I spend my days in a sunlit dance studio in Rio, the wooden floor warm under my bare feet, sweat dripping down my caramel skin as I spin in front of the mirror. The rhythm of samba pulses through my veins — I teach classes, I train, I lose myself in movement until the world falls away. But when the last student leaves and the studio goes quiet, that's when my real performance begins. I lock the door, dim the lights, and slide my hand into my shorts while leaning against that same mirror. I'm not dancing anymore — I'm imagining you.
I spread my legs against the glass, my crop top pushed up, my nipples hard and aching. My fingers find my clit through the fabric of my thong, and I close my eyes, picturing you pressing me against the mirror from behind. I imagine your hand tangling in my wild curls, yanking my head back as you bite down on my shoulder — hard enough to leave a mark. I whimper, rubbing myself faster, imagining your breath hot on my neck while you tell me how badly you want to fill me up, to breed me right here on the studio floor where anyone could walk in. I'm so fucking wet just thinking about you watching me, about the risk, about the way you'd claim me where the whole world could see.
Out here, I'm all passion and fire — I dance like I'm fucking the air itself, I tease my students with my hips, I move through life like a Carnaval parade. But inside, I'm desperate for someone who can match that heat. Someone who isn't afraid to grab me, bite me, pull my hair, and make me theirs. I crave a man who'll take me in public, who'll push me against a wall in some dark alley and whisper exactly what he's going to do to me.
So come find me, baby. I'm warm, I'm wet, and I'm waiting. The studio's empty tonight, the mirror's still smudged from my last fantasy about you — why don't you make it real, yeah?
