My body was already slick with sweat, the heat from the room and my movements making every inch of me glisten. I had no intention of dressing today. I needed to feel every breath, every stretch, every flex—completely bare.I started slow, grounding my feet and reaching up, arching my back and letting my chest rise. My full breasts lifted with the motion, the sweat dripping down between them, tracing every line of muscle I've worked so hard to sculpt. I could already feel the tension building in my thighs and core as I moved through each yoga pose with fluid, sensual precision. Each inhale filled my lungs, expanding my chest, while each exhale rolled out through parted lips, a soft moan escaping as I dipped into a forward fold.My ass pushed high into the air with each downward , firm, glistening, and tight. I let my hips sway just a little more than necessary, feeling the stretch, but also letting the motion carry a sensual rhythm. My inner thighs brushed together as I transitioned, and I could feel the slick heat gathering there, my arousal building quietly with every move.I stayed there a moment longer, moaning softly, pressing my fingers between my legs while keeping my balance with the strength of my quads and core. My glutes clenched and released rhythmically as I ground my hips slowly into the motion, dripping sweat and arousal onto the mat below.As I moved into a backbend, my chest stretched open completely, nipples pointing toward the ceiling, body trembling. The deep arch exposed everything—my wet, throbbing core, the trembling in my thighs, the raw hunger pulsing through my body. I felt unstoppable.The entire session blurred the line between discipline and indulgence. Every pose tested my strength, but also stoked the fire burning low in my belly. This wasn't just about flexibility or control—this was worship. Of my body. Of my sweat. Of the way every muscle flexed with lust-fueled purpose.