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And a much-needed relief after years spent drowning in doubt and confusion.
7
Finn
It’s been a while since I have found myself so wholly entranced by a woman. It’s been even longer since the three of us have agreed on the matter. And so intensely too.
There is something about Amaya that’s got us revved up and eager, interested and constantly aroused in her presence. Those yoga shorts she wears aren’t helping much either, but we’ve got a one-on-one session today so I’ve simply accepted the fact that Amaya turns me on and then some.
She’s trying to be professional and reserved, cool and level-headed, yet her own body betrays her. It’s early afternoon, and she’s got a group class coming in soon, but I still have about fifteen minutes left on the clock with just the two of us. I intend to make the most of it.
“How much longer do I have to keep this lotus pose again?” I ask, though I know from the lack of stretch in my hamstrings that I haven’t fully delved into it. I need about twenty seconds more before the muscle becomes deliciously taut.
“Stay there until I tell you to move,” Amaya replies, mirroring the pose.
I’ve got a great view of her strong thighs and full breasts, the pink yoga shorts and tank top she’s wearing only serving to amplify her voluptuous curves. It’s been fun and games up to this point, mostly chatter and light banter, but I’m ready to kick things up a notch.
I need to understand her mindset and willingness to step outside her comfort zone, because dealing with the three of us requires a certain kind of bravery. Amaya is anything but indifferent to us, that much is obvious.
Her bated breath. The stolen glances. The way the fine hairs on her forearms rise up like electrified peach fuzz whenever I “accidentally” touch her. Oh, her body is screaming for me, for us, and I intend to answer the call.
“I love it when you get all bossy,” I shoot back with a dry chuckle. “Do you like to take charge in the bedroom, too?”
“That is woefully inappropriate,” Amaya replies, holding back a smile. “Let’s focus on the pose. Deep breath in, hold for seven seconds, then slowly let it out.”
I do my breathing, letting my gaze wander up and down her figure. I bet she regrets shutting me up because now I get to admire her in her splendor. She’s remarkably flexible and gracious. She keeps her rich, black hair pulled up in a lazy bun on the top of her head, a few curls loosely trailing down the back of her slim neck.
It appears motherhood has only brought out more of her best features. I note the curve of her generous hips while we’re in this lotus stretch, my mind quick to imagine all sorts of fiery scenarios.
“Alright time to switch.” I exhale sharply and shift on the yoga mat in order to keep some of the bulkiness in my loins out of her sight while I try to figure out a way to get closer.
She’s a wonderful woman, and I cannot show her anything less than the respect she deserves. Of course, I still want to bend her over—badly. But it needs to be initiated by her.
It’s the first time in a long time that I’m actively intent on wooing a woman for the three of us and I’m actually enjoying the task. Amaya is different. She’s special. Elusive, like a dream that may or may not come true.
“We can do a seated forward bend,” Amaya says, stretching her legs forward on the mat.
I mirror her movements and welcome the slight release of tension in my thighs. It’s been a treat doing these sessions with her.
“A seated forward bend,” I reply. “What’s the name for this again?”
“Paschimottanasana,” she says.
“That is a frickin’ mouthful.”
Amaya laughs. “I know. I always have to think the word first and make sure I’ve got all the vowels in there before I say it.”
“I’ll give the Indians credit, though. They’ve got a beautiful and fascinating culture. It’s the language that throws me for a loop,” I say.
“I’d love to visit India someday,” she sighs deeply. “To be in an actual temple, meet an actual yoga practitioner, experience the whole thing the way they do. I hear its transcendental.”
I can imagine that. I can imagine Amaya stretching and learning from master yogis somewhere in the heart of India. I can imagine her in a red dress with gold bangles hanging from her ears, her forearms and nimble hands covered in intricate henna tattoos.
I reckon we could organize something just for her. Private jet, high-end accommodations, in order to make that dream come true.
“Well, then, I’m adding India to my travel list,” I state, smiling broadly.
She gives me a curious look. “You’ve never been?”
