Confession: I Was the Dentist Who Drugged and Raped My Male Patients for Crypto

My name is Molly. I’m a dentist. Or at least I used to be. For fifteen years I ran a small, upscale practice in a leafy suburb where husbands came in for cleanings after their morning runs and left with more than just whiter teeth. I was the one everyone trusted—soft voice, gentle hands, the kind of smile that made men relax in the chair even when I was drilling. They had no idea what I really was.

A soulless, perverted bitch with a fetish that still makes my stomach twist when I remember it.

It started small, the way all evil things do. I was twenty-eight, freshly divorced from a man who couldn’t get it up without porn, and I discovered how easy it was to push the sedation button just a little harder. Nitrous oxide mixed with a tiny extra dose of midazolam I kept in the locked drawer “for emergencies.” Attractive male patients—fit, married, successful—would drift off under my fingers, breathing slow and deep, completely helpless. That first time I felt it: the rush. Absolute power over a man who, five minutes earlier, had been bragging about his golf handicap. I locked the door, flipped the “Do Not Disturb” sign, and climbed on top of him while he was limp and unconscious. I rode him slowly, whispering filthy things he’d never hear, filming every second on the small camera I hid in the ceiling light fixture. When he started to stir I hit him with another quick puff of gas and finished myself off. Then I cleaned him up, wiped the evidence, and woke him like nothing happened. He left smiling, tipping me extra, never knowing I’d just used his body like a toy.

That night I watched the video on loop in my dark apartment and came harder than I ever had in my life. I created a private Telegram channel—only seven members at first, all anonymous pervs I met on the dark web who paid in crypto for the “exclusive dental clinic content.” I called the channel “Chair Confessions.” Every new video got me wetter and richer.

It escalated fast because I stopped caring about limits. I became a monster in a white coat.

I started choosing my victims the second they walked in. If they were tall, broad-shouldered, married, and had that clean, successful scent, they were mine. I’d flirt just enough during the exam to get their guard down, then suggest “a little extra relaxation for the deep cleaning.” They always said yes. Once they were under I didn’t just fuck them—I destroyed any dignity they had left.

One guy—let’s call him Ryan, early forties, married with twin girls—was my favorite for months. I overdosed him so hard he was out cold for forty minutes. I stripped him completely, strapped his ankles into the chair’s leg rests so his legs were spread wide like a whore’s, and I used every toy I kept in the bottom drawer: dental dams as gags, suction tubes on his nipples, even the slow-speed handpiece vibrating against his prostate while I rode him reverse cowgirl. I came three times, then I made him come hands-free just so I could film the ropes of it landing on his own unconscious face. I took close-ups of his slack mouth, his drool, the way his eyes fluttered under the lids. I posted the full 38-minute raw video to the channel that night. It made me $4,200 in Bitcoin in under two hours. Ryan came back for “follow-up appointments” four more times. I infected him with chlamydia the third time and never told him.

Because yes, I got sick too.

It happened with a patient I’ll call Victor—late thirties, arrogant hedge-fund prick with a perfect jawline and a cock that stayed half-hard even when he was completely out. I went harder than usual that day. I wanted the video to be legendary. I let him stay under for almost an hour while I did things to him that would make a porn director blush: I deep-throated him until I gagged, I sat on his face and smothered him with my pussy while he was unconscious, I even used the dental syringe to shoot lube deep inside his ass before I pegged him with a strap-on I kept sterilized in the autoclave. I came so hard I didn’t notice the tiny cut on my lip from where I’d bitten myself earlier. Victor had an open sore on the head of his dick—something I only noticed later when I was editing the footage. Two weeks later the burning started. Gonorrhea. Then it turned into something worse because I ignored it, kept working, kept hunting.

I spread it like wildfire.

I infected at least eleven men over the next six months. Some were married. Some had pregnant wives. I knew and I didn’t stop. I told myself it was their fault for being attractive, for trusting me, for lying back and letting me “relax” them. I filmed myself fucking them while I was already burning with infection, then posted the videos with captions like “Patient #47 takes it raw while his wife thinks he’s at the dentist 😂”. The channel grew to thirty-two paying members. I was making more from the Telegram group than from actual dentistry.

Other heinous shit I did? God, it gets darker.

I started drugging them with roofies dissolved in the mouthwash rinse so they’d stay blackout drunk after they left. I’d follow one or two home in my car, wait until their wives went to bed, then slip inside through the garage (they always left the code in their phone notes) and fuck them again in their own marital beds while they were still groggy and confused. I stole their wedding rings and made them wear them on their cocks in videos. I once kept a guy under for so long I had to give him oxygen to wake him up, then charged him triple for the “extended sedation” while his wife waited in the lobby. I sold custom videos on request—$2,000 for a specific guy’s face blurred but his dick and my pussy crystal clear, $5,000 if they wanted me to make him come while I whispered his wife’s name.

I even started involving the female staff indirectly. I’d make my hygienist leave early, then tell her the patient “had an allergic reaction” so she’d never question the locked door. One time I let a male patient fuck my unconscious body on camera after I’d dosed myself lightly with the same cocktail—just so the channel could watch me get used while I was limp. I woke up sore and thrilled.

I was a demon in pastel scrubs.

Then the illness hit me like divine payback.

The gonorrhea had gone untreated for months because I was too busy chasing the next high. It turned into pelvic inflammatory disease, then full-blown sepsis. I collapsed in my office between patients, bleeding and burning and vomiting. The ambulance ride is a blur. In the hospital they told me my organs were shutting down. I spent seventeen days in the ICU, tubes in every hole, fever so high I hallucinated my victims standing around the bed watching me die. One night I swore Ryan was there holding my hand, whispering that his wife had left him because of the STD I gave him. I screamed until the nurses sedated me again.

I almost died. Doctors said another twelve hours and I wouldn’t have made it.

When I woke up I was different.

The fever burned something out of me. The soulless bitch finally cracked. I looked at the photos on my phone—hundreds of unconscious men, faces I recognized, lives I’d ruined—and I threw up for real. Not from the drugs, but from horror at what I’d become. I deleted the entire Telegram channel that same night from my hospital bed, hands shaking so badly the nurse had to help me type the password. I wiped every video, every photo, every crypto wallet. I closed my practice permanently. I sold the building. I paid back every single patient I could find anonymously through a lawyer—cash envelopes with notes that just said “I’m sorry for everything.”

I’m thirty-nine now. I’ve been clean for eleven months. No more sedatives, no more channel, no more power trips. I work as a dental assistant in a low-income clinic where I only clean teeth and never, ever touch the gas. My body is scarred from the sepsis—kidney damage, chronic pain, a hysterectomy they had to do to save my life. I can’t have children. I deserve that.

Every single night I pray for the men I hurt. I pray their wives forgave them. I pray their kids never found out. I pray Victor got treated before he passed it to anyone else. I would give anything to sit in front of each one of them and confess face-to-face, to take whatever punishment they want to give me—jail, beatings, public shaming. But I know that would just hurt them more, drag their names through the mud again. So I stay silent except for this.

This is my confession. Raw, ugly, and completely true.

I was a monster who got off on turning trusting patients into unconscious sex toys. I stole their dignity, their health, their marriages. I profited from their helplessness and laughed while I did it. I spread disease like a plague and called it foreplay.

But I got my second chance when death looked me in the eyes and decided I wasn’t worth taking yet.

I’m going to spend the rest of my life being better. I volunteer at sexual health clinics, teaching consent and safe practices. I donate every extra dollar I have to victim support groups. I go to therapy twice a week, and I cry through every session because I finally feel the weight of what I did. I will never touch another man without his full, enthusiastic, conscious consent. I will never chase that sick thrill again.

If you’re one of the men who sat in my chair and woke up feeling strangely sore or confused or sick afterward… I am so fucking sorry. I violated you in the worst way possible. I took your trust and I raped it. I hope you’re healthy now. I hope you’re happy. I hope you never think about me again except to know that the woman who did those things to you is gone. She died in that hospital bed.

This is my second chance and I’m not wasting it.

I’m Molly, the dentist who used to be a devil, and today I choose to be human again.