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 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.
