The recovering crossdresser?

To crossdress or not crossdress – that is the question…

Labels and association — August 25, 2022

Labels and association

I’ll come straight to the point.

I can’t even write the words in full, such is my dislike, arguable hatred and clear disassociation with them so I’ll add a few elements of censorship with an order from worst to least worst.

  1. F*gg*t
  2. S*ssy

… and any abbreviations and plurals of the same.

Before I go any further, I want to say this very clearly – “Each to their own” and I’ll say no more than that. I am no judge and nor would I ever try to be. Everyone is entitled to enjoy their sexuality and be how and who they want to be.

But here lies the reason for the blog entry.

I’ll get to the crux of the matter after some (quite usual for me) elaboration.

In the beginning, somehow, some way and for some largely unknown reason, my kink started and that kink was quite simply, lingerie crossdressing centred around the ‘must have’ element – stockings and suspenders. You won’t see me dressed without them. End of.

I never saw myself as a submissive although, retrospectively, I can now see that I have generally submissive traits in my life. I’ll doubt myself first – even if I’m fairly, if not totally sure about something, and instead, I convince myself that I must be wrong. I’ll go with the flow, and yield to the assertions of others. Etc.

Ask the early crossdresser me about interest levels in kinks such as chastity and anal and I would have recoiled in absolute sheer horror – there would have been absolutely no way that anything would have come anywhere remotely near my back passage and chastity? What even was that other than something used way back for women?

As I said in a recent blog post, I would scroll by all that ‘hypno‘ stuff online, in partial fear of what it might do, even if I momentarily dabbled out of analytical curiosity, but also saw it as stuff and nonsense.

But, the more you indulge in something, the more it seems to take over and the more you want to consume of it. This is the case in so many things in life – TV shows, films, pop stars, collectibles, trinkets, books, compact discs, DVDs etc.

Whilst I can’t completely plot every step of my journey through kink, I do remember being highly stimulated and excited by being asked to do certain things back in my webcam days. If I was asked to stand in a particular way, change outfits etc., I would do it and enjoy the attention but feel quite demoralised when people dropped off the line. It didn’t do my confidence any good at all but if I’m honest and also fair to myself, at least some of, if not, the arguable majority were only in it for their own gratification until they lost interest or fancied something different. Their prerogative of course and I would be very much the same if I was in their shoes.

However, with my favourable response to what was clearly being dominated via one particular webchat, the chat window was populated with: “Perhaps we ought to try chastity.”

The identity and make up of “we” was and is largely immaterial. They were just an online contact but I can see now how the whole D/s thing was playing itself out.

However, such was the enthralling feeling, and being quite impulsive, I had soon ordered a chastity cage and awaited the opportunity home alone to dress and, for the first time, and lock for what was an entire weekend home alone to seriously break myself in to this new element of kink. It was a memorable time but the first chastity device was soon followed by others and I was hooked on them too.

How I got into anal, I don’t really know. It was probably visual stimuli but, mostly due to my sexual development at the salon.

I was gradually introduced to being fingered, I took more, more fingers, deeper, more pronounced, more willingly, and eventually bought a 6″ flesh like dildo which was put to good use too to nurture interest amid a vague (lacking-in-detail and clarity) quest to reach orgasm through anal penetration. It almost happened but not really. The quest seems to be continuing in that respect.

The need to feel penetrated led to plugs being bought, immediately skipping the smallest, and soon graduating quickly to the pro size. Lingerie, chastity, anal – chalked up on my indulgence list then.

Having acquired the taste for that, I had also watched from some sort of distance as Dommes plied their trade on Twitter and got my fingers burnt with one unmentionable fraud. Then, I did, very quickly and luckily, find a trustworthy, understanding and non-judging on line Mistress. Although I saw ownership as an impossibility given my closeted circumstances, Mistress found a way. I earned Mistress’ trust, became owned and we are now inseparable.

Eventually, in 2018, I sucked my mentor’s cock and, having been head in hands with dismay after that first time, have since continued to suck that same cock regularly.

That same cock took my anal virginity in April this year, gave me my first load of semen to swallow in June and my second very recently. Now I want more cock and cum and it may not be the same cum from the same cock. My male mentor has always had plans for me and, having heard my darkest fantasies in moments of intense sexual activity, makes suggestions albeit without target dates, and often without my response to those aspirations, but I hear him and seeds are constantly being sown, no pun intended.

It will all happen at some point it seems, but only on my terms, or it won’t happen at all.

My male mentor – not my Mistress – is not one for labels – quite the opposite in fact.

He sees all elements of consenting sex as something to be enjoyed and that people should be allowed to be how they want to be and who they want to be and I generally agree with that.

So, here is that crux I referred to earlier in this blog entry. The journey so far: Lingerie. Chastity. Anal. Cock sucking. Being fucked. Cum swallowing and a fantasy to be used as a cum dump. Finding one’s place it seems.

All of these elements seem, from what I can see, so closely linked to posts I still see – despite setting blocks on those words on Twitter settings – from those who describe themselves as ‘s*ssies’. Occasionally, I’ll see the ‘f’ word used too. Bleugh.

Of late, because I somehow see a correlation, I find myself questioning who, and perhaps what I am if my activities are seen to align so closely, but why should I start to question and almost pigeonhole myself? If I don’t relate to those words so vociferously, that’s my prerogative surely?

In any case, I don’t like labels per se. I’ve made that very clear. No one should be labelled despite society seemingly being so hell bent on continuing to do that.

Before I wrote this paragraph, I spent a few moments doing an Internet search for a definition of the word ‘s*ssy’. Quite expectedly, there were many variants but none seen as too offensive really.

The ‘f’ word meanwhile is the complete opposite and seemingly quite clear: ‘offensive and disparaging‘. For those that associate with it, I suppose it might be seen as a particular level of submissiveness? I still really don’t like the ‘f’ word anyway.

Labels. I disassociate myself from them. I am just being me and exploring my sexuality by myself or with the help of those very few people so very intimately close to the inner me who play an intimate part in the most secret part of who I have become, are becoming and will become.

Perhaps I’m am something of a hypocrite though.

Having said that, I should explain. Influenced by Twitter posts, I have recently ‘labelled’ myself in my account bio as a ‘beta’ male, clearly content with it. As a submissive – again, another arguable label, that is how I see myself.

Life is short is it not? But does everything come at a price?

I always welcome comments in response to my blog entries but hope that no one takes offence from what I write. I mean no offence.

Loveable sickness — August 22, 2022

Loveable sickness

‘#Crossdressing. This lovable sickness just keeps getting intense as time passes…’

That is a 2018 pinned Tweet from Sabina Sabique. It remains pinned on their feed at the time of writing this blog entry and I’m glad.

The writer, her Twitter ID and the short but very accurate post has always resonated with me but is ringing particularly loud and clear at the moment in what is an period of acute analysis of my kinks whilst I seemingly fall deeper into them as a whole, all the time as the ‘other’ non-kink me analyses intently from the other side.

In case you aren’t aware – I’m closeted. I have been for an estimated 17 years and there is no alternative. The only person who knows both sides of me is Mistress with whom I have a deeply personal bond of trust. Only Mistress has seen the whole me in lingerie, chastity and plug – face included with a deeply contented look.

For everyone else, including those closest to me, they see the ‘hetero’ side – just the side they expect to see and know, not what they don’t know nor could comprehend.

The only time that the sides merge is when I feel the need to speak out to certain individuals about why it might be felt necessary to identify someone somewhere as something. My usual response is one which asks what that has to do with anything.

But then there are other times when discretion is deemed the better part of valour and I say nothing.

That isn’t the point of this blog entry though.

In short, I am getting deeper into submissiveness. There are things that turn me on within the kink that never used to.

There was a time when the thought of anything going anywhere near my bum was totally repulsive and unimaginable.

But over the last few years, a mixture of my own dabbling and an introduction to anal play has led me to feel contented when plugged, often for long periods of the working day, and whilst locked in chastity and dressed in a lingerie outfit of some sort.

I’ve been fucked and I might say that the event was probably not before time. My anal virginity has been taken – much though I never thought it would ever be – although admittedly, it has only been the once so far but I am receptive to being and – it seems, likely to be fucked again by him at will, and it seems, am open to opportunities which could be presented by him for me to be fucked by a group and with very dark and deeply rooted fantasies turned, very much, into a reality.

Since I first sucked his cock in late 2018, I have gone on to suck it regularly in return for services rendered and I have, within the last few months, progressed to something that had been something I couldn’t ever contemplate doing for a whole host of reasons. But for the first time, in June, I swallowed his load, then more determinedly so, very recently – so much so – it may well have become the norm. I told him that I no longer wanted cum to go to waste and that I wanted my sexual stamina to be sustained. That is a story for another blog entry though.

I am now very active on my Twitter feed and I follow a lot of feeds for chastity and anal, the latter drawing me in further and I have recently declared my kinks and more besides on a new Fetlife account.

I am now more accepting that my submissive persona has, in fact been and is being slowly trained in a way that many might say is feminisation, to be a fuck toy, a cock sleeve, a cum dump, a willing sub and whilst I maintain the focus on being sexually aware and safe, I am ploughing on with my kinks and embracing opportunities as they are presented to me or, if I can, making them happen.

I now accept and continue to remind myself, that I am very much a sub and a beta male. I recognise the dominance and authority of an alpha male, and take a liking for the masculine, muscular, smooth bodied form, larger cock size and my urge and willingness to serve and to be available to be used albeit on certain terms.

I continue to be trained and developed by a man I don’t call Master but who has been working on developing me (with my consent of course) for some time and to whom I am increasingly submissive as he has found out more and more of late.

I have a close bond with him and I now regularly service his cock but outside of that, I can and have been clearly assuaged by certain types of content on the Twitterscape which is, I suppose, a form of hypnosis which taps into your inner desires and urges and works on them to ‘convert’, even though I told myself that, whilst I would watch, it would never work on me, that I was above and outside it and was only researching. Whereas there was a time when I would avert my eyes and scroll by, I’m more likely to watch, embrace and absorb it.

I watch subs, chastised and otherwise, being fucked by cock on Twitter, and get hard and excited at the imagery and the prospect of the same for me, liking, bookmarking and rewatching the content.

I have recently declared myself as a power bottom on my Twitter bio – after he described me as such some considerable time ago. He only said it once – and the compliment has stayed with me. I know my place.

I will increasingly engage sexually with my sexual mentor from the off, and look to serve, offer myself to him and follow all orders in his service – prioritising submissiveness over the actual reason I am in his company – to be body waxed. I told him only recently that I was starting to know and accept my place.

I mostly serve Mistress though – my owner – and, although there was no requirement from Mistress, I have applied myself and showed spirit to serve by returning to my own terms of findom with Mistress who made the alternative suggestion of a viable and covert method of tributing for me – Mistress has owned me since late 2019 and she is someone with whom I am now inseparable. I now tell her of my intensifying servitude – my urges and my sexual activities, targets and achievements.

In fact, Mistress has made a point of saying that she loves my posts these days, adding I seen to have grown in (kink) confidence of late – and that she knows I am her property forever.

But, all of this is juxtaposed by life outside the closet.

The things I do in my life, the work I do, the community work that I do, my place in certain circles, my seniority in certain roles, how people see me day-to-day is in massive stark contrast to Fiona’s traits and her steady and ever increasing dominance over the other ‘me’.

I mentioned how that the regular me analyses Fiona from some sort of standpoint somewhere, but seems increasingly powerless to stop her from running riot.

When I dress, lock and plug, each element as equally important as the other, the regular me can be heard asking whether this is the right thing to do and whether everything should be scaled back, measured perhaps.

Whereas before, pre-pandemic, Fiona was flourishing five days a week, 12 hours a day, these days, the impact of the last two years or so means activities are now limited to just a couple of days a week – the logistics and domestic circumstances which allowed such prominence, snuffed out in an instance back in March 2020.

It is as if Fiona is intensifying within the comparative short time that she can live, breathe and dominate, my inner urges and curiosity fuelled to an inextinguisable raging inferno.

I have a lot to lose. A lot. Yet I persist. I know the risks, and I’ve fallen foul before but have lived to tell the tale so to speak and to continue on my path, covertly acting from the closet, acts carried out strategically, methodologically, dealing with bumps in the road, but occasionally facing paranoia over circumstances that might expose everything, even though unlikely to occur, but I still worry about the slim chances until the situation is perceived to be under control.

That might not be until I’m back home from a trip out, circumstances where my stash of sex toys and lingerie might be discovered, a careless browser or log in left in view despite levels of security and application of discipline and attention to detail to protect the situation, the behaviours and to manage all and any risk.

That would suggest that I know or at least think that what I am doing is somehow wrong, misplaced, mistimed, inappropriate.

Without going into detail, there is another member of the family whose sexuality is blatantly out there and it has caused waves – and not good ones. Answers are sought by the nearest and dearest when there are no answers to seek because we are where we are with it. History, whys and wherefores don’t matter.

I am seen almost as the antithesis of this – the rock, the voice of reason, control, established, grounded, well-placed, responsible. But the truth would be a blow of monstrous proportions – not that it could come out. But DNA connects. The exact characteristics and circumstances are vastly different – yet closely connected.

It started with lingerie crossdressing – a loveable sickness that just keeps getting intense as time passes with everything that it brings with it and there doesn’t seem to be a thing I can do (or perhaps want to do) about it. Instead, I simply plough on with both personas – the regular me and Fiona – in some sort of tussle that no one – not even me – could understand or substantiate in order to stop it due to the momentum and intensity that exists.

Despite it being an estimated 17 years of, I’m of an age where I wonder just how much longer it can go on in the way that it is, but it is always a case of it being something to worry about tomorrow, all the time, with me plunging deeper and deeper into and being held tighter and tighter by every aspect of my kinks.

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…

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.

In conclusion – inconclusion. — November 2, 2021

In conclusion – inconclusion.

It was probably about 2005 when I started crossdressing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In conclusion, inconclusion.

Thanks for reading.

F. x

Turning point — August 6, 2021

Turning point

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Conditioning — February 12, 2021


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

F. x

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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