Why I’m a Bastard Ch. 01: Hot Yoga

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This is a work of fiction. Although there is at least one lower Manhattan yoga studio filled with beautiful young women, the people and place described in this story are entirely fictional.

This is also my first story, so I’m very glad for any feedback or comments that you, my reader, may have.


Part I: Hot Yoga Epiphany

There comes a time in every straight man’s life when it simply becomes undeniable that he will never be fully satisfied with only one woman. For me, it became undeniable after work on a Thursday evening.

At the ripe middle age of thirty-three, I’m not the beanpole that I once was. Some things haven’t changed. I’m still well over six feet tall. I still have dark blue eyes. I’m still well proportioned and what remains of my slowly thinning mane is still a sandy brown. But, graduate school is bad for the waistline and over the past several years there has been something of a horizontal expansion. So, as part of a diet and exercise plan, I attend a Hot Yoga class in lower Manhattan several times a week.

Hot yoga is all around great. It’s relaxing, challenging, and fun. How many things is life can you say that about? It’s good exercise and the sweat and steam help keep my allergies in check. I would take the classes just for those aspects alone. But, of course, that is not the only draw.

Hot yoga is done in a studio kept at over a hundred degrees. As a result, most practitioners wear very little and, because it’s yoga, the students are mostly female. Now, I’m a married man and, even if I wasn’t, I try not to be a creeper. I try to spend my class time focusing on doing the poses and not staring wolfishly at the other students. But, as I mentioned, the class is in lower Manhattan. That means the other students are not only mostly women, but young beautiful women in the kind of lithe and supple shape that only a regular yoga practice can provide. I defy any straight man not to at least notice the rows of the scantily clad beautiful people around him. It can be very difficult, and sometimes impossible, to fully concentrate on the yoga.

Let me give you an example of what I’m talking about using Dandayamana-Dhanursana, or “standing bow pose.” There is a mocha skinned Indian-looking girl in her mid-twenties who always sets up in the front row of class. She’s quite petite, standing very little over five feet tall. I’ll her Tati, even though that’s not really her name. Tati’s hair is a deep brown, straight, and falls down her shapely back to just above the curve of her tight, heart-shaped ass. She carries herself in a way that makes it obvious that she takes substantial pride in her body, and rightly so. She is thin, with lanky strong muscles. halkal─▒ bdsm escort Her legs are firm, the skin tight across her calves and thighs when she stands. Her stomach is flat with just a hint of muscle in the area of her abs. Her form is such that your eyes naturally move up her body toward her small, but perfectly proportional, perky looking breasts. All of these attributes are well on display throughout the entire class because she wears only a very small, side tied, pair of bikini bottoms and a form-fitting sports bra which has been known to hug tightly enough to show off her tiny, pointy nipples.

Picture Tati standing perfectly still, wearing nothing but those tight, white bikini bottoms and a matching sports bra. Her feet are together, her small hands at her sides, her shoulders back, and her neck long. This pose comes around a thirty minutes into the class and she has already been working hard in a hot room so she is covered in a thin sheen of sweat. Her eyes have the endorphin gleam of an athlete at the end of a race, or a woman who finds herself unexpectedly aroused. The front and right side of the room are paneled in floor-to-ceiling mirrors. You are standing a few feet behind her, and can see her entire back and much of her front in the mirror. Virtually all angles of Tati’s are visible if you choose to look in the side mirror.

Tati begins the pose by reaching her right hand out to her side, elbow bent at her waist. In one motion, she bends her right knee and drops her right hand down to grab her ankle on the inside. This causes the muscles on the right side of her body to tense from ass to shoulder. Next, she raises her left hand up over her head, stretching upwards toward the ceiling. This causes her perky little tits to be presented forward in the mirror. Slowly she kicks with her right leg, lifting it while continuously stretching her left arm up and away from her body. Her entire form shifts forward to balance on her standing left leg. Left arm leading her torso forward, she stretches her body toward the mirror, angling down so that her midsection and right leg are perpendicular to her left leg. Finally looking down the line of her left arm into her own eyes, she arches her midsection even farther backwards, her bowed leg coming up behind her form to stop, still over her head. From where you stand behind her, feeling your own exertion as you too try to hold the same pose, you see the entre curve of her form, presenting her split, slick legs, one standing straight with muscles taunt, one arched above her. Between them in the center of your vision is her gorgeous ass and, covered in the same tight, form-fitting and moist material, the mound of her pussy. The fabric is sheer enough that you can tell she is totally halkal─▒ elit escort shaved. And sometimes, the fabric of her costume is nestled ever so slightly in the crevice of her slit, giving you the full shape of her sex.

What I just described happens right in front of you, in a hot room, thick with the smell the sweat and women. She will hold that pose, or its mirror image, right in front of you for more than five minutes. Also, standing bow pose isn’t even the most obviously fuckable. There is one where you bend completely over at the waist and grab your ankles, another where you lie on your front, grab your ankles across your back, and arch you legs and back toward the ceiling.

Also, Tati is just one of the other students, doing one of the poses. In every class there are four or five such women, each performing that pose in a row. Your entire vision is filled with tight bodied beauties, bending, presenting, and sweating in unison. Any given class might have: Tati; Rachel, a slender and well-endowed red head with legs that go on and on; Mina, a Russian platinum blonde with large, luscious, barely covered breasts; Rose, an east Asian beauty covered in tribal tattoos and with strands of her otherwise black hair dyed white, green, and pink; and Claire, an older dark chocolate African American woman whose slightly broader build contrasts in very pleasing ways with the tiny form of Tati when they stand near each other.

As I mentioned, I try to focus on the yoga itself and not on the amazing bodies surrounding me in the class. But, sometimes, as I stare into the bending form of one of these women I have vision and urges. I see myself dropping the pose, dragging Rachel to the floor, ripping the tiny strip of cloth that hides her cunt away, and licking her from the bottom of her entrance to the top of the mound above her clit until she bucks against my face. Other times, I see myself pressing Mina against the glass of the front mirror, her enormous tits squished in the reflection, and shoving my big cock deep into her sexy little cunt. Hard. Over and over again until I fill her with hot cum.

Now, I obviously don’t act on these urges or I would be writing this story from the comfort of a well-earned cell on Riker’s Island.

I’m not, by the way.

Still, these images do come and a new one took its place in my mind on a Thursday as I did this pose. As Tati bent forward in front of me, presenting her sex in the center of my eyes, I saw myself stand. I walked slowly up behind her, dropping the mesh basketball shorts I wear to class to free my seven inch long, two and a half inch wide and two inch thick cock. Its purple head is swollen and firm, matching the rest of my fully erect member. I place one arm behind the halkal─▒ escort leg arching over her head, wrapping my hand around her ankle-gripping fingers. With my other hand, I pull the string that ties the bikini bottom in place. It falls wetly to the floor between us.

As I do this, Rachel, the fiery haired, pale skinned beauty I mentioned earlier also comes slowly out of her pose two mats to our right. Rachel drops to all fours, causing her luscious mounds to bounce, and crawls toward us, until she is kneeling in the small space between my two standing legs and Tati’s one. She takes the purple head of my cock in her mouth for one, brief moment, and then guides me to Tati’s brown pussy lips, now full exposed and engorged. At Rachel’s direction, I slowly enter Tati, feeling her wetness and tightness around the head of my cock. As I stroke Tati shallowly, Rachel licks the top of her mound, flicking her clit, causing her to shake in the pose and nearly fall out. Tati would fall, but she is held up by my right hand gripping hers above her head and my left hand, which has moved under her midsection to provide support to the slick brown skin just below the bottom her tight top.

As I begin to stroke deeper, all the way inside and almost all the way back out, Rachel changes her tactic. Now, her thick pink tongue licks all the way down from Tati’s nub in a continuous line, to her opening, to the top and then bottom of my cock. Rachel’s head and tongue travel all the way down and all the way back up.

At this point, back in reality, I lost my posture and tumbled forward heavily into my hands, dropping to my knees. I stayed down for a moment, slowly letting my head clear. It didn’t work. The image persisted for a long time, well into the next few poses. Throughout the rest of class, the impact of that image and all the others slid into place in my mind. It was no longer deniable. As much as I loved her, and still do, I knew then that would never be satisfied knowing only the touch of my wife. I needed another woman. Perhaps more than one. Probably more than one at a time.

In retrospect, the knowledge had, of course, been lurking in my consciousness for my entire marriage, which spanned the better part of a decade. Before then, though, I was always able tell myself that my urge would pass. It was just an animal attraction, something I could ignore. I could be happy, would be happy, if I just cleared my head and distanced myself from the situation that had roused my desire. Now, I knew that to be a lie.

Realizing what I needed to be satisfied is not why I’m a bastard. Knowledge is one thing, what you do with it is quite another. There are many areas of life where we will never be satisfied and knowing it isn’t wrong, even if our unfulfilled desires are carnal. As I said, I firmly believe that all straight men come to the conclusion I did at some point in their lives. Many cheat, but many also do not, putting their duty to their families, or god, or something, ahead of what they need.

Those are better men than I am.

I acted on it. How I did is why I’m a bastard.

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