The recovering crossdresser?

To crossdress or not crossdress – that is the question…

Brain chemistry — August 1, 2022

Brain chemistry

I’m following a new blog on-line from someone who is currently unsuccessful in trying to explore a s/D relationship with their partner but they had nevertheless been able to broach the subject with them.

A key part of a blog entry was the bit where they said: “I don’t know why but I’m wired that way.” and that has very much echoed in my head at a very co-incidental time for me.

Historically, I’d have one hell of a prolonged binge in all things kink and this would usually be without orgasm, for days or weeks at a time. Prior to the impact of the pandemic, with Mistress giving instructions, I’d be dressed in her choice of lingerie, locked in the chastity device and plugged with the size and type of her choosing for up to 12 hours a day.

My submissiveness accepted the need to be without orgasm to maximise and retain high levels of subservience. The other reason not to reach orgasm was because reaching it changed my brain chemistry, significantly and conversely altering my approach to all things kink, causing disinterest, often for days and even weeks, before the internal switch would flick back at some point and for one reason or another and I’d be off on another binge.

Achieving orgasm during kink has, can and often does cause a level of disgust about my kink activities and I’ve understood why that is a little bit more this week. More on that shortly.

First through, a word on how I acknowledge my most intimate of mindsets and how it has changed and is changing. Whether that is for the better, I do not know but I am trying not to over analyse things too much.

My previous blog entries have comprehensively documented my sexual development over a number of years, once unable to imagine anything remotely close to anal, now I am indulgent and receptive.

Long since used to being finger-fucked over the years by a male confidante with whom I am increasingly intimate, he has since taken my anal virginity – although he hasn’t had me again since – and I have been sucking his cock for around four years. It has taken until this year to be receptive to swallowing his load and, to date, that has only happened once. This despite often baulking at taking my own once climax has been reached despite doing so before.

Brain chemistry. It’s a proper mindf**k.

Recently, I was at another partial body wax appointment. On all fours, my bum was waxed and copious amounts of cream were then rubbed in. He is often turned on by my bum which, without wanting to brag, is often commented upon, and he was soon hard inside his jeans, urging me to cop a feel for myself. I angled my bum towards him to offer myself for whatever use was required and was keen to oblige as the thought of his cock in my mouth once more was forefront as I remained on all fours on the treatment table. I relish sucking his cock all the more at every appointment.

Sex play progressed. In either the naked ‘all fours’ or laid down on my side position, I made my bum and hole available, giving him the clearest of green lights that I was fully submissive to him. The noises of him firmly patting my hole with tightly held together fingers to open me up were regular and echoed around the room throughout the session as he finger fucked me. I relished the eroticism of the noises, knowing I was being used as his toy.

I mused upon how far I would verbally open up to him about my kinks, and, taking anal from him, went as far as to say that I spent two days a week in the office, plugged. He explained how, in his opinion, plugs were designed to open the wearer up but I said I enjoyed the feeling of being plugged and explained how I had been frequently wearing a medium sized plug but had briefly tried the pro sized last week and took it with ease. I reasoned that this was not the right moment to open up about my lingerie crossdressing and chastity on this occasion.

A reason not to is that the photos that I would invariably end up showing him would be water marked with my Twitter name, the account then directing to my blog where everything is out in the open.

Even if or when I do open up to him as the only person other than Mistress to know about all my most intimate kinks, I don’t think it will be to any detriment. At least, I hope not.

I digress. Having spent a few moments with a hand around his cock, making him wait to be taken into my warm welcoming mouth, the availability of his lusted after member could not be resisted anymore as his pre-cum began to seep. I began by savouring the taste of it before plunging down his length, deep throating, back and forth, mouth gripping, tongue working the length much to his evidence satisfaction.

He praised his sub again and questioned how it had become so good at cock sucking, telling it that it was getting better and better, even asking whether it had sucked another.

I breathily replied that his cock was the only one that I had sucked, but that I had recently developed a largely unsubstantiated fascination for black cock. He asked whether I was interested in sucking or being fucked by it to which I replied that I was, in the moment, open to both, but focused on the former. He was unable to help me with this other dark fantasy despite his many contacts. I wasn’t too disappointed but, somehow, I was a little.

My subservient cock remained limp as my focus was not on my own satisfaction but of his. But my naked body was his to use as he saw fit and it was not really down to me as to how he used it. My nipples were tweaked, my torso caressed, my head gently pulled towards his body by way of an embrace and my hair lightly pulled, my hole repeatedly creamed, patted and fingered, but he wanted to play with my cock too and pulled away from my mouth to frot us both as I lay on my side, him standing beside the treatment table.

My total focus and target was to swallow his cum and I made no secret of it, openly telling him I wanted his cum across my tongue and down my throat and then how I wanted my own and asked him not to waste my cum as a result. I was in the height of subservience, sexuality and motivation at its peak, happy to be used for as long as possible, keen to suck his cock.

Although I was not totally content, he said that if I came on his cock, I could then taste my own cum and then his. It was clear though that he had somehow sensed a change in sexual chemistry after he had brought me off over his still hardened cock but returned to let me take it in, my cum having hit the base of his cock in stringy lengths that a plunge of deep throat would have reached.

Somehow, his cock was withdrawn from my mouth soon after and he began pumping in front of it. I was in a state of withdrawal although a small part of my mind was fighting to convince what was now the dominant part to open my mouth up and take his load, but my brain chemistry had changed in an instant post orgasm and I was, it seemed, unwilling. He sensed that he could not unload into my mouth again as he had done for the first time only recently. However, when I had taken his load before on a previous occasion, I had not released my own so my brain chemistry was unaltered and I was totally receptive.

On this occasion though, he had made me cum but had realised the consequences. I lay there watching him bring himself off in close proximity. His cum soon powered out across the top of my chest but below my neck line and he soon reached for some paper towel to considerately clean his sub up, passing further towels for me to clean up elsewhere on my cum soaked body.

Speaking out loud, I emphasised the extent of disappointment in myself at not having taken his load due to what had been altered brain chemistry, almost but refraining from saying that I had warned him.

In reply, he said that a particular chemical is released by the body upon orgasm – a sort of satisfactory chemical and that is what alters (or can alter) the mind set.

There is, however, more room for development as he explained the need for tantric sex to allow all inhibitions to be removed, and that it was possible to orgasm without ejaculating with the right teachings or even after it and remain sexually motivated.

I expressed my willingness to learn, to be taught by him, and with the appointment at an end, internally acknowledged that I am still being and will probably always be being developed as a sub, for and by him, for Mistress, and for me. Damn you brain chemistry! It is time to learn to be a sexual chemist.

The trials and tribulations of a crossdresser — July 19, 2022

The trials and tribulations of a crossdresser

This blog entry is about a facet of my crossdressing that I’ve often thought about yet been unable to satisfactorily attend to over all the years – more a case of, ‘make do and mend’ and, at the risk of sending you recoiling in horror and disgust, I’m about to broach the subject.

Laundering lingerie.

Now, I’m not a dirty, filthy so and so, in fact, I’m quite the opposite. If I am going to pull on my lingerie, it has to be very coordinated and tidy and it always bothers me when, after I’ve taken what I think are good photos – often deleting and retaking the same shot for minutes on end – I find a twisted strap or suspender adjusters that aren’t level with each other.

But, for those that live alone and are able to indulge at will, this isn’t (I assume) an issue – there will most likely be a washing machine and other similar appliances to hand or at the very least, a sink or two and the consumables to carry out the job in hand.

As a necessarily deeply closeted crossdresser with a history concluded to date back to at least 2005, the ability to satisfactorily launder has been slim to non-existent. I mean, you can’t JUST put things through a cycle in the washing machine, wait for it to finish and then try and dry it at leisure, as, conventionally, there just isn’t the time and opportunity, however, I do recall the odd time when thongs have been washed, hung in the back of a cupboard in the man cave to dry, before being secreted back in the drawer I should never have been in.

Items from the wardrobe I should never have been in have been worn, and returned from whence they came after a very short time of use when I was home alone – those outfits never did lend themselves to use all day whilst at work whilst underdressed anyway.

After the resumption of dressing last month – over two years since I was regularly indulging five days a week at the office for up to 12 hours a day – I am now restricted as to what I can do to prepare, store secretly and have to hand for the odd office working days, hybrid working very much a thing in our household as a result of the pandemic. The only value that I could attach to going back to working in the office full time is that I could resume dressing, plugging and locking in chastity every day, just like old times.

My little convenient rolling hidey-hole stash can be changed when an opportunity arises for me to access my remotely hidden lock box of all of my treasured kink-based possessions, but I have to have the right opportunity and the time to put back, take out etc. Needless to say, I now carry my plugs and chastity devices with me irrespective of what lingerie has been prepared.

Currently, I am limited to what lingerie I can wear in the height of Summer, but it will be nice to wear a few other, long since unused outfits as the seasons change – but ‘beggars can’t be choosers’ so goes the phrase.

Having worn a lovely little white lace three piece outfit plus stockings for a ‘comfortable temperature’ working day last week, it occurred to me somewhere along the way, that it really would benefit from a freshen up. Being so long a resident in the closet, I have learned to be a constant strategist, working out how I can crossdress, when I can crossdress and when I need to return to ‘civvies’ as I call it, so a plan was hatched to find an opportunity to indulge.

In the days that followed, and finding myself home alone earlier this week, I took a break from working at home, deposited the thong, bralette, suspender belt and stockings into the bathroom sink, and, using some soap, began a thorough scrub, rub, wring and repeat on everything. Stage 1 accomplished, I was able to utilise the time to drape the garments over the top of the stairs, the hosiery drying almost by itself in the warmth of the current British heatwave, but the other items needed more attention.

I didn’t have much time, knowing that I would not be home alone for much longer, so, for Stage 2, I reached for a hair dryer and, finding a door hook to hang them on, grabbed one end and worked through everything before returning it to the storage bag ready for, either, the next use, or the opportunity to swap it out for something else from the lock box of kink treasures for the next office work day.

The trials and tribulations of a (closeted) crossdresser. But that’s not all.

This week, I finally overcame a trial that I set myself by default a few years ago after purchasing a new, pink holy trainer chastity device. I am somewhat of an complulsive impulsive, so when I get something new, I want to try it on or use it ASAP, even if it is only as a taster ahead of something more tangible.

Imagine my disappointment then, when, all those years ago, the package was opened, but upon attempting to wear the new device, I found that the ring did not fit flush with the sheath. This wasn’t something that, given my closeted situation, I could easily or wanted to send back. Ever the strategist, I set about trying to correct the issue but ultimately, incorrectly and without success on any occasion when an attempt was made.

I soon DM’d the company, who, to their credit, replied stating that it just needed putting in very hot then very cold water, holding it together in the meantime for the cold to then keep the shape. Again, attempts failed and the device was, for convenience, resigned to storage, a project for another day, only, the urge to lock up in a working device along with the daily lingerie and plug of Mistress’ choice meant it was always a project for tomorrow.

It was only whilst taking some time out to scroll back through my DMs a while back that I came across that reply, which sowed a proverbial seed, and set an equally proverbial ‘note to self’.

Within the last week, a ‘home alone’ opportunity allowed the determination and the availability of the device to have another go. A massive note of caution had been set against this device, on an ongoing basis, as, of course, the last thing I wanted was to lock myself in it, but not be able to get myself out of it without a lot of amateur DIY at the risk of embarrassing and exposing hospitalisation, or very much the same anyway.

The sheath was fitted into the ring, and both parts went under the hot water tap of the same sink utilised to recently launder my lingerie, every sinew of the fingers used being strained to clench things tight together before plunging them under a cold tap promptly and lock the shape, trying not to suffer burns or frostbite respectively!

The trials and tribulations of a (closeted) crossdresser weren’t done on this occasion though. With the device off my body, in went the lock, and out again, key removed, put back in, removed again, repeatedly for minutes like a machine might test something for durability. On occasion, the key felt like it was stuck, and another, it seemed like the key was bent. Again, fears of being locked in the device with the key snapped within rang at full pelt.

The compulsive within fought with the situation to persist and find a solution. The machine-like attempts continued for a good few minutes. The average of those many attempts was deemed more a success than failure, and so, with care and attention to ensure the rough edges of this fairly cheap device didn’t cause injury to my cock or balls, I carefully fitted this never-before-worn pink chastity device, locked it and removed the key. Inside my head, I needed assurance that it could be removed quickly, and attempted an unlocking.

After a panic, a fumble and a brief utterance of an appropriate swear word, the lock came out much to my immediate relief. I locked up again, convinced all was well, and walked around the house on a break from work or sat at my desk for a while, naked but in this tight fitting device, shorter than my trusty white one, but, as it turned out, just as short as my see-through device. I reveled in the feeling of being more restricted and denied, but eventually reasoned that it was about time to ensure things were put away again. I took a photo for posterity, sharing it on line of course, removed the chastity device, and resumed my naked-only working from home time, satisfied that I now had four working devices to choose from, or, perhaps allow Mistress to choose from for the next office day.

There was just one problem. Upon reviewing the photo, I could see that there was a gap in the fitting between ring and sheath through which the inserted lock could be seen. The perfectionist within cursed, vowing to try that hot/cold water routine next time, and ensure maximum secure fitting, to avoid those fears of being inadvertently locked in, becoming an unwanted reality.

The trials and tribulations of a (closeted) crossdresser…

Unimportant importance — July 18, 2022

Unimportant importance

I’m having body confidence issues at the moment, exacerbated by hair growth. I’ve had a ‘thing’ in that way from before I started going for body waxes years ago, less so over subsequent years, but the ‘thing’ has never gone away.

I would just love to be hair-free all the time, but my metabolism is taking a number of years to be trained to give up. Hair growth, as I understand it, can be trained to die off through waxing whereas shaving encourages it, and whilst I’d agree that I am far less hirsute than I was, the growth still irks me, particularly on my chest and legs, but otherwise, everywhere.

I used to love it when I could have a full body wax in one session, but after an example case in the States that I was told about in which someone who had just had one then suffered a body shock at the wheel, crashed their car and died, industry regulations were changed, meaning that body waxes had to be done in two separate sittings.

As I have said before on many a blog post, tearing the hairs out en-masse from the roots, particularly when well established, can cause the body temperature to plummet, and put you into an uncontrollable bout of the shakes that you can do nothing about.

I have experienced this on just one occasion, albeit several years ago and I would not recommend it. A reputable salon will know what to do, i.e., they aren’t just copping a feel by rubbing the palm of a hand across your body, they are checking your body temperature. Of course, the more your hair is removed, the weaker and thinner it gets, the easier it is to come out and the less pain you feel, so therefore leaving your body less to deal with via your receptors etc.

So, to sum up, my appointments always see something needing doing, a part of my body needing waxing, another, not for a few weeks. For those in the UK, you will know about the analogy of the ‘Forth Road Bridge’, i.e. that painting it takes that long that once workers get from one end to the other, it is time to start again at the beginning. That is how I see my body waxing, i.e., never fully done – and it irks me quite a bit.

Whereas my appointments were always an hour, and sometimes longer, these days, whilst I repeatedly book in an hour in my diary, and my psyche looks forward to and anticipates this, they have a different agenda. The salon I go to doesn’t just do body waxing but a variety of other things for both sexes, particularly hair cutting and styling. All aspects of COVID have, recently, led to a backlog which they are trying to catch up with.

Knowing my body (intimately) as he does, once the appointment starts, me naked, sitting on or standing near to the treatment table, upon coming into the room, he soon has his own idea of what needs doing and how long it will take but the specifics are never defined until, as I see it, the most inopportune moment.

My recent appointment – first thing – was, as it turned out, around 30 minutes in his mind. but he made a point of saying that he would make more time next time. Now, I could see that as a positive, i.e., my hair growth is thinner and weaker so takes less time to come out and for me to be ‘done’ so to speak.

However, I had, perhaps naively and presumptuously, anticipated going through some more submissive sexual development – (planning to swallow his load for a second time from a kneeling position to take it down across my tongue and down my throat, to ask about the option of exploring big black cocks at a future appointment, and with some kind of plot hatched to show him some recent videos of me taking a dildo (which he knows about) and even, opening up about my chastity and lingerie crossdressing, which even HE doesn’t know about!) – I was to be disappointed. As he waxed my long and slender legs, he was evidently watching the clock and awaiting his next appointment coming through the main door to the building, indicated by the bell that rings,

Happily, I never heard it ring though but this didn’t really change the agenda – well, not fully anyway.

Having been on my back and then on my front to ensure my legs were fully waxed (much to my satisfaction and ready for the next draping of stockings), I had to motivate myself to get up from my flat out position and push up.

He noticed my hesitation and asked me if I was alright, as I eventually made it to a naked, raised kneeling position on the treatment table with him stood closely alongside. Suddenly, focus on his next appointment out in the main salon had become blurred, motivated by the lack of an audible bell at the door and his naked sub to hand. One hand began working my cock, the other began fingering my hole. He wanted my cum. I wanted my cum and, after a few moments, focused on my own cum swallowing target by cupping a hand underneath as my ever hardening cock was being rapidly pumped until its pent up load was shot.

Responding to the placement of the hand, he praised his project sub, murmuring the word ‘Good!’ with a very encouraging tone, which seemed to make my creamy and considerable load power out all the more so, flooding the cupped palm of my hand.

There seemed to be a very brief timescale in which I was allowed to bring the load to mouth and it quickly expired. He had soon merely concluded that nothing else was going to happen, tearing some of the paper treatment table cover and thrusting it efficiently into my hand to soak up the pool of cum.

If I am to be honest, even though I love cum, and have taken my load before, I am not consistent and frequently back out and rinse it away as sexual peak hits the floor like a dead weight. I continue to disappoint myself in that respect, and, retrospectively, I should have acted far swifter and more determinedly. I am still a developing sub and I am an obedient sub, so quickly accepted the situation before me and relished having still been used for his satisfaction, even though, on this occasion, I could not reciprocate and I told him that I had recognised as such. He calmly said that I could make up for it next time, and again, I submissively accepted without commentt.

He left, I continued the clean up, dressed and went out to book another appointment in a few weeks time, but this time, at his convenience, later in the day, when I will likely be the last appointment, and we will be alone and locked in. I could tell that it was all part of his unspoken plan for me – his unimportant importance.

Until next time.

Taking a load off — July 10, 2022

Taking a load off

I had been ill with coronavirus. I’d subsequently tested negative but long COVID appeared to be setting in and the symptoms akin to a common cold plus fatigue were evident and sustained, yet I was still dosing myself up with anything and everything and trying to rest and ease off where I could.

Another salon appointment had come round, and feeling able enough and dosed up to go, I went. I stripped off, but this time, after a short period of contemplation about what I should and should not be doing, I casually sat myself on the edge of the treatment table, a bit like how you might perch on a bar stool. That was a signal that I was, on this occasion, not ready for anything else but waxing.

A few moments later, he came in and speculated as to what part of my body needed doing. Having become a little disillusioned with my appearance of late with regard to hair growth, I verbally compared myself to the process whereby workers paint and renovate the Forth Road Bridge in the UK, i.e., the structure being so big that it is a case of a ‘start at one end, get to the other end then start all over again’ type thing. A response to that moment of self deprecation was not forthcoming.

He decided that my back needed waxing and I therefore stretched out on my front, head to one side, hands grasping the top end edge of the treatment table. As the waxing took place, so did the always pleasant chit chat.

I said I’d recently suffered COVID. He sympathised, and, as it turned out, we were able to swap notes as he had also suffered it but recovered enough to keep to some rather considerable personal commitments which fell after he tested negative.

He concluded that, as I wasn’t well, he wouldn’t do any more body waxing and having applied some cooling lotion afterwards, he offered to treat me to and promptly began a back massage to help take a load off, so to speak. Amid the silence, punctuated only by the incidental ‘salon’ style, calming music, he stood tight to the same end of the treatment table as my head, leaning over me in close proximity to reach and work with his oiled hands.

Those hands gradually roamed further down my back to my bum cheeks, occasionally opening them up to rub between them during those long, sweeping massage movements.

My hands, still largely, but lightly gripping the edge of the table, began lightly but, initially, subtly touching his crotch area, touches becoming more evident, more pronounced, more obvious as the sexual undertones became sexual overtones as both participants seemed to desire.

It was not long before his trousers and undies were down and his cock sprang to attention to the side of my still rested head. I examined what was so plainly before me for a few moments, smelling his sex, before rearing up to take his cock in my mouth.

The physiology and body positions, me on a treatment table, him standing, meant that I could only just take the tip of his cock in my mouth as it pointed up towards me, and, with an unspoken acknowledgement, he shuffled around to one side. I turned on one side, (he carefully and considerately moved a pillow for me to rest my head upon) and quickly plunged down his length, more than willing – desperate perhaps – to suck his hardened cock for as long as was possible, knowing that there was to be no more waxing to be done at that session.

From time to time, I would kiss and suck around the side of his cock, around the frenulum and tip before going back down on him, deep throating and taking his cock with more shallow plunges whilst one hand reached round to grab a bum cheek, the other cupping his balls and stroking his perineum.

His pleasure was clear and present – verbally telling his sub that it gave the best blow jobs ever – as well as through the moans and exhalations of breath. His cock was leaking pre-cum and I willingly took it, with a target then being set on this occasion to suck him until he came in my mouth – another salon first. The speed increased, the mouth grip tightened as I gave him an early indication of what I wanted for the very first time, my actions conflicted by the an element of questioning of what I was doing in a distant recess of my mind.

I pulled off and hung my mouth just off his cock tip, slightly open, ready, anticipating.

He began masturbating but didn’t seem to acknowledge that I was ready to accept his load – he was in fact, probably unsuspecting and in disbelief as it had never happened before nor, I suppose, had seemed likely. My mouth opened wider, head still side ways from my position laid out on the treatment table, as if to give him a clearer signal.

He soon realised that I was willing, for the very first time, to be his cum dump and that I wanted his sperm in my mouth, throat and stomach. I was, as part of my ever-continuing sub development, becoming a cum slut and I was liking it.

He said something in a thrilled and sexually charged tone to acknowledge that I was willing and, above all, ready to take his load. He duly brought himself off, the cum shooting into the back of my mouth and throat and pooling in the lower cheek as well as glazing the edges of my mouth. As he unloaded, he used his other hand to bring me off over the edge of the treatment table.

In those moments of immense satisfaction, I felt the taste and texture of his load, the cum stringing across the top of my throat and back of my mouth. I promptly worked the pooled cum from my cheek in order to be able to swallow it, not exactly choking or gagging, but merely managing the new ground and barrier breaking moment. He asked if I was OK to which I murmured approvingly and contentendly and he then spent a few celebratory moments saying ‘WOW’ a few times at just how he had enjoyed what had just happened as well as what had just happened with his continuingly developed project.

With one load now deposited in my stomach, that left far less of a clean up of my own semen which had soaked the edge of the towel spread across the treatment table.

The situation was soon remedied, and he left the room to attend to his other appointments outside in the main salon, and to contemplate what had started the day for him. I dressed alone and then exited to book the next appointment with him. Payment for waxing through sexual favours – pimping myself out – no money changing hands – has been common place for some considerable period of time now.

I continue to surprise him at each appointment as to how far I’ll go. In a short space of time, he’s fucked me bareback, and now, I’m willingly being used as his cum dump, instead of hot creamy loads of semen being wasted on the floor. I really ought not to waste my own load either going forward.

I’m now seemingly always up for taking a load off.

Come to think about it — June 17, 2022

Come to think about it

You know the signs. Those signs you get – early ones – that you’re starting with a cold. The symptoms start very gently – then – bang – it is a snot and cough fest.

I wasn’t going to just sit there and take it, so I instantly began dosing myself up, to fight the bloody thing from the outset and send it packing as soon as physically possible. You name it – I was probably taking it – well, not quite, but you know what I mean.

It was time for another retro pic post on my Twitter page, and on this occasion, it just happened to be from a session when I’d been in a new French Maid outfit – a session in which I had locked myself in a clear chastity device, and had pulled out the dildo and the camera phone, stuck the former to the bathroom tiles, laid the camera screen facing up on the bath edge, straddled it, and filmed around half an hour of taking it – all – up and down, in and out, deep and shallow.

The stimuli of the ‘cock in ass’ imagery ignited an inextinguishable spark and when an opportunity presented itself home alone, I contemplated how kink could be explored in the available time.

Dressed in a t-shirt and jogging bottoms, the 6″ dildo was strategically extracted, lubed up and inserted, firstly on the closed toilet seat to ride, then quickly, doggy, on the tiles, as before, echoing the archive pic.

Again, the camera filmed but in stark contrast to the imagery that set the spark – no lingerie, no hosiery, no chastity, driven solely by the need to feel penetration.

After around ten minutes of arguable prostate stimulation, the urge to cum was too powerful and, as the camera filmed from below, I obscured the shot by cupping a hand under my cock as I brought myself off by hand. I came long and hard, jets of thick, creamy, pent up semen powering out in bursts, flooding a cupped palm but with fingers not tightly together, allowing some to drip through to pool on to the edge of the bath as I straddled it with the dildo still firmly embedded deep within me.

Though enjoyable to one extent, post euphoria of orgasm, I then couldn’t seem to get off the dildo quickly enough but with the need to take care, made a steady withdrawal before cleaning up, returning the dildo to safe storage and carrying on with the chores of the day as if nothing had happened.

There was a sense of relief at eventually completing the clear up but also an acknowledgement of the reasons why full time subs are kept locked up. They can’t reach that same exact point of orgasm and can only, if permitted, be ruined which does not have the same effect that hand relief does.

For me, and this has long been the case, I can be without orgasm for a long time, for whatever reason and be quite OK with that. It keeps my submissive levels and interest and eagerness for all things kink at its highest and usually ever heightening for longer.

Orgasm can lead to the complete opposite – disinterest for any given period of time. Interestingly though, this time around, the period of disinterest was much shorter and this is a pattern I’ve noticed of late.

Of equal interest is that when in my own period of solo play, I can feel that abject level of disinterest instantly but when I’ve been, say, at the salon, where orgasm is usually the end product after a long period of submissive sex of some sort, I remain submissive and fully immersed and interested in my kinks. Satisfactorily used it seems.

There is one other thing to add. After my early week self indulgence, and having been feeling under the weather, I took a lateral flow test which gave a positive result.

I’m sure that you agree with me that, when you’re ill, you go into 100% self preservation mode, concentrating on getting better and having been taking plenty of meds, there has been a rapid improvement of conditions day by day and, again, the mindset has turned back to kinks, Twitter and blog updates.

There is, however, just one fact remaining – a way to stop – or at the very least, delay all of my indulgences from taking hold – come to think about it.

Needs must. — June 7, 2022

Needs must.

The way I’ve seen it, the way I’ve thought about it and the way I’ve written about it, the last two years and three months have, by and large, been seen as the bringing about of a full stop to the ability to cross dress. Domestic circumstances have quite simply, not permitted it to any degree whatsoever.

“That was it”, I mused. It was good while it lasted. I’d had a good run going back an estimated sixteen years. I shouldn’t be disappointed and I’m not.

However, being resigned to the fact led to provisional thoughts of something I said that I would never do again – purge – but this time, for good, irrespective of the consequences because there was no perceived way back.

The method and timing of that purge had not been formulated in my head. I didn’t really give it much thought at all though.

Ever the analyst, ever the strategist, I had long been working out ways to indulge in cross dressing and my other kinks but the sheer impact of the pandemic on just about everything in life meant that there was absolutely no opportunity whatsoever to find a way back, or perhaps that should be ‘forward’. You get what I’m saying.

Even hybrid working, having the very occasional days in the work place didn’t seem to offer any opportunity as a basis to any strategy.

The majority of my kinks were silenced – but there have been three constants throughout since that fateful day when we were all told so clearly that we “must stay at home” – Twitter, my blog and the salon.

Twitter has seen in excess of 200 flashback posts of old, previously posted pics but I had then run out of them and felt that I had no excuse to post old pics under another header without looking a bit naff and a bit desperate perhaps.

I naively asked my followers to answer a poll – something I don’t normally do. The silence was deafening. The votes were low in number and indecisive so with the poll deleted having not really given enough time for responses anyway, the new series of old pics started – my own personal favourites from the hundreds of pics stored secretly.

Twitter has been the mainstay – the only real direct link to kinks since the pandemic struck in March 2020. Without it, all of those decisions on a final clear out might have been made far sooner and far more decisively.

My blog hasn’t been that active until late. I had to resort to catch up blog entries at one point because even talking about my kinks was difficult as nothing was really happening but it has, and continues to be a crutch on which to lean with absolutely no one else to confide in.

I haven’t even confided fully on all aspects of my kinks whilst at the salon where the ability to even go there for body waxing was stopped for a time anyway because of how the pandemic affected those doing business.

But, time there did resume and frequency of visits increased again, and then more so because of need. But aspects and development of my kinks have been nurtured there, inner sexuality brought to the fore, boundaries broken, new ones found and broken again, learning new things about who I am, what I would be prepared to do, submissiveness allowing myself to be taken forward and to be led.

I suppose it is this aspect of kink that has kept a very dimly lit flame alive within and then allowed it to be fuelled. Bear me with. This is a deep analogy.

I have recently been sexually reignited – the extent of which has even been to my surprise. Whilst I had once accepted my crossdressing time was up and that it wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing, a more settled society and life, combined with being sexually but consentually developed at the salon has, somehow reignited the flame to burn ever more fiercely, strongly and brightly without really fully understanding why and how. I’ve just been going with it – whatever ‘it’ is.

Somehow, fuelled, undoubtedly, by visual stimuli and my many sexual experiences, there has been the largely uncontrollable urge carrying me towards a partial resumption of cross dressing, anal play and chastity.

I reasoned that I would have to wait for the ‘right time’, to get to and open up my lock box in marginal time home alone. The strategist within returned to paying close attention to dynamics and domestics. Where would everyone be? When? For how long? Could I do what needed to be done and was it worth the risk?

There have already been instances where things haven’t worked out and there will be many more – the circumstances that allow opening that box up can be, much to my inner frustration, fluid and influenced and affected by a myriad of situations beyond my control.

I have not been deterred though and I have simply played the waiting game for the next opportunity to come around, fraught by the risk of failure nevertheless.

One opportunity allowed the ‘try on’ of all but one of my chastity devices for a few minutes at a time, by way of a ‘tester’ but having taken a few pics, things were quickly returned to the lock box which had clearly shown its other, burgeoning contents to me.

Another opportunity arose, home alone. I had planned a black four piece outfit I would recover, as well as the chastity device and with the aim to bring out my three sizes of plugs that I had previously dabbled with a few weeks before, to give myself options.

I was home alone for two hours and dressed, locked and plugged, taking pics and taking around 8 minutes of video before sitting at my office desk and doing something mundane, but I was like a coiled spring throughout.

Every noise from a passing car was checked in case there was a need for emergency procedures to be invoked, the plan already hatched. A check confirmed that the ‘others‘ were in fact, in a cafe in town so would not be home anytime soon. I relaxed to better enjoy the opportunity that had been presented to me, and reflected on how contented I felt – a very intimate and deeply rooted feeling not experienced since March 2020.

I had clearly set the boundaries and reluctantly acknowledged when it was time to unlock, unplug and undress, feeling better about things because that very process was part of preparation to dress, lock and plug again for the office days ahead and with a plan hatched to await the next opportunity to swap things around in the lock box, to change outfit and chastity device for future instances.

My timing was perfect. Within a fairly short space of time after I had done what had to be done with the lingerie and sex toys, and having resumed the same mundane home office tasks, the ‘others’ returned. As they arrived I verbally praised myself for having timed things to perfection.

Today, as I write, (during a break) I am dressed in that very outfit again for work, plugged and locked very tightly in a white holy trainer chastity device acutely aware of my servitude to Mistress who is aware of and evidently approves of my return from the post on Fiona’s social media account.

My spirit to submit and serve is very strong right now and the motivation is high but being owned does not come for free and, although it has not been requested by Mistress, I am now proactively looking at ways to covertly tribute my Domme on the same terms that were necessarily left behind in March 2020 and since.

To conclude, right now, I am at what is probably the highest and most motivated and submissive state that I have ever been in.

At the moment, practically nothing is stopping me from pushing on with resumed crossdressing plans. Additionally, I am anticipating my next salon appointment more for the purposes of offering my naked body for sex and how I might be used rather than having my body waxed even though the latter is important for compliance and presentation as a sub and for my own well-being.

But there is an overarching tinge to all of this. Guilt. I’ve not missed that one bit in the last two years because, to all intents and purposes, everything had stopped. In the life that everyone closest to me sees me in, I play the proverbial poker face, the average bloke, the (genuinely) loving partner, blending in with the societal norms etc.

I have long since suffered with elements of guilt over my kinks, especially from the confines of the closet but whilst I do not let them affect things, it is the psychological effect that concerns me and how I could, unintentionally, let that poker face drop somehow and that would lead to a multitude of awkward questions and bucket loads of denial that anything was “wrong” when, in fact, everything is somehow right in my mind.

I know that you might say “As long as no one is getting hurt” it is OK. It is an age old issue for me though because my crossdressing in lingerie goes back some 16 years now. Nothing has therefore changed in that respect then.

Fiona is, very suddenly, back – needs must.

Thanks for reading. I’d very much like to read your thoughts and comments below.

Lead him not into temptation… — June 6, 2022

Lead him not into temptation…

Another salon appointment had come around. Parts of my body really needed waxing but other parts of my body needed something else – and I both knew it and wanted it. The inner submissive was burning with some intensity – probably hotter than it had burned for some time.

I was ushered into the room and stripped off, strategically leaving my skimpy g-string so that it could be seen by the side of my neatly folded pile of clothes.

As usual, I remained standing despite the treatment table being ready for me. But this time, there was to be no gentle cock and balls patting for him to be drawn upon coming into the room – already waxed, my tiny limp cock merely submissively hung as much as it could.

He entered the room as the theoretical appointment clock began to tick away.

Immediately, he openly and verbally acknowledged that, if I was standing for him, he knew that I was ready for him – and that he liked it.

He moved straight for my limp cock and began working it but was soon lightly caressing his sub’s body – around the bum curves, between the legs and teasing the thighs as the mirror in front reflected everything back to us both.

I cavorted, swinging my hips and pushing my bum out to signal that I was available to him and was responsive to being used.

He made a point of saying that we would never get any waxing done if I was going to behave like this. I demonstrated my submissive side by failing to reply, body language alone signalling that I remained his eager and willing toy.

The visual stimuli of the action being played out for us both in the mirror led me to very quickly bend over the treatment table without really having a reason why or having any real expectations as to what would happen. He moved his fully clothed body in behind me and ground his crotch in to my bum crack, symbolically thrusting and pushing as I watched via the mirror.

This didn’t last long and he said something along the lines of wanting to wield his long-since hard cock around my bum and hole he had recently broken in just a few short weeks before.

That morning, I’d showered, had a shave and had splashed on some after shave knowingly preparing and readying myself for him with full expectation, as was the pattern at the salon these days, for sex to be the priority but with some degree of acknowledgement that waxing really was needed too at some point.

He dropped his trousers and undies and drew back close in once more.

He knew where things were leading. I was somehow indicating through body language alone, that I was there to be fucked again. It seemed, somehow that my inner conscience was knocking on my submissive side which was in full control, reminding it of the need to be waxed but of the risk of being bareback fucked once more. Whilst the sub was listening, it was also dismissive of those muted appeals and remained in a haze of partial fuck-toy shut down as he did what ever he did from behind.

It seemed as if the muted appeals from within had been picked up by him though and he seized control of the situation, breaking away to use the need to wax parts of my body as a tool towards resisting from fucking me again.

I complied – of course – but as I passed him to climb on to the treatment table, I bent down briefly to suck his cock for a few seconds much to his audible pleasure.

This was met with the breathy and fulfilled comment of appreciation that I had sucked the cock that had he said had just been in my tight hole as if I had passed another test and landmark on his path of sexually developing his sub.

As he seemed to be in a moment of indecision as to whether he should remain naked from the waist down, I asked him how he wanted me on the treatment table and took no surprise that he wanted me on all fours from the options that I had offered. He struggled to restrain his cock as he pulled his undies up and fastened his jeans.

There was then a juxtaposition of sex and treatment as he began waxing my already peeviously partly waxed bum which I angled and swung at him from the all-fours, continuing to offer my submissive and available state to be used as he wished. The period of waxing wasn’t rushed but it was, I would say, slightly hurried.

I kept him hard or semi-erect by occasionally using the soles of my feet to graze, rub and push against his fly, teasing him and bringing about occasional breaths of pleasure.

Waxing complete, cooling lotion was later applied and duly rubbed in. The audible tones of three aligned fingers slapping my hole to open and loosen me echoed around the room. His fingers entered my now lubricated behind and started to work my hole, whilst occasionally using the other hand to reach under and caress my cock, balls and perineum.

After a few minutes, he praised his sub by stating that I had taken three fingers with ease, again, somehow ticking a box on a sexual development list in his mind despite knowing that I had frequently, willingly and easily taken three many times before. I held back from suggesting to him that I could take and wanted more.

He drizzled some oil down my bum cheeks and crack and finger fucked me some more for a few minutes before clicking back to business mode, telling me that he had another appointment and checked the time.

Concluding that he could do what needed to be done in the time allowing, he instructed me to sit on the side of the treatment table. I duly complied but spread my legs. The switch flicked again and his trousers and undies were brought sufficiently down to allow his re-hardened cock to spring to attention.

We both took turns to frot. Occasionally, I would pull away and gently tap my cock tip on his. This “power bottom” tactic caused pre-cum to leak from his cock. Either I fed directly yearning for more and eagerly wiping any up or he fed me instead. I uttered an approving and lustful hum.

Then, another first. Having already flicked a favourite switch by tweaking my nipples, he bent down and spent a good few seconds sucking and nibbling one nipple on my recently waxed chest before drawing away. I approvingly acknowledged the ‘first’ but teased that he should not now leave the other nipple to be neglected. He complied.

I occasionally arched my body, contemplating leaning back and envisaging my first ever missionary-style fuck to be able to look into his eyes but realising that the physiology was not conducive. He used the opportunity to reach under, cradling my balls in a hand whilst inserting some fingers into my hole.

Moments later, probably acknowledging the need to continue the waxing treatment, he resumed the frotting at pace. He wanted his sub’s cum and he knew how and where he wanted it. Sending his sub into uncontrollable orgasm, my cock powered out a hot, thick, creamy load of cum across his balls, my semen then dropping somewhere below.

He relished the feeling of warmth from my cum on his balls then asked me to rub the cum in as he used some of my load as lube and brought himself off, body convulsing as his load covered my cock and jetted up to splash on an arm.

My load had rebounded off his balls and had dropped into the well of his thigh-high removed boxers as well as having dribbled down the side of the treatment table. He was left contemplating the impact of the cum stained undies he would have to wear for the rest of the working day, cleaning up what he could but seemingly relishing seeing his next client in his wet, telling undies, remarking on the wetness in his jeans as he dressed again.

He then used some paper towels to clean his cum from his sub. I uttered a grateful but muted note of thanks before assuming the same seated position for the waxing to take place in the time that, in truth, was, retrospectively not available but he merely continued and the appointment concluded.

He left. I briefly viewed the cum stained treatment table cover as if it was my trophy, dressed and made my way out to book the next appointment.

Although I knew that I was not fully smooth bodied, I queried how long it would be until I should be back in his company.

An appointment was booked with his reply that “something always needs doing”. Nothing further was said but we knew the sexual undertones to the comment.

Whilst I was there, he made a proposition to me involving the future attendance of a reportedly well hung and apparently attractive man. It was likely that I couldn’t make one particular other and separate appointment for this as his subject of ongoing sexual development, but, as if he was seeking to tick his sub’s sexual development list somewhat further, he said that it could be rearranged.

Having not quite led him not into temptation that day, he was now leading me – again.

For me, for you, for me. — May 30, 2022

For me, for you, for me.

It has to be said that, of late, I have experienced moments of, in my eyes at least, a female led relationship in the kink side of things and these instances have been blogged about within the last few months.

As far as my significant other is concerned, it is merely intimacy and foreplay but I revel in what it could be and allow a little role play to occur. Moments have included me being naked, away in the holiday home, or for her to be happy, in theory or actuality, for me to be naked around the house. I ventured downstairs the other night, late in just my birthday suit, (‘the others’ behind a closed door and not for moving) and nonchalantly came back up stairs moments later, swanning back into the bedroom.

She took both surprise and delight at my antics without really discussing them but the more naked I am, and inclined to be, the more she eyes me up and uses my currently smooth, post waxed body to play with as and when she sees fit, nipple rubbing through a t-shirt or cock play including checking whether I have undies on – each time, merely teasing – no chance and/or intention of taking it further. I’m NOT complaining though!

When we are finally home alone for good, the ‘others’ having moved out (no idea when that will be but not anytime soon it seems), then there is more potential for more intimacy, and for me to allow what I see as FLR processes to play out.

I was working in my home office the other day when she came in from a shopping trip with a bag stating that she had a present for me. I gratefully received the bag and began the investigation of what lay within with great intrigue.

She had bought ‘me‘ a matching white bra and knickers set after I’d recently stated to her that I’d like to see her in such lingerie rather than a random mish-mash bra with dull, beige or otherwise bland, (what you might call ‘Bridget’), knickers. She said that, if the new set fitted her properly, she’d get some more like it. I reveled in the moment.

In my heart of hearts though, I knew what she had bought them for – they certainly weren’t for me – not in the literal sense, but, allowing a brief, fantasy-fuelled FLR led-sub relationship to rage through my mind, for a few seconds, I played alone with the ruse. “Oh you’ve bought me a new bra, thank you, that’s lovely!” I said, as if it was a genuine gift I was thrilled with. I had a genuine sense of gratitude for my gift in those few fleeting moments.

The fantasy world was that I was in an FLR, she was starting the process of domming and/or feminising her submissive and here was the first such instance of things to come. Reality soon bit as I woke up and smelled the proverbial coffee – 3, 2, 1, and I was ‘back in the room’ thinking of how it otherwise might have been in my darkest, wildest fantasies, fuelled by experienced recently blogged about.

Having previously been very much resigned to never being able to cross dress again, of late, an inner spark, nurtured by dabbling in the hidden items in storage and my own sexual development at the salon, means that I am now plotting a resumption of everything that was brought to an abrupt halt in March 2020, but on a far more part time basis than it was back then when the pandemic struck, when all activity was wiped out in an instance, resulting in my hidden treasures being consigned to storage to wait seemingly forever.

The logistics of resumption on any level are, however, beyond complicated and plans to extract a limited selection of items, chastity, plugs and lingerie, during rare home alone time, to prepare and hide to take to work to dress, lock and plug on the odd days, have already been rendered impossible on two occasions due to domestic circumstances just not turning out as they were seemingly going to which would have allowed the time and opportunity. But it seems that I am not to be deterred and that I will accept the long game to satisfy my recently re-ignited inner desires, needs, urges and cravings.

But whereas, once the act of cross dressing seemed like ‘never again’, it is now more a matter of ‘when’, not ‘if’. The urge to dress in lingerie is, as it used to be back in the day, fuelled by visual stimuli. These days, I’m far more likely to be interested in finding a way how to, albeit briefly, try a bra on just for a dabble and a buzz, rather than to sigh and reflect on what once was before leaving it well alone and simply moving on.

A lot has changed since my sexual development recently gathered pace, and so, as it had been bought “for me” and was still in the bedroom awaiting its first official use by the significant other, try it on, I did, briefly admiring the look in a mirror, before quickly taking it off once more – the try on, lasting mere seconds.

The recovering crossdresser appears to be on the ‘other’ recovery route again these days. For me, for you, for me.

How you remind me —

How you remind me

A quick look at my social media DM in box resulted in quite a bit of scrolling back through a mix of conversations that went back as far as four years.

Some of them were the highly irritating one word introduction of just ‘Hi’ which I’ve never been a fan of nor ever responded.

Let’s be honest. It’s not the best way to open dialogue with someone in any situation- in person or otherwise.

In the case of my DM inbox, which is always open, I would much prefer a little more elaboration about what instigated the approach for starters. Perhaps some people are naturally shy and nervous? I get that.

Anyway, I did delete/leave a number of threads that never went anywhere but I very much value, retained and will retain those exchanges that were lengthy and detailed.

One of the oldest threads brought one of earliest and most tentative cross dressing moments back to me that I had completely forgotten but had told someone about.

This was long before the instance when I was inadvertently caught in a state of cross dress after the significant other had come home suddenly – a short time after going out – and I had gone into a blind panic, more or less tearing the outfit off, then the stockings but that one had been left dangling off a foot.

The short story is that had I instantly strategised the whole situation despite everything crashing down around me, and offered a credible and standing reason why which I won’t go into here and that was that.

I can consider myself very lucky that history was not recalled and that two and two was NOT together with four clearly calculated.

That historical moment recalled so vividly from that four year old, arguably archived DM thread must have occurred many years before that and from a time in which I was clearly but covertly crossdressing but in the very early days when everything involved dipping into the drawer I shouldn’t theoretically have been in and that was it.

So, accepting that it was long before the traumatic events of being caught in a state of partial cross dress, here is what was brought flooding back to me from that old DM exchange.

Long ago, it was just another day in the household, before kids came along probably. The significant other had been sitting on the settee/sofa/couch (delete as applicable) with me and my flame of kink had been burning deep within.

I left the room, went upstairs, stripped off and put on a suspender belt, stockings and g-string, pulled my jeans and t-shirt back on and returned, probably very quickly, back to sit closely by her.

It was probably quite a few minutes later -me waiting and anticipating – when she casually put a loving hand on the leg that was nearest to her and felt the suspender strap under the material.

She might have asked what it was and I might have told her but I really can’t remember.

Anyway, I was anticipating, no, perhaps desperately hoping for a positive, interested and encouraging response to opening up my kinks to her and then, who knows what? What I actually might have expected was an explosive, negative and angry response. What I actually got was a quiet, calm, measured but brief request to “Go and take it off and don’t do that again”. I duly complied and that was the end of that as far as she was concerned.

I suppose that key moment in my life set the tone and direction that my indulgences would then take, i.e., officially taboo, not allowed, but unofficially, internally, personally, so desired that a covert strategy would have to more strategically applied for all of it to happen going forward. The only way was in, down and darker.

Had the response been favourable, who knows where I would have been? By now, a in very deep FLR relationship perhaps?

My attempts to share my inner most desires were probably already known to be futile in my head because “vanilla” is very much the description when it comes to matters of sexuality for her. There are clean and clear boundaries – walls within which there are windows to see things safely from behind them but merely observationally. (I’m accepting of all of that and always have been. Everyone is different but that’s not to say you can’t be changed – I’m a case in point!)

Examples of observation from within a safe zone would, in my opinion, be late night TV documentaries or something she might see on line or read somewhere – very much from inside looking out if you like.

She has innocently watched me change over the years through observing and coming to like my manscaping body waxes.

As I have said before on previous blogs, I didn’t just do it for the benefit of kinks, but also for my own well-being. At my most hirsute, around 8 years ago, I was, as I saw it, akin to a yeti. I was hot, I was sweaty and body waxing solved all of that. But I’m never content at my appearance. I hate the slightest indicators of re-growth and I am at my most confident, happiest and, to be honest, horniest, when I am as hair free as possible. The trouble is, the way my body is and the way my system works coupled with the requirement for a reputable salon to avoid a full body wax in one session due to the risks and legal situation that might arise means I’m very much always a ‘work in progress’.

Anyway, that distant day when I courageously chanced it on the sofa (etc.), coming as close to opening up about my kinks without actually saying anything about it, didn’t pay off.

But the fact that it wasn’t then officially ‘permitted’, green-lit, and that I shouldn’t be doing it in her opinion, probably only meant that I wanted to do it all the more and for what would be many years to come, of more intensity, more sexually, more developmentally, more kinky, and the rest as they say is history.

You can do the maths. 2+2 did not equal 4 back then and still does not. The ability to calculate the sum remains within the number cruncher of life.

DM me sometime! Go further than just “hi’ and see how else you can remind me.

A frustrated sub — May 25, 2022

A frustrated sub

March 2020. We knew something was around. We knew it didn’t sound very nice but the possibility that it could land on our doorstep was unimaginable. But it did land on everyone’s doorstep.

March 2020 had started in much the same way that every other month and day had since late 2019 when I was taken into ownership by Mistress.

I would be home alone, up early, the house empty or soon to be empty but either way, there was enough time and space to spring out of bed as soon as the opportunity arose and would either pull on the outfit that Mistress had pre-selected or another for the time being that could perhaps not be worn for work. I would lock in the chastity device of Mistress’ choice and would prepare the plug that she had also ordered – if not the remote control plug because she didn’t have the time to use me, it was usually the largest of my three standard plugs. I might use my dildo for “training” – a hyperthetical term which seemed relevant even though I saw it as highly unlikely that I would ever feel a real cock inside me. I would end up being wrong about that!

I might be on a web cam, changing outfits on request, outwardly exhibiting, sometimes explicitly or filming or photographing my finished state to evidence later to Mistress and on social media.

Then, eventually, I tore myself away, adhered to Mistress’ requirements for the day, covered up in office attire and set off for work. I would be dressed, locked and plugged for around 12 hours every week day and would occasionally have time home alone at the weekend to extend the servitude further.

The pandemic changed all of that. All of the circumstances that allowed my kinks to flourish were cancelled in an instant.

I naively assumed that it wouldn’t be for long. I was wrong on every level.

Everything in the home dynamic changed. Though I was OK, others in the household were not and faced unemployment.

I resigned myself to, firstly, a wait and then to the end to 95% of my kinks. Nothing got any better for these indulgences to be able to resume and they haven’t. My significant other now has a new job but works from home whereas before, she would be out early to go to a place of work which signalled the green light for Fiona to come out and play.

Although I have regular time at the salon for a body wax, I’m never fully done, I’m always a work in progress such are the apparent regulations that now prevent reputable salons from doing a full body wax in one session. I find that regularly frustrating as I have a irrational obsession for wanting to be hair free and the fight for me is real. It affects my self confidence in a massive way but I am generally far less hirsute than I used to be having been going to the salon for a number of years and on a far more frequent basis.

Other than that, everything that I hold dear from cross dressing and kink was put into locked, dark storage. I vowed never to purge again having acknowledged the sheer value and amount of lovely things thrown away on numerous occasions over the last 16 years or so.

Two years on and I have been resigned to the fact that I’m knocking on in years, and that crossdressing just isn’t possible anymore and is unlikely to be again.

To put a tin lid on it, even Mistress’ life changed and she also brought about a stop to things. That seemed to be it once and for all even though I would be hers forever – Mistress knew that and I knew that. It was a nice gesture.

More recently, thoughts have turned to the final act. Disposal of everything – the final death knell for Fiona. I have not done it yet but it is hugely symbolic that I’ve even thought about it.

I’ve made it through the last few years but being able to connect with Fiona through posting archive photos on her social media account. But now, I have nothing new to post and I can only now desperately try to find and justify reasons for posting old favourite pics up as a way of sustaining account activity. I haven’t started that yet but that’s not to say that I won’t.

But I am a sub, and luckily for me, I have time at the salon for myself – time which, apart from the body waxing, has, over a number of years, developed me sexually.

Being sustained somehow as a sub, nurtured at the salon, let loose at the salon, even if not a crossdressing sub has led me, after all this time, to start to try and find ways to indulge in whatever time there is.

For years, I have been a strategist to remain deeply closeted and the strategist within has started planning. When and how feature prominently but it isn’t cut and dried and it comes with massive risk – risk which is not necessarily a deterrent.

Fiona is fighting to get out once more. I thought she was consigned to the history books but it seems that I have underestimated her inner strength despite knowing how controlling she was before.

Within the last few weeks, I’ve been plugged for a few hours home alone having recovered my remote control plug.

Within the last few weeks, my cock has been inserted into a cock pump and I can now be ruined by it.

Within the last few weeks, I’ve tried on every chastity device bar one that I’ve never worn due to a fault that I have always planned to try and rectify.

Within the last few months, I’ve been content to be naked around the house whenever possible, even when working from home as the inner submissive fights to get out.

Within the last few months, there are FLR signs developing in my home relationship with my significant other. She doesn’t see them in the way that I do but that is enough for me.

But of late, barely (no pun intended) nothing is letting me settle. The suppressed sub and cross dresser is fighting to get out and breathe once more.

I hated yesterday. Yesterday was so utterly frustrating without being able to say why. I wrote two blog posts in 24 hours and this is now a third. I wanted to indulge desperately yet I felt I couldn’t see a clear way as to how and whether it would work.

I was in the office yesterday and felt more frustrated and flatter and flatter as the day went on, hitting rock bottom on the way home in the car, unable to talk to myself to avoid the dash cam recording it. I probably sighed numerous times on the way and took my frustrations out on other motorists and road conditions.

I was, to all intents and purposes, home alone on arrival. I threw my car keys and bag down on the work top, and, leaning against it, proceeded to spin through the secret gallery of crossdressing, anal and chastity pics on my phone, airbrushing a few imperfections from the shots that had already been posted on social media long ago.

I took a picture of my recently waxed chest with the aim to replace the image in my last blog with it. But even that wasn’t perfect and a zoom in identified some hairs that were not removed at the salon.

Against my better judgement, (I really shouldn’t shave my body as it encourages growth) I stepped in the shower, reached for the shaving gel and blades and shaved my chest and above crotch area to satisfy the obsession and feel better somehow.

Only a junk food evening meal with family and a TV binge made things feel better but stepping into bed that night, naked, sexually charged but still tired after several other nights of poor sleep made for another sleepless night of thinking and playing.

I am very much a frustrated sub right now.