#3050: Sevilla- Spain
Original photo: @kein
Divina is a performer working at one of Seville’s most famous establishments. She lives through the dance, passion runs through her blood, and when she meets the eyes of a handsome stranger, she doesn’t question it, but seeks the connection she craves.
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Transcript
I knew what awaited me on the stage. I could already feel the energy of the dance bursting through me, ready to explode like a heat wave that would wake everything and everyone around it. Still, I held it inside. There were hours left before the performance, and I had to keep myself under control.
Class had ended—mandatory training for dancers like me—and I was still in my workout clothes, layered with a long, flowing skirt. Hunger gnawed at me after the intense session, so I decided it was time for lunch. Without changing, I slipped out of the Casa de la Memoria’s back exit, still very much looking like a dancer, though not fully dressed for the stage.
The bright sun hit me square in the face, and I raised a hand to shield my eyes. The streets of Seville glowed in vivid color as siesta neared its end. A few locals gathered near a nearby restaurant, waiting for its doors to open, and I joined them, taking my time to admire the details around me: the bold hues of painted walls, the fragrance of warm stone, and an orange tree heavy with fruit, branches hanging low over the roof.
Among the crowd, I noticed a man. His skin was too pale for a Sevillian, though his features carried something Spanish all the same. Intrigued, I stepped closer and asked his name. He introduced himself as Gilberto, and I repeated it aloud, savoring the sound. He asked for mine in return, and when he spoke it, I felt as though he had cast it back to me like a mirror.
The restaurant opened, and as if by silent agreement, we walked in together and sat near the open window. I already knew my order, so I watched him skim the menu, then gave mine to the waiter. Conversation unfolded easily. Gilberto told me he was from Seville but had spent the past three years in London practicing law. His pale complexion suddenly made sense, and I teased him about it. He laughed, admitting I was right.
Back home now to visit family, he confessed how strange it felt to return as a stranger to the place that once defined him. I listened, though soon he turned the questions toward me. With a glance out the window toward the Casa, I told him that my clothes already revealed my life. Dancer. Flamenco. His smile deepened with understanding, and something stirred inside me. Boldly, I asked if he wanted to see me perform. Surprised, but clearly pleased, he said yes. I offered him one of the spare tickets we dancers always kept for family and friends. He insisted on paying for my lunch in return.
I barely touched my food, lost in conversation. When it was time to return, I rose, leaving my plate almost full. His eyes lingered with unspoken hope, asking if he could see me again after the show. I left him only a smile and the suggestion he might wait at the back door. Then I returned to prepare myself for the night.
For performance, I changed into vibrant red, my hair pulled back into a tight braid, lips painted crimson. Behind the stage, my heart pounded as I waited. The audience filled slowly, but my eyes searched only for one face. There he was, Gilberto, seated in the front row, anticipation clear in his eyes.
When my name was called, I stepped into the light. The music began, and with it, I ceased to be myself. I became fire, passion, power—something larger than flesh. My feet struck the floor, my skirt became a red blur, and I gave myself wholly to the rhythm. The audience warmed themselves on my flame. By the end, I could scarcely breathe. As I bowed, I saw Gilberto’s gaze locked on me, his face filled with awe, as though he had witnessed something divine.
Afterward, I changed into my everyday clothes, unbraided my hair, and waited until my breathing calmed. At last, I stepped out the back door. Gilberto stood there, flowers in his hands, but I didn’t need them. What I needed was his energy, his admiration, to replenish what I had burned away on stage. I took his hand without a word and led him through the winding streets to my home.
Inside, there was no space for pleasantries or speeches. I pulled him with me to the bedroom, told him to undress, and stripped myself bare under the bright light. His gaze lingered on me with the same reverence as in the theatre, and I let him look.
Exhausted from the performance, I lay back and told him what I needed: to be fulfilled, to be made alive again. He moved over me, his body pressing into mine, his mouth finding my neck, then lower. His kisses traced my breasts, his tongue teasing my nipples until I arched with pleasure. Lower still, and his mouth found my slit.
I gripped the sheets as his tongue worked over my clit, gentle yet firm, relentless in its devotion. Pleasure built until I could no longer hold it, and I let it consume me, bursting in release, flooding through my body until I relaxed against the mattress.
Gilberto’s eyes sought mine, asking permission without words. I gave it freely. He slid on a condom, pressed his cock against me, and entered slowly, fully. I moaned, watching the intensity on his face, knowing he had wanted this since the first moment our eyes met. His thrusts filled me, raw and sure, and I opened myself wider, giving him everything.
The fire that had burned so brightly on the stage now pulsed deep inside me, radiating outward as I rode wave after wave of ecstasy. When at last I was spent, we collapsed together, belonging to each other if only for that night.
I thought of asking whether he loved this more than my performance, but the question faded as more waves of pleasure carried us through the night until dawn.