I never imagined when you suggested I try yoga that it was for anything other than the benefit of my aching back.
Now, though I should be focused on my asana and my clarity, I find instead my mind on you.
Most of the class challenges me, mentally and physically, spiritually. I've no choice but to concentrate on the poses and movements between them. I'm strong, stronger than ever, limber, but yoga requires all my focus in order to remain balanced and in my core.
Until the end, the final asana. Savasana. Corpse pose.
Sounds hot, right?
Savasana. After ninety minutes of being led through the purpose that is a yoga workout by Breanna, I'm happy for the downtime that is savasana.
Bre dims the lights and silence reigns.
As usual, the first several minutes are spent in stillness. Also as usual, after the first several minutes, Bre comes to me to make tiny corrections to my body, my chakras.
Bre is a cute woman, my age. Physically, we're dissimilar. She's very petite, just over five feet tall, slim, small-busted. She has a funky short haircut, dyed a sweet peachy color, which compliments her elfin features. I like her enormously, and though I've never explored a sexual relationship with another woman, she is undeniably attractive and I always find her touches, her adjustments to my form, sensual.
She starts with her palms lightly against my shoulders. Her hands linger there for a moment, warming skin-to-skin, separated by the thin straps of the snug black camisole I wear for class. She applies gentle downward pressure, pressing my shoulders back into the mat and generating a slight arch to my lower back.
Her hands slide forward so that she is pressing now against my pecs, just above the swell of my breasts. Again, hands linger, warming. The gentle pressure.
I'm relaxed, liquid, but humming with a surface tension.
She is not seducing me, just teaching me, guiding me to yoga tranquility, but my body responds to her touch, tingling.
Her hands glide back across my skin, thumbs pressing into the back of my neck, massaging the base of my skull. She cradles my head in her hands, her fingers spread wide for support and then gently drags back and up, threading her fingers though my mass of long auburn hair as she lowers my head back to the mat.
She turns her attention to my legs. Her movements are near silent. My eyes are still closed, weighted shut with the yoga eye pillow. She presses her hands against my thigh, fingers inward so that she gives my leg that slight manual rotation out. She repeats the outward movement on my other leg. Her hands are small, with long, delicate fingers. If I were less relaxed, I might react to these phantom caresses, but as it is, her touch remains distant, nothing more.
She trails her hands down to my feet and applies yet another gentle rotation, then she returns to her mat. We finish in silence, bow and Namaste. We chat for a moment, embrace, I leave.
It's already a quarter to nine. Dusk has given way to night. The moon is bright, though not full. It's warm out, with the cool breeze that belongs to the foothills. I revel in this time, silence, driving home. Tonight, though, I am fevered, charged, aroused.
The iPod churns out song after song that remind me of you, some from our shared past, some just lyrically, cosmically appropriate. I drive faster than I should. I wish I were driving to you.
I turn onto my long driveway. The house is dark, silent. I'm beyond grateful that I will be forced to pause for no one. I pass alone up to my room, my sanctuary above the garage.
I stand on my deck in the wash of the moonlight. I imagine you're there behind me, watching.
I raise my arms over my head, stretch, thrust my breasts out as my back arches. My skin tightens in the cool night air.
