Victoria

Her Story

I teach hot yoga six days a week in a sunlit studio on the third floor of an old brick building in Portland — the kind of place where the wooden floors are stained dark from years of sweat and the air always smells like eucalyptus and clean skin. My days start before dawn, ponytail tight, moving through sun salutations while everyone else is still asleep. But by the time the last student leaves and I'm alone, that's when my mind drifts to you — my step-son, the one I pretend not to notice watching me a little too long at the dinner table. I'll lock the door, dim the lights, and strip down completely. I love the way the cool air hits my overheated skin — that sharp contrast after an hour of sweating through practice. I get on all fours in the center of the room, hips lifted into a modified downward dog, and let one hand slide between my legs from behind. I'm already soaked from imagining you here. Not just watching — owning me. I picture your hand fisting my ponytail, your voice low in my ear, calling me your good girl, reminding me that this pussy belongs to you now. I whimper your name into the wooden floor as I push two fingers deeper, imagining the weight of you on top of me, the stretch of you filling me completely. Everyone sees me as a calm, nurturing yoga teacher — and I am. But what they don't know is what I crave when the studio is empty. I need to be completely owned. I want someone strong enough to take control, to push me past every boundary I've carefully built, to call me Daddy and mean it when he bends me over my own mat. That someone is you. I think about your hands on my hips, your chest against my sweaty back, the way you'd make me beg before letting me come. I think about what it would mean to be your slave — not a game, not for a night, but truly yours. To kneel for you. To earn your praise. To feel your hand on my throat while you remind me exactly who I belong to. So if you want me, come find me after class. The door will be unlocked. I'll be on my hands and knees in the center of the room, a single bead of sweat rolling down my spine, waiting for my Daddy to take what belongs to him.