I felt depressed. That was not that unusual, for I was often depressed, some would say I was always depressed. But this was different; it was not one of the usual topics that was depressing me. It wasn't my lank, mousy hair, my droopy 38 D tits, sturdy thighs, biggish bum or podgy tum. It was not being divorced and alone nor was it the fact that I couldn't find a real boy-friend and that I had over the past couple of years had a series of short-term relationships, usually ending with them ditching me. It wasn't even the fact that the adorable Janice my flat mate had gone away, although I would willingly have scratched the eyes out of the scrawny, flat-chested, posh friend she'd gone on holiday with. It was, oddly enough, because I had landed a par and how fucking ironic is that!
It seemed that over the fifteen or so years of my rather unsuccessful acting career I had slept with or, had given blow jobs to most of the BBC, ITV and other TV production companies casting directors, the male ones that is; the female ones hadn't wanted blow jobs. And to a large extent that had got me nowhere. Sure a few bits and pieces here and there, the odd play in out of the way reps, walk on parts in TV commercials and several non-speaking extra parts in TV films and some soaps. But in the main my self-promotion hadn't met with much success. Then out of the blue a part, a real part, a speaking part, in a soap, a national soap. Ok it was afternoons where the viewers were probably mostly brain dead and mainly of eighty year old Aunty Mavises and Uncle Humphs, but it was a pukka part.
So why had that depressed me? Because, when I had attended the audition I had seen the fucking briefing sheet sent out to agents.
"Plump girl going to seed," was how the casting director described the requirement for the part I was to play.
That's what got to me. Not long ago I had been a sex goddess, now I was a plump girl going to seed. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, I screamed, when I put the phone down on Allen Green my dodgy, seedy agent.
As I usually did when depressed, I went on a bender and got monumentally pissed. That was for about two days. After that I needed something different, something more. Janice, my sort of girl-friend and flat mate was away with the titless bitch so a fuck with my ideal woman wasn't on, so I phoned Preston Marcombe.
He was well into his fifties, but was well preserved with a wonderful, full head of iron grey hair. He was a not very successful Shakespearian actor who never actually got any work doing the Bard's stuff. He had got really lucky in a bit part that had led to a TV series where he had made stacks of money, for it was a worldwide, one-off hit. To him, though, it was a derisory series and was nowhere as high-brow as he considered himself to be, but he invested the money well, and had hardly worked since, but then he didn't need to for one of his investments had been in an online company that had also made him a fortune.
I met Preston at an acting workshop I had attended in the vain hope that I might find the secret to being a successful actor. I had tried method acting, doing it off the cuff and fucking anyone who might help me so learning from 'the master' seemed a good idea. The week long workshop had not really improved my acting, but I had made a useful contact, Preston. He took me to one side after the first day and told me how talented I was and how he loved my long, wavy hair that I usually wore down so it was half-way down my back. He took me aside after the second day and told how well I was doing and how he loved my curvy, voluptuous figure. After the third day he told me I was star of the class and that he wanted to fuck me. And that is what he did, there and then, behind the makeshift stage.
He was probably married, but as we got to know each other refused to talk about his personal life, so I wasn't sure. I didn't actually care, though I pretended to, for his sake. Being the 'successful actor' he considered himself to be and how he portrayed himself, Preston had a country home, in Gloucestershire, near Jilly Cooper and Prince Charles he would say, and a flat in town; actually quite a nice one, in Hampstead, of course.
It was there that he fucked me the second time, there that he abused and demeaned me, tied me up, spanked me and did all manner of things to me to which most reasonable women would have objected. Not being a reasonable woman, but a divorced Essex girl I took all he could give and came back for more. I enjoyed what he did.
I was beginning to like pain and loved being humiliated. I have no idea why I get off on such stuff. I never used to, I was not a submissive when I was younger, but since my divorce four years ago and crashing through the forty barrier two years ago, my perspectives have changed and slowly I have drifted into the dark art of D/s. That is not to say that I am tied up, spanked or handcuffed every time I am with Preston or that I do not have 'normal' sex with other lovers for I do, probably too much. And that's another massive change in my thinking and acting; I have become hugely promiscuous and often I run with two, three or even four men in life as I am right now, including Preston. See fat girls can have fun.
"Come round at nine this evening wearing that grey dress I bought you when I took you to that party and gave you to my friends to fuck," he told me.
"Yes Preston," I replied. "Anything else?"
"No, just shoes, be totally naked under it," he ordered.
That was not an unusual command from Preston. Generally when I was with him I would be naked, if we were in his flat. When we went out to a restaurant, a movie or the theatre I would either, wear a dress or skirt and top with nothing underneath or, a coat and just shoes. He would find opportunities to fondle me and try to bring me off during the evening. Luckily, he was paranoid about publicity for he deluded himself that he was still famous, and did not take big risks.
I had been seeing Preston for a year or so. We did not meet that often, every other week or so I suppose. We would mess around with some form of BDSM and then we would fuck. He was actually quite a good fuck when sober or not drugged up to his eyeballs, which he was much of the time. When pissed or stoned, though, he wasn't actually that good a shag. I frequently thought that he was not that interested in penetrative sex. Often, especially in the early days, he would lick or finger me to a climax then have me suck him off or, he would cum on my face, tummy or tits. He liked that, but then so did I. Slowly though, our experiences got weirder or more adventurous dependent on your viewpoint. Adventurous, if you think that is him making me cum in restaurants and cabs and weird, if you feel that him making me pick up a guy in a bar and give him a blow job as he looked on, is a bit pervy.
Since my divorce I had come to understand that with sex 'you pays your money and you takes your choice.' It was all part of being a single woman, particularly and actress, rushing towards middle-age and wanting it all before I got there. So I had taken my choice with him and that is why I had dressed up as a schoolgirl, bent over when he told me to, let him roll my short skirt up and pull my full, white knickers down and then squirmed, moaned, cried out and finally cum as he spanked my bottom. I had paid my money when he tied me up and ran feathers over me until I nearly, but not quite, climaxed. Then he had wanked on my tits and left me there sticky and smelling as he went out to dinner.
There had been other incidents similar to these. Incidents that many, most really, women would hate, but which for some reason did a lot for me. I was, I had concluded a clear submissive with a very high need to be abused and demeaned.
So I was paying my money and taking my choice when I did as he said. I pulled the pale grey, silky dress out from the back of the wardrobe. It was a simple dress. Vee necked with buttons all the way down the front, the hem was three inches above the knee, it was pulled in tightly at the waist and it flowed nicely over the flair of my boobs, hips and bum. Well that was the theory and how it used to be, I thought looking at myself in the mirror in the hall. I had put on weight. There was no doubt about it, I was over ten stones; one hundred and forty two pounds of Annie when where was, only yesterday it felt, just over one thirty. Now there was an overweight, woman in a dress that was far too tight and fitted me badly. Between each button there were gaps where the lapels pulled apart and through which my skin was on view. My tits were spilling out of it and my cleavage looked like a deep crevice that a man could lose his face in. The material moulded itself round each breast riding over my, always, pronounced nipples, but which now were so evident, and yes of course, I noted were hardening as I looked at myself. Fucking exhibitionist as well, I smiled, cupping my tits and running my hands over them. I knew would wank before this fitting was over.
My arse didn't look too bad, big sure, but a good shape, it was my tum and hips that were the problem, well my tits too for they had ballooned up to a double D, something that only used to happen when I had my period. Now, though, they were that size constantly and fuck knows what they were when I was on. I bulged everywhere, sod it, sod it, sod it, I thought, wishing I had stayed on that diet.
"Fuck it," I moaned as I took the dress off and masturbated looking at myself in the mirror, thinking.' She might be fat and going to seed, but she's still sexy with great tits.
I was on my way to the flat by bus wearing a light coat over the dress when I got a call on my mobile.
"Make it The Crown in Haverstock Hill instead," Preston said, not introducing himself, saying hello or goodbye.
I walked into the pub. It was crowded, but then it was a Friday night. I couldn't see him so I went to the bar and ordered a vodka and water. Although I am quite a ballsy girl and used to being single I am a little embarrassed being alone in pubs. After all they are good pulling joints and in Hampstead you sometimes get working girls and I didn't like being mistaken for one, which I had been several times.
"Where the hell is the sod?" I asked myself looking around, sipping my drink and feeling the warmth of the pub getting to me. I wished I had not worn the coat, but then I had to and I could not possibly take it off and let people see me in that dress.
Nothing happened for ten minutes or so, apart from me finishing my drink, having two guys offer to buy me another and me becoming hotter and hotter.
My phone rang.
"Warm are you?" Preston asked.
"Fucking boiling, where are you?"
"I told you to just wear the dress."
"I am."
"No you aren't."
I lowered my voice as much as I could.
