The recovering crossdresser?

To crossdress or not crossdress – that is the question…

Out of time — May 25, 2022

Out of time

Another salon appointment had come round again. Certain parts of my body really were in need of being waxed, including my chest, part of my bum that wasn’t ready last time, and my arms which were making me feel like a monster. They were the worst they had been in a long time. The arms were SO bad that I had contemplated wearing a fleece just to cover them up.

Back at the salon, I was ushered into the inner sanctuary that is the treatment room – soft lighting, relaxing music, warmth from the heater making it easy to strip off.

I was early for my appointment, the traffic into the town centre having been kind. I stripped off but the battle resumed between the inner consciences.

On one shoulder, the angel – pressing for the position to be assumed – just any form of bodily contact with the treatment table would suffice please.

On the other shoulder, the devil – Fiona’s evidently resurgent self perhaps, fighting back from over 2 years of being suppressed after the pandemic struck and knocked her into the proverbial long grass.

I was back in the same position as before. Out of line of sight of the main salon floor for when the door was opened, one end of the treatment table, in front of a full length mirror.

Gentle patting of my tiny flaccid cock began again whilst the angel really insisted that I assumed the position as I needed the waxing to be done. I heard the voice within alright but I also seemed to be craving his lustful attention when he came in the room. General commotion could be heard beyond the door from other salon customers on the way in or out. I could hear him exchanging chat and pleasantries whilst waiting – anticipating his arrival.

The rushing of blood to my little cock ebbed and flowed. I stopped then resumed the gentle patting. He soon entered the room and remarked far more directly than before that he knew I was ready for him and ready for some playtime if I was standing upon his arrival.

He was soon working my cock to hardness taking breaks to caress my bum curves, extending the sweep of a hand through to my perineum, balls and cock. Occasionally, he’d move and brush a hand across or tweak my nipples, using his sub as he saw fit.

Without speaking, I offered myself further by seductively swinging my hips or making my bum more prominent and of focus for him.

I upped the ante by lifting a leg and placing the foot on the treatment table, gazing at the full length mirror and watching him work on his willing, eager and naked sub.

I changed legs to offer a more direct view into the mirror that he knew only too well that I had a kink about. I revelled in the image reflected before me, knowing it was me that was being used for his pleasure.

I moved a hand to his fastened jeans and rubbed the hardness through the material. I feigned an attempt at undoing which was the signal he needed to unfasten his jeans.

I was in no mood to wait to bring his cock to hand and started slipping a hand down the front of his boxers but he was soon taking them down too.

I led. He moved in, body to body, cock to cock, and I led the frotting, breaking off loosening the grip then resuming. This went on for a few minutes but my mind had one thing within. I wanted his cock in my mouth. I battled with the urge for a minute or two before finally giving in to the desire.

I dropped to my knees and began to service him, deep throating, licking the tip and slit, down the top of the shaft with the foreskin pulled back. I could hear his moans of pleasure and occasionally looked up into his eyes to connect further and signal my lustful intent to serve and give him pleasure, my own cock submissively going more limp and unimportant in that moment.

I wanted his cock. I wanted to just suck it and keep on sucking it. Nothing else seemed to matter – only it did – my body waxing – but the urge to suck cock for as long and as sluttily as possible was driving me on.

After a while, he ushered me to take a seat, perhaps concluding that his sub was not too comfortable kneeling before him.

I quickly followed the order and resumed sucking him, his continual moans of pleasure, breathy moments, my hand cupping and patting his balls, hands reaching round to squeeze his bum cheeks.

He pulled away briefly as pre-cum started to ooze. I briefly took him back into my mouth to savour the consistency and flavour. He pulled out again and swept more pre-cum on to a finger before feeding his sub as if he were training it ready to take his full load down its throat and into the pit of its stomach.

(I relished being fed his pre-cum as, on a previous occasion, (see a previous blog entry), he’d swept a quantity of mine on to a finger, and I was convinced he was going to feed his sub, only to take it to his own mouth. But, in the aftermath, I was honoured and he said I tasted good. We were both feeding from my oozing cock anyway from that point on.)

I digress – again.

My oral work was intent on driving him to orgasm and had he have started to cum in my mouth, I was, I acknowledged, a willing cum dump receptacle for what would have been the first time I had swallowed another man’s load.

Ever the sub, I followed instructions for another position change. He lay on the treatment table himself and I resumed deep throating him, positioning myself diagonally against the table, bum near his head, legs spread, inviting him to use me further and to finger fuck his sub.

He broke off to begin bringing me off and moments later, a large quantity of creamy semen powered out of my milked cock and splattered the floor as my mouth bobbed up and down on his cock.

Moments later, I began giving him hand relief but he took over as I began caressing and patting his balls and perineum, which he relished, the teasing bringing him to a body shuddering climax, his load shooting out, running down and covering my fingers as they cupped and caressed his balls.

The clean up began after the latest sexual encounter was brought to an end, a large quantity of paper towels needed to sweep up my load. Such was his elation and celebration from what had just happened, he asked me whether I’d been in some sort of training or something to be able to do what I did to satisfy him so sufficiently.

I humbly but gratefully and graciously said that I just did what I did, no reading up, no text books, no internet searches but that I had somehow picked things up over the years and it was all just somewhere up top. We mused that men knew how to suck cock, because they knew how they would like to be sucked.

I was nevertheless flattered that I could satisfy him in the way that I evidently had. It was not about me – I was serving him – but I had, of course, very much enjoyed the moment.

You could argue that I had set the agenda and given all the signals that led to the 30 minute period of sex by presenting in a naked, semi erect and clearly ‘ready’, state, rather than being ready for the body wax.

Enjoyable though it was, it turned out, somewhat to my surprise and masked disappointment, that there was virtually no time left for the treatment. I had not envisaged anything less than an hour in my special place. Some partial waxing was completed in time he concluded was still available, but to all intents and purposes, I was out of time, the evidence for some body hair removal still evident.

I was left to dress alone as the last drops of cum continued to drip from my milked cock. I used a towel to wipe the floor again before dressing.

Frustratingly, the next available appointment turned out to be weeks away.

In the days afterwards, taking issue with the outstanding need for treatment, I have since been able to reschedule sooner, but a submissive fire has been lit within once more of late, but with no outlet, no ability to crossdress, lock in chastity or plug to vent the urges that rage within.

Having said that, there was a chance, home alone for time the other day to try on my chastity devices and on another day, to plug with my remote control device and enjoy. But I remain highly sexually charged right now and am beginning to try and fathom strategies to partially resume my kinks that were halted in March 2020.

Those feelings have been suppressed today due to the need to attend to the day job and because I cannot indulge these days.

However, I don’t think that I have ever felt more frustrated as a submissive than I have today, urge swamped by inability and it is only a junk food meal and distraction TV that have eased those feelings.

The next rescheduled and much sooner appointment offers similar opportunities to submit but it needs to be without being out of time for the ‘other’ reason I visit the salon and that is for my own mental well-being. Waxing first, sex second.

I’m a sub though, and I acknowledge that it isn’t about me but I need to be happy on how I present. As many will say, a sub should be ready, smooth bodied, and well presented. No time to be out of time.

Reflective post sex, sex talk then more sex — May 24, 2022

Reflective post sex, sex talk then more sex

It wasn’t long after the salon session in which I was (finally) fucked and broken in that I found myself back for the follow up appointment. My life revolves around each one.

Previously, I had been made aware of a sample case in the US where a motorist had died after a salon appointment having suffered a delayed but adverse reaction to a full body wax whilst behind the wheel and crashing his car.

This had meant that, for legal reasons, any reputable salon would then adhere to industry and insurance guidelines and break a full body wax down into two separate sessions. I remember being quite frustrated by this when told some years ago, because, other than one occasion when I got the shakes, I had been perfectly OK having a full body wax all in one go.

The bad news was softened by being told that the need to break it down led to more frequent sessions at the salon. Every cloud has a silver lining!

I digress.

As I recall, for my next post-fuck appointment, I stripped and assumed a position of some sort on the treatment table to indicate that I was ready for the waxing upon his arrival into the room. No doubt.

Pleasantries have long been the order of the appointments. How are things with him? How are things with me? You know the stuff. Chit-chat but nice with it.

These days though, sex talk soon arises and the memories of him fucking me last time were still very fresh and were therefore discussed at this appointment.

This man had previously declared where he would and wouldn’t go sexually. He definitely would not suck anyone else’s cock but his partner’s. Historically, he had said that he wouldn’t fuck me but then again, more recently, he’d also previously told me that he *would* fuck me given the opportunity.

Reflecting back on him having taken my anal virginity bareback a few weeks previously, he had equalled the score in my mind. As he took me last time, I’d asked him whether he was fucking me even though I knew he was. My question at the time was merely because I was in denial that it was finally happening and I couldn’t believe it under the circumstances, not that his cock was so small in my tight, increasingly less virginal ass, that I couldn’t feel it. I certainly could feel it and I loved, relished and treasured it.

My slightly disjointed and misplaced comment was merely accepting and acknowledging that I was, at last, finally being fucked.

At this next appointment though, he evened the proverbial score in my mindset by stating that he didn’t quite know why he broke with his determination and broke me in.

Part of me was massively disappointed, wondering and therefore doubting whether it would happen again or whether it was, for him, a regrettable one off, whilst the other half of me was totally respectful and understanding about what the statement intrinsically meant. I also relished having done enough to turn him on that meant he couldn’t resist fucking me last time following the most submissive and erotic period of foreplay, the level of intensity and intimacy of which seems to increase every time I’m at the salon.

The conversation moved on but remained on the topic of sex – specifically involving me. He made a point of praising his sub by stating how good it was that I had let him fuck me and how very far I had come in my sexual development and continued to go since my first ever appointment so many years ago.

My likes and fantasies were discussed after he made a point of saying that he needed to ensure that my previously declared fantasies were realised at some point. He reiterated the option for being involved in an after hours group massage session which usually led to consensual sex for some and voyeurism for others and when I could, in theory, be group fucked, spit roasted and pig roasted – the latter being a new term for me which I duly enquired about. Every day is a school day!

He also talked about the option to invite other men in to the treatment room or for me to join their session.

The jury remains out on those options, largely over my own fears of confidentiality breach by them but most definitely not by me. But it is not a ‘no’ or ‘never’, just ‘not now’. How I would be if the opportunity presented itself, I do not know but I might well embrace it.

Anyway, back to where I was – busily talking through my darkest fantasies including being carefully, gently and considerately group fucked, bareback, filled both ends and covered with multiple loads of semen like a fuck toy and cum dump but not in an abusive or degrading way.

I also talked about how I would want my consensual sex partners to be hair free, and retrospectively, I suppose this is to remove some vestiges of evident masculinity from the situation.

He responded by quickly discounting one proposed individual due to their hirsutedness but instead, settling on another for his submissive to entertain in his own mindset.

With my waxing complete on that occasion, largely unbeknown to me, my uninhibited, open and detailed sex talk had caused his cock to both harden and strain in his undies under his jeans, but he had also begun to leak pre-cum.

He undid his trousers and got his cock out, unable to take the restriction any longer.

My interest was piqued but I’d assumed, from my flat out, relaxed position, often with eyes closed or looking at the celling, that he had reached around for some oil to cause his cock to so blatantly and evidently glisten, but his confession that he was very wet indeed and leaking with pre-cum as a result of my explicit sex talk had ignited the carnal instinct within me in an instant.

I was soon up to his cock to wantonly suck him and taste his juices. I probably wasn’t being as careful with what I was doing but I acknowledged that more care was needed as I worked.

I turned on to my side on the treatment table to take his cock more fully and easily into my willing mouth. He moved a pillow under my head like a considerate lover to make his submissive as comfortable as possible.

His hands were roaming around and caressing my naked body, tweaking nipples, grabbing my head and hair, reaching between my legs to slip fingers in to my no longer virginal hole to vigorously finger fuck me whilst I plunged eagerly back and forth on his cock.

I signalled that I was receptive for more by spreading my legs as I submitted further, one levered into the air. After some minutes, as I lustfully bent over him and sucked his shaft, he brought me off over the side of the treatment table and moments later then came all over me.

A brief clean up ensued between us whilst the events that had just unfolded were celebrated and relished and with that, he left, I dressed and left the room and premises – but not before arranging the next appointment and another opportunity to relish.

At long last – fucked — April 27, 2022

At long last – fucked

Once again, I was ushered back into that same warm, enclosed, brightly lit, cossetting environment, soft, incidental music playing to set a mood and was soon naked, but remained standing – ignoring the treatment table which awaited my body’s length to be stretched out on it for the scheduled reason I was there.

I, on the other hand, seemed controlled by ulterior forces. The manipulative element was in control. I knew what I should be doing – that being to stretch out on the treatment table – an indicator for the treatment to begin, but, instead, and as with the previous encounter, I assumed the position adopted the last time I was there, standing at one end, around four feet from a mirror, checking my continually imperfect but slender naked body – stripped free from any form of clothing or jewellery – because I could.

Again, gentle hand patting against my increasingly less flaccid cock caused blood to surge into it, yet the fight within my mind saw the other half of the personality, the conscience, fight back, remonstrating that this was not perhaps the best thing to do for reasons not concluded, and my cock began to lose its hardness once more.

The manipulative within acknowledged this and reasserted control. The gentle but fairly rapid hand-patting resumed to a state where I was semi-erect, not massively so, but enough so that he, very familiar with every inch of my body, would very much know I was ‘ready’ when he entered the room.

Suddenly, the door opened. Within seconds, it was evident that he needed no further invitation and was soon inspecting his submissive with his eyes and hands. As before, hands wandered, caressing the rounds of my evidently popular and, well shaped bum cheeks, reaching between my legs to teasingly stroke my cock, balls and perineum, firmly tweaking nipples and brushing the palms of his hands across my chest, as I lustfully accepted being used as he saw fit.

Clearly aroused himself, he didn’t need me to undo his belt and jeans. His boxers were also soon down to allow his hard cock to spring to attention and he guided his body close in front of me. Momentarily, I celebrated being so sufficiently erect, but briefly reflected and compared back to the many occasions over many years that the heterosexual within took issue with any such need and applied pressure to stop it from happening.

My self-declared bi-curious status had, over the years, been developed though, not always of my own making, and I was concluding that I was instead, at least with this man, (other opportunities having yet to present themselves to judge the reaction) accepting myself as ever more bisexual.

In the heat of the moment, something within briefly sparked that this behaviour was somehow not ideal, not right, not what typified the first 40 odd years of my life, my sexuality and my relationship. It was more than a little ‘closing the stable door long after the horse had bolted’ in my timeline of sexual development though anyway.

The situation before me – a naked and vulnerable sub – meant that any such thoughts were quickly dismissed as not part of the moment, as this man continued doing what he had actually been doing for a number of years – gleaning the nature of action and conversation and determining steps to take as time passed – gradually developing me, slowly, surely, consentingly, to be his willing toy, his project.

Allow me to digress.

Those conversations over the years had caused me to open up, awaken sexually, declaring the extents of my interests or curiosities. Years of activity, (including my unbeknown to him crossdressing and chastity), plus declaration and willingness for taking anal when in his company, had made him aware and helping him to plot his course with his sub.

An increasing willingness, eagerness and desire to suck [his] cock had developed over time, the potential for him to involve me with others of my own choosing, to let him use my increasing liking for anal, to be regularly finger fucked and, on one occasion, fucked with my own dildo which had, at one appointment, been sneaked in to a bag on the off-chance, but a chance that presented it self after declaring during the session that a) I liked it, b) I did it and c) that the toy was in the room. I remember how much he relished the moment, the euphoria of learning something else about his project, and for the opportunity to arise.

Some time ago, years ago I’d say, and probably after some intense playtime, he said that he would fuck me given the opportunity. (At one point in history there was a reference to a condom in a discussion of some sort and a question as to whether I had one – but I didn’t. Had I have had one, who knows what would have happened)

It seemed almost throwaway, a theory, an ideology but at the time, an impossibility. I remember theorising that I’d want to use protection which he quite obviously agreed with. There had been intense moments of intimacy as my relationship with him grew ever closer that I made some borderline insulting, vague, wishy washy wish to be “safe” without really explaining myself very well back then. It matters little. I am now where I am in the greater scheme of things.

Anyway, where was I? Ah yes, close proximity, body to body, cock to cock. As before, I led with the frotting, cocks gripped as one. There were brushing embraces throughout, as close to a kiss as possible without there being one, warm loving embraces as the cocks were worked.

The vivid imagination within relished at the actuality being played out, me taking a ‘power bottom’ role, holding two hard cocks together. Suddenly, I drew away from the embrace as pre-cum started to ooze.

In the silence, punctuated only by the soft music, we both began feeding off the cum as it seeped out, taking it in turns to draw it to mouth, appreciating the consistency and flavour and wanting more. I would not disappoint as the pent up semen slowly flowed from my highly stimulated cock. He spoke briefly, whisper-like, to tell me how good my cum tasted. I agreed breathlessly and seductively as we continued to take turns to sweep the cum away with a finger and draw it to mouth for some minutes. At one point, I thought he was going to feed me, but instead, he continued to taste, or lubricated his cock with my semen instead.

There was to be no opportunity for me to suck his cock on this occasion. This wasn’t part of the plan.

He ushered me to the other side of the treatment table – closer to the cream and oils and directly in front of the mirror – and broke off briefly to get some cream before returning to our close embrace for more frotting from me, allowing him to reach round, cream me up and begin soundly finger fucking me, both of us intently and lustfully watching in the mirror.

At the last appointment, I remembered bending over allowing him and inviting him more access to more soundly and deeply finger fuck me. This time, I was in front of the mirror in close proximity, and found myself turning away from it and bending over the treatment table. The signal I gave him by bending over was not interpreted in the same way as it had been before.

Though there was not much room, he moved sideways in between my available, hot, ready and lubricated behind and the mirror. I felt his cock sitting between and being rubbed around my bum cheeks. Something was telling me what was coming and I seemed powerless and unwilling to stop it. His cock tip probed the outer rim of my hole and briefly pressed – almost by way of a test or dare. He momentarily withdrew as if something was holding him back, but the withdrawal was only short.

His hands took a grip on my hips for leverage and he pushed inside me. Bareback. No condom, no protection.

For the first time, other than my own use of a dildo, with which I had total control, my anal virginity was broken in an instant. The moment I never thought would and could ever happen – was happening.

I was – finally – after all the years of experimenting, alluding to being trained but with the actual act having previously been thought never to happen and instead it being more like roleplay – being fucked by a real cock. In a moment of apparent disbelief, I asked him, even though I knew intently, whether he was fucking me. He confirmed with a brief, breathy, lustful, carnal “Yes”.

Now, he could have taken great offence at the inference that his cock was not big enough for me to feel it, but there was no offence taken. The opportunity presented to him to do something he’d yearned for over a number of years was right there before him. His conquest. The confirmation of the act from him was a carte blanc for the rhythm, pace and thrusts to increase. I was happy to be taken. There was nothing in the world beyond the door from the room – nothing. This was the world in those intensely erotic moments.

I gave myself further by uttering the words “Finally” or “At last” (I don’t remember which now!) as if telling him it was about time he fucked me and perhaps questioning why it had taken him so long. I was in fact, telling myself that this really was happening and began pushing back to relish being properly fucked and willingly taking his cock – AND bareback! As if it needed confirming, I also confidently extolled that he was breaking me in and taking my virginity, confirming that I was his trophy and perhaps, now, his fuck toy, not just his toy.

I was in ecstasy but in another way, some form of both partial denial and partial acceptance.

Given the chance, I would have just allowed him to carry on fucking me for as long as he wanted and how he wanted. The real reason I was there paled into insignificance. I just wanted him to fuck my tight but eager, open hole and dismiss my virginity thoroughly beyond doubt. I merely became a fuck toy and lost track of the environment around me, dismissing my life outside completely.

He had already told me as he fucked me how tight I was. Had I have still been covertly cross-dressing and doing anal at home, as had been the case until March 2020, I might have been more receptive and an easier, looser fuck.

I could have clenched tightly around him, but it was not about me. It was about him fucking me.

After some minutes, he told me that I was so tight, I was making him want to cum inside me. I suggested that neither of us wanted that and he agreed, yet in the darkest recesses of my mind, I did want to be filled and to hell with any consequences. But, anyway, I had been a tight fuck that pushed all of his buttons. I relished the moment. He pulled out and erupted all over the floor, hot cum splattering in all directions.

The euphoria of having given myself to him and of being virginally fucked and broken in meant that I too brought myself off, the same small area of flooring littered with two warm, creamy, impassioned loads of semen.

With that, after a sufficient clean up, I assumed the position, face down n the treatment table, cum continuing to leak from my cock, my ass, freshly fucked. Within minutes, it was as if nothing had just happened, chit chat and pleasantries etc. prevailing. and afterwards, I nonchalantly left to contemplate over the coming hours and days what had just happened and that my next appointment was to be soon.

And I’m still contemplating. Can I now not be a fuck toy? Was that I one off? It seems impossible to think that way. How can that possibly be? Where does it go from here? What impact will it have on my life? What precautions should I now need to take to remain comfortable and, to my satisfaction psychologically, safe? What inferences am I making that he is not safe? It seems rude and judgemental, yet equally rational to even think about it, less talk about it.

I aim to go with the flow though and there has been plenty of that. I am satisfactorily and somewhat smugly, no longer an ass virgin (Mistress IS happy but wants me filled with cum now) and after contemplating the error of my ways and worrying probably unnecessarily over possible consequences for a few days , am now anticipating being fucked again. Soon.

Used at will —

Used at will

It was just another ordinary day and I was busying myself in the kitchen, having, earlier, pulled on some jogging bottoms but no undies because – well, just because.

I was in the kitchen having probably been intent on making myself some lunch or a drink – just a mundane moment.

Only it wasn’t. Sunlight streamed into the room as I stood at a stretch of worktop near the front window but with my back to it.

Suddenly, the significant other broke off from work on her laptop further down the room and approached me, distracting me from the intended tasks, feeling my naked bum through my jogging bottoms or rubbing my, by now, hardening, unrestrained cock.

Suddenly, with the blind still allowing sunlight to stream in and for any passers by to see, my jogging bottoms were pulled to the floor and she began working my cock to full hardness from behind taking full advantage of my moans of pleasure that arose from this unexpected moment.

Her thought processes turned to concluding a need for privacy and she broke off for a moment to pull the kitchen blind down, enveloping the room in partial darkness.

A hand returned to my cock and she continued to work. Struggling to stand, the palm of my hands went down on the worktop to steady myself. She knew exactly what she was doing. She had full control. She wanted to simply make me cum at her demand and continued to pump steadily and rhythmically with the aim to bring me off quickly.

After a few minutes, she sensed that my audible moans and body language meant that the cum was rising. Amid my mist and haze of pleasure, I could tell that she was contemplating whether to allow my streams of pent-up creamy semen to hit the work surfaces, cupboard doors and laminate floor before deciding against it.

Strategically, she continued to work with one hand whilst tightly cupping the other hand underneath my cock tip, and emptied me into it. I can still picture the scene now.

With that, she smiled seductively, dominantly and satisfactorily, cleaned up with some kitchen towel, a dislike for the taste of cum and an intent not to lower herself to take her sub’s cum, and merely resumed her laptop work, leaving me to clean myself up, pull my jogging bottoms back up again, pull myself together to a state of as much composure as was possible to carry on with what was originally planned, as the last remnants of cum oozed out of my unrestrained cock, dampening my joggers and dripping occasionally on to my legs.

Whilst she nonchalantly sighed with satisfaction, I was left contemplating another sudden FLR moment in my life – of the type that is becoming more frequent, yet, to her, merely something she felt like doing having used me at will.

Secret sub, officially led — April 25, 2022

Secret sub, officially led

Unusually for me, I’d had a rather long, hot bath. I emerged, wrapped a towel around my waist and went into the kitchen where the significant other was sitting, in a corner, reading something or other.

The ambient temperature of the room coupled with the ‘fresh out of the bath’ body temperature meant that the towel was sufficient.

I observed that the kitchen area needed a quick tidy up and equally, both of us were getting a little peckish so it was suggested that I made some sandwiches and prepared a few nibbles that we’d shopped for earlier.

My comparative nakedness juxtaposed very vividly with her fully clothed state, the TV nattering away to itself and the blinds closed. This was just a short period of time after the recent conversation (blogged about in my last post) about what ‘got me going’, so my sex drive was at a significantly heightened level anyway.

I’d stuffed the wrap of the towel down as one does when one emerges from a bath or shower, but the ‘stuff’ was, as tends to be the case with me, down in front, rather than to one side, either way, I never make a good job of such things. A mixture of breathing, general movement around the kitchen and the fact I’d (accidentally) made a bad job of wrapping myself up in just a towel, led to the tell-tale signs that the towel was, in fact, slowly slipping.

Of course, it fell to the floor. Having already been intermittently lifting her gaze from the reading material, I was told to leave the towel, and continued to busy myself, following any preparatory instructions from across the room, completely naked.

The cogs in my brain instantly began reveling in and relishing the extent of which an evidently female-led relationship was unfolding, overtly sexually, not just through being asked/told to do a particular household chore in any normal situation.

Inside, I was telling myself to calm down and see the situation as mundane and not worthy of excitement.

The chores went on with me in this state for some considerable minutes.

However, blood was surging in to my cock, causing almost a full erection as my mind more than wandered away through the thrill of something I craved but had never experienced before nor thought was ever likely – this despite efforts to keep my back to her through some form of partial embarrassment about my aroused state – the effort failing through the need to move around the kitchen, getting crockery and cutlery, putting the kettle on, visiting the fridge, but also coupled with instructions to turn around.

I continued focusing on my responsibilities in the kitchen, dutifully and quietly following orders, but becoming increasingly aware that the book had been put down and she had made her way towards and then closely behind me in her fully clothed state, me, vulnerable, naked and sexually charged through being dominated under the domestic circumstances.

A hand reached around my body, slowly gripping my ever hardening cock and beginning to slowly work back and forward, my head dropping back, the room, the silence broken by the TV muttering away to itself, and my audible moans of pleasure.

She ordered me to the twin settee in the corner of the kitchen, and draped herself, fully clothed across both seats. I knelt over and across her, naked, hard, aroused, dominated, continuing to revel in the FLR of the moment.

Moments later, she ushered me to the bedroom and stripped off. Her submissive of the moment expressed an eagerness to go down on and further serve her, but was denied. Some foreplay ensued, but she then instructed her sub to take her.

Eagerness to serve and satisfy poured from every pore of my body, a focus to perform, to satisfy her, and began to pump her moist pussy, steadily, thoroughly, intently. The moments passed by as my hips drew up and down, back and forth. Fully submissive, I pledged openly that I wanted and needed to satisfy her, and her alone, give her what she wanted, to hold back my own intents and a need to cum inside her at a time of my own choosing.

The dominant female was having none of this and sought to further assert control, to flick the button on her submissive, seizing on the one sure fire thing to make him cum – a seductive draw down the nose of her glasses, the twinkle in her eyes over the top of them needing no words to give the instruction. She knew how to pull the proverbial trigger.

There was to be no holding back. My long since teased and hardened cock erupted a powerful, hot, full, pent-up and creamy load into her warm, wet, accommodating pussy, two moments combined yet of stark contrast, one being of the actual – a consensual relationship between partners with mutual orgasm – the other far removed from where a conventional sub might find themselves – i.e. locked in chastity, dressed in lingerie, maybe even plugged, denied pussy, denied orgasm unless allowed, and even then, likely ruined, and above all, still made to serve. Internally, I considered myself lucky for what had happened and the circumstances that were playing out, holding on to and very much relishing, no, celebrating the FLR elements that had applied and anticipated more at some point in the future.

She dressed and returned to the TV, I merely donned a dressing gown, loosely tied, and sat beside her, the gown opening to reveal my vulnerability. Despite her very run-of-the-mill orientations, and inability to consider elements of kink unless shown on a TV documentary, the older we get, the more alone we get, the more elements of being in an overtly sexual FLR becoming apparent.

It may not happen again for a while, but that is surely part of the draw. Inconceivably and unknowingly to her, historically, I am already and have long been a sub. A secret sub, now more officially led.

Until the next time…

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.

There for the taking — April 21, 2022

There for the taking

I was shown into the warm, softly lit room in which I stripped naked – everything including rings and watch – ready for what lay ahead.

Though I could have lay down on the treatment table before me, I did not. Instead, I stood at one end and checked my slim but imperfect body in a mirror.

Being the inner submissive, in a blatant bid to grab his attention, I spent the spare few waiting moments, gently patting my cock from underneath and the side, stimulating blood flow and gently becoming semi-erect.

Moments later, he entered the room and, in his fully clothed state, verbally demonstrated his instant acknowledgement and approval of my apparent ‘ready’ state, instantly moving behind or to the side of me as he wished, using the opportunity to apply his hands, gently caressing my bum cheeks, following the shape and taking further steps as my own body position changed to receive whatever it was being offered.

At will, he reached between my legs from behind to cup my balls and move his hand up and down my cock a few times. Occasionally, he would drag the palm of his hand softly across my nipples, and at others, tweak them firmly. He broke away momentarily to get some cream, quickly returning to slip it between my bum cheeks and begin opening my virgin-tight hole once more – my legs firstly spreading apart before one knee went up on the treatment table, giving him easier access.

In one intimate moment, he was stood close to me, face to face, hardened cocks in close proximity.

Dependent on his standing position alongside mine, as he worked on me, I used a hand to begin rubbing his hardening cock through his jeans. After a few moments, he unfastened them, and slid his boxer shorts down allowing what lay beneath to spring to attention.

Once, but arguably somewhat prematurely, some time ago, having previously described me as a power-bottom, and having explained what it was back then, this thought resonated with me in the instance. Historically, not exactly forthcoming at getting hard on the premises for reasons, I won’t go into now, this time, I was sufficiently hard and erect enough to take the lead in frotting, my hand around both hard cocks, mine leaking and, as I worked, touching his underwear which was rolled up but down just below crotch level, leaving tell-tale marks he would perhaps see later that day to remind him.

The close contact broke off after a few minutes for another position change. He was then standing to my side, I bent over, arguably there for the taking, but further allowing his fingers to work my yet-to-be broken in tight backside which had only ever been probed by fingers and sex toys. Gradually, my head lowered towards his crotch, taking his cock in my mouth. Moments later, my intent to serve went into overdrive, instead, kneeling at his feet to begin as long a period of time within as I possibly could.

Every now and again, submissive skills learnt over the years, I looked up into his eyes as I worked – sucking, kissing, licking the shaft and head, momentarily acknowledging his pleasure and re-enforcing my own acknowledgement and eagerness to do what I was doing – lust and consent in full control.

After a short while, the dominant in the room instructed the sub to change position. He stretched out on the treatment table, but, as sub, I was not done and stood alongside him, but sideways on, so that bum, cock and balls were close and within his easy reach. He made good use. Again, my mouth plunged on to his hardness, kissing, sucking, licking, teasing his oozing slit with my tongue, lapping up the precum, his hand wrapped around my cock and working it rhythmically. Moments later, I erupted a powerful, pent up load of creamy cum which shot the short distance on to the polished floor beneath.

I had never brought him off by hand before – he had normally brought himself off during previous encounters, but, determined to return the favour, this was to be the first time I did hand relief for someone else, and, more importantly, to a conclusion I worked his cock with all the skills and movements ever learned until his body convulsed several times, his hot load powering out in all directions, his moans of pleasure muted, but still evident as I continued to bring him off to conclusion.

The clean up began a few moments later, with soft talk from me which acknowledged stating that it had been a first to go straight to foreplay, as I led by submissively kneeling down with some towels to wipe up the pools of semen from the floor. He, on the other hand, was celebrating, audibly and physically, the moments that that had just been.

From there, as if nothing had happened, the actual reason that I was there was allowed to take place, the usual chit-chat and pleasantries unfolding as if nothing whatsoever had happened just moments previously.

Until the next time…

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.

Compulsion — January 18, 2022


In a recent blog post, I gave reference to a previous entry in which I said I’d recalled sailing ‘rather too uncomfortably close to the wind’ in historical quests to be crossdressed, that I’d more or less forgotten what they were but that I may well recall them for a future post.

The reality is that some of the most intense instances were quite traumatic and it makes for a healthier state of mind to confine the memories to a far flung place in my head.

However, one such instance has been recalled.

It was years ago – when life was ‘normal’ – more comparably innocent times – when the 9-5 was, well, the 9-5, along with the commute either side – just the daily grind. The household members would be doing their own things too – studies or at work and I’d be left to my own devices (!), awake late or early, contemplating what I’d be wearing next, and when, anticipating the excitement of the act.

If home alone later, I’d crossdress, covering up when necessary and, later, ensuring that I was out of my lingerie in time for when people were home again, ensuring everything was normal and where it should be.

If home alone early, I’d use that time, sometimes as early as 0630, to dress, go on a web cam, change outfits, and enjoy some ‘me’ time, before covering up in what I usually called ‘civvies’ to go to work, and as the years passed, more recently, I immersed myself in chastity and (on my own terms) findom, and took a once unimaginable liking for anal, from dildos to plugs and other such toys.

But the instance detailed in this blog entry was from way back in the days when there was not a burgeoning lingerie collection to hand but when I was gripped by a sudden compulsion to dress – come hell or high water, no matter the apparent risk.

These were the days when I was restricted to the contents of the other half’s lingerie drawer and a range of cami-suspender outfits I bought for her but that she never wore apart from the rarest of occasions I begrudgingly described internally as “a blue moon of a blue moon”. If there were stockings in that drawer, I’d use them, but eventually, there was a need and desire for me to secrete my own stockings away somewhere – usually bought from a trusty home and hardware store that I could whip off the display and put into the basket along with a range of other daily items for all – you know the stuff – shampoo, pain killers, shower gel, cleaning stuff, razor blades, shaving foam etc. – blah blah blah.

This particular morning, I wasn’t home alone, but the compulsion to dress in a black suspender belt which was in that drawer was uncontrollable, irresistible in fact. I was probably targeting a g-string/thong of some kind too, but I don’t remember that.

What I do remember, is, whilst the other half was sleeping, AND facing me whilst doing so, I was standing alongside the bed, slowing opening the drawers, so slowly in fact that you couldn’t even hear the runners as it opened. Doing things this slowly was of the gravest of dangers, but still, I ploughed on. Even when the drawer WAS open, I’d still got to extract the lingerie, drawing out the suspender belt, ensuring that clasps didn’t chink on something along the way, and as I brought things fully to hand.

But here is the thing – the clear and present danger continued – I’d still got to close the drawer as quietly as I’d opened it and sneak away, ensuring that I evaded any tell-tale creaking floorboards, the noise from which might very well arouse suspicion. Sure – the mission was accomplished but there were feelings of compulsion juxtaposed with the dread of being caught. Compulsion was in fierce conflict with risk.

I was told recently by a confidante that the secrecy of doing something unbeknown to someone or anyone, was part of the reason for doing it – that it was and is considered risque, naughty and/or of intense danger of being exposed and that it is this level of danger which subconsciously drives someone on. All I know is that I didn’t make a habit of such long protracted, close proximity, and risky actions – in fact, I never did it again – of that I’m sure. Mission accomplished on that occasion but not worthy enough to do it again or even again!

What I did after the lingerie was meticulously extracted in such pin-dropping audible silence, was either to dress in the bathroom and hastily make for the door or I’d dress in the toilets at work before heading to the desk. I do recall occasions where I’d put on my lingerie before work, the only one awake, then cover up in clothes for the office, put on more coverings in the form of a coat, and return to the bedside to kiss the sleeping significant other’s head, acknowledging the risk that she might awaken for a brief but potentially telling hug (it never happened) before hastily making for the exit, smugly driving away having satisfactorily acted out the plans, and rubbing the suspender straps under my work clothes.

Not being home alone in the morning but dressed, usually meant I could remain dressed until some 12 hours later, due to being home alone at night.

The compulsion of a crossdresser…

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