A low hum filled the bathroom as Patrick pressed the cool head of the wand to Alina’s clitoris. Her eyes widened, her control shattering in an instant. The pressure building inside her grew unbearable. She knew she couldn’t hold on for much longer.
The pale Sunday light filtered through the curtains, falling on the man in the armchair. A book lay open in his lap, but his eyes weren’t on the words. They were nailed to the woman on all fours on the yoga mat.
She leaned back slowly, and Patrick watched the tight fabric strain, revealing every curve. The leggings were a second skin, tracing the perfect, audacious arc of her ass as she pressed her palms into the mat and let her back arch.
Alina knew Patrick was watching. Of course, she did—that was the point. Every detail was calculated: the form-fitting leggings, the placement of the mat in his direct line of sight, the slow, seductive choreography. Every stretch and bend was a performance for an audience of one.
She felt his gaze on her skin like a physical touch, hot and focused. She was in control—of her body, of the room, of his desire. The moment was her creation, and she savored it.
Her movements were a fluid, deliberate dance as she glided from one pose to the next. She turned onto her back, pulled her knees to her chest, and wrapped her arms around them. From that position, she looked at Patrick directly for the first time, her eyes dark and challenging.
His expression didn’t flicker. His stare was more powerful than any of her movements, a silent force that was both unsettling and irresistibly arousing.
Finally, Alina rose slowly to her feet, stretched her arms toward the ceiling, and let them fall. The performance was over. She walked off the mat toward the bathroom, conscious of the soft sway of her hips. Pausing in the doorway, she glanced back over her shoulder. It was the silent invitation the entire performance had been building toward: Follow me. Then she disappeared inside, leaving the door ajar.
Patrick slowly closed his book. Alina had started a game. Patrick knew just how to finish it. He rose and walked to the nightstand. His fingers slid past soft fabrics and closed around a cool, smooth wand. A faint smile touched his lips. This would take their game to a new level.
When he stepped into the bathroom, the harsh fluorescent light left nothing to the imagination. Alina was leaning against the sink, a confident, expectant smile on her lips. He closed the distance between them and pushed her gently back until she was flush against the wall.
He braced one hand against the wall next to her head, his body inches from hers. Alina felt his warmth and closed her eyes, awaiting his touch. Instead, she heard a low, vibrating hum fill the small, tiled room.
Her eyes snapped open. Patrick’s gaze was intense as he pressed the head of the wand against the fabric of her leggings, directly over her clitoris. The vibration was a raw, electric shock that bypassed her skin and went straight to her nerves. The pleasure was a full-frontal assault on her senses, and her composure shattered instantly.
“Patrick,” she gasped, her voice hoarse with a mix of pleasure and surprise. “I… I need to pee.”
He didn’t answer. He just watched her face, the beads of sweat on her temple, and pressed a button. The vibration intensified, becoming deeper, more invasive. Alina’s legs began to tremble. Her hips moved involuntarily, pressing against the wand, begging for more as the pressure in her bladder grew unbearable, twisting with her arousal into a burning knot.
“Seriously… Mmh… I’m going to piss myself.” It was less a protest than a breathless confession.
Then, he stopped the wand.
Alina gasped for air, not daring to move. She looked at him, her body trembling. His face was feverish, his voice quiet but vibrating with anticipation.
“Is that so?”
And he turned it on again. Full power.
In that moment, Alina knew. This was what he wanted. He wanted to see her surrender, to witness her civilized veneer shatter completely. Where her mind should have screamed in shame, a dark wave of excitement rose instead. The thought of giving in, of wetting herself for him, under his touch, was suddenly, unbearably arousing.
Her last shred of resistance crumbled. She gave in completely. Her back arched and she cried out, the sound muffled and animalistic. The orgasm hit her like a lightning strike, a violent, convulsive storm that wasn’t a gentle wave but a tearing, uncontrollable release that shook her to her core. Patrick felt every spasm, watched as her eyes rolled back. And at the peak of pleasure, she felt it—a hot, unstoppable flood. The warm liquid soaked the grey fabric of her leggings, darkening it, spreading down her thighs, and dripping silently onto the white tile floor.
The humming ceased.
The silence that followed was thick and heavy. Alina hung limply against him, her body trembling with aftershocks. Patrick held her steady.
He lowered his hand, pressing it flat against the wet fabric on her inner thigh. His fingers began to move, spreading the moisture, caressing her through the warm, damp cloth. They slid higher, pressing through the material to find the still-sensitive, swollen flesh beneath. He began to massage her again, this time with his fingers, slowly and deeply. He felt her respond, felt a new wave of arousal stir in the depths of her surrender.
Alina didn’t resist. She felt a strange, profound pleasure in her complete submission. Every movement of his fingers was a promise.
A line had been crossed. This was just the beginning.