Today I was just going to train. That's all. I threw on my purple top, the one that clung to my body before I even started sweating. My light pants kept up with the pace — and I, without rushing, without any premonition, just went. But on the way back... oh, on the way back there was a mirror. And my body. And sweat. The shirt was stuck to me, a little wet, carrying the weight of my effort, my presence, my smell. I pulled it up slowly. First the hem, then the rest. And the cold air of the house hit my hot skin — and you know what that does. The stuck top showed more than it hid. It showed effort, it showed marks, it showed desire condensed on my skin. And the little hairs there, in the curve of my armpit, all damp, firm, insistent. I thought about you. I thought about what I would do if I saw this scene in person. About what I would feel if I were kneeling, with my face so close to my sweaty skin, breathing deeply without the courage to touch. Because you know: I let you see. But I don't let it get to me. And that's where the game begins. You like purple. Dark. Almost. You like my tiredness because it still dominates you. You like sweat because it has my taste in it. And you like the silence between one order and another. I know. I look at the camera and feel you there. Imagining. Begging. Dying to touch your tongue and thank me for existing. But you don't need to say anything. I already know what you feel. I already know what you want. And today, just for today, I'll let you dream about the taste of my workout. #fetish