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

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 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.

Melanie's new navy-striped satin blouse has arrived!
So looking at doing some photo-shoots in this next weekend.....

I found suddenly
Surprise...
I walk in tights
But not striptease...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then I looked up.

And I stopped breathing for a second.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anyone want to go strip down to their bra and panties and throw on some fishnet leggings and heels and go to town together looking like this

Anyone want to go strip down to their bra and panties and throw on some fishnet leggings and heels and go to town together

So I’m going out for my usual evening walk later. Sexy bra and knickers under my “boy” clothes. Question is do I find somewhere quiet and strip down to my bra and knickers and have a walk about?

https://stripchat.com/Bianca_sexysissy/follow-me

I am live on Stripchat everyday, let's hook up there as well.

So for some reason last night around 8pm I thought it would be a good idea to go outside into my back garden and strip off down to my bra and panties. But then I thought, heck why not go out to the front of my house. Its dark and there aren’t many people around, so I put my trainers on and walked around to the front of my house and just stood there in my bra, panties and trainers. It felt soo good. However, I think a lady dog walker might have seen me. As soon as I saw her I ran back off around the side of my house, but I think she caught a glimpse. What a rush I got. However now I’m panicking that she knows where I live and what I like to wear. What should I do?

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/

Christmas eve on here seems to be the day to strip naked and push you dick in everybodies face.
4 blocked so far this morning

I don't exactly find that festive, or a turn on.

I don't come on here to see hairy ar5ses and dick.

I want to meet and talk to people who enjoy dressing, enjoy the feminity it brings and feel that flashing your bits in public to the world is offensive.

Remember this is a social site not a Porn site, why not keep it in your pants before Santa puts you on the naughty list. Oh wait, most of you would enjoy that.

I have a fix for that and it involves 2 bricks.

Merry Dickmass to the perverts.

Merry Christmas to the real people.

Chloe Merry Christmas Chloe. I hope one of your New Years resolutions is to try to do a better job than this year, before you have to implement age verification.

More strip walk outside

Just a little slutty strip walk outside

Little outside strip tease for yall. Idk why but taking off the heels feels more slutty for some reason

What dress should I wear tonight? Stripey or blue with zippy? The girls are a bit snug in either...

Bare or stockings strips or pattern what is a girl to do!

I want to go out with someone and strip down to town in only our liengere or sexy bras and panties with fishnet leggings and heels and go to a club and public space and hang out together dressed that way around friends go take some sexy pics together and go out together dressed in lingerie. It would be fun to wear this to town with someone joining in as well.

Anyone want to go strip down to only their liengere or sexy bras and panties with fishnet leggings and heels and go to town and hang out together dressed that way around friends go take some sexy pics together

Morning all will post later got to strip a bathroom out for family half the cost of course lol

Off for a walk in the countryside today, it theses, Can't wait to strip down to my sexy underwear and parade around in just them. Love the thrill that i might get caught

Im sorry for the late reply. I've been stressed, it was a long week at work. I finally got to strip down to my bra and panties and go out

A little striped summer dress, one last time before Fall arrives.
Sophie

Alrighty i just love stripping down to my bra and panties with fishnet leggings and heels in public. Who wants ant to go on a lingerie drive with me? Feel free to DM

Just a little public strip tease and walk around. anyone who wants to come and strip down to their bra and panties and throw on some fishnet leggings and heels and come join me and try out exhibition is more than welcomm

anyone who wants to come and strip down to their bra and panties and throw on some fishnet leggings and heels and come join me and try out exhibition is more than welcome to

Hi x I have for years always had the lil landing strip pubic hair style, well today I have now gone fully smooth xx

#striptease #blonde

#striptease #blonde

I love my girly nights nights, make up snd all.
Looking forward to my waxing strips to arrive.
I hate hair.

My favorite activity is to strip down to my bodysuit and laced gloves with a pair of fishnet leggings and heels and red and black bra and panties and go out in public and go for a drive it's so liberating. I would be wearing only a short laced lingerie dress that exposes my red and black laced bra and panties. The liengere dress barely covers my panties. I also wear a crotchless/breastless bodysuit with fishnet leggings with my heels and laced gloves And Wolf tail and ears. my heels click would be clicking as I walk

My favorite activity is to strip down to my bodysuit and laced gloves with a pair of fishnet leggings and heels and red and black bra and panties and go out in public and go for a drive it's so liberating. I would be wearing only a short laced lingerie dress that exposes my red and black laced bra and panties. The liengere dress barely covers my panties. I also wear a crotchless/breastless bodysuit with fishnet leggings with my heels and laced gloves And Wolf tail and ears. my heels click would be clicking as I walk

Second instalment of my striptease.

Feeling a little saucy tonight, thought I would try a little striptease.

Guys I’m live on Stripchat, cum and see me!

Www.stripchat.com/itsallfantasy

Want to go to a fun sissy CD party with my girlfriends. Complete with sexy muscular strippers in skimpy bikinis with huge bulging packages.

I really want to strip down to only wear our liengere with someone and go to a adult store and pick out more outfits and go to the mall or some other public place showing off our liengere

Little public stripping

Little public lingerie striptease

#sexy #strip #tease # fun # dance #crossdresser

#sexy #strip #tease # fun # dance #crossdresser

#sexy #strip #tease # fun # dance #crossdresser

who used to be a man and become a woman full-time and will date me marry me Works in a bar as a stripper or is a doctor you should be a man and become a full-time woman and still is a doctor who will date me marry me and turn me into a girl

On Friday at 2:00pm i had started a warm bath, grabbed an extention coard as well as my toaster, stripped down and waited for the warm water to rize. Last thing i remember was a sheriff pulling me out of the bath tub, setting me in his cruiser with a towel and rushing me to the E.R. i was proccessed and put into a phsyciatric hospital under "s" watch.. i went through treatment in just 3 days, longest 3 days of my life. But i am out now, working on bettering myself and only want to continue my travels doing nothing more than making people smile.. i appreciate all the support from my fellow "sisters" and wish all the best, and remember no matter how hard life hits you. You have a purpose, even when youre alone theres 6 billion people on this big stone we call earth who have all felt the same way one way or another.. i plead to all if life gets you down and need someone to talk to or even a shoulder to cry on, i have strong ears and two shoulders. I wont judge, just listen.

Got a new Adidas 3 stripe mini skirt today. Wanted pink but the navy will be less eye catching in public. Gonna be my road trip outfit this summer

any strippers who work that in Ohio or man who transgender and has a woman body who will date me or fe m boy or crossdress or girl with dick who will date me or areal trans girl who will date me on here and hook up with me now

(Visit from Tanya) STORY

I got chatting to Tanya a while back, I won't use her real name as it's not for me to do so.
One of the things that brought us together was our interest in our other Hobbies, in this case Model Building and Retro Games Machines, we chatted for hours about the subject and one day he was working away and passing Derby, after chatting about not being dressed up and that the Wife was here and the simple excuse for him popping round, that's exactly what he did.
He arrived and my wife just assumed he was a friend from work into modelling, we headed into my workshop where we shut the door and I showed him all my models and was leaning over my work table when he noticed my Tights above my Joggers, he just reached over slid his hand down my joggers and round to the front where he gently grabbed my co CK in his hand..
This startled me as it was sudden and unexpected but it soon changed, before I knew what happened my joggers were at my ankles, he spun me round revealing my hard co CK in Stockings Tights, Black with sheer stripes, I was not wearing any underwear as usual so my co CK was in his mouth immediately, sucking up and down my shaft.
At the same time he was messing with his joggers and before long they were off revealing Tights, he pulled them down revealing a larger Hard ****, probably about 7" ISH, he was already hard, he was playing with his co ck at the same time as sucking mine, after several minutes intense non stop sucking I was getting close, he knew it and got quicker and more intense, I could not hold it any longer and Shot my juice into his mouth, he swallowed every drop without question...
He then pulled me down to my knees and stood up, sliding his co CK into my mouth, he grabbed my head either side and used me as his Fu CK toy, thrusting my head up and down his shaft, each thrust catching the back of my throat, my head sliding forward and back constantly with his hands, after several more minutes I could sense he was getting close, he started to moan, and suddenly my mouth was filled with his juice, I swallowed as fast as I could but it was full again, three more swallows before I could get it all down...
FFS wow that was Amazing... I said, thank you..
We got ourselves composed and back to normal just in time for a knock on the Workshop Door, my wife shouting A cup of Tea for you both, we went out for our drinks and a regular chat with the wife....
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Hope you enjoyed this Story, plenty more Stories in the "CD Stories Group" xx