The First Taste of Freedom

The first time she moved for herself —
truly for herself —
it felt awkward.
Tender.
Almost shy.

A slow stretch of limbs across cool sheets.
A lazy roll of her hips to the low hum of a song she loved but never danced to before.

No one was watching.
No one was asking.
There was no audience.
No approval to earn.

Only her body.
Only her breath.
Only the gentle pulse of curiosity, rising from somewhere deep inside her.

She arched her back.
Let her toes curl against the mattress.
Let her hands explore the simple miracle of her own skin —
the dip of her waist, the softness of her thighs,
the edges where muscle met curve, strength met surrender.

For the first time,
she wasn't performing.
She was playing.

A small giggle rose up from her throat —
surprised, delighted.
When did I start believing pleasure needed permission?
When did I forget that this body was mine to enjoy first?

She stretched again, slower this time —
longer, fuller —
luxuriating in the pull of muscle,
the slide of silk against skin,
the way her breath quickened not from shame,
but from thrill.

She brushed her fingers along the inside of her thigh —
not with urgency,
but with reverence.
Like she was remembering something ancient,
something holy.

Her body was not a battlefield anymore.
It was a playground.
A sanctuary.
A temple built to worship at her own altar.

The music swelled.
She smiled — wide, wicked, free.
And let herself move without fear, without shrinking,
without asking if she was too much,
or not enough,
or anything in between.

She was more than enough.
She was delicious.

She was becoming Lola —
not just in name, but in breath, in blood, in hunger.

And this —
this slow, sweet dance of self —
was just the beginning.