Confessions of a Kinky Divorcee

by Fox, Lana

  What’s more, those poor Jimmy Choos that Cheryl had toyed with were so stretched that I had to take ten pounds off the price. My gosh, I love those shoes. They’re black and lilac with steel heels. Steel heels! Delicious. Someone put care into those, Kitten. Mark my words, they were made with love.

  Thank heaven for this afternoon, when an elegant man walks into the store. He’s like a jaguar in his stylishness – all designer suit and cool stance. It’s raining outside, which is why I wasn’t expecting many customers. Besides, Cheryl’s popped out for a coffee break and Pearl, my other member of staff, must be in the stockroom. So I dash over to help him, but when I get close he gives me a dazzling smile and I realise it’s Guy. He kisses me on the cheek, takes my hand and says, ‘Just thought I’d stop by and make sure we’re good for tonight,’ and he holds my gaze with those deep-brown peepers that swallow you up before you’ve even breathed.

  I tell him I haven’t forgotten. He’s picking me up around seven.

  ‘Ready for a little spice?’ he says, raising a single eyebrow. It takes me a moment to get it – we’re eating Thai tonight.

  ‘I’m all about spice,’ I say, gesturing towards the central display, where shoes rest on fur-trimmed shelves, their gold inner soles gleaming in the light.

  I feel a glow of pride as Guy wanders across to the shoes. And guess which ones he reaches for first? The tiger-print stilettos! Kitten, I almost die. ‘I’ve been saving up for those,’ I say. ‘They’re rather too … dear for me.’

  ‘Well, my dear,’ he says, with a wink that makes me smile, ‘let’s see how you look in them.’ And before I’ve had a moment to object, he’s down on one knee, sliding my stockinged foot out of my pink three-inchers and into the tiger-print beauties. His fingers on my ankle make my legs tingle and the tingle shoots up my thighs, making me giddy and light. He gives a long ‘Mmm’ while he strokes the arch of my foot, as he places me into the shoe. And I must say, he handles me beautifully! So firm and in control, with just the right touch. When the delectable shoes are on, he even runs a hand down one of my calves, giving a breathy sigh. As he rises again, his gaze burns on my feet and legs, and oh, my gosh, I’m more turned on than ever!

  He tells me to model them, and off I strut, proudly showing off these high-heeled beauties. There’s something of Janey Prince in his stare, and when I return to him my cheeks are burning at being watched like this. With a sideways grin, he sinks to one knee again and says, ‘Give me your left foot, beautiful.’ I have to check for customers before placing a fully clad foot onto the bridge of his knee and thigh.

  He gives the tiniest groan as I grind my heel into his flesh, and when he runs a finger across the furry material, then down the needle-thin six-inch heel, I notice that I’m not the only one who’s horny: the bulge in his grey suit trousers is big – oh, very big, Kitten! The kind of ‘big’ that sends a girl to the moon!

  Then suddenly, he’s getting up again and asking for the bathroom. I admit, I feel rather abandoned when I show him round the back to the staff toilet. But I know he still has his stiffy, so something tells me to listen at the door. Well! I only have to wait half a minute before I start hearing his moans, rising one after the other, interspersed by a sort of chafing, which I guess is his hand working that sizeable cock of his. ‘Yeah,’ he groans, in that sexy American drawl, ‘Oh, fuck, yeah, press the heel right into it.’ And I get wetter and wetter as I listen to him coming, shouting: ‘All over your feet, all over your fucking feet …’ before crying out, long and low, like some kind of wounded animal.

  I scamper off as soon as the noise dies down, and to my shame there is an unserved customer waiting at the counter on my return. I flush but greet her smilingly, reach down to the shelf below the counter and hand over the box of gold princess sandals that were waiting to be picked up. And as I ring her sale up, I see Mr Coming-All-Over-Your-Feet swaggering towards the shop door, calling, ‘See ya at seven, angel,’ as he gives a wave.

  So, I’ve been soaking wet all afternoon, and now I’m about to get ready for Guy to pick me up. Have I touched myself? No! And it’s your fault, Kitten! What would I rather do? Touch myself or write to you? Is it awfully bizarre to say the latter? It’s as if giving you all my darkest secrets releases me somehow, makes me game to be myself. Anyway, I’ve decided to start carrying you with me in my bag. That way, I can update you whenever I like, and no one gets to see my Playboy bunny fantasies.

  8 p.m.

  Holy mackerel, Kitten, I’m just popping to the ladies to give you the latest! We’re at the Thai Garden, and he’s plied me with some kind of fancy white wine. Well, I let him ply me, let’s face it. I’m a pushover for Chardonnay, so I admit I’m a bit tipsy. Maybe that’s why Guy seems so sizzlingly irresistible.

  But I have to hurry, so here’s a quick list, before I forget the story …

  He picks me up in the most exquisite Mercedes – a silver convertible with seats that smell of leather – and, rather than just tooting his horn like Henry would have, he parks the car, comes to the door and greets me in person. ‘You look positively stunning,’ he says, when I answer the door. And adds, ‘A perfect wet dream.’ How lovely it is to be craved by this smartly suited thirty-something with eyes that undress me … starting – or maybe ending – with my gold, evening sandals. Seriously, these have stiletto heels to die for.

  As he drives, he lounges there like a jaguar, a single hand leisurely draped on the wheel. I tell him what Janey said about women in the 60s who wouldn’t allow stilettos to disappear from the stores. He laughs, then says, ‘Women who wear heels are hard to say no to.’ Then he glances down at my flirty dress teamed with nylons, saying, ‘Especially when they’re as delectable as you.’

  OK, Kitten, I’ve got to run now or he’ll think I have the kind of problems only fibre can fix. The waiters and waitresses, who aren’t all Thai by any stretch, are dressed in white with blue flowers in their hair. Also, there are coloured paper lanterns in red, gold and blue, and there’s a huge tank filled with tropical fish. Guy’s ordered us prawn crackers, spring rolls, little shrimp toasts with chili sauce. All gorgeous! And I do love Chardonnay, especially when it’s cold and served in crystal glasses, while the stud across the table presses his leg against mine.

  I have to go now, Kitten. Back in a few …

  10.50 p.m.

  Well, that was quite a date. He was utterly charming, dreadfully seductive, and his clear interest in bedding me made quite a delicious distraction. That man has eyes that bore through your clothes and touch your flesh – not softly, but firmly, as if you’re an avocado and he’s checking to see if you’re ripe. But the most exciting thing was talking to him about shoes! Henry never took an interest in my shoe collection, or much else of mine for that matter. Guy, on the other hand, asked for the details of my every pair, not to mention my job at Pussyfoot Shoes and the women I serve. Now I’m not a fool, Kitten! I know he wants to imagine me touching women’s feet, and getting aroused by it or something. But the thing about Guy is how direct he is. Here’s an example …

  I get back from the ladies to find our main courses in front of us – prawns with basil and chili for me; beef in tamarind sauce for him. As we start to eat, I can feel him watching me, but I don’t rise to it straightaway – partly because I like him admiring me, and also because OH, MY GOD, THAI FOOD IS GORGEOUS! (Why has no one ever mentioned this before? All spices and sweetness and heat.) Anyway, finally he puts down his chopsticks, takes a swig of wine and leans towards me properly. ‘I hope you don’t think me rude,’ he says, ‘treating you so directly. I find you very attractive. And the fact that you have such taste in shoes … well, frankly, I got hard the moment I met you and haven’t calmed down since.’

  I flush, unable to meet his gaze. ‘Oh my,’ I say, ‘you’re very forward, aren’t you.’

  ‘It’s my way of saying, “This is who I am.”’ He pauses for a beat, as I look into his eyes. Then, with the most devilish smile I’ve ever seen, he murmurs
, ‘I want to screw you, Deborah. Over and over again. And as I think you know, we’ll be leaving your shoes on.’ If I don’t feel the same, he says, I should speak up now. Like Gladys would, God love her.

  I laugh. ‘That’s Gladys for you.’

  ‘I’m not really thinking of Gladys right now,’ he says, pressing his knee against mine. Oh, gosh, his attention is wonderful! It makes me feel all precious and twinkly – I haven’t felt like that in years. But I don’t know how to respond. And I know I should hint that I’m not a sex-on-the-first-date girl. Suddenly, I don’t want to look at him, so I gaze at the fish tank by the entrance, where large fish in all sorts of colours spread their glamorous fins.

  ‘I’m embarrassing you, aren’t I?’ he says, at last. ‘Forgive me. It’s the Dom in me. I should share some more about myself. Let me tell you about my own workplace.’

  He talks on and on about his big fancy office, but I’m not really listening. I’m full of delicious spices and the feel of his breath when he leans in close, and the way he talks about his clients as if they don’t matter a jot. What a lean, mean man! And oh, my gosh, how sexy! As for me, I notice how fascinated he seems by my own work situation. He wants to know story after story of shoe sales – including what sort of women buy what, and why.

  Anyway, we eat dinner, exchange small talk and have coconut ice cream for dessert. Oh, my goodness! And when I insist on splitting the bill, we have a small tiff before he caves. ‘Gone are the days when a man could buy a lady a meal,’ he says, with a glare.

  To which I say, ‘Instead, we have the days when a woman can pay for whatever she darn well chooses.’

  He raises one eyebrow, but a smile plays over his lips. ‘You’ve caught my weakness, Deborah dear.’

  ‘Control,’ I say. And I have a sudden image of me sitting astride him riding up and down, while he grasps one of my shoes in his left hand and one of my breasts with his right. I’m going at it hard, with my wrists bound behind me, and he’s glaring at me, fiercely, like an angry dog and his lips are parted and wet with saliva. And I ride and ride, letting out cry after cry as he groans beneath. ‘All over your shoes,’ he moans. ‘All over your fucking shoes.’ But he comes inside me, long and hard, calling out my name.

  Anyway, Kitten, I digress. Let’s fast forward to outside the restaurant, where I tell him he shouldn’t drive because he’s been drinking. ‘I’m going to drive regardless,’ he tells me, cool as butter, but he also reaches up and smoothes a curl of hair from my face. It’s begun to rain a little, but it’s more like a fine mist – like when film stars spray perfume into the air then walk through it, to make sure of an even coverage. (That’s what it says in Cosmo. I’m more of a ‘squirt and go’ kinda gal. These Hollywood women have more time than sense.)

  So I tell Guy, ‘Fine, but I’m getting a cab.’ I hold up my hand as he tries to interrupt me. ‘I’m paying for it. No question.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to offer to pay. I was going to offer to stay.’

  ‘You’re a poet and you don’t know it,’ I say. (Terrible rhyme. Shoot me now).

  ‘You’re insufferable,’ he tells me, but he’s smiling a little, and his gaze softens thoughtfully as he cups the side of my jaw. ‘I’ve been trying to find a woman like you for a very long time.’

  Bingo, Kitten. I beam away. ‘In that case,’ I add, ‘you won’t mind if I take a rain-check on the staying over?’ I explain that I haven’t been with a man since my husband dumped me, and Guy’s immediate response is to pull me into a hug. Totally unexpected from Mr Suave! ‘Of course I understand,’ he says, gently. ‘I’m sorry if my sex-patter makes me seem like a bastard. I can be very patient, I promise.’ And just as I get a lump in my throat, because I can’t remember how long it’s been since a man was actually sweet to me, I find he’s taking my face in his hands and kissing me on the mouth – it’s a soft-firm smoulder of a kiss that tastes of Thai ice cream. It’s been years since someone kissed me with such hunger and affection. And phew, I tell ya, I could get used to this, Kitten! I enjoy it so much that when he pulls back I must look like an idiot with my gob hanging open and my eyes all bugged. He smiles before lifting my hand and kissing it. ‘Promise you’ll take that taxi,’ he says. And, before I know it, he’s walking away.

  I get a cab home, and when I arrive there’s a woman sitting on my doorstep in nothing but a loosely buttoned shirt that only just covers the tops of her thighs. She’s petite and tanned, with a black Cleopatra bob, and she’s smoking a cigarette with her slender legs crossed. At her side is a saucer – from my rambling rose set! – filled with cigarette butts. She’s clearly been out here a while. She’s a stunning girl and I’m transfixed for a while before realising the front door is ajar. I’ll bet the hallway is filling with smoke – it’ll take me a year to get that out of the curtains.

  ‘Hi,’ she says, on an exhale. ‘You must be Deborah.’

  ‘And you’re Lil,’ I say.

  ‘Jackpot,’ she says, turning her gaze away. And you know, I don’t like her, Kitten. She’s sullen, this one. To a girl with that kind of attitude, eye-rolls come as easy as pie.

  ‘We don’t smoke in this house,’ I say.

  She sighs, slowly raising her gaze. ‘That’s why I’m outside.’

  I ask where Janey is and she says, ‘How should I know?’ before drawing on her cigarette again and saying, ‘Look, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude. We’ve fought is all.’ She watches me as she rises to her feet and shakes my hand. Her fingers are slender and cold. ‘Janey’s watching a movie. Her kind of movie.’

  ‘Right,’ I say. ‘Well, I’m sure you’ll sort it out.’

  ‘Oh,’ she says, ‘I’m sure I will.’

  On the way in, I make a point of closing the door. And you know what, Kitten? I don’t bother to do it quietly.

  In the living-room, Janey is asleep along the brown leather sofa, in the most lovely nightwear I’ve ever seen. Her tiny shorts are made of grey silk with polka dots all over them, and her matching top has spaghetti straps – one of which has slipped down her arm – and a trim of black lace. On the TV, a film plays along. There are gunshots and witty quips, but I take no notice. All I can see is this beautiful girl curled up on her side, an arm draped over the edge of the couch, loosely holding the remote control. Her skin is white as a pearl and, with her legs bent up towards her belly, her tiny shorts can’t quite contain her buttocks. Honestly, they’re so smooth and tight and curved that all I can think of is running my hands up her thigh and exploring that beautiful behind. And there’s something so miraculous about the past few days – what with Guy asking me out, and Janey moving in – that I go a little zany. Down I sit on the sofa next to her, and, leaning over the bottom half of her body, I gently stroke a loose strap back into place. She doesn’t even stir, though her breath changes a little and she makes a tiny moan.

  Oh, dear God! Burning to touch more of her, I whisper, ‘Janey?’ and when I get no response I rest a hand on her waist. When this doesn’t wake her, I slide my palm round the dip of her hip, down to her perfect buttock, and I gently stroke her there, exploring the tight flesh. Oh, Kitten! I’m an abuser! I’m guilty of assault! But my pussy is burning so powerfully as I stroke and explore that I can’t seem to stop, and Janey lets out more little moans of pleasure – obviously she thinks I’m Lil. And she even whispers, ‘Oh, God, spank me,’ as she rolls onto her front – and even though it’s nothing more than a dreamy murmur, I’ve never felt so turned on in my whole darn life, especially when the flimsy shorts ride up between her bum cheeks and I can see her buttocks perfectly, rounded and ready.

  Now, thank heaven you’re only a notebook, Kitten, because what I did next is dreadful. But I promised to tell you everything, so here goes. I part my knees and slip my fingers up between my thighs and rub myself through my lacy knickers as I imagine slapping Janey’s bum. Just the thought of her lying across me while I lay right into her, making her eyes brighten as she claws my skirt, crying, ‘Yes, yes,
yes,’ is enough to make me come in mere seconds, arching and groaning as the orgasm swallows me.

  As I collapse back, stunned at myself, I hurriedly try to make myself decent, but Janey is still sleeping, thank God. So I sneak away, devastated at what I’m turning into. Tonight I said no to a man who actually wanted to bed me, and came home to assault my twenty-three-year-old tenant.

  I’m turning into a pervert. And I need to take action right now.

  So upstairs, in my bedroom, I tell myself, ‘Never again,’ and I vow that, tomorrow, I’ll make plans to meet Guy for dinner and this time we’ll screw one another. Then I won’t think of assaulting Janey Prince again because Guy is a man with a cock – and men with cocks are the only thing I’m into. Really, deep down, I’m a man’s kind of girl.

  2.30 a.m.

  I can’t sleep, Kitten. All I want is to touch my poor pussy, thinking of Janey’s buttocks. But that’s as bad as touching her again without her permission. And I’m not going to do that, I promise, Kitten. This shoe shop manager had a strange, twisted blip, but she’s committed to becoming respectable again. And so, Kitten, goodnight.

  Chapter Four

  In His Shoes

  Wednesday, 7 March

  Dear Kitten,

  Today was – and still is – grey and rainy. And who buys shoes on a rainy day? Answer: an elderly woman who has a funeral to dress for and shakes her stick when you suggest court heels. I thought elderly people were usually polite, but since I’ve been working at Pussyfoot I’ve met all types. So, by the time lunch break came, I was relieved to meet Gladys for lunch at the Spring Onion Café. It’s our favourite place because it’s never too crowded – plus their baked potatoes are to die for. Turns out, Gladys is making the most of reverting to being a meat-eater by stuffing her face full of sausages, no less. ‘You’ll starve,’ she tells me as I dip into my baked potato. ‘You need some extra weight,’ she says, glancing at my waistline.