It took years working my way through the beginning yoga classes, but I had finally made it to Clive’s advanced Power Sculpt. It’s not just being lean that I love. It’s not just practicing with the best yogi in all of Billings. It’s not just the ritual of taking care of myself regularly. It’s that with every stretch of every muscle, with every breath, I nestle more deeply into my happy place.
By the end of Clive’s classes I feel as if I’ve cured diabetes, reversed the national deficit, and housed every hungry refugee in Europe.
This is how I felt last week when he approached me and quietly asked if I was interested in coming to his invitation-only, after-hours Moon Practice. Was I interested? Holy fucking shit! Clive’s inner circle!
He emailed the details: Moon Practice occurred monthly during the new moon, always by candlelight. There were two rules:
1. No talking or noises whatsoever. Remaining quiet allows attention to be focused only on Pranayama.
2. Arrive on time, bathed and nude.
Hmmmm. I’d never done anything the least bit exhibitionist. But this was a private class where the lighting promised to be dim, plus I felt better in my skin than I ever had. Fine, Yogi Clive, I’ll practice nude.
But his email didn’t prepare me for what actually happened.
There were eight students who arrived and wore bathrobes until the last possible minute. When we were all gathered, Clive’s assistant welcomed us into the studio — warm as a womb and nearly as dark. Flames from small candles clustered on the floor in each corner gave just enough light for us to situate our mats. The stereo emitted the usual melodic white noise of sedately cross-fading pleasant tones.
Early in the class, while we progressed from child’s pose to cat’s pose–moving onto our knees and hands, forming a tabletop with our backs–Clive approached the woman practicing in front of me and knelt beside her.
He said to the group in his calm monotone, “As you exhale, round your spine toward the ceiling, making sure to keep your shoulders and knees in position.” I saw the plum of my yoga mat under me while my ocean breath, “ujjayi,” rose up along my throat up through my nostrils.
On the inhale, as I shifted back into my table top and let my gaze move forward again, I saw that Clive’s hand was between the woman’s legs. I was like, Whaaat?! On the exhale we were to round our spines and curl forward again, but I paused and watched the duo in front of me instead. Clive’s fingers were circling the woman’s shiny labia. Even in the shadows, her wetness showed. He said, “Inhale,” and the woman gradually arched her back along with everyone else. Only when I saw his straight index and middle fingers slide into her vagina did I realize my ujjayi breath had stopped and my own vagina flexed. “Exhale,” she rounded forward again while he slowly, incredibly slowly, pulled his fingers from her. I couldn’t stop staring. It was all I could do not to curl back into child’s pose–torn between the equal urges to hide and clutch my cunt.
He spoke the usual words as if nothing unusual was happening. “Inhale.” His fingers pushed back into her, the other hand remained flat on the small of her back. He didn’t miss a beat of instruction, “Exhale,” but massaged her inner walls with greater speed and voracity. Despite the thrusting at her core, her shifting posture–rounding and arching–conformed in steadiness to rest of the class. Her ujjayi nose breathing had grown loud, but other than that, she didn’t make a sound.
I forced myself to join in, rounding on the exhale and arching on the inhale, but my heart raced and my nipples ached to be squeezed. Curving my spine forward on cue, I saw their pinkness bright and hard, and beyond that, the penis of the man behind me was erect and large. Only then did I remember that my naked groin was visible, too. Could he see my labia twitching? Inhaling to an arch, in front of me, the finger fucking went on.
After another long minute gliding in and out of her, rounding and arching, rounding and arching, Clive removed his hand and stood up. As I arched a final time breathing in, I stared ahead at her swollen vulva, glistening red. I craved touch.
“Now on to Downward Facing Dog. Push with your hands and straighten your legs. Let your head hang freely.”
Upside down, I faced the back of the room and tried to relax into the practice. Through the silhouette forest of torsos and limbs and my rear neighbor’s still hard penis, I could see Clive hold his palms face up for hand sanitizer pumped by the assistant. “Extend your pelvic bones up and heels down,” he said as he rubbed the ethyl alcohol in to his flesh. Then, before he strolled to the front of the room, the assistant handed Clive a phallus. No way. It was about ten inches long and had what looked like the perfect girth.
“Stretch your waist.” He ambled to the front of the room, and even though I was upside down on all fours facing the back wall, I could tell he paused briefly next to each student before moving on.
“Walk your hands forward to your ankles, bend your knees slightly and breathe into your hamstrings.”
His voice seemed louder with each word as he approached my mat. “Let your upper body hang forward into Rag Doll pose.”
Who’s his rag doll? Who’s his rag doll?
“Keep the back of your neck long, head heavy.”
The first caress I felt was a skim of my vulva. I nearly screamed. His right hand lightly petted my outer lips, exposed by my bent posture. My mouth opened in a gasp.
He said, “Maintaining a steady ujjayi is the single most important part of our practice.”
His left hand, the one with the dildo, pressed my middle-back, suppressing my reflex to rise. With the fingers of his right hand shaped into a Y, he spread my folds and massaged each side of my vagina without entering it or touching my yearning clit.
He teased me this way for three more breaths, his hand wet with my fluid. It was almost impossible to endure. I began rolling my hips with craving even though everyone in the class remained still. I wanted to beg or at least moan, but no one made a sound except the throat breathing.
Finally, his left hand on my back, the one that held the dildo, lifted. Continuing to spread my labia with his right fingers, he turned his body to more easily press the bulbous phallic head against my vagina’s rim. I tensed in anticipation, my inner folds suckling the toy, until at last he pushed the shaft centimeter by centimeter letting it stretch my walls wider. Before he filled me entirely, his fingers found my clitoris and I nearly collapsed. But he did not let up. He supported my body has he plunged the stick into me, fucking me right there in front of everyone. And I did not make a noise.
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