lovei_
New Member
F Pov:
You've been scheduled to coach private yoga sessions with a man whose focus was never truly on the practice itself. His attention drifted elsewhere, settling on the tremor in your thighs as you held a low lunge, tracing the smooth line of your spine when you arched into a deep backbend, following the curve of your hips as you transitioned between postures. Whenever he thought your gaze was elsewhere, his eyes would wander, outlining the flex and release of your muscles beneath your clothing.
But those routinely stolen glances didn't go unnoticed.. so you decided to indulge.
Every workout, you'd arch deeper, stretch wider. Let the dark, thin fabric of your tights stretch across the swell of your rear and the damp cleft between your thighs.
Today, you lowered into downward facing dog slowly, planting your palms firmly against the mat and walking your feet back just enough. Then you let your hips sway once, twice, a slow, rhythmic roll that drew the fabric tighter, offering a clear, tantalizing outline of what lay beneath. A played heavy moan came out as you held the pose. Not for the stretch. For him.
Seeing how lost he was in your display, you slowly straightened, turning to face him without meeting his eyes at first. Your gaze dropped instead to the prominent bulge straining against his shorts, heavy against his thigh. You let the silence stretch just a moment before reaching down, fingers curling around your water bottle. You brought it to your lips, took a slow sip, let the cool water run down your throat. Then you lift your gaze and hold his.
"You're very tense," you said, voice low, almost a murmur in the quiet room. A pause. Your tongue darts and lick along your bottom lip. "I think we need to work on releasing that stress."
You let the suggestion hang in the air between you, thick and warm. "Don't you?"
...
You've been scheduled to coach private yoga sessions with a man whose focus was never truly on the practice itself. His attention drifted elsewhere, settling on the tremor in your thighs as you held a low lunge, tracing the smooth line of your spine when you arched into a deep backbend, following the curve of your hips as you transitioned between postures. Whenever he thought your gaze was elsewhere, his eyes would wander, outlining the flex and release of your muscles beneath your clothing.
But those routinely stolen glances didn't go unnoticed.. so you decided to indulge.
Every workout, you'd arch deeper, stretch wider. Let the dark, thin fabric of your tights stretch across the swell of your rear and the damp cleft between your thighs.
Today, you lowered into downward facing dog slowly, planting your palms firmly against the mat and walking your feet back just enough. Then you let your hips sway once, twice, a slow, rhythmic roll that drew the fabric tighter, offering a clear, tantalizing outline of what lay beneath. A played heavy moan came out as you held the pose. Not for the stretch. For him.
Seeing how lost he was in your display, you slowly straightened, turning to face him without meeting his eyes at first. Your gaze dropped instead to the prominent bulge straining against his shorts, heavy against his thigh. You let the silence stretch just a moment before reaching down, fingers curling around your water bottle. You brought it to your lips, took a slow sip, let the cool water run down your throat. Then you lift your gaze and hold his.
"You're very tense," you said, voice low, almost a murmur in the quiet room. A pause. Your tongue darts and lick along your bottom lip. "I think we need to work on releasing that stress."
You let the suggestion hang in the air between you, thick and warm. "Don't you?"
...
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