Certain Requirements

by Elinor Zimmerman

  “And one of you by yourself,” Kris said as we entered the park. “You were on a hoop in the air, spinning around and flirting with the crowd.”

  “That’s my favorite.”

  “You were great.”

  “Thanks.” I gulped my coffee too fast and burned my tongue. We silently found an empty spot and sat on the grass.

  “So what do you want, exactly?” I blurted as soon as we were sitting. With my shot nerves, I couldn’t help myself, despite the stunned look on her face.

  She exhaled slowly. “Let’s start with getting to know each other a little.”

  “Right, right, of course. I’m sorry. I’m just nervous. Meghan told me you might be looking for a live-in sub, and my roommate’s moving out, and I gave notice at my job, and basically, I’m freaking out. So I’m being weird.”

  “It’s a weird situation,” she said diplomatically. “I’ve never had a live-in sub before. I don’t normally meet with complete strangers who might live in my house.”

  “I don’t normally even meet up with strangers who I’m just looking to sleep with,” I mumbled. “I mean, I date. But I’m not, I don’t know, in the scene or whatever. I don’t go to sex parties or find people just to do kinky things with. So this is…”

  “Are you wondering what you’re doing here?”

  “Kind of.”

  “You’re having coffee with somebody. If it doesn’t work out, it’s not a big deal, is it?”

  I nodded. When I told Sasha that I was losing my roommate, she offered to let me stay with her and find me a place in her co-op. Unfortunately, Sasha lived in a repurposed walk-in closet. It was incredibly cheap, but living with a dozen people and attending weekly co-op meetings with all of them did not appeal to me. Still, I had options.

  “I noticed your profile wasn’t filled out,” Kris said. “I thought maybe you were pretty new to this, and I was hesitant about that.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t generally play with someone who’s this new.”

  “I’m not new to it. I’m just not…public. I’ve done lots of stuff. In private.”

  “Oh yeah? What kind of stuff?”

  I blushed again but made myself sit taller. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  “I would, actually. That’s why we’re having coffee.”

  I took another scorching gulp. Way to flirt, Phoenix. “I’ve been tied up.”

  “With what?”

  “Restraints, fabric ones. Ropes. Not, like, chains or anything.”

  “And you liked it?”

  I grinned. “Very much.”

  Kris reached over to capture a curl that had fallen in front of my shoulder. She tucked it behind my ear. “You saw my whole list. I’d like to know yours.”

  “I’ve never exactly made a list. I guess I’ve tried things, and I liked them or I didn’t.”

  “What have you tried? What have you liked?” she asked cheerfully. “What didn’t you like?”

  My upper lip began to sweat, a sign I was exceptionally nervous. I chugged the last of my coffee and excused myself to throw away the empty cup. I was hoping she’d forget about it by the time I got back, but when I sat back down, she just looked at me expectantly. I shook my head. “I’m new to talking about it with someone I barely know.”

  “You don’t know me well enough to talk to me about your kinks, but you know me well enough to consider moving in with me and having kinky sex with me?” Kris arched an eyebrow.

  “Touché. But where do I start?”

  She sipped her coffee slowly, then asked, “Have you ever made a yes/no/maybe list?”

  I shook my head.

  “Why don’t you try one, and if you want to meet again, we can compare what we like. They’re kind of cheesy sometimes, but they’re useful. I’ll send you a link.”

  “Okay.” I shrugged. “Not to be too forward, but why are you interested in this? I mean, I’m a broke wannabe aerialist. But you’re successful and you must meet tons of women who share your, um, interests. You’re involved in BDSM stuff, and you could pay a professional if you wanted. So, why this?”

  She flashed me the smile from her photographs. “I’ve been thinking about this fantasy for a while, and I’d discussed it with a couple of partners in the past, but it never worked out. I do okay with play partners, but it can be hard to meet people because I work so much. My last sub moved to San Diego a few months ago, and I’ve been looking for a new one, asking people in the scene if they know anyone for me. I told Meghan I was looking for a sub. She asked more about it, and I told her my dream is to have a hot, live-in, femme sub who’d clean and cook. She made a joke about me getting a sex housewife in exchange for rent, and I said it didn’t sound half bad and to send anybody who fit the bill my way. Before I knew it, I was watching those videos you sent, and now here you are.”

  “Ask and you shall receive.”

  “It’s worked out for me. Or at least, we’re having coffee. I’m interested in exploring this. What about you?”

  “I’m interested. I mean, I want to see your house.” I nudged her playfully with my shoulder.

  “If our interests line up, let’s play, and then we can talk about the house. Any interest in the party at Mission Control next weekend?”

  I raised my eyebrows. “I’ve never gone to anything like that before. I’d be much more comfortable if we played in private first.”

  “Really?” She looked shocked.

  “Look, kink in public is new to me. But kink in private? I know how to do that.”

  She looked worried. “It’s been a long, long time since I played with a new person in private. I always play with new partners for the first time in public.”

  I chewed a hangnail. “Is that something you can compromise on?”

  “I think so. But I’m not used to it.”

  “I’m not used to any of it.”

  “But you’re interested?” She took my hand and I jumped at the unexpected jolt it gave me.

  “Very.” I leaned closer to her. “Though I think we should test if we have chemistry.”

  “And how would we do that?” she asked huskily.

  I kissed her slowly, lightly. Her lips were soft and yielding. It lasted just for a minute, but I felt a spark, a rush of desire.

  “So,” she said after we had pulled apart. “When do you want to come over?”

  “Now?”

  She pulled out her phone and frowned again. “Actually, I have to get back to work. Tomorrow?”

  “Sure.”

  “Bring the yes/no/maybe list. I’ll text you.” She gave me a peck on the cheek. She was already calling someone and walking away.

  Chapter Five

  We met in the same place the next afternoon. It was my first Sunday as an unemployed person, and I couldn’t quite believe it. John and Ollie were leaving in six weeks. If it didn’t work out with Kris, I’d need to find another solution pretty fast. If it were possible, I was even more nervous than I’d been the day before. When I told John I was going to see Kris’s place, he frowned and told me to please be careful, which didn’t exactly help matters.

  After we grabbed coffee, Kris and I walked to her house a few blocks away. I’d been expecting an ultra modern loft with a million-dollar view. Instead of sleek and stark, her house was a skinny Victorian with bay windows and intricate details. It sat so close to the neighboring houses that they almost looked connected. A treacherously steep driveway led down to a garage door exactly the size of one car. A single row of planter boxes filled with flowers separated the descending driveway from the ascending staircase to the front door. It was classic San Francisco, the kind of house I’d dreamed of living in since I moved to the area for college at San Francisco State University nine years earlier.

  “It’s beautiful,” I breathed.

  She beamed. “Thanks. When I bought it, it was a mess. I had it restored.”

  She led us up the stairs to an even lovelier interior. Gleaming hardwood flo
ors and a wooden staircase to the top floor greeted us. There were French doors in the back of the house showing glimpses of a yard. There was also a small room with a closed door off the kitchen. The living room, dining room, and kitchen were all open to each other, and the place looked like it could have been the last five minutes of a remodel show on HGTV. It wasn’t huge, but it was big for San Francisco, and comfortable.

  The living room had a window seat in the beautiful bay window, a cream-colored love seat and a blue velvet chair, along with a plush cream rug, a rustic coffee table, and a flat-screen TV mounted above the fireplace. The dining area was filled with a square table I recognized from John’s West Elm catalogues, four high-backed chairs with blue velvet cushions, and a funky chandelier. The kitchen was full of high-end appliances, marble countertops, and featured shining pots and pans hanging from a pot rack over a butcher-block island. French doors in the back of the kitchen opened out to a teeny patio. I peeked outside, where there were two chairs and a bistro table. Another row of planter boxes lined the edge of the patio, and behind those was a simple wooden fence. Above the patio was the underside of a deck, and the wilting flowers in the planter boxes were the only things getting any sunlight out back, but any yard at all was a big deal in the city. I wandered back into the kitchen. It was all impossibly clean and perfect.

  “Wow. It’s like something out of a magazine.” As I said it, I realized that it was also impersonal. Other than a few framed pictures on the walls of Kris and what had to be her parents and siblings, this house could have belonged to anyone. It looked staged to sell. The little I knew about Kris wasn’t reflected anywhere. On our walk yesterday, she told me she never cooked, but she had a gourmet kitchen. She’d devoted her life to working in tech, but there wasn’t a gadget or even a computer in sight. She’d told me she’d lived alone since she’d bought the house, but her dining room table was set for four.

  “I bought in 2011,” she said. “My contractor and designer did so much work.”

  “Did you pick this out?” I pointed to a gorgeous stainless steel saucepan.

  She shook her head. “I told the designer what I liked and what I didn’t, and I wrote her a check,” she said apologetically. Then she continued the tour with the half bath under the stairs and the stacked washer/dryer squeezed into a former linen closet. I wondered about the room with the closed door, but Kris put her hand on the small of my back and led me up the stairs.

  The first bedroom had a bay window with another window seat. Like the downstairs, it was perfect but somewhat anonymous, like a quirky boutique hotel room. The queen bed looked inviting and topped with what looked like a dozen red pillows in different prints, a white comforter, and a soft black throw. The hardwood was partially covered by another plush rug, this one black. Other than that, there a white side table, white desk, and a small white chest of drawers, some abstract art, an accent wall painted red, and a medium-sized closet. “This would be your room, if we go forward with this,” Kris said. “Furnished if you want, or we could get rid of this stuff.”

  “This is all way nicer than what I own,” I said. If I sold my furniture I wouldn’t even have to rent a U-Haul.

  Opposite the bay window was a red-handled door that opened to the bathroom. Like the half bath under the stairs, it was tiled in cool greens and whites, with thick white towels, lots of mirrors, and a spa-like feel. Unlike the downstairs, it was big with a white claw-foot tub and a separate glass shower large enough for two. Another door in the bathroom led into Kris’s room.

  It seemed like Kris’s room was the only place in the house that was actually used. It was larger than the other bedroom, but cluttered and overstuffed. Other than a dark blue accent wall, it seemed to have left the decorator’s tastes behind. A weight bench and a set of free weights blocked one of the doors to the closet doors. The windows above the headboard were covered by blackout blinds. A concert poster from 2003 was tacked over the unmade king-size bed. Next to the bed, a table with a tower of books partially blocked the door to the upstairs deck.

  The dark wood furniture was covered by scattered papers, a tablet, an iPod, a laptop, and a smartphone with a cracked screen, even though Kris had her phone in her pocket. The desk had a desktop computer, a pile of books, and even more papers. A TV was mounted on the wall, with an Xbox on the dresser below. A shelf ran around the top of the room, stuffed with books, games, and DVDs. The floor was clear, with a plush rug in navy blue, but the half-open walk-in closet overflowed with clothes on the ground, kicked off shoes, and clear plastic storage boxes.

  “A little different than the rest of the place,” I teased her.

  “This is one of the only rooms I actually use. And one of the only ones my cleaning lady doesn’t touch.”

  “I thought part of the idea of me moving in is that I’d be your cleaning lady.” I clucked my tongue. “Am I making somebody redundant?”

  She laughed. “She’s retiring, so I have a vacancy. C’mon, I’ll show you the best part.”

  Kris took my hand and led me through the narrow door. Outside was a deck. There was an oversized mahogany chair with huge white cushions and a matching ottoman, a sleek chaise lounge, and a metal side table. Lights were strung up overhead, and I saw the tiny garden when I peered over the railing. The view was just neighboring houses mostly, but it was quiet, sunny, and peaceful. It was the kind of thing I’d dreamed of in a home, a private sanctuary.

  “Now this is amazing.”

  She stretched out on the chaise. “I work out here whenever I work from home. I love it here.”

  “Is this for sharing?” Even before I asked, I already knew the answer.

  Kris looked sheepish. “Sorry, but I want to keep this all to myself.”

  “I can’t blame you. If it were mine, I probably wouldn’t share either. Even with a hot sub.”

  “I think it’s important we have boundaries, you know? It’s already an unusual situation, and I don’t want to make it messier than it has to be. So if you want to do this, your room will be yours, and mine will be mine, and there’ll still be separation. Speaking of which, let’s go back downstairs.” I followed her to the living room, worrying the whole way.

  Once I was settled on the incredibly comfortable love seat, I blurted, “Can we talk more about what that would entail, if we decide to do this?” I bit my lip.

  She plopped down in the blue chair. “I want a woman who will clean my house, do the laundry, run errands, and keep a couple of home-cooked meals in my fridge. I want to come home from work and fuck her, then go to my bedroom and close the door.”

  “So, what, I’d need to be waiting around for you to come home every night?” I fluffed a pillow and arranged it behind me.

  Kris shook her head. “We’ll pick a time and keep that hour set aside for sex, for kink and domination. And a few extra hours on the weekend for longer scenes or play parties.”

  “And if the hour passes without sex?”

  “I might text you instructions to follow. But if I miss it, then I miss it.” She spoke without hesitation or shame, looking me right in the eyes. I couldn’t meet her gaze.

  “So it’s every day?”

  “We can pick a day off, two if we really need to, but I want at least five days a week.”

  That sounded like dream come true to me. I’d never dated someone with a libido as high as my own. I chewed on my lip. “What about the cooking and cleaning? What standards are we talking about?” I picked at my sparkly red nail polish. I wanted to know more about the sex and the kink, but I felt incredibly shy.

  “Neat and tidy. It doesn’t need to be shining all the time, but the dishes need to be done, I don’t want dust all over, and I don’t want the laundry to sit around for two weeks. I’ll give you a list. As for food, I’m not picky, I just can’t cook. There’s a chef at work, but sometimes I’d like to eat something at home other than takeout.”

  I nodded. “Is this a twenty-four seven thing? Do I have to call you ‘Master’ wit
h a capital M and always refer to myself in the lower case?”

  She shook her head. “No. I want you to call me Kris, whatever we’re doing. Here’s what I like…” She paused and leaned toward me a little. “I like a woman who has her own life and is her own person, who won’t indulge me all the time, and then, for this window of time, submits to me completely. I like taking a woman down and afterward having her go back to her independent life.”

  It sounded too perfect, too much like my own fantasies. “Are you an asshole or something? Are you going to say you ‘don’t do drama’ or some other bullshit?”

  “Do I seem like an asshole?”

  I raised my eyebrows. “You’re a hot butch top with money in San Francisco and you’re offering me free housing in exchange for kinky sex and moderate housework. It’s sort of too perfect. I want to know what the catch is.”

  She frowned. “I work eighty hours a week, minimum. Usually it’s more like ninety hours, sometimes more than that. I haven’t taken a vacation in six years. I even work when I visit my parents. The day my house was finished being remodeled, I went to work for fourteen hours. I’ve been working full-time since I was in high school, and working the hours I do for almost fifteen years. My life is work. Kink’s my only hobby. On a good week I go for a run once or twice, lift weights in the mornings, and play video games for a few hours on Sunday, maybe binge-watch Doctor Who one evening.” She sounded a little embarrassed at that admission. “That and kinky sex are all I do with my free time. I never have time or energy to go to a girlfriend’s friend’s birthday party.”

  I smiled. “Which Doctor is your favorite?”

  “I really liked Matt Smith,” she said conspiratorially. “But I’m incredibly excited for Jodie Whittaker.”

  “For me, it’s David Tennant forever.”

  We laughed nervously.