The original version was written a few years back, so celebrity names may not be well known now, but hopefully readers will get the gist of the theme.
Grace was at an all time low and her period wasn’t helping, although she could rejoice in a way that she still had menstruation. However, inspiration had dried up and she felt drained and useless. The chain of hits she had enjoyed over twenty years seemed distant and even coming to her favourite retreat, the quiet remote one, of four she owned worldwide, on the coast near Bezier in the south of France had not created any of the special thrills that spawned in her mind that were transferred into wonderful soaring great rock, pop and anthems that generated her fortune and adulation world wide.
As she sat on the bidet Grace could hear superb birdsong filtering through the heavy overgrowth of bougainvillea and other scented shrubs that grew in profusion round the luxurious and sprawling villa. She concentrated on her morning toilet and reached between her slender legs to seek the gnarled dry tampon string that was curled within her labia.
She sighed as her arm created fat folds on her stomach and self consciously straightened her posture as she grabbed the string. Easing the bloated tampon out of her cunt, Grace budged her butt on the bidet edge and peered into the bowl at the dangling lump of cotton and saw thankfully she was light in discharge, knowing she was nearly at the end of her menstruation. She transferred the tampon into its bag and carefully deposited it into the bin alongside, then Grace sluiced her crotch thoroughly and dabbed and powdered herself dry. She inserted another tampon.
Standing before the full length mirror, she saw the reflection of a tall, shaven headed, olive skinned woman in her late forties, with large breasts which sagged dramatically low. She smoothed her hands over her belly finding spare flesh and she pinched it with a grimace before sliding her long fingered artistic hands up to her tits. She cupped them with some tenderness, after all they had been her initial ticket to stardom, gaining attention by never wearing a bra.
She had performed on Top of The Pops, The Old Grey Whistle Test and Later with Jools on British TV as well as starring in her own shows, Royal Variety Shows, tribute shows, celebrity shows and on and on. Countless interviews on countless chat shows like Carson, Garry Shandling and Letterman in the States and Wogan, Skinner and Ross in the UK had kept her image to the fore. MTV and dozens of other names snapped her up whenever she had a date free. She had shared the stage with Bowie, duetted with Diana Ross, George Michael, Tom Jones, Jagger, rapped with Puff Daddy and sung with hundreds of others. Amphitheatres, stadiums, gardens, halls, clubs, she had filled them all with her glamorous and talent filled image backed by an irrepressible band.
She had won Emmies, Grammies and the like in just about every country and her studio was decked out wall to wall with gold and platinum discs. But it had started with Jared, her boyfriend turned manager who fashioned a great talent into a great diva using her undoubted skills on a guitar and keyboard, coupled with a most spectacular pair of unfettered boobs.
Jared had been killed in an air crash three years ago in Germany, travelling back from a meeting. Now the acknowledged assets were less spectacular although still huge, hung on a frame which was generally spare, apart from the flesh gathering round her waist and hips. Grace hefted each tit in turn, checking as she did every day for the thing that had killed her mother and breathed a sigh as she found no lumps to alert her. She grimaced as she always did at the massive saucer like size of her aeeolae. There was no bud in the middle, just the slightest gathering of membrane surrounded by a four inch diameter circle of dark brown flesh with the odd permanent soft pimple. Her eyes swept downwards and she pulled a face at her pubes.
She had endured a bikini line wax two weeks ago, much against her wishes preferring to let the light fluff of tawny hair grow free. It wasn’t a rampant growth spreading across her belly and thighs, just a neat bush, but the producer of her new video had a ruling on what she wore and the costume design demanded that she had a trim. Now there was stubble and she grabbed talcum powder and smothered her crotch with it. Glad to be lighter haired than many of her family of mixed, Greek, Slovakian, Irish and Swedish descent, she would have hated the thick black straggle that plagued several of her cousins.
She decided that she would be pantyless again today, to try and allay the itchy irritation of hair growing back. The new video and a single produced six months ago were supposed to be the launch of a new phase of her career when it came out in a few weeks, but she was pessimistic and down beat about it. Hearing a bark downstairs then another, Grace flung on one of her ethnic print silk shifts, decided that she didn’t need one of her many wigs as disguise, put on her Oakely shades and wandered through the airy space of the villa to find Boris and Benita the two Rottweiler guard dogs happily rumbling about in the patio area. They did not seem disturbed and often barked at passing scooters and cars. She swallowed a drink of fresh orange juice, gathered a purse and left the villa, with the hounds on a lead for the short stroll into the village. Both stopped and dumped taking quite a while to deposit their loads on the edge of the pavement. Grace allowed them, it wasn’t an offence in France.
At the boulangerie, with the dogs snuffling around on the floor for tasty crumbs, she bought two sticks of bread and an evil looking tarte and chatted amiably to the owner, a lechorous grizzled man who talked to her swaying tits rather than her fine boned face, but this was something Grace encountered virtually all day every day. Monsieur Platini watched as she exited the bakery, ogling her undulating hip accentuated saunter until Madame Platini fussed through with another tray of pain-au-chocolat.
Grace’s fame was known in the village but no one bothered about it and few tourists ventured into the area as it wasn’t a particularly attractive village. Even with her trademark shaven head and big earrings, no one approached her. She wore no glamorous make up, no outrageously high stilettos and no tight revealing clothes. Her high domed forehead, full sensual lips, her head shorn of her tawny curls were the give away normally, but generally in the village she remained thankfully anonymous.
Grace found the walk really helped her attitude knowing her menstruation was finishing and she loved the way the balmy morning air wafted through her shift and caressed her unsheathed cunt. She passed a farm by taking a different route back to her villa and watched a massive white Charollaise bull mount one of his small harem of cows. It excited her mildly and Grace realised she hadn’t had sex for over two months, since the French rock star, Gilles Deschampe and her had got mildly drunk in Orange after their concert at the Amphitheatre. She chuckled as she left the bull to his sex, recalling Gilles’ desire to be tied up and teased with her tits for hours. The actual fuck had resulted in good fast and furious action and he was extremely well hung if incredibly hairy, which Grace hated but tolerated.
Jared and Gilles had been great pals and they had enjoyed several threesomes when they all met up and had privacy. Several paparazzi based papers had published candid shots of her naked or half dressed, attached to wild stories, many of which were true, but she didn’t care and generally the heat was taken out by her passive non-confrontational attitude to them. The day passed uneventfully and she tried some writing and tinkered on her keyboard. She pottered in the rambling gardens knowing much about the plants. She sunbathed and caught up her reading, including a novel titled Memoirs of a Geisha. Several international phone calls in the afternoon interrupted the easy pace she set herself, but nothing buzzed life into her inspirational mode. Maurice and his wife Elise who looked after the place while Grace was away, called in to see if there was anything she wanted. Maurice explained that he thought Benita was coming into season so he would take her down to his farm away from Boris. He had a lock up compound where she would be safe from his own two dogs and any strays.
Boris was allowed into the villa as he would be peaceful without Benita to aggravate him. He wandered about quietly, sniffing the air round Grace’s legs, licking her ring toed feet as she reclined naked on the sofa. She knew he would be disturbed to a point about his soul mate going away and probably fancied his chances at covering Benita, but Grace didn’t want any more pups as she idly pondered on Boris’s fat fertile balls flopping between his legs. She scratched an itch on her pussy and realised it was a yearning itch, rather than an irritation. Idly lifting her legs she let Boris try to find his own way to the scent. Her creamed and smooth long limbs were offered to him. Boris whined and snuffled around her knees as she teased him, by opening her thighs and closing them again, knowing how he would pick up her scent, tainted with monthly secretions.
.... There is more of this story ...