The Sissy and the 3 Person Relationship

As a sissy crossdresser, it feels like a privilege to wear Women’s clothes. i worship the Female sex and go out of my way to serve and assist any Ladies that i come into daily contact with. It feels like my natural place in the universe to be forever trying to emulate the superior sex but never quite making it and remaining a feminized emasculated tribute, ready to be a good provider for beautiful and fashionable Goddesses.

It makes me happy. Some may think that a strange and self abusive state of mind, but it’s far from it.

Perhaps, just as there are Alphas and Betas, etc, in every race, there are those who are fulfilled in a role such as mine. A follower, a provider. Why else would i allow myself to be locked away in a chastity cage and for Girlfriends to take lovers while i look after the home, wash the lingerie and polish the heels, go shopping with them for attractive outfits and be a comforter in time of need?

I would love to hear from any Females who ever desired to have this kind of two man (man not being a suitable word, but you know what i mean) relationship like i had with a couple of ex GFs

Thanks for reading

xxx

 

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Lust

via Daily Prompt: Lust

I lifted the angora sweater over my head, surprised by how light it felt for it’s size; it was one of the oversized H&M sweaters made famous by the Lana Del Rey commercials that had me and too many other real girls slightly unhinged with desire. A wardrobe gap had instantly appeared as She floated to Her microphone in that mist, so untouchable; an impossible animal.

Impossible. There’s something of the unbelievable about an angora sweater in it’s full bloom. We dare not yield to the irresistable want to touch. An invisible girl passes on a bicycle, stealing the eye of every man and Woman, Her back and shoulders clung to by a pinky white haze, ready to fall apart in the drift of a cloud.

I just wanted to hold one as it held me, and together hold their gaze, as they hold their breath and we all dare each other’s touch.

I cycled past a billboard of giant Lana in a vast pink fuzz that overtook the sky as all heavens should and obscured all other thoughts as only the most poisonous dreams do.

It was Lust. For Her or for IT or for Her wearing IT…..?

……for me wearing it?

For the lust of some other whose only resolve can come from wrapping up in me so hard i’m choked and transformed into finally untouchable.

Standing in line with it doubled up and wrapped a little around the hanger, i feel the familiar vulnerability burning through me from the million, knowing smiles, all imagined. They must know; these young women clutching jeans and tees and  plain, sharp purses and nothing even remotely as feminine as the pink angora sweater the blushing young man between them half-hides.

“These are so gorgeous” Says the cashier in the monochrome stripes and gothic jet ponytail. “It’s supposed to fit a little big in case you were wanting one that’s a little more close cropped” She smiles and hands me the bag.

I shave especially for the ceremony. Silk, full cut panties and matching ivory bra with seamed dark pantyhose under scandalously luxurious leather shorts. No other top, of course, but there definitely is a brooding mascara and a thick pink lip under a shining wig of dark bangs.

Pulling it from the bag, I feel all the floods of motions that run through the newest of lovers and cutting the tags becomes a drawn out play in a strange bedroom.

It lifts with an unexpected lack of weight and holds it’s form in places where other garments fall to pieces.

It drops on to me with an audible sigh and I gasp as it takes me over for good.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

How my Girlfriend Feminized me

My Ex Girlfriend feminized me while She kept another, Real Man, boyfriend on the side.

Early on She hinted at what was to come.

“You’ll have to get used to that if you are going to be a girl” She said once, out of the blue.

I didn’t ask.

“Can I put makeup on you?” She asked, giggling, on more than one occasion.

I denied.

Naked, on our bed, one afternoon “One of my deepest fantasies is to take you with a strapon…..Look, it’s getting you excited just at the thought of it” She told me, in an emasculating tone while stroking me in a way that made collusion unavoidable.

Maybe She knew.

For forever I had lived in a silent world of secret jealousies everytime I saw a pretty girl in a cute outfit. And it only got worse until the point of total obsession.

How does She feel in that leather jacket with it’s sleek cut that enhances every feminine curl?

My DNA cries in pain to be expressed in the glossy bow of the perfect red lip

I would only ever wear heels

She brings it up again as we drift to sleep.

“You can chose the size and color. We should get a life-like one. Some of them feel so real”

A pause

A nervous silence

“Can I wear your lingerie”

Her laugh is accidentally cruel and half triumphant.

“You,     can,     wear,     anything,    you,    want”

In the months that follow I’m introduced to a chastity cage. It keeps me sexually frustrated and with no release and causes me to confess more than I wanted to in the pink haze of some overwhelming feminized madness. My love of bold, but elegant makeup. The styles and garments I can’t help focusing on; The sheath dresses, the leather skirts , the flowing or classic cut womanly cardigans, the garter-belts and chunky necklaces.

The transition speeds up and becomes more permanent.

Sex consists of me pleasing Her while She texts Her Real Man.

She doesn’t hide it.

Somehow all I feel is a contented bliss, like my proper position in life is being fulfilled by this journey

We haven’t spoken in a couple of years

I hope She is happy

 

 

 

Personal Ad

they sent me forty six messages of rage.

the men responding to my personals ad.

i had posted a picture of myself in a cropped aran swing cardigan and leather shorts from which the ribboned tabs of a garter belt peeked to cling to lace stocking tops.

i liked that outfit for the contrasting materials.

they liked it for the way it provoked the beast in them.

now i was a ‘whore’ and i ‘deserved’ them and ‘needed’ parts of them.

almost all of them sent a picture of their strength and a couple sent videos.

chubby thumbs kneading at speed until a swelling and spit across a color print-out of me, soaking my cardigan into a dull rainbow.

the emasculation you feel is almost blissful in intensity. When you find yourself one day wrapped in several layers of female garments, all a little too ‘haute couture’ for a wednesday night sofa. The black cherry beads pendulum forward as you lean to adjust your posture with the laptop slipping on the satin of your pencil skirt. The shellac tips of your fuschia glue-ons demurely press out a brief curiosity to the one amongst the furious rupture of murder-spewing muscles. The one who commanded authority by making you completely Woman with his light words.

my chaste princess swells in her cage.

How long has she been locked? I check the calendar. Almost three weeks of my manhood padlocked in an erection-proof device.

fuschia tips to the search bar to enter the name of my favorite store. i wonder if he’ll like me with a patent purse and tweed skirt.

He likely wont give a damn.

i hope he writes back in a rage.

I’m a crossdresser and…

i want to wear leather upon leather

lamb soft leather upon redolent plump leather

a leather dress under a clean leather jacket, flashing like liquescent black glass

a mandarin collar with snapping buttons in fire-engine-red, cuffing my obedient neck

……..

a lot of crossdressers want to wear leather

it’s a cliche

i know

im a cliche

(a man who owns a powerful leather skirt and high-waist leather shorts, with a row of three shiny buttons that beckon needfully to the witnesses of my woeful corruption)

……..

so i want to be feminine in easy falling cashmere

i want countless tiny cardigans with barely seen buttons to hang to my waist

open and defenseless to rough hands that fit with control

waterfall, boyfriend and cropped in ghostly angora

……..

(a man who owns 3 shades of Jackie. Worn just for real Females to recognise my submission and respect of their superiority. Honestly, when i pull through the pink wool sleeves, every time, it feels like the greatest privilege)

……..

i used to date girls but now the years of color have chalked my lips to a softness only an endless lipstick craving can bring

my calves fashioned by the daily torment of stilettos; my thighs ceaselessly tied beneath the gift-wrap pull of taughtly ribboned garter-belts

satin and lace spirals of so much flora  and caligraphy, incarcerate and eradicate the male, worn or ownership remembered just sitting in stacks of white and powder blue silk, as the overtake the drawer with the single disappearing pair of boxers; the most gentle prison

……

the chastity cage beneath my panties

holds me useless and content

happier than ever

……

emasculated, i date real Men

they want me to wear leather

leather upon leather upon leather

until their rage drowns me momentarily in silk

 

 

 

 

First Kiss

The delicate buttons of my perfect little cardigan lift a little to drape over his rough knuckles as he cradles my waist. It’s forty-percent angora and it seems to sigh in unison with my gasp as it shifts against my bare shoulders. I wasn’t ready for this, my first kiss from a man at the age of twenty eight.

Disgusted and emasculated, the man in me tries to put up a fight. He’s known only the feel of a feminine lip before and the unexpected sticky tack of lipstick in a slow delicate linger are what he wants. Not this rough press of a hidden rage from the real man holding me steady now. The power inside him, making itself known to me in this moment, scares me a little. Frightens and compels me in equal measure. I feel the chalk taste of my lipstick as i take the turn of tacking my mark upon the other this time.

The fluff of the angora slips again as i feel myself take a tiny drop and relax. One high heel is lifted onto a shiny toe and i catch sight of the stars in my chunky pearl bracelet spinning as my wrist lifts to rest somewhere in the air.

There’s a man’s tongue in my mouth. Ugly and wet.

There’s a man i used to be, inside now, revolting against every touch. Denying the soft aroma of the leather skirt holding tight over the taught tug of the ribbon detailed garter straps that i wore as a gift wrapped invitation.

My palm makes to push his chest gently away before i catch sight of glassy fuschia nails with white tips and those chunky pearls again, cascading and turning as my hand falls back to finger those pretty rising cardigan buttons, feel the soft feminine material they sit upon which imprisons me in a cloud of submission, making me his girl, and i agree to give him my gift as he presses himself thickening against my leather

chloe cashmere xx

 

 

Ready for New Style Feminisation

So, this week, i’m heading to a full styling session with a personal shopper at Nordstrom.

She is picking out a ton of feminine outfits for me to try, and, to celebrate, i thought i would dig out some old photos of the badly attired amateur sissy crossdresser i once was to post here for You all to see

i would love to hear any feedback and ideas of the kind of outfits i should try at my dress up experience (remember, i can try pretty much anything and everything, so shout it out)

anyways, here’s the old me, ready to embrace a newly styled fashionable feminized transvestite life

chloe cashmere xx