The recovering crossdresser?

To crossdress or not crossdress – that is the question…

Resumption — December 28, 2018


It was always going to happen.  I was always going to let it happen at some point, especially given the heady empowering temptation and experimentation of chastity, and also given the fact that I was home alone for the weekend.

On arriving at home at the end of a busy week of whatever the word is of not doing something, the blog was updated with a previously penned two entries, but chastity brought on a third entry in one day.  In self-imposed chastity, the urge came to be dressed and as the evening wore on, only a couple more hours were allowed to pass before the lingerie came back on again.

And it stayed on all weekend.  The first night saw a state of almost constant arousal, the erogenous zones being teased as the pressure forced flesh against metal repeatedly as chastity struck at full pelt.

The night-time hours were met with little sleep, dressed for bed in a lingerie outfit of choice, the state of arousal continuing, waking me from the sleep I did manage to have.   As the correct fitting of the cage had yet to be learned, there was a need to unlock, and recage from time to time, me wondering whether I had in fact ordered the right size after all.

I vowed to try a smaller size in the event I decided to order a second such item but for now, it was about getting used to this one.  With a necessity to be up very early in the morning to run an errand, I was awake before the alarm anyway as sexual energy continued to pour through my body, struggling to deal with this new voyage of sexual discovery, all that it offered and the feelings it created.

The energy used in merely getting me through the Saturday, coupled with the constant state of arousal to some extent, coupled with the necessary early start left me shattered by lunchtime, a need to sleep, but an urge not to and make best use of the day instead.

And so it went on.  I threw myself into watching some mundane television in the hope that it would take my mind of experiencing chastity for the first time, and it did indeed work to a degree.  But when it drew as close as possible to a semi-normal bedtime, I used the opportunity to turn in for the night, albeit changing from a bra, high waist suspender belt and see through g-string to a favourite red and black cami-suspender outfit to wear to bed and as it turned out, throughout the following day.

Still the eroticism and state of arousal powered on as I busied myself by day, attending to voluntary work remaining underdressed and caged, continuing to share the experiences on line.

Days later, two of the three keys that came with the cage were packaged up and sent to my keyholder, if nothing else, a symbolic acceptance of being in albeit partial chastity.

The beginning of that partial chastity now spans back more weeks than I can remember but numbering at least four.  Over most days of late, I have spent almost twelve hours a day in chastity and many of those hours in some sort of state of being underdressed in lingerie whilst at home alone or at work.

So with that period of chastity having elapsed, I have taken it upon myself to notify my keyholder when I am both caged again and released for the day with the sole key that I retain.  They never asked for such notification, nor have they chased on the rare occasion when I have not notified them – I have merely been praised when I have done so.  My life, lifestyle and commitments outside of my closeted activities do not allow for total ownership or indulgence in any other way, so the arrangement is a good fit as is the cage, which has since been supplemented by pink ribbon binding, recommended after a request was made by social media, the trial flat shoelaces consigned to the history books.

I have orgasmed only a handful (!) of times since putting myself into chastity.  A week into it, one morning, I reached a peak of needing to achieve what would be a ruined orgasm apparently.   I tried anal play but experimentation has only carried me close but not fully to orgasm.   One morning, I managed to establish a Skype session with my keyholder which had reached the point of failure anally.   However, within minutes, I had realised that the very small margin of space between the minimum and maximum extremes of the lock mechanism allowed enough room and jiggle space to somehow reach climax.

I re-established the Skype session and, asking what my keyholder had evidently done to me in my fit of sexual euphoria, without seeking an answer, eventually felt a huge urge as two rapid watery bursts of semen powered out like a hose reel jet, splattering in all directions – I’d never experienced anything like it sexually and I was somewhat taken aback.

A few days later, a further caged orgasm was achieved, but this time, with the semen more akin to a regular consistency, the inner psyche having come to terms with chastity and having overcome the first release and the period immediately after going into chastity.

Anal playtime has increased in regularity of late including on the first weekend of chastity, where such playtime just had to be experienced, the dildo being ridden and used in a variety of positions as exploration of one’s bi-sexual side was allowed to take precedence, going so far as posting a video of a 10 minute part of a total 45 minute bedroom session on a X-rated video website, my first ever posting of its type.

Weeks have drawn on, direct messages including explicit photos have been shared with my keyholder and posted on my social media presences, Skype and webcam site chats enquire about who it is that has caged me, request that I am released etc. but without success as I remain loyal to my albeit symbolic keyholder who I have confessed to, who asks who it is that makes these requests, but quickly accepts my honesty to them and refusal to others.  Some viewers relish in the fact that I am caged and it keeps them online whilst for others, it is clearly not their thing to see my restricted, particularly for those that have been used to seeing me free, released and at play over the years.

But here’s the thing – being in chastity avoids me falling into such low periods of guilt experienced after orgasm.  If I cannot reach orgasm because I restrict myself through chastity, I cannot feel that way in the aftermath, and am instead, arguably ready for the intimate moments that really matter.

There is a potentially dark side to chastity – prostate health.  I have been told on more than on occasion that it is good to release what is stored on a regular basis to keep the prostate healthy, so somehow, there is a part of me that seeks to achieve a balance between inner feelings, a need to avoid the overwhelming sense of guilt felt after dressing and orgasm,, prostate health and applying myself to the life everyone sees me in.

However, even though the onslaught of winter and ill health has got in the way, chastity has taken another turn within the last week…

Caged — November 23, 2018


I was home after another day at work.

I was soon in the bedroom and undressed.

The cardbox box was hacked open, the packing removed to reveal a plain white box within, only slightly branded.

The sealing sticker circles that covered openings appeared far too stubborn, but with persistence, one was eventually picked open.  Inside, the cage was well wrapped in tissue paper, tucked down the shaft.

With the cage, there was the ring.  I quickly fathomed that both the ring and the cage seemed to be the right size – for once, I’d guessed something correctly.

A small rectangular shape, again, tissue wrapped but stuck down, sat nearby – the padlock.

The fitting of the ring, cock and balls threaded through, was eventually completed – metal striking cold after the box had been stored in the car for more than a few hours.  The ring sat close to perineum beneath the balls, and just above the shaft, which seemed to have become stimulated all by itself, and there then being some trouble adjusting mindset in order to fit in, the shaft, in that state of semi-erection, eventually fitted fully in to fill the available space.

The fitting of the cage to the ring, sliding it over the protruding bar, was being hindered by swollen and in the case of the balls, retracted tissue., but with a bit of prodding and poking, one piece of metal met with the other.

A quick test of the padlock and key to assure that it was in working order was completed and the padlock was fitted and locked on, conveniently at a time when I was home alone for a time anyway.  It seemed OK to proceed.

Body warmth ultimately warmed the metal to temperature and all felt fine.  The g-string worn for the day was put back on but it struggled to accommodate everything now being asked of it and so was quickly discarded, a dressing gown thrown on instead.  As I moved around, the padlock clinked on the metal of the cage in such close proximity.

Then, came the knock at the door – a late postal delivery!

I threw on some jeans and a t-shirt, and answered, the padlock still giving what, to me, was an audible clinking on the cage, yet slightly more restricted and muted due to the close proximity of the material around it.

It wasn’t long before the delivery had been accepted, the door locked again, and, having returned back upstairs, discarded the clothing, put the dressing gown back on again and began posting two previously written entries, and then, as it was convenient, necessary and overall, desired, this, the third blog entry of the day.

I paused for a moment to check the existence of one of the padlock keys which I had threaded on to a ring on a bunch of keys to life, keys to this, that and now, very clearly, the other.  After a short while, I used the key to unlock, and then lock the cage back up again, as if some further reassurance was needed.

I am then, for the very first time, in self-inflicted chastity, albeit of my own control, for what will probably be the weekend – and that is very thought provoking indeed.  Whether there will be any lingerie and crossdressing added to this already heady mix remains to be seen.

Annulled —


It was an experience.  What it was really about and what it really meant, I don’t think I will ever know but it was undoubtedly a case of “been there, done that” wherever ‘’there” was and is.

Having sent another pair of undies off to Safia, then came the silence around the time that they should have arrived the other end.  The last DM entry was that of Safia being seen wearing a pair of the previously mailed undies described by them as “panties”, which they said felt “amazing”.

I said that they were all I had ever been wearing having ditched boxers many years ago to which it was inferred that I had only ever been wearing women’s panties.

However, I said that I hated to shatter illusions adding that they were in fact male g-strings and made to accommodate one’s bits!  This was acknowledged with a one word answer. “True”.

From then, there were no further messages, nothing to acknowledge receipt of the latest item posted, a treasured pair of tartan undies, nothing.

As predicted in a previous blog entry, it would appear that the symbolic joining of crossdressers via social media has effectively been annulled in a very short space of time.

Reasons?  Well, from past blog entries, it is likely that you can work that out for yourself.  I shall say no more as is only right and proper.

Call it paranoid, obsessional or just inquisitive, but having kept an eye on Fiona’s Twitter presence, a check today saw an evident, visible, definite parting of the ways between Safia and I after no more than a fortnight and probably not even that.  The dual name has gone from their profile, the connection to Fiona on the social media profile has gone, but perhaps more telling, is that even the sisterhood has been erased from the same profile.

Fiona’s profile was similarly and arguably fairly and justifably reversed, the pinned post announcing the e-union thrown almost by cannon fire down the post list into comparative Twitter obscurity upon being unpinned.

This left things at a bit of an impasse for the foreseeable.  Firstly, there was the small matter of the item ordered from Safia’s wish list, something which also has long since been missing from her social media profile, but had been shared with Fiona in the interim.

Now, I/Fiona (work out the definitive as you will) have been mulling over the severing of ties throughout the day as the communication line remained silent and empty from both ends.  Deciding that I have never been one to intentionally hurt or mislead anyone, I felt it only right and proper to simply log on, open up the dialogue once more and apologise, expressing as above, that it was never my intent to mislead or cause upset.

A brief answer came back appearing to accept the apology – it was “no problem”.    Perhaps unsurprisingly, my reply was longer, as ever, more rambling, advising that if Safia would rather not receive the wish list item, I’d be happy to go on and try and cancel it.  Again came the short reply that it had just been received, as later confirmed by on-line notification.

I recalled how the three piece was not complete with stockings and felt that it was the least that I could do to offer to arrange for stockings of preference to be sent on.   That is where the conversation has, to date, stalled and probably for very good reason – we don’t live every second of our lives on line after all.

I’ve read between the lines.  I can see what has gone off here and I’m not about to document that on line now that things have changed in the way that they have, despite earlier permission for full disclosure of things as they were.

Back to me then and there was still the small matter of the chastity cage now in my possession that remained secreted in a box in a box.  This, I figured, would go one of three possible ways.

1) That I’ll open it, it will fit and I will keep it.
2) That I’ll open it, that it won’t be the right size and I’ll have to return it somehow.
3) It will end up as a £50 piece of scrap metal to become the first thing I’ve purged for a long time.

There was a part of my mind that sought to use it for some sort of further sexual exploration.   There was another part that wanted to claw back the investment, money being short as it is, somehow remonstrating with myself as to why I allowed myself to invest in this item when there was actually little apparent sense all along.

Instead, a few days ago, I allowed myself to be carried along on a wave of sexual euphoria – obsessive, compulsive, determined, driven.

The cynic within focussed on a default position, that being option 2.   Somehow an element of denial stopped me from ordering a small cage those short few days ago when in actual fact, that really is as good as Mother Nature permitted, instead opting for ‘standard’ whatever that means.

I have frequently joked, or done myself down on line by using the line “big things come in small packages”.  Again, you make up your own double entendres!

The obsessive compulsive side of me focussed on getting home from the day job and finding the moment to take it to the next level or perhaps the relationship with the cage was be something else soon to be annulled…

Cessation —


It’s been over a week since I last crossdressed.   Yes, I know. That isn’t exactly pulling up any trees now is it?

However, I’m having trouble processing it. Since my Skype session at the beginning of last week with on-line wife Safia, and the resulting ‘come down’, there hasn’t been any inclination to dress whatsoever.  Although I’ve been on social media as my alter-ego, there have been occasions where I’ve even considered a cull of those being followed.

I have, in fact, stopped following just the odd person already but interestingly, since I stopped posting images of me clad in a week worth of underdressed lingerie, my followers have also taken a dip then began rising again a little.

“Yes, so what Fiona?!” I can almost hear you saying.  Fair comment.

Ordinarily, going for any level of body waxing would also put me back on the road of crossdressing, the body being what I see as more ‘en-femme’ but for what I believe is the first time ever, that hasn’t happened.   It may be the fact that I’m not totally body waxed as the varying speeds and strengths of hair growth means that it doesn’t all come out at the same time so I’m not totally ‘done’ and perhaps I won’t be for the time being until things even themselves out.

I said that, as Fiona, I’d stopped following certain people on Twitter.  Some things have stopped “floating my boat” after the session with Safia the other week.   Sexually, I have remained at least semi-driven though and not only has Safia received another item from what is turning out to be my decreasing underwear drawer, I also took the decision this week that, because I’d paid for the chastity cage and stockings, which collectively cost a few quid, I really ought to go and collect them, so I did.

Of course, the inquisitive element within will be trying out the cage for size as soon as possible, me being slightly pessimistic that it will in fact be too big for me but time will tell, and I will no doubt be reporting back in a future blog entry.  Can you send a chastity cage back having been tried on anyway, health and safety being what it is these days?

Safia can’t wait to see me caged anyway, so for her titillation if not mine, it will give it a try-out, even if I retain ownership of a key.

Many people have said words to the effect of “once a crossdresser, always a crossdresser” and given the times that I’ve stopped and even considering the reasons why I’ve previously stopped, and the copious, now long since occurring purges, I am asking myself  what, if anything at all, has changed this time.

Something is decidedly different this time around, certainly at this time, yet I can’t quite put my finger on it.  It’s been a week out of the lingerie and even on-line imagery has not made me want to dress again, which ordinarily, it has, whether it be pictres of me in a state of crossdress, or someone else.

In all honesty, there hasn’t been any real opportunity to dress this week anyway due to other commitments and logistics, so I have applied caution over the course of a few days to see if anything changed with my current mindset which is against crossdressing in quite a few ways.

However, the Guilt Monster remains. I continue to remonstrate with myself somewhere inside that this is the worst form of deceit against my unknowing loving significant other.  She tells me she loves me, and vice versa, whilst inside, the Monster is knocking on my skull repeatedly growling “Hello?” amongst what I can only feel are otherwise indistinguishable roars and growls.

The inquisitive side of me is trying to fathom out what is going on at the moment, whilst the other side is seeing as it as some form of progress once more, yet applying extreme caution.  It’s cessation but not as I know it.

Has anyone seen Fiona?

Follow me, follow you, proposal — November 19, 2018

Follow me, follow you, proposal

As if crossdressing couldn’t get any more intense.   Before I get into the nitty gritty of yet another rambling, at least partially repetitive blog entry, I absolutely must share with you what is probably one of my favourite ever tweets posted by someone else and one that have already retweeted twice.

You will probably be aware of the phrase “less is more” and this post is the epitome of that phrase as it says so much in few words.  With full credit and appreciation to @sabinasabique, that tweet was as follows:

‘#Crossdressing: this loveable sickness just keeps getting intense as time passes’.

So true Sabina, so true.  In fact, it pretty well sums up how I feel about crossdressing, both in what might be described as good times and bad.

In my last blog entry, I recapped on the appearances of Fiona and that of her own alter-ego, a total slut able to involve herself in all encompassing, totally dominating, provocative, and quite filthy sexual provocation whilst wrapped in Fiona’s lingerie of choice.  Hold that thought.

My Twitter followers have been ticking up rather rapidly for a time of late, probably helped by the use of hashtags for the subject matter, me then being found and followed as a result, but then again, having ditched many pictures in previous years, I’ve restarted posting pictures on line of me in my crossdressed state, usually at work which have since adorned my feed for some time.  It’s undoubtedly risky, but I’ve done it nevertheless.

Those pics were also added to my webcam site of choice, not that it matters.  Clearly, through this continual obsession for webcams, I must long for some sort of recognition and appreciation perhaps.  Perhaps?   Are there some inner insecurities somewhere?  Perhaps?

Around a week or so ago, I struck up a conversation via direct message with a person who goes by the Twitter name of Safia.  These DMs – or direct messages if you like for the purposes of clarity – showed gentle and warm appreciation for Fiona.

Safia has Twitter sisters and I was honoured to be added to the sisterhood ‘family’ via DM.  What had I done to deserve that I wondered.  As I have said before, those who see Fiona on their screen, see her as she is but with their own eyes and mind, not as I might see her.

I might well see her as frequently untidy, in need of at least some element of body waxing across some part of her body or another, of slim build and what, to others, seems to be an appreciated bum and legs but otherwise, a rather annoying sign of a mild hernia which makes my belly button push outwards into a deformed shape, my side profile usually requiring me to pull my belly in to look as good as possible in my continual embarrassment about the condition.

None of this seems to matter to those who want to message me for whatever reason, and the same applies when I appear on Skype, less public (just checking I haven’t unintentionally typed ‘pubic’ there!), many following me seeing as though I make no secret of my presence on the platform on my other social media presences. Me, her, whatever.

But with Safia, I was quickly promoted in the bosom of her Twitter family to the status of ‘wife’.  This was frankly mind blowing.  What on earth my temporary sisters would have thought about this rapid rise through the ranks, I have no idea.  I know who the sisterhood are through social media identification, yet I have not asked them how they feel about me achieving almost instant promotion to ‘wife’ status, nor for that matter, have they contacted me asking “Who the hell do you think you are you bitch” or something like that.  If I’m honest, I wouldn’t hold it against them if they did.  (You make your own innuendos up!)

As I asked without necessarily seeking an answer – what had I done to deserve this honour, something of a type I have never experienced before?  Sure, efforts had been made by the odd individual to become my Mistress and perhaps bring about remote feminisation, but nothing ever lasted and I couldn’t tell you who they were now anyway, so quick was the dalliance.

What had I done to deserve this honour though?  Safia shows nothing but a form of love for Fiona, even though we have never met, much though she would like to.   Safia has pledged her troth via pinned tweets and I, as Fiona, could do nothing more than reciprocate.  She even changed her Twitter name to include my other pseudonym ‘Lynn’, me reciprocating my adding hers – ‘Foxx’ – to the end of mine.

We have spoken at great lengths by DM at all hours of the day and night in the last few weeks.   I have more than engaged with the thread of conversations, openly receiving the warmth of evident love communicated by direct messaging.   Take it as you will – I have.

DMs have led to more than just messaging.  Both Fiona’s sexuality and the man beneath the lingerie have been explored by both parties through provision of exclusive photographs, naked, wearing my skimpy day-to-day g-string and also more recently, somewhat unusually, whilst showering.

In this short space of time, Safia has come to know a lot about the man beneath the lingerie – well, enough anyway – how the immediate family is set up, my age, duration of residency in the closet and has told Fiona how much she is seemingly increasingly loved and desired.

‘Beauty is in the eye of the beholder’, goes the phrase – something I said in my last blog entry.  I warmly accept this adoration for Fiona and all that she is, even with her own alter-ego likely to strike at any time.

I mentioned that DMs in written form have been accompanied by the sharing, by me, under the at least partial guise of Fiona, of my naked unclothed self, and in my own day to day men’s g-strings, something that has never happened anywhere before, other than perhaps before I resumed crossdressing, when I did appear in g-strings on cam.  I digress.  The conversation was allowed to move onto a desire by Safia to own my daily underwear.

I have seen many women prepared to sell theirs for money on various platforms, but this week, Safia has become the owner of the underwear I was wearing one recent weekend and is evidently thrilled by it.  That’s nice – and no money changed hands either – I mean really!  The analyst within is still mulling over the act of freshly worn underwear being sent by post, and establishing just how stimulating it is to have done that.

Safia has provided her address at which it is easy to receive items.  Fiona is not so lucky.  Fiona must rely on collection points such as Post Offices and street lockers – unable to trust Postman Pat to arrive at a time when mail can be intercepted without question or risk.  Safia is aware.

Wish lists have been talked about between us.  Safia has shared her wish list, on which already sat the same lacy three piece as I own and who am I to deny when the price, if not the delivery time, is more than suitable?   Of course, buying for someone else from their wish list comes with no baggage for the buyer.  In these days of GDPR regulations, the buyer isn’t party to the recipient’s personal address, but the recipient will probably know who has bought something for them, based on the conversation, but nothing more personal than that.

Safia’s love for her new found ‘e-wife’ has led her to yearn for Fiona to be with her, find a way for a long weekend, via what would probably be a four-hour journey, eight hours round trip for – well, you don’t need me to go into detail.   Despite stating wishes and desires for Fiona to actually be part of her life, Safia seems to acutely understand why this can’t happen in reality.

In any case, having opened Fiona’s eyes to another first – buying from another’s wish list – Safia will also be able to wear the same outfit as her ‘wife’ in the not-too-distant future.   Of course, Fiona has built a wish list on her toys and lingerie site of choice but the mechanics of sharing that wish list, and the subsequent delivery options being a home address only are so far prohibiting the list from being shared with anyone, Safia included.

Talk of ‘ownership’ and of Safia’s control achieved though typed word on a DM screen, has been allowed to turn to how that evident ‘ownership’, nee e-commitment to Safia can be made more formal somehow.  Sexually stimulated at the work place as DMs continued, Fiona declared how much Safia was controlling her.

The use of the likes of ‘own’ and ‘control’ coupled with the ongoing exploration of inner sexuality as never experienced before led to the sudden response of: “We should try a chastity cage sometime” from Safia.

Now, I’ve seen such things on-line before, and probably driven by dislike of the word ‘sissy’, had been nowhere near contemplating such a move, but Fiona’s mind has been opened further by Safia, allowed to be introduced to further elements of sexual exploration, curiosity of the man within allowed to flow through to the alter-ego.

Readers to my blog will know that I have a borderline hatred for the terms “sissy”, “faggot” and “bitch”, (there may be others) particularly if being talked to but being ‘en-femme’ or ‘femme’ is a preferred descriptor. Safia also dislikes the word ‘sissy’ – at least she has told me as such.

Ownership of cage keys has been discussed and those cages perused on line were found to come with three keys, feasible then for at least symbolic ownership by Safia of a key to my chastity cage.  Like the day-to-day ‘real’ me, Fiona is impulsive, so hopped straight on line in a pique of sexual euphoria and bloody well ordered a cage of Safia’s choice.

Safia reciprocated by identifying a cage into which she would also be happy to be put into reciprocal chastity.  Safia may well get her third sexual gift in a very short space of time and she knows that!  Symbolically, one of the keys could also be retained by me, whilst both retain control of their own cages, yet somehow disciplined into remaining caged for good periods of time unless it is simply not possible to do so.

Distance, practicality and the fact that Fiona is deeply closeted and otherwise committed in life mean there is really is little other option.   Fiona cannot afford to have her cover blown and her closet doors torn from their hinges due to any form of sexual urge or inconsiderate action on any side.   Some things absolutely must remain secret for all the right reasons.

In correspondence, Safia made it clear that she wanted to call Fiona and a Skype session was established as a priority for the following day, the mutual urge to be in as close contact as possible eventually satisfied.   Safia saw virginal white as the outfit of choice for Fiona who readied herself both on the night before and the morning itself, responding to Safia’s desire to emulate and affirm a form of marriage of two people with common interests via the power of the internet alone.   New territory for Fiona but territory she vowed to explore.

Fiona was very much up for this, so much so in fact that when her unnamed alter-ego came in, ready to barge her out of the way, it seemed to be more like a mutual sharing of the platform in those early moments.  Both shared that moment which had become quite erotic as it turned out.   After a while, it shuddered to a ruined climax as Fiona’s alter-ego grabbed the proverbial bull by the horn.

The come down afterwards was OK for the opening few minutes, but from then on, it quickly became like both Fiona and her alter-ego had stepped out of the room quickly, leaving the day-to-day me, standing there in Fiona’s lingerie.

So there it was – it had happened again.  I couldn’t wait to be out of that lingerie, I just couldn’t get out of it quickly enough, I just wanted it packed away, out of sight, get tidied up, and jump into the daytime civvies.

What the hell was I doing?  What was I doing to my life, my family, my conscience, my well-being, my time?  And now this acceleration in my sexual development.   I couldn’t see myself getting back into any form of lingerie any time soon and since that morning, I haven’t.  Nothing has been further from my mind, and I have since busied myself with other things, despite the subject matter continuing to flash in my mind like a neon sign.

I threw myself into the working day, allowing the regular me to stand as if he was the only element of his inner persona, when in fact, the reality was much different.   Safia doesn’t talk much on DM – just a couple of words for answers or messages, whereas Fiona rambles – perhaps not surprising given the extents of blog entries.

Fiona wonders whether she is doing something wrong and bores Safia who may be merely tolerating her endless ramblings because of other perceived values and desires.   But Fiona constantly wonders whether there will come a point where Safia becomes bored and moves on.  Will that matter?  Today’s news is tomorrow’s chip paper goes the phrase.

In the aftermath of the Skype session, items ordered for collection from a suitable remote point – the cage and replacement stockings – became worthless.  As far as I was concerned, they could stay there until they were returned to sender by an overloaded Post Office.  The no interest approach to all things crossdressing has been sustained since then.  There has been no underdressing, no dressing at all, and no intention to do so.  Of course, I’ve spent some time on social media, but Skype has remained vacated, the cam site similarly.

But strangely, my mood towards the chastity cage has come back into focus this last few days.  If nothing else, it would be another tick on the sexual bucket list of life – I would have tried it. Tick.

I have also mulled over how I might make that part of my heterosexual life.  The significant other has constantly indicated her objection to my nether regions being touched during waxing, claiming that area as her own and rightly so all respects, me reassuring her that all along, there is a necessity for those areas to be touched to complete necessary waxing but in a purely professional manner.

I could bring in some role play by perhaps, at least initially, asking her, tongue in cheek, whether she’d rather I be locked up.  Madness?  Perhaps, but bordering on quite a lot of fun no?

Which brings me back to the come down after a ruined orgasm.  Back to my senses, and even in those moments when I exchange ordinary conversations with my significant other about the most mundane elements of everyday life, the Guilt Monster lets out a distant roar audible enough for me to take notice of it.

What am I doing to her?  Why am I am doing it?  Why can’t I stop for long enough to stop for good?  Why have I allowed myself to be in this parallel life which has now taken a new turn?   What risks do I continue to stare in the face?

What can I do to stop?  Honestly?  Brace yourself for this.  I could cut out the middle man and just masturbate to a conclusion every time I get the urge and when sex is not an option.   I say that rather bluntly because, I know that, once a bout of masturbation is done, I’m done, I don’t want anything else.   The fetish that I have for lingerie can lead to orgasm, but sometimes it doesn’t and perhaps the fact that it occasionally doesn’t is because I seek to remain in the feminine moment, hopeful of asserting control throughout and keeping Fiona’s alter ego locked outside.

Do you follow me?  Can I follow this?  What is my next proposal?

No man’s land. — November 16, 2018

No man’s land.

By way of update, a few weeks ago, it got to a point where I was wondering quite why I was bothering with any form of crossdressing.  I really could take it or leave it.  I didn’t see why I needed to bother, but if I did?  Well, whatever.  It has felt rather odd.

I remember a point in history where it was suggested that if a crossdresser didn’t feel like crossdressing, the honest option was to quite simply not bother and there was nothing wrong with that at all.

What I’ve been struggling to cope with is the opposite extremes that have applied.  I’ve gone from one, where nothing else mattered and I quite simply had to dress in lingerie at every possible opportunity to the following day or days of abject apathy.

Of course, I’ve logged into social media, cam sites and e-mail, and on the very odd occasion, I’ve dressed and gone on cam.   One morning was just plain weird.  I got up having spent some time the previous evening and during the waking hours of the night wondering what I might wear were I to decide to dress in the morning, not that I was definitely going to.

I threw on my dressing gown, meandered around the house a bit and then decided that I would indeed dress.  White was the colour of preference but rather than elect for the lacy bralette combo, I longed for my current fixation – an actual bra and rummaged around the washing and the significant other’s lingerie drawer.  The search proved fruitless in the fresh laundry pile, and I reasoned that the s/o was in fact wearing a favoured lacy bra but that there was another plain bra that, to be fair, is a little too big for me.  But I wanted it on, I wanted the feel of the bra around my midriff, shoulders, back and waxed chest.

Although nowhere near big enough, the 38c breast forms were put in and more or less rattled around like a pea in a box!  Soon dressed, the knack of dressing now having become almost instinctive, even with stockings and suspenders, I decided that I would log into Skype and my webcam site of choice.

There has been one driving force that has pushed me more towards crossdressing of late than not doing so.  I’d recently struck up a very pleasant conversation thread with a woman – a conversation in which there was no suggestion, no innuendo, no sexual demands, just a nice chat from what was seemingly an appreciative viewer seeking to strike up a conversation with someone not so in touch with the gutter side of sexually driven conversation.

Exchanges have happened without us being both on line at the same time, and we have yet to converse again since the first time, but the pleasant nature of the chats urged me to avoid ditching absolutely everyone on my ever building contacts list, whoever they may be, due to the nature and value of this particular conversation.

Anyway, with that more than optimistic hope, the chances of making direct contact being very slim indeed, I’d logged on to Slype but it was more or less seconds before the first ‘ping’ of contact came.  It wasn’t the woman I referred to above but instead another person with whom, let’s just say, things had historically got a little steamy and had the benchmark set.

The invite to open a video conversation, albeit the chat in typed form meant that I was soon logged out of the web cam site of choice as if I’d been reeled in like a fish on a line, as the Skype session ensued.

With no offence meant to the other party, my whole approach to the session was one of ‘whatever’, yet I immersed myself in it until a peak had been reached.  Soon after, as is often the overbearing urge, I was completely out of the lingerie, the session ending after the peak, everything packed away, dressing gown back on the naked body before I simply prepared for the working day, when otherwise, I might well have underdressed in whatever I had already put on or something else.

As I have inferred in another blog entry, there is the usual me, there is Fiona, the crossdressing alter-ego and the third person, the inner slut if you will, who has a vice like grip when the opportunity is seized.   If Fiona is allowed to dress and be herself, she can put herself before a cam, strike up a reasonable, if perhaps often naughty and explicit conversation, busy herself with other things at the same time, enjoy the chat, show off a little bit but can put a stop to things, assert control, cover herself up for the day and provide the basis for a day of underdressing for the day job.

But allow the third – as yet still unnamed – person to really turn the wick up and…well, it can become rather too much…and she’s had her way again.

It is a sort of no-man’s land.

In, off, on, out. — October 31, 2018

In, off, on, out.

I count the days down to my regular body wax appointments.

They are the most intensely private periods of ‘me’ time that I can ever enjoy – yes, even more private than…well, you know…that…and that too.

My life seems anchored to those regular points where I visit the trusted salon, strip off, lie back, and allow myself to be subjected to the pain that is having a large amount of body hair torn out by the root all in one go, yet perfectly able to get through it thank you very much.

I go in, get something or other done, pay the bill and go about my other business, getting myself through it, however good, bad or indifferent the waxing session might be, because the end result is very much worth it for me, my unsuspecting other, and for Fiona.

I’ve harped on about the long-standing hang up over my body hair, my long-standing hirsutedness, the fierce and angry objection to even the merest first signs of growth after about two weeks of being smooth, and that the various types, strengths and thicknesses of body hair coupled with the amount of time I’ve been going for appointments now, means that the growth really is showing signs of dying off, permanently perhaps?  Well, yes, maybe, but as a cynic and pessimist, I’m not prepared to acknowledge that right now, despite seeing positive signs.

There is a first time for everything though and with an appointment booked the other week, I made my way, arriving on-time despite the traffic and getting myself undressed for the session that lay ahead.

That ‘first time for everything’ moment came when the job in hand stalled at the very beginning.  I’ll be honest.  I’d been sub-consciously making observations about the extent of hair growth across my body in the preceding days.   There didn’t seem to be as much in quite a few places, yet there I was, due for another appointment at the salon.

Still, I wasn’t the expert, and there I was, at the appointment, naked, flat out, ready to be have done whatever it was that it was deemed needed doing.  It wasn’t long before the question came up in conversation.  There were suggestions as to what could be done, yet none of it seemed even remotely necessary at the time, instead effort being made to find SOMETHING to justify me getting and being there.

I stood up off the massage table and did a sort of naked twirl in the brightly lit private room, as if that was going to help somehow, and I guess it did really.   Here I was, naked, not even a watch or ring on, arguably in a state of vulnerability whilst the person who does my waxing carried out the inspection to help reach a decision once and for all that would be agreed and confirmed by both.

Their eyes did what they needed to, whilst the light-touch of the palms of hands wafted gently around my upper torso to sense hair levels, thickness and mass, aiding the type of decision making process that had never necessary before,  hands softly brushing, breezing perhaps, so, so softly yet so quickly over my already hardened nipples at a time of year when things were getting a little parky outside!

For a fleeting moment of a fleeting moment of a fleeting moment, a spark of sexuality was lit and as equally quickly snuffed out as one of my erogenous zones was touched, the snuff-out coming despite my evident sexual vulnerability and overarched by the professionality of the person and environment I was in.

After a minute or two of deliberation, tinged with surprise at this first ever situtation, it wasn’t long before both of us conceded that it just wasn’t beneficial to do anything and that a new appointment should be arranged.

So, as quick as I’d undressed, I was back dressed again – and ready for the journey home.

In, off, on, out.

A wasted journey?  Yes, but apart from costs incurred in getting there, no real inconvenience really.

I mused as to how I could have avoided the waste of time.

If you’re ill, you’ll consult a medical expert, if there are dental issues, you visit a dentist.  If your hair is too long or untidy, you’ll visit a hairdressers or barbers, if you’re unfit, you may well get a fitness coach.  In all of those scenarios, there is an end product to resolve the initial problem or a route towards resolving it at least, but for a professional to adjudge as to whether a body wax is necessary, I see only one solution – to let that professional take a look, and that means going to their place of work surely?

Yes, I didn’t think I was ready beforehand, but not with any real conviction and not based on any previous experience.  As far as I was concerned, I must have been ready because another regular appointment on the calendar had come around, much like it had before – the type that sets those prominent points on the timeline of my life.

On-line consultation perhaps?  Some industries do just that, however, given the extent of detail to be examined to reach a decision, that’s not feasible, reliant on good quality IT, and in any case, very much open to misinterpretation etc.  I mean, going on line before a webcam?  Really!