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Pantyprincess2 now reported and blocked. She DM'd me and after i asked for confirmation that it was her in the pictures, all i got was abuse. If it was her why would she do that and try and deflect the argument away to matters nothing to do with my original question. Also from what she was saying, Panty clearly is an American where the person in the indoor pictures at least is an English girl called Lucy Robbin. All photos readily available from many mainstream sites. Fair enough to live out your cd fantasy as you like but don't use stolen ID and pictures where you don't have the right to use them.

Pantyprincess2 or someone who's just stripping pics off the real person behind those pictures? Stolen ID or the real deal. DM me if you want more info.

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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.

Hello World
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Feet in nylon
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Red and black stockings 2
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Red & black stockings
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BLOCKED - Scentedpanty
What an absolute pain, harassing me as soon as I come online.
Well, no more.

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Jail
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I haven't posted in a while. I just wanted to say hi!

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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.

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Well today was a funny one-bright red knickers and pantyhose all day. Went out with friends, I don’t think they knew that I was wearing my special underwear and hose but maybe they did?.it’ll be purple knickers and pantyhose tomorrow. I hope to give a norty flash or a glimpse to someone somewhere xxxx

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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.

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Just got done shaving for my date tonight! We're going to shower together! Kisses!

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Good afternoon!

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What should I wear today?

http://chrissyinsd.hotviber.com/

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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.

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