A Butch On The Prowl

“I’m doing this to help you” she says, as she handcuffs your hands behind your back and chains you to the pipes under her bathroom sink. “You wrote music that changed my life. But you’ll never write like that again, not like this. You need to get clean.” She shoves a rag in your mouth and duct-tapes over it. “Sorry.” She grimaces apologetically. “I have neighbors.”

The first night is agonizing, your body begging for about 50 different chemicals at once. When she removes the tape from your mouth in the morning to feed you, taser to your throat the whole time, the first thing you do is beg her for something, anything to tide you over. She laughs and leaves you a sweating, sobbing mess.

When she comes again in the evening, your whole body is shaking. You felt so hot you kicked your pants off, leaving you in your boxers. She doesn’t seem surprised by the lack of penis, but you suppose a superfan would already know you were trans. You’re so desperate that you offer her sex, point blank. She seems contemplative, then walks out of the room. For a second you think she’s abandoned you completely, but she returns with a little bag of white powder: the coke you had on you when she kidnapped you. Almost clinically, she removes her skirt and strokes herself to full hardness (and wasn’t that not an unwelcome surprise?). Delicately, she shakes out a few bumps down the length of her cock and offers them to you. You snort it up greatfully, the scent of her cock mixing with the sharp tinge of cocaine on the inside of your nostrils.

She stares wordlessly down at you, expectant. You notice the taser in her other hand.

You take her in your mouth. Before you can even move, she grabs the hair on the back of your head and guides you along her cock. You moan despite yourself.

“You like that, huh?”

Your mouth is too full of her to answer. You feel her cock hit the back of your throat where the coke is starting to drip down, dragging the acrid taste across your tongue.

She takes her time. By the time she comes, it’s well past kicked in. You feel like every nerve is on fire.

“Oh, you really did like that, didn’t you?” She looks down at your soaked boxers.

Fuck. Coke always makes you horny. And maybe a little part of you is really, really enjoying this.

She kneels down to your level and runs her hand over your boxers, sliding your dick between two fingers through the fabric. You can’t help a desperate keen. Carefully, she slides your boxers off. Right when you think she’s finally going to touch you, she stuffs your own soaked boxers in your mouth and tapes back over them.

“Maybe next time,” she smirks, leaving you high and starving for her touch. You whimper and grind on the cold tile.

It becomes routine, after that. She waits until you’re desperate enough to offer anything, then gives you some drug to tide you over while she fucks you into oblivion. You never know what she’s going to give you. Sometimes it’s an opioid, to keep you pliant and suggestible. She gives you one before moving you to the bed, where she keeps you tied up, spread eagle, during the day. Sometimes she forces a joint into your mouth while she thrusts into you, holding your nose until you sputter smoke. Uppers used to be your favorite class of drug, but you dread them now. When she rubs speed or coke on your gums, letting you lick her fingers clean, you know she always mixes in a little gas station aphrodisiac as well, just to make it a little more unbearable. She loves to watch you squirm and beg for her touch before sticking a vibrator in both of your holes, turning them on low, and leaving for the day.

Eventually, she just keeps you drugged up all the time.

“I can’t believe I wanted you to get clean. You’re so much better like this. My celebrity crush. My perfect toy.” She strokes your cheek and it echoes a shudder down your whole body. Some mixture of ketamine and cannabis is running through your system now, leaving you sensitive and dumb. She sounds like she’s speaking through water. “I listen to your songs when I’m at work and wonder what your other fans would think if they knew the man who wrote them is drugged out of his mind in my bedroom, just waiting to beg for my cock.”

She curls a finger into your mouth and you suck on it gratefully. “But I guess we always knew you were a junkie whore, so this shouldn’t come as a surprise.” She shoves her fingers down your throat until you gag. “And your songs were always so sad. You’re so much happier like this, aren’t you?”

You nod enthusiastically. Anything to get her to keep touching you like that.

“This is what you wanted, right? With all the drugs? Just to be high and happy, with no responsibilities? In a way, you chose this.”

You nuzzle into the hand on your cheek, playing with her fingers with your tongue. She pinches it and you moan.

“You don’t even know what I’m saying, do you?” she says.

You stare back, eyes glassy and half lidded.