Sissy's Milkman Begs for Her Sheer Stocking Cock

The doorbell chimed at exactly ten-fifteen like it always did. Lana smoothed her glossy red lips in the hallway mirror, checked the perfect seam running up the back of her sheer black stockings, and let the tiny lace robe slip off one shoulder before she opened the door.

Derek stood on the porch in his crisp white uniform, milk crate balanced on one thick forearm, the muscles in his neck already corded with the effort of pretending not to stare. Twenty-eight, built like a linebacker, and for the last four months completely obsessed with the 22-year-old sissy housewife who lived at 214 Maple Lane.

“Morning, Mrs. Lana,” he managed, voice tight.

She leaned against the doorframe, letting the robe fall open completely. The cool morning air kissed her smooth, hairless skin. Her silicone-stuffed bra pushed two heavy, fake tits together inside the lace, while the pink chastity cage between her legs kept her small clit locked and useless. The sheer black seamed stockings clung to her long legs like liquid night, held up by delicate garter straps.

Lana’s glossy red mouth curved into a predatory smile. “Good morning, Derek. You look like you could use something sweeter than milk today.” She let the words drip like honey. “Why don’t you come inside?”

His gaze dropped straight to the cage, then to the heavy curve of her fake tits, then back to the stockings. The crate nearly slipped from his fingers. He set it down fast, stepped over the threshold, and closed the door behind him with a soft click that sounded louder than a gunshot.

Lana didn’t wait. She walked into the sunlit kitchen on five-inch heels, hips rolling with practiced grace. The robe fluttered behind her like a surrender flag. She slid onto one of the high stools at the marble island, crossed her legs slowly, and ran manicured crimson nails up the glossy nylon from ankle to thigh. The faint rasp of her fingertips on the sheer fabric filled the quiet room.

Derek’s eyes locked on that seam like it was a lifeline. His chest rose and fell faster.

Lana lifted one stocking-clad foot and pressed it firmly against the thick, growing bulge in his uniform pants. The silky sole rubbed once, twice, slow and deliberate.

“My cock needs milking too, milkman,” she whispered, voice low and filthy. “It’s been aching in this cage all morning just thinking about you staring at my legs like a starving dog.”

The last thread of his control snapped. Derek dropped to his knees right there on the tiled floor, big hands gripping her calf like it was sacred.

“Please,” he rasped, voice cracking. “Fuck. Lana—please. Let me have it. I’ve been jerking off every night for months thinking about your sheer stocking cock. I’ll do anything. I’ll beg. Just… let me taste it. Let me worship it.”

Lana smiled down at him, cool and regal. She uncrossed her legs, parted the tiny robe fully, and lifted the hem of her slip. Her smooth, shaved girl-cock—already half-hard despite the cage—strained against the reinforced toe of the sheer black stocking she had pulled up and over it earlier that morning. The nylon was translucent, glossy, stretched tight around her growing length.

“Worship it, then,” she ordered softly.

Derek leaned in like a man in prayer. He dragged his tongue up the silky length of her stocking-covered cock, groaning at the taste of nylon and the faint salt of her skin beneath. Lana sighed, threading her fingers through his short hair, guiding his eager mouth. She rubbed the sheer fabric along his tongue, over his lips, across his flushed cheeks, letting him feel every smooth, slippery inch as she swelled fully erect inside the delicate material. The cage had been removed the moment the door closed; her cock now stood proud, eight inches of throbbing girl-meat wrapped in sheer black nylon that was already growing damp at the tip.

“Fuck, it’s even prettier than I imagined,” Derek moaned between long, hungry licks.

Lana’s voice stayed silky. “Then bend over my kitchen table and take it like the desperate slut you are.”

She stood. Derek scrambled up, fumbling with his belt. In seconds he was bent over the cool marble, pants ripped open at the seat with two sharp yanks of her manicured hands. His ass was muscular, pale, and quivering. Lana spat on her palm, slicked her nylon-wrapped cock, and pressed the silky head against his tight hole.

She sank in with one long, smooth thrust.

Derek’s moan was guttural. Lana didn’t give him time to adjust. She grabbed his hips and started fucking him raw—deep, pounding strokes that made the table legs scrape against the tile. Every thrust pushed her cock through the sheer black stocking, the fabric creating the most obscene, silky friction around her shaft. Her heavy fake tits bounced inside the bra as she railed him. One hand reached down to stroke herself through the cum-soaked nylon while the other kept his hips pinned.

“Harder,” Derek begged, voice hoarse. “Fuck me harder, Lana. Please—milk my ass with that stocking cock.”

She gave it to him. The wet slap of her hips against his ass filled the kitchen. Her balls drew up tight, the sheer nylon now glistening with precum and sweat. She felt the orgasm rising fast and vicious.

Lana pulled out at the last second, spun him around, and shoved him back to his knees. She stroked herself furiously through the ruined stocking, the glossy fabric stretched obscenely over her pulsing cock.

“Beg for it,” she snarled.

“Please,” Derek gasped, tongue out like a dog. “Cover your stockings. Paint those perfect sheer black legs. I need it—fuck, I need every drop—”

Thick ropes of hot sissy cum erupted from her cock, splattering across her own glossy nylon thighs in heavy, pearly streaks. Derek whimpered with each spurt, watching the cum soak into the sheer fabric until it turned translucent and sticky.

The moment she stopped pulsing, he lunged forward and began licking frantically—long, desperate strokes of his tongue cleaning every streak of cum from her sheer black stockings like a man who’d been denied water for weeks. The wet, obscene sounds of his sucking and swallowing echoed in the quiet kitchen.

Lana leaned back against the counter, lit a cigarette with a graceful flick of her gold lighter, and took a long, satisfied drag. She watched him worship her cum-soaked legs with half-lidded eyes.

“From now on,” she said coolly, smoke curling from her glossy red lips, “the only milk you’ll be delivering is the loads I pump down your throat twice a week, milkman.”

Derek looked up at her, cum still glistening on his chin, eyes glassy with devotion and fresh lust. His cock was rock-hard again, twitching against his torn uniform pants.

He opened his mouth, clearly about to swear eternal fealty, when a loud gurgle erupted from his stomach—loud enough to echo off the tiles.

Lana raised one perfectly arched eyebrow.

“Sounds like somebody’s hungry for a different kind of delivery,” she purred.

Derek’s ears turned scarlet. “I… skipped breakfast,” he mumbled, still on his knees, still hard, still licking a stray drop of her cum from the seam of her stocking.

Lana exhaled a perfect smoke ring and laughed, low and filthy.

“Guess I’ll have to start leaving cookies out with the empty bottles.”