December 9, 2025

You walk down the stairs, freshly showered and trying to shake the last traces of sleep from your head. The TV is already on. Soft music fills the living room, calm and rhythmic. You step off the last stair and stop without meaning to.

Yuna is on the floor, right in front of the television.

She’s on her yoga mat, moving through a slow stretch with practiced focus. Her hair is pulled into a neat ponytail, the line of her neck clean and exposed. She’s wearing a black sports bra and tight black yoga pants and a thin zip jacket hanging open. Her midriff flexes as she shifts. Her hips roll with easy control. And her ass, wrapped tight in those pants, is right there, framed perfectly as she bends forward, palms flat on the mat.

You swallow. This is wrong. You think that almost immediately, the thought arriving out of habit now, like a reflex you’ve trained yourself into. What the two of you are doing shouldn’t have become this easy. Every time she just… appears. On her knees. Smiling. Eager. As if giving you head whenever she feels like it is the most natural thing in the world. You never have to ask. That’s what scares you. Most of the time, it’s her who initiates everything. Her hands, her mouth, her words…And still, the guilt sits heavy in your chest. You worry you’re using her, shaping her around your own desire, even when she’s the one pushing forward.

Your thoughts drift, to the conversation from a few days ago.

Anal.

The way she said it so casually, like it was just another thing she wanted to learn. The way your surprise turned into heat almost instantly. The way the idea of taking her like that, of being the first, sent a jolt straight through you.

Her anal virginity. You hate how much that excites you. You remember insisting on going slow. Being responsible. Telling her no for once. One finger first. Then two. Then a small toy. Explaining patience, preparation, trust. Explaining that there was a specific butt plug she needed to be able to take before you’d even consider it.

Yuna had smiled. Nodded. Agreed. And then immediately started testing you.

Your gaze drifts back to her now. She transitions smoothly into another pose, hips lifting, spine arching, the fabric of her yoga pants stretching over her butt. You’re not imagining it. She knows exactly what she’s doing. And you suspect this is why she’s here. Why she’s doing yoga. Why she chose the living room.

Her body is on display. Flexible. Open. Patient in all the ways she refuses to be emotionally.

She glances over her shoulder and catches you watching.

“Good morning.”

Your voice is a little rough, betraying the fact that you were watching her longer than you should have.

Yuna doesn’t look surprised.

She holds the stretch for another second, then slowly straightens, turning just enough to look at you over her shoulder. Her smile is slow and teasing.

“Good morning, daddy.”

The word drips with intention. You feel it immediately…that familiar tightening in your chest. The way she says it, casual and smug, like she already knows what effect it has on you.

Her gaze flicks down your body, unashamed. You catch the movement, the way her eyes linger before she licks her lips, just once.

She knows you must have watched her. She counted on it.

For a split second, you can almost predict what she’ll do next. You’ve seen this scene too many times already: coming downstairs after a shower, only to find her kneeling there, waiting, eyes bright and hungry, as if this is her morning routine.

Too many times to pretend it’s coincidence.

Your stomach tightens. You turn away before she can move, heading for the kitchen instead, putting physical distance between you and her before your resolve cracks. You grip the edge of the counter, breathing out slowly as you reach for a mug. You can’t even count how often this has happened. How often she’s greeted you like that, how effortlessly she’s made herself available. No asking. No hesitation.

And that’s exactly what scares you. Because she’s good at it now. Too good. And the combination of her confidence, her skill, and the way those tight yoga pants cling to her hips is a dangerous one.

You know yourself well enough to admit the truth. If you let her get close right now, if you let her take control the way she wants to, you might stop caring about being careful. You might stop caring about patience, about preparation, about the rules you set for a reason.

You might take something she isn’t ready to give yet.

And that thought, more than the temptation, is what keeps you rooted in place, staring into your coffee cup instead of turning around.

You busy yourself in the kitchen, cracking eggs, toasting bread, forcing your hands to move without having to think. The clink of cutlery, the low hum of the fridge…the familiar noise tunes out Yuna’s yoga soundtrack.

But it doesn’t work. Because you realize quickly that you haven’t actually escaped anything as soon as you’re done preparing breakfast. There’s nowhere to go. You could eat in the kitchen, standing at the counter. You could retreat to your study, close the door, pretend you’re busy. But you already know what would happen.

Yuna would smile. She would tilt her head. She would tease you for hiding.

“Am I distracting you, daddy?”

“Should I stop?”

No. That would only encourage her.

So, when your plate is ready, you pick it up and head back toward the living room.

Yuna is still there, finishing her last stretch, calm and confident, as if she hasn’t just spent the last ten minutes putting your self-control under siege. You pause at the edge of the room, eyes flicking between the couch and the dining table.

The couch would be too close. Too obvious.

You choose the dining table instead, setting your plate down carefully and sitting with your back straight, eyes fixed stubbornly on your food. You make a point of not looking at her.

You take a bite.

Just as you start to settle into the act of eating, the TV goes quiet. The music cuts off mid-note.

You freeze, fork halfway to your mouth and slowly, you glance over.

Yuna is now rolling up her yoga mat. She doesn’t look at you…not yet. She’s focused on the mat, on smoothing it, on folding it just right.

You let out a quiet sigh, rubbing your thumb against the edge of the table.

You’re halfway through your meal when Yuna’s voice cuts through the silence.

“Hey, is it okay if I go out with some friends later?”

Her tone is casual as she gathers her yoga mat under one arm.

“I might come back late tonight.”

You glance up, relieved for the simple, normal question.

“Of course. Have fun.”

You try to sound unfazed.

She gives you a bright, grateful smile.