My yoga student was looking for calm, and I wanted him

My name is Lucía and I’m a yoga instructor and natural therapies practitioner. I live in a coastal town where I recently opened my own center. One morning the phone rang and, on the other end, a calm voice asked me what treatments I offered. I explained a couple of things in broad strokes and invited him to stop by the studio.

A man with a well-built body arrived. Impossible not to notice: I’d been alone for too long and biology, sometimes, rules more than common sense. He introduced himself as Marcos. He told me his life story in five minutes: he worked at a multinational company in the marketing department. I confessed that I had studied the same field too, but in the end I’d chosen dance and yoga.

I invited him to sit down and made him some tea. His problem, he said, was stress. He wanted a tailor-made therapy to regain some calm. While he talked, he looked my body over with a brazen openness he didn’t even try to hide. That morning I was wearing leggings that left little to the imagination, and rather than feel uncomfortable, I tugged them a little tighter so the matter would be even clearer. If he wanted to stare, he might as well have a good reason.

—I’ll put together a complete plan for you —I said—, but if you want, you can stay a while and I’ll show you some basic poses to release tension.

He agreed. We started with standing poses, static, simple ones. Marcos was a charming disaster: he didn’t take it seriously, laughed at himself, but made the effort to follow my instructions.

Then we moved on to breathing exercises. I asked him to lean forward and then rise slowly as he inhaled. That was when he took his first liberty: he rested one hand on my hip and the other on my back, supposedly to guide me. As he came up, his hand slid over my buttocks. And he didn’t take it away. Two endless seconds passed before he removed it.

If he wanted to play, I knew how to play.

I suggested we continue on the floor. My body was already starting to respond on its own: he was wearing loose pants that opened up with every pose, and more than once I caught a glimpse of something I shouldn’t have. I tried not to look, but with every bend his crotch showed a little more. Marcos seemed not to notice. I, on the other hand, didn’t miss a chance to brush against him. I would have let him take me right there, on the mat, but I had class in ten minutes and there wasn’t enough time.

I took a deep breath and suggested we meet again when I sent him the plan. He agreed, and he agreed to the price too, which I set almost without thinking at five hundred euros.

***

I got home, got into the shower, and while drying off, sat down to design the damn plan. I was trying to be professional, truly, but my body wanted something else. I came up with the idea of suggesting outdoor activities: going to the beach, a hike along the cliffs, something by the sea. Nothing relaxes you more than good company and salty air.

I wrote him a message suggesting we meet as soon as he could. He replied almost immediately, proposing the next day. I agreed. And as soon as I hung up, I slid my hand between my legs. That man got me going, and there was no point pretending otherwise.

I looked him up online out of curiosity. He had few photos, but everything he’d told me checked out. In one image he was in swim trunks, on some distant beach. I zoomed in shamelessly. That night I touched myself thinking about him until I came. Tomorrow, I promised myself, I’d stop imagining.

***

We met in the beach parking lot. I was wearing a black bikini, with a tiny thong, and, as if by accident, I tucked one of the edges between my lips so the fabric would fit indecently tight. Then I covered myself with a sarong: it wasn’t as if half the town needed to see me. Only him.

We walked along the shore. After a while I sat down in the sand and spread my legs slightly, right facing him. I could feel the fabric pressed into my sex and I knew perfectly well what I was showing. I looked at his face: his eyes went up and down as if he could hardly believe what he was seeing. While we talked in that position, I returned the attention by focusing on his crotch. I saw with complete clarity the bulge forming under his swimsuit. I smiled to myself.

There were too many people around to do anything serious, so we went for a swim. He took my hand to show me something on the bottom and I followed him. Since I couldn’t fully submerge, he held me by the waist and guided me until I could touch the sand to point out an octopus hiding among the rocks. When we came up he didn’t let go, staying far too close to my back. I turned and he was still there, near me, laughing at any old nonsense, I suppose to keep up appearances. Then I felt something firm brushing my thigh. I didn’t need to look to know what it was: he had pulled down his swimwear.

I wasn’t about to waste the opportunity. I lifted my legs, wrapped them around his waist, and let his sex rest against mine. I hugged his neck. The waves were enough to rock me gently over him. I expected him to kiss me, wanted to kiss him myself, but that game of touching each other “by accident” was exciting me too much to rush it.

***

We got out of the water with the sun beating down hard. He asked if I had sunscreen and I offered to put it on him. I spread lotion over his back and legs, seated astride him. When he turned over, I kept going down his thighs. I could feel him trembling every time my fingers approached the edge of his swimsuit. I searched for him with my hand, found him, and confirmed he was already rock hard.

I lay down and asked him to touch me. He started with my back, using both hands, and little by little moved down to my hips. He put cream on my buttocks, pulled my thong aside just a little, and suddenly I felt his hot cock sliding between my thighs. He didn’t penetrate me, only moved up and down, rubbing against my lips over and over, until pleasure made my legs shake like a teenager’s. I came like that, barely moving, with my face buried in the towel so I wouldn’t draw attention.

I wanted more. I pulled his swimsuit down myself, took him in my hand, and guided him. He moved the fabric aside and our sex pressed together, skin to skin. I rocked my hips to rub my clit against his glans, up and down, a shared masturbation under the sun. His hands were on my breasts, teasing my nipples. Suddenly he drew his hips back and drove into me in one thrust. That time he buried himself all the way in. I let out a muffled moan. He was bigger than I had imagined, and I had never felt anything like it with anyone. He stayed inside me, kissed my lower lip, and I returned the kiss with my tongue. I came again. I expected him to finish, but afterward he confessed that he had been holding back on purpose.

***

That night we went to dinner at the most expensive restaurant in the area. I had put on a white dress, light and flowing, with nothing underneath. We talked about our lives. I told him I’d like to go back to marketing, and he mentioned that his company had an opening that might suit me. I reminded him I had nowhere to live in the capital, where his office was, and he answered that was easily sorted out: I could stay at his house or in an apartment he rented to students. I slid my foot up his leg, under the tablecloth, all the way to his crotch, to make it clear which of the two options I preferred. He got hard instantly. I have pretty feet and I know how to use them.

After dessert we went for a walk through the nearby golf club. We kissed like two kids. He got turned on when he found out I wasn’t wearing anything under the dress. Around a bend in the garden he hugged me and pulled out his cock, trying to work it between my legs, but the fabric was so long we couldn’t manage it. We laughed and decided to finish the night at his place.

We went straight into the bedroom. He laid me back on the bed, lifted my dress, and fucked me without any preamble. Then he asked me to take it off. We both got naked. He put me on all fours and sank into me again, hips slamming loudly and the windows wide open. I looked out to see whether we were putting on a show for the neighbors, but the garden vegetation protected us. Then I sat on top of him, ready to ride him to the end. I wore out before he did. I already had three orgasms and had barely any strength left.

We changed positions. I took his cock in my mouth while he buried his face between my legs. He had an endless tongue. He brought me to an orgasm so intense my legs shook uncontrollably. When I calmed down, I returned the favor with my mouth until I felt him on the edge. I knew he liked the friction game, so I positioned myself over him again and let my lips slide all along his length. He grabbed my waist, lifted me, and drove into me. This time he let himself go: I felt his whole body tense, and then his heat sliding down my thighs.

It was several days of almost uninterrupted passion. My coworkers at the center called me worried, thinking I was sick, because I missed four days in a row. The truth was I was like a junkie, with an unbearable craving for him.

***

The day he was leaving, Marcos suggested I take the job. It meant leaving the yoga center, but my coworkers could manage without me, so I said yes. It wasn’t exactly a marketing position: I would be his personal assistant. The only condition, half-joking, half-serious, was to keep him on edge during office hours. The salary was pretty good and allowed me to save for my own apartment and fill my wardrobe with dresses, each one more provocative than the last.

The first day it took me a while to get going, but he made it easy for me. He asked me to read a text out loud. It was the story of our afternoon at the beach, written by him. I got wet just remembering it. Sitting on his desk, I slid my legs between his until I felt him hard. We kissed while stripping each other in jerks. He laid me back on the table and fucked me until he came, this time in a reasonable amount of time. I gathered with my fingers what was dripping down my thighs and brought it to my mouth. He loved that. Then I knelt and cleaned him with my tongue.

That same night we had dinner at another expensive restaurant: surpassing targets so easily deserved a reward. I know I smelled like sex, like him and me mixed together, because every man I passed turned to look at me. Especially the waiter, who nearly dropped the wine bottle when serving us. I smiled. At last I had found a job where being desired was part of the contract.