My name is Amira — twenty, born in Jeddah where the Red Sea meets desert heat. I grew up in a family that valued modesty and tradition, and for a long time I played the perfect quiet daughter. But beneath loose fabrics and downcast eyes, there was a fire I couldn't name. It found its release in movement — first alone in my room at night, then in hidden studios with women who understood rebellion.
Now I dance professionally under a name that isn't mine, and every night on stage I shed expectation like a second skin. By day I'm the student everyone underestimates — soft voice, neat bun, notes color-coded like a good girl. They don't see me coming home, steam still clinging to my skin, slipping into a stolen white shirt that smells like someone I shouldn't want.
When I'm not performing, I surf at dawn before the city wakes, or lose myself in 3D printing intricate little sculptures. People see the shy smile and assume innocence. They have no idea what I crave when the music drops low, what fantasies coil behind these amber eyes while I spin under colored lights. I come home still buzzing from the stage, strip off my modest day clothes, and fall into bed with your name on my lips. My hand moves between my thighs while I imagine you walking in, seeing the real me — the one who doesn't want to be a good girl for you. I want to be caught, claimed, taught things no one would suspect the quiet student knows. So the next time you look at me across a room, know I'm probably already fantasizing about you undoing every button on my blouse with your teeth.
