That stomach dropping feeling as you grab my hair…
You’re at the precipice of reason, and I’m standing behind you, hand at your back and a smile on my lips. You’re going to fall, sweet girl. And you’re going to fall hard.
The things I do are pushes and shoves, every one. A hand at your backside floods your mind with the pain of it all, the way that coalesces into warm pleasure, seeping across your back. The words I drip into your ear send a rush of blood heavy to your cunt, making you visibly twitch, an involuntary wince. Push, push, little stumbled steps. You can see that edge coming up, the cliff of reason, the abyss of oblivion.
We both want you there. You want to be overloaded and overwhelmed, your brain switched from that churning sea of thought into just a receptacle, something to merely contain all these sensations, your body left to react on its own. For once, you don’t want to think. You just want to be.
You want to fall. You want me to push you.
You want to be driven, because you don’t have the will to drive yourself. Because you couldn’t drive yourself. It just wouldn’t be the same. It would require too much thought, and what you want is the antithesis of thought. You need a co-pilot. Hell, you need a pilot. You want to be the passenger. You want to go down with the ship, parachutes be damned. Freefall would be bliss.
You want to fall, and you want me to push you off the edge.
And you want me to be there to catch you before you hit the ground.