The Poses Continue

The head coach’s satisfied smile was a cold, thin line. “Hold it for a count of sixty,” she commanded, her voice echoing in the tense silence of the gym. “Anyone who drops a leg gets a taste of the crop. Assistants, count it down.”

A unified, monotone chant began from the two younger women. “Sixty… fifty-nine… fifty-eight…”

Sara’s world narrowed to a pinprick of agony. The sharp, throbbing pain between her legs from the crop’s strikes was a fresh, fiery brand, but it was overshadowed by the deep, tearing burn in her hips and hamstrings. Her body was folded into a brutal, compact package, her own knees pressing into her ears, her vision swimming with unshed tears. She could hear ragged breaths and soft whimpers from the other girls, a chorus of shared suffering. Next to her, Tanya held the pose with a strained but steady composure, her face flushed but determined.

“Forty… thirty-nine…”

Sara’s muscles began to tremble violently. The initial pride she’d felt was evaporating, replaced by a primal need to release the excruciating tension. A girl a few mats down let out a sharp cry as her leg slipped, her foot thudding onto the mat.

The head coach was on her in an instant. “Ten with the crop, dear. On your soles. Assume the position.”

The girl, sobbing, quickly rolled over onto her stomach, presenting the bare soles of her feet. The crisp sound of the crop striking tender flesh punctuated the ongoing count. Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!

“Twenty… nineteen…”

Sara bit her lip until she tasted blood. The counting was a lifeline and a torment. She focused on Tanya’s steady presence beside her, using it as an anchor.

“Three… two… one… Zero. Release.”

A collective groan of relief filled the room as a dozen pairs of legs unfolded, shaking uncontrollably as they lowered to the mats. Sara gasped, her body screaming in protest as she slowly, carefully, straightened her legs. The feeling of blood rushing back into her strained muscles was a new kind of pain, a thousand prickling needles.

“No rest!” the coach barked. “Up! Downward-Facing Dog. Now!”

The girls scrambled to obey, pushing themselves up onto their hands and feet, their bodies forming inverted V-shapes. Sara’s arms trembled, her sore pussy throbbing with the renewed pressure and the inverted position.

“Now, walk your hands back to your feet. Uttanasana. Deep fold.”

Sara moved slowly, her body feeling like it was made of cracked glass. As she hung there, her head dangling near her shins, she saw the coach and her assistants pacing, their eyes critical.

“You,” the coach said, stopping behind a slender girl with dark hair. “Your form is pathetic. You’re not stretching; you’re just hanging. Let’s motivate you.” She nodded to an assistant, who produced a long, whippy cane from a stand at the front of the room.

The dark-haired girl was pulled to the front and **** onto her back. Two assistants lifted her legs straight up and then over, forcing her into the plow pose, her toes touching the mat behind her head. Her entire backside, and more specifically, her most intimate aperture, was completely exposed and elevated.

“A lack of flexibility in the hamstrings and back leads to a tight, unyielding posterior,” the coach announced to the class. “This is unacceptable. Let’s see if we can loosen it up.”

The first cane stroke landed with a sickening thwip directly across the girl’s exposed rosebud.

A strangled scream was torn from her throat. Thwip! Another line, parallel to the first, bloomed on her tender skin. Sara, still in her forward fold, felt a wave of nausea and sympathetic terror. She could see the girl’s hands clenching and unclenching at her sides, her whole body rigid with pain. The cane fell a dozen times, each impact precise and cruel, until the girl’s bottom was crisscrossed with angry red welts.

“Now, hold that plow pose for the remainder of the class,” the coach said dismissively, leaving the sobbing girl at the front as a grim example.

The lesson continued, a relentless cycle of painful poses and sharp corrections. They were pushed into splits, their inner thighs stinging from the crop when they failed to achieve a perfect 180-degree angle. They were **** into backbends, the assistants applying pressure to their spines until vertebrae popped and girls cried out.

Finally, as the hour drew to a close, the girls were allowed to lie flat on their backs in Savasana, the corpse pose. But it was not a pose of rest. It was a pose of utter exhaustion and submission. The cool mat against Sara’s feverish skin was a small mercy.

The head coach stood over them. “Class is dismissed. You will report here every day at this time. We will break you, and we will rebuild you into instruments of proper discipline. Dismissed.”

The girls moved like ghosts, slowly collecting their clothes and pulling them on with wincing care. Sara’s skirt felt like sandpaper against her sore bottom, and the fabric of her blouse was agony on her strained shoulders. She and Tanya didn’t speak as they limped out of the basement gym and up the stairs.

Out in the fading afternoon light, Tanya finally broke the silence, her voice hoarse. “Well… I guess we’re getting more flexible.”

Sara could only nod, each step sending a fresh jolt of pain through her body. The memory of the crop on her vulva and the sight of the cane on that other girl’s asshole were burned into her mind.