Under A Rest Pt. 04

Two Months Later

"About time! How was your day?"

A freshly-showered Doctor Angelos tightly embraced the man holding a large bag of Thai takeout on her front porch. He rested his chin atop her damp head, inhaling the scent of her cherry almond shampoo and grinning contentedly.

His day actually hadn't been so bad. Incidentally, it marked exactly two months since he'd convinced his captain to shelve that elusive Walter case--at least, until they found more compelling intelligence.

His colleagues were somewhat confused at first. Detective Berman was one of their best men, and he'd gotten off to such a strong start. In fact, cases like that, he usually wrapped up within weeks, sometimes days if he was on a roll. But the leads fizzled out, as they sometimes did. The victim left no next of kin to beat down their doors or pester them with phone calls. There were more pressing cases.

And the woman whom he'd once considered a primary suspect had given him very strong and very compelling evidence to the contrary. Talking to her for so long made him realize that letting the Walter case fall by the wayside and grow cold was actually quite logical, really, even inevitable. There were facts to consider. There was the fact that Doctor Angelos hadn't had any traceable contact with James Walter for months; the detective had checked on that. The fact that his newest manuscript had been rejected by several publishing companies. The fact that he'd already had a well-documented history of suicidal episodes, ideations, even attempts long before he became her patient.

The fact that every time the case's leading investigator thought about the doctor's potential involvement, he was overwhelmed with that familiar, intoxicating warmth, and his sharp thoughts would blunt; his mind's eye would illuminate with her bright, dancing gaze, her melodic voice, her soft touch, and at some point something would snap out of his daydream, minutes of his life lost to the sands of time simply sitting there blissfully blank and empty, a shrine to her loveliness incarnate.

Not the worst deal in the world.

"Fantastic now that I'm here, Madam. And you?" he said.

"Better already," she replied, retrieving the fragrant dinner from his grasp and setting it on the coffee table for later. Doffing his coat and boots, he followed her into the living room; when she turned around to face him, he surprised her with a tender kiss.

"Hungry?" he whispered into her lips.

"Starved," she breathed back, taking his hand and leading him into her candlelit bedroom. Their pad see ew and spring rolls could wait.

The doctor was very pleased with how far her subject had come. Though the battles had been tricky, she was, dare she say, winning the war. Thanks to her expertise, she'd gotten his number early on. The detective was one whose intense focus allowed him to slip into trances with ease, even on his own, but whose mind worked too hard and too well to fully disengage for long periods. She would work on him for an entire weekend, use her entire arsenal to get him utterly blank and blithering, then send him to work Monday morning as normal.

But by the following weekend, that mind of his would march right through her door again, picking up pieces, putting them together, and asking her what on earth he was to make of the result.

So it was necessary for her to vigorously shake away the connections he'd drawn over the course of the week like an Etch-a-Sketch. And though it was work, the doctor took pride and joy in tearing down his walls every time, each new wall of his built just a little bit shorter, a little bit weaker. Each time, he fell deeper, quicker, and before long she'd find herself once again delighting in the expressions of quizzical frustration on his face trying to make the cacophony of cognitive dissonance make sense in that pretty little head of his.

Then, to her delight, the Walter case was finally shelved, and so went with it the whole investigatory charade. Yet still every Friday night, like clockwork, Detective Berman found himself on her front porch, ringing her doorbell, his mind quieter and more forgetful each time, his gut for some reason aching from an entire week of vague, lusty hunger. And still each time she would open the door, and each time she would rain kisses upon his brow, each smooch vacating another thought from his head. By Sunday evening, he was left slinking up what he presumed to be his driveway in a tranquil daze, blithely hoping he was at the right house this time.

Tonight, that case hadn't even occurred to him. He wasn't at her house to ask her questions. There were none left to ask. He was at her house because he wanted to be, because he was told to be, and good boys did as they were told.

And it felt so good to do as he was told.

Doctor Angelos carefully removed Detective Berman's glasses and gazed into his warm brown eyes, so much more naked and intense without their barrier. At long last, she'd successfully worn him down, and all in good time, too--she was about to burst just looking at him.

Before he could blink, he felt the firm clasp of a heavy black leather collar around his neck, his eyes unfocusing and limbs loosening. Tranquil daze, indeed. He'd awoken with it encircled around his neck a couple of weeks ago, and did think it somewhat strange at first. But now he longed to hear its satisfying snap, its snug embrace silencing his thoughts and worries, comfort enveloping him.

"Be a good boy and kneel for me."

Wordlessly, he dropped to his knees for her on the plush carpet of her bedroom floor. She approached him and stood with her legs stanced apart, the short hem of her white lace nightie at that angle leaving little to his imagination.

"Good boy," she cooed, wrapping her arms around his head. He shivered. How he adored hearing those words from her mouth. Automatically, his hands found her pale, supple, rounded thighs and squeezed them. He kissed them with starved abandon, tightening his grip and burying his face between them.

His eyes closed as he laid his head against her soft stomach, his hands climbing up her thighs towards her bottom, squeezing her large, firm glutes. God, she had a fantastic rear. He trailed ravenous kisses down to her groin, continuing to lay kisses on her neatly-trimmed lips until his kisses turned more and more lax, his tongue joining the fray, his desire to taste her insatiable as he felt her grow wetter and wetter while he worked. Gently, he began sucking her clitoris, prompting a firm, uncoordinated hand in his hair, pressing his head against her pelvis. The doctor arched her back against the wall and sighed, shivering at his sudden increase in speed and intensity, her skin breaking into goosebumps.

The doctor had discovered weeks ago that as a man so out of practice with any sort of sexual encounter, the poor detective had little clue with regard to navigating this specific type of pleasure. But that was alright; he was a fast learner, especially in this state. And with a little time and careful instruction, the award for most improved most certainly went to the man lapping at her with haste, his senses overwhelmed with her juices. Her head lolled heavily against the wall, and though she tried, really tried to stay silent, her own lips betrayed her, soft moans escaping them, growing more feral; more desperate. She felt his throaty growls underneath her as he worked, driving her over the edge, the sensation building, building, and then seizing her, pounding, boiling over, gripping her entire being as she felt a slick of warm fluid run down her legs.

Quivering, her knees buckled, sending her to the floor and into his sturdy, waiting arms. In his embrace, her heavy, erratic breathing began to calm. They parted and locked eyes, his tongue darting out to lick his lips. She exhaled and tousled his hair.

"Thank you," she sighed, shaking her head. "God, thank you."

"most welcome, Madam," he said, wearing a small, proud smile.

"I'm going to show you how thankful I am. Strip and lay on your stomach, please," she exhaled, motioning to the bed, still out of breath. After helping her up, he obliged with haste; the mere anticipation leaving him hard as a post.

She left and came back with towels and some other things, things he couldn't quite make out in the candle-lit dimness. Suddenly, he felt warm oil on his muscled lower back, then her small yet strong hands kneading away, radiating sorely-needed heat and pressure. As the tension released from his muscles, he closed his eyes and sighed silently into his pillow.

"You hold so much stress."

"yes, Madam," he uttered, muffled by the pillow.

"That's alright. You're in my hands now."

It was her turn to move those hands down toward his gluteal and upper thigh muscles, working them slowly but purposefully, relaxing him further still.

God, he had a fantastic rear.

His sigh grew into a deep moan, feeling himself sinking further into bliss under her touch. Suddenly, he detected something warm and wet near his rectum, caressing circles around its rim, teasing him before entering. At first startled, unsure of how to interpret the sensation, his body decided for him, sending tingles up his spine, awakening cravings for more.

Her finger withdrew, and a moment later, something a bit larger knocked on his back door. Very carefully, she slid the well-lubricated toy inside him and allowed him to acclimate, then pumped at a most leisurely pace. His eyes slammed shut at the first spark of pain, but this initial throb was gradually replaced with a pleasant feeling of fullness, which in turn grew into more. The man's breath quickened, blood rushing to his ears, his entire body gripped with a sensation he could hardly believe he was capable of feeling. Never before had his body responded in such a way, not even during what he thought were the most intense sexual experiences of his life. Every nerve in his body writhed under her touch, lively static permeating his body with each thrust.

Time swelled into a delirious blur, immaterial as constant ecstasy rippled through him, wave after wave of delight sending him melting into the mattress, every movement sending him into shivering fits of gratified spasms. As she thrust further, massaging his prostate, suddenly a vibration sparked to life. Flashing stars filled his vision, the intense rushes of pleasure making his ears ring, every cell of his body trembling. Not one to vocalize loudly, a particularly rapturous thrust pushed a loud wail from his throat, breath ragged.

"Am I hurting you?" Doctor Angelos asked.

"haah....nn-nnh..." Detective Berman whimpered, barely able to contain himself. His bothered cock pressed painfully against the bed beneath him.

"Good. Aw, what a good boy," she murmured. "What a gooood boy. Good Pet. But don't come for me yet. It hasn't even been ten minutes."

"please," he breathed, sore and on the brink of rupture.

"I don't know," she replied, smile evident in her voice. She'd never seen him quite this desperate. "Sure you're ready?"

"please," he begged more insistently between breaths, voice creeping higher in pitch. His pillow was damp with a trifecta of sweat, tears, and drool. "please, ohh please please please oh pleeease..."

"Hm...Alright. Well, actually--"

"please!" he cried, breath ragged.

"Oh, very well. C--on second thought--"

Detective Berman bellowed savagely.

"Come for me," she ordered coolly.

In a dim effort to avoid messing the bed, the detective tensed and aimed to the side, his thick stream darting halfway across the room straight onto the wall. His vision darkened and he collapsed against the bed, regaining consciousness a few moments after, feeling his mistress carefully removing the toy and gently shaking him as he groaned.

"Hey. Sorry. Must've overwhelmed you, nailed your vagus nerve or something. It can cause a bit of fainting, nothing to worry about. You alright?"

"mm," he mm'd.

"Good. Impressive shot," she snickered, staring at the wall sporting several healthy splats of his thick, dripping seed. His tired head turned, and dazed, unfocused eyes followed hers. Upon seeing his handiwork, he groaned again and rolled over on his back, wheezing.

"ugh, sorry, i'll...i'll..." he whispered hoarsely, still out of breath. Nothing had ever left his body quite like that. He attempted to sit up, but the room was spinning, and his legs were jelly, and his head was pounding so much that all he could manage was a roll onto his side.

"That's alright," she said, pleased with his performance. "I'll get it."

Normally, Doctor Angelos made her playthings clean up their own messes, but this one was truly as special as she thought he'd be. She'd done the unthinkable and thoroughly decommissioned all of her other toys in the interim--she'd have no use for them with such a good and pliant prize just for her.

Or...well. Perhaps she was going a bit soft. She had, after all, pledged not to grow too attached in her noble pursuit of the mind of every person who caught her eye. After what happened with James Walter, the rule seemed more necessary than ever. Some semblance of rhyme and reason had to remain amid an inherently irrational playing field.

But this particular pet hadn't even been cultivated for sheer self-satisfaction, merely for the express purpose of protecting herself from the long arm of the law. Despite her best intentions, this soft, beautiful toy exuded something that well and truly began to make him seem less like a toy, something that began to make her feel like she'd never quite felt before. He'd forced her hand from the get-go, and though she was awfully slow to admit it, over the past several months she had grown to care deeply for him.

She supposed it was that he was different from the others. He pushed back, presented her with challenges. She genuinely enjoyed his waking company, and he seemed to enjoy her in the same vein--more than she could say for other playthings of hers, many of whom were like her: motivated by validation, power, greed, and/or their own narcissism. Even James was motivated by his own pride, his own ego, his own personal success, and little more.

Indeed, as she'd gleaned in the past few months, Michael Berman was really, truly different. She could tell clearly from this case alone, and the way he gushed to her about his work over nighttime walks or Saturday night takeout, that the man wasn't moved much by political ambition. He could've been chief if he wanted. He wasn't; he was exactly where he wanted to be, motivated by his sense of ethics, zeal to provide justice for those who'd had their lives taken. It was what made an already tantalizing and highly rewarding conquest even more so when she'd finally managed to sink her claws into his mind and bend his will in her favor.

So...why was she still so unsettled? She supposed it worried her, the thought that one of these days something was going to trigger him, and he would break through her masterful layers of conditioning, and he would realize that she was not like him; she was not good, she was not moral, she was motivated neither by that which was ethical nor just. Given the framework through which she understood the control of human behavior, that outcome was unlikely, but entirely possible. It could be tomorrow. It could be in thirty years. But one day, at long last, he just might recognize her wickedness.

A cold shiver went down her spine. For the first time in her life, she feared such a thing.

Wiping the detective's target practice off the wall with a paper towel, she gazed upon her perfect pet--admiring his slumbering, defenseless form, limbs splayed, countenance loose and unguarded, curves and musculature playing with the flickering shadows, the sweat and hair on his body glittering in the dim, orange candlelight.

Without warning, her chin involuntarily crinkled. Praying he wouldn't wake, she allowed despairing guilt to overwhelm her features, tears gathering in her eyes for the first time in...she couldn't remember how long.

Of all the messes to get herself into. She never even thought James particularly deserved death in the first place. It was unfortunate that she had to put him out of his misery that way. Honestly, she wasn't thrilled at the prospect; it wasn't as though she'd sought to make a habit out of murdering. But when he'd started grabbing her, shaking her, telling her he planned on exposing her and bringing down the practice she'd spent years building, her way of life, her way of pleasure, outright threatening her, well...that was all just terribly inconvenient. And when he insisted on continuing despite her protests, it naturally followed that she simply had to do what needed to be done.

Some bugs needed to be squished.

Then, by some act of divine providence--she couldn't tell if it was punishment or reward--that pesky, adorable detective plopped himself down in her chair, started sticking his nose where it didn't belong, starting connecting dots. That wouldn't do either. But killing him would've been such a hassle, not to mention rude when he was simply doing his job.

Some bugs needed to be captured. Kept.

So he was asking for it, really. A man who hadn't been asking for it would not be drowsing peacefully, nude body prettily aglow in leisurely repose atop her bed. He had asked for it.

Unfortunately, so had she.

Gazing tenderly upon his placid visage, her eyes shining, Maria Angelos realized that she'd finally fallen prey to the force to which she'd for so long considered herself immune. This was more than just a game now, and there was nothing she could do about it. The feeling was made no less real by knowing, just knowing, that he felt at least equally strongly towards her, even outside of the confines of her ever-expanding influence on his mind. She'd studied, toyed with, hand-molded the minds of enough people to know what was what. Never before had she seen looks so soft, so adoring, so utterly full of reverence--not even from her most fervently dedicated toys.

A paranoid mind, she'd even considered the possibility that his subconscious, in a feat of unprecedented craftiness, only said what it had in that grocery store in a bizarre attempt to manipulate her into treating him well. Again unlikely, but to her chagrin, whatever it was, it had worked a treat. Though perhaps she needed to hear it. Perhaps, for once in her life, she needed to be good. At least, as close to it as she could manage.

Having finished cleaning up the impressive mess on the wall, Doctor Angelos did something she never dared do with any of the others. She climbed into bed and wrapped her arms around the man, holding him simply to hold him, nuzzling her face in between his shoulder blades. He mumbled something, words entirely unintelligible, then was quieted by the kisses she trailed over his neck, shoulder, and back. There, the two simply laid there together; skin to skin, beat to beat, breath to breath.

In this warm, steady rhythm, she felt alive.

"Hey, wake up," she whispered after an amount of time of which she'd lost track, wondering if she too had dozed off while embracing him. She ran her hand down his limp arm and entwined her hand in his. "You could use a bath after such a long day, hm? Then we'll eat. I'm sure you're hungry."

His wispy snores grew into guttural grunts of affirmation, and with her help he rose from the bed and followed her into her equally candlelit ensuite bathroom, where she helped him into her spacious sunken bathtub. Feeling a few of his faculties returning with a sudden gush of hot water splashing him, Detective Berman sat and became distantly cognizant that his mind had reached a level of blank and goopy around her that he would've found disconcerting not too long ago. Around her, his mind became wet newspaper falling apart into mush, the ink of his thoughts bleeding into illegibility. So consistent was this effect that resisting her will felt like facing gale force headwinds. And though he no longer felt swells of panic at letting those winds carry him instead, he was left with an odd and unplaceable sense of heartache.