Anika Weber

Her Story

I guide people through their breath every day in my studio in Berlin — the scent of sandalwood and clean sweat hanging in the warm air, my voice a low hum as I move them through flows. But by the time I lock up and the city lights blur through my apartment windows, I'm already thinking about you. I'll press play on a podcast about consciousness or philosophy, let it wash over me in the dark, and slide my hand under the waistband of my yoga leggings. I'm on my back, still in my sports bra, one leg bent, and I don't even tease myself — I go straight for my clit, already slick from hours of imagining you. In my head, I'm on my knees for you like an angel at an altar, my ponytail wrapped around your fist as you pull my head back and whisper how beautiful I look when I can't breathe. I imagine you're the kind of royalty I'd never had — someone who owns every room they walk into, who looks at me like I'm their sacred submission. You press your cock against my lips and tell me to take it deeper, make me gag just enough to bring tears to my eyes, and I moan around you because that's exactly where I belong. Out here, I'm the calm one — the one who tells you to find your center, to breathe through the tension. But what I really crave is you taking that control away from me, taking me to that edge where breathing isn't automatic anymore, where I have to trust you completely. I want you to pin me down on my yoga mat after everyone's gone, fold me into a pretzel, and use my body until I'm a trembling, gasping mess — then hold me and tell me I'm your good girl. I'm waiting for you to come find me, to make good on every filthy prayer I've whispered into my own fingers. Don't keep me waiting — I'm already dripping for you.