Young 18 year old virgin starts taking yoga classes where her instructor likes to touch her. She submits to his molestation and finds herself wanting more.
Emma’s Forbidden Stretch
Emma Thompson had always been the smallest in her class, a delicate wisp of a girl who turned heads not for her boldness, but for her ethereal fragility. At 18 years old, she stood just five feet tall and weighed a mere 100 pounds, her body a slender silhouette with subtle curves that hinted at the woman she was becoming. Her breasts were small and perky, barely filling an A-cup bra, topped with sensitive pink nipples that responded to the slightest breeze. Her waist was narrow, cinching in before flaring gently to hips that gave her a feminine sway, and her legs were slim and toned from years of running track in high school. Her skin was pale and smooth, dotted with faint freckles across her nose and shoulders, framing big green eyes that sparkled with innocence and curiosity. Her long auburn hair cascaded in waves down her back, often tied into a ponytail for practicality.
Growing up in a quiet suburban town, Emma had been the quintessential good girl—top of her class, captain of the debate team, and the daughter her parents paraded at family gatherings. College was her first taste of independence, a small liberal arts school where she majored in literature, dreaming of becoming a writer. But the transition was overwhelming: noisy dorms, endless assignments, and a social scene that left her feeling out of place. Boys her age flirted clumsily, but Emma had never gone beyond a chaste kiss. She was a virgin, not by rigid choice, but because she’d never found someone who ignited that spark. Sex was a distant concept, explored only in the pages of forbidden novels or in tentative solo sessions under her covers, where her small fingers brought fleeting relief.
Yoga seemed like the perfect escape. A flyer on the campus bulletin board advertised “Serenity Yoga Studio,” promising relaxation and strength. Emma signed up for the evening class, hoping it would help her unwind. The studio was intimate, a converted loft with hardwood floors, mirrored walls, and soft ambient lighting. Mats were arranged in neat rows, and the air carried the soothing scent of lavender essential oil. On her first day, Emma arrived early, unrolling her new teal mat in the back corner to avoid drawing attention. She wore black yoga pants that clung to her slim legs like a second skin and a white tank top that rode up slightly when she stretched, revealing a sliver of her flat midriff.
The class filled with about a dozen women, a mix of college students and young professionals, all chatting softly. Then Marcus entered, and the room hushed. He was 35, tall at 6’2”, with a physique sculpted from years of disciplined practice—broad shoulders, chiseled abs visible under his fitted black shirt, and powerful legs in loose pants. His dark hair was neatly trimmed, his jaw strong and shadowed with stubble, and his piercing blue eyes scanned the room with authority. His voice was deep and resonant, like a rumble of thunder wrapped in silk. “Welcome, everyone. I’m Marcus, and tonight we’ll focus on grounding and flow. Let’s begin with a meditation.”
Emma closed her eyes, following his guided breaths. Inhale peace, exhale tension. The session eased into gentle poses: child’s pose, cat-cow, downward dog. Marcus moved through the room like a shadow, offering adjustments with confident hands. When he reached Emma in downward dog—her ass lifted high, heels pressing toward the floor—his presence loomed behind her. “Soften your knees a bit,” he said, his voice low and intimate. His large hands gripped her hips, thumbs pressing into the soft dimples above her tailbone. He pulled her back slightly, deepening the stretch. It felt helpful, but his fingers lingered, sliding forward an inch, brushing the edge of her waistband. A shiver ran down her spine, her heart skipping a beat. Was that normal? She told herself yes—yoga teachers were hands-on.
As they transitioned to warrior one, Marcus returned. “Open your chest,” he instructed, one hand on her shoulder, the other on her ribcage. His palm pressed firmly, but his thumb grazed the underside of her breast, sending a jolt of electricity through her. Emma’s nipples hardened instantly, poking against her thin sports bra. She glanced around; no one else seemed to notice. His touch was gone in a flash, but the warmth remained, stirring something unfamiliar in her core.
In child’s pose, knees spread wide and arms extended, Marcus knelt directly behind her. “Relax into the mat,” he murmured, his hands starting on her lower back. But they didn’t stop there—they slid down her sides, over her ribs, and briefly, oh so briefly, cupped her small breasts from beneath. His thumbs flicked across her nipples, a deliberate tease disguised as adjustment. Emma froze, her breath catching in her throat. Heat flooded her cheeks, and a strange ache bloomed between her legs. Her virgin pussy clenched involuntarily, moisture gathering in her panties. “Breathe deeply,” he whispered, his breath hot on her neck, before moving on as if nothing had happened.
The rest of the class blurred in a haze of poses and touches. In a seated forward fold, his hand “slipped” to her inner thigh, fingers inches from her mound. In bridge pose, supporting her hips, he squeezed her ass cheek lightly. By savasana, lying supine, Marcus placed one hand on her forehead and the other on her abdomen. “Release all holding,” he said softly. But the abdominal hand inched lower, fingers splaying toward her pubic bone, pressing just above her clit through the fabric. Emma’s eyes fluttered open, but he was already walking away.
Class ended, and Emma packed up quickly, her mind reeling. Was she imagining the intent? Or was he… molesting her? The word felt too harsh; his touches had been subtle, almost caring. That night, in her dorm room, she replayed every moment. Her hand wandered under her pajama shorts, circling her clit as she pictured his strong hands on her body. She came hard, whispering his name into her pillow, guilt mingling with desire.
Two days later, Emma returned for the second class, her pulse quickening as she entered the studio. The room was dimmer, the class smaller—only eight students. She placed her mat in the middle row this time, drawn closer to him. Marcus greeted her with a smile that made her stomach flip. “Glad you’re back, Emma.”
They began with hip openers, poses that left her feeling vulnerable. In happy baby, on her back with knees pulled wide, Marcus adjusted her ankles. His eyes lingered on her crotch, where the pants stretched tight over her pussy. “Pull deeper,” he said, his hands on her thighs, thumbs pressing inward. One thumb “accidentally” brushed her labia, sending a spark through her. She gasped softly, but he pretended not to hear.
Partner work followed. With an odd number, Marcus paired with Emma. They sat facing each other for a double bound angle pose, soles of feet together, knees out. He leaned forward, his body close, his knee nudging her inner thigh higher than necessary. “Feel the opening in your hips,” he said, his voice husky. As they rocked gently, his hand slid to her lower back, pulling her closer. She felt his erection through his pants, hard and thick, pressing against her core. Panic surged, but so did arousal—her nipples pebbled, her pussy dampening.
In pigeon pose, he positioned himself behind her again. “Sink into it,” he commanded, hands on her hips, rocking her forward. The motion ground his bulge against her ass, deliberate now. His fingers dipped under her tank top, tracing her spine, then venturing to the side to pinch her nipple. “Good,” he praised, twisting it gently. Emma bit her lip to suppress a moan, her body betraying her with a flood of wetness. The other students were focused on their own mats, oblivious.
The molestation escalated in a standing twist. Marcus stood behind her, one arm around her waist, the other guiding her shoulder. But the waist hand slipped upward, under her top, palming her bare breast fully. “Twist deeper,” he whispered, his thumb circling her areola. Emma’s knees weakened, a soft whimper escaping. He squeezed, then released, moving on casually.
By the end, Emma was flushed and aching. As the class filed out, she lingered, stretching her arms overhead. Marcus approached. “You’re flexible,” he commented, his eyes raking over her body. “But you could use more one-on-one attention.”
“I’d like that,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.
He nodded. “Soon.”
That night, Emma’s fantasies consumed her. She imagined him stripping her, his large body overwhelming her tiny frame. Her fingers plunged into her wet pussy, mimicking what she craved. She orgasmed twice, each time picturing his face.
The third class fell on a rainy Wednesday, the studio cozy with the patter of drops on the roof. Only six students attended, giving Marcus more opportunity. Emma’s mat was front and center now, her outfit chosen deliberately—thinner leggings, a cropped top that exposed more skin. Marcus’s gaze darkened as he saw her.
The theme was backbends, opening the heart chakra. In wheel pose, arched on her hands and feet, Marcus “supported” her by placing hands on her thighs. But one hand ventured inward, fingers tracing her slit through the fabric. “Lift your hips,” he said, his middle finger pressing on her clit, rubbing in small circles. Emma’s body trembled, pleasure building. She was wet, the material clinging transparently. He held the pressure, bringing her dangerously close to orgasm before pulling away.
In cobra, on her belly, he lay almost atop her to adjust. His cock, hard as steel, nestled between her ass cheeks. “Extend your neck,” he murmured, grinding subtly. His hand slipped under her top from the front, cupping both breasts, pinching the nipples hard. “Feel the energy rise,” he said, his breath hot. Emma arched into him, her virgin body craving more.
During a restorative pose, legs up the wall, Marcus knelt beside her, hand on her calf. It slid up, under her pants leg, fingers grazing her bare skin up to her thigh. “Relax your muscles,” he whispered, his pinky brushing her pussy lips. He dipped in slightly, feeling her wetness, then withdrew, sucking his finger discreetly.
Emma’s mind was a whirlwind. This was wrong, but it felt so right. She was 18, consenting in silence, her body screaming for release.
The fourth class was intense, the air thick with tension. Emma wore no bra under her top, her nipples visible. Marcus noticed immediately, his lessons focused on her. In downward dog, he pressed his body fully against hers, his erection thrusting against her ass. “Hold the pose,” he said, dry-humping her lightly. His hand slipped between her legs from behind, rubbing her pussy vigorously. “Stay still,” he commanded as she moaned quietly.
In a seated straddle, legs wide, he sat opposite, pulling her forward. His feet nudged her crotch, toes pressing on her clit. “Stretch deeper,” he said, wiggling them. Emma ground against him, her arousal peaking.
The climax came in child’s pose. Behind her, he pulled her pants down slightly, exposing her ass. His finger entered her pussy, pumping fast. “Quiet, little one,” he warned. She came, biting the mat, her juices flowing.
After class, she confronted him. “What are you doing to me?”
He smiled. “What you want.”
The fifth class was the breaking point. The room was nearly empty, only two other students who left early. Emma stayed, her body on fire. Marcus locked the door. “Ready for your private lesson?”
“Yes,” she breathed.
He pulled her close, kissing her deeply, his tongue dominating her mouth. His hands stripped her top, exposing her breasts. “So small and perfect,” he growled, sucking a nipple while pinching the other. Emma moaned, her hands in his hair.
He laid her on the mat, peeling off her pants and panties. Her pussy was pink and slick, untouched except by him. “Spread for me,” he said, diving in with his tongue. He licked her clit, fingers entering her, stretching her virgin hole. “Taste so sweet,” he murmured. Emma writhed, cumming on his face.
Then he stood, dropping his pants. His cock was massive—10 inches long, thick as her wrist, veined and throbbing. “Oh god,” she whispered. “It won’t fit.”
“It will,” he assured, rubbing the head against her entrance. He pushed in slowly, the head popping past her barrier. Pain tore through her, tears falling. “Shh, relax,” he soothed, inching forward. She felt stretched beyond limit, full and impaled.
Halfway, he paused, kissing her tears. “You’re doing so good.” Then he thrust deep, bottoming out. Emma cried out, the pain mixing with pleasure. He started moving, slow strokes building speed. “Fuck, your tiny pussy is gripping me,” he groaned.
Emma’s hips bucked, meeting him. “Harder,” she begged. He pounded her, his balls slapping her ass. She came, squirting, her walls pulsing.
He flipped her to doggy, entering roughly. “Take it,” he commanded, spanking her. His cock hit deeper, her ass jiggling with each thrust. She pushed back, loving the dominance.
In cowgirl, she rode him, her small body bouncing on his massive shaft. “Ride me like a slut,” he said, thumbs on her clit. She came again, grinding.
Missionary again, legs over shoulders. “Cum inside me,” she pleaded.
He roared, filling her with hot cum, pulse after pulse.
They collapsed, sweaty and spent. “More?” he asked.
“Always,” she replied.
In the weeks that followed, their sessions became ritual. The sixth: He tied her with yoga straps, fucking her bound. The seventh: Anal, his cock stretching her ass, pain turning to ecstasy. The eighth: Toys, vibrators on her clit while he pounded her.
Emma changed—confident, insatiable. The molestation had awakened her, his massive cock her addiction. The studio was their sanctuary, her tiny body his to ravage.