Cable Guy Takes Sissy's Stocking Cock

I'm a 32-year-old trans woman named Sissy, and I live alone in a sunlit downtown apartment that I keep immaculately feminine. Every day I dress fully femme: sheer black stockings with seams running perfectly up the backs of my long legs, delicate garter belts, sky-high patent heels, and tight little dresses that hug my hips and breasts. The silk against my skin is a constant, delicious tease. Today I chose a sleek charcoal dress that barely reaches mid-thigh, paired with glossy black stockings so sheer they shimmer like liquid night. My cock rests heavy and warm beneath them, the outline unmistakable if anyone dares to look.

The cable had been out since morning. After two frustrating hours of dead screens, I called the provider. Forty minutes later the doorbell rang.

I answered it with a slow, deliberate sway of my hips.

Jake stood on my threshold in his navy work uniform, tool belt low on his narrow hips. He was twenty-four, built like someone who actually lifted cable spools for a living—broad shoulders, thick arms, a strong chest that stretched the company polo tight. His short brown hair was slightly messy, and his cheeks already carried a faint flush the moment his hazel eyes landed on me.

“Hi… ma’am. Jake. Cable service,” he managed, voice low and uncertain. His gaze flicked down before he could stop himself—first to the glossy heels, then up the sheer stockings that made my legs gleam, and finally, helplessly, to the prominent, silky bulge pressing against the front of my dress. The head of my cock was clearly outlined beneath the delicate nylon, the fabric stretched taut over its thickening shape. He swallowed hard.

I smiled, slow and knowing. “Come in, Jake. The box is over by the TV. I’m Sissy.”

He stepped inside, trying to focus on the equipment in his hands, but his eyes kept betraying him. Every few seconds they drifted back to my legs, to the dark seam running up the back of my calves, to the way the garter clips dimpled the soft flesh of my thighs, and especially to the heavy, silk-sheathed cock that swayed gently as I walked ahead of him.

I settled onto the wide leather couch, crossing my legs with an audible whisper of nylon. The dress rode higher. Jake knelt in front of the TV stand, only two feet away, tools spread out. The scent of my perfume—jasmine and warm vanilla—filled the small space between us. I could hear his breathing change.