He flattens the band and pulls both ends back under my arms, wrapping them around my shoulders and armpits like backpack straps. “You may drop your arms,” he murmurs, face inches from my ear. “If you can, fold them behind you, clasping opposite elbows.”
Once again I instinctively obey, pressing my forearms against my low back. This position thrusts my chest slightly forward, but also lifts it. Tomas pulls the ends of the strap tight under my arms, which spreads and lifts my chest farther.
I squirm, feeling uncomfortably exposed yet again.
His arms press into me as he crosses the strap behind my back, feeding the ends under my arms and back to my front. I can’t see him, so each unexpected touch sends a spark of electric surprise through me. I suppress my shudders, concentrating instead on the invigorating sensation spreading in my chest and hips.
He crawls around to my other side and picks the strap back up again, face calm and focused—the same expression he gets when he’s demonstrating a particularly difficult pose. His movements are lithe and efficient, also like his poses in class. He loops the strap through the rings and cinches it across my ribs, just under my breasts.
Just like with the first strap, once it’s settled he pulls it tighter. My body jerks with the motions, but I relax into it. Each contraction pulls my shoulders farther back and my chest forward, my arms and neck muscles protesting the new position. I ache to move and stretch them out, but I keep my arms clasped as instructed.
He leans back on his heels, observing me with a pleased grin. “Right. Now, relax, breathe deep, but don’t arch your back. Let the pressure of the straps guide you into a strong, stacked posture.” He lifts himself to his feet in one motion, then steps back.
He told me to breathe deeply, but I can barely breathe at all. He’s pacing, critically evaluating me as if we’re in an art gallery instead of a yoga studio and I’m some curious sculpture. I quiver, instinctively wanting to fold in on myself, to shelter my body like I shelter my thoughts. Instead, I am bared before him.
I finally take a breath, feeling it rush into new areas of my lungs, stretching underused back muscles. My legs, too, have relaxed farther, opening and exposing my pelvis. The angle of my shoulders straightens my neck and lifts my head higher.
I sit and breathe, a tingle settling across my mind, similar to the tingles dancing along my muscles. I am anchored by the straps and Tomas’s instructions, prevented from moving the way my body instinctively wants to move. But at the same time, it feels like a part of me is drawing upon that external restraint, and my secret places—so callously exposed—are absorbing the energy of his gaze and growing stronger from it.
As that energy fills me, warms me, I feel drawn toward him in return.
I sit for ages, mind reeling with conflicting feelings, Tomas watching intently the entire time. Finally he smiles, almost sadly. “Very good, Andrea, that’s probably enough for now.” He kneels down, leaning close to grab the strap. “Your pectoral muscles are probably tight so I don’t want to—”
I kiss him.
It’s not much of a kiss—all I can reach is the corner of his mouth, and honestly I am as surprised by it as he is—but the moment my lips touch his skin the energy pulsing between us swells and washes over me like fire.
He hesitates, pulling away gently, his face unreadable. The fire in my core turns to ice.
Craaaaaap, what the hell did I do, I look like an idiot and I’m all tied up so I can’t even run…
He kisses me back, deeply, hungrily, his hands gripping my shoulders and sliding along my arms, which are still clasped behind my back. The fire in me stokes again, so high I barely comprehend what’s happening. He pulls me toward him. His fingers digging into my skin convince me that this is actually real, not another savasana fantasy. Joy rushes through me, catapulting my excitement higher. I strain against the strap, trying to press closer.
His kisses descend. “God, Andrea,” he growls against my neck, “you are so beautiful right now.” His voice has become something new, deeper and more focused than even his class voice. A brief thrill of fear shoots through me. Who is this man, really? For the last four months, all I’ve seen is the calm, patient yoga teacher, but now…
I wobble as he pulls me toward him, hands sliding down the curve of my back to cup the soft swell of my ass in my shorts. I groan and lean closer, four months’ worth of fantasies rushing into my head at once. I want those hands covering every inch of me, possessing all of the places they merely teased at before. I want his heat and his breath to overwhelm mine, drawing me out of my cautious self and to new heights.
Most importantly, I want him deep in the core he has so carefully coaxed open.
The sensation overload stuns my voice to silence. I whimper and thrust, trying to bring my aching need closer, a need that has been building since the first time I met him.
“You want more?” he chuckles, tracing fingers along the inside of my thigh and the edge of my shorts.
“Yes,” I manage to gasp out.
He glances toward the lobby. My eyes follow. The curtain is closed, hiding us from the front windows, and the front door is probably locked, but with the number of teachers that work at the studio, any one of them could let themselves in at any moment. My stomach flips at the thought.
But my excitement also increases.
“All right,” he murmurs, fingers brushing against my crotch. “It is fitting to end a practice with the proper relaxation, after all.” He crawls behind me, slithering his hands down my front, pulling me firmly against his chest. I moan, rolling my head back, exposing my neck for him to devour more. One hand grips the strap under my breast, securing me against him. The other slides down my abdomen and works its way into my shorts.
This time there is no teasing, no tantalizing touches. His fingers—rough, strong—grip me possessively, cupping my mound and working their way under my panties. I gasp at the sudden intrusion, straining against the straps to open myself to it more. Two of his fingers slide through my folds, spreading and searching. The moment they find their destination they plunge inside.
I gasp again, louder, and arch my back, but his grip on the strap keeps me close. “Try and keep your spine stacked,” he whispers in my ear, laughter in his voice. I nod, moaning as he works his way in deeper. His fingers flex and flutter, sending waves of electricity through me. I open up farther, feeling my juices soaking through my overpriced shorts. He dives in farther, sliding his thumb up to massage from outside as well. I squirm against the protective grip of his arms and the straps, simultaneously trying to escape the sensations and absorb more.
“Relax,” he growls, kissing my ear. “Let me do the effort, you focus on the ease.”
I nod, jaw agape. “Harder,” I squeak out breathlessly. He complies, pulling me closer against him. The tension in my body increases, every breath drawing it higher, pressing against the straps until I feel I’ll burst.
“Come for me, Andrea,” he whispers in his instructor’s voice, breath heavy in my ear.
I immediately obey.
The strain wound up inside me snaps. I cry out, my voice echoing off the clean empty walls of the studio. His arms clench as I shudder, binding me tighter than the straps. Supported like this, I surrender fully to the hot jolts of pleasure rising through me, letting myself quiver, trusting in the strength of his arms and the bands to hold me in place.
Slowly my passion fades, replaced by a warm fog. My body relaxes, but the external braces keep me in position. I lean my head back against his chest. He kisses my neck again.
Wordlessly, he starts to un-cinch the straps. My body sags as their support fades, but I keep my arms and legs folded until the bands are fully removed. Once they are, I stretch out slowly, muscles singing in pleasure and relief.
Tomas climbs to his feet and reaches out to lift me up as well. He pulls me against him for a kiss again, tenderly this time.
“I hope that was…illustrative,” he murmurs.
; I nod, my brain still too wispy to form complete words.
He chuckles and kisses my hands. “But really, strapping you up wasn’t just for my benefit. Here, look…” He stands back and points to my reflection in the mirror.
Even though the straps are gone, my shoulders are still rolled slightly back, spreading my chest open and noticeably lifting my head. My legs, too, are standing broad and even. It’s as if the ghosts of the straps are still wrapped around me, creating a posture of strength, and confidence.
“I want you to keep these feelings—this strength, this play between effort and ease—in mind during your next class,” he says. “You always have this inside you, all you need is to practice.”
I turn back to him. His face is calm, but his eyes glitter mischievously. “Do you have any questions?” he asks.
“Yes, actually,” I mutter, smiling shyly. “Do you do private lessons?”
QUEEN FOR A NIGHT
Robert Black
I don’t believe it occurred to Sara that her seat seemed a lot like a throne.
I am sure she was unaware that regal tribute was waiting at her feet. But I know she knows how much I like to study the stars—and how proud I am of giving gifts the recipient never forgets.
We were all but alone at my cabin in the pines. It was her birthday, August 12, the night of peak activity for the Perseids. I’d told her years ago that there was magic in her arrival, that she was born under a shower of lucky stars in flight.
At times she has found it difficult to believe in her sidereal good fortune. Tonight she was in for a surprise that could not fail to elevate Sara’s assessment of herself.
As we relaxed beneath a silky new moon, the heavens were sporadically vivid with flares of white in the deep blue stillness before dawn. Head back, eyes bugging, Sara giggled as a meteor cut a long bright scratch through the ink of the clear northern sky. We sat on the deck together in matching outdoor chairs—outsized and overpriced, elegantly molded of hard plastic, with tapered slats like stylized sun rays defining each fan back.
Her feet rested on her unopened present, a box six feet long, three feet high and three wide. I had covered it in purple cloth, tucking the excess fabric carefully beneath, and topped it with a spray of evening primrose I’d arranged to look like a bow.
Ice hissed as it melted in the near-empty pitcher of mojitos on top of the box. My barefoot best friend extended a big toe to toy with one of the lemony petals in the bouquet.
“They open in the evening and close in the morning,” she said, still looking up.
“So will you,” I said, nudging the box with my heel.
“What are you talking about?” Sara was starting to slur; Perfect, I thought, rising to my feet.
“How long has it been since you’ve had your kinks worked out?” I asked, my back to the rail just behind her.
“What’s with the riddles?” she replied.
In lieu of a response I dug my thumbs into the ropes of muscle at her lower neck and started to tug at her shoulders. The green tumbler slid out of her limp left hand and fell a few inches to land upright on mahogany.
Sara purred down low in her chest, leaned back and stretched her legs up and out in full. “Mmm…but don’t hover over me, hon. I don’t want to miss the fireworks.”
“There’s no danger of that.” I nudged her pits and she lifted her arms so I could work the tension down and out of her fingers. I used to practice on Sara when I studied for a long minute to become a massage therapist; she picked up the drill shortly before I dropped the inclination.
“Since when have you been well taken care of?” Another trick question; I knew she had been chastely single since her son of a bitch of a boyfriend cut her loose with a semiliterate text message almost three months ago.
“A night like this is more than I could hope for,” she said. “And besides, there are limits on the things…friends can do for one another.”
“Not as many as you might think,” I said, taking my hands away. “How come you haven’t been asking about your gift?”
“I figured you’d show me when you were ready.” Sometimes her passivity gets under my skin a little. Tonight it would play directly into my perverse little hands.
“Almost,” I said, leaning back and looking up. “Do you remember the shooting star we saw a moment ago?”
“Mmm,” she said again, eyes closed in what I assumed was recollection. “What about it?”
“That flare cut through the constellation of Cassiopeia. Turn around in your chair and look up.
“It’s named after a vain queen, who boasted about her unrivaled beauty.”
“Sounds like someone I know,” Sara said, ass out, eyes skyward.
“You should try arrogance once in a while,” I said. “It works wonders for me.
“Will you do me a favor, sweetie?” My friend knew well the tone I use when I tiptoe toward plain speaking.
“What?” she asked, head back, eyes wider, lids heavy with liquor and distilled ambience. Her easy sincerity always charms and endears me. Under my roof it was all conveyed in code. With Sara I could be straight and plain.
“Please don’t jump away when we open your present…just go with me on this one.”
“What are you getting at?”
“Look up, hon. Those five stars define Cassiopeia.” I sucked down half my drink in one gulp. “It’s shaped like a W. As in woman. And wanton. And why not.”
I paused, then I pleaded. “Do you promise not to jump? To accept your present in the spirit in which it is given?”
“Jesus Christ, yes,” she said. “When the fuck am I going to get it?”
“Now,” I said, throwing my tumbler over the rail. “Turn around, your majesty. Remember your promise. And enjoy.”
I lifted the cloth before Sara to reveal the front door of a cage. A puppy cage, as it’s known in the trade: All-steel construction, fully welded and powder-coated, with round three-quarter inch bars for a smooth clean look.
Behind the bars cowered the prize in the Cracker Jacks: a smooth, clean-looking young man, fully muscled and oil coated, with steel wrist shackles hooked to matching lengths of chain running up to his sturdy bondage collar.
The chains were a custom order, long enough so my darling pet could lift his head—which he knew not to do when I opened the door and led him out by the leash affixed to his choker.
At which point Sara broke her promise, scrabbling like an upturned beetle to right herself, regain her poise and flee.
“Hold it, sweetie,” I said, my back to the cat that had not yet emerged from his bag.
“You’re out of your fucking skull,” Sara said, seated now and trying to rise. I caught her partway with a hand on each shoulder.
“You promised not to jump.”
“This is wrong,” Sara said, “on so many levels. I don’t know where to start.”
“He knows where.”
“Stop clowning, Jess. This has to stop. Now.”
“Nothing has started, hon. Please sit down. And listen to me.”
I knelt on the deck at her feet with my ass close enough to his face to feel his breath thereupon. He knew better than to move a muscle.
I caught Sara’s furtive glance at my captive and endeavored to tease out the devil in her.
“Tell me what you think is wrong.”
She laughed and shook her head. I bent my back to chase her gaze, to catch it and hold it gently.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she said.
“I’ve seldom been this serious. Please tell me what you think is wrong.”
“Okay, damn it,” Sara said. “You can’t keep people in cages, like you’re running some kind of perverted petting zoo.”
“Yes I can, sweetie,” I said. “We don’t have to feed the animal, but I can keep him, for as long as he wants to be kept.”
She shook her head slowly, looked down, got a rich eyeful before she looked away. And looked back, then said, eyes skyward, “Then wh
ere the fuck do you get off keeping this poor bastard in handcuffs?”
I resisted the temptation to suggest that she could easily imagine where I got off and on in this roundelay. “I must confess that sometimes he gets a little too free with his hands,” I said. “And also, he appreciates the challenge of tending to his duties without them.”
Sara’s eyes were now stone-sober wide, pupils big and dark in a manner reflecting something beyond indignation. I did not have to look to know that my pet remained kneeling, his eyes to the wood.
“And what on earth is the matter with him, that he wants to be kept this way?”
“Please look at me, sweetie. And listen for a long minute.” She stared. I drew a deep breath. “This is going to sound medium cold, I suppose, but it’s the god’s truth as I’ve learned it. I don’t inquire about what’s in his heart. Just asking the question would suggest that I think something is wrong with him. And with me. I don’t see it that way. It thrills me to know I can capture his spirit and sport with his flesh as I please. As you please. What’s in his heart is none of my business.”
Gone stiff, Sara leaned back in her chair. I flashed on the vintage Maxell cassette ad, with the impassive seated man blown theatrically backward by powerhouse high fidelity.
I nudged the mojito glass toward her limp fingers and soldiered on, grasping for poise.
“Lean in, hon. He doesn’t need to hear this.”
She did. And I was sure he did too.
“This may strike you as strange, but they line up like jets at Newark International for the privilege of being where he is.”
Sara met my eyes squarely for the first time in the last three minutes. “Get the fuck out of here,” she said.
“Isn’t that true, my pet?”
“Yes,” he said, then was done talking.
For the first time, Sara sized him up in the manner I’d been hoping to see: like a lobster tail in a chafing dish at a sumptuous Lucullan banquet. He was a former competition swimmer, with the wide shoulders, broad chest and ropy muscles common to his appetizing breed. I turned to face him, reached in and pulled off the gold sash that girdled his loins. His large meaty cock bobbed in earnest, perpendicular to his flat belly, a love soldier standing proudly at attention.
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