Sissy's Handsome Houseguest Worships Her Silky Stocking Cock

The key clicked in the lock at 7:12 p.m. Lana was bent over the velvet ottoman in the living room, fingers sliding up the back of her left thigh to adjust the final garter clip. The sheer black stockings whispered against her skin with every movement, the delicate nylon stretched so tightly over her calves and thighs that the faint sheen caught the lamplight like liquid obsidian. Her thick cock, already half-hard from the thrill of dressing alone, pressed visibly against the front of the stockings, the wide head nudging obscenely against the delicate weave.

She heard the front door swing open behind her.

“Uh… Lana?”

Marcus’s deep voice cracked on her name. She straightened slowly, deliberately, letting the corset cinch her waist even tighter as she turned. The black satin corset hugged her like a second skin, pushing her small breasts up into soft cleavage while leaving her shoulders bare. Full makeup—smoky eyes, glossy crimson lips—framed her face. Her blonde wig fell in soft waves over one shoulder.

Marcus stood frozen in the doorway, duffel bag still in his hand. Twenty-four, broad-shouldered, the kind of straight guy who played rugby and talked about “chicks” like they were another species. His best friend—Lana’s stepbrother—had begged him to crash here for the weekend while he was stuck at a work conference. Marcus had said yes without thinking twice.

He was thinking twice now.

His hazel eyes dropped immediately to the obscene bulge tenting the front of her stockings. The thick shaft strained the nylon, the flared crown clearly outlined, a tiny wet spot already darkening the silk where she had leaked from the sheer friction.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed. He didn’t look away.

Lana’s pulse hammered. She let one manicured hand rest on her hip, cock twitching visibly under his stare.

“Marcus,” she said, voice low and smoky. “You’re early.”

He swallowed so hard she heard it. “Door was open. I texted Jake but—he’s really not here?”

“Gone till Monday.” She took one deliberate step toward him. The stockings made a soft shhh sound. “You can still leave if the sight of me makes you uncomfortable.”

His gaze flicked up to her face, then helplessly back down to her silk-sheathed cock. “I… I don’t think I can.”

The admission hung between them, raw and trembling.

Lana felt heat bloom low in her belly. She crossed to the wet bar, hips rolling, knowing exactly how the corset and stockings made her ass look. She poured two generous whiskeys, handed him one. Their fingers brushed. His were shaking.

They drank in silence for a minute. Then another.

Marcus’s second glass was empty before he spoke again.

“I’ve never… I mean, I’m straight. I like pussy. I’ve never even watched porn with a girl who has a…” He gestured vaguely at her lap. “But your legs. And the way that thing looks wrapped in those fucking stockings. It’s obscene. It’s making me hard as fuck and I don’t know why.”

Lana smiled, slow and wicked. She slid onto the leather couch, crossing her legs so the sheer nylon whispered again. One stocking-clad foot dangled, toes pointed.

“Then stop pretending you don’t want to look,” she murmured. “Come here. Sit.”

He did. Close enough that she could smell his cologne and the faint nervous sweat underneath. She let her foot drift over until the silky arch pressed against the growing ridge in his jeans.

Marcus hissed through his teeth.

Lana rubbed slowly, deliberately, letting the glossy nylon glide over the denim-covered bulge. Up and down. The fabric of her stocking caught and pulled against the teeth of his zipper. She could feel how thick he was. How hard.

“Tell me what you want, Marcus,” she whispered, voice husky. “Use your words like a big boy.”

His head fell back against the couch. “I want… fuck, I want to touch it. I want to smell it. I want to taste what your cock feels like through those silky fucking stockings.”

Lana’s own cock surged, leaking steadily now, the wet spot spreading. She uncrossed her legs and planted both feet on the floor, knees apart. The obscene tent stood proud between her thighs.

“Then get on your knees.”

Marcus slid off the couch like a man in a trance. The moment his knees hit the hardwood, he leaned in, nose brushing the inside of her left thigh. He inhaled deeply, groaning at the scent of warm nylon, skin, and the faint musk of her aroused cock.

His lips parted. He pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the underside of her silk-covered shaft.

Lana moaned, fingers sliding into his thick brown hair.

Marcus grew bolder. He licked a long, wet stripe from balls to tip, tongue dragging over the glossy nylon, tasting the fabric and the precum that had soaked through. The sheer material clung transparently to her cock now, molded to every vein and ridge. He sucked the fat head into his mouth, nylon and all, cheeks hollowing as he nursed on it like he was starving.

“Fuck, yes,” Lana gasped. “Worship it. Show me how much you love a girl’s silky stocking cock.”

He did. Desperate, sloppy kisses, long dragging licks, sucking the entire length through the delicate barrier until the front of her stockings were drenched in his spit. His hands roamed up her thighs, fingers reverently stroking the taut garter straps, tracing the lace tops of the stockings.

Lana stood up.

She towered over him now, corset gleaming, cock jutting forward obscenely. She reached down, hooked two fingers into the already soaked nylon right over the head of her cock, and tore the fabric open with a sharp riiiiip.

Her thick, veined cock sprang free, flushed dark, glistening with spit and precum. The torn edges of the stocking framed it beautifully, ragged black silk contrasting against smooth shaved skin and rigid flesh.

“Suck it,” she ordered.

Marcus lunged forward and took her to the back of his throat in one greedy motion.

Lana fucked his face with long, deliberate strokes, hips rolling, one hand gripping his hair. The torn stocking legs brushed his cheeks every time she thrust. He moaned around her like a whore, eyes watering, throat working. His hands never stopped petting her silk-clad thighs, fingers sliding over the glossy nylon like he couldn’t get enough of the texture.

After several minutes she pulled out, strings of spit connecting her cock to his swollen lips.

“Turn around,” she growled. “Bend over the couch.”

Marcus scrambled up, hands shaking as he shoved his jeans and boxers down to his knees. His ass was muscular, surprisingly smooth. His cock hung heavy and leaking between his legs.

Lana stepped behind him, spit-slick cock nudging against his tight hole. She reached down and tore the other stocking open at the crotch as well, giving herself full access while still keeping the ruined silk clinging to her legs.

She pushed inside him slowly, inch by thick inch.

Marcus keened, pushing back, hungry for it. “Fuck… it’s so big… stretch me, Lana. Please.”

She gave him every inch until her hips met his ass. Then she started to fuck him—long, deep, punishing strokes that made the torn stockings rustle against his skin. Marcus reached back with both hands, stroking her silky thighs, fingers sliding over the glossy nylon while she railed him.

“Harder,” he begged. “Fuck me like you own me. I want your load.”

Lana gave it to him. The slap of skin and the wet sound of her cock pounding into his ass filled the room. She bent over his back, biting his shoulder, whispering filthy praise in his ear until he was shaking.

Then she pulled out, spun him around, and shoved him down onto the couch on his back.

She climbed on top, reverse cowgirl, sinking back down onto his cock in one smooth motion. Marcus groaned as her tight heat swallowed him. From this angle he had the perfect view—her torn stockings framing her bouncing cock, the ragged silk fluttering every time she rode him. He reached around and wrapped one hand around her shaft, stroking her in time with her movements while his other hand caressed the silk still clinging to her thighs.

Lana rode him like a woman possessed, ass slamming down, cock bouncing heavily in the ruined nylon. The pressure built fast.

“I’m gonna come,” she gasped.

“Do it,” Marcus begged, voice ragged. “Paint me. Mark me with it.”

She rose up off his cock, turned, and straddled his chest. Two strokes of her fist and she erupted—thick, rope after rope of hot cum splattering across his pecs, his throat, his chin. One heavy spurt even landed on his bottom lip. Marcus opened his mouth and caught the last weak pulse on his tongue.

The room fell quiet.

Lana’s breathing slowed. She peeled off the cum-soaked stocking from her right leg, the ruined nylon glistening with spit, precum, and now her own load. Gently, almost tenderly, she used the soft silk to wipe his face clean, dragging the sheer fabric across his lips, his cheeks, his eyelids.

Marcus watched her with dazed, worshipful eyes.

She leaned down, voice barely above a whisper.

“Jake can never know.”

He reached up, cupped the back of her neck, and pulled her into a slow, filthy kiss—tongues sliding, the taste of her cum still on his lips.

When they finally parted, the only sound in the room was their breathing and the faint rustle of torn stockings.

Then there was silence.