Chapter 17: Advanced Positions
The scent of crushed pine needles followed Hector up the winding forest path, sharp and clean, a world away from the pub’s stale beer and the cloying incense of Georgina’s church. Sunlight dappled through the dense canopy, painting shifting patterns on the mossy ground. Birdsong, clear and unfamiliar, trilled from the branches. Yet, Hector felt wrapped in a cold, private dread. Each step towards Ingrid’s clearing felt like walking the plank.
He pushed through a final curtain of ferns and saw it: a sunlit oval of vibrant grass beside a chuckling stream. Two purple yoga mats lay parallel on the soft turf. And standing between them, bathed in the golden morning light, was Ingrid.
She was September incarnate. Hair the colour of sun-bleached wheat was pulled into a severe, high ponytail that accentuated the sharp angles of her face. Her eyes, an unnervingly clear blue, held an unnerving stillness. She wore what amounted to scraps of electric blue Lycra – a bra top that exposed every defined ridge of her taut abdomen and shoulders, and leggings so sheer and minimal they seemed painted on, leaving nothing of her powerful legs or the curve of her backside to the imagination. She wasn't posing now; she radiated a coiled, athletic readiness.
"Ah, Hector!" Her voice was low, surprisingly soft, carrying easily in the quiet clearing. "Right on time. Dorothy said you were reliable." A small, knowing smile touched her lips as she gestured to the mat nearest him. "Shall we begin? The forest energy is particularly potent this morning."
Hector mumbled a greeting, his throat tight. He kicked off his shoes onto the moss, feeling absurdly overdressed in his chinos and polo shirt. He lowered himself onto the mat, its rubbery smell mixing with the pine. Ingrid mirrored him, folding herself cross-legged with impossible ease, spine ramrod straight, palms resting lightly on her knees. Her gaze fixed on him, penetrating.
"We start with breath," she instructed, her voice a smooth murmur. "Deep inhales. Fill from the belly. Connect to the earth." She demonstrated, her abdomen visibly expanding beneath the Lycra. Hector tried to mimic her, the air catching in his constricted chest. "Release tension," Ingrid breathed out slowly, her eyes still locked on his. "Let go of the accountant. Let go of the husband. Just be present. Be… receptive."
Receptive. The word echoed Henrietta’s ‘responsive’. Hector closed his eyes briefly, trying to focus on the birdsong, the stream, anything but the intense woman facing him.
They moved through sun salutations. Hector’s body, conditioned by swimming, was strong but stiff. Ingrid guided him with precise, verbal adjustments at first. "Lengthen the spine, Hector." "Root down through the left heel." "Open the heart centre." Her instructions were calm, professional. Yet her presence felt invasive, her scrutiny absolute.
Then came the adjustments.
He was in a forward fold, reaching for his toes. Her hands, cool and strong, landed firmly on his lower back. "Deeper," she murmured, pressing down. Her fingers slid lower, skimming the waistband of his chinos. He flinched. "Resistance is just stagnant energy, Hector. Release it." She applied more pressure, her body leaning over him, the scent of clean sweat and something herbal emanating from her skin. Her breath was warm on the back of his neck.
Later, in a lunge, she knelt beside him. One hand braced his thigh, the other pressed against his hip, rotating it outward. Her fingers dug in, manipulating his joint. "This hip is incredibly tight," she observed clinically, her face inches from his. "Holding onto fear, perhaps? Repressed desire?" Her blue eyes held his, unblinking. He could see the fine lines at their corners, the slight sheen on her brow. Her Lycra-clad breast pressed lightly against his arm as she adjusted his posture.
The poses grew more complex, more intimate. She guided him into a twisted chair pose, her body pressed flush against his back, one arm snaking around his torso to pull the twist deeper. He could feel the hard muscle of her abdomen against his spine, the heat radiating from her skin beneath the thin fabric. "Breathe into the twist," she whispered directly into his ear, her lips brushing the sensitive skin. "Open yourself."
He felt lightheaded, a confusing cocktail of exertion, shame, and an unwelcome, traitorous stirring of arousal beneath the increasingly absurd barrier of his clothes. The serene forest setting felt like a stage for something else entirely.
"Now," Ingrid said, stepping back and surveying him as he wobbled in a precarious tree pose. "For deep release." She didn't move to her own mat. Instead, she stood before him. Her hands went to the knotted halter strap at her neck. With a single, deliberate tug, it came undone. The electric blue bra top fell away.
Hector froze. Her breasts were high, full, surprisingly heavy looking for her frame, tipped with dusky pink nipples already puckering in the cool forest air. She didn't pause. Her thumbs hooked into the waistband of her tiny leggings and, in one smooth motion, peeled them down her legs, stepping out of them. She stood before him, completely naked except for a thin silver chain around her ankle. Her body was a landscape of muscle and smooth, tanned skin. The triangle of fair hair at her apex was neatly trimmed.
"Shiva and Shakti," she said simply, her voice still that calm murmur, though her eyes held a new intensity, a spark that hadn't been there during the sun salutations. "Masculine and feminine energies. Intertwined. Essential for true balance." She stepped onto his mat, forcing him to drop the tree pose or risk falling. "Lie back, Hector."
Stunned, unable to process the sudden, brazen exposure after the slow build, Hector obeyed, lowering himself onto the mat. The grass prickled through the thin foam.
Ingrid didn't kneel beside him. Instead, in a display of terrifying flexibility, she placed one foot on the mat beside his hip, then smoothly lifted her other leg high into the air. Holding it effortlessly with one hand, she pivoted, lowering herself until she was poised above his face in a perfect, open split. The clean, musky scent of her filled his nostrils. The smooth, bare skin of her inner thighs framed the glistening pink folds directly above his mouth.
"Deep stretch requires lubrication," Ingrid stated, her voice slightly breathless now, but still carrying that unnerving note of instruction. "The body's own nectar facilitates release." She lowered herself fractionally. "Begin."
The command was absolute. The warmth of her radiated onto his face. The intimacy was brutal, humiliating, yet charged with a raw, undeniable power. Shame warred with a base, involuntary instinct. He closed his eyes, unable to look, and tentatively touched his tongue to her. The taste was startlingly clean, tangy, complex. He heard her sharp intake of breath above him.
"Yes," she exhaled. "Circulate the energy. Release the blockages." She began to move with minute, controlled undulations, guiding his mouth. "Deeper, Hector. Connect. Absorb the forest vitality." Her movements became more rhythmic, less controlled. The controlled yogi was dissolving into something primal. Her breath hitched, small gasps escaping her. "Use your tongue… yes… open…"
He was drowning in sensation – the taste, the scent, the heat, the overwhelming proximity of her raw power. His own arousal was now painfully obvious, trapped within his clothes. He felt utterly used, a tool for her release, just as he’d been for Georgina’s polished brass and Henrietta’s… conditioning.
When the shuddering climax took her, it was silent but fierce. Her thighs clamped briefly around his head, her core muscles rippling. She held the position for a long moment, breathing heavily, then fluidly dismounted, stepping back onto the grass with the grace of a wild animal. She didn't reach for her clothes.
"Good," she said, her voice regaining some of its previous calm, though her cheeks were flushed, her pupils wide. "A significant release of stagnant Shakti. Now…" Her gaze dropped pointedly to his tented chinos. "Your turn. Shiva must balance."
She knelt beside him. Her cool, strong hands went to his belt. He didn't resist. There was no point. Resistance was stagnant energy. She efficiently unbuttoned, unzipped, and tugged his clothes down his legs, freeing his erection. Her touch was impersonal, efficient, like a nurse preparing a patient.
"Excellent responsiveness," she murmured, almost to herself, echoing Henrietta's words as her fingers traced his length. "Strong root chakra. Good."
What followed was less yoga, more an athletic, demanding coupling. She guided him into positions that leveraged her astonishing flexibility, bending and twisting his body as easily as she had during the sun salutations, but now with a raw, urgent purpose. She straddled him, arching back until her head nearly touched her heels. She folded him into a pretzel-like configuration, his legs hooked over her shoulders, while she impaled herself on him with powerful thrusts. She demanded angles and depths that made his muscles scream and his breath come in ragged gasps. It was less lovemaking, more a demanding physical regime, a test of endurance and suppleness. Her focus was absolute, her movements precise, her own pleasure seemingly secondary to the act of mastery, of manipulation. She used him as efficiently as she used her own limbs, chanting phrases about "unblocking channels" and "aligning energies" between gasps.
When he finally climaxed, it was a shuddering, almost painful release, torn from him by sheer exertion and the relentless, focused pressure of her movements. He collapsed onto the mat, utterly spent, gasping for air, sweat cooling on his skin. The serene birdsong sounded like mocking laughter.
Ingrid dismounted, rising with effortless grace. She padded naked to the stream, knelt, and splashed water over her face, neck, and torso with brisk, efficient movements. She didn't look back at him. After a minute, she returned, picked up her discarded Lycra, and dressed with the same swift precision she’d demonstrated undressing. She looked composed, serene, even refreshed. Hector felt like roadkill.
"Powerful session," she announced, pulling her ponytail tighter. She retrieved a small notebook and pen from a woven bag near the stream. "Your tightness is profound. Significant hip and shoulder girdle restriction. Emotional armouring. We'll need deeper work next week. Same time." She jotted a note, then looked down at him, still prone on the mat. "You may feel disoriented. That's the energy shift. Drink plenty of water. Ground yourself." She offered a hand. It wasn't a request.
He took it, his own hand trembling slightly. She hauled him upright with surprising strength.
"Dorothy will be pleased," Ingrid said, a flicker of that earlier knowing smile touching her lips as she watched him fumble with his clothes, his fingers clumsy. "She texted earlier. Wanted an update. Told her you were… opening up beautifully." She turned and began gathering her things. "See you next Tuesday, Hector. Namaste."
Hector pulled his shirt on, the fabric sticking to his damp skin. He couldn't look at her. He couldn't look at the idyllic clearing, the sun-dappled stream. He felt scraped raw, hollowed out. Not exhilarated. Not awakened. Used. Efficiently, thoroughly used.
He stumbled back down the forest path, the scent of pine now suffocating. The birdsong grated. His phone buzzed in his pocket.
He pulled it out. A text from Dorothy:
> How was Deep Stretch? Ingrid says AMAZING PROGRESS! So proud of my brave boy! Home soon? Xxx
Hector stared at the screen, the cheerful words blurring. He stopped walking, leaning heavily against a moss-covered oak. He could still taste her. Feel the imprint of her hands manipulating his joints, her body demanding his. Hear her calm voice instructing his degradation.
He looked back towards the clearing, hidden now by the dense trees. Then he sank to the damp forest floor, put his head in his hands, and let out a single, silent, shuddering breath that felt perilously close to a sob. The path home stretched before him, long and dark. The Women's Institute calendar, he knew, was already turning its page.