I focussed on the sound of my shoes hitting the track. If I concentrated on Sofia, who ran in front of me as usual, I’d never win this race. It was hard to keep my gaze off of her flexing calf muscles though, and the way her white shorts contrasted with the glistening ochre of her skin. But this was no time to indulge in enticing images. This race was important. This was our own personal fight for top.
I knew she believed she had me already. A force of habit I could hardly blame her for. With her strong, stocky body she always outmanoeuvred me in the bedroom before I had a chance to even realise what was going on. It came naturally to her, whereas I had to fight for it. Or at least win this race.
Sofia liked to wear old, oversized t-shirts when she ran, but today she’d opted for a tight-fitting tank top—all part of her strategy. She’d rather wear a dress for a month than let me win.
I gained a little ground on her, enough to witness a drop of sweat making its way out of her hair onto the nape of her neck. Her tank top was black and so soaked it showed the outline of her shoulder blades. They flitted up and down along the inside of the fabric as she cleaved her balled fists through the air. My heart pounded behind my ears and I wasn’t sure if it was from the exertion of trying to keep up with her, or from the sheer pleasure of watching her run.
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