Rest Room Queen

by Julie Moody

Caution: This TransGender Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Consensual, Romantic, TransGender, CrossDressing, Interracial, Oral Sex, .

Desc: TransGender Sex Story: An out-of-the way men's room in a department store turns out to be the perfect locale for dressing-up adventures.

With a small duffel bag hanging over my shoulder, I entered the department store, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible. This wasn't the first time I had undertaken this particular pursuit, but I was still tense, anxious and excited.

It was a summer day, with typical mid-Atlantic humidity. I picked up a shopping cart, feeling uncomfortably hot and sticky. Even in an air-conditioned store, summer days don't mix with wearing a pair of sheer, thigh-high, gartered nylon stockings, and a tight girdle, under men's blue jeans.

I headed first for the men's clothing section, beginning a ritual I had run through dozens of times at this store. I randomly removed several men's dress shirts from the shelves, neatly pressed in their rectangular plastic packaging, and threw them into the cart. Did I plan to buy them? Not on your life. Placing them into the cart amounted to "bearding"... concealing the items I was really in search of.

I passed through the underwear aisle, and obtained a few pairs of men's briefs, along with a couple of sets of white crew socks, just for good measure. I took a deep breath, and ready to once again commence with the pursuit of my fantasy, headed over to the women's apparel area.

That familiar feeling of euphoria overwhelmed me. So many beautiful clothes... and so little time, and so little money. The initial trepidation about being caught looking at women's clothing had long ago passed; I learned that few if any shoppers paid any mind to those around them, being too wrapped up in their own concerns. For a short while, I just wandered the aisles, imagining myself in the various outfits, until I realized that I had come here with a purpose. Then again, I always came here with a purpose, and it never changed much.

I got down to business. I had to pick one, and only one outfit. Decisions, decisions. What look did I want today? Despite the abundance of clothing, the style variance was limited. I longed to be able to carry out this plan in a more upscale store where I could find clothing that was trendy, or elegant, or sensuous, or even slutty. But I knew that this particular store had some unique features that made it perfect for what I wanted to accomplish. And so far, it had served me very, very well.

First of all, there were the shopping carts... an invaluable accessory. They made it possible to carry out my plan without being ogled, or being wrongly suspected of shoplifting. Then, there were the men's and women's fitting rooms... unusually close together, and intermingling of clothes of both genders on the racks of tried-on clothing was commonplace. And finally, there was the men's restroom... in reasonable proximity to the fitting rooms, yet concealed way back in the corner of the store. Few customers were even aware of its existence.

I decided that a cute, demure outfit was the order of the day. I quickly found a mid-length floral print skirt that I fell in love with. It had pink, peach, and light orange flowers on a white background. Looking all around me to make sure no one was looking, I quickly held it up to myself. It came to just above the knee. Perfect. Not too short, but short enough to reveal a good bit of my freshly-shaven legs behind those nylon stockings.

Now it was time to complement the skirt with a top. I love playing mix-and-match. With the hot weather and all, I wondered if it would be appropriate to take a chance and choose a sleeveless top. But I decided against it, figuring it wouldn't flatter me, despite my somewhat slight, five-foot-ten frame.

I selected a nice, tight, short-sleeve pink ribbed top to go with the skirt. Next, it was over to the shoe department. I wear size 10 women's shoes, which means the selection is limited. I almost chose a sexy set of three inch heels with straps, but I glanced at my somewhat conservative outfit and instead went with a white set of pumps with one-and-a-half inch heels. I smiled to myself... the school teacher look. With this attire, I'd appear as if I was on my way to the first day of classes in September.

With my goodies in the cart, casually mixed in with the masculine items, I strolled past the fitting rooms. I stopped outside the men's restroom. Looking around again to make sure the coast was clear, I carefully removed the feminine items from the cart, and entered the men's room.

Inside, I quickly took a glance under the stall doors. There were three adjacent stalls, and in the farthest stall I could see a pair of feet wearing casual brown loafers. I ducked down a little more to get a better view. I could see tan slacks resting about the man's ankles, and above the lowered trousers I caught a glimpse of ebony skin adorned with fine black leg hair. I smiled. I wouldn't have to wait this time. Taking a deep breath, I entered the middle stall and locked the door, hanging my top and skirt on the peg. Then, I put my duffel bag on the floor and opened it up, momentarily placing the pretty white shoes inside.


As is often the case with men drawn to donning feminine attire, the urge first surfaced during my early teen years. I would wait for those precious moments when the rest of the family was out of the house. Then, I would stealthily enter my sister's room and rummage through her closet. Laura was two years older than me. However, she was still a few sizes smaller than I was, and it was a struggle to slip into her clothes. There was even an instance when I tore one of her dresses in attempt to get into it, and I was scared to death that my little secret was on the verge of being discovered. I returned the damaged clothing to its place in the closet, and if Laura ever suspected anything, she never let on.

I also tried on my mother's clothes on occasion, as hers were closer to my size. But I greatly preferred Laura's wardrobe. Her taste was, predictably, more contemporary and age-appropriate. The sort of clothes that I would wear if I was a girl.

I often wondered about this strange fascination of mine. I figured at the time it was solely sex-driven, as these furtive dress-up attempts were almost always accompanied by vigorous masturbation sessions. I chalked it up to typical teenage hormone-driven perversion, and thought I'd outgrow it.

But the freedom and independence that accompanies young adulthood allowed me to explore feminine experimentation much further. I moved out, and got a real job; and soon, women's clothes purchased specifically for me began to take up a part of my closet. It was a hidden part, to be sure; I still had no desire to be found out. I became comfortable with buying women's clothes; on the rare occasions when a store employee made a remark, I replied with, "It's for my girlfriend" or "It's a birthday present for my sister". I experimented with makeup and jewelry, and eventually became quite proficient at dolling myself up. I even ordered a few wigs through the mail.

I started longing for more; dressing up at home, by myself, just wasn't cutting it anymore. I had become aware of a female side of myself that was longing to escape. There was also a simpler, more manageable problem. I found myself constantly returning items of clothing to the store, since I was unable to try them on before buying them. So one day, I decided to just drop my inhibitions and use the fitting rooms in the store. Wearing panties and stockings under my everyday male attire, I nervously entered the store... the store that I would soon be frequenting on almost a daily basis.

My first stop was the shoe department; I selected a few different kinds of sandals and open-toed styles. Next, I decided to focus on dresses, which were harder to fit visually, without actually being tried on. I picked out a few nice sundresses, putting them into a cart, and made my way toward the fitting rooms. There seemed to be more people than usual clustered in the area, and I lost my nerve. This wasn't nearly as easy as I had expected. What to do? Then my eyes found the men's rest room, and I realized that the stalls inside might provide the privacy I needed.

But, I thought, you aren't allowed to bring unpurchased items into the bathroom. I wondered if it was worth the risk. I looked around quickly... then decided to make my move.

A quick peek into the men's room... I didn't see anyone. I momentarily ditched the cart outside the bathroom door. Let's not overdo it, I thought; I grabbed one dress and one pair of shoes. As fast as I could, I ran into the farthest stall, up against the back wall, and fastened the latch on the door. Done! I was relieved that the floor and the rest of the stall were immaculately clean.

I got undressed, feeling much more relaxed. As long as I didn't do this too often, I reasoned, this would be a great way to try on clothes before actually purchasing them. The lack of a mirror bothered me a little, as did the cramped quarters; but it would certainly reduce the amount of clothes I returned after purchasing.

I stood naked in the stall, then slipped on the shoes... a pair of white sandals with ankle straps. I relished the feeling of standing nude in a men's room wearing nothing but women's shoes. I slipped into the sundress, a pretty lavender number which reached down to about mid-thigh. Very sexy in a subtle way, and a nice fit; I decided to buy it. Then, suddenly, something happened that made my entire body tingle with fear and excitement.

I felt a rough, forceful hand rubbing and caressing the lower part of my leg, right above the ankle straps.

I was paralyzed; I realized that in my haste, I hadn't bothered to check if anyone was in the adjacent stall! And the gentleman next door, looking under the stall partition, had no doubt seen my feet adorned with women's shoes; perhaps he had also gotten a glimpse of my dress as I slithered into it. And now, he was coming on to me.

My sexual experience up to that point was limited; but the partners I had been with had all been female. Yes, I enjoyed feminine experimentation, but it had never ventured into sexual territory. I had never seriously considered having sex with a man, even dressed as a woman. But I suddenly grew more and more excited at the thought. And my lack of protest toward his advances was telling him all he needed to know.

A rustling next door told me he was getting to his feet; at this point I became really frightened. Was I about to get beaten up, assaulted, or violently raped? He unhooked the latch on his stall, and walked out... and headed toward my stall. I couldn't move. Should I undo the latch, or not?

He made the decision for me. One quick shove with both hands, and the door flew open. The latch was defective, and he apparently knew that.

I felt my knees grow weak; I sank back into a sitting position on the toilet seat. I looked up at the man who had so rudely violated my space. He was tall and large. A blue-and white bandanna adorned his head, with disheveled long dark hair protruding from the sides, partly confined in a ponytail. His fair but rough-hewn face was accentuated with a scraggly beard. He was wearing a tank-top T-shirt with raggedy cut-off shorts held in place by a thick studded black belt. A large pot belly spilled out from under the T-shirt. He had hairy shoulders and arms, as well as several tattoos. Biker boots completed his attire; he looked like a gang member. I was petrified. There I was... this leering, menacing brute in front of me, and I was wearing a dress!

"Well, look at you," he said with a sneer. "Aren't YOU a cutie!" He unbuckled his belt, and let his shorts drop to the floor. His rock-hard penis pointed straight at my face. I looked up at him, and he responded with a lascivious grin. I nodded ever so slightly, not believing my own brazenness. He stepped toward me. Deep down inside, I knew what I wanted, and he was about to give it to me.

"This super-macho guy thinks I'm hot. He thinks I'm a babe," I thought to myself as I parted my lips, and the engorged head of his thick, stubby cock passed between them. I closed my eyes, and all I could think was, "I'm a woman, and I'm gonna make this man come in buckets."

He came ferociously in no time. I took his load in my mouth, and swallowed it all. And the scariest part was, it turned me on. I had always enjoyed dressing as a woman. Now I found that I enjoyed being a woman sexually.

My biker dude didn't stick around; he was clearly only interested in the novelty of it all. He hiked up his shorts and immediately departed the premises. He never uttered another word, and I never saw him again. With the salty taste of his semen still in my mouth, I locked the door, and just stood there in my lavender dress and white sandals, contemplating the situation. I was appalled, fascinated, and horny, all at once, over what had just transpired. I knew that from that moment on, my life would never be the same. Something had been awakened within me.

I began to frequent that store, and that men's room. I found that the store staff paid little or no mind to what took place in the vicinity of that bathroom. It wasn't too long before I had another sexual experience of the same nature with a different man. And then another. I learned that this rest room, due to its well-concealed location, was a meeting place for local men who were cruising for sex. It was the perfect situation in the perfect location.

And, was I ever the novelty act! I became very popular. I felt like the queen of the men's room. Before too long, a few guys were meeting me regularly. We would make dates to meet in the rest room, and often, they would tell me what type of outfit to wear.

At first, I waited for the men to approach me. But then I became bolder. I would slip a pair of ladies' shoes onto my feet, and dangle one foot close to the partition, in full view of the occupant of the next stall. A few men would become alarmed, or grossed out, and hastily left the bathroom. But if they stuck around, and passed the "shoe test", I knew I was home free. I made the middle of the three stalls my place of operation, so that I could double my chances of success.

My inhibitions became considerably lowered in every respect. I began dressing up more and more at home. I was still afraid to go out in public en femme; but gradually, I found myself spending the majority of my time in female mode when alone in my apartment.

At the store, I refined my modus operandi until I had it down to a science, and typically made two or three trips a week. I began bringing accessories along in a duffel bag; wig, panties, bra, breast forms, stockings, jewelry. Except for the wig and breast forms, I purchased all those items in that particular store, and kept the receipts, lest I be questioned as to the contents of the bag. I could deal with the embarrassment of being caught with women's attire, but not with the legal hassles involved with being suspected of shoplifting.

I also brought along lipstick and a powder compact, which I kept in a purse inside the bag. Obviously, a bathroom stall is not an optimal place for makeup application. I did the best I could, which meant a minimal amount of makeup applied in a less than precise manner. But none of the men I met ever complained about how I looked! I would select an outfit, depending on my mood, whether I was meeting anyone, or if I was just trying to find myself a new partner. I would hide it in a cart under men's clothes, bring it to the door of the men's room, and remove the outfit, ditching the cart and the men's clothes in the process. I would change in the middle stall, and I became adept at dolling myself up very quickly. I would wait for someone to show up if necessary; it usually didn't take long. When a "friend" appeared in the next stall, I would slip over into his quarters and suck him off. Not once did I ever ask for or receive reciprocation; as far as I was concerned, that wasn't part of the scheme. Afterwards, I would change back into male mode and quickly wash off any makeup in the sink. Outside, I would casually slip the women's clothes back onto the rack near the fitting room, where they would be combined with other tried-on clothes. There were a few close calls, but I never got caught.

I would then head home, put on feminine attire once again, and relieve my own horniness through masturbation. I would fantasize about what it was like to really make love to a man as a woman, and increasingly, my fantasies involved my having a pussy.


I glanced under the stall partition at the pair of brown loafers, and hoped that the owner of those feet was prepared for the surprise he was about to get. I vowed to give this man all I had, if he would be a willing partner. It had been several months since that initial rendezvous with the biker, and despite many similar experiences, I had never been with a black man.

I shed my male clothes, until I was standing there wearing only white lace panties, a matching girdle, and my nylon stockings. I felt free, open, and deliciously feminine. Months ago, when I had my first encounter in this room, I was nervous and afraid. But now, I had a plan, and the determination to carry it through. In my mind, I was a confident woman who knew what she wanted.

It was time for the shoe test... but on this occasion, I had a better idea. I positioned my nylon-covered foot near the partition, just inches away from my neighbor's own foot. With my toe, I girlishly traced a large heart on the floor. I had no intentions of being subtle! I waited for his reaction. Would he get up and leave, or would he respond in a favorable manner?

The answer was... neither. Oddly, I detected no reaction at all on the other side of the partition. I was momentarily flustered; this had never happened before. He didn't respond to my rather direct hint. But neither did he flee from it. So I decided to spice things up a bit. I positioned my duffel bag near his side of my stall, so he could have an easy view of everything I removed from it.

I launched into my usual preparatory routine. First out of the bag and onto my body were a white lacy bra, size 40-D, and a pair of silicone breast forms that filled out the bra quite nicely. I cupped my substitute breasts with both hands, admiring my ample endowment.

With my titties firmly in place, I removed the white pumps from the bag, placed them on the floor and stepped into them. I took a quick glance under the partition, realizing that if he was even marginally conscious of his surroundings, he had to be aware of what was going on in the next stall. Was he asleep, or too drunk or stoned to notice? Or was he watching me under the wall in rapt fascination, enjoying the way the whole scene was playing out? I could feel his eyes burning holes in the one-inch-thick wood covered with gray enamel, but I had no idea whether or not it was my imagination.

I stepped into the pink and white floral print skirt, then swung side to side a few times, enjoying the way the soft material swished against my thighs. The matching pink top was next; I drew it over my head and down over my well-filled bra. I looked down, and saw my breasts protruding outward, and the pretty skirt flowing down alongside my hose-wrapped, shaven legs. From the neck down, I was as female as I was going to get.

I tried to squat down and see if I could get a glimpse of my neighbor, but all I could see was his shoes, his lowered trousers and the briefest flash of his glistening black skin. There was no visible reaction from him that I could gauge. It was simultaneously maddening and exciting. I hoped he was taking note of everything that was leaving that bag. I didn't want my well-orchestrated reverse striptease to go to waste.

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