The sl*ve is already cuffed to Mistress Minerva’s custom facesitting chair, his wrists secured to the arms, his head locked through the h*le—face up, mouth exposed, and c*mpletely at Her mercy. His body is not just restrained; it is owned. The chair’s design ensures he cannot twist, cannot turn, cannot do anything but offer his mouth upward like the worthless tool he is. His legs are free, but they might as well be bound—there is nowhere to go, no escape from the weight of the Goddesses’ *sses or the sting of the crop. He is a living footstool, his tongue the only part of him that matters now.

Mistress Minerva enters first, dressed in booty shorts and a crop top that clings to Her body, emphasizing the power in every curve. She doesn’t even look at him as She steps forward, Her attention on Goddess Obsidian. Without a word, She sits down on his face, Her full weight pressing down, sm*thering him instantly. The sl*ve’s muffled gasps are the only sound as She turns to Goddess Obsidian, who watches with a thin, sheer sweater barely covering Her authority. "You need to show your m*le that your needs are his only concerns," Minerva instructs, Her voice dripping with casual cr*elty, as if She’s discussing the weather. "Eating your *ss and being your chair is a privilege for an inferior." She shifts slightly, the fabric of Her shorts the only barrier between his mouth and Her superiority. The sl*ve’s tongue flicks out instinctively, already learning its place. "I’m doing it with My shorts on... but of course, you should take yours off." With that, She rises, leaving the sl*ve gasping, his face glistening with the proof of his submission. As She exits, She delivers the final lesson with a smirk: "Besides, he’ll get used to the taste. Then you move up to using him as toilet paper, passing g*s, things like that... before you turn him into a full toilet."

Goddess Obsidian, clad in panties and Her thin sweater, steps forward, riding crop in hand. The crop taps lightly against Her palm as She surveys the scene—Her new toy, already broken in by Minerva’s expertise. She looks down at the pathetic m*le beneath Her, his face already marked by Mistress Minerva’s dominance, his lips parted in anticipation of what’s to come. "You hear that, b*tch? You’re gonna be My toilet... but one step at a time." The words hang in the air, heavy with the weight of his new reality. She mounts the chair, Her perfect, round light brown *ss hovering just above his lips. The sl*ve can smell Her, feel the heat radiating from Her, and knows his purpose. "Kiss My *sshole, b*tch." The command is simple, but the sl*ve hesitates—his disgust still lingering from his old life, the one where he thought he had a choice. CR*CK! The riding crop snaps against his chest, the sound sharp in the quiet room. "I said kiss My *sshole, *ss b*tch!" The tone leaves no room for disobedience, no space for hesitation. He is here to serve, and serve he will.

He obeys, his lips pressing against Her tight h*le, and She rewards him by sitting down fully, sm*thering him. The weight of Her *ss cuts off his breath as She grinds, Her hips rolling in slow, deliberate circles. "You’re gonna treat My *sshole like your girlfriend. Understand?" Her voice is calm, almost conversational, as if She’s explaining the weather. But the message is clear: this is his life now. She pulls Her thong aside, exposing Herself c*mpletely, the fabric now a useless barrier between them. "Stick out your tongue, like a c*ck." The sl*ve complies, his tongue trembling as it extends, already learning its new purpose. She spreads Her cheeks wide, pulling Her *sshole open with Her fingers, guiding him to accept the full depth of his new existence. "Not deep enough. I said make your tongue like a c*ck—it’s bigger than your actual peanut anyway. But that’s getting locked up soon." The humiliation b*rns deeper than the crop’s sting, searing into his soul. He is nothing. His tongue is everything.

She changes positions, turning around to face-f*ck him into a frenzy. The wet smack of his mouth against Her *ss fills the room, the sounds of his submission echoing off the walls. The riding crop lashes out intermittently, leaving red marks across his trembling body—his chest, his thighs, his useless c*ck straining against his shorts. She whips his d*ck more than once, the p*in making him scream into Her *sshole, a sound She savors. "That’s right, scream for Me. Let Me hear how much you love it." His muffled cries vibrate against Her, and She grinds harder, ensuring he understands the depth of his insignificance. His tongue is buried inside Her, his breath hot against Her skin, his entire world reduced to the taste of Her, the scent of Her, the weight of Her.

She turns back around, bouncing up and down on his tongue, using his face like the worthless furniture it is. The chair creaks beneath them, the only witness to his degradation. Then She takes breaks, sm*thering him c*mpletely, Her *ss pressing down until he can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do anything but serve. Each time She rises, She orders him to thank Her, to confess in a ch*ked, desperate voice how delicious Her *sshole tastes, how he craves everything that comes out of Her. "Tell Me again, sl*ve. Tell Me how much you love My *sshole." His voice is muffled, broken, the words barely intelligible: "Thank You, Goddess... it’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted... I want everything You give me..." She laughs, the sound cruel and triumphant, as She reaches back to spread Her cheeks wider, giving him even deeper access. "Good. Because you’re going to get it all."

The session escalates into a rhythm of absolute dominance: grinding, sm*thering, whipping, and verbal degradation. She taunts him, reminding him of his future—"Next time, I’ll p*ss g*s on your face. Then I’ll use you as My toilet. And you’ll thank Me for it." His mind fractures under the weight of Her words, his resistance crumbling with every stroke of the crop, every bounce of Her *ss on his tongue. She alternates between riding him hard, her *ss slapping against his face, and sm*thering him c*mpletely, her weight pressing down until he can’t breathe. "Keep that tongue in there, or I’ll whip your c*ck raw," She warns, and he obeys, his tongue staying buried inside Her even as he gasps for air. The crop lashes out again, this time across his thighs, the p*in a constant reminder of his place.

By the end of the 21 minutes, the sl*ve is a gasping, trembling mess, his body covered in crop marks, his face drenched in Her, his spirit broken down to a single truth: his purpose is to worship, to serve, to consume what She offers. His tongue is raw, his jaw aches, but he doesn’t dare complain. Goddess Obsidian stands, admiring Her work, Her *ss glistening with his saliva. The camera lingers on his exhausted, used face, his eyes glazed with submission, his lips still parted as if waiting for Her to sit back down. "Next session, we’ll see how you do with toilet paper duty," She says, Her voice light, as if She’s discussing the weather. But the message is clear. He is Hers now. And this is only the beginning.

*ss Spreading Face Sitting Big Butts From Boyfriend To Toilet A 21 Minute Lesson In Submission (HD 4K MP4) with C4s.com