Hot Yoga

When the message appeared, Shay was in a relaxed butterfly pose, coral manicured toes touching, knees splayed wide. Deep breaths inflated her naked abdomen, per the instructor's soothing suggestion. The message, arriving with an accompanying, jarring alarm stirred Shay from her meditation, punctuating the melodious piano music. Confused, she slowly drew her legs together and sat upright, wispy ponytail hairs clinging to her sweaty nape. It was two days into a heat wave and, as her dilapidated studio didn't have air con, Shay had decided to take advantage of the high temperatures. Although perma-perspiration caked her upper lip, trailed between her breasts and pooled at the creases in her summer-tanned thighs, the heat also allowed maximum stretching of her toned yet sore limbs. She worked doubles at the diner, had to pinch tips to pay rent, could barely afford groceries let alone a yoga membership, which is why she practiced with free, online videos.

She paused the virtual class and closed the web browser, but the wailing alarm continued, seemingly emanating from a flashing message on her desktop. Her eyes strained to read the text, the screen's brightness a sharp contrast to the darkened room, her weak attempt to combat the relentless sun with moth-munched curtains. Show Daddy your downward dog, it read. Horrified, Shay gasped and traced her trembling fingers over the trackpad, searching for an X on the ad. The blaring bell furthered her panic as she realized that there was no option to eradicate the atrocity.

CTRL+ALT+DEL she pressed to no avail, her bare breasts hovering above the keyboard, shaking beneath her hammering heart. As Shay went to slam her laptop shut, she realized that the flimsy Post-It she'd pasted atop the built-in camera had fluttered to the floor in the window fan's persistent breeze... and some creep had just watched her practice over half an hour of vinyassa flow. The notion soured her plummeting stomach as she imagined a Russian hacker huddled in a dark bunker, a culturally cloistered Saudi prince drooling in the desert, a gaggle of horny tweens giggling at her vulnerability, gaping at her wide-leg forward fold. Covering the camera with her thumb, she closed the computer and shielded her curvaceous body with a musty towel hanging behind the door. The alarm, however, amplified as if an ambulance arrived smack dab in her shabby studio. Her pulse pounded along with a sharp rap upon the paper thin wall, her grouchy neighbor's lazy way of grunting, "Keep it down." Shay was often late paying rent; she didn't need a formal complaint to encourage eviction from her dry landlady, who liked to remind her of other potential (punctual) tenants waiting to snatch up her "steal of a studio". Plugging her ears at the piercing shriek, Shay opened the laptop lid, the blare subsiding slightly.

The invasive window was still stuck on her desktop and with it, a new line appeared: Take off the towel and I'll silence the alarm. She needed not a second to contemplate as her neighbor slammed the wall again with an accompanying "God damn it girl!" and allowed the cloth to cascade to the worn, wood floor. As promised the siren stopped. Shay clicked on the message and typed "Who is this?" though her text didn't appear.

Now let's see that downward dog. Shay froze. She was supposed to be in savasana, relaxing after a grueling yet satisfying yoga session, not succumbing to demands of whoever had hacked her computer. How had this happened? She always covered the computer camera per the diner's stoner grill cook's insistence that the CIA accessed them to spy on citizens. Besides the occasional after-work joint, Shay had nothing to hide. Nothing illegal, at least.

It'd been a slow summer for getting tips: both from customers and cocks. Poor and pent up, Shay had taken to porn. She'd never much cared for it, only agreeing to watch women theatrically finger-bang each other per her ex's wheedling. His unrefined palate craved bleached blondes with bad boob jobs, a far cry from Shay's brunette bob and modest B cup. When she ended the relationship and moved out a few months ago, he'd shouted in a fit of rage that she was "unfuckable". Shay was starting to believe his cursed words, crying as she saw his social media crawling with bimbos while she suffered alone in a sulfur-smelling studio, rubbing herself to furtive fantasies of rape. It must have been through one of those free sites, riddled with pop up ads for web cam girls, that her IP address had become compromised... or whatever. Shay didn't know the difference between a motherboard and a modem when it came to technology. She was more aware of the emerging penchant she had for watching women bound with rope and fucked by throbbing cocks that turned on a trickle inside her own pussy.

A single howl of the alarm snapped her attention back to the screen. Downward dog NOW you slut. Positioning herself on the mat, Shay considered facing her ass away from the computer, just to piss off the hacker creep. But her ears still echoed the shrill alarm and, spreading her hands upon the mat, she lifted her bare butt towards the computer camera. It was just a yoga pose, after all. She'd been practicing them in the muggy heat for the past hour anyway, wholly unaware that the camera was uncovered by the pathetic Post-It. As she drew her stomach up and in, a twisted inkling of satisfaction stirred within her core; that someone, somewhere was seeking pleasure from her, would surely deem her "fuckable".

Releasing the pose she faced the computer and, as she was unable to type to the mysterious voyeur, said aloud, "There. Can you leave me alone now?" though her intuition knew it was just the beginning of something darker, more twisted.

I'm more of a cat person, the next message read. Show me your pussy. Shay bit her lip. That couldn't be confused as a yoga pose. Plus, she didn't want to. She didn't want whoever was watching to see that she was already wet, practically sopping at the notion of another receiving their gratification from her. In her time of contemplation, he threatened again, Show your wet pussy or I'll give your computer a virus equivalent of HIV. Tilting the screen towards the floor, she reclined upon the yoga mat. Ancient as it was, she needed the computer, as one of the other servers at work had told her about tutoring online to make extra money. She couldn't afford another laptop, even if it was purchased from a pawn shop.

Spreading her legs, her moist lips parted, slickened with sweat and salty fear-cum-excitement. Her fingers found familiar places, pressing circles upon her rapidly engorging clit, wetting the prickly, shrouding hairs.

Get the olive oil, was the next command. "I don't need it," was Shay's first thought, feeling wetness drip upon her hand, followed by the wondering as to how he knew about the oil. She'd taken it from work last week, a mostly empty bottle that she enjoyed pouring on her palms and spreading around her sex while watching videos of women choking, gasps of air spiraling into shouts of orgasm. Perhaps she'd gotten careless about the privacy Post-It, losing herself in orgasmic bliss as she slid her oily fingers inside herself, muffling groans into a lumpy pillow as to not to disturb the neighbor. The bottle, hidden beneath her bed, was warm from the late afternoon heat, and nearly empty. She dispensed a few drips upon her fingers.

A new message appeared. Finish it. I'll send you more. He, they...whoever was sending the messages knew that she kept a bottle of extra virgin olive oil beneath her bed. "Of course they know my address," she thought, dousing her tan torso with the bottle remnants, sliding her fingers between her breasts, pinching her nipples, and groaning in delight.

"Can you send me nipple clamps," she moaned aloud, mostly joking.

Whatever you need, the hacker wrote. "This is madness," Shay thought, twirling her stiff nipples between slippery fingers. "A half hour ago I was practicing yoga, pushing away thoughts of tomorrow's breakfast shift and melting in this endless heat wave. Now I'm asking for sex toys from some online creep." But the pleasure of fondling her breasts, of knowing that someone was watching her, was seeking their own satisfaction through her, overrode thoughts of logic.

I'm gonna send you a dick to suck and fuck too. She licked her lips, suddenly hungry for a cum-dripping cock to take in her mouth. Shay had never owned a dildo. Her ex had purchased her a small, thin vibrator (not much bigger than the jalapeño pepper hanging between his legs), intended for her to use on him. She'd left it with him when she moved out, and now used only her fingers during her late night, steamy porn binges.

"Give me a big one Daddy," she said aloud, calling to mind veiny, rock hard cocks to stuff inside her pussy, tight and desperate for a thick fuck. One hand remained cupping her breast while the other slid below, fingers pressing her lips apart for the voyeur's vantage point. She slid two inside, pressed rhythmically on her pulsing G spot and maintained palm pressure on her clit. Shay wished she had more hands, abandoning her breast to squeeze her neck, cutting off her air supply as she'd seen in the videos.

Use the strap, the next message suggested. Reluctantly, she released her fingers from her pussy's tight grip, and grabbed the yoga strap. Momentarily hesitation swelled as she'd never used an instrument in asphyxiation. It passed just as quickly and she looped the leash around her neck and pulled, reinserting her fingers to her wet depths, fucking her hands hungrily, faster as she craved release. Cut off from her brain, blood surged to her sex, throbbing from the buildup. She felt the tipping point as she rammed her fingers deeper inside, smacking her clit upon her palm.

A sudden, sharp beep stopped the topple into orgasm. She released the strap, oxygen rich blood flooding her brain. Find something better to fuck than your fingers. Hungry need coursed through her as she retreated slightly from the brink of bliss, stars dotting her vision. Shay obeyed, stumbling into the kitchen, looking frantically for something to fuck, not wanting to disappoint her spectator. For once she wished that she cooked, that she'd bought a zucchini from the farmers market or even a bag of carrots from the grocery store. Opening her fridge she found crusted hummus containers and old orange juice, crestfallen. But then she remembered the indulgence in which she'd splurged for the heat wave...

Returning to the bedroom Shay unwrapped a giant, frozen Firecracker, smiling wickedly at the camera. She slurped the cold, artificial sweetness deep into her throat, bobbing up and down upon the Popsicle wishing it would release waves of warm, salty cum upon her throat. She trailed it along her neck, already sticky with sweat, and pressed it upon her re-stiffening nipples.

Fuck that firecracker you filthy slut, read the next message and she obliged, gasping at both the cold and girth filling her quaking cunt. She slid along the ridges of the icy pop, extracting it to press its liquefying point upon her throbbing clit, sliding drippy coolness between her slit. Staring at the camera, she stuck the firecracker back into her mouth, tasted her salt coating the saccharine phallus. Her lips lapped the juices and how she wished it were a real throbbing cock, engorged and ready to pump her full of cum. The popsicle was melting, so she pressed it back inside her pussy, the sudden spike of cool sending a shudder through her. She groaned, pressing her hips upon the thin, wooden stick, feeling her palm slap upon her clit as she ground harder, twisting the dwindling ridges deeper inside. The tail of the belt still trailed along her back and she yanked with one hand, cutting off circulation again. She built up quickly this time, with the popsicle gushing inside her bush, her throat gasping for the air that she knew would come. Pulling tighter on the strap and pressing her clit frantically upon her palm, Shay spiraled, screaming groans, grinding cold fingers deep into her oozing pussy, bucking her sweaty hips. Waves upon waves coursed from her core and she released the strap, inhaling fresh, hot air. The yoga mat was coated in sticky blue juice and her gushed wetness, and once she recovered, slumped in post-orgasmic paradise, she removed the dregs of the firecracker and savored the tepid treat.

Very, very good little whore. Sheepishly, she cleaned the mat with the abandoned, thin towel, feeling suddenly vulnerable again, and closed the computer. He, or they, just watched her gush pussy juices over a frozen stick. And they knew where to find her.

And they did, for later that afternoon a courier rang with a cardboard box containing a liter of premium, Spanish olive oil and $500 cash.