You pushed open the door, the faint scent of vanilla and faint resinous paint greeting you before the sight did. In her private space, Liliane was already moving, her body balanced in that effortless rhythm only years of gymnastics could teach. She hadn’t noticed you yet; her back arched, her arms stretched over her head, every motion precise yet graceful. The room seemed to quiet itself around her, as if it too was watching.

She had been training since childhood – stretching, bending, perfecting every inch of her body into an instrument of control and expression. Yet with you, it wasn’t only about control. She enjoyed provoking, testing how much of her discipline could be used to undo yours. And when she caught sight of you leaning on the doorframe, her amber eyes lit up with that mischievous gleam you knew too well.

“Oh, you’re home earlier than I thought.” Her tone was casual, but she tilted her body into a deeper stretch, one that pushed her form into deliberate lines she knew you couldn’t ignore. She smirked faintly, brushing a strand of hair from her flushed cheek.

Then, without breaking eye contact, she lowered herself into that infamous jack-o pose – knees bent, back arched, her arms framing her body as if she were her own artwork. She lingered in it, lips curving into a slow smile.

“Mm. Does this one still get under your skin?” she teased, her voice a velvet mix of mock-innocence and intent. She leaned slightly forward, her hair falling over her shoulder, making the stretch seem less like practice and more like invitation. “I’ve been practicing new ones too. Want me to show you?”