Erica's yoga encounter
by Fan of Fit



(The character Erica roughly proximates the playmate Jennifer Walcott.)

It's 5:30 AM when my alarm goes off. Wednesday mornings are always early. I
put on my sweats and a tee and then a hoody to cover up. I put my workout
clothing in my gym bag. I also pack my office clothes, (a really cute gray
checkered suit, cut knee high. The suit has no shoulder-pads; its form-fitting
and I like my shoulders.)

I have always been an athletic girl, having played field hockey all through
school and even into college. When I graduated and moved to Austin I joined a
yoga studio. I now have a serious ashtanga practice. I'm a smart girl, and I
know I would have no problems getting ahead with just my brain, but having a
hot body does not hurt either. At age 25, I am an analyst in a private equity
firm. I have a bright future ahead.

I enter the yoga studio in time for my 6AM class. I am wearing a sports bra to
control my 32C breasts. I wear short blue athletic shorts. Though I admittedly
have a hot body, I don't dress meanly so that others can gawk at me, rather
with the help of the mirrors I can isolate muscles by seeing how movement
affects them. Symmetry and asymmetry are important concepts to understanding
each asana, and baggy clothing or really any clothing that hides the muscles
is less than ideal. I have had only one problem with a pervert before and it
came from an old guy at a lunchtime session. 6AM was too early for the
perverts.

There's only about 6 of us in the class regularly, and today we have that + 1.
This poor new girl is not going to make it. We practice in 90 degree heat and
this is level 2-3 ashtanga practice. She stands about 3 inches taller than my
5 foot 3 inches, but she has a good 45lbs on my svelte 115. She is soft
looking and this is a hard body class. I catch her staring at my legs as we
transition from mountain pose to an overhead stretch. In this asana the arms
are extended overhead, the palms are pressed firmly together and if possible
the arms move behind the ears. Diaphrammatic breathing is utilized; thoracic
breathing grinds to a halt. The new girl looks distracted by my excellent
form. Well, she will have to get use to it and then forget it if she wants to
have any kind of good posture. For the time being I decide to forget it too.

We hold the overhead stretch for five full breaths, close to a minute. This
posture can be difficult to hold correctly for a long time because the muscles
facing the front are naturally resisting the muscles pulling to the rear. It
takes strong shoulders, chest, abs, and even hips. The results are fantastic
though. My boobs are firm and bouncy from my three years of practice. They are
big but they are also round and they point forward not down. You cannot do
this posture if you are weak in the shoulders, (and most beginners are weak
there!) Fat, sagging boobs make it even harder.

'Shit!' The girl behind me is still checking me out, and now here nipples are
hard. 'Well ... this could be fun.' I'm thinking.

As we progress through the asanas I catch her ogling my body. She is clearly a
beginner level, so there is no way she can keep up anyway, but her losing
attention and looking at me make it even harder for her. For my part, I try to
practice as lustfully as possible. I turn my breaths into moans; I move slowly
into each asana and try to make each movement as strong and as graceful as
possible. The new girl is clearly getting off. The slut. How envious she must
be. My long brown hair, my smooth muscled body, my defined bones and features,
and my olive complexion. What a contrast to her soft, pale, pudgy, body. We
have to hold ourselves in chatturanga for a minute; the slut can only manage
two seconds. She is breathing shallower and louder and out of her mouth. She's
taking frequent breaks. The deeper we move into the workout the more I can see
her arousal turning to jealousy, frustration, and inadequacy. When we
transition to Warrior 1 she is in agony. She sees me staring at her, staring
at her and smiling.

Caught! We both quickly look away. She focuses again on her own image. Her tee
shirt cannot contain her sagging breasts and her paunch stomach. Her sweat
drenched clothing makes every fat roll, every imperfection visible. Her own
sight must hurt her. She stares at me again. My yoga butt is right in front of
her, taunting her. In the mirror she can see my abs gently expanding and
contracting from my breath. My well formed legs stand me solid as an oak. My
long lean arms are perfectly stretched over my head. My boobs are glistening,
tan, stretched firm.

Something inside her must have just broken. She is crying. Weakly she
collapses to the mat like a bag full of jell-o. The instructor goes to her and
whispers to her. "It's ok. Take a break, catch your breathe, join us when you
are ready." An intense yoga session can have that effect, especially on
novices. Yoga forces you to concentrate on your own body. The weakness people
perceive when they look at themselves in the mirror and at home, or when they
are dressing for a date, is multiplied when they are asked to hold a pose and
can't. Perceived weakness or inadequacy becomes real weakness. Women
especially try to focus on clothes, or hair, or makeup, anything they can to
make themselves look and fell better, but in a yoga class none of these things
are helpful. This sad, envious girl behind me is experiencing that now for the
first time. She is forced to acknowledge that sexy, fit girls really are
better. They can work longer and harder, and they look so damn good doing ...
well everything!

Her envy is no doubt related to this. She is probably imagining me in the act
of love with some tall, hung, attractive man, physically matching my partner.
Using my tight box to squeeze his hard penis and wrapping my legs around his
waste, squeezing the air out of him with my fit legs and pulling him into me
deeper. Letting up just enough so that he can once again take a deep full
breathe and then squeezing him more. Letting him pin my lean strong arms on
the bed and resisting him so that he has to struggle and sweat and groan like
an animal. Squeezing his hands with my own so hard that our knuckles bruise
each others fingers. Finally squeezing my box and athletic legs around him so
tight that he can no longer come out on his own, and then using my abs and hip
flexors to buck his body forward and backward, bucking him faster and faster
until he explodes within me and collapses onto my busting chest.

She is thinking about all of that. How fat and weak she is and how lean and
strong I am. She has a good 40lbs on me, and she now knows she is no match in
the gym or in the bedroom. Unfortunately for her we still have a good 30
minutes of practice remaining. Difficult practice. The instructor is not
letting up and neither am I. We practice crow, wheel, headstand, triangle
pose, and countless chatturanga. I glory in my beautiful body. I even get
turned on a little. I make every effort to push my body to its limits to show
off to this girl. I want her to feel low, weak, and plain.

Right before savassana we have a tortuous abs routine. It's so difficult even
I am straining. We go from a boat pose to supine leg lifts, 12 of them, 1st
with the left leg over the right and then 12 more with the right over the
left. This is more of a pilates core routine than a yoga routine. My lower and
deep inner core muscles are on fire! The tired girl behind me has no form
during any of this and she can not even do half of the lifts.

"Final abs routine" the instructor says, "I know it hurts but don't give up."

We do 12 ballet booties, and each one is hard. Yet I'm not a quitter, after
all, I did not get this hot body for nothing. My obliques and abs, my back,
are all seemingly worn out when we finish, but I know that shortly I will feel
great. A trained yogi's body recovers within minutes of ending a workout.

I need a shower, and so does the new girl, surprise, surprise. The showers are
communal, separated by male and female. Normally I shower quickly and am off
to work, but I take my time this morning. I massage my body with the soap bar.
I push it hard over my abs. I rest my arm above me and lean into the wall and
begin massaging my box with the soap. I am watching the fat girl. She is worn
out. She's been through hell. I am getting aroused looking at her, thinking
about how easily I can dominate her. The shower is empty now except for us
two. She is not watching me. I walk over to her and put my hand on her
shoulder. She turns around. Naked, we stand toe to toe facing each other.

"What are you doing here?" I ask firmly. "Excercising," she says meekly.
"Liar." I say. She is taken aback. "You we're getting off watching me
earlier." "I ... I" "Shut-up! Are you some kind of lessie whore?" "No. I was
only trying to mimic your form."

I smile and give her an obvious look over, making her feel even more conscious
about her body. I move in closer; her back is against the wall. Shower water
is falling between us. I move even closer and stand spread- eagled in front of
her. I rest my palms on the wall right about her head. She is shaking.

"Put your hands on my breasts." I command her. "What!" she shouts, surprised
and confused. I slap her face hard. "Do it!"

She does as I command. "Massage them. Feel how firm they are." I am getting
aroused. "Its ok" I smile. "Put them anywhere you like." She gives in. She
moves from my breasts to my extended arms. She digs her finger into the spot
between my extended biceps and triceps. She squeezes them hard, feeling all of
my strength. She moves her hands down my back and to my butt. She stops there
and starts squeezing each firm cheek. She digs her nails into them. I whimper.
She runs her fingers along the part where the butt meets the leg. It tickles.
She keeps squeezing my butt; she likes it, so I flex it hard. She moans and
her nipples stand out hard. She then puts one hand on my tit and squeezes it
and with the other she rubs my abs. She runs her soft hand over my abs in an
up and down motion. Testing their smoothness and firmness she presses down
hard, enjoying the sensation of my gently rising and falling smooth belly. She
moves lower and lower, seeking out my box. I moan loudly. I know what she
wants.

"Punch me hard in the belly," I command her. Lustfully, she looks at my toned
body. This is what she has wanted all along. A true test. She musters all of
her strength and hits me. "HA!" I laugh, her punch having had little effect.
"Harder!" I yell. She does as I say to the same effect. "Again Harder!" This
goes on for about a minute. Each time I moan, and each time her jealousy and
lust builds as she realizes she cannot break me. For her last punch I do my
best to completely relax my belly. I want to feel the sensation of losing my
breathe just once. Her last punch lacks the force of the earlier ones, yet I
cough mildly.

My plams are still pressing against the wall above her. "Tell me I'm strong,"
I command her.

"You are so strong." I slap her again. "No tell me what you are thinking!"

She lets loose finally. "I'm so jealous. I want your body to be my own. You
are beautiful and toned. You are so hot right now and I'm so jealous." She
stops and caresses my face. She runs her hand over my cheekbones, along my
jawline, and down to my chin. She has the wrong idea.

"Tell me more!" I yell this time. "You are athletic and fit and I'm just ... "
"Say it!" I slap her hard. " ... I'm just a fat loser." A tear falls from her
eye. "I want to be you," she sobs.

I put my hands down and put them on my hips. Its an aggressive stance; I'm not
protecting my face, neck, or core. No matter. "How much do you weigh?" I ask.
"160lbs" she replies. "Tubby." I smile. "I'm 115lbs."

I begin to grope her tits. They are fat and hanging. I squeeze her flabby arms
and dig my long fingers into them hard. I smile at her as she grimaces in
pain. I grab at her belly fat with my right hand and squeeze on it. At the
same time I massage my own very firm belly with my left hand, further flaming
her envy.

"Now this is going to hurt," I say, "but fat girls like you must learn their
place the hard way."

"No!" she cries, knowing what is coming to her. Using all of the strength in
my lithe body and forcing both of her hands above her head with my left hand I
hold her immobile. Even with her greater size she cannot resist me. I rare
back and deliver a strong right to her gut. "Ooff!" My fist hits her gut hard.
Her body wants to buck over, it wants to suck air, but I'm too strong and I
hold her in place. I rub my right hand over my belly some more, making sure
she sees it.

"Who's in shape?" I taunt her. "Cough ... you are." "Who is a softie?" I
repeat. "I am." She sobs.

I reach back and hit her even harder this time. My dense fist drives deep in
to her soft, un-flexed belly, un-flexed because she is still winded from the
last time. All of her air escapes her. God she is so weak in her gut. How do
people get like this? I let her collapse onto the floor. Shower water is
sprinkling over her face. I straddle her, pinning her soft hands behind her
ears. I let my taut butt rest on her flabby belly. She labors to breathe. I
get right in her face and taunt her some more.

"Whats the difference between us? You are three inches taller than me. You
have 45lbs on me. Yet I'm on top!"

She cries. "I'm bigger than you but I'm too fat ... .you are fit. Stronger ...
better."

I bounce my ass hard on her soft belly. "ooff!!!" more air escapes her. "Tell
me more!" I yell. "Ohh ... aww" she is really struggling. "Be creative fat
ass!" I bounce on her hard again. She is nearly wiped out.

"You have everything. Guys see you and they want you. They see your lean body,
your butt, and they know you have what they want. They don't even like to look
at me. I'm big and fat and no match for you. I'm jealous of you."

I laugh. I continue to bounce on her, making sure I punish her just enough so
that she does not pass out. I laugh more. I squeeze her fat arms, I flex mine
and make a show for her to see the long, sinewy muscle, and I bounce and laugh
more.

"You're so soft! Do you think ashtanga yoga is for softies?" I slap her.
"Answer me!" "No..no more. No never again." She pouts.

"How does it feel now to know there are better women than you? Women smaller,
lighter, and yes stronger, and who can kick your ass?" "Terrible. Oh God I'm
fat. I wish it were not so. Why do you have to be better at everything?" she
sobs.

"Why! You ask. Its evolution! Fit girls have fit offspring!" I laugh and
bounce. I think of my own body. I am not some dyke, muscled bitch. Not some
gross weightlifting whore. I'm a fit, yoga chick. I have yoga arms, yoga abs,
a yoga butt! I am 45lbs less than this cow and I'm and humiliating her. It
makes me feel so good. I bounce on her again and again. I squeeze her soft
hands to the point of breaking them. She is in pain.

"Whose better?" I taunt. "Cough ... you are." "Whose hotter?" "you are ... "
"Whose harder?"

She does not respond. On more big bounce and she is done for. I stand above
her, shower water pouring down my toned body, over my clit, and dropping onto
her fat face. I bend down over her, and punch her as hard as I can in her gut.
I keep my fist there applying pressure, pushing it harder and harder into her
useless, limp flesh. I massage my clit with my other hand as she struggles for
life. I explode hot juices onto her flabby neck and breasts. I let go and run
both my hands over my now shaking body.

"Don't ever come back!" I moan at her. Looking meanly at her just one more
time and using all of the strength I have in my firm butt and legs I drive my
naked heel into her quivering belly. She passes out. God it feels good to be
me.