I hate asks that start that way; it just doesn’t make sense to me.
“What would you do with me if you owned me for 24 hours?” How the fuck should I know, nitwit? Who are you? What are you?
I mean, okay, if you happened to be conventionally pretty, maybe “I’d bury a load in you” would be the most direct response. Even if you’re a complete tabula rasa to me, you’re still a woman and I’m still a man; reducing you to a series of satisfying curves and openings for the purposes of my erection more or less comes naturally to us both. But it comes naturally to just about any brain-dead frat-boy and his drunken, slutty prey, too; you surely want something other than that from me.
Yep, if you’re coming to me, you’re wanting more than just a bruised cervix. You want your mixed-up little head unlocked and pawed through like a bargain bin full of old, scratched-up DVDs with titles like Daddy’s Little Burdensome Obligation, Mom’s Life And How I Ruined It, and that deathless classic, When Uncles With Boundary Issues Attack. But that shit doesn’t happen without some prep work.
Mindfucking a cunt is all about knowing her background; the things that have happened that shouldn’t, the dreams that seemed within reach but weren’t. It’s about trawling through the swamp of her memory for the unburied bodies she hides there. It’s about finding that one spot on her flesh that she hates the most, that square inch of microscopically discolored or wrinkled skin into which she has squeezed a lifetime of self-loathing, and poking that shit with a pointy stick until she cries from the relief of being understood.
See, even if I wanted to, I couldn’t answer your lame hypothetical question without first understanding what makes you tick; after all, what I ultimately want to do to you is whatever it is that scares you the most.