Rough Doggy Fuck by My Yoga Teacher

The late morning light poured through the tall windows of the home studio and laid itself across the pale wood floor in long, honey-colored bars. Dust turned slowly in the brightness. Annika, twenty-eight, stood barefoot at the center of the room in a soft gray sports bra and black yoga pants that held the curve of her hips and the length of her thighs, her blonde hair twisted up and already loosening at the nape of her neck. She rolled her shoulders once, feeling the pleasant ache of a week spent wanting, and glanced toward the corner.

Reid, twenty-nine, her husband, set a glass of water on the low bench and took his place in the chair they had dragged in months ago, when these Thursday sessions had stopped being only about breath and alignment. He wore a faded T-shirt and soft pants, and he looked at his wife the way he had looked at her on the patio the night they had finally said the thing out loud: steady, hungry, unafraid.

Ambrose arrived at the sliding door exactly on time. Thirty-four, tall, with the kind of calm shoulders that made every correction look inevitable, he stepped out of his shoes and crossed the threshold in a fitted black tank and loose pants. He had been their private yoga teacher for nearly a year. What had changed, and what all three of them had spoken plainly over wine two months ago, was that Annika wanted his hands on her for reasons that had nothing to do with her hamstrings, and Reid wanted to sit in that corner and watch her want it.

They had talked until nothing was left unspoken. Annika had sat between them on the outdoor sofa, flushed and honest, and told her husband she got wet when Ambrose adjusted her posture. Reid had gone quiet in the way that meant he was hard, and then he had said he wanted to see it, all of it, as long as she kept looking at him. Ambrose had met both their eyes and said he would only ever touch her if Reid was in the room and both of them asked. That agreement lived in the studio now like heat under the floorboards.

"Morning," Ambrose said. His gaze moved over Annika and did not pretend otherwise. "Reid."

"Morning," Reid answered, settling back, one ankle over his knee.

Annika smiled, shameless, the way she had promised her husband she would. "I've been tight all week. Think you can open me up?"

Ambrose's mouth twitched. "We'll see how deep you can go."

They began the way they always began, with breath, with mountain pose, with Ambrose's palms hovering and then settling. When he stepped behind her to lengthen her spine, his hands spanned her ribs and stayed a second longer than instruction required. Annika felt the warmth of them through the thin fabric and let her weight sink back into his chest by a fraction she knew Reid would notice. From the corner, her husband's gaze was a physical thing. She liked that he could see Ambrose's thumbs tracing the undersides of her shoulder blades. She liked that he knew exactly what that touch did to the ache between her legs.

"Shoulders down," Ambrose murmured near her ear. "Don't fight me."

"I'm not fighting," she said, soft enough that Reid had to lean forward to catch it. "I like when you put me where you want me."

Reid's hand rested on his own thigh. He did not look away.

They moved through a slow flow. Warrior, then a twist that bared the line of her waist, then Ambrose kneeling beside her to press her knee open in a low lunge. His palm was broad on her inner thigh, fingers spreading over warm skin through the stretch of her pants, and he did not rush the correction. Annika's breath hitched. She turned her face toward the corner so her husband would see the flush climbing her throat, the way her lips parted.

"You're holding tension here," Ambrose said, and his hand slid a little higher, still on the muscle, still almost proper. The almost of it was thick enough to taste.

"That's not tension," Annika said. "That's me thinking about your hands while my husband watches. We've talked about this. He likes it when I flirt. I like it when you don't stop."

Reid exhaled, a rough sound that filled the quiet room. "Keep going," he said. His voice was hoarse and willing. "Both of you. I want to see how far it goes. She's been talking about you all week. I told her to show me."

Ambrose looked across the sunlit floor and waited until Reid gave a small, clear nod. Only then did his thumb stroke once along the seam of Annika's pants where her thigh met her hip. She moaned, quiet and deliberate, and arched into the touch like a woman who had been given permission and intended to use every inch of it.

"Good," Reid said, almost to himself. "Just like that."

The sequence brought them down to the mat. Annika planted her palms, lifted her hips into downward dog, and let the pose become something else entirely. She pushed her ass back until the curve of it met the front of Ambrose's pants. He had stepped in to adjust her, hands bracketing her hips the way a teacher would, and she used that closeness without shame. The bulge there was already thick, heat against the cleft of her ass through two layers of fabric. She pressed harder, rolling her hips in a slow grind that had nothing to do with alignment and everything to do with the man in the corner and the man behind her.

"Fuck," Ambrose said under his breath.

"Feel that?" she whispered, loud enough for Reid. "That's my married ass asking for you. I've been wet since you walked in. Wetter because he's sitting right there, trying to be good, watching his wife shove herself back on her yoga teacher." She moaned, soft and filthy, and did it again, a longer drag, so Ambrose's cock pressed the length of her. "God, I'm soaked. My pussy gets so sloppy knowing my hubby can see every second of this. I can feel myself dripping in these pants. Reid, baby, look at me. Look at how shameless I am for him."

Reid had shifted in the chair. His palm cupped himself through his pants now, stroking once, slow, eyes fixed on the place where his wife's body met their teacher's. Color sat high on his cheeks. He looked wrecked already, and grateful for it.

Ambrose's hands tightened on her hips. "You want this in front of him."

"I want you to fuck me while he watches," Annika said, voice breaking into another moan as she ground back. "I want him to hear how wet his wife gets for another man's cock. Tell him, Reid. Tell him he can have me. I need to hear you say it."

Reid's throat worked. He nodded, eager, unmistakable, and his hand squeezed himself once as if the words were already stroking him. "Take her," he said. "Yank those pants down. I want to watch you ruin her. She wants it. I want it. Don't be gentle unless she asks."

Ambrose did not ask twice. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of her yoga pants and her panties together and yanked them down to her knees in one rough pull that dragged a gasp out of her. Cool air hit her bare ass and the slick, swollen lips of her cunt. She was dripping, a thin string of wetness already stretching from her pussy to the inside of her thigh, shining in the sunlight. Ambrose shoved his own pants down just far enough. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed, heavier than she had imagined on the nights she had touched herself while Reid listened and stroked beside her. He dragged the head once through her folds so she felt the size of him, the blunt heat nudging her entrance, smearing her cream along his shaft.

"God, you're soaked," he said.

"For you," she panted, looking back over her shoulder at Reid. "Look at me, baby. Look at your wife's pussy about to take our yoga teacher's cock. I'm so empty it hurts. Fill me while he watches. I want him to see me split open."

Reid had his pants open now. His hand wrapped around his own shaft and stroked, slow and tight, face open with want. "I'm looking," he said. "Don't stop talking. I need to hear every filthy thing in your head. That's what gets me. Your mouth while he fucks you."

Ambrose lined up and pushed in. Not gentle. He sank halfway, the stretch bright and sudden, pulled back through her clinging wetness, and then drove the rest of the way in a single hard thrust that punched a cry out of Annika's throat. Her palms skidded on the mat. He gripped her hips hard enough that she knew she would wear the marks tomorrow, fingers digging into the soft flesh, and set a pace that was all slam and withdrawal, deep and aggressive, the sound of his hips meeting her ass sharp in the quiet studio.

"Yes—fuck—harder," she gasped, and he gave it to her.

Each stroke shoved her forward and dragged her back onto him. Her tits swayed inside the sports bra, nipples tight against the fabric. Sweat gathered at the small of her back and made his grip slip before he hauled her in tighter. She kept her eyes on Reid, on the way his fist moved, on the way his mouth hung open while he watched another man bury a thick cock in his wife's cunt. The sight of him stroking, devoted and hard, made her clench, and Ambrose groaned at the squeeze.

The dirty talk poured out of her because she knew what it did to her husband, because she wanted him wrecked and grateful and leaking into his own hand.

"Fuck your student's slutty cunt harder," she moaned, voice raw, staring at Reid while Ambrose pounded her. "Stretch me out for my husband to see. God, you're so deep—Reid, baby, look how he fills me. Look at this pussy taking every inch while you sit there and stroke that pretty cock for me. I'm your wife and I'm bent over on our mat getting used, and I love it, and you love it, don't you?"

Reid groaned. His hand sped up. "Jesus, Annika. Yes. I love it. Keep going."

"You like that?" she panted, shoved forward by another brutal thrust that made her toes curl against the mat. "You like watching your wife get used on her own yoga mat? I'm your filthy little wife and I'm creaming all over him. Hear it? Hear how wet I am for him? That's your married pussy making that sound. That's me soaking his fat cock because you told him to take me."

The sound was obscene, slick and loud, her cunt clutching and releasing around Ambrose's shaft as he fucked her in long, punishing strokes. He reached under her and found her clit with two fingers, rubbing rough circles while he slammed in, and she sobbed with the pleasure of it, forehead nearly touching the mat, ass high, completely offered.

"Look how my married pussy creams all over your fat cock while he watches like a good little cuck," she said, giving Reid the words like a gift, voice breaking and bright. "That's it, hubby. Stroke it. Watch him wreck the cunt you married. I'm dripping down my thighs for you to see. I'm going to come on our teacher's dick and you're going to watch every second. Don't you dare look away. Be my good little cuck and keep that hand moving."

"I won't look away," Reid said, voice shredded. "Come for him. Let me see you fall apart on his cock. Talk me through it. Tell me how he feels."

Ambrose growled and hauled her back onto him, hips snapping, the slap of skin filling the sunlit room. Sweat darkened the neck of his tank. "Tight little married cunt," he said against her shoulder, breath hot. "Taking me so well while your husband jerks off in the corner. You want it harder? You want him to hear you get ruined?"

"Yes—fuck me like you own this hole," she cried. "Reid loves it. Tell him you love it, baby. Tell him how pretty I look stuffed full."

"I love it," Reid said, fist flying now, precum shining on his fingers and the head of his cock. "You look incredible. I love watching you get fucked. Your ass, the way you push back, the way you won't shut up for me. Talk. Don't stop. I could come just from your mouth."

She did not stop. She told him how thick Ambrose felt, how her pussy was stretched wide around a cock that was not his, how she could feel every ridge dragging through her cream. She told him her clit was throbbing under those rough fingers and her tits were aching to be grabbed and she was going to soak the mat if Ambrose did not slow down, and she did not want him to slow down. She told Reid he was a perfect husband for letting her have this, a good little cuck sitting pretty in his chair while she got railed in their home studio, and the praise landed in him like another hand around his cock. His hips jerked up into his own fist. A broken sound left him.

"Harder," she begged, eyes locked on her husband. "Fuck your student's slutty cunt harder. I want him to see my pussy gaping when you pull out. I want him to see what you did to me. Reid, baby, look at my face. I'm gone. I'm your whore for this and his hole to use and I need you both. Stroke that cock. Imagine how sloppy I'm going to be when I crawl over there."

Ambrose's grip turned punishing. He folded over her back, one arm banded under her belly, and hammered into her with short, vicious strokes that hit deep and stayed mean. Annika's arms shook. Her wedding band clicked against the mat with every thrust. The sunlight caught the sweat on her spine and the shine of her cunt where he split her. She came with a broken shout, cunt clamping down hard, cream spilling around the thick shaft pistoning into her, thighs trembling, vision whiting at the edges. The orgasm rolled through her in hot pulses, and she did not stop talking even through it, because Reid's pleasure was still climbing and she would not leave him behind.

"I'm coming—Reid, I'm coming on his cock—watch my pussy milk him—fuck, yes, use me, don't stop, let him feel how hard I come while you stroke—oh god, it's so much, I'm creaming all over him, look, look—"

Ambrose cursed, hips stuttering, and drove in to the hilt. He came hard, pulsing, flooding her, hot spurts she felt deep inside while she was still clenching around him. The sound he made was rough and open, nothing like the calm voice that counted her breaths. He held her there, buried, grinding through the last of it, until the final twitch left him, then pulled out slow. A thick spill of his come followed, sliding out of her well-fucked hole and running down her thighs in heavy white trails that caught the light and dripped onto the mat between her knees.

For a moment the only sounds were breathing and that wet drip.

Annika's legs shook when she tried to move. Ambrose steadied her hip once, gentle now that the roughness had spent itself, and stepped back, tucking himself away with hands that were not quite steady. His chest rose and fell. He looked at Reid, a quiet check, and Reid nodded, flushed and smiling in a dazed way, still hard in his fist.

She kicked her pants and panties the rest of the way off, too shaky for dignity, and crawled across the sunlit floor to the corner where her husband sat. Come smeared her inner thighs and cooled in the air. Her pussy was swollen, glistening, still fluttering with aftershocks, a fresh trickle sliding free with every shift of her knees. She felt used and bright and entirely hers, and entirely his, because he had asked to see this and she had given it to him with her mouth as much as her body.

Reid looked wrecked and radiant. She rose onto her knees between his spread legs, took his face in both hands, and kissed him deeply. He opened for her at once. She tasted the salt of her own sweat on her lips and the warmth of his mouth, and she let him feel how unsteady she still was, how the kiss trembled. When she pulled back, a string of saliva connected them for a second and broke.

"Thank you," she said, voice hoarse and honest, forehead against his. "Thank you for letting him fuck me. Thank you for sitting there and stroking while I got roughly doggy-fucked by my yoga teacher. I came so hard because you were watching. Because you wanted every word. I said all of it for you."

Reid swallowed. His cock was still hard in his fist, shining, neglected and eager. He did not rush to finish. He pressed his brow to hers and breathed with her. "I loved every word," he said. "Every second. You were perfect. Filthy and perfect."

She glanced back at Ambrose, who stood by the window, chest still rising and falling, watching them with something quiet and satisfied in his face. Sunlight edged his shoulder. "Next Thursday," she said, soft now, the sharpness gone out of her voice. "Same time. I want him to bend me over again. I want you in that chair. We can go slower at the start if you want, or we can skip the poses and have him take me the second he walks in. Whatever you want to see. I'll talk the whole time if that's what gets you there."

Reid nodded, a small smile breaking through the haze. His hand came up and rested in her hair, not stroking so much as holding. "Next Thursday," he said. "I'll be right here."

Ambrose inclined his head, a promise without flourish. "I'll be here."

Annika settled her cheek against Reid's thigh. The cotton of his pants was warm. His fingers stayed in her hair. Ambrose crossed to the bench, drank from the water glass, and set it down without a clink. Outside, a car passed on the street and faded. The dust turned in the light above the mats, above the shine drying on the floor, above the three of them. None of them spoke. The room held their breathing and nothing else, a long unbroken quiet, warm and spent, sunlit and still.