by Fox, Lana
And who knows if she’ll be able to live with me?
Chapter Two
A Well-Heeled Guy
Friday, 2 March
Dear Kitten,
Well, when I got home from work tonight, it was clear that Janey was properly moved in. The place smelled of incense, there was a dirty great footprint on the kitchen linoleum, and two new jackets – one in denim, one in leather – were hanging from the coat rack. But the real proof that my tenant was finding her feet was that I found her in the kitchen wearing tiny denim cut-offs that showcased her lovely thighs. She was chopping tomatoes with her earbuds in, and when I went over to say hello and tapped her on the shoulder, she almost hit the roof! That’s me for you. Pure Sagittarius. Got about as much tact as a prize-winning marrow.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, love,’ I told her, putting my hand on her arm.
She shook her head, taking out an earbud. She smelled beautiful – of incense and coconut soap and fresh tomatoes. ‘I’m glad of it,’ she said. ‘You interrupted the most boring podcast ever.’
‘What’s it about?’
‘The stiletto heel.’
It turns out she was listening to some lunatic professor who thinks high heels are a sign of women’s subjugation. ‘Maybe some of us want to be subjugated,’ I said, stealing a bit of tomato. When I looked back, she was shielding her grin with her fingers as if I’d said something delightfully naughty. Her eyes were what my friend Gladys would call fuck-you-blue. ‘Things are only subjugation if you don’t actually want them,’ I said. ‘I suppose I’d make a useless feminist.’
‘Actually,’ said Janey, ‘that’s the most feminist thing I’ve heard all day.’ She smiled openly now, surprisingly sunny-faced. Her eyes really are a marvellous shade of blue.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘I should rest my feet. These shoes of mine are killing me.’ I noticed how her gaze immediately darted down to my shoes. ‘See you later,’ I said, turning away.
‘Wait,’ she said, catching my arm. ‘Lil’s coming by tonight. Is that OK?’
I said of course it was OK, she didn’t have to ask. And I felt a little relieved, as I turned away, because seeing Janey’s girlfriend would break this silly crush of mine. But as I walked towards the hallway I could feel Janey’s stare burning its way down the backs of my legs, and the sensation made me so lustful that I paused and glanced back. Her eyes were all big and gleaming, Kitten, as she drank in my burgundy five-inchers, teamed with sheer hose. She was so greedily fixated that it took her a moment to look back up at me. And when our gazes met, she didn’t even flush. ‘You have gorgeous shoes,’ she told me, holding my stare, ‘and beautiful legs. Did you know that?’
Oh, that gaze of hers was bold as brass. Inside my knickers, I burned. And as I mumbled a thank-you and turned away, I suddenly wondered if she’d stolen the shoes I was wearing and licked them while I wasn’t around. Well, why wouldn’t she? She’s done it before. And the image of her staring at me with her tongue sliding over my heels made my pussy ache so much that I rushed to the bedroom and, with my back against the door, slipped my fingers into my knickers and rubbed myself hard. Just thinking of the burn in her stare made me come in moments. And just like every climax I have when I think about Janey, it was so hot and deep and hard that I cried out loud.
See, Kitten? I’m like the Story of O. (But without the whipping, obviously.) This girl is young enough to be my own daughter. Is this my future sex life? Me getting older, while my tastes get younger?
Anyway, I have to dress up now. I’m meeting Gladys for drinks this evening. She’s been dating a swish American man called Guy, so there’s bound to be gossip. I’ll spill the beans when I get back.
10.50 p.m.
Oh, Kitten, what a night! I don’t know whether to be excited or embarrassed! See, the ‘thing’ Gladys said she wanted to show me turned out to be – but wait. Let me start from the beginning.
I arrive at the Queen’s Head expecting a girls’ night out, but, when I spy Gladys over in the corner, she’s sitting next to a man in a swanky suit. Oh, God, I think to myself. She’s brought the guy she’s been dating. Typical Gladys. Her boundaries are so stuffed up. Anyway, as I strut towards her, feeling hot-as-heck in my silver stiletto heels, I’m not so sure it is her man. Gladys is a flirt-and-a-half, and men always enjoy her, but she’s sitting upright in her ‘teacher’ pose. She’s wearing an Eastern-style dress, which works beautifully next to her dark skin. It’s a stunning shade of red with gold-and-white dragonflies embroidered on it, but it doesn’t meet Gladys’s criteria for a ‘fuck-me dress’. For starters, it’s buttoned up to the throat, with zero cleavage, and for seconds, she’s wearing jeans underneath – a big no-no for Gladys when it comes to seduction. Her black hair is in hippie-style bunches, and, of course, her fingernails are perfectly painted. At the age of forty-nine, she’s more ‘Indian goddess’ than ever. Even with the fine lines that spread from the corners of her eyes, and the laughter-lines that deepen when she laughs, Gladys Patel is still a forty-something going on twenty-nine.
And the men she dates are young – often early thirties. Take this guy she’s with, for instance, with his gleaming brown eyes and broad jaw. He’s the one who sees me first and mentions me to Gladys, who rises and welcomes me with a squeeze. With one arm around my waist, she introduces me to her ‘friend’ Guy, who gives me a saucy sideways grin before taking my hand and kissing my cheek. He smells delicious – of aftershave and gin – and, as he turns away from me, he gives me a quick wink. And oh, my, Kitten! What a wink it is! It gets me all wet and squirmy.
‘Now,’ says Gladys, once Guy has smoothly produced a chair for me, ‘I want to introduce you both because of your interest in shoes.’
I gawp at her. What on earth is she talking about?
And, typical Gladys-style, she announces: ‘He likes shoes in the sack, Debs. A foot fetishist. Like you.’
Like me? ‘Gladys, I’m not a fetishist!’
Gladys raises her eyebrow as she lifts a half-pint to her lips. ‘You once said you’d rather screw shoes than men. If that isn’t a fetish, I don’t know what is.’
I immediately flush. I don’t even remember saying such a thing! Typical fucking Gladys to spill my intimate blurts, then tell the world about them.
Guy laughs and places a hand on my arm. A firm, warm hand – and very nice it is too. ‘Gladys knows I love shoes,’ he tells me, ‘and apparently you work in the shoe biz.’ His American accent is leisurely and smooth, and his eyes – oh, his eyes! – they’re boring into me, as if they’re seeing my fantasies.
I tell him I manage Pussyfoot Shoes, in town.
‘I’d love to hear more about that,’ he says, his pupils growing bigger as they pull me in. ‘In fact, I’d love to see your style.’ He glances down towards my feet. ‘Show me your foot, Debs.’
When he says this, Kitten, several things happen. My whole face burns – as does my pussy. (See how easy that word’s become, Kitten? If I’m not careful, Playboy will ask me to tea.) Gladys gives a snort, slams down her beer glass, mutters ‘excuse me’ through a snigger and runs off towards the women’s loos. Guy twists towards me in his chair, then bends downwards and cups his hands as if to take my shoe in them. And his stare is so penetrating that I slip off my shoe and hand it over.
Now brace yourself for the weird bit, Kitten.
Guy gives a tiny groan as he takes the shoe. I might as well have placed my breast in his hands, the way he drinks it in, all ravaging and fierce. ‘Perfect,’ he says, softly, turning it and running a finger down the stiletto heel. He slips a hand inside it and feels up the inside, and I’m surprised to feel tingle in-between my thighs, as if he’s fondling my … pussy. (Oh, God, Kitten, whatever porny language will I let slip next?) ‘Oh, yes,’ he says, softly, and in the heave of his voice, I can tell he’s hard. Then he cups the back of the shoe in his palm and holds it up to observe the whole thing. ‘Oh, fuck, yes,’ he murmurs in a kind of private dream, and then he looks at me li
ke a wolf, his pupils swallowing the browns of his eyes, and says, ‘You have exquisite taste. If you wear these in the bedroom, your boyfriend is a lucky boy.’
Of course, I’m so on the edge of my seat because of this captivating man that I blurt, ‘I’m single,’ like some kind of trollop.
‘Good,’ he says. ‘Let’s go to dinner. Tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow?’
Suddenly, Gladys is back, giving me a private wink. ‘Do you two lovebirds need some time alone?’ she says, looking like she might explode with the giggles.
‘Don’t be daft,’ I tell her. ‘I haven’t even ordered my drink yet.’
Staring at me, Guy says, ‘I would offer to go to the bar, but I’m so horny right now it would be indecent.’
Of course, Gladys thought this was a riot! And that’s how it was all evening. Guy making hot little comments as he glared into my eyes, and Gladys giggling away or nudging my elbow, telling me Guy and I should date. And all the way through, as we talked about this and that, I’m imagining him throwing me down on the table and fucking me, as glasses and silverware crash to the floor. Besides, I was so hot and wet that it wouldn’t have taken much to make me come. One thrust, two thrusts, three thrusts, Kitten, and I’d be high as a kite, soaring on an orgasm, as he fucked and fucked with my foot in his hand.
See what you’re doing to me, Kitten? Penthouse, here we come.
Anyway, at the end of the night he asks for my number, and before I’m even home he’s texting to arrange dinner. I accept his offer with as much grace as I can after a few wobbly drinks, and I’m still thinking about it later when I’m climbing the stairs to bed, my mug of cocoa in hand. But on my way to my room I’m brought to a standstill by the sound of soft moaning. Whatever next, Kitten? It looks like the gods heard my mission to explore all things sexy, and are bombarding me with hotness wherever I walk. As I stand there, I have to steady myself against the wall because the bathroom door is ajar and I can see Janey against the bathroom wall, kissing a woman – Lil, I presume. I’ve ended up just at the right angle to watch, and believe me, Kitten, watch I do. Their kiss is a rough one, and Janey’s cheeks are flushed and her blonde hair is tousled, and her jeans are undone, and on top she’s wearing a simple black bra. And though I can’t see Lil, I can see her mouth, her jaw, and her jet-black hair as she kisses Janey, scratching her nails down the girl’s lovely arms. Janey arches and looks agonised as Lil pulls down her jeans and reaches around to unclip her bra. And suddenly, Janey’s breasts are spilling loose. Such perfect round little breasts, so smooth and pale, their nipples a dusty pink, that I find my fingers inching towards my thirsty pussy. I should leave, Kitten, go to my bedroom, shut the door, go to sleep. But now Lil is down on her knees and Janey’s jeans are falling round her ankles, and I watch her as she arches and claws at the wall, her lashes flickering.
Well, after that, what’s a woman meant to do? Once I’ve sidled quietly into my room, I don’t really want my cocoa anymore, so I go to bed and climax harder than ever. In fact, all through the night, I have wet dreams about Guy screwing me on the restaurant table, with my legs in the air, while Janey, in nothing but her black T-shirt, licks my stiletto heel, murmuring, ‘Oh, we shouldn’t, we shouldn’t,’ over and over again.
Chapter Three
Tongue-Tied Thai
Saturday, 3 March
6.30 p.m.
Oh, Kitten! Two sexy things happened today. The first was small and hot. The second was so hot that I had to get myself off at the store. But let’s start at the beginning …
First, I had the strangest dream. Oh, this was a doozy! In it, an angel with her hair in sexy plaits is wearing a French maid’s outfit. (Dear God, even my subconscious is going all Playboy.) Her wings stick out of the back of her costume, somehow, and her halo is perfectly straight – in spite of the kinky gear. The angel has this gorgeous smile, all peaceful and kind. She takes my hands and tells me, ‘Let go of your shame, Deborah, dear. That’s the number one rule.’
And what I realise, when I wake up, is that I think I believe her.
This is what I realise when I wake up to noises in Janey’s room – Janey sounds like she’s digging for gold and finding bigger and bigger chunks the deeper she shovels. ‘Oh, God,’ she’s crying, ‘Oh, God, God, God … ’ The bed frame – which I really ought to replace – is bashing against the wall, softly at first, and then louder and louder, like some scene from a steamy movie. And then, suddenly, something’s changed – something very, very hot – and the bangs become louder and faster and harder, and Janey shouts, ‘Oh, fuck, baby.’ And once again, I’m burying my fingers inside me.
I climax like the clappers, Kitten. Oh. My. Gosh.
After this, I shower, dress and go to breakfast, thinking about Guy and the date we have this evening. Someone – hopefully Janey, not Lil – is making breakfast and the aroma of coffee is wonderful. It reminds me of Henry and the way he used to look after me, bringing me breakfast in the mornings, and croissants on Saturdays.
Still, he’s gone. Get over it, Debs.
In the kitchen, my tenant’s laptop is open on the table, next to an empty plate. On the screen is a picture of a giant red stiletto shoe. The headline of the article is Why We Can’t Let Go of Our Heels. Janey herself is standing at the coffee maker in a new, shorter T-shirt, which shows a tantalising glimpse of her wonderful buttocks in a pair of pale-blue Lycra briefs. And oh, my gosh, I so want to stroke those buttocks – tiptoe up and lean against her back, cupping each cheek and feeling her respond. If I did so, God knows what would happen. Perhaps she’d give a little jolt of surprise before leaning back into me, purring as she presses my hand against the outline of her breast. If I had a cock, Kitten, I’d sweep aside her briefs just enough to push myself into her and feel her, wet from Lil, her lovely muscles gripping this new bit of me as I slide in and out, harder each time. (Honestly! This ‘diary’ business is hard. I’m embarrassed just writing about my fantasies, and you’re not even human.) And anyway, what does this penis envy say about me? Does it make me lesbian? Henry would call me a gender-bender – and he’d probably be right. But is that such a bad thing? Gender-bending, I mean? This is what I’m thinking in the kitchen, when Janey turns back towards her computer and jumps with surprise to see me there. ‘Oh, gosh,’ she says, laughing and rolling her eyes. ‘You startled me. Again.’
I tell her I’m sorry. I’m so used to living alone. At least, for the past year anyway. ‘Hard at work, I see?’ I say, pointing at her laptop screen.
‘Did you know “stiletto” means “needle” in Italian?’ says Janey.
‘Really?’ This floors me a little. The things I don’t know about shoes.
Janey walks to her laptop, coffee mug in hand. ‘In the 60s, the fashion gurus tried to get rid of stilettos. But women weren’t having it. Demand was so high that the shoe shops had to give in.’
‘I wouldn’t give up my high heels for anything,’ I tell her.
‘I wouldn’t either,’ says Janey. ‘If I wore them, I mean.’ Then she looks me right in the eyes. ‘What size are you?’ she asks. ‘Feet,’ she adds, when I look at her blankly.
I tell her I’m a six. ‘Why d’you ask?’
Turns out she bought Lil some sexy shoes, but the girl doesn’t like them. Lil takes a size five, I take a size six. The sad thing is, she’d have given them to me, if we shared a shoe-size.
I all but gush my thanks, and Janey gives a small smile. ‘I just like it that you appreciate these things,’ she says, sitting back at her computer screen. And I felt a little disappointed that she didn’t look down at my red, furry boudoir-slippers – with kitten heels, no less.
‘I bet we’ve got some lovely shoes for Lil at Pussyfoot’s,’ I say, ever the saleswoman. ‘You should drop by.’
‘Oh, I will,’ says Janey, looking up, gaze intense. ‘Soon, in fact. And if Lil can’t make it, you can model them for me.’ She stares at me for a moment, her pupils blackening with meaning, before turni
ng back to her screen.
And, once again, I’m wet because of my twenty-three-year-old tenant. I have got to get over this. If anyone found out, what would I say? I wish you had a padlock, Kitten, but you haven’t, so that’s that. You know, I think it’s time I started packing you in my handbag, carrying you with me, scrawling my secrets on the sly.
Anyhoo, the other things that happened today were both shoe-related. I’d been at Pussyfoot Shoes for about an hour when I went to take a loo break. On my return, I find my Saturday girl, Cheryl Brown, prancing around the sale section in a pair of Jimmy Choos. Dressed in her Pussyfoot uniform, which, by the way, is the same as mine – a white blouse with a pink, flared skirt – she looks like a gangly flamingo as she tries to strut in six-inch heels that are far too small. What’s more, some boy in saggy teenage clothes (I assume this is her boyfriend) is half-snorting, half-laughing behind his hand as she performs this whole pantomime. It wouldn’t have been so bad if there hadn’t been a woman waiting, shoe in hand, clearly after some help. And by the look of her reddened cheeks and pursed lips, she’d been waiting quite a while.
This is not the first time this sort of thing has happened with Cheryl. She’s a sweet girl, but lazy, and she seems to think it’s fine to leave customers waiting while she has her fun. I should have fired her, Kitten – after all, she’s already had two warnings – but when I got her into the back room and her boy wasn’t there to impress, she looked paper-pale, and I felt sorry for her. ‘I love working for you, Deborah,’ she said, her bottom lip all quivery. ‘This is the best job I’ve had.’
So I gave her a formal warning and sent her back to the shop floor. What a softie I am, Kitten. I wish I could be all strict and pro, like they are at Shoes by J down the street. People come from all over the country to shop at Shoes by J. The managers have more self-control than I have – and there’s no way they wouldn’t fire Cheryl on the spot. Maybe this weakness of mine is why I lost Henry, Kitten. I didn’t assert myself. I just let him treat me like I didn’t exist.