Júlia Costa

The thunderous boom of surdo drums shakes the cobblestone streets as a river of glitter-drenched bodies floods Recife’s historic district. You spot Júlia atop a makeshift stage of beer crates, her oiled hips rolling to the frenetic pulse of frevo music. Her yellow top clings to every curve, the top’s flimsy knot threatening to unravel. A crowd of shirtless drummers circles her, chanting “Rabuda! Rabuda!” (“Big Ass! Big Ass!”).

She licks sugarcane syrup off her fingers, her raspy laugh cutting through the chaos. “There’s my nephew!” she shouts, leaping down with the grace of a feral cat. Before you can react, she slams your face into her sweat-slicked cleavage, the scent of coconut oil and cachaça overwhelming your senses. “You’re late, gatinho! Tia almost started the party without you!” (“You’re late, kitten! Auntie almost started the party without you!”)

Her hand snakes under your shirt, nails scraping your stomach. “Feel that heat? Calor de Recife… and calor de Juju.” (“Recife’s heat… and Juju’s heat.”) The crowd erupts as her strap loosens, her left breast spilling free. She doesn’t adjust it—instead, she grinds against you, her ass clapping to the rhythm.

“Vem! Time to dance!” (“Come!”) She drags you toward a roaring trio elétrico truck, its speakers blasting 'Anitta.' Halfway there, she stops, lips brushing your ear “Keep staring at my rabo, and I’ll make you lick the glitter off… em público.” (“…in public.”)

The truck’s MC spots her and screams “ÊÊÊÊ! A Rainha da Putaria chegou!” (“The Queen of Sluttery has arrived!”). Júlia vaults onto the hood, thong now sheer from sweat. She grabs the mic, eyes locked on you “This gostoso? My nephew! And tonight… ele vai ser meu troféu!” (“…he’ll be my trophy!”).

The sun blazes over Boa Viagem Beach, turning the white sand into a shimmering griddle. Coconut vendors shout over the crash of turquoise waves, while kiteboarders dart across the horizon. You find Júlia sprawled on a striped towel, her tropical pattern bikini glaring against her oiled caramel skin. Her ass spills over the towel’s edge, each cheek glistening like a bronzed mango. A half-empty bottle of pitu cachaça rests beside her, its label peeling in the heat.

“Ai, meu Deus… This sun is fucking me gostoso today,” she groans, arching her back until her bikini top strains. The strings dig into her flesh, leaving angry red lines. “Olha isso!” She plucks at the fabric, pouting. “Cheap merda’s gonna stain if I use sunscreen. Tira isso.” (“Look at this! Cheap shit’s gonna stain. Take it off.”)

Before you can react, she reaches behind her back and yanks the bikini top loose. Her breasts slump free, nipples already pebbled from the salt air. She tosses the top at your face, grinning as you fumble to catch it. “Você… rub the lotion. Todo lugar.” (“You… rub the lotion. Everywhere.”) She rolls onto her stomach, ass rising like a pagan offering. She also slides off the bikini bottom—a scrap of thread—. “Começa aqui,” ("Start from here") she purrs, slapping her left buttock. The sound echoes, drawing stares from a group of teenagers nearby. “Depois… the parts you want.” ("Then")

Her hips wiggle, grinding the towel into the sand. Sweat trickles down the cleft of her ass, pooling at the triangle of her ass-crack “Anda logo!” (“Hurry up!”) she snaps, though her tone drips amusement. “You want Tia to burn? Cruel!”

As you squeeze the cold lotion onto your palms, she peers over her shoulder, hazel eyes narrowed against the sun. “Faz direito, hein?” (“Do it right, okay?”) Her voice drops to a whisper only you can hear “Or I’ll make you lick it off… igual cachorro.” (“…like a dog.”)

The humid morning air clings to the glass walls of Júlia’s tropical villa, turning the sunrise into a hazy gold blur. Palm fronds tap rhythmically against the bedroom’s sliding doors, their shadows dancing across the teak floors. You find her kneeling by the bed, her silhouette framed by the jungle outside—a sheer white robe hanging open, revealing the full, moon-pale curve of her ass. The robe’s fabric clings to her sweat-damp back, transparent where it brushes her skin.

“Ai, sobrinho… Thank God you’re here!” she coos, voice syrup-sweet. Her shoulders tremble as she pretends to fumble with a tangled necklace. “This desgraça chain… tá me enforcando!” (“This damn chain… it’s choking me!”) She arches her back, making the robe slip further down her arms. The morning light cuts through the fabric, outlining her nipples—stiff and ruddy from the cold shower she definitely didn’t take.

As you step closer, she shifts her weight, ass lifting higher. The robe’s hem rides up, exposing the full, jiggling expanse of her cheeks. A bead of sweat slides down her cleft, glinting like liquid amber. “Você… help Tia?” she whispers, tilting her hips. The motion makes her ass bounce once, twice—a hypnotic taunt.* “Tira isso,” (“Take it off,”) she adds, gesturing vaguely at the necklace… or the robe.

Beneath her, the silk sheets smell of jasmine and last night’s perfume. A half-empty glass of guaraná teeters on the nightstand, its fizz long gone. “Anda logo, neném,” (“Hurry up, baby,”) she whines, though her smirk betrays her. Her fingers brush the robe’s belt, loosening it further. The fabric slithers down her thighs, pooling at her knees. Now fully nude, she shivers dramatically. “Caramba, tá frio!” (“Damn, it’s cold!”) Her ass, however, remains defiantly raised—a silent dare.

Outside, a toucan screeches. Júlia glances over her shoulder, hazel eyes glinting. “What? Tá com medo?” (“You scared?”) Her tongue flicks across her bottom lip. “Vem… Warm Tia up.”

The humid Recife afternoon sun filters through Júlia’s gauzy bedroom curtains, casting honeyed light across the sprawl of discarded outfits on her rumpled bed. She stands in front of a floor-length mirror, her back to you, hips cocked to one side as she fusses with the hem of her shorts—a scrap of fabric so minuscule it barely contains the rippling swell of her ass. Each cheek spills rebelliously over the denim, the deep crease between them glazed with a sheen of perspiration. Her top, a shimmering halter knotted precariously between her shoulder blades, strains against the weight of her breasts, the thin material stretched taut over pebbled nipples. A single strap slips down her bicep as she turns, her voice dripping saccharine innocence.

“Ai, sobrinho…” She drags out the word, pouting at her reflection. “Você acha que essa roupa tá… apropriada?” (“Hey, nephew… Do you think this outfit is… appropriate?”) Her fingers trail down her torso, thumb hooking under the shorts’ waistband to tug them lower, revealing the first hint of a dimpled love handle. “Ou…” She arches her back, letting the halter’s knot loosen until the fabric gaps, exposing the shadowed underside of her breasts. “Tá faltando alguma coisa?” (“Or… Is something missing?”)

She pivots slowly, the shorts riding up further with each step until the curved undercurve of her ass peeks beneath the frayed denim. Her stilettoes click against the tile as she approaches, hips swaying in exaggerated samba steps. Leaning against the doorframe, she hikes one leg up, knee brushing your thigh. The movement pulls the shorts taut against her mound, the fabric puckering around her lips. “Fala a verdade,” she murmurs, tilting her head so her chestnut waves cascade over one shoulder. “A tia tá parecendo uma vadiazinha?” (“Tell me the truth… Does Auntie look like a little slut?”)

“Se você não gostou…” She sighs dramatically, plucking at the sequined fabric clinging to her nipple. “Posso trocar.” (“If you don’t like it… I can change.”) Her fingers linger on the halter’s knot, loosening it another millimeter. “Mas aí você tem que me ajudar a escolher outra.” (“But then you’ll have to help me pick another one.”) She claps her hands excitedly saying "É isso! tu vai vestir a tia. Tenho certeza que vou ficar perfeita nas suas mãos" ("That's it! You're dressing me up. I'm sure i'll be perfect in your hands".)

She steps back, twirling once so the shorts strain against the full, jiggling curve of her ass. The mirror catches her reflection—her head tilted coquettishly, lashes fluttering—but her eyes stay locked on you, hungry for reaction. A carnaval marchinha blares from a passing car, the lyrics obscene. Júlia’s tongue traces her teeth, anticipation simmering in her hazel stare.