Under A Rest Pt. 02

His eyes fluttered, his body limp; another wave of that warm, euphoric heaviness spread throughout his body. She leaned in and kissed his cheek. Then again. And again.

Why was she being so tender toward him? He'd never felt anything like this before in his life, not even close. He wasn't being paid enough to resist transcendence.

"Your eyes look so heavy. Almost like they want to close."

He furrowed his brow. They did want to close, very badly, and she knew it, and she was exploiting it for all she'd got. She gently removed his glasses, then migrated her kisses southward from his cheek down to his neck, her hands now roaming his body. His eyes rolled back again for a second as he released a small and completely involuntary noise somewhere between a sigh and a moan.

"I dunno if..." he trailed off, squeezing his eyes shut again in order to reclaim his train of thought, mind and body utterly leaden. "Ugh. I don't think that's...I don't think..."

"That's quite alright, I can do that for you for the time being," she breathed, loosening his tie and undoing the top buttons of his shirt. The detective forced his eyes open again, suddenly shaken by the intrusive thought that perhaps her idea wasn't so bad. He opened his mouth to say something, to utter one final, tiny plea, but his opposition was promptly silenced by her lips upon his. His mind scorched, naught but mere heat.

"You're so stressed...overworked...constantly traumatized," she whispered practically into his mouth. "Thanklessly burdened by the worst society has to offer. I think letting all your troubles and stresses and worries evaporate with a nice little rest would do you so much good."

At this, his eyelids finally slipped closed, accompanied by a shuddery sigh.

"Feels so good to rest and obey, doesn't it?"

He couldn't speak, only vocalize in the affirmative. Truly, it did; truly, he'd never felt any sensation quite so loose, so liberating, all his stress and worries going up in smoke upon command as this lovely woman removed his shirt.

Hypnotherapy. What a concept.

"Feels so good to not have to worry about anything. Feels wonderful to hear my commands and obey each and every one, doesn't it, Michael? Rest deeper, now...that's a good boy. So good. So good for me."

Had he at any point given her his first name? He couldn't recall now, but it was rapidly seeming more and more as though it didn't really matter. His name sounded exquisite on her tongue, and she'd commended him on a job well done, and truly that was all that mattered.

"I want you to hold as still as you can for me, Michael, just for a bit." Immediately, he fused to the sofa. Feeling movement in his lap, the detective managed to just barely crack open his eyelids, only to find this warm, beautiful nymph so very close to him now, straddling him, silky nightgown straps hanging from her soft, rounded shoulders, her shining, lime-green gaze trained right on him.

"Michael," she repeated gently with the most gorgeous grin, again idly tracing a hand down his cheek. He must have died and gone to heaven. "You know, I find that a fitting name for you."

"Mm?"

"Oh, you're not the only one who can sleuth," she said coyly. She'd dug up all she could find on him, though it wasn't much. "It's a very nice name, I think. Biblical, strong. Imbued with greatness. In fact, I like it so much that I'm going to hold onto it for now, and you won't remember it until I tell you you may, no matter how hard you try. Isn't that right?"

"uh-huh."

"So tell me, what is your name?"

Detective Berman's eyes slid closed again, posing his lips to say the obvious as she leaned up against him, continuing to work her fingertips into his scalp as she pressed her body against his. His head fell back against the sofa. Clearly he had a name; he'd just heard it. But it was as though it were just on the tip of his tongue, unable to come out.

"...uhh...know this one..."

"That's right, sweetheart. Hm, what's that?" she asked, feeling his sizable hardness poking her through his trousers. "Wow, all that just from some kissing and touching. I figured you were single, but not that single."

"...ouch," he croaked quietly. She laughed and pressed her forehead against his. His heart stopped.

"I'm just more surprised than anything. A man like you, single. Not even divorced, at least not that I could find. Just innocently married to his work. Aren't you adorable. Hey, I thought I told you to stay still," she teased, pawing his bulge. Highly sensitive, he jerked at the sensation.

A part of him fumed at being silenced and manipulated by this wicked technique, whatever it was. But merely talking, keeping his eyes open, and maintaining a rational train of thought were titanic efforts that truly seemed not worth doing at the moment. It was so much easier and infinitely nicer to just relax and let go. Besides, she'd allowed him to; she'd told him he needed it. And something about her was so terrific at putting his mind at ease.

"Darling," she continued in between affectionate kisses down his hirsute, exposed chest. "Why are you here?"

"umm..." he rumbled, his voice confused gravel. "...mm..."

It'd been so long since he'd been touched like this. It'd been so long since he'd been addressed as "darling", let alone so softly, so truly. Hearing it addressed to him in her voice felt absurdly wonderful. Warm sunlight after rain.

And so abruptly silenced was the part of him that fumed.

"...see you..."

"Ah," she said while looking up at him, her fingertips lightly tracing his rounded chin. "And why are you here to see me? We only met just yesterday, after all."

"...dunno..." he breathed, nearly inaudible. Of course he knew; it was all there. All right behind a giant padlocked door, with a giggling, beguiling little jade-eyed pixie taunting him with the key.

"Because you wanted to admire me, didn't you? You only came here because you can't resist me. Isn't that right?" she whispered into his ear, thrilling and delighting in the clear effect her mere voice was having on this man.

He'd make a very special addition to her veritable pantheon of playthings. The doctor liked to have fun with her patients from time to time, especially when they had something to offer her. For some reason, this one was beginning to feel like quite a lot of fun. Nearly enough fun all on his own.

"mm...need to see you."

"Need to touch me," she asserted. His sturdy, work-worn hands snaked upwards, calluses scratching against the delicate fabric of her slip. Surrounding her waist, he basked in the sensation, his fingers sinking into her soft curves just like that Bernini statuette on her desk.

"need to touch you."

"Very good. Very, very good," Doctor Angelos whispered, slowly easing into the detective's lips. He reciprocated, languid at first, then with a growing, unexpected fervor, intensifying the exchange.

"You want me," she whispered in between kisses.

"want you," he uttered back. She tasted like chocolate.

"See? Oh, I knew you'd be excellent. Deeper, now." Steadily grinding against his groin, she undid his belt. "I think you'd feel wonderful if you acted in accordance with any desire you may or may not currently feel towards me. And further so if you remove this slip of mine. Careful, now. It was expensive."

Without hesitation, he began pulling off her nightie. Doctor Angelos ran her hands along the detective's wooly chest and stomach, pleased with his soft, yet strong build--one that clearly enjoyed both physical activity and sweets.

She noted in fascination that for a subject hypnotized so deeply for the first time, he was rather involved. He'd begun gently kissing her neck, his short beard scratching against her soft skin, sending shivers down her spine. Cupping and massaging her modest but full breasts, he abruptly placed a nipple in his mouth. She stifled a moan. He began to suck, biting ever so gently.

All stifling attempts went out the window.

It wasn't as though she were complaining. She was more than aroused. He was very clearly entranced by every metric. Everything seemed perfect. But a bolt of suspicion coursed through her. His psyche had been tougher to crack than she'd expected, outlasting all of the others. She was originally going to allow him home tonight, but that simply wouldn't do; he'd retained entirely too much agency and the stakes were far too high. This man needed thorough treatment.

Detective Berman moved south, trailing kisses down her bare stomach as he cradled her strong thighs in his hands. Simply feeling so much of her skin against his at once was overwhelming after spending years starved of touch, let alone such intimate holding and devouring. He'd perish at this rate.

It seemed that the doctor could sense this and reached over to retrieve something from the corner table. He felt her unzip his pants and retrieve his cock, sturdy and veined and throbbing, playing with it, teasing it until it drooled, begging to be ravaged. His breath quickened as he felt her roll protection onto him, settle atop him, and slowly begin riding, the sensation of being inside of her nearly making him swoon.

She leaned against him, expertly and rhythmically bucking her hips, greatly enjoying the soft, flushed smiles of rapturous abandon on the face of a man who had until that point remained largely stoic. His breath hastened as he pumped with urgency, allowing sounds he'd never dare make escape his mouth, feeling her bearing down, hot and wet and unyielding on all sides of him.

"In and out," she huffed in between breaths. "Very good, Detective. Very, very good."

Doctor Angelos almost never finished when toying with her conquests--she either didn't feel sufficient pleasure, or could control herself with ease--but now found herself strangely and overwhelmingly precipitous with each powerful thrust that filled her, hitting all the right spots over and over, setting tens of thousands of nerve endings alight. Throwing caution to the wind, she let go and embraced the sensations, gasping, letting wave after wave of uninhibited pleasure course through her.

Soon after, the detective, in far and away the best orgasm of his life, burst inside of her, trembling, crumpling into the couch a sweaty, heaving, brainless mess. The doctor leaned forward and held him, rocking him, whispering sweet nothings into his ear. Post-coitus, after all, was a time ripe for sowing.

"I want you to remember this pleasure, this peace, this serenity when you think of me. When you focus on your breathing, you'll think of me, and when you think of me, you'll be filled with these feelings. You'll remember how wonderful you felt. Let yourself feel. Let yourself be overcome."

He could only whimper, collapsing limply against her shoulder.

"There, there, darling," she whispered, rubbing his back. "Come here."

They sat like that for a little while, bathed in the comfortably dim light of the lamp and the flickering happenings of Napoleon's exile on the television. The detective suddenly mumbled something she couldn't quite understand. She positioned him in front of her.

"What's that, dear?"

"my name...gimme my name..."

"Why should I?"

His expression, eyes still cemented shut, turned to a weak pout, the man vaguely sad about lacking his name.

"need it..." he muttered. Doctor Angelos rolled her eyes.

"Pet," she whispered back, continuing to rub his back.

It was the last word he heard before his world slipped away.

***

Detective Berman's eyes opened some time later in a comfortable position in a comfortable bed. Bright Saturday morning sunlight streamed through an open window, birds chirping, a warm breeze ruffling his hair. The rain was gone.

His eyes darted to the space next to him in the bed--empty--then the nightstand, on top of which he found his glasses and his clothes neatly folded.

Surely his name wasn't actually "Pet", but it was about all he could conjure and it was rather concerning. Frantically, he dug through his pockets and found his badge.

Michael J. Berman. That...rang true on some level, albeit not as confidently as he would've liked. Trying to rearrange the salad that was his brain, he sat up in bed, laboriously retracing his steps.

He'd come over to Doctor Angelos' house as per her consent in order to continue investigating this case he'd been assigned to, he was pretty sure. He'd asked her a few questions, watched her bat her eyelashes for a bit in a sexy nightgown, she'd started playing with his hair and telling him how much he could use a good rest, and, well, she was right, after all, so his eyelids started closing, and then...

His stomach sank. It sank not only at her consummate control of him, or at their night of passion, or at how weak he'd been for the only time in his entire career. It was how thoroughly he'd enjoyed it all, how his loins ached to do it all again. Such an egregious breach of professionalism that he would not have considered in his wildest dreams. He'd loved it. He'd do it again in a heartbeat.

But it could not continue.

The bedroom door opened then, and there stood a glowing woman with a steaming cup of coffee. An absolutely radiant woman who was certainly a murderer and with whom he'd certainly had sex the previous night.

Hell, he could hardly remember the last time he'd had sex with anybody. It just hadn't seemed all that important...or so he'd thought. But perhaps that was why the detective sat there in his prime suspect's bed, once again feeling panic welling in his gut.

"Good morning, my pet," she crooned. "How are you?"

Instantly, he calmed.

"I'm, uh...well, here, Madam," he said, his voice deep and raspy from sleep. Since when had he started calling her that?

"Oh, that I know. But what's going on in here?" she asked, patting his head. "Did you get a good night's rest?" On autopilot, he leaned his head into her overwhelmingly soothing touch, his lips forming a small, tired grin.

"All thanks to you, Madam. I don't remember the last time I slept so well."

"Well, you needed it, darling, clearly," she said, her hand sliding down his face and resting upon his cheek. "Here, I made you some coffee."

"Hey, that ought to get me up and about," he said, placing the cup to his lips. The coffee was black, just the way he liked it, but he was struck with a deep-seated hesitance about downing it blindly. He did have to get out of there as soon as possible, after all. But no matter, surely he was being irrational. He took one sip at first, then upon tasting nothing amiss, downed the cup in a single gulp.

"Indeed, it will," she said. The detective blinked.

"Strong stuff. Uh...thank you for your hospitality, but I have really got to get going."

"Already? Why don't you stay a bit?"

"Well..." he started, before closing his mouth. Detective Berman suddenly realized his ability to think had plummeted in her presence. His brain, usually roaring on all cylinders, felt like it was sputtering along at half the speed. Now he barely had the mental capacity required to think straight, let alone bluff with any of his usual finesse.

"Tell you the truth, I'm a little afraid," he said with a short, dry laugh.

This came as a surprise to the doctor. "What do you mean, a little afraid?"

"Madam," he said candidly. "Why else would you have done this to me?"

"Done what to you?" she asked, her stomach tightening. He raised an eyebrow at her, head tilted downwards.

"Look, if you can pull...whatever this is...off on me the way you did, I can't imagine who else you've got under your thumb. Maybe the Pope. Because the truth is, really...I don't think I stood a chance. I don't think James Walter stood a chance. I can hardly even look you in the eye..." He paused, scratching his head. "Not just because of what you've done to me...but because I go moon-eyed, slack-jawed, the whole nine y--h-hey, what're you...ohh," he uttered suddenly, the woman now at his bedside carefully kneading his left foot. "What's that for?"

"Being a good pet."

"Thank you, Madam...um...where was I...ugh, see what I mean, this is exactly what I'm talking about, this, this thing you do. Just terrible."

"Terrible?" she repeated, her eyebrow now raised.

"In the biblical sense, I mean, as in you terrify the hell out of me. Because really, I think, given enough time, and the right circumstances, you...God, that's good...I...um...I think you could make just about anyone do...just about anything you wanted."

The doctor took a lengthy pause.

"You know," she said evenly. "You really are a very sharp man. Very, very sharp. It'd be easier for me to appreciate that mind of yours if it didn't suspect me of something as heinous as murder. Nonetheless, you continue to impress me."

"I try," he murmured without thinking, prompting a grin from her. Without warning, she got up and snaked her arms around him again. Equally without warning, and despite himself, he exhaled contentedly.

"Feels good, doesn't it?" She felt his body stiffen, then relax in her embrace.

"You are killing me," he grumbled in complete seriousness.

"Oh?"

"I don't know that I've ever felt like this in my life."

"Really? I'm sure there have been lots of times. What about the rest of them?"

"Please," he said, voice smaller. He put a limp hand up. "Please. N-not that word again." She chuckled, by now unsurprised that he'd figured it out.

"Unfortunately, my dear, knowing does not stop you from feeling."

"Believe me, I've become very aware of that," he murmured, feeling his lips loosening mid-sentence. Oddly, his eyelids, fresh and awake only a minute ago, had begun to droop. He tried to move, only to find that unlike the entirely mental relaxation of her trances, his muscles on the physical level were well and truly not cooperating. It dawned on him that once again the dear, sweet woman cradling him had been one step ahead of him--he was surely told at some point to accept that coffee, which very obviously contained a strong drug that had begun spreading through his body. Maybe if he forced his eyes open he'd be able to ride it out, Ambien style.

But his eyes began to mist. The room began to spin. His lips formed a weak smile.

"Madam?" he said, cadence almost childlike.

"Yes, my dear?"

"I...I can't really move."

"That's alright, sweetheart, that's normal. You're completely safe with me," the doctor said reassuringly, tucking him in and rising from the edge of the bed.

The detective found it far easier to believe her than to resist at this point. He felt a heavy pair of headphones placed upon his crown and a sweet, tiny kiss upon his forehead. The room around him began to fade and twinkle.

"Goodnight, Pet. Rest well," the doctor said. She drew the blackout drapes and left the room.

Waves of medicated languor washed over him, his mind painting colorful, dancing patterns in his vision in the absence of visual stimuli. The room was so dark and his thoughts so disoriented that he couldn't tell whether his eyes had closed. So much for that plan.

Suddenly, her voice in stunning quality filled his senses, all of his prior thoughts and concerns washing away.

Hello, there. If you're hearing this, you are well on your way to the time of your life.

***

The detective awoke some time later--it was impossible to know exactly when, just that the drapes were open and it was dark out--feeling as though he'd been hit by a truck. Whereas his previous awakening had been natural and pleasant, he awoke then stiff, incredibly groggy, tongue sandpaper. Whereas his previous awakening allowed for normal, albeit slowed thought, his mind now felt well and truly vacant, completely placid except for simple notions of his mistress. Not a twitch of worry found him. He simply shifted his position and took a sip of the water on the nightstand before settling back into that very comfortable bed. Surely she'd be back soon to tell him what to do. He loved when she did that.