Yoga


I think I am going to try to do yoga. A friend and now recent play partner enjoys the idea of molding my body into something more lean, aggressive, and healthy. He has immersed himself in the discipline of yoga and now is going to do the same to me. I told him that I used to do yoga when I lived out of the country for a couple of months. It was an interesting experience that I wanted to push further but never got the motivation to do it once I returned to the states. My friend told me that he likes to mix other mutual interests with yoga and he can give me motivation.

So, we set our yoga early in the morning, which I like, but my body does not. This is a common dissonance inside of me. My brain wants to hear me scream, my body does not want to vocalize. My body wants to curl up in a ball and be left alone. But rarely do I give it the chance.

After I get to my yoga instructor’s apartment I do the whole normal social interaction  thing but eventually the instructor is ready to get things started.  I follow an order to go into the yoga room and kneel. Legs wide, palms up, naked.

—I obey and  try to ignore the memories this brings up. Of me kneeling in front of his bed, in front of his knees, in front of a webcam on my bathroom floor touching his cunt, being vulnerable, expressing submission to him. Is there anything about this that is not masochistic?

I have the habit of raising my shoulders while I do stretches. So, my yoga instructor decides to tie a chest harness on me with jute rope to remind me to keep my shoulders down. I smirk, I love jute. I’m not a rope slut, I usually like bondage more then rope so rope becomes a means for something else but I am very fond over jute.  The feeling of tight strong jute riding into my skin brings out my inner rope slut.

Our exercise starts normal and not that kinky–sometimes my posture was corrected by a wack of the cane but that’s more… traditional then kinky.

But then the scene starts to develop. As I  do my  leg lifts I start to become aware of the existence and the newness of my ab and leg muscles. My instructor also takes notice and this is when he has his lightbulb moment– my body can be his clay; my body isn’t defined  but has potential to go in the direction he chooses. He tells me he chooses aggressive. He wants me to have an aggressive body. He wants me to push me till I’m angry, he wants to see what happens when I’m angry.

So, he orders me to do more leg lifts. Again and again.  He tells to  raise my leg and keep it risen until he counts till ten otherwise he’ll hit me with his cane ten times.  This becomes a cycle.

The caning stings and makes me jerk but it is at least a break from lifting my leg; I am in pain either way and some turns I win and some turns I don’t but the longer my leg is up, the more I want him to eat his smirk. I want to succeed, I succeeded more often then I would think, especially when I consider  how dirty my yoga instructor plays.

He bent down to my face, I could see his energy shift and form his conniving facial expressions, while he irregularly counts to me. His time signature picks up pace, giving me hope that it will end soon, and then slow down dramatically, making me grimace. He probably can just tell me to get up and bend over if he wants to just cane me but I think he enjoys the mindfuck of me being unsure of what he’ll do next and of the muscle pain making me whimper, moan, and sometimes scream and growl.

I want to seem strong but I cant maintain face. I’m frail and it is apparent.  My skin barely hides my bone structure, a simple glance at me would tell you that I am under my BMI. Also, I am quick to let the anxiety that is constantly fucking my dysfunctional mind to ooze out in stutters, twitches, and other neurotic behavior. I’m very frail. I’m also very curious in those who believe they can fight my fragility and work with me to create a ferocious version of me.

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