Lucia Gonzalez breathed in as the streams of water from the shower fell onto her body. Drops of water flowed through the waves of her jet-black, slick wet hair, over her beautiful Hispanic face, her exquisite eyes closed, better to feel the warmth of the water's touch. Her luscious lips parted, as the streams ran down her neck, through the deep valley between her large, full breasts, the areolae expanding in the warmth, nipples pert. The water ran down her dark, sun-kissed olive skin, across the toned abdomen and down her shapely thighs and long, beautiful legs. She breathed in as the rivulets ran down between her legs to the secret place, the folds deepening colour with the heat.
Not for nothing was she taking her time in her family home -- that night she had a dance competition at the convention centre in the middle of Rio de Janeiro. Her dance partner was Jorge, her long-time childhood friend, who now occupied a kind of friend-with-benefits/de facto boyfriend status in her life. They had been early boyfriend and girlfriend at school and had started dance classes in the evenings. Various things had happened -- falling out, getting back together again, she had met other guys, he had played around with other girls a little bit when she had been in other relationships, but they had always got together again, mainly because of the dance classes. He was a great dancer and they complimented each other on the dancefloor really well -- most importantly, better than any other dancer in the club. Right now, things were officially "casual" between them, he acting like her boyfriend when they were together to fend off clumsy chat-up attempts from clueless dweebs when she went out in the evenings; then, when she was at a loose end, bored or else between relationships, he would get the inevitable booty call from her. He would show up late somewhere neutral looking studly and hot, they would hook up and there would be a night of passion where he would pound her pussy until she cried out in orgasm, before curling up together in bed until the rays of early morning sun came creeping through the window panes.
It was in the post-orgasmic bliss, when Jorge had fallen asleep and she lay in the crook of his arm looking at the ceiling, when she would once again contemplate whether he was worth keeping around. He was a good enough lover in bed, definitely better than the creeps who approached her in bars, plus he possessed that earnest sincerity in his eyes that suggested that he really cared and would like her to get more serious. She worried that he hoped for a long-term relationship, since he always came back to her. Would he even consider marriage and a life together with her? She felt it was too early for that, if only for the fact that they were both 20 years old. Plus there was always a nagging feeling in the back of her mind that the only reason why he was still around was because of dancing. What if she stopped going? Would they drift apart? Would he make an effort to keep her around? She had spent her whole life more or less in this area of Rio and still felt she hadn't really lived -- never travelled far, been anywhere, seen anything. She wanted to get all that under her belt before she made any plans about settling down.
"Lucia!" she heard her mother call. "Dinner's ready! Hurry up!"
Lucia reluctantly twisted the taps to turn off the water. Grabbing a towel, she hurriedly dried herself, before unlocking the bathroom door, tiptoeing quickly over to her bedroom, where her dance costume had been laid out on the bed by her mother some half-hour earlier. She hastily got dressed and rushed downstairs to the large table in the kitchen, where dinner was served.
"Here -- sit down and eat; you'll be hungry later and I don't want you snacking on junk food -- you have to be beautiful to be a samba dancer," remarked her mother. Dolores Gonzalez was 43, with the same lustrous, black hair that Lucia had inherited from her. She was shorter than her daughter by a few inches -- five feet five compared with Lucia's five feet nine. Lucia's height had come from Dolores' husband, who was six feet tall. Her daughter's height pleased her. She, too, loved samba music and had been a pretty good dancer in her youth but her dreams of dancing and modelling had not got far, thanks to her short stature. She wore a green, rather non-descript top that covered her ample bosom, while a purple, knee-length skirt and black shoes completed her look.
Lucia was ravenous and made quick work of the light meal -- not too heavy, or else she would end up with a stitch or a stomachache while dancing, which was a major hassle.
"Your father's working late tonight, he'll be back after seven," said Dolores.
"Any answer from the overseas recruitment agency?" enquired Lucia. She had applied for a cruise ship position some 6 weeks ago but had heard nothing. She had decided on a whim to test out her theory -- getting a job overseas would mean time away from Jorge, time to think, time to travel and to see if Jorge would hold onto her in her absence. Would his interest cool while she was away? However, now it looked as though the plan was going to fail -- no word had come.
"Not yet -- I checked the post office this morning -- just bills and tax demands -- again!" Dolores tutted. She always felt concerned about money but her husband did most of the work paying them off, so she hoped that everything would be OK.
Lucia finished her dinner, went upstairs, brushed her teeth and put on her make-up for dancing. After another half-hour had passed, she stood up in her bedroom and looked herself over in the full-length mirror beside her bed.
She saw shimmering sparkles on her lustrous hair, a skin-tight dress that hugged her breasts and figure, complete with exquisite beading, acres of leg and elegant black high heels. Her lipstick was perfect and her eye make-up was a work of art, with elongated eyeshadow designed to look like red-orange flames that extended from her eyelids around to the sides of her brow, finished off with more glitter and sparkle. She smiled at herself. She looked fabulous and she knew it.
Presently a taxi arrived outside that her mother had called for. She stepped in. "Good luck," said her mum. "Try your best but don't be disheartened if you don't win. There are a lot of competing couples. You and Jorge are great but it's the taking part that counts."
Lucia smiled. Her mum always cared. "Thanks, I'll try." With that, the car door closed and the taxi sped off down the street.
Weaving through the traffic, the taxi wended its way towards the convention centre. Lucia leaned back and took a deep breath. She felt nervous but excited.
The convention centre's backstage area seemed packed with dancers. There was an air of excitement and apprehension as female dancers whooshed by in dazzling Latin American dresses, while tall guys in tuxedos, cummerbunds and black shirts and trousers stood looking moodily around. Lucia made some last-minute adjustments to her outfit in front of a mirror.
"So here you are," said a familiar, male voice. Lucia turned her head to see Jorge standing behind.
"Hi," said Lucia. She looked him over from head to toe. Jorge was five feet ten, with slick, short black hair, combed back in a pompadour style. His angled jaw and slim but athletic build was encased in a tight, white shirt that did nothing to hide his pecs, while a pair of satin white trousers covered a slight bulge near his groin and continued on down practised, toned legs, to a pair of patent leather slip-on black shoes. He looked good and well-turned out. "You look great", Lucia smiled.
"Look who's talking," Jorge grinned. "Wow!" He grabbed her hands and spread them wide to get a better look at her frame. He felt a stirring in his loins as his eyes wandered from the deep cleavage between her breasts, along her slinky abdomen and down her long, long legs. Why did she always have to look so great! It was awesome to see her but she turned him on and wondered whether this would affect his dance performance. Still, just being able to hold her in his arms and feel her flesh moving to the music was a huge honour, and he loved it.
"Thanks," blushed Lucia.
"ALL DANCERS TO STAGE", bellowed a male voice through a loudspeaker. Everyone suddenly moved forward at once and filed through a pair of double doors and through a brief corridor, arriving at another set of double doors that led directly onto the dancefloor. The announcement had said "stage" but it wasn't, really; it was a flat, rectangular dancefloor, with seats for the audience on three sides and a place for prize-giving sat up on the near end. The judges sat at the far end, furthest from the door.
Suddenly, samba music started up and the master of ceremonies, who was already on the dancefloor, an older man with a balding pate, dressed in a tuxedo, cummerbund and black bow-tie, announced the couples by number. There were 20, and Jorge and Lucia were number 10. The two of them watched with apprehension as the nine couples in front of them were called out one by one, around 30 seconds between each one. Finally, the MC said, "Couple number ten!" Jorge grabbed Lucia's hand and out they went.
The music and the beat rang in Jorge's ears as he led Lucia around the dancefloor. Lucia's moves were spot-on and her floorwork impeccable. He held her toned waist as she wriggled her hips to the music and swished across the floor.
There were three rounds and the judges were examining the dancers as they swirled around. Half of them would be eliminated, then the ten survivors would go onto the second round.
Couple number ten easily made it through -- Jorge and Lucia were old hands at this, despite their young age, with more than eight years' experience together, while the other couples were either younger couples or else older ones with unfamiliar partners that appeared to not have practised enough. Although this contest was only a local one, Lucia and Jorge had experienced their fair share of larger venues and events, so were well-prepared.
In the second round, there were five songs, where two couples at a time danced before the judges. Esteban and Maria, couple number seven, were paired with Jorge and Lucia. Lucia knew them and so did Jorge.
"Don't worry," said Lucia. "Maria's OK -- I usually beat her. She's only beaten me a couple of times."
"It's not her I'm worried about -- Esteban's been really great just recently and he's only 18 -- two years younger than me."
