I want to make you cum, but you're going to need to work for it. I'd have you on your back, my cock buried inside that tight, soaking cunt, as I press a vibrator down on your clit. Firm, hard thrusts into you as a strong hand pins you down.

"Aww, do you want to cum? Yeah? Poor little baby needs to cum her silly little brains out? You can, but... I want to hear a secret. I want you to tell me something you haven't told anyone before. If you want to cum so bad, you're going to tell me a gross, disgusting, sick fantasy you have. You're going to confess your sickest thoughts to me, sweetheart. And then you'll be allowed to cum."

And you might whine, and moan, but I'd just keep fucking you and switch the vibrator up higher, pounding you closer to an orgasm. Faster and harder, until your toes begin to curl and your thoughts begin to fray with pleasure, and then—

I'd pull away. I'd stop.

"Aww, you didn't think you'd get to cum without telling me something, did you? You look so cute when you cum, but we're doing things a little differently from now on."

"So go on," I'd say, slipping my cock back into you and flicking the vibe back on. "Tell me your darkest thoughts."

You'd start off with something small. Something more... "normal". The truth, but not your deepest, darkest ones. I'd know, and I'd be able to tell. But if you're a good girl and you listen, you get permission to cum. So I'd fuck you hard again, bullying you into a sick, little orgasm as you writhe under me.

And the next evening we'd do this again. And we'd do this the evening after that. And that. And that too. Until you begin to run out of safer options.

"Aww, you don't have to hesitate, baby. I can tell there's more you're hiding. What are those secrets, sweetheart? Those thoughts and ideas that flash across your mind the moment before you cum hardest. The ones you never acknowledge, out of shame. It's okay, baby. You don't need to feel embarrassed or ashamed. You don't need to feel guilty for having those thoughts."

"You can tell me."

And so you'd begin to crack. Pleasure building up in your slutty cunt, and the need to cum, the addiction to those hits of dopamine sparking across your brain having taken hold of you. You'd give in, and that's okay, sweetheart.

You can tell me. You can tell me those nasty, disgusting thoughts, and I would only ever encourage them. I'd whisper my fantasies in your ears as you were cumming. I'd tell you how fucking hot it is for you to be like this. That's okay to be so, so much worse with me.