The audience broke into a loud applause, rising to their feet as one. The concerto just played by the orchestra was a well-known one, and the conductor a celebrity visiting the city for the first time. But it was the pianist they applauded.

'Encore! Encore!' Cries and pleas came from the stalls and boxes of the large concert hall.

The pianist rose, her eyes shining. Dressed in an elegant creation of grey silk, she was the epitome of grace and excellence. Someone came out to where she stood on the stage with a large bouquet of orchids and ferns, and more stewards followed, bearing elaborate bunches of flowers. Roses flew onto the stage from the stalls, and the roar of applause deafened with its earnest appeal for more.

Nodding at the conductor and handing her armfuls of flowers to a steward, Dianne sat back on the stool and launched into an encore. Brief and ending with a flurry, it did not satisfy the audience, who broke into loud clapping the instant the last note was heard, but it had to suffice.

She smiled again, lifted her heavy skirts around her and looked towards the front row. Because of the lighting, it was hard to see. Besides, people had started to move about, and flowers were still flying to her feet, flung by admirers near and far. It was obvious though, that the seat where the handsome man who was the reason tonight ever happened was empty. He had left it, and on either side people were rising to clap or to begin their exodus from the theatre. Dianne was handed yet another bouquet, then made her way towards the wings.

There he was. Her heart skipped a beat. He was always there. She never had to wait or become anxious. She could depend on this man, and it was becoming such an exciting feeling - despite the comfort it was instilling in her heart - that emotion sent both a flush of love and a tear of emotion to her face.

'You're here!' she uttered, breathless from the exertion of playing and the accolade of the crowd. Breathless from the knowledge he would always be there.

'Well done - you were truly wonderful tonight. You have magic hands. That concerto took on new meaning for a lot of people.'

'Oh - you always say such nice things.'

'Dianne - I have always wanted this. From the minute I first saw you play, I knew there was success for you.'

She placed a hand on his lips, and he drew her close, despite the clamouring stage manager, her agent, and the motley crowd of theatre staff that usually inhabited the unseen parts of concert halls.

'You were magnificent, Dianne,' said Colin Palin, her new manager. 'We were right about the choice of music and the venue. Tonight has confirmed your ability! We'll be playing the Met next.'

Everyone laughed, but not because it was an impossibility. Dianne shivered when she took in the words: the Metropolitan, in New York! She was on the way, and it was all because of the man whose arm lovingly circled her waist and led her away from the wings towards her dressing room.

'Get ready, my lovely. We shall go and have a quiet meal and drink at Signor Luigi's and get you some deserved rest.'

It was true. She had worked like a Trojan for this series of concerts given by the Arts Council of Heyden City. It was exhausting and demanding, but she had done it. Looking in the mirror, she took in her glowing skin, the irrepressible smile on her lips, her lit-up eyes. The silver grey gown was the most elegant she had ever worn, coming from the design of Giancarlo Battisteri himself. What more did she want?

She took down the tiara from her chignon and let down her long brown hair. The youthful dresser was still quite unknown to her, but she was good, helping her out of her gown and proffering a comfortable robe. Soon, her heavy make-up would be off, and she would slip on a cashmere trouser suit that was comfortable and suitable enough for Signor Luigi's. As she dabbed at her skin and leaned towards the mirror, she caught a glimpse of her cleavage and sighed, smiling. How had she come to this level of success and wellbeing? How on earth did she arrive at this plain of happiness? There was a successful career, and a full life with the man of her dreams. How was it possible?

She pulled the robe tightly around her, and recalled everything that had happened to her since the night this amazing man leaned on her piano in a seedy nightclub, looking at her exposed breasts and asking what on earth she was doing in such a place.

Marcia, the nightclub owner, saw the blush of shame on her pianist's cheeks and asked what was the matter. 'You're never like this, Dianne - has a patron insulted you? Made some sort of suggestion?'

Dianne raised a cool hand to her flaming cheek and shook her head.

Marcia looked pointedly as she undressed: she always did. She had a peculiar interest in Dianne's body, which the pianist found humorous. She was always half naked in the dressing room, and Marcia was as familiar with her form as she was with her own, since she planned her wardrobe, pulled and tugged at her costumes to make them even more provocative than they were supposed to be. She was always urging Dianne to show more of herself, because it made the nightclub money.

So Dianne obliged, and felt all eyes on her, something she had come to enjoy, since Brian's exposure of her to his voyeur friends. She got a rush every time a man looked with lust at her scantily adorned body, and Marcia took advantage of this fact, pushing her to more and more daring outfits that people came from far and wide to see.

One Friday night, clad only in a sequined skirt that dipped below her navel, Dianne had applied her lipstick and was turning toward the matching green and gold sequined top.

'Leave it off,' whispered Marcia.

'What!'

'The skirt is enough. Look...' Marcia rummaged in a long tray and held up a rhinestone and gilt necklace. Standing behind Dianne, she draped the elaborate piece of costume jewellery around her neck, fitting the clasp and raising an eyebrow.

Dianne looked in the mirror. It was not a perfect match with the skirt, but the necklace fell from a high choker collar in a wide vee, covering her collarbones and dipping its stones and filigree metal deeply between her breasts, touching the tops of the swelling mounds but leaving them quite bare.

'My goodness!'

'Yes,' breathed Marcia. 'No top - just that necklace.'

Dianne wondered. Looking in the mirror, she saw what people saw in her: her breasts were perky, elevated, and her dark suede-like nipples were provocative, with areolas that became erect as well as the stubs when she was excited.

'You're stunning,' said Marcia. Her hand came out and cupped Dianne's left breast, caressing the skin.

It was such a long time since someone touched her that Dianne jumped. The touch was electric, and she did not shun it.

The other woman continued to pet her, stroking her breast until her fingers pinched the nipple, fondling and pulling.

'Oh god,' said Marcia. 'Oh my goodness.' And she raised her other hand to fondle the right breast. Dianne raised her arms slightly, blinked and licked her lips. It was heavenly to be touched. But this way... and by Marcia? It was disturbing.

The other woman let go, smiling. 'You so need to... You so need sex, don't you?'

Dianne looked away, but there were mirrors everywhere. It was impossible to avoid Marcia's eyes. It was true, any touch had the power to turn her on. She needed sex, so badly.

'Come with us to the coast this weekend,' whispered the older woman. 'Please.'

'Us? What do you mean?'

Marcia laughed and cocked her head. 'Don't tell me you're the only one in the club who doesn't know about me and Kane?'

'Kane - the maitre d'?' Dianne was really surprised. The handsome floor manager was years younger than the older woman.

Marcia nodded. 'We often go to his cabin at the coast. It's a deserved rest after all the week's work. Come with us.' Her hand rose and Dianne's breast thrilled once more to the soft feeling of a woman's hand.

How could she refuse? Marcia was her boss, she was touching her this way: it was all such an unusual request. Dianne nodded.

It was quite a weekend, coming after a Friday night when she played virtually topless to an audience of club-goers, mostly male, who ogled her and made her cheeks and breasts rosy with the blush of being observed closely.

The music she played was not out of the ordinary, but they gathered near the piano, sometimes alone, sometimes in groups, sometimes a couple would stop by the black baby grand, sharing the heady sexuality she exuded and taking their arousal away to where they extended it in private. Her body shook when she played, her breasts swung and her nipples grew engorged under the scrutiny of so many people. But she enjoyed most of it.

The cabin at the coast, the company of Marcia and her young stud Kane, was exhilarating. In more ways than one. Marcia did not restrain her impulses any more. She embraced and caressed Dianne in front of her boyfriend, who quickly showed signs of interest in the two women together.

'I... what are we doing? Marcia, please!'

But Marcia did not stop, and kissed Dianne directly on the mouth, taking her weekend bag into the cabin and her pianist by the hand as she trotted along. Kane followed with a pile of weekend gear that included a hammock.

'You know, ever since I saw her in that sheer cherry outfit,' Marcia said to her boyfriend, 'I knew we would do this one day - have a wild wet weekend... the three of us.'

Kane smiled. He was not a talkative man. His hands sought Marcia's flanks and they kissed deeply as he pulled her to him.

'You naughty thing,' he said at last. 'But no one in that club hasn't wondered what it would feel like to touch Dianne.' He reached out for Dianne's hand, and she did not refuse. It was turning into a wild weekend, perhaps, and she was almost desperate for skin-to-skin contact: for sex. She slid to their side and exchanged kisses with both of them. What was the harm in this? Marcia was an attractive woman who seemed eager to touch her, and Kane was a hunk of a man whose blonde good looks and muscled frame should not go to waste.

He and Marcia were obviously on excellent terms, and their sexuality seemed matched. They were lusty, full of desire, touching each other often and suggestively, stroking bare skin or dipping hands underneath clothing to fondle and caress. Dianne watched, clutching a stemmed glass, which was thrust hurriedly into her hand. She watched Marcia being kissed and stroked, while Kane unfastened the laces at the neckline of her t-shirt, pulling and stretching the fabric until his mouth could make contact with the skin above her breasts. Dianne's boss was full of abandon. She allowed Kane his desire, putting down her own glass and ripping off her t-shirt impatiently, standing in the cosy cabin in her shorts and nothing else, her eyes slitted with a sexy look that defied all thoughts Dianne had of this being her boss, the manager of a successful nightclub: a businesswoman with a strict discipline and self control.

Self control! There was no such thing here. Marcia lifted her breasts for Kane to enjoy. His sucking and slurping was audible in the cabin, and Dianne grew aroused from simply looking on. She wished so dearly that it was her breasts Kane was licking so greedily. She felt her nipples rise under her shirt and touched herself lightly, wondering what it would be like after all that time.

Marcia saw her surreptitious move. 'Ha ha!' Her breasts bounced as she left Kane's side and approached Dianne. 'Sweetheart! You want love... you want to be touched.' She embraced Dianne around the waist, pulling her close, rubbing her body firmly. All that separated them was the thickness of Dianne's t-shirt. She felt Marcia's hard nipples dig into her and an explosive sigh left her chest. Her lips puckered of their own accord and she found herself in a deep female kiss that left no doubt as to Marcia's intentions.

Her boss's hands quickly swept the shirt straps down and soon the women were both topless and embracing frantically. The feeling of another woman's breasts against her own was such a new one for Dianne that she revelled in the sensation. So smooth, so slinky, with hard nipples bumping and rubbing, meeting and parting as they continued to slide softly again and again in a kind of close dance.

'Oh! Oh - this is so...'

'I know! You enjoy it, don't you?' mumbled Marcia, standing back a little and carefully examining Dianne's face. 'Kane - she loves it.'

Kane was leaning back against the fireplace, a rapt expression on his face. 'You two look so sexy that way - don't let me stop you.'

Marcia took charge once more and the two women engaged in a long interlude of petting, moving to the couch and enjoying the feeling of breast against breast, flank against flank. Arousal thrummed through Dianne's body: she was being watched closely by a man while this woman did things to her lips and nipples that she had longed for, for weeks. She came close to begging for more, for more, more, more.

'Okay, you girls - move over. I feel left out now, and you look good enough to eat.' Kane was getting hungry.

'So eat us then,' said Marcia provocatively. She shimmied down her shorts to reveal a baby blue bikini, and strolled over to a doorway. 'The bedroom is this way, Dianne.'

How could Dianne refuse? Marcia was eyeing her shorts meaningfully. Drop them, the look said. She hooked her thumbs over the stretch garment and struggled out of it, knowing all the while the couple was regarding the way her breasts tilted forward as she stooped: pointy and elongated, still damp and inviting after Marcia's oral feast of them.

She stood in front of them in her pure white gee, her buttocks bare and her mound, which was starting only now to sprout a spray of tiny baby fine hairs, barely covered by the strip of stretch fabric.

Kane exclaimed something, and watched her approach Marcia, who led her to the bedroom, where a small double bed was pushed into a corner, piled with a vast assortment of cushions. The women playfully threw all cushions onto a rug and fell laughing into the old cosy bed, smelling the scent of fresh linen and embracing as they tumbled.

Oh - the sensation of lying naked with a woman was heaven. Dianne could not imagine why she had never done it before. It was silky, bliss: and so familiar that she knew every inch of Marcia before she even touched her. She knew the narrow waist, the flare of thigh, the damp secret folds of vulva that led to a warm soft place she knew exactly how to pleasure. Her fingers started an exploration: slowly, then more confidently. Marcia opened up, while her own fingers did exactly the same to Dianne. It was a 'follow the leader' game: first Dianne opening and entering, then Marcia. When both their fingers were playing deliciously with each other's inner folds, their lips and tongues did the same.

Dianne's head swam with pleasure. She would come, and come again and again if this went on much longer. She knew Kane was watching from the doorway. She heard the swish of his garments as he shed them, and she had to look as he walked naked to where she and Marcia were lying together.

She gasped. Kane was beautiful and very male, with slim hips and a furry groin from whence sprung a very long penis that was as straight as an arrow. He was cut, so his glans was fully exposed: purple and so very ready for what he was about to do. But he did not descend on either of them in such a hurry. He stood and watched, his member twitching only slightly, as Marcia proceeded to go down on Dianne. Her fingers retreated and her lips and tongue found the same target.

'Oooooh!' Dianne fell back, closed her eyes and enjoyed the warm sensation of being licked and entered by a tongue so sweet, so knowledgeable, that she was melting immediately. She spread her thighs as wide as they would go, and let Marcia do exactly as she liked with her mouth on her slit. Then she felt Kane's hands - unmistakeable in their male grasp - touching her sides and breasts. His mouth was on her, everywhere. She sighed and her body involuntarily twitched and reacted, grinding and heaving. No one stopped her natural movements. She let herself go, and the couple feasted greedily upon her.

All the sexless weeks were stripped away. At last the wave of arousal was allowed to roll, roll: bash against the shores of her longing and physical desire. Kane and Marcia were merciless, urging her onward and upward until she burst apart, a number of times, her limbs lashing uncontrollably, her hips heaving with a definite rhythm, up and down, up and down: pumping so desperately Kane had to mount and ride her, driving his cock into her forcibly but smoothly.

He rode without a care, pumping into her, thrusting in and out vitally and in such an experienced way it was obvious he would not some too soon. He pulled out, trembling but in charge of his own body, letting Marcia astride for a turn. She rubbed her vulva strongly against Dianne's, sensing the thrumming going on in there, inserting her fingers and tongue in turn, then tilting her own pelvis to be entered from the rear. She was penetrated by her lover while her mouth worked on Dianne, who started to come convulsively. Her clitoris was so swollen and prepared it needed only a few more strokes, and she was coming, coming: her eyes wide open and her mouth full of ecstatic screams.

It was a wave of orgasms, and it did not stop. Kane was inside her once more and his violent thrashing, as if he rode a horse at gallop, did the rest.

Strange exclamations left Dianne's lips as she came down, gathered her limbs and pulled herself into a ball: a knot of trembling flesh that took a while to calm. Next to her, the sex went on: Marcia was riding Kane languorously, her rhythm a practised one. Their groins were attached so moistly Dianne could hear the small sexy wet sounds. She was exhausted, but she lay on her side and watched the coitus of her boss and the maitre d'. It was brilliant, and could have aroused her once more if she were not so tired.

Marcia was an attractive woman whose body was full of a sexy vitality that lit up the room, and it was obvious that Kane was fully involved with her. His eyes were fiery, his mouth all over her when she leaned forward over him. They were well matched, and the resulting sexual play was riveting to watch. They knew Dianne's eyes were on them, and they performed to a satisfying conclusion, panting and trembling with their sustained orgasms.

'God, that was good.' Marcia lay back momentarily, then rose and poured wine. She was a picture of rosy, satisfied nudity, and showed no intention of covering herself up. 'Let's swim.'

'Swim?' Dianne did not think she could move.

'She's unstoppable,' smiled Kane.

Naked, happy, they opened the cabin door and walked down the stretch of creamy sand to the water's edge. Marcia was in the waves in a flash, and Dianne followed. Kane waded out to where they languished in the water and looked at them, self-satisfaction evident on his face.

'Wow - how does one man deserve all this?' He touched each of the women in turn, and they all laughed.

And so it went for the entire weekend, Dianne not needing a shred of the holiday clothes she brought. They ate, swam, and slept naked, knotted together on the small bed among some cushions, or outside swinging openly in the hammock, their bodies golden not only because of the full sun, but because of what they did to each other. The sex was magnificent and generous, implying nothing but what it held: three sexual bodies full of the desire to be satisfied and to satisfy in return. There was no mention of more: no talk of other encounters or anything approaching an on-going arrangement.

It suited Dianne. She could see Marcia and Kane were deeply involved, and had no wish to disrupt their relationship. They had given her sex: lots of it. It was good, and she enjoyed it. There was no real need for more. She would continue to play at the club as if nothing happened.

The words still played, like a recording, in Dianne's ears: 'Dianne - why are you working in a place like this?' She remembered everything: the music she played, what she was wearing. Her nipples stuck out of a net bodice draped loosely across her breasts, nominally clothing them but leaving them visible. A clutch of fake butterflies fluttered on the nylon straps. To some, she must have looked impossibly daring and lusty. To others, it must have looked... well, vulgar.

Cheap. That's what was in the man's mind when he looked at her, his deep eyes piercing hers. He thought she looked cheap, and he wanted to make sure she knew it.

She could not speak to him. A hot flush of humiliation stained her cheeks and she looked at her hands, automatically playing the keys towards a conclusion, a final melodic sweep.

'Dianne - what in heaven's name are you doing in a place like this?' he repeated.

She could not answer. His eyes would accuse and judge. His piercing eyes would reveal everything she was... and everything she was not. Suddenly, the dress felt cheap. The nightclub appeared to be exactly what it was: a sleazy dive where people came to see a woman playing topless.

She rose, bowed in a cursory fashion, smiled a stiff professional smile that flashed all her teeth to whoever was looking, and disappeared back to her dressing room. To face Marcia. And her invitation. That was it: Marcia, her new invitation to female sex. She would take it up. Sex had a way of making her forget anything. She would take up her boss on her offer of a wet wild weekend with her boyfriend Kane, and the sex would wipe out all the desperation she felt.

But she knew it would return. Oh - the dismay at the feeling of returning to her house alone, her body suitably calmed after a whole weekend of ravishing from a couple who wanted her, aroused her, but in reality cared only about each other. Oh - the disappointment to find they could use and discard her at will. No one loved her. No one really cared. She was simply a plaything for men. For women... for couples. It was sad that her ability to relate to anyone was merely on a sexual level. No wonder Brian had found her easy prey. No wonder he found he could install her in a mansion with a dozen other women, forming his harem for him: allowing him access whenever and wherever - as long as it was witnessed by his voyeur friends.

That what was wrong with Brian - he could not find satisfaction unless he was watched in his sexual escapades.

But then, what was wrong with her? Dianne sighed, wiped a tear from the corner of her eye and looked at herself in the mirror. What was wrong with her? Why could she not attract love? Why did people treat her like a sexual object - good only for flights of lust? Like a disposable paper cup, she was filled and emptied, crushed and thrown away. Floods of hot tears jagged down her cheeks. It was awful. She was so alone.

The white piano was closed, its tight expensive shape a ghost in her music room. There was a time she thought she had a brilliant career. There was a time when reviews forecast the successes she would have in the future. There was no future. She would not play any more Schubert, any more Brahms. Rachmaninov too would be abandoned, and Britten, and Vaughn Williams. She would play no more classical music - only recognisable melodies and show music. Vaudeville tunes for an audience of oglers in a seedy nightclub. She had fallen so far.

A hot bath was needed. She had to sink into a warm tub of suds and be cleansed before she could stand to look at herself in the mirror. Her body was sated: it was true. Sex had a way of rubbing everything out neatly, but it did not leave a nice taste in the mouth, to be so used and discarded. Marcia and Kane meant well, and her body had responded eagerly. She had lapped up the attention and her orgasms were certainly not faked. But she needed to soak it all away in a hot bath. It needed to be washed off, this feeling of uselessness, of weakness, of futility.

The taps gushed their powerful streams of hot and cold water into the deep tub, and Dianne poured a concoction of liquids in: bergamot, lavender, peppermint, patchouli, sage. She needed to steep herself for hours in waters that cleansed and rejuvenated. She needed warmth, comfort and rest. But oh - she needed someone to comfort her. Tears fell afresh, making her shudder.

'Look at me - I'm a mass of self-pity. It's disgusting,' she said aloud. When would it end? She lowered her body into the water, not wanting for a minute to look at her reflection on the full wall mirror. She did not want to see what she had offered up to her boss and her lover over the weekend. It was over. It was after all a cheap thrill, and it was over.

'I'm sick of my body - sick of its physical demands.' The thought kept recurring, driving Dianne half insane with despair. She wanted to get away from herself, but it was impossible. Ringing the club, she found it was easier than she thought to take a night off.

'But darling,' Marcia said. 'Be back bright and breezy tomorrow night. And bring the cherry outfit - people have asked for you in it.'

Dianne wrapped herself up in a white towel robe and curled into her deep armchair. No music. No television. Silence. She sipped herbal teas and wondered about her life and where it would lead. This was surely the cul de sac of her life and career. She could go nowhere else from here but play in other clubs, possibly even seedier than the Turned Leaf, in even more revealing gowns than the cherry outfit. Ah - the cherry gown: it was a mere scrap of gauze, transparent as anything, embroidered with a few strategic cherries. Her form showed through to wow all the patrons of the club, and they demanded it again and again.

No - no. There would be no cherry outfit. In a fit of confusion and self-spite, Dianne rose from the armchair and ran to her wardrobe up in her darkened rooms. Throwing open the closet doors, she started to pull at the rows of gowns and dresses, frocks and outfits, their hangers swinging and clattering against each other. She was in a frenzy; a daze and froth of anger. The clothes were light: none weighing more than a few ounces because they were composed of very little. Gauze and tulle, nylon and fishnet - it all came tumbling and streaming from where it hung, and she pulled and tore until it was all in a heap at her feet.

These were no good any more! She would not wear such frocks that showed off her frame so blatantly to anyone who wanted to look. It was deceitful - if they wanted to see her body, they would see it in all its glory - no gauze or fishnet. She would not pretend any more to be modest. She was what she was: a provocative act in a nightclub. Showing off her breasts and butt.

Leaving the heap of clothes on the floor, Dianne threw herself onto her tightly made up bed. In one corner, something she had flung away in her fit of anger slid from its perch on the velvet tub chair and landed on the carpet. She did not care. She knew what it was without having to look. It was a long chain: a long gold chain with its black pearl pendant. She rolled over onto her stomach and slept for a long time.

The club was crowded, and it was late. Marcia panicked as she paced into Dianne's dressing room.

'We need to get on with it, honey,' she said kindly. 'I don't want anyone to think there's no act tonight.'

'Oh - there will be an act,' Dianne mumbled, sleeking dark red lipstick on and raking hands through a fluffed up hair-do. Her eyes were made up dramatically, and she wore sandals with heels so high she needed to totter very carefully.

'Slip on your gown, now, and I'll announce you. Okay - three minutes?'

Dianne nodded at Marcia's reflection in the mirror. Leaning forward, her breasts dangled proud of her chest, and she watched as her nipples tightened with the excitement of what she was about to do. Hitching her g-string, with its diamante straps, up a bit higher on her hips, adjusting the little sequined patch so it nestled exactly so on her pubis, she felt ready. The gown was thrown over a chair. It was ready too, but Dianne smirked at it. From a small pocket in her grip bag, she took out a long gold chain and slipped it over her wild hair-do.

'There!'

The lights flashed off and on again.

'Ladies and gentlemen - gentlemen!' Marcia announced in a loud voice over the microphone. 'After a night's well earned absence, welcome once more to the piano... Miss Dianne Delvanee!!'

The name she had adopted for this job reverberated in the clubroom, and Dianne strode out towards the grand piano.

A collective audible hum and gasp went up as she approached. Dianne wore nothing but her decorative gee and a long chain, from which dangled, below her navel, a black pearl pendant. Her breasts were bare, and her hair shook with the nervousness she still felt. She tottered slowly, mincing on her high high heels, and finally made it to the piano stool, where she looked around victoriously.

The look on Marcia's face was duplicated many times around the room: she was as astonished as her clients to see her pianist almost naked, standing in front of the crowd wearing nothing but a few strings of diamante around her hips, and a black pendant, twirling between navel and pubis.

A roar of applause - after the amazed pause - went up in the room, thundering wildly and finally coming to a close. Dianne sat at her piano and the first bars of a well known song rang out, putting everyone at ease once more.