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…

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.

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

Sound the alarm! — March 29, 2021

Sound the alarm!

In my last, very recent blog entry, I said that I had become unsettled.

In that blog, I referred to instances that can unsettle me, put a proverbial shot across my bow and put me about as close to the precipice of doom, stress and loss as you could possibly get.

The alarm bells sounded loudly this morning after I heard the other half cursing at the inability to stream a programme on the TV. The long and short of is that I sorted it and she was able to get on with her binge watching of something or other.

A short time later, I had cause to venture in again to find the TV showing some family photos as a screensaver whilst the show being watched was paused.

From here, I am fairly sure that I was NOT really listening to what I was being told, my thoughts instead spinning like a fruit machine wheel before finally stopping on something that might not be satisfactory and requiring another spin.

Firstly, the TV viewing device was new – brand new – and I’d not selected any alternative to the standard non-descript screensavers provided by the manufacturer.

In short, whilst the other half had been chatting on the phone, the TV device had been scrolling its way through the cloud photos. Ever the pessimist, cynicist and long term strategist as a closeted crossdresser, I was in dread fear of something coming up on that screen that I’d carelessly allowed to be uploaded.

Showing audible surprise at the familiar images on the TV, I pressed the ‘pause’ button to return to the TV viewing app being used and, adjudging that there was nothing to worry about, re-entered the correct level of conversation, brought it to a conclusion and returned to the home office to continue the day job.

Only I didn’t instantly continue the day job.

Pessimism, and cynicism in abundance with an added shot of paranoid, I instantly logged into my cloud storage account from which those TV screensaver images were being drawn. Thus began a general scrolling through and, whilst I was at it, the odd deletion of things that were no longer needed and/or weren’t in need of back up in the first place.

Now, the general practise of uploading from my secret folder on my phone is to:
1) Switch off WiFI (the setting being only to back up on WiFi)
2) Export secret images from the secret folder to the main gallery on the phone
3) Edit them using the app itself and then add a watermark
4) Upload to Twitter
5) Delete unedited photos from phone, including recycle bin
6) Move edited photos back to the secret folder
7) Switch WiFi back on.

(If that is of any use to a fellow closeted crossdresser in a similar predicament, you’re welcome!)

Anyway, as I was saying, a general scrolling through continued without any problem. It was not until I was some way down the screen (going back in time), that I was suddenly confronted with two images of me, provocatively positioned, wearing my blue halter neck cami-suspender outfit with black lace-top stockings and in some form of chastity.

“S#!T” I quietly said to myself as I quickly checked behind me for signs of a presence, before firmly deleting the two errant images from the list and the ‘trash’ box to make sure they had been permanently deleted. I’d seen enough – I didn’t need to look closely or for any longer than a split second to take action.

What had happened? Well, first, the images, lower down in the archive, and therefore older, were from a time when, clearly, I had not been meticulous enough with the process. They might have been from the time they had been taken, they may have been more recent – I didn’t care one iota. The urgency was to just get them deleted.

Mission accomplished. It’s lucky that I did check the cloud storage – and I will say that I checked it up and down, several times just to make sure because there was a danger of the image coming up at some point, today or in the future.

That reminds me, I think I’ll just go and adjust that screensaver. Irrespective of my ‘general practise’, there is a need to stop that alarm from sounding.

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 #1: You cannot be serious! — February 9, 2020

CATCH UP BLOG #1: You cannot be serious!

Prefix:  It’s been a while.  Three months or more in fact but what a three months or more.

I wrote some blogs a while back but one thing or the other stopped me from getting around to posting them.  I suppose I should explain.

Here is Catch -up blog number 1 of 3 – or 4 – this one for October 2019
_____________________________________________________________________

Here we are then – the tenth month of the year of 2019, which has disappeared quicker than your bath water goes down the plughole!   It is, ten months since I last wore any lingerie.   I suppose you could call that an achievement in itself although quite how I’ve done it – I don’t know but clearly, the mindset has been one of merely not being inclined to indulge.

Of course, that kink, as has been fully documented before, has been swapped for chastity.  On one particular day of late, I was looking at the blog stats and one of the entries that had been viewed was one where I made a reference to a former Twitter contact – Safia – who has since blocked me for arguably ditching them without a ‘by your leave’, who, during the time that we were in contact with each other – around a year ago – said words to the effect that ‘perhaps we ought to try chastity’.

But the other week, I hit a wall with the chastity again.  I would assume that it came after a peak was achieved and having given myself the metaphorical equivalent of a slap around the face to bring me my so-called senses, everything came to a halt once more.

Well, for a few days at least.  I don’t know what gets switched on within but the changes between moods and approaches is literally one extreme or the other – on or off.

Of course, things soon switched back on again, geared up by something or other.  The proverbial spark seems to be related to my attention or otherwise to Fiona’s social media presence on Twitter.   If I tell myself not to look, I cannot be drawn to the imagery and phraseology used, I cannot read and respond to the DMs that seem to be ever more frequent.

However, every now and again, something in my mindset will coerce me to log in.  In doing so, the rationale is sort of along the lines of ‘Why not?’, ‘What harm can it do’ but also the more blunt and somewhat direct ‘Because I want to’ or ‘Because I am’.

The mere sight of men in chastity is usually something to start the cravings, the yearnings, the planning and the reignition of various trains of thoughts and, as has been the case recently, motivation to further indulge and explore.

DM exchanges also fuel the proverbial fire but of the many threads of late, assisted by a slight increase in the numbers of followers, have ranged from conversations with a (but not my) Mistress, to those wishing to ask questions about my year-long experiences with chastity to assist their start out with devices, to the more sexually explicit conversation threads which, to be fair, I have more than indulged.

Although I don’t have a Twitter Mistress, I do follow a few, but take a dislike to abuse and posts about wanting to ‘drain’ or ‘rinse’ a ‘paypig’.  I have told myself that there would be none of that where I was concerned, concluding that, if I wish to show my appreciation for someone, it will be on MY terms!    There is one, and only one to date that speaks my language and I have grown to appreciate much of what they say online and how they say it.    Imagine my horror then when one of their posts was met with the most horrific, disgusting, demeaning outburst of trolling, the type of which I felt duty bound to report to them.

Whilst I follow them, this particular Mistress does not follow me in return, and nor would I expect them to, but to open up dialogue required me to follow a few procedures and agree to limitations of contact because of the lack of a mutual ‘follow’.  Anyway, driven by the need to raise this, but mostly to express my total dissatisfaction with the content, I notified them via a DM

Retrospectively, the abusive post was in reply to one of the posts by the Mistress, so in theory, they would have seen it.  As it turned out though, they had already blocked this individual so hadn’t seen it – the abuser ultimately futile in their attempt to attack the intended recipient.

As it turned out, appreciation for the care and effort came back in reply and I reluctantly agreed to find the post by temporarily unblocking them to see the message, to cut and paste it into the DM thread and re-block.   The Mistress said that she was made of strong stuff and could take it and simply laughed off the attack from someone ultimately seen as in no way worth bothering about.

The conversation ended, having gone as far as it would need to, but by this stage, I was more than deeply immersed in a variety of conversations via DM, which took up a large part of my time on the site, comparative to the feed sitting before me.

I’ll be honest. #Locktober was soon a failure within days because of the frame of mind and cessation, but within a week or so, I was back in the proverbial saddle, visual stimulation in text and pictures capturing me, the failure to remain in partial chastity seen as no matter, instead something I could merely reapply myself to for as long as I deemed fit.

This turned out to be quite a few weeks, no sexual peak achieved, no real desire to reach that peak knowing that the come down afterwards was in no way near enjoyable, the proverbial door slammed suddenly on all related activity.   Instead, with discussions about what chastity device I might recommend having been one of the threads on Twitter DM, a need to continue my own learning led to browsing of the net for chastity devices per se.

The OCD element within could not be stopped – a rubber device called the Oxballs Tailpipe just had to be acquired.  A casual browse on line late one night also led to further sexual exploration in the form of butt plugs, a pack of three in various sizes came before me and having read through many reviews, led the sexual deviant within to order some of those too, my first real indulgence in being properly plugged.

The ‘beginner’ plug was immediately bypassed, the ‘amateur’ one easily accommodated and as the days progressed, I vowed that the try-out of the ‘professional’ plug had been done far too quickly, so days later, with time and lube, it was taken in and worn, much like the one before it, for the work day with chastity applied.

October passed, November arrived and after coming close on a couple of occasions recently, something from my past would be making a return.

One step back, two steps forward? — September 19, 2019

One step back, two steps forward?

NSFW: Adult content

As I have remarked on many a previous blog entry, I would probably make for a fascinating case for a psychiatrist or some such medical professional.

My mindset and my behaviours can range from one opposite extreme to the other, the direction of that swing firmly influenced by the achievement of sexual satisfaction for any given period.

My correspondences online including before a webcam have, on more than one occasion recently, included the acknowledgement that I am not currently crossdressing.  This, more often than not has led to evidently disappointed folk terminating the conversation.

Contrary to that, irrationally, there have been occasional thought processes towards becoming hell-bent on crossdressing, but without passing the point of no return and doing so.   As I have commented many a time, I might want to in an ideal world, but am not intending to do so because it is far from ideal.

The boundaries of the ideal and actual worlds have been allowed to be blurred over the years of lingerie crossdressing, dalliance and indulgences allowed to come to the fore with rationale and a bizarre form of reason more than liberally applied, only to eventually hit the point of total disgust, objection and cessation.

The only thing to be removed from the turmoil is the urge to purge.  The scars of far too many., at the time quite reasonable but retrospectively abhorrent purges of far too much monies worth of lingerie lovelies have proved to be scars that have stood the test of time and temptation.

When 2019 arrived, conscience arrived loud and clear once more.  A motivation to start afresh coinciding with a new year seemed a good fit.   Here we are, some eight and a half months later, only social media timeline reminders confirming that whilst I have crossdressed this year, it was only at extreme top end of January.

I’ve said before upon previous cessations that something had felt different that time, and equally, the feelings since January 2019 have felt somehow different again, more motivationally against falling off the proverbial wagon despite occasional feelings otherwise.

The recent Twitter time line offers no real visible evidence of my crossdressed state, as the retweeted posts of others and sometimes, only appreciative comments for anothers can reflect back.  You’d have to scroll back a fair old bit to find imagery of me in my lingerie, but it remains as a reminder of where I’ve been and how I’d looked.

However, over the last eight and a half months, when sexual motivation has driven me, I can be and at times am obssessed with the Twitter feed, my own timeline, and DMs, one of which, wanted followers to privately share images in a crossdressed state to stimulate and encourage theirs.  I was only too happy to temporarily download my own images and share them again in one big burst.

On the webcam site of my choice, the gallery images have been turned off more than they have been on, a momentary treat for those with whom I decided to flaunt myself in my chaste, barely clothed but increasingly hirsute state.   Even the profile elements, Q&A, social media presences, other personal details etc. have been individually turned on and off dependent on the peaks and troughs of my sexual motivation.

But when that motivation is at its peak, it’s no holds barred, unadultered, often explicit exhibitionism, the bio and avatar evidently telling one story of a crossdresser, whilst the on-line imagery broadcast via webcam tells a far different one.

Rather than state that I no longer crossdress, I have chosen to be more conservative with the truth, that I am merely not at the moment, so as to retain their piqued interest, that I’m just not on that occasion, not allowed on that occasion perhaps, sometimes inferring that I might be required to exhibit myself by another person in a sparsely dressed, chaste state, often with the use of preferred toys ongoing at the time.

The other week I carelessly sent some e-mail correspondence – wording of which was poor, ungrateful and thoughtless.  It was sent at some ungodly hour of the night (nothing sexually explicit I might add – just mundane every day hobby related stuff).  Whilst at work the following day, I checked my e-mails only to find the most terrible of responses that put a lot of things at risk.  I had to work hard to turn things about and profusely apologise.  There were days of thinking, proverbially sweating it out, suffering, lack of sleep, high blood pressure no doubt.

I severely reprimanded myself and put myself down – I told myself that I was rash, careless, stupid, incompetent – you get the idea.  So I locked myself up.  On came a holy trainer as a sort of self-punishment, lowering myself as a domme might do to a sub for the most trivial of misdemeanours compared to what I had done via the power of written word via e-mail.

It was only when I had somehow managed to dig myself out of the very deep hole that I’d put myself into that the depression lifted, but the attraction for being locked up somehow remained and I did so at every possible hour for a day or so, and even yearned for it whilst in bed with my significant other one night, unable to sleep and sexually stimulated because of it, the morning taking ages to arrive.  Just recollecting this makes me want to put on my holy trainer and lock myself up again.  Slight ridiculous isn’t it?!  Why?  As I have said before, I don’t know and that has led to recent blog entries where I seem to come to my senses, find no answer to my question as to why I do it, and stop again for a time.

Somewhere along the way though, there will be a sexual peak.  It might not be for days.  Sufficient time may be allowed to pass where imagination continues to run wild, longer periods in chastity, be encouraged by imagery and conversation on social media, but then I allow the peak – usually orgasm.

I’ve sometimes intimated that I might be seeking some form of training to do something in particular, when in fact, it was probably more a case of role play on-line, some vivid imagination and irrational potentially bi-curious fantasy allowed to play itself out.

It is amazing what I’ve learnt over the years, either through reading accounts of others to mere trial and error, and more trial and error still.   Get me in my bi-curious, sexually active state of mind and the craving for anal is almost overpowering, all consuming, all out abandonment and pursuit.

On Monday, the inner provocateur, the inner exhibitionist, the experimental bi-curious side, fuelled by enough online stimulation and frame of mind pushed me to plan an early morning, home alone indulgence in play and experimentation.

First, a holy trainer, seen as the chastity device of utter preference, worn as much as possible, all day at work, for a few hours one weekend morning until disturbed by the arrival back home of the significant other, a quick unlock in the bathroom and concealment of the evidence putting things back to ‘normal’.

Monday saw an attempt to emulate a sub and domme video I’d seen in which a vibrating wand was applied to caged cock and restrained balls, one highlight after another, so much so that orgasm was achieved considerably to the smug satisfaction of the female domme.

In my moment of experimentation, firstly with a holy trainer and then latterly to a metal cage, I applied a vibrating prostate massager to various parts of my nether regions.  I found it quite fascinating at times, others quite stimulating, others, just, well, whatever.

Eventually, a 6″ dildo was carefully inserted, the vibrating massager put away and wanton abandonment allowed to play out on cam with no-one watching bar me, the odd quick arrival but equally quick departure as my imagery repeatedly failed to float the boats of visitors.

One viewer hung around for a while and asked whether I sought any form of control and domination to which I blatantly, and arguably untruthfully said “Yes!”.   I took it upon myself to accept their arguably demeaning abrupt use of words in the chat box and followed their orders.    By the time they’d become bored, I was raging from the height of sexual excitement and motivation.

For the very first time ever, whilst following those orders, I found myself anally stimulated to begin oozing semen, having discovered, somehow, the way to milk my prostate, something I’d actually been trying for a while.  This had no doubt been helped by the motivational words of the domme and my intent to follow their requests with the dildo.    However, they had clearly had enough, through boredom or that I was not really deemed to be following their requests to the letter and therefore was not submissive enough and I was left alone in cyberspace once more.

Having recently briefly experimented with a higher placed suction cup dildo on a vertical mirror and having felt the more direct striking of dildo on prostate and the effects of the same in beginning the flow of seminal fluid, enough was in mind to take longer on this second occasion, seen only by the video camera on my smart phone from below, I began taking the dildo anally, positioned higher so as to drive in to me at an angle which would start to pound my already stimulated prostate.

Having repeatedly tried and failed to motivate myself to consume my own semen in full, yet having acquired the ability and courage to taste in small quantities, having done some searching of the net for methods to overcome the ability to renege on consuming it after orgasm when urges and motivation can subside, I had earlier decided to make a small glass of drink.

Largely to both my joy and surprise,  I began to acknowledge a slow string of semen which began to ooze, hands free, out of the end of my cage locked cock as I pounded the dildo, additional stimulation achieved as the smart phone video recorded every second.  Still the string of semen continued to ease out, not always but mostly caught in the glass, the bodily fluid that didn’t, motivationally cleaned up to mouth as my intent to finally swallow a full load, however much that was, was coming to the fore.

I wanted more, and tried for more, but it seemed that I had perhaps allowed my relaxed state of mind to be pushed the more I yearned for quantity.  Time was running out anyway and I was acutely aware of the need for a tidy up of sex toys, lube and other related bits and bobs which littered the places around where I had been so sexually active, less care to keeping only what was needed out, more so the discarding of things not wanted in favour of those that were at any given moment.

The self-enforced chaste state was eventually and perhaps somewhat abruptly brought to an end and hand relief was achieved, into the glass of squash, dilution of seminal fluid by the flavoured water.  As I came, I spoke to myself firmly, often through gritted teeth that, this time, THIS TIME, I would consume my own semen in this way.  I reasoned that the taste of my own semen was something I liked in small quantities, so why would a larger quantity be so much less acceptable?

Rather than chicken out once more, I pushed on, reasoning that tactic applied with the small glass of cordial was a great way to finally empty the contents into my stomach.  The glass was fully consumed in seconds, the empty glass edges still containing traces of my cum that were wiped out with a finger and also consumed.

I celebrated. I congratulated myself that I had finally drunk a full load of partially prostate milked semen whilst scanning for opportunities as to when I might be able to do that again, and this time, with less fast-forwarding to hand-relief first.

The video evidence was reviewed and retained for a few hours of the day (but ultimately deleted), but with orgasm achieved, motivation to lock back up again diminished and instead, with a sort of inner smug satisfaction, the clean up and tidy up began, the assorted paraphernalia returned to storage from where it had been recovered a few hours previously, and I applied myself to the day job.

Since then, it has been as if a bucket-list has been ticked.   There hasn’t been any thought towards doing it again any time soon, or anything else for that matter, no chastity, no access to the alter-ego Twitter account but instead, a motivation to heterosexually fit in with society once more for the time being.

Motivation to dabble more more is highly influenced by my quite hirsute state, as hirsute as I have been generally for some time, but with a body wax appointment getting ever closer.   I am wondering quite what fires may be reignited by that appointment and the aftermath of being smooth bodied once more, more happy with my body and more sexually stimulated as a result.

Bucket list ticked two days ago, achievements recognised and celebrated, another mundane day at work saw total application to workday and evening responsibilities – that drive only stopped by acknowledgement that everything else was done, so I could turn to the creation of a blog entry, the title for which had been thought up in a fleeting moment over the last 24-36 hours.

There were just brief moments given over to the week’s sexual activity.  Having paid another visit to the toilet at the office to reply to a call of nature, the ghosts of underdressing of the past led me to recall how I had previously and frequently used that room to adjust stockings and suspenders, take snaps in various outfits then posted on social media or to strip, take off the workday lingerie and cover back up again before returning home to the unsuspecting, knowning bosom of the family.

Despite the draw of my kink for chastity and anal, those recollections of crossdressing were not motivation to dress again though – quite the opposite it seemed, more an intent not to do so because of the inconveniences when crossdressing came to an end, the time taken, the time wasted perhaps, the behaviour and resulting guilt allowed to play out.

This, it seemed, was, and contrary to a previous blog entry title, more a case of one step back, two steps forward.  Or was it?