Free Jake & Mimi by Frank Baldwin

a quick breath from her. I slip them off, and she is forced onto her toes, her tensed thighs in
     tight, perfect relief through her skirt. I run my hands up the back of her stockings, the cool silk warmed from beneath now,
     and stop just under her ass. I squeeze her trim thighs gently. Gently. And then hard.
    Only her binds keep her standing. She pulls at them, shuts her eyes tight, and crosses her ankles against the current coursing
     through her. “No,” she whispers, shaking her head, but as I make a second slow pass up her legs, her knees slip apart, an
     inch at first, then another, opening toward pleasure, toward the sweet torment she wants to give into,
is
giving into, until, through the door, the sudden spike of a laugh track brings her around again.
    “Don’t,” she whispers. “Please.”
    I roll her stockings down and off her, careful to trail my fingers on the inside of her thighs. She squeezes them tightly
     together, gaining a moment’s relief that melts away when I slide my knees between hers. “You can’t,” she gasps, fighting for
     her life now. I widen my knees, parting her legs a little more, and slide my hands up her thighs until I can just feel the
     moist cotton of her panties on the back of my fingers. Beads of sweat dot her forehead now.
    At the first, tiny pressure on the private cotton, she turns her face into her shoulder. I press harder, and she bites the
     thin collar of her blouse to keep quiet; still harder, and she shakes her head violently, tearing off the top button and exposing,
     for the first time, her tight white bra and the gorgeous bounty it restrains.
    “Stop,” she manages to whisper. “They’ll hear.”
    I part her knees another inch. She is swelling against my fingers now, and as I work them, she drops her head to her chest,
     then arches it back. I press harder, just where she needs it, hold it for a five count, and then release. Tears come to her
     eyes. If only she could close her legs, or cry out just once. She bites her lip against the next round of pressure and — when
     it doesn’t come — bites harder against the lack of it. I make her wait fifteen seconds. Thirty. I press again.
    It is their struggle that sends me. Always. Their sweet agony as I take them to — and then through — their sexual limits.
     Diane Silio is reaching hers now. Women manage their pleasure with their legs or release it with their cries, but my knees
     keep hers apart, and even a single cry now will betray her. Cool Diane, who has handled all comers. The smooth Manhattan suits,
     eager for a one-off with a Brooklyn beauty. The block toughs, all hands and persistence. Handled them at close quarters, on
     couches, in cars. Controlled them with her soft eyes, with the small permissions they could grant or take away. Tonight those
     permissions aren’t hers to give. Tonight her battle is against her own body, and right now she is helpless to stem the pleasure
     rushing through it.
    Diane Silio is reaching the edge, and as she reaches it, her soft face pressed to the wall, her breasts rising with each quick
     breath, I hit the stretch that I live for. The golden moments when the world falls away, when it is her and me and nothing
     else.
    I find, through the wet cotton, the spot that will collapse her and I work the edges of it, giving and withholding, giving
     and withholding. A soft moan escapes her. Another. She is coming apart.
    And through her parents’ door comes a cough, and then the creaks and moans of an old easy chair surrendering its burden. Her
     eyes open and find mine, imploring, desperate.
You wouldn’t do this
, they say.
You couldn’t
. She tries again to close her thighs, and again I don’t allow it. Footsteps now, coming down the long hallway. Close. Closer.
     Her old man, off to the fridge for a beer. Not ten feet from us now. If he looks through the peephole, he will see her. His
     jewel. Trussed. Trembling. Perfect.
    I part her legs a final inch, her feet