The agreement is clearly laid out:
- He will get on cam and do half an hour of yoga.
- He will do it shirtless.
- We will not speak beforehand.
- I will initiate the call at the agreed time.
- He will turn the webcam on, I will verify by IM that I can see, and he will begin.
- He is to pretend I am not watching. No mugging for the cam, no sly smiles, no showing off.
He has never been on cam for me, though I have seen him already in photos and video clips that he has sent me over the time we have been talking.
A mane of thick black hair frames an angular face: full well-defined lips, a cheeky smile, and expressive brown eyes all come together to form an impression of open boyish curiosity. He has a lean tight build, sinewy muscled arms, a washboard stomach all rippled and shapely, and slim little hips that flare out into smooth broad pecs.
I could hardly think of anything more insanely voyeuristically hot than watching this beautiful man do yoga for me.
I skype him at the agreed time, a glass of champagne by my hand.
The webcam flickers and comes to life.
He is standing a little to the left, I see the side of his half naked body, then he bends down and peers nervously into the camera, a smile, then I am treated to a close up of his six packed stomach as he stands back up in front of the computer, waiting for me to verify that it is working. I am already distracted by the curves of his smooth skin so close and untouchable, I can see his gentle breaths rippling across his abdominal muscles as he waits not a few inches away from my view.
I message him:
Okay, move back so I can see where you will be doing the yoga
He steps away from the cam so that I can see into the space he has set up. A candle burns in a Buddha statue in the corner, a green yoga mat clearly in view, a mirror on the wall.
He steps into the room, self consciously walks over to the mat, and stands still for a moment, focussing, perhaps giving me a leisurely moment to look at him at rest. His hands come together as if in prayer and he reaches up to salute the sun, the skin of his torso pulls taut across his ribs, his waist becomes a tiny touchable wisp, his back arches as he stretches.
I smile and take a sip of champagne.