And now there are four. Those progressively eliminated have already departed; cheeks damp with tears.

We will dance in pairs, the other two first. Megan and I wait outside; nervous, edgy and deathly silent. Four dancers, two places; we know the odds.

Megan certainly can dance, that much I know. Beyond that, she’s always been reserved, my boyfriend actually discovered the little we knew. Guys apparently chitchat, who knew, while waiting to drive us home.

The other two ballerinas finish and leave; their faces impenetrable.

The convenor calls, “Megan and Natasha,” and we go in to face the music.

En pointe, we glide, jump and turn. Our technique is examined forensically. But we know perfect technique does not suffice, we must embody the sensuality of dance.

To be company dancers means not dancing alone. We key off each other, pushing off from plié, leaving the floor, simultaneously pointing toes and extending legs. We nail a controlled soft landing, and then it is double and triple pirouettes.

We will end with a fouetté, so difficult to master and hours in the learning. The Black Swan one, thirty-two turns on one-pointed foot. Our working leg pushing in and out, driving our spin.

The ultimate test, a half a minute transformation into spinning tops. She is a milli-second behind, so I hold for a moment. And then we kick, push and twirl symmetrically, elegantly, sensually; attempting to scale, together, a career peak.

All we know when we finish, crouched down on our haunches, clothes stained with perspiration, panting, is that we haven’t screwed up.

And then we hear that we have both succeeded. Company dancers starting on Friday. Our smiles are huge, our hug reflects our relief rather than affection. There is a spring in our step as we head for the locker room. The lockers face each other in regimented rows, ten each side.

Sitting, my focus is inward, breathing my calming meditation breaths; I barely notice Megan shedding her pointe shoes and leotard.

But I hear her words, “Thanks Natasha,” as she sits opposite me. And I raise my eyes and smile back at her, noticing the sheen of sweat on her body, now naked apart from a damp white thong.

“Thanks, Megan,” I reply, equally sincerely.

Megan’s taut, lean, long-legged, muscular dancer’s body is a work of art. The curve of her hips and soft b-cup breasts ooze femininity.

I can’t help but stare, drinking in a female figure not even Michelangelo at his best could have sculptured.

She glances at me staring, her body language, as always, indecipherable. Looking up the line of lockers, she smiles to herself. Seemingly happy to have the space to ourselves.

And then she stuns me. Her right hand takes the left side of her knickers and pulls it across, nestling her knickers in the crease between her thigh and pussy. Her innie pussy now bare, shaved, lips pressed together; visible to me. Moving her knees further apart, she stands on her toes, like the ballerina she is, and her sticky outer pussy lips slowly unglue.

Exposing herself to me, her most private place, orchid-like, a visibly glistening wonderland.

She stares at me, flicks her wavy black hair over her shoulders, and sucks the index finger of her left hand into her mouth. She starts humming, the Waltz of the Flowers from the Nutcracker.

And then, her fingers trailing down over her mons, she suddenly changes her tune. Oh fuck, I now know she is thinking of me. As I recognize her tune as the Divinyls “I touch myself.”

Her finger brushes, then flicks her clit, and I watch it firm with her touch. Delicate touches awakening her sex. Slowly, no obvious pattern to her caresses. Her eyes begin to lose focus on me. A bead of sweat trails down between her breasts. Her mouth opens. She licks her lips.

Faster now. Flicking, rubbing, further stimulating her succulent bud. Her nipples now like bullets, her orgasm begins signalling it is on its way.

A last glance at me, a pattern emerges; her finger dances firmly, now a spinning top. I know what this is, that there will be thirty-two tight massaging circles centred on her pearl. An intimate fouetté, the Black Swan in Megan now dancing only for me.

She whimpers, then moans. Her eyes glaze over. Nothing matters, her world is spinning on the end of one finger. On the thirty-second circle of her delectable pearl, she gasps out one word, “Natasha.”

Her hips push forward. Her body ripples and shudders. She moans, her hand floods, as she is racked by a monstrous orgasm.

The minute of silence that follows is interrupted only by her gulps of breath. Then she looks over at me and smiles, ever so shyly. A blush materialises, vivid given the sheen of sweat that coats her body. My heart melts, her intimacy feels like a privilege, not an embarrassment.

“Thanks,” I say and she positively glows. When she adjusts her knickers, they darken with her juices. And, grabbing a fresh pair from her locker, she prances for the showers.

Leaving me sitting, stunned, all on my own. My pussy now an achy sodden mess. My thoughts are interrupted by my boyfriend’s text, asking how long I will be. Skedaddling to the showers where, as the water cascades over me, I faintly her singing joyfully in the next cubicle.

Megan finishes showering before me. And when I arrive outside, she is talking with our boyfriends.

“So happy for you. I was going to drive you on Friday,” Ryan says to me.

But Megan interrupts him, asking, “Would you like to come with me, Natasha?”

I stare at her. Her eyes sparkle; her double entendre clearly deliberate.

Neither boy notices my twinkling eyes join hers in a flirtatious pas de deux.

“I guess we don’t need the boys on Friday,” I nonchalantly reply.

“Cool,” say our boyfriends, happy to avoid the chauffeur job.

I need another change of underwear.