The recovering crossdresser?

To crossdress or not crossdress – that is the question…

A time for action — April 9, 2019

A time for action

The significant other wanted to do some work in the man cave the other week, whilst I was out, and this work entailed coming rather close to where my boxed, long out of use lingerie collection was held.  I cursed under my breath and hatched a plan to rescue that box and store it in the back of my car where it ultimately stayed for some weeks.

Similarly, the cloth bag in which a suspender belt and hold ups had been held was also put in a similar location having hidden in my man bag since I last wore the items.

In the back of my mind, I knew that I needed to do something, but remained hesitant because I didn’t want to cast the merest eye over the contents for fear of being lured like the proverbial moth to the flame, and so the box and bag sat in the boot for a little longer.

Spin on a few more days and with a plan for a family meal out somewhere, I acknowledged the need to walk a distance from the car park to the restaurant, and rather considerately threw a few golf umbrellas in the boot of the car to challenge the naff weather.    However, with the significant other within reasonable viewing distance, I realised that there was a box, the style of which she would potentially be slightly familiar with in the boot – the box having slid around a fair bit with daily driving.

I cursed at a mild volume but without question, threw the umbrellas in without the boot being fully open and slammed it shut again at speed.  It was raining, so it was perhaps reasonable for those with a more innocent mind to conclude I was merely making haste.

With the meal done, we ventured home, but concluded a need to pick up a few things from a nearby supermarket.   Again, I could see things unravelling at the other end of the shopping expedition, as the bags were, of course, loaded into the boot.   Of course, it was still raining, so that acted as suitable cover for the significant other to make similar haste inside whilst I hung around to throw the box and bag containing my lingerie underneath the boot shelf and into the tyre well.  It wasn’t a great fit but it sufficed.

At the other end of the shopping trip, the rain continued to hurtle down, so, ever the strategist when it came to things related to crossdressing, I ushered the s/o into the car to avoid getting soaked and merely put the bags into the boot myself.

Close calls.  They were close enough to conclude that I needed to bite the proverbial bullet and get the bag contents into the box and get the box put away.

So, one morning, home alone once more, I ventured out to the car, collected the bits and bobs and brought them inside.  I was instantly acutely concerned with the risk of the sight of contents in the box.  I need not have worried. Upon opening the box, the content were covered by old redundant postal packaging, with absolutely nothing in view.

Wrestling with the need to grab the black suspender belt and hold ups from the black cloth bag, I duly did so and merely thrust them into the top of the box before quickly shutting it once more and making sure that it got to remote storage.

Before or after this, I don’t remember, and having slept naked the night before, my mind wandered to those items that did not form part of the box – the sex toys which occupy another hidey hole somewhere at home, including two chastity devices, a rubber prostate massager, my vibrating prostate massager, 6” dildo and a cock pump.   The focus of the attention was, for some reason, on the holy trainer and it was soon fitted and bound in order to wear for work all day.

I wondered why I did this and could only venture to describe it as a yearned kink, the trainer covered by a white silky g-string – one of my daily items of non-femme underwear.   As part of the earlier fitting, I’d collected a key and had put it on the bunch of house keys.   It wasn’t until I was at work for the day that I realised that it was not just another key but was in fact marked ‘BDSM’ on the key head.   This amused me so much that I did something that I hadn’t done for a few weeks and posted something on my Twitter page with a shot of the key and the odd relevant emoji – you know the sort – padlocks, keys and the like.

Talking of toys, you’ll note that these haven’t been put into remote storage like the lingerie has.  Since the latest crossdressing cessation, I have enjoyed the odd hour or so time home alone in a morning to enjoy some self pleasuring..  On just one recent occasion, I decided to use the suction cup dildo against the bedroom cupboard mirror for some deep anal and have also enjoyed the vibrating prostate massager too.  I must admit the sudden burst into life of fitting my holy trainer on more than one occasion, has reignited a passion for my sex toys.

What I don’t really understand is why I have felt it necessary to put myself into chastity again – a pattern that remained for the next few days.  I even began planning when I might next use the dildo and prostate massager.  Sexually explorative tendencies have come back to the fore it seems.

I suppose it wasn’t helped by one night’s more intense, and arguably retrospective flick back through my Twitter posts in my crossdressed and chaste state.  I suppose it is one of the reasons why I’ve stayed off the account, but the scroll through certainly sowed the proverbial seed.   Whilst the sight of me in lingerie kind of made me want to be in lingerie again, the reasons for not doing so were of more importance.   The fact that I have had no actual visible cues from that box opening have helped a great deal.

Eventually, the urge to put myself into chastity subsided, either though necessity or something else, but it resumed again last week with the cage, and use of the vibrating massager and dildo.   The intensity and lust led to blood-letting.  With the suction cup dildo pinned to the corner of a bit of furniture, and with the cage well and truly fitted, it seemed like the latter was a fortress through which nothing could cause harm to the nether regions.

I elected to straddle the dildo both ways, but turning around to face the wall and straddle the corner of the unit meant that as the action commenced, the riding motions led to the end of a filled cage coming  into contact with the surface.  Eventually, I paid enough attention to realise that I had trapped myself and blood had begun to pool from the end of my caged penis.

Things came to an abrupt end as concern for what damage I had caused to myself began to mount and released myself from the cage.  My anatomy was, it seems, able to stop the bleeding very quickly, thank goodness, and with things patched up,  either continued where I had left off, or decided enough was enough and applied myself to the day.   I don’t remember now.

The coming of last weekend led to an enforced break, but plans have been hatched again to resume with anal play, but rather than the holy trainer, the cage has been the chastity device of choice for some reason, applied during the working day.

The urge today though continued to exploration of anal play – to purchase a butt plug that can be worn out and about.  Reviews were reviewed, the item of choice was selected and ordered for imminent pick up at a collection point on route to and from the day job.

That is for another day which I look forward to immensely.

Which brings me on to the last part of this update – well, almost.  I should have expected it really.  A few weeks ago, I made a completely irrational, logic-free jaunt onto Fiona’s Twitter account having not done since – well, probably January time.   Followers had dwindled some, to below 300, and the odd time waster had clicked on ‘follow’ – the type that merely seeks to promote their own sites and interests which never get a follow back – you know the type, and there have been more since.

Curiosity caused me to select the DMs.  Safia – the person I’d flirted and chatted so much with, the person who put me into chastity, the person I’d put into chastity having bought items for and sent items to and even sent them a chastity key, even going as far as having previously apologised for any upset and if I if I had misled them, unintentionally indicating that there might be a chance of anything between us – had made some attempt to correspond with me about the extent of their chaste state.

As I’d not been on the account though, the wall of silence, normally unusual for me, had, it seems, been taken with evident offence.  The DM conversation had been blocked from continuing and I’d even been blocked.   In a strange kind of way, it hurt.  But then, being an otherwise rational sort of person, I quickly concluded hat their actions were fully justified.

I had warned them at the beginning of the year that I was having an almighty wobble and was, once more, questioning what the bloody hell I was doing with my life, but to be fair, I had then just simply disappeared.

I’d not really given any indication that things had stopped once more, nor warned that I had just got to stop everything, including my regular Twitter exchanges, anything in fact that would lure me in to things that, frankly, I would rather stop myself from doing.

Perhaps they deserved more than that, but in all honesty, everyone became the victims – collateral damage –  but you could say that Safia bore the brunt of it.   Perhaps offence had been taken to my perhaps irrational deletion of a number of more recent images from the DM thread?   The comments were there – the images no longer were.  Maybe that was something that caused objection too.  Fair enough I suppose, but I was only acting as my messed up brain instructed me to at the time.

Nevertheless, blocked as I am, I can only use this blog to offer my apologies for any hurt caused anyway with the off chance that they may read this.   Considering the three figure amount of money I’d spent on sending them all manner of things out of the goodness of my heart, perhaps I owed them nothing, especially as gratitude wasn’t very forthcoming and finally arrived under total duress when their cage arrived.

Having scrolled back though the DMs we exchanged the other day, I considered that I should not have gone as far as I did – but my sexuality was going at a new pace, a pace that Safia had somehow, likely unintentionally, had a hand in driving.  It still rankles with me that I am blocked, as I am a sentimental old sod, yet I am prepared to suffer the consequences of my actions in looking after number 1.

But I remain truly sorry.

I feel that I had gone too far at times, somehow raised their expectations, even when anything else was impossible.  I’d become too involved, then whipped the proverbial rug away after feet had become well and truly placed upon it.

Lingerie returned to storage, sex toys somehow still available and seemingly back into use, inclined to wear my holy trainer or cage for several working days running, and inclined for more toy time and being chaste in the days to come, that is merely for my own sexual kick.  I don’t really understand why I want to be so – there is no logic to it.

With the inclinations to toy anally, there are no ambitions for the real thing, no inclination to venture anywhere further outside of one’s comparatively recently declared bi-curiousness.  I’ve often said that in the right situation, fantasies I have very much but as it turns out retrospectively, unfortunately involved myself with on DMs with Safia, could well be played out.

The likelihood of them actually happening in any case are/were very slim and as I’ve also said before on my now stripped back and unused cam site of choice, if the opportunity did present itself, I’d probably run a mile.  Additionally, I’d probably be wracked with guilt that would be etched all over my face in the aftermath.   That’s a reason not to want it anyway.

So in summary, what we have here is cessation, storage, guilt and reflection and kink.  There is also peace of mind at not actually using up time with crossdressing the equal measures of joy and anguish if seemed to give.  I don’t want any of that right now, but I suppose, somewhere deep down, there is still a longing to do so in another world – not this World though.

I suppose that is more than enough this time around.  Until the next time – thanks for reading.   Comments welcome below.

F.x

Advertisements
Somewhere, nowhere. — February 5, 2019

Somewhere, nowhere.

The decks were cleared some more the other day.  It wasn’t much but it was a further step along some pathway or another.

The Twitter profile had its profile slimmed.  I noted that the number of followers had once more taken a tumble but so what?  Other than a few people who had liked one of my historic posts or another, there were a half dozen or so supposed new followers each of whom lacked any kind of substance or, in my opinion, credibility.   They were, you know, the sort of people that have a vague Twitter profile (or in fact, several) in a probably largely futile to promote a website from which they perhaps desperately hope to make some money out of through some sex-related route or another.   None of them were worth a second glance, so I moved on.

As I’ve said before, such people are welcome to follow, but they shouldn’t expect a follow-back.  In any case, I’ve nothing to say on Twitter these days.   Whatever.

Whilst I was on though, the Twitter feed provided a chance to scan through but I was soon bored and, with ease, you’ve guessed it, logged out and did something else.   Beforehand, I had mused over the option of accessing the direct message button and deleting images from the threads and in fact, the threads themselves – but I didn’t.  I also briefly contemplated deleting the posts in which I’d posted photographs of myself crossdressed.  But I didn’t.

Overcoming another exhausting period of illness, and with a burden of personal issues that would be the envy of no-one whatsoever, the whole mindset has changed for 2019.  This is NOT a happy new year – in fact, far from it and frankly, other than just going through the motions day by day, I can’t see much to be happy about at the moment, the way many things are geared.

But crossdressing as an escape is not seen as viable or desired either.  Flicking through the daily free paper that I often see on the commute or at work, there have been the odd images of female celebrities in lingerie for what can only be the viewer’s minor titillation.   The other day, there was, in the showbiz section, two small stories/headlines and in between, but distinctly lacking a supporting caption, was a very small picture of someone wearing a black leather style basque, stockings and suspenders.   There was another much better image of a celebrity or woman in lingerie that I saw at some point or another in the last week or so that grabbed my attention too.

But in each instance, having stared and reflected for a few moments, there quickly came a point where I told myself that wasn’t where I was, and pushed myself to focus the attention elsewhere.

I have briefly browsed heterosexual porn but within a small period of time, became bored with that too and did something else that I deemed far more interesting instead – and, it’s not what you might think either!

That reminds me, flicking through another of those free newspapers the other day, I caught another story about former Baywatch babe Pamela Anderson who has reportedly said that those who watch copious amounts of porn are poor lovers.   I suppose that might have been a driving force behind getting bored with my own browsing session the other day, deciding not to be allowed be perceived, even by myself, to fall into that bracket.  Thanks Pammie – who was described in the story as a 51 year old ‘siren’!  You go girl!

The thoughts over my crossdressing side, currently consigned to the history books, have been restricted to how I might begin the process of removing things to remote storage again but also that I really ought to do it sooner rather than later, in case, driving largely by my own paranoia, those little bits and bobs might be discovered just when peace and tranquillity had been allowed to come to the fore.

No longer have I been repeatedly checking, double checking, triple checking whether I’d cleared away sufficiently, before I set about the working day.   The chastity devices have been removed from the man bag over recent weeks and stored away secretly at home with other bits and bobs, sex toys and the like.  However, the man bag contains a cloth bag in which a high waist black suspender belt and stockings reside, confined to darkness and lack of use, mind you, they have had plenty of use before anyway!

They too, need to be part of a convenient moment, probably home alone, when they can be put with the other things and stored away, critically, not purged.  Make of that intent what you will.  I don’t know whether I’ll ever go back – I can’t say ‘never’ because I’ve intimated before how things had stopped, only for them to start again, even after a significant period of time.

So who am I now and where am I?  Honestly, I don’t know.  I’m still determined to file things away in whatever way, shape or form and maintain the cessation of all things crossdressing, a dramatic and sudden end to things, very much in stark contrast to the intensity that went before.

Yes – I know.  Much of the above has been said before, blah, blah, blah, blah, whatever eh?  Indeed.  I have said before how something has changed, and it had, as has happened this time.  I’m currently inclined to conclude that something is different again this time, different in another way, but again, all said copious amounts of time before on many blog entries.

I can only tell you how things are right now, as fingers scamper across the keyboard on yet another commute – time during which I’ve concluded that tomorrow is the day for that further round of deck clearing I mused about the other day – where something will be put somewhere, and nowhere, leaving me very much in the same place.

Thanks as always for taking the time to follow and read my blogs.

Clearing the decks — January 18, 2019

Clearing the decks

It started with what was deemed the most explicit material – videos on an explicit XXX website.  I signed in, I deleted the videos, I deleted the profile and in feeding back for the reasons, merely said that it was ‘time to go’ but ‘thanks’.

Next, Skype. Logging in soon revealed that the program had changed.  It seemed that, by default, a user was automatically hidden until choosing to make themselves visible.  I reasoned that this was useful under the circumstances and, having taken a quick look at the missed messages from a wide range of anonymous folk from the opportunistic to the friendly, I stopped only to take momentary objection to the fact that I might be unfairly ignoring those with whom I had valued apparently genuine, time, interest and friendship.

My focus though was on a thread where I had shared more video.  The hatchet was wielded, the videos were removed, and I very quickly logged out.  That seemed enough for that particular day and I busied myself with something else.

The next day, I ventured on to my favoured web cam site, logged in, took an almost reflective spin through a few uploaded images I’d spun through and had seen many times before before switching off every single element of the profile bar the account itself.  Off went former captured images, off went the gallery, off went the ‘about me’ profile, off went the questionnaire, off went the link to Fiona’s Twitter account, and having wielded the hatchet there, all that was left was the avatar and basic details.

That was enough – I took a quick browse through the latest timeline posts doing my utmost to avoid being overtly drawn in any way, shape or form, and almost celebrated the fact that the entries from those being followed were, at the time, very heterosexual rather than being more bisexual or overtly crossdressing related.

I had spent only brief moments in recent days wondering quite whether the DM box would be full of inquisitive ‘where have you been?’ or ‘where are you?‘ messages from my chastity keyholder, or anyone else for that matter, me not having left any tweets, or made any DMs, or having even accessed the social media site for fear of being drawn like a moth to a flame.

How vain was I?  What did I REALLY expect?   There was nothing but a few notifications about new followers or ‘likes’ to previous posts.   Somehow, I’d expected something from my symbolic keyholder, but there had been nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing despite having lavished hard earned cash on all manner of things for them, having lavished vast amounts of my valuable spare time, home and away, on communicating via direct messaging.  See?  I was as unimportant to them as I had perhaps always been – I’d allowed myself to be used perhaps.  After all, I had usually opened dialogue, 99.9% of the time anyway and if there was nothing to respond to, why on earth would they want to open any dialogue with me – especially given that I’d apparently vanished?

There had been warnings of my disappearance and silence anyway.  I’d previously but recently said in no uncertain terms that the turn of the New Year had caused a monumental wobble and a serious bout of questioning one’s self.     Having taken momentary objection to no one giving a damn on my self imposed almost full Twitter abandonment, I brushed any disappointment away by simply logging out.

There have been occasions when my browser of choice allowed me to see my DMs, yet this was another occasion when the virus software, no doubt having done another of its off peak updates, seemed to decide that it would not show me the various DM threads this time around.

This prevented me from going through them and deleting what is probably a vast amount of imagery of me, dressed and undressed.  I supposed that it was therefore a deck to be cleared another day and moved on.

Earlier in a week wracked by the return of the ill health that plagued me in the run up to and over the festive season, I surfaced one morning, stripped out of the pyjamas to my birthday suit, prepared the dildo and took some naked anal, the suction cup dildo against a wardrobe mirror and with the smart phone filming away, the file only staying until the clear up afterwards when it was swiftly deleted.

Overall, and certainly in retrospect, the whole thing wasn’t great for all the usual reasons associated with such sexual activity, apart from the fact that, at some points during, it was.  Having seen a Twitter post about which muscles to use to grip, I revelled in the feelings caused by that sexual exploration and feeling that it was pushing the right buttons further than they had been pushed before, pressed the proverbial fast forward button and brought myself to climax whilst still feeling full penetration and applying what seemed a rather uncomfortable withdrawal.   For the first time ever, I was not crossdressed whilst I enjoyed this period of sex, and during the experience, spoke out to myself that, despite everything going off right now, it appeared that I STILL loved a bit of anal.

Since then, I’ve not craved it again.  Far from it.  In fact, as indicated in a previous blog entry, I have since given more, brief thought to finding a box large enough for everything bar perhaps the cock pump and Fleshlight to be put into a box and remotely stored away.

Conversely, there have been times when my mind’s eye has projected images of stockings and suspenders, reminders of the feelings and look of wearing a bra, the feelings of pulling on those stockings and admiring the stocking tops.   Perusing the many blog entries and Twitter accounts that I follow, I have been confronted by images of women wearing lingerie, bras, stockings and suspenders but there has only been the briefest of sparks of interest of taking things further.

Nothing has sparked a desire to dress, although there have been moments when I asked myself whether it was worth dressing before deciding firmly against having come up with less than NO reasons to do so.  I have also asked myself whether it was worth putting on a chastity device, but after the two months or so of exploration and indulgence, other than concluding that it prevented guilt as it also prevented or at least discouraged orgasm, I have been left questioning exactly how and why I was wearing it, other than for some sort of evidently unexplainable sexual kick.

The man bag has been carried around for days with two chastity devices packed away within (read ‘hidden away’ if you like’) and the remaining elements of my own lingerie, the suspender belt and stockings, taking up valuable space with no intent of being worn yet best left there in the absence of any secure plans to be put elsewhere.

Ill health means that elements of medication carried with me are more yearned for items, but I have needed to snap myself to my senses in the midst of feeling distinctly off colour and reaching almost desperately for it, by reminding myself to avoid leaving the man bag with the top open, and, in my mind at least, open to the casual investigation of others for things to be discovered that I don’t want to be discovered.

One day this week, sitting at my desk at the day job, I decided to pick up my bunch of keys, locate the two chastity keys retained in my possession, that had previously put me into and taken me out of my partial lock up, and merely removed them before casting them into the bags in which the chastity devices resided, in the dark depths of the man bag – this was another step towards an evident and all encompassing desire and drive to clear the decks.

Crossdressing hasn’t been on my mind.  Sexual activity hasn’t been on my mind.  Prioritising more deck clearing hasn’t been on my mind really either.  Other things, other people, the day job and, unfortunately, right now, ill health have been somehow refreshingly at times, keeping the mindset more focused away from the former.  Ill health has been at the forefront of my thoughts – and when we are ill, we can rarely concentrate on anything else anyway, as we fight our way through it all for however long it takes – these days – too long.

The sex toys remain in their various stored locations, the box of lingerie and the breast forms is hidden where it has been for sometime, and the man bag continues to have my chastity devices and lingerie remnants as necessary squatters for the time being until I decide upon and/or fashion something else.

Having recently benefitted from a partial body wax, I’m not in bad shape, yet occasional observations acknowledge or even expect that it is all coming back through again and right now, I’ve almost given in, conceded defeat to body hair even though I will continue to have it removed as I have been doing so for years as I don’t want it.   My dysphoria continually sees me finger tip search for and pluck in certain areas of my body recently waxed whilst critically analysing the areas next up for waxing, hatred pouring over every glance and stare.

I have carried out the day job without worrying as to whether my lingerie was properly covered up, whether anyone suspected that day, whether anyone was talking in corners, paranoia a-plenty perhaps, now no longer an issue.   No more was I checking and double checking browsers, whether everything really, really, REALLY had been put away properly at home, or whether I’d left tell-tale signs to finally burn all bridges.   This peace of mind was somehow massively comforting and reassuring right now.

All good?  Right and proper?  Something to take comfort from?  Not really.   Relapse and resumption are still very real possibilities.  I know that – you know that.  It has happened before after all.   I could quite suddenly and easily snap out of the current mindset tomorrow, the next day, next week or even next month.

However long it lasts, whether it is for good, for a medium to long term or otherwise – for now, the decks continue to be cleared.   Make of that what you will – because I can’t.

The pendulum swings, the pendulum stops — January 12, 2019

The pendulum swings, the pendulum stops

One of my previous entries at this time of year has been ‘Crappy New Year‘ – an indication perhaps of the effects that a change of year has on quite a lot of us I would guess.

There has been a distinct change to my approach to crossdressing as 2018 drew to a close.  I recall a previous remark along the lines that I was almost reluctant to get into the lingerie yet still did.

The end of 2018 saw a clear ‘ramping up’ of sexual exploration, of bi-curious tendencies, of explicit converation via social media messaging, of posting of explicit photographs and videos but conversely, an acknowledgement that perhaps the track I was on really wasn’t the right one, both clear display and recognition of deceitful traits, more blatant than ever before, in the company of those closest to me.

Last week, the pendulum of moods was swinging.  One way, indulging as per usual, the other, the complete opposite, no intent whatsoever to indulge in any way, shape or form.

Bizarrely, there was one day when I didn’t dress nor wear a chastity device, yet the items were available to me in the man bag as I went about the business of the day job.  The day wore on as I began remonstrating with myself that, somehow, I should be locked up.

Why?  Goodness only knows, but the mood continued, and eventually, I nipped off to the gents and locked myself up in the holy trainer before returning to my desk and seeing the afternoon out in a slightly more contented mood.

Anyway, back to last week.  The night before, I had immersed myself so deeply in my apparent sexual persuasions that I hatched a plan to indulge in dressing in a black lingerie set and of using a dildo against a mirror, all whilst locked up in the holy trainer chastity device.

The plan was duly hatched the following day, despite there being no time, despite there being a need to get off to work, despite a need to have breakfast and make some lunch before I went, despite the need to catch a train etc.

Filming it all, didn’t really go to plan, yet the footage remained on my smart phone device for the time being.  Inside, I craved a sexual peak, arguing with myself that it probably wasn’t the best thing I could do, given how I tend to feel afterwards, yet I pushed on.

Sure enough, with no further urges to anything else in the immediate aftermath, the lingerie and chastity device was removed, the detritus of condom wrappers, boxes, sex toys and other items of relevance were cleared away as applicable and that was it.

Since then, there has been a sort of brightness in my stride, I have seemed somehow more relaxed, more at ease, more likely to apply myself to something else and in all honesty, I have done.

I haven’t even been on Fiona’s social media presences, most notably – Twitter.  Sure, this is abandoning the ongoing DMs with my chastity keyholder and others than I pledged to offer support and friendship to, and is in the wake of somewhat irrationally signing up to a chastity website which seems to have little substance or membership.

The mindset has turned to opportunities that might present themselves to bundle all of the crossdressing paraphernalia, toys and outfits together and return them to the aforementioned ‘remote’ storage location.

I am, of course, mindful that this could be a mere blip and something might trigger a fall back in to the embracing arms of crossdressing, much as happened all too frequently before.  Just this morning, whilst dressing, I admired the smoothness of my recently waxed chest and my fairly hair-free body, just as I like it, and for a moment or so, pondered as to whether being this way just for comfort was enough for my inner psyche.

I didn’t really get an answer together, instead, throwing myself into applying deodorant, creams and potions as applicable, then daytime clothes, then applying myself into the activities of another all too likely quickly disappearing weekend, no lingerie, no chastity, no intention.

What is it that has led to what I have often described on social media as a ‘mindf**k’?  Plain and simply, a change of year – no more, no less.  There have been instances this week when I concluded to myself that the earlier indecision had been a temporary blip and that I was back on track with my crossdressing.

However, the unavoidable guilt felt after orgasm post-anal has been a bitter pill to swallow yet again.  I have blogged before about keeping a lid on reaching such peaks during indulgences, hence the self-imposed partial chastity, but being brought to one’s senses as part of a come-down from reaching ever heightening sexual peaks and overtones, is beginning to resonate a lot more than it did before.

When I stopped crossdressing last time, one of the driving forces was that I didn’t want to perceive myself as becoming a ‘dirty, sad old man’ and this very thought has been in my head again in the last few days.  I’m pushing 50 for goodness’ sake.

I have some good things going on in my life and I have also set myself some new year resolutions, some already in draft form before the turn of the year, and now being put into place.

My inbox has given me indications of things that I need to be doing now, soon or later this year, and there are other things in my mind to apply similarly.  None, or little of those things will be done, if I cannot shake myself off what is a rather intense, all controlling addiction.

It’s probably relevant to place another of those lines in here that many have said, many times historically since goodness only knows when I started this thing.  “If it’s not hurting anyone….”.

What if it is hurting me somehow?  It must be hurting others too indirectly.  If this thing is on my mind as much as it is – there is no ‘if’ about it really – then surely anyone holding something in without being able to adequately talk about it to anyone to any significant and/or helpful lengths, must find that their mood and behaviour impacts on others, or that my actions impact on other things that one day might blow up in my face.

I’m going to have to see how long this cessation and mindset lasts.   For now, the clock has stopped.  The pendulum has swung, but for now at least, it swings no more.

Fantasy figure — January 1, 2019

Fantasy figure

I was in a prolonged, smart phone battery sapping exchange of direct messages with my keyholder when the conversation took a turn in an all new direction.

They had an ‘abdi’ fantasy.

Now, I like to think of myself as at least partially knowledgeable on any number of subjects, a willingness to read and learn about all manner of things has led, on occasion, historically at least, to my other half asking how I know such things.  My answer is simple – that I have just read something along the way and committed it to file somewhere in the darkest recessess of the old grey matter.

But this whole ‘abdi’ thing was a new one on me and I couldn’t help but continue the direct messaging exchanges by batting it back.  “A ‘what’?” I asked.  In reply, I was asked to ‘google’ it and, impulsive as I am, had to do so immediately, despite sitting at my desk at work.

‘Abdi is a sexy and hot person, he is also a lovely friend, he is there when you are upset and is really funny.  Once you get hold of a abdi, never let go of him because you will never find another one.’

‘Meaning a perfect being with no flaws, could do whatever he wants. The worlds fate is in his hands, but he refuses to help.  He is worshiped as a god in some arab religions.’

‘Abdi is a loving, caring person he knows what to do when to do it… When you get a hold of abdi never let go because there’s no one like him.  He’s always saving people never looking back.  He’s destined for greatness keep an eye out.’
(Source: Urban Dictionary)

Of course, there may be many more descriptions and even some of the above quotes have been trimmed to edit out unrelatable elements.

My keyholder went further.  They dreamt about me day and night.  I had become their fantasy figure, this because, although they may yearn and want me for themselves, they had reasoned and accepted that they cannot, for a multitude of reasons, have me for themselves.

I have already said in a recent blog entry and indeed to them directly via messaging on more than one occasion, that I do not seek to string them along, give them false impressions, and most importantly of all, hurt them in any way, but I suppose that my own vivid imagination, allowed to be poured out via direct messaging, may well do that.

Although they have sent me direct message images of their own, the inner slut that is Fiona far outnumbers them with the sheer extent, variety and nature of images sent the other way, even as far as exclusively sharing an explicit video via Skype – none of these images have ever been taken down so, I suppose, act as a gallery on which a fantasy can be based.

I have graciously, humbly but reluctantly accepted the ‘abdi’ title yet have related to some elements of its apparent on-line descriptors, those of being someone there to talk to when upset, and yes, I do seem able to make people laugh from time to time too it seems.

Sexy and hot?  Certainly not.  IWell, I don’t think I am but there lies the epitome of the phrase “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder”.  Though of slim build, the protruding belly caused by a mild hernia has caused me to hold it in on an all too many number of occasions when displaying my sexuality.   Without flaws?  Again, certainly not.  Loving and caring? I like to think so.  Saving people and never looking back?  Destined for greatness?  Perhaps I do plough on getting things done, but destined for greatness?   Not me, not I.  I’m just quietly trying to blend in.

Then there is that bloody hair growth.  I will confess to having a deeply rooted dysphoria about my body, especially in the period immediately before another appointment for some sort of partial removal by body waxing.

I am usually left immensely frustrated that some of it, not enough of it, is ready to be removed, even though I know that there is a good reason for that, that it is a race, not a sprint, that my body is being conditioned to rid itself of its hair, that the growth patterns differ right across the body, that it is dying off in some parts, thinning out in others, but I still hate it with a passion.

To me, it looks horrible and the periods where I am largely hair free are not long enough by any shadow of the imagination.   It was the way I was made, contrary though it is to my inner sexual tendencies.   To my keyholder, the holder of the ‘abdi’ fantasy about me, I am ‘gorgeous’.

I blush.  I am flattered, but know only too well that, whilst flavour of the month today, I could be cast aside the next minute, let alone tomorrow.

I know that whilst I continue to arguably shower them with underwear and chastity devices, my generosity reflecting an apparent ‘abdi’ status, and my repeated sharing of explicit photos via direct messaging, any cessation of any definitive kind may well render that fantasy over.

I was ‘married‘ then apparently ‘divorced‘ after all as my blog entries fully detail, yet the many and varied direct messages via social media have included those where the subject of that conjoining was broached.  The carriage of contact and social media exchanges, the provision of underwear and a chastity device and of explicit conversation have served to somehow reaffirm that electronic union.

Damn you New Year.  The feelings that a New Year brings have only served to send me into a no man’s land of a mindset – where the only thing I can do is write a blog entry.

The thought of doing anything else, dressing, putting myself into chastity, indulging and immersing oneself as Fiona, even logging into her social media presences and a likely direct message or two, is right now, akin to being on a diet – wanting all manner of goodies, yet telling oneself that you shouldn’t.

That doesn’t seem fair on anyone, but then seems fair on everyone.  My head is, once more, all over the place and I am seeking a multitude of distractions to numb the pain.

Happy New Year?  It’s only the 1st but dread is already here.

Resolution? — December 29, 2018

Resolution?

Christmas.  A time for families, persons closest to you spending time together, eating lots, exchanging presents, going overdrawn at the bank etc.

I’ve spent a few nights away over the last month or so, shopping and enjoying some family QT, only my on-line relationship with my keyholder has led me to at least partially regrettably use some of that time to chat via direct message, share photographs of me in a state of undress in the hotel bathroom, showering and becoming sexually excited for them.

It’s wrong isn’t it?  Yet I’ve done it – twice and recently too.  I’ll be honest.  Although my relationship with my wife is fine (well take my deceit away and it is), there are issues on the periphery of the family in virtually all corners, and though I know that it is wrong, I see my indulgences in crossdressing, anal play and chastity as some sort of much needed escapism from all of that almost constant misery and stress.

Another weekend away with the wife was yet again tainted by the effects of family problems, and somehow, I sought some sort of escape and solace in those private periods of direct messaging and photo exchange.  I’ve become more daring of late with how and when I make those DM exchanges, even doing so whilst the wife is in the room, in close proximity and even laying on me below camera shot as I took a pic of me in a towelling dressing gown but otherwise naked before quietly DMing it away.

I am impulsive.  Of that I know.  Whilst DMing my keyholder, they said that they would quite like to see me in a holy trainer chastity device.   A lack of viable finance mattered little. Within a matter of minutes, I’d rediscovered a site I’d once browsed for a suitable but reasonably priced trainer and *ping*, the order was put in and the item was in fact at home before I had returned from my weekend away – the arrival of the item at my home address shrouded by the conceivability that it was yet another mail ordered Christmas present.   Well it was – sort of – but for me.

Ill health always has an effect on my mindset and approach to all things that I indulge in and the virus has led to me begin using back up medication to avoid it really taking a toll.   Christmas coupled with ill health really did remove all opportunities and urges to get dressed.

Having considered what I’ve just written, that was actually a lie.  Christmas Eve when the wife was at work, I dressed and put on my.new holy trainer (Why are they called that?  I can’t find anything that explains it but I’m not giving up on my hunt for information).   I had to be out early and went on that errand in the lingerie and wearing the trainer.

I returned home and craved anal penetration.  I utilised an opportunity in the bathroom to secrete the 6” dildo in with me, and finding any flat surface to attach the suction cup to, duly and lustfully drove myself onto it or it into me in a number of positions.

Orgasm, something I’ve rarely experienced of late in any way,shape or form all things considered, was something I just had to have.  The inner slut determined that at the peak moment, the trainer sheath having been removed, I would bring myself to climax into the toilet bowl but with the camera phone running, the footage albeit later deleted and going unpublished.

The peak achieved, the clothing was put back on, everything was cleaned up, the dildo put back into the box and secreted out to its usual storage point in the man cave, although the dildo had not helped me reached my peak, as has been the case before, my bi-curious training continuing.

In the bedroom, I removed my outer clothing, removed the lingerie, removed the trainer and slipped back into what I frequently call ‘civvies’, content with having satisfied my urges for the time being.

Ill health had been conquered by sexual energy and adrenalin but the following few days were racked with more ill health as the tablets continued to be swallowed.  At the same time, the urges towards any future dressing and in fact, even accessing Fiona’s social media presences seemed way off the table.  I told myself that I would not log in as if setting an early new year resolution was the only way forward.

“Sod that!” said a voice within.  Day 1 back at work after the Christmas break and that urge to remain in civvies motivated by ill health above everything else seemed right and exact – the right way forward, but by Day 2, today, I put myself into the trainer as soon as possible, covered up with one of my favourite outfits, and prepared some lunch and breakfast in the kitchen downstairs, blinds down, or windows distant.

Inside, the urge to feel the penetration of my dildo began to surge around my mind.  I analysed the available time and managed to avoid giving in to temptation, instead remaining in the trainer, the daytime lingerie, recently laundered one early morning whilst home alone whilst doing other items, was put on.

This was the first prolonged period in the trainer, and at work in it too.  Bizarrely, retrospectively, at least, the lingerie I was wearing, felt normal – as if I was always wearing such items.  The focus was definitely on the trainer.

Over the course of the day, I exchanged so many DMs with my keyholder that my smartphone battery went critical, the tone of conversation ranging from explicit, lustful and fantasy to general conversation as my cock stirred as far as it could within the confines of the practically all encasing holy trainer.   Time elapsed.  The day wore on and when the work day had finished, off came the trainer, off came the lingerie and in it all went into the man bag.

The man bag is now practically bulging with crossdressing paraphernalia and to this, I must remain vigilant.   The cage is contained within a cloth bag, the holy trainer in its see-through brown zip case, a black cloth bag regularly housing my lingerie and from a point when I had enjoyed a day of anal stimulation, a now nigh on fully empty bottle of lube.

All of this is so wrong.  Yet all of this is so right.  To the average person who knows me, there is nothing unusual going off – everything happens sub-surface, intimately, personally, privately, constantly running risks, constantly shrouded in a need to vigilant, careful, checking, double checking, triple checking that everything is back where it is.

That hasn’t stopped me irrationally wondering what has gone wrong on the occasions where the other half doesn’t answer her phone to me, only for there to be a completely innocent reason, my meticulous attention of detail in covering my closeted tracts continuing to hold me in good stead, complacency to be avoided at all costs.

I’m a crossdresser.  I succumbed to it again in June 2018, but I have also succumbed to the on-line relationship with someone I’ve never met.  We know so much about each other, yet so little – they want me, yet can’t have me.  I see a parallel universe where I am with them and I move from bicuriousness to being fully bisexual, dressed, caged, released, taken, owned.

I have regularly signalled that I do not seek to string this person along, reiterating that they know how I am fixed this end, despite the explicit nature of conversations, the fantasies, the nature of discussions, the fact that I am, to all intents and purposes, owned, sexually to an extent at least by them.

I told myself that I would not open dialogue through social media again, but then I did and immersed myself fully in it once more and some.  It is needed – it is necessary, I can’t stop, and right now, I won’t stop.  This sexual journey absolutely HAS to continue.

..and now, given the restrictions between me and my keyholder, I have become a fantasy figure…that is for next time.

Resumption — December 28, 2018

Resumption

It was always going to happen.  I was always going to let it happen at some point, especially given the heady empowering temptation and experimentation of chastity, and also given the fact that I was home alone for the weekend.

On arriving at home at the end of a busy week of whatever the word is of not doing something, the blog was updated with a previously penned two entries, but chastity brought on a third entry in one day.  In self-imposed chastity, the urge came to be dressed and as the evening wore on, only a couple more hours were allowed to pass before the lingerie came back on again.

And it stayed on all weekend.  The first night saw a state of almost constant arousal, the erogenous zones being teased as the pressure forced flesh against metal repeatedly as chastity struck at full pelt.

The night-time hours were met with little sleep, dressed for bed in a lingerie outfit of choice, the state of arousal continuing, waking me from the sleep I did manage to have.   As the correct fitting of the cage had yet to be learned, there was a need to unlock, and recage from time to time, me wondering whether I had in fact ordered the right size after all.

I vowed to try a smaller size in the event I decided to order a second such item but for now, it was about getting used to this one.  With a necessity to be up very early in the morning to run an errand, I was awake before the alarm anyway as sexual energy continued to pour through my body, struggling to deal with this new voyage of sexual discovery, all that it offered and the feelings it created.

The energy used in merely getting me through the Saturday, coupled with the constant state of arousal to some extent, coupled with the necessary early start left me shattered by lunchtime, a need to sleep, but an urge not to and make best use of the day instead.

And so it went on.  I threw myself into watching some mundane television in the hope that it would take my mind of experiencing chastity for the first time, and it did indeed work to a degree.  But when it drew as close as possible to a semi-normal bedtime, I used the opportunity to turn in for the night, albeit changing from a bra, high waist suspender belt and see through g-string to a favourite red and black cami-suspender outfit to wear to bed and as it turned out, throughout the following day.

Still the eroticism and state of arousal powered on as I busied myself by day, attending to voluntary work remaining underdressed and caged, continuing to share the experiences on line.

Days later, two of the three keys that came with the cage were packaged up and sent to my keyholder, if nothing else, a symbolic acceptance of being in albeit partial chastity.

The beginning of that partial chastity now spans back more weeks than I can remember but numbering at least four.  Over most days of late, I have spent almost twelve hours a day in chastity and many of those hours in some sort of state of being underdressed in lingerie whilst at home alone or at work.

So with that period of chastity having elapsed, I have taken it upon myself to notify my keyholder when I am both caged again and released for the day with the sole key that I retain.  They never asked for such notification, nor have they chased on the rare occasion when I have not notified them – I have merely been praised when I have done so.  My life, lifestyle and commitments outside of my closeted activities do not allow for total ownership or indulgence in any other way, so the arrangement is a good fit as is the cage, which has since been supplemented by pink ribbon binding, recommended after a request was made by social media, the trial flat shoelaces consigned to the history books.

I have orgasmed only a handful (!) of times since putting myself into chastity.  A week into it, one morning, I reached a peak of needing to achieve what would be a ruined orgasm apparently.   I tried anal play but experimentation has only carried me close but not fully to orgasm.   One morning, I managed to establish a Skype session with my keyholder which had reached the point of failure anally.   However, within minutes, I had realised that the very small margin of space between the minimum and maximum extremes of the lock mechanism allowed enough room and jiggle space to somehow reach climax.

I re-established the Skype session and, asking what my keyholder had evidently done to me in my fit of sexual euphoria, without seeking an answer, eventually felt a huge urge as two rapid watery bursts of semen powered out like a hose reel jet, splattering in all directions – I’d never experienced anything like it sexually and I was somewhat taken aback.

A few days later, a further caged orgasm was achieved, but this time, with the semen more akin to a regular consistency, the inner psyche having come to terms with chastity and having overcome the first release and the period immediately after going into chastity.

Anal playtime has increased in regularity of late including on the first weekend of chastity, where such playtime just had to be experienced, the dildo being ridden and used in a variety of positions as exploration of one’s bi-sexual side was allowed to take precedence, going so far as posting a video of a 10 minute part of a total 45 minute bedroom session on a X-rated video website, my first ever posting of its type.

Weeks have drawn on, direct messages including explicit photos have been shared with my keyholder and posted on my social media presences, Skype and webcam site chats enquire about who it is that has caged me, request that I am released etc. but without success as I remain loyal to my albeit symbolic keyholder who I have confessed to, who asks who it is that makes these requests, but quickly accepts my honesty to them and refusal to others.  Some viewers relish in the fact that I am caged and it keeps them online whilst for others, it is clearly not their thing to see my restricted, particularly for those that have been used to seeing me free, released and at play over the years.

But here’s the thing – being in chastity avoids me falling into such low periods of guilt experienced after orgasm.  If I cannot reach orgasm because I restrict myself through chastity, I cannot feel that way in the aftermath, and am instead, arguably ready for the intimate moments that really matter.

There is a potentially dark side to chastity – prostate health.  I have been told on more than on occasion that it is good to release what is stored on a regular basis to keep the prostate healthy, so somehow, there is a part of me that seeks to achieve a balance between inner feelings, a need to avoid the overwhelming sense of guilt felt after dressing and orgasm,, prostate health and applying myself to the life everyone sees me in.

However, even though the onslaught of winter and ill health has got in the way, chastity has taken another turn within the last week…