Intensive Perreo Course novel · Chapter 1 of 12
Chapter 1: The Live Practice
"Even faster, profe?"
I was on all fours on the yoga mat, shaking my ass with everything I had.
In front of the mirror, eleven women in a circle were staring at my ass without blinking.
"Not faster," said Ramsés from the corner of the room. "Deeper. Let the rhythm come from your hips, not your knees."
I obeyed, and my hips finally let loose.
It was the third week of the Intensive Perreo Course, and I still wasn't used to being the one dancing.
Two months earlier, my boyfriend Rigo had told me in bed that I was a log.
"Being with you is like sleeping with a board, Yaz," he said, and pulled up his underwear.
That night I signed up for the most famous class in the Roma neighborhood, with the money I'd saved for a trip.
Now I was twenty-six, wearing a black top, shorts that barely covered anything, and my hands kneading my breasts because Ramsés had asked for it.
"Harder," he said. "Make your body believe what you're doing."
I squeezed my tits over the top, and the whole class let out a howl.
Nayely, my friend from the class, bit her fist and gave me a thumbs up.
"That's it, my queen. Kill it."
Ramsés walked over slowly.
He was thirty-two, with his head shaved on the sides, a short beard, and a tattoo climbing up his forearm.
He always taught the class sitting on a low bench or lying on the floor, and I'd never seen him dance standing up.
He stopped next to me, his gray sweatpants hanging off his hips.
"Very good, Yazmín. Keep that rhythm."
His voice hit the back of my neck like a hand.
"Now we're going to do the live practice."
In the first class, we'd all signed a sheet with that phrase on it.
It was the signature of the course: the last part of each session, one body in front of everyone, so the rhythm could be learned by watching.
I'd volunteered for the practice without thinking, my heart in my throat and the mat already under my knees.
"Keep going," he said. "Don't stop."
I kept going.
Ramsés knelt behind me, his left knee stretched out to the side as if it hurt to bend it.
Then he lay on his back on the mat, slid under my body, and ended up with his face between my knees.
The students stepped closer.
He pulled down his sweatpants and boxers in one go.
His cock sprang free, thick, already hard, and rested against his stomach.
Someone behind me whispered an "oh my God."
"Now lower yourself," said Ramsés. "Slowly. With the thong on, so they can all learn."
I lowered myself until I felt his heat through the fabric.
My thong was already wet, and he knew it the moment he touched me.
"Look at that," he murmured. "How fast you learn."
"You're in charge," he said. "I just follow you."
I moved my hips forward and back, and his cock ran along my center, slippery, hot, against the seam of my thong.
A moan escaped me without permission.
"That's it," said Ramsés. "Let it be heard."
The students clapped softly, like at a performance.
I started perreo-ing on top of him, my hands planted on the mat and my hair falling over my face.
I raised and lowered my hips in long circles, and each turn scraped my clit against the base of his cock.
He grabbed my ass with both hands and spread it, without rushing me, so the others could see the back-and-forth.
"Look at yourselves in the mirror," he said to the class. "That's a real movement."
I looked at myself too.
A woman with long hair, on all fours, back arched, with a man underneath her.
She didn't look like a log or anything close to it.
She looked like a woman who knew what she wanted.
"More," I asked, and I didn't recognize my own voice.
"Tell me what you want, Yazmín."
"I want you to squeeze me."
He dug his fingers into my ass until he left marks.
My thong sank between my lips with every push, and he was breathing through his mouth, his jaw tight.
"You're soaked," he said in a low voice, just for me. "I can feel you wetting my whole cock."
I sped up.
The room smelled of sweat and perfume, and the music thumped through the floor with a bass that reached my belly.
I felt the wave coming from far away, tight, embarrassing, delicious.
Nayely shouted: "Almost there, Yaz!"
Everyone laughed, and I did too, without stopping moving.
Then I saw, in the mirror, the door of the room.
It was half open.
In the doorway stood a man in a polo shirt and a sports watch.
Next to him, a girl with blonde highlights held her phone in her hand.
Rigo.
And Cinthia, the one from my office, the one who'd taken my boyfriend.
My ex was staring at my ass with his mouth open, and he wasn't smiling.
Ramsés let go of one of my cheeks and lifted my chin with two fingers.
"Don't look at them," he said. "Look at me."
When I looked at him, his eyes were dark, calm, locked on mine.
"Now, Yazmín, lower yourself all the way down."
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