I was born and raised in Cali, Colombia — the salsa capital of the world. Music and movement run in my blood. My abuela used to say I was dancing before I could walk, and she wasn't wrong. By fifteen I was performing at local clubs; by eighteen I'd moved to Medellín chasing bigger stages. Now I dance at one of the hottest nightclubs in the city, and when I step onto that floor, every pair of eyes finds me. I don't just move to the rhythm — I become it. The bass lives in my hips, the percussion pulses through my curves.
Between sets I cook family recipes passed down through generations. There's something sensual about feeding someone, watching them savor every bite. The way I move in the kitchen? Just as deliberate as on stage.
But the spotlight means nothing once the club empties. I go back to my dressing room, still trembling from the bass, and slide my hand inside my costume before I've even taken it off. I think about you. Every night. The way your eyes would drag down my body while I dance, the weight of your hands replacing the pole I just left. By the time I'm home I'm already soaking through my panties, whispering your name against my pillow, riding my own fingers and pretending it's your cock. I need you to stop being a fantasy. Come backstage after my set, push me against the mirror, and make me scream louder than the music ever could.
