Mistress Misty Eden’s "Doorman" Interview: A Year-Long Contract of Filth, Dominance, and Absolute Submission

The ad was meant to say "Doormat Wanted" - a clear, honest request for what Mistress Misty Eden truly desired: a living, breathing tool to clean the filth from Her superior soles. But a cruel twist of autocorrect changed it to "Doorman Wanted" , and fate delivered Her the perfect candidate. An older man, dressed in slacks and a button-down, arrives with a resume boasting years at the Four Seasons and a local embassy. He smiles, confident, clueless. She answers the door in cutoff shorts so short they barely cover Her *ss, a tank top clinging to Her toned body, and flip-flops that do nothing to hide the repulsive state of Her feet . The soles are caked in dried mud, garden dirt, and whatever else She d stepped in during Her morning. Her toenails are untrimmed, the skin rough, the arches coated in a thick layer of brown grime. He doesn’t even notice. He s too busy introducing himself, too busy assuming this is a real job, too busy to see the predatory glint in Her eyes as She invites him inside.

She lets him talk. He brags about his "impeccable service record," his "attention to detail," his "discretion." She nods, feigning interest, Her filthy feet leaving faint, dirty prints on the floor as She circles him like prey. The contract is ready—pages of legal jargon, all leading to one truth: he is Hers for the next year . He doesn’t read it. Men like him never do. He signs with a flourish, proud, already imagining himself as Her distinguished employee.

The moment the pen leaves the paper, Mistress Misty’s demeanor shifts. The sweet, distracted girl vanishes, replaced by the merciless Goddess She truly is. She disappears briefly, returning with thick leather cuffs, a sturdy collar, a leash, and a bl*ck hood. "For My own protection," She purrs, snapping the cuffs around his wrists, then his ankles, Her movements quick and practiced. Before he can react, the hood is pulled over his head, plunging him into darkness. The leash clicks into place, and She yanks it hard, sending him crashing to his knees. "Strip down to your boxers," She commands, Her tone leaving no room for argument. "You’ll need to put on your uniform."

His hands shake as he fumbles with his clothes, his mind racing, his body betraying him. She s so y*ung. So beautiful. The thought is barely formed before She s shoving him onto the floor, Her strength surprising. The cold bite of metal digs into his skin as She secures the cuffs to the collar, then to the leash, binding him c*mpletely. "W-what the hell is this?" he stammers, panic rising. Mistress Misty crouches beside him, Her breath hot against his ear as She drags a filthy toe along his cheek. "Doorman?" She laughs, sharp and mocking. "Oh, no. The ad was for a doormat ."

And then— the first slap.

Her hand cr*cks across his face, the sound echoing through the room. "You signed a binding contract," She snarls, gripping his hair and j*rking his head back. "A whole year of service. And I don’t need a doorman. I need something to wipe My feet on ." She shoves his face into the soles of Her feet, grinding the dried filth into his skin. He gags, the taste of dirt and sweat flooding his mouth, but She doesn’t stop. "L*ck," She orders, pressing down harder. "L*ck it all off, doormat. Every. Last. Speck." His tongue darts out, hesitant, but the second slap is harder, more insistent. "I said L*CK!"

He obeys.

Her feet are repulsive —a masterpiece of neglect. The mud is caked into the creases of Her soles, the grime embedded under Her toenails. She wiggles Her toes against his lips, smearing the filth across his face, his mouth, his very being . "That’s it," She coos, rubbing Her foot back and forth, using his tongue like a rag. "Get in there. Scrub." He ch*kes, coughs, but She doesn’t care. She loves the sound of his g*gging, the way his body trembles beneath Her. She switches feet, pressing the other sole against his mouth, making him clean every inch. "You worked at the Four Seasons?" She scoffs, grinding Her heel into his tongue. "I bet you’ve never had a job this intimate before." She laughs as he gags, his muffled protests only amusing Her. "Good boy. Keep going." The flogger cr*cks against his back, the sharp sting of the leather cutting through his humiliation. "Faster. Harder. Or I’ll find someone who can."

She doesn’t stop there.

With a br*tal yank of the leash, She pulls him onto his back, then steps onto his chest , Her full weight pressing down as She wipes the remnants of the garden onto his skin. "You’re not getting near My p*ssy," She sneers, shifting Her foot to his throat. "You’re getting under My feet ." He grunts in p*in as She steps onto his face, Her toes curling as She grinds the last of the dirt into his skin. "This is what you signed up for, doormat. A year of this." She lifts Her foot just enough to let him gasp for air before slamming it back down. "Now open up."

She turns him into a recliner —knees up, back flat, his body contorted into a living piece of furniture. She lounges on his stomach, Her *ss pressing into his ribs as She leans back, stretching Her legs out and planting Her filthy feet directly onto his face. "Mmm, perfect," She sighs, wiggling Her toes against his lips. "Just like a real doormat." She cuts off his air, sm*thering him c*mpletely, her soles sealing over his nose and mouth. His body bucks beneath Her, desperate for oxygen, but She doesn’t relent. "You’re mine now," She reminds him, Her voice a dark purr. "My personal foot rag." She lifts slightly, just enough to let him ch*ke out a breath before jamming Her foot into his mouth. "Suck," She commands, pushing deeper, deeper, until his jaw aches and his throat b*rns. "Get it clean."

He gags. He screams. She doesn’t care.

The flogger bites into his skin again, the leather strands leaving red welts across his chest, his thighs, his c*ck . "Shut the f*ck up," She snaps, twisting Her foot in his mouth. "Your only job is to clean My feet." She trades feet, then shoves both into his mouth, stretching his jaw obscenely wide. His screams are muffled, useless. She owns them. She owns him . "That’s it," She croons, rocking Her feet back and forth, using his mouth like a washbasin. "Get it sparkling." She presses down harder, Her toes h*tting the back of his throat, making him gag, making him s*ffer . "You’re not done until My feet are spotless and your breath smells like f*cking dirt."

And when She s finally satisfied—when his tongue is raw, his throat is sore, and his pride is destroyed —She stands, wiping the last of the grime onto his cheek. "Same time tomorrow, doormat," She says, unbuckling the cuffs with a dismissive flick. "Don’t be late." She leaves him there, gasping, broken, his mind racing with the horrifying truth:

He signed for a year. And She s just getting started.

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