Crimson Crossing – Stories in Erotica

Heat and Humidity

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If I know anything about perseverance it was learned enduring numerous Bikram Yoga classes. This style of yoga is performed under drastically hot and humid conditions. I sort of detested the heat at one point in my life, and coupled to humidity, I am not sure it should have ever been legal. I purposely moved north trying to stay away from the heat. And lucky that I did, fortunate that a friend convinced me to attend Yoga classes in a recently opened Yoga center.

It took no more than one class for me to want to endure the heat and humidity; one class it took. In fact, it took her to be in the class for me to return time after time. Sometimes I stayed consecutive classes just to watch her. My friend gave up, not sure why, but I’ve become quite the Yoga expert. All thanks to her. Today, when I think of heat and humidity, I think of her. I see her. I thoroughly welcome the heat beating down on me enticing sweat to rush out of me.

At first I was hesitant. I didn’t think I would make a wonderful fit in that class. I am not limber, nor very athletic. Trying to master the majority of the poses would require divine intervention. However, looking at her walking in was just the inspiration needed. She wore a sports bra, and spandex shorts; very, very short shorts. She might as well have been wearing a bikini. Then, I happened to station right behind her mat. I was in luck. God had heard my cries and here came the answer. The first few classes I spent watching her mostly. Drastically ignoring the instructor. I couldn’t keep my eyes away from her. If she noticed, I never became aware. She went on as if alone in the room.

I can’t fathom how Indians came upon this sort of practice; perhaps way of the Kamasutra. Any who, some of the position are intensely arousing. So much so that I spent the majority of the first year with perpetual engorgement. All that time well spent in bliss I attributed it to her. It wasn’t just watching how well built she was, nor how her clothing tightly covered her physique, rather watching the sweat travel through her body soaking her little garments. I grew fond of each droplet. I knew the trajectory each one would take depending on the origin in her body. From her forehead, her neck, chest, belly, even her calves. I learned the shape of each of her muscles. The colour of her skin in each region of the body. During the summer I could draw lines to where her tan lines would mark in her body. In the winter it became a joy to watch her walk into the classroom. After seeing little skin for months of snow, those days seeing all of her skin made up for the blindness of winter.

Sometimes the scent of her perfume foretold her whereabouts. Whether I made them up or were a fact I didn’t care. I simply believed what I wanted to believe about her, about her life. Little care did I have of whether the things I made up about here were factual as long as it soothed my dreams of her. I did things to that woman during class that I’m sure no other man has done to her. All because the sweat traveling her body made want to be a droplet rushing from her navel down to the black shorts wetting them as if enticed by a man. I fantasized about running my hands through her neck, her upper chest, pushing away the perspiration just to feel the touch and drop from my hands. She needn’t a cloth to dry, I was here to do that. To use any means within my body to dry her.

At times all I saw was her sweaty body upon mine, gliding on me as if on ice. Feeling the sweat dripping off from her hair onto me. The perspiration on her face falling on my chest as she meticulously grinded her pelvis upon my crotch. The sight of sweat dripping from her neck down to her chest, all the way to the tips of her bust where it would fall pray to gravity exploding upon my chest. Ah, those were glorious memories I had. Her sweaty body pressed against mine informing me that her lust was mine to a-peace.

It took me very long to master two positions: Pada-Hastasana, and Dandayamana-Bibhaktapada-Paschimotthanasana. It wasn’t that I found them terribly difficult, because they weren’t. But because her back faced to me when she did them. And because of so I refused to look in any other direction but forward. I wanted to look at her holding them in cheer perspiration. I could see each and every corner of her world wet. I imagined the source of her reaction was me, not the heat, but me! The shorts forming bulges and indentations on her body didn’t leave room for imagination. There were no secrets to hide, they were all revealed. Revealed to me who stood in the best view of her facing me.

I still have dreams of sweat traveling from her body to mine. The feel of her sweaty lips upon mine. The feeling of a naked body pressing her crotch against me saturating our bodies. The feel of my tongue running throughout her chest following the trajectory of sweat drops. Kissing her chest, neck as it was suffocated by sweat. Her hair as it whipped around releasing moisture splattering all about. The feel of wet hair slashing me across the face making me feel alive. That’s what I saw in class, sweat traveling from the small of her back down between mountains culminating in a flooded valley. And that is why I like heat and humidity.

Author: jibarican

https://crimsoncrossing.wordpress.com

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