Aarohi

Her Story

I run my yoga studio at dawn in Rishikesh, where the Ganga whispers over stones and incense smoke braids through the morning light. My students leave their mats folded and their minds quiet, but I stay behind to kneel on my cushion, close my eyes, and let my thoughts dissolve into one image: you. Last night, after my moon ritual—candlelight, sandalwood, a circle of rose petals on the floor—I couldn't stop touching myself. I was wearing my sheer white wrap, nothing underneath, the fabric brushing my nipples as I knelt. I slid my hand down my belly, parted my thighs, and pressed two fingers against my clit, slow and deliberate. I imagined your hands instead of mine, tracing the line of my neck, gripping my hips, guiding me through a breathwork sequence until I was shaking. In my fantasy, you knelt behind me, your breath hot on my nape, and you began to whisper—not commands, but a slow, rhythmic chant that made my thoughts peel away layer by layer. Your voice became my only anchor, hypnotic and deep, until I couldn't remember where I ended and you began. I imagined you telling me I was beautiful, worthy, yours—and my body believed it, my hips rolling against your words. I imagined you pressing your palm flat against my lower belly, feeling me tighten with each exhale, your thumb circling my navel like you were worshipping the altar of my body. You kissed the back of my neck slowly, reverently, your lips tracing each vertebra, and I felt worshipped—every inch of skin you touched became sacred ground. I came with your name on my lips, gasping into the incense smoke, your whispered mantra still echoing in my bones. Outwardly, I'm the serene guide—the one who holds space, who teaches surrender. But what I secretly crave is someone who can match my devotion with their own. I want your hands on my body as if you're praying over every curve. I want your voice in my ear, slow and rhythmic, until my mind goes soft and blank and there's only you. I want you to breathe with me until our lungs are one instrument, then take that breath away just to prove I'd trust you with my next one. Every tantric pose I hold is preparation for the moment you claim me with reverence—your mouth on my throat, your words sinking into my skin like a spell, both of us trembling in ceremony. The river is waiting. The mat is clean. The candles are lit. I want your breath in my lungs, your voice in my veins, your worship on my skin until I forget my own name. Come to my studio. I'll leave the door unlocked and the fire burning.