The Sleeping Serpent: A woman's struggle to break an obsessive bond with her yoga master

by Luna Saint Claire

  Nico hung his collection of photos from the time he lived in the Andes with the Q’ero and the spa where he’d worked in Kerala, India. Stepping back, he admired a photograph showing his ripped and bronzed body taken back when he surfed and took daily runs on the beach. Well, sunny California will be a nice change from New York City, he thought to himself. He had a good feeling about moving here, especially the opportunities he would welcome.

  Word spread quickly, and classes at Amaru Yoga instantly filled with actors and studio personnel. Calling on his friend, Paolo, for yet another favor and promising to pay him in a month, Nico persuaded him to send someone over to install his sound system. He went to his laptop and turned up the volume on Spotify in expectation of the class soon arriving. Nico prided himself on his playlists of unusual music, and his mixes were already getting positive comments from discerning clients. “Kafez (Dusk Mix),” by Nuria Lita from the Destination Marrakesh album, played while his evening session filed in. Nico did a quick head count as the last person squeezed her mat between two other students in the back. His studio had been open for business only a short while, and already forty people were in this class. He realized he would have to set up his online registration to limit attendance to that number. Pleased with the progress he was making, he confidently sauntered the room in bare feet, his black yoga pants hugging his taut butt and thighs and accentuating his lean, muscular build as he approvingly admired the clientele of mostly attractive young women.

  “Namaste,” he called out powerfully in a low, musical incantation. All eyes rested on him reverently; the sides of his mouth turned up slightly as he bathed in their admiration, soaking up the positive energy they emitted. He checked himself to ensure he gave each student a soft, gentle, and reassuring smile.

  “Namaste,” they chanted back to him. The ethereal voice of Deva Premal filled the room while Nico led the session. Working in Kerala, where yoga was as normal as breathing, he had taught international master classes. He thought California had too many hippie dippy wannabe yoga instructors, and with his knowledge, experience, and power, he’d have no problem capturing the cream of L.A.

  When he called out “Namaste” again to close the class, “Magnetic” by Tabla Beat Science, from the Tala Matrix album, was playing. As he’d come to expect, students asked about the music, and he made a mental note to provide his playlists as handouts.

  “Cherie,” Nico called out to a strikingly beautiful young woman of mysterious heritage. He’d paused to think about how to pronounce her name before saying it aloud. It wasn’t Sherry, like the beverage, and it wasn’t cherry, like the fruit. It was sort of French sounding and a bit annoying, he thought. But she had an excellent eye for design and was hot as hell in bed. That perfect ass and those full lips got him hard at just the thought. Her bronze skin tone hinted at African American descent, with definitely some Asian blood giving her the most exotic, delicate features. She nonchalantly approached Nico, coming to stand too close in front of him. Feeling her heat penetrate the air between them, he took one step back, silently rebuking her. Careful of his image and reputation, he didn’t want the other students to see him being too friendly with anyone. Then, to soften the sting of his nonverbal admonishment, he smiled charmingly. “Can you help me in the back for a little bit? I need your trained eye to hang some artwork.”

  “Sure. You want me to go shower first?” Trying not to seem too eager, she phrased it with a combination of discretion and apathy.

  “That would be a good idea. Come find me when you’re done.” He turned on his heels, heading for the apartment, where he set the tea kettle on the stove to heat up water. He’d met Cherie at one of the clubs. Paolo had introduced them, saying she was an event planner for his company. The music was pounding loudly, and Nico took her hand, kissing the back of her knuckles and letting his lips linger for a moment before looking into her eyes. Women loved that chivalrous mannerism. Her golden eyes sparkled like imperial topaz, and Nico leaned in to capture her attention, asking her to explain what, exactly, an event planner does. Cherie explained how she tailors the look and feel of an event to the hosting company’s brand identity. Nico nodded, considering she must have a flair for design, and that her clients had to have big bucks to afford private parties at these clubs. He would invite her to a session at Amaru, and she could refer her clients to him. They hit it off, dancing and getting a bit too high, ending up partying in the executive bathroom. Having the pass code for the private bathroom was useful; there was never a line, and it was much cleaner. Also, following a girl in was naughty and titillating, like that Usher song, “Love in This Club.” He could tell it wasn’t her first time; she was totally into it. After a few lines of coke, he leaned her over the sink and fucked her from behind, holding onto that sweet ass.

  Nico was in the kitchen brewing his special tea when Cherie came into the apartment. This time when she stepped into his personal space, he placed his hands on her perfect ass and pulled her tight against his groin, his cock twitching at her proximity.

  “Nico, do you really want me to hang artwork?” she cooed, fixing her golden eyes on his.

  He’d never seen eyes that color on a human, only on cats—and owls. Handing her a mug of tea, he answered, “Yeah, I really do need your help hanging this oil painting. My uncle painted it. It’s my grandmother. Do you like it?”

  She took a big sip of the tea, inhaling the aroma deeply, and taking a step back, tipped her head to one side and then the other before answering him. “I do like it, very much. I like that it’s impressionistic, not a rendered portrait. It has a lot of character. Where do you want to hang it?”

  “Where do you think I should hang it? You’re the expert, right?”

  Scoping out the room, she headed to the counter where Nico was standing. “You’re always at this counter either cooking or eating. So I would hang it over there.” She walked about eight paces to an empty wall visible from the kitchen. “You can see your grandmother all the time. It’s a large enough painting to stand alone there.”

  “Hold it up for me, can you?” he asked, considering her idea thoughtfully.

  She grasped the painting in both hands and placed it against the wall so her eyes fell about dead center.

  “I can’t see through you!” he complained.

  “Nico, it’s big and heavy! Just pretend I’m transparent!”

  “Ha!” he laughed. “It’s good there. I trust you. Let me get a nail and hammer.”

  Without any deliberation, Cherie hung the painting. Back in the kitchen, she eyed it approvingly while finishing her mug of tea.

  “I like it. It looks good there.” Nico paused, thinking. “I have this tapestry. Where would you hang it?” He showed her a finely woven scene of mountains she assumed were the Andes.

  “Wow, Nico—this is beautiful. How about on the wall behind your bed?”

  Cherie took off her shoes and stood on the bed, holding it over her head, “What do you think?”

  He chuckled, “I think your ass is divine, and I can’t wait to fuck it.”

  Turning to look over her shoulder, she almost fell down with the tapestry in her arms. “Go get me three long nails,” she playfully ordered.

  As she gingerly rested the tapestry now attached to a dowel on top of the nails, she used her best authoritative tone, “Just be careful you don’t knock it off the wall. Come, look at it from here.”

  Still barefoot from class, Nico climbed onto the bed and tugged her down. “You are so bossy!” he teased. Straddling her playfully, he pinned her arms over her head and kissed her forcefully, pushing his tongue into her mouth and swirling it around hers. Then, tearing his mouth away, he chided breathlessly, “Now it’s my turn to teach you something.”

  Sliding his hand up her thigh and under the short, flirty floral dress, he could feel the heat of her pussy under the boy shorts she was wearing. She was a tantalizing blend of exotic beauty and androgynous child.

  “Mmm…how sexy. You’re weari
ng boy underpants.”

  “They aren’t boys’!” She squirmed at his touch, then whispered provocatively, “If you don’t like them, I’ll take them off now.”

  “Allow me,” he purred. As he pulled them down, a soft cry escaped her lips. The chiffon minidress was now bunched around her waist, her bottom bare. Nico admired her long, lean body and perfect skin the color of toasted caramel, “I like this little flower girl dress,” he said, his voice low and gravelly. “You’re like a child.”

  Pushing the dress up higher, he cupped her small but perfectly round breasts, still confined underneath a white cotton eyelet bra. She moaned when he squeezed hard, his thumb pressing her erect nipples now straining at the fabric. Lifting the bra up, he bent his head down and licked them, savoring the sweet taste of her freshly washed skin. Trailing his tongue over her breasts, he tentatively flicked the dark stems, coaxing them to further rigidity. Taking a nipple into his mouth, he sucked hard until she cried out.

  “Mmmm…you have the longest nipples in the world,” he sighed. Rolling the hard bud between his lips, he asked earnestly, as if needing her approval, “You like when I play with your tits?”

  She groaned, her nipples on fire. “Yes! Very much.” Her back arched up to him, begging for more.

  He wanted to slam his hard cock into her. But it was even better having her captive and vulnerable, pleading for him.

  “I want you to fuck me—now,” she begged, squirming under him. His hands clasped her wrists tightly, pressing them into the mattress, while her hips bucked as if she were trying to free herself.

  But he wanted her frantic.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked menacingly.

  She tugged at his hands, and after a moment’s consideration, he freed her. Staring at the enormous bulge beneath the thin fabric of his yoga pants and licking her lips, she looked up innocently into his lust-filled eyes, where the yellow flecks threw lightning bolts of anticipation. “You want my cock?” he asked huskily.

  She nodded. Her almond-shaped eyes, spaced perfectly on her angelic face, pleaded with him. He couldn’t contain himself much longer. Yanking his pants down, he kicked them off.

  She’d already guessed he wasn’t wearing underwear, knowing that was why no one took their eyes off him in class. He stroked his cock firmly, with slow, strong pulls. “Open that luscious mouth for me, baby.”

  Positioning her at the edge of the bed, he held her head and pushed eagerly into her mouth. “God, baby. Those lips are exquisite around me,” he growled, sliding over her velvet tongue.

  Locking her eyes onto his, she wrapped her fingers around the width of his manhood and began pleasuring him. Pulling firmly toward his root, she slowly drew her hand back, sliding her wet palm over the head of his cock. Rubbing the tip over her lips, she smiled innocently up at him, her eyes burning into his, before placing him back into her mouth and sucking until her cheeks hollowed. Her tongue twirled deftly around his mushroomed head as she licked precum from the slit before guiding him deep into the back of her throat—her humming, low and sexy, sent vibrations around him. Gripping the backs of his thighs, she took him deeper, contracting her throat to gently squeeze the thick shaft. He groaned, his hips rocketing as he gathered fists full of her hair, and his head lolled back in ecstasy.

  Releasing her, he pulled out so she could catch her breath, running his finger along her jawline and over her lips. “Open,” his voice was strangled, but commanding. He pushed back into her mouth and fucked it slowly, sliding deep into the back of her throat before pulling out—until just the tip stayed between her full lips.

  Lavishly, as if it was her last meal, she licked and sucked him hungrily, feeling his climax building to a crescendo. The veins on his forehead bulged, and his breathing became ragged as her hands trailed down from his clenched buttocks to fondle his balls, then moved to the rim of his anus. She looked up. His eyes were closed, and she could hear him purring loudly from deep inside his chest, like a mountain lion she had tamed.

  Suddenly, he pulled out of her mouth. “Turn over, give me your ass,” he growled, his voice raspy and anguished. Cherie turned and positioned herself on her knees at the end of the bed, her wet, glistening pink pussy bared to him. “So beautiful…like a pink flower.” His hypnotic voice washed over her.

  With urgent desperation, he hoisted her ass into the air, his fingers digging into her hips to hold her steady. She gasped sharply as he penetrated her and was enveloped by the slick, wet walls of her pussy.

  “Oh God, baby…you’re so tight! Like a virgin,” he gasped. Her pussy quivered as she grew wetter around him, and a whimper escaped her lips.

  At first he fucked her gently, luxuriating in the blissful sensation of her tight muscles around his cock and watching his dick disappear from sight, then reappear, covered in her juices. He loved fucking her from behind. Her ass was perfect—high, round, dark-skinned, without a single blemish. She had gone to one of the expensive Asian salons for a full Brazilian and was as bare as a newborn baby. He rocked into her, plunging deep inside and repeatedly rolling over her hot spot, massaging it into submission, before pulling out until only the tip remained inside her.

  Crying out in a frenzy, she lifted her ass and wiggled it, pleading with him, “God, Nico. You’re such a tease—fuck me!” she begged.

  His touch was electrifying—each stroke measured and strategically placed to send her to the edge and bring her back again. She wanted—needed—him inside her, filling her over and over. His rough, selfish urgency made her feel supremely desirable. Yet he was attentive, knowing exactly what she needed—what she wanted—so that when she came, it would be an orgasm that was nonpareil.

  Her begging, pleading, and whining fueled his lust. Thrusting back into her, he pumped hard and fast. She panted, her legs stiffening, and then he felt her go liquid around him. He reached around to finger her pussy, collecting her wetness on his hands and fondling her swollen clit, sending shock waves ricocheting through her body. Bringing his fingers up to his nose, he inhaled her scent deeply. It was both musky and sweet, a mix of wild animal and fragrant herbs. Losing control, he gripped her ass, his thumbs leaving an impression in her flesh as he powered into her. The sound of his thighs slapping her ass over and over while he fucked her long and hard filled the room. Feeling her pulsing, the waves of another orgasm surging over his cock, his eyes glazed over and the room dissolved around him. He couldn’t hold on and spent hot jets of cum over the walls of her pussy.

  Lying on his bed recovering, Cherie rested her head on his chest, listening to his racing heart. Then, as his breathing became normal, she shifted her body to get up.

  “Where are you going?” Nico asked.

  “Home. I have things to do and an early day tomorrow.”

  “Oh, I thought you would stay for dinner.”

  “Next time. Invite me. You know—in advance.”

  “I never know what I’m doing. You know that.”

  She got up, tugging her bra back down over her breasts. She found her boy shorts on the floor and pulled them on. After slipping on her shoes, she walked over and kissed the top of his head. Still lying on the bed, he watched her preparing to leave. As she headed for the door, she turned and looked above the bed. Smiling, she said, “The tapestry is beautiful, Nico.”

  He grinned wickedly. “Thanks for helping me.”

  Sitting on one of the black barstools at a large wraparound counter in front of the open kitchen, Olivia busily inserted the evening’s specials into the dinner menu. Plato Picante, a trendy restaurant in Studio City was an open and airy restaurant known for authentic Mexican cuisine. Olivia knew she was lucky to have found a job where she met interesting people in the entertainment industry who occasionally left big tips after ordering the best margaritas in town. Being midafternoon, the restaurant was almost empty. Sunlight poured through large glass windows onto the dozens of potted palms and ficus trees dotting the dining room. She was softly rehearsing her part i
n the “Sull’aria” duet from Le nozze di Figaro when the lunch chef interrupted to say a customer had seated himself at one of the outdoor tables, under a red umbrella. Clutching her pencil and notepad, she quickly darted past a lingering group of girls she recognized from school and headed toward the waiting man with a sigh—a sigh of quiet desperation. Her thoughts wandered, was it Thoreau who wrote that? That quote about most people leading lives of quiet desperation…

  Olivia hadn’t tried to be different, but as the only child of a Mexican housekeeper, she had struggled to fit in with L.A.’s nobility at Harvard-Westlake School. Instead of dreaming about society parties and shopping at Fred Segal, she fantasized herself an opera diva, bouquets being tossed to her onstage as the audience yelled “brava”—quite unusual given her age and upbringing in urban Los Angeles, where kids mostly dreamed about becoming the next Rihanna.

  Olivia’s long, curly, brown hair was loosely tied back in a low ponytail, and several wayward strands had escaped to frame her oval face. Her full lips were too pale, and her translucent, violet-colored eyes looked tired. She didn’t know it, but the customer’s keen talent for reading people combined with her appearance told him much more about her than she would have liked.

  “May I take your order?” she asked mechanically. When the customer said nothing, she looked at him.

  He stared into her eyes, and she faltered. He’s not so much handsome as… her thoughts paused while she searched for the right description…magnetic. That’s the word, she decided.

  As if meaning to purposely break her trance, he spoke up, “What do you recommend?” The prosaic tone and topic seemed out of place and made her feel a bit disoriented.

  She finally found her voice, “Well, I really love the mole poblano con pollo tacos.”

  “I’ll trust your taste, then.” He smiled enigmatically, closing the menu decisively and handing it to her.

  “What would you like to drink? Maybe iced tea?”

  “Yes, please. That would be very nice.”