The Goddess Supremacists do not sit. They collapse onto him.

Miss Dot steps over the bench, Her thighs framing his head like a vice. She lowers Herself without warning, Her panty covered p*ssy and *ss sealing over his mouth, his nose, his entire existence. The lace clings to his skin, damp and heavy with Her heat. There is no air. There is only Her —the weight of Her body, the press of Her flesh, the fabric stuffed into his mouth like a gag. His nostrils flare, but all he draws in is the thick, musky scent of Her dominance, the salt of Her skin, the unmistakable aroma of Her power soaking through the lace.

"Stay still," She commands, though he couldn’t move if he tried. Her full weight pins him, Her *ss grinding down, Her p*ssy sm*thering his face until his vision swims. His lips mash against the fabric, his tongue flicking out in useless, instinctive motions, l*cking at the dampness like a sl*ve starved for mercy. There is none.

"This is where you live now," She murmurs, rolling Her hips in slow, deliberate circles. "Beneath Us. Consumed by Us." She shifts, Her movements lazy, unhurried, as if She’s savoring the way his body betrays him—the way his c*ck j*rks in its cage, the way his chest heaves in silent, desperate pleas.

His lungs b*rn. His mind reels. And still, She grinds, Her flesh molding to his face, Her scent filling his throat, his senses, his soul. He can’t breathe. He can’t think. He can only exist in the shadow of Her supremacy, his world reduced to the wet heat of Her p*ssy through the lace, the dampness seeping into his skin, the taste of Her coating his tongue.

Mistress Tiffany Fox watches, Her lips curled in amusement. "He’s already ours," She observes, Her voice dripping with disdain. "Look at him. He doesn’t even remember what air tastes like."

Miss Dot leans forward, pressing down harder, Her thighs flexing to lock his head in place. His tongue darts out again, not for pleasure, but for survival, pressing against the fabric in pathetic, frantic l*cks. It does nothing. She doesn’t allow it to.

"That’s right," She purrs, feeling him struggle beneath Her. "You don’t get to breathe. You get to serve. " She lifts just enough to let him gasp a single, ragged breath "Thank Me." —before slamming back down, cutting him off again. His muffled whine vibrates against Her, and She laughs, the sound rich with cr*elty. "Good boy. You were made for this."

Mistress Tiffany Fox takes Her turn. She doesn’t ease onto him. She plants Herself, Her full weight landing on his face with a wet, obscene sound. His nose crushes into the soaked lace of Her panties, his mouth filled with the taste of Her, the musk of Her body overwhelming his senses. She rocks back and forth, using his face like a footstool, Her *ss pressing down until his nose is buried in the cleft of Her cheeks.

"L*ck," She orders, though he can barely move. "Show Me how worthless you are without Us."

He obeys. His tongue presses against the fabric, his lips sealing around the outline of Her p*ssy, his entire being reduced to the humiliating, futile attempt to please Her through the lace. She doesn’t care about his effort. She cares about his obedience. She grinds harder, Her movements punishing, Her voice a whip. "Louder. I want to hear you worship this p*ssy."

His words are slurred, his voice breaking. "Th thank You, Mistress! Your p*ssy is p perfect! I I can’t I don’t need anything but You!"

Miss Dot kicks his ribs as She climbs back on, Her turn again. "Pathetic," She sneers, dropping Her full weight onto his face. "You crave this, don’t you? Being nothing but a toy for Our pleasure." She rolls Her hips, Her p*ssy grinding against his mouth, Her *ss cutting off his air. His fingers claw at the bench, his body convulsing—not in resistance, but in need, in the terrifying realization that She controls his next breath.

They take turns after that. Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty. The time stretches, each second an eternity of Her weight, Her scent, Her absolute dominance. His face is a mess of spit and tears and Their fluids, his mind a blank slate, rewritten with a single truth: He is beneath. He is owned.

At forty six seconds, he is no longer a man. He is a thing. A vessel. A living, gasping, trembling offering beneath the Goddess Supremacists, his only purpose to endure, to submit, to let Them use his face like a rag beneath Their heels.

When They finally pull back, leaving him ch*king, drooling, his face glistening with the proof of Their power, Miss Dot leans down, Her breath hot against his ear. "You’ll remember this," She whispers. "The way We took your breath. The way We remade you." She presses a finger to his swollen lips, silencing his broken sobs. "And you’ll beg to do it again."

M*schi Kontrolle M*schi Verehrung Frauen Domination Fear Our P*ssies (HD 4K MP4) mit C4s.com

Mschi Kontrolle Mschi Verehrung Frauen Domination Fear Our P*ssies (HD 4K MP4) mit C4s.com