Our drugged housewife transformation
There’s no excuse for what we did, but we never needed an excuse anyway. The bitch was the perfect target and we wanted a drugged housewife transformation. There’s no more explanation to offer…
The first dose of dope was the hardest. She yanked at her restraints, begging and crying so slapped her face and told her to stop being a pussy. As soon as the plunger was pushed down I started counting:
“1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8…yeahhhh, that’s right, babe. Feel how relaxed it makes you. Let’s get that blouse off before you overheat.”
She was very compliant for me as I stripped her, though lifting her was like lifting a corpse. By the way, when you got a rag and wiped up her drool it was so sweet. I started with her black leather pumps. They slid off of her feet so easily thanks to the pantyhose beneath. I took a second to admire them and then moved on to removing her actual clothes.
Part of the reason we’d chosen her for our drugged housewife transformation was that she was so put-together. From her pearl earrings and matching necklace to her expensive and recently pressed clothes, she just oozed WASP. I don’t know about you but there’s nothing more delicious to me than corrupting the privileged.
After stripping her to her bra, underwear, and pantyhose, I cradled her head against my tits as I told her I’d take care of her. I nursed her, letting her suckle my tit as I stroked her hair and whispered to her. When we finished, I cooked up a little more heroin and let her fall asleep. Watching her sleep, I knew that our work was just beginning.
In order to really break her, I needed to keep the drugs pumping. I set alarms for every 3 hours and prepped 4 separate rigs with light brown liquid before laying down for a night of interrupted sleep. She didn’t wake up for a single dose, but that didn’t matter. The key to our drugged housewife transformation was making sure she needed the needle.
I woke our middle-aged guest up with a little probing. With her panties and hose still on, I slid my hand along her pussy lips. The little lips parted as I spread my fingers, opening her wide enough to place the little butterfly vibrator inside. It wasn’t on, but all of the activity in her pussy had her pushing her hips upward as her eyes blinked open. Just like your kinky phone sex operator would.
I retracted my hand and uncapped another syringe. She dutifully held out her arm for me and I smiled sweetly in return. Maybe she wouldn’t have been so helpful if she knew how big of a dose this one was, but I wasn’t about to tell her, so…
I pressed on the plunger and started counting again. This time when I got to 6 I turned on the vibrator. When the dope hit her brain her entire body started shaking. So, that’s what a full-body orgasm looks like from the outside, I thought to myself. I took the remote to the butterfly with me and left her there for an hour or two.
With her hands, knees, and legs bound, there was no way for her to dislodge it. When I finally returned, there was a puddle of pussy juice under her. I almost felt bad as I removed the vibrator. She let out a scream when I started to lift it. I remember being that sensitive down there. But she had a job to do; no time for empathy.
The next phase was to make her beg for it. Eight doses of heroin over 24 hours is enough to make even the straightest of arrows bend and break. All I had to do was skip a few doses and leave her alone. So that’s exactly what I did. I turned the AC as cold as it would go, turned on the strobe light, and locked the door as I went about my day.
Ten hours later, I turned the heat on and went and check on her. She was catatonic at first. Our little drugged housewife transformation was on track. I turned off the strobe light first and put a warm washcloth over her eyes. It was time to play good cop, so I held a glass of water up to her lips and then I climbed up onto the table with her and just cuddled.
She’d pissed herself at least once, and was mostly naked…and no heroin, of course. And I didn’t think she had many pee fetish fantasies. It was the moment of truth. The “What would you do for a Klondike Bar” moment. I removed the washcloth and looked her dead in the eye.
“You want it, don’t you?”