Sissy's Cable Guy Surrenders to Her Silky 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.

I uncrossed my legs slowly, then crossed them again in the opposite direction, letting the sheer stocking-clad thigh brush within inches of his cheek. The silky material caught the light. Jake’s hands faltered on the cable box. A soft, involuntary sound escaped his throat.

“Problem?” I asked sweetly, voice low and throaty.

He looked up. His face was flushed dark red. “I… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t… Your legs are… Jesus.” His eyes dropped again to my crotch. My cock had thickened noticeably, the fat head now pushing a clear, obscene shape against the glossy black nylon. A tiny wet spot of precum had begun to darken the silk right at the tip.

I let the silence stretch, savoring the tension. Then I extended one leg and rested the pointed toe of my heel lightly on the floor beside his knee. “You’ve been staring at my cock since you walked in, Jake. Be honest. Does it make you nervous… or does it make you hard?”

His breath hitched. The wrench in his hand trembled. “Both,” he whispered, so quietly I almost missed it. “I’ve… I’ve fantasized about girls like you for years. Stockings… that bulge… I can’t stop looking. I’m sorry. I know I’m supposed to be working.”

The confession sent a hot thrill through me. I slid my stocking foot forward and pressed it firmly against the growing ridge in his work pants. Jake groaned, eyes fluttering. My toes traced the thick length of him through the coarse fabric, feeling him swell and throb under the silky pressure.

“Beg,” I murmured, voice husky with lust. “Beg to worship it.”

His muscular shoulders shook. “Please… let me worship your cock. I need it. I’ve never wanted anything this bad. Please, Sissy.”

I stood up slowly, towering over him in my heels. The dress clung to me like a second skin. “Then peel my stockings down, sweetheart. Just enough. Keep my heels on.”

Jake’s hands were trembling as he reached up. His thick fingers hooked into the delicate waistband of my sheer black stockings. With reverent care he rolled them down my thighs, stopping just beneath my balls so the nylon framed my cock and sac like an offering. My shaft sprang free—eight inches of smooth, veined girlcock, flushed dark pink, already glistening at the tip. The stockings stayed taut around my upper thighs, the garters still clipped neatly in place, heels locked on my feet.

He didn’t need further instruction. Jake leaned in and took me into his mouth with a desperate moan. The wet heat of his tongue, the eager suction, the way his lips stretched around my girth—it was heaven. I slid my fingers into his short hair and guided him deeper, fucking his mouth with slow, luxurious rolls of my hips. My heels clicked on the hardwood as I rocked forward. The silky tops of my stockings brushed his ears with every thrust.

“Such a good boy,” I praised, voice breathy. “Look at you, sucking a trans girl’s cock while she keeps her slutty heels on. You love it, don’t you?”

He whimpered around my length, nodding frantically, saliva already dripping down his chin.

After several long, luxurious minutes of his devoted worship, I pulled out with a wet pop. “Bend over the couch, Jake. I’m going to fuck that tight ass.”

He rose on shaky legs, stripped off his work shirt and shoved his pants and boxers down in one motion. His cock was beautiful—thick, veined, leaking heavily. I picked up a fresh pair of sheer black stockings from the side table, the ones I’d planned to wear tomorrow. I stretched one over his head like a hood, pulling the silky nylon down until it smoothed over his face, distorting his features into something beautifully obscene. His eyes glittered behind the sheer material, mouth open in a silent groan.

I bent him over the arm of the couch. His muscular ass was perfect—firm, round, untouched. I slicked my cock with lube and pressed the head against his tight pucker, rubbing it in slow circles. Then I pushed forward, inch by silky inch, savoring the way his body opened for me. Jake cried out into the stocking hood, the sound muffled and filthy.

I fucked him deep and slow in perfect doggy-style, my hips rolling with controlled power. Every thrust made my stockings whisper against his thighs. One hand reached around to stroke his cock through the second fresh stocking I’d wrapped around his throbbing length. The dual sensation—my cock stretching his ass while my silk-covered hand pumped him—drove him wild. He pushed back onto me, desperate for every inch.

We stayed like that for long, panting minutes, the wet slap of my hips against his ass filling the room, the scent of sex and nylon heavy in the air. Then I pulled out, spun him around, and guided him onto his back on the couch in missionary. I wanted him to watch.

Lifting his stocking-hooded face, I locked eyes with him through the sheer black nylon and slid back inside his gripping heat. This time I fucked him with deep, deliberate strokes so he could see every glistening inch of my cock disappear between his cheeks and reappear shining with lube. His own cock strained against the silky stocking wrapped around it, the fabric now soaked with his precum.

“You’re going to cum for me like this,” I told him, voice husky. “All over your work shirt while I fill your ass.”

Jake’s hooded head nodded frantically. His hands clutched at my stocking-clad thighs. I picked up the pace, pounding into him harder, stroking him faster through the slippery nylon. His muffled cries grew louder, more desperate.

Finally he shattered.

Thick ropes of cum erupted from his cock, soaking the sheer stocking and splattering across his discarded work shirt in heavy, pearly streaks. His ass clenched rhythmically around me, milking my shaft with velvet heat. The sight and sensation pushed me over the edge. I buried myself to the hilt and came with a long, throaty moan, pumping jet after jet of hot cum deep inside his spasming ass until it overflowed and trickled down between his cheeks.

We stayed locked together, panting, trembling, the air thick with the scent of sex and warm nylon.

After a long minute, Jake shyly reached up and pulled the stocking hood off his flushed, sweat-slicked face. His eyes were wide, vulnerable, and shining with awe.

“That was… the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “I’ve never felt anything like that. Sissy… can I come back? For more… service calls?”

I smiled down at him, still buried in his cum-filled ass, my own chest heaving. Slowly I eased out, watching my creamy load leak from his well-fucked hole. I reached for the cum-soaked stockings still clinging to my thighs and began sliding them sensually back up my long legs, smoothing the sheer black nylon into place over my skin with deliberate, teasing strokes.

“Next time,” I purred, voice low and full of filthy promise, “I’ll be waiting in nothing but fresh white stockings. And I’m going to make you my regular little stocking slut—”

The sudden, sharp knock on the apartment door cut me off mid-sentence. Three loud raps echoed through the room.

We both froze.

A voice called from the hallway, professional and impatient.

“Cable service! Second technician on site—head office said the first guy might need backup on this job. You folks okay in there?”