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 drawer 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…