Dianne had a problem: one she could share with no one in the world. How had this happened? She allowed herself to become isolated, wanting no other company but Brian's. And the months of being with him, waiting for him, preparing for him had taken her away from all other friends or companions.

How stupid she was! Thinking back to all the times she had waited for Brian made her blush with embarrassment: she waited and waited, thinking all the time he was waiting too. In fact, if Rex was to be believed, he was in the company of half a dozen other women at the mansion in Las Palmas. He was pampered, catered to, loved and admired by a clutch of females she had not even suspected existed, and he was far from lonely.

How could she think he had endured weeks of 'erotic celibacy' with her: a game they devised to tease them into a frenzied pitch of desire for each other's bodies? She had swooned and waited, for sure, but Brian was at the mansion in Las Palmas. A mansion she now knew was peopled by a harem of beautiful women who catered to all his sexual needs. Rex had only said a few words, but they were enough to conjure a stream of images in her mind.

She imagined Brian surrounded by a bevy of naked women, all statuesque, all miraculously lovely. Their skin, their eyes, their shapely limbs all at his command. She thought of them, pleasuring him: singly, in the privacy of one of the large mansion bedrooms. He went from room to room, from woman to woman, demanding their compliance, making them keep the vows they took, parading them naked in front of his voyeur friends. She thought of them pleasuring him, together, a tangle of female arms, legs, thighs and breasts smothering him with attention while he revelled under the gaze of Boris Petrowski and his old cronies.

Tears of frustration ran down her cheeks as Dianne sat in a window seat on a plane bound back to her city. But it was no comfort going back to her house. Yes, it was true: her books were there, her familiar things and most importantly, her piano. But how could she play in this state?

The words of the yacht captain who had opened her eyes to the situation she was in still rang in her mind. Rex had not said much, and his stern attitude did little to comfort her, but she had no reason to doubt he was telling the truth. Brian had betrayed her, leading her to believe she was the only woman in his life, whereas the mansion was crowded with women from whom he had elicited the same vows as he had from her. Vows of fidelity, of devotion, of complete sexual abandon, of total servility to his carnal needs.

It had seemed so wonderful at the time: to be a sexual object to someone like Brian. To be always available to him, to lay her body naked for him, and obey his every bodily need. It was so empowering to pleasure him, to take him inside her in every possible way. Her body had thrilled to each occasion, even if it was simply a show of flesh. She had dined with him in silks so transparent they were hardly there. She had let his fingers feed her through her glossy lips with morsels of caviar and salmon, with the old composer watching them all the while. Brian would casually sweep the clothes from her body, delighting in showing off her enormously engorged nipples: nipples enlarged by attention, by suckling: by what she thought was love.

'Look!' he would exclaim. 'Have you ever seen anything like this? They are the longest, darkest stems I have ever played with.' And he would proceed to playfully touch her, sensually feathering the buds with tongue and fingers until her erotic gasps filled the room and she was so weakened in resolve she would let him take her there and then.

He had called her pubic hair her 'love curls', and was almost disappointed when a brigade of beauticians had removed them, smoothing her mound to a perfectly shaped pink form. But he had licked and caressed it joyfully, sprinkling talcum powder and massaging her for so long her whole body leapt with ecstasy.

Now, on the way home in tears, she did not know what was to become of her. It was true what Rex had suggested. She had become a sexual object whose body would react to anyone's touch. He had not said those exact words but it was true: she delighted in anyone's touch: a masseur, a beautician... she had climaxed a number of times to a Russian masseuse's touch. What was she to think of herself? She was so charged with desire even the thought of a jade phallus, or a set of vibrating gold balls on a string made her shudder with desire. She wanted sex. She desperately needed to be sated, touched, taken. She also wanted to be looked at.

She laughed aloud, and the passenger in the next seat looked at her and away again.

She wanted to be looked at. But if she had to remember how coy she was when she had met Brian it could still make her laugh. To think she would worry if her skirt was too tight or if her nipples pushed out from under her clothing. She raised a hand to her breast. Her jacket was undone and she wore no bra underneath the sleek shirt underneath. It was a delicious cream silky shirt whose fastening was at the back, so her bosom - its shape, form, dimensions and features - were easily distinguishable to anyone who took the time to look. Dianne ran her hand over her breasts and felt the hard nubs she so desperately wanted to reveal, to show. She wanted so badly to be nude for someone who loved her.

But that someone did not turn out to be Brian after all. She was flying home alone on a plane that would take her to loneliness and sexual frustration. Brian had trained her to react sexually to the least stimulus. Her own touch, no matter how subtle, was enough to start her off. She shifted in her seat. Her hand strayed once more to her breasts.

'Would you like anything else?'

The question made Dianne look up.

A stewardess was looking pointedly at her open jacket and visible nipples. 'Would you like another drink?' she asked.

'No, thank you.' She wished she was alone, to rid herself of these close-fitting travel clothes. She needed a bath, and time to think. Her hands buttoned her jacket automatically, and she counted the minutes to when she could be alone, untrammelled by anything or anyone: untrammelled by clothing or questions or stares.

Stares. She remembered Rex on the yacht, and his stern slitted eyes that did not stare at her so much, but out to sea. She remembered his words, his statements of fact. He said he had concern for her: did not want her to be hurt by Brian's crazy sex games. Was that what he said? She was not sure. But his words had the power to send her away, to set her on a course of flight, even after all those promises she had made Brian. She ran away because she had had no idea there were other women: many of them, all in the same mansion where he was about to set her up as only one of a horde of sexual partners. She had thought she was unique and loved.

Her promises had been so blatant and wild. To be always available. To always let him touch her, unclothe her, stimulate her. No matter where, no matter when, and no matter who was watching. She had said yes to it all. She had said yes while standing naked in front of all his friends.

The plane banked and they were coming in to land. Dianne raised a hand to her mouth in the sudden realization that those other women may very well have been at the celebration. Did they stare at her? Did they know much more about what her promises meant than she did? She thought hard, trying to remember faces and names, but it was all a blur. She had been so excited that night, clad only in her Reggi-lette, which was made entirely of gold and jewels. She had left it behind, draped suggestively on the huge bed in the stateroom of Rex's yacht.

'He lends them to his friends,' Rex had said, and he did not mean jewels. He meant women. Brian lent his women to his male friends, sending them on sexual missions for days or nights or weeks. Did they go willingly? She supposed they too reacted quickly to anyone's touch, and would be happy to be taken, satisfied by someone bent on making them gasp and climax, time after time. No matter who it was. But she was in love with Brian, and wanted only him. Luxuries did not matter. Large mansions did not count.

He had promised her a life of nudity, jewels and sex. What he did not say was that they would not always come from him. That there would be other men. That her body would be one of many others to be ravished, viewed, displayed and used.

The plane landed and she made her way automatically through formalities, crowds and buildings, finding herself at last in the open, realizing it was raining hard. She felt her hair dampen, her clothes crease, her spirit flag. Dianne was close to tears. This was her home city, but she was anything but glad to be back.

'Here, let me call you a cab.'

Dianne's head spun around, recognition of the voice stinging her physically.

The man did not look at her. He waved a cab that slowed in front of them, and her case was quickly seen to. She was soon sitting alone in the back seat of a vehicle that sped away with her, and she knew she would soon be home. But the surprise of having Rex shelter her from the rain and dispatch her off in a cab was so quick and sudden it left her tongue-tied and breathless. What was the yacht captain doing in Hayden City?

The woods were quiet and damp, with the last rays of sunlight dappling the undergrowth. Dianne wandered about in confusion, mistaking this path for that; taking a bush to be one she had seen before. Did she see it before? She was lost, and shadows started to take on a sinister appearance.

She heard rustles to her left. Twigs snapped underfoot. Someone was coming. She heard the unmistakeable sound of hooves on rocks. They clattered and rang against the crags she had seen about an hour ago. Where was she? She could not see a rider, but she definitely heard hooves. Someone was approaching on a horse.

Someone was crashing through the undergrowth, and was approaching fast. She heard audible breathing, panting. Suddenly, she was no longer alone in the clearing. The gasping, breathless noises she had heard came from this creature. It was a satyr. No - it could not possibly be true. It was the satyr she had seen in the private picture theatre Brian had taken her to. She had watched this creature seduce a young woman in a forest, and she had melted with desire where she sat.

She uttered a strangled scream. How could she have possibly wished for this? The half-man, half goat watched her, his breath heaving. His square pupils glowed in the half-light. The animal mouth was agape in a leering grin. He looked as if he had cantered for hours, his chest heaving, hairy flanks juddering with the strenuous effort. He had been looking for her, and here she was: lost, vulnerable and so lonely after Brian's betrayal.

The creature leaned against a tree trunk, his walleyes never leaving contact with her own. She could not possibly look away. Raising a set of pan pipes to his lips, he started to play. Dianne took in every detail of his form. She was fascinated by this animal... human... what was he? His bare chest was hairless and smooth, his strong arms tanned and muscular. But his fingernails were like claws and below his navel strong brown hairs grew in a coat all over his flanks, which were unmistakeably animal in form. His legs were strong and furred, finishing in hooves rather than feet. And he was naked. She saw his tail flip in excitement, and tried to wrest her eyes away from his groin. But she could not: his groin was perfect. Perfect for a human, perfect for a sexual animal. The flaccid penis that hung, hairless and tanned, from his lower belly, was the most fascinating part of the satyr. She had seen it in the movie. It would grow enormously and curve visibly upward and outward until it strained and quivered.

She stared at his penis, watching its growth and marvelling at its arcing length and thickness. She tried to concentrate, to look away, but she was becoming dizzy and her thoughts were incoherent. What was it? The music dampened everything else out. It started to burn into her senses: all her senses. Her skin tingled in time to the lilting melody. Her ears pricked up like those of a forest creature. Her tongue savoured something musky and slightly salty. Her eyes started to trick her, shifting in and out of focus so that all she saw was the deep blue - no, black - of the satyr's eyes. He played on, and she knew she was lost.

The satyr's penis was now at its fullest extent, and she stared at it, immobile. She felt her own tongue come out and lick her dry lips. Her eyes blurred. The music went on, making her weak and vulnerable. Could she talk? Could she resist this?

She blinked, and saw the satyr had thrown down his pipes. But the music went on in her head, and she knew she would not run away or try to avoid him when he made the few paces to her side. She listened for his whinny of desire, and it came. His breath heaved from him in gasps, and as he neared, she could smell the high animal aroma of his fur. His forehead was smooth and his eyes stared into hers, burning meaningfully.

'Please...' she started. What could she possibly mean, she wondered. Please go away? Please leave the forest now? Please be gentle? Please, please take me. Take me and enter me as hard and long and strongly as you possibly can.

The satyr smiled. He heard her thoughts. A whinny of victory rose from his lips and he strained his neck, shaking his head and laughing. He beckoned, and Dianne went to him, tearing the bodice of her dress as she went. She bared herself for him, watching as his penis twitched in response.

She had trouble with the fabric, which annoyingly stuck to her damp skin. She tripped as she tried to free herself of her French knickers, of her sandals, of her earrings: everything and anything that attached her to the human world. She bared herself completely, shaking her loosened hair that curled around her shoulders. She opened her arms and stood in silence.

The creature beckoned again.

Dianne made a step in his direction. She was terrified, but thrilled. Her skin crawled, but desire made her teeth chatter and she shivered as she moved. She felt his claws on her. His hands started to caress and possess. His head touched hers, and she felt his teeth on her neck. Oh, she longed to be bitten in lust. Her arms snaked out in spite of herself and she draped them around the creature's neck and held on to him, feeling his penis brush against her thigh. It was hot, so hot she started. Up close it was even longer and thicker, and fear of pain made itself felt. Would he hurt her?

The satyr said something, but not in words she could understand. He nuzzled her, sniffing and grunting softly, biting her skin urgently and starting to sniff and nudge her breasts. Oh, she needed him to latch onto her nipple and pull and suck.

But the urgency was in his groin. He embraced and raised her bodily, and automatically she opened her legs and grasped him around the waist with them. His hooves clattered on the rock, pebbles and grass underfoot. He righted himself and pushed against her until she was so open, so unfurled, that his penis found its way alone to her slit. He rubbed against her, and she groaned.

The stimulation brought about her moistening. He rubbed the large flat head of his cock against her opening and was in. One slick strong plunge and his full length was inside her.

Dianne called out loud. It was not a word or anything like language. It was an animal cry she had longed to make. Her eyes closed and she threw her head backward. The satyr's hands spread and he held her to him by her buttocks, pulling her so tightly that her thighs were spread to their limit, her cunt flat up against him, his penetration absolutely complete. She felt the clash of muscle against her cervix, and another animal groan left her throat. And another.

He started to rock, to pull back and forth. His regular thrusting gained rhythm, and he moved on his hooves. Walking forward slightly, he placed Dianne with her back again the truck of a tree and started to thrust so vigorously her cries formed one long deep exhalation. She screamed, leaned back, and felt his sharp animal teeth on her breasts. Wet, long and curling hotly, his tongue persisted over her nipples, adding to the sharp sensations that were building up inside her.

It was useless exclaiming things like 'Don't stop!' She doubted language would affect him. She grunted and encouraged him by movements and cries of pleasure so loud the forest rang with them. Would he stop? Dianne bucked and grinded her hips, spurts of moisture gushing from her involuntarily, making their union slick and so palpably hot the drops that left her steamed in the forest air.

He went on, pummelling into her, sucking her nipples so strongly that pain and pleasure mingled to drive her frenzy until she felt she would faint away. Darkness threatened to take over. She felt weak and dizzy, her gasping breath becoming short and laboured, but she could not stop her body from making animal rutting motions. She bucked, lost in paroxysms of pleasure. She bucked some more, the white heat exploding and expanding from the core inside her outward, radiating to her breasts and her mouth until she was a ball of fire.

This was it: the most potent climax of her life. Was it?

The satyr pummelled on, grunting in pleasure, raking her skin with his claws, his muscular tail erect and swaying behind him, expressing the climax he was nearing. When it came, it was a thundering of cries and bellows, a smashing of hooves on forest floor, a crashing of penis against cervix so the vibration was so great it rocked Dianne to the very core of her.

She had no more breath to breathe. Her eyes could not be squeezed open. She was wrung out, depleted, finished. Her body was racked, taken and possessed. It was over. Fluids rained down from her, streaking her thighs. Still, she could not open her eyes. Suddenly, she felt she was on her back, abandoned, alone. She would have to pull the myriad leaves and twigs from her skin and hair, but she could not rise yet. She was paralysed with the emotion of so much pleasure. A tear escaped her closed left eye and she felt it trickle to her ear. Hot tears started to come.

Dianne placed a hand down and cupped her vulva tenderly. She was wet and sticky, but her skin was starting to cool. Weeping and mumbling, she turned onto her side. There were no leaves. There was no forest floor. No satyr had taken her with claws and hooves and thick curving penis.

This was her bed, and these were her sheets. This, in her hand, was a long jade phallus with which she had wreaked such a vigorous assault on herself. These, in her head, were long held fantasies of extended intercourse with a creature that both fascinated and was fascinated by her in return. Her tears seeped into the sheets, and she wept her frustration and longing into a pillow. Oh, how she needed some form of satyr to take her and impale her, lustily and almost against her will.

She pulled up a sheet and wrapped herself tightly in it, her body still shaking uncontrollably from the repeated climaxes she had given herself. The jade phallus rolled away down the side of the bed and landed unheeded on the carpet.

'I'm so sorry, but I did not catch your name.' Dianne spoke into the telephone, startled by the female voice that carried so much sophistication and confidence.

It turned out to be an offer: an offer of employment that she needed so much. Getting in touch with an agent - any agent - and discussing work had seemed such an unwanted chore, but she needed some form of income, so it had to be done. Now this call came, from a woman who demanded her presence.

'An audition?' she asked.

The voice on the other end laughed. 'Well, an interview,' it said.

So Dianne got herself ready. For two days she practised at the piano, distracting her thoughts with discipline, learning songs, remembering others, putting together a repertoire she secretly frowned at. She also looked in her closets for appropriate garments, and shopped for things she knew she did not want, but needed for the job she desperately needed.

She was going to meet the woman who summoned her, and was not looking forward to the experience. Since she had left Las Palmas, she shirked the company of others, keeping to herself and her fantasies, staying in her house and garden, pulled between one desire and another, one broken dream and the next. Her body ached and trembled on some days, and cooled and stiffened on others, depending on how she felt about being so naïve and stupid about Brian. On how she felt about missing his caresses, his attention and his gifts.

Of course, when she really was honest to herself, she realised he made her wait a lot. Her days, during their relationship, were a string of waiting days, full of lust and desire that was often unfulfilled. She had to be honest. She had to, to stay sane.

The dress she was trying on was sleek and tight. Would it do? The satin was lilac and of the best quality, belonging to the days when she would display her body to Brian and his composer friend, Boris. It was so light, so beautifully made, that it clung to her skin, betraying the titillating fact she wore little or nothing underneath. How could she bear to wear a bra under such a dress? She reluctantly unzipped herself and experimented with a shelf bra that neatly covered her nipples: a lilac bra and matching knickers would be so pretty. Yes: that was what she would wear for the audition. The interview. The mirror showed her how lovely she could look. Brown curls and ringlets swept her shoulders. Gorgeous fabric fell from thin straps around her shapely form, transparency revealing undergarments that stressed the fact she was a youthful woman with a sensational body. A body she wanted to show off. She smiled at herself, and passed tickling fingers over nipples and mound. She loved being sexy. But for whom? Would she ever meet someone who would feel something genuine for her?

Marcia Tilden was a demanding employer, and it showed from the first night. Dianne was to play the piano in a nightclub. She was not to play the songs and pieces she had prepared, but others presented to her on the day she was accepted. She had practised like fury, mastering the simple but long tunes, getting them right so that she could keep the job. It was a deceptively simple job: one that kept her up all night, to the wee small hours, playing romantic melodies for anonymous faces.

'I would like to see your wardrobe,' Marcia Tilden had stated. So she arranged for another appointment where she cast her eyes over Dianne's dresses and gowns, frowning, nodding, pursing her lips and fingering fabrics. 'Mmm,' she mumbled often. 'Aha!'

And Dianne could not decide at first if she was pleased or disappointed in her taste in clothes.

'This is a sought after venue for romantic assignments,' Marcia said. 'The Turned Leaf is a nightclub that is expensive for a number of reasons. I want another reason to become our pianist. I want people to come from great distances, just because of you.'

Dianne wondered how that was to be orchestrated. She played well, but that was probably hardly enough in such a competitive industry.

'These dresses - well, some of them - are very nice. We need you to be alluring. Desirable as well as talented, so you must dress accordingly.'

'Yes.'

'Surprise me, Dianne - I will pay you well, very well, if my plans work out for this nightclub. Surprise me with your songs and your costumes, and we will both do well.'

So Dianne concentrated on her music. Her clothes were starting to bore her, and she knew Marcia Tilden would soon comment if she did not do something rather soon. She started to mix and match, wearing elegant tops over skirts with long slits. She put her hair up, and wore dramatic make up, glossing her lips outrageously. Both men and women started to notice her. She attracted attention, and people would start to stop by the piano, pause and watch her, smile and walk on.

It was attention, and she wanted it badly. Dressing for work each evening, she would look in the mirror and ponder her fate, but she had little time for contemplation. Practising, performing and shopping for suitable evening clothes was time consuming. She looked at herself in the mirror and wondered how Marcia Tilden would regard her next outfit. It was a cherry coloured sheer skirt that reached to her ankles, embroidered in tiny cherries in pairs. Underneath, a sleek black satin miniskirt protected her modesty. The top was sheer, embroidered only over her breasts with four pairs of cherries. It left little to the imagination, and made her smile.

'Let's see how many people will stop by the piano tonight.'

She was not surprised at the audience reaction. Her body showed through her dress, and her eyes sparkled.

'My goodness, Dianne,' Marcia beamed. 'It's amazing what showing a little skin will do! Bar takings are double what they were for the same night last year.'

Encouragement was all Dianne needed. Her costumes became more and more revealing, and the Turned Leaf was suddenly the place to be seen. The queue outside went as far as the next block. The cherry evening dress was on the lips of several patrons, who went as far as to ask for Dianne to wear it when they booked.

'We love the woman who plays the piano,' they said.

'That transparent dress!'

'What a daring pianist - and how sexy!'

'Get her to wear that cherry thing.'

'We want to hear the lady who plays... you know, the one who wears those sexy dresses.'

And so it went.

Dianne enjoyed altering dresses to reveal more of her. A white strappy top was scooped further to display her cleavage. The lining of a black dress was ripped out to fully show her breasts. A thin flesh-coloured gown was slit to the waist so it clung only nominally to her skin as she played.

'You are the sexiest thing in Heyden City night life,' a man said to her as she finished a song. He was a regular patron, one who would rest his champagne glass on her piano, and leave a large tip at the end of the night.

Dianne smiled professionally, rounding off with a flourish and sweeping off her stool. 'Why, thank you.'

'And I'm sure you have some silly rule about not dating patrons.'

'Of course we do,' she lied. It was not the first approach she had fobbed off. Many men - and women - would ask her out, as her playing became more confident and fluid, and her dresses less and less concealing.

She smiled at this man, noting he did not look at her face but directly at her nipples, which were erect and prominent under a thin layer of cream tulle strung across her chest from a pair of transparent nylon straps decorated with a flight of butterflies. She trembled under his gaze, wanted badly - so badly - to be touched. But she refused him, almost rebuffed him, and made her way to her dressing room, where she grimaced at the mirror and wondered why she had become so reclusive.

'People always remark about your body,' Marcia said as they had a cup of coffee one evening before the club opened. 'They say things guardedly, but it's unmistakeable - you have um... you have glorious... um. Your breasts are to die for.' She looked at Dianne, her eyebrows arched, wondering whether the pianist would be offended by her words.

Dianne nodded. 'I've encountered that kind of comment before,' she smiled.

'No surprise,' said the older woman. She looked pointedly at Dianne as she slipped into a baby blue skirt and black fishnet top.

'My goodness. Fishnet!' She stared at Dianne, who stood and regarded the mirror.

'Do you like it?'

'It's fabulous. God - to have a body that begs to be shown off! Look at you. No wonder they come from miles away.'

Dianne looked at herself. The net was black, but so fine and wide it was hardly there at all. The holes were diamond-shaped, allowing her skin to glow through, her nipples to peek out stiffly between the strands of thread. Her areolas, under the other woman's gaze, stiffened too, and rose suggestively, her skin attaining a blush of sexual sheen. 'Goodness - it's a bit more daring than I intended.'

'Good - we'll break the bank tonight.'

She played her heart out, tinkling romantic tunes, her whole body trembling with effort, her eyes closing often as her fingers travelled the keyboard. She did not heed a man who returned time and again with a champagne glass by the glossy black piano. Many had stood there before, and they did not matter. She had long lost the feeling of alertness when people examined her body so closely when she played. Her foot pressed the pedal, and she came to a close with a small flourish.

The man clapped slowly, out of courtesy. 'Dianne. What on earth are you doing?' His voice was low and full of a kind of pity.

Her head jerked up suddenly, recognising the voice. Who was he to pity her?

'What are you doing?' he repeated. 'Dianne - why are you working in a place like this?'