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Vixen Hot Wife presents Vixen's 
bedtime stories You wanted a 

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bedtime story. 
You just didn't say how naughty 

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it should be. 
Warm golden lights spilled 

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across the polished wood floor, 
catching on dust motes that 

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danced lazily through the still 
air. 

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The room was quiet, serene, the 
kind of quiet that came not from

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absence but intention. 
A hum of presence, a hush that 

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made you want to move closer. 
The scent of sandalwood clung to

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the space, softened by something
citrusy. 

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Orange peel, maybe. 
It smelled like energy and calm 

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all at once. 
Vixen knelt gracefully near the 

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front of the room, unrolling 2 
mats side by side, the soft 

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thwack of rubber settling 
against wood the only sound 

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beyond breath. 
She wore a fitted tank top, 

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moisture darkened along the hem 
where it hugged the curve of her

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waist. 
Her leggings were high waisted, 

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her hair twisted up and loose at
the nape of her neck. 

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He stood behind her, new to the 
class, unsure of his footing. 

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His mat squeaked slightly as he 
shifted, nervous. 

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She could feel his gaze more 
than she saw it. 

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His posture was hesitant, but 
his eyes kept drifting, 

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following the sway of her hips, 
the shape of her thighs when she

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moved, the way her chest lifted 
with each breath. 

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She adjusted her top, tugging it
slightly into place where it 

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clung to her skin, then turned 
1, brow arched in quiet 

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amusement. 
Try to focus on your breath. 

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She said, her voice low, steady,
coaxing. 

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Then after a beat, her tone 
playful, pointed. 

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Not the view. 
He flushed. 

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Instantly, the color rose on his
cheeks, bashful and sweet, and 

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she smiled, indulgent, inviting,
before gently guiding him into 

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mountain pose. 
The air between them shifted 

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just a little, just enough. 
Vixen moved like breath fluid, 

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grounded, assured. 
Each pose unfolded with 

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intention, her hips swaying as 
she transitioned from warrior to

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triangle and then back again. 
He tried to follow, but his form

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wobbled. 
His hands trembled slightly in 

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downward dog, palms pressing 
hard into the mat as his breath 

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stuttered. 
She circled behind him, silent 

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on bare feet, and crouched low, 
her breath warm against the 

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curve of his ear, Ears stiff. 
She murmured, voiced silken and 

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amused in all the wrong ways. 
He choked on a breath his knees 

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nearly gave out. 
She smiled, not unkind but 

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unmistakably aware. 
Her fingers grazed his hips, 

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adjusting the angle with a touch
that lingered just a second 

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longer than necessary. 
Then she rose, slow and 

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deliberate, stepping back into 
his line of sight as she moved 

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through another stretch. 
Her leggings hugged her every 

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curve, the swell of her ass, the
line of her thighs, and when she

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bent forward, palms flat on the 
mat, she knew he was staring. 

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She led him, didn't correct it, 
didn't hide, just glanced at him

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over her shoulder, her voice 
teasing, velvet soft. 

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You're not hiding it very well, 
sweetheart. 

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His gaze dropped as if dragged 
there by gravity, and he saw it,

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the clear straining outline 
pressing against his own 

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waistband. 
His face flushed Crimson. 

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He looked like he wanted to melt
into the floor. 

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But she didn't stop, didn't 
soften, just stepped closer. 

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Her eyes locked on his as her 
voice dropped again, playful. 

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Certain. 
You think I haven't noticed? 

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She tilted her head, smile 
curling at the corners of her 

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mouth. 
You're not the first, but you 

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might be the most fun. 
She began to circle him, slow 

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and soundless, like a current of
heat moving just beneath the 

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surface. 
Every breath she took was 

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controlled, soft, measured. 
His chest rose and fell in 

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shallow bursts, eyes tracking 
her as she passed behind him, 

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then around again. 
Tell me. 

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She murmured, close enough for 
her breath to kiss the back of 

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his neck. 
What's got you so distracted? 

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His jaw clenched and then 
cracked open. 

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You, he barely whispered, voice 
barely there. 

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It's you, She smiled, pleased. 
That's better, she said gently, 

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sinking to her knees beside him.
Her fingers brushed over his 

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thigh, feather light at first, 
then bolder as they traced along

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the edge of his hip, not quite 
touching him where he wanted, 

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but so close. 
I teach connection, she said, 

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her voice like honey, thick and 
warm and slow, body to breath, 

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mind to desire. 
He shivered as her hand slid up 

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his sides, pushing his shirt 
higher. 

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Then she swung one leg over and 
settled on to his lap, 

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straddling him on the mat with 
deliberate grace. 

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Their bodies pressed together, 
heat to heat, heartbeat to 

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heartbeat. 
She took his hands in hers, 

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moved them to her waist, Let 
them rest there, firm, 

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anchoring. 
Don't be shy now, she said, hips

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beginning to move in slow, 
shallow circles. 

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You already came here hard for 
me. 

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He groaned, low and helpless, 
his hands tightening on her 

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curves. 
She leaned in, pressing her lips

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close to his ear, her breath hot
and teasing. 

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Feel how warm I am for you. 
She ground her hips down, slow 

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and deliberate, dragging 
friction where it ached the 

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most. 
He bucked beneath her without 

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meaning to, overwhelmed. 
Her lips grazed his jaw. 

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There it is, she whispered. 
Now let's see how deep this 

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connection goes. 
She shifted her hips once more, 

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aligning them with attention. 
Then, in one slow, deliberate 

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movement, she sank down on to 
him, inch by inch, taking him in

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like she'd been waiting all 
class for this exact stretch. 

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He did not realize that the type
of yoga pants she had had such 

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an opening, or that she had 
managed to move his pants down 

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just enough to slide him in. 
Her breath hitched, but she 

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didn't rush, just held there for
a moment, letting him feel it, 

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letting herself feel it. 
Their bodies stayed close, chest

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to chest, her arms braced on 
either side of them, tight, 

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warm, like part of a practice 
sequence they'd somehow always 

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known. 
She moved in a slow rhythm, a 

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pulse, a wave. 
Inhale, thrust, exhale, moan. 

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The sounds of the room softened,
everything else dropping away. 

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All that remained was fire and 
friction and breath. 

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She took him deeper with each 
settle tilt of her hips, her 

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eyes locked on his the entire 
time. 

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You're doing so well, she 
murmured, her voice breathy with

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praise. 
So open, so responsive. 

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He was unraveling beneath her, 
gasping her name like it might 

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keep him grounded. 
His hands clutched at her waist,

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sliding up her back, desperate 
to hold on. 

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She smiled down at him, slow, 
sure, just the tiniest bit 

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wicked now. 
That's your center. 

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It broke him. 
He groaned as he came, body 

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bucking up into hers, his 
release sudden and helpless. 

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She stayed right there, warm and
wet and steady, moving slower 

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now, soothing him with soft, 
steady strokes of her hands 

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across his chest, letting him 
fall apart in her arms. 

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She leaned in, lips brushing his
cheek, whispering praise between

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the tremors. 
Good boy. 

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They lay tangled together on the
mat, limbs slack, breath slow. 

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In tandem, her fingers trace 
light patterns across his chest,

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lazy spirals, small strokes, as 
if her body still needed to 

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move, just not as urgently. 
The studio smells different now,

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less like citrus and sandalwood,
more like heat and Musk. 

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Clean sweat, breath and deep, 
deep satisfaction. 

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She smiled as he blinked up at 
the ceiling, still dazed, still 

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somewhere between bliss and 
disbelief. 

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Same time next week? 
She asked, voice low and 

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teasing. 
He nodded quickly, like he might

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forget how to speak if he tried.
Please. 

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She laughed softly, the sound 
like silk brushing bare skin. 

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Then she rose, slow and 
unhurried, adjusting her tank 

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top with practised grace. 
Her thighs brushed against his 

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as she stood, and he shivered 
just once, like his body hadn't 

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quite recovered from the way she
moved. 

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She turned back as she walked 
toward the door, glancing over 

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her shoulder. 
Don't forget to stretch after. 

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Outside, twilight had deepened. 
The sky had a dusky lavender 

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behind the tall studio windows. 
The air cooled with coming night

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and as his body hummed for more 
than just yoga, as the quiet 

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filled back in around them like 
breath returning to a chest, 

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Vixen exhaled with a smile on 
her lips and a new rhythm in her

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hips. 
Good night, beautiful soul. 

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Thank you for listening, 
beautiful soul. 

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If you love this story, leave me
a little love note or a review. 

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I read every single one and they
help others find these bedtime 

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stories too. 
For full weekly audios, early 

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access, and so much more, just 
follow the link in my show notes

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or visit linktree.com/vixen. 
Hot wife. 

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That's Vixen with three exes. 
Sweet dreams, my love. 

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You remember them, don't you? 
The night at the gorge, the 

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hammock and as the mohair is the
one with the younger man in the.

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Bookstore you've. 
Heard them all. 

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Now close your eyes, I'm