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ripple across her skin.

Then came the Wide-Legged Forward Fold.

Sadie stepped her feet wide, far wider than necessary, legs splitting open in a deep, vulnerable straddle. She folded at the waist, torso draping forward and down between her thighs, arms stretching long until her small hands wrapped around her own ankles. The position pulled every curve into sharp, devastating relief.

Her firm, round apple-bottom ass lifted high, cheeks parted by the extreme spread of her legs. The center seam of the leggings rode up cruelly, disappearing completely into the cleft and outlining perfectly, obscenely, the plump, puffy folds of her pussy. The fabric was damp there, darkened with sweat, clinging so tightly that the distinct shape of her outer lips and the subtle ridge of her clit were visible in negative space. Every tiny shift of her hips as she settled deeper into the stretch made the material pull tighter, accentuating the soft, swollen contours. A fresh bead of sweat rolled from the small of her back, traced the deep dimple above one cheek, then followed the seam downward until it soaked into the already-dark patch between her legs.

She exhaled on a soft, breathy sigh, almost a moan, and her ass flexed, cheeks clenching and releasing in tiny, unconscious pulses that made the fabric ripple like water. Her breasts, hanging forward in the fold, swayed heavily; sweat dripped from her sternum and landed on the mat with faint, wet plinks. Raven curls spilled over her shoulders, several strands sticking to the damp skin of her neck and upper back. Her breathing had turned audible, deep, rhythmic pants that lifted and lowered her torso, making her ass rock ever so slightly in the straddle.

Every muscle in his body screamed from Judy's over exuberance, yet the sight of Sadie’s body displayed so openly, so unknowingly, sent fresh heat roaring through his veins. His balls drew up tight. His pulse hammered in his throat, in his cock, in the raw ache between his legs.

She had no clue.

She simply held the pose, breathing, stretching, glistening every inch of her voluptuous hourglass, an unwitting weapon.

Pigeon pose followed by hip lowering, one leg folded beneath, the other extended long behind. The stretch opened her even further; the damp seam between her legs pulled tighter still, outlining the soft, puffy lips in perfect relief. She rocked forward once, a small, innocent adjustment, and the motion dragged the fabric across her clit in a way that made her bite her lower lip and let out the tiniest, involuntary whimper of relief.

Matteo’s knees nearly buckled.

The camel came last. She arched back on her knees, hands reaching for her heels, chest thrust skyward, head falling back so raven curls brushed the mat. Her throat was exposed, vulnerable; her breasts jutted obscenely upward, nipples so hard they tented the soaked sports bra like diamonds. The undercurves of her tits were fully visible now, soft, pale, glistening, and with every panting breath, they bounced, sweat rolling in slow, shining trails down her sternum and pooling in the hollow of her navel.

A low, breathy sound escaped her parted lips, half effort, half pleasure, and it hit Matteo like a physical stroke. He watched every bead of sweat trace her curves, every sway of her heavy breasts, every unconscious flex of her ass and thighs, every tiny rock of her hips that pulled the damp fabric tighter against her sex. He felt obscene. He felt guilty. He felt harder than he’d ever been in his life.

When the session finally ended, both of them slick and breathing hard in the suddenly too-small house, Matteo looked at her with something raw, dark, and dangerous flickering behind his dark eyes.

“Sadie,” he rasped, voice thick with more than exhaustion, “I’m sorry about the oat milk. And for being such a jerk.”

She straightened slowly, catching her breath, porcelain skin glowing with exertion, nipples still visibly straining against the wet bra, the dark patch between her legs unmistakable now. She met his gaze, surprised, then softened. A small, tentative smile curved her lips.

“Apology accepted. I’m sorry for calling you a participation trophy.” she murmured, voice still breathy from the workout.

She turned toward the stairs, the gentle, sensual sway of her ass in those sweat-soaked leggings the last thing he saw before she disappeared.

Matteo stayed rooted to the spot for another full minute, cock throbbing angrily, mind reeling with images he had no right to keep.

Later, after another scalding shower that failed to wash away the memory or the persistent ache between his legs, he collapsed onto his bed in nothing but loose black boxer briefs.

The house was quiet.

His body hurt.

His mind was louder.

Then his phone buzzed.

Judy Shepherd.

Three devastating photos loaded one after another.

Matteo stared at the screen, Judy topless barely covering her nipples, her posing in a mirror wearing a tight pink thong and a pierced tongue teasing her lip, and felt the inevitable, painful surge of blood despite everything.

She had typed that she was on her way over.

He typed back frantically: “No. Don’t come. Stomach bug. Stay away.”

Her reply was instant: another photo, even bolder.

His hand was already sliding beneath the waistband slowly, carefully, because anything faster would make his abs seize.

He wrapped long fingers around the thick, veiny shaft and stroked once, gently, luxuriously, savoring the burn.

A broken groan rolled out of him.

Judy had already made his self-inflicted pain worse.

Sadie had just branded herself into his retinas without even trying.

And Judy…

Judy was about to push him over the edge with nothing but pixels and his own shaking hand.

He closed his eyes, stroked again, slower, deeper, and let the ragged moan fill the quiet room.

Feral sex was already whispering his name.

And Matteo, too sore, too hard, too conflicted, was already listening.

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