A Crossdresser Wearing Police Leg Irons in Public: Three Business Trips I’ll Never Forget

Over three different years, work sent me repeatedly to the same modern business district on the edge of a large northern city.

Same style hotel. Same wide roads. Same feeling of anonymity.

On the surface, these were ordinary business trips.

In reality, they became the most physically and mentally intense experiences of my life, because every time I stepped outside wearing police leg irons under my clothes.

Not as a costume.

Not as a joke.

But as a very real, very heavy presence that controlled how I walked, stood, sat, and breathed.

This is what actually happened.

The First Trip: Two Days of Testing the Edge

The first trip was in late autumn, a short stay of only two days.

I stayed near a newly developed area—clean sidewalks, fewer people, wide open spaces. That kind of place feels safer when you’re trying to disappear into normality.

During those two days, I went out three times wearing police leg irons. I walked through a large park, crossed a pedestrian bridge near the hotel, and took photos in public places.

Every elevator ride felt like a test.

Every step required attention.

The irons were hidden under my clothes, but their weight never disappeared. I learned quickly that silence mattered more than visibility. A single sound would have changed everything.

Nothing happened.

No one noticed.

And that quiet success planted a dangerous idea in my head.

The Second Trip: Five Days, New Gear, and Growing Confidence

A year later, work brought me back for five days.

I stayed in the same district and returned to familiar places—parks, walking paths, open spaces. This time, I brought newly purchased police leg irons that could make noise if I wasn’t careful.

That added risk made every outing more intense.

I learned how to walk differently.

Shorter steps.

Controlled stops.

Always aware of my ankles.

Public transportation became part of the challenge. I rode buses, sometimes sitting face-to-face with strangers, my body unnaturally still, my mind constantly calculating distance, sound, and timing.

One evening, I went into a bra shop and bought one for myself. I even told the sales clerk directly that I was a man. She didn’t react much at all.

What she didn’t know—and never noticed—was that I was standing there wearing police leg irons.

That moment taught me something important: people often see far less than we fear. But fear doesn’t disappear just because it isn’t logical.

Later, I rode the subway for two stops. Only two.

Those two stops felt endless.

The Third Trip: Five Days of Going Too Far

The third year was the peak.

Same hotel. Same area. Five full days—and this time, I pushed myself much harder than before.

I wore the leg irons almost constantly when going out.

I took buses to distant areas near a major ring road three times. Walking routes were long, and there was often no chance to remove or adjust anything. I remember thinking more than once: Did someone see my ankles?

Twice, I genuinely thought they might have.

But there was no choice. I clenched my teeth and kept walking.

On the first night, I bought a bra, only to realize later it was too tight. The next evening, I went back hoping to exchange it. They didn’t have a larger size, so I bought an extension clasp instead. A small, practical solution—while wearing police leg irons the entire time.

On the way back, I even stopped at a small food shop to eat. At that point, it felt absurdly normal to do everything while wearing the irons.

At one point, I took the subway again for two stops and got off at a station in the district. I remember thinking how ridiculous it was that two stops could feel like such an accomplishment.

Parks, Shopping, and the Man Who Wouldn’t Stop Staring

One day, I spent half a day in a large wildlife park, took many photos, and felt physically exhausted.

Another afternoon, I went to a nearly empty market and bought a skirt and a bag. The lack of people made it worse—too quiet, too exposed.

That evening in a supermarket, an older man kept staring at my feet.

Not glancing.

Staring.

I noticed immediately and walked away as quickly as I could without breaking my carefully controlled stride. That moment stayed with me longer than I’d like to admit.

The Longest Bus Ride of My Life

On the final full day, I made my boldest decision.

I didn’t dare take the subway, so I took a bus for nearly two hours to an older, busier part of the city. The bus was packed, and the seats faced each other.

I wore a skirt and had to arrange it constantly to keep the leg irons hidden. I couldn’t move freely. I couldn’t relax. Every bump in the road sent a reminder through my ankles.

After getting off, I still had to walk about a kilometer to a private photography studio. The route passed a police station and was filled with tourists.

The irons couldn’t show.

They couldn’t make noise.

I walked slowly, deliberately, silently, through one of the busiest areas imaginable.

When I finally arrived, the studio owner—a woman—immediately understood what I’d done. She knew where I had come from, how I had transferred routes, and that I had been wearing the police leg irons from the moment I left the hotel.

She looked at me with pure disbelief and admiration.

Dinner, Stares, and the Hardest Walk of All

After spending some time there, I went out to eat with friends.

At a nearby table, three men were eating. We chatted quietly and tried to act normal. The server bringing food kept looking at me—especially at my feet.

The hardest moment was walking through the main dining hall.

I was wearing high heels.

I was wearing police leg irons.

They couldn’t show.

They couldn’t make a sound.

My hands also had to subtly manage the chain while still holding things naturally.

It was incredibly difficult.

And yet, that difficulty was part of the joy.

During the meal, my friends took a few photos. By the time we returned to the hotel, it was dark, and everything became easier. Darkness hides mistakes.

The Close Call I’ll Never Forget

During one transfer on the way back, something almost went wrong.

As I stepped off, the metal frame of the leg irons accidentally struck a woman’s ankle.

She cried out softly, complaining about how hard and painful it was.

My heart stopped.

Fortunately, it was my stop. I got off immediately. She kept looking at me, confused and irritated.

She would never imagine the truth.

To her, it had to be a bone or a shoe.

Police leg irons simply don’t exist in normal assumptions.

It was terrifying.

And incredibly exhilarating.

The Aftermath: The Cost of Pushing Too Hard

Over three years and three business trips, I went out wearing police leg irons more than ten times.

• buses more than ten times
• subway twice
• restaurants three times
• parks five times
• malls three times
• bra shops twice
• a pharmacy once
• supermarkets twice

It was thrilling.

It was exhausting.

Then came the price.

One morning, I suddenly fainted on the street. I injured my chin badly and needed eight stitches. After returning home, I continued to feel unwell. Medical tests later revealed serious heart problems, and I ended up needing three stents.

That was the consequence of living on tension and adrenaline for too long.

Looking Back Without Regret

I don’t regret those experiences.

I do believe I should have been more careful. I stepped away for a while, quit the scene, and got rid of almost everything—except the leg irons.

More than a year later, my health improved, and the urge returned quietly.

If there is another chapter, it will be different. I care more now about comfort, discretion, and respecting my body’s limits.

But the heart of it—the joy, the fear, the intensity of being fully aware of every step—that part never truly disappeared.

And anyone who has felt it will understand why.