Stripped Down

by Tristan Taormino

  “Turn your hips open. Make sure they are stacked, one on top of the other,” she said, her hand on my waist moving to twist my hips. Her two fingers casually lingered on the exact ridge of the shaft of my cock, tracing the outline as she pressed my hip open.

  Oh god. That had to be on purpose. If it wasn’t on purpose, certainly she now knows.

  “Good,” Robin said softly, to me. “Very nice.”

  I closed my eyes. This is not happening. She meant the pose, she meant my body, not the strap-on I had diligently concealed in the crook of my hip, bent precisely so I could feel it but it wouldn’t look huge if by chance it was noticed.

  “Bring your arms back up, stretch then overhead…breathe in…and breathe out, bend from the waist, clasp your big toes with two fingers…and breathe.” Robin continued to weave through the room, though I noticed she wasn’t taking the same interest in everyone as she had in me. This comforted me. She knew, she didn’t mind—in fact, maybe she liked it. I felt exposed in my forward bend, legs spread, ass up, but I tried to breathe, concentrate, and get back into the sweet spot of the poses.

  I had never been so glad my cock was made of silicone; otherwise, I was certain a wet stain would have given me away.

  Robin took us through a vigorous flow session during which she focused on the hips, the groin, the gluteus muscles, the root chakra. Every time she let us rest, every time my hard-on began to feel tolerable and under control, she took us deep into another root pose that filled me swollen yet again. I swear, once, in the half-bridge pose, on my back, feet on the floor and knees bent, hips pressing to the ceiling then back rolling down to the floor, I caught her staring, serene, sitting on her heels while she watched my face as I nearly cried out with the pressure, and she smirked. I swear she actually smirked. The woman was actually toying with me. While I could already tell I wouldn’t be able to walk for days, I had to admit I admired her for it.

  I wanted her to open me.

  Tears really did well up with the final release of Savasana, corpse pose. I was spent, every muscle straining to relax, while she let us acclimate to our emptied, bare bodies. She had peeled me back and spread out everything I had in front of her, and I felt vulnerable and small. Robin delicately chimed her prayer bells and even chanted a little before gently bringing me back to my body and thanking the class.

  Back in the heat of the yoga studio, dazed, my fellow worshippers and I wiped the sweat from our faces, tightly rolled our yoga mats, brought the straps to the shelves in the back of the room, and piled the blankets we used to support us. Robin put away her chimes and her discreet timekeeping piece, and chitchatted politely with some of us enthusiasts. I took my time, deliberately sliding my socks over my feet, cautiously lacing up my black shoes. I slipped my rolled green mat under my arm and caught her eye as my hand grasped the door handle, trying to smile my goodbye, see you next week.

  “Zed, do you have a minute?” Robin broke away from the conversation she was having with the other remaining student, an awkward, starry-eyed boy who had only been coming to class for a few weeks. He twisted his head with a bite of jealousy in his eyes, and swung out the door.

  Aside from being surprised that she’d taken the time to notice my name, I was startled, certain Robin wanted to discuss, somehow, my inappropriateness.

  She shut the door and leaned against it. The murmur of the students in the hallway faded, and the hardwood yoga room echoed and loomed large with air now that everyone had gone. I could hear her breathing. I could hear my breathing. I was certain she could hear the blood brimming in my veins, fluid and full.

  I tried to look confident. Squared my shoulders. Tilted my chin. Cocked my hip. “Course, I have a minute. Great class.” Stupid, stupid thing to say.

  Robin looked amused, hips tilted coquettishly, hands behind her back. “I have some poses I’d like to show you. Ever done partner yoga?”

  “…No.”

  She smiled, but I wasn’t sure if she was pleased or poised to pounce on prey. “Lay down your mat…no, not there, right in the middle of the room.” I took a few steps. “Yes, right there. Take your shoes off. Take your socks off. Take your jacket off.”

  One more order and I swear I’ll retaliate.

  As I unlaced my shoes and set them aside, she settled on the mat in a loose butterfly pose, the soles of her feet touching like an open book, and stretched her neck, hands poised on her knees, first finger touching thumb. She sighed, apparently collected, and gazed over at me, twisting her hair behind her ears. I summoned every bit of butch courage that I could and walked onto the mat; stood in front of her, cock at eye level. She looked up at me, neck barely moving but eyes rolling and lips parting just enough for me to know her tongue was swelling. I restrained the impulse to take fistfuls of her hair in my hand.

  “On your knees,” Robin said, as she gracefully drew herself to her feet. I gave her my best I-know-this-game kind of look, and obliged. “No, keep yourself upright,” she said when I lowered myself to sit on my heels. “Breathe, open your chest high. Bring your hands to your waist, behind you, start leaning back. Yes, like that. Push your hips forward. Push. Just press. Harder. Yes.” Robin brought her hands to my thighs and encouraged me forward. She touched the crease in my hip and I could tell from the way her hand wandered that she wanted to touch my cock again, but held herself back. “Now, slowly, bring your hands down to your heels. Yes, perfect. And press forward.”

  I pressed. I bent myself far back, while pushing forward with enough strength to reach the opposite wall in the hope it might mean touching my cock to her fingers. Or her mouth. Or…I imagined her in front of me and strained against the fabric of my limber cotton yoga pants.

  “Ustrasana,” she said. “Camel pose.” My eyes were on the wall behind me, now upside down; I couldn’t see what Robin was doing, but I could hear her moving.

  “Stay there,” she said, softer now, not in her commanding yoga tone but with a trickle of desire. “I’m going to push against you a little, just to launch myself. Are you feeling strong?”

  I managed to breathe “Yes.” I could fuck through steel. Her weight suddenly, gently pressed against my hips, right into my cock pressing on my cunt and I nearly liquefied, but she stopped me.

  “Just hold it there, Zed, lean into me for balance…yes, that’s it. That’s it.” Robin was still moving against me, but I couldn’t tell quite what pose she had taken. Possibly her shoulders were leaning, with quite a bit of weight, right into my hips. Or was it her chest? She was pressed against me hard, balanced somehow.

  I felt her breathing. “How are your arms?” she asked, finally settled into however her body was arched.

  My shoulders were pierced with heat. “A little tired.”

  “Okay, gently then, gently, release your heels, press into me, use your stomach, push yourself up to standing.”

  I did, slowly.

  She had slipped out of her clothes. Robin, my god, Robin was nude under me, the Robin all my friends had crushes on, the famous urban legend yoga teacher, that Robin was lying back on her shoulders, feet lifted overhead and toes touching the floor in the plow pose. Halasana. Feeling me upright, she shifted her legs into a V, pushing them wide enough apart for me to see her hair falling around her head, eyes looking up into my lustered face. She rolled her hips against me and took her toes off the floor, one at a time, bending at the knee. I leaned forward into the weight of her and brought my hands to her hips.

  “Don’t make me ask,” she whispered. She brought her arms out like wings, flat on the floor, and wrapped her legs around my waist. Her unclothed chest was glossy with sweat, the buds of her nipples blushing coral-colored and rigid. Lips trembling. Cunt saturated. “Do it.”

  I tore at my yoga pants, pulling my dark purple cock free, and swiftly slid inside. All the way. No one had been so open under me before. My clit swelled to fill my cock and she drew me inside, even farther, with muscles I didn’t know existed. I shuddered against her, softening; I fe
lt anything hard draining out of me and into her, and she tightened around me. Fuck if I didn’t feel her every ripple. She brought one hand to her clit and let her fingertips rest, softly, as my body bucked against hers, and let that be movement enough.

  Eyes closed, mouth open, Robin finally let out a moan. A cross between an ooohmm and a whimper, rising from the spot against which I was gently pressing to escape her lips. I could hear the connection up through her throat when I subtly changed the angle, moving inside her. Her fingers quickened. She pressed her face into the bend in her elbow and braced herself taut against me.

  Robin came like a glacier, flowing liquid ice from her forehead, her chest, over her delicate belly, and down to her pelvis and the thin dark patch of hair between her legs, then finally caving, pieces of her breaking loose and crashing down into the pool of me as I caught her. Icebergs of her softly sailing as I slowed and stabled. She poured alongside me as I lowered myself onto her and kissed her.

  She tasted like rain.

  I broke away from her lips. Had I gone too far? Sometimes kissing is so much more intimate than sex. She closed something under me, but instead of pulling away, Robin circled my cock with her fingers and managed to twist around me, laying me on my back, languidly stroking to press against my clit. Robin knew what she was doing. I pressed my thighs together hard and came easily in her hand, uncurling, spilling open.

  “Zed,” she said, wiping her mouth, “next week, please try to make it less obvious. I can’t keep taking the distraction.”

  Oh, but she could. Could she ever.

  RIPE FOR THE PICKING

  Kristina Wright

  I have the hots for the produce manager at my local market. She’s a young chick, at least ten years younger than my thirty-seven, but who cares? I want to fuck her, not marry her.

  I’ve never been much of a vegetable person. I’m a protein gal from way back. Give me a thick, rare steak and I’m happy. A potato on the side is just garnish as far as I’m concerned. She changed all that. Now I’m as likely to have a salad for dinner as a steak, and every bite reminds me of her.

  It took me three months to find out her name: Marissa. What a cute name for a cute dyke. Her family is from Cuba, but Marissa was born here in Miami. I know this from a conversation I overheard one day when she was talking to one of the little old Cuban women who shop in the market.

  I would have been content to see Marissa a couple times a week for my produce needs, but one day she noticed me. Hell, the entire store noticed me. I somehow managed to run my cart into a cardboard stand of mangos. The entire display came tumbling down, mangos rolling this way and that. I stood there, hands still on the wayward cart, staring at the mess I’d made.

  Then sweet, sweet Marissa came through the swinging doors that lead to the dark recesses of the grocery store. She always smiles, my Marissa. Even then, with a hundred runaway mangos threatening to trip little old Cuban women, Marissa was smiling.

  “I am so sorry,” I said.

  “No problem,” she said, with just a hint of a Cuban accent. “It happens.”

  When Marissa flashed her dimples at me, I forgot about the mangos. She’d already picked up half a dozen pieces of fruit before I realized I should probably give her a hand.

  I retrieved two mangos, the most I could hold at once, and dumped them in the bin. Marissa brushed against me as she deposited a few more mangos. The girl had a hard little body. If it was the result of lifting boxes of produce, the whole world could benefit from the Vegetarian Workout, I decided.

  “It’s all right, I can get the rest,” she said. Her eyes were coffee brown. They were pretty eyes, with long, dark lashes. “Thank you.”

  A four-alarm fire could not have gotten me out of that building. “Hey, no problem. I need the exercise.”

  I’ve had women undress me with their eyes, but never quite like that. Marissa gave me the sweetest, slowest look and another toothy grin. “No you don’t.”

  I scooted out of there with a throbbing in my cunt and a basket full of fresh fruits and veggies. Some found their way into my salad. The cucumber, on the other hand, served a greater purpose. If I couldn’t fuck Marissa, I could fuck her produce.

  Three or four visits later, I decided it was ridiculous to act like an adolescent girl with a crush. I wanted Marissa and there seemed no reason not to approach her and ask her out. Easier said than done. I tried, but I couldn’t quite coax myself into asking. So, I went on making my twice or thrice weekly trips to the market and carrying home more produce than any one person could eat in a year.

  Then the day came when my local market went high tech. I could order my groceries online and have them delivered the next day. Quite a convenience, sure, but I didn’t go to the market to shop—I went to ogle Marissa. I tossed aside the flyer announcing the new service and forgot about it until one day a month or so later when I got sick.

  I’m not pretty when I’m sick. My nose runs and turns red from being wiped so often, my skin gets blotchy and dry, my eyes have bags under them from not sleeping well. It was on the third night of the cold from hell that I broke down and used the market’s service. I couldn’t possibly face Marissa looking like one of the living dead, so I keyed in a few necessary items on my computer—tissues with lotion, orange juice, chicken soup. I scrolled through the produce list, longing for Marissa, and picked a variety of fresh fruit, hoping a megadose of vitamin C would do the trick. I got a confirmation number for my order, turned off my computer and crawled into bed.

  I didn’t get out of bed the next day until the doorbell rang. I grabbed my robe, threw it on over my Melissa Etheridge T-shirt, and shuffled to the door. I was actually feeling better than I had in three days, but post-illness exhaustion had settled into my bones and showed no signs of leaving.

  I opened the door and blinked, convinced the high alcohol content of my cold medicine was causing hallucinations, because it couldn’t be Marissa the hot produce dyke standing in my doorway with two sacks of groceries in her buff little arms.

  “Hi,” she said, and that’s when I knew she was real.

  I also realized I was real—red nose, blotchy skin, ratty bathrobe and all. Oh, and jaw dragging on the floor. I did the only thing I could do, I closed my mouth and ushered her in.

  “Where do you want them?” she asked, looking over her shoulder at me.

  “Kitchen table,” I muttered, trying to hide behind the curtain of my unwashed hair.

  She deposited the groceries on my small kitchen table and grinned at me. “You don’t look so good.”

  I made a face. This wasn’t exactly the conversation I’d fantasized about our having. “I’m getting better.”

  Marissa nodded. “You got some good stuff. You’ll feel better tomorrow.”

  I fumbled with my purse hanging over the back of the door, looking for a tip. Part of me wanted to stall her, since I finally had her to myself. Another part of me, the rational, coherent part, wanted her gone so she wouldn’t have too clear a memory of me looking like shit.

  “You know what you need?”

  I noticed the way her jeans hugged her muscular thighs and how her bicep flexed when she ran her hand through her short, dark hair. Marissa had what I needed, only she didn’t know it because I was too chicken to tell her. “No, what?”

  “A good steam. It will clear you up.”

  I was hallucinating. I refused to believe I was standing there listening to the sexiest dyke on earth tell me how to clear my stuffy nose. “Thanks. I’ll try that.”

  Marissa studied me for a long moment. “No you won’t. You’ll go back to bed and then you’ll never get well.”

  Hard to argue with that. “Okay. I’ll do it as soon as you leave.”

  “How about you do it now?” Before I could say anything, she headed down the hall toward my bedroom.

  Marissa was going into my bedroom.

  The babe I’d been lusting over for six months was going into my bedroom. My bedroom, with the unmade b
ed, the snotty tissues tumbling off the table onto the floor, the underwear kicked in a corner because I was too sick to do laundry.

  “Wait! No! Stop!” I said, getting more nasally with each panicked breath.

  Too late. Marissa was in my bedroom.

  “C’mon,” she called. The echo told me she was in the bathroom. I frantically searched my brain, trying to remember the last time I’d scrubbed the shower. “You’re not going to get better standing there.”

  Even while I was trying to figure out how this had happened—how the produce girl from the market was standing in my bathroom—my body was moving of its own accord. I found Marissa with her head in the shower, turning the water on full blast.

  “Okay. Sit down,” she said, when the water was adjusted to her satisfaction.

  There really wasn’t anywhere to sit except on the toilet. I sat down, miserable and humiliated. This was not the fantasy I’d envisioned about when and if I ever got Marissa into my apartment. I felt like her invalid mother.

  Marissa, on the other hand, seemed to be enjoying herself. “Cheer up. This will make you feel a lot better.”

  The bathroom began to fill with steam. Marissa pushed my hair dryer and a bottle of cough syrup out of the way and leaned against the counter. The steam at least provided some atmosphere. It made Marissa look fuzzy, so it could only be helping my sad appearance. Of course, she’d already seen me in all my glory.

  “Now, take a deep breath.”

  I breathed. Or, I tried to. It’s hard to breathe through a clogged-up nose.

  Marissa shook her head. “Blow your nose.”

  Now I felt like a sick kid she was babysitting. I obeyed her though, using the last of the tissues in the box on the back of the toilet. “Okay. I’m as clear as I’m going to get.”