In the UK the summer brings with it the fun of having bitch-boy outdoors while dressed as a little girl and holding one of his dollies. The outdoors magnifies his miserable fears so much. Especially if he is locked outside while my girlfriend and I sit in the conservatory flicking through magazines, laughing and canoodling. bitch-boy with the hem of his little girl dress coming down only to his hips, all the ribbon bows, the pink Mary Jane shoes padlocked on.
My garden is secluded in the normal course of events. But horse riders atop of horses passing close by (and they are always women where I live), or a neighbour up a ladder working on house or tree maintenance would see into the garden. A tiny risk but the risk causes such exquisite fretting, just delightful. And the breeze flapping at a hem, the occasional sounds of passers by, the absence of an escape route – all seem to help to maintain the insecurity and fear and DEEP HUMILIATION. I guess its that much closer to the real world than inside my lair of perversities where the conventions of the real world are side-lined.
(And little female slaves seem to fret deliciously too when subjected to the same outdoor treat.)