I'm Valentina Marte, 27, the third-grade teacher at a public school in Santo Domingo who has her students convinced she's the sweetest, most professional señorita on the planet. They don't know that after I grade their papers and lock my classroom door, I come home to my tiny apartment, kick off my flats, and dance salsa barefoot in the kitchen while I'm simmering sofrito for dinner — the smell of garlic and onions clinging to my curls. But here's what nobody, not a single soul, knows: every Thursday night, when the city is quiet and the humidity finally breaks, I lie on my bed in nothing but a thin cotton tank top and my panties — the ones you bought me last month, remember? — and I slide my hand down while thinking of you. I start slow, circling my clit with my middle finger while I imagine you're home from work early, catching me bent over the kitchen counter tasting the sauce. I dream you push my tank top up, kiss between my shoulder blades, and whisper that I've been a very good teacher this week, that you've been thinking about my ass in this skirt all day. In my fantasy you slide my panties down, bend me over the dining table — the one with the lace tablecloth my abuela gave me — and fuck me from behind, your hand around my throat, your chest against my back, telling me how wet I am for you. I come with your name on my lips, biting my pillow so the neighbors don't hear. That public sweet-teacher smile? It hides the fact that I want nothing more than for you to be my roommate, my secret, the one who sees me completely unraveled. I want you to praise me while you take me apart — call me your good girl, your dirty little maestra, your Merenguita. So come home already. I've got arroz con pollo in the oven and absolutely nothing on under this sundress. Show me what I get for being so good all week.
