NSFW: Adult content
As I have remarked on many a previous blog entry, I would probably make for a fascinating case for a psychiatrist or some such medical professional.
My mindset and my behaviours can range from one opposite extreme to the other, the direction of that swing firmly influenced by the achievement of sexual satisfaction for any given period.
My correspondences online including before a webcam have, on more than one occasion recently, included the acknowledgement that I am not currently crossdressing. This, more often than not has led to evidently disappointed folk terminating the conversation.
Contrary to that, irrationally, there have been occasional thought processes towards becoming hell-bent on crossdressing, but without passing the point of no return and doing so. As I have commented many a time, I might want to in an ideal world, but am not intending to do so because it is far from ideal.
The boundaries of the ideal and actual worlds have been allowed to be blurred over the years of lingerie crossdressing, dalliance and indulgences allowed to come to the fore with rationale and a bizarre form of reason more than liberally applied, only to eventually hit the point of total disgust, objection and cessation.
The only thing to be removed from the turmoil is the urge to purge. The scars of far too many., at the time quite reasonable but retrospectively abhorrent purges of far too much monies worth of lingerie lovelies have proved to be scars that have stood the test of time and temptation.
When 2019 arrived, conscience arrived loud and clear once more. A motivation to start afresh coinciding with a new year seemed a good fit. Here we are, some eight and a half months later, only social media timeline reminders confirming that whilst I have crossdressed this year, it was only at extreme top end of January.
I’ve said before upon previous cessations that something had felt different that time, and equally, the feelings since January 2019 have felt somehow different again, more motivationally against falling off the proverbial wagon despite occasional feelings otherwise.
The recent Twitter time line offers no real visible evidence of my crossdressed state, as the retweeted posts of others and sometimes, only appreciative comments for anothers can reflect back. You’d have to scroll back a fair old bit to find imagery of me in my lingerie, but it remains as a reminder of where I’ve been and how I’d looked.
However, over the last eight and a half months, when sexual motivation has driven me, I can be and at times am obssessed with the Twitter feed, my own timeline, and DMs, one of which, wanted followers to privately share images in a crossdressed state to stimulate and encourage theirs. I was only too happy to temporarily download my own images and share them again in one big burst.
On the webcam site of my choice, the gallery images have been turned off more than they have been on, a momentary treat for those with whom I decided to flaunt myself in my chaste, barely clothed but increasingly hirsute state. Even the profile elements, Q&A, social media presences, other personal details etc. have been individually turned on and off dependent on the peaks and troughs of my sexual motivation.
But when that motivation is at its peak, it’s no holds barred, unadultered, often explicit exhibitionism, the bio and avatar evidently telling one story of a crossdresser, whilst the on-line imagery broadcast via webcam tells a far different one.
Rather than state that I no longer crossdress, I have chosen to be more conservative with the truth, that I am merely not at the moment, so as to retain their piqued interest, that I’m just not on that occasion, not allowed on that occasion perhaps, sometimes inferring that I might be required to exhibit myself by another person in a sparsely dressed, chaste state, often with the use of preferred toys ongoing at the time.
The other week I carelessly sent some e-mail correspondence – wording of which was poor, ungrateful and thoughtless. It was sent at some ungodly hour of the night (nothing sexually explicit I might add – just mundane every day hobby related stuff). Whilst at work the following day, I checked my e-mails only to find the most terrible of responses that put a lot of things at risk. I had to work hard to turn things about and profusely apologise. There were days of thinking, proverbially sweating it out, suffering, lack of sleep, high blood pressure no doubt.
I severely reprimanded myself and put myself down – I told myself that I was rash, careless, stupid, incompetent – you get the idea. So I locked myself up. On came a holy trainer as a sort of self-punishment, lowering myself as a domme might do to a sub for the most trivial of misdemeanours compared to what I had done via the power of written word via e-mail.
It was only when I had somehow managed to dig myself out of the very deep hole that I’d put myself into that the depression lifted, but the attraction for being locked up somehow remained and I did so at every possible hour for a day or so, and even yearned for it whilst in bed with my significant other one night, unable to sleep and sexually stimulated because of it, the morning taking ages to arrive. Just recollecting this makes me want to put on my holy trainer and lock myself up again. Slight ridiculous isn’t it?! Why? As I have said before, I don’t know and that has led to recent blog entries where I seem to come to my senses, find no answer to my question as to why I do it, and stop again for a time.
Somewhere along the way though, there will be a sexual peak. It might not be for days. Sufficient time may be allowed to pass where imagination continues to run wild, longer periods in chastity, be encouraged by imagery and conversation on social media, but then I allow the peak – usually orgasm.
I’ve sometimes intimated that I might be seeking some form of training to do something in particular, when in fact, it was probably more a case of role play on-line, some vivid imagination and irrational potentially bi-curious fantasy allowed to play itself out.
It is amazing what I’ve learnt over the years, either through reading accounts of others to mere trial and error, and more trial and error still. Get me in my bi-curious, sexually active state of mind and the craving for anal is almost overpowering, all consuming, all out abandonment and pursuit.
On Monday, the inner provocateur, the inner exhibitionist, the experimental bi-curious side, fuelled by enough online stimulation and frame of mind pushed me to plan an early morning, home alone indulgence in play and experimentation.
First, a holy trainer, seen as the chastity device of utter preference, worn as much as possible, all day at work, for a few hours one weekend morning until disturbed by the arrival back home of the significant other, a quick unlock in the bathroom and concealment of the evidence putting things back to ‘normal’.
Monday saw an attempt to emulate a sub and domme video I’d seen in which a vibrating wand was applied to caged cock and restrained balls, one highlight after another, so much so that orgasm was achieved considerably to the smug satisfaction of the female domme.
In my moment of experimentation, firstly with a holy trainer and then latterly to a metal cage, I applied a vibrating prostate massager to various parts of my nether regions. I found it quite fascinating at times, others quite stimulating, others, just, well, whatever.
Eventually, a 6″ dildo was carefully inserted, the vibrating massager put away and wanton abandonment allowed to play out on cam with no-one watching bar me, the odd quick arrival but equally quick departure as my imagery repeatedly failed to float the boats of visitors.
One viewer hung around for a while and asked whether I sought any form of control and domination to which I blatantly, and arguably untruthfully said “Yes!”. I took it upon myself to accept their arguably demeaning abrupt use of words in the chat box and followed their orders. By the time they’d become bored, I was raging from the height of sexual excitement and motivation.
For the very first time ever, whilst following those orders, I found myself anally stimulated to begin oozing semen, having discovered, somehow, the way to milk my prostate, something I’d actually been trying for a while. This had no doubt been helped by the motivational words of the domme and my intent to follow their requests with the dildo. However, they had clearly had enough, through boredom or that I was not really deemed to be following their requests to the letter and therefore was not submissive enough and I was left alone in cyberspace once more.
Having recently briefly experimented with a higher placed suction cup dildo on a vertical mirror and having felt the more direct striking of dildo on prostate and the effects of the same in beginning the flow of seminal fluid, enough was in mind to take longer on this second occasion, seen only by the video camera on my smart phone from below, I began taking the dildo anally, positioned higher so as to drive in to me at an angle which would start to pound my already stimulated prostate.
Having repeatedly tried and failed to motivate myself to consume my own semen in full, yet having acquired the ability and courage to taste in small quantities, having done some searching of the net for methods to overcome the ability to renege on consuming it after orgasm when urges and motivation can subside, I had earlier decided to make a small glass of drink.
Largely to both my joy and surprise, I began to acknowledge a slow string of semen which began to ooze, hands free, out of the end of my cage locked cock as I pounded the dildo, additional stimulation achieved as the smart phone video recorded every second. Still the string of semen continued to ease out, not always but mostly caught in the glass, the bodily fluid that didn’t, motivationally cleaned up to mouth as my intent to finally swallow a full load, however much that was, was coming to the fore.
I wanted more, and tried for more, but it seemed that I had perhaps allowed my relaxed state of mind to be pushed the more I yearned for quantity. Time was running out anyway and I was acutely aware of the need for a tidy up of sex toys, lube and other related bits and bobs which littered the places around where I had been so sexually active, less care to keeping only what was needed out, more so the discarding of things not wanted in favour of those that were at any given moment.
The self-enforced chaste state was eventually and perhaps somewhat abruptly brought to an end and hand relief was achieved, into the glass of squash, dilution of seminal fluid by the flavoured water. As I came, I spoke to myself firmly, often through gritted teeth that, this time, THIS TIME, I would consume my own semen in this way. I reasoned that the taste of my own semen was something I liked in small quantities, so why would a larger quantity be so much less acceptable?
Rather than chicken out once more, I pushed on, reasoning that tactic applied with the small glass of cordial was a great way to finally empty the contents into my stomach. The glass was fully consumed in seconds, the empty glass edges still containing traces of my cum that were wiped out with a finger and also consumed.
I celebrated. I congratulated myself that I had finally drunk a full load of partially prostate milked semen whilst scanning for opportunities as to when I might be able to do that again, and this time, with less fast-forwarding to hand-relief first.
The video evidence was reviewed and retained for a few hours of the day (but ultimately deleted), but with orgasm achieved, motivation to lock back up again diminished and instead, with a sort of inner smug satisfaction, the clean up and tidy up began, the assorted paraphernalia returned to storage from where it had been recovered a few hours previously, and I applied myself to the day job.
Since then, it has been as if a bucket-list has been ticked. There hasn’t been any thought towards doing it again any time soon, or anything else for that matter, no chastity, no access to the alter-ego Twitter account but instead, a motivation to heterosexually fit in with society once more for the time being.
Motivation to dabble more more is highly influenced by my quite hirsute state, as hirsute as I have been generally for some time, but with a body wax appointment getting ever closer. I am wondering quite what fires may be reignited by that appointment and the aftermath of being smooth bodied once more, more happy with my body and more sexually stimulated as a result.
Bucket list ticked two days ago, achievements recognised and celebrated, another mundane day at work saw total application to workday and evening responsibilities – that drive only stopped by acknowledgement that everything else was done, so I could turn to the creation of a blog entry, the title for which had been thought up in a fleeting moment over the last 24-36 hours.
There were just brief moments given over to the week’s sexual activity. Having paid another visit to the toilet at the office to reply to a call of nature, the ghosts of underdressing of the past led me to recall how I had previously and frequently used that room to adjust stockings and suspenders, take snaps in various outfits then posted on social media or to strip, take off the workday lingerie and cover back up again before returning home to the unsuspecting, knowning bosom of the family.
Despite the draw of my kink for chastity and anal, those recollections of crossdressing were not motivation to dress again though – quite the opposite it seemed, more an intent not to do so because of the inconveniences when crossdressing came to an end, the time taken, the time wasted perhaps, the behaviour and resulting guilt allowed to play out.
This, it seemed, was, and contrary to a previous blog entry title, more a case of one step back, two steps forward. Or was it?