This evening, after a very ordinary day at the daily grind, I would admit to having felt a bit ‘flat’, non-plussed with anything and everything really, and I could certainly put that down to the rise of crossdressing over the past week and then the fall after such a long time on a lofty peak.

Last week was a complete indulgence in crossdressing – as if I was somehow making up for lost time.  I wore an abundance of outfits in the margins, before work and after work.  I wore my new white ‘bridal’ outfit with plain topped white stockings and the wispy spider web thin leg material that came with the outfit.

Virtually every morning before work, I was cross-dressed – against everything I’d talked about in recent and less recent months, going on-line, but then again not always.  My ever-busying Twitter feed is a focus, watching who follows as well as following feeds that I like, has been another reason for encouragement, views on my PC as well as my smartphone in the margins of the margins of the day and night.

Sometimes though, when I dressed, I dressed only for me, covering up in everyday nightwear, long PJs and a thick dressing gown whilst I attended to the many other things that needed doing, contented by the cladding underneath and the sensation it generates.  That was a very clear sign to me that, this time, I can be in control, and can move away from a psychological place I have no desire to be in.

I am once more smooth-bodied – ‘en-femme’ if you like – more suiting a canvas for a draping of soft, sensual, sexy lingerie from time to time – although I know that the next growth spurt is not far behind to disatisfy me some more.  Hugely sexually charged, my mind has been significantly on opportunities to crossdress and what I might then wear and – importantly – how and for how long.

The other day, I decided that I would carry out some more voluntary work and I pondered over doing so wearing my new white outfit underneath jeans and a T-shirt.  Needing to be up and out early doors, I almost militarily strategically planned how I might get dressed before leaving the house.   Could I sweep the cover clothes out of the bedroom, remove the lingerie from its hidey hole and quickly dress in the bathroom before darting out of the house?

Discretion was concluded to be far more appropriate despite everything that my Jekyll & Hyde personality was telling me, despite everything that the ‘devil’ on one shoulder was not so much whispering, more bellowing in my ear to take leave of my senses.  The outfit, neatly folded in a polythene bag in which it had come, was whisked into my man-bag as I flitted out of the house, my plan to arrive and instantaneously dress in the toilets before getting on with the voluntary work.  Arriving first at the premises and concluding being highly unlikely to be joined by anyone THAT early, I utilised a full length mirror and set about the efficient task of getting into the outfit of choice THEN covering up of course.

“Hang on…” I thought as I prepared the thin, almost wispy thin material of the stockings.  “Don’t tell me that I’ve laddered them” I quickly examined loudly, but concluding that I hadn’t and simply finished off dressing.  This tight fitting bridal cami suspender outfit was not one I’d worn underneath any clothing before but once covered in my manly attire, I realised that the white and grey T-shirt was somewhat revealing of the contour lines and straps underneath so decided it would be better to pull on a thin fleece over the top.

Alone for some time whilst carrying out my duties, I took off the fleece, and feeling the heat a little, turned down the air-conditioning to keep the body temperature in check as it was enveloped in such lacy, sensual luxury.

How I revelled in feeling every strap, wrap and shred of material around my body!   I occasionally peered down the top as if I was seeking to check whether I was really wearing what I actually knew I was wearing.

Slipping my hands into my jeans pockets and sliding my hand around the back of my legs outside, I could feel the suspender straps tightly running down the front and back of my legs to the stocking tops.   I untucked my T-shirt for some more natural air-conditioning and body cooling but occasionally lifted it up for yet another check as to what lay beneath, revelling again in the moment, whilst my eyes scanned radar-like as to whether or not someone else had come on site to apply their spare time too.

My daring nature was eventually somewhat brought into a conflict of almost monumental proportions as I thought that I heard a distant door bang.

Still moving around the building, still with the occasional odd flash to myself, I was playing a dangerous game of cross-dressing roulette in a place I had no wish to be outed.  What if I had been seen by someone?  That would have been so very awful and careless for a number of reasons.  Why didn’t I just fight my earlier urges to go out crossdressed and apply the control to which I’d said I was focussed in a previous blog?   Whilst part of me agonised over that, the more rational part of me concluded that I had been careful, that had anyone else dropped by, they’d have seen me merely getting on with the work in hand, tapping away at the computer, shuffling paperwork etc and with my back to an office chair – those tell tale signs of a crossdresser were unlikely to be suspected never mind seen.

After an hour or two, it was time for me to leave and lock the office back up again, returning to the toilets to (what I call) disrobe back into civvies.   Stripped of the over-the-top civvies and standing in front of a full-length mirror in my lacy lovelies, I decided that, I needed so sought and obtained relief.

Exit the relief, enter the grief and guilt.  I undressed fairly swiftly, pulled the civvies back on again, locked up and locked the door even more securely by attending to the numbers on the combination pad.

On arrival earlier, I’d locked myself in and scrambled them not once but twice.  Yet on my departure, the numbers seemed very closely set to what the number should actually be.  I agonised that someone HAD been on site, may or may not have seen something and had merely less diligently scrambled the combination on their exit, having not even said ‘hello’ to me.

Somehow, I seemed intent on carrying on beating myself up, looking to find evidence to bring about my own downfall, and therefore left in a state of semi-panic, semi-anguish, semi-who knows what! It was though a feeling of impending doom the type of which I have experienced before. Something just didn’t feel right at the time and I didn’t like it one bit.

I couldn’t get home quick enough.  What on earth was I doing?  This wasn’t control – this was out of control I reasoned.  Somehow, I felt that I needed to allow every sign of normality to wash over me as soon as possible – see that everything was OK at home, familiar atmosphere, familar surroundings, familiar people and items all around – none of which were in anyway connected with a permanently closeted, resuming, indulging lingerie crossdresser.  It took me some time on and after arrival at home to assure myself that I was still in a controlled comfort-zone. If in doubt – put the kettle on.

I hid the polythene-bagged lingerie back in its hidey hole and merely blended back in with normality and comparative obscurity – to everyone else around me, I was merely the person they knew.

Inside, I knew I had the most secret of traits, the most secret of desires, the most deepest rooted of lingerie crossdressing fetishes.

The longer the day went on, the more normal things became, the more I allowed myself to slip into the comfort zone, the more distanced I was from the anguish I had felt earlier, yet in the aftermath, I’m still at least partially searching around, scanning the horizon for a dark spectre, a slow creeping death, a dreaded fear that someone HAD seen me sitting there as I had been working and was ready to ‘out’ me – having realised that there were clear lines of lingerie under that white and grey T-shirt as I sat and worked – or maybe they’d seen something else whilst I naively thought no-one was about.

Irrational surely?

And so to today.  Acknowledging yet being unable to measure just how flat I felt, I mused that, at that semi-irrational moment, I could quite easily take crossdressing or leave it.  I could dress and to hell with it, or quite simply not bother.

The only thing I have done though is order some new white stockings for delivery to a Post Office on the way home from work – that’s having searched around on line and found many vendors that, once clicking on ‘buy’, would ultimately only deliver to my front door and not a nearby ‘Rainforest’ locker.

Back to my tried and trusty vendor then which fits my needs like a glove. It turns out that those wispy stockings DID have the most awful ladder in them. Like a child in a sweet shop – I had to have some and wasn’t content to attack the day ’til a purchase had been made.

Other than that, I haven’t bothered – crossdressing was, today, on the back burner – not needed – somehow, the events of the previous day were enough to haved topped me up to the brim.

I have however used some free time at home alone to remove the replacement black lacy top hold ups from the car and hide them away, shredding the cardboard box containing them and covering the bits with a good handful of scrap paper and a receptacle of arguable office waste confetti.

Instead, I took myself out for some fast food, sitting there revelling in it to be honest – sometimes, junk food is good for you!  Feeling what seems to be described by many as ‘meh’ (?!) on social networking these days, the junk food only served to comfort me at JUST the right time.

And on arriving back at home, an opportunity to be alone, I simply pulled on my PJs and attended to some office work, cleared a few pressing e-mails.

Once I’d done that, with the lingerie items of choice STILL in all of their hidey holes, untouched today and not on the proverbial agenda, I finished up before attending to another blog entry to get it off my chest.

The rise and fall of crossdressing summed up in just one 24 hour period.

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