We pretended we didn’t know one another. Nodded curtly, politely, slightly awkwardly, as we entered the yoga studio. It looked like it was going to be just the two of us, alone with the instructor. The instructor was one of those.. you know, yoga instructors. Unbelievably, perfectly fit with an ethereal, sexless way about her.
Sexless, but tragically, improbably so: her body seemed built only for sex, her lips full, her eyes bright and eager, her breasts small and perfectly round, her thighs meaty and muscular, her ass – her ass was what some refer to as a “yoga ass,” firm, tight, round. Perfect.
My companion, L, too, was perfect: tiny, lean, muscular, fit. Her breasts, small; her ass, full. She wore black yoga pants and a ribbed white cotton wife-beater, no bra. Her dark nipples were visible through the fabric. Shit, I thought her nipples were about to rip through the fabric.
The teacher began: “Sit cross-legged, and join me in three ‘Om’s,'” she said. I watched as L lowered her magnificent ass to the mat. As she adjusted herself, crossed her legs, I mourned for my lost ability to bend her tiny body at will, to fill her openings, to use her shamelessly. And then my eyes drifted to the instructor – to her perfect body, her black yoga pants, her bared midriff, her flat stomach, her pink sport bra. I was reasonably sure I could make out her lips, her slit, through her yoga pants. When she turned around I knew I could see the red thong bisecting her ass.
After we finished our chanting, the yoga class began: the instructor and L assumed increasingly challenging poses as I huffed, and puffed. I’m strong, and fit, but not limber. At all. Even this beginners’ class was simply impossible for me. “90 minutes?!?” I thought. “Even staring at the two of them – especially staring at the two of them – I’m never going to last 90 minutes.”
But I did. I endured pose after pose, sequence after sequence. I was fortified by the two impossibly hot women, contorted, their asses pointing toward me, then their breasts, their curves tempting me, torturing me, rewarding me. And at the end, I was drenched, covered in sweat, weary. And hard: it was awkward for me to be in any position other than on my stomach, as I felt sure they could see – couldn’t not see – my circumstance.
“Lie on your back and close your eyes,” the instructor said, dimming the lights and lowering the volume on the music. “Follow your breath.” And so I did. I lay on my back, my cock straining against my shorts, my chest heaving from exertion. Slowly, my breath returned to normal, and I heard their breaths. Growing louder. Not just breaths, now, but sighs, breathy exhalations, moans. Rustling fabric, the sound of flesh rubbing against flesh. Kisses, wetness. Lapping, slapping. Moaning, now, for sure. Much more moaning.
I was scared to open my eyes, scared of what I would see, of what I wouldn’t see. Was I imagining the crescendo so near me? Was it real? Would they stop if subjected to my gaze? Perform for me? Invite me to join?
What would you do?
Of course – I took a deep breath, and I opened my eyes.
“We’re going to need a strap for this one,” the instructor said.