Story Preview: Being Rather Cooperative

Being Rather Cooperative
A Smuthunter Story

“Excuse me, I hate to bother, but I couldn’t help but notice you looked rather exhausted.”

I looked up from my position in a slightly over-stuffed chair, and found my gaze met by a pair of sweet, gently blue eyes that sat in a smooth, round, pale face; one framed by curled reddish locks, looking down at me over what I could only describe as a truly bountiful chest.

“I beg your pardon?” This woman, who carried a hint of a proper British affectation in her tone, was dressed in a high necked gown of white and pale pink rose, and held in her hand a glass of wine that was much closer to empty than to full.

By the irrepressible shape of her bust and the narrowness of her waist I also assumed that a corset was at work diligently flattering her.

“I was only remarking that your eyes seem to posses a rather drooping quality, a heaviness that seems to be invading your posture, and you mind. You seem destined to tilt your chin down, slump forward in your sight and find yourself no longer at this affair, but in your own dreams, peacefully free of all else, and it seems truly inevitable now more than ever sir. It seems I’ve cursed it to be true by speaking it aloud.”

She was a touch older than me, or perhaps slightly more, it was hard to say. Her skin was smooth, near alabaster white, and her hair was on the march somewhere between strawberry blonde and warm pale red, giving her an angelic sort of visage, capped off by red smiling lips that were curved in knowing sympathy.

“I’ve noticed that you’re here alone, and that what socializing you’ve done has come to an end, and now by the way you seem so on the verge of yawning, resting your mind that is clearly tired from the commotion of the room and the burdens of being polite, you’ve found this place to relax and likely fall away into a pleasant and deep slumber. You seem even on the verge now.”

She was right in that I had taken to people watching over participation in the loathsome banter of my well heeled peers and their shrewish and banal wives but I was hardly tired despite stifling a yawn in this woman’s presence.

“You’ll excuse me, but I think I ought to stand to introduce myself,” I made to rise to my feet but she took a step towards me in my chair while placing one hand on the considerable bounty of her chest.

“Nonsense, there’s no need to stand on formalities Mr. Collins, yes I do know who you are. There’s no need to stand at all when even now your own legs are heavy with the same deep exhaustion you can feel at work behind your eyes. No, you needn’t apologize for yawning either, these parties or gatherings or whatever peculiar proper titles that may be assigned, are quite the cause for feeling so mentally and physically spent, especially suddenly, especially from nowhere, just as those yawns that seem so ever present now.”

She hadn’t told me her name, and though I considered standing despite her closeness and her presence, I was in the moment, distracted by my inability to cease from yawning once more, then again. Perhaps this woman was onto something, as I was feeling rather worn down all of a sudden.

“My name is Matilda Mears, cousin of the hostess, though not favorably so if you don’t mind such candor. But given your disinterest I expect you respect when one is rather too frank. And that said, frankly I think it would be wise for you to follow me to another room where you can come to a proper rest. Your eyelids seem to be growing heavier and heavier by the moment.”

She stopped, and studied me for a moment as I found myself blinking, and strangely enough, feeling a profound sense of weariness that had come over me.

“Yes, it does seem as though your eyelids are growing much heavier and heavier by the moment. It seems as though you’re struggling even now to keep them open. You look to me as though you may be on the verge of sinking down into a very deep and restful sleep. Watching you blink now, and yawn now, it seems as though your whole body has become much more relaxed than you’ve considered hasn’t it?”

Matilda’s voice was very delicate and very… one could say maternal, but only in that it spoke with a caring and nurturing authority that had, in my increasingly drowsy state, became hard to disagree with.

She watched me with those soft, radiant blue eyes, eyes I’d become accustomed to staring into since her arrival, and her hand still remained rested just below her neck and squarely on the veritable balcony of her breasts. I’ll not deny there was a beckoning nature to her figure, or the presentation of her form that saw me longing to perhaps rest my head on that considerable bosom.

More practically speaking though, I had a mind to say something to her, but as I sat there the words came too slow, and my otherwise nimble mind was clumsy with a sense of sleepy morass. Her smile was as soft as her eyes, and I found myself blinking my way into darkness and a brief moment of reverie.

“I do apologize,” my eyes opened and I felt a surge of energy as I woke from a few mere seconds of sleep, “you appear to be right. I fear I’m certain to be asleep, and terrible company for one as caring and charming as yourself.”

With this, I did manage to make my way to my feet, and then took her gloved hand and kissed it, “Benjamin Collins at your service.”

While I had no love for the quality of the upper crust that I had found myself in, new money though I may be, I did believe in standing by the conventions of politeness and an adherence to good manners.

“It is a pleasure to meet you and not just know of you, though you needn’t push yourself, you are rather drowsy, nearly clumsy with sleep,” her eyes were fixed on mine and the sweetness of her voice was like chilled wine on a summer’s day, “and it would certainly be best, wouldn’t you agree, to follow me somewhere more quiet and appropriate for a moment’s peace.”

 She covered my hand with both of her gloved hands and started run one gloved palm over the back of my hand, while pulling gently with her other, “Yes, it would be best to follow me now, yes, you would find it wise and easy.”

She started to lead me out into a hallway and then down towards what I assumed was the study, and it felt in that initial moment as though someone else were holding her hand as we walked down the manor’s halls, but that feeling passed after a few steps.

“It can be so hard, on occasion to convince a man of your stature to simply do what he ought to. The question of will, especially in the case of a woman instructing him, even when it’s his own idea or need, such as your need to simply rest, can be a trying one. Trying constantly, so hard to be willful and right can be as exhausting as anything else, and I hope you feel a sense of relief here being rather cooperative.”

I was enjoying her candor and was thankful, in all honesty, to be escorted out of this gathering. But as we walked past the study I started to wonder where she was leading me.

“And I hope you consider the ease of this feeling, the greater sense of simply being, as opposed to always leading. When the mind is tired, especially drained by tedium, a man tends to feel the need to enliven or energize the situation, but you are free now, in your weariness to come to a rest, a proper rest here, away from voices and eyes, away from others.”

She went on like this for a time, but as we walked down the halls I found it harder to wholly grasp what she was saying. She observed that it seemed that every step was wearying me more, and that by the time I could come to rest I would be truly exhausted.

I was inclined to agree with her.

“Please, you’re so very tired, do step in here so you may finally find sleep.”

I was standing inside a small bedroom in the far end of one of the wings of the manor. I could not say which, nor where exactly I was, as my mind had become thick and slow, lost in a narcoleptic fog, but it was plain room and not uncomfortable.

“Here, that’s it now, feeling rather cooperative still, allowing yourself to come to rest. But here is a bed, and you’re hardly dressed for sleep. You do think that is not fitting don’t you?”

She smiled, and took my hand in hers again in the same way, pulling with one as her palm rubbed the hack of my hand with the other, “I know this coming slumber is heavy, heavier than you thought, allow me to help you, allow yourself to do what you ought to.”

With one hand around my wrist, she raised her other hand from mine and brought it up in front of my face. I felt disoriented and dreamy as she moved it up and down as through she were painting a fence post, tugging on my wrist as she did.

“Allow yourself to slumber now, as a dream swallowing the sleeping mind. Allow me to ease you down into comfort and quiet, being as a sleep walker in this moment, walked back to bed, but first, undressed, first undress.”

As her hand stopped and she let me go, I felt an urge to do as she’d said, first removing my suit coat, and then my shoes, followed by my belt and my pants, and I felt an odd and powerful moment of impropriety as I did so. Surely I was scandalizing Matilda, but I felt detached from the reality of the scene, and was greeted by her approving smile.

“Please Benjamin, continue to dream, you’re simply too tired to think of what a waking man would think, or do, undress now, oblige me in that rather cooperative way of yours.”

As I stood there in my undergarments, and my vest and dress shirt, it was like moving though a morass. My body was slow, at times moving in jerking motions, until I stood free of everything, even my undergarments. It had almost not occurred, but Matilda’s warm voice and fixed gaze found me in my dreams and led me to remove them as surely as she had walked me down these halls.

I was naked in the bedroom, lost in the dream of the moment, and certainly lost in the manor somewhere as well.

To say I tried to speak would be giving myself too much credit. I was without the agency to find my voice, or the grasp to understand what had befallen me. I was caught in an instinctual desire to respond to her voice, and as she reminded me of my agreeable nature, doing as she instructed, in this manner of undress or not, felt both obliging to her, and obliging to my own self.

“Now I haven’t any bed clothes for you, but I must ask you this,” and here she touched my face with her gloved hand and fixed my dreaming eyes with hers, “tired as you are, walking in a dream now, lost in in the sound of slumber’s deep embrace, dancing in my voice, you must know I too am very tired, but tired in a different manner than you. My dress is too restricting, and if we are to rest here, in your slumber and in my own whims, would you not want me comfortable? Could you not find a way to delay your deepest slumber a moment longer?”

I felt a subtle pressure under my jaw, where her thumb rested, and found myself nodding my own head in agreement with her. I did truly want to close my eyes and fall into some deeper darkness, like what I suppose would be the sleep of the just, or the very drunk, but more than that, there was a need, an indefinable need to agree to these suggestions that floated so easily from her red lips.

Her hand on my cheek moved away, and started to float in front of my eyes, her fingers moving as her hand crossed my vision, up and then down, floating it seemed to my sleeping self, like a butterfly, and I wondered even then if she was practicing some secret arcana on me, because as her hand moved, not only my eyes, but the whole of my head moved with it.

“Yes, of course you will, being rather cooperative as you are, feeling so at ease in doing what you ought when a woman such as myself, a woman of a deep and powerful authority you simply feel and recognize, perhaps an even greater authority than your own, even over yourself speaks, you are inclined to agree with me, are you not?”

I could feel my eyelids fluttering as her hand moved down, then fighting to open wider as it moved up. And though I had heard her question, I could not find my answer before she tapped my forehead and said, “Undress me.”

My waking slumber, my sleepwalking daze became a state of perfect mental silence and singular focus. It felt as though I was staring out into the ocean, watching the waves for a time uncounted and with no meaning, but also that there was a singular need, an overriding purpose.

I stood and waited as she turned her back to me, taking her long red hair, full of immaculate curls, and pulled it over her shoulder, “The buttons please.”

My hands moved of their own volition, and soon I was witness to the smooth pale skin of her back. She had been covered from the neck down and gloved; save for her face, I had yet to gaze upon her skin before this moment.

“The shoulders please.”

As she spoke, I followed her request, and in opening the back of her dress I saw a sight that, in my state, I did not properly consider. She was corseted as I had thought, but not in cloth, it was leather, and the lacing was pink ribbon. I could not admire the sight long before I felt compelled by an impulse that felt both inside and outside of me all at once, to further undress her.

She stood there, her dress around her waist, black leather standing out against her pale skin, and still adorned with her white gloves, which I had not realized ran up to her elbows.

“Now, pull my dress down, gently please.”

Her back was still to me when I placed my hands on her hips, and being long past impropriety, and far away from any certainty of acting on my own accord, I knelt down and with gentle dedication, slid her dress down, until I found myself facing her naked behind.

The skirt of her dress had been such that I hadn’t seen her feet, and the reveal now was that she had been wearing riding boots, and not proper footwear for such an occasion.

Aside from her boots, she was naked from the waist down, and as I knelt she pulled off her gloves, then turned to face me.

The heft of her breasts was held in her corset, and in her boots she cut a striking and imposing visage. She was red hair, white skin, and black leather. From my knees I watched as her demur, inviting smile remained unchanging, while her eyes narrowed as they stared into mine.

“Benjamin,” she cocked a knee and presented all of her womanhood to me, “it’s time to put you to bed, remember how tired you are, go lie down now.”

The silence and clarity of purpose in my mind was gone and I found myself back in the same sleepwalker’s dream as I made my way to the bed. I stretched out on top of the covers, unable to give myself permission to do any more than that.

“Close your eyes and sleep now, deep sleep.”

She leaned over me, her leather clad breasts filling my vision, and tapped my forehead again as she said those words.

The world fell to black.

I do not know how long I slept, it may have been hours, but upon waking I believe it was only moments, though powerful and refreshing in their brevity.

But as I woke, I found my arms bound together with some soft fabric, my hands positioned above my head, and I felt something around my neck, perhaps a wrapping or some sort, or a collar of leather. I tried to move my arms from above, but felt that another piece of leather, I was beginning to think was certainly a leash, lay across my bindings, or wrapped around it. While it had some give, it was not enough for me to move my arms in any meaningful way

I moved my fingers and grasped it, then pulled, and found that it was not very long, and also seemingly tied to the headboard. This occurred before I opened my eyes, and the sight of Matilda, mostly unchanged, filled me with a flood of desire that had been muted in my earlier and more distant state of mind.

Now, lust was the order of the moment, but it was not my only feeling.

I felt panic come and go in breaths and waves, as I was a captive of the flesh now in a way much more understandable than I had been a captive of the mind, but the sight of her, and what she was doing, quelled that panic in no uncertain terms.

She was, to my shock and growing titillation, ministering to her own desires, one hand moving in a languid dance, the other gripping a riding crop, that she was flicking against her thigh with no real intention.

Her eyes met mine, and for a time she did not speak, she only seemingly brought herself to an enjoyable end as she stared into my eyes, my body betraying the carnality of the moment and inspiring a smirk that quickly returned to her more disarming smile.

“Matilda, what have you done to me,” I felt pride demand I ask, and pride demand that I tug again on my bindings. “What is this?”

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