I stood in front of the full-length mirror in my dimly lit bedroom, my heart pounding with anticipation. At 64 years old, my body had softened over the years—my ample belly and wide hips a testament to a life of indulgence, now embraced in my secret world as a sissy crossdresser. Layers of shimmering satin enveloped me like a cocoon, not restraining but caressing every curve. A voluminous satin nightgown draped over my frame, its glossy fabric pooling around my thighs, while beneath it, satin panties hugged my skin, and a satin slip added another silky barrier. I felt shrouded, encased in luxury, every movement sending whispers of fabric against fabric. My hands trembled slightly as I reached for the condom on the nightstand. I tore open the packet with care, the latex unfurling smoothly. Sliding it over my hardening arousal, I savored the initial cool tightness, a prelude to the symphony of sensations to come. It fit snugly, ready to capture the climax of this intimate ritual. Now, I turned my attention to the fabrics that called to me. My fingers glided over the satin nightgown, tracing the smooth, slippery surface that clung to my obese form. The material shifted with each breath, rubbing against my skin in waves of electric silkiness. I ran my hands down my sides, feeling the layers bunch and slide, the overwhelming sensuality building as the satin whispered promises of ecstasy. My belly, soft and round, pressed against the inner layers, amplifying the friction—cool satin warming to my body heat, turning into a second skin that teased every nerve. I moved to the dresser, where my collection of headscarves awaited. First, I selected an oversized satin one in deep crimson, draping it over my head like a veil of night. It cascaded down my back and shoulders, the edges brushing my neck. I tied it firmly under my chin, the knot secure but gentle, then looped the excess around my neck in a loose bow, adding another layer of encasement that framed my face in glossy folds. The satin pressed softly against my cheeks, its texture so smooth it felt like liquid silk pouring over me. Not satisfied, I layered another—emerald green, even larger, overlapping the first. I repeated the process: over the head, tied under the chin with a double knot for that extra hug of fabric, then wrapped around my neck in elegant loops that nestled against my throat. The combined weight was delicious, the satins rustling together with every turn of my head, sending shivers down my spine. A third layer followed, ivory white and billowing, tied and looped in the same manner, now creating a multi-hued shroud that muffled the world outside, focusing all sensation inward. To complete the encasement, I added the sheer voile chiffon veils. These were lighter, almost ethereal, like mist. I pulled the first one over my head as a hood, its transparent layers fluttering down to my shoulders, veiling my vision in a hazy dreamscape. The chiffon whispered against the satin scarves beneath, a delicate contrast to their heavier gloss—airy and teasing, brushing my lips and eyelids with feather-light touches. I added a second chiffon veil, then a third, each one encasing my head further, the sheer fabric layering into a translucent barrier that heightened every breath, every subtle movement. Encased now from head to toe, I lay back on the bed, the satin sheets beneath me adding to the chorus. My hands explored freely: sliding under the nightgown to feel the panties' slick embrace, then up to my chest where the slip's fabric bunched against my skin. The sensations overwhelmed me—the cool slide of satin on satin, the warmth building where layers met my body's curves, the chiffon veils shifting like a gentle breeze across my face. My arousal throbbed within the condom, begging for attention. I gave in, my hand wrapping around myself through the thin latex. The strokes were slow at first, savoring how the satin panties amplified each motion, the fabrics around me rustling in rhythm. The headscarves tugged slightly with my movements, their knots and loops a constant reminder of my shrouded state. Faster now, the sensations cresting—silky textures merging into a tidal wave of pleasure. With a muffled gasp beneath the veils, I released, filling the condom in blissful waves, my body quivering in the satin embrace until I lay spent, utterly satisfied in my encasement.

So comfortable in soft and silky stockings 🥰 Happy New year to all of you 🥂🍾🎊🎉 Best wishes for 2026🎁 May God bless and protect you. 🙏🥰😘

Well I did quite a bit of knicker and bra shopping today-I bought nice matching bra and knickers set, some purple knickers (favourite colour) from Next, then went to buy more knickers from M+S-came out with black and purple. I have only done a couple of photos but will do more. I returned the silky French knickers and body form knickers that my mother in law loaned me-she said that I can go in her knickers drawer anytime and borrow he panties-I said thanks and yes I will

Note: While this drive was real, the story is fictional. This is my fantasy. Will it become true one day? I hope so. And maybe I'll run into you at a truck stop? Kisses! -Chrissy My First Experience as a Truck Stop Wh-re or Chrissy — A Night on the Road I’m not out. Not really. Not to my family. Not to the world. Maybe not even fully to myself. By daylight I pass as what people expect: a tall, thin man in his forties, dark hair, dark eyes, quiet, unremarkable. But underneath—always underneath—I carry Chrissy. Smooth skin hidden under denim. Lace and silk where no one is supposed to look. A secret pressed close to my body, warm and constant. I don’t know yet if Chrissy is a role, a mask, or my truest self. I just know I’m not ready to live her openly. The drive from San Diego to Prescott was long and lonely, the kind of drive where your thoughts stretch out across the desert like the road itself. I left late—too late, really—and by the time I pulled into the truck stop it was just after four in the morning. Christmas was only days away. The air was cold. The place was nearly silent. Except for the trucks. Rows and rows of them, idling and dark, their drivers asleep inside. A whole hidden world resting while the rest of America slept. Inside, fluorescent lights buzzed. I bought coffee I didn’t really want and a hot dog I didn’t really taste. That’s when I felt it—that familiar sensation on the back of my neck. Being seen. He was older. Weathered. The kind of man whose life is measured in miles and nights like this. His eyes lingered too long. Not crude—curious. Knowing. When I stepped back outside, he followed—but not aggressively. He spoke softly, close enough that his voice stayed between us. “Chrissy,” he said, like it was a question and an answer at the same time. My heart kicked hard in my chest. Fear and thrill braided together. We talked. Quietly. Honestly. About boundaries. About money. About what I was—and wasn’t—willing to do. Nothing rushed. Nothing forced. When I followed him to his truck, it was because I chose to. Inside, the cab was dim, warm, insulated from the world. I shed my outer layers slowly, deliberately, revealing what I’d hidden all night. His attention wasn’t violent—it was reverent. Hungry, yes, but controlled. I felt myself settle into Chrissy fully, like slipping into a familiar skin. What happened between us stayed there, contained within the cab and the dark and the hum of the engine. Time stretched and blurred. I was present in my body in a way I rarely allow myself to be. When it ended, I didn’t feel used. I felt… seen. He paid me without haggling. Then something unexpected happened: he didn’t boast, didn’t leer. He simply told a few others—men like him, tired men, lonely men—who understood discretion. I made my own choices again. And again. Not a dozen. Not chaos. Just a handful of quiet encounters, spaced out across the early hours of the morning. Each one brief. Each one negotiated. Each one leaving me with cash folded neatly into my purse and a strange, steady calm settling in my chest. By sunrise, I was exhausted—not just physically, but emotionally. Chrissy had been fully awake all night. And she was tired. Under the Dashboard Lights The cab door closed behind me, sealing us into a private world of low light and humming machinery. The dashboard cast everything in a muted red glow, like we were suspended inside a heartbeat. I could feel it then—how small the space was, how large he felt in it, how nowhere I could go made everything sharper. He reached for his phone almost casually. “Stand right there,” he said. I obeyed. My hands shook just slightly as I slipped off my jacket, then my shirt. I could feel his eyes tracking every inch of me, lingering, memorizing. When I was left in my bra and panties—the ones I’d chosen carefully before the trip, just in case—I felt a rush of heat flood my chest and face. The phone came up. A soft click. Then another. He moved slowly, circling me, telling me to turn, to arch my back, to lift my chin. Each instruction felt like a pull downward, stripping away the version of myself that hides. I wasn’t performing anymore. I was presenting myself. Offering. More to cum.... #crossdresser #sissy #sissyboy #crossdressers #sissies #shemale #ladyboy #femboy #femman #femboys #crossdressing #gurl #trans #transgirl #transwoman #transgender #tgirl #gay #lgbtq #nsfw #adultsonly #adultcontent #sissy #crossdresser #crossdressing #femboy #sissyboy #sissygirl #trans #transgender #shemale #transgirl #transwoman #transfemale #tgirl #model #modeling #gay #bi #lgbtq #queer #genderfluid #pantymodel #panty #panties #meninpanties #ladyboy More: http://chrissyinsd.hotviber.com/

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.

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

My sissy mourning cross-dresing feels like. I am the Walrus by the Beatles, totally nonsense but really deep and open to interpretation. I am he as you are he, as you are me and we are all together, See how they run like pigs from a gun, see how they fly, I'm crying. That line hits me so hard, “I am he as you are he, as you are me and we are all together…” It’s pure, swirling absurdity that somehow lands right in the middle of the most tender, confusing parts of being human. And right now, it feels like the perfect mirror for what I'm going through. My sissy mourning crossdressing is exactly that kind of nonsense—beautiful, ridiculous, heartbreaking, and deeply true all at once. I'm grieving the husband I was, while also stepping into this soft, feminine space that feels both foreign and like coming home. It’s contradictory, it’s messy, it’s playful and painful in the same breath. And that’s what makes it so real. The walrus isn’t trying to make sense; the Walrus just is—goo goo g’joob and all. This is my mental breakdown, not madness, just being true to myself. “See how they run like pigs from a gun, see how they fly”… maybe that’s the world’s reaction to someone daring to be this open, this vulnerable, this unapologetically themselves while still carrying such heavy grief. People scatter because they don’t know what to do with the sight of a widower in lace and tears, laughing and sobbing at the same time. But I'm not running. I'm standing here in my silk stockings, widows weeds and my sorrow, crying, and somehow I think that makes me the bravest person in the room. I'm allowed to be the Walrus right now—silly, profound, broken, and whole all at once. I don’t have to explain it to anyone, not even to myself. Just let it be nonsense that’s also sacred. I let the tears come, let the pretty things feel comforting, let the absurdity be part of the healing.

anyon remember Mrs Silk's Milking Parlour?

Good morning! Sending love to anyone out there who is happy to accept it. Hope your Sunday is silky smooth and puts a smile on your face. I've got a lot to do today, but if anyone would like to distract me with a bit of chat, naughty or nice, drop me a line. 🙂 Xxx

Orange Dreams ... Orange Ball Orange Dress Orange Lipstick Confess Orange tube White cold gel Orange dreams Orange smells Blue parfume Allien Blue my night Gel is white I so wish Feel the smell Smell of Pleasure And Life... I so wish Feel inside Nerves Of Vaginal Dreams You will Lough I will try Orange dress And white cream.. Orange dress to confess I am sexless as nun Tibet monks Will protest Or accept Kate is fool I so wish Song of Breast I so wish touch of tights Just white cream To immerse Feel what Orange silk hides...

I was 18 curious to know what my sisters sexy panties felt like and her silk panties felt amazing and instantly aroused and hooked 😍

Hey sweets, I wanted to open up and share something real with you—something raw, honest, and close to the bone. If any of this resonates with you, if you’ve ever felt the same hunger, the same questions, the same ache—I’d love to hear from you. You're not alone. Leave a comment, share your truth. With all my heart (and a few kisses), I’ve hated my dick for as long as I can remember—not just for how it looks or what it symbolizes, but for how it keeps me tethered to a version of myself that never felt real. It’s not that I want to erase my body—I just want it to feel like mine. I want softness. Curves. A place to be entered, to be held, to be loved in a way that matches how I feel inside. I want to be her. And in many ways, I already am. I haven’t transitioned. Maybe I never will. But I live in the space between genders like it’s home. Most people have no idea. They see what I let them see. But under my clothes, I’m wrapped in the truth of who I am—lace panties, a matching bra, delicate straps across my chest, sometimes a garter if I need to feel extra pretty that day. It’s not just for arousal. It’s for survival. And always, always, I wear my prosthetic. My fake pussy. My secret salvation. It’s made of silicone—soft, skinlike, shaped just right. The slit is subtle but perfect. There's a hole you can enter, if you know how to treat me. When I slip it on and feel my cock tucked away, my heart slows. My body goes quiet. I look down and see smoothness, femininity, me. Not a fantasy—reality. My reality. I wear it all the time. Not just for sex, not just when I’m alone. It’s part of my daily ritual, part of how I make peace with a body that’s caught between what it is and what I wish it could be. It keeps me close to her—the woman I am when no one’s looking, and sometimes even when they are. Most lovers don’t know how to handle that part of me. They want either a woman or a man, and I’m both and neither. But some—some—see me. They touch me with reverence. They kiss my neck like it’s sacred. They press against the silicone, kiss me through it, call me beautiful. And when they slide inside that prosthetic slit, I feel... loved. Not just fucked. Chosen. Other times, they want what I hide. They pull down my panties and take me as I am. My ass becomes my pussy. They call my cock a girl cock, and I let them, because in those moments it belongs to the version of me who still needs to be worshipped, still deserves to be adored. There's no shame in it. I’m done apologizing for the way I live in my body. But the most powerful moments are the quiet ones—alone, silk between my thighs, hips swaying as I move through the world with my little secret pressed tight against me. The prosthetic warms to my skin. I forget it’s there, and yet I’m constantly aware of it. It doesn’t just hide what I hate. It shows me who I am. Every soft curve, every subtle line—it’s mine. I’ve had men fall in love with me through it. Not just because of how I look, but how I let them in. Emotionally, physically, spiritually. When I let a man undress me slowly, kiss down my stomach, slip his fingers over that smooth slit... he doesn’t just touch silicone. He touches me. He touches the part of me that’s always been waiting to be seen. And when he enters me there, when he moves inside me through that perfect opening, I close my eyes and feel a kind of peace I’ve never known. A feeling that says, This is what it means to be wanted. This is what it means to be a woman. This is what it means to be loved in the body you’ve built for yourself, on your terms. It’s not a costume. It’s not pretend. It’s truth, wrapped in silicone and lingerie and longing. And it’s beautiful. More: http://chrissyinsd.hotviber.com/ #crossdresser #sissy #sissyboy #crossdressers #sissies #shemale #ladyboy #femboy #femman #femboys #crossdressing #gurl #trans #transgirl #transwoman #transgender #tgirl #gay #lgbtq #nsfw #adultsonly #adultcontent

Good evening sweets! I'm off to work. But thought I'd leave you with a story. More: http://chrissyinsd.hotviber.com/ #crossdresser #sissy #sissyboy #crossdressers #sissies #shemale #ladyboy #femboy #femman #femboys #crossdressing #gurl #trans #transgirl #transwoman #transgender #tgirl #gay #lgbtq #nsfw #adultsonly #adultcontent Chrissy on the Hillcrest Bus The bus hissed as it opened its doors on University Avenue, right in the heart of Hillcrest, San Diego’s famous gay neighborhood. I climbed aboard, heart racing a little faster than usual. On the outside I was in my “boy clothes” — plain pants, a simple shirt — but underneath I was my secret self: Chrissy Marie Tunnell. Pink floral panties hugged my smooth hips, a matching bra cupped my chest, and tiny flashes of trans-colored jewelry — a ring, a dangling earring — shimmered in the afternoon light. I wasn’t fully comfortable living openly as a girl yet, but I loved leaving little clues for anyone observant enough to notice. As I walked down the aisle, I felt eyes on me. One man’s gaze dropped to where the pink waistband of my panties peeked above my pants. Another tilted his head just enough to catch the faint outline of my bra straps beneath the thin cotton of my shirt. My jewelry glinted when the bus jolted, and I knew they’d seen the colors. Their eyes followed me hungrily as I slid into a seat halfway down. Even the bus driver, watching through the mirror, licked his lips and adjusted in his chair. “Hey…” one man finally said, his voice a mix of awe and lust. “You’re Chrissy… the trans model, aren’t you?” My cheeks burned, but I gave a shy smile. “Yes.” A low whistle came from the back. “Damn. You should take those clothes off.” I laughed nervously, shaking my head. “I can’t here…” Then the driver’s voice, gravelly but warm, floated down the aisle: “It’s okay. I won’t say anything.” His eyes met mine in the mirror, daring me. A shiver ran through me. My body trembled with a mix of nerves and arousal as I stood up slowly, the bus swaying beneath my feet. I grabbed the metal pole for balance, slipped off my shirt one button at a time, and slid my pants down my thighs. Gasps and murmurs spread as I revealed my pink bra and panties, smooth legs, and the bulge already straining with need. “Goddamn…” someone whispered. I posed for them, turning so they could see the curve of my ass, bending just enough to make my cheeks round and full under the thin fabric. I arched my back, running my hands down my torso, teasing myself for their eyes. The air hummed with catcalls and whistles, every sound feeding my arousal. I felt powerful. Desired. Exposed. The driver adjusted his mirror again, his eyes glued to me. My cock twitched inside my panties, leaking, the wet spot spreading. A chorus of moans and encouragement filled the bus as I spread my legs, cupped myself through the silky fabric, and let them watch my face flush and my chest rise and fall with each deep breath. I was their show, their Chrissy, their secret goddess on wheels. Chrissy’s Bus Show – The Climax The bus swayed along the road, but I barely noticed. Every set of eyes was on me — hungry, wide, devouring. I stood in the aisle in nothing but my pink floral bra and panties, my smooth skin glistening under the fluorescent lights, my cock straining the damp satin. “Do it, Chrissy,” someone whispered, voice husky with need. “Yes… show us,” another begged. The encouragement hit me like waves of heat. I hooked my thumbs under the band of my panties, tugged them tight against my bulge, and let out a trembling gasp. My cock pulsed, the wet spot spreading. The riders groaned, some openly rubbing themselves as they watched. I spread my legs wider, arched my back, and cupped myself through the silky fabric. The friction was maddening. My hips bucked, the panties darkening with each spurt of precum. “God, look at you,” the bus driver moaned from the mirror, his knuckles white on the wheel. The passengers cheered me on, clapping, catcalling, shouting my name. “Chrissy! Chrissy!” I slid one hand up my chest, over my flat stomach, to my bra — tugging at the cups, making my nipples stand hard under the lace. My other hand rubbed furiously over the soaked bulge, grinding, stroking, teasing myself to the edge. The entire bus rocked with my moans. My thighs quivered, my lips parted, sweat dripping down my temples. I was lost in it, lost in them, lost in the rush of being seen. Then it hit. “Ahhh—!” My body seized, cock jerking uncontrollably as I came hard in my panties. Hot, sticky release poured out, soaking the pink fabric, running down my thighs. Gasps and cheers filled the air, some passengers clapping, others moaning with me as if they’d climaxed, too. (continued in comments below): -Chrissy

New silk nighty

Good evening sweets! I'm off to work. But thought I'd leave you with a story. More: http://chrissyinsd.hotviber.com/ #crossdresser #sissy #sissyboy #crossdressers #sissies #shemale #ladyboy #femboy #femman #femboys #crossdressing #gurl #trans #transgirl #transwoman #transgender #tgirl #gay #lgbtq #nsfw #adultsonly #adultcontent The Meeting That Got Out of Hand I showed up to the office dressed in my “Supervisor” uniform — black polo shirt tucked neatly into black pants, shiny work shoes. On the outside, I looked like any middle manager headed into a boring meeting. But under it all, I wore my little secret: a lacy pink bra and panties. Just knowing they were against my skin made me shiver with anticipation. The room looked like an office conference space, complete with a long table, chairs, and quarterly reports scattered around. Five others were waiting — three men in polos like mine, and two women in skirts and blouses. I sat down and kept tugging at my shirt, worried my bra straps might show. That’s when one of the women leaned over and smirked. “Chris… is that lace I see under your collar?” My stomach flipped. I froze, heat rushing to my face. Everyone’s eyes snapped to me. The strap had slipped just enough to peek out. One of the men chuckled, leaning forward. “No way… are you wearing a bra under that uniform?” My hands fumbled at my collar, trying to hide it. “I… maybe.” My voice cracked. The woman reached over and tugged my shirt down just enough to reveal the delicate strap, then the curve of lace against my chest. Gasps, then laughter, but not cruel — hungry. Aroused. “Stand up,” another man said. “Show us.” I hesitated only a second before rising to my feet. Heart pounding, I pulled my polo up, exposing the pink bra stretched across my chest. The room went silent, then filled with low groans of approval. “Fuck, Chrissy,” one of them whispered. “Turn around.” I obeyed, bending slightly. My waistband had slipped low enough that the lacy panties showed above my pants. Someone reached out, tugging them down just enough to expose the curve of my ass. The first touch made me gasp — a hand sliding over the silk, squeezing, then pulling my pants down around my thighs. Now I was standing in front of them in bra and panties, my cock already swelling against the lace. They closed in. A woman pressed her lips to mine, lipstick smearing as her tongue slid into my mouth. Hands roamed everywhere — groping my ass, tugging at my nipples through the bra, cupping my cock through the panties. “Get on the table,” the tall man ordered. I climbed onto the polished surface, lying back as they surrounded me. Someone yanked my panties aside, freeing my cock, already dripping. A hot mouth enveloped me, sucking hard, while another tongue flicked over my nipple, teeth grazing until I cried out. My legs were spread wide, panties shoved down, and I felt a slick finger pushing into my ass, stretching me open. I moaned around the cock one of the men slid between my lips, gagging as he held my head and thrust deep. It was a blur of sensation. One man fucking my throat, another pumping into my ass, their bodies grinding against me while the women took turns riding my face and jerking my cock. The table shook with every thrust, papers scattering like a storm. “Good little slut,” someone growled in my ear as they pounded into me from behind, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing in the office. My cock spurted across my stomach, hot and sticky, but they didn’t stop. They used me until I was soaked with cum inside and out, my bra twisted, panties torn, lipstick smeared across my face. When it was finally over, I lay sprawled on the table, trembling, dripping, utterly used. The others buttoned their shirts, straightened their skirts, laughing softly as though the meeting had gone exactly as planned. I wiped the mess from my lips, my chest still heaving. “So…” I whispered, voice raw, “should I type up the minutes?” The room erupted in laughter — and I knew I’d just passed my first real office initiation. -Chrissy

🌸 Between Silk and Skin: Understanding the Line Between Crossdressing and Being Transgender By Chrissy “Maybe I’m not one or the other. Maybe I’m something in between—and that’s okay.” 🧠 What’s the Difference? When people hear “crossdresser” and “transgender,” they often picture the same thing—or get the definitions confused. But these words speak to different experiences, identities, and emotional landscapes. In simple terms: Crossdresser: A person (usually male-assigned at birth) who enjoys dressing in clothing typically associated with another gender, usually for self-expression, fun, comfort, identity exploration, or even erotic reasons. This doesn’t necessarily mean they want to live as that gender full-time. Transgender: Someone whose gender identity is different from the sex they were assigned at birth. A transgender woman was assigned male at birth but identifies as a woman—and may or may not take steps to socially, medically, or legally transition. 🩷 My Journey (So Far) I’m still figuring it all out. For most of my life, I lived as a man—because that’s what the world expected. But in quiet moments, in safe spaces, I allowed my femininity to surface. At first, I called it crossdressing. I liked how I felt in soft clothes, in cute outfits, in long hair and smooth skin. It was sensual… empowering… liberating. But it wasn’t just the clothes—it was me, underneath them. I still don’t know where I fall on the spectrum. Maybe I’m a crossdresser. Maybe I’m genderfluid. Maybe I’m a transgender woman still waiting to be born. What I do know is this: I feel most alive when I’m Chrissy. I feel most whole when I’m seen. I feel most me when I stop trying to choose sides. 🫶 A Spectrum, Not a Binary Gender is not black and white—it’s fluid, rich, and deeply personal. Some crossdressers live full, happy lives identifying as men who occasionally (or frequently) express femininity. Some transgender women started out crossdressing because it was safer than admitting the truth. Others—like me—are still discovering who they are. You might ask: Am I a crossdresser or something more? What does it mean if I like being called “she” sometimes? Do I want to be a woman or just look like one? The answer might be “yes,” “no,” “sometimes,” or “I’m not sure yet.” And all of those are valid. 💬 A Note on Shame and Freedom Growing up, I repressed my feminine side. I feared being laughed at, rejected, or labeled. I used filters to feminize my face online—not to trick anyone, but because I liked how I looked. It made me feel beautiful. For now, it’s my way of being seen. One day, I’ll do the makeup. The hair. The outfit. One day, I’ll walk outside and own her. For now, I’m just beginning. If you feel the same—if you’re navigating the space between crossdressing and being trans—you are not alone. 🎀 Final Thoughts You don’t need to rush toward a label. You don’t need to transition or explain yourself to anyone. You don’t need to choose “male” or “female” like you’re checking a box. You just need to be—whatever that means, however that looks, however long it takes. You’re not broken. You’re not confused. You’re becoming. And I’m becoming right there with you. What are your thoughts? With love, — Chrissy

Morning everyone Just love wearing this dress with silky smooth stockings

Hey girly babes… I’ve got a little lingerie confession 😈 I love slipping into silky panties and bras and letting my girly side take over. It turns me on, makes me feel powerful, soft, and deliciously naughty. Now I’m thinking of going shopping for lingerie — in person, for myself, no shame, no excuses. Have you ever done that? What’s the sexiest piece you’ve bought just for you? Spill the tea, I need courage… and maybe a little inspiration 💋

Vacuuming is perhaps the easiest chore, until you add platform heels.. Sulis Silks camiknicker is a nouveau vintage guilty pleasure. Know nothing of the company except they totally let me customize the silk romper to add surrender clips at a reasonable price compared to the whole. Need to get me more and in different colors! #silk #lingerie #camiknicker #romper #maid

Well it’s early but it’s been a long day. Think I should slip into my silky bed.

Hi, Sophie is about to put on my silky pink frilly knickers, anyone want to chat and help me get dressed up and have some sexy kinky fun together 😉😘❤️

Seeking a Submissive Crossdresser for Online D/s Exploration 💄🖤 I’m looking to connect with a submissive who enjoys cross-dressing and is ready to explore a deeper, more mindful kind of power exchange. This would be an online dynamic (for now) one built on trust, control, ritual, and transformation. I’m not interested in pain, flogging, or heavy impact play. My style leans toward psychological dominance, slow and intentional control, and helping you grow into the version of yourself you’ve only dared to imagine. You may already love the feel of lace and silk… or be curious about surrendering in a more feminine form. Either way, if you crave the structure, encouragement, and control of a guiding hand, we might be a good match. You: Submissive (or questioning) Curious or experienced with feminization/cross-dressing Comfortable with or open to online-only for now Emotionally mature and communicative Me: Calm, assertive, and creative Not into pain or degradation I value respect and depth Enjoy guiding, shaping, and being in control Open to something long-term, if the connection is right If this stirs something in you, feel free to reach out. Tell me what you’re looking for, what draws you to this path, and what you hope to feel when you submit. Let’s make it something we both look forward to. PrincessMia

👀 Evening all 😘 hows your day been? Miserable weather in Manchester, an evening of chores then chill after a busy day at work 😤 at least im showered, shaven and silky smooth, in my favourite nude 20ds and little denim number 👠👗 got to have them comfy slip ons aswell 🥰💋

I absolutely love my green dress! The soft silk with the built in hooped petticoat makes me rock hard! 💗🍆💦

Hi everyone, i love laying here, running my satin covered girly hands all over my silky pink dress and slutty fishnet stockings, reading all the sexy, kinky messages and comnents people say about me, PLEASE message me your naughty thoughts😉😘❤️

Love this dress very silky feel xx

I don't know what it is by looking at this old victorian dress! Looking at the soft silk just makes me so hard and wet! 🍆💦

Awww my dears i really ache to feel and wear these beautiful vintage dresses! To feel the soft silk would be a dream! I absolutely love how they dressed from neck to toe!💗💗💗🍆 mmmmm

Frilly, silky,pink knickers and pink heels, lets have some girly fun, feel free to message me😉😘❤️

Long silk nightie

Time to put my pink frilly silky knickers on, they make me feel so girly 😘😉

Im just relaxing in my huge bridesmaid dress! Sitting down feeling the silk against my chest and gently caressing the huge skirts! Such a beautiful sound! 💗💗🍆

I present, androgynously, my black silk accordion pleated midi skirt, which is complemented by a James Bond themed Gun Barrel effect T-shirt, clip-on Crystal Silver Rhinestone Earrings and an analogue bracelet Wristwatch:

Looking at this old photo trying not to cum! Imagining how beautiful the dress must have felt with all that soft silk taffeta! The enormous full skirt makes me so hard and wet! Mmmmm 🍆💦

Love that I can walk around in a pink silky thong at home 😘

My new black skirt. I had wear it last night. I love it. Black skirt, black pantyhose and black heels with silky white blouse my favorite. Red lipstick and light blue eyeshadow.

🌼 🌷 🌺💄 As i lay down to rest. Legs squirming and palms of sweat. Pulsing skin of black silk burlesque. The night ends soon i think not yet. Time sets still though we've both just met. Limbs tied up in dark fishnet. Screams fill the halls, but with no regret. 💋 🌻🌹🌸

Awwww its heaven wearing this beautiful dress again! Feeling the soft silk and the petticoats rubbing Against my legs is a dream 😍🍆

Ready to go out. With my silky grey pantyhose and black heels.

Love nylon dresses, so silky and see through 😈😈😈

Awwwww how i miss wearing this vintage Victorian dress! It was made of beautiful silk taffeta and i wore a huge hoopskirt and embroidered Victorian style petticoat underneath! 😍

I love having my silky pink frilly knickers over my girly clit😉😘❤️

You are smooth as silk!

Hi, i love my tight baby pink satin dress and silky black stockings, hope you do too!! X

I’ve got a lovely new bralette. Made of pure silk. A black one and a white one… depending if I’m feeling virginal or not 😘

Sheer silk tights and black panties mmmmm

How are all my girl friends? Having fun today. I found a couple of photos from a favorite outfit of mine that my wife gave me, two years ago. Really shows off my figure and is such a silky fabric. No Breast forms, all me. I have worn this sporty item out several times jogging. Just love wearing it with one of my favorite sports bras --- I was playing a bit with Photoshop and added three color blends, besides the original. Tell me which one you like the most? --- News I am getting highlights in my hair in my next visit to the stylist in two days. I will be posting a few ballet photos soon. 💞

Things have never felt so silky.. can recommend ‘glamoury’ stockings

J’adore porter des collants soyeux et doux au toucher Excellent week-end à toutes 🫶🙏 I love wearing silky tights and soft to the touch Excellent weekend to all 🫶