Free Jake & Mimi by Frank Baldwin Page B

the binds has lifted the top of her crimson
     nipples free of her tight bra, which opens in the front. I unhook it. Her full breasts are soft, her nipples hard, her father’s
     steps just seconds from the door now. I reach in my pocket for the blade.
    She shudders at the cold touch of the metal as I slip it between cloth and hip, flick once, then again, and send her final
     protection to the floor. Quickly I cut off her bra, too. She wears only her ruined blouse now, which hides nothing, and she’s
     no longer alone on the edge. I loosen my belt, ready myself, and take the back of her glistening thighs in my hands, my grip
     slipping, then tightening, as I lift her free of the floor.
    Everything in me wants inside her, but I hold her still a last second, taking her all in. The deep berry of her nails, pressing
     into the backs of her hands now, her sweet, exhausted muscles stretched taut. And her beautiful eyes, which hold mine as I
     lift her thighs higher, as I part them a final time, and close as she braces for the coming shock, gathering herself as a
     diver, glimpsing the pearl of a lifetime, gathers for the final plunge.
    I let her father’s footsteps pull even with the door, set myself hard, pull down on her thighs and drive up and into her.
    Only my shoulder saves us. She bites hard into it, surviving, barely, the nova inside her as all her weight meets all my force
     at the one magic spot that now joins us. I pull her tight to me with my left arm and brace against the wall with my right.
     There’s no question of movement, of rhythm or pace. I can only keep still and hold on as Diane Silio tears free of the pressure
     I’ve built in her since the limo. The first deep spasms come before she can even wrap her legs around me, rocking her as she
     bites into my shoulder; rocking her as her father’s steps pass by the door, as they fade down the hall; rocking her still
     as the distant creak of his easy chair grants her, at last, freedom.
    Freedom to breathe again, to release my aching shoulder and to release into it gasping whispers of “Yes!” and “There!” and
     “Yes!” again. Freedom to move, to arch against me, each tiny shift in position unleashing a fresh torrent of pleasure. Freedom,
     at last, to give in to that pleasure, abandon herself to it, surge hard against the source of it. And freedom to take me,
     quickly, to where she’s been for too long. To the true edge. She takes me with her smell, sweet rose and Kahlua and sweat,
     a smell that becomes taste now as I bury my face in her neck and breasts. She takes me with her sounds, slipping now from
     words to soft, repeating cries. She takes me, most of all, with those deep spasms, spasms that will not end, that jolt her,
     a minute into the fuck, as hard as at the start. Three seconds apart they come, two, one, and then one long, cleansing cascade.
    All my training is no match for this. Without ever moving, I’m to the breaking point, too, and then past it, my resolve done
     in by the purity, the fury of her surrender, by the sight, at the last, of the tight red silk on her wrists. I’m just able
     to set my feet and give a last, lifting thrust, her mouth finding my shoulder again as I pin her to the wall, letting the
     last shocks burst inside her, shake her, then ripple away, and as they do, I accept her collapsing body as it leans into mine
     and is finally, beautifully still. I hold her until I can trust my arms again and then raise her gently, letting her lift
     her bound wrists clear of the hook, and then I set her, more gently still, on the folding chair, kneeling in front of her,
     kissing her closed eyes as I brush the damp hair from her face, watching those eyes as I reach behind me and free her ankles
     from my back, seeing them open, finally, as I pull her ruined blouse close around her. Open to my face, to the still hallway
     around us, and to the realization, just breaking in them now, that the fuck of her life is