Crossdressing Stories

I never thought a week alone could change me so much. My name's Mark. I've been married to Jessica for six years—my college sweetheart, best friend, and partner. Last month, she and her best friend Rachel took off for a week-long girls' trip. I waved them off at dawn, their suitcases rolling down the driveway. As soon as their car disappeared around the corner, an empty hush settled over the house.

I told myself I'd use the time to catch up on work and housework. But when I dragged that basket of clean clothes into the bedroom, I didn't reach for my own T‑shirts. Instead, I found Jessica's lingerie drawer and froze. On top lay a pair of white lace panties—delicate scalloped edges, tiny floral embroidery. I picked them up, breathed in the faint perfume of her detergent, and felt a rush of… something.

I shoved them back in the drawer, heart racing. Here I was, staring at lace in the silence. I told myself: "Just touch them." And I did—I slipped the panties into my hand, pressed the lace to my cheek, closed my eyes. My pulse thundered. The house was empty. No one could see me. I slid my fingers into the waistband and tugged them on under my jeans. The cool, silky lace spread against my skin, sending an electric thrill up my spine. I stood in front of the mirror, yanking my shirt down to cover the secret. That tiny bit of lace at my hips made me feel… alive.

Day 2

Morning light crept through the curtains, and I woke with a strange flutter in my chest. The lace panties were there, snug against me. I lay still, listening to the birds outside. Then I slid out of bed, tiptoed to the drawer, and pulled out the matching bra—white lace underwire, soft cups. My fingers shook as I fastened it under my T‑shirt. I was wearing Jessica's underwear, but somehow it felt right.

At work, I paced the office like a man possessed. Every time I sat, the lace pressed into me. Every step reminded me of that secret. I kept adjusting my pants, trying to hide the edge of the panties. At lunch, I dashed to the restroom and checked my reflection, heart hammering. No one would know—no one had to. But I couldn't stop smiling.

After work, I slipped into the bathroom again and peeled off my clothes. I spent a hot minute just feeling the lace all over, then tossed them into a hamper. The thrill was too much—I needed more.

Day 3

The next morning, I found myself scrolling online under Jessica's account. I placed an order for new lingerie: frilly lace panties, a black lace bralette, and a set of deep blue lace briefs. My hands trembled as I clicked "Pay." I told myself it was just more choices—for research, for variety.

The package arrived mid-afternoon. I tore it open in the garage so no one would see. Inside, folded in tissue paper, were the lace pieces. Each pair felt different—thicker weave, bolder color, new textures. I hurried upstairs, locked myself in the bathroom, and tried them all on under my work clothes. Standing naked except for lace, I stared at myself in the mirror, breathless. I took pictures (face hidden) and saved them in a secret album on my phone.

By bedtime, I realized I'd spent nearly two hours watching lace hug my skin.

Day 4

I resolved to be more discreet. But the urge only grew stronger. That morning I slipped on a pale pink lace thong and a matching demi-cup bra under my suit for a client meeting. When I stood up to present, I felt the lace at my waist and under my shirt cups. My pulse spiked, and my voice quivered—I actually stumbled over my words. No one noticed, but I knew. I was hyper-aware of every movement.

After the meeting, in the men's restroom, I pressed a fist to my heart and exhaled. I realized that I didn't just like wearing lace in private—I craved it in public, under my "normal" life.

Day 5

A creeping guilt settled in. I worried I'd become reckless. But that evening, instead of heading straight to dinner, I found myself in a late-night lingerie shop—online again, under my wife's account. I ordered more: a cherry-red lace bikini brief and a sheer black lace bra trimmed with violet thread.

I told myself I'd stop after these. But once the orders were placed, my mind raced ahead to trying them on.

Day 6

The new package arrived at noon. I was working from home, so I dashed to the door, tore it open, and brought the lace into my bedroom. I changed right away—fell into the red briefs and black bra under a T‑shirt and sweatpants. The lace made me feel untouchable, like I was wearing a hidden armor. My phone buzzed—an email from work with updates for tomorrow's presentation. I barely read it; my mind was a haze of lace fantasies.

Then there was a soft knock. My neighbor, Mr. Patel, stood outside with a delivery box. I yanked my robe on over my clothes, face burning, and opened the door a crack.
"Your Amazon," he said with a polite nod.

"Thanks," I managed, taking the package and closing the door as fast as I could. My heart raced so hard I thought he might hear it. I realized this secret could be exposed at any moment.

Day 7

Two nights before Jessica's return, I plunged headfirst into my ritual. I woke before dawn, heart pounding with anticipation and dread. I dressed only in lace: a pale lavender thong and matching balconette bra. No outerwear. I paced the living room, fingertips grazing the waistband, bra straps, testing every seam.

I took photos, videos—just lace hugging my body, the way it felt when I tilted my hips, when I curved my back. I whispered to myself, tried out soft, feminine poses I remembered from modeling shoots online. Every movement was electric. The camera's eye made me feel powerful, seen, whole—like I was finally letting myself exist.

By sunset, I was exhausted but exhilarated. My secret world had expanded beyond the drawer. I'd built a hidden life in lace.

Day 8: The Return

Morning light struck the living room rug as I tried to clean up. I folded laundry, put away the unwashed lingerie. I hid the evidence: empty packaging, tissue paper, the hidden photo folder on my phone. I convinced myself I had it under control.

Then I heard the garage door. My heart slammed. I grabbed a bathrobe, wrapped it tight.
"Mark? I'm home!" Jessica called as she stepped in, arms full of shopping bags.

"Hey, honey!" I forced a smile and set the robe just so to hide my secret. They hugged me, examined their souvenirs, and chattered about their trip.

I played along, but inside I was a hurricane. My mind raced: "Where's the lace? Where did I hide it? What if she finds out?" The memory of each forbidden moment pulsed in my chest.

Lace Unraveled

That evening, I heard Jessica's footsteps in the hallway before I even saw her. I was folding laundry when she swung the bedroom door open, arms crossed and eyes flashing. In her hand, she held a pair of red lace panties—one of the sets I'd ordered—that I'd stuffed behind my T‑shirts.

"Mark," she hissed, voice trembling with anger, "whose are these?"

My heart slammed against my ribs. "J-Jess, I—" I dropped the laundry basket, clean shirts spilling out.

She stepped closer, holding up another pair, pastel pink this time. "And these? I've never seen them. Don't lie to me—are you cheating?"

I felt bile rise in my throat. My cheeks burned. "No! Oh god, no!" I stumbled forward, arms out. "They're mine. I— Please, let me explain."

Her jaw clenched. "Don't 'explain'—get out!" She tossed the pink panties onto the bed. They landed with a soft thud. "I trusted you. I left for one week, and you're sneaking around with someone else's underwear?"

Panic flooded me. My mind raced: how to say it without making things worse? "Jess, please—please don't be mad at me for this. I'm so sorry you found them. They're my secret, not hers."

She glared. "You expect me to believe you just… collect random panties? From strangers?"
"No, no," I blurted, voice cracking. "I—I buy them online. I wear lace underwear. It's something I've always wanted to try, to feel… comfortable." My hands shook so badly the words came in a rush. "It's not cheating. It's not another woman. It's just… me. I secretly tried your panties once, and now I can't stop wanting them."

Her eyes softened for a split second, but disappointment beat anger back into her features. "You should have told me. You hid this entire thing."

Tears pricked behind my eyes. "I was ashamed. I thought you'd hate me. I thought you'd leave."

She stared at me, hurt and confusion warring in her expression. Then, with a shaky breath, she dropped the remaining panties onto the duvet.

"I… don't know what to say," she whispered. "I need time."

My chest felt tight. "Take all the time you need. I just… I'm sorry I lied to you. I love you, Jess. I never meant to hurt you."

She didn't answer. She turned and walked out, closing the door gently but firmly behind her. I sank to the edge of the bed, stunned and terrified—worried I'd broken us forever, but relieved to finally be living my truth.

A New Beginning

Over the next hours, we talked. I showed her my hidden stash, the secret photo folder, the online orders. She listened without judgment, asking questions about how I felt, what it meant. I explained that lace wasn't about becoming someone else—it was about feeling a hidden part of myself finally allowed to breathe.

By midnight, we had no clear roadmap, just honesty. She promised to support me. I promised to include her in my secret, rather than hide from her.

We fell asleep tangled in each other's arms, the invisible weight of one secret finally lifted. My lace was gone from sight, folded in her drawer now, shared instead of hidden. And for the first time in years, I felt truly free.