Mistress Misty Eden didn’t just dominate her former boss—She remade him. One reckless moment, one incriminating video, and now he’s nothing more than a footrest, a w*ste bin, and a living seat for Her pleasure. Confined to a floor cell, only his blindfolded head visible, he exists to worship Her body, obey Her commands, and endure Her cr*elties. His world is darkness, Her scent, and the unyielding pressure of Her supremacy.

She enters, white bikini hugging Her curves, the click of Her heels announcing Her arrival. "Listen up, b*tch, you’re about to learn how to be My chair," She declares, Her tone laced with amusement. Confusion flickers across his face—how can he serve as a chair with only his head exposed? The answer is swift and merciless. She straddles his face, Her bikini-clad p*ssy and *ss poised above his open mouth. "You need to understand that I am the center of your world," She instructs, "and I dictate even your breaths—using My p*ssy or My *ss." With that, She lowers Herself, pressing his nose and mouth against the fabric of Her bikini. His air vanishes. His struggles go unnoticed.

"1... 2... 3..." She counts, Her voice steady, almost playful, as he whimpers and squirms beneath Her. "You don’t deserve air unless it comes from Me." His chest tightens. His thoughts race. She tugs his leash, ensuring he remains c*mpletely still. "4... 5..." His muffled protests are silenced by Her flesh. She settles deeper, relishing the way his body tenses in desperation, his face pressed into Her *ss, his nostrils flaring against the fabric. "That’s it, pig. Struggle all you want. It only excites Me more."

When She finally lifts, he gasps for air, his breathing ragged, his face glistening with sweat and Her essence. "Thank Me," She orders. He stutters his gratitude between heaving breaths. "Good," She purrs—before delivering a sharp slap that snaps his head back. "Quiet, you worthless thing!" And without hesitation, She settles back down, this time counting to 10. His fingers claw at the floor. His caged c*ck twitches uselessly. She smirks, feeling his panic heighten Her arousal.

She turns, now sm*thering him with Her bikini-covered p*ssy, pushing down until his nose is buried in Her folds, his tongue pressed against Her clit. "Inhale it, sl*ve," She commands. "Your c*ck will never know Me, but your nose and tongue? They belong to Me now." She holds him there, counting to 15, then 20, then 25. Each time She rises, he ch*kes out his thanks, only to be met with another stinging slap before She seals his air once more. His fear is thrilling. His submission is exquisite.

By the time She reaches 45 seconds, he’s twitching, his body shaking as his mind cries out for relief. She watches him unravel, Her arousal dripping onto his face, marking him as Hers. "Pathetic," She muses, pressing down harder, "You used to give orders. Now you’re just My plaything." She releases him just as his vision begins to fade, his lungs aching. He coughs, tears streaming down his cheeks. She strikes him again, Her rings leaving their mark. "Silence!" She hisses, "You breathe when I allow it. You exist because I permit it."

She decides to test his limits. "Let’s go for a full minute, worm." His body trembles as She lowers Herself, Her weight covering his face, Her p*ssy and *ss blocking his air. His hands flail weakly. His body j*rks. She ignores his stress, counting slowly, savoring his helplessness. "10... 20... 30..." His movements weaken. His resistance fades. "40... 50... 60." She finally lifts, and he collapses, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his mind reeling.

She steps away, wiping Herself on his hair before nudging his head with Her foot. "I’ll return," She says, walking toward the exit, "...if I feel like it." The cell door closes with a final thud. The lights dim. And he’s left alone in the darkness, his face still damp with Her juices, his mind haunted by the reality of what he’s become: a toy, a stool, an object—owned, used, and discarded until She chooses to claim him again.

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