=Seducing the Cable Guy: A Mostly True Story=

So the cable guy comes over, right? He's come to fix my internet connection. I'm in luck. He's big enough to fill the doorway, well-built, dreadlocked, work-booted, carrying tools, no-nonsenselike. He's very businesslike. He's got a job to do. He smells of the cold. He might have looked like anyone, really; it's the thought of him that counts. The fact that he's a strange man in my apartment. Yum. 




I greet him at the door wearing a tiny pair of cut off jeans worn practically to the point of invisibility, platform flip-flops, and a cropped pink t-shirt. He coughs into his big calloused fist, pretends not to notice anything amiss, gruffly asks where my computer is located. In his line of work, he must see it all; well, at least a good deal of it.

I show him where the computer is located, leading the way, twitching the torn-out back pockets of my shorts, and then crawling under the desk, unnecessarily and lasciviously, peeking back out over my shoulder to describe the problem. I'm wearing eye make-up and lipstick. I've got my hair in pigtails.

"Okay," he says. "I'll take it from here."




He looks really uncomfortable. 

Does he know I'm a boy?

I flounce around the kitchen. He does stuff with wires.

I've been baking cookies. I have coffee brewed.




"Would you like a cookie?"

He has pulled himself out from under the desk. He looks me up and down as if he can't quite believe his eyes.

"What is it that you want?" he asks.

"I don't know," I say, suddenly bashful. Coy for real, not just playing at it.

That seems to shift the weight between us, like on a see-saw.

"Is this what you want." He's hefting the crotch of his jeans, his basket of goodies, as they say. 

"You don't want a cookie?" I say, playing not coy, but for time. 

"Listen," he says.


I listen; nothing follows. 

His radio breaks the silence, crackling, a voice coming from his belt. He doesn't answer it. I guess it's not for him. Or he's listening to a message coming from beneath his belt. And this one is for him.

He takes my wrist, firmly, having made a decision. He jerks me along behind him. Into the living room we go. 

"How do you want to do this?"

"You can sit down," I suggest.

He does. On the couch. I take a pillow from the love-seat and put it on the floor between his legs, which he's obligingly parted. He yanks down his zipper, like he's going to take a pee. I back out of my sandals and kneel on the pillow.

This is really happening, I can't help but comment to myself as a way of slowing things down, making them seem more real because it otherwise seems more like a dream. It is happening so fast it's hard to process, after so much cautious hesitation, sending and deciphering signals, static, apprehension, uncertainty, it's suddenly happening just as easy and simple as if scripted from the start.

He's extricated his cock from his fly. It's the same chocolate color as the rest of him. 75% cocoa, I'd guestimate before even putting it in my mouth. His black pubic hair is crinkly, blue-black, electric. His balls are tight as if spring-loaded. That's where I start licking. 

"Freaky bitch," he quips. "You mind?"

I look up, he's got his cellphone out.

"Uh-uh," I mumble, tongue too busy for mere words. He click-click-clicks. I widen my eyes, tilt my head. I think he's making a short film. 

"Suck those black balls bitch," he says. "Work that cock. You love it don't you?"

I really don't have much of a speaking part in this flick. Except for moans and slurps, gurgles and mmmm-mmmmmms. I lick my way to the top of his erection, a good seven or eight inches. There's a big pearl of opalescent precut oozing from the winking hole there. I lick it off, another magically takes its place. I lick that off, too. Another. And another. The dark flesh makes a black cock look bigger, I think, bigger than maybe they really are. Still, it's big enough to gag me, if I'm not careful, when I take it all the way. He puts the phone down and grabs me by the pigtails, tugging, using them like handles, adjusting me to his preferred pace. He's edging himself, I can tell, making it last. 

"I don't have to have to be at my next appointment for another twenty minutes," he explains. "You can take your time down there. No need to hurry. I ain't going no place for awhile. Isn't that good news, baby?" He laughs, showing some teeth. 

Between my lips I can feel the vibration running along his cock, like an electric pulse, the jizz livening up the wire. Before he cums, he stops. Standing up, he lifts me from under the arms right off his cock, effortlessly, as if I'm stuffed with feathers. I don't quite understand until he turns me round and pushes me down roughly on the loveseat. 

"No," I protest, rather meekly, "I'm afraid...I don't…"


He holds my face down on the pillow, one strong hand around my neck, not choking, but I'm made aware that it could. Easily. I hold still, collared there.

"I don't think I want to…"

"Sure you do bitch. This is what you wanted the moment I came in."

He jerks my little shorts down under my ass cheeks. I'm not wearing any panties. He chuckles. "You don't want to. My ass you don't want to. And you not wearing panties, cunt." My sissyclit, which has been more or less cooperating, behaving, staying tucked out of sight up to now, is still folded under me, albeit bent uncomfortably the wrong way, festooned with a bow of pink yarn that's grown decidedly more constricting. But with his other arm underneath me, yanking me onto my knees, that outlaw appendage is no longer an invisible partner in the proceedings. Let the strategic maneuvers begin. I try to wriggle free enough to outflank  exposure. He holds me tight. 

"Stop struggling. You know you want it."

Well, I do and don't. He's not, the last I saw, wearing protection and if he is now he must have be an expert at sleight-of-hand. A real magician. Or he's grown a third hand. But that's not even my main concern. The threat of disease is trumped by my fear of his reaction when he experiences the imminent shock of juxtaposition: male parts on an otherwise female body. He's got me where he wants me: ass upwards, open, defenseless. There's nothing I can do now but take my punishment, whatever it's likely to be. I'm prepared for the fist to the back of the skull, the rage, the obscenities, the broken ribs, the brutal rape. He's the cable guy, I tell myself, he won't kill me. He had an appointment for god sakes. He'll be the first one they suspect. Surely he must know that.

"Sissy bitch," he growls, not like he's disgusted, not even like he's surprised. "Figured you as much."

I relax a little then, which helps, but not a lot. He's coming in regardless. A wet thumb prepares the way and what a way. Nothing like the dildos I've practiced on, which seemed bigger and blacker than he is, but somehow not as hard as he is, not as wide at the head, which feels like a big square peg being forced into a smaller round hole. He orders me to relax, then to relax more. Under the circumstances, what does that even mean? He pushes and grunts and slaps my rump. He squeezes the nipple of my tittie. Is he trying to turn me on or get himself harder when he feels me jump, hears me whimper? He thrusts and grunts and shoves some more. I understand how apt the phrase "he popped her cherry" really is when he pops mine. He's suddenly inside me, plunging past the pain. The rest of the way is smooth and dark; it's a velvety traversing. He's got me by the pigtails again, riding bareback, steering me towards his inevitable orgasm which I see looming on the immediate horizon. I feel like one of the horses of the Apocalypse when he comes.

He leaves me there on the loveseat like something broken, semen leaking from my sissypuss, tears on my face. There's a small patch of dampness beneath me that isn't his. The telltale evidence left behind from those moments I can't quite recall when it seems I must have died and gone to heaven. 

"Maybe I'll drop by again some time," he says, returning to the room, munching a cookie, after washing up and using the bathroom. He's got his gear together, ready for his next appointment. "Take care of yourself now," he says in a moment of awkward gallantry. "It was real fun." Then he's out the door and into his truck, which I hear start up and pull away. 

I lay there for a long, long time before getting up to pour myself a cup of coffee. I take a cookie; I deserve it. I go online. I sit down gingerly. No problem with the internet. It's fast as lightning, quick as thought. It's my hands that aren't quite working right. They're shaking. 

What now? I wonder. What next? I think he might have raped me. If not, he took me further than I wanted to go. Or did he? Because now that I'm here, I don't want to go back. As a sissy, I've been upgraded. He connected me to a higher, faster connection. Everything I thought I was and used to be is obsolete. Now I know what I really want, who I really am. The cable guy connected me to myself.It's hard to believe I lived any other way. I wonder how long I can reasonably wait before calling for another appointment?