A Little Lace Goes a Long Way
We’ve all seen the headlines recently, haven’t we?
The ones regarding a powerful man, married to a powerful woman; classically conservative and aggressively masculine by public performance. The man in question was exposed for a rather specific obsession… What I will say is this: the obsession with a certain... generous silhouette is something I understand intimately. As a woman with soft, pillowly, abundant breasts, I get it better than anyone. What most fail to realize, the men who perform the hardest often want the softest things. I've known this for years, and I'm never surprised anymore.
What does surprise people is how it usually starts, and that’s usually with a pair of panties…
There is something quietly electric about a man in a boardroom who is wearing women's underwear beneath his trousers. He shook hands this morning. He gave a presentation. He made decisions that affected other people's lives. And the entire time, there was lace against his skin that nobody knew about but him, and his Goddess.
I once slipped off my own panties at dinner and slid them across the table without a word. They were still warm from my hot center, and moist from our previous conversations. This man excused himself to the washroom, and he returned feeling more like a “she”. The cool silk of my panties now wrapped around him, intimate and electric, carrying the faint scent of me against his most private skin. He barely touched his food or wine for the rest of the evening. He didn't need to. He was already intoxicated, drunk on the secret of what he was wearing, on the intimacy of it, on the fact that I had put it there deliberately and was watching him wear it across the table with a knowing smile.
Sissy “S” enjoying a wedgie with lace panties.
There is one thing I know about the sissy inside, and that is that she doesn't go away. You can ignore her, suppress her, marry her off behind closed doors, but she will still be there. A wild hungry slut, being fed by sneaky porn and crumbs of crossdressing. A pair of panties bought in cash and hidden somewhere she'll never look. The way you linger just a moment too long in certain aisles. Crumbs of crossdressing that never satisfy, that only make her more ravenous. Honey, if this resonates with you, you deserve a feast!
Not all sissies are the same, reading which one you are is one of the most delicious parts of what I do. Some of my girls are beautiful girly dolls. They want to be dressed slowly, deliberately, with careful hands and exquisite attention. The right bra, fitted and fastened. Stockings rolled up each leg with patience. A dress chosen specifically for her body, her coloring, the particular quality of her longing. Then there are my dirty, messy little sluts — and oh, darling, they are exquisite in their own way. They don't want tender. They want to be consumed. They arrive in a suit and leave in ruins, mascara and surrender, every carefully maintained wall finally down. The fantasy they have been sitting on for years — loud, filthy, soaking wet with shame and desire — finally given full permission. I love the moment it breaks open. I love what's underneath. I'm very, very good at getting there.
My Bimbo in her Blowjob Bib
I adore them both completely. I know which one you are within the first ten minutes. Often the first glance across the room is enough.
There is a version of this life that stays behind closed doors, whispered and hidden and half-real. For those that dare, there’s a path you can follow me that ends in one of my favorite places: Chicago's Boys Town. On the right night, drag queens who will clock your look and compliment your shoes in the same breath. Dance floors that don't care who you were before you walked in. My girls beside me, dressed and glowing, finally taking up space in the world as themselves. I have watched the most guarded, most buttoned-up men dissolve completely on those dance floors. Not into chaos, but into joy. Pure, unguarded, first-time joy. If you’re a crossdresser who has never experienced a sissy outing, you have not yet met the fullest version of yourself.
I already have a feeling I know which girl lives inside you.
Come let me meet her.