Kelly strode into Jake’s apartment and straight through to the living room, carrying her violin case.

The half-dozen guys there took note of her attire. It was an ankle-length gown, made of shiny peacock satin below the midriff, with a deeply plunging bodice of black velvet that showed off to benefit an ample bosom. The dress’s thin straps, holding up the pliant fabric, were the only protection those heavy jugs had against exposure, as the jiggling made it obvious that she was wearing no foundation beneath the daring garment. Fortunately, the mighty mammaries still retained reasonably attractive shape despite her 54 years. There was a dark leather belt that drew in her waist slightly, although it was hardly feasible to make her look slender; she had gained fifty pounds during her child-bearing years, an excess she had been unable to lose entirely although her weight had leveled off at 210 for more than a decade and people told her she carried it well. Her curly hair, a flaming red that verged on orange and looked artificially tinted, was pulled back in a loose bun, making for a dramatic, bohemian, artistic look. Her height, about five feet ten, added to the impression that she was potentially a force of nature.

“Guys,” Jake introduced, “since Ambrosia is out of town, we have a guest here tonight who will entertain you with music instead of snacks. This is the famous, not to mention delicious, Bacon. Soloist for audiences in Europe and America. Tell everyone why you’re called Bacon.”

She seemed tense. She moved closer to her young lover – he was in fact a full three decades younger and she fully understood her status relative to his real girlfriend – and said quietly to him, “I didn’t know there would be so many.”

“You said you wanted an audience.”

“Yes. Please, Sir, let me do my performance first. After that, you can do whatever you want.”

He held his palms up and shrugged. “Fine. That works too. Hey, if I’d known this was a formal concert, we woulda dressed up.” Chuckling, he turned again to his friends and grandly announced, “gentlemen, and I use the term loosely, without further ado, the Amazing… Bacon.” He moved to the far side of the twelve-by-twenty living room to await her show, as curious about her ultimate intent as his guests were, while she stood in the middle facing them with her back to the adjoining kitchen.

The casually dressed guests had been watching a ballgame on the widescreen TV but now moved toward the back wall of the apartment; two were already seated on the long couch located at the picture window, and they made room for a third who now sat down between them, while the other two stood at either end of the couch. In their twenties, they were variously bicycling buddies or basketball teammates or in one case an old classmate from college; they were, in all, six bros who got together occasionally for athletics, and poker, and sports entertainment, and other wholesome bro activities.

“Bacon?” the bro next to Jake asked in a low tone. “Zat ‘er last name?”

“No,” Jack whispered back. “You’ll find out.”

“;Cause you’re eating her?” his friend persisted.

“Shut up.”

Blushing as though fevered, Kelly put the violin case on the floor and opened it. Bending over, so that her precarious bosom seemed ready to spill out of the revealing dress, she took out the instrument and the bow, placed the former under her chin and plucked each of the strings a couple of times to confirm it was in tune.

She asked that the drapes on the window be drawn closed and, after that was done, she stood motionless with the violin in position and the bow ready, eyes shut, subtly tapping a toe to an unheard meter.

After a half minute of awkward silence, another friend asked, aloud this time, “what the fucking *fuck* is this?” The other guests chuckled at his playfully over-the-top reaction to the scene of a heavyset older woman standing with a violin but not playing.

“Mendelssohn,” Jake said learnedly. He had been given this bit of information only a day earlier, but he wanted to lord it over his friends. “He wrote it when he was only thirteen.”

“No, but I mean….

“It’s a concerto, dumbass. We don’t have room for the full orchestra. She’s just waiting for when the soloist comes in. Be quiet. Give it a second.”

“This is some sort of joke, right?” Jake didn’t answer.

After another thirty seconds of her silence, punctuated by sotto voce wisecracks from others of the audience, she began playing. It was a melodic and moderately fast beginning to the solo, composed in a late Classical style, which she performed in a showy manner as though on a grand stage instead of an upscale living room just outside of Boston. If her demeanor had been restrained when she walked into the room, she was now free and uninhibited in her motions.

After two minutes of playing, she reached a short section that went faster, and then she stopped, eyes still closed. Two of the guys began to clap, but Jake waved at them to stop. “It’s just another break when the orchestra comes in.”

This break was for less than a minute, though twice she moved as though to resume playing only to hold off, resulting in snickers the first time and stifled outright guffaws the second. At last, she put bow to string again and brought out a sweet high tone that began a continuation of the gentle melody.

One guy on the sofa nearest to Jake could not contain himself. “Are you really tapping dat ass? Dude. I hope at least she gives good head. At *least*. Because otherwise… duuuude.”

Jake motioned him and the others to all to keep their voices down. “Just go with it, fuckhead,” he whispered to the one, stepping closer to him. “If you don’t annoy her, she’ll probably let you fuck her in the ass after the music is done. You, and everyone else. She’s fucked up in the head, but in a good way. So don’t fuck it all up, for everyone else, fucker.”

The tempo of her playing increased and her performance increased in intensity to match. But soon another rest arrived. She opened her eyes and, for the first time since the piece began, spoke directly to her audience: “My performance for you tonight is a re-enactment of the most humiliating performance of my life. It is only the solo part, and not the 10-piece string ensemble – as opposed to an orchestra which my young master speaks of – but I am certain that you will discover the rest of it… unconventionally entertaining.”

The guys had been paying more attention to their drinks than to the unfolding entertainment, which they found tepid once the novelty of her attire had worn off. But her use of the term “master” got their attention, and the guys across the room from Jake immediately let him know it. Kelly held up her bow hand for silence and the bros were at least courteous enough to hear what more she had to say.

“It was many years ago when I was serving a coveted internship in what’s now the Czech Republic. One night in Pilsen, I was soloist for this Concerto in D Minor. It was a second-rate ensemble, but it was first-rate music, and I was in perfect form to do Mendelssohn justice. Unfortunately, the dress I wore that night was similar to this, and it had a flaw. A critical flaw.” While her story might have been more effective if told in an eastern European accent, she had the flat tone typical of her native Ohio.

She brought her hand up to her shoulder for a brief moment and did something imperceptible to the right strap of her dress, then put bow to string and resumed playing, again at a fast tempo.

“When it was time for the next solo in the first movement,” she continued while playing and swaying to the beat of the music, “my dress suddenly came loose, and I became exposed.” She swiveled violently in tempo, and the right half of the black velvet top shifted. The large pale areola of that breast came into view.

The music continued, smoothly and passionately, as though nothing unusual had happened. “Nice tit, ‘Mom’,” the man farthest from Jake interjected.

“Mom? Granny, more like,” the one next to him seated on the couch amended, emboldened by the first.

“She’s a whale,” said the one next to Jake.

“Shut up,” Jake reproved. “All of you. Let her finish the song.”

The insults left Kelly unfazed, but she could not abide the misstatement. “It’s not a song. I just explained that it’s a concerto.” She continued playing while resuming her tale, a somewhat remarkable feat of concentration. “I was mortified, and I almost stopped, but the conductor, whose name was Klaus, did not seem to notice, and he motioned for me to keep playing when I hesitated. I heard the laughter from the men in the audience, and even the comments from some of the women out there, but I had no other choice than to allow all those people to witness this intimate part of my body.” She continued playing with full motion, in a manner surely intended to get maximum motion of her exposed and unsupported fun bag.

She reached the end of the first movement and took the violin down from her chin. “I wondered my humiliation was complete. But it was only beginning.” She pulled up the top of her dress with her bow hand for modesty, and said, “at the end of the first movement, I tried to fix things. The concertmistress stood up and also tried to help, or so I wondered. She adjusted both sides of my dress.”

Kelly reached up to the left strap of her dress to give it a small tug. It snapped loose. Only the pressure of her hand against the collarbone kept that part of the dress in place; the part covering her right breast was perched insecurely and threatened to drop back down at any instant. “I wondered it was fixed, and the conductor motioned for her to sit back down. Herr Klaus was not a very well-regarded musician, but he had a reputation for strict discipline of his ensemble. I certainly was too young to disobey him. So, when he raised the baton, I raised my instrument, without hesitation.” She put her violin under her chin, and now the entire front of her dress dropped completely to her waist, rendering her chest fully exposed. “And this happened,” she added redundantly, playing the beginning solo of the second movement.

She swayed and jerked, infusing great emotion into her playing of this slow part of the program. Her big pale nipples were erect, her freckled round face was flushed, and her eyes were closed in evident embarrassment. For seven full minutes, she played her heart out, large breasts moving freely. They did not sit as high on her chest as on a younger woman, but heavy as they were they still had remarkable firmness. She looked womanly, and not yet worn out and used up. And for most of this time, the guys listened and most importantly watched silently, for perhaps the first instance in their lives in the presence of a performance of serious music.

However, such calming could not last indefinitely. The man in the middle of the couch, who seemed uncomfortable in such close proximity to two other men while watching the equivalent of a topless burlesque show, eventually stood up and walked over to Jake’s side of the room.

“Dude,” he stage-whispered when the musical passage became a little louder, “is she for real? Does she talk that way at all times?”

“Shhh. Yeah, pretty much.”

“Must be weird when you’re doing it. How old is she, anyway?”

“Shhh,” he responded again as quietly as he could. “I dunno. Forty? Fifty? I never asked. I just know she used to work for JJ, before I joined. Just watch.”

“JJ, huh. You and he all the time go for the crazy ones,” the guy persisted. “And what’s this ‘master’ shit?” Jake ignored that.

Perhaps her music was enough to muffle or shield the conversation from her ears. Perhaps not. Eyes still shut, still playing, she said, “if you’ve never performed, you have no concept of the immense pressures. The artistic ones all the time suffer from the ignorance of the philistines. We radiate psychic energy. You the audience passively absorb it. We are the makers; you are the takers.” The commentary seemed more pointed than previously.

She opened her eyes but seemed to be looking past the immediate audience. “I tried to block it out from my mind, but I could not. I was aware that every man in that concert hall was now aroused. Do you figure out how humiliating it is, to be on display like this, to be the object of strangers’ obsessions, with no recourse, with no way to make it stop? It is a… most… deeply felt experience. It is a violation. Thirty years later, the memory is just as vivid as the night it happened. Thirty years ago, I strained under the weight of their obscene imaginations. Tonight, I strain again. Strain, and fail, to withstand the erotic response within my own body. I feel you violating me now.”

She bent forward and straightened up, twisted left then twisted right, swiveled her hips and then her torso, and bobbed her head, all in rhythm to what appeared to be a deeply felt experience for her, whether musical or physical in nature. The men clearly were experiencing a deeply felt visual assault of their own as well, seeing her flaunt herself in front of them. All snickering had ceased, and they were watching raptly. Though they mocked her, she knew they also desired her.

In time, the solo ended, and Kelly pulled up her dress top to cover herself. She resumed her tale, opening her eyes. “Conventionally, the second movement flows into the third, led by the soloist, but this time I dared stop and begged for help. Again, I tried to make the dress right, and the concertmistress stood up to help. But she whispered to me that I was gorgeous, and that I should come up to her hotel room, after the concert, to spend the night with her. I was shocked, and I told her no. This made her angry. She stopped trying to help, and instead she destroyed my dress. Like this.”

Kelly pulled at her belt, which came off easily, and the cinched waist of the dress, which until this point had hugged her ample hips, relaxed and hung loosely. “Then fix it yourself, you big titted slut, she said to me, and sat back down. My body was not as you see it today, and I was proud of it. She on the other hand was enjoying my predicament and showing only contempt for my greater beauty and talent. The audience is not the only taker of psychic energy. Sometimes the other musicians do too. The inferior ones. The jealous ones. I knew what would happen next, but I was powerless to stop it – my psychic power was now entirely drained, and I had to devote my remaining reserves to the music. Herr Klaus the conductor showed no mercy and raised his baton. I took my position.” She placed the violin under her chin, and raised her bow arm to it, and her dress again fell, exposing her tits to the men in the room. “And this happened,” she said again, beginning the vigorous final movement of the concerto.

Her dress momentarily held up at her waist, but with an exaggerated motion of her hips it quickly tumbled past her ample buttocks, eventually all the way to the floor. She wore no panties, and her red pubic hair was now visible to all, barely a shade darker than the hair on her head, neatly trimmed at the edges but a full growth in the center; possibly her hair was of natural color after all. Her thighs were sizable but muscular, hardly flabby, and her freckled calves were likewise large but nevertheless shapely. The voluptuous woman was fully naked, except for the peep-toe pumps still on her feet and the dress in a heap that now covered them. The music was again loud and fast, and she kept her eyes closed throughout this, the last section of her musical recital. She had no trouble keeping the full attention of the visiting bros for the final four minutes of this performance.

“No pictures,” Jake said, when one of the bros on the sofa pulled out his phone and aimed it at her. “I trust you all of you or you wouldn’t be here. But I cannot take a chance on you posting this shit.” The guy grumbled but put the phone in his pocket.

Near the end, Jake whispered to the two guys standing next to him, “fucked her last night for the first time. For real, in the pussy I mean. Just been the mouth or ass until last night. I don’t know why. Ambrosia, she’s really got me pissed off at the moment, I guess.”

“You draw the line in a different place than I would,” one friend whispered back. After another moment, he added, barely audibly, “your girlfriend Bro may be crazy. But this new one? *Fucking* crazy. There’s a difference. Be careful.”

“Crazy is good,” Jake replied softly. “Fucking crazy is better.”

“I reached the end,” Kelly said as she stroked the final fortissimo of the twenty-minute performance and opened her eyes. “And the audience applauded wildly.” She took the violin down from her chin and paused meaningfully, looking at last toward Jake. He offered a slow-clap, and the other five men followed suit. Then he took a step toward her, but she raised a hand. “I could not know,” she continued, speaking again as though to a larger gathering and not to any of them individually, “if it was for my playing, which frankly I had never done better, or merely for the visual show I had just put on for their barbarian eyes. It was an erotic concerto, fueled by my shame. I was drained, as the audience and other musicians collectively had absorbed and consumed my energy. The conductor stepped down from his podium and took my left hand. He raised it and my violin in triumph, and we bowed to the audience. The combination, of elation and of crushing degradation, can’t be described.”

Kelly turned around at this point, stepping out of the crumpled dress at the same time, and bowed just as she had described, with her back now toward the men. She bent more deeply than a performer typically would, as though trying to touch her forehead to the floor, though she was hardly limber enough to accomplish that. “Every member of the ensemble behind me – men and women alike – could now see my most private part as I did this. Their thoughts now were to violate me there, to caress or penetrate, as though they were my lovers.”

She stayed in this vulnerable position, legs spread more than really necessary, dark red pussy lips exposed. They were large lips and the outer ones hung flaccidly half an inch below her crotch, though the light in the room didn’t permit the men quite such exactitude.

“They could see my anus. Their thoughts were to violate me in there too. We stood up, but then bowed again, and again, ten times perhaps.” She straightened and bowed, straightened and bowed, ten times, for her present-day audience.

Jake whispered to the guy nearest him. “Can you see now why JJ called her Bacon? ‘Cause, see, someone carved a bunch of stripes on her piss flaps. They look like strips of bacon.”

“No. Need a closer look,” his companion said.

“We’ll get you one. In a bit.”

Kelly stood and faced her present-day audience again, seemingly in a trance. “Herr Meister Klaus was clothed, I was exposed, and he showed me no more mercy than he had during the performance. And it was only then that I realized his aura was dark. Not merely dark. Black as black can be. I have known only one other man with such an aura. Meister Klaus-s aura was about to, not simply obscure mine, but extinguish mine. Utterly.”

The other man next to Jake whispered, “this is all just bullshit, right? Auras?” Jake didn’t reply.

“It’s the truth.” Plainly, she had heard that. “The men in the audience were standing and would not end their ovation. The women were jealous and outraged. The men in the ensemble, and the two women in it too, were already plotting my sexual humiliations, backstage, afterward. Every feasible perversion. And I would allow it – allow it all. It was all so overwhelming to me. My psychic reserves completely at end, I was helpless, exactly as the predators of the evening had planned it.”

She paused. “Finally, Herr Meister Klaus stopped bowing, and had me stand up. But only for an instant. He whispered to me: you are gorgeous, little one. I didn’t know what to say. He said: kneel down. Kneel down, little one. I could not possibly have defied him in the assailed and consumed state I was in. *Fully* consumed. Still a young woman and overpowered by events, facing the audience, I knelt. Yes, I knelt. To my eternal shame, I knelt.”