The Flexibility Project
Kevin joins a yoga class hoping to meet women. But his first private session with instructor Charlotte reveals a different truth, some bodies just aren't meant to dominate.
I‘d been on six dates in the past four months. Three of them led to second dates. Two led to sex.
Both times, things seemed fine at first. The women were enthusiastic initially — texting me after, suggesting we hang out again, saying they had a good time. But then came the slow fade. Messages took longer to get responses. Plans got rescheduled, then canceled. Eventually they’d tell me they were “really busy with work” or “not in a place for something serious right now” or “just didn’t feel the spark.”
After the first with Amanda, a graphic designer I’d met through Bumble, I told myself it just wasn’t meant to be. These things happen. Not everyone’s compatible. The second time — with Lauren, who I’d actually met at a friend’s birthday party and genuinely liked — I started to wonder if maybe I was the problem.
I tried to figure out what I was doing wrong. Replayed conversations in my head. Analyzed text exchanges for clues. But I couldn’t pin it down.
So I just kept trying. Kept swiping. Kept going on first dates that sometimes led to second dates that sometimes led nowhere.
And I told myself that eventually, it would click with someone.
The answer to my problem came to me at work, of all places.
I was in the break room, pouring coffee, when Brad walked in. Brad from Sales — six-foot-two, always looked like he’d just come from the gym even though I’d never actually seen him there, perpetually talking about his weekend plans with some new woman.
He was mid-story when I walked in, Mike from Accounting leaning against the counter and laughing at whatever Brad was saying.
“—so we’re back at her place, right? And she’s all ‘I don’t usually do this on a first date,’ but like, ten minutes later—” Brad made a gesture I didn’t need explained. Mike cracked up.
I should have left. Should have grabbed my coffee and gone back to my desk.
But I didn’t.
I stood there, pretending to add cream and sugar, listening. Hating myself for listening. Hating Brad for making it sound so easy. Hating that some part of me wanted to hear every detail.
“Anyway,” Brad continued, pouring himself coffee, “told her I’d text her this weekend. Probably won’t. She was fine, but I don’t need to go back for seconds, you know?”
Mike nodded like this was profound wisdom.
Brad noticed me then. “Kev! What’s up, man?”
“Just getting coffee,” I said, stirring unnecessarily.
“You see the game last night?”
“Uh, no. Had some stuff to catch up on.”
Brad shrugged and went back to ignoring me
“So you going back to yoga to bag another one?” Mike asked.
“Hell no, “ Brad said. “I did it for like two weeks,” Brad said, leaning against the counter. “Thought it’d be a good way to meet chicks, you know? And it was — class was like ninety percent women. But man, it was boring. Just holding poses forever while some instructor tells you to ‘breathe into the stretch’ or whatever. There’s easier ways, man.”
“So you quit?” Mike asked.
“Yeah. I mean, the chicks were hot, but it’s way easier to meet girls at bars. Less work, better payoff.” Brad took a sip of his coffee. “Yoga’s for people with too much time and not enough game.”
They both laughed.
I stood there, coffee in hand, something clicking in my brain.
Brad tried yoga.
Brad — who could apparently get any woman he wanted with zero effort — had tried yoga and given up. Because it was too much work. Because he didn’t get the easy lay.
But what if that was exactly the point?
What if the reason Brad didn’t need yoga was the same reason I did? Brad could meet women easily because he was... Brad. Confident. Fit. Whatever indefinable quality made women respond to him.
But yoga — yoga was different. It required commitment. Patience. Actually showing up and putting in the work. Things Brad didn’t need to do because everything came easily to him.
Which meant yoga was a space where I could actually compete.
No, not compete. Dominate.
I could be the guy who stuck with it. Who got good at it. Who became the one man in a room full of women who actually took it seriously, who respected the practice, who showed up every week and became part of the community.
Brad had found it too hard. But I wouldn’t. I could succeed where Brad failed.
The thought sent a jolt of energy through me. This wasn’t just about getting in shape anymore. This was about finding my advantage. My space. The place where I could finally be the guy women noticed. Where I could prove that persistence and dedication mattered more than whatever effortless charisma Brad had.
“You good, Kev?” Brad asked, and I realized I’d been standing there staring into my coffee.
“Yeah. Just thinking.”
“Deep thoughts about coffee?” Brad grinned.
“Something like that.”
I left the break room, my mind already racing.
That night, I Googled yoga studios near me.
CoreFlow Yoga popped up first — clean website, welcoming photos, beginner classes offered three times a week. The instructor was listed as Charlotte Hart. Her bio photo showed a woman in her early thirties, blonde hair pulled back, wearing a gray tank top that showed toned arms. Professional. Approachable.
Beginner classes welcome, the site promised.
I clicked through the schedule. Thursday at 6 PM. Perfect timing after work.
This was it. This was my opening.
Brad had given up because he didn’t need it. But I did need it. And unlike Brad, I wasn’t looking for the easy path. I’d commit. I’d show up every week. I’d get good at this.
And in the process, I’d finally become the kind of man women wanted.
The kind of man who could stand next to Brad in the break room and have his own stories to tell.
I signed up for the Thursday class before I could second-guess myself.
I arrived at CoreFlow fifteen minutes early, my new yoga mat still in its plastic wrapper from Target.
The studio was exactly like the photos — wooden floors, floor-to-ceiling windows letting in late afternoon light, soft instrumental music playing from hidden speakers. It smelled like lavender and something else I couldn’t quite identify. Clean. Expensive. Female.
There were already a few people setting up their mats. All women. A blonde in her forties wearing black leggings and a purple sports bra, unrolling her mat near the front. Two younger women—maybe mid-twenties—chatting quietly by the windows, both in matching pink workout sets that looked professionally coordinated. Another woman, dark-skinned and impossibly flexible-looking, already stretching in a split I didn’t think human hips could actually achieve.
I found a spot in the back corner and started fumbling with the plastic wrapper on my mat. It wouldn’t tear. I tried picking at the edge with my fingernail, suddenly very aware that I was the only man in the room and everyone probably thought I was an idiot who couldn’t even open his own—
“First time?”
I looked up. The woman from the website — Charlotte — was standing a few feet away, holding a rolled mat under one arm. Blonde hair pulled back in a high ponytail, gray leggings and a matching tank top that showed defined shoulders and arms. She looked exactly like her photo, except somehow more present. More real.
“Yeah,” I managed, still wrestling with the plastic. “Just, uh—this packaging—”
“Here.” She knelt down, pulled a small pocket knife from somewhere, and sliced through the wrapper in one clean motion. “There you go.”
“Thanks.”
She studied me for a moment — not unfriendly, but assessing. Like she was deciding something.
“I’m Charlotte,” she said. “Welcome to CoreFlow.”
“Kevin.”
“Well, Kevin, just follow along as best you can. Don’t push yourself too hard on your first day. Yoga is about listening to your body, not forcing it.” She stood, moved toward the front of the room. “We’ll start in a few minutes.”
I unrolled my mat — blue, generic, the cheapest one Target had — and sat down cross-legged like some of the other students were doing.
More women filtered in. A redhead in green leggings. Two women who looked like they might be sisters, both wearing tight black pants and sports bras that showed flat stomachs and the kind of muscle definition I’d only seen in fitness magazines.
By the time class started, there were twelve of us. Eleven women. Me.
And every single one of them was wearing tight leggings or yoga pants that left absolutely nothing to the imagination.
Charlotte stood at the front of the room, her hands pressed together at her chest.
“Good evening, everyone. For those who don’t know me, I’m Charlotte. We’re going to start with some breathing exercises, then move through a flow sequence. If you need to rest at any point, come into child’s pose. Listen to your body. Honor where you are today.”
We started simple. Sitting cross-legged, eyes closed, breathing deeply. I could do that.
Then we moved to all fours — hands and knees, what Charlotte called “tabletop position.”
“We’re going to warm up the spine with some cat-cow stretches,” she said, demonstrating. “Inhale, drop your belly, lift your chest and tailbone. Exhale, round your spine, tuck your chin.”
I tried to follow along, watching the women around me move through the motions with fluid ease. The blonde in front of me arched her back, and I could see every line of her body — the curve of her spine, the shape of her ass, the way her leggings pulled tight across her hips.
I looked away quickly, focusing on my own hands pressed against the mat.
Don’t stare. Don’t be that guy.
“Good,” Charlotte said. “Now we’ll move into downward-facing dog. From tabletop, tuck your toes, lift your hips up and back. Press your heels toward the floor.”
I pushed myself up into the pose — or tried to. My hamstrings immediately screamed in protest. My heels were nowhere near the floor. I looked like a broken tent.
But that wasn’t what made my breath catch.
From this position — bent over, head down between my arms — I had a perfect view of the woman directly in front of me.
The blonde. Mid-forties. And from this angle, bent forward with her ass in the air, I could see everything. The shape of her through her black leggings. The line of her underwear — a thong, I realized with a jolt — visible as a faint ridge beneath the fabric. The way the material pulled tight across her hips, between her legs, outlining every curve.
My mouth went dry.
I tried to look away. Tried to focus on my breathing, on my form, on literally anything else.
But I couldn’t.
Because it wasn’t just her. There were women everywhere, all in the same pose, all bent forward with their asses in the air, all wearing leggings that showed every single line and curve of their bodies.
I could see panty lines. I could see the shapes of them through the fabric. I could see one woman — the redhead in green — whose leggings were pulled tight enough that I could make out the exact outline of her pussy, pressed against the fabric in a way that made my brain short-circuit entirely.
Don’t get hard. Don’t get hard. Not here. Not now.
Too late.
I was already half-hard, my dick pressing uncomfortably against my athletic shorts, and we’d been in this pose for maybe twenty seconds.
“Hold here,” Charlotte’s voice drifted from somewhere at the front of the room. “Feel the stretch in your hamstrings. Press your chest toward your thighs. Breathe.”
I couldn’t breathe. I was frozen, staring at the blonde woman’s ass directly in front of me, my dick getting harder by the second, panic rising in my chest.
Everyone’s going to see. They’re going to know. They’re going to think I’m some kind of pervert who came to yoga just to—
“Good. Walk your feet forward to the top of your mat. Come into a forward fold.”
The women around me transitioned smoothly. I scrambled to follow, my shorts feeling uncomfortably tight, my face burning.
The class continued. Each pose seemed designed specifically to torture me.
Child’s pose — kneeling with my forehead on the mat, ass in the air—felt submissive in a way that made me weirdly self-conscious. Like I was bowing to something.
Pigeon pose — one leg bent in front, the other stretched behind — required Charlotte to come over and physically adjust my hips because I couldn’t get into position on my own.
“Relax,” she said, her hands firm on my hip bones, pressing down. “Let gravity do the work. Don’t fight it.”
Her hands were warm. Strong. And she was touching me, guiding my body into position, and I was acutely aware of how close she was. Close enough that I could smell her — something clean and faintly coconutty.
I was still hard. Had been hard, on and off, for the entire class. Every time I started to calm down, we’d move into a new pose and I’d catch another glimpse — another panty line, another camel toe, another woman’s body bent into some position that looked like something from a fantasy I’d never have the courage to ask for in real life.
This is insane.
“How does that feel?” Charlotte asked, still pressing down on my hips.
“Good,” I lied, because “I’m about to explode” didn’t seem like an appropriate answer.
She held the pressure for another few seconds, then released. “Stay here. Breathe into it.”
She moved on to the next student, and I stayed in pigeon pose, my right hip screaming, my dick throbbing against my shorts, wondering how the hell I was going to survive the rest of this class.
We were maybe forty minutes in when Charlotte stopped the flow.
“Everyone take a seat for a moment,” she said. “I want to work with our new student on his form.”
My stomach dropped.
No. No no no.
“Kevin, come to the center of the room.”
Everyone turned to look at me.
I stood slowly, my legs shaky, my shorts still tight, my face absolutely burning.
“Don’t worry,” Charlotte said, smiling. “This is how we all learn. I just want to make sure you’re getting the alignment right so you don’t hurt yourself.”
I walked to the center of the room on numb legs. Eleven women sitting on their mats, watching me. Waiting.
Charlotte gestured to a spot in front of her. “Let’s try warrior two. You were struggling with it earlier.”
I moved into position — or what I thought was position. Legs wide, arms out, front knee bent.
“Good start,” Charlotte said, circling around me slowly. “But your stance is too narrow. Wider.”
I widened my stance.
“More.”
I stepped wider, feeling my groin stretch uncomfortably.
“Good. Now sink deeper into that front knee. Knee over ankle.”
I sank down, my thigh immediately starting to burn.
Charlotte moved behind me. I could feel her presence, close enough to touch.
“Your shoulders are hunched,” she said. Her hands landed on my shoulders, pressing them down and back. “Relax them. Keep your arms strong, but your shoulders soft.”
Her hands were warm and firm, and I was acutely aware of every point of contact. Her fingers adjusting my posture. The way she moved around me, assessing, correcting.
I was hard again. Fully hard now, straining against my shorts, and I was standing in the center of the room in front of eleven women and definitely — definitely — everyone could see.
They can see. They all know. This is the most humiliating thing that had ever happened to me and I couldn’t do anything about it and—
“Hold this,” Charlotte said. “Everyone else, notice how Kevin’s back leg is engaged. That’s what gives you stability in this pose.”
The burning in my thigh was getting worse. My legs were shaking. But I held it, because Charlotte had told me to hold it, and somehow that made it impossible to do anything else.
She circled to my front, studying me. Her eyes moved over my form — clinical, assessing — and for just a moment, I thought I saw her gaze flicker down. Toward my shorts. Toward the obvious tent straining against the fabric.
But her expression didn’t change.
“Breathe, Kevin. You’re holding your breath.”
I sucked in air, trying to steady myself. My vision was starting to blur at the edges. The pressure building in my groin was becoming unbearable, a gathering tightness that felt like it had its own momentum now.
I’m going to cum. Oh god, I’m actually going to cum right here in the middle of the room in front of everyone and—
“Good. Release.”
I collapsed out of the pose, gasping, my legs trembling, my dick still achingly hard but the immediate crisis averted.
Charlotte’s hand touched my shoulder briefly. “You did well. That’s a challenging pose to hold. Go back to your mat and take a child’s pose if you need to rest.”
I stumbled back to my corner, dropped to my knees, pressed my forehead to the mat, and tried very hard not to think about how close I’d just come to completely humiliating myself.
The rest of the class passed in a haze.
More poses. More adjustments from Charlotte — though none as extended as the warrior two demonstration. More women’s bodies bent into positions that made my brain short-circuit.
By the time we reached the final relaxation — lying on our backs, eyes closed, Charlotte’s voice guiding us through some kind of meditation — I was exhausted. Physically, yes. But more than that, overwhelmed.
I’d never experienced anything like this. Not sex. Not porn. Not any of the fumbling, lights-off encounters I’d had with Amanda or Lauren.
This was different. This was women’s bodies moving with confidence and strength and flexibility I’d never imagined. This was being touched and corrected and guided by someone who seemed to know exactly what my body needed before I did.
This was...
I didn’t have words for what this was.
“Take your time coming back,” Charlotte said softly. “Wiggle your fingers and toes. Roll to one side when you’re ready.”
I lay there for a moment longer, my heart finally starting to slow, the tightness in my shorts finally beginning to fade.
What the hell just happened?
After class, I was rolling up my mat when Charlotte approached.
“How do you feel?” she asked.
“Exhausted,” I admitted. “But good. I think.”
She smiled slightly. “You did well for your first time. Better than most men, actually.”
“Really?”
“Really.” She paused, studying me with that same assessing look from earlier. “Most guys come in here with a lot of ego. They don’t like being corrected. They don’t like being told they’re doing something wrong. They quit after a class or two.”
I nodded, not sure what to say.
“But you listened,” Charlotte continued. “When I corrected you, you adjusted. When I told you to hold a pose, you held it. That’s rare.”
“I’m just trying to learn.”
“I know.” She tilted her head slightly. “Have you thought about private sessions?”
My heart jumped. “Private sessions?”
“One-on-one instruction. We can work on your specific limitations — your flexibility, your alignment. You’d progress much faster than in a group class.” She paused. “I think you’d benefit from more... focused attention.”
The way she said it — focused attention — made something tighten in my chest.
“How much?” I asked.
She named her rate. Not cheap, but not outrageous either.
“I have an opening Saturday morning,” she said. “Ten AM. If you’re interested.”
I should have hesitated. Should have thought about whether I could afford it, whether I really needed private instruction, whether this was a good idea.
But I didn’t.
“I’ll be there,” I said.
Charlotte smiled — warm, pleased. “Good. I think we’ll make a lot of progress together, Kevin.”
I left the studio twenty minutes later, my legs still shaky, my mat tucked under my arm.
The sun was setting, painting the sky orange and pink. I stood on the sidewalk for a moment, breathing in the cool evening air, trying to process what had just happened.
I’d gone to yoga thinking it would help me meet women. Thinking it would get me in shape. Thinking I’d become more like Brad—confident, successful, the kind of man women wanted.
Instead, I’d spent an hour in the most intense, overwhelming, psychologically arousing experience of my life. Surrounded by women’s bodies I couldn’t touch. Corrected and guided and pushed to my limits by an instructor who seemed to see right through me.
And I was going back Saturday.
Not because I thought it would help me meet someone.
But because some part of me—some part I didn’t fully understand yet—wanted to be back in that room. Wanted Charlotte’s hands on my shoulders, her voice telling me to hold the pose, her eyes assessing me like I was a project she was just beginning to understand.
I walked to my car, threw my mat in the back seat, and sat behind the wheel for a long moment.
My phone buzzed. A calendar notification: Private Yoga Session - Saturday 10 AM.
I stared at it, something tightening in my chest that wasn’t quite anxiety and wasn’t quite excitement.
What am I doing?
I didn’t have an answer.
I showed up at CoreFlow on Saturday at 9:50 AM, ten minutes early again, carrying the same blue mat from Thursday.
The studio was empty. No other students. No music playing. Just silence and the sound of my own breathing as I stood in the doorway, suddenly very aware that I was about to be alone with Charlotte for an entire hour.
“Kevin.” Her voice came from the back room. “Come in. I’ll be right out.”
I stepped inside, the wooden floor cool under my feet. Set my mat down in the center of the room this time, since there was no one else to hide behind.
The door to the back room opened, and Charlotte emerged wearing black leggings and a gray tank top, her hair pulled back in the same high ponytail. She looked exactly as she had on Thursday—calm, professional, completely in control.
“Good morning,” she said, setting down a water bottle near the front of the room. “How are you feeling? Sore?”
“A little,” I admitted. “My legs were pretty tight yesterday.”
“That’s normal. It means you actually worked.” She smiled slightly. “We’ll do some of the same poses from Thursday, but I can give you more specific adjustments. Really dial in your alignment.”
“Sounds good.”
She gestured to my mat. “Let’s start with some breathing. Sit cross-legged, close your eyes.”
I sat, closed my eyes, and tried to focus on my breath while my heart hammered in my chest.
This was different from Thursday. No other students. No crowd to blend into. Just me and Charlotte and an hour of her undivided attention.
“Breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth,” she said, her voice low and even. “Let your shoulders drop. Release the tension in your jaw.”
I tried. My shoulders were up around my ears. My jaw was clenched.
“Kevin.” Her voice was closer now. Right behind me. “You’re holding a lot of tension. What are you nervous about?”
“I’m not—I mean, I just—” I opened my eyes.
She was standing directly behind me, looking down. “It’s fine to be nervous. But you can’t learn if you’re spending all your energy being anxious. Trust me. I’ve taught hundreds of students. You’re not going to do anything wrong.”
I nodded, closing my eyes again.
“Good. Now breathe.”
We started with the same warm-up from Thursday — the cat-cow thing, arching and rounding my back, which felt less awkward without eleven women watching me. Then we moved into downward dog.
“Press your heels toward the floor,” Charlotte said, walking around me slowly. “More weight in your hands. Yes. Now hold this.”
I held it, the backs of my legs screaming again, my arms shaking slightly.
She stopped in front of me. I could see her feet — her toenails painted a dark burgundy — planted firmly on the mat.
“Look at me,” she said.
I lifted my head slightly, met her eyes. She was studying me, that same assessing expression from Thursday.
“You’re holding your breath again.”
I exhaled shakily.
“Better. Now walk your feet forward. Slowly.”
I walked my feet toward my hands, coming into a forward fold—bent at the waist, hands on the ground, head hanging down.
Charlotte moved behind me, and suddenly her hands were on my hips.
“Relax your upper body,” she said, pressing down gently. “Let gravity do the work. Don’t force the stretch.”
Her hands were warm and firm, and I could feel each individual finger pressing into me. The pressure pushed me slightly deeper, and I felt the stretch intensify in the backs of my legs.
“Good. Stay here. Breathe.”
She held the pressure for what felt like an eternity but was probably only ten seconds and then released.
“Come up slowly. Roll up one vertebra at a time.”
I rolled up, my head swimming slightly from being upside down.
“How does that feel?” she asked.
“Good. Intense.”
“Intense is good. It means you’re listening.” She moved to her own mat at the front of the room. “Let’s try something new. Lie down on your stomach.”
I lay down, my chest against the mat, arms by my sides.
“This is cobra pose,” Charlotte said. “Watch me first.”
She lay down on her own mat, placed her hands under her shoulders, and then pressed up. Her back arched smoothly, her chest lifting, her whole body forming this graceful curve. Her tank top rode up slightly, showing more of her skin. Her face tilted upward, neck long, and the way her body moved—
I couldn’t stop staring.
I’d never seen a woman move like this. So controlled, so deliberate. The arch of her back, the curve of her ass lifted slightly off the mat, and even through her leggings I could see the shape of her, and my brain just sort of... stopped working.
What would she look like without clothes on?
The thought hit me like a punch, followed immediately by shame. Don’t think that. Don’t be a creep.
But I couldn’t help it. Watching her hold the pose, her body stretched and exposed and right there—
“Your turn,” Charlotte said, lowering down.
I placed my hands under my shoulders and pressed up. My chest lifted maybe three inches before my back protested.
“Good start,” Charlotte said, standing and walking over to me. “But you’re not engaging your legs. Press the tops of your feet into the mat. Squeeze your glutes.”
I didn’t know what glutes were, exactly, but I squeezed everything I could think of in that general area.
“Yes. Now lift a little higher.”
I tried, but I was acutely aware of how this felt. My dick was pressed flat against the mat. The pressure, the position — I could feel myself starting to get hard.
She knelt beside me, one hand on my lower back, the other between my shoulder blades.
“Breathe,” she said. “Lift from here.” Her hand pressed against my upper back. “Not from here.” Her other hand pressed my lower back down, grinding me harder into the mat.
Oh no.
The pressure, the friction — it was too much. I was getting harder, and the harder I got, the more I could feel it trapped between me and the floor, this mounting pressure that was both terrible and unbearably good.
“Hold this,” Charlotte said. “Ten breaths.”
I held it, my arms shaking, my dick now fully hard and creating friction every time I shifted even slightly.
Don’t move. Don’t grind. Don’t make it worse.
But my hips shifted involuntarily — just a tiny movement—seeking more pressure.
“Stay still,” Charlotte said, her hand still on my lower back. “Don’t let your hips rock. Keep them pressed into the mat.”
I froze, mortified that she’d noticed.
“Good. Release. Lower down.”
I collapsed onto the mat, gasping, my face burning.
“Roll onto your back,” Charlotte said. “Rest for a moment.”
I didn’t want to but I couldn’t refuse. I rolled onto my back, and immediately knew—knew—that she could see it. My shorts were tented, obviously, unmistakably hard, and there was nowhere to hide.
I stared at the ceiling, my face on fire, not daring to look at her.
Charlotte said nothing. Just let me lie there for what felt like an eternity.
“Alright,” she finally said. “Back onto your stomach. Let’s try another one.”
“This is locust pose,” Charlotte said, demonstrating again on her own mat.
She lay face-down, then lifted her chest and legs simultaneously, balancing on her stomach, her whole body forming this arc. The way her back curved, the way her—her breasts pressed against the mat and everything else lifted—
I watched, transfixed, as she held the pose. Her body was doing something I didn’t think bodies could do, something that looked almost impossible, and all I could think was how badly I wanted to see her do that without clothes on.
Stop. Stop thinking that.
“You’re going to lift your chest and your legs at the same time,” Charlotte said, lowering down. “Keep your arms by your sides, palms up. It’s all about your back muscles. Try it.”
I pressed my forehead into the mat, took a breath, and lifted.
My chest came up maybe an inch. My legs barely left the ground. And the position — balanced entirely on my stomach and dick, everything pressing down — created an immediate, intense friction that made my heart beat faster.
“Higher,” Charlotte said. “Really lift. Engage your glutes.”
I tried to lift higher, but the movement created more pressure, more friction against the mat, and I was definitely, fully hard now.
“Hold it. Five breaths.”
I held it, trembling with effort, every tiny shift of my body creating waves of sensation I couldn’t ignore. The pressure was building, gathering, and I could feel myself getting close to something I absolutely could not let happen here.
Don’t cum. Don’t cum. Not here. Not now.
“Good. Lower down. Rest.”
I lowered down gratefully, my face buried in my arms, my heart pounding, my whole body shaking.
“Roll onto your back,” Charlotte said.
Oh god.
I rolled over, and this time the tent in my shorts was even more obvious. Impossible to miss. I could feel the wet spot forming where I was leaking, and the humiliation was so intense I wanted to disappear entirely.
Charlotte walked around me slowly. I could hear her footsteps, could sense her looking at me.
“You’re very responsive,” she said quietly. “To instruction, I mean. Some students fight the corrections. You listen.”
“I’m trying,” I managed, my voice barely above a whisper.
“I know.” She paused. “Let’s try one more. Then we’ll cool down.”
“Come into a seated position,” Charlotte said.
I sat up, trying to adjust myself discreetly. It didn’t help. I was still hard, still leaking, still mortified.
“We’ll do bridge pose next,” she said. “Lie on your back. Bend your knees, feet flat on the floor, hip-width apart. Arms by your sides.”
I lay back down, bent my knees, planted my feet.
Charlotte moved to her own mat. “Watch first.”
She lay down, arranged herself, and then pressed her feet into the mat and lifted. Her hips rose smoothly, her body forming this perfect arch from her knees to her shoulders. For a moment I flashed on a man moving between her legs as she thrust her hips up to meet him. I could imagine what that would feel like. I—I was so hard it hurt.
“Now you try,” she said, lowering down.
This is going to be a disaster.
But I obeyed. I pressed into my feet, lifted my hips, and immediately felt every muscle I had protest. My ass burned. The backs of my legs strained. Everything was thrust up into the air, completely exposed, my erection straining against my shorts in a way that was absolutely, undeniably visible.
Charlotte walked over, stood beside me, looking down.
“Good,” she said. “But you’re not lifting high enough. More from the glutes.”
I didn’t know how to lift more. I was already shaking with effort.
She knelt beside me, and her hands landed on my lower back — right at the base of my spine — and pressed upward.
My hips lifted higher. Everything thrust further into the air. And the feeling of her hands on me, the exposure, the position—
I’m going to cum. Oh god, I’m actually going to—
“Hold this,” Charlotte said, her voice calm and even. “Breathe. Ten breaths.”
I couldn’t breathe. I could barely think. My entire body was shaking from the effort of holding the pose but also from the overwhelming sensation of being completely exposed, completely vulnerable, with Charlotte’s hands on me and her eyes on me.
“Eight more breaths,” she said, her hands steady on my back.
I tried to hold on. Tried to think about anything else. Work. The weather. Anything.
But my body had other ideas.
The pressure built—fast, inevitable, unstoppable. My hips jerked upward involuntarily, and the friction, the position, the exposure, Charlotte’s hands pushing me higher—
“Six more breaths.”
I couldn’t stop it.
The orgasm hit me like a wave — sudden and overwhelming and completely beyond my control. I gasped, my whole body jerking as I came in my shorts, hot and wet and utterly humiliating, while Charlotte’s hands remained steady on my lower back, still holding me up.
“Good,” she said quietly, as if nothing had happened. “Lower down slowly.”
I lowered my hips, collapsing onto the mat, my face burning, my shorts soaked, my entire body trembling.
Charlotte stood, walked back to the front of the room, picked up her water bottle.
“Take a moment,” she said. “When you’re ready, come into child’s pose.”
I rolled onto my side, then onto my hands and knees, then sank back into child’s pose — forehead on the mat, arms stretched forward, trying very hard not to exist.
We stayed in silence for what felt like an eternity. My breathing slowly returned to normal. The wet spot in my shorts cooled, becoming uncomfortably sticky.
I kept my forehead pressed against the mat in child’s pose, trying to make myself as small as possible. Trying to disappear.
What just happened? Why did that happen?
I’d never—I mean, I’d come during sex before. Obviously. But never like this. Never just from being touched on my back. Never from just holding a position while someone watched.
What’s wrong with me?
Finally, Charlotte spoke.
“Sit up, Kevin.”
I sat up slowly, cross-legged, still unable to meet her eyes. My hands fidgeted with the edge of my mat.
She sat across from me on her own mat, maybe three feet away. Close enough that I could see her perfectly. Far enough that I couldn’t hide.
Her expression was... I don’t know. Not disgusted. Not amused. Just calm. Observing me the way she’d observed my form during the poses.
“Look at me,” she said.
I forced myself to look up. Her eyes were steady, unreadable.
“What just happened,” she said, “isn’t unusual. Not for someone like you.”
Someone like me?
“I don’t—” I started, but my voice cracked. I cleared my throat. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I think you do.” She tilted her head slightly. “You’re very responsive, Kevin. To touch. To instruction. To being watched. Some men are like that.”
My face burned hotter. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“I know you didn’t.” Her voice was gentle but firm. Like she was reassuring a child who’d made a mess. “But we should talk about why you’re here. Really here.”
My stomach twisted. “I wanted to get in shape. Meet people. This guy at my office said it was fun.” I hated lying but telling her the truth just seemed so absurd now.
“You wanted to meet women,” Charlotte corrected. “Through yoga. Is that right?”
It was like she saw right through me. I nodded mutely.
“And how’s dating been going for you?”
The question felt like a trap, but I couldn’t see a way around it. “Not great.”
“Tell me.”
I swallowed hard. “I’ve been on some dates. A few. They just... they don’t work out.”
“Do you get second dates?”
“Sometimes.”
“Third dates?”
“A couple times.”
Charlotte nodded slowly, like I was confirming something she already knew. “And then what happens?”
“They just drift away. Say they’re busy. Or it’s not working. Or they don’t feel the connection.”
“Did you have sex with any of them?”
My whole body went rigid. “That’s—”
“I’m not asking to embarrass you, Kevin.” Her voice was still gentle, but there was something underneath it now. Something that made it clear she expected an answer. “I’m asking because I think it’s important. Did you?”
“Yes,” I whispered. “Two of them.”
“And how did that go?”
“Fine, I think.” My voice was barely audible. “I mean, they didn’t say anything. They said it was good.”
“Did they?”
The way she said it — calm, knowing — made my chest tighten.
“Yeah. They did.”
Charlotte was quiet for a long moment, just watching me. Then she said, “Can I ask you something personal?”
My heart was pounding. “Okay.”
“How small is your penis?”
The question hit me like a physical blow. Not how big. How small.
She already knew. She’d seen it. She’d watched me cum in my shorts with my hips thrust up in the air, everything visible, everything exposed.
She knew.
“I...” My mouth was dry. I couldn’t form words.
“It’s ok, just be honest,” Charlotte said, her voice still gentle. Still patient. Like she was coaxing the truth from someone who was scared to tell it.
“Maybe...four inches?” The words came out barely above a whisper. “When I’m... you know. Hard.”
Charlotte nodded, her expression unchanging. Like I’d just confirmed something obvious. “And the women you dated. The ones who had sex with you. Did they ever say anything about that?”
“No.” My voice was defensive now, desperate. “They said it was fine. They said it was good.”
“I’m sure they did.” She paused, letting that sit between us. “Women are kind, Kevin. They don’t want to hurt your feelings. So they say it’s fine. They say it was good. But then they drift away anyway. Don’t they?”
I stared at her, something cracking open in my chest.
“That’s not—” I started, but I didn’t know how to finish.
“You came here thinking you’d be the only man in a class of women and get some pussy,” Charlotte said, her voice still calm, still clinical. “Or maybe you thought it would make you more confident. More fit. More... what? Alpha? Like the guy in your office, maybe?”
My breath caught. “How did you—”
“It’s obvious.” She leaned forward slightly. “You’re trying to fix something, Kevin. But you’re trying to fix the wrong thing.”
“Then what am I supposed to do?” My voice cracked again. “If my—if I can’t—”
“You’re asking the wrong question.” Charlotte’s eyes stayed locked on mine. “The question isn’t what you’re supposed to do with your small penis. The question is: are you ready to hear the truth about who you actually are?”
I stared at her, my mind spinning. “I don’t understand.”
“You think the problem is that you’re not fit enough. Not confident enough. Not alpha enough.” She paused. “But that’s not why those women left. They left because they weren’t satisfied. Physically. Because you have a small penis. And no amount of confidence or fitness is going to change that fact.”
The words landed like stones, one after another, building something I couldn’t look away from.
“So what—” My voice was shaking now. “What am I supposed to do? Just accept that I’m—that I’ll never—”
“That’s not what I said.” Charlotte’s voice was firm now, directive. “I said you’re trying to be the wrong person. But that doesn’t mean you can’t be someone. It just means you need to understand who that someone is.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“I know you don’t. Not yet.” She stood, walked to her water bottle, took a sip. When she turned back to me, her expression was serious. Assessing. “Can I ask you something else?”
I nodded, too overwhelmed to speak.
“When I was adjusting you. When I had my hands on you. When I told you to hold the pose.” She paused. “Did you want to stop?”
“No,” I said immediately.
“Even though it was uncomfortable? Even though you knew you’d cum in your shorts?”
She said it like were discussing the weather. My face flushed. I shook my head. “No. I didn’t want to stop.”
“Why not?”
I opened my mouth. Closed it. I didn’t have an answer that made sense.
“Because you liked it,” Charlotte said quietly. “Not the discomfort. But the... structure. Someone telling you what to do. Someone guiding you. Someone in charge.” She tilted her head. “Am I wrong?”
I wanted to say yes. Wanted to deny it. But I couldn’t.
Because she wasn’t wrong.
“I can help you, Kevin,” Charlotte said, her voice softer now. Almost kind. “But not the way you think. Not by making you into some alpha or whoever you think you need to be. I can help you become who you actually are. But that requires accepting some truths. About your body. About how you are designed. About what you need. About where you belong.”
“Where I belong?” I repeated, my voice hollow.
“With someone who understands you. Someone who can guide you. Someone who can give you what you actually need instead of what you think you’re supposed to want.” She paused. “But you have to trust me. And you have to be honest with yourself about what you felt when I was touching you. When I was watching you. When you ejaculated.”
My face burned. “I was embarrassed.”
“I know. But were you only embarrassed?”
I stared at the floor. “No.”
“What else did you feel?”
I couldn’t say it. Couldn’t put words to the confused mess of shame and arousal and desperate need that had overwhelmed me in that pose.
“It’s okay,” Charlotte said, and her voice had that maternal quality again. Gentle. Reassuring. “You don’t have to say it now. But I need you to think about it. Really think about what you want. Not what you think you’re supposed to want. What you actually want.”
I looked up at her, and something in her expression made my chest tighten.
She knew. She’d seen something in me that I hadn’t even known was there.
“If you want,” Charlotte said, “we can work together. But you need to understand what that means. It means I’m in charge. Not just of the yoga. Of all of it. Your body. Your responses. The way you understand yourself.” She paused. “And it means accepting that you’re not an alpha. You’re never going to be an alpha. But that doesn’t mean you’re broken. It just means you’re something else. Designed for another purpose”
“What am I?” I whispered.
Charlotte smiled slightly. “If you come back next Saturday we’ll find out together.”
I left the studio twenty minutes later, my shorts still damp, my head spinning.
Charlotte had given me her number. Told me to text her if I wanted to schedule another session.
“Think about it,” she’d said as I left. “Really think about what you want. Not what you think you’re supposed to want. What you actually want.”
I sat in my car for a long time, staring at my phone.
Her number was right there. All I had to do was text her.
I should say no. This is insane. She basically just told me I’m inadequate and offered to... what? Fix me? Remake me?
But I couldn’t stop thinking about what she’d said.
About why my relationships kept failing.
About the women who said it was fine but drifted away anyway.
About Amanda and Lauren and everyone before them who’d been kind enough not to tell me the truth.
About my small penis. About my inadequacy.
About how I’d felt in that studio — exposed, vulnerable, completely under Charlotte’s control — and how some part of me had wanted it.
What do I actually want?
I stared at my phone for another ten minutes.
Then I typed two words:
I’m in.
I hit send before I could second-guess myself.
Three dots appeared almost immediately.
Then: Good. Next Saturday. 10 AM. Come prepared to work.
I set my phone down, my hands shaking slightly.
What the hell did I just agree to?
But somewhere beneath the fear and uncertainty, there was something else.
Relief.
Like I’d finally stopped pretending to be something I wasn’t.
Like I’d finally found someone who saw me clearly — saw what I actually was — and was willing to show me what to do with it.
I started my car and drove home.
Whatever happened next, I’d chosen it.
And somehow, that felt better than anything I’d chosen in a long time.
To be continued....?
Oh, I want there to be a second (and third, fourth) part. I see something of the young me in Kevin. Trying anything and everything to get sex, without success.
Lovely Story, Ms.Frothe! Is there a part 2 coming?