Queen Irene and Goddess Obsidian are fresh from a workout, still flushed and sweaty in Their tight little booty shorts, and They've already made the slave worship Their filthy, sweat-soaked socks until it gagged on the stink. Now They want its face. It's cuffed behind its back, blindfolded, collared and leashed, and flat on the floor. Each Goddess holds a wicked riding crop, and it's about to find out how much They enjoy using them.

Queen Irene goes first. She stands over its face and takes Her time, letting it hear Her laughing above it and letting it feel the heat coming off Her before She lowers Her round, perfect ass right down onto it. The damp white shorts are stretched tight across Her cheeks, and She drops Her full weight. Its nose and mouth vanish between Her cheeks and its airways seal shut.

Fifteen seconds. It bucks and kicks against the carpet while She sits there like it's a cushion, wiggling Her hips to get comfortable and grinding Herself deeper over its mouth.

Goddess Obsidian isn't going to let the moment go to waste. She climbs onto its chest in Her sweaty white socks and stands there, the leash chain in one hand and the crop in the other, pressing Her weight down on its ribs every time it tries to heave in air that isn't there. She yanks the collar tight to pull its face harder up into Irene's ass. Then She steps down onto its stomach and grinds Her sock into it until it squirms, and takes the crop across its thighs just to hear the muffled yelp come out from under Irene.

"Did I say you could move?"

When Irene finally lifts off, it's gasping and choking, and it doesn't get to catch its breath.

"Thank Her. Now."

"Thank you Queen Irene for sitting on my worthless face with your perfect ass! Please smother me even longer this time!"

"I can't fucking hear you. How long do you want me to sit on your face with my perfect ass?"

It screams it louder. Still not good enough. Every answer is too quiet, too slow, not grateful enough, and every failure earns the crop. Both Goddesses lay stripe after stripe across its chest, stomach and thighs, laughing at how it jerks and howls, until its body is covered in angry red welts and it's shrieking out its gratitude just to make the whipping stop.

Then it's Goddess Obsidian's turn. She straddles its head, sinks Her sweaty little shorts down over its mouth, and settles in with Her whole weight, knees pinning its head to the floor. Its chest heaves under Her and its cuffed hands claw uselessly at the carpet.

Queen Irene relaxes back on the couch like She's watching TV and props Her bare feet up on it as Her personal foot rest. She crosses Her ankles on its stomach, digs Her heel into its crotch, and flexes Her toes against its boxers while it chokes. Every time its hips jerk from lack of air, She presses down harder and taps the crop against its welts, slow and bored.

"Stop squirming. You're ruining my foot rest."

She counts out loud, lazily, taunting it the whole way through while it thrashes under Obsidian's ass.

"Still breathing? Guess She needs to sit longer."

Every round is longer than the last. Every round it has to beg louder for the next one, and every round the begging gets rejected. Every round the other Goddess finds a new way to use it while it's trapped. She stands on its chest in Her dirty socks, uses its stomach and crotch as a foot rest, drags the leash to pull its face up tighter into the ass sealing it shut, and whips the crop down on welts that are already raw. It never gets a second where only one of Them is using it.

By the end it's buried under a young, sweat-damp ass for seventy full seconds, blind, cuffed, leashed and whipped raw. One Goddess seals its airways shut with Her full weight, the other stands on its body and cracks the crop across its thighs, and it's thrashing on the carpet with two Goddesses fresh from the gym treating its face as a seat, its body as furniture and its breathing as something They hand out when They feel like it.

It only breathes when They decide it's begged well enough.

So far it hasn't.

Queen Irene and Goddess Obsidian are fresh from a workout, still flushed and sweaty in Their tight little booty shorts, and They've already made the slave worship Their filthy, sweat-soaked socks until it gagged on the stink. Now They want its face. It's cuffed behind its back, blindfolded, collared and leashed, and flat on the floor. Each Goddess holds a wicked riding crop, and it's about to find out how much They enjoy using them.

Queen Irene goes first. She stands over its face and takes Her time, letting it hear Her laughing above it and letting it feel the heat coming off Her before She lowers Her round, perfect ass right down onto it. The damp white shorts are stretched tight across Her cheeks, and She drops Her full weight. Its nose and mouth vanish between Her cheeks and its airways seal shut.

Fifteen seconds. It bucks and kicks against the carpet while She sits there like it's a cushion, wiggling Her hips to get comfortable and grinding Herself deeper over its mouth.

Goddess Obsidian isn't going to let the moment go to waste. She climbs onto its chest in Her sweaty white socks and stands there, the leash chain in one hand and the crop in the other, pressing Her weight down on its ribs every time it tries to heave in air that isn't there. She yanks the collar tight to pull its face harder up into Irene's ass. Then She steps down onto its stomach and grinds Her sock into it until it squirms, and takes the crop across its thighs just to hear the muffled yelp come out from under Irene.

"Did I say you could move?"

When Irene finally lifts off, it's gasping and choking, and it doesn't get to catch its breath.

"Thank Her. Now."

"Thank you Queen Irene for sitting on my worthless face with your perfect ass! Please smother me even longer this time!"

"I can't fucking hear you. How long do you want me to sit on your face with my perfect ass?"

It screams it louder. Still not good enough. Every answer is too quiet, too slow, not grateful enough, and every failure earns the crop. Both Goddesses lay stripe after stripe across its chest, stomach and thighs, laughing at how it jerks and howls, until its body is covered in angry red welts and it's shrieking out its gratitude just to make the whipping stop.

Then it's Goddess Obsidian's turn. She straddles its head, sinks Her sweaty little shorts down over its mouth, and settles in with Her whole weight, knees pinning its head to the floor. Its chest heaves under Her and its cuffed hands claw uselessly at the carpet.

Queen Irene relaxes back on the couch like She's watching TV and props Her bare feet up on it as Her personal foot rest. She crosses Her ankles on its stomach, digs Her heel into its crotch, and flexes Her toes against its boxers while it chokes. Every time its hips jerk from lack of air, She presses down harder and taps the crop against its welts, slow and bored.

"Stop squirming. You're ruining my foot rest."

She counts out loud, lazily, taunting it the whole way through while it thrashes under Obsidian's ass.

"Still breathing? Guess She needs to sit longer."

Every round is longer than the last. Every round it has to beg louder for the next one, and every round the begging gets rejected. Every round the other Goddess finds a new way to use it while it's trapped. She stands on its chest in Her dirty socks, uses its stomach and crotch as a foot rest, drags the leash to pull its face up tighter into the ass sealing it shut, and whips the crop down on welts that are already raw. It never gets a second where only one of Them is using it.

By the end it's buried under a young, sweat-damp ass for seventy full seconds, blind, cuffed, leashed and whipped raw. One Goddess seals its airways shut with Her full weight, the other stands on its body and cracks the crop across its thighs, and it's thrashing on the carpet with two Goddesses fresh from the gym treating its face as a seat, its body as furniture and its breathing as something They hand out when They feel like it.

It only breathes when They decide it's begged well enough.

So far it hasn't.

The dungeon glows with deep red light. A muscular slave is tightly strapped face-up to the heavy bondage bench, wrists and ankles locked, thick black blindfold covering its eyes, and its pathetic cock locked in a tiny steel chastity cage that has been on for an entire week.

Queen Irene (shiny red PVC bikini top barely containing her breasts, black PVC shorts, long red PVC gloves, black leather flogger in hand) and Goddess Obsidian (skin-tight black PVC romper with a high-cut thong, riding crop ready) stand over their new piece of furniture.

Irene cracks the flogger across its stomach. “Look at it, Obsidian. This thing’s cock has been locked for a week and it still thinks it deserves attention. It will never fuck a pussy again. Today it learns its only purpose is to serve our superior pussies.”

She brings the riding crop down hard on its inner thighs, leaving bright red marks. “Got that, it? Thank your Owners for this honor.” The slave whimpers, “Thank you, Queen! Thank you, Goddess!”

Irene steps over its head and drops her full weight down, centering her crotch perfectly over its mouth and nose. Her legs hang straight down on either side of the bench, feet completely off the floor. The warm, damp black PVC shorts press tightly, completely sealing its airways under her pussy. “Sniff it, furniture. Smell the pussy you exist to worship.” Even through the steel cage, the rich scent of her pussy makes its locked peanut twitch and strain painfully, desperate but denied.

Goddess Obsidian laughs and whips its chest while Irene smothers it. “It’s already trying to get hard just from our scent. How pathetic. Furniture doesn’t get hard — it just serves.”

They take turns. Obsidian lowers herself and plants her full weight directly onto its face, centering her pussy and ass so it is completely engulfed. Her legs lift, feet dangling freely — every ounce of her body sealing its airways under her superior pussy. Its face is smashed deep into her crotch, showing it exactly how completely her pussy controls its breath. While one Goddess smothers it with long, escalating holds, the other sits on its chest or stomach and whips its locked cock, laughing as the cage twitches from the overwhelming pussy scent.

They rotate for several minutes, increasing the time until its world is nothing but their pussies and total denial.

Finally, they strap a double-sided dildo gag deep into its mouth. Irene pins its chest while Obsidian pulls her thong aside, sinks down onto the dildo, and rides its face hard. “Fuck my pussy with your face, it. Move!” Irene whips its body without mercy as Obsidian uses its head to pleasure herself, grinding until she cums hard, flooding the gag and its face with her juices.

They remove the gag and shove the cum-covered dildo down its throat. “Swallow every drop of superior pussy juice, it. You will never waste any.”

The Goddesses finish with long, full-weight facesits — legs dangling, crotches perfectly sealed, reminding it that its only purpose is to serve as their living furniture. Obsidian stands, adjusts her thong, and spits on its face. “We’re going to find real men now, it. Stay locked and useless.”

The camera lingers on the broken, juice-covered, whip-marked piece of furniture still strapped helplessly to the bench as the two Goddesses walk away laughing.

Die Falle ist gestellt

Königin Irene lockt den College-Perversling auf ihre Couch, blinzelt kokett mit den Wimpern, als er hereinschreitet und bereits prahlt: „Du wirst meine Hure sein.“ Er glaubt, die Kontrolle zu haben – bis sich die Tür öffnet. Göttin Obsidian tritt ein, Peitsche in der Hand, Ihre dunklen Augen brennen vor kalter Wut. „Nein“, schnurrt Sie, die Stimme triefend vor Gift, „DU wirst unsere Hure sein.“ Sie wirft ein Handy auf den Couchtisch – sein Handy. Der Bildschirm leuchtet auf mit unbestreitbarem Beweismaterial: Er beim Herausholen seiner illegalen Kamera aus der Umkleidekabine des Frauen-Volleyballteams, wie er grinst, während er das Gerät einsteckt, das die Privatsphäre zahlloser Überlegener Frauen verletzt hat. Sein Gesicht wird bleich. Königin Irene beugt sich näher heran, Ihre Stimme eine Klinge, umhüllt von Seide: „Du wirst ins Gefängnis gehen und dort jemandes Hure werden… es sei denn, du tust genau, was wir dir sagen.“ Der Raum verdichtet sich unter dem Gewicht seines bevorstehenden Untergangs. Es gibt keine Verhandlung. Nur Unterwerfung.

Der Abstieg beginnt

Sie zwingen ihn, auf die Knie zu sinken, dann flach auf den weichen weißen Teppich – seinen neuen Lebensraum. Die Handschellen klicken um seine Handgelenke, fesseln ihn, während die erste Lektion beginnt. „Du musst lernen, Frauen Respekt entgegenzubringen“, verkündet Göttin Obsidian, „und du wirst ganz unten anfangen – mit unseren Füßen.“ Königin Irene steigt auf seinen Rücken, Ihre bloße Sohle presst sich in seine Wirbelsäule, während Sie seine Belastbarkeit testet. „Du machst einen großartigen Teppich“, bemerkt Sie nachdenklich, verschiebt Ihr Gewicht, reibt ihren Absatz in seine Rippen. Eine andere Göttin gesellt sich dazu, ihr stöckelbewehrter Fuß fixiert sein Schulterblatt. Er zuckt zusammen, doch die eigentliche Demütigung hat noch nicht einmal begonnen.

Der heilige Gestank der Überlegenheit

Königin Irene lässt sich aufs Sofa sinken, stellt Ihre verschwitzten, stinkenden Füße – eingepackt in weiße Socken – direkt vor sein Gesicht. „Riech sie“, befiehlt Sie, bewegt Ihre dunkelrot lackierten Zehen. „Riech den Schweiß Meiner heiligen Füße, Hure. Du wirst jetzt unsere Fußhure sein.“ Sie drückt den feuchten Stoff in seine Nase, ihre Stimme scharf vor Ekel. „Ich höre dich verdammt nochmal nicht schnuppern.“ Seine Nasenflügel weiten sich, während der Moschus ihrer Dominanz seine Lungen füllt, der Geruch der Arbeit einer Göttin – Ihr Volleyballtraining, Ihre Überlegenheit – nun seine Strafe. Göttin Obsidian steht auf seinem am Boden liegenden Körper, ihr Gewicht zerquetscht seine Brust, während Königin Irene ihm die Socke mit den Zähnen abstreift, der Stoff zwischen seinen Lippen gedehnt wie eine Leine. Sie hält die schmutzige Socke vor sein Gesicht. „Riech sie“, faucht Sie. Er gehorcht, atmet den ranzigen, salzigen Gestank ihres Fußes ein. Dann, mit einem grausamen Lachen, stopft Sie sie ihm in den Mund. „Behalt sie da drin. Das ist dein neuer Geschmack.“

Das Zungenbad

Sie tauschen Plätze. Königin Irene sitzt rittlings auf seinem Oberkörper, ihre Oberschenkel quetschen seine Rippen, während Göttin Obsidian aufs Sofa steigt, ihr verschwitzter, sockenbedeckter Fuß schwebt über seinem Gesicht. „Schnüffle an meinen verschwitzten Socken, Fußhure“, befiehlt Sie und presst die Sohle hinunter. Er winselt, aber die Alternative ist das Gefängnis. Sie zieht die Socke mit seinem Mund aus, dann befiehlt: „Streck deine Zunge raus.“ Er gehorcht, und Sie zieht den dreckigen Stoff darüber, verteilt den Dreck des Tages auf seinen Geschmacksknospen. „Jetzt nimm sie ab – mit deinen Zähnen.“ Er nagt am Stoff wie ein hungriger Hund, seine Würde löst sich auf mit jedem Faden. Doch damit ist sie noch nicht fertig. „Streck deine Zunge raus, Fußmatte“, knurrt Sie, setzt Ihren nackten, glänzenden Fuß darauf. Sie wischt Ihren Fuß rauf und runter über seine Zunge, als wäre es ein Lappen, der Schweiß einer Göttin nun Teil seiner permanenten Ernährung. Königin Irene macht weiter, ihr Fuß gleitet über seine Zunge, ihr Gelächter hallt wider, während er an dem Geschmack seiner eigenen Minderwertigkeit würgt.

Die Kehldurchfickung

Göttin Obsidian ist unzufrieden mit seiner mangelhaften Vorstellung. „Mach endlich dein beschissenes Maul auf“, bellt Sie, doch er zögert. Sie packt sein Kinn, reißt es gewaltsam auseinander, während Königin Irene ihren Fuß hineinrammt, presst nach unten, bis sein Rachen anschwoll. Speichel tropft sein Kinn hinab, während Sie seinen Mund fickt, ihre Zehen krallen sich gegen seine Zunge. Göttin Obsidian platziert beide Füße links und rechts neben seinem Kopf, fixiert ihn so, während Königin Irene seine Kehle beansprucht, ihr Fuß stößt rein und raus. Er gurgelt, Tränen strömen, doch die Göttin lächelt nur. „Genau so, nimm alles, Hure.“ Dann wechseln sie, Göttin Obsidian besteigt das Sofa, ihr Fuß ersetzt den von Königin Irene. Sie reibt ihre Sohle in seinen Mund, bringt ihn immer wieder zum Würgen, ihre weißlackierten French-Tip-Nägel graben sich in seine Brust, während sie ihn daran erinnert: „So geht’s Männern, die Frauen respektlos behandeln.“

Der menschliche Teppich

Ausgelaufen und gebrochen liegt er ausgebreitet unter ihnen, während sie ihn als Fußstütze benutzen und ihren nächsten Zug planen. Die dunkelrot lackierten Zehen von Königin Irene bohren sich in seinen Hals, während die weißlackierten Nägel von Göttin Obsidian in seine Brust drücken. „Wir sind noch lange nicht fertig mit dir“, murmelt Sie, dreht die Peitsche spielerisch. „Aber fürs Erste… bist du unser Teppich.“ Die Kamera verweilt auf seinem besiegt wirkenden, tränenüberströmten Gesicht, während sich die beiden Göttinnen vielsagende Blicke zuwerfen. Sein Schicksal ist besiegelt. Er ist kein Mann mehr. Er ist Eigentum. Und sein neuer Zweck besteht darin, die Füße anzubeten, die sein Ego im Staub zermalmt haben.

Die Falle ist gestellt

Königin Irene lockt den College-Perversling auf ihr Sofa, blinzelt kokett mit den Wimpern, als er hereinschreitet und bereits prahlt: „Du wirst meine unterwürfige Hündin sein.“ Er glaubt, die Kontrolle zu haben – bis sich die Tür öffnet. Göttin Obsidian tritt ein, Peitsche in der Hand, ihre dunklen Augen brennen vor kalter Wut. „Nein“, schnurrt sie, ihre Stimme trieft vor Gift, „DU wirst unsere unterwürfige Hündin sein.“ Sie wirft ein Handy auf den Couchtisch – sein Handy. Der Bildschirm leuchtet auf mit unbestreitbarem Beweismaterial: ihn beim Herausholen seiner illegalen Kamera aus der Umkleidekabine des Frauen-Volleyballteams; wie er grinst, während er das Gerät einsteckt, das die Privatsphäre zahlloser Überlegener Frauen verletzt hat. Sein Gesicht wird bleich. Königin Irene beugt sich näher heran, ihre Stimme eine Klinge, umhüllt von Seide: „Du wirst ins Gefängnis gehen und dort jemandes Hündin sein… es sei denn, du tust genau, was wir dir sagen.“ Der Raum verdichtet sich unter dem Gewicht seines bevorstehenden Untergangs. Es gibt keine Verhandlung. Es gibt nur Unterwerfung.

Der Abstieg beginnt

Sie zwingen ihn, auf die Knie zu sinken, dann flach auf den weichen weißen Teppich – seinem neuen Reich. Die Handschellen klicken um seine Gelenke, fesseln ihn, während die erste Lektion beginnt. „Du musst lernen, Frauen Respekt entgegenzubringen“, verkündet Göttin Obsidian, „und du wirst ganz unten anfangen – mit unseren Füßen.“ Königin Irene steigt auf seinen Rücken, ihre bloße Sohle presst sich in seine Wirbelsäule, während sie seine Belastbarkeit testet. „Du machst einen großartigen Teppich“, bemerkt sie nachdenklich, verlagert ihr Gewicht, reibt ihren Absatz in seine Rippen. Die andere Göttin gesellt sich dazu, ihr stöckelbewehrter Fuß fixiert sein Schulterblatt. Er zuckt zusammen, doch die eigentliche Demütigung hat noch nicht einmal begonnen.

Der heilige Gestank der Überlegenheit

Königin Irene lässt sich aufs Sofa sinken, stellt ihre verschwitzten, stinkenden Füße – eingepackt in weiße Socken – direkt vor sein Gesicht. „Riech sie“, befiehlt sie und bewegt ihre dunkelrot lackierten Zehen. „Riech den Schweiß meiner heiligen Füße, Hündin. Du wirst jetzt unsere Fußdienerin sein.“ Sie drückt den feuchten Stoff fest gegen seine Nase, ihre Stimme scharf vor Ekel. „Ich höre dich verdammt nochmal nicht schnuppern.“ Seine Nasenflügel weiten sich, während der Moschus ihrer Dominanz seine Lungen füllt, der Geruch der Arbeit einer Göttin – ihres Volleyballtrainings, ihrer Überlegenheit – nun seine Strafe. Göttin Obsidian steht auf seinem am Boden liegenden Körper, ihr Gewicht zerquetscht seine Brust, während Königin Irene ihm die Socke mit den Zähnen abstreift, der Stoff zwischen seinen Lippen gedehnt wie eine Leine. Sie hält die schmutzige Socke vor sein Gesicht. „Riech daran“, faucht sie. Er gehorcht, atmet den ranzigen, salzigen Gestank ihrer Fußarbeit ein. Dann, mit einem grausamen Lachen, stopft sie sie ihm in den Mund. „Behalt sie da drin. Das ist jetzt dein neuer Geschmack.“

Das Zungenbad

Sie tauschen Plätze. Königin Irene sitzt rittlings auf seinem Oberkörper, ihre Oberschenkel quetschen seine Rippen, während Göttin Obsidian auf das Sofa steigt, ihr verschwitzter, sockenbedeckter Fuß schwebt über seinem Gesicht. „Schnüffle an meinen verschwitzten Socken, Fußhündin“, befiehlt sie und presst die Sohle hinunter. Er winselt, aber die Alternative ist das Gefängnis. Sie zieht die Socke mit seinem Mund aus, dann befiehlt sie: „Streck deine Zunge heraus.“ Er gehorcht, und sie zieht den dreckigen Stoff darüber, verteilt den Dreck des Tages auf seinen Geschmacksknospen. „Jetzt nimm sie ab – mit deinen Zähnen.“ Er nagt am Stoff wie ein hungriger Hund, seine Würde löst sich auf bei jedem Faden. Doch sie ist noch nicht fertig. „Streck deine Zunge raus, Teppich“, knurrt sie, setzt ihre nackte, glänzende Sohle darauf. Sie wischt ihren Fuß rauf und runter über seine Zunge, als wäre es ein Lappen, der Schweiß einer Göttin nun Teil seiner permanenten Ernährung. Königin Irene macht weiter, ihr Fuß gleitet über seine Zunge, ihr Gelächter hallt wider, während er an dem Geschmack seiner eigenen Minderwertigkeit würgt.

Die Kehldurchfickung

Göttin Obsidian ist unzufrieden mit seiner mangelhaften Vorstellung. „Öffne verdammt nochmal deinen Mund“, bellt sie, doch er zögert. Sie packt sein Kinn, reißt es gewaltsam auseinander, während Königin Irene ihren Fuß hineinrammt, drückt so lange nach, bis sein Rachen anschwillt. Speichel tropft ihm vom Kinn, während sie seinen Mund fickt, ihre Zehen krallen sich gegen seine Zunge. Göttin Obsidian setzt beide Füße links und rechts neben seinen Kopf, fixiert ihn damit, während Königin Irene seine Kehle beansprucht, ihr Fuß stößt immer wieder hinein und heraus. Er gurgelt, Tränen strömen, doch die Göttin lächelt nur. „So ist’s gut, schluck alles, Hündin.“ Dann wechselt sie, Göttin Obsidian besteigt das Sofa, ihr Fuß ersetzt den von Königin Irene. Sie reibt ihre Sohle in seinen Mund, bringt ihn immer wieder zum Würgen, ihre weißlackierten French-Tip-Nägel graben sich in seine Brust, während sie ihn daran erinnert: „Genau das passiert Männern, die Frauen respektlos behandeln.“

Der menschliche Teppich

Ausgelaugt und gebrochen liegt er ausgebreitet unter ihnen, während sie ihn als Fußstütze benutzen und ihren nächsten Zug planen. Die dunkelrot lackierten Zehen von Königin Irene bohren sich in seinen Hals, während die weißlackierten Nägel von Göttin Obsidian in seine Brust pressen. „Wir sind noch nicht mit dir fertig“, murmelt sie, dreht dabei die Peitsche. „Aber fürs Erste… bist du unser Teppich.“ Die Kamera verweilt auf seinem besiegt wirkenden, tränenüberströmten Gesicht, während die beiden Göttinnen einen vielsagenden Blick austauschen. Sein Schicksal ist besiegelt. Er ist kein Mann mehr. Er ist Eigentum. Und sein neuer Zweck besteht darin, die Füße anzubeten, die sein Ego im Staub zermalmt haben.

Queen Irene's professor comes by to help tutor Her in a class She's fallen behind in, but She lost track of time and forgot; She was in the middle of a grueling workout when the prof came by. She apologizes for being so sweaty, as She sits down with him wearing just a skimpy yoga top and neon yellow yoga pants with black, sweat-soaked socks. The professor notices and Queen Irene says:

"One of my friends told Me My feet were smelly years ago and now I have a complex. Will you smell them for Me and make sure they don't smell bad?"

He is mesmerized by Her sweaty, black sock covered feet and touches them as She pushes one up into his face:

"Smell it....good, now deeply. Really inhale the essence fully. Do they smell bad?"

"No, they smell....wonderful"

"So you like My feet?"

"Oh my good YES...they're beautiful, they smell amazing...and ..."

"Would you like to serve My feet?"

"Oh my god, yes, definitely!"

"Then get on your knees in front of me"

She puts Her black, sweat-soaked socks into his face and nose, completely covering it with Her stinky socks.

"Smell them, sniff deeply"

He starts inhaling audibly over and over as She rubs them in his face. Then She tells him to take off his clothe and get on the ground. She has him strip down to his underwear and kneel in front of Her and puts a collar, leash and a pig mask on his head. She stands over him and. rubs each of Her sweaty socks into his face, making him stick his tongue out so She can use his tongue as a doormat. Then She sits on the sofa and has him open his mouth:

"Taste my dirty, sweaty sock, piggie....now the other one...which one tastes better?"

She makes him suck each dirty sock, pushing one down into his throat while She holds his head with Her other foot and begins logging him hard across his body. He tries to move his head to avoid the invading foot in his throat:
"Don't you DARE try to get away from my foot! Take my foot deeper down your pig throat and suck the sock clean!"

He is gagging and retching, trying to fit all Her sweaty toes into his mouth while She pulls on the leash. THen She puts both feet together and pries the pig's mouth open with Her toes:

"Ready for a sweaty sock sandwich? Open up, bitch"

She tries to push both feet down into the pigs throat, pulling hard on the leash as the clip fades out.

Queen Irene's professor comes by to help tutor Her in a class She's fallen behind in, but She lost track of time and forgot; She was in the middle of a grueling workout when the prof came by. She apologizes for being so sweaty, as She sits down with him wearing just a skimpy yoga top and neon yellow yoga pants with black, sweat-soaked socks. The professor notices and Queen Irene says:

"One of my friends told Me My feet were smelly years ago and now I have a complex. Will you smell them for Me and make sure they don't smell bad?"

He is mesmerized by Her sweaty, black sock covered feet and touches them as She pushes one up into his face:

"Smell it....good, now deeply. Really inhale the essence fully. Do they smell bad?"

"No, they smell....wonderful"

"So you like My feet?"

"Oh my good YES...they're beautiful, they smell amazing...and ..."

"Would you like to serve My feet?"

"Oh my god, yes, definitely!"

"Then get on your knees in front of me"

She puts Her black, sweat-soaked socks into his face and nose, completely covering it with Her stinky socks.

"Smell them, sniff deeply"

He starts inhaling audibly over and over as She rubs them in his face. Then She tells him to take off his clothe and get on the ground. She has him strip down to his underwear and kneel in front of Her and puts a collar, leash and a pig mask on his head. She stands over him and. rubs each of Her sweaty socks into his face, making him stick his tongue out so She can use his tongue as a doormat. Then She sits on the sofa and has him open his mouth:

"Taste my dirty, sweaty sock, piggie....now the other one...which one tastes better?"

She makes him suck each dirty sock, pushing one down into his throat while She holds his head with Her other foot and begins logging him hard across his body. He tries to move his head to avoid the invading foot in his throat:
"Don't you DARE try to get away from my foot! Take my foot deeper down your pig throat and suck the sock clean!"

He is gagging and retching, trying to fit all Her sweaty toes into his mouth while She pulls on the leash. THen She puts both feet together and pries the pig's mouth open with Her toes:

"Ready for a sweaty sock sandwich? Open up, bitch"

She tries to push both feet down into the pigs throat, pulling hard on the leash as the clip fades out.

Queen Irene's sissy had undergone its initial training, but Queen Irene feels the cunt needs to be brought down a peg or two. She's secured the bitch in twin spreader bars on the floor, wearing a black latex slave hood, secured in pink cuffs and collar, pretty pink sissy bra and matching pink satin camisole. She even put a pink, satin clitty-bonnet over it's pathetic excuse for a penis.

Queen Irene is seated above the bitch, glowering over imperiously. She wears fishnet stockings, a black PVC skirt, halter top and 5-inch, jet-black stilletto spike heels:

"You need to learn respect bitch, specifically for my perfect feet. I've worn these stockings and heels for a couple of days now...they're slimy and my feet are frankly disgusting. That's where you come in, foot whore. First lick my fucking shoe clean, cunt"

She extends Her shapely leg and pushes one of Her glossy black, 5-inch stiletto heels into its face. The slave licks up and down the sides, licks the soles clean, and then is ordered to remove the shoes with its teeth. She then places both sweaty, stinky and dirty stocking feet over the slave's face, completely nullifying it:

"Breathe in the smell of my sweaty, dirty feet slave. I want you to cherish EVERYTHING that comes from ME. Keep sniffing, pig"

She starts to smother the slave until its out of air and flailing away. She has the slave shower each foot with tiny kisses, like a lovers face. Then She gets a bit more serious:

"Open you whore mouth and keep your fucking tongue out"

She wipes Her grimy, slimy stinky foot on the slave's tongue, rubbing hard She wipes both feet on the slave's extended tongue.

"Swallow and thank Me for that honor you fucking $2 whore"

As soon as the bitch does, Queen Irene crams a stocking-clad foot into its mouth:

"Open up bitch! Now I want you take my ENTIRE FOOT down your throat. If you can't do it, we'll just have to keep trying"

She starts gagging poor slave, pulling on its leash to keep it from getting away from Her invading feet. She holds a foot behind the slave's head while stuffing the other foot into its mouth. The slave keeps choking and gagging, so She finally stops and smothers the slave again.

Queen Irene's sissy had undergone its initial training, but Queen Irene feels the cunt needs to be brought down a peg or two. She's secured the bitch in twin spreader bars on the floor, wearing a black latex slave hood, secured in pink cuffs and collar, pretty pink sissy bra and matching pink satin camisole. She even put a pink, satin clitty-bonnet over it's pathetic excuse for a penis.

Queen Irene is seated above the bitch, glowering over imperiously. She wears fishnet stockings, a black PVC skirt, halter top and 5-inch, jet-black stilletto spike heels:

"You need to learn respect bitch, specifically for my perfect feet. I've worn these stockings and heels for a couple of days now...they're slimy and my feet are frankly disgusting. That's where you come in, foot whore. First lick my fucking shoe clean, cunt"

She extends Her shapely leg and pushes one of Her glossy black, 5-inch stiletto heels into its face. The slave licks up and down the sides, licks the soles clean, and then is ordered to remove the shoes with its teeth. She then places both sweaty, stinky and dirty stocking feet over the slave's face, completely nullifying it:

"Breathe in the smell of my sweaty, dirty feet slave. I want you to cherish EVERYTHING that comes from ME. Keep sniffing, pig"

She starts to smother the slave until its out of air and flailing away. She has the slave shower each foot with tiny kisses, like a lovers face. Then She gets a bit more serious:

"Open you whore mouth and keep your fucking tongue out"

She wipes Her grimy, slimy stinky foot on the slave's tongue, rubbing hard She wipes both feet on the slave's extended tongue.

"Swallow and thank Me for that honor you fucking $2 whore"

As soon as the bitch does, Queen Irene crams a stocking-clad foot into its mouth:

"Open up bitch! Now I want you take my ENTIRE FOOT down your throat. If you can't do it, we'll just have to keep trying"

She starts gagging poor slave, pulling on its leash to keep it from getting away from Her invading feet. She holds a foot behind the slave's head while stuffing the other foot into its mouth. The slave keeps choking and gagging, so She finally stops and smothers the slave again.

Queen Irene has been helping out Her parents by doing some housekeeping at their boutique hotel while She's been on summer break. She's donned a sexy, black and white maid outfit and spike heels when a customer starts harassing Her and trying to grab Her. She politely refuses, and when he leaves for a moment She slips a mickey in his drink.

When he comes to, She has him in pink sissy lingerie, a latex bondage hood, a pink collar with rhinestones, and pink leg and wrist cuffs, the wrists attached to a red spreader bar. She is sitting on his chest and has changed out of the maid's outfit into a black, PVC halter top, skirt and perhaps the same black, stiletto, 5-inch spike heels. He starts sputtering, asking what's going on and finally recognizes Her:

"The maid? What the fuck? What are you doing to me?"

"You thought I was some dumb immigrant maid, huh? My parents own this hotel, and I'm just helping out. I'm gonna make you my sissy bitch. You're gonna find out what it feels like to be a vulnerable, submissive, and extremely feminine prissy, sissy girl."

"What the fuck? You're not gonna do fucking thing to me bitch, I'm gonna get even with you!"

She sits on his face, completely smothering him and sealing his airways. He starts making muffled screaming sounds, bucking wildly and trying to get free, but with his arms in the spreader bars and Her full weight on his face and arms, She easily keeps him pinned, pushing his arms back painfully as he struggles:

"There's nothing you can do bitch, you'd better understand who has the power right now and who doesn't. You're going to be a girl. You're going to talk, walk and suck cock just like a real girl does. Now repeat after Me, 'I am not a man, I am a prissy, sissy girl'"

"Fuck that! I'm not saying that BS! I'm a man!"

She sits back down on his face and starts smothering him again, but this time She starts whipping his thighs with a long, wicked, black and white riding crop, leaving painful, bright-red welts while She giggles at his muffled screams coming from under Her. She rises up again, leaving him coughing and gasping for air whlie She grabs some clothes pins. She sits back down on his face as he screeches in protest, and puts a little pink bonnet on his cock. Then She starts decorating it painfully with clothespin after clothespin. She lets off of hi again and asks him:

"Now, tell me who's not a man? Who's my pretty sissy girl?"

"I am not a man Queen Irene, I'm You pretty sissy girl"

"That's right, whore"

She says as She sits back down on the sissy's face. She keeps adding more clothespins, smothering the bitch for longer and longer times, and finally seems satisfied that She's broken the slave's will, at least for now.

She climbs off the slave and removes the clothespins from the slave's cock, which hurts even more. Laughing at the sissy's pain, She strolls out, warning the bitch that this is only the beginning.

Queen Irene has been helping out Her parents by doing some housekeeping at their boutique hotel while She's been on summer break. She's donned a sexy, black and white maid outfit and spike heels when a customer starts harassing Her and trying to grab Her. She politely refuses, and when he leaves for a moment She slips a mickey in his drink.

When he comes to, She has him in pink sissy lingerie, a latex bondage hood, a pink collar with rhinestones, and pink leg and wrist cuffs, the wrists attached to a red spreader bar. She is sitting on his chest and has changed out of the maid's outfit into a black, PVC halter top, skirt and perhaps the same black, stiletto, 5-inch spike heels. He starts sputtering, asking what's going on and finally recognizes Her:

"The maid? What the fuck? What are you doing to me?"

"You thought I was some dumb immigrant maid, huh? My parents own this hotel, and I'm just helping out. I'm gonna make you my sissy bitch. You're gonna find out what it feels like to be a vulnerable, submissive, and extremely feminine prissy, sissy girl."

"What the fuck? You're not gonna do fucking thing to me bitch, I'm gonna get even with you!"

She sits on his face, completely smothering him and sealing his airways. He starts making muffled screaming sounds, bucking wildly and trying to get free, but with his arms in the spreader bars and Her full weight on his face and arms, She easily keeps him pinned, pushing his arms back painfully as he struggles:

"There's nothing you can do bitch, you'd better understand who has the power right now and who doesn't. You're going to be a girl. You're going to talk, walk and suck cock just like a real girl does. Now repeat after Me, 'I am not a man, I am a prissy, sissy girl'"

"Fuck that! I'm not saying that BS! I'm a man!"

She sits back down on his face and starts smothering him again, but this time She starts whipping his thighs with a long, wicked, black and white riding crop, leaving painful, bright-red welts while She giggles at his muffled screams coming from under Her. She rises up again, leaving him coughing and gasping for air whlie She grabs some clothes pins. She sits back down on his face as he screeches in protest, and puts a little pink bonnet on his cock. Then She starts decorating it painfully with clothespin after clothespin. She lets off of hi again and asks him:

"Now, tell me who's not a man? Who's my pretty sissy girl?"

"I am not a man Queen Irene, I'm You pretty sissy girl"

"That's right, whore"

She says as She sits back down on the sissy's face. She keeps adding more clothespins, smothering the bitch for longer and longer times, and finally seems satisfied that She's broken the slave's will, at least for now.

She climbs off the slave and removes the clothespins from the slave's cock, which hurts even more. Laughing at the sissy's pain, She strolls out, warning the bitch that this is only the beginning.