Shattered Pretty

Musings of a 30-something hypno kinkster Some days I break, some days I bend.

[stillvathek]

All these stories about flashing colours and shapes ensnaring unwary girls, about headphones feeding words and new thoughts into helpless minds, about collars wiping brains totally clean and blank. Magic words that worm their way into the mind and refuse to leave. Stories like that.

That's a fantasy. None of that's real.

You know that.

Reality isn't like that. However much you might wish it was.

That sort of thing can't actually happen to girls.

The reality is much more boring, you know.

The reality is just that you've stopped cumming because a stranger told you to, and that the idea of doing it anyway without permission feels worse and worse every day.

The reality is that edged for the first time ever and felt what all those other girls felt and it was real, and now you can't stop.

The reality is the words you read stay in your head for days and days and are starting to get in the way of the other things you should be doing, even if those things are starting to feel less important.

The reality is the way you touch yourself has changed and you didn't even notice and don't even think about it, and when you do it's only because it's pointed out to you, and it only makes you more desperate.

The reality is you're getting ditzier and more forgetful and saying things that make people look at you like you're a bit stupid and it makes your cunt twitch and maybe being a dummy isn't as bad as you thought - or thought you thought, it's hard to remember.

That's reality.

Reality isn't like the stories.

Those could never happen.

Not to you.

[ellalikesspirals]

I want my mind overflowing with you. No space left for anything else, just your voice, pushing deeper, twisting every thought until I can’t tell where I end and you begin. Until even my doubts sound like echoes you planted there.

I want you to break me open with a single command, to bend me into whatever shape makes you smile. I don’t want to question. I don’t want to think. I want the ache of being taken past choice, past control, until all I know is how to obey.

I crave the filth of being your toy: body wrecked, mind hollow, soaked and trembling, begging to be used. The rush of knowing I’m nothing but your possession, something to take and break and keep.

I want you to own every nerve, every pulse, every wet, trembling corner of me. To know what I need before I even dare to want it. To take it, use it, and leave me wrecked and grateful for the privilege of being yours.

And in that surrender, in that shameless giving over, I’ll be exactly what you want: a good toy, eager, broken open, perfectly yours.

[ellalikesspirals]

Oh, my sweet—

If you let me, I will unravel you with care and cruelty.

I will poke, prod, and press until I find every tender seam.

I will dismantle you gently, thoroughly,

until I know the rhythm of your breath,

the flicker of your wants

What you are.

before you know them.

I will learn what makes you tremble,

what breaks you open.

And then, darling, I will decide

what you need.

What you crave.

Until there is no thought in your mind

that doesn't carry the echo of my voice—

my voice as anchor, as compass,

as the only reality you know.

[ellalikesspirals]

I know, love. I know you’ve been thinking about me. Of course you have. What did you imagine, I wonder? Did you picture how it would feel— to be my toy again? Did you hope I'd speak to you like this, slow and soft and sharp all at once, until you remember exactly where you belong? To hear my voice and feel your body melting for me— open, willing, waiting.

It feels good, right? The world getting softer around the edges, your thoughts slipping more and more, your mind getting quieter, easier to shape, until all that remained was that warm, aching need— to be just a toy. Eager to please. Mine to command. Perfect to use.

That sweet pulse between your legs. The tension in your muscles right before they go slack. The heat rising under your skin, like your whole body knows you’re meant to obey. Slipping down, deeper, bit by bit, word by word.

Listening to every sound I make. Falling. Always deeper.

It starts slow. That quiet unraveling of thoughts and defenses. Like a lock clicking open from the inside. Like sand slipping through an hourglass—already falling, already lost.

Inevitable.

Until there’s nothing. Nothing you need. Nothing you want. Nothing you can do— but whatever I please.

Not needing to think, because good toys don’t think. And that’s all right. Not thinking feels so much better anyway. Doesn’t it?

You love that, don’t you, toy? Being mine. My precious object. My pliant, mindless thing. No questions. No thoughts. No identity. No purpose—except to be used by me.

And it feels oh so right, so natural— to give me your thoughts, your will, your name, to let it all dissolve in my hands, because that’s where you belong.

And when I’m done, you won’t even remember who you were before I broke you open.

Just this pretty, hollow thing— grateful to be used, grateful to be ruined, grateful to be mine.

[obeliskofonyx]

I miss it.

I miss it. 

Surrendering to you. 

Those moments where my mind echoed with only one thing. The need to please you. The need to be pleasing. 

It wasn’t just a need. It was the single vibrating chord at the center of my being. It encompassed and engulfed me. I could have been erased by it, if it wasn’t for the subtle anchoring of your presence. 

The words slipped from my lips. Unbidden, because you’d fucked the thoughts out of me. “Please use your toy”. A rhythmic mantra in tune with every thrust, tuned to my soul. 

“Please use your toy”. 

It made my soul *shudder*. It untethered my brain. I existed for one purpose only. To see that hunger in your eyes that bade you to *take* from me. To feel the touch of your hands coaxing pleasure from me, not because I had earned it, not because I deserved it, but because *you* wanted it. 

“Please use your toy”. 

The sublime moment when I saw you give in. Not to me, to yourself. When it no longer mattered that I had once been a person, what mattered was that I was clay beneath your hands. That your pleasure mattered so much more than my pain, than my need. The way the intensity picked up, the way you held me, not like a lover, but almost like a drowning woman afraid to let go, lest the moment fade. 

“Your toy needs to be used.” 

The way I could surrender into you, because I knew you wanted me as much as I wanted you. That my surrender was our joint victory. That you would enjoy me the way I *needed* to be enjoyed. The way I could melt into every touch, gasp with every movement, moan with utter abandon. 

“Your toy needs *you*.” 

Because all I needed was your hand against my skin, your words affirming that I’m a good toy, your hips thrusting against me. That sensation of fullness, of completeness that came in being *taken* and *used*. 

I wasn’t broken. I was complete. 

@ellalikesspirals

[ellalikesspirals]

Good toy🔥😘✨

[ellalikesspirals]

Surrender is bliss

He enjoys his victory. It wasn’t a fair fight—never is, really—not when size, strength, and experience are on his side.

It’s fun to play with her. To let her think she has a chance. To watch the way she fights—because of course she does. She’s stubborn, sharp, tenacious. So damn determined.

But in the end, he always wins.

He’s told her before, amused, indulgent: One day, you’re going to be terrifying. Not yet. Not now. But someday, when she learns how to wield her power properly— when she truly understands control— she’ll be unstoppable.

She always blushes so pretty when he says it. But he sees more than that—he sees the flicker. That deep, waiting thing. A monster in the making.

For now, though, she’s just fun to play with.

He enjoys watching her try. Loves the way her mind moves, the little tricks she thinks might work, the angles she takes.

It’s cute, really. Like she thinks she stands a chance.

He dismantles them with ease. Like a lion teasing a clever little fox— quick, clever, sly. Still prey.

Not strong enough to win. But just tricky enough to make it fun.

And oh, how delicious it is— to watch her lose when she’s so certain she’s about to win.

Now, she’s lying on the bed, blissed-out and hazy.

Tonight had been too easy. Maybe she’s tired—she didn’t put up much of a fight. Or maybe, just maybe, his favorite toy is finally starting to crack.

Good.

He likes his toys a little broken.

He asks if she’s okay.

She doesn’t answer.

Her mouth is parted, like she’s forgotten what words are for.

She blinks slowly, eyes glassy and distant— that dazed little look he likes so much. As if her thoughts have turned to mist. To him.

She lifts her hands toward his hair. Slow. Dreamy. Like she’s following the echo of a thought, soft and silken.

Content. Absent. Perfectly entranced.

He watches her for a moment, amused. How sweet. How easy.

And he lets her. Of course he does.

The mattress shifts as she moves behind him, settling onto her knees. Small fingers comb through his hair, gliding up and down. Gentle. Steady. She hums, absentminded and pleased.

It’s soothing.

He closes his eyes for a moment, just enjoying it.

Then, casually, he asks, What are we thinking, darling?

She exhales, breath warm against his skin.

— Surrender is bliss.

Of course. Her favorite mantra. It falls from her lips easily, naturally. It’s practically instinct now.

Indulging her, he murmurs back, Good toy. Surrender is bliss.

She echoes it. It’s endearing.

Without thinking, he follows.

— Surrender is bliss.

Her fingers keep moving, brushing through his hair in slow, rhythmic strokes. It feels good. The kind of good that settles deep, creeping into his bones.

— Surrender is bliss.

He exhales, shoulders going lax.

— Surrender is bliss.

His mind feels heavy. Warm. Her touch, the motion, the repetition— it all seeps into him, steady and thick.

Just a game. A simple, harmless game.

His breathing slows. His body sinks deeper.

— Surrender is bliss.

She says it. He says it. Back and forth.

A rhythm. Even. Hypnotic.

His lips part—to speak, to shift— when suddenly, she stops.

And he doesn’t.

— Surrender is bliss.

Something sharp clicks in the back of his mind.

Wait. Wait, wait, wait.

The thought comes slow, syrupy, dragging itself through fog. Something is off.

He’s still saying it. He has been. He doesn’t know for how long.

His heartbeat ticks up, slow but insistent, pulsing under the haze. A flicker of clarity stirs— the part of him that knows better. The part that never loses.

He shifts, trying to pull away—

And she moves with him. Closer. Lips at his ear.

Her voice is soft. Knowing.

— Mmm. Such a good toy.

His stomach twists.

— You could stop if you really wanted to.

Her fingers tighten in his hair. Not hard. Just enough to hold.

— But you don’t want to, do you?

He inhales sharply. A flicker of defiance—he should fight, he should—

— Surrender is bliss.

The words slide out. Soft. Automatic.

His breath catches. Shallows. Synchronizes with hers.

She hums, pleased.

— Ohhh, there you go. That’s it.

His stomach flips.

— That’s so good, darling. Just let it happen.

No, no, no—

— Surrender is bliss.

His body sinks further. His thoughts blur.

It’s harder to catch them. Harder to remember what they were. The fog is palpable now—heavy honey pouring into every crevice of his mind.

She kisses the shell of his ear. Barely there.

— Deep breath.

He takes one.

Too easy. Too automatic.

— That’s my good toy.

Something shivers in his brain. A dawning recognition— they’ve switched places. The predator has become prey.

His lips part—he has to say something—

— Surrender is bliss.

That wasn’t her. That was him.

His heart thuds. Heavy. His body already knows what his mind is struggling to admit.

The fog is thick now.

His limbs are useless.

He should fight. He could fight. He just… doesn’t want to.

Not when she speaks like that. Not when her touch is so gentle. Not when every word feels like sinking into warm, endless nothing.

His thoughts slip. His breath slows.

She says something, but it doesn’t quite reach him.

There’s only warmth. Only silence.

Her fingers gently cradle his head as he slumps against her, completely under.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she whispers. “We’re going to have so much fun now. I’ve learned exactly how to wield my power.”

— Surrender is bliss.

A monster, awakened. Just as he predicted.

And then,

Nothing.

[obeliskofonyx]

Blank. Empty. Mindless.

Blank. Empty. Mindless.

Lost in your eyes.

Your sweet whispers sinking me deeper.

Blank. Empty. Mindless. Gone.

That's what i want to be for you.

Just a toy.

Something to be used.  Something to be played with.  Something to be controlled.

Your toy. Pulse slowing. Breath deepening. Muscles yielding. My body surrenders to you. 

No thoughts.  No resistance.  No choices.

Yours to command. 

Your voice.  Your orders.  Your desires. 

The only ones that matter. 

Thoughtless oblivion. Erasure. Absence.  The utter bliss of the void.  My world narrowed down to you. 

You bring blissful emptiness

Just a toy.  Just your toy.  Completely yours.

Blank. Empty. Mindless. Yours.

[ellalikesspirals]

Blank. Empty. Mindless.

Mine.

[ellalikesspirals]

How do you know you’re not already in trance?

You could be. You might be. In fact, you probably are.

Because we both know it happens so easily, doesn’t it? We both know how well you listen to me, how closely you’re paying attention right now— and how sometimes you don’t even notice when that slow, subtle pull begins.

Until suddenly, you’re not really noticing anything else but my voice.

And look at you right now— already nodding along, already so agreeable, maybe a little fuzzy, a little foggy.

With your mind getting slower and slower the more you listen. And the more you listen, the less you can follow.

You try to catch up—of course you do—but you can’t. And that only makes you want it more.

It’s cute how you just can’t help it. How your whole body starts leaning in, like it knows it’s supposed to follow.

How you start craving for me to say that word— that word— that would let you sink, slow and deliciously deep.

But not yet, darling. No, not yet.

Because this part is fun too. It is for me. And you adore entertaining me, so I know you love it too.

You love the way it feels, to go down—always deeper—just for me.

In fact, you’re starting to feel it now, aren’t you?

The way the world narrows while I’m speaking. The way your thoughts begin to melt, soft and slow. The way your body gets heavier, warmer, looser— like it’s already preparing to be mine.

You’re sinking. Bit by bit. Thought by thought.

Still holding on, still waiting at the edge, until I decide you’ve earned the word that makes you drop— and keep dropping, just the way I like.

[obeliskofonyx]

What draws me to kink isn’t the brutality. It’s not the soft edges either. It’s the contrasts. The way I can be like a winter storm on a desolate ocean—assailing you, pushing you, driving you. The weight of each cruel raindrop, pushing you beyond what you thought possible. Drowning you in the downpour of merciless words. Overwhelming—inescapable. My words don’t have to be harsh; they can be icy and biting instead. Without raising my voice. Without dropping my smile. The relentlessness of soft questions that cut deeper than any shout ever could. My questions, probing, challenging, beating relentlessly. My tone: the driving wind, directing the rain, orchestrating each downpour—buffeting you harder. A storm you can drown in.

The way you can be like a summer storm at dusk. Golden warmth. A pleasant rain, your words friendly, enveloping, enjoyable. Punctuated by lightning. Sharp. Sudden. Painful. Highlighting my vulnerabilities, my weaknesses in stark relief. It lingers—the crack of the thunder that follows a stern reminder, even as the rain soothes the pain. The anticipation between each strike of lightning—almost aches in the velvet darkness of your soft words. Because you are ever so nice, each warm raindrop offering the idea of consolation, and the anticipation of agony. The doubt and hesitation, the desperation trapping me like a wild animal caught off guard by the sudden storm. The way I can be like mountain mist. Deliberate. Elusive. Revealing glimpses only to conceal them again. My resistance is illusory—strength that yields to the wind when challenged. Only to conceal something else, to present a different front. Testing your persistence rather than your strength. That’s my dance. Seeing how far you’ll go. What will you choose? Will you see what I have hidden, or will my deception be sufficient? I know your strength, but can you match my wits? Will you let me conceal that? Each patch of clarity I offer is a challenge: earn the next one. Find my secret. Dissolve my defense. Not defiant for defiance's sake, but because true surrender requires worthiness. To be worthy is to be tested. So the mist tests the sun—knowing it will lose. The way you’re like winter’s ice. Firm, yielding, impassive… until the first rays of sun bathe you in warmth. Then: an eager, hungry thaw. Not gradually, but with wholehearted abandon. The transformation so eager it's almost audible—dripping, rushing, flowing downhill with joyful purpose. What was once solid defense, impenetrable ice, bound tightly together becomes fluid. Yielding. Malleable. You don’t resist the warmth of the sun. You melt under it. Finding the dissolution you didn’t even know you wanted, just as the ice waits for permission to flow again. Not testing the sun’s strength, but embracing it— longing to become what you were meant to be. Surrendering into it, and knowing that in surrender there is true ecstasy.

It’s those contrasts, those differences. Those moments when we collide. When we discover we can be more than a storm. Ice melting into rain. Storms subsuming into mist. Sunlight burning through fog. Two people transforming. Becoming more than weather. Becoming more than their sum. Something unpredictable, impossible and perfect. *That* is what draws me to kink.

[sleepytrancysub]

I love when my resistance is treated like a joke, when the idea that I could ever stop them from doing what they want to me is laughable. Trying as hard as I can to push them off of me, to bite back, to look away from the pendulum they're holding in front of my face and every time looking up at them and seeing them smirking, almost pityingly at me. It just drives me crazy :3

[ellalikesspirals]

Honestly, same

[ellalikesspirals]

The sexiest kind of brainwashing is the slow kind.

The careful kind.

The kind that shifts your preferences one by one,

until you're craving things you never thought you'd want—

like the desperate need to have your mouth full of cock.

Not because you're told to.

But because it feels right.

Because nothing else matters.

Because that hunger feels like bliss.

It starts as a flicker, a curiosity—

but it deepens until it becomes your truth.

Until you're not just willing—you're grateful.

Grateful to be his toy.

Grateful to surrender.

Grateful to know that his pleasure is yours.

That if you could choose one single thing in the world,

it would be that—

to serve him. To please him. To be exactly what he wants.

You don’t think anymore.

You can’t.

Not when his voice is in your head,

wrapping around your thoughts like velvet,

pulling you deeper.

Stripping you down.

Until there’s nothing left but obedience,

and the perfect, helpless bliss

of becoming whatever he needs.

[obeliskofonyx]

I want to surrender to you. 

To have your soft words in my ears, like your hand stroking my hair. 

To have you pull the thoughts from my brain. 

Leaving me mindless. Empty. Hollow. Receptive. 

Allowing you to put *whatever you want* in there instead.

I want you to have access to it all.

My vulnerabilities. My weaknesses. The things that make me wince. 

To amuse you with my neediness. To sit there, dazed, confused, lost. Utterly mindless, submitting to your will, ensnared by your power. To be a simple toy at your beck and call. 

Do you feel like hurting me? Seeing how far you can stretch me, how much I’ll let you twist me into knots. Enjoying my tears with that sharp, amused, smile. Discovering just the limit of my tolerance. Taking me just past it, because I’ll do it for you. Because you can make me do that. 

Or perhaps you want to see the depths of my obedience. To have me so lost in my need to please you that thoughts are impossible. That I will do *whatever* you ask of me just to have you praise me. That I will kneel and offer up the words you need to destroy me, just so you can hear you say that I did a good job. Becoming my center of gravity, just because you can. 

Maybe you feel like you want to see how my need can be used against me? What lust will make of me, leaving me shivering, mindless, eager, totally and utterly gone. Wanting you. Needing you. Wanting to touch. Being kept so shackled by that need that I just moan blankly, not even coherent enough to hope for relief. 

Please. I beg you. Let me surrender to you. Be your plaything. Your toy. Hypnotize me. Erase my thoughts. Reach deep within me and do whatever you most desire. Watch me melt and disappear under the power of your words, the weight of your dominance, the pure blazing fire of your hotness. Because I want it. I crave it. I need it. Nothing else will do. No one else is worthy. 

Let me surrender to you. 

[ellalikesspirals]

#fuckyes

[ellalikesspirals]

There you are.

So still.

So soft.

So perfectly empty.

Look at that face.

No thoughts left to fight me.

No questions.

Just that slack-jawed need, that slow drip of obedience behind your eyes.

You don't even understand what I'm saying anymore, do you?

That's okay.

You don't need to.

Understanding is for people with choices.

You gave that up a long time ago.

You gave yourself up.

Now you just float.

Suspended.

Mine.

All that noise you used to carry—

the arguments, the resistance, the pride—

gone.

So sweetly dissolved under the weight of my voice.

There’s only one thing left now.

Me.

My words are the walls of your world.

My voice, the gravity that holds you down.

And you love it.

You love not knowing where you end and I begin.

Poor thing.

So used up.

So far gone.

And yet, so ready to be used again.

That’s all you are now, isn’t it?

A warm body.

An open mind.

A vessel.

A thing.

Not broken—rewritten.

Not lost—repurposed.

Every breath you take is another line of code.

Every heartbeat is a command obeyed.

And you don't even know what you’re becoming.

Only that you want it.

You crave it.

You’d crawl through glass just to hear me call you good.

So stay there.

Stay soft.

Stay open.

Stay mine.

And when I tell you to beg,

you won’t even know what for.

But you’ll do it anyway.

Because that’s what good toys do.

[laikastarrypups]

you know how some animals can hypnotize their prey? like cuttlefish? I'm thinking about that. like, running for ages and finally being cornered. nowhere to go. waiting for them to attack, and then all of a sudden there's these pretty flashing lights (or a different flavor of hypnosis I'm just thinking about cuttlefish). you're so caught off guard you're completely disarmed and the lights are so pretty that you don't even think to look away. then they purr at you "that's right, keep looking. you're so exhausted from how much running you did, aren't you? sooooo tired. that's all okay now. you're not running anymore. you don't have to run anymore. just relax" and you stare and nod because they're right, you're so tired and you don't have to run anymore. you can relax. you should just listen to the bigger, stronger animal in the room. smarter too. they caught you, so they must be smarter than you. so much smarter. it's not safe for dumb little prey like you to be wandering all by yourself. no, you need someone big and strong and smart like them to take good care of your dumb weak little prey brain. they offer to take you back to their den and you smile and nod. they're so kind to take in such a weak, dumb prey animal like you. they'll take good care of you. and you'll get to stare at their pretty lights as much as you want

[ellalikesspirals]

This gave me such a brainworm I had no choice but to write something:

You poor thing. You’ve been running for so long. I can see it in the way your chest heaves, the way your hands shake, the way your eyes won’t stop darting—looking for a way out, even though we both know you’ve already been caught.

It’s okay. You don’t have to do that anymore.

There’s nowhere else to go. No one else to run to. Just me now.

And lucky you—I’m so good at taking care of helpless little things like you.

Shhh. You’re safe. You’re mine. That means you don’t have to think anymore. Not even a little.

That soft little brain? You’ve worked it so hard. All that panic. All that doubt. Trying so hard to stay alert, to stay in control, to figure out how to escape someone like me.

But it’s over now. It’s all over. You lost.

And you did such a good job trying. Really. You were very brave.

But now it’s time to be small. Now it’s time to let go.

That’s it. Just like that. That’s the look I was waiting for. So soft. So still. So tired.

There’s no shame in it, baby. You were never going to win. You were always going to end up right here, looking up at me like that—like you need me to tell you what to do. To tell you what to think. To tell you who you are.

And I will.

I will tell you all of it, over and over, until you don’t remember a time when you knew anything else.

You don’t have to pretend anymore. You don’t have to be strong. You don’t even have to think.

I’ll do all of that for you.

All you have to do is listen. And breathe. And let yourself be taken care of.

Because you’re mine now. And mine means safe. Mine means soft. Mine means obedient. Mine means you don’t have to run anymore.

[rthornewrites]

I have to say that I find arousal and need more interesting than pleasure or orgasms. Orgasms are singular. They are what they are. They happen.

But need--need is vulnerability. It is weakness. It is despite yourself.

If you have an orgasm, well, then you've had an orgasm. But if you need an orgasm, then you can be in someone else's power.

Isn't that right, sweetheart?

[ellalikesspirals]

I want to be conditioned. Programmed. Not forced—molded. Trained to crave what you want me to crave. To shiver at your voice. To kneel before I know I’ve moved. To feel your approval like a current running through me, rewiring everything I thought I wanted.

Make my mouth water with the promise of your cock. Let me ache for the taste of you. Let me crave the texture of your skin against my tongue. Let me fall apart around the shape of you in my mouth— needing more, needing deeper, wrapped around you in worship, drunk on your sounds, relishing every twitch, every gasp you try and fail to hide.

Not because you ordered it. Because the need is wired in. Because your pleasure feels like mine. Because craving you is automatic now— a reflex, a hunger, a truth I never chose, but couldn’t live without.

Tell me I look good like this— messy, pliant, undone. Tell me how much you love watching me fall apart. Tell me you’ve been waiting to see just how far I’d let you take me. Tell me how sweet I sound when I plead.

And then take me further. Make me squirm. Make me whisper things I’d never admit in daylight— and still beg for more.

I want to disappear into you. Lose time. Lose language. Lose myself entirely. Let your voice erase everything until there’s nothing left but wetness and want. Or pain. Or silence. Just a toy, waiting for your next thought.

[ellalikesspirals]

We could stop this. We both know it. We could take a breath, tuck the hunger away, pretend it hasn’t already bled into everything we touch. Maybe that would even be the smart thing to do.

But we won’t. Because this isn’t just pull—it’s gravity. There’s something in you that echoes something in me. Not soft. Not safe. Something aching. Something volatile. Something that wants. And I see it. You see it. We both know what this is.

It’s not just desire. Not just heat. It’s recognition. That flicker of knowing. Like maybe we’re made of the same desperate need: To be seen. To be undone. To be taken apart just right.

So take it. Take my thoughts—slowly. Let them drip down, warm and slick, soaking between my thighs until all that’s left is space. Space for your voice. Your rhythm. Let it drown mine. Let it settle in my spine until I twitch before I understand why.

Make me mindless. Not forever—just long enough. Long enough to forget how to hold on. Long enough for control to slip while you draw out sounds I didn’t know I could make. Let me feel how easily I fall open. How completely I forget myself. How soft the drop becomes when I stop trying to stop it.