This isn’t staged. This isn’t scripted. This is real —raw, unfiltered, and br*tal. Mistress Mona is actually tired after a long day, and Her locked, naked sl*ve is actually about to learn his place isn’t just beneath Her—it’s under Her, crushed and forgotten like the worthless furniture he is.

The camera rolls as She kicks off Her shoes with a sigh, peeling off Her socks with the kind of exhaustion only a real Goddess feels after dealing with the world. And what does She see when She looks at him? Not a man. Not even a person. Just a trembling, chastity-caged thing waiting to be used. "Set up the table, sl*ve. And if it’s not perfect, I’m using your face as the surface instead."

He moves fast—he knows better than to disappoint. But Mistress Mona’s patience is already thin. "You c*ll that a massage table? It’s crooked. Fix it. Now." He adjusts it, hands shaking, because failure isn’t an option. Not when She’s in this mood.

She stretches out, face-down, and doesn’t even wait for permission before ordering, "Socks. Off. And if your fingers touch My skin for even a second too long, I’ll break them." He obeys, peeling the damp fabric from Her feet, the scent of a real woman’s day h*tting him like a slap. Sweat. Leather. The unmistakable musk of a Goddess who doesn’t care about his comfort—or his ability to breathe.

"Oil. Now." The bottle clatters in his clumsy grip as he pours it onto Her legs, his touch hesitant. "Rub it in. Harder. No, harder. Do I look like I want a gentle touch from something as weak as you?" His hands dig into Her thighs, kneading the tension out of muscles that have carried actual power all day. Meanwhile, his lips press against the soles of Her feet, lapping up the sweat like the pathetic, thirsty thing he is. "Get in between My toes. I want them spotless. And if I find one speck of dirt left, you’re l*cking the bottoms of My shoes next."

He works frantically, tongue darting between Her toes, g*gging on the taste of Her dominance. But he’s slow. Of course he is. A sharp kick to his ribs sends him sprawling. "Useless. Absolutely useless." She doesn’t even look at him as She corrects his position with Her foot, shoving his face back where it belongs. "You were made to serve. So serve."

Five minutes in, She’s already over it. "Enough. Put the table away. I’m done w*sting My time on your attempt at a massage." His stomach drops. He knows what’s coming.

"On the floor. Face down. Legs up. You’re My chair now." He obeys instantly, flattening himself, bending his knees into the perfect "recliner" position—because that’s all he’s good for. Furniture. With a satisfied grunt, She lowers Herself onto his back, Her full weight pressing him into the carpet. "Mmm. Finally, something you’re good for." Her feet find his face, sm*thering him c*mpletely. "Breathe Me in, sl*ve. That’s the closest you’ll ever get to heaven."

His hands, still slick with oil, resume their work on Her calves, but his movements are weak now, his focus shattered by the air blocking press of Her soles. He tries to shift—just for a second —but She grinds Her heel into his cheek. "Did I say you could move? You’re lucky I’m even letting you touch Me." His muffled whimpers are music to Her ears.

She reaches for Her snacks, popping a piece of candy into Her mouth without a second thought. Crumbs fall. She doesn’t care. Neither does he—he’d eat anything She drops, because that’s what he is: a human trash can. And She’s about to prove it.

With a cruel l*ttle smirk, She spits onto the candy in Her hand, then dangles it over his open, panting mouth. "Here. A reward for being such a good l*ttle footrest." He takes it without hesitation, chewing the spit-soaked treat like it’s a sacred offering. "Thank You, Mistress," he gasps, because even this— especially this—is more than he deserves.

She crosses Her legs over his face, cutting off his air entirely. "Keep. Massaging." The TV plays in the background, some show He’ll never watch, some life He’ll never have. His world is darkness, pressure, the taste of Her skin, the weight of Her contempt. "You’re not a man. You’re not even a sl*ve. You’re a thing. And if you’re really good, maybe I’ll let you stay that way."

The camera doesn’t cut away. This isn’t performative. This is real. This is what happens when a Goddess is actually tired, and Her sl*ve is actually nothing more than a living, breathing piece of furniture—one She might just throw out if he stops being useful.

Human Furniture Foot Massage Foot Worship Real Sl*ve Training: Mistress Mona Thea - Be My Massage Chair (HD 4K MP4) with C4s.com