Delivery Driver Claims His Sissy

I never meant for it to go this far, but the moment I slipped into that sheer black pair of thigh-high stockings, I knew exactly what I was doing. At twenty-two, slim-hipped and smooth, I had perfected the art of working from home in full femme. Today was no different. A tiny pleated skirt that barely covered the lace tops of my garters, a cropped cashmere sweater, full makeup, and those glossy stockings that made my legs look endless. The mirror told me I looked like a slutty little secretary who’d forgotten her panties on purpose. Perfect.

Marcus had been delivering to me every Wednesday for almost two months. The first time he saw me dressed like this he did a visible double-take, but he stayed professional. That changed when I started teasing him on purpose.

It began innocently enough—leaning against the doorframe with one stockinged leg bent, letting the hem of my skirt ride up while I signed for my packages. Then it became deliberate. I’d cross my legs slowly while standing there, letting the silky whisper of nylon fill the silence between us. I’d run my fingertips along the seam at the back of my calf, pretending to adjust the garter strap while his eyes followed every movement. Each week the air grew thicker. Each week the bulge in his brown delivery uniform grew more obvious. By the fourth visit we weren’t even pretending anymore. He would stare at my legs like a starving man, and I would smile up at him with glossy lips, heart hammering, pussy clenching with need.

Last week he’d lingered so long that the tablet nearly slipped from his big hands. I’d crossed my legs at the ankle, pointed my toes, and let the light catch the sheen along my shin. When his cock twitched visibly against his thigh I almost moaned out loud. That night I came three times just replaying the memory, fingers buried inside myself while I whispered his name.

This Wednesday I dressed to break him.

The doorbell rang at 11:17. I took a slow breath, checked my reflection one last time—lips painted a dangerous red, lashes long and dark—then opened the door with my usual shy smile.

Marcus filled the frame. Six-three, broad shoulders, thick forearms corded with muscle, short beard framing a strong jaw. His uniform stretched across his chest like it was one deep breath away from giving up. The moment his dark eyes dropped to my legs, something shifted in his expression. Hunger. Raw, undisguised hunger.

“Morning, Sissy,” he said, voice lower than usual. His gaze traveled up the glossy black stockings, over the delicate lace bands biting into my soft thighs, then to the tiny skirt that did almost nothing to hide the fact I was already half-hard beneath it.

“Morning, Marcus.” I turned slightly, letting him see the back seam running perfectly up my calves. “Same place as usual?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead he stepped closer, close enough that I could smell his clean sweat and faint cologne. “You know what you’re doing to me, don’t you?”