A few days after the boutique, the high from that day lingered like a drug itself—Daddy’s cum still seeping out of me hours later, the new outfits folded neatly in my closet, waiting for the next command. But the ache was back already, deeper this time, a gnawing need that no amount of fingering myself in front of the mirror could satisfy. I’d stare at my reflection in the red vinyl dress, clitty straining in its cage, and whisper “Daddy’s girl” over and over, but it wasn’t enough. I needed him. Needed to be used.
The text came late one night: My place. Now. Bring the latex catsuit.
I didn’t hesitate. Slipped into the skin-tight black latex—slick and shiny, hugging every curve I’d sculpted with endless squats and diets. It zipped up the back, leaving my ass exposed through a strategic cutout, my caged clitty bulging obscenely against the front. Heels, heavy makeup, trench coat over it all. The drive felt eternal, my mind racing with fantasies of what he’d do.
When he opened the door, his eyes were darker than usual, pupils blown wide. He pulled me inside roughly, coat ripped off before I could blink.
“On your knees, princess,” he growled, voice edged with something new—hunger, but sharper.
I dropped, latex creaking as I knelt. He unzipped, his thick cock already rock-hard, veins pulsing. But instead of shoving it down my throat, he held up a small glass pipe, crystalline shards glinting inside.
“You’ve been such a good girl,” he murmured, thumbing my bottom lip. “Time to make you even better. Open.”
My heart pounded. I knew what it was—meth, the forbidden rush I’d only heard whispers about in dark corners of the internet. Part of me hesitated, but the sissy in me, the slut craving total surrender, parted my lips.
He lit the pipe, took a slow hit himself, exhaling a cloud of sweet-smelling smoke. Then he held it to my mouth. “Inhale deep, baby. Hold it.”
The smoke burned sweet and chemical down my throat, filling my lungs. I held it as long as I could, then exhaled, coughing lightly. Almost instantly, warmth spread through me—like liquid fire igniting every nerve. My skin tingled, hyper-sensitive; the latex suddenly felt alive against me, every inch electric. My clitty throbbed harder in its cage, a desperate pulse that made me whimper.
“Good girl,” he praised, taking another hit and shotgunning it into my mouth—lips sealed over mine, smoke pouring down my throat as his tongue invaded. I moaned into the kiss, the high hitting harder now, colors brighter, time stretching.
He pulled back, pipe set aside. “Now suck Daddy like the meth whore you’re becoming.”
I dove on his cock, throat opening effortlessly, the drug making me insatiable. No gag reflex—just pure, frantic need. I bobbed sloppily, drool dripping down my chin, tasting the salty precum like it was nectar. The high amplified everything: the slap of his balls against my face, the grip of his hands in my hair, the way my hole clenched empty, begging to be filled.
He groaned, fucking my face harder. “Fuck, you’re flying now, aren’t you? Look at you—desperate little sissy slave.”
The words sank in, twisting with the rush. Slave. Yes. His. To meth and cock and whatever he wanted.
He yanked me up by the hair, spun me around, bent me over the couch. The latex stretched taut as he spread my cheeks, tongue diving into my hole without prep. I screamed in pleasure, the sensations magnified a thousandfold—every lick like lightning, making my vision blur with stars.
Then the pipe again. He made me hit it bent over, ass up, while his fingers plunged inside me, stretching. The smoke hit, and suddenly I was floating, every thrust of his fingers a wave of ecstasy crashing over me.
“Please—Daddy—fuck me—need it—”
He didn’t make me wait. Slammed in raw, the burn mixing with the high into something transcendent. He fucked me like an animal, hips bruising against my ass, one hand forcing the pipe back to my lips mid-thrust.
“Hit it again, slut. Get addicted. To this. To me.”
I inhaled greedily, the crystals melting into vapor, flooding my brain. The world narrowed to his cock pounding me, splitting me open, owning me. My clitty leaked steadily, untouched, the cage a sweet torment. I was cumming dry already—waves of orgasm without release, body convulsing as he railed me deeper.
“You’re mine now,” he snarled, yanking my head back. “This pussy. This mouth. Addicted to Daddy’s meth and Daddy’s dick. Say it.”
“I’m—yours—slave to meth—to sex—to you—please—more—”
He flooded me then, hot cum painting my insides, but he didn’t stop. Pulled out, shoved me to my knees, made me clean him while he lit the pipe again. We shared hit after hit, the night blurring into a haze of smoke and sweat and endless fucking.
He took me on the floor, against the wall, over the kitchen counter—each time pausing to feed me more of the drug, making sure the high never faded. My makeup ran in black rivers, latex slick with our mess, hole gaping and dripping when he finally let me collapse.
But even as I lay there, twitching, spent, the craving was already building again. For the pipe. For him. I was hooked—his perfect, broken sissy slave, forever chasing that rush.
And I wouldn’t have it any other way
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