Under A Rest Pt. 03

"My treat," she whispered. Not possessing the energy to make a scene, he simply sighed.

"Uh, excuse me," cracked the lanky young attendant. "This coupon for the cereal is expired."

"It's just by a couple days. Can't you take it?" she asked.

"Sorry, ma'am. Store policy."

"Well..." she started in that voice of hers, meeting the cashier's eyes, the detective observing carefully over the top of the tabloid through which he was casually leafing. "We work very hard, you know. You do, too, I know that, and I wouldn't want you to get into any trouble, dear, really, but we've been coming here for years. It's just a dollar off or so, and a one-time courtesy like this would mean a lot to us as loyal, discerning patrons of Shop 'N' Save. It's a sound economic decision and I'm sure your superiors would agree, wouldn't they?"

He stared at her, left eye twitching as if unsure quite what to make of this odd little woman. Detective Berman bit back a smirk.

"I...I guess I could take it. But just this once."

"Thank you. You're a doll," she drawled, helping bag the groceries.

The young man shook his head as he keyed in the discount, his countenance twisting in dazed incredulity. The detective wondered how the expression looked on himself.

***

As the two loaded grocery bags into the trunk of Doctor Angelos' car, Detective Berman looked at her long and hard.

"That really is how you get things done, isn't it?" he said over the sounds of crinkling paper.

"Huh?"

"You know what I mean, that kid back there. If it were me giving him that coupon, he would've told me to stuff it."

"I mean, he did tell me to stuff it."

"And then?"

"Well, excuse me for being a civilized human being and knowing how to ask people nicely for things."

"Yeah. Really, really nicely."

"It's always been a knack of mine," Doctor Angelos replied, opening the car door and climbing in. "People just...listen to me."

Settling into her car's passenger side, Detective Berman moved the seat and leaned it back.

"Tired?" she asked.

"Tall," he groused, trying to create more legroom for his large frame in her sporty coupe. "And, well...tired too, I guess."

"You guess? I don't know if I've ever seen you look so drained. Or pale."

"Tired, sick, stressed, hungry. Overworked."

"What else is new?" she said. He gave a single, dry laugh.

"Fair enough. But that's beside my point, being that you get people to do what you want just by batting those eyelashes of yours. Myself included."

"Don't insult me," she replied seriously, staring ahead and firing the car to life. "Or yourself."

"I just mean that it doesn't seem to take you much."

"Gee, getting a wormy nineteen year old to take a recently-expired coupon at the supermarket, or assisting the mind of a gifted detective like yourself. Look, maybe it doesn't seem that way to you because I happen to make it look easy," she said, steering them out of the parking lot. "But you are a tough nut. The reality is that it takes me a lot of energy and fortitude to do what I do. Not to mention years--no, decades--of research and training. I choose the means to my ends very carefully."

"Yeah, sorry," Detective Berman said, feeling silly. Of course her oddly effective techniques were mired in vast amounts of science. "I imagine."

"And not everything I say or do is intended to manipulate."

"Yes, I suppose that too," he said more quietly, thinking of everything of that evening from her buying him broccoli florets to her hand caressing his cheek. Normally, his ability to detect deceit seldom failed him--it was, after all, the backbone of his career--but this woman constantly kept him guessing.

The doctor glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. As was typical of him, he was focused, observing the dark, residential surroundings winding past, arms crossed.

"You suppose," she reiterated.

"I just...I still can't put a finger on exactly how you do what you do. Or why. Still not sure how I feel about it. You got me to buy organic brussels sprouts. Got me to take a sick day. Got me to, uh...well..."

"To what?"

"...You know," he muttered, feeling heat rising to his cheeks as he conjured misty memories of nights filled with her warm, soft skin on his.

"Hm," Doctor Angelos hummed playfully, fingers rapping against the steering wheel in thought. "So less a question of how or why, and more what, isn't it?"

He shifted uncomfortably. The 'what' he already knew deep down to be just about anything in his case; he'd realized it in short order and it frightened him no less to consider as time went on. But listening to her felt so damn good, better each time in fact, and he knew very well he had no place picking fights with her in this realm, especially when he was already feeling so tired and hungry and ill. Yet he felt himself drawing closer still, her glow entreating him.

She was fearsome. She was fantastic. The way his chest fluttered when her gaze lingered on his; the way she'd made his legs liquefy, his mind melt; the way she'd brought his elaborate towers of thought tumbling in that freezer aisle with just a single tug of the arm...and through it all, how tenderly she cared for him. He could admit that he couldn't help himself, but surely his mind was more work for her than a slouching teenager's.

Wasn't it?

"Try me," he said, steeling himself.

"Oh?" she said, genuinely surprised. "What's this?"

"You can't rely on that little word of yours forever," he said, stomach quivering, his tone the only confident thing about him. "You're so good? Do without it."

Brows raised, she simpered, exhaling from her nose in amusement. Poor thing was simply begging for it.

"A glutton for punishment, I see. Very well. You're on, Berman."

Perhaps he did have a point about her goodness. After all, she only wanted to see her pet happy.

They drove around in silence for a bit, the gears of Doctor Angelos' mind whirring, her mouth salivating. A gentle rain had begun, pattering against the car. None of her other toys had ever been so cheeky, nor so resilient as to put up fights this far into their conditioning. No wonder she'd found herself caring about him.

"What are your plans for next week?" she asked suddenly.

"...Is this part of--"

"No," she interrupted. "Just making conversation."

"Oh. Uh..." he said, not entirely believing her. "Work, cases bothering me. Gotta fix my gutters when I have time. I have some Locke I'm trying to wrestle through."

"Yeah? I know a locksmith."

"Can he crack Two Treatises of Government?"

"Oh. That's one he'd never pick," she chuckled. "Cases bothering you, huh?"

"Yeah, I had a guy's uncle turn up dead yesterday. Looks like a stroke but I'm pretty sure the nephew had some involvement. Forensics hasn't gotten back to me yet and I'm getting antsy. Then there's the case with your guy..." he trailed off.

"Mr. Walter? What about it?"

"It's just so hard to focus on it lately. I'm not sure why I'm so distracted with just that one in particular. I've struggled with cases before, but this...I don't know," he said, his guard lowering and thoughts slowing by merely pondering it. Idly, he rubbed his face with his hand, stubbled beard scratching audibly against it. "It worries me because I've never felt like this. I can't afford that kind of distraction."

"I know it's frustrating, dear. But you remember everything I told you about it. You yourself told me it made perfect sense."

"Certainly did make a lot of sense. But I don't know," he said quietly, shaking his head.

"Because everything I say makes a lot of sense," she asserted.

"Everything you say makes a lot of sense," he repeated, his shaking head now nodding in agreement.

"And it feels so good to listen to me."

"And it..." he breathed, squeezing his eyes shut and furrowing his brow.

"Hm?"

"It...can make me feel certain things, I admit," he said, catching himself and trying with all his might to fight the urge to brainlessly mirror her rhetoric.

A smirk tugged at her lips. How cute.

"Things like?"

"I don't know. I'd have to think about it."

"Mm, lots of 'I don't know's from you tonight. Come on, the detective I know is a faster thinker than that."

"Hey, I can admit when I don't know something. Both fast and slow thoughts have their place."

"I'm just teasing, you're right. You know, you strike me as the sort of man who has multiple streams of thought going at all times."

"You're not wrong."

"Because I understand it well. I'm similar, you know. It's distinct from multitasking, which I find most people are actually pretty bad at."

"Oh, yeah, I'm inclined to agree," he said. "People think they're so smart for doing more than one thing, but obviously their performance suffers on all counts. They just don't realize it."

"Exactly. It's even substantiated scientifically. But I think it takes a rather robust eye of the mind to maintain a sort of multi-channel thought pattern, you know. The ability to conceptualize, visualize, realize, analyze all sorts of things. Managing thoughts, so many thoughts, layered thoughts, thoughts upon thoughts, thoughts about thoughts even, meta-thoughts, if you will. Thoughts, visualizations, music, sounds, perceptions. Proprioceptions, too, that is, the perceptions of the self and its relation to the world around it. That mind's eye is akin to the physical eyes, those big, beautiful dark eyes of yours, always so attentive, always so vigilant. Working so hard that I imagine it, too, gets fatigued, and might sometimes close."

Detective Berman, who'd found himself staring at the woman next to him in rapt attention throughout her monologue, blinked and hastily faced the road again. Damn her.

"W-well, not often," he murmured, his voice softer. "It's why I have trouble sleeping at night if I'm not dead tired or, uh..."

"Listening to me?" she finished for him.

"...Yeah," he muttered, cheeks reddening again. "Just...can't seem to make that eye close."

"Sure can. You don't even have to close your physical eyes, although you may find them closing as we hum along through the rain, as car rides can be very relaxing, rocking us gently, rocking like we're rocked as babies. And when you're relaxed, this gentle rocking and this calm, quiet white noise can relax your mind's eye, too. The dark stillness outside, the empty roads, the white, repetitive lane markers, flying one by one after the other...after the other...after the other..."

She was right. Those lane markers were white, and repetitive, and flying by one after the other. And they were awfully tiring to look at. He leaned back fully against his seat, lips parted, hands comfortably in his lap. His eyelids still hung open, but his thoughts had indeed slowed down.

"Your mind's eye is open now, your thoughts flowing freely as they are wont to do, images and concepts flying past just like those lane markers. But they all leave a quiet calm in their wake, and you may find that you don't chase after any particular thought, you simply experience it and let it move, and perhaps you'll feel that mind's eye straining to maintain that train of thought, letting it slip by. Isn't that right?"

"Yeah," he said, hushed.

"Very good. But your mind's eye, too, can grow tired of looking, just like your physical eyes; you've simply got to allow yourself to feel how tired it is, how it begs to be relieved of its duties when in a position to just relax. And you must let it relax, especially when you're so comfortable like you are now. Feeling your thoughts slowing down, your tired mind calm...still...blank...feeling your mind's eye closing...closing. Is it closed?"

"...Yeah."

"Wonderful, very good. And now that you're able to do that, hold onto that feeling because I want you to open that eye again now, allowing those thoughts to flood back, allowing yourself to bask in them, analyzing them. But as you do, you find this volume of thoughts rather exhausting, don't you, so much so that you find your physical eyes tire, tire to the point where you may find them so very heavy, so very hard to keep open. It's alright to allow them to close if you feel the need."

Complete darkness became the detective's world as a burning relief prickled at his eyes. That hadn't taken a whole lot of convincing, but he'd had so little fight left in him. This state of mind felt similar, he mused, but markedly different from the other times she'd talked circles around him. This time around she seemed to be engaging with him differently, manipulating his natural, rapid flow of thoughts like a sluice rather than focusing merely on physical relaxation.

Fascinating.

"And now I want you to open your eyes again, while also closing your mind's eye, feeling the weight of your mind's exhaustion, the weight you hold in that eye, your thoughts slowing to a trickle. But keep your eyes open, that's right...keep them open...think of all the stress you carry..."

The detective's eyes stung again as he pried them open. Whatever the hell she was doing, it was uniquely disorienting. Each time she clamped down on his flow of thought, then let it flow, then clamped down on it again, he felt his thoughts scatter. The swirling, whitewater tempest of deductions that normally stormed his mental corridors had slowed to a trickle. His sight was clear; his head, empty.

"Now you might find your physical eyes feeling so tired, so heavy, closing. Thaaat's right," she coaxed, observing the eager, instantaneous fluttering shut of his eyelids. "Very good, allow yourself to feel that relief, observing passively the difference in your mind between quiet and noise, calm and agitation. Enjoy this sensation of calm, relaxed quiet. Listen to the sound of my voice, notice how good it feels to listen. To listen and follow along. Notice how that calm, relaxed quiet feels even better each and every time you close your eyes. Now...open."

Detective Berman tugged his gummed eyelids open again, his vision blurry. She continued this routine several more times, opening and closing both his eyes and his mind's eye, sometimes together, sometimes not. It was easy enough to follow at first, but there came a point where it became so confusing, where she was instructing him to open his eyes and he simply couldn't. Failing to follow her directions always gave him pangs of guilt, but he just hadn't the energy, and he was fairly certain she'd assured him that it was alright if he couldn't manage it. After all, dealing with those thoughts was so tiring, so exhausting, the fatigue of his mind weighing so heavily on him, that it was just easier to lay rocked by the motion of the vehicle, listening to the gentle white noise of the vent, the rain's patter; her patter. It just felt so ridiculously easy, so ridiculously good to fall deeper and deeper, letting go of everything inside and around him, merely floating in that safe, cozy space.

She was still talking, but he knew the drill by now. In the dark quiet of the car, her words had begun to blend together, his body slumping, his mind drifting.

His loins aching.

"...And you're very turned on, aren't you, Michael? I can tell. Always can," she said, spying the visible mass growing in his jeans. "You must've been waiting all week, darling."

He moaned, only now aware that his head had lolled onto his shoulder. He sluggishly adjusted his position.

"Your mind's eye, so exhausted, sleeping so peacefully, you now realize is aroused, so very aroused, much more aroused than you thought. Don't you think you ought to do something about it?"

"...don't...think that's 'ppropriate..." he slurred, right hand lazily grazing his aching groin.

"I think it's perfectly appropriate. But don't touch yourself like that in front of me. That would be obscene, dear."

He mumbled something, though even he wasn't sure what. It was just then that he realized his right hand had been idly pawing at his hot, throbbing cock through his pants, fabric brushing against his sensitive head, her eyes watching him the entire time. Embarrassed, his hand found its way back to his lap as the detective felt a sultry pressure inside him continuing to build.

"Why don't you keep your hands away for now? In fact, you don't even need them."

"h-how come?" he breathed in confusion, heart pounding in anticipation. She smiled.

"Oh, you'll see," she said darkly. "Hands are redundant, my dear, because you already know well the sensations, the gentle, fleeting touches of my fingertips caressing you, your chest, your hips, your thighs...my hungry lips upon your neck, your ears, your lips..."

Her voice continued relentlessly, becoming one with the whooshing of the rain and the air, washing over him in pacific waves. Placid serenity gave way to that mindless, pulsing pressure building inside of him as he drifted deeper, slipping further and further away from his surroundings with each crash of the tide. The heat between his legs intensified, arousal flooding his body, his blank, muzzy mind now spacious enough to hold naught but the endless torrents of red-hot pleasure and need now rushing in, his cock growing harder, swelling, pushing against his pants, begging for attention it knew well it wouldn't receive. He surged towards the edge, wanting nothing more than to surrender and allow himself to be swept to sea.

But he couldn't. Not yet. For whatever reason, the man could not be moved to let the tide grip him, engulf him, carry him into its blank expanse. He could only stand at the shore, allowing it to bathe his ankles as soft moans escaped his lips with each lapping, each time more and more intense. His legs began to tremble, abdominal muscles that were before so relaxed now tensing, pelvis jerking, body and mind held hostage by urgency inescapable and nerves aflame.

Doctor Angelos' eyes flickered to the man beside her so far gone in the throes of absolute pleasure, his limbs akimbo, a helpless stream of drool gliding down his chin, his breathing lazy, loud, and ragged, his tent so blatantly pitched that she had to keep from grabbing it herself. It had been ten minutes of this, and they'd be home shortly. Perhaps she'd held him at bay long enough.

"Come for me, Pet."

The scalding surf finally, mercifully crashed onto the man as he felt the pressure exiting his body, shaking him. Intense pulses of light filled the backs of his eyelids, crackling heat flowing downward through his body, escaping through his trembling, rock solid cock and into his pants. His moans grew into choked, desperate gasps as he felt wave after wave course through him.

"Absolutely wonderful," she marveled. "You're perfect."

Breathing heavily following his release, in the vacant throes of tsunamic aftershocks, Detective Berman began to feel an intense, euphoric sense of wellbeing. Not since childhood had he felt so cared for, so loved, so safe. Completely spent, he felt his head hit the headrest and the wet spot in his pants grow. He didn't care. As he nodded off, he felt her hand grasp his, stroking it with her thumb.

"I think I won."

"not fair...wanna...wanna..."

"Wanna what?"

"...rematch..."

"As many as you want, my dear. As many as you want."