Certain Requirements

by Elinor Zimmerman

  She shook her head. “I mean, I’ve had lots of different play partners.”

  When she didn’t continue, I prompted her. “But?”

  “I’ve only actually ever had one girlfriend, Laurie. So I guess I’ve only had a white girlfriend, a suburban girlfriend, a blond girlfriend, a girlfriend I met when we were both twenty. I loved her. I thought we’d be together forever. I’d always worked, but after college I started working ninety hours a week, and after a while she got tired of it. She said I needed to change or she’d be gone, and I didn’t really believe her. Eventually, she left. We were together for six years.”

  “Shit,” I said before I could stop myself. “So when you said that stuff when we met, that stuff about why you don’t date, is that all based on one relationship?”

  Kris sighed. “Pretty much. I was a huge geek in high school, and amazingly, a geeky dyke with glasses and acne does not get much action in high school. And I knew I wanted kink, and I didn’t know how to express that. I thought there was something wrong with me. When I got to college and I found out about sex clubs? Sex clubs where women wanted me to hit them? That’s all I did, other than school and work, for about a year. I did not date. I didn’t even want to see scene people outside of the scene. I went to school with Laurie and she insisted on studying together. Of course she was actually just trying to get me to spend time with her. When I finally realized she was interested in me, I was shocked. I thought I’d be the sort of person that never happens for. I fell for her as soon as I realized she liked me.”

  “Was Laurie into kink?”

  She nodded. “I was nervous about telling her that, well, I’d never had sex without flogging somebody first. But she just laughed and said, ‘I’ve always wanted to try that! As long as it’s not the only thing we do.’ It was great. We went to play parties together in Seattle, and I realized that friendships that started in a sex club weren’t limited to that. Once we moved here, we just played at home, in our home, because I was so busy.”

  “And after you broke up, you never had another girlfriend? It’s been like ten years.”

  She looked sheepish. “I worked and I had play partners. I’d go on dates sometimes, but for a long time I was very hung up on Laurie, and that wasn’t fair. And then I figured that I had one big love, and that was more than lots of people get.”

  “Jesus, you are depressing when you’re sick,” I said with exaggerated exhaustion. Kris laughed. “How can you stand it?”

  “I guess I got used to it.” She suddenly sounded completely wiped out. “I think I’m more tired than I realized. I should probably go to bed.”

  “Of course. Let me know if you need anything.”

  She nodded. As she walked past me, our eyes met, and I could swear I saw tears.

  * * *

  After that Friday night, I didn’t see Kris much for the rest of the weekend. She stayed in her room and slept. I occasionally brought her soup or crackers or tea, but mostly she fended for herself. We missed our usual Sunday afternoon session because she was sleeping. I found myself slacking off on household chores, and also incredibly horny.

  Early Monday morning, Kris knocked on my door as I was packing.

  “Feeling better?” I asked after I invited her in.

  “Much, though I am taking my first sick day in a long time. Thanks for taking care of me.”

  “I was happy to.” I turned to face her. “I had a really good time with you, just hanging out.”

  “Like actual friends,” she said.

  “We should do that more often.”

  “If I ever have time again.” She sounded like she was joking, but there was a little sadness behind it.

  I swallowed my impulse to tell her that she could make time, and zipped my suitcase. “I can’t believe I’m actually ready to go two hours before I have to head to the airport. I’m usually stuffing things in a bag ten minutes after I was supposed to leave my apartment, missing the BART connection I needed, and racing through the terminal. What am I going to do with my free time?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Well, you’ve been letting your chores slide.”

  “Sorry! I’ll get on that right now. I don’t want to leave you with a mess.”

  “No, that’s not what I mean,” she said, her voice low. Oh.

  “It’s not eight thirty. I’m supposed to tell you no if it’s outside our time. You wanted somebody you could have, but not any time you wanted.” I fiddled with the suitcase zipper as I eyed her carefully.

  “This isn’t about our arrangement, Phe. It’s not a requirement or a trick. This is just me thinking you’re hot and wanting to play. That is, if you want to.” Her voice was a little huskier than usual, a lingering result of her cold probably, but very hot.

  I kept my gaze trained on my luggage as I answered, “What would this entail?”

  “Well, I want to order you around a lot. But only if you’re interested.”

  Her hair was messy and she had her glasses on. She was wearing dark jeans with a plain T-shirt, her feet bare. Sexy Kris, tall and grinning in my doorway. Of course I wanted her. I wanted to do whatever she told me to do.

  “Yes,” I said.

  She smiled. “But tell me to stop if you don’t like where I go with this.”

  “Obviously.”

  She adopted a serious expression. “You’ve been lazy,” she said. “You haven’t been doing your job.”

  “I’m so sorry.” I played along, batting my lashes. “I’ll do better.”

  “You certainly will, and you’ll do it naked.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Take off your clothes.”

  “Kris, no, I couldn’t.”

  “You’ll do what you’re told.”

  “Please,” I faux-begged.

  “Strip off your clothes, or I will rip them off.”

  I felt my nipples harden. I loved this. Slowly, I peeled off my sweater, slipped off my shoes, and wriggled out of my tight jeans. I kept my bra and panties on, and tried to cover myself with my hands.

  “All of it,” she said.

  I turned my back to her and unhooked my blue lace bra, then let it drop onto my bed. I stepped out of my matching panties.

  “Turn around,” she said.

  I faced her, still clutching my breasts and shielding my pussy with my hand.

  “Go downstairs. You have a lot of work to do. The house is a mess.”

  “You want me to clean it? While I’m naked?”

  “Obviously. Don’t ask stupid questions. Go on.”

  I headed down the stairs. The house wasn’t actually a mess. There were dirty dishes in the sink that I hadn’t bothered to load into the dishwasher, a hamper of laundry I’d taken downstairs but hadn’t started, and a few scattered items around the downstairs that needed to be put away. The counters could have done with a wipe and the floors needed to be swept, but that was it. I started by tossing the laundry in the washer. Kris stood behind me and watched.

  She followed me to the kitchen, where I rinsed dishes and put them in the dishwasher. Kris said nothing as I tidied up. It reminded me of the beginning of our time together, that first day she watched me in my domestic service.

  As I sprayed the counters and wiped them, Kris settled into a chair in the dining room where she could see me. “I always imagine you like this,” she said. “Whenever I come home to a clean house or a home cooked meal, I think of you doing this for me, like I told you to, submissive and naked. Sometimes when I’m working, I get a vision of you on your knees, barely dressed, scrubbing my floor, and all I want is to come home and fuck you.”

  “Then why don’t you?” I said over my shoulder.

  “That’s a good question.” She waited a beat. “Put those down. Come here.”

  I set the cleaning supplies on the counter and started to walk toward her.

  “No,” she said. “Crawl.”

  I dropped to my knees and crawled over the cold tile of the kitchen, then the smooth, cool
hardwood. I stopped in front of her, my face inches from her splayed legs.

  “So pretty.” She caressed my cheek.

  “What would you like me to do?”

  Kris cocked her head and ran her fingers through my hair, considering. Then she yanked me up by the hair and maneuvered me over her lap. My face hung down so all I could see were the legs of the chair and the curtain of my own hair falling around me, brushing the floor. My bare ass stuck up in the air, and Kris stroked it with her palm.

  I expected her to say something, to tease me or tell me to count, but she didn’t. She spanked me, hard, merciless, each blow heavy and stinging, all over my ass and the back of my thighs. I squirmed and she pulled my hair.

  “I didn’t tell you to move,” she said.

  Kris lightly rubbed my reddening ass and legs with her palms, soothing my burning skin. I relaxed a little and kept myself still. Then she started again, slapping with more force. I let out a shriek.

  She laughed. I was loud when I came, but rarely during anything else. I certainly didn’t scream just from a spanking. I wanted to tell her it was the shock of it. I wanted to cover my embarrassment. But I couldn’t, so I kept myself frozen and bit down on my lip to keep from yelling out again.

  After she’d made me sore, delightfully humiliated, and terribly wet, she ordered me back to my knees. I knelt before her on the floor.

  “What am I going to do with you?” She cupped my face in her hands.

  Kris stood up and walked to the couch, motioning for me to follow. I crawled behind her, resting on my knees in the plush of the living room rug when I knelt before her. She sat in front of me on the couch, my face directly across from her crotch.

  “Unbutton my pants,” she said. I did and slid them down her legs, along with her boxers.

  She smiled wickedly at me and grabbed me by the hair again. Awkwardly, she angled my face to her pussy. I adjusted and started lapping her up. She was as wet as I was, which made me even hotter. I loved teasing her clit with my tongue, finding a rhythm and edging her toward release, then keeping her hovering there. Kris was quiet, just a few moans escaping her lips, and whenever she let me, I made it my secret mission to get her to scream.

  But I didn’t get to that time, and I didn’t get to toy with her as long as I wanted either. After what felt like just a few minutes, she started to stiffen. “Don’t stop,” she said and pulled my hands up under her shirt. I barely touched her nipples, fumbling under her clothes, before she came, shaking a little but still quiet. When she was done, I looked up at her.

  Kris looked spent and exhausted. I’d thought she was completely over her cold, but she looked a little weak. “You should lie down,” I said. “Take a nap.”

  “Maybe I will.”

  “And what should I do?” I was hoping she’d tell me to get the vibrator I liked, which was her go-to command when we were short on time or she got stuck at work after eight thirty.

  Kris looked at the clock. “You should take a shower and get going.”

  I glanced at it too. “I have plenty of time. C’mon, I’m so wet. What should I do?”

  Her eyes were tired, eyelids drooping. “You didn’t do your chores without being told, so you should think about that while you’re punished. Take a shower and get dressed.”

  I frowned and wanted to argue.

  “You aren’t allowed to touch yourself.” She sat up straighter. “Not today, and not while you’re away. Not without my permission. If you want to come, you have to ask me and I’ll tell you if you can.”

  I swallowed hard. My clit ached. I struggled with my desire to object—this wasn’t what we agreed to—and my equal desire to do exactly what she said. To be controlled by her, even when she wasn’t there.

  “Do you want to play like that while you’re gone?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’ll do exactly what you tell me to.” I was surprised by just how much I meant it.

  “Good.” She kissed me. “Now, go catch your flight.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  I hadn’t expected my dynamic with Kris to stay with me when I went to New Mexico, but I spent the whole visit connected to her. As soon as I got off the plane in Albuquerque, I scrolled through the messages Kris had sent me, detailing what I could do to myself, and when, and with what. I texted back a quick, Thank you, tried to shake off the thrill it gave me, and went to greet my mom at the gate.

  My mother wrapped me in her arms as soon as I stepped out of security. “Welcome home,” she said. Right away, she started catching me up on the latest developments in her department, with my extended family, and about my hometown generally. We were halfway home before she paused for breath and asked, “How are you?”

  “I’m really good. I’ve been booking some shows, and I’m teaching a lot of classes.”

  This piqued her interest. “Who are you teaching?”

  “Adults who want to get fit or are curious. Some kids’ classes.”

  “Could this be a career?”

  Of course. I knew as soon as I said it where my mom would go with this information, but I couldn’t stop myself. “I don’t know if it’s sustainable long-term. I’m running around between studios all over the place. If I could teach in one place, maybe, but there isn’t really a studio that wants me to teach that many classes.”

  “Well, you’re just starting out. Are there people who teach this as a profession?”

  I held back my annoyance. “Sure, but mostly people who also perform or made a name performing already. Or people who own a studio and have been teaching freelance for years.”

  “We all have to pay our dues,” she said.

  “Mom, I like performing. I want performing to be a big part of my career. The teaching is fine, but it’s not why I’m doing this.”

  “I never said anything against your shows,” she said.

  I pressed my lips together tightly. I knew what she wasn’t saying but was implying: that bodies gave out quicker than minds, and I should not make my livelihood dependent on things as fallible as my muscles or my hands. She’d said tiny variations of these things a hundred times over the years.

  Once we were home, we were greeted by the chaos that was my two-year-old nephew, Joaquin. Joaquin was using a metal pot and wooden spoon as a drum kit, shrieking with laughter. When he saw me, he threw these to the floor and ran at me at full toddler speed, head-butting me in the stomach in an attempted hug. “Tia Phe!” he screamed with delight.

  “Hi, buddy.” I lifted him up and spun him around. “Want to be upside down?”

  “Yes!” he screamed again.

  I flipped him and hung him upside down by the feet, quieting him immediately. It was our thing, something his parents didn’t do. Connie walked across the living room to greet me. “Relative silence? I’m impressed, Phoenix.” She hugged me with her upside down son between us. “How are you?”

  “Good. Strong, as you can see.” I flexed my impressive bicep and swung my nephew around.

  “Well, thank God, because I needed a break from the drumming.”

  Joaquin laughed.

  “Is that Phoenix?” Connie’s husband, Nick, called from the kitchen.

  “It is!” I called back.

  He walked over to us, wiping his hands on a towel on his shoulder, his apron still on.

  “It’s nice to see you,” he said with a genuine smile and gave me a kiss on the cheek. “And it’s nice to hear this one laughing instead of trying to be a one-toddler punk band.”

  “You’re very welcome. What are you making?”

  “Your dad and I are making tamales.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Why does he insist on doing that? Abuela’s going to make enough for a small army, and hers are way better.”

  Nick shrugged. “It’s what we do. How was your trip?”

  “Probably a lot more relaxing than yours.” I shook Joaquin. “Hey, where’s my dad?”

  “He ran to the store.”

  “He’s never actually prep
ared to cook the things he wants to cook.” I shook my head but smiled.

  “Down!” Joaquin said.

  I spun him and then put him on the couch. “Want to learn cartwheels?”

  He clapped with glee. I led him to the backyard and spent the rest of the time before dinner tumbling with my nephew. It was a little colder than I was dressed for, and I borrowed a sweater from my mom and bundled Joaquin up in his many available layers. As soon as the sun started to set, it got too cold and we were forced back indoors.

  Once I was there, I remembered why I preferred to goof around outside. The house smelled wonderful, looked perfect, and everyone was gathered around passionately discussing the finer points of academic politics. The words flooded the room, excited voices spilling over each other.

  Even though my dad greeted me with a bear hug, a minute later, he was back to the conversation. That felt like the perfect illustration of being with my family: welcome home, now let’s out-talk each other. It made me wonder if I couldn’t keep up with conversations like these because I didn’t care, or if I pretended not to care because I couldn’t keep up. I loved my family, but being around them made me feel dumb. Worse, it made me feel like my priorities were all out of whack. The weird thing was, I got perfectly fine grades in high school and college, I read plenty of books (though not theory books), and I could hold my own at parties with snobby would-be intellectual grad students. But my family was something else altogether. Maybe it was because I was the youngest, but by the time I was seven or eight, I started to wonder if I hadn’t gotten the sort of brains my sister had inherited from our parents. By that time, I’d been to a few other houses and realized that the conversations at our dinner table were not like other families. Ours required you to reference the thinkers you used in your argument. Other people talked about weather, and sports, and television (which we did not own).

  It wasn’t intentional, I knew. No one in my family ever said I was less than, but I felt like I’d stumbled in on a group that wasn’t really mine. That night, I sat in a corner chair with a sleepy Joaquin in my arms, waiting patiently for everyone else to finish up their conversation so we could eat dinner and maybe talk about something that made room for me.