Authors: Frank Baldwin
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 toward 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.