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.

The case came in sideways, like everything else north of the equator these days.

Over the irradiated murky Atlantic pond, Glasgow didn’t rain so much as accuse. The drizzle slid down the soot-stained tenements like it knew every sin committed inside them. Post-war, post-bomb, post-everything that ever pretended to be civilized. The apocalypse didn’t flatten Scotland the way it did Los Angeles, it hollowed it out instead, left the bones standing and filled the gaps with whisky, guns, and ghosts.

I wore black that night. Not the practical kind.
The statement kind.

A black oversized tartan satin headscarf wrapped tight around my hair, catching the light like wet ink. Over my face, a sheer black chiffon voile veil, the mourning lace thin enough to breathe through, thick enough to hide regret. The rest of me was Victorian grief dialed up to eleven: glossy black tartan blouse with rococo frills, satin panels hugging me like a second conscience, skirts whispering every time I moved. I looked like a widow who’d buried the world and decided it deserved it.

In Glasgow, that bought me anonymity.

They called me Han here too, though the locals said it like a question. I’d followed the trail across the Atlantic after a shipment of American surplus hardware went missing, Tommy guns, plasma pistols, a few toys left over from the end of the world. Fallout New Vegas tech, Hollywood Hills money, Highland routes. Someone was running iron through the glens and washing it down with single malt older than the war itself.

The back streets off Trongate were crooked enough to make a Dutch cameraman weep. Buildings leaned in close, sharing secrets. Gas lamps flickered like they were afraid of what they might illuminate. I walked slow, heels deliberate, veil fluttering just enough to let the right people notice and the wrong people hesitate.

That’s when the femme fatale found me.

She leaned against a doorway like she’d been waiting for the end of the world to catch up. Hair platinum under a cloche hat, lips dark as a closed casket. Scottish, sharp, and carrying herself like a blade wrapped in silk.

“You’re far from Hollywood, sweetheart,” she said. “And you’re dressed for a funeral that isn’t yours.”

“Everyone’s funeral is mine eventually,” I said. “I just like to dress appropriately.”

She smiled. That was the mistake.

Her name was Moira Blackwood. Whisky broker. Gun runner. Mourner by trade. She dealt in Highland routes, smugglers who knew every fog bank, every forgotten rail spur left behind when the bombs fell south. The Americans supplied the firepower. The Scots supplied the patience.

And someone was skimming.

Bodies were turning up in the lochs. Empty bottles floating beside them like punchlines. Moira wanted to know who was cutting into her business before it turned into a clan war with automatic weapons.

We took a train north that barely remembered being a train. Through valleys drowned in mist and radiation snow. I kept the veil on the whole way. In the Highlands, superstition still worked better than bullets.

The smugglers met us in an abandoned distillery, barrels stacked like tombstones. The tartan of my outfit mirrored theirs, same pattern, different intent. They watched me carefully. Men always did when they couldn’t decide what category to put me in.

That hesitation saved my life.

When the shooting started, I was already moving. Heels skidding on stone, skirts swirling, revolver barking from beneath layers of satin and sorrow. Moira went down fast—winged, not dead. The real culprit bolted for the back door, carrying a ledger thick with names and lies.

I caught him by the loch.

The water reflected us in stark monochrome: him shaking, me looming, veil rippling like smoke. He confessed quickly. They always did when faced with someone who looked like death had chosen tartan satin couture.

I left him there for the deep dark water to judge.

By dawn, the Highlands were quiet again. Moira paid me in whisky older than memory and ammunition stamped with American lies. Fair trade.

Back in Glasgow, I stood in a cracked mirror in a boarding house that smelled of coal and grief. I removed the veil last. Always last.

Another city survived. Another secret buried. Another outfit stained with rain instead of blood.

The world was still tilted. Still broken. Still rolling on at the wrong angle.

But as long as there were shadows to walk and clothes that told the truth my mouth didn’t have to, I’d keep going.

Mourning never goes out of fashion.

No Ai or Fake Pictures, What you see is me and mine. Nothing more or less.
Why do I love Co ck......
This is a good question and I guess it's personal to me ...
Co ck that has the head fully showing to me look amazing, small medium or large just look incredible and if Smooth Shaven and in Stockings or Holdups then I'm Week and I must have them in my mouth.
The way the skin behind the head moves with your lips, the feel of the rough edge of the Head.
The taste of a clean **** is amazing.
The way it shows you it enjoys what you started by getting hard, what a turn on
The best thing of all is how after all this fun sucking and playing it rewards you again with the most amazing Pre Cum then followed by a juicy mouth full of Cum for me to Swallow and enjoy...
Damn I love them so much ....

If you are local to Derby or Nottingham then get in touch, get those Co ck Photos and
Send them my way
------------------------------------------------------------
Further Slutty Reading

As someone that on the odd occasion meets other CDs, I think it is important to know how I feel about you if we meet up.
Well it's very important to understand before we meet a few things.
I'm meeting you for my own pleasure entirely,
I'm not interested in you looking like a Female entirely... Let me explain
Before we got to the meeting point we would have chatted extensively about it, and swapped Pics as you do.
So now we know I'm only interested in your Co ck, but only Smooth Co ck and in Lingerie.
Unfortunately I DON'T do beards, not on my Co ck.
So now we know, You need to be Smooth, in Lingerie and have a **** I WILL use.
That means I will be Sucking that Co ck Dry and Swallowing the Content, No Ifs, No Buts...
Now the next thing is what you may want me to do or of course do to me.
The 2 rules I have will have been discussed with you before now anyway so...
My Co ck 'WILL' be Emptied and 'WILL' be Swallowed by You, No Ifs, No Buts...
I get asked, but I wanted you to **** my Ass, that's fine but the rule above still applies so remember that...
I get asked, But I wanted to **** your Ass, well again that's fine but you WILL Cum in my mouth and Feed me, No Ifs, No Buts.
You are a Toy for my pleasure.... That's it
You may become a friend and we may meet very regular, but everything above ALWAYS stays the same....Never Ever any Mess or Waste...
Now you know..


All my best pictures and Stories in one (FREE) Private Group <a href="https://www.flickr.com/groups/14871084@N25/">www.flickr.com/groups/14871084@N25/</a>

The rain hammered down on the cracked pavement like a thousand accusations, each drop a reminder that the world had gone to hell in a handbasket back in '52, when the bombs fell and turned the City of Angels into a monochrome nightmare. I adjusted the strap of my garter belt under my trench coat, feeling the silk stockings whisper against my skin like a forbidden secret. Name's Tracy with a Dick, wait, no, that's too on the nose. Call me Hanimefendi Basortulu, or just Han if you're buying the drinks. By day, I'm the hard boiled gumshoe pounding the shadowed alleys of this irradiated husk of Los Angeles, dodging mutants and mobsters in equal measure. But when the neon flickers out and the Dutch angles of my life tilt just right, I'm something else entirely: a crossdressing sissy in satin, chasing skirts instead of skirts chasing me.
It started with a dame, like all my stories do. Or at least, that's how I tell it to the mirror while I paint my lips ruby red in the dim glow of my office bulb the one that swings like a noose in the wind howling through the boarded up windows. The apocalypse had stripped the city bare, leaving behind skeletal skyscrapers leaning at crazy angles, their glass eyes shattered from the blasts. Food was rationed, water was poison, and hope? That was a luxury for the pre war fools. Me? I survived by sniffing out secrets in the fog of fallout, my fedora pulled low over eyes shadowed with kohl I swiped from a ruined department store.
She slinked into my office that night, a vision in tattered mink and desperation. "Mr. Basortulu," she purred, her voice cutting through the static of my battered radio spitting out old jazz tunes. "I need a man who can handle... delicate matters." Her eyes flicked to my desk, where a stray lipstick tube had rolled out from under some files. I snatched it up quick, heart pounding like a tommy gun. If she noticed, she didn't let on. Her husband, a big shot fallout bunker baron hoarding pre war hooch, had vanished into the undercity the labyrinth of sewers and subways where the real monsters lurked, glowing with radiation and grudge.
I took the case because rent was due, and because her perfume smelled like the lilacs that used to bloom before the sky turned perpetual gray. Slipping out the back door, I ditched the coat for my real armor: a frilly silken blouse tucked into a satin pencil skirt, heels that clicked like gunshots on the debris strewn streets. Crossdressing wasn't just a kink in this apocalypse; it was camouflage. The goons patrolling the ruins looked for tough guys in suits, not a mincing minx batting lashes from the shadows. I'd learned that the hard way, back when the first riots hit and I hid in a drag queen's bunker, emerging reborn in marabou feathers, silk, satin, lace and lies.
The trail led me to the Dutch Tilt District, where buildings leaned like drunks at last call, their angles throwing everything off kilter just like my life. I tailed a suspect through the monochrome haze, my wig itching under the fedora I'd crammed back on. He was a weasel faced rat, peddling black market estrogen shots to the desperate. "Where's the baron?" I hissed, pressing a stiletto heel to his throat after I cornered him in an alley reeking of rot.
He spilled like cheap bourbon: the husband wasn't missing; he'd been snatched by the Shadow Syndicate, a cult of irradiated freaks worshiping the bomb as a god. They operated from the old Hollywood studios, twisting pre war films into propaganda reels that played on loop in the bunkers. I infiltrated at dusk, dolled up in a Lamé cocktail dress that hugged my curves like a guilty conscience. The guards bought the act hell, one even wolf whistled as I sashayed past, my .38 snub nose tucked in my garter.
Inside, it was a fever dream of tilted cameras and flickering projectors. The baron was tied to a chair, force-fed their twisted sermons. But the real twist? The dame was in on it. She emerged from the shadows, gun in hand, her mink shedding like a snake's skin. "You should've stayed in your lane, detective," she sneered. "Or should I say, crossdressing doll?"
We tussled in the projector light, our shadows dancing at mad angles on the walls, her nails raking my stockings, my fist connecting with her jaw. I got the drop on her, tying her up with her own pearls. "In this world, honey," I growled, voice husky from the hormones I'd been sneaking, "everyone's got a secret identity. Mine just fits better."
I dragged the baron out, collected my fee in canned peaches and ammo, and vanished back into the rain. Back in my office, I peeled off the layers, staring at my reflection in the cracked mirror. The apocalypse had taken everything, my city, my withered manhood, my illusions. But it gave me this: a gumshoe in girdles and satin, tilting at windmills in a world gone sideways. And in the end, that's all any of us have left. A story, a smoke, and the next case waiting in the wings.

#BlackMen coming over friends #Futballers #Ballers #Sissy #Bimbo #Properly #Submissive #Silly #Watchin #Comedian #MaxAmini and #aughing hes sooo funny and inclusive. Check him out after you get bored with #RuPaul watch something funny while your #Beauty #Routine and #Lingerie #Silk #Panties #Pink #Juicy #Coture #MinkCoat #********** #CarefulOutThere #Bitches from this #Beyotch #CockSucker

Can I be your playboy bunny? #Femboi #HaileyBaby #bwc #bbc #femboytiktok #sissyboy

(P.S. remastered with AI)

Bored and high open for a chat

again red hair : )

No Ai or Fake Pictures, What you see is me and mine. Nothing more or less.
Why do I love Co ck......
This is a good question and I guess it's personal to me ...
Co ck that has the head fully showing to me look amazing, small medium or large just look incredible and if Smooth Shaven and in Stockings or Holdups then I'm Week and I must have them in my mouth.
The way the skin behind the head moves with your lips, the feel of the rough edge of the Head.
The taste of a clean **** is amazing.
The way it shows you it enjoys what you started by getting hard, what a turn on
The best thing of all is how after all this fun sucking and playing it rewards you again with the most amazing Pre Cum then followed by a juicy mouth full of Cum for me to Swallow and enjoy...
Damn I love them so much ....

If you are local to Derby or Nottingham then get in touch, get those Co ck Photos and
Send them my way
------------------------------------------------------------
Further Slutty Reading

As someone that on the odd occasion meets other CDs, I think it is important to know how I feel about you if we meet up.
Well it's very important to understand before we meet a few things.
I'm meeting you for my own pleasure entirely,
I'm not interested in you looking like a Female entirely... Let me explain
Before we got to the meeting point we would have chatted extensively about it, and swapped Pics as you do.
So now we know I'm only interested in your Co ck, but only Smooth Co ck and in Lingerie.
Unfortunately I DON'T do beards, not on my Co ck.
So now we know, You need to be Smooth, in Lingerie and have a **** I WILL use.
That means I will be Sucking that Co ck Dry and Swallowing the Content, No Ifs, No Buts...
Now the next thing is what you may want me to do or of course do to me.
The 2 rules I have will have been discussed with you before now anyway so...
My Co ck 'WILL' be Emptied and 'WILL' be Swallowed by You, No Ifs, No Buts...
I get asked, but I wanted you to **** my Ass, that's fine but the rule above still applies so remember that...
I get asked, But I wanted to **** your Ass, well again that's fine but you WILL Cum in my mouth and Feed me, No Ifs, No Buts.
You are a Toy for my pleasure.... That's it
You may become a friend and we may meet very regular, but everything above ALWAYS stays the same....Never Ever any Mess or Waste...
Now you know..


All my best pictures and Stories in one (FREE) Private Group <a href="https://www.flickr.com/groups/14871084@N25/">www.flickr.com/groups/14871084@N25/</a>

Hello lovely people! So to clarify, part pf the site updates was the decision to reduce the advertising and introduce a 5 posts a day limit for all standard members. Super Supporters get unlimited posts as well as all the other benefits

Amnesia...

I have erased
The trace
Of Past
My present
Is not true
The Fog
Of Future
Is a chance
To whisper
I Love You...

I dont remember
Who I am
My record was
once lost
I thought
They
Might
To try to check...
Results were
Void or False...
And then
I whispered
I am
I was
A girl
Girl Kate...
Kate Aashe?
Yes
There is a file...
We're waiting
To update...
To my surprise
All matched
And Weight
And Hеight
And lips
And eyes.
And fingerprints...
I got a date
For passport.
I was touched...
They let me ever read
My past...
Once married
Twice divorced
My future
Looks
Not very bright
But still
Quite light to go...
Kind Doctor
Checked my chromosomes
But found only one
The other was forever lost
But seems nobody minds...
I got my number
My ID
And made new hair cut...
Ms. Aashe just forgot her dreams
Long hidden in her past

My very Past
Has been erased
My present
Is not true
The Fog
Of Future
Is a chance
I never meet with You...

Txt me on zangi if youre bored
6648825523

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.

Red and black stockings 2
#sissy #nylon #crossdressser #transgender #feminization #bas #collant #pantyhose #stocking #pied #feet #lingerie #maletofemale #sexy #fantasme #lgbt #porn #soumission #bdsm #hosiery #trough #ladyboy #gartbelt #nails #tits #boob #****

Red & black stockings
#sissy #nylon #crossdressser #transgender #feminization #bas #collant #pantyhose #stocking #pied #feet #lingerie #maletofemale #sexy #fantasme #lgbt #porn #soumission #bdsm #hosiery #trough #ladyboy #gartbelt #nails #tits #boob #****

From flawless makeup & styling to relaxing massage therapy, I’m here to help you look refreshed and feel your best.

Services offered:
• Professional Makeup & Styling
• Swedish Massage
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• ⁠Escort services

Bookings & enquiries: DM me

My TS/CD/TV Story

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chrissy.
She is real.
She is me.

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

With love,
Chrissy

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

https://x.com/TunnellChrissy

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

Am bored...........

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.

Red and Black Linda x

lovely smooth legs and my little red panties

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

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

Today’s vibe was red

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.

No Ai or Fake Pictures, What you see is me and mine. Nothing more or less.
-----------------------
Why do I love Co ck......
This is a good question and I guess it's personal to me ...
Co ck that has the head fully showing to me look amazing, small medium or large just look incredible and if Smooth Shaven and in Stockings or Holdups then I'm Week and I must have them in my mouth.
The way the skin behind the head moves with your lips, the feel of the rough edge of the Head.
The taste of a clean **** is amazing.
The way it shows you it enjoys what you started by getting hard, what a turn on
The best thing of all is how after all this fun sucking and playing it rewards you again with the most amazing Pre Cum then followed by a juicy mouth full of Cum for me to Swallow and enjoy...
Damn I love them so much ....

If you are local to Derby or Nottingham then get in touch, get those Co ck Photos and
Send them my way
------------------------------------------------------------
Further Slutty Reading

As someone that on the odd occasion meets other CDs, I think it is important to know how I feel about you if we meet up.
Well it's very important to understand before we meet a few things.
I'm meeting you for my own pleasure entirely,
I'm not interested in you looking like a Female entirely... Let me explain
Before we got to the meeting point we would have chatted extensively about it, and swapped Pics as you do.
So now we know I'm only interested in your Co ck, but only Smooth Co ck and in Lingerie.
Unfortunately I DON'T do beards, not on my Co ck.
So now we know, You need to be Smooth, in Lingerie and have a **** I WILL use.
That means I will be Sucking that Co ck Dry and Swallowing the Content, No Ifs, No Buts...
Now the next thing is what you may want me to do or of course do to me.
The 2 rules I have will have been discussed with you before now anyway so...
My Co ck 'WILL' be Emptied and 'WILL' be Swallowed by You, No Ifs, No Buts...
I get asked, but I wanted you to **** my Ass, that's fine but the rule above still applies so remember that...
I get asked, But I wanted to **** your Ass, well again that's fine but you WILL Cum in my mouth and Feed me, No Ifs, No Buts.
You are a Toy for my pleasure.... That's it
You may become a friend and we may meet very regular, but everything above ALWAYS stays the same....Never Ever any Mess or Waste...
Now you know..


All my best pictures and Stories in one (FREE) Private Group <a href="https://www.flickr.com/groups/14871084@N25/">www.flickr.com/groups/14871084@N25/</a>

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

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.

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

Anyway was checking the main feed and noticed a against one of my rants about scammers. Saw it was from Tgirljane69. Well her last picture is plastered across the internet. Call me cynical but I don't think its who she portrays on here. Make your own mind up though.

the home icon's disappeared off the top of the pages!

No Ai or Fake Pictures, What you see is me and mine. Nothing more or less.

Why do I love Co ck

This is a good question and I guess it's personal to me ...
Co ck that has the head fully showing to me look amazing, small medium or large just look incredible and if Smooth Shaven and in Stockings or Holdups then I'm Week and I must have them in my mouth.
The way the skin behind the head moves with your lips, the feel of the rough edge of the Head.
The taste of a clean **** is amazing.
The way it shows you it enjoys what you started by getting hard, what a turn on
The best thing of all is how after all this fun sucking and playing it rewards you again with the most amazing Pre Cum then followed by a juicy mouth full of Cum for me to Swallow and enjoy...
Damn I love them so much ....

If you are local to Derby or Nottingham then get in touch, get those Co ck Photos and
Send them my way
------------------------------------------------------------
Further Slutty Reading

As someone that on the odd occasion meets other CDs, I think it is important to know how I feel about you if we meet up.
Well it's very important to understand before we meet a few things.
I'm meeting you for my own pleasure entirely,
I'm not interested in you looking like a Female entirely... Let me explain
Before we got to the meeting point we would have chatted extensively about it, and swapped Pics as you do.
So now we know I'm only interested in your Co ck, but only Smooth Co ck and in Lingerie.
Unfortunately I DON'T do beards, not on my Co ck.
So now we know, You need to be Smooth, in Lingerie and have a **** I WILL use.
That means I will be Sucking that Co ck Dry and Swallowing the Content, No Ifs, No Buts...
Now the next thing is what you may want me to do or of course do to me.
The 2 rules I have will have been discussed with you before now anyway so...
My Co ck 'WILL' be Emptied and 'WILL' be Swallowed by You, No Ifs, No Buts...
I get asked, but I wanted you to **** my Ass, that's fine but the rule above still applies so remember that...
I get asked, But I wanted to **** your Ass, well again that's fine but you WILL Cum in my mouth and Feed me, No Ifs, No Buts.
You are a Toy for my pleasure.... That's it
You may become a friend and we may meet very regular, but everything above ALWAYS stays the same....Never Ever any Mess or Waste...
Now you know..


All my best pictures and Stories in one (FREE) Private Group <a href="https://www.flickr.com/groups/14871084@N25/">www.flickr.com/groups/14871084@N25/</a>

EmilyChill and Emily12 to be avoided unless you are absolutely sure who they are. EmilyChill DM'd me. I found her original (cropped) picture was across the net and when i asked her about it she suddenly changed it to some other leg picture. No explanation about the original one. Was asking her more info about her as there's nothing on her profile (red flag) and now she's blocked me. Emily12 just asking me about where i was then went quiet for no reason. Her pics are sus anyway. Call me paranoid but lol

Covered, Encasement, Hooded, Relaxation, Satin, Veiled.

I am ready to change my life. It is my moment, and I am prepared and determined to start being the woman I feel I am. I am looking for a man who treats me well and supports me in being his woman. I am ready to move forward without looking back and start this transition together with a man who will support me in all my decisions regarding gender change.

No makeup in these red pictures, just testing the lighting ✨️

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

No Ai or Fake Pictures, What you see it me and mine. Nothing more or less.

Why do I love Co ck

This is a good question and I guess it's personal to me ...
Co ck that has the head fully showing to me look amazing, small medium or large just look incredible and if Smooth Shaven and in Stockings or Holdups then I'm Week and I must have them in my mouth.
The way the skin behind the head moves with your lips, the feel of the rough edge of the Head.
The taste of a clean **** is amazing.
The way it shows you it enjoys what you started by getting hard, what a turn on
The best thing of all is how after all this fun sucking and playing it rewards you again with the most amazing Pre Cum then followed by a juicy mouth full of Cum for me to Swallow and enjoy...
Damn I love them so much ....

If you are local to Derby or Nottingham then get in touch, get those Co ck Photos and
Send them my way
------------------------------------------------------------
Further Slutty Reading

As someone that on the odd occasion meets other CDs, I think it is important to know how I feel about you if we meet up.
Well it's very important to understand before we meet a few things.
I'm meeting you for my own pleasure entirely,
I'm not interested in you looking like a Female entirely... Let me explain
Before we got to the meeting point we would have chatted extensively about it, and swapped Pics as you do.
So now we know I'm only interested in your Co ck, but only Smooth Co ck and in Lingerie.
Unfortunately I DON'T do beards, not on my Co ck.
So now we know, You need to be Smooth, in Lingerie and have a **** I WILL use.
That means I will be Sucking that Co ck Dry and Swallowing the Content, No Ifs, No Buts...
Now the next thing is what you may want me to do or of course do to me.
The 2 rules I have will have been discussed with you before now anyway so...
My Co ck 'WILL' be Emptied and 'WILL' be Swallowed by You, No Ifs, No Buts...
I get asked, but I wanted you to **** my Ass, that's fine but the rule above still applies so remember that...
I get asked, But I wanted to **** your Ass, well again that's fine but you WILL Cum in my mouth and Feed me, No Ifs, No Buts.
You are a Toy for my pleasure.... That's it
You may become a friend and we may meet very regular, but everything above ALWAYS stays the same....Never Ever any Mess or Waste...
Now you know..


All my best pictures and Stories in one (FREE) Private Group <a href="https://www.flickr.com/groups/14871084@N25/">www.flickr.com/groups/14871084@N25/</a>

Got myself a new ring light 12in With colored lighting ✨️
Loving the way red comes out

Been to hell and back! Conquered all my demons!

Bored but high

POV: being bored at home dreaming about you

Red crushed velvet dress

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

something totally unrelated.... A man sees a sign in front of a house: "Talking Dog for Sale: $10".
He rings the doorbell, and the owner tells him the dog is in the backyard. The man goes into the backyard and sees a nice-looking Labrador Retriever sitting there.
"You talk?" the man asks.
"Yep," the Lab replies.
The man is amazed. "So, what's your story?"
The dog claims to have had a career as a spy for the CIA for eight years, traveling the world and gathering intelligence because no one suspected a dog. After getting tired of traveling, the dog says he worked undercover security at the airport, uncovering significant plots and earning medals.
Completely astonished, the man returns to the owner and asks why such an incredible dog is being sold for only ten dollars. The owner explains, "Because he's a liar. He never did any of that".

Unzipped
Uncertainty
Unanswered
Undone...
I just
Have walk
To feel
My de Nimes
Skirt...
My knees
My tighs
In tights
I feel myself
Young Femme
Do not afraid
Come close
For girl smoke...

Unzipped
Unansweeed
Undone...
You like to see
Some lines
And curves
Of Femme...?

You wish to talk
To me?
Or even more...?

Ohh Darling...
Little pure Doll...
Who did it so?
For you at all
Come here
Let me cuddle
You
With gentle touch
And Love
As few...

Tell me your intentions ,just bored