My Bike Seat Ass Bitch & Toilet — Face Sitting & Fart Worship | Mistress Mercy Rage

Some slaves dream small. This one dreamed of being a bike seat. That's the fantasy he showed up with — to have a woman settle her full weight onto his face and ride. He pictured the whole thing: a hot body, a completely indifferent expression, and nothing expected from him except to be there and hold still. He didn't know I had something much more interesting planned for the second half. I don't even have to try with this one. My body does the work before I've said a single word. Lean everywhere it should be lean, perky where it counts, with the kind of ass that stops conversations and redirects intentions before I've opened my mouth — I walk in and he's already losing. Already so deep in his head about what's about to happen that he's practically handed me everything before we've even started. Men with this particular fantasy are always the easiest. They arrive so focused on what they came for that they don't notice what's coming after it. He wanted to be a bike seat. So I give him exactly that. I climb on and I mean it. Full weight, no hesitation, no cushioning — his face is my seat and I ride it like something I own. I work my hips, shift my weight, settle in and get comfortable. It's not quick. I'm not in a hurry and I don't perform effort I'm not actually expending — I work up a genuine sweat doing this. The kind that builds in your thighs and gathers in the warmth of your body. The kind that stays somewhere after you've moved. He's underneath me the whole time. Doing what a good piece of human furniture does: staying still, holding position, and taking whatever the person sitting on him decides to do. When I've gotten what I wanted from the position, I decide I want something different. I climb off. I remove my clothes. I get down on the floor, flat on my stomach, and I stretch out. I'm comfortable. There's nowhere pressing to be and nothing to hurry toward — this is my floor, my session, my timeline, and right now my timeline says I'm relaxing. He's going to serve me while I do it. I have him start at my ass crack. The sweat from the ride is right there, gathered in the warmth of it, and he is going to clean it up with his tongue the way I direct him to. All of it. Up the full length of my crack, back down, slow and thorough, covering everything I point him toward. He's attentive because I've made it clear that attentiveness is what earns the next thing, and the next thing is something he's going to want to be positioned correctly for. When the crack is clean to my satisfaction, I have him go deeper. His tongue finds my hole and he probes it — working it carefully, patiently, giving me the kind of focused attention that tells me he understands the privilege of his situation. He should. He's earned this by being useful. He'll keep being useful by staying focused. The bike seat role has run its course. I have something different in mind for him now. I stay exactly where I am — stomach flat on the floor, fully relaxed, completely comfortable. There is no reason in the world for me to move. I get into position, take my time, and blow two slow, full farts directly into his face. I tell him to eat them. He will because I said so. That's the arrangement. "I'm comfortable on the floor," I tell him, without particular urgency. "No need to get up to use a toilet." I look back at him over my shoulder. "Open wide." He came here with a fantasy. He'll leave having lived something entirely mine.