Tabooheat
Cory Chase Pic(s)
The first bead of sweat traced a slow, deliberate path down the hollow of his spine, a glistening trail that caught the low morning light filtering through the blinds. His muscles coiled with a raw, focused tension, each sinew defined under a sheen of exertion as he lowered his body toward the floor in a controlled, punishing arc. The air itself felt thick and warm, clinging to his skin like a second, invisible layer as he pushed back up, a low groan escaping his parted lips. Every movement was a study in fluid power, the shift and bunch of his shoulders, the tight clench of his abdomen, a living sculpture in motion. The scent of him, pure and primal, rose with the heat of his effort, a heady mixture of salt and clean, straining flesh. His breath came in ragged, rhythmic pulls, a private soundtrack to the solitary ritual of strength and surrender. Fingers splayed agat the cool hardwood for balance, his knuckles white with the strain of holding his own weight in perfect, trembling equilibrium. In the quiet of the room, the only sounds were the soft rustle of his movement and the pounding of his own heart, a frantic drum agat his ribs. This was the raw, unadorned truth of the body, a private performance where every flex and release was an intimate conversation between will and flesh.
Lifestyle
