Karaoke Afterparty: Best Friend's Silky Stocking Cock

The private VIP room of the karaoke bar had emptied out hours ago, leaving only the low thrum of bass from the main floor seeping through the walls and the sticky sweetness of spilled cocktails hanging in the air. Alex lounged back on the plush black couch, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up his forearms, watching his best friend Kara as she stood by the glowing screen scrolling through the song list. At twenty-eight he carried himself with easy confidence, the kind that came from knowing exactly what he wanted and usually getting it. Right now what he wanted was her.

Kara was twenty-six, newly full-time in her presentation, and goddamn gorgeous. Her tight black dress clung to every curve—full breasts, narrow waist, the subtle swell of hips—and ended mid-thigh, showcasing the sheer black silky stockings that sheathed her long legs. The tops of the stockings disappeared under the hem, garters faintly outlined, and her feet were arched in sky-high heels that made her calves flex with every shift of weight. She’d been catching him staring all night, and the knowing little smile she kept throwing his way said she didn’t mind one bit.

“You’re doing it again,” she said, voice low and teasing as she turned, remote in hand. Her dark hair spilled over one shoulder, lips glossy, eyes bright with leftover adrenaline from the last round of duets. “Staring at my legs like they’re the main event.”

Alex didn’t look away. “They kind of are. Those stockings are criminal, Kara. You’ve been torturing me since you walked in.”

She laughed, a throaty sound, and deliberately propped one heel on the low table, letting the dress ride up another inch. The sheer black silk whispered as her thigh flexed. “Poor baby. Best friend privilege used to mean you got the unfiltered version of me. Now it means you get to watch me parade around in this and pretend you’re not hard under those jeans.”

He was. Had been for the last hour, ever since the others peeled off for last call and left them alone with the open bottle of whiskey and the half-eaten fries. Sexual tension had been simmering between them for months—ever since she’d started presenting full-time, confiding in him about hormones and clothing and the way her body was changing, and he’d found himself jacking off to the memory of her legs in yoga pants more nights than he cared to admit. Now she was right here, freckled shoulders bare, stockings gleaming under the dim purple lights, and the air between them felt electric.

Kara selected a track, something slow and sultry with a heavy beat, and the first notes poured from the speakers. She didn’t grab the mic right away. Instead she sauntered closer, hips swaying, and sank onto the couch beside him—close enough that her stockinged knee brushed his. Then she crossed her legs with deliberate slowness, the silk rasping softly, one heel dangling. Uncrossed them. Crossed again the other way, giving him a flash of the lace tops and the smooth skin above.

“Like what you see?” she murmured, launching into the first verse in that smoky voice of hers. She sang right to him, eyes locked, lips parting around the lyrics like a promise. Every time she shifted, the sheer black fabric stretched and shimmered over her calves, her thighs. Alex’s mouth went dry. He could smell her perfume—vanilla and something sharper—and the faint heat of her body.

Halfway through the bridge she paused, remote still in hand, and nudged his thigh with her pointed toe. “Go on. Feel them. You’ve been dying to all night. Tell me how smooth they are.”