Some sl*ves dream small. This one dreamed of being a bike seat — and in a way, that's almost endearing. He had the whole thing worked out in his head: a beautiful woman, c*mpletely indifferent, who would settle her full weight onto his face like he was a cushion built specifically for her comfort. Nothing expected of him except to be present, hold position, and accept whatever came from above. Simple. His fantasy. His rules.

He had no idea what was coming after it.

I don't need to do much to get this kind of man right where I want him. My body communicates before I do. Lean everywhere that leanness matters, perky where it counts, with the kind of *ss that rewires a man's priorities just by entering the room — I walk through the door and he's already losing. Already calculating. Already so deep inside the anticipation of his fantasy that he hasn't left any room in his head to wonder what else might be on my agenda today.

That's always how it goes with this type. They arrive so locked onto the one thing they've been thinking about for weeks, months, sometimes years, that they c*mpletely miss everything that's being set up around them. His lifelong fantasy is about to happen exactly the way he imagined it. And then it's going to keep going.

I climb on.

His face becomes my seat in the truest sense — not a careful approximation of it, not a considerate version of it, but the real thing. Full weight, directly on him, his face exactly where I want it. I settle in like I'm getting comfortable on furniture I've owned for years, and then I ride. I work my hips. I shift my weight forward and back, find the positions that feel good and stay in them until I decide to move. I take my time with it. This isn't a performance. I'm not hurrying through the bike seat to get somewhere else. I am right here, I am using what I have under me, and I am working up a real sweat doing it. The kind that builds across your thighs and lower back. The kind that settles into the heat of your body and stays there long after you've moved on.

He's underneath me the entire time, doing exactly what a good piece of human furniture does: holding still, staying in position, and accepting whatever the woman sitting on his face decides to do with her time. He's good at this. That's the only reason he gets what comes next.

When I've taken everything I want from the bike seat position, I make a decision and I act on it.

I climb off. I remove my clothes without ceremony — I'm not performing, I'm getting comfortable. I get down on the floor, flat on my stomach, and I stretch out. I am c*mpletely at ease. This is my floor. My room. My session. My schedule. He's going to continue being useful while I relax.

I direct him to my *ss cr*ck. The sweat from riding him is gathered right there, warm in the crease of my body, and his job is to clean it up with his tongue the way I tell him to. All of it. The full length of my cr*ck, thorough, slow, every inch I point him toward. He doesn't rush because he's figured out that patience and thoroughness are the only currencies that matter here — the only things that buy him access to what comes next, which is something he will not get anywhere else.

When the cleaning is done to my standards, I have him go deeper.

His tongue finds my h*le. He works it with the kind of careful, steady attention that tells me he knows exactly what he's doing and why he's doing it. I feel everything. He gives me his full focus and I take it the way I take everything in this room — as mine, because it is.

The bike seat portion of this session has served its purpose. I've decided on his next role.

I stay exactly where I am. On my stomach. On the floor. Warm, relaxed, perfectly comfortable, and with absolutely no intention of moving to accommodate anyone. I position myself at my own pace and bl*w two slow, full, deliberate farts directly into his face. I tell him to eat them.

He does.

"I'm comfortable on the floor," I say, in the same easy tone I'd use for anything else entirely unremarkable. "No need to get up to use a toilet."

I look back at him over my shoulder. He's right there. Right where I put him. Doing exactly what I said.

"Open wide."

He came to this session with a fantasy he'd been holding onto for a long time. I gave it to him — the seat, the weight, the ride, all of it — and then I gave him mine too. That's how it works when you come to me. You get what you asked for, and then you get what I decided comes after. The two are not separate. The one you asked for is just the introduction to the one I had in mind.

That's the arrangement. He's very welcome.

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? Mistress Mercy Rage — Do you deserve my Mercy... or my Rage?

Sweat Fetish Sm*ther Female Domination My Bike Seat *ss B*tch & Toilet — Face Sitting, Sweat & Fart Worship | Mistress Mercy Rage with C4s.com

Sweat Fetish Smther Female Domination My Bike Seat ss B*tch & Toilet — Face Sitting, Sweat & Fart Worship | Mistress Mercy Rage with C4s.com