I entered the store not looking for anything to buy. I had other plans. Looking at the scores of people roaming around, I spotted a pretty woman in her early thirties and swapped bodies with her. She stood motionless in the corner of the store in my former body. No one would bother her there.

I moved through the crowd, swapping bodies with random people. Those people I swapped with would spend their time in my former body in the corner. I happened to be in the body of a pretty woman with long hair, wearing a button-down skirt and a green A-line skirt when I spotted a stockboy approximately 18 years old who I wanted to spend some time as. He looked like a person I had some sort of kinship with.

Although, he was wearing the stereotypical vest and name tag that all the employees wore, under that he had a pink blouse with puffed sleeves and white accents, with black leggings and ballet flats. There wasn't any doubt that he was a boy, but he was dressed in feminine apparel.

As I was in his body, I was doing his job. Today his job was to fill the online orders. I had several bags on a cart and moved from aisle to aisle looking for the next item.

My mind wasn't on what I was doing. I was wondering if I was wearing feminine apparel under my outerwear. I played a little game, was that a bra around my chest that I was feeling? Was that nylon panties wrapped around my hips and butt? If so, were they briefs or bikinis or what? I wanted to figure it out without touching or looking.

As I played my little game, I was confronted. She was a woman with a middle-aged plus-size figure with a sharply angled bob haircut featuring blonde highlights and dark roots. She is standing in front of me in the aisle of the grocery department. She is wearing a floral blouse with a keyhole at the breast, a fitted knee-length brown skirt, black pantyhose and shoes, accessorized with large earrings, and a designer handbag slung over her shoulder. Her bold eyeliner and bright red lipstick are impeccably applied, and her nails are perfectly manicured.

She noticed me, seemingly a young stockboy in a blue vest with a name tag just like all the other employees. But she focuses on my pink blouse, black leggings, and my shaped red nails. Her expression quickly turns into a scowl. She marches over to me, her heels clicking against the tile floor. She stops directly in front of me, putting her hands on his hips.

"Excuse me! What do you think you're doing, dressed like that?" Karen demands.