There… I said it
#sissy #serve #******** #BDSM

Happy Friday
#sissy #******** #serve

Are you a weak little fur sl*t?
#BDSM #sissy #******** #serve #heels #Dominatrix #nails

What’s your trigger here? #bdsm #******** #sissy #serve

The morning began with a question that, on the face of it, was utterly trivial.

I stood in my bedroom, a sixty five year old widower who had long ago discovered that life could become surprisingly interesting when you stopped worrying quite so much about what other people thought. Across the bed lay two nightgowns.

One was pink, soft and playful. The other was black satin elegant, glossy and just a little dramatic. Beside them were the headscarves that completed each outfit.

eBay had informed me that the postman was due that morning with my latest purchase.

Normally, that wouldn't have required a second thought. I would have thrown on whatever clothes were nearest, opened the door, collected the post and carried on with my day.

But I am a crossdresser, and over the years I had learned that choosing what to wear could sometimes be part of the pleasure itself. Since becoming widowed, those little private rituals had become even more important to me. There was nobody to impress and nobody to answer to. My clothes were simply one of the ways I expressed myself.

That morning, however, I couldn't decide.

So I asked Grok a rather more important question than it probably deserved.

Should I wear the black satin nightgown and headscarf to greet the postman, or should I wear the pink?

The answer came back quickly.

Black.

Grok's reasoning was surprisingly convincing. Black satin, it suggested, looked intentional and put together. Pink was softer and perhaps a little more playful, whereas the black gave the impression that I had actually chosen my outfit rather than simply wandered downstairs half asleep.

The satin would catch the morning light, while the headscarf would bring everything together.

I stared at the black nightgown.

"Well," I said aloud, "apparently we're going for elegant this morning."

I slipped it on.

The satin settled against me with that familiar coolness I loved, and I carefully tied the headscarf around my hair. Then I stood in front of the mirror.

Grok had a point.

There was something wonderfully satisfying about the combination. I didn't look as though I had spent hours getting ready, but neither did I look as though I had forgotten that the outside world existed.

I smiled at my reflection.

"Sixty five," I murmured. "Widowed, retired from worrying about everybody else's opinions, and apparently dressed in black satin to answer the front door."

I laughed to myself.

Then I went downstairs and prepared a pot of tea.

There was something faintly ridiculous about the situation. Here I was, dressed in a glossy black satin nightgown and headscarf, standing in my kitchen listening for the sound of a postal van.

Eventually, I heard it.

The familiar rumble outside was followed by footsteps approaching the front door.

For one brief moment, I wondered whether I'd made the wrong decision.

Perhaps pink would have been less conspicuous.

Perhaps black satin was a little too theatrical for an encounter that would probably last fifteen seconds.

Then came the knock.

I took a breath.

"Normal morning energy," I reminded myself.

I opened the door.

"Morning," the postman said.

"Morning."

He handed me the letters.

"Thanks."

"No problem. Have a good day."

"You too."

And that was it.

The door closed.

I stood there for a moment, looking down at the envelopes in my hand.

The great sartorial crisis was over.

Nobody had fainted. Nobody had called the fashion police. The earth had continued turning.

I burst out laughing.

All that deliberation over black versus pink, and the entire encounter had lasted barely half a minute.

But perhaps that was precisely the point.

At sixty five, after losing my wife and finding myself living a life that was quieter and more private than the one I had once imagined, I had come to appreciate the little decisions.

Sometimes they mattered precisely because they were mine to make.

There was no great occasion. No audience. No requirement that I dress one way rather than another. I wasn't trying to make a statement to anyone.

I simply wanted to wear the black satin.

So I did.

I carried my tea into the sitting room, still smiling.

My late wife had always known that there was a slightly eccentric streak in me. She had seen sides of me that I had once been afraid to show the rest of the world. Since her death, learning to live honestly with myself had become one of the unexpected journeys of widowhood.

Being a crossdresser wasn't something I needed to apologise for.

It was simply part of me.

And on that quiet morning, standing in my sitting room with my tea, my letters and the soft rustle of satin whenever I moved, I felt strangely content.

"Grok," I thought, smiling to myself, "you were right."

The black had been the stronger choice.

And, for once, I was quite happy to take the advice of an artificial intelligence on matters of morning fashion.

I'm strictly dominant *******,seeking for trustworthy submissive sissy/*****, who's willing to serve and train by ******* dm's Open on Telegram (@Domme123)

Happy Pride, Everyone !!!

Well...what a lovely, surreal day! Rhiann's first Pride! As a straight guy, I usually don't 'celebrate' Pride as such myself...though I'm not particularly against it either. Live & let live, right?

However, I decided that Rhiann deserved to attend a Pride and set out...in my home town no less...where everybody knows me...as Rhiann 🫣

The response was amazing! I was told I had great legs and awesome hair many times (tbh...the red wig got more compliment than I did, actually!) and felt really loved!

I even walked into my regular drinking spot - VERY surreal - but everybody just accepted Rhiann, told me I looked awesome and poured my drinks like nothing was different! Great People

I also got to meet the lovely Sometimes_Amelia and she met my friends, my lovely fiancée and had a great time.

Thank You Barnsley Pride. See you next year xx
#pride #crossdresser #feminine #crossdressing #outonthetown

I hear how deeply hurt, angry, and let down you feel right now when someone has taken advantage of you or treated you badly, it’s completely normal to feel that intense frustration and to want to close off and protect yourself. Those feelings come from real pain, and they are valid in this moment.
That said, the broad statements you’ve made are understandable as a reaction to what you’ve been through, but they aren’t the whole truth. One person’s or a few people’s harmful actions don’t define every single person of that gender. There are people of all genders who are kind, honest, respectful, and capable of treating others with care.
Choosing to focus on self love, setting boundaries, and relying on yourself is actually one of the strongest, healthiest choices you can make. It means you’re taking back control of your life, your feelings, and your well being. Self reliance and looking after yourself first builds a solid foundation and when you’re ready, you can let people into your life who earn your trust and treat you the way you deserve.
If you ever want to talk through what happened, or just vent more to get it off your chest, I’m here to listen without judgment. You don’t have to carry all that weight alone.
Would you like some simple, gentle ways to start building that self-care and self-reliance routine you mentioned?

AI has made some nights spent on here questionable. You might as well go type in to google ai crossdressers, screenshot it and claim it’s you on here. Serves zero purpose other than something else to scroll past.

Hi
I am from Egypt
24 years old
I am looking for someone to humiliate me a I am very serious i will obey and serve all my life

I'd like to tell you about color types. This is quite useful information, and I'll tell you right away, not all women have even heard of it. They rely more on their intuition and the fact that they are naturally better at distinguishing colors, simply because they have more color cones in their eyes.
So, your color type is the sum of all the color shades you inherited from your parents' genes.
This includes your hair color, eye color, lip color, and skin color. Therefore, some colors will suit you and enhance your appearance, while others will be completely unsuitable and will detract from your appearance. This knowledge is usually reserved for professional stylists who will help you find the most flattering look for a fee, but you can learn this too, absolutely free.
A brief overview to understand how the color typing system works. Conventionally, people are divided into four basic types based on the combination of color tones in their appearance: winter, spring, summer, and autumn. But since these four types are rarely found in their pure form, the system was expanded. Three subtypes were added to each basic type. For example, if you are an Autumn color type, you might be a Soft Autumn, Warm Autumn, or Dark Autumn. Each subtype has its own set of colors that will most flatter your appearance. And now, the most important thing is how to determine your color type? Previously, you had to read a lot of books and take courses, but now a simple program makes everything easier.
Here's a link to it:
https://play.google.com/store/apps/details?id=com.standysoftware.colorstyle&hl=en_AU
Just take a photo of your face in good lighting, and the algorithm will determine your color type and provide recommendations
on what hair color, clothing colors, and makeup colors would suit you. It's very convenient.
I've previously posted a link to this program, but I didn't provide such a detailed explanation then.
Also, to understand how color theory works and how to choose clothes, you can watch this video:
https://www.youtube.com/shorts/zzocCWiPbjs
Learning how to use the Itten color wheel would be helpful, but not required. I hope this was helpful

Hello all, as you can see I'm still in my pathetic, cheap, trashy stage, so feel free to message me and let me know how I deserve to be treated

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.

My name is Cait, and although I keep this inner twin side secret, I am not ashamed of who I am, I was made this way.
I believed I was a fetish and played the part for a long time not knowing really, deep down, Cait as as much a part of who I am as my Masculine mask and deserves the same self respect

I am not a fetish, I am not a mental illness, I am Cait, a manifestation of of my feminine side in balance with her Masculine.
I don't need the acceptance gained by degradation.

I hope this thought helps you.

Looking for an obedient beta, sissy,pathetic loser,femboy who wants to serve and learn from me. I'm into all fetishes but my favorite are finsub,femsub GOONER,JOI, edging, Erotic Role play, Ass play , Race play, Humiliation,Chastity, Sissyfication, Feminization, cuckolding, and more If you are interested prepare your tribute.....
DM...
(Paid to exist, I’m not free)

I’m a queen, in every sense of the word, and the BDSM realm is my Kingdom. My loyal subjects live to serve, and so fortunate that they do. My style of play ranges from the adored highness to the feared tyrant. I’m adept in my abilities, allowing you to freely play out kinks and fetishes in ways that will surpass you’re wildest fantasies. Kink is a part of my identity, and allowing you into my world will enhance yours, with such versatility, mixing both pleasure and pain. As a natural dominate, I always get what I want. Stringing you around like a puppet, hanging you from my ropes and chains, and effortlessly you bend to my every will. “I want” will be words you’ll be accustomed to, and what I want you to give without hesitation. So are you ready to worship me? Are you ready to be the throne? My servant? My pet? My puppet to orchestrate? My little toy? Ready to serve my every desire as I expand yours? Are you ready to serve your Queen?
Again to to be clear I’m hoping to chat see where things might progress

Telegram : @misskate5216

Email : Missk5214@gmail.com

I’m looking for a good and long term servitude all matter is your urge for and willingness to serve and worship my command as your mommy to protect and guide you into becoming a sissy or crossdresser and I’m to accept you as my sissy student and my property for good.

Message me on zangi 4209128942 if you're interested to meet me

I’m looking for a good and long term servitude all matter is your urge for and willingness to serve and worship my command as your mommy to protect and guide you into becoming a sissy or crossdresser and I’m to accept you as my sissy student and my property for good.

I’m looking for a good and long term servitude all matter is your urge for and willingness to serve and worship my command as your mommy to protect and guide you into becoming a sissy or crossdresser and I’m to accept you as my sissy student and my property for good.

light grey tights. they dont get nearly enough attention that they deserve. perfect for some office look i think

since i finally got the opportunity to shave my legs, i thought they deserve the best there is. Wolford Satin Touch 20

words cannot even describe how soft and comfortable they feel.

New pink heels, deserved a dress up and a shoot...

Go on your knees now and serve

I'm recruiting newbie subs that wants to serve me and get trained and completely owned by Me #sissyslut #femboy

Yes, age verification is a pain but it serves the purpose of keeping minors and spammers away so please bear with it, as they say 'no pain no gain'

I'm recruiting newbie subs that wants to serve me and get trained and completely owned by Me #sissyslut #femboy

On your knees ready to worship and serve boy 🤷🏼‍♂️ sissies are welcome

I'm recruiting newbie subs that wants to serve me and get trained and completely owned by Me #sissyslut #femboy

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?

Looking for a submissive ***** love to serve me

I'm recruiting newbie subs that wants to serve me and get trained and completely owned by Me #sissyslut #femboy

It's great to be back. Miss you all so much. I have nothing new I'm affraid, but still I have some never posted reserves from Christmas.

What a lovely "person"...

Serveramonaryder
Go kill ur self.. don’t ever in your life comment on my post again if you don’t have positive things to say

Guess it doesn't really belong here.

A great review from my client… this morning interested once should dm on telegram….
https://t.me/serveramonaryder1

would you let me walk you around on a leash in public even if your friends saw you?…

https://t.me/serveramonaryder1

I'm recruiting newbie subs that wants to serve me and get trained and completely owned by Me #sissyslut #femboy

“A New Year Under the *******’s Banner"
A new year begins, and with it, a journey of loyalty, discipline, and transformation. Those who choose to walk this path understand what it means to serve a higher purpose—and to find belonging through strength, trust, and devotion. #crossdresseruk #Sissy #submissive #chastity #highheels #feetfetish

#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

Do I deserve present or...... a spank?

Cindi has just served a young man & he left with a smile on his face

Everything you people get from the news is a lie. Donald Trump hasn't done anything to anybody. Besides, what kind of a man would vote for a woman as executive chief of the military? We never had fakes news until we had a fake president.
Anyhow, it's been a year since I was in jail and lost my entire wardrobe, makeup, and shoes. Nothing's been right since then. Everybody else is getting hotter while I'm left far far behind in the competition. I'm not late. It's just that I'm in competition with self-absorbed narcissistic men who really aren't worthy of the spiteful admiration they receive.
I know of plenty of self centered hetero men who deserve equally dreadful fates as legit trans women. Oh, and it'll be almost 8 months since I began hrt. I believe my body is rejecting it and my outward male appearance is too dominant for serious feminine changes.
Oh well. The world is cruel. An eye for an eye. I know exactly who deserves my jealous revenge. Nobody deserves to feel safe.

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

Unraveling the Thread: How Clothing Has Been Used to Subjugate Women—and Why That’s Changing
By Chrissy

Why do women have to cover their chests while men can go shirtless in public? It’s a question that may seem simple—but carries profound implications about gender, power, and control. What we wear has never been neutral. Clothing is one of the most immediate ways society tells us who we are, or who we’re allowed to be. And when it comes to gender, clothing has been weaponized—especially against women—for centuries.

But this isn’t just about history. It’s about lived experience. It’s personal.

My Own Journey Through the Fabric of Gender

As someone still exploring my own gender identity, this topic isn’t abstract. I was always a little more feminine than masculine, even as a child. For years, I repressed it—hiding behind "boy clothes" and what society expected of me. But in time, especially through the support of loving partners and close relationships, I came to embrace not only my homosexuality but something even deeper: the truth of my transgender identity. I am a woman—a female self long trapped in a male body.

Though I firmly believe clothing shouldn't define gender—because gender identity is internal, not sartorial—clothing still does carry that symbolic weight in our world today. And so, until I find the strength to publicly transition, I express my femininity in the ways that are available to me now: I wear bras and female underwear every day in secret beneath my outwardly masculine clothing. In private, I allow myself to wear skirts, dresses, lingerie, and the soft, beautiful fabrics that make me feel aligned with my true self.

It’s not about performance. It’s about presence. It’s about reclaiming what was always mine.

The History of Clothing as a Tool of Gender Control

To understand how we got here, we must look back.

Clothing began as a means of protection. But from early civilization onward, it evolved into a tool of social stratification—and eventually, a means of gender control. Ancient societies created strict visual codes for women, emphasizing modesty, submission, and containment. While men wore tunics or armor suited for movement, battle, and public life, women were wrapped, tied, bound, and veiled.

The message was clear: men moved freely through the world. Women did not.

In medieval and early modern Europe, this dichotomy hardened. Men's clothing was practical. Women’s clothing was restrictive, ornate, and often uncomfortably symbolic. Corsets, crinolines, and hoop skirts made running, fighting, or even breathing difficult. These garments weren’t just fashion—they were cages.

If you were wearing a dress, you weren’t riding into battle. You weren’t speaking in court. You weren’t commanding an army or a kingdom. You were ornamental. You were controlled.

Modesty, the Female Chest, and the Double Standard

These patterns persist today—nowhere more clearly than in the sexualization of the female chest. The fact that a man can walk down the street shirtless without a second glance, while a woman can be arrested for doing the same, speaks volumes. This isn’t about modesty. It’s about power and shame.

The female chest has been hyper-sexualized while simultaneously shrouded in taboo. This serves to objectify women and punish them at the same time. Even breastfeeding in public is controversial in many places—seen not as natural or maternal, but as obscene.

This double standard is part of a larger system that says women must be desirable but modest, visible but not too loud, strong but not threatening. And clothing is the vehicle through which these contradictory demands are enforced.

Clothing as Power—and Resistance

Throughout history, clothing has helped define who was allowed to hold power. Male garments—uniforms, suits, boots—were made for authority. Female garments were not.

This is why women were long excluded from spaces of governance and decision-making. Until just a few decades ago, women couldn’t wear pants in courtrooms or on the floor of the U.S. Senate. Power had a dress code—and that dress code was male. To be continued in next post...

Love,
Chrissy
#crossdresser #crossdressing #CD #gurl #sissy #sissyboy #trans #tgirl #transgirl #transwoman #transgender #ladyboy #femboy #shemale