All in black

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.

M'N'Skirts Magazine Fashion review 21

Temu heeled ankle boots, black.

https://share.temu.com/w8mMA6uLTwB

Despite unusual laced design they are extremely comfy for slow walks and rides. Heels around 10cm

Decided to return to my favorite colour: Black

Loving this black & pink thong 🩷

I sit motionless in the dim parlor, the heavy velvet drapes drawn against the January gloom outside. The only light comes from the tall candelabra behind me, its flames trembling as though they, too, are in mourning. My reflection stares back from the tall gilt mirror across the room a stranger wearing my face, yet not quite mine anymore. The black satin gown clings to me like spilled ink, cool and liquid against my skin. Each subtle shift of my body sends faint gleams racing along the fabric, silver whispers in an ocean of midnight. The high collar bites gently at my throat, edged with fragile black lace that looks as though it might crumble if I breathed too deeply. The sleeves are puffed at the shoulders, then narrow cruelly down my arms until the cuffs grip my wrists like velvet manacles. I feel both imprisoned and exalted. The chiffon voile veil floats over my head, so fine it seems spun from smoke. It softens the edges of the world, turns the candlelight into a gentle, diffused halo. Through its haze I can see the portrait painter’s easel, the careful arrangement of shadows he is trying to capture. He keeps glancing at me as though he fears I might vanish if he looks away too long. My lips are painted the colour of old blood left to dry blackened plum, almost truly black in this light. The lipstick feels thick, ceremonial. Each time I press them together I taste the faint metallic bite of the pigment. My eyes are rimmed with kohl so dark it seems to drink the light; the sharp wings of liner make my gaze look both wounded and dangerous, like something beautiful that has learned how to bite. In my hands I cradle the bouquet. Once they were perfect crimson roses, the kind lovers press between the pages of forbidden books. Now they are dying in slow, exquisite agony. The stems bend wearily, heavy with the weight of their own decay. Petals loosen one by one, drifting down like drops of blood onto the polished floorboards. I can hear them fall soft, deliberate sounds, the quiet punctuation of something ending. I do not cry. There are no tears left for what I have become, for the man I buried beneath satin and shadow. This is not grief in the ordinary sense. This is something older, more deliberate a ritual of exquisite surrender. I chose every detail of this costume, every inch of mourning silk, every wilting bloom. I dressed myself for my own funeral, painted my own face for the wake, arranged my own flowers. And now I stand here, perfectly composed, while the painter tries to trap eternity in oil and canvas. Sometimes I think I can hear the roses whispering as they die. They do not beg for water. They do not ask to be saved. They only sigh, petal by petal, accepting their beautiful collapse. And I understand them perfectly. The veil stirs slightly as I exhale. A single crimson petal catches on the sheer fabric, trembling there like a ruby tear that refuses to fall. I do not brush it away. Let it stay. Let it be seen. Let the portrait show exactly what I have chosen to become: A widow of my former self, dressed in the most exquisite grief, holding death’s bouquet with steady, loving hands, smiling just a little behind lips the colour of finality.

It's pretty much black and white...?

This is my absolute favorite lingerie set! Its hard to find these nude with black color combos.

I never thought a simple late-night scroll on Temu would change how I saw myself in the mirror.

My hands were shaking a little when I clicked "Buy Now" on that dress. The listing was a chaotic poem of keywords: Black Satin Fairy Vintage Sweet Dress Mesh Long Lace... Hollow Out Puff Sleeve Floral... Off Shoulder Fairy Princess Long Satin Mesh Gothic Lady Ruffle. It was everything at once — sweet, dark, romantic, dramatic — and somehow it felt like it had been waiting for me.

I'm sixty-four. Short. Heavy. The kind of body the world politely looks past. For most of my life I kept the part of me that loved beautiful, flowing things locked away in a mental attic. But the older I get, the less patience I have for hiding.

The package arrived on a grey Tuesday afternoon. I signed for it quickly, heart thumping like a teenager sneaking something forbidden. I carried the brown box upstairs like it contained state secrets, locked the bedroom door, and tore into it.

Inside lay folds of deep black satin that caught the lamplight like liquid night. Delicate mesh panels shimmered with tiny floral embroidery. The puff sleeves were ridiculously romantic — exaggerated, dreamy, almost cartoonishly glamorous. Lace spilled from every edge. The off-shoulder neckline promised to bare collarbones I usually keep hidden under sensible jumpers.

I stripped down, stood in front of the full-length mirror in just my underwear, and stepped into the dress.

The satin whispered against my legs as I pulled it up. It was surprisingly forgiving — stretchy in the right places, structured in others. I wriggled my arms through those massive puff sleeves; they ballooned around my upper arms like dark fairy wings. I tugged the bodice into place, smoothed the ruffled layers over my stomach, and finally reached back to zip it (with some creative contortions and a coat hanger as backup).

Then I looked up.

And I stopped breathing for a second.

The woman — no, the creature — staring back wasn't sixty-four. She wasn't short and soft and ordinary. She was a midnight fairy queen who had wandered out of some gothic storybook and decided to be indulgent today. The black satin hugged and draped in ways that turned every curve into intention. The hollow-out lace panels teased just enough skin to feel dangerous. Those enormous puff sleeves framed me like I belonged on a velvet throne instead of a suburban bedroom carpet.

I turned sideways. The long skirt flared dramatically, the mesh overlay catching light like spiderwebs covered in frost. I twirled — actually twirled — and watched the layers float outward in perfect slow motion, the ruffles whispering secrets to each other.

For once, the mirror wasn't my enemy. It was showing me something true.

I hadn't planned to go anywhere. But suddenly I needed to feel this outside these four walls.

I threw on a long black coat (practicality dies hard), slipped my feet into the only pair of low heels I own that almost match, draped a soft scarf over my wig to hide the fact I hadn't styled it yet, and stepped out into the January dusk.

The cold air hit my bare shoulders like a slap and a caress at the same time. I walked to the end of the street and back — only fifteen minutes — but every step felt like gliding. The satin moved against my thighs. The sleeves swayed. A neighbour's security light caught me as I passed; for a heartbeat I was illuminated, black lace and floral shadows glowing against the night.

No one stopped me. No one shouted. A dog walker nodded politely like I was simply another eccentric on an evening stroll.

When I got home, I locked the door, dropped the coat on the floor, and stood in front of the mirror again — this time under brighter light, no scarf, no hiding.

Here’s the thing about that dress: it doesn’t care that I’m sixty-four, or that I carry extra weight, or that my hands are rough from decades of practical work. It simply drapes itself over me and says, You are allowed to be this glamorous. You are allowed to be this much.

I smiled at my reflection — a real smile, not the careful half-one I usually wear.

Then I whispered to the woman in the mirror, the one who finally looked like she belonged in a fairy tale:

"Thank you for coming out to play, love. We’re keeping the dress."

I'm scrolling while strolling down memory lanes in my deep dark lightening path I've chosen. I am visiting and viewing all your profiles. I am in awe. Humbled and almost weeping the fact I lost so many years to myself. Because of fear addictions I did NOT ask for. It's like @Adele sings....I was just a child. Didn't get the chance to choose. I've known since i was born i was different. Always the wise ass the funny one. Performer of claps that grew and grow to this day. If i told you who i was in my days and nights you would either laugh cry or just stare in amazement. I have wrestled and fought this reslity since i was was 4. I never knew the acceptance, love and satisfying self worth i alwsys held to close, to quiet, to damn fuckin quiet. I Am Me. You are you. I am grateful, humbled, amazed. Blown awsy. Pun intended. If ive mad you smile laugh identify or weep im #GLAD I AM SO OVERWHELMED AND EACH AND EVERYONE OF YOU NADE MY FUCKIN YEAR. 2026 IM UNSTOPPABLE. THANK YOU ALL. to every beginner novice medium and #******** i tip my #MichaelJackson Velvet hat. I grab my crotch and i saw. It dont matter if yojr #BlackOrWhite it just does NOT matter. Not then. Not now and not tomorrow. #Sisterhood #Light #Flow #Freedom and #EvenNow #BarryManilow even now. Xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo sincerely yours SisterSinDy

I start to love white more then black

I love black

i finally decided my new years resolution. Though I hate wasting time on this site and not getting on with the real reason we come here, I'll not only continue to report and block the scamming dom cis women that appear, but tell anyone who gives them positive messages and emoji's a telling off for being thick as shite. anyone encourages these scammers who will empty your bank account and blackmail you without a ounce of humanity you really deserve it but before that happens I'd like to say to you all to go fuc k yourself and block me so i don't have to read your shite comments any more. If you want to look at p0rn go on a p0rn site as this isn't the site for you. As a guide, its quite simple, cis women accounts posting pictures and especially ones going on about b d s m your sissy ass have absolutely nothing to do with this site other than to try and rip you off. My other resolutions are to block the AI FaceApp addicts, as if I can post real pictures then the rest of you can too. If you don't want to show your face then crop it out. And while its bad enough dealing with the scammers, anyone who may be a real cd that's posting hairy arses and little ugly d1ck pics are just disgusting and not for this site! READ THE FU CKING RULES. Expect to get verbal for being ignorant, selfish and not caring. Not only do we have to deal with the scammers, we have you too. There's plenty of other sites where you can show your bits off on so go there and don't bother this site, or at very least do it in DM's with participating people. So for all the people this applies to have a Happy New Go Fu ck Yourself New Year! Don't bother commenting if I upset you as i don't give a flying fu cking. Have a nice day :0)

a little outside jaunt in my short black mini and stockings

This black teddy is super sexy!

My new black heels just recieved today.

A overweight obese solitary Milf in Black Satin Victorian mourning attire, surrounded by satin black puppies in a dimly lit, cluttered street, enclosed by arcane instruments and half-finished potions. I know I would.

Classic and elegant style always looks great.

I love wearing black, everything just looks good with it.

It's really interesting how something so simple can look so great...

I love this red dress and black stockings... it makes me feel very feminine and I like it :)

Black dress

I love this look, in black and white x

Black knickers for a change

From the girl in black, happy new year to you all x

Well I did quite a bit of knicker and bra shopping today-I bought nice matching bra and knickers set, some purple knickers (favourite colour) from Next, then went to buy more knickers from M+S-came out with black and purple. I have only done a couple of photos but will do more. I returned the silky French knickers and body form knickers that my mother in law loaned me-she said that I can go in her knickers drawer anytime and borrow he panties-I said thanks and yes I will

I love these black and white photos

Todays little effort, a black satin skirt with a white bodysuit

Im doing the black hair thing tonight just wanted to share a few pics with you guys i hope everyone is doing well and keep being being awesome out there

Black & White Photos, in Colour.......!

Just been told - before we go out tomorrow morning I`m going to get a hard spanking with a hard black leather Tawse and I have to wear some of my new clothes (Panties, Bra, cage and plug) under my "every day cloths".......xxx

Black is essential in every lingerie collection. This set is one of my favs!

I was sixteen, maybe seventeen, on that raw December afternoon in the mid-1970s, standing at the back of a small cemetery in southern Manchester. The light was thin and melancholy, the sort that turns everything slightly blue and makes shadows linger too long over the leaning stones. I barely knew the man we were burying, some Uncle twice removed, so the ache in the air never reached me. Grief felt like something that belonged to other people, grown-ups who understood loss. For me, the day was something else entirely, an accidental invitation into a world I hadn’t known I was hungry for.
They were everywhere, those women. Mature, composed, dressed in layers of black that seemed to absorb the weak winter sun and give back only a muted gleam. Silk dresses that clung and released with every breath, satin blouses catching stray glints of light, chiffon and voile drifting like smoke whenever the wind found them. Rayon, acetate, fabrics I didn’t even have names for then, but I felt them all the same, the way they moved, the soft sounds they made against one another. They stood in quiet clusters around the grave, gloved hands clasped, heads bowed beneath hats and veils. To them I must have looked like just another awkward boy in a borrowed tie, but inside I was burning with a fascination I couldn’t name and didn’t dare examine too closely.
And then there was her.
She stood slightly apart, as though even in mourning she needed space. An enormous black satin scarf, far too large, almost theatrical—draped over her shoulders and spilled down her back like spilled ink. Over her face, a sheer chiffon veil, so fine it trembled with every breath. I could smell her from where I stood, carried on the cold air, the sharp bite of Elnette hairspray holding her hair in perfect waves, and beneath it the heavy, amber warmth of Youth Dew. It was the scent of adulthood itself, complicated, slightly dangerous, utterly out of reach.
I watched her the entire time. I told myself it was curiosity, nothing more. But even then, in the thick of it, some quieter part of me knew better. There was something about the way these women carried their sorrow, elegant, controlled, yet undeniably physical that stirred a longing I didn’t understand. It wasn’t just desire, though that was certainly part of it. It was deeper: a wish to be close to whatever it was they possessed experience, certainty, the weight of years lived fully. I felt small beside them, unformed, all sharp edges and unspoken questions. They seemed to know secrets I hadn’t even learned to ask about.
Later, at the wake, coats and scarves were abandoned in a side room as the women moved on to tea and murmured condolences. I lingered near the pile, heart thudding so hard I was sure someone would notice. No one did. My fingers closed around two pieces: the oversized satin mourning scarf, still holding the warmth of her body, and the delicate chiffon veil. Both carried that same intoxicating blend of Elnette, Youth Dew, and something earthier, the faint salt of skin after hours in the cold. I slipped them inside my coat and left before the guilt could catch up with me.
That night, and for many nights through that long winter, I'd ascend up the narrow stairs to my attic bedroom. I’d lock the door, my one small claim to privacy in my parent’s house, draw the curtains and unfold the satin across my pillow. Sometimes I’d press the veil to my face and breathe slowly, letting the scent settle over me like fog.
In those quiet hours I began to understand what I’d really taken that day. It wasn’t just fabric. It was a fragment of a life I could only observe from the outside, a life of composure and ritual, of perfumes chosen deliberately and clothes worn with intention. Holding those scarves, I could pretend, for a moment, that some of that poise might rub off on me. That the confusion and restlessness I carried everywhere might quiet, just a little.
I never felt truly ashamed of stealing them. In my mind they were abandoned, after all, no longer needed once the performance of grief was over. But more than that, they had become mine in a way they could never have been hers again, totems of a feeling I was only beginning to name. Desire, yes. But also envy. And something closer to reverence.
Years later I can still close my eyes and smell it: hairspray, perfume, the faint trace of a woman’s skin on black satin. It takes me straight back to that cemetery, to the boy I was, watching, wanting, trying to understand what it meant to grow into someone capable of wearing mourning like it was made for them.
I’m not sure I ever fully did. But those scarves kept me company while I tried.

Lovely day in the office, munching mince pies!
#BlackSatinMeshBlouse
#CrossdresserUK
#OfficeSecretary

White pantyhose and white heels i start to love them more than black...because i have noticed that men looks more.

Ma Eternal Murnin' at Christmas in the Gorbals Tenement
I've aye felt a queer pull tae this place—number 142 Balgrayhill Road, a weary auld sandstone tenement up in the Gorbals, wi' its shared stairheid an' that cauld tiled close that smells o' damp washin' an' yesterday's chip fat. The blizzard's ragin' the nicht, Christmas 2025, December 25th turnin' intae Boxin' Day proper—snaw drivin' sideways doon the wynd, howlin' roon the lum pots like a banshee, an' the whole estate blanketed in white, streetlights glowin' fuzzy orange through the flurry.
For years, in the quiet o' ma sissy crossdressin' dreams—blethered in late-night internet chats an' hidden fantasies, I've yearned tae cast aff the ordinary an' embrace a wummanly self that's lush, commandin', an' pure voluptuous. The nicht, in this freezin' Scottish winter storm, wi' the wind greetin' doon the close an' snaw pilin' up against the door, that yearnin' finally becomes ma truth.
I staun afore the cracked mirror in the back room, the wind rattlin' the single-glazin' windae, transformin' intae Evelina McTavish, the eternal widow o' the tenement. Ma body—mature, morbidly obese, overflowin' wi' soft curves an' generous fullness—is nae langer somethin' tae hide unner baggy joabies; it's tae be celebrated in this private ritual o' surrender, the cauld air bitin' at ma skin as I dress.
The goon is aw I dreamed: a strikin' black Victorian murnin' A-line, ordered online an' altered masel', made frae shiny satin that catches the dim bulb light like wet tar. Multiple tiers cascade tae ma ankles, brushin' the lino; lang puffed sleeves hug ma airms, an' the high collar frames ma face wi' stern elegance. Ma satin opera gloves slide up smooth tae ma elbows, matchin' the satin heidscarf that covers ma hair in modest severity. Ower it aw drapes a delicate chiffon veil, flutterin' in the draught frae the ill-fittin' door, soaftenin' ma features intae a haze o' melancholy.
As I smooth the folds, feelin' the heavy satin cling tae every abundant inch—the tiers flarin' ower ma wide hips, the bodice cradlin' ma ample bosom, the fabric cauld at first but warmin' frae ma body heat—a wave o' liberation washes ower me, mixin' wi' the smell o' coal smoke frae some neighbour's fire. Nae langer the secret sissy; I'm Evelina, a gothic matron o' sorrow an' quiet power, murnin' loves lost, yet revelin' in ma femininity.
Wi' slow steps the goon rustlin' like whispers doon the narrow close stair I descend the creakin' concrete steps, cauld unner ma feet even through slippers, the snaw driftin' in unner the outer door.
Ma faithful companion, a big black corbie I cry Poe (he's been comin' tae the back court for scraps for donkeys), flaps in through the open windae an' perches on ma gloved shoulder, his feathers iced an' cauld against ma neck.
I step oot intae the estate's street, the blizzard whippin' snaw intae ma veil, stingin' ma cheeks, the ground crunchin' unnerfoot, distant bagpipes wailin' frae some hoose party, mixin' wi' the wind's roar. The abandoned swing park's chains creak in the gale; fairy lights frae a few windaes blink through the snaw. Here, unner the howlin' storm, I walk slow atween the bins an' parked motors, ma veil dancin' wild. Poe lifts aff, circlin' like a dark guardian afore settlin' back. In this cauld, sacred nicht—ma ain vigil—I whisper vows tae masel', hummin' a bit o' "Missletoe n' whine" unner ma breath, promisin' nae mair hidin'.
Deeper intae the estate I drift, past identical closes an' satellite dishes buried in snaw, the satin shimmerin' faint unner streetlights, tiers heavy wi' meltin' flakes. I feel powerful, sensual, complete—ma morbidly obese form a throne o' gothic beauty in this freezin' Scottish nicht.
As the bells approach midnight, faint through the storm, I return tae the tenement. Poe caws saft, like a private toast. Evelina McTavish'll bide here forever, in the heart o' this blizzard an' hidden desire. An' deep in ma soul, the sissy dreams'll whisper on, eternal as the corbie's cry.
Never mair wull I hide, hen. No' even in this ragin' winter. Happy Christmas tae me.

Black and White Christmas


My Christmas dress
I dream
Just white
To merry Bon Noel....
I hope
He'll propose straight
Without silly wait...
I will be very pretty
Wife
And cold
to help his
Work...
I think it would be very right
Spent Christmas with black top...

Hi girls hope you are enjoying your weekend. Until tonight i spent mine in my pjs. Decided needed blackpool so came out.

Black all red today xx

Fishnets & black thong

White is the new black

Happy Hump Day.....!
#BlackSatinBlouse

Just trying this little number on, got it in purple and black too, but was mixing the boots, love the #corsets #party wear

Black satin today off shopping now xx

I love wearing this black satin/mesh blouse......

And #OutfitForTheDay #PVC Leggings #AnkleBoots Purple #SatinCorset then a black sleeved top, very likely to be replaced with jumper very soon though

Hi girls dose anyone no of any site's to meet and chat to in the Blackpool area. Please

A kinky day in the office today......!
Melanie in her #BlackSatinBlouse

Shoes red and black

Todays outfit of the day Velvet dress with lace sleeves and my gorgeous suede black boots, not a flattering look, but comfortable