Been gardening for a few hours, just had a shower, had a good friend stuck to the shower wall, It was worth getting dirty for,. Happy Bank Holiday feeling for sure.

I am sixty-five years old, and there are mornings when my bones creak like old floorboards, when the mirror offers me a face that has known too many winters. But there is also satin.

It begins there, always.

Not with the clothes people expect, not dresses or heels or anything loud, but with the quiet, shimmering certainty of a headscarf unfolded across my lap. Oversized. Generous. A full square of light, as if someone had captured a piece of dawn and stitched its edges.

I keep them in a pine ottoman chest at the foot of my bed. When I lift the lid, the faint scent of pine wood and time rises, mingling with the cool, whispering smoothness of fabric. They are stacked carefully: florals, paisleys, deep jewel tones, pale creams, even one the colour of storm clouds just before rain. Some are silk satin, impossibly soft, almost liquid. Others are polyester blends still glossy, still kind to the touch, but sturdier, as if meant for endurance.

I tell myself it began for practical reasons. Hair protection, I say. Friction reduction. At my age, what hair remains deserves gentleness. And it’s true the satin glides where cotton drags, it soothes where wool irritates. At night, when I wrap my head, I sleep more peacefully, my scalp free from the tug and dryness that used to wake me.

But that is only the surface of it.

The truth is, when I lift one of those oversized scarves sometimes a full 130 centimeters across it feels like lifting a veil between lives.

I was not always honest about who I was. For decades, I wore what was expected, spoke in the tones expected, moved through the world like a man following a script written long before I was born. There is a heaviness to that kind of living. It settles into your shoulders, your spine, your breath.

The first time I wrapped a satin headscarf around my head, I did it clumsily. I had watched videos, read guides. Fold into a triangle, they said. Bring the corners forward, tie at the nape or under the chin. Smooth the edges. Adjust.

I remember the colour deep burgundy, with a faint floral pattern that caught the light. When I tied it, the fabric slipped against itself with a soft hush, like a secret being kept.

And then I looked in the mirror.

I did not see a caricature. I did not see something absurd or theatrical. I saw softness. I saw a version of myself that had been waiting, patiently, beneath years of denial. The scarf framed my face, softened the lines, held me together in a way nothing else ever had.

Now, it is ritual.

In the mornings, I choose carefully. If I am staying in, I might select something large and enveloping a square so wide it can drape over my shoulders, falling like a shawl. Sometimes I wrap it turban style, tucking the ends neatly, letting the fabric build a quiet crown around my head. Other times, I let it hang loose, a triangle tied under my chin, like something out of an old photograph.

When I go out rarely, but more often than I used to, I choose patterns that feel like companions rather than disguises. A muted paisley. A soft, vintage floral. Nothing too bold, but never apologetic.

People look, of course. Some with curiosity, some with confusion. A few with kindness. I have learned to endure the rest. At sixty five, you realize that most people are too occupied with their own reflections to truly see yours.

At home, the scarves become more than adornment. They are utility, yes sleep caps, shoulder wraps, even something to tie around a bag handle for a touch of colour. But they are also comfort. When I feel the weight of years pressing too hard, I wrap one around my shoulders and sit by the window.

The satin catches the light differently at every hour. Morning makes it glow. Afternoon sharpens its sheen. Evening turns it into something softer, almost like memory.

Sometimes I run the fabric between my fingers, back and forth, feeling its smooth resistance, the way it refuses to snag or cling. It reminds me that gentleness can be strong. That something soft can endure.

I have more than I need. I know that. A drawer full, a chest full, a small collection that borders on obsession. There are handmade ones, with careful stitching at the edges. Reversible ones, satin on both sides, offering two moods in one piece. Silk feel ones that mimic luxury so well it hardly matters that they are not the real thing.

Each has a story, or at least a feeling attached to it. This one for sleepless nights. That one for quiet afternoons. Another for the rare courage of stepping outside as I am.

I do not pretend that a headscarf changes everything. The world is still the world. My body is still heavy, my steps still slow, my past still filled with compromises I cannot undo.

But when I tie that satin around my head, something aligns.

The fabric smooths not just my hair, but something deeper something that has always been frayed. It holds me, gently but firmly, in a shape that feels right.

And for a little while, that is enough.

Stuck in a hotel room in Croydon of all places, and on my own.
Able to dress and drink wine but ffs where did all go wrong

Looking like a wet day outdoors, So Im going to be indoors cleaning, but, what to wear. I want to enjoy it. Keep my little clitty **** caged I think, I was a bit naughty this morning in bed. SHower and toys stuck to the wall later, my favourite part, backing onto them time and time again. That will get me through the cleaning, before going shopping wearing nothing under my shorts, maybe even a quiet layby on the way back home. My day planned . Oh, must shave as well, need to be smooth all over.

At 65, I've spent decades as a transvestite sissy crossdresser, keeping my feminine side tucked away like a guilty secret for most of my life. Skirts, stockings, heels, and lacy things brought me a private thrill and a soft kind of peace, but they also came with shame and isolation. Then volunteering stepped in first in drab male clothes at a local charity shop and quietly cracked the door open to something more. Over time, the idea of exploring crossdressing while volunteering became a gentle, thrilling possibility that blended my two worlds: giving back to the community while letting my sissy self breathe a little in public. Crossdressing and volunteering intersect in beautiful, sometimes nerve wracking ways. Many of us in the crossdressing community already love charity shops and thrift stores they're treasure troves for affordable feminine clothes, vintage dresses, silky blouses, and heels that fit just right without breaking the bank. Shopping there "en drab" (in male presentation) is common and relatively low-pressure; staff rarely bat an eye at a man browsing the women's section, especially if you're polite and purposeful. But taking the next step volunteering while presenting as your feminine self feels like leveling up. It turns the shop into a stage where you can practice being seen, contribute meaningfully, and feel the quiet joy of service wrapped in the fabric that makes you feel most alive. Sorting donations, steaming garments, arranging displays tasks that already feel creative and domestic become even more satisfying when you're doing them in a skirt or blouse that matches the very items on the rails. There's a special little rush when you handle a pretty dress that might have been perfect for your own collection, knowing it's going to help someone else while you get to embody your softer side in a purposeful setting. For many of us older sissies, volunteering offers a gentle way to ease into public expression without the intensity of a full "night out." Charity shops tend to attract kind, community minded people older volunteers, mums, young folks gaining experience, and all sorts in between. The environment is often forgiving and focused on the work rather than on you. Conversations flow naturally over pricing or styling, and you can let your feminine mannerisms show a bit more without forcing anything. It builds confidence the same way my early drab shifts did: through small interactions, teamwork, and the satisfaction of helping keep good clothes out of landfill while raising funds for worthy causes. Of course, it's not without its layers. Some days you might worry about being read, or about awkward questions, or simply about whether the team will accept you. Experiences vary some places are wonderfully inclusive, especially those with ties to causes or progressive areas, while others might feel more traditional. Starting small helps: perhaps a short shift, a subtle feminine touch, nail polish, a unisex but feminine top, or even volunteering at events or organizations where crossdressing is more normalized. I've heard of crossdressers volunteering at community fundraisers, helping at pride related drives, or even assisting in thrift based events where dressing up adds to the fun and visibility. The mental health side is profound. Volunteering already combats loneliness, builds purpose, teaches skills, and creates real connections benefits that feel amplified when you're expressing your authentic self. For a sissy crossdresser like me, it bridges the gap between private indulgence and public living. That hidden part of me stops feeling like a shameful secret and starts feeling like a valid contribution to the world. The social aspect eases isolation in a way therapy alone never quite could; you're valued for your helpfulness, your eye for display, your patience with customers. And yes, there's that extra layer of thrill spotting a gorgeous bargain while wearing something pretty yourself, or feeling the swish of a skirt as you move between racks. Looking back, exploring crossdressing in volunteering has been one of the most rewarding paths for many of us. It doesn't demand you "come out" dramatically; it lets you integrate gradually, at your own pace. Some stay fully en femme for shifts and find warm acceptance. Others mix presentations or keep it subtle. Either way, it fosters growth: more confidence, better social skills, a deeper sense of purpose, and often a surprising amount of quiet support from people who simply see a kind volunteer doing good work. If you're a fellow crossdresser reading this whether you're 25 or 75 consider it. Start by shopping at charity shops to build familiarity, then explore volunteering opportunities. Talk to managers openly if it feels right; many are pragmatic and welcoming when you frame it as wanting to contribute.

Had some fun yesterday, but had to rush away at short notice. I have a few toy's but love my 2 sucton cup dildos, Big and very big. I took big into the shower and stuck it to the wall, It was a bit tight at first, but then slipped in like an old friend, it was heaven. Lots os lub and soap suds, it was like velvet sliding in and out, I normally will then swap to the BIG one, but had no time. Today, I want to go back for a loner session, stuck to the wall, and then onto the floor so I can use the mirror to see me lower myself onto the BIG one. Its tight at first but soon fits no problem. Getting hard thinging about it now, but, Im going to force myself to wait. I will go for a drive, shop a,d all the time be thinking about getting back home, and sliding them in and out soo many times.

Well i can't figure out how to delete my profile, keeps coming up error. So I guess you're all stuck with me. 🫠

i almost always wear nylons under leggings. but this time i decided not to. turns out this leggings feels incredibly silky against my skin. and going bare foot on this killer heels is a win. but i digress; tell me which way is the most feminine way to tuck?

My TS/CD/TV Story

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chrissy.
She is real.
She is me.

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

With love,
Chrissy

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

https://x.com/TunnellChrissy

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

I'm looking for single transgender girl from USA who is very near me and close to Kentucky in the USA and it's here to find someone to Dating them off of here now and married ME and help me to be a girl from being a man or a man who's having turn into a girl from being a man and has a sex gender change doing to be a girl from being a man and it's here to find someone who would dating them and will be them Love to them off of here now and I am not here for any fake people or catfish only people who are gay people or transgender girl who would dating ME or trans women or lesbians and a man who's had start transition from being a man into a girl and does not looking like a man anymore at all and now it's a girl full Time now and will dating anyone like ME or woman who has peins now and will dating ME now any One who it's insane in dating ME now hit me up on here now or at Google chat Eric Norman skaggs5216@gmail.com and will help me to be a girl from being a man for real and not here here to play any games with me at all now I'm only wanting a girl friend to be My love to me now and married ME and help me to be a girl from being a man and will dress ME up in girls clothes and high heels

Hi girls I'm trying to tuck so i don't have a bulge when I wear a body hugging dress or skirt i love to wear one on valentines night any help please

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

I have been wondering... Hear me out! Crossdressing has been a way for me to escape "reality" and relax, be myself and to explore my better side (feminine). Every time I dress up, I am transported to another realm of existence, a better realm so to speak.
For me, dressing in Lace panties, making sure everything is tucked and covered. depending on my mood, a nice bra with my inserts, making sure it is covered, and then an elegant dress, gown, suit or whatever, with my dark hair wig.

For me, this is proper Cross Dressing: Elegance, Graceful, Attraction, the Contours of your Body, Expressing yourself to others the best way possible.

For many, Crossdressing is only a way to (please excuse the term) "Get Laid" or a show of their spanners and backsides. Yes you do get spanners and backsides that are just too yummy to ignore, if cleaned properly, you don't want oily hands.. But that is my point. Being a lady is taking proper care of yourself, and putting your best foot forward.

I believe that Crossdressing, Transgenders and many more are an escape for people that was forced into a mindset that didn't/doesn't suit them, an idea that makes us feel that we do not belong.

And we are wearing these "labels" that they gave us, with pride and our chin held high!

Disclaimer: I do apologise if I stepped on any toes today, it is not my intention!

Leaving this site , nothing but and bunch of stuck up bitches and picky asholes

Why Do We Like Butts?

This question stuck with me after seeing a dumb Facebook meme. A guy tells a woman she has a great ass. She replies sarcastically: “Thank you! I keep poop in it.”

Crude—but true.

We defecate through our butts. And yet, across cultures, centuries, genders, and sexual orientations, humans are deeply attracted to them. Straight, gay, bi, queer. Cis, trans, gender-nonconforming. People admire them, desire them, sculpt them, and eroticize them relentlessly.

So why?

The answer isn’t about function. Attraction doesn’t work that way. It’s about signal, shape, and meaning.

From a biological and evolutionary standpoint, there is broad scientific consensus that humans are drawn to certain body shapes because they act as visual cues of health and fertility. Research in evolutionary psychology shows that hip width, fat distribution, and lumbar curvature correlate with reproductive health. A pronounced lower-back curve visually emphasizes the buttocks, and a favorable waist-to-hip ratio is widely perceived as attractive across cultures.

The brain isn’t thinking about anatomy or waste. Just as people don’t look at mouths and think about digestion, attraction filters out function and locks onto form.

That resonates with me. I’m attracted to butts—the curve, the fullness, the way the lower back opens into flesh. It’s immediate and bodily. I’m especially drawn to very feminine women and their hips and butts. Their embodiment feels like a distilled expression of femininity—grounded, confident, complete. There’s desire there, but also admiration and longing.

At the same time, I’m keenly aware that men are attracted to my ass.

I feel it in their gaze, in how attention lingers. That awareness shapes how I inhabit my body. As Michel Foucault argues, bodies are never neutral—they are read, eroticized, and positioned within systems of power (Foucault, The History of Sexuality). When my body is desired for a part culturally coded as feminine, I’m not just being wanted—I’m being located as receptive.

This is where gender theory becomes personal.

I’m a sissy crossdresser. I don’t yet know if I’m trans, and I’ve stopped treating that uncertainty as a problem. What I do know is that my gender has taken shape through repetition, recognition, and power. Judith Butler argues that gender is constituted through repeated acts that solidify into identity over time (Butler, Gender Trouble). When I soften my posture, present femininely, and allow myself to be read in certain ways, I’m not pretending. I’m performing gender into being.

My attraction to men is structured around masculinity, dominance, and control. I’m drawn to men grounded in their power. Submission, for me, isn’t weakness—it’s orientation. Yielding clarifies my femininity rather than erasing it.

This connects to why attraction to butts often overlaps with interest in anal sexuality. For some, anal sex symbolizes dominance, possession, or control—access to a guarded, vulnerable space. For others, it represents intimacy, trust, and bonding. For many, it’s a mix of both. In heterosexual contexts, it allows penetration without pregnancy; in male-male contexts, it is the primary site through which penetration and possession are symbolically enacted. In every case, the butt becomes a site of power, vulnerability, and meaning.

From an embodiment perspective, this makes sense. Maurice Merleau-Ponty argued that the body is not an object we possess but the medium through which we experience the world (Phenomenology of Perception). My body learns who it is by responding—by yielding, being read, and being desired.

So yes—we poop through our butts. That’s true.

But humans have always been capable of holding multiple truths at once. The same body part can be mundane and symbolic, functional and erotic. What matters isn’t what the body does, but what it means when another human desires it—and how that desire shapes who we become.


What are your thoughts??
-Chrissy

https://chrissyinsd.blogspot.com/

#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

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

I got myself a little chastity vagina for when I dress up - tucks everything up nicely #gamechanger

Oh dear, how sad, never mind - CDipanties appears to have blocked me, all i said was he should learn to tuck his hairy ballbag away and pay attention to the site rules!
Saves me the effort, and more chance of keeping my breakfast down, too

This month I did my very first pictures and posted it. That was so great. I love the feeling, so I thought I will try yoga also for the very first time (I would love to do decent arch pose, but for now my spine objects). The idea was good (and hot), but I stuck choosing the right shoes……

Everything all safety tucked away.

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 *****. 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 **** 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 *****. They call my **** a girl ****, 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

Got another 1 ov these in my Amazon basket. The tuck was amazin!

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.

“****, 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 **** 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 **** 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 ****, 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 **** 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 ****. 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 **** 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

I am going to do a whole wedding sequence soon. I am learning to use AI and use my own body to try on clothes and add different back grounds. The photo I am posting today is an AI background added to a Teal swimsuit I am modeling. I did tuck well and added a small lift on the top. I am a true B so I do have some real breast to work with. This one I think is almost art. I hope to actually wear a teal swimsuit to a future beach trip. (I have gone to the beach being a woman several times now) Appreciate comments please.

Stuck at work feel free to entertain me

Getting out of the car last night when i arrived for the munch-in-a-pub, having changed in the car (don't ask...) i didn't realise my dress had tucked itself into my thong at the back...
Fella in a white van (omg, bad omen!) pulled up along side me, could i spare a minute??? Uh-oh....
"I couldn't help noticing your stockings and suspenders - i think you're very brave, i only wear mine at home!"
Chatted for about 10 mins, let him know where i got the SIlicone Twins as he was Very Impressed, let him know it's not so scary going out and about dressed, but it is really liberating!
And on to the pub, nice folks and passable drinks (alcohol free, dammit!)

Happy weekend ladies i'm stuck at work so absolutely don't send me naughty messages or pics

Im cadged as well as the wife is on a date tonight so dont torment me

When I dress I dress for me to look and feel good about myself, not for some sexual kick ( which is just as well, makes it hard to tuck in my tight dresses lol )

I dress to look as feminine as I can and ALWAYS tuck real women DO NOT have a **** or show it.

One time, someone told me they wished they could dress how they feel inside. That stuck with me.

It made me think about how many people hide a part of themselves every day, just to feel safe or accepted. That’s one big reason why I write these stories — to remind anyone out there that they’re not alone.

You deserve to be seen for who you really are.
Have you ever felt like this too?

Photo by Alexander Grey on Unsplash

Looking for another CD to have fun with in Kentucky

Any one whoaregaygirlsortransgirlwhowilldatemeonherefromusainohioorkentuckynow

Anymanwhodressuplikeawomanandwhodonceslooklikeagirlorhasbeturnintoatransgirlfrombeingamanwhowilldatemeonherenowandfromusaorohioorkentuckywhohaswiththughtasexchangesandhaschangestheysexfrombeamanintoarealgirlonherenowandwillhookupwithmeonherenow

THE YOUNG HOUSEWIFE

At ten A.M. the young housewife
moves about in negligee behind
the wooden walls of her husband's house.
I pass solitary in my car.

Then again she comes to the curb
to call the ice-man, fish-man, and stands
shy, uncorseted, tucking in
stray ends of hair, and I compare her
to a fallen leaf.

The noiseless wheels of my car
rush with a crackling sound over
dried leaves as I bow and pass smiling.

William C.Williams

who is interested in dating me and marrying me that used to be a man and become a full-time woman from being a man on here or anything dragged state of America in the USA and they're looking to settle down and start a life for someone and will marry me and move in and live with me here in Kentucky

any man out there who is transforming from being a man into a woman and starting to look like a woman or has switched and become a full-time woman and will date me marry me and start a life with me here in the United States of America in the USA they must be very close to Kentucky for Ohio or West Virginia and will come to Kentucky and start a new life with me here in Kentucky as a woman and help turn me into a woman and both of us start a life together and and lovers and will marry me I will come right away and start living with me and move in with me I'm being part of my life too either at a doctor or a nurse and they must work in a hospital and is looking for someone to date them and start a life with them and be their lifetime partner Anvil marry me and start a life with me other partner and lover I'm sure they're luck with me and be part of my life okay here in Kentucky

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Looking for single trans girl or transgender or crossdress or any one who will dating me that used be man and is now girl or girls who used tobe man or man who had plastic surgery done and become a woman or dresses like a woman at work women's clothes high heels or a transgender who has a woman's body who will dateme in usa very close to Kentucky or from yeah I'm from America in United States

any man under who has changed her sex around and become a woman from being a man and is a dream girl now and has a girl's body and it has a here for a safe relationship and America and we'll come to Kentucky and start a new life with me and help turn me into it girl and now you're a girl and is looking for a serious relationship

who had a sex change and has a woman body now found a man body anymore and is here like I am looking for a serious relationship and we'll have one with me and come to Kentucky and start a life with me and help turn me into a girl with them and be part of my life and let me be part of their life

for real are there any more natural who used to be a man and become a woman by having a sex change surgery operation done who is in America and we'll come to Kentucky and be with me that now is a full-time woman from being a man and look like a full-time woman not a man anymore

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