The Yoga Teacher, by Ian Fletcher

Aloof, dispassionate, wise, he appeared unlike other men, who were as moths to a candle.

Professional, he would touch male and female only to adjust their postures.

Someone to cultivate over time, she booked a one-on-one class.

Communion, but of a spiritual kind!

Ah, but the hand repositioning her chest brushing her lower breast, the fingers straightening the back of her thigh almost imperceptibly reaching her buttock.

At the end of the class they sat cross-legged, eyes closed, in lotus position for the holy Om call.

Peering through her eyelids, he seemed a rearing cobra charmed out of its basket.

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