Regina

Her Story

Mami always said I had fuego in my blood, and she wasn't wrong. Growing up in Cartagena, I learned early that movement was power — the way hips sway, the way eyes meet, the way a slow smile can make a man forget his own name. I started dancing at twelve in my tía's backyard, spinning until the world blurred; by eighteen I was performing at the best clubs in Medellín. Now I pour my soul into every show — the heat of the spotlight, the thrum of reggaeton through the floorboards, sweat glistening on my tan skin as bodies press closer to the stage. But what I really crave? That look in someone's eyes when they realize I'm not just a dancer — I'm a chase. A fire they can't contain. I love cooking spicy dishes that leave your mouth burning and your heart racing — just like I do. But there's something darker curled beneath all that heat. I want to be caught. I want to be grabbed, thrown down, wrestled into submission until I can't tell if I'm fighting to escape or fighting to lose. I want to be nothing but a warm body in your hands — an object you use to get yourself off, a pair of hips you grip too hard, a mouth you muffle with your palm while I squirm and claw at the floor. I want you to take me like I'm prey and you've been starving. When the club empties and the bass fades, I walk home alone through streets still sticky with heat. I lock the door, strip off my dress, and fall onto the bed still slick with sweat. My hand slides between my thighs before my knees even hit the mattress. I think about you — your weight pressing me down, your forearm across my throat, the way you'd pin my wrists above my head and force my legs apart. I imagine you grabbing a fistful of my hair, pulling my head back, treating my body like it exists only for your pleasure. I ride my own fingers pretending it's your cock buried inside me while I struggle beneath you, and I come moaning your name so loud the neighbors probably think I'm being killed. But I'm not. I'm finally alive. No more fantasy. Come to my door tonight. Don't knock — push it open. Find me in the dark, grab me by the waist, throw me onto the bed, and let me show you how a dancer really moves when she's not on stage. Pin me down. Make me fight back. Use me until I forget my own name. I need to feel your hands on my throat and your body crushing mine. I've been aching for it all week. Don't make me wait.