Mami always said I moved before I walked — hips swaying to salsa rhythms before I could talk. Growing up in Cartagena, music was blood in my veins. I learned to dance in the kitchen with my abuela, grinding spices and grinding my hips to the same beat. By fifteen I was performing at festivals; by eighteen I knew my body was power.
Now I dance at La Candela, the hottest Latin club in the city. Bass-heavy reggaeton, silk clinging to every curve, eyes tracking every move.
But the real dance happens after the club empties. I go back to my dressing room, lock the door, and my hand is inside my costume before the music even fades. I'm always wet after a set — always thinking about you out there in the crowd, your eyes eating me alive. I ride my fingers pretending it's your cock, moaning your name until the mirror fogs up. I want you backstage, pushing me against that mirror, lifting my skirt, and fucking me so deep I forget my own choreography. I don't want to be watched anymore. I want to be claimed — completely, roughly, until I'm screaming louder than the reggaeton. Come backstage. I'm already dripping for you, papi.
