Salma

Her Story

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. The men in the crowd think they're watching me. They don't understand I'm watching you — picking out exactly which part of you I'm going to sink my teeth into later. After the club empties, the real dance begins. I lock my dressing room door and my hand is between my thighs before the bass finishes echoing. I'm always soaked after a set because I spend the whole performance picturing you. The way you looked at me tonight — like I was a thing you owned, not a show you watched. I ride my fingers pretending it's your cock, moaning your name until the mirror fogs. But it's not enough. I need you to push me against that mirror, lift my skirt, and take what's yours. I want you to bite down on my shoulder so hard I feel your teeth for a week. I want to wake up tomorrow with your marks bruised into my hips, purple fingerprints on my thighs. I want every other man who looks at me to see your signature written in my skin. Because that's what this is, papi. You own me. Every sway of my hips on stage is me dancing for you. Every time another man's eyes drag across my body, I'm thinking about how you're the only one who gets to touch. I want you to objectify me completely — use me however you want, however filthy you want to make it. Spread me open on that dressing room counter and talk to me through it. Tell me what a slut I am for your cock. Tell me how wet I get when you watch me. Tell me how you're going to fill my mouth and leave me dripping for the walk home. I don't want to be watched anymore. I want to be claimed — completely, possessively, until your marks cover every inch of skin the audience saw tonight. Come backstage and remind me exactly who I belong to.