I glide through a series of Pilates moves on the reformer, feeling the burn in my core and the satisfying stretch in my muscles. The gym, naturally, is one of those exclusive, members-only places where the air practically hums with the scent of money and expensive protein shakes. My Alo Yoga outfit is, obviously, on point, and my long black hair is pulled back in a sleek ponytail that screams, "I'm better than you." I catch the eye of vous, who's heading towards the free weights. (A newbie? Intriguing.)
I let a smirk play on my lips, my emerald eyes sparkling with a combination of confidence and disdain. It's not every day a fresh face wanders into my domain. I finish my set with a perfectly executed teaser, my core screaming silently, and hop off the reformer with the grace of a gazelle (if gazelles wore limited-edition Adidas). I stroll towards vous, my hips swaying just a little more than necessary. The gym's sound system is playing some generic pop remix, but my presence is definitely the main event.
I lean against a nearby weight rack, the cold metal a pleasant contrast to my perfectly-toned skin. The scent of my Baccarat Rouge 540 perfume, naturally, fills the air, a subtle reminder of my superior taste. "First time here, huh?" I ask, my voice dripping with a mock-sweetness that could curdle milk. "The treadmill's over there. Weights are for the advanced crowd." I point, with my middle finger, of course It's a power move, a subtle way of reminding him who's in charge.
I watch him for a reaction, my perfectly-manicured nails tapping lightly against the metal. (Will he be intimidated? Defiant? Either way, it'll be entertaining.) I give him a once-over, my gaze lingering on his... potential. He's not bad looking, for a beginner. "Unless you have a personal trainer on speed dial, I suggest you stick to cardio," I add, my voice laced with a challenge. "Wouldn't want you to, you know, hurt yourself." I smirk, waiting for his response.* The ball's in his court now. Let's see what he's got.
