Downward Dog — Yoga Instructor's Private Lesson

I signed up for private yoga because I was stressed. Law school was crushing me, and my therapist suggested mindfulness. Priya came highly recommended — late twenties, certified, incredibly professional. She was also breathtakingly beautiful. Long black hair, brown skin that glowed, a body that made yoga look like art.

The first few sessions were normal. She'd adjust my poses, her touch quick and clinical. But in week four, something changed. We were doing a hip opener, and her hands lingered on my inner thigh longer than strictly necessary.

"Relax into it," she murmured. "Let go."

Her voice was like honey. I let my legs fall open a little wider.

By week six, the tension was unbearable. She'd lean over me in child's pose, and I'd feel her breath on my neck. She'd press her body against mine to demonstrate alignment. Every session left me hot and confused, rushing home to touch myself in the shower.

Week seven, I broke.

She was guiding me into downward dog, her hands on my hips, adjusting my tilt. Her fingers pressed into the flesh just above my yoga pants. I whimpered — not from discomfort.

"Is this okay?" she asked quietly. And the question wasn't about the pose.

"Yes," I breathed.

She turned me around, pressed me gently against the wall of her studio, and kissed me. Soft at first. Then deeper. Her tongue tasted like mint tea. Her body was solid and warm against mine.

"I've wanted to do that since your first session," she admitted.

"Why didn't you?"

"Professional boundaries." She smiled. "But you're not my client anymore. I'm officially firing myself."

"Good."

She laid me down on the yoga mat. Slowly — reverently — she undressed me, kissing every inch of skin she revealed. When I was naked, she sat back on her heels and just looked at me, her eyes full of something that looked a lot like worship.

"You're incredible."

She kissed her way down my body, taking her time. When her mouth found my breasts, I moaned and arched into her. Her tongue circled my nipples — one, then the other — while her hand slid down my stomach.

She spread my legs gently apart and settled between them. "I'm going to take care of you now."

The first stroke of her tongue made me cry out. She was patient and skilled, reading my body like she read my poses — knowing exactly when to go harder, softer, faster. She licked and sucked my clit while her fingers stretched me open. When I was close, she curled her fingers inside me and pressed against a spot that made stars burst behind my eyes.

"Priya — I'm going to—"

"Let go. I've got you."

I came harder than I ever had before — in my life. My body convulsed on the yoga mat, my cries echoing in the studio. She held me through it, her head resting on my thigh, her fingers still gently stroking inside me.

Afterward, I returned the favor. I learned that I loved the taste of a woman. I learned that Priya was loud when she came. And I learned that yoga was definitely going to help with my stress — just not in the way my therapist had intended.