Derby UK Lingerie CD Looking for Co ck

I'm looking for Co ck within 20 minutes of Spondon or Ilkeston for ongoing training purposes, I don't expect anything in return,
These are my criteria..
Smooth Shaven Co ck and Sacks
Full Co ck Head Showing
5" or more when hard
Willing to wear Tights or Holdups/Stockings ( Which I could supply)
This is for training only, I don't expect you to do anything else at all, ideally you can sit on the edge of the sofa or arm chair with your legs spread, you can read a book or play on your phone or watch TV.... I'm there to gain as much experience at sucking co ck as possible, I will be trying different techniques and will leave No Mess at all... So long as you are happy for me to Swallow.
Hopefully this will be at least 3 times a week hopefully more...
No one needs to know anything so if your married or with someone then that's fine.
Feedback on how I'm doing and how I can improve my extraction would be even better as the faster I get my fill the better I'm doing.
Age and looks are unimportant so long as it's legal, you should be fit and healthy and free from anything catching.
I expect you to be Very Clean, Tidy, Discreet and pleasant and Trustworthy... What I do will go no further and I expect the same.
Please check out my Profile and Pics and my Favourites to see what I'm like and what I like.
Contact me for any questions or details..
This is my Profile:-
https://www.flickr.com/people/11512300@N05/

These are my Favourites:-
https://www.flickr.com/photos/11512300@N05/favorites/

----------------------------------------------------------------
In all cases I tend to have a rather get on with it sort of attitude, obviously everyone says hello and introduces themselves but time is prescious so getting down to business asap is just what I'm looking for. We will have got to know each other before by txt email or phone so when I arrive if you can just get comfortable, spread those legs, and let me have your co ck to feed from, it will allow me to be elsewhere or even get a second helping if your up to it....
Look forward to hearing from you soon

----------------------------------------------------------------
It's been brought to my attention that some people offering there co cks for practice do NOT want to see my doing the task at hand, which Is perfectly understandable... Well other than closing your eyes there are a couple of options as it turns out...
1. Is to sit at a Table with legs spread under the table, then I will be under the table doing my training... Uncomfortable but I don't mind if it helps.
2. If you get on all fours with legs apart I can slide on my back behind you, lower you co ck down untill I can train like this.. this is the Reverse 69....
Hope this helps xx

If you are a CD anyway and fit the above criteria then obviously we can have even more very naughty fun together so long as I get my fill lol xx

My Best Pics and Very Naughty Stories are in my Group Below:-
<a href="https://www.flickr.com/groups/14871084@N25/">www.flickr.com/groups/14871084@N25/</a>

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

If you live local to Spondon, Ilkeston or close surrounding area and fit my Criteria and want to help my training then please get in touch..

In all cases I tend to have a rather get on with it sort of attitude, obviously everyone says hello and introduces themselves but time is prescious so getting down to business asap is just what I'm looking for. We will have got to know each other before by txt email or phone so when I arrive if you can just get comfortable, spread those legs, and let me have your **** to feed from, it will allow me to be elsewhere or even get a second helping if your up to it....

Look forward to hearing from you soon
----------------------------------------------------------------

It's been brought to my attention that some people offering there cocks for practice do NOT want to see my doing the task at hand, which Is perfectly understandable... Well other than closing your eyes there are a couple of options as it turns out...


1. Is to sit at a Table with legs spread under the table, then I will be under the table doing my training... Uncomfortable but I don't mind if it helps.

2. If you get on all fours with legs apart I can slide on my back behind you, lower you **** down untill I can train like this.. this is the Reverse 69....

Hope this helps xx

If you are a CD anyway and fit the above criteria then obviously we can have even more very naughty fun together so long as I get my fill lol xx

My Best Pics and Very Naughty Stories are in my Group Below:-
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/groups/14871084@N25/">www.flickr.com/groups/14871084@N25/</a>

This is my Profile:-
<a href="https://www.flickr.com/people/11512300@N05/">www.flickr.com/people/11512300@N05/</a>

These are my Favourites:-
<a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/11512300@N05/favorites/">www.flickr.com/photos/11512300@N05/favorites/</a>

Absolute perfect! Cute!

I can see myself perfectly! Really cool!

Just thought I'd say I love this site, perfect for my needs and love of dressing up. xxx

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

If you live local to Spondon, Ilkeston or close surrounding area and fit my Criteria and want to help my training then please get in touch..

In all cases I tend to have a rather get on with it sort of attitude, obviously everyone says hello and introduces themselves but time is prescious so getting down to business asap is just what I'm looking for. We will have got to know each other before by txt email or phone so when I arrive if you can just get comfortable, spread those legs, and let me have your **** to feed from, it will allow me to be elsewhere or even get a second helping if your up to it....

Look forward to hearing from you soon
----------------------------------------------------------------

It's been brought to my attention that some people offering there cocks for practice do NOT want to see my doing the task at hand, which Is perfectly understandable... Well other than closing your eyes there are a couple of options as it turns out...


1. Is to sit at a Table with legs spread under the table, then I will be under the table doing my training... Uncomfortable but I don't mind if it helps.

2. If you get on all fours with legs apart I can slide on my back behind you, lower you **** down untill I can train like this.. this is the Reverse 69....

Hope this helps xx

If you are a CD anyway and fit the above criteria then obviously we can have even more very naughty fun together so long as I get my fill lol xx

My Best Pics and Very Naughty Stories are in my Group Below:-
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/groups/14871084@N25/">www.flickr.com/groups/14871084@N25/</a>

This is my Profile:-
<a href="https://www.flickr.com/people/11512300@N05/">www.flickr.com/people/11512300@N05/</a>

These are my Favourites:-
<a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/11512300@N05/favorites/">www.flickr.com/photos/11512300@N05/favorites/</a>

Afternoon everyone picked up this tshirt dress yesterday it was a had to have because its baby pink and goes perfectly with my new flower clips

Simply perfect! So beautiful!

Derby UK Lingerie CD Looking for Co ck

I'm looking for Co ck within 20 minutes of Spondon or Ilkeston for ongoing training purposes, I don't expect anything in return,

These are my criteria.........
1. Smooth Shaven Co ck and Sacks
2. Full Co ck Head Showing
3. Prefer 5" or more when hard
4. You must be Willing to wear Tights or Holdups/Stockings ( Which I could supply)

This is for training only, I don't expect you to do anything else at all, ideally you can sit on the edge of the sofa or arm chair with your legs spread, you can read a book or play on your phone or watch TV.... I'm there to gain as much experience at sucking co ck as possible, I will be trying different techniques and will leave No Mess at all... So long as you are happy for me to Swallow.
Hopefully this will be at least 3 times a week hopefully more...
No one needs to know anything so if your married or with someone then that's fine.
Feedback on how I'm doing and how I can improve my extraction would be even better as the faster I get my fill the better I'm doing.
Age and looks are unimportant so long as it's legal, you should be fit and healthy and free from anything catching.
I expect you to be Very Clean, Tidy, Discreet and pleasant and Trustworthy... What I do will go no further and I expect the same.
Please check out my Profile and Pics and my Favourites to see what I'm like and what I like.

Contact me for any questions or details..

This is my Profile:-
<a href="https://www.flickr.com/people/11512300@N05/">www.flickr.com/people/11512300@N05/</a>

These are my Favourites:-
<a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/11512300@N05/favorites/">www.flickr.com/photos/11512300@N05/favorites/</a>

----------------------------------------------------------------
In all cases I tend to have a rather get on with it sort of attitude, obviously everyone says hello and introduces themselves but time is prescious so getting down to business asap is just what I'm looking for. We will have got to know each other before by txt email or phone so when I arrive if you can just get comfortable, spread those legs, and let me have your co ck to feed from, it will allow me to be elsewhere or even get a second helping if your up to it....
Look forward to hearing from you soon

----------------------------------------------------------------
It's been brought to my attention that some people offering there cocks for practice do NOT want to see my doing the task at hand, which Is perfectly understandable... Well other than closing your eyes there are a couple of options as it turns out...
1. Is to sit at a Table with legs spread under the table, then I will be under the table doing my training... Uncomfortable but I don't mind if it helps.
2. If you get on all fours with legs apart I can slide on my back behind you, lower you co ck down untill I can train like this.. this is the Reverse 69....
Hope this helps xx

If you are a CD anyway and fit the above criteria then obviously we can have even more very naughty fun together so long as I get my fill lol xx

My Best Pics and Very Naughty Stories are in my Group Below:-
<a href="https://www.flickr.com/groups/14871084@N25/">www.flickr.com/groups/14871084@N25/</a>

Simply perfect! Sweet!

Derby UK Lingerie CD Looking for Co ck

I'm looking for Co ck within 20 minutes of Spondon or Ilkeston for ongoing training purposes, I don't expect anything in return,

These are my criteria.........
1. Smooth Shaven Co ck and Sacks
2. Full Co ck Head Showing
3. Prefer 5" or more when hard
4. You must be Willing to wear Tights or Holdups/Stockings ( Which I could supply)

This is for training only, I don't expect you to do anything else at all, ideally you can sit on the edge of the sofa or arm chair with your legs spread, you can read a book or play on your phone or watch TV.... I'm there to gain as much experience at sucking co ck as possible, I will be trying different techniques and will leave No Mess at all... So long as you are happy for me to Swallow.
Hopefully this will be at least 3 times a week hopefully more...
No one needs to know anything so if your married or with someone then that's fine.
Feedback on how I'm doing and how I can improve my extraction would be even better as the faster I get my fill the better I'm doing.
Age and looks are unimportant so long as it's legal, you should be fit and healthy and free from anything catching.
I expect you to be Very Clean, Tidy, Discreet and pleasant and Trustworthy... What I do will go no further and I expect the same.
Please check out my Profile and Pics and my Favourites to see what I'm like and what I like.

Contact me for any questions or details..

This is my Profile:-
<a href="https://www.flickr.com/people/11512300@N05/">www.flickr.com/people/11512300@N05/</a>

These are my Favourites:-
<a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/11512300@N05/favorites/">www.flickr.com/photos/11512300@N05/favorites/</a>

----------------------------------------------------------------
In all cases I tend to have a rather get on with it sort of attitude, obviously everyone says hello and introduces themselves but time is prescious so getting down to business asap is just what I'm looking for. We will have got to know each other before by txt email or phone so when I arrive if you can just get comfortable, spread those legs, and let me have your co ck to feed from, it will allow me to be elsewhere or even get a second helping if your up to it....
Look forward to hearing from you soon

----------------------------------------------------------------
It's been brought to my attention that some people offering there cocks for practice do NOT want to see my doing the task at hand, which Is perfectly understandable... Well other than closing your eyes there are a couple of options as it turns out...
1. Is to sit at a Table with legs spread under the table, then I will be under the table doing my training... Uncomfortable but I don't mind if it helps.
2. If you get on all fours with legs apart I can slide on my back behind you, lower you co ck down untill I can train like this.. this is the Reverse 69....
Hope this helps xx

If you are a CD anyway and fit the above criteria then obviously we can have even more very naughty fun together so long as I get my fill lol xx

My Best Pics and Very Naughty Stories are in my Group Below:-
<a href="https://www.flickr.com/groups/14871084@N25/">www.flickr.com/groups/14871084@N25/</a>

Derby UK Lingerie CD Looking for Co ck

I'm looking for Co ck within 20 minutes of Spondon or Ilkeston for ongoing training purposes, I don't expect anything in return,

These are my criteria.........
1. Smooth Shaven Co ck and Sacks
2. Full Co ck Head Showing
3. Prefer 5" or more when hard
4. You must be Willing to wear Tights or Holdups/Stockings ( Which I could supply)

This is for training only, I don't expect you to do anything else at all, ideally you can sit on the edge of the sofa or arm chair with your legs spread, you can read a book or play on your phone or watch TV.... I'm there to gain as much experience at sucking co ck as possible, I will be trying different techniques and will leave No Mess at all... So long as you are happy for me to Swallow.
Hopefully this will be at least 3 times a week hopefully more...
No one needs to know anything so if your married or with someone then that's fine.
Feedback on how I'm doing and how I can improve my extraction would be even better as the faster I get my fill the better I'm doing.
Age and looks are unimportant so long as it's legal, you should be fit and healthy and free from anything catching.
I expect you to be Very Clean, Tidy, Discreet and pleasant and Trustworthy... What I do will go no further and I expect the same.
Please check out my Profile and Pics and my Favourites to see what I'm like and what I like.

Contact me for any questions or details..

This is my Profile:-
<a href="https://www.flickr.com/people/11512300@N05/">www.flickr.com/people/11512300@N05/</a>

These are my Favourites:-
<a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/11512300@N05/favorites/">www.flickr.com/photos/11512300@N05/favorites/</a>

----------------------------------------------------------------
In all cases I tend to have a rather get on with it sort of attitude, obviously everyone says hello and introduces themselves but time is prescious so getting down to business asap is just what I'm looking for. We will have got to know each other before by txt email or phone so when I arrive if you can just get comfortable, spread those legs, and let me have your co ck to feed from, it will allow me to be elsewhere or even get a second helping if your up to it....
Look forward to hearing from you soon

----------------------------------------------------------------
It's been brought to my attention that some people offering there co cks for practice do NOT want to see my doing the task at hand, which Is perfectly understandable... Well other than closing your eyes there are a couple of options as it turns out...
1. Is to sit at a Table with legs spread under the table, then I will be under the table doing my training... Uncomfortable but I don't mind if it helps.
2. If you get on all fours with legs apart I can slide on my back behind you, lower you co ck down untill I can train like this.. this is the Reverse 69....
Hope this helps xx

My Best Pics and Very Naughty Stories are in my Group Below:-
<a href="https://www.flickr.com/groups/14871084@N25/">www.flickr.com/groups/14871084@N25/</a>

In the dim, tea coloured morning that passes for daylight in mid March, there sat not quite a man, and certainly not yet anything else entirely a person of careful middle years before an antique dressing table that had once belonged to his wife. The table itself had the air of something that knew far more than it was ever going to tell, its mirror clouded with the gentle patina of decades spent reflecting other people's private negotiations with gravity and grief.
Across his lap lay a black satin headscarf, arranged with the solemnity one might accord a papal bull or a very good slice of funeral cake. It spilled over his knees like ink that had decided, upon second thoughts, not to dry. Tucked inside its generous folds was the ghost of lavender, that most patient and reproachful of scents, the sort that waits years to remind you of drawers you have not opened often enough.
From the wardrobe door depended the veil layers of sheer black chiffon so fragile they appeared to be made of regrets that had been ironed flat. It trembled whenever the wind, that notorious sneak-thief of March, found the loose sash and slipped inside to have a look round. Outside, the town lay under a sky the precise colour of yesterday's dishwater, quietly convinced that nothing interesting was ever going to happen again.
He or possibly she, depending on which angle the light chose to take ran a lace gloved finger along the jet beading that marched across the bodice like a procession of tiny, well behaved mourners. The beads were cold at first, as beads will be when left to their own devices, but they warmed almost at once, as though the heat of long ago skin had been stored in them the way a teapot remembers tea.
Why this? The question rose inside him with the regularity of a heartbeat and about as much chance of being answered.
It was not, he reflected, merely crossdressing that brisk, modern word with its clipboard and its forms to fill in. No, this was something older, something chosen with the same deliberate care one might use when selecting the right sort of gravestone. To put on these heavy black satins was to grieve properly, not merely for the wife who had gone ahead into whatever lay beyond the last curtain call, but for the self that had spent decades locked in the attic of his own ribcage, tapping politely and being ignored.
Memory flickered like lantern slides: his grandmother's photograph album, those stern Victorian and Edwardian women staring out from behind veils and crepe as though sorrow were a particularly fetching hat. He had lingered over those pictures longer than any boy with a respectable future was supposed to, feeling something nameless turn over in his chest like a sleeper disturbed by moonlight.
Later much later, during the long, comfortable decades with his wife the secret had grown in perfect silence. Lengths of satin acquired at antique fairs with the furtive excitement of a man buying rare first editions; a chiffon veil ordered at three in the morning from a seller who asked no questions and probably knew all the answers anyway. His wife had never known. Or possibly she had known perfectly well and elected, with the generosity of those who love deeply and sensibly, to let the matter lie undisturbed.
She would smile when he returned with yet another silk scarf, tease him gently about his "fancy tastes," and he would laugh along, the laughter both balm and small, exquisite knife. Had he stolen something from her by never speaking the truth aloud? Or had the silence been kinder the careful preservation of Sunday dinners, hill walks above the fields, the kettle's comfortable whistle while the afternoon play murmured from the wireless?
The clothes themselves seemed to have an opinion on the matter.
The satin was cool against his skin when first it touched him, cool and slightly disapproving, like a maiden aunt meeting a disreputable nephew. Then it softened, warmed, accepted. It wrapped itself around the shape he had always carried inside the shape that had never quite fitted the available tailoring of masculinity, no matter how many times the measurements were taken.
When he wore it, properly, completely, he became not a man dressed as a widow, but simply the grieving widow he had, in some quiet corner of chronology, always been meant to be. The mirror regarded him without surprise. Mirrors, after all, have seen far stranger things than this between breakfast and bedtime.

My good thing! Absolutely perfect!

Simply perfect! Be lovely!

light grey tights. they dont get nearly enough attention that they deserve. perfect for some office look i think

(How to Spot a Fake)

There is a few things you can look for when spotting Fake Pictures.

Of course there is also the Very Poor Picture quality which people use to hide FAKE enhancements which can make things tricky.

A high percentage of users use Ai in the form of Apps and Software to change there appearance. FaceApp, Snapchat and many many more Ai based tools are available to change your appearance.

The old addage that says if it's too good to be true then it probably is, a 60 year old will not have Flawless Skin and Flawless Legs. As you will see

Large Body, Big Hairy Arms, Large Fingers, with beautiful flawless Face, errr No, Fake.

Many Ai creation Software/Apps struggle to Create Hands, Hair, Facial Skin, Backgrounds. Will expand on this ..

Hands take alot of Ai processing power and many times there will be mistakes like, Six fingers, Rings that span two fingers, Hands that Blend into other Bodyparts.

Facial Skin is very often not Flawless, Freckles, Spots, Blemishes, Moles, Fine Hair, Often All Missing, If it's Flawless it's more than Likely Fake, unless they are Professional Models, but enen they have freckles spots blemishes and birth marks even with loads of makeup.

Backgrounds are often either Blurry or very Perfectly Random, Often not associated with any other Photo in someone's collection, Sometimes Backgrounds are set in Luxury Rooms with Gold Plated Furniture, Not usually associated with a UK Council Estate, or Someone on Job Seekers Allowance... Common Sense on much of this.

Bare Feet can be tricky for Ai Software too same as Hands, Same Rules Apply.

Other people in the same photo can end up Morphing into Clothing or even other people's Body Parts, Skin near Skin of two people can be an Ai nightmare so look out for this.

Scale is an Ai issue too, look out for Big Heads, Small Legs, way out of proportion Body Parts, all common mistakes.

Hairy Chest, Flawless Face, - Fake. Hairy Big/Overweight Body, Flawless Face and perfect legs - Fake.

Common Sense Prevails here, Think about who you are looking at, How Old, How Fit, Younger Fit People will use Natural Pictures as they have no need not too.

Very Blurred and Poor quality photos are often used to hide something.

Look out for photos where every shot shows the head in the same position and looks totally flawless, This is because this Face Position is the best one for the Ai Software/App to make the face look the same each time... Otherwise they may end up looking different... Fakes.

Look carefully at the photos you like, don't just see a pretty picture and assume it is real, have a look at others they have done, don't play into there Fake loving hands.... They are trying to make you look a fool because they can con you.... Don't let it be you.

This is just the Basics, Hope it helps. After a while you will find it easier to spot these Fakers... Enjoy your new skill

Please ask for guidance if your unsure about anyone...

All my pics as you can see are me and mine, what you see is what you will get if you want it xxx

A CD called Kev got in touch wanting to meet up but we had a problem we both are married and could not easily accommodate so it seemed like a non starter from the beginning, it was a shame as we had near enough the same CD preferences, kev was Smooth where it was needed and he was Into Lingerie like me, as we chatted it was clear that he had a no mess approach to knowing what he wanted, which is exactly what most want if they were honest about it.
I told him that I finish work around 2pm and I'm home changed and trimmed by 3pm the only problem is my wife can turn up anytime even though she finished at 5pm...
I told him I often work in my Shed/Workshop which is heated but it's not exactly comfortable..
He suggested that if he arrived for about 3pm we could have fun of some sort in the workshop that way if the wife came back early, I could suggest it was a colleague from work...
I thaught it out and to be honest could not come up with a reason not to, so arrangements were made, we had discussed him being dressed already under his normal clothes, which I did the same after I fully prepared myself in the bathroom.
Kev arrived and after a quick greeting and chat, he used the bathroom to freshen up after his trip.. we then made our way to my small workshop now as tidy as it ever was and already nice and warm with my fan heaters.
I locked the door, and this is always a nervous part, I always ask if he/she wants to carry on and most of the time it's a yes, so I take off my Joggers, revealing Stocking Tights and Tiny Sheer Thong, I grabbed a bag which had my Red Stilettos and a Basque which I asked Kev to help with as they can be a bitch to get on, zipped ones are best.. Kev then removed his Joggers and he had Crotchless Tights then grabbed his bad and surprised me with some 2" Stilettos which was a little bonus, he had regular black Knickers but only his regular T-shirt on top, I suggested he, tie/knotted his t-shirt at the front, which was perfect...
I wasted no time and asked him to remove his knickers which he did, I did the same, I was trying to keep Calm and not get over excited.
I grabbed a seat cushion and put it on my workbench and pulled myself up onto the edge, I opened my legs, holding my knees and said, help yourself....
Kev dropped to his knees, put his arms round my thighs and sucked my semi into his mouth, giving it a full mouth wetting, unsurprisingly I started to get hard, at which he switched to sucking up and down my now solid ****....
I said stop, we swapped, I did the same, I slid his beautiful smooth **** into my mouth, already hard, after giving it a good wetting I cupped his **** with my lips just behind his **** head, then I did quick short sucks up and down, nice and tight, no more than two inches movement, up and down... It had the correct result, moaning with pleasure, after a few minutes we swapped again, then again, eventually we were both fairly close, I grabbed the sun bed cover and lay it on the floor, I lay down and asked him to 69....
No arguments there. .. he got on top sliding his hard shaft in my mouth ready, I started on him again as he did with me, after a few more minutes I was getting close, I said pause, which he did, then a few more minutes he said he was getting close, so I said start, he wasted no time, sucking the life out of my hard ****,vivwad close again, I started oh his again, really going for it.... A minute or two later, I shot my load into his mouth, he was swallowing just as my mouth was being filled twice with his juice, oh my got this Feed was amazing....
We were both so pleased with our Feeds, it was definitely on the list for the next available moment, to feed again....

I ordered my new outfit. I hope you like it. Im much excited and i hope it will fit perfectly...

#crossdresser #cosplay

A small set from yesterday.
Not chasing perfection here. Just sharing where I’m at right now.
Confidence looks different depending on the day.

#crossdresser
#genderexpression
#femmeenergy
#softconfidence
#selfexpression
#quietmoments
#personal
#lgbtq

This dress and stocking work so amazing together its almost perfect

Charity shopping Star Buy today - £5 reduced from £10 cos they're a bit big for most, and they fit ME perfectly!

Am a dominant ******* open to welcome a true submission in a perfect dynamic power

I remember the exact moment I decided the night belonged to me alone. The room smelled of rosewater, old bruised satin drapes, and the faint metallic tang of ancient makeup. Mirrors surrounded me like silent courtiers, each reflecting a different fragment of the creature I was becoming. Tonight I wasn't just performing, I was ascending. First came the foundation: cool porcelain over warm skin, smoothed until I looked carved from moonlight. Then the eyes. Oh, the eyes. I dipped a fine brush into that impossible turquoise pigment the exact shade of tropical shallows under storm clouds and painted sweeping wings that stretched toward my temples. Eyelashes like black lace fans. Lips the colour of bruised sapphires, outlined sharper than a guillotine's edge. Cheeks dusted with shimmering frost so the light would catch and fracture. The hijab went on next. Heavy turquoise satin, cool against my scalp. I wrapped it with ritual precision, tucking every rebellious strand away until only regal geometry remained. Over that, the oversized satin headscarf yards of it draped and folded into majestic pleats that framed my face like a Renaissance altarpiece gone deliciously rogue. Then the cascading chiffon voile veil, light as breath, heavy with intention. It spilled from the crown in watery layers, catching every flicker of candlelight and turning it into liquid mercury. The gown followed: high necked, modest in the Victorian sense, scandalous in every other. Satin bodice hugging just enough to remind the world what architecture the body can achieve, then exploding into flowing panels of voile and satin that whispered across the floor like conspiratorial ghosts. Ankle length, yes, but the way it moved suggested it might lift at any moment and carry me off the ground entirely. I stepped into the main chamber. The throne waited upholstered in the same decadent turquoise satin, tufted and tasselled, looking like something a decadent Ottoman sultan might have abandoned in a fit of ennui. I arranged myself upon it slowly, deliberately. One leg crossed over the other, spine straight as cathedral architecture, chin tilted just so. Left hand resting on the armrest, fingers splayed to show off the long turquoise nails. Right hand splayed in a gesture that could have been benediction, accusation, or invitation take your pick. Then came the lighting. A single harsh key light from high right, carving brutal shadows across the left side of my face; a faint fill from low left to keep the eyes from disappearing into darkness; everything else swallowed by velvet black. Chiaroscuro taken to theatrical extremes. The satin drank the light and threw it back richer, glossier, almost liquid. My skin glowed like moonlit marble. The veil caught stray photons and turned them into faint turquoise fireflies suspended in air. I struck the pose. Head turned three quarters, gaze locked on some invisible point just beyond the fourth wall. Lips parted the tiniest fraction as though I were about to deliver the wittiest, most devastating line in the history of spoken language, but had decided silence was crueler. One eyebrow infinitesimally raised. The veil drifted slightly with my breath, a slow, hypnotic undulation. Somewhere in the darkness, I heard a stifled giggle. Good. Let them laugh. Let them gasp. Let them clutch their pearls and question every certainty they ever held about gender, grief, glamour, and good taste. Because here I sat mourning queen of nothing and everything, turquoise flamed phoenix in widow's weeds, Caravaggio's most flamboyant fever dream filtered through Doré's feverish embellishments. The shadows deepened around me, thick as ink. The satin throne gleamed like wet paint. My makeup shimmered, defiant and absurd and utterly regal. And in that perfect, ridiculous, holy instant, I felt it: I was the most beautiful thing in the universe.

I love doing my nails
I love doing my make up
I love lipstick
I love lace
I love dresses
I love heels
I love feeling girly
I love Rom coms
I love pamper sessions
I love attention
I love compliments
I love lingerie
I love naughty lingerie
I love smooth skin
I love chilling out as Danni
I love my curvy butt
I love my sporty legs that look great in tights and stockings
I love women
I love women that love crossdressers
I love open minded people
I love getting that perfect picture
I love who I am and what it means to be me


I love crossdressing

She chose the necklace last.
That was always how it went, hair first, then the glasses, the careful line of lipstick that made her look like she knew what she was doing even when she didn’t. The mirror showed her a woman with copper rose hair and a smile she’d practiced for years, one that said I’m fine, thank you, without inviting questions.
The turquoise collar lay on the dresser like a memory she wasn’t ready to wear today.
Instead, her fingers closed around the spinel and garnet strand.
It was cool in her hand, heavier than it looked. The stones weren’t perfect, no two were the same. Pink spinel caught the light softly, purple deepened toward dusk, and the garnets glowed like embers that refused to go out. Freeform. Unapologetic. Honest. She liked that about them. They didn’t pretend to be anything other than what they were.
The magnetic clasp clicked shut at the back of her neck with a small, decisive sound.
At 51 centimetres, the necklace didn’t sit high and declarative like the turquoise one. It rested lower, closer to the heart. A quiet line of colour against her skin, silver tones flickering when she moved. It didn’t announce her presence, it stayed with her.
She leaned closer to the mirror.
The spinel echoed the warmth of her hair. The garnet answered the lipstick. Together they softened her face, drew the eye downward, slowed everything. This wasn’t a necklace for making an entrance. It was for conversations that lasted longer than planned. For afternoons that drifted into evening. For being seen without being displayed.
She smiled again this time without rehearsing it.
Some jewellery was armour. Some was memory. This one felt like continuity, like all the versions of herself agreeing, briefly, to coexist. The woman who once wore turquoise like a shield. The woman who now preferred stones that looked as if they’d lived a little.
She reached for her coat, left the turquoise where it was, and stepped out.
The necklace moved with her not loudly, not urgently but faithfully, stone against skin, colour against breath, proof that beauty didn’t have to shout to be real.

I never use any makeup. All my pics are with my cell phone. I'm not perfect, but I'm real!

Name's Delilah "Dolly" Malone, private eye by trade, sissy by nature. Obese, overweight, and unapologetic about it, I waddled through this apocalypse in a Barbie pink ankle length trenchcoat that billowed like a parachute in the fallout wind. Underneath, my pink Victorian mourning attire clung to my rolls, a long pink satin gown with subtle sheen highlights that caught the dim rad lights just right, making me shimmer like a forbidden dream. My oversized pink satin headscarf framed my face, tied in a bow that screamed Rococo excess, and a sheer pink chiffon voile veil draped over it all, misting my vision in rosy haze. Glossy shiny deluxe blouse frills peeked out at the collar, frilly as a sissy maid's apron. Dramatic pink lips, pink eyeliner I painted myself like a doll in a world gone gray. Hard boiled? Sure, but with a soft center that melted at the wrong touch. It started like any other gig in this irradiated hellhole, the kind where the client slinks into your office smelling of desperation and cheap perfume. My office was a gutted bungalow on what's left of Sunset Boulevard, walls papered with faded starlet posters glowing faintly from the rads. She walked in or slithered, more like a femme fatale straight out of the old reels, but twisted by the apocalypse. Tall, gaunt, with skin like irradiated porcelain and eyes that could melt lead. Called herself Veronica Voss, heir to some pre war studio fortune, or so she claimed. "Dolly," she purred, her voice like velvet over razor wire, "I need you to find my husband. He's gone missing with a stash of pre-war gold the kind that could buy us a ticket out of this wasteland." I should've walked away. But her gaze lingered on my pink ensemble, a smirk playing on those blood red lips. "You look... exquisite," she said, tracing a finger along my frilled blouse. Love or money? Hell, in my line of work, it's always both. I took the case, lured like an innocent lamb to the slaughter. Average? Me? Law abiding? In this world, survival's the only law, but yeah, I was tempted. She dangled promises, a cut of the gold, a night in her arms, where I'd be her pretty little doll. My heart, buried under layers of satin and fat, fluttered like a trapped bird. The trail led to the ruins of the Hollywood Sign, now a jagged "HOLLYW D" mocking the sky. Dutch angles everywhere, the ground tilted under my heels, my pink gown swishing as I lumbered up the hill, veil fluttering in the toxic breeze. I found clues: a scorched map to a vault in the old MGM lot, whispers of a heist crew Veronica's hubby had assembled. Perfect crime, they thought crack the vault, grab the gold, vanish into the Mojave like ghosts. But greed's a hungry beast. I pieced it together from rad scorched notes and bullet riddled bodies: internal betrayal, bad luck from a radstorm that fried their getaway vertibird. The hubby was dead, double crossed by his own femme fatale wait, no. By Veronica? My gut twisted. That's when it got personal. Digging deeper, I uncovered photos in the vault pre war snapshots of a man who looked too familiar. Me? No, couldn't be. But the face... my face, slimmer, harder, before the bombs, before the pink. Amnesia hit like a sledgehammer. I'd blacked out chunks of my past after the fallout, waking up in this body, this craving for satin and veils. Identity crisis? You bet. Turns out, I wasn't always Dolly. I was that hubby or a clone, or some rad mutated twin. Veronica had lured me in before the war, manipulated me into a heist for her studio's hidden fortune. I stole, I killed, she betrayed me, left me for dead in the blast. Now, post apocalypse, she'd tracked me down, not knowing it was me under the pink, the fat, the frills. She wanted the gold I'd stashed in my fogged memory. Corruption seeped in like fallout rain. The case turned dangerous her goons on my tail, corrupt Enclave remnants posing as authorities, accusing me of the old murders. Innocent man on the run? Wrongfully accused in a world where justice is a loaded .45. I evaded them through the twisted streets, my trenchcoat snagging on barbed wire, pink satin tearing like my sanity. Hiding in a bombed out mansion, I confronted her. "You," I gasped, veil askew, lips smudged. "You did this to me." She laughed, that velvet razor slicing deep. "Darling, you were always a pushover. A little love, a little money and look at you now, all dolled up." She drew a pearl handled pistol, the trap sprung. The heist gone wrong? This was round two. I lunged obese, but fueled by rage knocking the gun away. We tumbled in Dutch angled chaos, shadows twisting like my gown's sheen. But greed won. She grabbed the gold map from my pocket, shot me in the gut. As I bled out on the irradiated floor, pink staining red, I realized: destruction was always the endgame. For the lured innocent, the doomed detective, the betrayed sissy in a world of gray. Fade to black, darling. Fade to pink.

In the Hills after the Bomb they mostly call me The Late Detective. Late to justice, late to lunch, late to the end of the world. The sky was the colour of an old television left on after the station died, tilted at a Dutch angle like God had nudged the tripod and walked away. In this town, fabric tells the truth faster than people. I walked through it swaddled in turquoise satin, layered, intentional, defiant. My trenchcoated attire was heavy silk satin, the kind with a weight to it, a gravity. Satin doesn’t flutter; it arrives. It caught the light even in monochrome, turning every streetlamp into a confession. Underneath, the Victorian mourning attire did what it was designed to do: announce loss while indulging excess. Glossy deluxe blouse frills, cut wide and deep, each fold edged like it had a memory. They whispered when I moved. Satin remembers. It always does. The hijab headscarf was oversized turquoise satin, wrapped high and proud, smooth as a bribe sliding across a table. Over that, a chiffon voile veil, sheer, unforgiving, honest. Chiffon doesn’t hide anything; it only softens the blow. It floated just off my face, catching the radioactive breeze, turning my grief into motion. Taffeta anchored the gown beneath it all, crisp and slightly petulant, holding its shape like a stubborn alibi. Taffeta never forgets it’s there. I knew the case was serious the moment I saw the mannequins. The Garment District had been stripped naked. Not torn apart, undressed. Racks stood empty, arms out like they were asking questions nobody wanted to answer. The air smelled wrong. Usually it was starch, dye, steam, ambition. Now it was dust and panic. Silk was missing. All of it. Not just silk as a category, but silk as an idea. Satin-faced charmeuse. Heavy duchess satin meant for gowns that expected to be remembered. Raw silk with its tiny imperfections, honest as a tired smile. Silk twill that knew how to hold a line. Gone. Satin too, proper satin, not that plastic nonsense. The good stuff that slides between your fingers like it’s trying to escape. Satin that makes even cheap tailoring look like it has a lawyer. Vanished. Taffeta bolts were missing next. Crisp, noisy taffeta that rustles when you walk, announcing your presence whether you like it or not. The kind of fabric that refuses subtlety. Someone had wanted drama. And chiffon. God help us, chiffon. Weightless, floaty, translucent. Chiffon that catches on breath, on light, on the idea of movement. The chiffon racks looked like a graveyard of empty hangers. Voile too, cotton voile, silk voile, the gentle middle child that designers rely on when they want softness without surrender. Gone like a promise after the bombs. This wasn’t theft. This was curation. The femme fatale found me tracing the grain of a wooden cutting table, my gloved fingers remembering where silk had once lain. “They took only the best,” she said, lighting a cigarette like it was an accessory. “Nothing synthetic. Nothing that couldn’t mourn properly.” That told me everything. In the apocalypse, fabric becomes currency. Silk means water, means safety, means time to think. Satin means power. Taffeta means spectacle. Chiffon means hope. Voile means tenderness, the most dangerous commodity of all. I followed the trail through tailor shops and bombed out ateliers, past pattern paper fluttering like white flags. A single thread of turquoise voile snagged on a rusted nail led me uphill, toward the old soundstages where dreams used to be pressed, steamed, and sent out into the world with a smile. Inside, the thieves had laid it all out. Bolts of silk arranged by weight and weave. Satin draped over chairs, catching the light like liquid. Taffeta stacked with military precision, crisp edges aligned, ready to explode into skirts and coats. Chiffon suspended from rigging, floating in layers, a cloud of almost nothing. Voile stretched and tested, light passing through it like mercy. They weren’t stealing to sell. They were building. A final show. A post apocalyptic couture reveal. If the world was ending and it always was then it deserved a proper wardrobe. They surrounded me, guns low, eyes hungry. I adjusted my veil, let the chiffon breathe. “You can’t hoard fabric,” I told them. “It has to be worn. Silk dies in the dark.” The Choir hesitated. Madame Bias frowned, fingers brushing a length of satin like she was checking its pulse. The Cutter looked at my gown, at the way satin, taffeta, and chiffon argued and reconciled on my body. Fashion did the rest. In the end, the fabrics went back out into the streets. Seamstresses worked by candlelight. Mourning gowns bloomed. Trenchcoats shimmered. Veils floated through fallout like prayers that hadn’t given up yet. I walked home heavy with more layers than I arrived wearing, turquoise against the end of the world, every material doing what it was born to do.

This dress feels perfect for clubbing what do you think?

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.

The dress had lived in my saved folder for weeks: an elegant plus size kaftan, long and sweeping, described in loving detail online as a “maxi robe style” masterpiece. Bold geometric shapes danced across it, interrupted by playful polka dots, all in the richest shades of brown, deep coffee, and warm beige. No stretch, just pure, structured non stretch fabric that would drape and flow with quiet authority. Off the shoulder design that could be worn modestly high or slipped gently down for a more relaxed silhouette, and those perfect short sleeves. And then the detail that had sealed it for me a matching set of satin accessories: a hijab, a headscarf, and an oversized satin scarf, all in the same lush coffee beige family.
I’d imagined myself in it so many times. Not just wearing it, but being in it moving through a room and feeling the hem brush my ankles like a whispered promise.
The sales assistant smiled when she saw me lingering near the display. “That one’s new in,” she said, lifting the hanger with the kind of reverence usually reserved for museum pieces. “It’s even more striking up close.”
She wasn’t wrong.
Up close, the patterns were alive. The geometrics felt almost architectural, like tiny tiled courtyards from some ancient medina, while the polka dots added a mischievous modern wink. The colours were deeper than the photos had captured less flat beige, more toasted almond and espresso swirling together. I ran my fingertips over the fabric. Crisp, cool, luxuriously matte except where the satin accents caught the light and turned molten.
I asked to try it on.
In the fitting room, the kaftan slipped over my head like cool water. The weight of the non stretch fabric gave it presence; it didn’t cling, it enveloped. I adjusted the off shoulder neckline until it sat just where I wanted respectful yet softly open, framing my collarbones without apology. The short sleeves ended exactly where they should, leaving my forearms free. I turned slowly in front of the mirror and watched the skirt flare and settle, the patterns shifting like a living mosaic.
Then came the satin pieces.
I draped the hijab first, letting the silky coffee coloured length glide over my hair and shoulders. The texture was heaven smooth against my skin, cool and weightless. Next the headscarf, wrapped and tucked with practiced care (I’d watched enough tutorials to fake confidence). Finally, the oversized satin scarf, which I looped loosely around my neck and let trail down my back like a royal train in miniature.
When I stepped out of the cubicle, the assistant actually gasped quietly, politely, but it was there.
I felt… regal. Not in a loud, glittering way, but in the way old Islamic manuscript illuminations are regal: intricate, deliberate, quietly commanding attention through beauty rather than volume. The kaftan moved with me like an extension of breath. Every step sent gentle waves through the fabric, the geometric lines bending and realigning, the polka dots catching tiny sparks of that golden-hour light pouring through the shop windows.
I bought it. No hesitation.
Now, when I wear it at home in the evenings, I light a few low lamps to recreate that same warm glow. I walk slowly across the hardwood floor just to feel the hem sweep behind me. I arrange the satin scarf different ways draped over one shoulder, wrapped as a belt, left to float free and each time the mirror shows me someone new, yet completely myself.
It isn’t just a dress.
It’s the version of elegance I’d been quietly sketching in my mind for years, finally given shape in brown, coffee, and beige.
And every time I put it on, I remember that afternoon in the boutique when the light hit just right, and I finally recognised the person looking back at me.

Leopard Print And Satin the Perfect Combination

Perfect ??

In the dim parlour of a narrow terraced house on the edge of town, where the January dusk pressed against fogged windowpanes, Hanimefendi (once Tony, though the name now felt like an old coat left in the attic) sat perfectly still before the tall cheval mirror.
At sixty four, the body that looked back at her was soft and heavy, rolls of flesh pressing against the seams of her chosen mourning. Yet every inch of it had been reclaimed in Barbie Pink the violent, unapologetic pink of bubblegum, flamingos, and little girls’ birthday dreams. She had buried the muted blacks and charcoals of conventional widowhood the same afternoon she buried her former self. Grief, she decided, deserved better than drabness. Grief deserved to scream.
Her long gown swept the floorboards in heavy, liquid folds of pink satin. The fabric caught the lamplight in subtle, expensive highlights shimmering like wet sugar or the inside of a seashell. Tiny seed pearls marched along the modestly high neckline and down the front in orderly, virginal rows. The sleeves ended in deep cuffs of gathered pink chiffon that trembled with each slow breath.
Over the gown rode the blouse: glossy, deluxe, almost liquid in its sheen. Frills cascaded from throat to waist like a waterfall of spun sugar ruffles upon ruffles upon ruffles, each edge finished with the thinnest piping of darker rose. The cuffs alone could have doubled as christening bonnets.
But the true crown was the headscarf.
An oversized triangle of blush pink satin, almost cartoonishly large, draped from the top of her head and cascaded past her shoulders in glossy waves. She had tied it under the chin with an extravagant bow, the ends trailing like rabbit ears. Pinned beneath it floated a sheer pink chiffon voile veil long enough to brush the upper swell of her ample chest, fine enough that her features showed through like a watercolour left in the rain. The veil softened the male jawline she had once hated, blurred the double chin, turned every blink into something theatrical and tender.
Her mouth was a dramatic wound of matte fuchsia, outlined sharper than a paper cut. Above it arched brows drawn in powdery rose, while the eyelids shimmered with pearlescent pink shadow and were rimmed in vivid bubblegum liner that flicked outward in exaggerated Rococo commas. Cheeks bloomed with circular rouge like a porcelain doll painted by an over enthusiastic child. The overall effect was sissy maid meets Marie Antoinette in full defiant mourning feminine, excessive, absurdly pretty, and deliberately inconsolable.
He, her male persona had hated the colour pink. Called it childish. Called it weak. On the nightstand sat the little brass urn containing what remained of him, his cremated wardrobe of male clothes, positioned so that the urn had no choice but to stare at her forever.
Hanimefendi lifted one plump, ring laden hand. The nails were lacquered the exact shade of strawberry marshmallow. She touched the veil where it lay across her lips, pressing the satin bow against them as though kissing herself goodnight.
I wore navy coloured clothes for forty-one years, she whispered to the mirror, voice low and cracked from crying and cigarettes she had given up in 1998. Navy and sensible shoes and ‘yes dear’ and ‘not now.’ You had your funeral in charcoal. Mine is pink. Barbie bloody pink. And I’m not sorry.
A tear escaped, cutting a bright path through the rouge. It hung on the veil like dew on candyfloss before soaking in.
She rose slowly, arthritic joints protesting and moved to the ancient radiogram in the corner. The needle settled onto an old 78. A scratchy soprano began to sing something unbearably sentimental about lost loves and rose gardens. Hanimefendi began to sway. The gown whispered against itself. The frills trembled. The veil floated like breath.
In the mirror a vast, pink, glittering figure danced alone widowed, overweight, outrageously made up, and for the first time in six decades entirely herself.
She was mourning, yes. But she was mourning in colour. And the house, for one evening at least, smelled faintly of rose talc, hot satin, and the sweetest kind of revenge.

someone mentioned how can the Stories container be switched off. I've had a look in settings and its not an option unfortunately. Only thing I can think of is something you can do on any web page you visit is to temp edit the content. It won't break their site so don't worry. I've not yet tried it as tbh I can't be bothered but it will remove the section so long as you stay on the page and don't refresh. Here's a quick intro for all you budding developers... You can temporarily edit any webpage in your browser by using the "Inspect Element" [right click on a blank area of a web page to see a menu] feature to modify HTML/CSS code or by activating "Design Mode" in the console. These changes are local, temporary, and disappear upon refreshing, perfect for quick mockups or testing layouts.

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.

The Sole is a perfect spot to start your cleaning! Xx

Hello to all you sexy people, I love this outfit, pink, shiny and slutty, perfect, hope you approve 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.

My fingers tremble, just a faint quiver, as I reach for the foil packet on the nightstand. It’s almost weightless, a promise in silver. I tear it open with deliberate care (the small rip loud in the stillness), and the condom unfurls like liquid mercury. Cool and impossibly thin, it glides down over my already aching ****, sheathing me in a trembling second skin. Safe. Secure. A fragile barrier between me and the avalanche of satin to come. A bead of pre-cum kisses the latex tip; I smile. Patience, little sissy. You’ll have your reward.
The first layer is a whisper-pink satin chemise, so fine it feels wet. I let it slither over my head, down my chest, until the hem brushes mid-thigh. Instantly it warms, clings, releases, and clings again with every breath. My palms chase the fabric, front and back, greedy for the slick heat blooming beneath my touch.
Next, the Black nightgown (double-layered, heavy, devotional). I step into it and draw it upward. The inner lining kisses the chemise, and they sigh together: shhh, shhh, my private lullaby. It falls to my ankles in a perfect liquid column. When I move, both layers ripple, cool against cool, warmer where my body heat pools.
The robe is deep rose, quilted satin outside, and champagne gloss within. Arms slide into sleeves, and the lining floods over my skin like chilled cream poured slow. I cinch the sash, and the world contracts: four surfaces of satin now stroking one another with every heartbeat (chemise on nightgown, nightgown on robe lining, lining on skin). I walk barefoot across the room, and the fabrics answer in overlapping waves: the chemise clings, the nightgown glides, and the robe slithers and sweeps. A private orchestra of frictionless lust.
In the mirror I’m only blush and ivory shimmer, face flushed above an ocean of gloss. I lift my arms; sleeves fall back like slow-motion waterfalls. When they drop, the collapse is a soft, wet thud against my body that I feel in my teeth.
I sink onto the midnight-blue satin duvet and let the robe bloom beneath me. On my back, layers flatten and spread, cool against my shoulder blades, my thighs, and the arches of my feet. I arch (just slightly) and the slide is obscene: satin on satin on satin, endless, merciless.
Knees drawn up, fabric pools thick and warm between my thighs like molten candy. My palms smooth down the front (quilted diamonds, slick columns, clinging chemise, skin), and every layer moves with me, against me, inside me.
Now the first of my headscarves, ballet-slipper pink, three feet of pure satin. Folded triangle wide, draped, pulled beneath my chin, crossed, and knotted tight. It cups my jaw and seals my throat. A second knot sits just under my lower lip like a soft gag. The world muffles instantly.
Second scarf, ivory and heavier. Over the first, tied again triangle wide. Four thicknesses now cradle my head, press my cheeks, and frame my face in a gleaming oval.
Third, a deep rose bandeau wound low, looped twice, and knotted at my nape. My chin is forced gently down; swallowing makes every layer glide against my throat in one slow, liquid swallow of its own.
Then the veils.
Pink chiffon, so sheer it’s barely there, yet it turns every texture beneath into a caress. Ivory voile next, pinned high, floating like breath. Last, pale mint over my face alone, tucked beneath the lowest knot. The room becomes watercolor. Breathing through it is filthy intimacy: the fabric flutters against my lips, tasting faintly of dye and my own heat.
A final white satin ribbon, narrow and merciless. Three coils around my neck over every knot, until only a thick, glossy band remains, pulsing with my heartbeat.
From crown to toe, only satin and chiffon speak. When I turn my head, the scarves whisper, and the veils drift like perfume. Pressure under my chin is constant, loving, and absolute.
One sleeved hand slips beneath the pooled folds at my thighs (satin, satin, satin then the cool, taut drum of latex). The contrast is blinding. I stroke once, slowly. My breath flutters the veil against my lips.
Knees higher. The other hand presses the stacked knots beneath my chin (gentle ownership). I begin: lazy circles that turn greedy. The condom translates every ridge of fabric into bright, liquid fire. Veils drift across my chest with each ragged inhale. Heat blooms, trapped, multiplied, sacred.
Faster. Hips rock. The robe lining slithers against the duvet in one long, wet slide. Scarves tighten as my head sinks deeper into the pillow; the ribbon collar throbs.
Release crashes silent and total. I bite down on nothing but chiffon, a muffled whimper swallowed by layers. Pleasure pours into the latex sheath in thick, obedient pulses, trapped and perfect, echoing through every fold until my whole body is one long satin tremor.
After, I lie glowing. The condom keeps me immaculate (another reverent layer). My chest rises and falls beneath quilted satin and drifting voile; tiny aftershocks ripple like quiet tides.

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."

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

Why I love CDs....

For me in particular CDs have a no fuss approach to Sex, we know what we want and we get on with it on every earliest opportunity....
We tend to have fewer excuses to say no...
Of course I'm not talking relationships at all, that really is not for me....
Although a local CD would get plenty of commitment from me and I know I would get it back...
The words above just about sum me up perfectly, but I do have to admit I am very week and a little bit of a Slut..
Have a look at all my Favourites and anything like that put in front of me will get Extracted and Fed from asap...
A smooth **** in Stockings and I'm very week, everything above that **** really does NOT matter, if you spread those legs and ask me to Suck it dry, I will without question.... Sorry I'm like this.....

Check out my FAVOURITES here
<a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/11512300@N05/favorites">www.flickr.com/photos/11512300@N05/favorites</a>

Join my GROUP with my Best Pictures and Very Naughty Stories
<a href="https://www.flickr.com/groups/14871084@N25/">www.flickr.com/groups/14871084@N25/</a>

I was sixteen, maybe seventeen, on that raw December afternoon in the mid-1970s, standing at the back of a small cemetery in southern Manchester. The light was thin and melancholy, the sort that turns everything slightly blue and makes shadows linger too long over the leaning stones. I barely knew the man we were burying, some Uncle twice removed, so the ache in the air never reached me. Grief felt like something that belonged to other people, grown-ups who understood loss. For me, the day was something else entirely, an accidental invitation into a world I hadn’t known I was hungry for.
They were everywhere, those women. Mature, composed, dressed in layers of black that seemed to absorb the weak winter sun and give back only a muted gleam. Silk dresses that clung and released with every breath, satin blouses catching stray glints of light, chiffon and voile drifting like smoke whenever the wind found them. Rayon, acetate, fabrics I didn’t even have names for then, but I felt them all the same, the way they moved, the soft sounds they made against one another. They stood in quiet clusters around the grave, gloved hands clasped, heads bowed beneath hats and veils. To them I must have looked like just another awkward boy in a borrowed tie, but inside I was burning with a fascination I couldn’t name and didn’t dare examine too closely.
And then there was her.
She stood slightly apart, as though even in mourning she needed space. An enormous black satin scarf, far too large, almost theatrical—draped over her shoulders and spilled down her back like spilled ink. Over her face, a sheer chiffon veil, so fine it trembled with every breath. I could smell her from where I stood, carried on the cold air, the sharp bite of Elnette hairspray holding her hair in perfect waves, and beneath it the heavy, amber warmth of Youth Dew. It was the scent of adulthood itself, complicated, slightly dangerous, utterly out of reach.
I watched her the entire time. I told myself it was curiosity, nothing more. But even then, in the thick of it, some quieter part of me knew better. There was something about the way these women carried their sorrow, elegant, controlled, yet undeniably physical that stirred a longing I didn’t understand. It wasn’t just desire, though that was certainly part of it. It was deeper: a wish to be close to whatever it was they possessed experience, certainty, the weight of years lived fully. I felt small beside them, unformed, all sharp edges and unspoken questions. They seemed to know secrets I hadn’t even learned to ask about.
Later, at the wake, coats and scarves were abandoned in a side room as the women moved on to tea and murmured condolences. I lingered near the pile, heart thudding so hard I was sure someone would notice. No one did. My fingers closed around two pieces: the oversized satin mourning scarf, still holding the warmth of her body, and the delicate chiffon veil. Both carried that same intoxicating blend of Elnette, Youth Dew, and something earthier, the faint salt of skin after hours in the cold. I slipped them inside my coat and left before the guilt could catch up with me.
That night, and for many nights through that long winter, I'd ascend up the narrow stairs to my attic bedroom. I’d lock the door, my one small claim to privacy in my parent’s house, draw the curtains and unfold the satin across my pillow. Sometimes I’d press the veil to my face and breathe slowly, letting the scent settle over me like fog.
In those quiet hours I began to understand what I’d really taken that day. It wasn’t just fabric. It was a fragment of a life I could only observe from the outside, a life of composure and ritual, of perfumes chosen deliberately and clothes worn with intention. Holding those scarves, I could pretend, for a moment, that some of that poise might rub off on me. That the confusion and restlessness I carried everywhere might quiet, just a little.
I never felt truly ashamed of stealing them. In my mind they were abandoned, after all, no longer needed once the performance of grief was over. But more than that, they had become mine in a way they could never have been hers again, totems of a feeling I was only beginning to name. Desire, yes. But also envy. And something closer to reverence.
Years later I can still close my eyes and smell it: hairspray, perfume, the faint trace of a woman’s skin on black satin. It takes me straight back to that cemetery, to the boy I was, watching, wanting, trying to understand what it meant to grow into someone capable of wearing mourning like it was made for them.
I’m not sure I ever fully did. But those scarves kept me company while I tried.

My transition is a work of art and perfection

This is one of my favorite photos from my last trip to Florida. A little bit of AI photo enhancement, but the real beach I was at and my real body. You can see that my tuck was not perfect. I think my latest daily abs workouts are improving my waist - but you be the judge? Apprecate all comments. Both critiques and complements.