Who is down to talk hmu

Need some loyal and honest ***** who could **** me so hard right now so horny and lonely

Any married men fancy talking about their journey and how they manage their relationship both open and in the closet from their partners.

I’m interested in finding relatable friends. I am married and my wife knows this side of me. She is supportive but not involved. So it would be great talking to like minded men or even females of crossdressers who might be here searching for answers.

I’m here. I’m genuine. I’m real.
And a good listener but also talk and say too much occasionally.

DM’s open. 🫶🫡

Forget the fake tedium of Dommes and cash cows that haunt this place - where’s the sexy mentors - no cash exchanges and frauds - but someone who really is into this as much as I am and wants to be online and loving life with a fucking brilliant individual:p xxx

All natural. All me. No deep fake. No AI, no pretending I’m a size 10.


Size 14 with all the curves. Some in the wrong places!

Love who you are. Yes we all want to be admired but not for being something we are simply not. I can spot it a mile off. I cut my face off because I don’t have time to do make up and wigs. If I did I’d happily share.

When I get likes or compliments it feels great because I know I’m presenting as me.

It’s a shame a platform for us to all embrace and appreciate our shared love turns in to bots and AI.

For every trans girl who is going through-or went through hell and came out stronger.You took their flames and made wings.#Transsurvival

Sorry I haven't been on lately girls, been struggling and trying to come to terms with what's happening with my "other half". Unfortunately that's meant me being put on the back burner for a bit, as he tries to find out who we are, as a whole, and where I fit in to it. As you can imagine it's a difficult time for us both. However just wanted you all to know that we're still going to continue to fight this horrible thing, and that I will be making an appearance, hopefully, soon.
Love you all.
Dion mwaah

Any naughty man over here who can cum on my face and into my mouth in USA

I love doing my nails
I love doing my make up
I love lipstick
I love lace
I love dresses
I love heels
I love feeling girly
I love Rom coms
I love pamper sessions
I love attention
I love compliments
I love lingerie
I love naughty lingerie
I love smooth skin
I love chilling out as Danni
I love my curvy butt
I love my sporty legs that look great in tights and stockings
I love women
I love women that love crossdressers
I love open minded people
I love getting that perfect picture
I love who I am and what it means to be me


I love crossdressing

She chose the necklace last.
That was always how it went, hair first, then the glasses, the careful line of lipstick that made her look like she knew what she was doing even when she didn’t. The mirror showed her a woman with copper rose hair and a smile she’d practiced for years, one that said I’m fine, thank you, without inviting questions.
The turquoise collar lay on the dresser like a memory she wasn’t ready to wear today.
Instead, her fingers closed around the spinel and garnet strand.
It was cool in her hand, heavier than it looked. The stones weren’t perfect, no two were the same. Pink spinel caught the light softly, purple deepened toward dusk, and the garnets glowed like embers that refused to go out. Freeform. Unapologetic. Honest. She liked that about them. They didn’t pretend to be anything other than what they were.
The magnetic clasp clicked shut at the back of her neck with a small, decisive sound.
At 51 centimetres, the necklace didn’t sit high and declarative like the turquoise one. It rested lower, closer to the heart. A quiet line of colour against her skin, silver tones flickering when she moved. It didn’t announce her presence, it stayed with her.
She leaned closer to the mirror.
The spinel echoed the warmth of her hair. The garnet answered the lipstick. Together they softened her face, drew the eye downward, slowed everything. This wasn’t a necklace for making an entrance. It was for conversations that lasted longer than planned. For afternoons that drifted into evening. For being seen without being displayed.
She smiled again this time without rehearsing it.
Some jewellery was armour. Some was memory. This one felt like continuity, like all the versions of herself agreeing, briefly, to coexist. The woman who once wore turquoise like a shield. The woman who now preferred stones that looked as if they’d lived a little.
She reached for her coat, left the turquoise where it was, and stepped out.
The necklace moved with her not loudly, not urgently but faithfully, stone against skin, colour against breath, proof that beauty didn’t have to shout to be real.

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.

Haha this is worth using up one of five today. That cis woman MissJones replied to me saying "You’re just a whore" lol. Pot calling the kettle black me thinks. Of all the things to say haha (pic only uk's of a certain age will appreciate lol)

I am willing to know if you are ready to be my sub and i will be your dominatrix who will use you for anything at anytime... ?

This site is absolutely thrashing my head! ...its like a real life game of guess who??

Horny again
Whos feeling the same

Anyone on telegram that likes to chat filth and swap pics and vids
Dm me

Animal crackers in my soup....who's old enough to remember the song?

I am willing to know if you are ready to be my sub and i will be your ******** who will use you for anything at anytime... ?

femininity is powerful, its who you are, that feeling is happines, content, assurance, love, its what makes life worth living

Name's Delilah "Dolly" Malone, private eye by trade, sissy by nature. Obese, overweight, and unapologetic about it, I waddled through this apocalypse in a Barbie pink ankle length trenchcoat that billowed like a parachute in the fallout wind. Underneath, my pink Victorian mourning attire clung to my rolls, a long pink satin gown with subtle sheen highlights that caught the dim rad lights just right, making me shimmer like a forbidden dream. My oversized pink satin headscarf framed my face, tied in a bow that screamed Rococo excess, and a sheer pink chiffon voile veil draped over it all, misting my vision in rosy haze. Glossy shiny deluxe blouse frills peeked out at the collar, frilly as a sissy maid's apron. Dramatic pink lips, pink eyeliner I painted myself like a doll in a world gone gray. Hard boiled? Sure, but with a soft center that melted at the wrong touch. It started like any other gig in this irradiated hellhole, the kind where the client slinks into your office smelling of desperation and cheap perfume. My office was a gutted bungalow on what's left of Sunset Boulevard, walls papered with faded starlet posters glowing faintly from the rads. She walked in or slithered, more like a femme fatale straight out of the old reels, but twisted by the apocalypse. Tall, gaunt, with skin like irradiated porcelain and eyes that could melt lead. Called herself Veronica Voss, heir to some pre war studio fortune, or so she claimed. "Dolly," she purred, her voice like velvet over razor wire, "I need you to find my husband. He's gone missing with a stash of pre-war gold the kind that could buy us a ticket out of this wasteland." I should've walked away. But her gaze lingered on my pink ensemble, a smirk playing on those blood red lips. "You look... exquisite," she said, tracing a finger along my frilled blouse. Love or money? Hell, in my line of work, it's always both. I took the case, lured like an innocent lamb to the slaughter. Average? Me? Law abiding? In this world, survival's the only law, but yeah, I was tempted. She dangled promises, a cut of the gold, a night in her arms, where I'd be her pretty little doll. My heart, buried under layers of satin and fat, fluttered like a trapped bird. The trail led to the ruins of the Hollywood Sign, now a jagged "HOLLYW D" mocking the sky. Dutch angles everywhere, the ground tilted under my heels, my pink gown swishing as I lumbered up the hill, veil fluttering in the toxic breeze. I found clues: a scorched map to a vault in the old MGM lot, whispers of a heist crew Veronica's hubby had assembled. Perfect crime, they thought crack the vault, grab the gold, vanish into the Mojave like ghosts. But greed's a hungry beast. I pieced it together from rad scorched notes and bullet riddled bodies: internal betrayal, bad luck from a radstorm that fried their getaway vertibird. The hubby was dead, double crossed by his own femme fatale wait, no. By Veronica? My gut twisted. That's when it got personal. Digging deeper, I uncovered photos in the vault pre war snapshots of a man who looked too familiar. Me? No, couldn't be. But the face... my face, slimmer, harder, before the bombs, before the pink. Amnesia hit like a sledgehammer. I'd blacked out chunks of my past after the fallout, waking up in this body, this craving for satin and veils. Identity crisis? You bet. Turns out, I wasn't always Dolly. I was that hubby or a clone, or some rad mutated twin. Veronica had lured me in before the war, manipulated me into a heist for her studio's hidden fortune. I stole, I killed, she betrayed me, left me for dead in the blast. Now, post apocalypse, she'd tracked me down, not knowing it was me under the pink, the fat, the frills. She wanted the gold I'd stashed in my fogged memory. Corruption seeped in like fallout rain. The case turned dangerous her goons on my tail, corrupt Enclave remnants posing as authorities, accusing me of the old murders. Innocent man on the run? Wrongfully accused in a world where justice is a loaded .45. I evaded them through the twisted streets, my trenchcoat snagging on barbed wire, pink satin tearing like my sanity. Hiding in a bombed out mansion, I confronted her. "You," I gasped, veil askew, lips smudged. "You did this to me." She laughed, that velvet razor slicing deep. "Darling, you were always a pushover. A little love, a little money and look at you now, all dolled up." She drew a pearl handled pistol, the trap sprung. The heist gone wrong? This was round two. I lunged obese, but fueled by rage knocking the gun away. We tumbled in Dutch angled chaos, shadows twisting like my gown's sheen. But greed won. She grabbed the gold map from my pocket, shot me in the gut. As I bled out on the irradiated floor, pink staining red, I realized: destruction was always the endgame. For the lured innocent, the doomed detective, the betrayed sissy in a world of gray. Fade to black, darling. Fade to pink.

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

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

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

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

In Glasgow, that bought me anonymity.

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

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

That’s when the femme fatale found me.

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

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

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

She smiled. That was the mistake.

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

And someone was skimming.

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

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

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

That hesitation saved my life.

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

I caught him by the loch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mourning never goes out of fashion.

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.

I'll be your fem boy num this months, happy New months of love to every one more days to explore a whole new world filled with love on here

Who's next

Hope everyone is enjoying the weekend. Photo for my friends who like to see me in gym outfit, you know who you are

Who is ready to explore

Part 4 snd for those who dont know yes it's a.i. i don't need to lie about it

So like i said I've been playing around with A.I. and always wanted to be like a villain in a spy thriller who switches sides and ends up becoming good in the end. What a unique time we live in where anything in your mind can be generated to an image or video. Yes this is A.i.

Amnesia...

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

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

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

Has anyone watched Smoggie Queens on iPlayer. It's about a group of friends in Middlesbrough, some who are drag queens. It's a comedy drama. My Mrs recommended it. It's not bad. I will continue with other episodes.

Last year I was a limestone miner.
This year im a cam girl. Who woulda thought lolz

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.

Awww... sad...

Sorry Mirrtessgift1, not your target mug!

So what are you actually looking for
13 minutes ago
oh, i mainly come on here to chat, share tips, try to give back what some of the other girls have given me on my journey, not really looking for dating as i'm in a lively social scene in the real world! What about you, what brought you here?
9 minutes ago
I'm looking for a good submissive ***** to control by me if you are interested
7 minutes ago
oh! no, not interested, thanks, i have plenty of that kind of attention in person with real people, not faceless scammers online
6 minutes ago
my daughter-out-law does the findom thing for a living, i know how it works (for those who are good at it)
5 minutes ago
So are you not interested
4 minutes ago
not at all, i think the only people on here who wil be are sad, lonely, closeted hairy-pantie-wearers - none of which apply!

This **** craving cum guzzling sissy is bout to get spun and I need to have a woman or a few women to get to watch my mouth and tight little sissy ass penetrated and gaped by these toys or anything else you want to see me shove in my mouth or up my ass and get a close-up video of me begging to have all my pictures and videos uploaded on every media platform l you can and I need to have a job on my knees sucking dick in front of everyone and the best thing is I don't have any problems with my own mom and my wife seeing my mouth and tight little sissy ass raped raw and soaked in cum by multiple bbcs on a live stream cam show . Like my legs and ass cheeks my PM is ALWAYS open. Now who wants to turn me out

It seems someone took offence at my last post as I used AI in them and blocked me. True the body and clothes are not mine but the face is all me. I use AI to try clothes and not to totally hide who I am. I put these in an album which is clearly marked as being AI.

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 feeling I need to be used , anyone in Bath who wants a ***** for a few hrs

Dommes! What is one piece of advice you would give a prospective submissive who’s new to the scenes??

Horny as ****. Id take any one who would fill one of holes up with cum right now

Who lives in Cheshire?

Carol Kirkwood is leaving the BBC. Whose boobs will I look at in the mornings

Kate's morning...
(Old Reminiscense)

I wish
I have again that hair
I wish I am at work in tights...
I wish I meet that Fairy Lady
Who will enlight
My days and nights...

Patti has a foot fetish, I’m a suck for sexy cross dresser feet especially in heels, who loves pretty feet ?

Hello, are you a submissive male who's here truly to serve and obey the ********'s control and command to become an owned completed BDSM lifestyle user?

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

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

Who doesn't like leopard Print

In the dim parlour of a narrow terraced house on the edge of town, where the January dusk pressed against fogged windowpanes, Hanimefendi (once Tony, though the name now felt like an old coat left in the attic) sat perfectly still before the tall cheval mirror.
At sixty four, the body that looked back at her was soft and heavy, rolls of flesh pressing against the seams of her chosen mourning. Yet every inch of it had been reclaimed in Barbie Pink the violent, unapologetic pink of bubblegum, flamingos, and little girls’ birthday dreams. She had buried the muted blacks and charcoals of conventional widowhood the same afternoon she buried her former self. Grief, she decided, deserved better than drabness. Grief deserved to scream.
Her long gown swept the floorboards in heavy, liquid folds of pink satin. The fabric caught the lamplight in subtle, expensive highlights shimmering like wet sugar or the inside of a seashell. Tiny seed pearls marched along the modestly high neckline and down the front in orderly, virginal rows. The sleeves ended in deep cuffs of gathered pink chiffon that trembled with each slow breath.
Over the gown rode the blouse: glossy, deluxe, almost liquid in its sheen. Frills cascaded from throat to waist like a waterfall of spun sugar ruffles upon ruffles upon ruffles, each edge finished with the thinnest piping of darker rose. The cuffs alone could have doubled as christening bonnets.
But the true crown was the headscarf.
An oversized triangle of blush pink satin, almost cartoonishly large, draped from the top of her head and cascaded past her shoulders in glossy waves. She had tied it under the chin with an extravagant bow, the ends trailing like rabbit ears. Pinned beneath it floated a sheer pink chiffon voile veil long enough to brush the upper swell of her ample chest, fine enough that her features showed through like a watercolour left in the rain. The veil softened the male jawline she had once hated, blurred the double chin, turned every blink into something theatrical and tender.
Her mouth was a dramatic wound of matte fuchsia, outlined sharper than a paper cut. Above it arched brows drawn in powdery rose, while the eyelids shimmered with pearlescent pink shadow and were rimmed in vivid bubblegum liner that flicked outward in exaggerated Rococo commas. Cheeks bloomed with circular rouge like a porcelain doll painted by an over enthusiastic child. The overall effect was sissy maid meets Marie Antoinette in full defiant mourning feminine, excessive, absurdly pretty, and deliberately inconsolable.
He, her male persona had hated the colour pink. Called it childish. Called it weak. On the nightstand sat the little brass urn containing what remained of him, his cremated wardrobe of male clothes, positioned so that the urn had no choice but to stare at her forever.
Hanimefendi lifted one plump, ring laden hand. The nails were lacquered the exact shade of strawberry marshmallow. She touched the veil where it lay across her lips, pressing the satin bow against them as though kissing herself goodnight.
I wore navy coloured clothes for forty-one years, she whispered to the mirror, voice low and cracked from crying and cigarettes she had given up in 1998. Navy and sensible shoes and ‘yes dear’ and ‘not now.’ You had your funeral in charcoal. Mine is pink. Barbie bloody pink. And I’m not sorry.
A tear escaped, cutting a bright path through the rouge. It hung on the veil like dew on candyfloss before soaking in.
She rose slowly, arthritic joints protesting and moved to the ancient radiogram in the corner. The needle settled onto an old 78. A scratchy soprano began to sing something unbearably sentimental about lost loves and rose gardens. Hanimefendi began to sway. The gown whispered against itself. The frills trembled. The veil floated like breath.
In the mirror a vast, pink, glittering figure danced alone widowed, overweight, outrageously made up, and for the first time in six decades entirely herself.
She was mourning, yes. But she was mourning in colour. And the house, for one evening at least, smelled faintly of rose talc, hot satin, and the sweetest kind of revenge.