Yoga Pants

Dirk is standing next to the bed. His penis is semi-erect again (or is it still?); shiny, smeared after our intercourse. I have to tear my gaze away from it to concentrate on what he's asking me to do. He's holding a pair of short yoga pants in his hand.

“Here. Put these on.”

I nod and reach for them to take them to the bathroom.

“No. Now.”

I look at him, confused. “But I have to clean up first.”

“Nonsense. I like it when you’re wet and sweaty. Put them on. For me.”

Damn. He knows I can hardly refuse him anything. My fear that he won’t sleep with me anymore if I do is too great. But this? I don’t want to.

“But...”

His stern gaze silences me. My resistance crumbles like dry sand. Obediently, I pull the skimpy pants over my legs and butt. Immediately, I feel the elastic fabric clinging to me and shaping my figure. It doesn't feel bad at all, even though I'm not wearing any underwear underneath.

As soon as I stand up, I notice how semen seeps out of me and spreads across the Lycra fabric. I grimace and look at Dirk.

He stares at my backside, the corners of his mouth turning up.

“Wow, you look absolutely hot. Even curvier than usual. An ass like a twenty-year-old.”

The sentence hits me like a kick in the gut. I cringe, more slime squeezing out of me into my pants.

He wants Sina, it's so obvious. I'm little more than a substitute for him. A pastime until he gets his hands on our daughter.

He must go. Must, must, must.

I grit my teeth, searching for words. I have to tell him to leave. Today. Even if it breaks my heart.

Time is running out. Sina is coming home from college tonight. With a bag full of laundry, a huge appetite, and party plans for the weekend. She mustn't meet Dirk.

I open my mouth, turn to him.

He's quicker, already standing next to me. One hand strokes my buttocks.

“Can you feel how these pants tighten your butt? It's so hot. I could eat you out again right now.”

His other hand reaches for my breast, caresses it, massages my nipples, which promptly become large and firm.

Instead of the words I had prepared, only a weak moan escapes my lips. I lean into his touch.

A slap on my bottom. I open my eyes in indignation.

“Off to the kitchen. I'm hungry. Fried eggs and toast. I'll take a quick shower and then join you.”

My shoulders slump. I lower my head.

All right, then, breakfast again. But after that, I'll tell him he has to go.

“I'll make breakfast right away. Just let me quickly put something on.”

He shakes his head, his hands stroking my shoulders, my arms, circling my breasts. My stomach tingles.

“Stay like that.” His voice is a warm whisper, half request, half command. “I like the way you look. Don't hide yourself.”

He leaves me behind. I'm trembling, my knees are weak as jelly.