The Yoga Aftermath
By Yogabare22.
I walked home—only a few blocks—still dripping, the cool evening air hitting my sweat-slicked skin. Our apartment was dark when I got in. My girlfriend’s car was in the driveway, so she was around somewhere. The bathroom light was on.
I stripped out of my wet clothes right there in the hallway, leaving a trail of damp gear behind me, and stepped into the shower. Cold. I cranked the handle all the way to the blue, and the water hit me like a shock. I hissed, tensed, then let my body adjust. After a hot yoga session, a cold shower was the best thing. It tightened everything up, closed the pores, calmed the overworked muscles.
I stood under the spray for a good ten minutes, letting the cold water run over me, watching my skin prickle with goosebumps. And then there was the inevitable shrinkage. My cock—already small when soft, just a nub of circumcised flesh that barely cleared an inch—disappeared entirely. It wasn’t even a nub anymore. It was just a thin little dome, a tiny cap of skin, my balls drawn up tight against my body like they were trying to hide.
I soaped up, rinsed, and turned off the water. I reached for the towel rack.
Empty.
I blinked. Checked again. Nothing. The towel I’d hung there before my shower was gone.
“Babe?” I called out.
No answer.
I stood there, dripping, water pooling at my feet. The bathroom door was cracked open. I pushed it wide and stepped out into the hallway, cold and naked and wet. The air hit my groin and my little dick—if you could even call it that—seemed to contract even further. It was a joke. A cruel, biological joke.
I found my girlfriend in the living room, curled up on the couch with her phone, scrolling through something. She looked up as I walked in, dripping on the floorboards. Her eyes went straight to my crotch.
She laughed.
Not a mean laugh, exactly. Playful. Amused. The kind of laugh that said I know what I did, and I think it’s hilarious.
“There’s my little acorn!” she said, grinning. “Show me a pose!”
I laughed too, trying to play it cool. “Yoga is over, babe. Where’s my towel?”
She ignored that. She was already holding up her phone, the camera pointed at me. “Your acorns are so cute,” she said, and she snapped a picture. The click echoed in the quiet room.
I froze.
“Seriously?” I said.
She smiled, that sly, teasing grin I knew so well. “And if you don’t want my friends to see it,” she said, her voice light and dangerous, “strike a pose.”
I stood there, naked, dripping, my cock a tiny, pitiful thing that looked more like a button than a penis. The cold had made it almost nonexistent. Just a thin little dome of circumcised flesh, surrounded by a smooth, shaved pubic area. She’d told me she liked it shaved. I knew why now.
I was hard—or rather, I was trying to be. My body was responding to the humiliation, a sick twist of arousal pumping through me. But there was nothing to show for it. My cock was too small, too shriveled, too pathetic even to swell. It just stayed there, a tiny, helpless nub under her gaze.
“Okay,” I said quietly. “What pose?”
She sat up, crossed her legs, and had her phone ready. “Start with mountain pose.”
I took a breath. I lifted my arms over my head, palms together, feet planted. Standing naked in our living room, cold water still dripping from my hair, my body exposed, my tiny cock on full display. She snapped a photo.
“Good,” she said. “Now, warrior one. Lunge forward, arms up.”
I obeyed. I stepped into the lunge, my thigh muscles burning from the earlier class. My body angled, my arms raised, and in that position, my little dick was even more visible, a tiny dot of flesh between my spread legs. She zoomed in with her phone. Click.
“Perfect,” she said. “Now downward dog.”
I bent over, hands on the floor, ass in the air. The most vulnerable yoga pose there is. My testicles hung down slightly, but my cock—that tiny, useless thing—was just a little peak of skin at the base of my belly. Exposed. Completely exposed.
She stood up, circled me, taking photos from different angles. “God, it’s so cute like this,” she said, almost to herself. “Like a little button. A little acorn.”
I stayed in position, my face burning, my arms trembling. She took another photo from behind, then from the side.
“Okay, on the ground,” she said. “Child’s pose.”
I sank onto my knees, folding forward, my forehead on the floor. My ass was up, my back curved, my tiny cock pressed against the floorboards. She crouched beside me, and I heard the click of her phone right next to my ear.
“Beautiful,” she whispered.
She moved around, had me shift into a seated forward fold, my legs spread wide, my torso bent forward. In that position, my shriveled cock was completely visible between my thighs. She took a photo from directly in front of me, getting right down on the floor.
“You know,” she said, “this is the most vulnerable position in yoga. Did you know that? Seated wide-leg forward fold. Everything exposed.”
“I know,” I mumbled into the floor.
“Of course you do, acorn.”
She made me hold each pose for what felt like minutes, taking photos and commenting the entire time. I was a frozen tableau of submission, my body bent and twisted to her will, my humiliation documented in high-definition digital files.
Finally, she seemed satisfied. She sat back on the couch, scrolling through her gallery, a grin spreading across her face.
“These are amazing,” she said. “My new favorite photos.”
“Can I have my towel now?” I asked, still kneeling on the floor.
She looked at me, her eyes dark. “Not yet. Come here.”
I crawled over to her, still naked, still dripping, my little cock a tiny, pathetic nub between my legs. She spread her legs apart, revealing that she had already taken off her shorts. She was wearing a thin pair of panties, and I could see the outline of her lips through the fabric.
“Eat me,” she said simply.
I didn’t hesitate. I leaned in, pressing my face between her thighs. She hooked her fingers into the waistband of her panties and pulled them aside, and I was met with the familiar scent of her arousal. She was already wet.
I pressed my tongue against her clit, and she let out a soft moan. Her hand found the back of my head, pressing me deeper into her. I worked my tongue in slow, deliberate circles, the way she liked it, the way I’d learned to please her over months of practice.
“You know why I keep you around?” she said, her voice breathy. “It’s not for that little acorn of yours. It’s for this tongue.”
I mumbled something incoherent against her skin, and she laughed, a soft, satisfied sound.
“You know it’s true. That little thing between your legs is useless. But this…” She pressed my face harder into her. “This is all I need.”
I ate her out as my life depended on it, my tongue flicking and circling and pressing, my nose buried in her pubic hair, my chin slick with her wetness. She moaned above me, her thighs tightening around my head, her fingers gripping my hair.
“That’s it,” she whispered. “Good boy. Good little acorn boy.”
I stayed there, on my knees, my tiny cock pressed against the floor, my face buried between her legs, serving her the only way I could. She came with a sharp, shuddering cry, her body tensing, her hips grinding against my face.
When it was over, she pushed me away, panting. She closed her eyes, basking in the afterglow.
“Okay,” she said, her voice lazy, satisfied. “You can have your towel now. It’s in the bedroom.”
I crawled away, my knees sore, my jaw aching, my face slick. I found the towel on the bed and wrapped it around myself, but I didn’t dry off right away. I stood there, looking at myself in the mirror.
My cock was still a tiny, cold nub.
And I was still hard.
The End.
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