My name is Christi Clark, a married mother of two who is getting back into the working world slowly by turning my dance background and yoga hobby into more than just my recovery from childbirth, but my new business opportunity. I had become certified as a yoga instructor, as I had been a dance instructor, but what I wanted to target was other young mothers like myself, the urban white suburban housewives who wanted to get their body back, and who needed a way to deal with the stress and emotional drain of essentially facing motherhood’s burdens unsupported.
It took a village to raise a child, it took multiple generations to be successful, but while the Hindu still lived that way, we had forsaken it for the myth of the nuclear family that served men well and left women to drown alone. I had the plan, I had the market, I needed the space. That is how I met Mr Patel.
Rajesh Patel sipped his tea and watched me do my yoga workout. Having him watch and correct me had really improved my form. I learned Yoga from other white instructors, but when I was looking for a place to host my Yoga for young mothers, helping all of us women who wanted to get back in shape and get back in touch with our feminine spiritual, active and sensual sides when motherhood has a tendency to strip those away, only Mr Patel and his Hindi Books and Tea House offered us a space. The fact that it was a temple space often used for local religious private devotionals for those too buys to make the trip out to the main temple across town was an added and deep honour.
I had expected having the pot-bellied middle aged man watching me do my workouts in skin tight yoga gear would leave me feeling either exposed or dirty, but the opposite was true. His eyes were different, his smile was different. His anger was different. When I would begin to tense up, when I would begin to think negative thoughts or begin to simply go through the motions, he would tell. He would be off his seat, and a firm slap first on my shoulder, and later on my bum when we both grew more comfortable would let me know I was not doing yoga, I was pretending. Mind body and spirit, what my other white instructors talked about but didn’t teach, Mr Patel as a real and deeply committed Hindu lived.
We made a funny pair. I stand just a little shy of six feet, a tall leggy blond with perky C cup breasts on a dancer’s build, blue eyes and lightly tanned skin. Mr Patel is about five eight, broad shouldered and thick in the middle, a dark skinned Hindu with laughing eyes and smiling face, but when he was displeased with something, the father in him snapped forward and suddenly the fat little shop keeper did a fair impression of an angry Lord, or maybe it was that you saw a hint that he was that Lord all the time, and the fat shopkeeper was a mask he wore, a game he played. Like a lazy lion sitting in the middle of the Savannah, letting the cubs stalk his tail.
I learned all the poses, and as a ballerina, jazz dancer and Lyrical dancer, i excelled at the form, but what i didn’t learn from the videos and the books was what Mr Patel taught. Mind first, then breath, then body. Because of my breath, Mr Patel insisted i stop wearing the loose tops and switch to something where he could see me breathe. For weeks I saw improvements that advanced me years beyond what my training had given me, but then I hit a plateau.
My teaching other young mothers had shown me the difference between what I could give them, and what Mr Patel could do, so I began to ask him to sit in. Soon every one of us was falling into the pattern as if it was designed that way. I would lead the class, until Mr Patel saw something he didn’t like, then he would say “Stop” all of us would freeze.
Then he would move to one of the white women, he would place his hands on her at opposing points to hold her in position, then he would snap out “Observe” and the rest of us would turn and watch. It was like watching a really good horse trainer or dog trainer. He would talk so quietly, so softly. His hands moving in gentle caresses. He would identify women who were having emotional distress, having physical limits they were ignoring, having injuries or birth damage that they hadn’t healed properly from. In a minute or less he would have them smiling and moving under his hands like water. Flowing in a way we couldn’t do on our own. Always he would say the same thing.
“Wonderful, you ladies are doing wonderful. You have overcome as much of the gap between your conditioning and your teachings as you can, while you still wear the chains of Christianity. You make me proud. I have done what I could, limited by what I can see” He would state with smiling benevolence.
It was true. I started to notice the less I wore, the more of my body he could see, the less I could hide from him. Mr Patel could be the way past my plateau, the way past my limit in my yoga growth. I finally brought up the nerve to ask. I knew this was a lot to ask, so when I arrived for our early session, I didn’t let him fix us tea as usual, but went to fetch the tea for him. I bade him to sit as I prepared his tea as I had seen him prepare it a thousand times. His eyes measured my motions critically, so I attempted to perform the preparation of his tea as I would a dance, or a dynamic yoga movement. I tried to keep my frame, present myself with as much grace as possible as I made and offered his tea. I did so with the bow traditional in the old ballet forms of the scarf and pillow dances, old forms of reverence to the nobility that exist only in such cultural remnants as ballet.
I offered Mr Patel his tea with honey with the most gracious bow almost two decades of ballet had left me, and held the pose until his regal nod allowed me to rise. Again I fell into a ballet pose while he regarded me. He raised his head and simply stated.
“You have a request child?” He asked.
I blushed when he called me that, but when he adopted that tone, the friendly banter of the shopkeeper gone, and the priest/king mantle heavy upon his broad dark shoulders, I really felt like a child before a parent, a student or apprentice before a learned master.
“Yes sir.” I replied. I had rehearsed this a hundred times in front of my mirror. Facing Mr Patel it seemed a thousand times harder.
“Mr Patel, I have been very aware and very grateful for the progress I have made under your teachings, the gap between the Yoga I was taught in the west and the understanding a true Hindu has is not one I am qualified to measure beyond noting that I can’t ever move forward without your guidance. You had mentioned that you had done what you could, limited by what you could see. There is this thing I have heard about in California, naked yoga. Forgive me if this is disrespectful to your culture or to this sacred space, but would it be permissible for me to practice this way, so you could instruct me without limitations on what you can see?”
I was blushing scarlet, the last time I had been this scared had been when my husband went down on one knee and pulled out a ring box. My heart was hammering in my chest, and oddly, my nipples were rock hard and poking through my yoga top like little flags of inappropriate timing to maximize my humiliation of Mr Patel was insulted and rebuked me for being slutty in the sacred space he had graciously allowed my yoga class to use.
“Ah child, my little Christi is almost ready to grow up. You may never be free you know. Your Christianity fitted every woman with chains when they raised you, but you have at least taken those chains in your own hands. This is the first step. I don’t know if you will ever be ready for the second, but you make me think you have the dedication, the spirit, the soul to transcend your origin and become worthy of true instruction. I will allow this. Your training will begin”
At times, his words bypassed my ears and wrote themselves directly into my body. This was one. I felt my tension that held me knotted tight like a cord consumed in a fire that lit my body like a candle. As I undressed for Mr Patel, I hoped he would not notice the almost aching arousal of my body. His spiritual depth was so great, it was like a magnetic field, like gravity. If he was the moon, I was a tide that was drawn towards him, reaching and yearning in ways I couldn’t understand, content only to bask in his light.
A part of me feared he would take advantage. Christ knows, more than one female instructor, and all the male instructors of Yoga I encountered had been guilty of inappropriate touching of at least a few of their students. Mr Patel was different. Doing naked yoga for his eyes was not just a physical experience, or a spiritual one, it was all consuming. His eyes, I lived for what I saw in his eyes. Approval, disappointment, understanding, mercy. All of these I saw in turn. His hands upon me were anchors I clung to. His guidance was perfect, his touch centered me like gentling a horse grown nervous under the saddle. My balance advanced, my center deepened, and my stress level dropped like a rock.
The class noticed. Everyone at home noticed. I was growing calmer, happier, more balanced. Stress rolled off me, and smiles shone forth even during the storms. One thing was not noticed by everyone, especially my husband. I was growing to desire more than Mr Patel’s approval. He was so very proper, so very respectful, he crossed no lines at all. It was as if his eyes could drink in my beauty, yet make no attempt to possess it. I found myself attempting to move to make his hands touch inappropriately. I thought I was subtle, but when I turned to “accidentally” bring my white breast under his dark palm his other hand spanked my ass cheek with a single sharp “CRACK”, and he gently rotated me into proper position.
I was prepared to be mortified, to be humiliated, but Mr Patel wouldn’t allow it. He simply chuckled and said.
“Now now, it is not time for that lesson. You hold your chains in your hands, but have not yet learned enough to release their burden.”
I can’t claim to understand, but the flood of gratitude that filled my body almost made me lose my lock, and it was only Mr Patels strong Hindu hands that prevented me from losing my pose and falling. The awareness of his hands suddenly made my body hungry in a way that my husband had not since my first pregnancy. This would be the first of many nights I would only find sleep after touching myself, and thinking about Mr Patel.
I was too long with that lesson, and my students had started to come in while Mr Patel was leading me through my forms in one quarter speed. Flowing smoothly through the transitions required perfect balance, and his eyes burning on my body made me ignore the whispers of my class as they saw my naked form moving under his direction. When he clapped his hands, and told me to dress for class, i was reluctant, but obeyed.
After class, a number of my students asked if it was true, that naked Yoga was what was behind my recent progress. I admitted that it was. From that night on, a second class began. A dozen young white mothers joined me in naked Yoga under Mr Patel’s direction.
Mr Patel soon had to bring in other Hindu men from the community, at least a handful of them would join the class to watch us each day, sipping their tea and stopping to correct his pose and that. To caress the tension from us, to administer a firm spank if we failed to adjust as requested, or relapsed into a mistake. The men affected not to notice, but I could tell there was not a white woman in the class who was not so aroused that discussions on break began to quietly and whisperingly cover how we were all having to masturbate several times a day thinking about our Yoga class, and how frustrating it is that we were almost never able to “accidentally” get our Hindu coaches hands to those locations they were respectfully steering clear of.
Carmen Rutledge was a large breasted brunette, she was almost beside herself, as a breast feeding mother, she was frequently embarrassed when she would leak. It was particularly embarrassing for her when working under Mr Patel’s eyes would make her engorge and leak, even squirting when she put his hands on her naked back ribs to control a shift in her pose to his satisfaction. She whispered.
“Mr Patel called me a blessed white cow. You know how I have always hated my breasts, have hated being teased as a cow not only by the flat chested girls, but by every single guy I ever turned down. It has been worse since breast feeding, like now I was a cow, a dirty milk cow who should have sense enough to stay out of the public.”
Carmen turned, and her hands cupped her naked breasts, moving up her ribs to cup the fullness of her breast and all the way to the nipples which shot a fine spray of sweet foremilk.
“When Mr Patel said it, Christi, I wanted it to be true. I wanted to be his cow, and to feed him my milk. To have him offer it to the other Hindu men”
I moaned, embarrassed that I could not keep it inside, but there were at least three other whimpers from around the circle of us, and all of us looked over our shoulders at the half dozen lounging Hindu men, unabashedly admiring us as we white girls clustered together to discuss our deepening and dangerous feelings.
I attempted to change the subject before we strayed further into areas good married white women did not discuss with men not their husbands, especially not men with good and loyal Hindu wives at home. Unfortunately, all I could think about was Mr Patel’s words to us. I mumbled to myself, but the girls asked me to repeat it, so I spoke it loud enough for all of them to hear.
“What is the second step? We have taken the chains in our own hands, but what is the second step?”
Mr Patel sat in the center of his group of older Hindu men, like a lord with his court. He gestured to us to gather around, and we naturally gathered in a circle at their feet. The image of a dozen white wives and mothers, naked, at the feat of the Hindu master about to dispense the wisdom for which we would give so much, and for which he asked nothing in return. Perhaps the world would not understand this, would see a dozen beautiful young women naked and kneeling before a half dozen middle aged or older Hindu men and wonder how much they paid. The world would not understand, each of us women paid extra to be part of this advanced Yoga class and provided a donative to all those Hindu men who came to grace us with their instruction and their care. We were paying to be where we were, naked at their feet, so we could learn what no white instructor could teach. The truth not just about yoga, but about ourselves.
The world would not understand. There is much wrong with the world, and this blindness is a symptom. For all of us women, it was clear, it was natural, it was…right.
Mr Patel began to speak, no longer the jovial shop keeper, he was a priest, a king, a master instructing his disciples with a patience their learning would never measure up to.
“Ah child, my little Christi has lead you all this far, it speaks well of you. You may never be free you know. Your Christianity fitted every woman with chains when they raised you, but you have at least taken those chains in your own hands. This is the first step.
From your birth, they chained you with sin, they chained you with shame, they chained you with self hatred. They took your nature, your passion, your loving, and your beauty and they turned it into chains to bind you, whips to punish you, and a cross to sacrifice yourself on the altar of white male misogyny.
You cannot be free. These chains are a part of you now. They were in the hands of your husbands and fathers, your bosses and every white man that looked upon you as his rightful trophy, his prize. What I have done, what the loving instruction of my fellow Hindu men have done is to allow you to take those chains into your own hands. We have taught you the first step in connecting to your body, connecting to your spirit, connecting to the whole universe the living the dead, the gods. You have taken the first step, but your chains will do one of two things, pull you back to Christ and your white life, or forward to bringing forth a reflection of the divine Hindu spirit even into such an imperfect mirror as you shining women.”
It was so simple when he put it that way. The chains were real, they had always held me back, turned me against myself, made me doubt myself. Since studying under Mr Patel, I might have taken the chains in my hand, but I could not lead me forward. Chains drag me backwards, chains to drag me forward. Who, who could drag me forward? Who could show me how to be even a pale reflection of his Hindu serenity? Who but Mr Patel?
I rose to walk behind the T station, where the chains for hanging the lamps for Diwali. Before our class, the men had been hard at work cleaning everything for Diwali as devout Hindu’s did. The chains were detached from the hanging oil lamps. I took one up in my hand.
I wrapped it around my neck, then a loop around my wrists. The rest I held in my hands. I walked to Mr Patel, and bowed low in full supplication, extending my chains to him who had taught me what little I knew of who I was, and who made me dare to think he might teach me the rest. I spoke, my voice shaking in fear of rejection.
“Master Patel, I cannot be free of my chains. I was born a Christian and can never have a Hindu soul in me. All I can do is work to learn to be better and hope to be reborn in another life as a worthy Hindu. In this life, if I cannot be free, I can at least choose my master. I can admit when I have found a Master and wish him to forever be my Master in truth.” I have never been so scared or so sincere. I honestly don’t think I can show my face in the community again if he rejects me in this humiliating prostration.
I heard an odd scraping in the background, but my eyes were only on Mr Patel’s hands. I heard the chuckling from the other Hindu men, but Mr Patel was still like a temple statue. Forged of bronze and stone, so still the ancient forest seemed untidy and restless. I was not breathing.
His fist wrapped around my chain, once, twice, three times, then he yanked me to his knees and I prostrated myself to kiss his feet. He drew me up by my chained hands, and I found myself lost in his great dark eyes.
He reached his hand back to my neck, and slowly drew me to him. He pressed my naked toned young white body to his comfortable Hindu solidity until the fluttering of my heart pressed against the muted thunder of his own, and his lips claimed mine.
I went away.
The kiss took my mind, took my awareness, took my fear and my hesitations both. So gentle, so strong. Rising with the slow irresistible potency of the tide, his kiss grew until I was whimpering into his mouth and only the chains on my hands prevented me from tearing his clothes off.
He grabbed my hair and bent my head back to break our kiss. He looked at me with such a pure look of ownership I just about came. His voice rang loud in the hall for all to here.
“Christi, as you beg to be owned by me so will I take you. As you beg to be mine in all things so I will make you what you could have been, what you should have been. My first gift to you is this, there is one way a Hindu soul can be put into a white woman” His powerful right hand caressed down from my belly button to my vagina, finger casually resting within my folds and causing me to grind helplessly against his hand.
I realized what he was offering, and I could not restrain myself.
“Master, will you put a great Hindu baby in my white belly?” I begged, writhing against his dominant hand.
He smiled, and for a second we were alone in the room, in the world, in the universe. Then he spoke.
“Yes Christi, first and best among all my possessions, I will put a good Hindu baby in your belly”
My knees got weak and I slid to the ground before him. Desperately my bound hands clawed at his pants, undoing them to pull free his great Hindu cock. I looked up into the eyes of my new Hindu Master and saw that heavy breasted Carmen was even now offering her breast to his mouth. Around her neck was a golden chain that ran to Mr Patel’s fist where he held mine.
I groaned as I took Mr Patel’s cock into my mouth. Around me I could see a blond and brunette kissing over Ranjiv’s cock, one aristocratic Italian with Ram’s heavy balls in her mouth while the red headed Irish woman parted his hairy cheeks to burrow in his dark Hindu ass with her married white Christian tongue.
Everywhere, two white wives and mothers hand offered their chains and their bodies to their Hindu master. Everywhere one Hindu lord sought to undo centuries of Christian indoctrination and at least prepare these women to be good servants to Hindu men, and more wonderfully, the mothers of good Hindu half caste children to lead the white race to a more harmonious future under benevolent Hindu rule.
Above me Carmen cried out in joy as milk from her one white breast fell upon me as she fed the other to her proud Hindu bull. I felt Mr Patel’s cock swelling and knew him about to bless me with his divine seed for the first time. As he could make a white cow cum by milking her, so would I show a white woman could make the proudest Hindu Bull scream out his joy as I milked his balls dry into my thirsty white mouth.
This yoga studio, the nude yoga, and now the yoga breeding group had always been a labour of love. Now I could only hope that it would end in love’s true labour, and a strong Hindu baby.
Master Patel pinned my hands to the ground above my head, and kissed me fiercely. I felt his great Hindu cock push into me. I felt like a helpless virgin on her wedding night, a thing I never was. This was my true wedding, my breeding by my Hindu bull.
He began to drive into me, each thrust driving the breath from my body and sending shocks of lightning along my nerves. I opened my mouth to scream as I came again when I felt Mr Patel shift and move something over me.
I opened my mouth to scream as I came, and found my mouth buried in Carmen’s soaking vagina. Mr Patel was fucking me hard and fast, but he was not neglecting Carmen, kissing her fiercely and positioning her over my mouth so I could drink her cum while master filled me with his.
Ten minutes of furious pounding and Mr Patel sounded like a raging bull, snarling and snorting as his whole body spasmed. Each blast was so strong, driven so deep in me that it drove me along the floor and deeper into Carmen’s pussy. I clamped around his cock with a ferocious need as my white pussy milked his cock into my fertile white womb.
I screamed my orgasm into Carmen’s pussy only to have her cum into my mouth uncontrollably as she heard Master cum in me. Truly a masterful Hindu bull to train me without a word to bring off another white cow in perfect timing with him.
I could never be free of my chains, but I could choose who held my leash. I reject Christianity and its hate filled misogynists. I choose Hindu men, and their culture of positive love. I would rather be slave to Mr Patel and his friends than Queen of the whole nation.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/z21ww5/yoga_chains_and_mr_patel_m40_m40_f40_f40