, he spread his legs wide onto each chair arm, he leaned over grabbed a book and started reading... Saying 'continue' just before reading...
I got down on my knees and gently lifted his co ck slipped it into my mouth and started wetting it fully sucking up and down his shaft, every now and then holding his balls in my left hand at the same time, he was now solid, occasionally I slipped my hands behind his legs so I could suck hands free, after several intensive minutes work I noticed a twitch or two, so I switched to sucking tight just behind his head a inch or two quick as I could, after a few minutes he started to moan and his Rock Hard Co ck filled my mouth twice, I made sure I stuck to my agreement and swallowed every drop till he was soft again....
He said that I was satisfactory for now and he would be ready for next time....
It's been nearly 3 months now and sometimes during my visit he makes me empty his co CK twice which is tricky as I only just get home in time for the wife...
But Im still not sure he is happy with my service but says there is always room for improvement but he did say he was happy to give me a chance and try again for another 3 months.... I was so relieved as I thought he was going to get rid of me saying I was no good..... So I will try harder and see how I go . .
I'm so lucky he gave me a second chance
I'm So Lucky I was looking through loads of online CD pictures, yes I know, the ones with hard Smooth Co cks in Lingerie... The ones I'm addicted to and I found a really nice co ck only about 30 minutes drive away, that gives me time to leave work get there do my thing and get back for picking up the Wife from work... But will this CD be interested or not.... So I sent him a message giving brief details of what I wanted which was straight to the point... I said I was interested in feeding myself from his Co ck, making sure I leave no Mess, Waste or Evidence at all, I did say so long as he didn't mind letting me Swallow it all... I assumed I probably put him off straight away but was quite surprised when he got in touch with his Demands if I was still interested after this then he said yes... His Demands were as follows... He said he takes along time to build up trust in other CDs but he would let me do what I wanted so long as over the next few months I prove myself by completing the action at least 3 times a week for 3 months and if he was satisfied we would chat again about moving forward..... I could not believe my luck, he wants me to.... So I said I agreed to his terms and we organised Tuesday, Thursday and Friday after work as I finish slightly earlier those days... He even promised to be ready to Spread on arrival, he even said he did not want me to dress untill after the trial period.... Wow I thaught how wonderful.. So I arrived for my first day and he let me in, he answered the door in a full black Bodystocking and matching Stilettos and nothing else, I followed him into the living room hardly keeping my eyes off his co ck swinging freely from behind him, he grabbed a pillow that was ready and placed it on the floor in front of the Arm Chair, he sat down, slid right to the edge, co ck hanging freely in front of me, he spread his legs wide onto each chair arm, he leaned over grabbed a book and started reading... Saying 'continue' just before reading... I got down on my knees and gently lifted his co ck slipped it into my mouth and started wetting it fully sucking up and down his shaft, every now and then holding his balls in my left hand at the same time, he was now solid, occasionally I slipped my hands behind his legs so I could suck hands free, after several intensive minutes work I noticed a twitch or two, so I switched to sucking tight just behind his head a inch or two quick as I could, after a few minutes he started to moan and his Rock Hard Co ck filled my mouth twice, I made sure I stuck to my agreement and swallowed every drop till he was soft again.... He said that I was satisfactory for now and he would be ready for next time.... It's been nearly 3 months now and sometimes during my visit he makes me empty his co CK twice which is tricky as I only just get home in time for the wife... But Im still not sure he is happy with my service but says there is always room for improvement but he did say he was happy to give me a chance and try again for another 3 months.... I was so relieved as I thought he was going to get rid of me saying I was no good..... So I will try harder and see how I go . . I'm so lucky he gave me a second chance(((((((((( MY PROFILE)))))))))
UK GB Lingerie CD
I love CDs in Lingerie Stockings, Suspenders, Bodystockings, Crotchless Tights, Basques, Sheer Thongs and of course Stilettos.Particularly like the Tarty Slut look.
Also love Fancy Dress and Cosplay outfits
Got loads of Naughty pics available.
Any really personal stuff, just ASK..
Age 55
Hight 5'5"
Weight 9.5 Stone
Length 6" max
_________________________
Any of the Stuff below does not mean I won't talk with you or be friendly....
(Pet CD Hates....)
Hairy
Overweight
Non CDs
BDSM and Money Touts
Ai & Fake Profiles/Pics
(Photo Tips)
Don't photo your Fat Ass or Belly.
Don't Photo you Panties surrounded by Hairs.
Have a Shave and a Wash
Check the Dirty mess in the background of your photo.
....Nobody especially me wants to see any of these...
Wear Tights under your Stockings and Suspenders to hide any leg hairs.
0 Commentarios 0 Acciones 2K Views2
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A CD Stories Group....... Story..
-------------------------------
I'm So Lucky
I was looking through loads of online CD pictures, yes I know, the ones with hard Smooth Co cks in Lingerie... The ones I'm addicted to and I found a really nice co ck only about 30 minutes drive away, that gives me time to leave work get there do my thing and get back for picking up the Wife from work... But will this CD be interested or not....
So I sent him a message giving brief details of what I wanted which was straight to the point... I said I was interested in feeding myself from his Co ck, making sure I leave no Mess, Waste or Evidence at all, I did say so long as he didn't mind letting me Swallow it all... I assumed I probably put him off straight away but was quite surprised when he got in touch with his Demands if I was still interested after this then he said yes...
His Demands were as follows...
He said he takes along time to build up trust in other CDs but he would let me do what I wanted so long as over the next few months I prove myself of completing the action at least 3 times a week for 3 months and if he was satisfied we would chat again.....
I could not believe my luck, he wants me to....
So I said I agreed to his wonderful terms and we organised Tuesday, Thursday and Friday after work as I finish slightly earlier those days... He even promised to be ready to Spread on arrival, he even said he did not want me to dress untill after the trial period.... Wow I thaught how wonderful..
So I arrived for my first day and he let me in, he answered the door in a full black Bodystocking and matching Stilettos and nothing else, I followed him into the living room hardly keeping my eyes off his co ck swinging freely from behind him, he grabbed a pillow that was ready and placed it on the floor in front of the Arm Chair, he sat down, slid right to the edge, co ck hanging freely in front of me, he spread his legs wide onto each chair arm, he leaned over grabbed a book and started reading... Saying continue just before hand...
I got down on my knees and gently lifted his co ck slipped it into my mouth and started wetting it fully sucking up and down his shaft, every now and then holding his balls in my left hand at the same time, occasionally I slipped my hands behind his legs so I could suck hands free, after several intensive minutes work I noticed a twitch or two, so I switched to sucking tight just behind his head a inch or two quick as I could, after a few minutes he started to moan and his Rock Hard Co ck filled my mouth twice, I made sure I stuck to my promise and swallowed every drop till he was soft again....
He said that I was satisfactory for now and he would be ready for next time....
It's been two 3 months now and sometimes during my visit he makes me empty him twice which is tricky as I only just get home in time...
But I think he seems happy with my service but says there is always room for improvement but he did say he was happy to give me a chance and try again over the next few months.... I was so relieved as I thought he was going to get rid of me saying I was no good..... So I will try harder and see how I go . .
I'm so lucky he gave me a second chance xxxx
A CD Stories Group....... Story.. ------------------------------- I'm So Lucky I was looking through loads of online CD pictures, yes I know, the ones with hard Smooth Co cks in Lingerie... The ones I'm addicted to and I found a really nice co ck only about 30 minutes drive away, that gives me time to leave work get there do my thing and get back for picking up the Wife from work... But will this CD be interested or not.... So I sent him a message giving brief details of what I wanted which was straight to the point... I said I was interested in feeding myself from his Co ck, making sure I leave no Mess, Waste or Evidence at all, I did say so long as he didn't mind letting me Swallow it all... I assumed I probably put him off straight away but was quite surprised when he got in touch with his Demands if I was still interested after this then he said yes... His Demands were as follows... He said he takes along time to build up trust in other CDs but he would let me do what I wanted so long as over the next few months I prove myself of completing the action at least 3 times a week for 3 months and if he was satisfied we would chat again..... I could not believe my luck, he wants me to.... So I said I agreed to his wonderful terms and we organised Tuesday, Thursday and Friday after work as I finish slightly earlier those days... He even promised to be ready to Spread on arrival, he even said he did not want me to dress untill after the trial period.... Wow I thaught how wonderful.. So I arrived for my first day and he let me in, he answered the door in a full black Bodystocking and matching Stilettos and nothing else, I followed him into the living room hardly keeping my eyes off his co ck swinging freely from behind him, he grabbed a pillow that was ready and placed it on the floor in front of the Arm Chair, he sat down, slid right to the edge, co ck hanging freely in front of me, he spread his legs wide onto each chair arm, he leaned over grabbed a book and started reading... Saying continue just before hand... I got down on my knees and gently lifted his co ck slipped it into my mouth and started wetting it fully sucking up and down his shaft, every now and then holding his balls in my left hand at the same time, occasionally I slipped my hands behind his legs so I could suck hands free, after several intensive minutes work I noticed a twitch or two, so I switched to sucking tight just behind his head a inch or two quick as I could, after a few minutes he started to moan and his Rock Hard Co ck filled my mouth twice, I made sure I stuck to my promise and swallowed every drop till he was soft again.... He said that I was satisfactory for now and he would be ready for next time.... It's been two 3 months now and sometimes during my visit he makes me empty him twice which is tricky as I only just get home in time... But I think he seems happy with my service but says there is always room for improvement but he did say he was happy to give me a chance and try again over the next few months.... I was so relieved as I thought he was going to get rid of me saying I was no good..... So I will try harder and see how I go . . I'm so lucky he gave me a second chance xxxx0 Commentarios 0 Acciones 3K Views1
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if there is one thing sexier than wearing lace top hold up stockings, it is the process of putting them onif there is one thing sexier than wearing lace top hold up stockings, it is the process of putting them on 🥰3 Commentarios 0 Acciones 2K Views
12
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lace top, leather skirt, bare legs, some anklets and these killer high heels i feel so feminine, so naked and yet so powerful in theselace top, leather skirt, bare legs, some anklets and these killer high heels 🥰 i feel so feminine, so naked and yet so powerful in these2 Commentarios 0 Acciones 2K Views
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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.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.
0 Commentarios 0 Acciones 6K Views2
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Locked my high heels on well is if I need to lock my heels on ! as I love them locked it a turn on it’s the know I locked in them hmmm x x my cage is tight also !
#laceskirt #petticoat #stockings #suspendersLocked my high heels on well is if I need to lock my heels on ! as I love them locked it a turn on it’s the know I locked in them hmmm x🥰 x my cage is tight also ! #laceskirt #petticoat #stockings #suspenders4 Commentarios 0 Acciones 6K Views6
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My flower petticoat x and seamed stockings and suspenders xx
#petticoat #seamedstockings #suspenders #laceskirtMy flower 🌺 petticoat x and seamed stockings and suspenders x🌹x #petticoat #seamedstockings #suspenders #laceskirt
2 Commentarios 0 Acciones 7K Views3
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Aww nice relaxing had a beer feel nice and cozy dressed up in my lace skirt and petticoat and stockings and suspenders and heels on should of locked em on 🫢giggles x
#laceskirt #petticoat #stockings #suspenders #highheelsAww nice relaxing had a beer 🍺 feel nice and cozy dressed up in my lace skirt and petticoat and stockings and suspenders and heels on should of locked em on 🫢🥰giggles x #laceskirt #petticoat #stockings #suspenders #highheels0 Commentarios 0 Acciones 4K Views
4
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Felt abit better to squeeze in a dressup x hope you like it ? X
#laceskirt #petticoat #stockings #suspenders #highheelsFelt abit better to squeeze in a dressup x hope you like it ? X ❤️🤭 #laceskirt #petticoat #stockings #suspenders #highheels0 Commentarios 0 Acciones 4K Views
5
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One of my cyber dressups lace skirt and petticoat and stockings and suspenders with heels on x
#cyber #laceskirt #petticoat #stockings #suspenders #highheelsOne of my cyber dressups lace skirt and petticoat and stockings and suspenders with heels on x #cyber #laceskirt #petticoat #stockings #suspenders #highheels
0 Commentarios 0 Acciones 3K Views
8
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Todays losers are....
Goddess_kareen009 beware scammer! Called 'her' out and she tried DM me but asked why was she doing this. No I've been blocked lol
Goddess_clara007 reported and blocked. High probability of AI image. Name and profile description = scammer! Please report and block.
To all simps out on this site who fawn and send such positive messages to these people who just using a small amount of brain power it is absolutly obvious these cis dom women are scammers. Dont encourage them. Report and block always.
Its showing they will put up with the age verification now to get on the site just in the hope of hooking some mugs and taking them for a ride (to the bank).
LauraS full of fake face pictures. typically stolen pictures with manipulated faces/replacement faces. stealing other peoples images and intellectual rights without permission.Todays losers are.... Goddess_kareen009 beware scammer! Called 'her' out and she tried DM me but asked why was she doing this. No I've been blocked lol Goddess_clara007 reported and blocked. High probability of AI image. Name and profile description = scammer! Please report and block. To all simps out on this site who fawn and send such positive messages to these people who just using a small amount of brain power it is absolutly obvious these cis dom women are scammers. Dont encourage them. Report and block always. Its showing they will put up with the age verification now to get on the site just in the hope of hooking some mugs and taking them for a ride (to the bank). LauraS full of fake face pictures. typically stolen pictures with manipulated faces/replacement faces. stealing other peoples images and intellectual rights without permission.
0 Commentarios 0 Acciones 2K Views
7
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The lace skirt over my taffeta pettiskirt heaven x
#laceskirt #pettiskirt #stockings #suspenders #highheelsThe lace skirt over my taffeta pettiskirt heaven x 🥰 #laceskirt #pettiskirt #stockings #suspenders #highheels
0 Commentarios 0 Acciones 2K Views4
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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.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.
2 Commentarios 0 Acciones 6K Views
2
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Lace skirt and latex skirt on with petticoat and stockings and suspenders and garter and heels x
#skirt #petticoat #stockings #suspenders #highheels
Lace skirt and latex skirt on with petticoat and stockings and suspenders and garter and heels x 🥰 #skirt #petticoat #stockings #suspenders #highheels
0 Commentarios 0 Acciones 3K Views6
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A silver cut
I ve made
This silver shade
I ve made
This lesbi cut...
Am I attractive more?
You wish retreate
Not f...k?
Im lost
My breasts are small
That s good for lesbi girl
My voice is not to high
But not so manly wild
But body....
Is too soft
Too feminine
Too gentle
What could
I do with soul
My Girly soul
Trembles...
I ve made my lashes
Small
I shadowed pink my
Eyes.
My lips are waiting kiss
Of girl...
Girl in disgise...
My lips are waiting
For your kiss
I know trembling taste
I wish to meet you
Magic Miss
Who will seduce my lace...
Who knows where
Touch me right
Bring pleasure
Lust and fire
Who cuddles simply
Girl to Girl
And grows my admire...
I want forget
My hide as boy
I wish you understand
I wish orgasm
Orgasm of girl
And not for one night stand...
I want you open me
My dress will fall for you in night...
My Darling lead me to confess
With you in Paradise ...
A silver cut I ve made This silver shade I ve made This lesbi cut... Am I attractive more? You wish retreate Not f...k? Im lost My breasts are small That s good for lesbi girl My voice is not to high But not so manly wild But body.... Is too soft Too feminine Too gentle What could I do with soul My Girly soul Trembles... I ve made my lashes Small I shadowed pink my Eyes. My lips are waiting kiss Of girl... Girl in disgise... My lips are waiting For your kiss I know trembling taste I wish to meet you Magic Miss Who will seduce my lace... Who knows where Touch me right Bring pleasure Lust and fire Who cuddles simply Girl to Girl And grows my admire... I want forget My hide as boy I wish you understand I wish orgasm Orgasm of girl And not for one night stand... I want you open me My dress will fall for you in night... My Darling lead me to confess With you in Paradise ...
0 Commentarios 0 Acciones 3K Views5
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Dressed up wearing a black lace skirt and petticoat and stockings and suspenders showing through x
#laceskirt #petticoat #stockings #suspenders #highheelsDressed up wearing a black lace skirt and petticoat and stockings and suspenders showing through x #laceskirt #petticoat #stockings #suspenders #highheels
4 Commentarios 0 Acciones 3K Views
10
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In my lace skirt and taffeta pettiskirt swishing in it !
#laceskirt #petticoat #stockings #suspenders #highheelsIn my lace skirt and taffeta pettiskirt swishing in it !😊 #laceskirt #petticoat #stockings #suspenders #highheels0 Commentarios 0 Acciones 4K Views 143
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A little dressup in my lace skirt and taffeta petticoat !
#laceskirt #taffetapetticoat #stockings #suspenders #highheelsA little dressup in my lace skirt and taffeta petticoat !😊 #laceskirt #taffetapetticoat #stockings #suspenders #highheels0 Commentarios 0 Acciones 3K Views
10
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I changed make up
To very bi...
And silver pale shade
My age's not passing
Verifiiii
So I could not engage...
In world of dangerous
Bi girls
That might seduce me
By heart force...
I wear baby shorts
And lace
Long boots without heels
Perhaps it is too childish
Suit
For guys in verifiiii?....I changed make up To very bi... And silver pale shade My age's not passing Verifiiii So I could not engage... In world of dangerous Bi girls That might seduce me By heart force... I wear baby shorts And lace Long boots without heels Perhaps it is too childish Suit For guys in verifiiii?....1 Commentarios 0 Acciones 2K Views4
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Lycra safety shorts on lol abit of fun was wearing suspenders underneath though giggles x
#lycrashorts #laceskirt #pettiskirt #stockings #suspenders #highheelsLycra safety shorts on lol 😂 abit of fun was wearing suspenders underneath though giggles x ❤️ #lycrashorts #laceskirt #pettiskirt #stockings #suspenders #highheels
0 Commentarios 0 Acciones 3K Views2
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#laceskirt #pettiskirt #stockings #suspenders #highheels
0 Commentarios 0 Acciones 2K Views
4
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#laceskirt #petticoat #stockings #suspenders #veil #highheels
0 Commentarios 0 Acciones 2K Views
6
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#laceskirt #latexskirt #petticoat #stockings #suspenders #highheels
0 Commentarios 0 Acciones 2K Views4
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Not dressed in a while, wondering if a new wig and knickers will help. Shopping always helps right? I'm thinking long straight black hair and lace....Not dressed in a while, wondering if a new wig and knickers will help. Shopping always helps right? I'm thinking long straight black hair and lace....3 Commentarios 0 Acciones 2K Views
4
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#laceskirt #pettiskirt #stockings #highheels
2 Commentarios 0 Acciones 2K Views
3
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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.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.
3 Commentarios 0 Acciones 7K Views7
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I remember my first date with a man. It happened many years ago in May 2011.We arranged the meet through the website for crossdressers/transvestites and their admirers where we both had profiles.He lived in Slough (UK) where he lived alone after his divorce.I was both extremely nervous and excited at the thought that I would be with a man in the very intimate way. I hardly could sleep at night thinking all the time what to wear,what sort of makeup to put on. I know that men love stockings and heels so I took my best pair of ff stockings and heels with me. I also packed my best pencil dress. He picked me at the station in Slough and we went to his place.I felt I was shaking inside with excitement. He took me to his bedroom where I changed my clothes whilst he excused himself.I put on some red lipstick and mascara and my bob black wig. He came back completely naked. My heart started beating like crazy when he approached me and he touched my small clit through the fabric of my lace panties. Gosh, I thought to myself "yess its going to happen".He helped me to pulled down my panties and I started walking around dressed only in a black bullet bra,black stocking with matching supender belt and 6 inches heels. I heard him gasping and I noticed that his **** started to glister.He approached me and grabbed me from behind and started kissing my neck and I turned around and he forced his tongue into my mouth and I didn't resist it. It was so exciting being kissed by a man.He was a good kisser.Also he started rubbing his penis against mine whilst we were kissing.Strangely I was thinking about his wife he had divorced recently so I thought to myself " was the same way he kissed his wife as he's kissing me now".And after that we went to bed together....I remember my first date with a man. It happened many years ago in May 2011.We arranged the meet through the website for crossdressers/transvestites and their admirers where we both had profiles.He lived in Slough (UK) where he lived alone after his divorce.I was both extremely nervous and excited at the thought that I would be with a man in the very intimate way. I hardly could sleep at night thinking all the time what to wear,what sort of makeup to put on. I know that men love stockings and heels so I took my best pair of ff stockings and heels with me. I also packed my best pencil dress. He picked me at the station in Slough and we went to his place.I felt I was shaking inside with excitement. He took me to his bedroom where I changed my clothes whilst he excused himself.I put on some red lipstick and mascara and my bob black wig. He came back completely naked. My heart started beating like crazy when he approached me and he touched my small clit through the fabric of my lace panties. Gosh, I thought to myself "yess its going to happen".He helped me to pulled down my panties and I started walking around dressed only in a black bullet bra,black stocking with matching supender belt and 6 inches heels. I heard him gasping and I noticed that his cock started to glister.He approached me and grabbed me from behind and started kissing my neck and I turned around and he forced his tongue into my mouth and I didn't resist it. It was so exciting being kissed by a man.He was a good kisser.Also he started rubbing his penis against mine whilst we were kissing.Strangely I was thinking about his wife he had divorced recently so I thought to myself " was the same way he kissed his wife as he's kissing me now".And after that we went to bed together....6 Commentarios 0 Acciones 7K Views
17
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Forget the fake tedium of Dommes and cash cows that haunt this place - where’s the sexy mentors - no cash exchanges and frauds - but someone who really is into this as much as I am and wants to be online and loving life with a fucking brilliant individual:p xxxForget the fake tedium of Dommes and cash cows that haunt this place - where’s the sexy mentors - no cash exchanges and frauds - but someone who really is into this as much as I am and wants to be online and loving life with a fucking brilliant individual:p xxx3 Commentarios 0 Acciones 3K Views
13
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All natural. All me. No deep fake. No AI, no pretending I’m a size 10.
Size 14 with all the curves. Some in the wrong places!
Love who you are. Yes we all want to be admired but not for being something we are simply not. I can spot it a mile off. I cut my face off because I don’t have time to do make up and wigs. If I did I’d happily share.
When I get likes or compliments it feels great because I know I’m presenting as me.
It’s a shame a platform for us to all embrace and appreciate our shared love turns in to bots and AI.All natural. All me. No deep fake. No AI, no pretending I’m a size 10. Size 14 with all the curves. Some in the wrong places! Love who you are. Yes we all want to be admired but not for being something we are simply not. I can spot it a mile off. I cut my face off because I don’t have time to do make up and wigs. If I did I’d happily share. When I get likes or compliments it feels great because I know I’m presenting as me. It’s a shame a platform for us to all embrace and appreciate our shared love turns in to bots and AI.
22 Commentarios 0 Acciones 4K Views
38
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I remember the exact moment I decided the night belonged to me alone. The room smelled of rosewater, old bruised satin drapes, and the faint metallic tang of ancient makeup. Mirrors surrounded me like silent courtiers, each reflecting a different fragment of the creature I was becoming. Tonight I wasn't just performing, I was ascending. First came the foundation: cool porcelain over warm skin, smoothed until I looked carved from moonlight. Then the eyes. Oh, the eyes. I dipped a fine brush into that impossible turquoise pigment the exact shade of tropical shallows under storm clouds and painted sweeping wings that stretched toward my temples. Eyelashes like black lace fans. Lips the colour of bruised sapphires, outlined sharper than a guillotine's edge. Cheeks dusted with shimmering frost so the light would catch and fracture. The hijab went on next. Heavy turquoise satin, cool against my scalp. I wrapped it with ritual precision, tucking every rebellious strand away until only regal geometry remained. Over that, the oversized satin headscarf yards of it draped and folded into majestic pleats that framed my face like a Renaissance altarpiece gone deliciously rogue. Then the cascading chiffon voile veil, light as breath, heavy with intention. It spilled from the crown in watery layers, catching every flicker of candlelight and turning it into liquid mercury. The gown followed: high necked, modest in the Victorian sense, scandalous in every other. Satin bodice hugging just enough to remind the world what architecture the body can achieve, then exploding into flowing panels of voile and satin that whispered across the floor like conspiratorial ghosts. Ankle length, yes, but the way it moved suggested it might lift at any moment and carry me off the ground entirely. I stepped into the main chamber. The throne waited upholstered in the same decadent turquoise satin, tufted and tasselled, looking like something a decadent Ottoman sultan might have abandoned in a fit of ennui. I arranged myself upon it slowly, deliberately. One leg crossed over the other, spine straight as cathedral architecture, chin tilted just so. Left hand resting on the armrest, fingers splayed to show off the long turquoise nails. Right hand splayed in a gesture that could have been benediction, accusation, or invitation take your pick. Then came the lighting. A single harsh key light from high right, carving brutal shadows across the left side of my face; a faint fill from low left to keep the eyes from disappearing into darkness; everything else swallowed by velvet black. Chiaroscuro taken to theatrical extremes. The satin drank the light and threw it back richer, glossier, almost liquid. My skin glowed like moonlit marble. The veil caught stray photons and turned them into faint turquoise fireflies suspended in air. I struck the pose. Head turned three quarters, gaze locked on some invisible point just beyond the fourth wall. Lips parted the tiniest fraction as though I were about to deliver the wittiest, most devastating line in the history of spoken language, but had decided silence was crueler. One eyebrow infinitesimally raised. The veil drifted slightly with my breath, a slow, hypnotic undulation. Somewhere in the darkness, I heard a stifled giggle. Good. Let them laugh. Let them gasp. Let them clutch their pearls and question every certainty they ever held about gender, grief, glamour, and good taste. Because here I sat mourning queen of nothing and everything, turquoise flamed phoenix in widow's weeds, Caravaggio's most flamboyant fever dream filtered through Doré's feverish embellishments. The shadows deepened around me, thick as ink. The satin throne gleamed like wet paint. My makeup shimmered, defiant and absurd and utterly regal. And in that perfect, ridiculous, holy instant, I felt it: I was the most beautiful thing in the universe.I remember the exact moment I decided the night belonged to me alone. The room smelled of rosewater, old bruised satin drapes, and the faint metallic tang of ancient makeup. Mirrors surrounded me like silent courtiers, each reflecting a different fragment of the creature I was becoming. Tonight I wasn't just performing, I was ascending. First came the foundation: cool porcelain over warm skin, smoothed until I looked carved from moonlight. Then the eyes. Oh, the eyes. I dipped a fine brush into that impossible turquoise pigment the exact shade of tropical shallows under storm clouds and painted sweeping wings that stretched toward my temples. Eyelashes like black lace fans. Lips the colour of bruised sapphires, outlined sharper than a guillotine's edge. Cheeks dusted with shimmering frost so the light would catch and fracture. The hijab went on next. Heavy turquoise satin, cool against my scalp. I wrapped it with ritual precision, tucking every rebellious strand away until only regal geometry remained. Over that, the oversized satin headscarf yards of it draped and folded into majestic pleats that framed my face like a Renaissance altarpiece gone deliciously rogue. Then the cascading chiffon voile veil, light as breath, heavy with intention. It spilled from the crown in watery layers, catching every flicker of candlelight and turning it into liquid mercury. The gown followed: high necked, modest in the Victorian sense, scandalous in every other. Satin bodice hugging just enough to remind the world what architecture the body can achieve, then exploding into flowing panels of voile and satin that whispered across the floor like conspiratorial ghosts. Ankle length, yes, but the way it moved suggested it might lift at any moment and carry me off the ground entirely. I stepped into the main chamber. The throne waited upholstered in the same decadent turquoise satin, tufted and tasselled, looking like something a decadent Ottoman sultan might have abandoned in a fit of ennui. I arranged myself upon it slowly, deliberately. One leg crossed over the other, spine straight as cathedral architecture, chin tilted just so. Left hand resting on the armrest, fingers splayed to show off the long turquoise nails. Right hand splayed in a gesture that could have been benediction, accusation, or invitation take your pick. Then came the lighting. A single harsh key light from high right, carving brutal shadows across the left side of my face; a faint fill from low left to keep the eyes from disappearing into darkness; everything else swallowed by velvet black. Chiaroscuro taken to theatrical extremes. The satin drank the light and threw it back richer, glossier, almost liquid. My skin glowed like moonlit marble. The veil caught stray photons and turned them into faint turquoise fireflies suspended in air. I struck the pose. Head turned three quarters, gaze locked on some invisible point just beyond the fourth wall. Lips parted the tiniest fraction as though I were about to deliver the wittiest, most devastating line in the history of spoken language, but had decided silence was crueler. One eyebrow infinitesimally raised. The veil drifted slightly with my breath, a slow, hypnotic undulation. Somewhere in the darkness, I heard a stifled giggle. Good. Let them laugh. Let them gasp. Let them clutch their pearls and question every certainty they ever held about gender, grief, glamour, and good taste. Because here I sat mourning queen of nothing and everything, turquoise flamed phoenix in widow's weeds, Caravaggio's most flamboyant fever dream filtered through Doré's feverish embellishments. The shadows deepened around me, thick as ink. The satin throne gleamed like wet paint. My makeup shimmered, defiant and absurd and utterly regal. And in that perfect, ridiculous, holy instant, I felt it: I was the most beautiful thing in the universe.
0 Commentarios 0 Acciones 6K Views4
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I love doing my nails
I love doing my make up
I love lipstick
I love lace
I love dresses
I love heels
I love feeling girly
I love Rom coms
I love pamper sessions
I love attention
I love compliments
I love lingerie
I love naughty lingerie
I love smooth skin
I love chilling out as Danni
I love my curvy butt
I love my sporty legs that look great in tights and stockings
I love women
I love women that love crossdressers
I love open minded people
I love getting that perfect picture
I love who I am and what it means to be me
I love crossdressingI love doing my nails I love doing my make up I love lipstick I love lace I love dresses I love heels I love feeling girly I love Rom coms I love pamper sessions I love attention I love compliments I love lingerie I love naughty lingerie I love smooth skin I love chilling out as Danni I love my curvy butt I love my sporty legs that look great in tights and stockings I love women I love women that love crossdressers I love open minded people I love getting that perfect picture I love who I am and what it means to be me I love crossdressing0 Commentarios 0 Acciones 6K Views
13
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She chose the necklace last.
That was always how it went, hair first, then the glasses, the careful line of lipstick that made her look like she knew what she was doing even when she didn’t. The mirror showed her a woman with copper rose hair and a smile she’d practiced for years, one that said I’m fine, thank you, without inviting questions.
The turquoise collar lay on the dresser like a memory she wasn’t ready to wear today.
Instead, her fingers closed around the spinel and garnet strand.
It was cool in her hand, heavier than it looked. The stones weren’t perfect, no two were the same. Pink spinel caught the light softly, purple deepened toward dusk, and the garnets glowed like embers that refused to go out. Freeform. Unapologetic. Honest. She liked that about them. They didn’t pretend to be anything other than what they were.
The magnetic clasp clicked shut at the back of her neck with a small, decisive sound.
At 51 centimetres, the necklace didn’t sit high and declarative like the turquoise one. It rested lower, closer to the heart. A quiet line of colour against her skin, silver tones flickering when she moved. It didn’t announce her presence, it stayed with her.
She leaned closer to the mirror.
The spinel echoed the warmth of her hair. The garnet answered the lipstick. Together they softened her face, drew the eye downward, slowed everything. This wasn’t a necklace for making an entrance. It was for conversations that lasted longer than planned. For afternoons that drifted into evening. For being seen without being displayed.
She smiled again this time without rehearsing it.
Some jewellery was armour. Some was memory. This one felt like continuity, like all the versions of herself agreeing, briefly, to coexist. The woman who once wore turquoise like a shield. The woman who now preferred stones that looked as if they’d lived a little.
She reached for her coat, left the turquoise where it was, and stepped out.
The necklace moved with her not loudly, not urgently but faithfully, stone against skin, colour against breath, proof that beauty didn’t have to shout to be real.She chose the necklace last. That was always how it went, hair first, then the glasses, the careful line of lipstick that made her look like she knew what she was doing even when she didn’t. The mirror showed her a woman with copper rose hair and a smile she’d practiced for years, one that said I’m fine, thank you, without inviting questions. The turquoise collar lay on the dresser like a memory she wasn’t ready to wear today. Instead, her fingers closed around the spinel and garnet strand. It was cool in her hand, heavier than it looked. The stones weren’t perfect, no two were the same. Pink spinel caught the light softly, purple deepened toward dusk, and the garnets glowed like embers that refused to go out. Freeform. Unapologetic. Honest. She liked that about them. They didn’t pretend to be anything other than what they were. The magnetic clasp clicked shut at the back of her neck with a small, decisive sound. At 51 centimetres, the necklace didn’t sit high and declarative like the turquoise one. It rested lower, closer to the heart. A quiet line of colour against her skin, silver tones flickering when she moved. It didn’t announce her presence, it stayed with her. She leaned closer to the mirror. The spinel echoed the warmth of her hair. The garnet answered the lipstick. Together they softened her face, drew the eye downward, slowed everything. This wasn’t a necklace for making an entrance. It was for conversations that lasted longer than planned. For afternoons that drifted into evening. For being seen without being displayed. She smiled again this time without rehearsing it. Some jewellery was armour. Some was memory. This one felt like continuity, like all the versions of herself agreeing, briefly, to coexist. The woman who once wore turquoise like a shield. The woman who now preferred stones that looked as if they’d lived a little. She reached for her coat, left the turquoise where it was, and stepped out. The necklace moved with her not loudly, not urgently but faithfully, stone against skin, colour against breath, proof that beauty didn’t have to shout to be real.
0 Commentarios 0 Acciones 9K Views
11
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The case came in sideways, like everything else north of the equator these days.
Over the irradiated murky Atlantic pond, Glasgow didn’t rain so much as accuse. The drizzle slid down the soot-stained tenements like it knew every sin committed inside them. Post-war, post-bomb, post-everything that ever pretended to be civilized. The apocalypse didn’t flatten Scotland the way it did Los Angeles, it hollowed it out instead, left the bones standing and filled the gaps with whisky, guns, and ghosts.
I wore black that night. Not the practical kind.
The statement kind.
A black oversized tartan satin headscarf wrapped tight around my hair, catching the light like wet ink. Over my face, a sheer black chiffon voile veil, the mourning lace thin enough to breathe through, thick enough to hide regret. The rest of me was Victorian grief dialed up to eleven: glossy black tartan blouse with rococo frills, satin panels hugging me like a second conscience, skirts whispering every time I moved. I looked like a widow who’d buried the world and decided it deserved it.
In Glasgow, that bought me anonymity.
They called me Han here too, though the locals said it like a question. I’d followed the trail across the Atlantic after a shipment of American surplus hardware went missing, Tommy guns, plasma pistols, a few toys left over from the end of the world. Fallout New Vegas tech, Hollywood Hills money, Highland routes. Someone was running iron through the glens and washing it down with single malt older than the war itself.
The back streets off Trongate were crooked enough to make a Dutch cameraman weep. Buildings leaned in close, sharing secrets. Gas lamps flickered like they were afraid of what they might illuminate. I walked slow, heels deliberate, veil fluttering just enough to let the right people notice and the wrong people hesitate.
That’s when the femme fatale found me.
She leaned against a doorway like she’d been waiting for the end of the world to catch up. Hair platinum under a cloche hat, lips dark as a closed casket. Scottish, sharp, and carrying herself like a blade wrapped in silk.
“You’re far from Hollywood, sweetheart,” she said. “And you’re dressed for a funeral that isn’t yours.”
“Everyone’s funeral is mine eventually,” I said. “I just like to dress appropriately.”
She smiled. That was the mistake.
Her name was Moira Blackwood. Whisky broker. Gun runner. Mourner by trade. She dealt in Highland routes, smugglers who knew every fog bank, every forgotten rail spur left behind when the bombs fell south. The Americans supplied the firepower. The Scots supplied the patience.
And someone was skimming.
Bodies were turning up in the lochs. Empty bottles floating beside them like punchlines. Moira wanted to know who was cutting into her business before it turned into a clan war with automatic weapons.
We took a train north that barely remembered being a train. Through valleys drowned in mist and radiation snow. I kept the veil on the whole way. In the Highlands, superstition still worked better than bullets.
The smugglers met us in an abandoned distillery, barrels stacked like tombstones. The tartan of my outfit mirrored theirs, same pattern, different intent. They watched me carefully. Men always did when they couldn’t decide what category to put me in.
That hesitation saved my life.
When the shooting started, I was already moving. Heels skidding on stone, skirts swirling, revolver barking from beneath layers of satin and sorrow. Moira went down fast—winged, not dead. The real culprit bolted for the back door, carrying a ledger thick with names and lies.
I caught him by the loch.
The water reflected us in stark monochrome: him shaking, me looming, veil rippling like smoke. He confessed quickly. They always did when faced with someone who looked like death had chosen tartan satin couture.
I left him there for the deep dark water to judge.
By dawn, the Highlands were quiet again. Moira paid me in whisky older than memory and ammunition stamped with American lies. Fair trade.
Back in Glasgow, I stood in a cracked mirror in a boarding house that smelled of coal and grief. I removed the veil last. Always last.
Another city survived. Another secret buried. Another outfit stained with rain instead of blood.
The world was still tilted. Still broken. Still rolling on at the wrong angle.
But as long as there were shadows to walk and clothes that told the truth my mouth didn’t have to, I’d keep going.
Mourning never goes out of fashion.The case came in sideways, like everything else north of the equator these days. Over the irradiated murky Atlantic pond, Glasgow didn’t rain so much as accuse. The drizzle slid down the soot-stained tenements like it knew every sin committed inside them. Post-war, post-bomb, post-everything that ever pretended to be civilized. The apocalypse didn’t flatten Scotland the way it did Los Angeles, it hollowed it out instead, left the bones standing and filled the gaps with whisky, guns, and ghosts. I wore black that night. Not the practical kind. The statement kind. A black oversized tartan satin headscarf wrapped tight around my hair, catching the light like wet ink. Over my face, a sheer black chiffon voile veil, the mourning lace thin enough to breathe through, thick enough to hide regret. The rest of me was Victorian grief dialed up to eleven: glossy black tartan blouse with rococo frills, satin panels hugging me like a second conscience, skirts whispering every time I moved. I looked like a widow who’d buried the world and decided it deserved it. In Glasgow, that bought me anonymity. They called me Han here too, though the locals said it like a question. I’d followed the trail across the Atlantic after a shipment of American surplus hardware went missing, Tommy guns, plasma pistols, a few toys left over from the end of the world. Fallout New Vegas tech, Hollywood Hills money, Highland routes. Someone was running iron through the glens and washing it down with single malt older than the war itself. The back streets off Trongate were crooked enough to make a Dutch cameraman weep. Buildings leaned in close, sharing secrets. Gas lamps flickered like they were afraid of what they might illuminate. I walked slow, heels deliberate, veil fluttering just enough to let the right people notice and the wrong people hesitate. That’s when the femme fatale found me. She leaned against a doorway like she’d been waiting for the end of the world to catch up. Hair platinum under a cloche hat, lips dark as a closed casket. Scottish, sharp, and carrying herself like a blade wrapped in silk. “You’re far from Hollywood, sweetheart,” she said. “And you’re dressed for a funeral that isn’t yours.” “Everyone’s funeral is mine eventually,” I said. “I just like to dress appropriately.” She smiled. That was the mistake. Her name was Moira Blackwood. Whisky broker. Gun runner. Mourner by trade. She dealt in Highland routes, smugglers who knew every fog bank, every forgotten rail spur left behind when the bombs fell south. The Americans supplied the firepower. The Scots supplied the patience. And someone was skimming. Bodies were turning up in the lochs. Empty bottles floating beside them like punchlines. Moira wanted to know who was cutting into her business before it turned into a clan war with automatic weapons. We took a train north that barely remembered being a train. Through valleys drowned in mist and radiation snow. I kept the veil on the whole way. In the Highlands, superstition still worked better than bullets. The smugglers met us in an abandoned distillery, barrels stacked like tombstones. The tartan of my outfit mirrored theirs, same pattern, different intent. They watched me carefully. Men always did when they couldn’t decide what category to put me in. That hesitation saved my life. When the shooting started, I was already moving. Heels skidding on stone, skirts swirling, revolver barking from beneath layers of satin and sorrow. Moira went down fast—winged, not dead. The real culprit bolted for the back door, carrying a ledger thick with names and lies. I caught him by the loch. The water reflected us in stark monochrome: him shaking, me looming, veil rippling like smoke. He confessed quickly. They always did when faced with someone who looked like death had chosen tartan satin couture. I left him there for the deep dark water to judge. By dawn, the Highlands were quiet again. Moira paid me in whisky older than memory and ammunition stamped with American lies. Fair trade. Back in Glasgow, I stood in a cracked mirror in a boarding house that smelled of coal and grief. I removed the veil last. Always last. Another city survived. Another secret buried. Another outfit stained with rain instead of blood. The world was still tilted. Still broken. Still rolling on at the wrong angle. But as long as there were shadows to walk and clothes that told the truth my mouth didn’t have to, I’d keep going. Mourning never goes out of fashion.
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The rain hammered down on the cracked pavement like a thousand accusations, each drop a reminder that the world had gone to hell in a handbasket back in '52, when the bombs fell and turned the City of Angels into a monochrome nightmare. I adjusted the strap of my garter belt under my trench coat, feeling the silk stockings whisper against my skin like a forbidden secret. Name's Tracy with a Dick, wait, no, that's too on the nose. Call me Hanimefendi Basortulu, or just Han if you're buying the drinks. By day, I'm the hard boiled gumshoe pounding the shadowed alleys of this irradiated husk of Los Angeles, dodging mutants and mobsters in equal measure. But when the neon flickers out and the Dutch angles of my life tilt just right, I'm something else entirely: a crossdressing sissy in satin, chasing skirts instead of skirts chasing me.
It started with a dame, like all my stories do. Or at least, that's how I tell it to the mirror while I paint my lips ruby red in the dim glow of my office bulb the one that swings like a noose in the wind howling through the boarded up windows. The apocalypse had stripped the city bare, leaving behind skeletal skyscrapers leaning at crazy angles, their glass eyes shattered from the blasts. Food was rationed, water was poison, and hope? That was a luxury for the pre war fools. Me? I survived by sniffing out secrets in the fog of fallout, my fedora pulled low over eyes shadowed with kohl I swiped from a ruined department store.
She slinked into my office that night, a vision in tattered mink and desperation. "Mr. Basortulu," she purred, her voice cutting through the static of my battered radio spitting out old jazz tunes. "I need a man who can handle... delicate matters." Her eyes flicked to my desk, where a stray lipstick tube had rolled out from under some files. I snatched it up quick, heart pounding like a tommy gun. If she noticed, she didn't let on. Her husband, a big shot fallout bunker baron hoarding pre war hooch, had vanished into the undercity the labyrinth of sewers and subways where the real monsters lurked, glowing with radiation and grudge.
I took the case because rent was due, and because her perfume smelled like the lilacs that used to bloom before the sky turned perpetual gray. Slipping out the back door, I ditched the coat for my real armor: a frilly silken blouse tucked into a satin pencil skirt, heels that clicked like gunshots on the debris strewn streets. Crossdressing wasn't just a kink in this apocalypse; it was camouflage. The goons patrolling the ruins looked for tough guys in suits, not a mincing minx batting lashes from the shadows. I'd learned that the hard way, back when the first riots hit and I hid in a drag queen's bunker, emerging reborn in marabou feathers, silk, satin, lace and lies.
The trail led me to the Dutch Tilt District, where buildings leaned like drunks at last call, their angles throwing everything off kilter just like my life. I tailed a suspect through the monochrome haze, my wig itching under the fedora I'd crammed back on. He was a weasel faced rat, peddling black market estrogen shots to the desperate. "Where's the baron?" I hissed, pressing a stiletto heel to his throat after I cornered him in an alley reeking of rot.
He spilled like cheap bourbon: the husband wasn't missing; he'd been snatched by the Shadow Syndicate, a cult of irradiated freaks worshiping the bomb as a god. They operated from the old Hollywood studios, twisting pre war films into propaganda reels that played on loop in the bunkers. I infiltrated at dusk, dolled up in a Lamé cocktail dress that hugged my curves like a guilty conscience. The guards bought the act hell, one even wolf whistled as I sashayed past, my .38 snub nose tucked in my garter.
Inside, it was a fever dream of tilted cameras and flickering projectors. The baron was tied to a chair, force-fed their twisted sermons. But the real twist? The dame was in on it. She emerged from the shadows, gun in hand, her mink shedding like a snake's skin. "You should've stayed in your lane, detective," she sneered. "Or should I say, crossdressing doll?"
We tussled in the projector light, our shadows dancing at mad angles on the walls, her nails raking my stockings, my fist connecting with her jaw. I got the drop on her, tying her up with her own pearls. "In this world, honey," I growled, voice husky from the hormones I'd been sneaking, "everyone's got a secret identity. Mine just fits better."
I dragged the baron out, collected my fee in canned peaches and ammo, and vanished back into the rain. Back in my office, I peeled off the layers, staring at my reflection in the cracked mirror. The apocalypse had taken everything, my city, my withered manhood, my illusions. But it gave me this: a gumshoe in girdles and satin, tilting at windmills in a world gone sideways. And in the end, that's all any of us have left. A story, a smoke, and the next case waiting in the wings.The rain hammered down on the cracked pavement like a thousand accusations, each drop a reminder that the world had gone to hell in a handbasket back in '52, when the bombs fell and turned the City of Angels into a monochrome nightmare. I adjusted the strap of my garter belt under my trench coat, feeling the silk stockings whisper against my skin like a forbidden secret. Name's Tracy with a Dick, wait, no, that's too on the nose. Call me Hanimefendi Basortulu, or just Han if you're buying the drinks. By day, I'm the hard boiled gumshoe pounding the shadowed alleys of this irradiated husk of Los Angeles, dodging mutants and mobsters in equal measure. But when the neon flickers out and the Dutch angles of my life tilt just right, I'm something else entirely: a crossdressing sissy in satin, chasing skirts instead of skirts chasing me. It started with a dame, like all my stories do. Or at least, that's how I tell it to the mirror while I paint my lips ruby red in the dim glow of my office bulb the one that swings like a noose in the wind howling through the boarded up windows. The apocalypse had stripped the city bare, leaving behind skeletal skyscrapers leaning at crazy angles, their glass eyes shattered from the blasts. Food was rationed, water was poison, and hope? That was a luxury for the pre war fools. Me? I survived by sniffing out secrets in the fog of fallout, my fedora pulled low over eyes shadowed with kohl I swiped from a ruined department store. She slinked into my office that night, a vision in tattered mink and desperation. "Mr. Basortulu," she purred, her voice cutting through the static of my battered radio spitting out old jazz tunes. "I need a man who can handle... delicate matters." Her eyes flicked to my desk, where a stray lipstick tube had rolled out from under some files. I snatched it up quick, heart pounding like a tommy gun. If she noticed, she didn't let on. Her husband, a big shot fallout bunker baron hoarding pre war hooch, had vanished into the undercity the labyrinth of sewers and subways where the real monsters lurked, glowing with radiation and grudge. I took the case because rent was due, and because her perfume smelled like the lilacs that used to bloom before the sky turned perpetual gray. Slipping out the back door, I ditched the coat for my real armor: a frilly silken blouse tucked into a satin pencil skirt, heels that clicked like gunshots on the debris strewn streets. Crossdressing wasn't just a kink in this apocalypse; it was camouflage. The goons patrolling the ruins looked for tough guys in suits, not a mincing minx batting lashes from the shadows. I'd learned that the hard way, back when the first riots hit and I hid in a drag queen's bunker, emerging reborn in marabou feathers, silk, satin, lace and lies. The trail led me to the Dutch Tilt District, where buildings leaned like drunks at last call, their angles throwing everything off kilter just like my life. I tailed a suspect through the monochrome haze, my wig itching under the fedora I'd crammed back on. He was a weasel faced rat, peddling black market estrogen shots to the desperate. "Where's the baron?" I hissed, pressing a stiletto heel to his throat after I cornered him in an alley reeking of rot. He spilled like cheap bourbon: the husband wasn't missing; he'd been snatched by the Shadow Syndicate, a cult of irradiated freaks worshiping the bomb as a god. They operated from the old Hollywood studios, twisting pre war films into propaganda reels that played on loop in the bunkers. I infiltrated at dusk, dolled up in a Lamé cocktail dress that hugged my curves like a guilty conscience. The guards bought the act hell, one even wolf whistled as I sashayed past, my .38 snub nose tucked in my garter. Inside, it was a fever dream of tilted cameras and flickering projectors. The baron was tied to a chair, force-fed their twisted sermons. But the real twist? The dame was in on it. She emerged from the shadows, gun in hand, her mink shedding like a snake's skin. "You should've stayed in your lane, detective," she sneered. "Or should I say, crossdressing doll?" We tussled in the projector light, our shadows dancing at mad angles on the walls, her nails raking my stockings, my fist connecting with her jaw. I got the drop on her, tying her up with her own pearls. "In this world, honey," I growled, voice husky from the hormones I'd been sneaking, "everyone's got a secret identity. Mine just fits better." I dragged the baron out, collected my fee in canned peaches and ammo, and vanished back into the rain. Back in my office, I peeled off the layers, staring at my reflection in the cracked mirror. The apocalypse had taken everything, my city, my withered manhood, my illusions. But it gave me this: a gumshoe in girdles and satin, tilting at windmills in a world gone sideways. And in the end, that's all any of us have left. A story, a smoke, and the next case waiting in the wings.
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