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.

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.

Yo you really wanna learn more and be well guided concerning your feelings about your kinky desires ?
Have you been wondering how to go about this or you’re being curious on how to start your kinky lifestyle ? Hit mommy up let’s achieve your kinky dreams and desires together ..

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.

Married CDs - how do you deal with it if your partner shows absolutely no interest/support in your dressing? I wish mine were more involved and willing but it seems like she's not going to come around to it any time soon.

No Ai or Fake Pictures, What you see is me and mine. Nothing more or less.
-----------------------
Why do I love Co ck......
This is a good question and I guess it's personal to me ...
Co ck that has the head fully showing to me look amazing, small medium or large just look incredible and if Smooth Shaven and in Stockings or Holdups then I'm Week and I must have them in my mouth.
The way the skin behind the head moves with your lips, the feel of the rough edge of the Head.
The taste of a clean **** is amazing.
The way it shows you it enjoys what you started by getting hard, what a turn on
The best thing of all is how after all this fun sucking and playing it rewards you again with the most amazing Pre Cum then followed by a juicy mouth full of Cum for me to Swallow and enjoy...
Damn I love them so much ....

If you are local to Derby or Nottingham then get in touch, get those Co ck Photos and
Send them my way
------------------------------------------------------------
Further Slutty Reading

As someone that on the odd occasion meets other CDs, I think it is important to know how I feel about you if we meet up.
Well it's very important to understand before we meet a few things.
I'm meeting you for my own pleasure entirely,
I'm not interested in you looking like a Female entirely... Let me explain
Before we got to the meeting point we would have chatted extensively about it, and swapped Pics as you do.
So now we know I'm only interested in your Co ck, but only Smooth Co ck and in Lingerie.
Unfortunately I DON'T do beards, not on my Co ck.
So now we know, You need to be Smooth, in Lingerie and have a **** I WILL use.
That means I will be Sucking that Co ck Dry and Swallowing the Content, No Ifs, No Buts...
Now the next thing is what you may want me to do or of course do to me.
The 2 rules I have will have been discussed with you before now anyway so...
My Co ck 'WILL' be Emptied and 'WILL' be Swallowed by You, No Ifs, No Buts...
I get asked, but I wanted you to **** my Ass, that's fine but the rule above still applies so remember that...
I get asked, But I wanted to **** your Ass, well again that's fine but you WILL Cum in my mouth and Feed me, No Ifs, No Buts.
You are a Toy for my pleasure.... That's it
You may become a friend and we may meet very regular, but everything above ALWAYS stays the same....Never Ever any Mess or Waste...
Now you know..


All my best pictures and Stories in one (FREE) Private Group <a href="https://www.flickr.com/groups/14871084@N25/">www.flickr.com/groups/14871084@N25/</a>

If i started making content who would subscribe?

The Erebus Veil has always been more mausoleum than starship, but tonight she feels like a confessional. I press my forehead to the viewport again, the cold glass a thin barrier between me and the churning nebulae that swirl like spilled ink and blood. My breath fogs it in ragged bursts each one a small rebellion against the vacuum waiting outside. Sixty four years, I rasp to the empty deck, voice thick with the kind of ache that settles in bones and doesn't leave. Sixty four years of rewriting myself sentence by sentence, and the universe still hasn't bothered to notice. Or maybe it has. Maybe that's why it left me here to watch the stars burn without apology. My gloved fingers curl against the pane, kid leather creaking. The gown of satin so dark it drinks light, chiffon whispering like secrets I used to be afraid to keep shifts with the faint tremor of the hull. The high-waist satin panty girdle beneath bites just enough to ground me, to say: You are here. You chose this shape. You paid in blood and time and nights spent crying into star charts. I laugh once, sharp and wet. It echoes off the pitted bulkheads. You know what the cruelest part is? I ask the ship, or the nebulae, or the ghost of the girl I used to bury every morning. I finally like the sound of my name in my own mouth. Hanımefendi. It used to taste like ash. Now it tastes like victory and no one’s left to hear me say it. A distant fusion coil whines in sympathy, or maybe that's just my pulse in my ears. I dreamed of this, you know. Not the derelict part. The space part. Vast and indifferent and beautiful. I thought if I could just get out here away from gravity wells and small minded gravity bound people I’d finally breathe easy. Instead I learned the void doesn’t care who you are. It doesn’t applaud your courage. It just… waits. My reflection stares back: sharp jaw softened by decades of estrogen and stubborn hope, eyes lined in kohl that’s run from earlier tears, raven cameo pinned like a medal over my heart. The chiaroscuro light paints me half angel, half wraith crowned in bruise purple nebulae fire. I swallow hard. But I’m still here, I whisper, fierce enough that it hurts my throat. Still standing in this ridiculous, glorious dress I sewed myself on a ship that’s falling apart. Still breathing air you recycled for me when no one else would. Still choosing every damn day to be this trans, tired, terrified, and incandescently alive. The flare comes again brighter this time, gold and merciless. It floods the deck, turns every jet bead to molten starlight, every fold of chiffon into rippling shadow and flame. My silhouette burns against the glass like a brand. I don’t flinch. Look at me, I snarl at the cosmos, at the empty chairs where crew once sat, at the woman in the reflection who finally stopped flinching. Look at what survives when everything else leaves. A trans woman in a Gothic mourning gown, orbiting a nebula that doesn’t give a damn. And I’m not done yet. Tears cut fresh tracks through the kohl. I let them fall. I loved once, I confess, softer now, the words cracking open like overripe fruit. Her name was Mara. She called me ‘starlight’ when no one else dared call me anything at all. We used to stand right here, hands linked, watching these same nebulae. She said we’d outlive the stars. I believed her. My voice breaks completely. She’s gone. Everyone’s gone. But I’m still wearing the earrings she gave me the ones shaped like tiny crescent moons. I’m still carrying her in every stitch of this gown, every bead I sewed while crying over star maps. And if that’s all the legacy I get a solitary trans woman adrift in opera-scale darkness, dressed for the funeral of a life I refused to let kill me then let it be enough. I straighten. Shoulders back. Chin up. The girdle holds me like armor. So keep turning, you beautiful, heartless nebulae, I say, voice steady at last. Keep your silence. I’ve got enough words for both of us. I’ve got enough me for whatever comes next. The light fades. Shadow returns, satin soft. But this time, when I meet my own eyes in the glass, they’re blazing. No more apologies. No more smallness. Just Hanımefendi trans woman, space wanderer, survivor in satin and lace standing defiant against the dark opera of the stars. And for the first time in years, the silence doesn’t swallow me. It listens.

One of my latest sexy looking outfits. AI art and all.

So why so scammers who post pictures of cis women (whether they are them or people just using pictures off the net pretending) are always d0minatrix's looking for sissy's or subs? Here's the reason and why you should avoid them. In fact go out your way to block and report, even if you are a sissy. These scammers don't care about you. They care about your money. You will never see them apart from at best getting more pictures but will try and extract and control you for your hard earned money. These people are leeches on society.

Starting to get dressed, any suggestions?

Good morning ladies and admirers.. hope y'all have a wonderful day. Just waiting for the snow to start falling!!! 18"+ they say!!! Woohoo and MMMUUUAAHHHHH

The room was silent except for the soft rustle of fabric and the slow, deliberate rhythm of her breathing.

She had asked for one thing tonight: to disappear completely into herself.

The first layer came as a whisper cool, liquid like satin poured over her bare skin. A full-length slip of deep midnight blue, heavier than it looked, sliding down her body like cool water that refused to evaporate. It kissed every curve, every hollow, then settled against her with possessive weight. She exhaled long and low as the hem brushed her ankles.

Then the second skin.

A thicker satin robe followed, floor-length, wide-sleeved, the kind meant for royalty who never intended to leave their chambers. Deep indigo, almost black in low light. He fastened the inner ties first slowly, methodically cinching her waist just enough that every breath reminded her of the fabric’s embrace. The outer sash wound around her twice before being tied in a wide, flat bow at the small of her back. She felt the slight tug travel all the way up her spine.

“Arms,” he murmured.

She lifted them like someone already half-asleep.

A third layer: a long, hooded cape of the same midnight satin, lined with silk so fine it felt like cool breath against her neck. The hood was generous, cut wide and deep. When he drew it forward, the satin edges curtained her peripheral vision until the world narrowed to a soft, shadowed tunnel. Only her face remained visible for now.

He stepped back to look at her.

She stood motionless in the centre of the room, gleaming faintly under the single lamp, already beginning to look like something carved from night itself.

Then came the veil.

Not lace, not tulle pure satin, sheer enough to see the outline of features beneath, dense enough to blur every detail into dreamlike softness. He draped it over the hood first so it cascaded down the front and back of her body in long, liquid folds. When he smoothed it across her face, the fabric settled like a second eyelids. She felt the faint pressure against her eyelashes, the hush of her own breath trapped and warmed against her lips.

He tied it gently at the nape, then again lower, securing it beneath the layers of satin already cocooning her throat. The knot was small, decorative, almost ornamental. But it anchored everything.

Now she was covered.

Encased.

Hooded.

Veiled.

A single continuous surface of satin from crown to toe shimmering, unbroken, reflective swallowing light and returning only muted echoes of it.

He guided her to the wide, low bed. She moved slowly, each step a muted hiss of fabric sliding over fabric. When she reached the edge, he helped her lie back, arranging the excess satin around her like spilled ink. The hood framed her face in a perfect oval of shadow; the veil softened her mouth into something distant and serene.

He pulled a final piece from the drawer: a narrow length of the same midnight satin. Not a blindfold something gentler. He laid it across her eyes, not tying it, just letting the weight rest there. Enough to make the world behind her eyelids even darker, even quieter.

Then he sat beside her.

No words for a long time.

Only the slow tide of her breathing, growing deeper, slower, heavier with each cycle. The satin moved with her rising, falling, whispering against itself. Every small shift sent fresh waves of cool smoothness gliding across her skin, then settling again, reminding her she was held, contained, nowhere left exposed.

Minutes passed. Maybe more.

Her hands, hidden inside the wide sleeves, eventually stopped searching for anything. They curled loosely against her stomach, cradled by layer after layer of satin.

Her mouth parted beneath the veil just enough for the softest sigh to escape.

She was gone now.

Not asleep, not yet.

Somewhere softer than sleep.

Somewhere the world could not reach.

Only satin.

Only weight.

Only hush.

And the long, slow pulse of total, satin surrender.

Morning all. Just heading out for a quick run to start the day off.

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

This site has just changed. Reminded me of this joke... “I woke up this morning and discovered that everything in my apartment had been stolen and replaced with an exact replica. I told my roommate, 'Isn't this amazing? Everything in the apartment has been stolen and replaced with an exact replica.' He said, 'Do I know you?"

No Ai or Fake Pictures, What you see is me and mine. Nothing more or less.

Why do I love Co ck

This is a good question and I guess it's personal to me ...
Co ck that has the head fully showing to me look amazing, small medium or large just look incredible and if Smooth Shaven and in Stockings or Holdups then I'm Week and I must have them in my mouth.
The way the skin behind the head moves with your lips, the feel of the rough edge of the Head.
The taste of a clean **** is amazing.
The way it shows you it enjoys what you started by getting hard, what a turn on
The best thing of all is how after all this fun sucking and playing it rewards you again with the most amazing Pre Cum then followed by a juicy mouth full of Cum for me to Swallow and enjoy...
Damn I love them so much ....

If you are local to Derby or Nottingham then get in touch, get those Co ck Photos and
Send them my way
------------------------------------------------------------
Further Slutty Reading

As someone that on the odd occasion meets other CDs, I think it is important to know how I feel about you if we meet up.
Well it's very important to understand before we meet a few things.
I'm meeting you for my own pleasure entirely,
I'm not interested in you looking like a Female entirely... Let me explain
Before we got to the meeting point we would have chatted extensively about it, and swapped Pics as you do.
So now we know I'm only interested in your Co ck, but only Smooth Co ck and in Lingerie.
Unfortunately I DON'T do beards, not on my Co ck.
So now we know, You need to be Smooth, in Lingerie and have a **** I WILL use.
That means I will be Sucking that Co ck Dry and Swallowing the Content, No Ifs, No Buts...
Now the next thing is what you may want me to do or of course do to me.
The 2 rules I have will have been discussed with you before now anyway so...
My Co ck 'WILL' be Emptied and 'WILL' be Swallowed by You, No Ifs, No Buts...
I get asked, but I wanted you to **** my Ass, that's fine but the rule above still applies so remember that...
I get asked, But I wanted to **** your Ass, well again that's fine but you WILL Cum in my mouth and Feed me, No Ifs, No Buts.
You are a Toy for my pleasure.... That's it
You may become a friend and we may meet very regular, but everything above ALWAYS stays the same....Never Ever any Mess or Waste...
Now you know..


All my best pictures and Stories in one (FREE) Private Group <a href="https://www.flickr.com/groups/14871084@N25/">www.flickr.com/groups/14871084@N25/</a>

The Sole is a perfect spot to start your cleaning! Xx

so they continue to try scamming. wtf would a cis woman keep posting pictures like this on a CROSSDRESSING site. all the pictures are off the net so unlikely the real person. What if I started posting pictures of some sexy tart and I pretended it was me. Don't be so gullible.

Whether you are a beginner or an experienced player, your fetish and BDSM desires will be teased, taunted and elevated until you are aching for release. Finally, you are left gasping and fulfilled, shivering with satisfaction at the best adult fantasy you will ever experience with the ********

I understand that for many submissives, your slavery is therapeutic. In your servitude to Me, you will feel release from the constraints of your vanilla lifestyle. As your ********, I am both your trainer and your guide, as we delve together further into the dark arts of BDSM, Kink and Fetish

Text me on zangi 6869055896
if you're ready to purchase your certificate form

I am ready to change my life. It is my moment, and I am prepared and determined to start being the woman I feel I am. I am looking for a man who treats me well and supports me in being his woman. I am ready to move forward without looking back and start this transition together with a man who will support me in all my decisions regarding gender change.

So I wasn't going to post these ones, no make-up or anything...but last week I started putting together my first girls outfit, trying to find my style. It's not finished but wanted to see it and see what y'all thought.

How did I do, Girls? Xx
#crossdresser #crossdressing #highheels #skirt #selfie

I wish someone would go on a date with me, would like to meet up with someone and see what happens. I don't do well with online dating n stuff. Before anyone starts on me, I know this isn't a dating app, I'm just taking in general

The rain came down in silver sheets, turning the cobbles into black mirrors that reflected the sodium glow of the single working streetlamp. I leaned against its rusted iron, the cold metal biting through the heavy layers of satin and chiffon like it wanted to remind me I was still flesh under all this funeral drag.
I took a long drag on the cigarette, the cherry flaring briefly under the edge of my veil. The black chiffon draped across my face softened the world into shadow theatre, everything a little unreal, a little safer that way. My lips, painted the color of dried blood, left a faint crescent on the filter. I exhaled smoke that twisted upward to join the mist, two kinds of fog becoming one.
They called me Valentine in the old precinct days, before the badge became a liability and the mirror became an accusation. Now I was just Val to the few who still owed me favors, or the ones who needed someone who didn't flinch at the smell of blood and cheap perfume. Tonight the city smelled of both.
The gown dragged behind me like a widow's promise, long black satin, ankle-skimming, catching what little light there was and throwing it back in wet, liquid gleams. The blouse beneath frothed with rococo frills, glossy and ridiculous against the grime. Mourning attire from a century that knew how to grieve properly. I wore it because it fit the part I was playing: the ghost who refuses to lie down.
Somewhere in the alley behind me, my wardrobe waited in a condemned boarding house door half off its hinges, the only bright thing inside a floor length rainbow satin dress hanging like a forgotten carnival prize. Long sleeves, high ruffled collar, shimmering like oil on water. I kept it there the way some men keep a pistol in a drawer. A reminder that colour still existed, even if I only visited it in the dark.
A low rumble rolled through the street. The red double decker bus, the corpse of the only one left running those nights, it lay half-buried in fallen brick and twisted rebar two blocks down. Its paint had rusted to the color of old blood; one headlamp still flickered like a dying eye. No one bothered to tow it anymore. It was just another corpse in the landscape.
I flicked ash into a puddle. The cigarette hissed and went out. That's when I saw her silhouette at the mouth of the alley, trench coat too big, heels too high for the broken pavement. She moved like someone who knew she was being watched but couldn't afford to run.
She stopped under the cone of lamplight, rain tracing black rivulets down her face. Mascara already surrendered hours ago.
"You're late," I said, voice low, muffled by chiffon.
"You're early," she answered. Her eyes flicked over my outfit, the veil, the frills, the shine that didn't belong here. She didn't laugh. Smart girl. "They said you were... particular about appearances."
"They say a lot of things." I pushed off the lamppost. The gown whispered against itself with every step. "You got the envelope?"
She reached inside her coat, produced a slim packet sealed with red wax. Her hand trembled just enough to notice.
"Inside is everything, names, dates, the garment dress warehouse on Cutler Street. They think they're untouchable because they own half the magistrates and all the shadows." She swallowed. "But they killed my sister. Slowly. For asking too many questions about the satin shipments."
I took the envelope without looking at it. Slipped it inside the satin folds where a heart should be.
"And what do you want from me?" I asked.
"Justice." The word sounded small and antique in her mouth. "Or revenge. Whichever comes first."
I studied her through the veil. Young. Broken in the right places. The kind of client who pays in blood or tears, sometimes both.
"Revenge is expensive," I told her. "And justice... justice is just revenge wearing prettier clothes."
She met my eyes, dark eyeliner smudged into war paint. "Then I'll pay the price."
I nodded once. The rain drummed harder, like applause for bad decisions.
"Go home," I said. "Lock the doors. Burn anything with your name on it. I'll find you when it's done."
She hesitated, then turned and walked back into the dark. Her heels clicked once, twice, then nothing.
I lit another cigarette. The flame briefly illuminated my reflection in the wet lamppost glass: black lips, darker eyes, a widow who never married, a detective who never solved anything clean.
The city exhaled around me, smoke, rain, rust.
I started walking toward Cutler Street.
The rainbow dress in the wardrobe would have to wait another night.
Some colours aren't meant to be worn in the light.

No Ai or Fake Pictures, What you see it me and mine. Nothing more or less.

Why do I love Co ck

This is a good question and I guess it's personal to me ...
Co ck that has the head fully showing to me look amazing, small medium or large just look incredible and if Smooth Shaven and in Stockings or Holdups then I'm Week and I must have them in my mouth.
The way the skin behind the head moves with your lips, the feel of the rough edge of the Head.
The taste of a clean **** is amazing.
The way it shows you it enjoys what you started by getting hard, what a turn on
The best thing of all is how after all this fun sucking and playing it rewards you again with the most amazing Pre Cum then followed by a juicy mouth full of Cum for me to Swallow and enjoy...
Damn I love them so much ....

If you are local to Derby or Nottingham then get in touch, get those Co ck Photos and
Send them my way
------------------------------------------------------------
Further Slutty Reading

As someone that on the odd occasion meets other CDs, I think it is important to know how I feel about you if we meet up.
Well it's very important to understand before we meet a few things.
I'm meeting you for my own pleasure entirely,
I'm not interested in you looking like a Female entirely... Let me explain
Before we got to the meeting point we would have chatted extensively about it, and swapped Pics as you do.
So now we know I'm only interested in your Co ck, but only Smooth Co ck and in Lingerie.
Unfortunately I DON'T do beards, not on my Co ck.
So now we know, You need to be Smooth, in Lingerie and have a **** I WILL use.
That means I will be Sucking that Co ck Dry and Swallowing the Content, No Ifs, No Buts...
Now the next thing is what you may want me to do or of course do to me.
The 2 rules I have will have been discussed with you before now anyway so...
My Co ck 'WILL' be Emptied and 'WILL' be Swallowed by You, No Ifs, No Buts...
I get asked, but I wanted you to **** my Ass, that's fine but the rule above still applies so remember that...
I get asked, But I wanted to **** your Ass, well again that's fine but you WILL Cum in my mouth and Feed me, No Ifs, No Buts.
You are a Toy for my pleasure.... That's it
You may become a friend and we may meet very regular, but everything above ALWAYS stays the same....Never Ever any Mess or Waste...
Now you know..


All my best pictures and Stories in one (FREE) Private Group <a href="https://www.flickr.com/groups/14871084@N25/">www.flickr.com/groups/14871084@N25/</a>

This would be me waiting in the queue for a crossdresser party

Mmmmm i can just see myself at a crossdressers party,sitting down having a glass of prosecco and admiring everyone

I’m ready to go to a garden party!
#1950s #vintage #dress

As promised the first pics from the weekend. My Mis tress Lana Steins was surprised it was totaly different from what she has seen before on me. What do you think? Is it a good dress for a wedding party? 🫣 #sissy #crossdresser #sissyslut

I don't think glams gets it. She can keep starting new accounts with different numbers but will still get reported and blocked. Go on a BDSM site, no one is interested

Morning girls the start of a new week xxx

I'm a total bottom, I like to be controlled I like collars and leashes, I love toys especially buttplugs with tails, I enjoy being restrained, I love giving head, I am a good sub, I like to lay in my partners lap and tease through their pants or shorts or skirt while watching tv, I like pet play but that really falls into the collar and leash thing, and I do my best to learn every Hotspot or anything I can do to please my partner because that's where I get my pleasure. Knowing I I did a good job is the ultimate reward for a sub in my opinion what do yall think makes a good sub?

Promo Pictures =

I'm Wem Martyn — a UK-based musician, producer, and writer.

I will be releasing a new song on the 1st of the month throughout this year.

Available from all the major streaming platforms. Please like and subscribe on YouTube, Facebook, and Instagram.

https://youtube.com/@wemmartyn

#wemmartyn #behindthemask #cubase

So tonight i am going to take a serious step and leave my house fully dressed and then catch a bus to the city to attend our annual works party. I am excited but super nervous too. The dress i am wearing . X

My next release "Behind The Mask Pt1 - Release Date - 01/02/2026

https://youtube.com/@wemmartyn

#wemmartyn

Shyness

I was too shy
When met girlfriend
To ask her
May I stay...?

She thought
I did not like
Her play
Or have another girl

We parted
I did cry a lot
She left without
Bye...
I felt
I am unhappy
Girl...
But why
She's left
But why?....

My current mani.. pretty awesome I hope all is going well with you guys keep kicking ass and taking names out there wherever you may be my friends
#nails #nailart #badass

I am sixty-four and the grief of the past two months has carved me hollow. Every morning I wake with the same violent start as though my heart has forgotten, for one merciful second, that she is gone. Then memory rushes back like cold water poured into cracked lungs. I cough on it. I always cough on it. Tonight I no longer pretend this is costume. The black satin mourning gown weighs thirty pounds if it weighs an ounce. The sleeves are so enormous they make my arms look like broken wings. The skirt is a black tide that drags behind me, heavy enough to drown small regrets. When I move, the silk screams sharp, wet slaps against itself, the sound of something being torn apart over and over. I have wrapped my head in a midnight black satin headscarf so vast it feels like I am being buried from the crown downward. The fabric is cool against my scalp, almost tender, the way her palm once was when she smoothed my hair before sleep. I pull it brutally tight underneath my chin. I want the tightness of the choke to hurt a little. I need to feel something that isn’t absence. Then the veil. Three sheer layers of black voile chiffon. The first kisses my eyelashes like soot. The second presses against my lips until I taste funeral flowers. The third falls to my waist and beyond, turning the room into a world seen through smoke and tears. Through it everything is dying again, softly, perpetually. My hands tremble as I button the twenty-four jet buttons of the double layer bodice rising from my belly to neck of the mourning gown. Each click of the button is a small gunshot in the quiet house. When I am finished my fingers inside my satin gloves are tired, elegant, useless. I cannot even touch my own face without feeling like I am trespassing on someone else’s sorrow. I descend the staircase one deliberate step at a time. The hem catches, drags, catches again. Silk on oak. Silk on oak. A dirge with no mercy. Halfway down I have to grip the banister because the weeping comes without warning, great, ugly sobs that make my whole body heave against the buttons of the bodice. I let them come. Let them tear through me. There is no one left to be ashamed in front of. In the drawing room I do not sit in her chair. I kneel. The skirt pools around me like spilled blood. I press my gloved palms flat against the carpet where her feet once rested. I lower my forehead until the veil puddles on the floor between my hands. I breathe in the ghost of her perfume, the ghost of her skin, the ghost of the mornings when I still woke as someone she recognised. “I’m sorry,” I whisper to the empty room. The words taste like rust. “I’m sorry I waited so long to become her. I’m sorry you never saw me like this. I’m sorry I’m still here breathing when you’re not.” The veil sticks to the wet tracks on my cheeks. I do not lift it. Let it cling. Let it choke. Let it witness. Outside, the night presses against the windows like a second, colder widow. A car passes. Headlights rake the room in white knives, illuminating me for one merciless second, an old crossdresser in extravagant widow’s weeds, kneeling, shaking, face hidden behind layers of black illusion, crying like something newly orphaned. I do not rise. I stay there until my knees scream, until the sobs turn to the small, broken hiccups of someone who has cried until there is almost nothing left to give. Only then do I speak again, so quietly the words barely disturb the veil. “You would have loved her,” I tell the dark. “You would have loved me.” And for the first time since the funeral two months ago, the silence does not feel like punishment. It feels like the last gentle touch of someone who finally understands.

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

what's behind all these amazingly beautiful images on here who are obviously cis women being dom's? All they are after is your money. The images used are to catch you and they will get you to contact them privately. So these people (some may not even be the ones in the pictures) are called 'FinDom's'. Read up more about it here below and for all of you who keep posting positive messages and hearts against these scammers then please stop. You're the innocent victims they are looking for. https://medium.com/mel-magazine/the-curse-of-the-fake-financial-dominatrix-7f6aa52c022

Ever wonder if the City sleeps
Ever wonder if the City weeps
Ever wonder if the City dreams
Ever wonder what the City thinks of you.

#wemmartyn

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

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.

Here's a possible post:

Just got out of character and feeling like a QUEEN 👸🏽. Who's ready to help me get back into my most dominant self? Looking for a submissive sweetheart to spoil #MistressMode #CrossDressing #SissyLife"

Mmmmm! I would love to go to a crossdresser party in this or be a bridesmaid!

Things were starting to get a little heated in the classroom today, and Melanie was right in at the deep end.......!

Listening to myself on Spotify

She has a GUN. Available from all the major steaming sites

https://youtube.com/@wemmartyn

#twinklelittlestar

Available from all the streaming platforms soon

Pease Like and Subscribe to my Facebook, Instagram and YouTube Channel.

https://youtube.com/@wemmartyn

Thanks

#twinklelittlestar