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…

Come to think about it — June 17, 2022

Come to think about it

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Needs must. — June 7, 2022

Needs must.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fiona is, very suddenly, back – needs must.

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

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

For me, for you, for me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How you remind me —

How you remind me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A frustrated sub — May 25, 2022

A frustrated sub

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am very much a frustrated sub right now.

Awkward conversation, interesting prospects — April 22, 2022

Awkward conversation, interesting prospects

I was on a trip out with the significant other, sitting down enjoying some quiet time with a drink and some pleasant views when she began asking some rather probing questions, of the type she had never asked before. It took me by surprise I must say.

This was not the mundane type of thing – you know, the “What do you want for your dinner?” or “What shall we do tonight?” etc.

The questions were the type that needed some very careful, analytical thought processes before uttering the slightest word. For some minutes, I was more or less stalling whilst the rather dusty strategy cogs in my brain were cleared and forced into action.

The questions were more about what floated my boat sexually. What turned me on? What ‘did it’ for me? My stalling answers were, more or less those of “I don’t know really” etc.

“Where was she going with this?” I wondered to myself. There is a very shrouded history when it comes to inner elements of sexual interest. Were she to think long and hard enough, she would be able to cast her mind back quite a few years and almost find her own answers.

As previously blogged in one of my many posts, it was back in the heady and now treasured days of her leaving for work early, me springing out of bed like a coiled spring to dress in a long-since planned lingerie outfit. Only, on one fateful day, she returned home within minutes – probably having forgotten something or having had her circumstances changed – but enough minutes had passed for me to have donned the complete outfit, stockings et al.

Her unexpected arrival led to me more or less tearing the outfit off, throwing it into the dark recesses of a wardrobe and similarly tearing off the stockings, but not totally and one was still lingering on the end of a foot. I assume, as there were no questions asked, they were stockings, which she did not usually wear, from her drawer. Being asked where the stockings had otherwise come from would have provided enough ammunition to blow my upcoming excuse out of the water, but, here, it was irrelevant.

Anyway, the point was, I offered valid and standing mitigation as to why I was trying stockings on and after a few turbulent hours, that was that. I managed to recover the outfit from the dark recesses of the wardrobe and returned from whence it came
.

Anyway, back to the questions she sought on what ‘did it’ for me. There were a few utterances of “I don’t know really.” and lots of quiet thinking time. I didn’t want to give enough info to make it blatantly obvious and saw the passage of time as something which almost trivialised the question – as if there wasn’t anything much at all.

The conversation stumbled along with me internally screaming as to how much I loved lingerie and crossdressing, that I would happily (terms and conditions apply) become her sub and let her dress me up, lock me up in or release me from chastity, plug my tight backside and occasionally fuck me with a strap on perhaps. All the trappings of being a sub except being cucked. That is not something I want and, in any case, nor would she – to that extent or any of the above – it would be beyond her comprehension close to home – only something she would see on TV in one of “those” documentaries.

Her probing questions were more along the lines of conventional kink and I bloody well knew that, hence the difficulty in formulating an answer for so many at least partially awkward minutes. Because of my evident struggles to utter an answer, she threw a very few (long since forgotten) suggestions at me. I’ve probably forgotten about them because they didn’t interest me one iota.

Eventually, I openly mused and verbally “supposed” that I did quite like stockings (but not fishnet) and suspenders (well, I DO!). The conversation stumbled on and more or less concluded with her stating that she had taken note of everything (not that I’d said that much) I’d said.

Internally, I appreciated the response but, in the main, I dismissively shrugged. My rationale?

1) There was a wardrobe full of cami-suspender outfits I’d bought her over the years, that she’d worn on a very, very rare occasion and even then without stockings or suspenders (whereas I’d had plenty of use out of them.) For whatever reason, self deprecation or otherwise, historically, on evidence, she just wasn’t ‘in’ to that sort of thing – clearly. I have often said that the reason she isn’t into it, is the reason I was/am.

2) She’d thrown a lot of her ‘bottom drawer’ oddments away a long time ago – the suspender straps, the garters, the other nick nacks.

3) We were never or rarely alone at home and were often subject to trivial intrusions for one reason or another
.

Speaking honestly, I’m probably a fairly (but not fully) submissive other half anyway. I’ll go along with most things – suggestions for this, that and the other and I pull my weight in the household chores too. Internally, I acknowledge this day-to-day and seize upon it to consider the extent that I might be in a female led relationship and what this does to my kink-o-meter.

There have been moments where she’d rather I be naked for her around the house and there have been moments where some form of domme-sub roleplay has been evident – to me, not really her so much and it is not inconceivable that when we are home alone on a regular basis because the “others” have taken the decision to move out, these elements might come to the fore a bit, but then again, not as I would want them to be directly. But, you can’t always get what you want, so goes the song title.

There are, however, and, of late, since “that” awkward conversation with the interesting prospects, there have been some instances of domme-sub / FLR roleplay that will be detailed in the next blog entry.

As ever, thanks for following and thanks for reading.

Acknowledging the existence of the door — March 7, 2022

Acknowledging the existence of the door

The second anniversary of the start of the pandemic in good old Blighty is this month.
The second anniversary of the enforced cessation of my covert lingerie crossdressing and submissive behaviour is also this month because of the impact of the pandemic. It is all previously documented.

Had it not have been for the pandemic, I’d have probably still been doing what was I was doing this time two years ago – covertly responsive to Mistress, covertly dressing daily in outfits of her choice, covertly locked in chastity devices and plugged as she wished, posting demonstrative images on Fiona’s social media account, covertly enjoying home play time before work and covertly remaining in a lingerie outfit for up to 12 hours every week day.

But you could argue that the same fate that allowed these things to happen for so long was the same fate that led to it having to stop.

I’m analytical. I like to at least try and understand how and why things happen, even if there is unlikely to ever be an answer.

On a couple of occasions, my Mistress has said to me that things will change eventually, that I will be able to return to lingerie crossdressing eventually, that I shouldn’t give up and accept that it is the end and file everything I hold dear under B for bin, T for tip, D for done.

I appreciate the sentiment, but in a world where even my Domme’s life has changed dramatically, the analyst within acknowledges the things in my life that allowed things to happen in the way that they did and changes to those things that mean circumstances are never going to be and probably can never be the same.

Ever the strategist – I was always working from the confines of the closet to exact one’s crossdressing and kink plans – I can be quite methodical in finding a way to get something done, even under the most difficult and challenging set of circumstances and scenarios. To indulge in one’s most secret of habits, there has been no other way, but the current situation cannot be navigated through and overcome.

I’ve previously referred to and acknowledged how nice it is not to be fighting one’s guilt and if there has been just one benefit of the enforced cessation, it is that. No internal compartmentalising and agonising over what I was doing so very much deceitfully, or what impact it could be perceived to be having on those closest to me and the unthinkable, unimaginable and terrifying impact if all was to be exposed.

Other than briefly in September 2020 (and even more briefly, for a mere minute or two last week when, home alone, I pulled on a favourite cami-suspender in the loo at home – just because a mental box needed ticking) – no lingerie, no chastity has touched my body. I will however acknowledge that there have been occasions where sex toys have been on or in me because I had the urge.

With these limits, thoughts have turned to a point where I accept that I’ve had a good run, it was fun while it lasted etc and have considered the most final of final acts – something I said I’d never do ever again. I swore I’d never carry out a purge again because of the regret having done so afterwards, even though it seemed oh, so right at the time. I haven’t purged. Even when I stopped crossdressing for what ultimately turned out to be around six months, everything was locked away.

But with the situation as it is, I’ve acknowledged the existence of a one way door somewhere in the recesses of my mind and the fact that there may be a final, final, final, final purge – a final goodbye – a final weaning off the lingerie, but not necessarily everything else of kink.

I’m of an age now. I have always said that I don’t want to perceive myself to be a dirty old man – whatever that means, and again, I acknowledge the internal peace and harmony that applies most of the time for me these days because I can’t indulge. It doesn’t mean I don’t want to, but I just accept that I can’t and tell myself to be happy for the many years of covert activity.

There have been times when I have even tried to keep off Fiona’s social media as a method of weaning – but it doesn’t last long – a day or two perhaps and that might often be down to other commitments or a lack of time as well as an element of disinterest. Besides, I have a few more archive images to continue positing @fionacder on Twitter, but after that?

An addiction is a powerful draw – and I accept that it is a form of addiction – albeit one that no-one knows about – even a confidante who knows a lot of about me and quite intimately too. There have been times when, in their occasional one-on-one company, I’ve come THAT close to opening up further than I have ever opened up before, almost to the point of starting to talk, only to stop at the very last millisecond.

As I was saying – thoughts have been turning to acknowledgement that there IS a one-way door out, one that can be locked behind me and never ventured through again. That is, if I accept that there IS no way back.

At different times, I contemplate that there could be a way back or, in fact, that there should be no way back and, instead look at it as a point to just move on once and for all

Mind you, the other day, the unknowing significant other notified me that she was planning a trip away with friends. Although no facts were forthcoming at that juncture, there was a very quick spark of the sort of strategical planning that I used to apply back in the day, i.e. an opportunity to ‘get up to’ something or other.

That ‘something’ seemed to be a lot of nothing really – no clarity whatsoever – and I concluded that, in the greater scheme of things, indulging in a rare moment might not be the best thing to do and, anyway, other situations at home prevent it even if the s/o was not around for a few days. My mind remains open yet accepting it as most unlikely as circumstances created by the impact of the pandemic remain very firmly in place.

But the imagination raced momentarily before heaving a massive sigh and retreating back to the status quo that has applied since March 2020 when things ended so abruptly, so intensely, and seemingly, so permanently and so insurmountably.

In conclusion, I can’t, I’d sort of like to, but given how long it has been, am somehow trying to convince myself that I probably shouldn’t.

But I know that although it hasn’t been there for a time, and the only one was the door to my closet, there is now the clear image, the clear existence of another door.