Fantasy is something imagined. It's the place where the realities of life are rejected or discarded, where our minds play, releasing energies denied to us by social conditioning and convention. And in that moment, we sincerely believe in them, and experience them, invested with realism.

Some fantasies we find thrilling and our reaction is physical; that tingling autonomous sensory meridian response with goosebumps, a rush of adrenaline, an unwanted blush. Thoughts may flourish and evolve. The emotions they evoke ebb and flow through our material world to influence our thinking -- and seep deep into the aquifer of our subconscious. There in the darkness, our suppressed primal psyche lies awash in the same tide, frustrated and yearning for release.

In contrast -- reality is that which, when you stop believing in it, doesn't go away.

*****

A sixpenny espresso's hot, sharp tang fills my nose and flows across my tongue. The world around me continues; relaxed chatter, laughter, the snarl of the coffee machine, the rattle of a gusty rain shower on the window, and Sergeant Pepper's Lucy drifts through her diamond sky from tinny, bakelite speakers. I watch from the far corner table, through the crowd. You wouldn't give me a second glance. They haven't.

Each time the door opens her auburn hair dances in the cold draught. A slender finger curls it delicately around an ear, but it's hopeless. They smile over coy glances. Hands rest casually on the table and as they talk, restless fingers wander, explore, touch tentatively.

I glance, unbidden, to my ring -- right where he placed it.

He catches her eye and I watch his lips say something. Just three words. I remember them well, although it's such a long time since I've heard them. She smiles wistfully, leans in. Lips barely touch. That sweet, tender moment lays bare the rapid decline of our passion to a trickle of affection, now barren and arid. This breathtaking finality drains my soul leaving a cold, empty husk.

And yet, I feel no icy shards splintering and slicing through each heartbeat, no surge of grief, no acrid jealousy boiling with vengeance. Instead there is a fresh, cool breeze of relief and closure from endless weeks of suspicion and speculation. Their simple kiss unlocks the cage where I felt trapped by family and friends' expectations and societal conventions.

Mindlessly, I flex arms and stretch to release tension in imagined wings. It catches his eye. As I stand and wrap the raincoat around me his expression plummets into horror. Following his eyes, she looks at me, puzzled. I smile to her, stroll calmly past them and through the door, closing it behind me without a word.

*****

Wide-eyed in darkness, the musty, damp air seems to soak through clothes, chilling my soul. I'm trembling. Terror. Absolute, stomach-churning, adrenaline-pumping terror. Muffled voices and light jazz drift through the thick curtain ahead, but my heart races to a different rhythm, pounding against my chest.

Fight or flight.

The conflict inside is intense. The years of fantasy, confused emotions and barely suppressed obsessions. The faithful - then jilted - twenty-something fiancé living an ordinary life. The chance meeting with the crocodile smile in the Saville Row suit. His calm, quiet voice, a masculine rumble more felt than heard. He toyed with his prey, skilfully and cruelly twisting curiosity, guilt, shame and erotic thrill to defile my mind and lure me deep into his feculant underworld. For weeks, the planning and anticipation had threatened to consume my thoughts. The last few hours are a blur of adrenaline.

And so here I am.

A single naked bulb casts a dim glow, highlighting a stinking, fat, mouth breather's wet, lecherous grin. His eyes slither over me, as he drags deeply on his cigarette and purposefully exhales the stench into my face. "Won't be long now, luv. Soon be showing 'em, eh?" His filthy cackle burbles through chain-smoked phlegm.

Revulsed and distracted, I'm vaguely aware of a louder voice, a key change of melody, a surge of applause. He drags the curtain aside and shoves me roughly.

Lurching forward, I'm plunged into bewilderment: Blinding light, ears filled with a cacophony of clapping and whistling, lungs choked and gasping for air in a stinking, thick, cigar-fuelled fug. Stunned and confused, my mind flails, desperately seeking something familiar to grasp. Eyes and ears find the jazz quartet playing a low-key number accented with brushed snare, thrumming bass, noodling sax and soft piano chords punctuating the corners.

I freeze.

Eyes! So many eyes staring from the the gloom beyond a constellation of dim, red table lamps. These besuited predators become quieter, then dangerously silent, baring teeth. Expectant. Hungry.

Searching through crimson-tinged faces in the murky darkness I see him. He's watching and drinking with three friends at a table to the right. His face is blank. No recognition. Not yet. Hair lifted and arranged, heavy blush, eye shadow, black liner and mascara deny my identity.

Heart pounding a counter-rhythm, I force myself to sway to the quartet's beat; stilted, awkward, slowly thawing in the heat of the spotlight. Eyes closed, I try to concentrate, to focus on the moves I'd practised while he was at work. But the dazzling light and sharp slap of the snare wrest me back harshly into the here and now... and what is expected.

Trembling fingertips fumble hopelessly with buttons. Squinting into darkness, I see nudging, pointing, laughter. Tears of shame and humiliation streak my face.

What the hell am I doing? This is madness!

Anger ignites in a flare of self loathing and frustration. Grabbing fistfuls of material, I'm tugging and tearing at the white school blouse. Seams shred, buttons fly, and I yank and drag arms clumsily out of sleeves before throwing rags to the floor in disgust.

Silent smiles. Intense stares. They like that.

Slowly turning away from them, jittery fingers find the hook and zip of the mid-thigh pleated school skirt and pull.

My scalp crawls, feeling their lascivious eyes urging their wet-dream St Trinian's fantasy onward.

Thumbs tug the loosened skirt waistband awkwardly over hips, suspenders, silky black briefs and sheer, black stockings. As it slides to the floor, shouts and whistles swell and wash over me. I step out of the puddled material, wobbling on unfamiliar heels that would definitely break school rules.

Sashaying slowly around to face them, I'm trapped in the white glare and heat of unyielding spotlights, and... In this moment, in this filthy, dark, underground crypt, I'm the focus of their masculine attention, drenched in their feral pheromones, soaked in their sexual fever. An effervescent thrill bursts and fizzes through me. It's shocking, exciting -- and frightening! This is wrong! So, so wrong!

I pause, confused, conflicted, thoughts in chaos, feelings churning, and...

She grasps this moment of weakness, surging from somewhere deep and primal into the deliciously dirty fantasy she's incited: The petite school girl next door; provocative, yet elusive. They want to see. And she's going to show them, all of them. Especially him.

Listening for the beat again she pours herself into the rhythm, hips snaking, limbs writhing. The palpitations she feels are not fear; exhilaration inspires her moves. These salivating fools are overwhelmed with anticipation, and she can satisfy or deny anything.

The band, reflecting impatience, segues into something swinging from Henry Mancini, brash and upbeat.

Hands roam over bared skin. There's a flush of carnal heat between her thighs and rosebuds engorge, tightening her silky black bullet bra in a rush of anticipation.

She feigns looking over the crowd as if to choose, and locks eyes with him. Her smile, framed by scarlet whore lips, drips with malevolent threat as she steps down from the low stage and strides defiantly toward him. She's delighted to see his naïve grin drain into something nonplussed, confused, as if grasping at hints of something vaguely familiar. Sitting on his lap, she turns and points with a blood red manicured finger to her back, teasingly wriggling her arse cheeks over his stiff appreciation. His fingers struggle with hooks and a grinning, enthusiastic man reaches in to rescue. Her breath catches with depraved excitement as she recognises the cigar-chewing, leering old man is his father!

Holding an arm over loose silk she swaggers back to centre stage, shimmying bra straps from shoulders. The drummer sees the cue, and with a snare roll she drags it away, tossing it back toward his stunned face.

The crescendo of whistles and cheers adds to the thrill of watching his dawning realisation and denial, driving deliciously tingly satisfaction through her soul.

Erotic gyrations and heavy, stilletoed footsteps swing and bounce modest breasts provocatively in the hot, humid, smoky air. She's delighted by their freedom, the chill of evaporating perspiration as they sway, and the delicious ache of bristling areolae and steel-hard nipples attracting so many excited eyes.

Hooded under long, false lashes, she's secretly searching into the gloom as she snakes and writhes, thrilled by glimpses of awkward shuffling and discreet under-table adjustments responding to her depraved behaviour.

Thumbs tucked into the waistband of black silky briefs, she slides them down a little with a devilish grin, titillated by the rising whistles and shouts. Turning away from them, she slides them down slowly and carefully over gyrating hips to reveal a little cheeky cleft and pauses, looking over her shoulder. With a coy smile, she drinks in the slow crescendo of this salivating wolf pack's frustrated barks and yelps, revelling in the surge of sexual charge in the air, their desperate anticipation. Then, with a final deep breath, she yanks the damp lace down and steps out to stand still for a beat or two. Holding them aloft, she turns teasingly slowly to pose like a slutty whore, wet thighs and legs a stride apart and arms thrust wide overhead in a flourish to jiggle eye-catching breasts.

The room erupts: Cheers, piercing whistling, shouts and clapping drown out the quartet. The wall of harsh light and sound assaults her senses with a concussive impact, yanking her back to the here and now.

And in that moment, I'm overwhelmed... naked and exposed to all of these strange men; sweat-soaked skin cool and tingling all over; breasts and nipples engorged and aching; clit hard, throbbing and yearning for touch; the electrifying rush, the thrill... the hot, feral, sexual fever inside, unsatisfied, craving fulfilment!

Immersed in the moment I lose sense of time. The crypt plunges into darkneess. A hand grabs mine, quickly but firmly pulling me around and through a gap in the curtain before my eyes can adjust. The cacophony fades and dies quickly behind me, replaced by an excited murmur.

As I turn to find my escort I'm doused in the foetid breath of the greasy, fat mouth breather. "You gorgeous, slutty cunt!" he cackles, reaching a filthy hand to grope my breast. I slap it away, shoving him roughly back over stacked crates and stomping a stiletto heel into his groin. His scream echoes through the dank brick arches.

"Nicely done!" The basso profundo voice. Hands wrap a long coat over my shoulders and I turn to find the calm, controlled, crocodile smile. "Come with me." He leads me away from the whimpering animal, past crates and props under mouldy dust sheets. We hurry up wet, stone steps and through the iron stage door on screeching hinges into a dark, gloomy alleyway. A huge, curvaceous, black Jaguar waits in the pouring rain, engine idling with a rumble. He opens the door and ushers me inside, pressing two white fivers and business card into my hand. "Go home and wait for him. He'll either fuck you like a beast and forget all about 'plain Jane', or he'll bawl you out." He chuckles, "Either way, quit the job at the record shop and call me."

He closes the door and the driver speeds me away.

*****

Bright, blood-red light dazzles through eyelids. Warmth. It's quiet. A low murmur of traffic. A soft pillow. The comforting weight of blankets. Eyes slowly peel open and focus on a familiar window, a shaft of sunlight through heavy curtains. Sleepy eyes discover warm reds and pinks, a chair, cushions and magnolia walls. Rolling over, fatigued and weary muscles protest: I ache -- and a throbbing, sore vulva validates the reality of fleeting memories.

He stopped believing his fantasy. I've provided a new one. I've lured him, and he's taken the bait. But he isn't a keeper. The truth is going to hit him hard.

I stopped believing my fantasy. It hasn't gone away. Somewhere deep inside I hear her chuckle. She is my new reality: a dangerously undeniable, unquenched craving for something more.

He went to work.

I walked to the phonebox on the corner and called the club.