"BRA-VA! BRAVA! ATALANTA!"

The cries of the audience drowned even its riotous applause. The opera over, the only curtain call the audience cared about was the Prima Donna’s; forget the Prince, the Sprite and the Witch. Atalanta had sung four encores; they'd demanded 'Song to the Moon’ three times.

The manager couldn't believe his luck at booking her for three summer prom performances of Rusalka. More than worth all her tantrums over too low fees, too hot a dressing room, too cold a stage, too small an orchestra. He'd grown well used to Prima Donna behaviour. It had not fazed him that her backstage shrieks over her 'mickey mouse' contract had almost been heard above the overture.

In the chorus, Vanessa tried to display a smile as serene as her wood-nymph costume. But it wasn’t easy. Her frustration and misery must be showing through. Song to the Moon was the song she longed to sing. Her song. One day she would and she was patient to wait, as long as the other sang it well. But Atalanta (no-one knew her other name) was a Valkyrie of a woman, voluptuous and Rubenesque. As Brunnhilde, she was said to ‘eat Siegfrieds for breakfast’ and she made a feisty Isolde, outsinging and outloving the most macho of Tristans.

Tonight’s audience had paid to see Atalanta and they did. Half the audience couldn't care less that she wasn't the lithe Rusalka of Dvorak’s opera. Whatever the men might think of the generous cleavage she was flaunting as she bowed and curtseyed she simply was not a water-nymph. And singing; those ugly scoops up to the high notes were grotesque. Vanessa could have floated up to them and then descended like thistledown.

The audience wanted Atalanta because she sang loudly, and the effort made it sound clever—Vanessa would have sounded simple and gorgeous however difficult it actually was.

At twenty-five, Vanessa had only been out of college for three years, so really she was lucky to be a wood-nymph. How long would it be before she was given a real solo role to play? Her only Song to the Moon was ten years ago at a school concert; no orchestra, just Mr Jones tinkling ineptly at the piano.

Home from the theatre by midnight, Vanessa's mood hadn't improved. The air was still warm, there was a magnificent full moon, with all the atmosphere and romance she'd seen created on stage a few hours earlier. She took her car, drove into the woods, and there, by moonlight she began the song; her song. 

But something was missing. The costume. Rusalka was a water-nymph; Vanessa's role was a wood-nymph. But the ordinary clothes she was wearing now just didn't inspire. No-one was likely to appear in the forest, so she changed into the dress she thought most appropriate for a water-nymph. She stripped completely. Her body glowed in the moonlight, silver as Rusalka. She felt now she could talk—or sing—to the Moon as an intimate fellow-creature. The trees around her seemed to agree, shining in this uncanny light of midnight.

The song became a fervent prayer. The sound rang through the forest. Now the naked young girl pleaded with the Moon to enter the dreams of Atalanta. To make her dream of Vanessa. To give her the part she craved—even if just to understudy. Make her notice me, she sang. The Moon responded with a vision of Atalanta, taking naked Vanessa into her arms, singing softly that she would give Vanessa anything she wanted.

Comforted and encouraged, Vanessa sang again. This time she entreated the Moon, ‘enter the dreams of the handsome manager. Show him a keen, beautiful girl with a pure, fluid voice—a true Rusalka. Make him desire me. Moon, if you will grant me these I will sing the part directly to you.’

When she had sung, reluctant to dress, she lay on the soft ground. The moonlight flooded over her nude form. Gently she tended herself with her hands, as though stroking the moonlight over her like a soothing unguent, like a midnight spell. From her shoulders, her waist, and to virginal places known only to her and to the Moon. Surely, if the manager could see her now…

……

Atalanta woke, after a bad night. She’d retired late, flushed with the success of her Rusalka, confident that she'd persuaded a bigger fee from the management, and happiest of all, the memory of the pretty girls in the chorus. Her biggest weakness was, that young girls brought out the best in her. But so many of her performances were big Wagner operas with no chorus—dammit, The Twilight of the Gods, and Tristan had choruses of men only, for heaven’s sake.

Last night was a rare performance, where she could sing surrounded by lissom wood-nymphs. She should be enjoying the most contented night’s sleep for months.

But one pretty nymph would not leave her mind. A petite, dark-haired girl—around twenty-five with an innocent, simple but radiant beauty. She had the sort of figure Atalanta loved. Petite, small-breasted, virginal. She caused Atalanta to toss and turn in the hotel bedroom. Dreams like this had never troubled her before. She generally knew what she wanted and got what she wanted. If a chorus girl took her fancy she would be in Atalanta’s bed that very night, either eagerly, or lured by promises that, to be fair, Atalanta always kept.

She couldn’t understand why she hadn’t simply noticed this girl and bedded her straight away. She wasn’t used to delayed gratification and didn’t know how to handle it. She did the only thing she could think of. She tried to still the frustration by cuddling an imaginary Vanessa, (by what magic did she know her name?) holding her to herself and imagining her own body were Vanessa’s.

This was no ordinary self-pleasuring. The girl’s body seemed real. She clasped it to herself, closer and closer. Her eyes looked past the girl to the moon, brilliant through the window, almost as harsh as the sun. "Go on," it seemed to say. "Give this dream-girl your love. Awaken this nymph. Give her an experience she will sing of in all the opera houses of the world. She is making herself naked for you. Her sweet little breasts are yours. Her ass is yours. Her very centre is yours. Very soon you will meet them. They will be real. Look after them. Teach them to give her as much pleasure as they give you. Share yourself with her too. She has never given herself to a Brunnhilde. I will make sure she wants to. But while you do, remember me, the Moon. She is yours in trust… I will not forget…’

……

Mr Adonis Peacock, the manager, (known to friends by his preferred name of Don, and the to the backstage crew as ‘Skipper’) was a man of 30, trained at business school, but with a profound love of theatre in general and opera in particular. He had a keen ear for singers, and good business sense. His sensitivity in aesthetics matched his fairness in negotiation.

He was fair in other ways too. His conscience forbade him taking any advantage when dealing with ambitious, temptingly attractive starlets. No casting couch for Mr Peacock. Of course, this made the starlets desire him all the more, especially as he was unmarried and, they said, sexy looking. But a great deal of the theatre’s success was due to Mr Peacock’s single-mindedness and integrity.

Tonight though, he felt jinxed. Every time he dozed the same face appeared to him. An attractive raven-haired girl from the chorus. He knew her as Vanessa Cardui. He’d chosen her himself while head-hunting at the college, and he’d given her the odd small role—like tonight's wood-nymph—but that applied to most of the girls.

Why had she suddenly sprung into his mind? More urgently, why wouldn’t she go away? This wasn’t like him at all. He’d never had this persistent itch before. The moon shone through his window and even the moon seemed to have her face. There was no doubt it was a very pretty face. Turning over to hide from this searching moon he imagined other parts of her, his mind stripping away the diaphanous green gauze she’d worn for Rusalka. This was getting uncomfortable. What he was seeing as the gauze blew away was giving him an erection. What was going on?

He turned again. That moon looked more like her than ever. It seemed to say. ‘Go ahead. Soothe that erection. Think of that girl. You’d like her to soothe it for you? One day I can arrange it. For now imagine. Here is her hand, I give it you.’ He felt dream fingers close over his cock, stray over his balls, idle around his thighs. Now she seemed wholly real, like a ghost who had materialised bit by gorgeous bit out of the ether. He still didn’t know whether he was dreaming, or whether the moon was exercising some sort of natural hypnosis. A

ll he felt was softness on softness, fingers like tendrils over and around his throbbing hardness. He looked down and saw the swelling of neat, young breasts. How could he guess what the real Vanessa's breasts looked like? But these were real enough, small, but delicious; nipples hardening as though he were as real to the nymph as she to him. He drew her close to himself. He gently took hold of the hand on his cock and she started to guide the penis toward a pair of lush, soft lips... but already the moonlight was fading, day was beginning to break. The wraith, if that was what it was, put her finger to his lips, and slowly vanished...

……

The day after the Rusalka performance was a deliberately restful day. To prepare for the next day's repeat performances—an abridged matinee and a full evening—the orchestra and lesser singers were called merely for an afternoon's 'corrections' of last night's more precarious moments. They were not in stage dress. Vanessa wore a loose-fitting, comfortable mid-length cotton dress—a washed pink printed with small red and yellow blossoms. It helped her feel casual, but still wood-nymph like, and gave her freedom of movement. Of course, Atalanta herself did not deign to attend a session like this. She needed, and insisted she needed, no 'corrections'.

But she made her presence felt. The wood-nymphs were correcting a problem in choreographic timing with the orchestra when the music was drowned by a strident: "That dressing room. How am I to survive in it? And no dresser. I need a dresser. Is this a theatre or a warehouse? I came in specially to discuss my costume and there is no dresser for me."

She flounced onto the stage. Her ample, matronly femininity commanded the same authoritative stage presence as it did upon an audience. She fixed the casually dressed wood-nymphs with gorgon-like eyes; chose Vanessa, enveloped her and swept her backstage as though to the slaughterhouse.

They approached the dressing room with such violence that Vanessa expected to be thrown to the ground. Instead, Atalanta threw her arms around her and held her. In seconds the termagant transformed to a soft, welcoming, all-encompassing Mother Nature. Since childhood, Vanessa had never been held so close by anyone, man or woman. She couldn't help but respond, leaning her head against, or rather in, the soprano's bosom. Her thin, cotton dress presented no barrier to the closeness with the body compelling her.

Vanessa could only think of last night's dream. Had the Moon really answered her prayer? What was going to happen? Would Atalanta know she'd prayed to the Moon?

Atalanta relaxed, held Vanessa at arms' length, and spoke softly: "I'm sorry I had to stage it like that. There are reasons I just had to see you. Let me look at you. Now I will tell you what to do. I have a new costume to try on. But first, you need to help me shower."

She turned her back. Bewildered, Vanessa obeyed the unspoken command to undress the Diva, then stood passively letting Atalanta undress her in turn. Before she could feel embarrassment the young nymph found herself again in the Prima Donna's arms. But now relaxed, she felt loved, like a young chick beneath a mother bird's wing. Her small, firm breasts nuzzled against the matron-like little buds nestling amidst the blossoms of some gorgeous tropical bloom.

Atalanta led her into the shower. Vanessa turned on the water. It trickled, warm, over her shoulders, down her back, making her feel once again the water-nymph she longed to be. Would this be her fairy godmother to bring that about? With soap and lotions, she ministered to her; lovingly she tended the rich, maternal body in front of her, making sure no feature or fold was left unanointed.

Then Atalanta took it upon herself to tend her nymph. Every inch of Vanessa's yielding body was massaged, loved and, yes, stimulated by a woman as accomplished in sensuality as she was in her art.

Vanessa's body no longer belonged to her; her shoulders, waist, her ass, were all being played as a musical instrument. Her breasts were being stroked, appraised, the nipples awakening a pussy which was soon being toyed, possessed, by Atalanta. She felt her thighs squeezing Atalanta's, trying to intensify the pleasure of the older woman's hand inside her—she almost voiced aloud words she had never used before—'yes', her mind was saying; 'inside my vagina—inside my cunt.' She was no longer in control. She was melting into Mother Nature, to be reborn as Rusalka.

Never had young starlet been towel-dried with the loving care Atalanta gave her Vanessa, before together they fine-tuned the Prima Donna's new costume, an activity which the Diva insisted Rusalka perform naked.

……

The whole theatre had heard of Atalanta's tantrum and her victim's apparent plight.

Vanessa returned to the wings to find Mr Peacock in earnest search for her.

"Miss Cardui. I cannot apologise enough for Madame Atalanta's behaviour. I heard all about it. Has she hurt you? "

"No, I'm OK. But thanks for asking. I'll be fine."

"You should have some compensation."

"No, really."

"I mean, Miss Cardui, if you complained to your union they could have Madame fined quite considerably. It would do no harm to the theatre."

"I wouldn't dream of it." Her laugh teased Mr Peacock. "You never know, I might be just as temperamental a Prima Donna myself one day. Let me keep my options open."

"Well, that's a new way of looking at it. But seriously, you're being very generous. I tell you what. Let me take you out to dinner. This evening. It's one of our rare free evenings. Unless you've other plans?"

"You really don't have to but, yes, I'd be delighted. And you won't need to make it up any other way." (The biggest fib she'd ever told, she thought when it was too late. But would she have got away with saying give me the part of Rusalka? Yet what a strange thing to happen. Surely not the Moon again?)

The meal was splendid. Mr Peacock was not afraid to spend what would have made generous compensation had she needed it. He made excellent company, the same perfect gentleman of his public persona, genuinely interested in her life and tastes (though she never mentioned her longing to 'be' Rusalka) and able to talk interestingly about himself (which, as every girl knows, is not the same as being able to talk about himself).

"So, where do you live? Where can I drive you home to?"

Vanessa was never sure what entered into her (the Moon? Rusalka?) when she said, "First I'd like to say thank you by showing you my favourite place. It looks so gorgeous by moonlight. Elfin."

"Very well, conduct me thither."

She led him to the scene of her moonlit song. The trees were just as last night; still, silver, mysterious. He gasped at their beauty. "You're so right, It's positively elfin."

They stood in awe. Mr Peacock gently laid an arm over Vanessa's shoulder. She leant into him, happy in his company.

But he withdrew his arm, trembled and stood back. He was shivering.

"Are you OK?" she asked.

"I'm sorry. Yes, I'm OK. It's just this place is oddly like a dream I had last night. I don't know what it is about it." He shuddered, as at some unearthly recollection. Then collected himself. "No, I'm all right."

He drew her to him again, and this time this arm was closer, warmer. He was holding her. She turned to look up at him. She couldn't resist; she responded with her own embrace, and turned her face up to his. They kissed, long and still as the trees watching them. Their lips parted. Tongues met and tasted, sweet of love.

They released each other, she raised her eyes toward his; saw his face, silver-haloed by her friend the Moon. It was as though they had long been lovers. Mr Peacock seemed to know her every wish as he gently undressed her. She let him; stroking his chest, firm and masculine.

When she was naked she undressed him. She stroked from his chest down towards the first fully aroused grown-up cock she had ever seen. It seemed wondrous to her in the unreal light. She took it in her hands, feeling its responses, wondering at its textures and form. Kneeling before it she looked up at him, an argent monarch, while she tremblingly kissed his silver sceptre, fancifully wondering at his not one, but two silver orbs. With her lips and tongue, she tended them, tasted them, listened to his sounds of approval and contentment.

He gestured her to stand up, while they kissed again. Vanessa yielded to her lover's hands as they worshipped her. She felt him appraise her shoulders, her back—he worshipped her breasts, taking time to fondle her nipples into arousal.

He lay her down on the soft leaves

The hands that had been approving her now sought out her most secret parts. Somehow (was it that dream again?) he knew without being told where her most intimately sensitive places were. Floating light strokes over her mound he feathered the outside of her lips, then focussed between them and ventured deeper, deeper, finding his own satisfaction in her mysteries, before looking to her needs and finding (how again?) the secret nub of her clitoris.

Her vagina sang back to him, conjuring all the soft, sweet moisture his fingers needed to work their dizzying magic.

He reached for his clothes and slipped something over his cock.

"May I? Do you feel ready?"

Of course she did. But her mind spun. If that was the power of his fingers, what was that sceptre going to feel like? She focussed her gaze on the Moon. "I shall be up there with you, any second," she whispered to her. The Moon smiled back. It knew all.

"Yes, I'm ready," was all Vanessa needed to say, and all her lover needed to hear. He lay over her, the ground soft beneath her. She looked up towards the Moon while her lover's cock, prepared by her lips and tongue, sank into the pool which his fingers had prepared with her own smooth honey-musk oils. Gently at first, then with ever-increasing passion, their mysteries worshipped one another, discovering each other and themselves for the first time.

Vanessa clasped her lover's ass closer and closer as her secrets closed over the pulsing, thrusting wonder of his penis. They echoed each other's cries as each assuaged the longing in the other's loins. The Moon watched over their love, as they celebrated their union, with each other, the forest, and the Moon herself.

……

The next day, before the afternoon matinee, the manager sought out Vanessa. "Madame Atalanta and I have been talking together. Her Rusalka has been so successful that we are booking her for six performances in our main winter season. But on the third night, she has to appear at a gala performance of the Royal Opera, and on the last, she has to leave for New York. She has requested me to ask if you would understudy her for those two performances. Would you feel up to singing Rusalka instead of a wood nymph? It would be a big undertaking, but I feel you could do it. It won't be till after Christmas, so you will have plenty of time to learn the part."

There was no restrained way for Vanessa to express her ecstasy—and no-one present to see the huge kiss she bestowed on her new lover.

"Oh, and," began Mr Peacock. "Can I take you out for a late dinner? After tonight's performance?"

"Oh, yes."

Vanessa took herself straight to Atalanta's dressing room and gave the Diva far more than a big kiss. Eventually, she put the question no-one had ever dared to ask. "What is your first name?"

"Can't you guess? Vanessa, of course, the same as yours."