Jake & Mimi

by Frank Baldwin

  She is beautiful. Her short blond hair is the gold of Ohio corn, uncorrupted by a single dark root. Her features are delicate, precise… Nordic. Her eyes, beneath the blindfold, must be ice blue. She is almost exactly my size.

  Two of the lamps are standing lamps, one on each side of the bed. The third is a snaking desk lamp that Jake has clipped to the headboard and brought so low that she must feel the heat of the bulb on her skin. He’s angled it forward, creating a line of light from her face down the center of her, leaving all beyond it in shadow.

  Jake lifts the metal blades to the camisole and begins to cut. He cuts straight up the middle, leaning forward as he does, lifting the collar away from her soft neck for the last, careful clip. Then he cuts each strap and pulls the ruined fabric out from under her. Her bra is white lace and opens in the front. Victoria’s Secret. Jake lays the scissors on the nightstand. He leans down and pulls the knot from her drawstring pants. Her ribs lift and settle as she breathes. Jake lifts the pants over her hips, then pulls them down her legs and off her, dropping them to the floor beside the bed. Her panties are white and spare. Not thong, but almost. They cover so little. She brings her legs together, bending them at the knees, angling them into the covers, away from him. She has the skin of a swimming queen, lineless, the same color beneath her hips as above them. Her legs are athletic and smooth, and on one small ankle is a raised scar, in the shape of a coin.

  Jake traces the backs of his fingers from her hip down one thigh to her knee, and then in a curving path down her calf. She lifts her chin, and her lips part.

  Jake reaches down beside the bed and comes up with a bottle. It is body oil, and he turns the top and pours some into his hands. It smells of vanilla. He lifts her right ankle, so small in his hands, and rubs the oil into her foot, then pours another dose into his hands and works it into her calf. She gives a deep sigh as he glides up her leg to the top of her thigh, stopping just where the lace of her panties begins, then pouring out more and starting down her other leg, working it into her thigh, her knee, into her ankle, pressing the tiny white scar with his thumb.

  He finishes and places her foot back on the covers. Again she closes her legs tight together. Jake slides up the bed, to the middle of her. He shakes drops of lotion onto her belly, then presses it in with his hands, rubbing in small, tight circles, stopping just beneath her bra, his thumbs grazing the bottom of the thin cotton. She bites her bottom lip. He pours more lotion into one hand and works above her bra, rubbing it into her sternum, into her neck, the rich vanilla scent pervasive now, tantalizing. She needs him to touch her breasts, but he won’t, though each of her breaths lifts them toward his hands. He slips the straps of her bra off each shoulder and works his hand across from one to the other, pressing hard, his fingers lingering on her throat, dipping to the top of her cleavage, but never straying to the swell just beneath. She moans softly, bringing her legs up toward her, then back down.

  I press mine tight together.

  Jake stands, crosses to the other side of the bed, and sits down at the head. He pours lotion into both hands and starts on her right arm, moving up from the shoulder, slowly, working the soft knot of her biceps, her thin forearm, and up toward her bound wrist. Her fingers close into her palms, open, close again, her beaded matte nail polish glittering like sequins in the lamplight.

  Jake crosses back to the far side of the bed and oils her left arm, climbing just as slowly as he did with her right, finally reaching her pulse point, her wrist, pressing the oil into her palm with his thumb. She swallows hard and rolls her wrists against the ties.

  The final notes of the concerto hang in the air, then fade away. The room is quiet except for the soft rustling of the covers under her legs. And her quickening breaths. Jake lets go of her left hand, then takes hold of it again. And leans toward it. And bends her wrist toward the light. She resists, trying to curl her fingers, but he straightens them and holds them still. What is it he sees? I lean forward. And now I see it, too. A break in her perfect color. A small white circle on her ring finger.

  Jake lets go of her hand. She closes it into a fist, then opens it again, nervously. He is looking into her face, as if he might see through the blindfold into her eyes. He reaches for the night-stand and, still watching her, slowly pulls open the drawer. She wets her lips at the sound, bites her bottom one. I can’t see the drawer from where I sit, but I see Jake reach into it, and he comes out with something. He holds it to the light. A gold wedding ring. He turns it quietly.

  She is married. He didn’t know.

  Jake slips the ring over the tip of his index finger and presses it into Nina’s cheek. She gasps, her whole body tensing. She turns her cheek into the bed, then turns it toward him again.

  “Please,” she whispers. “I —”

  Jake presses a finger to her lips. He lifts her chin. “It’s still Nick, isn’t it?” he says.

  “Yes. Jake —”

  He tightens his hold on her chin and lifts it another inch, straining her now. His thumb presses gently on her throat.

  “No more words. If you speak again, I’ll leave. Nick will find you like this.”

  He lets go of her chin. She swallows, breathes deeply, and nods.

  Jake places the ring on the nightstand and picks up the scissors. He slips them between her breasts and closes them around the clasp of her bra, one cool metal blade resting on her skin. The bra springs open, the fabric falling away on either side. He cuts through each half again, pulls them off her, and drops them to the floor. Her breasts are small, but her nipples are hard and… swollen. I stare at them. She wets her lips again and gathers herself, bracing for the touch she knows is coming at last.

  Jake leans down close and breathes, hard, on one swollen, ruby nipple. She gasps and rocks against the ties. He breathes hard on the other.

  “PI —”

  She stops herself. He does it again, first one, then the other. She shakes her head, grabs at the few inches of silk between her wrists and the posts and twists them in her fingers. He breathes on her nipples again. I look away, down at the floor. My chest is aching. Not my chest. Above it. I hold my arm tight against my sweater, against my breast, leaning forward so that Jake won’t see.

  He puts his left hand on her hip, gently, and holds his right hand above her breast, lowering it until his palm makes the barest contact with her nipple. The touch is so soft that she thinks it is breath again, but he keeps it there, until she knows, and then he starts to move it back and forth. Slowly, an inch either way, touching just the tip of the nipple, nothing else. Back and forth, back and forth, then over to her other breast, and now back and forth between them. A little faster, but still just grazing the very tips of her nipples. She lifts her chest toward him, to force more contact, but he raises his palm the same distance. I press my arm harder against me. I try to look away but can’t take my eyes off his hand. He moves it a little faster. He is giving her a fraction of the pressure she needs, a whisper of it. Faster, he moves, and now he lowers his palm the slightest bit. A gasp escapes her, a short gasp of gratitude. She bites her lip and lifts her chin. It is so little, what he gives her, but it is something, at last. Friction. Pressure. She accepts it, accepts it and begins to rock, lifting and dropping her crossed ankles, opening and closing her fists. If he’d give her just a little more. The smallest bit more. Jake lowers his hand a fraction of an inch and moves it faster. Yes. It is almost enough. Almost just barely enough. She lifts her chin higher. Faster, he moves his hand, and faster, and still faster, and she is climbing now, climbing toward release, trusting him. She clenches her fists tighter, jerks faster against the ties. She is almost in rhythm with his passes now, her mouth open, the cords of her throat tight, pulsing. Faster, he goes. Faster. His hand is a blur now, drops of oil coming off it. I lock my own ankles. She is almost there. Faster. A few more seconds. A few more. One more —

  Jake takes his hand away.

  She doesn’t cry out or stop rocking but lifts herself towa
rd where his hand was, where it must still be, straining against the ties to rise another inch, half an inch, to stay in contact. She feels nothing but air. Higher, she lifts herself, to the limit the ties allow — nothing. His hand is gone, finished with her, and now she cries out, one sharp cry, as if an iron had been pressed to her skin, and with it she collapses back into the bed. Jake stands and walks quietly from the room.

  I put my hand to my mouth, to my forehead. My fingers are clenched, white. I look to the empty doorway, then back at Nina.

  She is shaking all over. She tries to turn onto one side, to press one of her nipples into the covers, into anything, but the ties won’t let her. Her ribs heave and small spasms rock her. She moves her legs, still pressed together, from side to side, then brings them up to her waist and back down. I try to look away, but my eyes are drawn back to her, to her delicate face, pained now, to her swollen nipples, each one slick with oil.

  A sound comes from beyond the doorway. Nina hears it, too, and turns her head, realizing for the first time that Jake has left the room. It takes me a second to make out the sound, to understand that it was the soft pop of the refrigerator door. I hear it close again. Nina’s breaths are short and desperate, almost sobs, but as it sinks in that she is alone, she begins to calm, and I see a new resolve come into her face. A strength. For a few moments, at least, she is safe.

  She lets her wrists go limp in the ties. She takes one ankle off the other, then quickly crosses them again, moaning softly. She brings her legs up toward her belly, but more slowly than before. And now back down. She takes control of her breathing, the way they teach in yoga, slowing it, slowing it, finding her center. She uncrosses her ankles again, gently, and this time she is able to leave them uncrossed, though still tight together. Her body still trembles, but less now. She tightens her calf muscles, then relaxes them. Tightens her quad muscles, relaxes them. Her thighs. Her stomach. Breathing in as she tightens, exhaling as she relaxes. Her shoulders. Her wrists. She is gaining control, muscle by muscle.

  “Soon,” she whispers. “Soon, soon.”

  I watch her, mesmerized. Her breathing slows until it is almost natural, just a little quicker than my own. Quietly, I take a deep breath, too, and take my arm from my side. It still aches, so I look back at the empty doorway and then slip my hand under my sweater and press on my breast, careful to keep silent. I can feel the heat in my face, the flush that I know he will see. I pull my hand from my sweater and sit up straight. I try to relax my legs, but they tremble, and I feel my control start to leave me, so I keep them tight. I smooth my dress quietly with my hands. I’m preparing for his return, I realize, just as she is.

  Jake walks into the room again. Nina senses him as much as hears him, breathes once more, deeply, and then lets it out. She rolls her wrists once against the ties, and then cups her fingers into a loose fist. A runner’s fist. I remember it from track. Pretend you’re holding a bird in your hands. Tight enough to keep it from flying away, but gentle enough not to hurt it. She is a runner, too. It will help her. Jake walks past the bed and to the dresser, holding in his right hand something that the angle of his body keeps me from seeing. He presses the fast-forward button on the cassette player, and when it clicks he takes the tape out, turns it over, puts it back in, and hits PLAY. He turns; I see what’s in his hand and feel my legs start to go again. He sits down on the bed. Nina waits beneath him, calm now, feeling the bed give under him, knowing that any second he will start in on her again but thinking that she has prepared herself, that she is ready. She can’t see the rocks glass in his hand.

  Filled to the top with ice.

  Jake places it on the nightstand, silently. He looks down at her, down the shining length of her, from her bound wrists, relaxed now, to her small ankles, pressed together but not crossed. The scent of vanilla fills the room. And now, from the tape player, comes music. Piano. Slow, meandering piano. I’ve heard it somewhere. I don’t remember where, but I’ve heard it. It is haunting, beautiful. Nina listens, too, seems to strain toward it, as if it will save her, delay what is to come or help her through it. Allow her to think of something other than where he will touch her next.

  Jake reaches into the glass, into the rough pyramid of cubes, and takes out the top one. He leans toward her face, toward the beads of sweat that have broken on her forehead, on her cheeks. Sweat from the heat of the lamp, from the heat inside her, the denial. Jake presses the frosted cube to her forehead.

  She gasps in shock, her mouth opening. She tries to turn her cheek into the bed, but he holds it still, her face tiny in his hand. He moves the ice across her forehead. She gasps again but calms, almost sighs. She needs this. She is burning up, and it cools her. She licks her lips, suddenly aware of her thirst. He touches the cube to them and takes it away. She waits for him to return it, but instead Jake looks down her body again, and as he does, I start to dissolve.

  He places his left hand on her hip, steadying her, and then presses the cube to her throat. She surges in shock. Her hands are fists again, true fists, jerking against the ties. She brings her legs up sharply. Jake puts his left arm across them and, still holding the ice to her throat, forces her legs down to the covers and pins them there. He starts to move the ice again, down her neck, lifting his arm off her legs as he does. She bends her knees and brings them up again. Jake stops the ice. Again he presses it into her, just under her neck, bringing a gasp of pain. He pushes her legs to the covers again, and only when they are still does he start to move the ice, up onto one shoulder, then back down it and across to the other. He frees her legs, and again she instinctively starts them up. Jake stops the ice, pressing it into the small hollow beneath her collarbone. She gasps, but not just from pain now. She gasps because she understands. Moaning softly, she lowers her legs to the covers. When they are still, Jake starts the ice in motion again.

  It is torture. She can’t take the ice without moving her legs, but if she moves them he stops it, and that is worse. And so she lies still, gasping, her ankles crossed tightly again as Jake slides the ice between her breasts, up on its edge so as not to touch them, and now down her belly, the cube melting quickly in the heat of the lamp, leaving a thin trail of water on her skin. Her fists pull so hard against the ties that I can hear the creak of the posts.

  The ice is down to a sliver now, and she gasps in relief as Jake lifts it from her and presses it to his forehead until it disappears. The piano continues its soft wandering. I can see that Nina is trying to concentrate on it, to give herself to it. To focus her mind on something, anything else. And now I remember. Convento… Convento…“Convento Di Sant’Anna.” From the soundtrack of The English Patient. Mark bought me the CD for Christmas. I’d hardly noticed this song at first, but it is beautiful. Soft variations off a pure, simple, entrancing theme.

  Jake takes a new cube from the glass. He holds it to the lamp, lets the burning bulb melt drops onto Nina’s forehead. Then he slides down the bed and presses the cube to the raised white circular scar on her ankle.

  Nina spasms and jerks up her legs again, but Jake keeps the cube pressed to her until she lowers them with a soft cry and is still. Then he starts it up her leg, in small circles, up to her knee and past it, up to her thigh. He lifts it off her skin, grants her twenty seconds of relief, then presses it to her belly, waiting out her spasms, her reflexive kicks, keeping it pressed to her until, with a cry of frustration, she stills her legs yet again. Now he starts the ice down, in the same small, agonizing circles. Her breathing is quick and desperate, her cheek turned into the covers, but somehow she is able to keep her legs still. At her belly button he lifts the ice off her again and holds it away from her, out over the carpet, watching her closely, her trembling body, her parted lips.

  I look away. I am burning up now, the heat not just in my face but all through me. She can’t take this much longer. Through a crack in her closet I catch sight of her suits — designer, expensive. I close my eyes. I can see her in her gallery, among her paintings.
Graceful with clients, assured, in control. A professional woman. Married. I open my eyes, jarred, riven by the sight of her, the actual sight, the beautiful, helpless arms stretched above her, the strict white ties, stained now with oil and sweat.

  Jake is working her again. Sometimes he starts the ice above her waist, sometimes below, but always he works it toward the center of her, toward the scant cotton that is her last protection. And as the music grows more insistent, so, too, do his forays. He moves the ice cube in ever smaller, ever tighter circles, and each pass ends closer to her panties. Before, he stopped at her belly button or, if he was coming up from below, at her thigh, but now, from either direction, he comes to within an inch of the cotton. The closer he gets, the harder it is for her to keep still, and twice she gives in, moving her legs, enduring his punishment, the pain of the pressed ice worth the chance to move but quickly so unbearable that she lowers her legs again and is still, crying softly, her nails digging into her palms, the ice leaving a mark like a red brand on her golden skin as it moves away.

  Only the reprieves keep her fighting. The twenty-second, thirty-second breaks when he lifts the ice from her skin, when she can gather herself, twist the silk ties slowly in her fists, try to focus again on the soft, saving piano that is her only distraction. He gives her another break now, holding the ice out over the carpet. She turns her head, almost imperceptibly, toward the music. The beautiful piano music that is forever wandering off its theme and then returning to it. I try to concentrate on it now, too, to slow the feeling that is starting beneath my dress. Jake takes a fresh cube from the glass. The music, Mimi. Focus. Wandering and then returning. The eternal theme — the journey and then the trip home. Jake holds the ice but waits to press it to her. I lean forward. Wandering, then returning. Could it be? I watch Jake. Still he waits, holding the ice just above her. And still the music is digressing, digressing, digressing, and now, as it finds its way back to its theme, I see Nina brace, and as the piano settles into the theme again, Jake Teller touches the fresh cube, hard, to the inside of her thigh.