Laura had managed the smart art gallery in Soho for nearly seven years. It had been her dream since she left university. She loved art, music and reading books and spent her day soaking up an eclectic mix of influences.

She had done well in her career and was a highly respected expert on modern art with strong views on sexuality. Her underlying position was against anything that could be classified as objectifying women.

Her views had been developed through her upbringing which had made sex purely functional and mechanical. She had had several boyfriends but viewed any sexual activity as a duty, something to be done once a month. She did masturbate when she was on her own but rarely, and it was something just to scratch an itch, something to get over and done with.

The phone rang, and it was the gallery owner who wanted to put on an exhibition by a new artist called Jenni who was apparently an upcoming superstar in the modern art world. The owner was bringing her in that afternoon for an introduction.

The appointed hour came, and the owner and Jenni came into the gallery office. The owner was dressed as always in cargo shorts, flip flops and a t-shirt with the name of a Seattle grunge band emblazoned on it.

As for Jenni, she was dressed like a tart. She waltzed in wearing a micro denim skirt and a vest which did nothing to cover her breasts. Her nipples poked out as well. Jenni was everything Laura despised.

What made it worse was the actual art which consisted of a number of bronze statues of various women in sexual poses as well as a collection of portraits and paintings that purely sexualised the female form. Vaginas Aplenty.

They agreed the timings and the arrangements for the exhibition leaving Laura to prepare the room with portfolios, the paintings and the statues.

Strangely, there was one more plinth than statues, but she followed the plan including the placement of a large glass box which contained a velvet couch and a classical guitar. The room looked fabulous when she finished so she tidied up, locked up and made her way home to her flat in Clapham.

She loved her flat, and it was perfect for her. It had a good lounge, big enough for her collection of books and vinyl, a good bathroom and a well appointed kitchen. The bedroom, which was ideal, just about contained her king size bed, a small wardrobe and an antique chair.

She walked over to her record deck and put on 'Kind of Blue' by Miles Davis before going to her bedroom to swap her grey trouser suit for a thick cotton robe. She grabbed a microwave pasta dish and poured herself a cranberry juice. Although she was hungry and tired, she needed to wash the city out of her so she ran a bath.

She took a copy of the exhibition portfolio with her and slipped into the warm water to relax. She always did her research well so she could talk to potential buyers. Her commission depended on it.

As a portfolio, it was excellent although the constant barrage of nakedness was getting a little much for her. The copy suited the visuals perfectly and gave her a great deal of ammunition to make some sales.

Both the paintings and statues were pretty good even though they were not to Laura's taste. She could see why people enjoyed them and paid lots of money for them to be in their homes. It was all good until she got to the final pages. As she turned to Item 74, she looked and swallowed, She was looking at her own face and body in strong primary colours. It was like looking at a photo. She didn't remember seeing that at the gallery.

Laura was transfixed by the image but not the commentary. There wasn't any. As she looked harder and deeper into the image, it seemed to move, almost beckoning her into the pages. It was like she was hypnotising herself and being sucked into a place she didn't know.

She threw the book onto the floor and got out of the bath feeling a bit lightheaded, dried herself and jumped into bed in her cotton nightie. Sleep was impossible. Every time she shut her eyes all she could see was that picture of herself. Her face was perfect. The artist had captured her curves, her hips, her trimmed pussy and her ample breasts. She dint know whether she felt honoured or violated.

As she lay there she felt her body reacting to the memory of the portfolios and all its images. She felt her nipples hardening and that familiar tingle growing between her legs. Although she had never totally engaged with that feeling now flooding through her body, she felt a growing urge to do something about it. A good orgasm should help her sleep.

She spread her thighs, grabbed a breast and started to rub her clit in that mechanical way that got her to the place she wanted to go. It didn't take long for her to cum as she rub frantically on her swollen clit. Her five minute session brought the desired result and after using a Kleenex to clean herself, Laura dropped off into a deep sleep.

Laura awoke with a start and looked around her. Something was wrong, utterly wrong. She could see but couldn't move. She was on her hands and knees and felt naked and exposed. Her skin was a bronze colour and she was attached to the spare plinth in the gallery. She could hear people coming into the gallery and taking their seats for the introductory talk by Jenni and the gallery owner.

Her eyes moved and she was able to look around to see people looking at her, examining her with their own eyes and chatting about what they saw.

The lights lowered and a quiet rhythm came out of the speakers around the room. Hands appeared with tools unscrewing her from the plinth before lifting her and placing her on the couch inside the glass box. As she was moved she could see over 100 people staring at her.

Slowly the glass on the box went dark. She couldn't see out but knew somehow the audience could see her placed on the floor on her hands and knees. Suddenly she heard a guitar strike up Ravel's 'Bolero' fitting perfectly with the music being piped through the speakers.

As the music continued, she felt herself relax and become free, her arms and legs returning to her pale pink skin and movement being restored everywhere, starting with her fingers. She instantly wanted to cover herself up but something, maybe the music, was stopping her.

She lifted her head to see a tall, strong man strumming the guitar, smiling at her hypnotically. As he played she began to feel the rhythm, her body syncing up with the two melodies of 'Bolero' and the rhythm that would repeat 170 times for the fifteen minutes of the piece.

As the music played she was compelled to kneel on the couch, her hands on the back of it, her head down, legs parted and her bum in the air. She felt 100 pairs of eyes looking at her; she heard murmurs. She felt uncomfortable but unable to resist what she was feeling and doing.

She knew she wanted something but didn't know what. Then suddenly she felt hands on her bum, touching, caressing squeezing. It felt good but not as good as what she presumed to be a finger running along her pussy lips. "My God," she thought, "I am wet already."

The finger moved with the music, catching her clit on every other beat, then probing her pussy lips, circling slowly before it slid in easily and going deep. She heard herself cry out with an unknown pleasure and heard clapping and sounds of appreciation from beyond the box.

The finger moved inside her causing her to squeeze around it. Then a new sensation arose as something started to rub her clit slowly. She felt her juices running out of her and could smell herself in the enclosed space. She felt embarrassed but so electric. Everything was connected to the music, the finger inside her, whatever it was on her clit.

She could feel that pleasure growing deep inside her. Her nipples were throbbing and hard. She wanted to touch them but something kept her in the position she found herself in the moment she woke up.

The music's tempo was constant, but the fingers found another tempo, a quicker one but in perfect time with her sense of need. It was more intense as she neared her fast approaching orgasm. Then another sensation emerged as another finger teased her little hole, covering it in her juices. That sent her over the edge.

Her orgasm was unlike any other she had ever experienced. She cried out as never ending wave after wave consumed her, her whole body in submission to the sensations that engulfed her fully. As she calmed down, she heard applause from the other side of the glass - applause that strangely made her smile.

Suddenly hands grabbed her and moved her to squat over the guitar player who was now naked lying on his back with a massive erection.

She knew instinctively what she had to do and grabbed his cock and then lowered herself on to it sinking down as far as she could. It filled her perfectly. She squeezed it and rocked, grinding her clit on him. God it felt so good.

As she started to move up and down, 'Bolero' hit a different intensity urging her on. The applause locked into her movements adding another layer of pleasure.

Everything got faster and faster as she started use that gorgeous cock for her own pleasure. The clapping went with her, taking her closer and closer. She heard the guitar player's moans as he started to fuck her back, thrusting up hard as she sank down hard.

She felt her pussy tightening as she got close. The pleasure flowing through her was intense and unstoppable.

Then it exploded from deep inside, consuming her, causing her to cry out, her whole body in the grip of an orgasm like no other. Then the cock jerked and erupted, flooding her. This was the cue for yet another orgasm as distant memories returned of how much she loved that particular feeling.

As her pleasure subsided, so did the music and applause. As she began to relax, hands lifted her up and began to carry her out of the box and back to the plinth. She looked up to find herself surrounded by the admiring audience clapping and cheering her performance.

She was gently placed back onto the plinth but not in the 'heads down arse up' position. It was the one she had just been in. As she touched the plinth, she felt her body slowly changing back into a brass statue. She couldn't move.

As the crowd filed out and the lights dimmed, Laura resigned herself to her situation but then suddenly remembered that this exhibition was on for three weeks.

"Fuck it," she thought. "Every single day is going to be amazing."