Drugged Wine and Cookies (mm drug)

It's getting late and we're in your kitchen, just you and me, sitting across from each other at your little table. We're just a couple of guys shooting the breeze, and I'm thinking about how I?d like to offer you some of my wine. I brought a bottle, you know.And I lightly encourage: "Perhaps just one glass?"

Yeah, that's right, I will drug your wine. The Columbians call the stuff burunga and I picked it up on my travels.

I stir in the dusty powder while you're attending to the music, and when you return I hand you the glass, and we make small talk for a while and I say "oh, you've hardly touched your wine; don't you like it? Have another sip. It's a good vintage; it grows on you."

Watch me watching you as you take another sip, and then a full gulp.

Yeah, I will drug your wine. And I'll enjoy doing it.

"Here, let me pour you some more. No, I'm not trying to get you drunk or anything. Relax, I just want you to fully enjoy the bouquet. Now drink it down. Good. Like it?"

Like I said, it's called burunga and it's powerful stuff -- and it hardly affects the aroma of the Cabernet at all.

Roll it around your pallet and the feeling may start tickling you in your mind, a slowly growing, foggy stupor not like most wines. And another feeling may start tickling your subconscious: 'something is not right here, why is this guy, this stranger, insisting I have another glass??

And if I'm leering a little too broadly, it's only because I'm looking forward to having you totally stupefied, bleary eyed, and zombiefied, and easily led into your own front room where I intend to use you.

Yeah, I'll drug your wine. And I'll enjoy doing it, too.

"Good wine, isn't it?" I repeat with a smile, "Here, have another glass. I insist."

You may sense the effect creeping up on you. The drug oozes from your stomach into your blood stream, and the stream spreads it through your body and delivers it to your brain; why, it's almost too late to do anything about it.

Your arms and legs are starting to get so heavy.

Realization may come to you slowly.

And you'll slur "Hey, you drugged this! What the fuck?" and you'll fumble to push the glass away, push it across your kitchen table, but you won't be able to rise. Your entire body will have become much too heavy -- and I'll just wait and watch the dull look slowly climb up your face, and then I'll wait a minute more, until it really is too late for you, and I'll suggest "but you know you want more; you want to finish." I'll raise the glass to your lips: "don't try to fight it. You can't help it." Your head will have started nodding back and forth slightly as you gaze up at me. "The wine tastes so good," I'll repeat. "The feeling is so good, you want more, don't you." Look up at me with your increasingly glazed eyes, struggling uselessly to resist.

And I'll watch your resistance fade, and then you'll take the glass, and hold the blood red liquid to your lips, feeling the wet temptation against your tongue, trying one last time to say no. Let it go. And so I'll gently encourage you to finish the glass and you'll find it so easy to sip, and take a second sip and then, finally, swallow it down. Gulp it down; you can't help yourself anymore. And you'll feel a burning sensation growing down deep. And with your last blurring thought, you'll know that it's much too late.

Feel the warm numbing sensation spread right through you, rise right up your body and enter your mind, and shut off your mind. Let it close your mind down completely, and then look up and smile that dumb, sappy smile just for me. Damn, I love that smile.

Good boy. I'll bet you're feeling just fine now.

See, you will appear almost as though your mind has cleared. You'll raise your head up, looking at me, and your expression will suggest that you're totally awake and normal. Oh, the illusion. You'll be looking like there's nothing wrong inside, but the truth will be that there will be nothing left inside your mind at all.

But I'll wait a minute longer to be sure the drug has sunk deep, and then ask you how you're feeling, and you'll reply that you feel great. Of course you'll feel great; your subconscious will be totally susceptible to my words and I'll be telling you that you feel great. How could you possibly feel any other way?

And then I'll raise you up and you'll willingly follow, and I'll lead you to your own front room where I'll begin to remove your clothes. You won't fight it, no, you'll just be watching me, seemingly from a distance, unconcerned by what I'm doing to you. You'll raise your arms above your head while I lift off your shirt. Then I'll unzip your pants and drop them down, and you'll become naked for me in just a few short motions, and stand beside me so apparently, fully awake, yet swimming lost in some thick, chemically induced state.

You, boy, in your buzzed oblivion, your body belongs to me. And as the chemicals ease through your unguarded mind you're becoming steadily more open to suggestion. You're feeling so fine now; just do what I tell you. Do what I say.

So hand me your wallet; good boy; and let me search through it and pick out what I want. Why don't you just play with yourself a little while you watch? Stand passively aside, and stroke your meat, and watch while I steal your money and your identifications for later. Feeling good, boy? I am stealing your very identity but you don't mind; you just keep stroking yourself and smiling, yeah, just like that, and don't worry. You're really nothing but a zombie now, and you won't remember much of this later.

And then, just for the fun, I'll lower you down to your knees, and I'll fuck your face -- just like I've fucked your mind. And I'll put your bare naked ass over my knee and spank you raw while you beg, and I'll fuck your ass, too, if I choose. You won't fight it and you won't remember much of this later anyway.

Oh yeah, that's what I am going to do you; that is what is going to happen to you.

Yes, I am going to drug your wine, and I'll enjoy doing it. And you're going to enjoy it too. But that will be later.

See, right now we're still in your kitchen, you and me, just two guys sitting across your little table shooting the breeze. And I'm about to say "Can I offer you a little of my wine? I brought a bottle, you know," when you interrupt me: "so, how did you like the cookie? I baked them myself. Here, I insist you have another." And as I swallow down the last crumb, I detect your leer, and begin to fear that it's already too late.