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He demonstrates his own, which makes it very hard to concentrate as I do the same.
Shaking his head, Art walks over to me. “Can I make a few corrections?”
I nod. Is this going where I think it is?
Yep.
He gently grabs me by the hips and centers my pelvis.
Fuck.
I’ve always had a thing for being manhandled, but this is on another level. My panties are instantly soaked, and yoga is the last thing on my mind.
He lifts my right arm higher, sending erotic goosebumps down my whole body.
Yoga? What’s that?
“Good,” he says, returning to his mat. “Hold the pose for a few seconds.”
I do my best, and even somehow remember to breathe.
“Let’s do a Standing Forward Fold,” he says and bends in half with zero effort.
Damn. I could write sonnets about his glutes. Sonnets and haiku:
His butt is hot hot.
It’s very very hot hot. Is it not?
I want it, want it.
As I follow his guidance, I pray to Ganesha that I’m doing this correctly. If Art gets behind me and adjusts this pose, I might just spontaneously combust.
“You’re a natural,” he says.
Whew.
Then again, a part of me is disappointed he didn’t slide behind me to make corrections. That part also hoped he’d pull my pants down, spread my legs, and—
Yoga. Focus on yoga.
“Downward-Facing Dog,” Art announces, moving into the pose, and I swallow drool as I join him in pointing my butt up and head down.
“Great job,” he says.
Damn it, why didn’t I mess that one up? My butt was in the air, ripe for the taking.
We do the Boat next, then the Cobra, adding more images to my rub bank. As we fold our legs into the Half Pigeon, my stomach rumbles, loudly.
“Okay,” Art says. “You can go eat now.”
Sure. But can I bring it in here and watch his remaining yoga routine?
Nah. Probably not appropriate. Even a real husband might feel objectified.
The breakfast turns out to be delicious—pancakes that taste like they were made from sugar and cottage cheese, and blins drenched in some kind of syrup that I’ve never tasted.
Just as I’m almost done, Art enters the kitchen.
