Off to be spanked, in tights xx

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oh my it was so cold outside when break from nightshift XD : )

Im havinf a conversation about putting on weight and the struggle to get it off again , any thoughts ? X

last nightshift : )

Nights in White Satin, with Melanie.......

I White

Abit of sports outfit haul amd skort haul for a a drink and a meal with anyone who is intrested

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.

More upskirts and one lovely bottom x

Morning girls hope you all ok and have had great day its a chilly one this morning

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

New boots

Adrianaxd reported and will be blocked for posting very explicit video in the main page. total moron and even worse the idiots who 'liked' it.

Soggy lonely day at work…..but did get to try one of my new dresses!…..well actually lots but that’s another story! Femme fatale Velvet underground x light not great but to dark at home too x

Hi everyone, am I the only person who loves making skirts/ clothing out of plastic bags, it makes me feel so cheap and trashy and I love it

New dress, new shoes & white fishnets..........whats there not to like

aaah work again but its okay because its from home : )

Just some simple upskirts xx

This Year 2026.......
What will you ever choose to Wear Everyday and Everytime, specially like on a Public Place like a Mall or Plaza?????? (without wearing an undies)
Pantyhose or an Stockings Pull-Ups.....
Please Vote on the Poll, its just for an Survey... Nothing Personal and Please Share this Pole Vote.

Just love a pair of shiny cdr tights xx

Who wants to be owed here?

Why ??? ...

I often think
About girls
Who like
To live
Me with...

Who I am?
Prince in funny dress?
A doll?
Or just Caprise?
Or do they feel in me
Princess
Who's different and soft?
Not too agressive at the end
"With money , tools and worth..."

I do not know...
When I'm dressed
Some look on me
With interest...
So I am not
Prevert for them...
But who?
Hermaphrodite?
Not yet?

Or maybe many are
Just blind....
Attracted to my legs?
Or envy?
I did never mind
If girls have interest

Some few who knew me
In the past
Are still confused
And cold...
I do not know
Should or must
I take off all my shorts?
Should I be naked
Or be in tights?
What difference it makes?
Or visous circle locks so tight... in there
By witch spelt...?
Why we're rejected
Being in tights?
Why liked to be just naked?
This problem's wondering
My mind
Why it is sin to be so stright.
To walk
To show legs...
Why it is frightening
For whem
If not about sex...?
I do not know
In my brain
There is perhaps a gap ..

I want to develop my looks along this style more. Goth / Steampunk. Not something to go out in public without a dress over the top, but maybe like this on a Pride day? Note this is not AI just in case anyone is confused . Love my kinky boots too

S_k_y blocked as she's a cis woman and even worse the amount of people on here saying how pretty she is. you can find all her pictures over the net so likely stolen from genuine person. the posts and profile have zero to do with this site. stop praising them whoever it is. think with your brain for once

Public Broadcast Announcment - Is Zangi Safe?

Zangi is safe from a technical privacy standpoint for communication between people who know and trust each other, due to its strong encryption and lack of data storage on servers. However, the app is frequently used by scammers who exploit its privacy features and anonymity to target new victims, making it risky for interacting with unknown individuals.

Key Risks
Despite its strong technical security, Zangi's features make it attractive to malicious actors.

Scammer Haven: The anonymity and lack of data trails are heavily exploited by scammers (romance scams, sextortion, etc.) who use the app to avoid detection.

Lack of Vetting: Unlike more mainstream apps, Zangi's security claims haven't undergone as much independent, public scrutiny, and it lacks in-app reporting or identity verification tools.

If you do not personally know the person who asks you to switch to Zangi, it is a major red flag and likely a scam attempt.

what a natural curvy girl haha. that ass is so big its got its own gravity field that its bending even the counter top in the background. shockingly poor photoshooped lol

Anybody not a scammer on here i know i block lots on here but lately its just a joke x

Listening to myself on Spotify

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

https://youtube.com/@wemmartyn

#twinklelittlestar

hey sluts. I'm live on YouTube right now:
https://studio.youtube.com/video/ClVomGE8ljQ/livestreaming

Good evening everyone manic Monday survived hope you all did too and are well. am now comfortable in my boots and mini skirt feeling chilled and comfortable

Picking up some makeup bits from Boots later. Hopefully try a full face tomorrow. Prepare for Pennywise lol

Nice tights

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.

Glam reported and blocked. if you see 'her' its so obvious. do not engage with this person or similar as they are after your money

Good Night !
I wish all peaceful
Warm Nights
I just undressed
To sleep in tights....

I missed my tits so much lol

I must say I have been away for a while and I’ve missed dressing so much.
But tonight I feel I’m back to where I want to be, as I’ve just got ready for bed in pink silk cami set and dressing gown and my gorgeous breasts xx

My buddies wife lets me rummage through her stuff

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."

JosieD, you appear to have a nose for smelling out scammers, as I have myself. It appears to me also that there are these people on every site and it damn well spoils the site. Thanx lots ..xx

Who wants to come join me outside

The amount of times I e been caught in a skin tight pink thong… it almost double digits!hehe🫣🫦

Hope you've all had a nice weekend and had lots of action

Hey all

Brittany727 couldn't take the heat. removed my posts then blocked me lol. and for the rest of you idiots stop effin' giving her hearts and thumbs up. its a scammer!

A glimmer of hope... The site 'Chloe' has posted an interesting post on here asking what we would like to see and happen on the site. Please try and find it and post your suggestions and priorities. This may help get rid or fast track remove the dom cis women and scammers off the site and make it more respectable if you know what i mean. allow this site to grow and be used without distraction so we can enjoy CD and all that goes with it. You can guess I posted my thoughts lol and everyone has their own take but hopefully they will be gathered, read, and action taken to improve the site into a great site

No one puts baby in a corner =)

One week since the release of She Has a GUN.

Thank you to everyone who’s listened, shown love, and followed the journey on Facebook, Instagram, and YouTube.

It truly means everything.
Special Thanks to Jasmine, for being an inspiration and a friend x

#twinklelittlestar

https://youtu.be/w50WrBV6uRA?si=r__q3qNJRsTYoSkz