The recovering crossdresser?

To crossdress or not crossdress – that is the question…

Compulsion — January 18, 2022


In a recent blog post, I gave reference to a previous entry in which I said I’d recalled sailing ‘rather too uncomfortably close to the wind’ in historical quests to be crossdressed, that I’d more or less forgotten what they were but that I may well recall them for a future post.

The reality is that some of the most intense instances were quite traumatic and it makes for a healthier state of mind to confine the memories to a far flung place in my head.

However, one such instance has been recalled.

It was years ago – when life was ‘normal’ – more comparably innocent times – when the 9-5 was, well, the 9-5, along with the commute either side – just the daily grind. The household members would be doing their own things too – studies or at work and I’d be left to my own devices (!), awake late or early, contemplating what I’d be wearing next, and when, anticipating the excitement of the act.

If home alone later, I’d crossdress, covering up when necessary and, later, ensuring that I was out of my lingerie in time for when people were home again, ensuring everything was normal and where it should be.

If home alone early, I’d use that time, sometimes as early as 0630, to dress, go on a web cam, change outfits, and enjoy some ‘me’ time, before covering up in what I usually called ‘civvies’ to go to work, and as the years passed, more recently, I immersed myself in chastity and (on my own terms) findom, and took a once unimaginable liking for anal, from dildos to plugs and other such toys.

But the instance detailed in this blog entry was from way back in the days when there was not a burgeoning lingerie collection to hand but when I was gripped by a sudden compulsion to dress – come hell or high water, no matter the apparent risk.

These were the days when I was restricted to the contents of the other half’s lingerie drawer and a range of cami-suspender outfits I bought for her but that she never wore apart from the rarest of occasions I begrudgingly described internally as “a blue moon of a blue moon”. If there were stockings in that drawer, I’d use them, but eventually, there was a need and desire for me to secrete my own stockings away somewhere – usually bought from a trusty home and hardware store that I could whip off the display and put into the basket along with a range of other daily items for all – you know the stuff – shampoo, pain killers, shower gel, cleaning stuff, razor blades, shaving foam etc. – blah blah blah.

This particular morning, I wasn’t home alone, but the compulsion to dress in a black suspender belt which was in that draw was uncontrollable, irresistible in fact. I was probably targeting a g-string/thong of some kind too, but I don’t remember that.

What I do remember, is, whilst the other half was sleeping, AND facing me whilst doing so, I was standing alongside the bed, slowing opening the drawers, so slowly in fact that you couldn’t even hear the runners as it opened. Doing things this slowly was of the gravest of dangers, but still, I ploughed on. Even when the drawer WAS open, I’d still got to extract the lingerie, drawing out the suspender belt, ensuring that clasps didn’t chink on something along the way, and as I brought things fully to hand.

But here is the thing – the clear and present danger continued – I’d still got to close the drawer as quietly as I’d opened it and sneak away, ensuring that I evaded any tell-tale creaking floorboards, the noise from which might very well arouse suspicion. Sure – the mission was accomplished but there were feelings of compulsion juxtaposed with the dread of being caught. Compulsion was in fierce conflict with risk.

I was told recently by a confidante that the secrecy of doing something unbeknown to someone or anyone, was part of the reason for doing it – that it was and is considered risque, naughty and/or of intense danger of being exposed and that it is this level of danger which subconsciously drives someone on. All I know is that I didn’t make a habit of such long protracted, close proximity, and risky actions – in fact, I never did it again – of that I’m sure. Mission accomplished on that occasion but not worthy enough to do it again or even again!

What I did after the lingerie was meticulously extracted in such pin-dropping audible silence, was either to dress in the bathroom and hastily make for the door or I’d dress in the toilets at work before heading to the desk. I do recall occasions where I’d put on my lingerie before work, the only one awake, then cover up in clothes for the office, put on more coverings in the form of a coat, and return to the bedside to kiss the sleeping significant other’s head, acknowledging the risk that she might awaken for a brief but potentially telling hug (it never happened) before hastily making for the exit, smugly driving away having satisfactorily acted out the plans, and rubbing the suspender straps under my work clothes.

Not being home alone in the morning but dressed, usually meant I could remain dressed until some 12 hours later, due to being home alone at night.

The compulsion of a crossdresser…

In conclusion – inconclusion. — November 2, 2021

In conclusion – inconclusion.

It was probably about 2005 when I started crossdressing.

How and why I started crossdressing remains a massive unknown. It just happened and the rest, as they say, is history.

There is absolutely nothing in my brain to draw from, no triggers, no official launch date, no reason – crossdressing was, has been, and still IS, a draw, albeit these days to comparatively miniscule levels.

When this blog started, I decided to call it ‘The recovering crossdresser?’, the emphasis being on the question mark at the end. The reason for this is that recovery could be one of a few ways – recovering in order to stop, recovering to restart, or recovering merely to continue.

There have been pauses along the way, pauses concluded to be full stops, never to return, but you might well be saying (and many have said it to me before), “You can’t stop – it is who you are”.

I’d subscribe to that, and it has long been a tussle to accept who I am and allow myself to simply be, albeit within the confines of a very secure closet. Along the way, there have been the long since discontinued purges – those moments along the crossdressing journey where I’d reached my own level of objection and dissatisfaction at what I had been doing, expensive and large quantities of gorgeous, irreplaceable lingerie, thrust into a black bin liner and jettisoned into a skip at the local tip, or, on one occasion, for speed and ease, stuffed into a local clothes recycling bank (That would have made for an interesting find for the person opening it up at the time of collection!)

But one day, I vowed, irrespective of whether I continued crossdressing, restarted, or came to a full stop, that I would never purge again – and I haven’t. Instead, things, let’s say a burgeoning stash of lingerie, outfits, hosiery and sex toys, have been stored, initially close to hand then further away since the early part of 2020 when the pandemic hit.

Had it not have been for the pandemic hitting in March 2020, I might well have been meandering along as I was, an owned sub, underdressing for work, private indulgence time at home alone in the morning, getting undressed out of my lingerie at work before returning home, and repeating daily for up to 12 hours a day, 5 days a week.

One could argue that something might have gone wrong along the way but then again, when you consider that some (approximate) 16 years have gone by without too much drama, other than two previously recounted occasions, the average suggests otherwise.

The reality though is that nobody will ever know. Regular readers of this blog entry will know that, other than a 60-90 minute period in September 2020 and briefly at some point since, when I had to recover a soon-to-be thrown out favoured black bra from my other half’s drawer, no lingerie has touched my body, no chastity device has been worn, no plug inserted since early March 2020.

There has been one occasion where a dildo has been used on me after they watched me insert it gently and slowly to the hilt during the Summer of 2021 for the first time since early 2020, but it hasn’t been anywhere near or in me since that one off and is back in the same dark storage location with all the rest of the stash, hidden and under lock and key.

Throughout the pandemic, there has been a distant hope that there would be a shift in the situation, an allowance of some semblance of comparative normality, albeit not really knowing how it might shape up. It was merely vague, arguably desperate hope.

Circumstances at home for both me and the nearest and dearest suggested short-term arrangements, working from home for the time being, others on a short-term arrangement at a place of work. As if things weren’t ‘bad’ enough, the shift away from ‘normality’ continues apace.

One has gone from temporary contract at home to being taken on permanently at home whilst others are at the end of one journey, awaiting another one, so around more again.

One thing keeps me from focusing on kink – well, two things – the pandemic and its massive impact on everything ad-infinitum, and ill-health.

Yet again, I have been confronted by disconcerting, prolonged health issues which, although showing signs of easing, are not over, clear or confirmed in type.

Today though, I ventured back onto Fiona’s social media account, and Fiona’s secret photo and video archive. The fact that one visitor had liked as many as 43 of my posts with archive #fionaflashback images did something to grab me, to take a look, to slightly spark an inner yearning, snuffed out again by the puff of reality, acknowledgement that, whilst I might yearn for it, that long in the distance feeling of dressing, preparing and living as a sub, the feeling of stockings on legs, clasps around body, lace and silk entwining, cock restricted by chastity, tight, virginal bum, plugged all at Mistress’ demand, are exactly that – distant and unobtainable.

I even struggled to find a point and image to continue posting my #fionaflashbacks, looking, filtering, thinking, failing, instead scrolling through the secret, password protected folder, zooming in, flicking through, before putting the phone down again for the umpteenth time before trying again and again but going through the same process.

Other than occasional, consensual, ever more increasingly intimate bi-sexual salon play time, and occasional forays into Fiona’s social media world, there is no mainstay of kink for me – the pandemic has seen to that, whoever or whatever can be blamed.

Is that it? Is the status-quo before me an ulterior recovery of a crossdresser, of neither type envisaged when this blog started, instead caused by fate?

Like the Ark in that famous film, my lockbox of treasures from my crossdressing life has been wheeled away to remain stored firmly and inaccessibly, in a remote distant corner of the World.

In conclusion, inconclusion.

Thanks for reading.

F. x

Turning point — August 6, 2021

Turning point

This blog entry has been in the planning for some time. In that time, the entire context has changed.

It has also been written for some time, and has taken perhaps the same amount of time and more besides to press the ‘publish’ button.

I was going to start detailing how my lack of ability to crossdress caused by the impact of the pandemic had been sustained but in the meantime, how my bi-curious tendencies, development of the same, and playtime with a male confidante had progressed so such an extent that more intense intimacy was in even greater existence between us.

I was going to explain that this level of intimacy had seen me regularly sucking his cock whilst he creamed and fingered by tight bum and much foreplay and orgasm had taken place. I was going to explain that, in one, rather brazen, instance, as the sexual nature of the conversation over-took and dominated the pleasantries that had gone before, I said that that I had often used a dildo during my own private time, before casually admitting that it was, in fact, ‘over there’ in the bag I had brought with me to the session.

I was going to explain that, with a generous dose of body cream as lube, I had a session where, probably after some more cock sucking and various aspects of foreplay , he had watched as I gently inserted the dildo for the first time in a long time into what had become a very tight hole once more. I would have explained that I was apprehensive as to whether I could take it all, not having done so since pre-pandemic months of early 2020.

I would have explained, in more detail, that I’d actually taken it in fully fairly quickly and that this soon followed by him fucking me with it at speed causing me to erupt with cum all over him as he lay, roles reversed in front of me, him using the cum both to taste and as lube to bring himself off whilst he continued to fuck me rapidly with the dildo, me in a standing position beside him.

I would have explained, in more detail, how our sexually explicit conversations had previously skimmed over making it possible to and him arranging (at some point post pandemic) a bringing about of a self-declared sexual fantasy – me being fucked and spit-roasted in a men’s group sex session, my evident status as a what I had been told was a ‘power bottom’ being advanced considerably.

I would have explained, because of the advanced nature of my sexual development, as to how this man, who had previously said that he would never suck or (arguably finally) virginally fuck me, said that he would now do so, and that he had always wanted to and I would have spoken in more detail about how that revelation had made me feel in that shock moment.

But, as I said, the context has changed – and dramatically so within the last few weeks. I have been left reeling in a way I had not felt for a long time since when I was caught in a semi-cross-dressed state many, many years ago, yet having lived to tell the tale of that somehow.

Before I explain further about the latest living nightmare, I should say that in the aftermath of it, I used another appointment to seek a great deal of solace in more of the same sort of man-on-man, submissive sex play detailed above. I almost told him of the drama that had unfolded – but held back on the grounds of ‘least said, soonest mended’ – or so I thought.

About that new context then. I have had an on-line Mistress for getting on for two years now. but when the pandemic struck in early 2020, the 500% investment in and service to my Mistress, under-dressing for her in outfits of her choice, taking photos of it to share, plugging and locking up as required had been an up to 12-hrs a day, 5 days a workday week thing since being brought into ownership. However, From the start of lockdown, the impact on those dynamics meant that absolutely none of this was now possible. ordered to stay at home and ultimately working from home too, as remains today, but never home alone because of the predicament of others.

Apart from one day last September, when it was for no more than around 60-90 minutes, no lingerie or chastity device has been worn, no plug inserted since early-mid March 2020. Instead, I’ve been posting flashback pics on my Twitter feed and indulging in as much kink as possible in extreme margins from spinning through other posts and following those of interest, to lengthy spells of cock pump play when home alone on a rare occasion, the only tangible real indulgence in actual physical kink.

Since being taken into ownership as her sub, I’d been covertly buying items for Mistress from a list of items she wanted and getting them delivered directly – this was something I have been lucky enough to be able to do as and when I wanted and to whatever extent, great or slight, very much on my terms, but that on-line activity had to be comprehensively hidden, no browsers left logged on to websites, no e-mail accounts notifying orders being processed. and order history hidden.

Going off at a tangent for a few moments, I have previously referred to the military-precision level of my covert activities, thorough tidy ups, dressing/undressing at work, the sheer extent of hiding things, secret folders for photos, use of incognito browsers, attention to detail with e-mail accounts where notifications could be received, remaining logged out at this, that and the other at all times, yet remaining acutely alert to the dangers of a careless slip in any of those areas.

As I alluded to above, some years ago, there had been just one terrifyingly memorable instance of being caught in a state of partial cross-dress. On that ‘memorable for all the wrong reasons’ day, I’d sprung into action as soon as I was home alone, beginning to dress in my lingerie of choice, only for someone to return home unexpectedly. After the terror of the drama that had subsequently unfolded, as suggested above and before, I somehow lived to tell the tale – rationale allowed to stand validly and dominantly – somehow.

A while back however, came the most dreadful of slips though. I was immediately plunged into total and utter personal turmoil whilst keeping the world’s best ever poker face. For the best part of what is a recollected as a staggering fifteen years, ‘careful’ has been the watch word – to the minutiae of detail – far too in-depth to go into – but enough to stay firmly closeted.

Recently though, having allowed myself to be too busy with virtually everything going off in my life, and a little complacently, I had somehow in the greater scheme of things, carelessly omitted to hide an order of an item for Mistress and I had omitted to pay enough attention to a web browser which, I recall, I had unusually logged into, cookies etc. keeping me logged in.

I now acknowledge that, in the days before, it had been one of those occasions where you can see what you’re doing but you are blind to the dangers despite something somewhere ringing at a million decibels in your head and simply plough on regardless. Stupid, STUPID man.

The other half had something to do on the home office PC. You can work out the rest – but delete from your mind set, the unimaginable reason of my cross dressing – it wasn’t that – she was thinking a whole different dimension of betrayal. Anyway, I don’t need to explain what numbers had been added up and what (wrong) conclusion had been reached, but it matters little. The next minute – a suitcase was being unceremoniously dumped before me and I was almost unavoidably heading for the exit. This was it – the deck of cards, the line of dominoes – finally – were about to fall once and for all.

In these moments of sheer inner terror, I played the ‘totally calm’, ‘totally aghast’ and ‘totally dumbfounded’ cards on the outside, whilst all hell broke loose around me and in my mindset. Before me, a new kind of hell was unfolding in a similar way I’d seen happen before in that moment referred to above, i.e. when I was caught in a state of partial cross-dress.

In this latest moment of hell fire though, I must have played just about every conceivable card that could be played – and I’m still quietly playing them in the same ‘military-esque’ way to ‘negotiate’ my way out of the ‘minefield/battle stations’ situation that still lies before me.

For obvious reasons, I’m not going to say what I’ve done or how I did it (it would be a) too long and b) too ridiculous anyway) only, as I’ve said before, I live to tell the tale. As I see it in the aftermath, I’ve not so much been living, more just about keeping my head above water.

Fingers crossed, I’ve just about seen my crisis-management – my covert strategy – out to the finish. Maybe, THE finish.

Here lies the crux of the matter. Given the wide ranging impact of the pandemic, i.e. the enforced cessation of crossdressing, anal and chastity and most things kink, and the changes to domestic lifestyle for me and everyone else closest to me, and after my recent blog entry on the subject of conditioning, I wonder now whether this is a very clear green light that signals the necessary end of it all.

My conclusion right now is that I have sailed rather too uncomfortably close to the wind. I have recalled moments when I have sailed monstrously close to the wind – I’ve more or less forgotten what they are now, but may well recall them for a future blog entry.

In any case, I can’t see a way of my kinks working in the same way they once did anyway. Can there be any going back when some semblance of normality finally reaches us all? It will be a new kind of normal and not one that accommodates kink much if at all.

Kink aside, life will never be the same again post pandemic – the impact has been too great on too many people’s lives and careers, mentally, physically, financially, emotionally and more besides.

This is very much a turning point and of a type that was NOT as intended.

Sound the alarm! — March 29, 2021

Sound the alarm!

In my last, very recent blog entry, I said that I had become unsettled.

In that blog, I referred to instances that can unsettle me, put a proverbial shot across my bow and put me about as close to the precipice of doom, stress and loss as you could possibly get.

The alarm bells sounded loudly this morning after I heard the other half cursing at the inability to stream a programme on the TV. The long and short of is that I sorted it and she was able to get on with her binge watching of something or other.

A short time later, I had cause to venture in again to find the TV showing some family photos as a screensaver whilst the show being watched was paused.

From here, I am fairly sure that I was NOT really listening to what I was being told, my thoughts instead spinning like a fruit machine wheel before finally stopping on something that might not be satisfactory and requiring another spin.

Firstly, the TV viewing device was new – brand new – and I’d not selected any alternative to the standard non-descript screensavers provided by the manufacturer.

In short, whilst the other half had been chatting on the phone, the TV device had been scrolling its way through the cloud photos. Ever the pessimist, cynicist and long term strategist as a closeted crossdresser, I was in dread fear of something coming up on that screen that I’d carelessly allowed to be uploaded.

Showing audible surprise at the familiar images on the TV, I pressed the ‘pause’ button to return to the TV viewing app being used and, adjudging that there was nothing to worry about, re-entered the correct level of conversation, brought it to a conclusion and returned to the home office to continue the day job.

Only I didn’t instantly continue the day job.

Pessimism, and cynicism in abundance with an added shot of paranoid, I instantly logged into my cloud storage account from which those TV screensaver images were being drawn. Thus began a general scrolling through and, whilst I was at it, the odd deletion of things that were no longer needed and/or weren’t in need of back up in the first place.

Now, the general practise of uploading from my secret folder on my phone is to:
1) Switch off WiFI (the setting being only to back up on WiFi)
2) Export secret images from the secret folder to the main gallery on the phone
3) Edit them using the app itself and then add a watermark
4) Upload to Twitter
5) Delete unedited photos from phone, including recycle bin
6) Move edited photos back to the secret folder
7) Switch WiFi back on.

(If that is of any use to a fellow closeted crossdresser in a similar predicament, you’re welcome!)

Anyway, as I was saying, a general scrolling through continued without any problem. It was not until I was some way down the screen (going back in time), that I was suddenly confronted with two images of me, provocatively positioned, wearing my blue halter neck cami-suspender outfit with black lace-top stockings and in some form of chastity.

“S#!T” I quietly said to myself as I quickly checked behind me for signs of a presence, before firmly deleting the two errant images from the list and the ‘trash’ box to make sure they had been permanently deleted. I’d seen enough – I didn’t need to look closely or for any longer than a split second to take action.

What had happened? Well, first, the images, lower down in the archive, and therefore older, were from a time when, clearly, I had not been meticulous enough with the process. They might have been from the time they had been taken, they may have been more recent – I didn’t care one iota. The urgency was to just get them deleted.

Mission accomplished. It’s lucky that I did check the cloud storage – and I will say that I checked it up and down, several times just to make sure because there was a danger of the image coming up at some point, today or in the future.

That reminds me, I think I’ll just go and adjust that screensaver. Irrespective of my ‘general practise’, there is a need to stop that alarm from sounding.

Unsettled — March 26, 2021


As a closeted crossdresser, I’ve had many an ‘alarm bell’ moment – a moment when something unsettled me – a moment of clear and present danger.

Moments like this that I recall are probably familiar to anyone in a similar situation of kink, but I’ll list them all the same.

* Being crossdressed whilst alone, but being disturbed by someone arriving in the same place and having to panic to strip, hide the lingerie, and act as if nothing had been happening, and keeping a poker face

* Taking the risk to dress at home before work with a house full of people, albeit sleeping/in bed.

* Doing something in kink behind a closed door but with the chance of someone coming in – writing a blog entry for example, or viewing and posting on alter-ego social media.

There are probably other such situations I’ve forgotten or blanked out!

In saying that I am ‘closeted crossdresser’, I really should say that I am a ‘dormant closeted crossdresser’ because, as you might know if you’ve been reading my blog for a while, things came to an abrupt halt when the pandemic struck in early 2020 – around a year ago – when I was sent home from work due to an underlying health condition for which I needed to hide away.

I’ve been doing that for 12 months, with only the odd venture out for socialising when restriction levels applied or a very, very rare shopping trip or something similar. That left the only viable connectivity with kink being a peruse through Fiona’s social media account, posting archive pictures on a fairly regular basis.

But even that came to an abrupt halt last month when one of those unsettling moments struck. I won’t go into detail, suffice to say that something happened that exposed the true identity of the person behind the alter-ego.

Now, I’ll admit to being a pessimist, a cynic and often paranoid, but when certain things happen that affect my secret world, I tend to head into a form of retreat for a certain, undetermined period.

What might be described as moment of exposure was quickly rectified with the help of a third party, so quickly in fact, that the impact was either fleeting or non-existent. However, for me, that merely set the proverbial cat amongst the pigeons, me concluding that however fleeting it was, it would be just my luck for things to come tumbling down because of it nevertheless. I’m by no means complacent, and whilst I continue to have even the slightest connections to kink-dom, however suppressed at the moment, I know and remain acutely aware of alert to the dangers.

Just now, sitting at the home office desk, a drink was delivered, and although minimised to the task bar, the cursor was over the icon, which gives a pop up view of the two browser windows, one active, one under incognito mode, the latter with the blog entry being penned.

Now anyone who knows IT, knows that there will be something indicating what the icon is about, and in the case of a browser, the content of the page being browsed. The main window aside, the incognito window showed ‘Edit Post – The recovering cross…’.

Cue a few more cats amongst the pigeons – and before I ploughed on with this very blog entry, I spent a few moments analysing the risk and issue that had just passed before me amongst a moment of carelessness of the type likely to catch me out. The handover of the drink was fleeting – in the room, out the room, and they were gone. Besides, I was focusing on the work machine as far as they were concerned.

There, blog entry having already been in mid-flow, was a prime example of risk and danger. Surely, it wouldn’t take much to do a bit of googling by them and…well, the rest doesn’t bear thinking about.

Anyway, back to the case in point, the third-party intervention. With a few questionable visits to my ‘hetero’ social media (which were probably something and nothing), the fact that the incident had happened was enough to send me into retreat. Everything I’d been posting almost daily by way of regular archive pics from at least 12 months ago – stopped and I didn’t even log in to the account either. It didn’t matter to me at all for as long as something told me to leave well alone.

I made a return to the account over a month later. Had anyone missed me? Of course not. I hadn’t posted – that was that. The Twitterscape is a long and wide scape where no-one really sees most things, the whole media always churning away at quite a pace. I can hear you saying “So what was there to worry about?”

As I said, I do not seek to be complacent. However, I have returned more to the fold and have posted a few more archive images. Unfortunately, as has been the case before, I have health concerns, probably something I need not worry about and time will be a healer, but it is another instance that has a tendency to send me into retreat, dependent on how I’m feeling day to day.

The aches and pains come and go, I’ve sought medical help and advice and nothing has rung any alarm bells. It’s probably just a bug I need to shake off or await any help from a referral for something more long standing that might need a little op, and in the main, I’m feeling OK more often than I’m not. Again, I’m not complacent, but I am ever-so-slightly paranoid.

Whilst I know there are people at the end of Fiona’s DMs who are supportive, all ends up at the moment, and although it might take some time – and there is plenty of that around at the moment due to the effects of the pandemic, I’m still distinctly unsettled.

Thanks for reading – until next time – take care and stay safe. None of us are out of the woods yet.

Conditioning — February 12, 2021


You’ve probably read it, seen it and heard it used – the word ‘normal’ – but what did it mean, what does it mean and what will it mean? There will be a new kind of normal – that’s for sure.

As of twelve months ago from the time of writing this, the whole coronavirus was something we concluded was manifesting itself somewhere else in the World. Many of us watched from our apparent safe distance, thinking things along the lines of “Oh dear, that looks nasty” but not really geared to think it would get anywhere near us.

There we were, going about our lives, home, work, play, probably taking life for granted in so many respects if not in full but whilst a spectre loomed heavy on the horizon.

For me, acknowledging what was happening as my everyday was seeing others in the household going to work,, me doing the same but having some ‘kink’ time before work, donning lingerie, chastity and plug requested by Mistress and going about my business, before doing the reverse and returning once more to vanilla-land.

The dominoes then began to fall. The circumstances of those in my household changed, for reasons both due to and not due to the pandemic which meant I was no longer home alone first thing in the morning to indulge in one’s kinks as the ‘norm’ had been dictating for a reasonable period of time.

Still, ever the strategist, there was a good deal of planning to maintain some sort of indulgence, taking dangerous risks to prepare in the bathroom, sneaking around whilst the other members of the house slept on, or more likely, taking things with me in the ‘man-bag’ and instead, dressing etc. at work.

Then, one fateful day in March 2020, I received a call telling me NOT to come in to work. I was one of those people for whom an underlying health condition put me at significant risk if I stepped outside the front door and I was left to await the equipment that would enable me to work from home.

Now, if someone had told you even 2-3 months before that things would shut down and be impacted in the way that they had, you’d have laughed in their face and told them not to be so ridiculous. But, other than the day-to-day domestic impact, that ‘shut-down’ included the extremely abrupt termination to a closeted crossdresser’s kink with one fell swoop. For so long the strategist, working my way around a multitude of logistics, this was not something that would accommodate any form of workaround.

The first question was how, having been so lucky to have been taken into ownership as a sub by such a wonderful Mistress, how on earth could I be of any value to her in the slightest? I needn’t have worried. I soon established how I could still be of use and able to serve and show respect even though there could be no dressing etc. activity of any kind. Besides, she isn’t letting me go anytime soon or at all – I’m relieved to say.

How long would this all be for though? Well, we all know that there is no real answer, but there have been some false dawns in the meantime, lockdown/easements/lockdown and repeat. Groundhog Day for real, not just in the movies.

The only ‘kink’ to indulge in has been via my social media account, the only ability to post being from a hidden archive of images and so began the #fionaflashback hashtag which has now topped over 120 posts and counting, images being watermarked after one individual used my images as a banner and profile pic as their own. I was very slightly flattered, but mostly uncomfortable and having used a translation tool, asked them in their own tongue to cease and desist which they duly did and that was that. Still, it was a lesson for me and so began the watermarking – there’s an app for that of course!

But here’s the thing. The longer the whole thing goes on, even though there is a glimmer of light at the end of the proverbial tunnel with the vaccination programme, time moves on. Another day of inability to indulge, then another, then another and so on.

Of course, emotions of all kind rise and fall, ebb and flow and everyone has experienced that during the pandemic and continue to do so – inability to see the nearest and dearest, unwell friends and family, from COVID-19 and other things, and even the death of those family members and friends and I’ve had more than my fair share of issues from depression to loss but not ill health due to being stuck at home and rarely going further than the front door.

All of those contributes to a form of conditioning, being weaned off things through the inability to indulge in them. For me, my kinks have not been the sort of thing I will do absolutely anything to do, quite the opposite.

I soon realised that there was a need to just accept the situation and besides, I could get a fix through social media interests as some form of consolation, but it’s scant consolation really.

Being conditioned, which is how I see it, is making me realise how difficult if might be to resume something I was so heavily involved in. In fact, I’d never been so involved in my kink and indulgences, but all in the far recesses and confines of the closet that I was so far within, even I didn’t know the way out.

Nothing is to hand as it was before anyway – it’s been cleared and hidden away because, well, because it felt like the right thing to do. It is back in remote storage under lock and key, untouched since the last day I was proactively within it. With no chance of being able to go in it, what other option was there?

Not being able to do something I heavily invested in makes me begin to accept or at least think that I am being conditioned into stopping by sheer fate.

Some days I can’t bring myself to log into my social media account. I might go days without doing so or I might be only able to bring myself to log in for a very brief moment.

Other days, I’m secretly (always secretly) flicking through those hidden images and videos of me in my dressed, chastised and plugged or dildoed states, making another ‘fionaflashback’ post, checking in with Mistress, tributing her from time to time, liking a few posts on the platform, scrolling around, sending sneaky DMs and today, getting around to penning a blog entry for which the title has been in and out of my mind all week. But that is all.

If there was to be a resumption, if there IS to be a resumption of any kind, a lot will have to change at home.
A hell of a lot. It seems, right now at least, that too much will have to change. This lockdown (3.0 as it seems to be called) feels more significant on my well being than the last one. There is one factor about my body that has worsened during this lockdown – a hernia – which the doctors will not do anything with unless it causes me pain – and it doesn’t. Other than a bit of occasional indigestion, there is no pain, but I have a protrusion which was there on old photos but made less obvious through pulling one’s belly in until the camera had gone ‘click’ before letting it all go. These days, I have even less of a belly button than I had before and it looks even more unsightly and makes me even more conscious than I was. Not conducive to wearing revealing lingerie then!

Add in the inability to go to the salon for a lot of ‘me time’ and body wax, and I’m even more body conscious and uncomfortable. Options to rectify this myself at home are not an option in order to be better in the long term. As I understand it, shaving encourages growth, whereas waxing kills it off – eventually. I’ve been in that ‘spending too long in the shower’ vein before and never again. Waxing works and I know what I’ve been told at the salon.

Short term pain for long-term gain to coin a phrase. But whilst I know it will be a priority to get booked in once the lockdown is finally lifted, and it will be so worth it when I can go, even if it takes a few appointment to get smooth again, the fact that the lockdown has gone on as long as it has this time coupled with the growth in the meantime, and until then, it’s another element of conditioning as far as I can see it.

Sure, I’ve stopped crossdressing of my own accord on several occasions and for a long period of time too, but that was of my own doing and within my own controls and everything else in life was normal in life.

The wide-reaching impact of the pandemic is the single most significant contributing and controlling factor making me wonder whether this might be the beginning of the end by default.

In the meantime, I might be on-line, then again, I may not. Conditions permitting.

CATCH UP BLOG #4: Is this it? An enforced end to everything? — December 22, 2020

CATCH UP BLOG #4: Is this it? An enforced end to everything?

At the beginning of 2020, we were just carrying on with our lives, as was I – going to the office, usually underdressed in whatever lingerie, chastity device and plug was decided upon by Mistress, time allowed home alone before work to dress and play before making my way to the office desk.

What we knew was that something unpleasant was on the horizon but we didn’t really know exactly how and perhaps if it might impact upon us. It was, to all intents and purposes, blissful ignorance.

By March, personal circumstances of others in the household, that had unfolded over the early part of the year had already put a stop to any home alone time to dress and play before work.

Ever the strategist, I had already devised alternative plans to ensure I could dress and continue to serve Mistress as per her wishes. Getting up early when no one else in the household was up, and unlikely to be, had enabled the opportunity to dabble albeit with acute, clear and present danger.

This was initially shutting myself away in the man cave, blocking the door from being opened, quietly accessing a lockbox of every element of kink I held dear, preparing chastity device, plug and outfit for the day, heart racing as I worked as quickly and quietly as possible to change the contents of the man-bag from the previous work-day outfits etc. and then swiftly getting off to work before anything could delay me, elements such as breakfast.

Sometimes, the urge to dress and be prepared to serve was so powerful, the risk level was ramped up even further by taking the time to dress, lock and plug in the bathroom, covering up with pre-prepared work clothing taken with me, then, with a daring approach to the bed-side to kiss the other half ‘goodbye’ as she would have expected whilst she snoozed and slept, and hoping she didn’t stir and want a hug, I made for the exit to get off to work.

Some days, there was either no opportunity to prep, it wasn’t worth the risk due to the activity in the household, or I merely didn’t feel like it.

There was a day at some point early to mid-March when I got a call from the office asking if I’d left home yet. I responded that I hadn’t and was firmly told not to leave, to stay at home and await further instructions towards starting to work from home.

In short, that was that. I too, was home all day with a house-full of persons in predicaments of their own, and I became instantly resigned to the sudden stop that had come before me. As if not being able to indulge was bad enough, the restrictions of lockdown meant the closing of salons, so any manscaping was off the agenda too, the testosterone allowed to run riot, growth allowed to return and there was nothing I could do about it, determined to follow the advice from the salon to leave well alone, the long-term advice being that shaving encouraged growth.

When some of the lockdown restrictions were lifted, I was able to resume a level of waxing, usually face down only, so back and bum getting done, then things lifted again and I was finally able to have an albeit masked full body wax once more. These waxing sessions finally resulted in a very evident slow down of growth, bare batches of flesh apparent, and even some appointments where things were only on the cusp of being able to be waxed.

The fact that I was unable to indulge was staring me in the face every day with signs of my burgeoning selection of lingerie, outfits, stockings and toys.

At home, the stalemate meandered as the pandemic continued, the closeted crossdresser silenced in a way never experienced before, resigned to the situation and trying to silence any urges because they could not be satisfied to any tangible extent. Any indulgence has been restricted to social media posts of old dressing sessions but in accessing those secret archives, uncovering a vast amount of things secretly saved, ranging from comparatively soft to hardcore, some to my surprise.

Then, one night in the Summer, I took a cuppa into the bedroom for me and the other half, only to find the bedside drawers out and up-ended onto the bed. The boredom of being stuck at home, not working and with time to twiddle thumbs had led to the exploration of jobs that otherwise would have been left.

She was having a clear out of every drawer, from general clutter to long since unused items of underwear and lingerie I probably bought for her, but were worn far more by me over the years. Amongst them, was a black lace bra and a spider basque, frequently, strategically and meticulously hidden back by me after being worn on various occasions.

The strategist was awoken with a jolt, as the cogs turned to forge a method to acquire possession of my long-treasured items that could not directly be in my possession. In short, both items ended up in a bag of rubbish destined for the black bin. I offered to take the things to the bin under cover of darkness as part of my strategy, accepting that the process to reach the bin had to be allowed to play out.

Some way, some how, under the same level of secrecy applied to dressing at the start of the year, the items were worked out of the bin, into my permanent possession. Mission accomplished, albeit with no chance in sight to wear things, even though they were hidden away in the man bag.

The other half’s clear out sent me into a blind panic that she might have consigned a number of cami-suspender outfits hanging in the wardrobe, able, were it possible, to gather dust. A moment in the bedroom alone offered clear and calming reassurance.

The days continued to both fly and crawl by, comms via DM on Twitter with Mistress and others with whom conversations were struck up but that was it. No end in sight, inability to serve one’s Mistress fully to my own satisfaction making me feel useless and unworthy. Mistress has since provided regular assurances that she is not letting me go, fully understanding of the unprecedented situation before us all and prepared to wait it out and wait for me. That hasn’t stopped me feeling guilty, and mindful of my need, spirit and wish to serve. The only way I am able to do that is to occasionally tribute my Mistress and it gives me great joy in doing so, seemingly, just when it is needed.

Then in September, a viable but very short opportunity to dress one morning came about, quite soon after a body wax. It was not an opportunity to lock and plug, the logistics of the acts not conducive to the risk that I might need to undress very quickly and throw on a dressing gown. The spider-basque, stored quickly in the man bag hidden in the man cave as the most convenient place back in the Summer, was pulled out along with a long-since stored thong and stockings and put on with much excitement, yet I felt somehow incomplete with no chastity device nor plug.

But I relished every single moment of being dressed, even able to spend some time parading the house or sitting in front of my screen working, covered only by a dressing gown. The time was short, but it was enjoyed for what it was and I relished sharing the opportunity on social media. I knew when it was time to undress and tidy up and it was done in good time before I was at risk of anything untoward happening.

Other than one rare opportunity to momentarily wear the bra within a day or so of recovering it from the bin back in the Summer, no lingerie, no chastity device, no plug has touched my body.

I won’t deny that there have been odd days, and the odd few days when kink has been totally suppressed, but with some personal issues and the impact of lockdown causing mental health issues too with days where there have been any chance of sexual urges overpowered by mental and physical exhaustion and extreme lethargy.

You only have to look at the very few blog entries to have an idea of how everything else has suppressed kink to a bare minimum. There has been, and still remains, almost no end to this, even though we are on the cusp of vaccines being made available to hopefully knock the pandemic and virus to the further possible parts of everyone’s mindsets as society struggles to get back to what will undoubtedly be a new kind of ‘normal’.

The crux of this blog entry approaches. It has occurred to me as to whether the impacts of the pandemic are, in fact, by default, weaning me off my kinks. The lockbox has already been removed and put into storage, along with the man bag that isn’t being used to attend the day job.

Other than a cock pump secreted away, which has had some use in very rare moments, nothing is to hand.

With no one else working in the household and without work for the foreseeable future, so restricted to domestic and leisure time, the very best that could happen is that I might, at some point be able, all things considered, to return to the office on a regular basis, which might allow the same level of secrecy in prep time, to dress etc. at work but that would also open me up to the most acute danger and risk that I would probably not be quite in the right frame of mind and speed to logistically manage any risks effectively.

Equally so, I can’t imagine getting straight back into anything quickly, as I feel it is going to take some time to readjust back to the new ‘normal’ whenever it happens – it won’t just happen straightaway from ‘Day 1’ and there lies the uncertainty.

Of course, the plus point to the cessation is that I’m not experiencing regular spells of very tangible guilt as to what impact my indulgences are having on my hetero relationship. It is all supposition for the time being and indefinitely.

My sex drive has, generally, been at an all time low for a while, through a multitude of reasons you can probably guess at, at least, but, not being able to have a full body wax any time soon due to pandemic restrictions for salons (requiring face down treatment only) does NOTHING for my already minimal body confidence!

What I will say, in order to end on a positive, is that, during lockdown, I have continued to embrace opportunities presented to me to develop my bi-curious tendencies with a male friend and confidante who tells me I give the best blow jobs, even though I have never done it with anyone else nor could I have imagined doing anything of the sort a few years back.

Having previously, some time ago, confided in them as to a fantasy about group sex, having my anal virginity taken, (and dare I say a little carelessly and without full consideration of the potential dangers), being taken bareback and spit-roasted, when I last spoke with them after a mutual play session, said, unsolicited, that they must help me achieve my fantasy in 2021 – I assume they meant when all of this pandemic crap is over and done with.

“Maybe” I said briefly in reply, as the post playtime clear up continued. It sounds like a bluff call in a way but, aside from the practicalities of how I might explain it away and take time out to get involved in any such session, outside of my time at the salon for body waxes, it is definitely food for thought. I know – it kept me awake last night as my very vivid imagination ran away with me.

Until next time, thanks for reading and following. Hopefully, it won’t be so long until the next blog entry.

F. x

CATCH UP BLOG #3: As familiar as a pair of comfortable slippers… — August 19, 2020

CATCH UP BLOG #3: As familiar as a pair of comfortable slippers…

Over recent months, this blog has had entries like buses – none for ages then a few come along at once.  There is and was a very good reason for this, and I can sum it up in one word.  Indulgence.  That started, according to my social media timeline anyway, on November 5th 2019 when everything did indeed fire into life again with little if no explanation.

A previous blog entry, one that had sat on a memory stick for around two months, said that I’d already been in the general direction of where my lingerie was stored whilst selecting a chastity device of preference, but usually with a heavy sigh, merely left things well alone lingerie-wise and merely applied myself to partial lock up instead.

The 5th November 2019 was different.  It was to try and reflect back – I’d probably sum up a period of personal turmoil – a variety of domestic issues and a busy lifestyle were taking their toll and the resumption of lingerie crossdressing just felt right as a sort of coping mechanism – for whatever reason – and it merely happened.  I don’t remember what I wore – it was probably something easily to hand or of preference at the time.

Everything resumed.  Exhibiting on webcams, social media pics etc.  This was an outpouring of activity tantamount to catching up on where I had left off previously.

An array of other responsibilities became a distant second in the order of priority.  The focus was, much like it used to be, on planning, yearning for certain outfits, certain devices and as the order arrived for plugs, so too did the curiosity for exploring anal play, the plugs soon put to use outside the periods where I was not using a dildo.  Apart from being dressed for work almost every day, there was ample time to enjoy the peace and solitude of being home alone each morning, calmly dressing, locking, plugging and/or playing, experimenting.

There was also a natural progression towards a second go at indulging in correspondence with a Mistress.  Having already experienced the wrong side of such activity, parting with money only for nothing but abuse in return, I was left scarred, yet this new Mistress continued to speak in my language on her social media posts.

Absolutely everything she said and the way she said it, resonated with me – I related to every minutiae of detail and I told her so in open replies.

Having already had permission to DM her to report an abusive troll, I saw another post from her about taking on another sub.   I’d already made a pact in my own mind to dedicate myself to her without being owned (as I could not see any other conceivable way to give myself to her) and duly declared this on my social media page header.

When she posted something about being owned, I openly replied as to how good it would be, in theory, if I could be under her ownership, yet being closeted, said that it would be difficult to perceive a way as to how this could happen.

She invited me to DM her once more, sure in her own mind that there would be a way – again, this particular Mistress was very much speaking my language.

Mistress does not freely and simply take on any old sub.  To her, quite reasonably, they have to show signs of dedication, attention, focus and above all – trust.  I suppose, by reporting a troll (one that she knew about, had blocked and said that she was made of tough stuff to deal with what was said about her – the fact they were blocked meant she didn’t see it so it was a waste of the troll’s time anyway) I’d shown an intent to serve.  I wasn’t one of those one-way traffickers only in it for my own sexual relief and, happily, it seemed that I had said enough to demonstrate that I was not just another of those apparently many social media time-wasters only in it for themselves.

In short, she took me into ownership as her sub – and I have been ‘owned’ by her since then.

For the best part of four and a half months, I was dressed, locked and plugged in her servitude on an almost daily basis.  She decided what I wore, selecting outfits, colours etc. and chose the chastity device to be worn as well as the type and size of plug.

My intent to serve became more evident on acquisition of a Lovense Hush plug, which can be remote controlled via a smartphone app.  Mistress revelled in this seemingly previously unknown option to control her sub once I’d notified her that it was to happen, another demonstration perhaps of depth of intent and dedication to serve.

The item was purchased and soon put into use, Mistress determining when she wanted to use her sub, and therefore whether it was to be that plug or another, based on her own ability due to personal commitments or simply if she chose to.

I had no say when she took control, as I sat at my office desk, the device specially designed to be discreet and quiet, those around me unaware as the device worked inside me, patterns pre-set, wave after wave pounding away often at full power, causing me to have to control my every move and facial expression to avoid showing any kind of reaction that would seem out of place in a busy open-plan office environment.

I would spend 12 hours in outfits and devices, from early in the morning from as early as 7am to when I returned home, weekday after weekday, weekends left to vanilla time but keeping in regular touch with my Domme, providing daily photo and video evidence of my activities at home with my dildo and having disrobed in office toilets before covering up again, shots also posted on my Twitter profile @fionacder.

This was a daily routine – logistics of sitting down to wee in the communal gents toilets more regularly than any stand up to do the business, time to adjust outfits where necessary, stockings, suspenders, clasps as necessary, adjust chastity and, when worn, a cock ring too.

New chastity devices were purchased and obtained covertly for Mistress to choose from, new outfits were selected by Mistress for her sub to buy discreetly and wear, creating a once more burgeoning stash of outfits which were secretly stored at home but now, within easy reach, and for added security, under lock and key.  No more constant back and forths to storage.

This was life.  This was me.  This was the inner me, the closeted me. My inner sexuality and kinks were there to be explored, boundaries pushed, new horizons and desires found.  Encouraged to fully embrace the temptations I could barely deny, yet doing so in total and utter secrecy, a way found to lock everything up at home, hidden away, out of sight but close to hand.

If I wasn’t on my cam site of preference, I’d be taking and publishing pics of my state of dress, state of chastity and how it was instructed that I should be plugged.  I was usually either plugged with the Hush and remotely controlled, or I had the full size, larger plug, virginal, yet to be fucked-for-real ass, gradually being trained.

Frequently denied cum due to personal and home circumstances, my sexual energy remained at a peak, eagerness to serve, dress, lock, plug, demonstrate my submissiveness to my Mistress, an ever present.   But my bi-curiousness was being developed through the training to consume my own cum.  After years of baulking after the peak of the moment, now, I would happily take pre-cum for Mistress, only, in theory at least, allowed to cum if ruined, the satisfaction of hand-relief not actually likely under any real circumstances.

Spirit to serve my Mistress remained, able to tribute freely, at and of my choosing, but still on what was my own reasonable basis.

Earlier in 2020, an opportunity presented itself to be home alone for 4.5 days, nobody but me.  I vowed and detailed the intent to Mistress to serve her entirely, be dressed, locked and plugged of her choosing 24 hours a day including the delights of sleeping in that state, free time left to play, use toys and train to ruin for Mistress, although never getting over the line, undoubtedly putting myself under too much pressure.

I spent a great deal of time at night fucking my 6” suction cup dildo, often filming or taking snaps as I did, to further demonstrate my spirit to serve my Domme to the ‘enth degree for as much time as possible, into the early hours of the morning, and sleeping very little as the peak of sexual euphoria held a vice-like grip over every moment of the day.

It was an unforgettable period, wanton abandonment of many of life’s priorities, life’s pressures, stresses and strains – this was Fiona’s moment to be to the fore, the shackles of the girl within fully but temporarily lifted.

In amongst this were regular sessions being body waxed, and further exploring my bi-curious tendencies and a developing and increasingly keener urge to suck an available cock from time to time, totally submissively and for some time, each time, arguably pimping myself out, admissions and updates given to Mistress to update my training as it went on.

Things were going very well indeed.  A closeted crossdresser, turned dedicated sub to her newly found and treasured Domme, one with whom a deep and strong bond of trust had been found – so far indeed that Fiona did something she’d never done before with anyone ever before – shown her male face, albeit to Mistress only.  This was it – this was a new step in sexual exploration, exhilaration in expressing an otherwise suppressed inner submissive side.  I had, it seemed, and pleasingly so, endeared myself to my Domme and the pride of being hers, owned, and above all, valued so very deeply was something that I revelled in.

But when mid-March 2020 arrived, fate dealt the most cruellest of hands…

CATCH UP BLOG #2: Assertion of one’s authority — February 9, 2020

CATCH UP BLOG #2: Assertion of one’s authority

It’s another catch up blog. I don’t think I’ve gone so long without posting, but as said last time around, three were written – it was just that posting them up got somehow de-prioritised.

There is still much to say to bring things up to date, so I shall continue.

Just lately, with such a collection of sex toys, there has been a need to store things away, out of sight and out of mind of everyone bar me in remote storage.   As the mood takes me, I have shuttled between one toy or the other, and one chastity device or the other.

Making the move to get something of choice, I have, on occasion, set my mind on my lingerie box, untouched since early January, apart from one momentary glance at the contents within, but no touching, the contents covered anyway, by a glut of packaging from one mail order selection or another.

On more than one occasion, the thought occurred to recover that box, to dress, rediscover, relax, be me, forget the drudgery, trials and tribulations of life at least in part if not whole.  But, each time, with a heavy sigh, something motivated me not to, to attend and indulge in the sex toys, the chastity, and the lock up instead because the kink required it.

As I’ve said before, whilst my alter-ego social media profile tends to follow a variety of Mistresses, the temptation to connect more closely with them couldn’t have been further away.  Something else I’ve said before is that I’m not into being ‘rinsed’, ‘drained’ – blah, blah, blah.   Anything I did of financial investment would be under my terms and with my full consent.

Only, with such sexual euphoria raging through my system and the tendency to indulge in direct messaging, somehow, I allowed myself to respond to one particular person, profile suggesting they were a Mistress from Canada.   There was lots of attempted dominance, assertion of so-called authority, emanating from within their input, along with a curiosity to know a little bit more about me.  I had somehow allowed myself to become drawn in by their apparent willingness to give me a try out, before any kind of commitment.

There were the most ridiculous suggestions that either they or I could relocate, immediately rebuffed whilst playing along with the game by me adding the word ‘Mistress’ after every response.   Nothing was quick enough for them.   Considering that I was at work, and by rights shouldn’t have been distracting myself through indulgence in DMs, considering that there are other things in life for absolutely everyone, they were nothing short of the utmost in rudeness by getting narked if I didn’t respond quickly.

I protested the ridiculousness of their approach by stating that I was at work, and, again playing along with the ruse, said that I could hardly serve them if I was no longer working.  There were demands for this, that and the other, but also a more concessionary response, on repeated occasions, when I, playing and acting the sub, reminded the alleged Mistress/domme of how they should be acting to keep me ‘on side’.

Discussions led to the offering on their part of a trial service, me having no experience at being an actual paying sub, yet somehow driven to indulge despite my better judgement.  Various requests were made for contact via a number of smart phone apps, none of which I could partake in, in order to retain my place deep in the closet.

The alleged Mistress seemed keen to get me on board, yet all along, from my end, things didn’t add up.  ‘She’ had an account name bearing no resemblance to ‘her’ profile name, went under a variety of names, one excuse being that it was the name ‘her’ mother gave ‘her’.

Still I persisted with the communications via DM and agreed to ‘tribute’ via a method agreed of gift card.  I did a quick conversion of pounds to Canadian dollars and found myself scouring the town for a location at which these cards could be bought. Eventually, I sourced them and provided photographic proof of purchase via DM.   Inside, a voice was screaming at me that this was somehow wrong and that I should not be doing it, but the submissive side saw me going through the queue at the checkout, paying for the gift cards and returning to work.

From here, the pressure was duly applied by the alleged Mistress to bloody well get on and scratch the cards off to reveal the redeemable codes, action of which was simply just not quick enough for them.  A text tirade then followed including expletives but I told them that I was working as fast as I could, at the day job, at the desk.

Eventually, photographic evidence was sent, including a copy of the receipt.   However, alarm bells continued to ring and having dropped all the ‘Mistress’ ending to whatever I said as the frustration began to boil over, I seemed to naturally assume the role of the Domme instead.

The challenge of the account @name was met with a sudden, unannounced change to another.  I told them that I had seen this happen, but this was only met with a further change.   It mattered little to me – I still wanted to know why the original name, having no resemblance to anything else, had been used.   Eventually, it crept out via DM response that it was allegedly the name of their former sub, alluding that they had been so fond of, yet had lost them, so it was the name they had used.  Photographic evidence of this sub were also provided.

Naked photographs of a female taken in front of a mirror using a smartphone but covering their modesty, were sent in a futile attempt to try and retain me.  Evidence of them quickly giving up also became apparent, but I was not done with them as the tables seemed to have been turned.   Frankly, I was not inclined to believe that the photos that had been sent, even though they were the same person in each, were that of the person behind the account.   Similarly, the Twitter account had very little actual, if any, self-tweeted content.

This was another question that went unanswered as this person’s profile seemed to be unravelling in front of both of us.  An offer was made to change the account @name to one using mine.  I said that they may certainly not as my dominance seemed to be overpowering them at almost every turn.   “Why didn’t I want to be their sub?’ came the question.  I merely said that things didn’t add up, and expressed my utter frustration that they had changed their @name again, adding that they were not helping themselves.

Fury in the form of swear words and angry emojis then followed, and a further declaration, as if it was needed, that I was making them get mad at me.  I was not bothered in the slightest.   The conversation turned to the question of what had been done with the gift cards, suggesting that the most appropriate course of action would be to tell me whether they had ‘cashed’ them or not, when I had no intention of any form of try out or long-term on-line relationship.   I also remonstrated that I had not lowered myself to their level in swearing.     Additionally, this person didn’t seem to sleep.  They were always on the end of DMs, no matter what time of day, considering the time difference between the UK and Canada.

That was another question that remained unanswered.   They asked what I, the apparent sub, wanted them, the apparent domme, to do.  I said that the relevant amount in gift cards would be appropriate, or that they could just tell me that they hadn’t cashed them and I would have them for myself.

A flurry of evasive apologies then followed, and a declaration that they, the apparent domme, were not out to waste my (the apparent sub) time.   How could I trust them, they asked.  They confessed that they had been looking for a good sub for many years and was very sorry, again, questions not being answered.

Ultimately, attempts were made to open dialogue with me again in the following days but I was having none of it.  Eventually, a check on the DM thread identified that I had, in fact, been blocked.   I duly responded with a retaliatory block and that, was the end of that.

In the meantime, about that thing from my past that made a return…

CATCH UP BLOG #1: You cannot be serious! —

CATCH UP BLOG #1: You cannot be serious!

Prefix:  It’s been a while.  Three months or more in fact but what a three months or more.

I wrote some blogs a while back but one thing or the other stopped me from getting around to posting them.  I suppose I should explain.

Here is Catch -up blog number 1 of 3 – or 4 – this one for October 2019

Here we are then – the tenth month of the year of 2019, which has disappeared quicker than your bath water goes down the plughole!   It is, ten months since I last wore any lingerie.   I suppose you could call that an achievement in itself although quite how I’ve done it – I don’t know but clearly, the mindset has been one of merely not being inclined to indulge.

Of course, that kink, as has been fully documented before, has been swapped for chastity.  On one particular day of late, I was looking at the blog stats and one of the entries that had been viewed was one where I made a reference to a former Twitter contact – Safia – who has since blocked me for arguably ditching them without a ‘by your leave’, who, during the time that we were in contact with each other – around a year ago – said words to the effect that ‘perhaps we ought to try chastity’.

But the other week, I hit a wall with the chastity again.  I would assume that it came after a peak was achieved and having given myself the metaphorical equivalent of a slap around the face to bring me my so-called senses, everything came to a halt once more.

Well, for a few days at least.  I don’t know what gets switched on within but the changes between moods and approaches is literally one extreme or the other – on or off.

Of course, things soon switched back on again, geared up by something or other.  The proverbial spark seems to be related to my attention or otherwise to Fiona’s social media presence on Twitter.   If I tell myself not to look, I cannot be drawn to the imagery and phraseology used, I cannot read and respond to the DMs that seem to be ever more frequent.

However, every now and again, something in my mindset will coerce me to log in.  In doing so, the rationale is sort of along the lines of ‘Why not?’, ‘What harm can it do’ but also the more blunt and somewhat direct ‘Because I want to’ or ‘Because I am’.

The mere sight of men in chastity is usually something to start the cravings, the yearnings, the planning and the reignition of various trains of thoughts and, as has been the case recently, motivation to further indulge and explore.

DM exchanges also fuel the proverbial fire but of the many threads of late, assisted by a slight increase in the numbers of followers, have ranged from conversations with a (but not my) Mistress, to those wishing to ask questions about my year-long experiences with chastity to assist their start out with devices, to the more sexually explicit conversation threads which, to be fair, I have more than indulged.

Although I don’t have a Twitter Mistress, I do follow a few, but take a dislike to abuse and posts about wanting to ‘drain’ or ‘rinse’ a ‘paypig’.  I have told myself that there would be none of that where I was concerned, concluding that, if I wish to show my appreciation for someone, it will be on MY terms!    There is one, and only one to date that speaks my language and I have grown to appreciate much of what they say online and how they say it.    Imagine my horror then when one of their posts was met with the most horrific, disgusting, demeaning outburst of trolling, the type of which I felt duty bound to report to them.

Whilst I follow them, this particular Mistress does not follow me in return, and nor would I expect them to, but to open up dialogue required me to follow a few procedures and agree to limitations of contact because of the lack of a mutual ‘follow’.  Anyway, driven by the need to raise this, but mostly to express my total dissatisfaction with the content, I notified them via a DM

Retrospectively, the abusive post was in reply to one of the posts by the Mistress, so in theory, they would have seen it.  As it turned out though, they had already blocked this individual so hadn’t seen it – the abuser ultimately futile in their attempt to attack the intended recipient.

As it turned out, appreciation for the care and effort came back in reply and I reluctantly agreed to find the post by temporarily unblocking them to see the message, to cut and paste it into the DM thread and re-block.   The Mistress said that she was made of strong stuff and could take it and simply laughed off the attack from someone ultimately seen as in no way worth bothering about.

The conversation ended, having gone as far as it would need to, but by this stage, I was more than deeply immersed in a variety of conversations via DM, which took up a large part of my time on the site, comparative to the feed sitting before me.

I’ll be honest. #Locktober was soon a failure within days because of the frame of mind and cessation, but within a week or so, I was back in the proverbial saddle, visual stimulation in text and pictures capturing me, the failure to remain in partial chastity seen as no matter, instead something I could merely reapply myself to for as long as I deemed fit.

This turned out to be quite a few weeks, no sexual peak achieved, no real desire to reach that peak knowing that the come down afterwards was in no way near enjoyable, the proverbial door slammed suddenly on all related activity.   Instead, with discussions about what chastity device I might recommend having been one of the threads on Twitter DM, a need to continue my own learning led to browsing of the net for chastity devices per se.

The OCD element within could not be stopped – a rubber device called the Oxballs Tailpipe just had to be acquired.  A casual browse on line late one night also led to further sexual exploration in the form of butt plugs, a pack of three in various sizes came before me and having read through many reviews, led the sexual deviant within to order some of those too, my first real indulgence in being properly plugged.

The ‘beginner’ plug was immediately bypassed, the ‘amateur’ one easily accommodated and as the days progressed, I vowed that the try-out of the ‘professional’ plug had been done far too quickly, so days later, with time and lube, it was taken in and worn, much like the one before it, for the work day with chastity applied.

October passed, November arrived and after coming close on a couple of occasions recently, something from my past would be making a return.