The Yoga Class

The Yoga Class

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica


Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica


An encounter in a yoga class begins with a note of mysticism but ends in a decidedly physical manner.


An encounter in a yoga class begins with a note of mysticism but ends in a decidedly physical manner.


Submitted: August 01, 2015

A A A | A A A


Submitted: August 01, 2015



Extract from My Secret Life, the memoir of a modern roué. This book is based on a classic of Victorian pornography (also entitled My Secret Life), which is ascribed to a gentleman known only as ‘Walter’. By trying to imitate his fictional hero, my first-person character falls into all kinds of sexual adventures. My Secret Life by Walter Newman is available at


The bad brothel experience put me off enjoying the pleasures of professional sex for some time, and meanwhile left me in a barren patch. While seeking solitary release, often after reading his pages, I could almost feel Walter’s scorn. Why, more than a hundred times he had followed a woman in the street, accosted her and by sheer persistence in his importuning had his way. The trick did not seem to be in what he said, which was direct and bawdy, often accompanied by a display of his erection, but in his awareness of which women to approach. Somehow he had a randiness radar that infallibly led him to choose those who already had sex on their minds.

I had no such radar, although I studied facial expressions and body language as best I could. I did, however, possess cunning, a quality which Walter never needed. I thought about situations which attracted more women than men, where they felt safe and relaxed, and at the same time physically conscious of themselves, and I realised that there was one place that fitted the bill perfectly.

I signed on for one of the yoga classes advertised in the local newspaper and turned up to the specified community hall at the appointed hour.

I was pleased to see that my guess was right: I was one of only two males in a class of twelve. Other classes had been going on all morning so the whole place reeked of oestrogen, enough to make my prick stir. Usually such hard-on moments are embarrassing and men attempt to disguise the condition, but in this case I felt it would do no harm if the outline of my member could be discerned through the new sweat pants I was wearing.

Our yoga teacher was a well-preserved elderly woman who held no interest for me. Moreover, she gave me a couple of shrewd looks that told me she probably knew quite well what single middle-aged males came to her classes for. I concentrated on the yoga instruction she was giving and hid my general reconnaissance of her pupils as well as I could.

It was not hard to make my choice. Among the dishevelled mothers, hard-faced divorcees and obvious lesbians, one woman stood out. She was tall, blonde and lithe, with the nose and cheekbones of a Greek statue, and she was evidently an expert in the basic yoga techniques we were practising. Fortunately my spot on the floor was quite close to hers and I got several arousing glimpses of her breasts and crotch, which were not excessively clothed, as we slowly cycled through the various postures that would lead us, if not to union with God, at least to enhanced fitness.

By the end of the class I had a full-on erection which I hid with the hand towel we had been advised to bring. I followed the blonde goddess out of the hall and on to the verandah. There were no showers available so most of the class sat down there for a while to cool off, chat and – in some incorrigible cases – smoke. I stood in front of my quarry and asked if the chair next to hers was taken, letting my towel slip so that her eyes could not avoid seeing my excitement. She shook her head, which could have meant anything, and I sat down, ostentatiously placing the towel over my tumescence.

‘One gets hot,’ I said.

‘So it seems.’ Her voice held a pleasant lilt, which I recognised as North American.

‘I congratulate you on your suppleness,’ I said.

‘Thank you, but I have been practising hatha yoga for many years.’

‘Yes, I thought you were no beginner… But then why are you in this class?’

‘Why are you?’

‘Well, I really am a beginner –’

‘No, really, why?’

A penny dropped for me. I turned to look at her and received a sexual jolt from her intense grey eyes.

‘Well, to tell the truth,’ I said, ‘I’m not very interested in yoga, but I am interested in meeting beautiful women who take care of themselves. I thought a class like this would contain at least one, and I was right.’

‘And I thought a yoga class is the best place for me to meet a man. So much safer than a bar, do you see?’


Her name was Jaiyoti and she lived in a share house in the suburb of S**** H****. She had walked to the hall so I offered her a lift in return for the use of her shower. On the way I learned that she was a musician, originally from England, and had lived for the past ten years in Los Angeles – hence the accent.

She had been so direct with me at the hall that I did not hesitate to place my hand on her knee and thigh when I was not changing gear, and she responded by covering my hand with her own.

When we arrived, me toting a bag with a change of clothes which I had fortunately slung in the car, the house was empty. There were two bathrooms; Jaiyoti left me in one and made for the other. I showered and changed quickly and wandered round the communal areas of the house while she made a more leisurely toilet.

I remembered the ‘head houses’ of my youth, which older generations called drug dens, but this was a very elegant and superior version of the old hippie pad. On the walls there were pop posters of the usual suspects, certainly, but also pictures of Indian gurus and sitar musicians. The polished floors were covered with oriental rugs, and the furnishings were from Bali and Thailand. A smell of incense wafted through the rooms and I felt as if I had been transported to another country. Combined with my almost breathless anticipatory lust for Jaiyoti, the experience was dizzying.

‘There you are. Come this way.’

Jaiyoti was dressed in a white, almost diaphanous robe. I could see she had no underwear and my excitement rose to an even higher pitch. She took me by the hand and led me through a door. It led to a large, split level room adorned with wall hangings; her bed was on the upper level and books and musical instruments lay strewn around the lower area.

Eagerly I turned to embrace her but she raised a hand.

‘Sex is a sacred matter. If we are to join it must be consciously, on the path of Tantra. Are you willing to learn the way of yoni and lingam?’

I would have been willing to learn Mandarin and particle physics if it would get my lingam into the yoni of this exquisite creature, but all I could do was nod and hoarsely ask how I should begin.

‘We must begin by entreating the Goddess to appear. Woman, Lover, Priestess, Mother, Mystic, Crone, all are masks of the one feminine energy. It must be evoked by the supplicating male. Are you ready?’

I nodded again. It all sounded so druidic and oracular that for a second I feared there might be an obsidian blade destined for my throat hidden in her robe, but even if there were I would still have been unable to resist.

Jaiyoti stepped up to the bed and arranged herself on it, with her robe drawn up to her waist. Her breasts were not large, but I noticed their dark nipples pressing against the fabric. She sat with her legs raised and bent in front of her so as I knelt beside the bed her naked shins partially obscured her thighs. Slowly she let them fold sideways until she was sitting cross-legged, with her cunt, or yoni as I must call it, visible to me.

Suddenly I realised how the Goddess was to be invoked. Gently I reached over and placed my lips on her yoni, slipping my tongue out so that it caressed her clitoris. I felt her shudder and I heard her whisper:

‘The Goddess awakes in the thousand-petalled Lotus. She pours the elixir of love down her body through each opened chakra. The beloved may drink from the sacred spring.’

I had never encountered such copious and delicious nectar from a woman’s cunt. I licked and sucked and softly blew, but making sure all my movements were slow and ceremonious, like a ritual. I sensed that what Jaiyoti needed from me was not unbridled lust but reverence. And in truth the spiritualisation of this common sexual act somehow added to my pleasure.

After a while I realised that Jaiyoti was speaking again, seemingly in capital letters: ‘Man and Woman are two parts of One Being. The Secret of Life is a two matrix Mystery of Key and Keyhole.’

I stifled a giggle, but recognised my cue. As I looked up she got to her knees, a little unsteadily, and pulled me to a position where I was cross-legged with my back to the bedhead for support. She took my shoulders in her hands and lowered herself down on her knees until my prick, sorry lingam, entered her. This is probably the least comfortable sexual position I have ever experienced, and I couldn’t see how it would be good for her either, but it did allow us to face each other in the most intimate way, so close that our breath intermingled.

Fortunately she had the sexual sense to wriggle and move up and down a little so my erection was maintained, but her focus was no longer on our bodies, if it ever was.

‘The Sacred Union of Man and Woman is the Ultimate State of Being. Breathe slowly and Feel the Shakti as it rises up your Spine.’

All this was said with her eyes fixed on mine as if she would burn through to my very soul. But in truth the only thing I felt in my spine was the pain of my awkward position. For a long moment she continued to read me as I became increasingly uncomfortable in mind and body. Then my scarcely rigid prick slipped out and she laughed softly and moved herself off me.

‘That is a difficult asana to maintain. You did well.’

I was aware that I had not, and suggested that we try a more conventional position. But Jaiyoti, in charge from beginning to end, had already decided that the session was over, and shortly afterwards I was politely shuffled out of her magical cave.

I was not given a phone number and I did not see her at the yoga class again, although I went a couple of times. The house I did not care to revisit uninvited, and when after some time had passed I did make my way to S**** H****, I was quite unable to find it.


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