Good evening girls had a very quiet Sunday apart from going to the supermarket xx

Well here we go Sunday evening and dressup over for weekend a nice weekend for once x nice marvel cosplay style dressup x cheeky bit of fun x
#skirt #petticoat #stockings #suspenders #highheels

Spring has arrived Happy Sunday everyone hope you all had a great weekend x

Good morning girls happy sundayyyy what are you ladies up to today

Evening everyone how’s your Sunday been ? X

Heyyy girls happy sundayyy may you have a beautiful day love angie

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

Sunday baking and chatting to a friend don’t go well together I nearly burnt my biscuits and that’s not a euphemism! I guess multitasking doesn’t come as a given whilst you crossdress ! X

Happy Sunday ladies I love this outfit

Happy Sunday everyone hope it is a happy one.
Couple of pictures from my dola inspired outfit asked how to dress this casual and elegant this is the result from her advice what do you think?

Morning everyone on a nice dress up Sunday hehe x

Today's sunday! Respect!

Good morning girls, have wonderful Sunday

Sunday Vibes

Hello, I hope you all are having pleaent Sunday!

Happy silky, shiny, satin Sunday xx

Who's having a sexy Sunday all dressed up. Alone or not?

Have a lovely Satin Sunday!

#WhiteSatinBlouse

Happy Horny Sunday . Hope you've all dressed for the day

Pre-outfit lazy sunday~
You think i should try red lip ?
Gonna show a new dress today~

Hope everyone's having a good and relaxing sunday✨️

Me last Sunday out on a drive

Happy sunday girls what do you ladies have planned today

Good morning my loves, how are you all? I hope we are all well. Have a wonderful Sunday and a blessed week to us all.

Sunday Night Dress

Sunday chill day look

Good morning everybody, have a pleasent Sunday.

I never chose this life so much as it chose me, one silken whisper at a time, across sixty four slow turning years. It began in the hush of boyhood, fingers trembling as they brushed the cool satin of my Mother’s Sunday slip, the fabric sighing against my skin like a secret finally given voice. Midnight experiments followed stolen dresses in dim bedrooms, heartbeats loud against lace, the mirror a conspirator that never judged. Then came the decades of careful folding away marriage, children, the steady performance of an ordinary man while upstairs, behind false panels in the attic, a private gallery of satins and chiffons dreamed in silence. Now the children have flown, my Turkish wife of forty five winters slipped away on the softest November breath two months past, and the last tether has loosened. At sixty four I have stepped fully into the role I have always carried inside. No audience remains to disappoint. Only the mirrors, patient and kind. I have become Hanimefendi,(Turkish for Lady) the sissy Victorian housemistress of this quiet manor of memory and candlelight. I have worn Black Satin Widow's Weeds for the previous two months, now I am working through my own colour spectrum. I dallied with Pink and enjoyed the experience but as a Cityzen, Turquoise, Marine Blue and shades of Sky Blue, has always called to me as a long time supporter of Manchester City. The ritual begins at dusk. First, the high waisted, long leg panty girdle in deepest turquoise satin firm yet forgiving, a decadent embrace that smooths time’s gentle rounding into elegant lines. It clasps me with theatrical intimacy, promising glamour in every restrained breath. Then the gown descends: floor sweeping turquoise satin, reborn from widow’s weeds into defiant opulence. The bodice clings like liquid moonlight through the torso before cascading into extravagant gypsy ruffles that bloom at the hips. Sleeves impossibly long, sissy long billow from shoulder to deep, rose trimmed cuff, swaying with each gesture like languid waves. The fabric catches every flicker, its subtle sheen tracing molten highlights along every fold, turning motion into shimmering poetry. Over shoulders and throat drifts the sheer turquoise chiffon voile veil, gossamer as exhaled breath, floating a hand’s span from my face. It softens the lines age has etched without concealing them grief veiled, yet radiant. Last, the oversized turquoise satin hijab headscarf, wrapped and pinned with reverent precision. Its rich, glossy folds frame my features like a reliquary of lapis and sea glass, the colour chosen deliberately: mourning need not be monochrome. Sorrow, too, can blaze jewel bright. I move through the rooms by candlelight alone. Tall silver holders spill pools of gold, dramatic chiaroscuro carves deep satin shadows into ruffles and pleats while the satin itself ignites vibrant, unearthly turquoise glowing against the gloom like bioluminescent tide. Each step sends a soft hiss of fabric across oak boards, the veil drifts behind me like sea mist following a ship of ghosts. I dust phantom mantelpieces, rearrange crystal that asks nothing of me, murmur instructions to maids who exist only in the echo of my voice. Sometimes I pause before the tall pier glass in the upper hall and simply regard the figure there. In its depths I see the frightened boy who once quaked at satin’s rustle. I see the husband who learned to fold himself small. And I see her, me Hanimefendi sixty four, unapologetic, swathed in extravagant turquoise like a proclamation stitched in light. The world beyond these walls may still insist on its muted uniforms, but here, in these shadowed chambers, I have rewritten the grammar of grief. It is not devolved from mourning black to ash-grey. It is this fierce, swimming blue green that drinks candle flame and gives it back brighter. It is theatrical, shameless, mine. Tonight, as ever, I lower myself into the worn leather armchair beside the tall window. Ruffles settle around me like spilled ink, veils float, then still. The silence enfolds me, tender as old satin. No one watches. Except the mirror. And in my mind's eye it has always approved.

Good morning girls, hope you all have a great sunday x

Sunday chill look

Sunday was very enjoyable

In the dim afternoon light of my bedroom, I sit before the antique dressing table that once belonged to my Wife. The black satin headscarf rests across my lap like spilled ink, its oversized folds still carrying the faint lavender I keep tucked inside the drawer. The veil those fragile layers of sheer black chiffon voile hangs from the wardrobe door, trembling slightly whenever the January wind finds its way through the sash window. Outside, the town lies quiet under the grey sky of the 16th of January 2026.
I run a lace gloved finger along the jet beading on the bodice, the little beads cold at first, then warming as though they remember my body heat. Why this? The question rises again, steady as my own heartbeat. It isn’t only the crossdressing; that word feels too narrow, too modern for what moves through me. This is mourning chosen, worn deliberately, as though putting on these heavy black satins lets me grieve properly, not just for my Wife, but for the version of myself I kept locked away all those years.
I see flashes of the past: my Grandmother’s photograph album, those stern Victorian and Edwardian women in crepe and veils, faces made beautiful by sorrow. I used to stare at them longer than any boy was supposed to, feeling something stir that had no name. Later, during the decades with my Wife, the secret grew in silence satin bought at antique fairs, a chiffon veil ordered late at night from sellers who asked no questions. My Wife never knew, or if she guessed, she let it lie. She would smile when I came home with yet another silk or satin scarf, teasing me about my “fancy tastes,” and I would laugh along, the words both a comfort and a small, private wound. Did I steal something from her by never speaking the truth? Or was the silence kinder, preserving the life we built of Sunday dinners, walks up on the hill across the fields, the kettle whistling in the kitchen while we listened to the afternoon play on Radio 4? The clothes themselves seem to answer me. The satin is cool against my skin at first, then softens, accepts me. It wraps around the shape I carry inside, the one that never quite fitted the name Tony. When I wear it, I become Tonya the widow I sometimes feel I have always been. The mourning isn’t only for my Wife’s death two months ago, it is for all the years I lived half hidden, for the conversations never had, for the evenings I stood alone in front of the mirror trying on fragments of this other life. Out in the town, beneath the veil, the world blurs into gentle greys. People nod with quiet respect, the way they would to any Victorian widow stepping out of time. In those moments the doubt falls away and I feel something close to power, loss made visible, made dramatic, made mine. Yet when I come home and sit here, the questions return. At Sixty Four, is this foolishness or finally honesty? The mirror shows silver hair escaping the satin folds, lines carved by time across my face. Is it too late to become who I have always been inside? Then I remember my Wife’s hand in mine during those last weeks, her voice thin but certain: “Be happy, love. Whatever that looks like.” Perhaps this is what it looks like layers of black satin and chiffon, the headscarf framing my face like a dark halo, the veil softening everything until even my doubts feel bearable. I rise slowly, fold the headscarf with the same care I once used to fold my handkerchiefs after ironing. The reflections will come back tomorrow, and the day after. They are complicated, tangled, sometimes painful. But they are mine, and for the first time I am not afraid to hold them. The wardrobe waits, patient and open. So do I.

A fantastic day on Sunday just gone, first thing in the morning I received 10 hard strokes of the cane and 10 strokes of the Tawes then my wife/******** chose my clothes for the day.

Sunday Party Dress

#housework
I’ve spent all day dressed in my maids outfit and my flat shoes and cleaned the house top to bottom, ******** said I was a good girl so gave me a hand spanking over the table, she said she is going to cane me on Sunday morning just because I’m a slut and “sluts deserve the cane”, I’m hoping ******** will put her pink vibrator in my ***** late xxx

House cleaning duties today, in my maids uniform and still in my pink sissy cage from Sunday

Sunday heels

Good morning Everybody, have a pleasent Sunday.

Hello Sunday - Make it Satin

Good evening, hope everyone is having a fabulous Sunday

Boohoo…..said to size down for a tight fit! That’s a stretch too far I think! Happy fashion disaster Sunday x

Good horny Sunday

Have a lovely Satin Sunday, like Melanie X

#SatinBlouse #PleatedSkirt #Stockings

Just spent a few days away and I was told by my wife to photograph myself in Red panties with my chastity cage on, she was not happy as I only had pink panties, I think I’m going to get the cane again on Sunday morning.
I’ve since bought some Red panties but that’s not going to help.