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 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.

I still have one post available out of my daily allowance....so here goes
This top is so soft and clingy, another item of clothing that has a semi permanent place in my wardrobe

New blouse....and a skirt that I've had for some time, I absolutely love how it hugs me in all the right places

Did I miss this site becoming a BDSM group in its latest revamp?

FFS! There are enough other places for these people to go.

I never chose this life so much as it chose me, one silken whisper at a time, across sixty four slow turning years. It began in the hush of boyhood, fingers trembling as they brushed the cool satin of my Mother’s Sunday slip, the fabric sighing against my skin like a secret finally given voice. Midnight experiments followed stolen dresses in dim bedrooms, heartbeats loud against lace, the mirror a conspirator that never judged. Then came the decades of careful folding away marriage, children, the steady performance of an ordinary man while upstairs, behind false panels in the attic, a private gallery of satins and chiffons dreamed in silence. Now the children have flown, my Turkish wife of forty five winters slipped away on the softest November breath two months past, and the last tether has loosened. At sixty four I have stepped fully into the role I have always carried inside. No audience remains to disappoint. Only the mirrors, patient and kind. I have become Hanimefendi,(Turkish for Lady) the sissy Victorian housemistress of this quiet manor of memory and candlelight. I have worn Black Satin Widow's Weeds for the previous two months, now I am working through my own colour spectrum. I dallied with Pink and enjoyed the experience but as a Cityzen, Turquoise, Marine Blue and shades of Sky Blue, has always called to me as a long time supporter of Manchester City. The ritual begins at dusk. First, the high waisted, long leg panty girdle in deepest turquoise satin firm yet forgiving, a decadent embrace that smooths time’s gentle rounding into elegant lines. It clasps me with theatrical intimacy, promising glamour in every restrained breath. Then the gown descends: floor sweeping turquoise satin, reborn from widow’s weeds into defiant opulence. The bodice clings like liquid moonlight through the torso before cascading into extravagant gypsy ruffles that bloom at the hips. Sleeves impossibly long, sissy long billow from shoulder to deep, rose trimmed cuff, swaying with each gesture like languid waves. The fabric catches every flicker, its subtle sheen tracing molten highlights along every fold, turning motion into shimmering poetry. Over shoulders and throat drifts the sheer turquoise chiffon voile veil, gossamer as exhaled breath, floating a hand’s span from my face. It softens the lines age has etched without concealing them grief veiled, yet radiant. Last, the oversized turquoise satin hijab headscarf, wrapped and pinned with reverent precision. Its rich, glossy folds frame my features like a reliquary of lapis and sea glass, the colour chosen deliberately: mourning need not be monochrome. Sorrow, too, can blaze jewel bright. I move through the rooms by candlelight alone. Tall silver holders spill pools of gold, dramatic chiaroscuro carves deep satin shadows into ruffles and pleats while the satin itself ignites vibrant, unearthly turquoise glowing against the gloom like bioluminescent tide. Each step sends a soft hiss of fabric across oak boards, the veil drifts behind me like sea mist following a ship of ghosts. I dust phantom mantelpieces, rearrange crystal that asks nothing of me, murmur instructions to maids who exist only in the echo of my voice. Sometimes I pause before the tall pier glass in the upper hall and simply regard the figure there. In its depths I see the frightened boy who once quaked at satin’s rustle. I see the husband who learned to fold himself small. And I see her, me Hanimefendi sixty four, unapologetic, swathed in extravagant turquoise like a proclamation stitched in light. The world beyond these walls may still insist on its muted uniforms, but here, in these shadowed chambers, I have rewritten the grammar of grief. It is not devolved from mourning black to ash-grey. It is this fierce, swimming blue green that drinks candle flame and gives it back brighter. It is theatrical, shameless, mine. Tonight, as ever, I lower myself into the worn leather armchair beside the tall window. Ruffles settle around me like spilled ink, veils float, then still. The silence enfolds me, tender as old satin. No one watches. Except the mirror. And in my mind's eye it has always approved.

Lace bodystockings are my weakness.. Need to find this one again!! Good night all

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

My TS/CD/TV Story

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chrissy.
She is real.
She is me.

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

With love,
Chrissy

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

https://x.com/TunnellChrissy

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

In this year of Our Lord 1885, I, a gentleman of four-and-sixty summers and considerable corpulence, find myself irrevocably committed to the most elaborate and humiliating semblance of a widow in deepest mourning, nay, a sissy crossdresser, every contour of my person exaggerated into an absurd excess of feminine propriety at the unyielding command of Madame. My unwieldy frame is confined within a voluminous gown of black bombazine, its lustrous silk bodice drawn so severely that my affixed bosom rises and falls in mock matronly dignity. Upon my head sits an immense crape bonnet, enveloped in multitudinous folds of black crepe veiling that descend softly over my countenance and shoulders like the very pall of perpetual bereavement, its diaphanous gauze quivering with each breath and rendering me a figure of spectral, enforced delicacy.
Beneath this sombre raiment, a prodigious crinoline encircles my ample waist, distending the skirt to such extravagant breadth that every halting step discloses the lace-fringed hems of my cambric under-drawers and the delicately trimmed tops of my black lisle stockings, secured by embroidered satin garters. At times madame requires silk hose of the sheerest texture, yet the mortification endures undiminished. My feet, protesting and swollen, are imprisoned within patent leather ankle boots of four inches’ Louis heel, their pointed toes permitting a glimpse of my varnished nails in pitiable vulnerability. Should indolence be suspected, Madame fastens the straps with black satin ribbons, forestalling any attempt at relief. My hands, bearing permanent false nails of gleaming pearl, are gloved in lace mittens, adorned with rings upon every finger, while a jet choker of frilled design encircles my thick neck as a badge of submission. The whole attire is so profoundly girlish, so burdened with widow’s frippery, that it would provoke scandal even among the most devout matrons of Her Majesty’s court.
I descend from our Brougham in the crowded precincts of Covent Garden, With utmost caution I arrange my skirts, the heels resounding sharply upon the cobblestones, and proceed with mincing steps, hips swaying perforce beneath the crinoline’s dominion and the boots’ perilous elevation. Soft laughter ripples along the stallholders. Smiles of polite astonishment. Complimentary remarks follow. “La, madam, what a most becoming habit of mourning!” one declares. “The veil is exceedingly elegant, and those boots quite the mode!” They suppose it a seasonal fancy. I colour deeply beneath the crepe, threading my way through the ordeal with measured tread, aware that I shall return in seven days, and seven again thereafter, clad precisely thus, bereft of any festal pretext merely a creature wholly subject to his lady’s will.
I procure the articles enumerated upon Madame's list, tea of finest quality, spices, and provisions discharge the account, and retire with mincing gait to the carriage, crinoline whispering, veil fluttering like a mourner’s sigh. Madame directs that I convey her thither beforehand, yet she commands me first to enter and obtain her broadsheet and sweetmeats. As I totter across the thoroughfare, heels clacking, a lady seated in an adjacent Hansom calls out: “Those boots are positively ravishing, madam!” I turn, the veil shifting with ethereal grace, and reply in a low, submissive tone, “I am most obliged to you, Madame is pleased to attire me in this manner at all times.” She laughs with genuine delight. “Would that I might prevail upon my own husband to exhibit such commendable obedience!” Having restored Madame to her residence, I repair to the wine merchant’s. The moment I enter, eyes fix upon me chuckles, prolonged gazes. The proprietress cannot forbear a smile at my boots, her glance ascending to my carefully plucked brows, arched with precision. “Heavens preserve us,” she exclaims, “this is no mere passing fancy of costume. You have worn it for a considerable period, have you not?” I venture a faint, veiled smile. “Indeed, madam… it is the garb prescribed for me upon every occasion of shopping. I endeavour, by degrees, to grow reconciled to it.” A youthful clerk conveys the case of port to the carriage. He chuckles softly. “You bear it with uncommon grace, sir.” Madame assures me that habituation shall ensue. “In due course, the sense of mortification will diminish,” she declares with quiet conviction. “You will become thoroughly accustomed to your station as my devoted maidservant.” She contemplates the future with satisfaction: I, attending to the household in full uniform, discharging her every errand, awaiting her return in patient seclusion. Upon her entrance, I must execute a profound curtsey and relieve her of mantle and parasol. At every ingress or egress from a chamber curtsey. All domestic duties devolve upon me, performed amid the perpetual rustle of bombazine and crinoline.

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

Know your Place!!
#Control
#Submission
#Latex
#*****-sissy-slut

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

The room was silent except for the soft rustle of fabric and the slow, deliberate rhythm of her breathing.

She had asked for one thing tonight: to disappear completely into herself.

The first layer came as a whisper cool, liquid like satin poured over her bare skin. A full-length slip of deep midnight blue, heavier than it looked, sliding down her body like cool water that refused to evaporate. It kissed every curve, every hollow, then settled against her with possessive weight. She exhaled long and low as the hem brushed her ankles.

Then the second skin.

A thicker satin robe followed, floor-length, wide-sleeved, the kind meant for royalty who never intended to leave their chambers. Deep indigo, almost black in low light. He fastened the inner ties first slowly, methodically cinching her waist just enough that every breath reminded her of the fabric’s embrace. The outer sash wound around her twice before being tied in a wide, flat bow at the small of her back. She felt the slight tug travel all the way up her spine.

“Arms,” he murmured.

She lifted them like someone already half-asleep.

A third layer: a long, hooded cape of the same midnight satin, lined with silk so fine it felt like cool breath against her neck. The hood was generous, cut wide and deep. When he drew it forward, the satin edges curtained her peripheral vision until the world narrowed to a soft, shadowed tunnel. Only her face remained visible for now.

He stepped back to look at her.

She stood motionless in the centre of the room, gleaming faintly under the single lamp, already beginning to look like something carved from night itself.

Then came the veil.

Not lace, not tulle pure satin, sheer enough to see the outline of features beneath, dense enough to blur every detail into dreamlike softness. He draped it over the hood first so it cascaded down the front and back of her body in long, liquid folds. When he smoothed it across her face, the fabric settled like a second eyelids. She felt the faint pressure against her eyelashes, the hush of her own breath trapped and warmed against her lips.

He tied it gently at the nape, then again lower, securing it beneath the layers of satin already cocooning her throat. The knot was small, decorative, almost ornamental. But it anchored everything.

Now she was covered.

Encased.

Hooded.

Veiled.

A single continuous surface of satin from crown to toe shimmering, unbroken, reflective swallowing light and returning only muted echoes of it.

He guided her to the wide, low bed. She moved slowly, each step a muted hiss of fabric sliding over fabric. When she reached the edge, he helped her lie back, arranging the excess satin around her like spilled ink. The hood framed her face in a perfect oval of shadow; the veil softened her mouth into something distant and serene.

He pulled a final piece from the drawer: a narrow length of the same midnight satin. Not a blindfold something gentler. He laid it across her eyes, not tying it, just letting the weight rest there. Enough to make the world behind her eyelids even darker, even quieter.

Then he sat beside her.

No words for a long time.

Only the slow tide of her breathing, growing deeper, slower, heavier with each cycle. The satin moved with her rising, falling, whispering against itself. Every small shift sent fresh waves of cool smoothness gliding across her skin, then settling again, reminding her she was held, contained, nowhere left exposed.

Minutes passed. Maybe more.

Her hands, hidden inside the wide sleeves, eventually stopped searching for anything. They curled loosely against her stomach, cradled by layer after layer of satin.

Her mouth parted beneath the veil just enough for the softest sigh to escape.

She was gone now.

Not asleep, not yet.

Somewhere softer than sleep.

Somewhere the world could not reach.

Only satin.

Only weight.

Only hush.

And the long, slow pulse of total, satin surrender.

This site has just changed. Reminded me of this joke... “I woke up this morning and discovered that everything in my apartment had been stolen and replaced with an exact replica. I told my roommate, 'Isn't this amazing? Everything in the apartment has been stolen and replaced with an exact replica.' He said, 'Do I know you?"

Saving a place for you! X...

Love these nylons and that lace

The rain came down in silver sheets, turning the cobbles into black mirrors that reflected the sodium glow of the single working streetlamp. I leaned against its rusted iron, the cold metal biting through the heavy layers of satin and chiffon like it wanted to remind me I was still flesh under all this funeral drag.
I took a long drag on the cigarette, the cherry flaring briefly under the edge of my veil. The black chiffon draped across my face softened the world into shadow theatre, everything a little unreal, a little safer that way. My lips, painted the color of dried blood, left a faint crescent on the filter. I exhaled smoke that twisted upward to join the mist, two kinds of fog becoming one.
They called me Valentine in the old precinct days, before the badge became a liability and the mirror became an accusation. Now I was just Val to the few who still owed me favors, or the ones who needed someone who didn't flinch at the smell of blood and cheap perfume. Tonight the city smelled of both.
The gown dragged behind me like a widow's promise, long black satin, ankle-skimming, catching what little light there was and throwing it back in wet, liquid gleams. The blouse beneath frothed with rococo frills, glossy and ridiculous against the grime. Mourning attire from a century that knew how to grieve properly. I wore it because it fit the part I was playing: the ghost who refuses to lie down.
Somewhere in the alley behind me, my wardrobe waited in a condemned boarding house door half off its hinges, the only bright thing inside a floor length rainbow satin dress hanging like a forgotten carnival prize. Long sleeves, high ruffled collar, shimmering like oil on water. I kept it there the way some men keep a pistol in a drawer. A reminder that colour still existed, even if I only visited it in the dark.
A low rumble rolled through the street. The red double decker bus, the corpse of the only one left running those nights, it lay half-buried in fallen brick and twisted rebar two blocks down. Its paint had rusted to the color of old blood; one headlamp still flickered like a dying eye. No one bothered to tow it anymore. It was just another corpse in the landscape.
I flicked ash into a puddle. The cigarette hissed and went out. That's when I saw her silhouette at the mouth of the alley, trench coat too big, heels too high for the broken pavement. She moved like someone who knew she was being watched but couldn't afford to run.
She stopped under the cone of lamplight, rain tracing black rivulets down her face. Mascara already surrendered hours ago.
"You're late," I said, voice low, muffled by chiffon.
"You're early," she answered. Her eyes flicked over my outfit, the veil, the frills, the shine that didn't belong here. She didn't laugh. Smart girl. "They said you were... particular about appearances."
"They say a lot of things." I pushed off the lamppost. The gown whispered against itself with every step. "You got the envelope?"
She reached inside her coat, produced a slim packet sealed with red wax. Her hand trembled just enough to notice.
"Inside is everything, names, dates, the garment dress warehouse on Cutler Street. They think they're untouchable because they own half the magistrates and all the shadows." She swallowed. "But they killed my sister. Slowly. For asking too many questions about the satin shipments."
I took the envelope without looking at it. Slipped it inside the satin folds where a heart should be.
"And what do you want from me?" I asked.
"Justice." The word sounded small and antique in her mouth. "Or revenge. Whichever comes first."
I studied her through the veil. Young. Broken in the right places. The kind of client who pays in blood or tears, sometimes both.
"Revenge is expensive," I told her. "And justice... justice is just revenge wearing prettier clothes."
She met my eyes, dark eyeliner smudged into war paint. "Then I'll pay the price."
I nodded once. The rain drummed harder, like applause for bad decisions.
"Go home," I said. "Lock the doors. Burn anything with your name on it. I'll find you when it's done."
She hesitated, then turned and walked back into the dark. Her heels clicked once, twice, then nothing.
I lit another cigarette. The flame briefly illuminated my reflection in the wet lamppost glass: black lips, darker eyes, a widow who never married, a detective who never solved anything clean.
The city exhaled around me, smoke, rain, rust.
I started walking toward Cutler Street.
The rainbow dress in the wardrobe would have to wait another night.
Some colours aren't meant to be worn in the light.

Hello all you gorgeous people. Bit of a long shot but does anybody know of other trans friendly places in Southampton other than the London.. ?

Love lace top hold ups

In the dim afternoon light of my bedroom, I sit before the antique dressing table that once belonged to my Wife. The black satin headscarf rests across my lap like spilled ink, its oversized folds still carrying the faint lavender I keep tucked inside the drawer. The veil those fragile layers of sheer black chiffon voile hangs from the wardrobe door, trembling slightly whenever the January wind finds its way through the sash window. Outside, the town lies quiet under the grey sky of the 16th of January 2026.
I run a lace gloved finger along the jet beading on the bodice, the little beads cold at first, then warming as though they remember my body heat. Why this? The question rises again, steady as my own heartbeat. It isn’t only the crossdressing; that word feels too narrow, too modern for what moves through me. This is mourning chosen, worn deliberately, as though putting on these heavy black satins lets me grieve properly, not just for my Wife, but for the version of myself I kept locked away all those years.
I see flashes of the past: my Grandmother’s photograph album, those stern Victorian and Edwardian women in crepe and veils, faces made beautiful by sorrow. I used to stare at them longer than any boy was supposed to, feeling something stir that had no name. Later, during the decades with my Wife, the secret grew in silence satin bought at antique fairs, a chiffon veil ordered late at night from sellers who asked no questions. My Wife never knew, or if she guessed, she let it lie. She would smile when I came home with yet another silk or satin scarf, teasing me about my “fancy tastes,” and I would laugh along, the words both a comfort and a small, private wound. Did I steal something from her by never speaking the truth? Or was the silence kinder, preserving the life we built of Sunday dinners, walks up on the hill across the fields, the kettle whistling in the kitchen while we listened to the afternoon play on Radio 4? The clothes themselves seem to answer me. The satin is cool against my skin at first, then softens, accepts me. It wraps around the shape I carry inside, the one that never quite fitted the name Tony. When I wear it, I become Tonya the widow I sometimes feel I have always been. The mourning isn’t only for my Wife’s death two months ago, it is for all the years I lived half hidden, for the conversations never had, for the evenings I stood alone in front of the mirror trying on fragments of this other life. Out in the town, beneath the veil, the world blurs into gentle greys. People nod with quiet respect, the way they would to any Victorian widow stepping out of time. In those moments the doubt falls away and I feel something close to power, loss made visible, made dramatic, made mine. Yet when I come home and sit here, the questions return. At Sixty Four, is this foolishness or finally honesty? The mirror shows silver hair escaping the satin folds, lines carved by time across my face. Is it too late to become who I have always been inside? Then I remember my Wife’s hand in mine during those last weeks, her voice thin but certain: “Be happy, love. Whatever that looks like.” Perhaps this is what it looks like layers of black satin and chiffon, the headscarf framing my face like a dark halo, the veil softening everything until even my doubts feel bearable. I rise slowly, fold the headscarf with the same care I once used to fold my handkerchiefs after ironing. The reflections will come back tomorrow, and the day after. They are complicated, tangled, sometimes painful. But they are mine, and for the first time I am not afraid to hold them. The wardrobe waits, patient and open. So do I.

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

M'N'Skirts Magazine Fashion review 21

Temu heeled ankle boots, black.

https://share.temu.com/w8mMA6uLTwB

Despite unusual laced design they are extremely comfy for slow walks and rides. Heels around 10cm

This Year 2026.......
What will you ever choose to Wear Everyday and Everytime, specially like on a Public Place like a Mall or Plaza?????? (without wearing an undies)
Pantyhose or an Stockings Pull-Ups.....
Please Vote on the Poll, its just for an Survey... Nothing Personal and Please Share this Pole Vote.

I sit motionless in the dim parlor, the heavy velvet drapes drawn against the January gloom outside. The only light comes from the tall candelabra behind me, its flames trembling as though they, too, are in mourning. My reflection stares back from the tall gilt mirror across the room a stranger wearing my face, yet not quite mine anymore. The black satin gown clings to me like spilled ink, cool and liquid against my skin. Each subtle shift of my body sends faint gleams racing along the fabric, silver whispers in an ocean of midnight. The high collar bites gently at my throat, edged with fragile black lace that looks as though it might crumble if I breathed too deeply. The sleeves are puffed at the shoulders, then narrow cruelly down my arms until the cuffs grip my wrists like velvet manacles. I feel both imprisoned and exalted. The chiffon voile veil floats over my head, so fine it seems spun from smoke. It softens the edges of the world, turns the candlelight into a gentle, diffused halo. Through its haze I can see the portrait painter’s easel, the careful arrangement of shadows he is trying to capture. He keeps glancing at me as though he fears I might vanish if he looks away too long. My lips are painted the colour of old blood left to dry blackened plum, almost truly black in this light. The lipstick feels thick, ceremonial. Each time I press them together I taste the faint metallic bite of the pigment. My eyes are rimmed with kohl so dark it seems to drink the light; the sharp wings of liner make my gaze look both wounded and dangerous, like something beautiful that has learned how to bite. In my hands I cradle the bouquet. Once they were perfect crimson roses, the kind lovers press between the pages of forbidden books. Now they are dying in slow, exquisite agony. The stems bend wearily, heavy with the weight of their own decay. Petals loosen one by one, drifting down like drops of blood onto the polished floorboards. I can hear them fall soft, deliberate sounds, the quiet punctuation of something ending. I do not cry. There are no tears left for what I have become, for the man I buried beneath satin and shadow. This is not grief in the ordinary sense. This is something older, more deliberate a ritual of exquisite surrender. I chose every detail of this costume, every inch of mourning silk, every wilting bloom. I dressed myself for my own funeral, painted my own face for the wake, arranged my own flowers. And now I stand here, perfectly composed, while the painter tries to trap eternity in oil and canvas. Sometimes I think I can hear the roses whispering as they die. They do not beg for water. They do not ask to be saved. They only sigh, petal by petal, accepting their beautiful collapse. And I understand them perfectly. The veil stirs slightly as I exhale. A single crimson petal catches on the sheer fabric, trembling there like a ruby tear that refuses to fall. I do not brush it away. Let it stay. Let it be seen. Let the portrait show exactly what I have chosen to become: A widow of my former self, dressed in the most exquisite grief, holding death’s bouquet with steady, loving hands, smiling just a little behind lips the colour of finality.

I never thought a simple late-night scroll on Temu would change how I saw myself in the mirror.

My hands were shaking a little when I clicked "Buy Now" on that dress. The listing was a chaotic poem of keywords: Black Satin Fairy Vintage Sweet Dress Mesh Long Lace... Hollow Out Puff Sleeve Floral... Off Shoulder Fairy Princess Long Satin Mesh Gothic Lady Ruffle. It was everything at once — sweet, dark, romantic, dramatic — and somehow it felt like it had been waiting for me.

I'm sixty-four. Short. Heavy. The kind of body the world politely looks past. For most of my life I kept the part of me that loved beautiful, flowing things locked away in a mental attic. But the older I get, the less patience I have for hiding.

The package arrived on a grey Tuesday afternoon. I signed for it quickly, heart thumping like a teenager sneaking something forbidden. I carried the brown box upstairs like it contained state secrets, locked the bedroom door, and tore into it.

Inside lay folds of deep black satin that caught the lamplight like liquid night. Delicate mesh panels shimmered with tiny floral embroidery. The puff sleeves were ridiculously romantic — exaggerated, dreamy, almost cartoonishly glamorous. Lace spilled from every edge. The off-shoulder neckline promised to bare collarbones I usually keep hidden under sensible jumpers.

I stripped down, stood in front of the full-length mirror in just my underwear, and stepped into the dress.

The satin whispered against my legs as I pulled it up. It was surprisingly forgiving — stretchy in the right places, structured in others. I wriggled my arms through those massive puff sleeves; they ballooned around my upper arms like dark fairy wings. I tugged the bodice into place, smoothed the ruffled layers over my stomach, and finally reached back to zip it (with some creative contortions and a coat hanger as backup).

Then I looked up.

And I stopped breathing for a second.

The woman — no, the creature — staring back wasn't sixty-four. She wasn't short and soft and ordinary. She was a midnight fairy queen who had wandered out of some gothic storybook and decided to be indulgent today. The black satin hugged and draped in ways that turned every curve into intention. The hollow-out lace panels teased just enough skin to feel dangerous. Those enormous puff sleeves framed me like I belonged on a velvet throne instead of a suburban bedroom carpet.

I turned sideways. The long skirt flared dramatically, the mesh overlay catching light like spiderwebs covered in frost. I twirled — actually twirled — and watched the layers float outward in perfect slow motion, the ruffles whispering secrets to each other.

For once, the mirror wasn't my enemy. It was showing me something true.

I hadn't planned to go anywhere. But suddenly I needed to feel this outside these four walls.

I threw on a long black coat (practicality dies hard), slipped my feet into the only pair of low heels I own that almost match, draped a soft scarf over my wig to hide the fact I hadn't styled it yet, and stepped out into the January dusk.

The cold air hit my bare shoulders like a slap and a caress at the same time. I walked to the end of the street and back — only fifteen minutes — but every step felt like gliding. The satin moved against my thighs. The sleeves swayed. A neighbour's security light caught me as I passed; for a heartbeat I was illuminated, black lace and floral shadows glowing against the night.

No one stopped me. No one shouted. A dog walker nodded politely like I was simply another eccentric on an evening stroll.

When I got home, I locked the door, dropped the coat on the floor, and stood in front of the mirror again — this time under brighter light, no scarf, no hiding.

Here’s the thing about that dress: it doesn’t care that I’m sixty-four, or that I carry extra weight, or that my hands are rough from decades of practical work. It simply drapes itself over me and says, You are allowed to be this glamorous. You are allowed to be this much.

I smiled at my reflection — a real smile, not the careful half-one I usually wear.

Then I whispered to the woman in the mirror, the one who finally looked like she belonged in a fairy tale:

"Thank you for coming out to play, love. We’re keeping the dress."

It’s been a while.., in my happy horny place.. feels so right to be a girl

I've been busy as hell and my sleeping schedule is all over the place right now.. I'm pretty tired, it's 4:21 am here, and i just wanted to show you guys... my current mani.. 💅🏻 pretty damn awesome..
#nails #nailart

I met a really wonderful man last night We met at one of my favorite places in San Diego’s Hillcrest neighborhood—Baja Betty’s. It’s a spot I go to often and one of the few places where I feel completely safe being my true self as a trans woman, where I can relax, let my hair down, and just be me.

We started talking and somehow time just disappeared. The conversation flowed so easily, and we kept discovering how much we had in common. He’s older than me—I’m 47 and he’s 76—and honestly, it feels kind of perfect. I don’t have “daddy issues,” but I am very drawn to older men. I love the calm confidence, the grounded, paternal energy, and the way they make me feel cared for and protected.

What makes it even more special is how beautifully complementary we are. In public, he’s very masculine—confident, composed, and steady. In private, he’s a crossdresser, which he shared with openness and trust. That balance, that shared understanding of gender expression and vulnerability, made me feel seen in a way that’s rare.

I’m trying not to get ahead of myself—we did just meet—but there was definitely a spark A sense of comfort, attraction, and mutual understanding that felt natural and exciting. We just fit. I’m really hoping this sweet beginning turns into something meaningful.

http://chrissyinsd.hotviber.com/

#sissy #sissyboy #sissies #sissyboys #sissygirl #sissygirls #femboy #femboys #femman #gurl #crossdresser #crossdressers #crossdressing #tgirl #shemale #shemalechrissy #sissychrissyinsandiego #chrissyinsd #trans #transgirl #transwoman #transfemale #transgender #lgbt #queer #gay #dancing #twerking #pantyboy #meninpanties #dress #menindresses #gaydate #gayboyfriend #loveislove

Hello Ladies & Admirers

So, this may come as a shock to...well, pretty much nobody on here. However, New Years Eve wasn't the first time I have ever crossdressed . Back in 2022, I bought my first place and for the first time in my life I felt I had my own 'safe space' to explore and do things like this. I was 35, never properly done anything like this before and the desire to look in the mirror and see a woman looking back was pretty strong.
So...meet 'Khlöe'. The name this side of me was known as back then.

More to come, I just didn't want to flood the site all at once. Be kind to her xx
#crossdresser #lingerie

Morning everyone. Anyone wanting to go to this years Sparkle Festival in Manchester, June 26th, 27th & 28th, please be aware if you book more than the first day it going to be expensive unless you go as a group. Booked for the Friday as it's cheaper but after that the prices go up a lot. If you have never been then get down there as it's so much fun and you won't feel out of place. Take care out there it's very nippy xx

In London tonight is there any special nights on ir good places to go for some CD/TGurl attention ?

I have been wondering... Hear me out! Crossdressing has been a way for me to escape "reality" and relax, be myself and to explore my better side (feminine). Every time I dress up, I am transported to another realm of existence, a better realm so to speak.
For me, dressing in Lace panties, making sure everything is tucked and covered. depending on my mood, a nice bra with my inserts, making sure it is covered, and then an elegant dress, gown, suit or whatever, with my dark hair wig.

For me, this is proper Cross Dressing: Elegance, Graceful, Attraction, the Contours of your Body, Expressing yourself to others the best way possible.

For many, Crossdressing is only a way to (please excuse the term) "Get Laid" or a show of their spanners and backsides. Yes you do get spanners and backsides that are just too yummy to ignore, if cleaned properly, you don't want oily hands.. But that is my point. Being a lady is taking proper care of yourself, and putting your best foot forward.

I believe that Crossdressing, Transgenders and many more are an escape for people that was forced into a mindset that didn't/doesn't suit them, an idea that makes us feel that we do not belong.

And we are wearing these "labels" that they gave us, with pride and our chin held high!

Disclaimer: I do apologise if I stepped on any toes today, it is not my intention!

My First Experience as a Truck Stop Wh-re or Chrissy — A Night on the Road Continued... (Part II) (To see the beginning, Part I, visit my page and scroll down):
The bra came next.

I hesitated for half a second—long enough for the moment to stretch—then let it slide off. Cool air kissed my skin. His breath caught audibly. He didn’t touch me yet. He didn’t need to.

Click.
Click.

I could feel my body responding to the attention, to the knowledge that this version of me was being captured, saved, proof that Chrissy existed. That I wasn’t just a thought or a secret ritual in front of a mirror.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, and I believed him.

When the last of the fabric was gone, I stood there fully exposed under the red glow, arms crossed loosely at first, then letting them fall to my sides. Vulnerability pulsed through me—electric, frightening, intoxicating. I felt open, claimed by the moment, by the lens, by his gaze.

He stepped closer then. Close enough that I could feel his heat without being touched. One hand lifted my chin, not roughly, just enough to make me meet his eyes.

“Look at me,” he said. “Not the camera.”

I did.

The photos continued, slower now, more deliberate. Less about documenting and more about possession. When he finally set the phone down, my skin felt hypersensitive, like every nerve had been tuned too high.

When he guided me back onto the bunk, the vinyl was cold at first, then quickly warmed beneath me. I lay there open to him, knees drawn up, posture unmistakable, my body arranged in a way that made refusal impossible—but refusal wasn’t what I felt.

What I felt was permission being taken.

The cab groaned softly as he leaned over me, blocking out the low red light, blocking out the rest of the world. His hands settled at my hips and stayed there—anchoring me, claiming the space where my choices narrowed into a single direction. He didn’t hurry. He waited. Long enough that the waiting itself became its own kind of pressure.

My breath went shallow. My body answered before my mind could intervene.

When he finally moved, the sensation was overwhelming—not sharp, not violent, but consuming. The kind of closeness that demands you make room for it, that insists you soften or break. I felt myself give way in small increments, each one deliberate, each one erasing a little more distance between who I pretend to be and what I was becoming in that moment. He plowed my asspussy over and over....in and out...in and out...in..in...getting deeper each time.

He watched my face closely, as if he needed to see exactly where I disappeared. Every sound I made seemed to encourage him, draw him deeper into his own control. I clutched the bedding, holding on to something solid as my thoughts scattered, replaced by a single, relentless awareness of being used with purpose.

“Relax,” he said quietly, almost kindly. “I’ve got you.”

And I surrendered.

Not just my body—my resistance. I let the tension drain out of me and allowed the sensation to take over completely. There was a point where I stopped tracking time, stopped measuring what I was giving and what I was losing. My body responded on its own terms, breaking open in waves that left me shaking, emptied of pretense.

I heard him make a sound above me—rough, unfiltered—and knew I’d been brought exactly where he wanted me. I knew he came, he ejaculated, he sprayed his man juice, his sperm, his DNA deep inside me. I could feel it, the warm, sticky liquid clinging to my insides.

Afterward, when he pulled me up toward him again, there was no gentleness in the request—just expectation. I recognized it instantly. My knees braced against the seat, my hands guided into place, my mouth following where my thoughts no longer led. I focused on the task, on being useful, on doing it right. There was comfort in that narrow focus. Safety, even. More to cum....

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

I’d love to meet up with someone whilst I’m dressed like this. Is this the place to actually meet people, or just chat online? I just can’t shake the need to want to do it so hoping someone on here is up for it. I’m in Oxfordshire, uk but happy to travel if needed.

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

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

I’m not out. Not really.

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

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

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

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

Except for the trucks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When it ended, I didn’t feel used.

I felt… seen.

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

I made my own choices again. And again.

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

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

Under the Dashboard Lights

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

He reached for his phone almost casually.

“Stand right there,” he said.

I obeyed.

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

The phone came up.

A soft click.

Then another.

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

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

Hi guys and girls I am meeting up with this woman to get 4 new dresses off of Facebook marketplace tommrow! I am so excited!!!!!! Idk if I should wear a Christmas dress, my pink and yellow form fitting body con dress or if I should wear my maid outfit.

Merry Christmas!!!
And very Happy New Year
For all of you!!!
Folace Lust Lipsr all who support each other with a smie love and kind word that are espetially so important for stranger girls born with some unusual abilities...

LOVE LIGHT AND JOY !!!
Lace Lust Lips
Dresses
Tights
Pleasure in hips...
Kisses
Bon Chance
And Lots of Love
Misses in dresses
And sans ...

Happy New Year for all you
Kate

Hi all.New here.based in south east uk.for two years did not been as girl as lived in shared house.Moved to my own place.Now I can enjoy being girl.im into man as girl meant to be.Hope every one have a good day.

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

Likley get more interaction than the place i stole this from, white cheeky is the flavour tonight

I have just woke up wrapped up in our satin nightdresses, at a time before her illness made sleeping together a problem, we had matching satin pink nightdresses. Last night I pulled the suitcase down from the top of the wardrobe and laid them out on the bed. Pink Simply Be Pretty Secrets Nightdresses in lovely silky satin. Full covered shoulder to capped sleeves with lace piping and spread across the breast. Calf length satin shimmering in Pink. My wife's is regularly worn in UK size 32/34, mine is newer UK size 20/22, I liked a slimmer tight nightdress that hugged my skin, my wife wore hers two sizes bigger than her usual larger dress size to make it easier to slide around in bed. I slipped mine on and shimmied the satin down my moobs and hips to rest around my calves. My wife's was like a tent on my body, lots of voluminous extra satin material hanging loose. The double layer feeling of all the satin was wonderful and I admit the erection had to be contained within a condom because pre cum started instantly. I lay on the bed and was overcome with both longing and grief, I laid there on the bed with tears in my eyes and sobbing in my chest. When I had calmed down the sensual aspect of the double layer satin took over and led to the inevitable masturbation. Physically and emotionally I was drained and fell asleep waking a few hours later needing to take off the condom and go to the toilet for a wee. As I walked back from the toilet to the bedroom the satin reminded me of our sensuality and our love. Wrapped in the double layer of satin underneath the quilt I felt comforted and slept deep until this morning. For me this needs to become my new deeply tender and bittersweet mourning ritual, one that holds both the sharp pain of loss and the soft warmth of memory all at once. Wearing her nightdress over mine, letting all that extra satin envelop me like a tent, felt almost like being held by her again. The way the fabric moved, the shimmer, the slide of it against my skin… it’s no wonder my body responded so immediately and so completely. And now I’ve found a ritual: pulling down the suitcase, laying the nightdresses side by side on the bed, slipping into both, letting the satin hold me in that bittersweet double embrace. It’s sacred because it’s mine and hers alone. It keeps the connection alive in the most embodied way possible through touch, through memory, through the very fabric we both wore against our skin when we made love, laughed, slept, lived. Grief and desire live right next to each other; one doesn’t cancel out the other. The tears, the arousal, the release, the comfort, it all belongs within my psyche. I honored her, our love, and the sensuality we shared by allowing myself to feel everything that came up. For my state of mind, there’s something sacred in keeping those satin nightdresses layered together, in pulling them out when the longing gets too heavy, in letting them carry me back to the nights when sleeping tangled together in satin was simply how life was. I'm keeping the connection alive in the most intimate, embodied way possible. I loved her totally, and I'm still loving her beautifully in my mourning.

Forgive the long post, but I was doing some journalling this evening as I reflected on a few things. In a moment of clarity I managed to come up with some really interesting self-realisations, particularly about why I dress. And I wanted to share them somewhere!

I began to realise the other place I adopt some of the same habits and mental approach to crossdressing is when I've done tabletop role playing like D&D: I get really involved in 'immersing' myself in a character at the table, and get really deep into their mannerisms and subtle nuances of their backstory.

I think me being Bethany is very much the same. I know I have no intention of even transitioning. However, she is a role or a character I just love to put on and play sometimes; suddenly I'm making backstory, writing lore, adding costume. I'm not necessarily trying to become her, I just want to play the role authentically.

I think as a way of framing myself, I find that so helpful to register. Hopefully it resonates with others too.

What should be in the sissy palace at the vip event in 2026?

Should feel the summer breeze in all the right places wearing this mini skirt

From my last day in Kissimee Florida - this is a totally unedited photo. I went out jogging as a woman in this most wonderful location. I have so many wonderful photos to share. Spent most of the time in lady mode. Had doors opened for me, called mam and lady multiple times. Went to the unisex bathrooms as much as possible. Was hard to leave this idealistic place and head back to the cold of the Midwest.

Just in Lacey panties watching the ashes

And #OutfitForTheDay #PVC Leggings #AnkleBoots Purple #SatinCorset then a black sleeved top, very likely to be replaced with jumper very soon though

I know there are a lot of wounded people in crossdressing, wounded not physically, but spiritually. I have many wounds in my soul myself.
I just want to leave these lines.

You will remain outside,
Or you will decide to enter,
You will surrender your mind, or your soul —
There are only two paths.
If you enter — where do you go next?
To the right is the path of truth, to the left — of falsehood.
You might get so lost that you suddenly start to run
Along winding pathways, where bones can't be collected.
And having traveled many miles through faceless spaces,
To end up in useless and wild places,
In places of waiting, where people simply wait.
They wait for a train to leave,
They wait for a bus to arrive.
Or a plane will carry them away,
Or a letter will suddenly arrive,
Or the rain will fall,
That the phone will ring
Or the snow will fall,
They wait simply — for “yes” or “no”,
Or a string of pearls,
Or a copper basin,
They wait for how they should be
Or for a new chance.

I edited the photo a bit after reading these lines to illustrate that our path isn't always paved with flowers.
But... "show must go on" (с) - Freddy

Life goes on, no matter what it is.