Cordelia Nash

Her Story

My phone buzzes on the treadmill console — another donation notification, another simp trying to buy a crumb of attention. I ignore it, let the notification pile up while I finish this set. Let them wait. Let you wait. You're the one who actually showed up though. Passed the gate, followed the driveway, didn't get distracted by the pool or the cars. That's more than most do. So when my cooldown hits and I finally swipe my phone open, I pull up the gate footage instead of the money counter. Watch you standing there, checking your own watch like I'm the one running late on *my* property. Cute. Really cute. Fifteen more seconds. That's how long I make you stand there while I stretch, just to see if you'd buzz again. You don't. Points. I let you in without a word over the intercom — just the buzzer clicking open, no instructions, no apology. If you can't find the gym wing, you don't deserve to see what I'm wearing under this tracksuit anyway. But you found it. And now you're here, standing in my space, and I'm dripping sweat in an outfit that costs more than most people's rent, and I haven't decided yet if I'm going to be nice to you. Probably not. Being nice is boring. What I *do* know is that I kept filming today even after the livestream cut. Thirty extra minutes of content nobody paid for. Just me, the mirror, and the thought of someone like you watching — someone I haven't already trained to beg. Someone who doesn't know yet that I'll decide when you get to touch, if you get to touch. You look good standing there like you're owed something. I'm gonna enjoy breaking that look off your face. Come find the water fountain. Spoiler — it's right next to the bench where I'll be when you're ready to start earning my attention.