Costume Drama Ch. 01-02
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I slept late that Sunday; the effect of the last two nights of rehearsal, followed by the three performances and the overly enthusiastic after-party, had all left me very much in need of a long, recuperative sleep. I vaguely remembered the movement and sounds of my husband, Frank, getting ready for yet another of his far too frequent Rotary functions – this one I seemed to recall was for a general clean-up of a local park.
Long gone were the days when, in similar circumstances, he would have taken advantage of my slumber – by then only the memories of how I would sometimes feel his hands pushing down beneath the covers to find me, my breasts, or my ever welcoming pussy, remained to reawaken the regret I often felt that he no longer seemed to desire me – at least not in that way.
I allowed myself to drift back into those memories; using my own hands in ways that he had once used his; stroking, caressing, sometimes pinching – then while one continued, slid the other lower, down to the slowly increasing wetness that my memory-fuelled fingers were creating between my legs.
Remembering how the feel of his sometimes still unshaven face pressing against my thighs had fired me. Remembering how deliciously his tongue would often lick me.
Remembering all the other things he had done to build me towards the inevitable body-straining climax. Remembering how often I had reached a second from just the feel of his cock; sometimes used to merely teasingly nudge and prod at my pussy-lips, sometimes immediately sliding effortlessly inside me.
Ah, such sweet memories!
But, alas, memories that were apparently now long gone!
I quite often couldn’t help myself from wondering exactly where all of Frank’s once enthusiastic passion had been diverted to – was Rotary the clue? Had he there found some other woman – a fresh body – a woman who had been emptying him of what had once been purely mine?
But the draining effort of the last few days of performance were even stronger than those now frequently resurfacing doubts, and in spite of my fingers’ attempts to fully arouse me, I obviously slipped back to sleep again.
So it was about 11.00 am before I woke properly, went down to make myself some much needed coffee, then sat awhile – recalling the last night’s pleasures, the accolades, the party’s innocent fun.
Perhaps it was something about those feelings that prompted me, after a long, refreshing shower, to head into the second bedroom, where my costume hung – not yet placed back into the plastic bag in which it had been delivered.
Charles – our director – was a Lecturer in 18th Century drama at the university, and had re-written the dialogue of half a dozen of his favourite plays from the early part of that period – ‘Just so today’s Philistines can understand them!’ – had been his rationale for doing so – and it had been one of these that our local amateur dramatic society had been performing. A ‘comedy of manners’, I suppose you would call it; involving the usual complexities caused by two lovers’ misunderstandings, misinterpretations, and the well intentioned but near disastrous interferences by others, but then of course everything resolving itself in the final few minutes.
My part had been that of the ‘older woman’ – who the heroine suspects is actually stealing her lover’s heart. A ‘merry widow’ type character, who is definitely not averse to flaunting at least a couple of her well-endowed charms – and as they played such an integral part in rousing the heroine’s concerns, the costume needed to be able to make a prominent display of a good portion of my breasts.
Now whilst I am by no means flat-chested, I have never been what I would call, ‘over-endowed’, and although the years have left them still in pretty good shape, I had known that I would need something other than my regular range of underthings to provide me with both the uplift and the clear expanse of curvaceousness that the costume’s décolletage required, so I had bought myself I rather wickedly fetching bustier.
I thought it was exactly what the character I was playing would have worn – if such things had been available then – a light, but heavily boned, and very tight-fitting creation made from silky crimson and black, that left virtually all of the upper parts of my breasts exposed, and only just barely managed to cover their nipples.
When I appeared in it for the dress rehearsal I was at first greeted by silence; the men ogled – some overtly, others more surreptitiously – the women stared with either admiration of my confident audacity, or envy of my apparent endowments. But only Charles made verbal reference to my appearance – ‘Magnificent! Absolutely magnificent Margie – that’s exactly what the part calls for. Well done darling!’
Charles is of course gay, and was immune from the effect my barely concealed breasts obviously caused in some other men.
Then, purely on a whim, I shucked off my bath-robe and slipped just the upper and lower parts of the crinoline avcılar rus escort dress down over my head, and although it wasn’t the first time I had seen myself in it, the other times had only been in smaller mirrors and with people passing back and forth around me, so it was the first time I had had the opportunity to take a little time to examine the effect properly.
Of course I had omitted a few of the things I had previously worn with it; the wig, the bustier the white cotton stockings, and the panties – which were most definitely not from the 18th century, being from those that Frank had at one time playfully called my selection of ‘naughty knickers’. The ones I had chosen to go with the crinoline were a pair of pink, lacy, French-cut panties, with legs wide enough for Frank to slip his hand up through – so his, in those days passionately loving fingers, could easily reach me.
I had always loved those forays of his…
But even without those extras, I had to admit that I still looked pretty sexy – and as a result of the cut of the neck-line, and even without the benefit of the bustier, I was sure that most men would find my breasts still look temptingly attractive.
Then, when I looked down at the dress itself, at the rigidly hooped and voluminous crinoline, I couldn’t suppress the giggle that came when I remembered the no doubt apocryphal story Charles had told me. He said that some women – who, because they couldn’t comfortably sit in such gowns and were forced to stand – sometimes, at formal functions, for an hour or more – were reputed to employ midgets, who would secrete themselves beneath the skirts, then while the women stood, legs apart, they would lick and suck their pussies.
I found I had really liked the idea of that…
But the giggle faded when I thought of how Frank would have reacted just a few short years ago. He had, as always, come to the first night of any of my performances, but although he complimented me on the part I played, he made no comment at all about the way I’d looked, and certainly made no emotional advances, either then or later. In previous times I knew full well that having spent an hour or two watching me dressed like that, the moment he had me in the car he would have been unable to control himself – and we may well have made love right there and then.
And just the memory of that was also something I definitely liked a lot…
Perhaps it was the sight of myself in the mirror that did it – or maybe it was the combination of those rather spicily heated thoughts – but I found myself remembering, then re-living even more vividly, a fantasy that had come to me during one of the many, lengthy delays during the play’s dress rehearsal.
In that I had found myself returning to those 1750s, to the country house, to the party.
I was standing in the centre of a circle of handsome and overtly admiring young bucks; some of whom were clearly unable to stop themselves from openly staring at the display my breasts made, others I thought had been attracted by the occasional flash of my slim, trimly shaped ankles, others by my freshly moistened lips, and a couple of the more discerning ones, by the mischievous – and apparently promise-filled – glitter that now and then brightened my eyes.
Their admiration was made all too evident by the interesting bulges I could see still growing in their tight, well-fitting britches – and although not something I might normally do, in my fantasy I had found myself wondering just what size and shape each of them might be.
In reality, and unlike many women of my age, I had not in fact had too many sexual partners, and in my admittedly limited experience I had actually found little difference in the sizes of men’s equipment. The strength of my responses had always depended more on what other things the man did for me, than on the size or shape of what he ultimately pushed inside me. So I would have willingly joined in the mantra that one usually hears from women – ‘It’s not the size of it that matters, but what he does with it!’
However, I would be less than honest if I did not admit that occasionally I did find myself wondering what it might feel like to have a man fucking me with a longer, or perhaps even thicker, cock. And of course in my fantasy I was able to give a totally free rein to such thoughts – so I found myself carefully examining the various bulges to see if I could detect signs of one or more of my admirers who appeared to be particularly well endowed in that area.
And although most such fantasies are usually no more than momentarily fleeting things, that one had for some reason, stuck with me – and since then I had found myself every now and then recalling it, recalling and, sometimes elaborating it.
Sometimes doing no more than imagining myself unfastening a particularly excitingly bulging pair of britches, and servicing the young buck – sometimes vigorously sucking him, sometimes merely stroking and eventually milking avcılar türbanlı escort him. But a few other times I allowed myself to go even further; not only allowing him to fuck me, but – having thoughts I didn’t know I was even capable of – sometimes taking on more than just one of them.
But, even as those thoughts swirled around in my head – the phone rang!
It was Charles – not reinforcing the fullsome compliments he had given me the previous night, but obviously in a state verging on a quite frantic.
‘Margie? Oh thank goodness you’re there! I’m desolate and desperate! I just hope you can help me out!’ he gabbled in one unbroken sentence.
When I calmed him down enough to explain the reasons for his fretfulness I discovered that the woman who was playing my role in a production of the same play by a similar group on the opposite side of the city, had – the previous evening – apparently broken her ankle, and one foot was now totally encased in a plaster cast.
‘Now whilst of course she might be able to hobble about a bit, there’s no way she could do the Minuet at the end of the first act.’ Charles explained.
Act 1’s final scene opens in the country house, where the party was already in full swing, and the key characters are found to be dancing a highly modified version of the Minuet. As it is during this scene that my character finds herself dancing with the hero and the looks that the heroine sees being exchanged between us are what confirm her suspicions and accelerate the whole charade of her ever-increasing paranoia, it is a scene of vital importance. And having the ‘other woman’ clunking about in a plaster cast simply would not carry the same sense of either sensuality or the imagined underlying passion.
‘So, I still don’t understand why you rang me Charles?’
‘Well having been through everything else – there’s nobody I can shuffle around within the cast – I wondered, well I hoped – would you, could you do it again? I mean you really lived that part Margie – it was tailor-made for you, you really brought that woman to life you know!’ he enthused effulgently.
Of course I understood, and perhaps it was because I was standing there still dressed for the part, my answer was both immediate and positive.
For a moment I thought Charles was going to crawl down through the wires to hug me – and his protestations of undying gratitude were even more fullsome than his pleading had been, but having once again calmed him down I did agree to allow him to make sure I was chauffeured to and from each of the two rehearsals he asked me to attend, and then for the performances themselves.
So, by the time I was ready to make myself some lunch, although there was still no sign of Frank, at least I had something enjoyably positive to look forward to.
Frank seemed genuinely pleased when I told him that I had been asked to give a repeat performance – it was only some time later, when he had continued to show complete disinterest in me, that I wondered if this might actually be because my absence would give him more time with whatever – or whomever – his alternative interest was.
Perhaps those thoughts stayed with me, at least subconsciously, and so gave me a rather greater interest than I might normally have had as to my reactions to the man who turned up to chauffeur me to the first of the rehearsals.
However, whatever the reasons, my immediate thought was that he was positively ‘dishy’!
Tall – a good bit taller than Frank, smartly dressed, dark-haired – tinged with grey at the temples – and having almost liquid-looking dark brown eyes and a sensually humorous mouth.
‘Good evening! Margie?’ he asked as I opened the door – and when I nodded, extended his hand and added. ‘Hi, I’m Greg – your stage partner and your driver. I asked Charles to let me pick you up. I thought that this way we would get a chance to know each other a bit, before we go on stage, I mean.’
‘What a good idea – and I can’t thank you enough for ferrying me about.’
‘It’s the very least we can do, I mean after coming to our rescue at such short notice. Anyway, Charles confided to me that you will do a very much better job of the part than our dear Jane ever could have.’ he added conspiratorially.
‘Oh dear, now I’ll have that to live up to! I really wish Charles didn’t always over-enthuse about things. But I won’t keep you waiting, I’m ready, I just have to fetch my bag.’
Once in the car and as he lifted his hands to the steering wheel, I immediately saw there was yet another most attractive thing about him – and that was his hands. They had long tapering fingers, with short, immaculately manicured nails – what I always think of as ‘pianist’s hands’ – and were exactly the sort of hands that most women dream of when they imagine what they would like to feel caressing them.
But I was given no time to elaborate on those first thoughts, Greg immediately opened avcılar ucuz escort up the ‘getting to know you’ conversation.
We soon began exchanging basic information about ourselves and exploring possible mutual interests – primarily the theatre of course. Greg was a fan of many of the actors and playwrights I admired and had been a member of his dramatic society even longer than I had been of mine, sometimes playing the lead, many times much happier to be cast in a slightly less prominent role similar to the one he would be playing with me.
As we chatted I noticed that although he drove carefully, he would frequently glance sideways, and although it may have been a bit of wishful thinking on my part, I thought I detected a genuine interest in me – as a woman, not just as his stage partner.
It was some time since I had felt something like that – and I found I still very much liked it…
The first thing that struck me when we arrived at the society’s performance space was just how grand it was, and not only by comparison with the hall my own group had the use of. Theirs was a genuine theatre – a relatively small one, but still equipped with all the things a regular, commercial theatre would have. But as I was immediately caught up in the business of being introduced to my fellow players and then almost at once starting the actual rehearsal I had to wait until the trip back home to find out the background details of the reasons for their good fortune in having such a facility.
As rehearsals go, that one went extremely well, even the ever pernickety Charles seemed pleased with the efforts everyone had made, and as I found the group a happy and friendly lot, I was in particularly high spirits when Greg and I got into the car for the drive back to my place.
Before he started it, he turned to me, and with those dark brown eyes showing his sincerity, said – ‘I must say Margie, everything that Charles said about you – I mean as to your performance skills – was dead right, you not only have that elusive stage presence, but you give a subtlety to the nuances of the part that Jane just could never have done. It’s going to be an absolute pleasure to be on stage with you.’
I think I might have actually blushed a little, but covered my embarrassment by praising him for the way he also played his part – and having chuckled at our ‘mutual admiration’, as Greg called it, we headed off.
During the first part of that trip we mainly exchanged ideas about the roles we were playing; ways in which we might add just a little more to our performances – but once we had covered that I asked him about how they came to have such a splendid theatre.
‘It’s actually quite a long story Margie, but I’ll trim it down to the basics for you.’ He said. ‘Back in the late 1930s there was a rising star of the British repertory theatre system, a woman called Elizabeth Flowers – well she did so well that by the time the second World War broke out she was being cast in West End productions. During a couple of those an Australian pilot who was over there as part of the war effort, and who had always been a keen theatre-goer, saw, and was smitten by her. He sent flowers, waited at the stage-door, and, to cut that part of the story even shorter, they fell in love and married.
At war’s end he brought her back to Australia and some time later took over his father’s building business – and during the scramble to build sufficient houses for the families of that baby-boom period, made a fair amount of money.
During that time, when her main objectives had been to support and care for her busy husband, Elizabeth’s own ambitions as an actress had of course been put on hold, and she soon realised that she had probably actually missed her opportunity. Well, when they also discovered that they would be unable to produce children, given their mutual love of theatre, they came up with the idea of starting an amateur group instead. Then as her husband’s business gave him access to relatively cheap land, and they’d have the use of his company’s building resources, they decided to do the thing really, really well.
So that’s how we got such a well equipped theatre. Then they also both left decent sums of money in a trust account, so that when they died there was a reasonable amount to cover ongoing maintenance and some of the operating costs.
Although I had been both genuinely interested and then fascinated by the details of the story, even while Greg was recounting it, I found my mind occasionally drifting off elsewhere.
The final scene of the play opens to find Greg and my character embracing and kissing – as the stage directions stated ‘Passionately!’. And when we had done so during the rehearsal – and unlike any other time I had been called to give someone a stage kiss – I definitely felt myself responding to the tender, soft moistness of Greg’s lips.
So even as he drove me home, I found myself wondering – should he try to do so in reality – wondering if I would respond as warmly to a kiss stolen in such close proximity to where I actually lived.
When we did arrive there, although there was a moment when, as he turned to say good-night to me, I thought he might be about to, he hesitated, the moment passed, and I was left to only wonder as to precisely what my reactions would have been if he had done so.
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