Confessions of a Kinky Divorcee

by Fox, Lana

  And I admit, she’s probably right.

  9.15 p.m.

  My dear Kitten, oh, wait until you hear this!

  I get home at around seven. My God, I’m tired. Janey and Lil, who have obviously made up, are in the living-room snogging. Now, when I say snogging, I don’t mean a gentle smooch. Lil is lying back in my white leather armchair, with her slender, tanned thighs half-wrapped around Janey’s waist. She’s wearing a lacy, pink bra and a pair of tan high-heeled shoes. Now, something about these shoes makes me a little angry. (Well, to be honest, Kitten, I’m jealous. Not only are the pair of them getting it on like rabbits, but Lil’s clearly given in to Janey’s penchant for heels, which means I’m no longer the only Goddess of Stilettos.) But even though I’m fuming, I gaze at them, aroused. Their kissing is carnal – it goes on and on – and though Janey is wearing the tiniest pair of Lycra shorts, Lil manages to push her fingers inside them, letting out a little moan of approval as she strokes those beautiful buttocks. Oh, God, I remember fondling them, Kitten! So soft, so pale, so flawless. And I remember how hard I came …

  Lil peels off her own top, and I get a quick glimpse of her breasts – fairly big, maybe a 34C, with large, plum-coloured nipples, and I admit they’re lovely. But it’s Janey’s breasts I’m longing to see. Then, at last, when Lil peels off Janey’s top, there isn’t a bra, Kitten! Just a pair of pale, delicious breasts that I only catch for a moment when Janey turns a little and pushes Lil’s hair from her face. But oh, my, Kitten, what a gorgeous being this Janey is. Her nipples are small and rosy, and her breasts are tight and perfect, and the way Lil is pawing them makes me fume. What right does she have to fondle my tenant’s nipples?

  Mind you, seeing as I’m She-Who-Cannot-Be-Trusted-With-Buttocks, I had no right even thinking of this. What a messed-up woman I am.

  Still. I go upstairs to take a shower, and on my way back down in my new black jeans and sparkly grey flip-flops, I pause halfway. I can see the girls through the open door. Lil is kneeling on the floor with her head between Janey’s thighs, and Janey is lying back, her fingers tangled in Lil’s hair. She keeps arching, and moaning, and arching, and moaning, and she’s whispering things that I just can’t hear, and the look on her face – it’s pure rapture, Kitten. Her eyelids are fluttering and her jaw drops, and her whole body tenses, time and again. I have to admit, when Lil leans towards Janey’s beautiful nipples and sucks – and maybe bites – them to her heart’s content, I imagine I’m her, for a moment, and I’m instantly in a lather. Then suddenly, Lil dips back to Janey’s pussy, and Janey arches back, more tense than before, and she murmurs, ‘Oh Christ … Christ … Christ,’ each word a little louder than the last, before thrusting her hips even harder, so her pussy presses into Lil’s open mouth, and crying out in bliss, her whole face contorted with the kind of joy I, for one, would like a little more of.

  I sidle away towards the kitchen where I clank the washing-up around until I hear Janey behind me. She’s dressed in her little shorts and a tight grey T-shirt. Her nipples are erect underneath. Her face is flushed red, and she smells of beer. ‘Oh, God,’ she gasps, ‘Deborah, I’m so, so sorry.’ She’s lisping a little – that’s when I realise she’s drunk.

  ‘You do pay for a bedroom,’ I snap, clanging a saucer onto the draining rack.

  ‘I didn’t know you were home. You’re earlier than usual.’ (‘Usual’ sounds like ‘you-shoo-all’. That’s how tipsy she is).

  ‘Are you saying that if I’m out,’ I ask, ‘it’s fine if you get your … juices … on my white leather armchair?’

  Janey slurs that it was a spur-of-the-moment thing. She and Lil were making up. She assures me that the armchair is fine – there wasn’t anything to clean.

  ‘That’s not the point,’ I say. ‘I shouldn’t feel uncomfortable in my own home.’

  There’s a long pause, followed by some shuffling. ‘Oh, my God, you’re right, I’m so sorry! I’m a bit drunk. No excuse, though.’

  I dunk a mug into the water and scrub it, superhard. ‘I noticed Lil was wearing high heels,’ I mutter.

  Holy mole trap, Kitten, I sound like fifteen years old. Then I notice my mistake. I must have been watching quite carefully to notice Lil’s stilettos. But as I carry on scrubbing the dishes, I hear Janey walking towards me, till she’s right up close, with her breath on my neck. I feel her warm fingers touching my arms as she says, ‘I’m sorry. That was bad form, Deborah. I’ll never do it again.’

  ‘Can I trust you, Janey?’ I ask. ‘Because we’ll be working together soon.’

  She touches my arm again. ‘You can, I swear.’ Then, as I turn away, she murmurs, ‘No one looks as hot as you in a pair of heels.’

  I look back, astonished, as she pushes a lock of hair from my face. ‘You’re stunning,’ she says, softly. ‘If only I was twenty years older …’ Then she flushes and glances down at her hands. I can’t actually believe what she just said, which is why it takes me a minute to change the topic. (Janey wants me? Janey wishes she was older?) And as I start to ask her about her project on heels, I notice the heat of arousal trickling down my spine, eventually pooling deep inside me.

  By the time I tune into what Janey is saying, she’s filling me in on the history of heels. Apparently Napoleon banned high heels in France in an attempt to create equality. ‘I don’t understand,’ I tell her. ‘Were high heels fancy or something?’

  Janey nods. ‘Exactly. For men as well as women. They were a sign of class.’

  ‘And what if you weren’t classy?’

  ‘You went barefoot.’

  I give a little snort. ‘Times haven’t changed, then.’

  Janey giggles. I giggle.

  Oh, Kitten, she’s adorable when she laughs.

  Suddenly, there’s the sound of a door opening upstairs, and Lil is shouting, ‘Janey, it’s starting! Are you coming?’

  Janey gives me an apologetic shrug as she begins to walk away, but then, at the last minute, she turns back again. ‘Marie Antoinette went to the gallows in high heels,’ she tells me, ‘in spite of Napoleon’s law.’

  ‘I like a woman who can be herself,’ I say.

  Janey flushes a little, holds my gaze and says, ‘So do I.’

  Chapter Nine

  Three: A Crowd?

  Wednesday, 21 March

  7.35 p.m.

  Dear Kitten,

  Holy pole dance, there’s been more dirt this evening than you’d find on a fresh turnip. Right now, I’m in the ladies at a posh Italian restaurant, taking a quick ‘Kitten break’ to fill you in. I’ve got to head back to our table, so I’ll cut straight to the chase. Half an hour ago, I turn up in my cobalt-blue dress with the Marilyn Monroe halterneck and a flary skirt. Lovely. Sadly, it doesn’t go with my tiger-print stilettos, so I’m in the black peep toes, which match the whole look.

  Of course, when I’m shown to the table I find that mine is a spare seat at a table for three, no less. Oh, Kitten, my heart sank to see a beautiful woman with gold-blonde hair and big, dark eyes, flirting with Guy. They’re giggling together before they even notice me, and she has the most delicious bare shoulders, and the most elegant neck, and, with her hair held in place in a perfect chignon, she’s like a blonde version of Pretty Woman – at the end of the movie, mind, not the beginning. Anyway, eventually, Guy notices me, so he gets up, kisses me on the lips, slides an arm around my shoulders and says, ‘Deborah, this is Valerie. She’s my PA.’

  PA? Kitten, ‘confused’ is not the word.

  ‘I’m so pleased to meet you,’ says Valerie, as I shake her hand. I have to admit, Kitten, she has the most delightful cleavage, and it’s hard to keep my eyes away from those gorgeous, shapely breasts.

  ‘Guy’s told me so much about you,’ she says, in a husky voice. Her accent, I notice, is French. I have to admit, it’s sexy as heck.

  ‘Nice as it is to meet you,’ I tell her, hopefully without sounding too sarcastic, ‘Guy didn’t say you were coming.’ At this, I eyeball Guy,
who’s grinning like the cat that got the cream.

  ‘Sweetheart,’ he says, in a way that makes me want to sock him, ‘I thought you might enjoy it if Valerie joined us, seeing as you like the number three.’

  He raises one eyebrow in a way that I don’t quite understand. Then suddenly I remember him asking me about threesomes and my mouth falls open – I must look like a sodding goldfish – and I don’t know whether to slap Guy or leap into this gorgeous woman’s lap.

  ‘Well,’ I say, at last. ‘How lovely.’

  Guy pulls out my chair for me, like a right old gent (the toad).

  Valerie bats her lashes and asks Guy, in her perfect French accent, ‘Are you sure this is appropriate? Perhaps I should leave you and your lady in peace?’

  Strangely enough, Guy and I both shout ‘No!’ at the same time. Clearly, Kitten, my reactions are complex.

  So she stays. And soon I’m glad of it. Because our table is small enough that she can touch my shoulder easily, and every time she does so, little tremors of pleasure rush through me and gather between my legs. Sometimes, when we both tease Guy, we lean towards one another and Valerie whispers at my ear, her accent so smooth, her breath so warm, her scent so Chanel. And when she gets up to go to the loo, I get a lovely glimpse of her body: two perfect buttocks in that tight black dress, not to mention her long, tanned legs and lickable neckline … and that’s not to mention the impeccable stilettos, which are black and spiky-heeled, and accentuate her delectable walk. In fact I watch the slit in the back of her skirt as she walks away, struck by those slender thighs, which I know would look perfect wrapped around me.

  Suddenly I can feel Guy watching me, so I return to my dinner. I attempt to twiddle spaghetti round my fork, and I have to admit, there’s some slurping going on, but as I dab my mouth with my napkin, I finally give in and look into his eyes. ‘What?’ I say.

  ‘You’re into her, aren’t you?’

  ‘She’s gorgeous,’ I say.

  ‘She’s my gift to you, Deborah.’

  I feel a twinge of anger. ‘She’s not a box of chocolates, Guy. She’s a woman. And so am I. You can’t just toss us in the same gift bag and hope we’ll suffice.’

  A look of confusion furrows his forehead. ‘Debs, if you don’t want a threesome, you only have to say.’

  It’s one heck of a moment, Kitten, because suddenly I realise I actually have a choice. I can say no to this. And dammit, I don’t want to! Me, slutty Debs, who’s far too involved in the landlord–tenant relationship, actually wants her pussy sucked by a gorgeous French angel. All I can think of, in fact, is licking those beautiful stiletto heels, before moving on to her breasts – all tan and tight and perfect. In fact, in my fantasies I suddenly have a cock, and I’m lunging into her, Kitten, over and over, as I clamp her high-heeled shoe in my hand. Oh, God, the little French noises she’d make! And if Guy insisted on watching, that’d be fine, but I’m not sure I need him. I’d quite like to be alone with her, given the choice. What does this mean? I’m a great big poof? A fairy? A dyke? I’m all the things my mother used to say a woman shouldn’t be if she wanted to avoid going straight to hell. I’m not meant to believe in hell any more, but somehow I still do. If my mother had been alive when I threw Henry out, she’d have forced me to take him back. She’d say, ‘Pull yourself together, Deborah. He’s a man. He’s weak. Deal with it.’

  But Janey says that being true to your sexual self is important. And I want to believe that. I really do.

  11.50 p.m.

  Dear Kitten,

  You’ll have to excuse my writing! I’m a scrawler when I’m tipsy. Right now, I’m in Guy’s kitchen after the most sensationally unexpected sexual experience. It’s amazing how a few glasses of red wine can remove your inhibitions. And my goodness, it was worth it! In fact, I’m going to write that again in capital letters so that, when I wake up tomorrow morning, I won’t listen to the nagging part of me that says, ‘You should have gone home last night!’

  OH, MY GOODNESS, IT WAS WORTH IT!

  After all, I screwed a woman tonight in all sorts of wonderful ways!

  But let me start at the beginning.

  So. We’d had a wonderful evening discussing all sorts of naughty things, from the most horrifying customers at Pussyfoot to Guy’s confrontations with clients who try not to pay. I have to say, Guy is rather funny. He once took a swing at a man who claimed his services weren’t worth the money, and, when the man in question ducked the punch, Guy went careening towards his own desk, where he ended up face-down in his own paperwork. Valerie and I were laughing all the way through … in fact, she had sidled over to me and was resting her fingers on my arm. I could feel my insides flutter at her touch, especially when she leaned towards me, and I got a proper glimpse of that magnificent cleavage! What is it about her breasts that makes me so crazy? Their tanned smoothness? Their shapely curve? The way she clearly wasn’t wearing a bra? Or her nipples, which were visible through the black Lycra, their tips rising a little, like the soft nose of a cartoon dog?

  Well, at last Guy gets the bill, and then we’re wandering out into the darkness, with Guy’s arm around both our waists. I’m a little antsy – that’s Guy’s word … pure American – because I want to be touching Valerie and he’s made sure to walk between us. But once we’re in the taxi Valerie and I are thrust together because she sits in the middle, and we start playing a game in which we girls complain about him, our lips to one another’s ears, our breathing soft and hot. When Valerie whispers, ‘Do we have to invite him in, cherie? How about un ménage à deux?’ she lets her fingers tips brush down my front, so they gloss my own breast through the slinky material; and when I reply, my lips on her ear now, I let my fingers creep beneath her hemline where her legs are bare and smooth. ‘Shall we get rid of him?’ I joke, and Valerie laughs, winks, then pulls my hand up her thigh so my fingertips gloss the lacy trim of her underwear.

  Oh, my God, Kitten! The purr of the car’s engine drills right into me and with Valerie’s hand creeping round my waist, her fingers grazing the base of my spine, I’m so turned on that I could come right there! But Guy pulls Valerie towards him, saying, ‘I need to shut my secretary up!’ before opening his mouth on hers and delivering a long, sultry snog. And I’m so taken by the wet slowness of their mouths that I’m not even slightly jealous. When they come up for air, they hatch a plan I can’t hear, and Valerie ends up lying with her head in my lap and her heeled shoes in Guy’s. He plays with her spiky stilettos, letting out soft little moans of pleasure, while I grope Valerie’s gorgeous breasts through the slender layer of Lycra. Her nipples harden when I cup them and I’m utterly enchanted. In fact, feeling the warm swell of these beautiful breasts makes me long to tear off her dress and rub my tongue all over them.

  Oh, my God, Kitten! How will I ever read this when I’m sober?

  Finally, we reach the long, tree-lined avenue, full of grand houses, including Guy’s. I don’t even glance at the cab driver’s face as Guy pays the fare. We tumble into his home, laughing together, and when Valerie takes my hand and leads me upstairs with Guy in our wake, I realise (slowcoach that I am) that she and Guy have slept together before. Suddenly, my mind’s spinning with the thought of them together at work … and as it begins to dawn on me that they might fool around at his office, I tell myself, ‘Don’t spoil this, Debs, with a load of suspicion! You’re just reacting to your past. Not every man has sex on the sly like Henry did!’

  Upstairs, Guy sits on the edge of the bed and orders us around. Mr Dom himself. Fortunately, I’m all too willing to play, especially when it involves undressing Valerie, breathing in her dry perfume, peeling off that slinky dress and watching everything it slowly reveals: her lengthy legs in their spiky stilettos – so tan and slender … the black, lace-trimmed knickers that cling to her … and finally the lovely breasts with their wine-coloured nipples – a little bigger than my own, and oh, so erect! I’ve never been up close to a woman’s breasts before, and once I throw
her dress to the floor I automatically reach out to cup them. But Guy orders, ‘Not yet,’ and I turn to him suddenly, seeing his bare cock in his hand and his turned-on glare as he fixates on Valerie’s body – I’d almost forgotten he was there.

  Next, he tells Valerie, ‘Undress Deborah,’ and she does so, gently, her fingertips glossing my skin, sending delightful shivers through me. I can feel my pussy growing wetter at every turn, especially when Valerie’s lovely eyes widen as she drinks in my legs, my pussy, my naked chest. ‘I want to suck on her breasts,’ Valerie tells Guy, and I want her to tell me, not Guy, and I resent him a little – until he tells her yes, that is. Because her tongue flicking against my nipples is the dirtiest thing I’ve ever seen. And if you think that’s dirty, Kitten, wait for the part where she sinks to her knees, slides down my knickers and begins to lap at my pussy in a way I’ve never seen or felt before. Oh, my God, Kitten, she works me with a perfect pressure, sliding her tongue into just the right spots as I moan and gasp and bite my lip, my eyes closing, my head falling back, as the glorious heat fills me. And somehow Guy’s mumblings are the only irksome thing. I mean, frankly, Guy moaning, ‘All over your fucking shoes …’ is getting a little old, Kitten.

  Soon he’s got us on the bed, writhing all over one another, kissing each other fiercely, biting one another’s lips, and when he hands us a bottle of lubricant and tells me to rub it over my tits, I don’t feel like obeying him. But I do like the idea! So instead I rub the lubricant all over Valerie’s tits, and I’m so aroused that my pussy starts dripping onto the sheets – oh, Kitten, who’d have guessed that a pair of tanned and slippery breasts could make me so besotted, so horny, so out of control … those dark little nipples, those sweet swells of flesh – I swear, I could have fucked them, rubbed my clit all over them (That is what people call it, right, Kitten? ‘Clit’ short for ‘clitoris’?). But Guy, who’s kneeling next to us in nothing but his open-necked shirt, is jerking off like nobody’s business. He has somehow managed to shed his trousers and socks, and there’s a bright excitement in his gaze, which flits from our shoes to our breasts to our faces, over and over. His expression reminds me of a cartoon villain, all evil delight.