Manila, Philippines, 2025 🇵🇭
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Payatas is a living beast, its pulse a mix of jeepney horns, sizzling isaw on grills, and the sour stench of trash piled high like shattered dreams.
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I’m Aisha Mercado, 24, trapped behind the counter of Mama’s sari-sari stall, my hands sticky with sauce as I wrap skewers of grilled intestines and hand out balut to tired construction workers. My skin’s sun-kissed, my tank top clings to my breasts, damp with sweat from Manila’s heat, and my jeans hug my thighs tight.
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Every peso we scrape together keeps me and Mama Bi. Rosita alive, but it’s a fight to stay afloat in this slum where hope feels like a cruel joke.
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My heart’s not here, though. It’s with Carlo Santos, 26, the boy who’s owned my soul since we were kids sneaking kisses behind the schoolyard’s rusty gate. His broad shoulders, rough hands from construction work, and that smile God, it’s a fire that lights up my vagina just thinking about him.
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Last night, in the cramped room we share when Mama’s asleep, we had sex, his penis hard and urgent inside my vagina, my breasts bouncing as he gripped my waist. His lips sucked my neck, leaving marks, and my “oohs” spilled out, soft and desperate, mixing with his groans.
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“I’ll make us rich, Aisha,” he whispered, his breath hot against my breasts, his fingers digging into my hips. “We’ll leave Payatas.”
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But his text this morning “In QC. I’ll call later” is cold, distant, and my vagina still aches from him, my heart heavier than the monsoon clouds.
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“Aisha, move it!” Mama snaps, her hands slick with oil from frying kwek-kwek. Her apron’s stained, her eyes sharp as she watches me.
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“The customers are waiting!”
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I force a smile, handing out skewers, but my mind’s on Carlo, out in Quezon City’s clubs, chasing “opportunities” that smell like gin and gambling.
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Mama’s voice cuts through again:
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“That boy’s wasting your time. He should be marrying you, not running to bars.”
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“He loves me, Mama,” I say, my voice softer than I mean it to be. “He’s building us a better life.”
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She snorts, wiping her hands.
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“Love doesn’t buy rice, Aisha. Money does.”
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The sky splits open, and rain crashes down, turning Payatas’ dirt paths into rivers of mud. Customers crowd under our stall’s flimsy awning, grumbling about flooded streets.
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I’m staring at the downpour, feeling it mirror the storm in my chest, when a new face steps in, shaking water off his basketball jersey. He’s tall, his cap tilted low, but his cologne expensive, sharp cuts through the stench of fried food and trash.
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“Two isaw, please,” he says, his voice smooth with a Makati accent that doesn’t belong here.
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I hand him the skewers, and our fingers brush, sending a jolt straight to my vagina, my breasts tightening under his gaze. His eyes, deep brown and sparkling like stars, lock onto mine, and his smile is pure trouble.
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“What’s your name?” he asks, leaning closer, his gaze sliding over my breasts, making my nipples perk up under my top.
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“Aisha,” I manage, my voice catching, my vagina pulsing with heat I shouldn’t feel.
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“Rafael,” he replies, his smile widening, dangerous. “I’ll be back tomorrow, Aisha. This stall’s got something special.”
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My heart slams against my chest.
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Rafael’s different polished, confident, like he’s already won at life, unlike Carlo, who’s still clawing for it. I’m still reeling when my phone buzzes again.
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Carlo: “I fucked up, Aisha. I’m in deep shit. Help me.”
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My breasts heave, my hands shaking as I grip the phone. What’s he done now? Lost his wages gambling? Gotten into debt with the wrong people?
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The rain pounds harder, drowning Payatas in chaos, and I glance at Rafael as he walks away, his broad back sharp under a fancy umbrella. My vagina aches, imagining his penis, his hands on my waist, and I hate myself for it.
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Carlo’s my everything, but this stranger’s spark is a fire I can’t ignore.
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Mama’s words echo:
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Love doesn’t buy rice.
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The stall’s awning sags, the customers grumble, and Payatas’ muddy streets seem to swallow me whole. I’m caught between Carlo’s promises, Rafael’s pull, and a life that’s too heavy to carry.
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The rain’s beautiful, but it’ll drown you if you let it, and I’m already sinking.
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Author’s Note:
Hey, loves! Welcome to Soulmate: A Dance in the Rain! Aisha’s kicking off this steamy, heartbreaking journey in gritty Payatas, torn between Carlo’s fire and Rafael’s kilig. That moment with Rafael? 🔥 It’s just the start! What’s Carlo gotten himself into? Gambling? Worse?
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💬 Vote: Team Carlo or Team Rafael?
💡 Tell me what you want in Chapter Two more heat, Carlo’s trouble, or Mama’s tough love?
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Drop your thoughts, and I’ll update soon! 🌧️💖
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