The girls wing you Daphne

It starts with Mars and Val laughing as they put the blindfold on you. Standing in the middle of your room, you can’t see anything. All you feel are their hands running across your body, lifting off your shirt, now tugging at your pants…

“Is this really necessary?” you ask.

“We got very specific instructions,” Mars says.

“That included stripping me down to my boxers?”

You feel your boxers going too. Reflexively, you drop your hands to block the girls from accessing your crown jewels, only for your hands to be swatted away playfully.

“In the nude,” Val whispers into your ear. “She was clear about that.”

Off go your boxers, and you wonder what she’s planning. This had better be good.

“Natarajasana,” Mars whispers into your other ear. “She wants you in the King Dancer pose.”

“She wants… what?” you ask.

“Very specific instructions,” Mars repeats herself.

“Hold the pose when she comes into the room. Good luck,” Val says, sounding more amused than you would like her to be.

“This better not be a prank,” you call out, but then you hear footsteps and the door shut, and you’re left alone in the darkness.

After a few seconds, it’s clear that they’re not coming back. Left with nothing better to do, you begin to adopt the dancer’s pose. You stand on one leg, lifting your other one back. Your rear leg doesn’t get much higher than your waist, and it’s a bit of a pinch to reach back and hold it up. You extend your other hand forward. That’s it. That’s the pose. As the seconds start to drag on, you find yourself wobbling hard, struggling to maintain balance on one foot. Sweat starts to bead along your naked back. But you’ve got to hold the pose. The girls told you so. You redouble your focus, concentrating on your breathing, making sure to keep your form as clean as possible.

The door opens not long after that. You hear footsteps again. In the darkness, your hearing has sharpened, and you can tell that it’s just a single pair of feet, lighter on her toes. The door closes. You hear faint breathing, and the hint of a perfume, faintly citrusy—maybe yuzu?—wafts over to you.

Soft hands push your extended arm up, adjusting your hips and your stance with small nudges, placing your raised leg just so, stabilizing you, giving you strength and a flexibility that you didn’t know you had.

“See what you could achieve with a little more practice?” Daphne asks.

“This is much better,” you say. “You’ve shown me what I’m missing.”

“I can’t help but think that you could have learned this on your own,” Daphne says. “When Mars and Valentine came to me, I thought you would be ready.”

“Ready for what?” you ask.

“There were some poses I hoped to explore with you. They require a certain amount of skill to pull off. But it seems we will have to save them for another day,” she says.

You feel her place her hand against your chest. Is she feeling you up? No, just pushing you lightly back into place as you begin to sag. You can’t help but feel that you’ve disappointed her.

“It will have to wait for some other time, when you’re ready,” she says. You hear her breathing grow louder, the heat of her breath against your neck, as she draws closer to you. “But you have a lot of potential. Your instincts guide you well. It is possible that after this session together, we can be together.”

“Be together?” you ask, not daring to read too much into her words, but hoping greatly that it means…

“Do those poses together, yes,” she says. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No, that’s good, I like doing poses together,” you quickly say.

“Very well. Then pay close attention to what I say,” she says. “We will start from the basics again. Put both of your feet down, into mountain pose. Feet a little further apart. Center yourself. Look straight ahead. No, don’t remove the blindfold. Feel your center from within yourself, and gaze ahead. There we go. Take a deep breath. Now we can begin…”

You lose yourself in the flow as Daphne guides you through a full routine. You follow her words, mesmerized by her voice, moving from pose to pose. Her soft touches are correctional yet oddly erotic, the brief moments of contact pinpricks of heat that blossom across your skin, always seeming to linger to ensure that you get the message… or perhaps, lingering in silent admiration of your physique. By the end of it, you are sweating, panting, exhausted by the exertion, and you swear Daphne’s breathing is coming in more laboriously too.

Daphne +10