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.

It had been some time since she had used a canine lover to ease the ache of a hungry fanny. In fact it had been in Tokyo and the little lap dogs of her publicist out there had proved very successful at soothing and then inflaming her clitoris, making her seek out a man - and quickly. The black blind soul musician she was starring alongside and sharing the top floor of hotel suites with, had proved a wonderful lover. His introduction of Hershey bars, especially into her arse had revived memories of old news of Marianne and Mick in the UK and the Mars bar scandal seeped out to the press.

Little Stevie had worked on the premise of smell and taste in his handicapped way and his thick tongue had lapped and pierced her ring before his very considerable cock had filled it. Now in the privacy of her own space, Grace contemplated an evening of canine sex with the tried and tested and completely discreet Boris. She pulled him to her side as he licked her legs and felt under his belly. The thick dangling pouch of his sheath was damp and within seconds she had teased the tip of his penis out. It’s bulbous garishly pink coloured point excited her and she stroked his sheath tenderly, enticing more of his formidable, purple veined shaft into the summer air. It was sticky as expected and she decided she would swab it with some warm water before proceeding further.

It was then she heard guitar sounds drifting through the open patio doors. Intrigued, Grace pushed Boris away, but he followed her as she stepped out to the balcony to listen. The dog sniffed around then lay and dozed. The chords were sometimes strummed loudly, then the most delicate sequences fluttered by. It was amazing stuff and she wanted to know who it was. As far as she knew, there were no other musicians in the vicinity.

She leaned on the balcony wall, nude and relaxed, letting the warm fresh air from the lower sweet scented terraces sift round her limbs, wrap round her trim, gold chained ankles and wind its way up her toned legs, send shivers across her cunt lips and then flirt with her belly before undulating over her lush bosoms and finally drift, tainted with her bodily odours, upwards into the starlit sky.

The guitar sound was from the east, she determined that. Boris whined and snuggled close to her, brushing his coat against her legs until he curled up and snoozed It was mostly sensual stuff, the sort one would expect to hear on a late night specialist programme for lovers, but it had an edge, a rawness that surely came from a youthful mind, someone perhaps yearning for love. Grace knew everyone of the eastern neighbours, there being only two in close proximity and the music, yes music, not random sounds or dissonant chords was generated from nearby. It was acoustic too and suddenly on a whim, Grace ran inside and grabbed a guitar.

Back at the balcony, she was disappointed to find the music had stopped, but she clasped the Spanish guitar to her breasts, cocked a leg on the balcony wall to support the instrument and strummed, then started to finger gentle sounds that curled off into the night. There was no response, but she played on finding something inside which had a core, a meaning, a tremor of inspiration. She had to stop suddenly as Boris had woken. That wasn’t a problem in itself, he padded about regardless, but this time he took her by surprise, by approaching from behind and sticking his enquiring friendly snout into her crotch. Grace nearly shrieked out with the cold wet surprise, but she merely shooed the dog away and continued her music.

Dramatically, almost on cue to one of her chords, fashioned from deep inside her, the other music started but this time it was a piano. She had to lean dangerously close to the edge of the wall to crane her neck and seek the source but couldn’t. There were no obvious lights, but she knew one particular residence was to the side of hers and she wouldn’t see it. Grace played on, tinkering with ideas, developing them, releasing whole bars of notes which she found were fitting very comfortably together.

The accompaniment from her neighbour added to the overall scene she was trying to create and she was excited. But as abruptly as it had started, the piano finished. Grace played on, maybe her partner was resting, gone to the toilet, taking a drink, maybe trying to see who she was, but there were no further notes and Grace finally put her guitar away and went to bed.

Very early the next morning, she was delighted to find her period had indeed ceased and she made a quick phone call, then showered before her customary trip to the boulangerie. Monsieur Platini’s eyes nearly flew out of his head when she flounced in wearing a see through white shirt and tight jeans over flat yellow sandals with back buckled straps. Naughtily, she bent low over the counter to look at the treats he would have baked during the night, giving him fantastic views of her immense cleavage. She bent away from him so that her jeans would seem to nearly split as she put her purchases into a bag. Happy with her upturn in spirits, hence her cheeky little escapade, she teased him again with some chat and flounced into the street.

Back at the villa, a good breakfast of croissant, jam and coffee was enjoyed until Marianne Clemente, the village hairdresser arrived to shave her head and they chatted amiably in French. She could trust Marianne with this simple task each week and paid her handsomely. She checked some papers that Irving, her manager had faxed and checked her emails and answered what was necessary, but she was impatient and fluffed several spellings and did them again being a fanatic on accuracy.

Full make up and body oiling was next, it took almost an hour, changing her plain white and slightly tatty panties for a black silk thong. She creamed her head and chose a different, less sheer shirt, although revealing plenty of the famous cleavage and then some different earrings. The sandals fitted the jeans ensemble and finally Grace could leave the villa in Boris’s care and at 9.30 am she set off on her short journey to seek out the night musician. She had eliminated the one villa she could see from the balcony. It was boarded up and there were no signs of life, no break-ins or workmen as she passed.

Up the lane she could see a small green Citroen hatchback outside the villa she suspected. She heard music but recognised it as radio as she approached. The front ornamental iron gate was unlocked which was unusual for the elderly Madame and Monsieur Lebouef. But Pierre and Chloe were away, reasoned Grace and she was sure there was no one in two days before.

She peeked into the courtyard, loving the scents of the many thick shrubs. No one around, but she ventured in daringly. She would be welcomed if by chance the Lebouefs were in, but their car was not the vehicle parked below, they had a big Lexus L saloon. Stealthily, her heart bumping noisily under the cushion of her heaving tits, Grace mounted the stone stair to the balcony.

Why was she doing this crazy thing? Coming to a window, knowing it was the kitchen and peering in, she heard the pop music blaring from a radio perched on the sill. No one occupied the rustic charm of the room, but there were the remains of meals and a lot of unwashed cooking pots and utensils scattered about. The international rock diva crept onwards to the next window which she knew was the huge corner lounge.

She heard squeals and laughs, but they weren’t kids noises. Even before reaching the floor level, she could see an acoustic guitar and another - a Martin, then a superb Fender Strata propped up just inside the floor to ceiling window. This must be the place she heard those wondrous sounds. Grace took a deep breath and tensed her lithe body and suddenly realised she was very wet in her crotch. She suddenly stopped, aware of the risk she was taking. There would be no youngsters normally at the residence. She had known the occupants for over eight years, they were extremely quiet and had a reputation for keeping themselves to themselves.

Grace also knew they had no children and to her knowledge there’d never been child visitors. Giggles filtered to her from the part open doors as she considered her position. There was no one in the garden as far as she could see and she hadn’t seen a soul as she walked the short distance between her place and the Lebouef’s pad.

She could claim a neighbourhood watch responsibility if challenged and spoke fluent French and Italian to fortify any argument. Trembling but hyped up, she stepped forward, grasping the rough rendered wall to lean round and peep through the window. She gasped at the scene and froze thinking she would be heard, but the room occupants just continued fucking on an enormous sofa.

A muscular male was on top of a small girl, whose legs could not girdle the man’s waist. His smooth toned arse was pumping vigorously at the girl who was moaning and scratching his back. Grace noticed black painted finger and toenails on delicate fingers and tiny feet. She also spotted wispy armpit hair and instantly and stupidly labelled the girl as French at least. A tattoo was evident on the girl’s left ankle and then she moved her head from the far side of the man and long blonde tresses splayed across the cushions.

On the pretty face, wide staring eyes and a grimacing mouth contrasted weirdly with the cooing ecstatic sounds she was making as the man shunted relentlessly into her. Muscles rippled over his back and when he raised his head, Grace could see wild floppy black hair. He shifted position, pulling the girl with him, letting one of his knees slide to the plush carpeted floor, giving Grace the wide open view up his rear. Curly black hair coated his arse crack, but his balls reminded Grace of the bull in the neighbouring farm. They were being slammed towards the girl’s hidden fanny, but dangled so low and heavily they were being pummelled against the side of the sofa.

She loved the rear view sight of a man fucking, where his balls seemed to shuttle up and down the shaft of his dick, from where it grew from just ahead of his anus. The girl’s cries of delight echoed the man’s grunts of satisfaction as he continued to screw her. Grace realised that she was soaking her pants, already damp with the excitement and daring of her venture and now by the erotic scene and the man’s screwing prowess. The sex athletes decided to try another position and the girl sat up, flinging her arms round his shoulders. Her partner’s arms wrapped her waist, his other knee dropped to the floor and with a great effort and a roar, he stood lifting the girl bodily, still impaled on his dick. The girl cried out in alarm, staring at Grace over the man’s shoulder.

Grace stupidly stared back and then horror-struck she backed off and ran along the balcony. A sandal came loose and she momentarily paused to correct the uncomfortable buckle that had slid under her heel. Shouts in French and English called after her and she whirled to see the two sexy fuckers approaching her. Momentarily mesmerised by their blatant full frontals, Grace seemed rooted to the spot, then she fled again. In her mind were the man’s thick, slimy penis dangling wetly in front of solid legs and the girl’s tiny fragile body with barely any breasts and minimal pubes.

Heavy thudding bare footsteps pursued her and halfway down the steps a hand grabbed her arm and flung her against the wall. She grunted almost winded with the force and turned to see the man’s moustachioed face glaring up at her. He was considerably smaller in height but was powerfully built. The familiar garlic breath wafted at Grace. The girl skipped lightly down and joined them.

“What do you think you’re fucking playing at?” asked the girl in French. “Getting your kicks eh?”

“No no, please I can explain, I know the people here. I am a friend of theirs,” answered Grace in the language, still trapped by the man’s hand. She glanced back at him. He was studying her closely.

“Pah! You’re one of that sophisticated bunch of thieves down from Montpelier, doing the empty villas I’ll bet,” snarled the girl who looked nothing more than a kid. She spoke a rustic patois and had recognised Grace’s cultured Parisian tones.

“No please, I really can explain. I live nearby, it was the ... last night ... the music...” stammered Grace.

“It can’t be ... no,” muttered the man.

“Yeah so what if we partied. Wake the old girl up did we?” sneered the girl.

“It was so beautif--” started Grace.

“Hang on, it is, it fucking is. Jesus Christ!” exploded the man, in a broad South London accent. “You’re Grace Everley aren’t you?”

Grace nodded and bit her lip. Oh shit! This is real scandal she thought. He dropped her arm and backed off, naked, hot, breathing garlic, his cock now dangling small under a six pack muscled belly against the heavyweight sac of his gonads.

“Fuck me,” the man declared, tapping his female companion on her shoulder. “ tine, tine, Ernestine ... Don’t you recognise her? Grace, The Divine Grace, Graceful Rock, Grace of the Ages, Gratefully Grace ... Shit! I’ve got all your albums. Wow! I’m so sorry if I hurt you but...”

“Sorry? You stupid cunt,” growled Ernestine, now in English, her tiny tits bristling with very erect sharp nipples. “She was peeping on us fucking for Christ’s sake John. Do you know how much trouble we could be in?”

“No no I wasn’t peeping for that. I came to find out who was ... How old is she?” Grace suddenly asked, turned to John.

His face clouded and he bit his lip and he scratched his balls, then he cupped his hands over them self consciously in front of the famous star. His eyes flickered back and forth from Ernestine to Grace.

Grace took time out to study the girl. Not five feet tall, wiry little light body, long graceful neck half covered by thick blonde sun streaked locks, legs up to her armpits, two small cones high on her chest topped by pink erect buds the size of a 10 centime piece, flat belly and just the tiniest fluttering of pale pubes on her mound. The girl glared fixedly at John who was clearly churning inside, her eyes daring him to reveal what Grace was sure to be quite a small number. The silence was broken only by their communal heavy breathing, warbling birds and the distant whine of a small engined motor bike.

“Don’t you fucking tell her John...” said Ernestine.

“Look look, it doesn’t matter. Can I explain and maybe ... er you might want to put some clothes on?” Grace butted in, her eyes sweeping down over their naked torsos.

John gulped and peered down to his nudity. He grabbed his lover and dragged her up the stairs, telling Grace to follow. They scuttled into the villa and she followed them into the lounge, initially amused by the wobble of their contrasting bums, but then her eyes homed in on the instruments. She had seen the Fender earlier and the Martin which matched hers that she had tinkered with last night. Now she saw the Gibson and realised she was in the presence of either extremely knowledgeable musicians or plebs with too much money.

John disappeared but Ernestine blatantly picked up a pair of scanty white panties from the piano stool and stepped neatly into them. Grace stood arms folded watching, noticing the tattoo. It was just an elaborate ankle pattern. The girl threw a black, all covering tee- shirt over her head, flounced to the sofa and threw herself onto it, her hand reaching out and swiping at something, maybe a cum stain or some pubic hairs Grace guessed with amusement.

“I’ve never heard of you,” said Ernestine bluntly. “Dress like a tart all the time?”

Grace gasped at the rude insults. “When you’re old enough maybe you will learn some manners. Shouldn’t you be in school?” she countered in French.

“It’s summer isn’t it... ?” snarled the girl, who then bit her lip as if realising she had reacted too swiftly.

“I thought so,” murmured Grace, sitting opposite on a large wooden carved chair.

John entered, wearing very tight jeans and a white tee-shirt. His bare feet were very large and he glanced quickly at the sofa, as if too checking the marks. He apologised again and again to Grace who was quite amused by the switch of power. The girl glowered and picked at her toe nails. Grace took a last glance at John’s genital bulge, wondering on the old adage about men’s feet and cocks and decided to take the initiative. She needed to get some things straight.

“Look, just who are you?” asked Grace. “I know the Lebouefs and I’ve never seen you here before.”

John explained that he was an old friend of Pierre’s back when Monsiuer Lebouef lectured French art and literature in London and ate at the restaurant where John trained in Camden Town. While the old couple were in Cannes for a few days, John had borrowed their villa to first edit his new cooking book, using recipes and ideas from his experience as head chef at a restaurant in Montpelier. Pierre was going to illustrate the book in his light watercolour style. John had befriended Ernestine who was on the run from a violent boyfriend she had lived with for two years who worked as commis chef for John. The girl having turned up at John’s apartment door with a black eye, bruised arm and three pieces of luggage ie the guitars, had pleaded to get away from the cultured city and the dangers she saw there.

“So the music ... it was her?” asked Grace quietly studying the sulking face of the girl.

“Yeah! Isn’t she good?” enthused John sitting down with Ernestine and stroking her leg.

The girl smiled briefly.

“She’s as you would say John, fucking brilliant. I want to hear more,” chuckled Grace. “Tell me, is she as young as she looks?”

John lifted an eyelid and quizzed Ernestine silently. She sulked and shrugged her shoulders in the typically Gallic manner. He took a deep breath and spoke.

“Well it’s my problem really Grace. You see she’s fourteen. I mean she’s so grown up, but she’s been on the run for two years from her father and of course the Gendarmerie and now that twat in the restaurant. I’ve only known, well had her with me for two weeks but you can imagine the consequences... ?”

“Yeah! Especially if you get her pregnant,” said Grace, leaning forward deliberately. “Shit! And you’re how old?”

Her shirt front parted to the limit of the buttons and John’s eyes blinked at the dark crease between her mammoth tits. Grace had noticed that he had generally talked to her face, which she liked, although knowing that sometime he would be bound to peek at her bust.

“Twenty nine. Hmm! yes. She told me not to wear a johnny,” he confessed. “Didn’t you ‘tine?”

He tenderly stroked the girl’s leg up her thigh to the edge of her tee shirt and shifted his position and Grace saw a growing bulge in his crotch.

Ernestine nodded and grinned cheekily, placing her hand on his.

“Oui Johnny. I told you no Johnny,” she giggled, lighting up her sullen face. “But I am on the pill I told you, they are in my bag if you want. Anyway you famous?” she squeaked shyly to Grace.

The diva didn’t answer, but rose majestically from her chair, drawing herself up to her full height and they stared as she thrust out her chest and parted her legs as if stretching. It was actually to try and release the stickiness of her thong which had gathered tightly through her cunt lips. Grace took the two paces to the piano and beckoned to Ernestine.

“I’m going to make you both a proposition,” she breathed.

The music scorched through the villa. Heady, searching, romantic, lilting, rocking, lifting spirits and seemingly brightening the already sparkling mid morning light. Grace and Ernestine fed each other, improvising, jamming, crying out chord changes, stamping heavily to change beat, switching from the guitars and the piano in a frenzy. John lounged on the sofa, a hand on his denim clad crotch, not blatantly playing with his dick; Grace glimpsed him often making surreptitious squeezes. His head nodded to the beat, his huge feet jabbed the air and his spare hand slammed on the sofa. He peered alternately at the two females, seeing the young one’s bare legs bending and flexing, the older one’s boobs bouncing.