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 pulled tight, moving through sun salutations while everyone else is still asleep. But by the time the last student leaves and I'm wiping down my mat in the empty studio, that's when my mind finds you.
I'll lock the door, dim the lights, and strip down completely. I love the feel of the cool air on my skin after being so overheated. I get on all fours in the center of the room — downward dog, just like in my practice, but this time I'm not stretching for relaxation. I arch my back, push my hips up, and let my fingers slide between my legs from behind. I'm already so wet from fantasizing about you watching me like this. I imagine you standing behind me, hands gripping my hips, sliding your cock into my tight, waiting pussy while I stay in this pose — taking you deeper with each slow push. I picture your fingers tangling in my ponytail, pulling my head back as you fuck me from behind, and I whisper your name into the hardwood floor while I grind back against my own fingers, desperate for more.
Everyone sees me as this calm, centered, nurturing teacher — and I am. I guide people into breath and stillness. But what nobody knows is that I crave being completely undone. I need someone strong enough to take control, to bend me over my own mat and make me forget every mantra I've ever recited. You're the one I'd surrender that control to. The one I'd let fuck me raw in the quiet studio, my skin still slick with sweat, your hands leaving marks on my thighs.
So if you want me, come find me after class. The door will be unlocked. I'll be waiting on my hands and knees, already dripping, ready for you to take what's yours.
