She Was the Only One Who Stayed After My Exclusive Retreat.

My name is Dylan Voss. Thirty-three. Six-foot-four, former CrossFit competitor turned owner of a chain of boutique fitness studios. I built an empire on sweat and discipline. I also run exclusive retreats—five days, twelve women, no men. Except me.

Sedona, Arizona. Red-rock canyons, vortex energy bullshit the guests love, private villa with infinity pool and open-air yoga shala. Third retreat of the year. The group arrived Sunday. Isabella Cruz caught my eye immediately. Thirty. Corporate lawyer from Phoenix. Dark hair in a loose braid, olive skin, body honed by years of power yoga—strong legs, tight core, breasts full under her sports bra, ass that filled out leggings like they were painted on. She moved with purpose. Eyes that challenged.

First two days: professional. I led sunrise flows, adjustments gentle but firm. She held poses longer than anyone. During savasana her breathing synced with mine—too close, too intentional.

Third night: moonlight hike. Everyone else returned to the villa after sunset meditation. Isabella lingered. “Mind if I stay out a bit?” she asked. Voice low. Eyes locked.

We walked the trail alone. Moon full, rocks glowing silver. Silence except for our footsteps and distant coyotes. At the flat overlook—canyon drop below, stars thick overhead—we stopped.

No words. Just heat.

I stepped closer. She didn’t back away. I grabbed her waist. Pulled her against me. Kissed her hard—tongue claiming, teeth nipping. She moaned into my mouth. Hands under my shirt, nails raking my abs.

Clothes came off fast. Tank top, leggings, sports bra—gone. Naked under moonlight. Her skin golden, nipples hard from the cool air. I pushed her down onto the smooth rock. Warm from the day. Spread her thighs.

Mouth between her legs first. Tongue flat on her clit, circling, flicking. Two fingers inside, curling. She tasted clean, sweet, needy. Hips bucked. Hands in my hair. She came fast—shuddering, moaning into the night, thighs clamping my head.

I stood. Dropped my shorts. Cock hard, thick, ready. She reached for me. Guided me in—slow, deep. Tight heat swallowed me. She gasped.

I fucked her missionary on the rock—deep, steady thrusts. Legs over my shoulders. Folded her. Pounded harder. Breasts bounced. Nails dug into my back. Moonlight painted us silver.

“Harder,” she demanded.

I gave it. Relentless. Slapped her ass—sharp crack echoing off the canyon. Pulled her hair. She pushed back, matching every thrust.

She came again—loud, shaking, soaking me. I flipped her onto her knees. Took her from behind—hands on hips, pulling her onto me. Ass bouncing. Hair fisted. Canyon wind cooled sweat-slick skin.

“Cum inside me,” she gasped. “Fill me.”

I buried deep. Exploded—thick, pulsing ropes flooding her while she trembled beneath me.

We collapsed on the rock. Breathing ragged. Stars above. Bodies tangled.

Morning came. Sunrise yoga. She held downward dog perfectly. I adjusted her hips—lingering touch. No one noticed.

That night she slipped into my private suite. Shower sex—her back to my chest, hands braced on tile. Then bed—slow, face-to-face, eyes locked.

Retreat ended. Guests left. She stayed one extra night.

We fucked on the yoga deck at dawn. Again in the pool at midnight.

When she finally drove away, she left her sports bra on my pillow.

Some retreats change your life.

Some leave marks that last longer than the red rocks.