#2 - My latest rocking outfit

Hi all thinking this dress maybe too short

Good evening girls! Just having a chill night, a few drinks and maybe a movie, If I can find something to watch and not spend all night looking through countless menus and not making my mind up!

Looking to make UK friends

Sarah been a bad Girl, she needs spanking hard

Hello everyone here,I'm looking for a good, honest, truthful, obedient and understanding sissyslut to own and collar 24/7 in the Bdsm lifestyle again. #sissy #femboy

Some spanking pls

Just thought id say hello, looking to be a lesbian lover, locked up and dressed up x

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

Love walking in heels

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.

Looking for a submissive ***** to own and control

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.

Melanie's new navy-striped satin blouse has arrived!
So looking at doing some photo-shoots in this next weekend.....

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.

Id like to know what toys you girls use and love bigger, thicker, longer, i love them all but im looking to add some new ones to my collection. Please send pictures and a short message about why you like your favorite toy or toys to help me decide thankyou to all that actuality read this message

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>

I'm a ******** looking for ***** to control

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.

Please stop saying you're gay. I'm of the volition that if you look like a woman and are beautiful and I'm a straight handsome man we are heterosexual couple. I don't like men but if a hot looking chick has a dick I'm interested. The word gay is used for two men who like each other just like lesbian is for two women. In my mind's eye you don't look like a guy you look like a beautiful woman therefore we're not gay!

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.

Stolen from someone else's Fetlife post, but...

It took me a while to really understand exactly why the right is so terrified specifically of trans women.

And then I really thought about six foot tall women with obsessions with wilderness survival and craft activities and swords and guns and cooking and decentralized workers liberation movements and oh now I get it.

... i'm nowhere near six foot tall, have no guns, but otherwise....

Just by sticking spandex tonight I would have liked to do more but well it will be for later I think

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

I'm looking for real people who are a trans woman and transgender or a woman who used to be a man and become a girl from being a man or a man who's having turn into a girl from being a man and has trans formed from having a sex gender change doing to their and this a girl now from being a man and will dating ME now and married ME and I will give them everything they will need and wanted to change my sex gender into a girl from being a man with them to if they will help me to be a girl and dating ME now

Anyway was checking the main feed and noticed a against one of my rants about scammers. Saw it was from Tgirljane69. Well her last picture is plastered across the internet. Call me cynical but I don't think its who she portrays on here. Make your own mind up though.

I just wanna run off and be Sonia full time - in some sexy frolicking and kinky capacity

Waking up to a new update.
The site is looking pretty nice now

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>

Which knickers or stocking tops do you like?

I have dated many cis women and it was great sex or love making without BDSM. I want a sissy, but I'm not convinced they have as good a orgasm as cis vaginal. But not all cis women are great in bed. So I'm attracted to sissy if they look like a beautiful woman that's how I transition to wanting a hot looking chick with a dick. I have an oral fixation and if a sissy wants me as a daddy, then I'm interested. But bdsm could be a waste of my time and I'm not into being tied up for an hour while the ******** leaves and fucks someone else...lol

Feeling like staying at home smoking and having fun tonight!!

EmilyChill and Emily12 to be avoided unless you are absolutely sure who they are. EmilyChill DM'd me. I found her original (cropped) picture was across the net and when i asked her about it she suddenly changed it to some other leg picture. No explanation about the original one. Was asking her more info about her as there's nothing on her profile (red flag) and now she's blocked me. Emily12 just asking me about where i was then went quiet for no reason. Her pics are sus anyway. Call me paranoid but lol

Hailey is a hot looking gamer and a smashing sexy sissy girl

Watch out for Kale, the idiot messaged me, calling me baby, asking if I wanted to have sex on cam, then before I could answer, tried to video call me! Cheeky get!
He's now blocked of course!

Chloe

Think they may be thinking of re naming this site.......

"Ai Crossdressing.anyfuckingwhere.fakes"

I think you're a hot looking chick with a dick...is my kind of woman

Sorry about the hairy legs, it's too hot for stockings or tights, not to mention wigs
I'm looking forward to some cooler weather in the next few days

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.

Jerking off to a pretty sissy doesn't make someone a sissy. Some of us are straight alpha masculine manly prowess and I personally prefer a hot looking chick with a dick. I'm the man and the sissy is the female. We'd be heterosexual.

me wishing I was out dancing and drinking in my boots and skirt flirting

Good morning! wow, I get in from work and spend like 20 minutes looking for scammy feckin twats to report and block. And, then remember this is still a social site! So I'm being social and posting a pic, well just incase you all forgot what I looked like?? Ok, so I changed my lippy shade, did you notice?

Making friends

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
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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..


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Awwwww i still cannot stop thinking of the dress! I so ache to wear it right now and i was so happy wearing it last tuesday as the layers gently rubbed against my legs! Mmmmm