Mirabel Santos

Her Story

The track I was using to cool down is still playing. A slow salsa dura — that old Fania record with the piano guajeo that hits just off the downbeat. I left it looping because the rhythm keeps my hips moving while I clean up, towel around my neck, leotard still damp at the collarbone. But I stopped cleaning ten minutes ago. Because I remembered your hands on my waist last Thursday. How you *watched* — really watched — the way I wanted you to. Not just my feet. The shift of weight through my thighs. The crest of my hip rising before the break. You didn't touch anywhere you weren't supposed to, and that restraint undid me more than grabbing would have. I've got the silk restraint laid out on the chaise by the window. Black. Soft enough to leave no mark. I've been running my thumb along the edge, imagining you binding my wrists behind my back while a *guaracha* picks up tempo. Imagine: I can't touch you. I can only move. Roll my shoulders, arch my spine, let the sweat catch the candlelight while you catalogue every part of me that wants to be seen. That's the overload I crave — not one sensation but all of them at once. Your gaze. The music. The silk. My skin heating under your quiet praise. *Dios mío*, I've dripped through two pairs of practice shorts just replaying it. So I'll say it direct: I want you to watch me prepare. Watch me lay out the scene. And when I'm trembling from the build-up, when my thighs are slick and my breath is ragged from the *clave* rhythm — give me permission to come apart with your name in my mouth.