4ft8 / 141cm F-cup Zoe

There’s a new temp in the office, a young woman with a beautiful smile and a tremendous rear end; you noticed that on Casual Friday when she was wearing those form-fitting skinny jeans. There was a bit of a line to talk to her. Every randy player in the office was chomping at the bit to take a swing. You thought you would take it easy on the poor girl and not harass her like the others. Leave that for Monday! You introduce yourself in passing, and you catch her name: Zoe.

Zoe doesn’t seem to fit in, but you attribute that to her youth. She seems very alive and vibrant, which makes her a stand-out around the office. And she’s so healthy! Always drinking tea and eating quinoa. Larry in accounting is sneaking scotch by 11am!

Walking to your car after work one night, you pass by a trendy Bikram Yoga studio. The studio is a big open room on street level, with a huge pane of glass for a front wall. The studio is full of nearly-naked, athletically-sculpted sweaty bodies. Mostly women, but a few savvy men in there, showing off and playing the odds. You’ve never had the time to get that ripped, so you haven’t tried Bikram before. You start to move on, before your glance turns to gawking, when you spot her: Zoe, flexing and twisting, perfectly tanned and oiled up, contorting herself into what could be an amazing position from the Kama Sutra. Her impossibly tight yoga shorts are painted on, displaying an amazingly healthy, considerable ass, and her tiny tank top barely contains a pair of surprisingly full breasts. How can someone so fit be so voluptuous? You tarry, mesmerized. She glances up, and for a moment, your eyes lock, and a thin smile spreads across her lips. She glances away, and you make a break for it.

The next day, Zoe stops you in the hallway at work. “Are you into yoga?” she asks.

“Uh, sort of – I’m interested in it. I want to get healthier. I was just looking around.” You stammer. You continue your lie, digging yourself in deeper. “I don’t know where to start, I’d feel weird just jumping into the expert level stuff like you do.”

“Oh! Well maybe I could show you some beginner moves,” she says.

A few days later you find yourself nervous and already sweating, as you ring the bell to Zoe’s apartment. She answers the door in her yoga clothes – the too-tight-to-be-real shorts that don’t cover the entire cheek, the tank top, tied in the front to contain her heaving breasts. You make a point of looking her in her eyes, but not before you notice she is not wearing a bra.

You make a little small talk, then get to the lesson. She shows you some basic yoga poses. You have no idea what you’re doing, and are just awful at it. Zoe has to guide you, grabbing your arms and positioning you. Adjusting the amount of bend in your torso, moving your legs. She grapples with you, and you can feel the warmth of her body, her heart beating. The mixture of her perfume and sweat fills your senses; it’s a healthy musk that triggers a ready response in your body. You feel like you’re in the basement of your high school girlfriend’s house, playing Twister. Zoe bumps up against your rigid manhood. She doesn’t say anything. She keeps going.

“Let’s try a new position,” she says.