Confessions of a Kinky Divorcee

by Fox, Lana

  But I’m not really interested in Guy. I’m all about this beautiful creature with the pussy that tastes like dry champagne and the breasts that rub against mine, all slick and smooth. I’m interested in making her do the things I tell her to. I’m interested in her hair, which falls around her shoulders, trailing against her tanned skin like sunlight on sand. I’m interested in her smell – the perfumed heat that rises from her and the muskiness of her pussy. I’m interested in her words as she purrs, ‘Oh, Deborah! Mon dieu!’ and ‘Oui, oui, oui!’ and the way her fingers clasp at fistfuls of my hair as I lick and suck her spiky heels, hearing Guy groaning above me. I want to hold her down and fuck her heels, Kitten! Or hump her any way I can! For the first time in my life, I want to be the boss! And I want to see her eyes filling with desire, over and over, as I have my way.

  In fact, I’m all for forgetting about Guy, but he won’t let me. When he orders Valerie to get what he calls ‘the cock’ out of a drawer, I half expect some plastic cockerel … I’m that messed up by Guy, right now. But when she pulls out something black and glistening and ties it around her waist, I notice that it really is a penis – a plastic strap-on penis that protrudes from her trimmed pussy and makes me instantly twice as horny as I was.

  And you’ll never guess what happens then! I become a dominatrix! No, really. I tell her exactly what I want. I make her sit on the edge of the bed while I ride her in ecstasy, and I’m so slick that I might as well be riding a stripper’s pole. I make her fuck me in the missionary position, keeping to my rhythm, and when she disobeys and goes too slow, I reach around and slap her tiny buttocks. Oh, it’s sublime, and her eyes brighten! But as soon as she’s worked up the perfect rhythm, I raise my arms so her beautiful breasts fall into my hands over and over again. But the hottest thing by far is when Guy asks me to stand on the floor, showing off my shoes like a supermodel, while he and Valerie kneel beside me, begging for me to place a foot in their laps, dig a stiletto heel into their thighs or push it between their lips. And I do all these things, one by one, sometimes doing what they say, sometimes doing the opposite. I’m lightheaded from these feelings of power! But the hottest thing is when Valerie plays with her toy cock while I force her to suck on my shoes. She takes the heel into her mouth, then lets me scrape it down her front so it leaves a pink line. She also lets me press her nipples with the sole of my shoe, before placing my foot on her chest and using it to slam her down onto her back. With her eyes wide with shock and arousal, she lets out three tiny ‘oh’s as I press her lovely black toy, which is still wet from my juices, right into her stomach.

  And that’s when Guy, who’s standing next to us apparently, lets out a huge groan and shouts, ‘You horny bitches,’ and comes all over my shoe and Valerie’s toy, before turning his aim and coming all over her tits as well. I’m so turned on, Kitten, that I step forward, my feet either side of Valerie’s body, and use the sole of my right foot to smear Guy’s come all over Valerie’s breast; and that’s when I feel him behind me, his breath on my ear, his fingers in me, and he fucks me – with two or three thrusts – before I feel the surge, and I come and come, over and over, staring fixedly at the substance on my shoes and the way it glistens on Valerie’s nipples. I come so fiercely that I fall back into Guy, and when he catches me, and my spasms are finally over, I notice that Valerie’s fingers are in her pussy and her face is heavy with the kind of bliss that forces your gaze upwards and makes you smile like a lunatic. In fact, Kitten, watching her come, bucking her hips onto her fingers, her black toy thrusting against the air, is one of the hottest moments of the night.

  Thursday, 22 March

  Oh, my God, Kitten, I’m a wreck.

  I have to go home before they wake up. All of us slept in Guy’s bed last night, and when I opened my eyes I saw Guy curled around Valerie, holding her hand.

  Yes, holding her hand.

  He’s never held my hand and we’re meant to be dating. It was such an affectionate gesture … as if they’d been dating for years and I wasn’t even in the room. He was smiling so blissfully and she looked so peaceful, curled together like embryos, or honeymooners, or dormice. Their legs were even twined together beneath the sheet that was over them. They were a mix of one another – a happy, affectionate blend.

  I feel useless, Kitten. Left out and abused. And I have a hangover. And I feel like a slut. Fortunately, I have the day off, so I’m going home to lick my wounds. One thing’s for sure: if I happen to walk in on Janey and Lil screwing again, I’ll throw them out and bury the key.

  Chapter Ten

  Frisson at Buttercup’s

  Thursday, 22 March

  Dear Kitten,

  Well, when I got home, I was still rattled – not only by seeing Guy and Valerie curled up together, but also by my embarrassing behaviour last night. I know I vowed to be sexual, Kitten, to stop living a life that was riddled with repression, but if being sexually adventurous results in as much betrayal as being shy and unadventurous, then why should I bother?

  Anyhoo, I left without waking Guy and Valerie, and got the bus home. Then once I was at my house, I couldn’t find my key. So I ended up sitting on my own doorstep, emptying my bag, object by object, trying to stay calm. A few minutes after I’d started this process, the front door opened and Janey appeared. ‘What you doing?’ she asked, blinking, surprised.

  I’d spent all this time emptying my bag, chiding myself, when I could have just knocked. ‘I thought you’d be at your lectures,’ I said.

  ‘Dissertation day,’ she said, gazing at the step where the innards of my handbag lay displayed: a pack of hankies, some nail polish, my asthma inhaler, my purse, a book of stamps …

  I opened my mouth to say, ‘I lost my key,’ but I couldn’t say the words without bursting into tears.

  Before I know it, Janey’s clearing a space on the step by my side, sitting down next to me and wrapping an arm around me. ‘Oh, Debs, please don’t cry!’ she says. ‘Whatever happened, we’ll sort it out.’ And I look up through my tears, because the way she said ‘we’ makes me feel like I matter. ‘Look,’ she says, opening my pack of tissues and passing one to me, ‘I was just popping out to get a pastry and some coffee from Buttercup’s. Dissertation food.’ She gave me a wink. ‘Join me? I’ll pay. I need some time off.’

  And I’m so touched that I agree.

  Buttercup’s is a bakery round the corner from where I – or we, rather – live. I don’t go in there often because it isn’t en route to the bus, but once we’re seated in the tiny front room, with sunlight falling warmly on our red gingham tablecloth, I feel better – especially when the rosy-cheeked waitress brings us each an almond croissant and coffee in mugs. There’s a small fake carnation in the middle of the table, in a small glass vase. Not classy, but sweet. Perhaps that’s a little like me.

  As I tell Janey about my night, including my becoming a total dominatrix, she doesn’t laugh or look amazed. She tips her head, watching me intently, her eyes so blue that it’s as if they’re lit from behind. Of course, I gloss over the sex, just explaining that it was way out there for me, and at times I speak in whispers because there are others nearby – there’s an elderly couple next to us, each doing a crossword puzzle in a different newspaper, and behind them is a girl with a pierced nose listening to music on her earbuds … but I swear she keeps glancing across, as if she can hear me anyway.

  When I get to the part about waking up to find Guy and Valerie curled together, Janey’s eyes narrow with fury. The way she tears at a bit of croissant reminds me of the way Henry used to rip up junk mail. He hated junk mail, did Henry.

  ‘This is the trouble with threesomes,’ says Janey. ‘People get hurt.’

  I sigh. ‘I should have guessed it would be a car crash,’ I say.

  Janey reaches across and takes my hand. ‘Sweetheart,’ she tells me, ‘this isn’t your fault. I’ve heard that threesomes can be wonderful. But you need strong boundaries – and everyone needs to be clear.’ She says th
at Guy shouldn’t have set up a threesome with two women he was close to. ‘He could have bought a sex worker,’ Janey explains, ‘or asked a friend who is clearly just a mate.’

  ‘Instead, he asked French Glamour Girl,’ I say.

  ‘He asked his PA,’ says Janey. ‘His PA; who he’s obviously fucked before.’

  ‘Obviously still fucking,’ I sigh.

  ‘Well, we don’t know,’ says Janey. ‘And that’s the prob.’ She adds that she and Lil recently argued about a similar situation. But when she starts giving the detail, she suddenly flushes and bites her lip. ‘I shouldn’t,’ she mutters. ‘Sorry.’

  Suddenly, I feel angry for no good reason. ‘You can’t just leave me dangling!’ I snap. Janey glares at me, about to launch her defence, but I’m to blame, and I know it. I bury my head in my hands. ‘I’m an idiot, Janey. I’m sorry. You’re so sweet bringing me out and listening to me rant.’

  In response, Janey leans forward and whispers, ‘Lil’s jealous of you, Debs.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ I look right into her serious eyes. ‘Jealous of me?’

  ‘Well, you needn’t look so surprised. You must have noticed … our frisson.’

  ‘Your frisson with Lil.’

  Janey rolls her eyes.

  ‘Oh,’ I say, as it dawns on me. ‘Your frisson with … me.’

  Janey looks adorable, all flushed and serious. There’s a crumb of croissant clinging to her bottom lip and I long to reach across and smooth it away with my thumb. ‘She’s being silly,’ I murmur. ‘It’s obvious you’re crazy about Lil.’

  ‘I like Lil,’ says Janey, ‘I like her a lot. But I don’t lie.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask.

  Janey holds my gaze. ‘When she asked if I had the hots for you, I told her I did.’ I gawp at her, speechless. ‘Problem was,’ she adds, ‘Lil assumed this meant I’d had sex with you. She’s one for assumptions is Lil. Doesn’t get it that I’m a truth-teller.’

  ‘You are,’ I say. ‘I love that about you.’

  She smiles. ‘I know.’

  I feel a warmth in my chest and a burning in my sex. ‘I’m too old for you,’ I tell her, amazed at my guts.

  ‘I’m too young for you,’ she tells me. Then she gives a sigh. ‘Sometimes, I think I’m older than I should be. That’s what comes of losing your parents so young.’ My heart seems to slowly sink as she tells me how she lost her parents: her mother died of a heart attack in her late forties – so young! – and her father died of cancer only a couple of years ago.

  ‘Oh, Janey,’ I tell her, softly. ‘I’m so sorry. What a strong and beautiful person you are.’

  ‘So you see why I don’t always get along with young people?’ says Janey.

  ‘Of course.’ And to be honest, I almost cry when I say so, because I understand why she came across as so prickly at first. Poor, dear Janey. What a lot of pain. She’s more mature than I’ll ever be, Kitten. She carries it all so well.

  ‘So I’m an old soul,’ she says, with a flirty little grin. ‘And, by strange coincidence, I love to be dommed.’

  Oh. My. God. Could any response be hotter?

  We watch each other, and as we do, I feel something against my shoe. Janey has somehow slid off her shoe and is stroking my foot with her own. Her gaze grows more ferocious now, as she presses her sole onto the bridge of my foot. ‘The way I feel about you,’ she says, ‘I’m not sure I care anymore.’

  What she’s doing is making me tearful and wet, all at the same time. I’m just as horny as I was last night, but there’s something else behind it. When Janey touches me, she touches me – not just the bits and pieces of me. And this is just footsie! But I’m not unfaithful, so I pull my foot away. ‘You’re with Lil,’ I say, ‘and until you’re not, you need to stay faithful to her.’

  She mutters that she’s sorry and lowers her gaze. ‘But I won’t be with Lil for much longer.’

  This fact makes me far more excited than it should, so I change the topic, saying, ‘Besides, playing footsie with your boss kind of complicates things.’

  She grins so warmly that I long to kiss her, and for a moment I imagine her in the outfit she’ll wear if she gets a permanent job at Pussyfoot Shoes – a pleated skirt and tight pink blouse. I picture her, standing at the till, while I creep up behind her and slide a hand up her skirt. I’d feel the jolt of her body, Kitten, before she wilted with pleasure, perhaps falling over the counter, her breasts against the surface. While I explored her bottom, and she’d purr and tell me she’d been a naughty girl. That’s when I’d raise my hand and …

  Oh, my God, Kitten! She’s my Saturday girl, for heaven’s sake! Who am I kidding. This is never going to work. I’ll have let her go by noon on Saturday, mark my words.

  Taking a sip of my coffee, I say, ‘Now, tell me about stilettos. Anything you like.’

  So she does just that.

  9 p.m.

  I just got home from dinner with Gladys, who has the biggest mouth of anyone I’ve ever met. Not only because she can’t stop talking about oral sex, but also because she announces my secrets at the hairdresser’s, no less. This afternoon, there we were, in chairs next to each other, me with my usual girl, Natalie, Gladys with her gay Boy Wonder whose name I always forget, and Gladys is telling him all about her Italian boyfriend’s penis. Boy Wonder and my girl, Natalie, are giggling away, and I’m rolling my eyes because really, there’s a time and a place. That’s when Gladys asks me, ‘Why so sarky, Lady Muck? Is sucking cock too boring for a lesbian foot-fetish junkie?’

  Boy Wonder and Natalie snort with laughter, but I’m so embarrassed that my mouth falls open. ‘Glads! Language, please! This is my private life you’re talking about!’

  Gladys giggles, then turns to me. ‘I’m sorry, darling. You’re just too tempting sometimes.’

  Still, she makes it up to me afterwards when we go shopping and she buys me a lovely new lipstick because I’ve told her that all is not golden with Guy. Then later, after she’s bought three skirts and a red-beaded choker, she takes me to Pizza Express where she buys us a bottle of Chianti to go with our dough balls. Once they’ve cleared the starters, she leans across the table and takes my hand in both of hers. ‘Enough of the small talk,’ she tells me. ‘The scoop on Guy.’

  ‘If you joke about it …’ I warn her, hardly able to look in her eyes.

  ‘I won’t,’ she says. ‘I promise. C’mon.’

  And if you can’t trust your best friend, where’s the point in trusting at all? So as soon as I’ve started telling her about the threesome and how we slept together, and how much I enjoyed topping Valerie, and how I woke up to find them holding one another, my eyes get so damp that Gladys has to give me a hankie. She squeezes my hand a little tighter, and leans across the table so I can smell the hairspray on her new, wavy style. And with eyes filled with kindness she says, ‘It’s not to do with him, love. He isn’t the reason you’re hurt. If you think about it, you hardly know Guy. And as for Valerie, you only just met.’ Instead, she tells me, I’m mourning Henry, and seeing this clinch between Guy and his PA as a Henry-like betrayal. ‘It’s classic psychodynamics,’ she tells me. ‘Projection of painful past relationships.’

  ‘It’s shit is what it is,’ I moan. ‘With or without the psychobabble.’

  ‘What’s happening with Janey?’ she says.

  The mere mention of the girl brings me back to her presence – her serious eyes, the way she played footsie with me, the words she said about wanting me … and leaving Lil. And I look up at Gladys, in her light-pink blouse, teamed with a pale-pink crystal on a chain around her throat, and I watch her laughter lines, which I know were once pain lines. So I tell her about me sitting on the step, locked out, and Janey rescuing me. I even tell her about our game of footsie, and how I want Janey so badly, but it can’t ever be.

  ‘Not this again,’ said Gladys, but her voice is gentle. ‘Can’t you see how exciting this is? Janey likes you too! And if she’s splitting up with
her girlfriend, you can give things a shot.’

  But I tell her that I can’t give things a shot. Janey’s so young and I’m so old … But Gladys interrupts me. ‘You once told me that Pussyfoot Shoes was for women of all ages. In fact you said you’d had drag queens come in – all types of women, you said.’ I nod, wondering where on earth this is going. ‘That’s what makes the shop so enjoyable,’ she says, ‘that richness and variety, that sense of identity and freedom.’

  ‘So?’ I say.

  Gladys shakes her head, but she’s smiling like I’m adorably silly. ‘Sweetheart,’ she says, ‘had you ever considered that your differences from Janey would make your relationship exciting?’

  I look at her blankly. I’d never thought of it that way. ‘But some day,’ I say, ‘I’ll be old and past it, and she won’t want me. That’s how it goes.’

  Gladys takes the bottle of wine and pours me another glass. ‘It was Henry who wanted a younger woman. It was Henry who betrayed you. It isn’t fair to assume that Janey’s the same way.’

  I open my mouth to tell her I’d never assume that. But then I notice a pain in the centre of my chest – a pain that tells me she’s said something true. So I don’t say a thing, just sip my wine.

  ‘Think about it,’ says Gladys.

  And that’s when our pizzas arrive.

  11 p.m.

  We have a lovely meal, and I arrived home two hours ago. No sign of Janey, so I took advantage of the bath, using soapsuds to ease my tired feet. It’s funny how store work seems to make my feet ache regardless of whether I’ve been working that day! I’m careful, of course, not to damage my new haircut – shoulder-length with lovely layers that move when I do. It makes me feel like a 60s girl. Janey’s big book on high-heeled shoes is on the floor next to the tub, so, keeping it safe from the water, I start reading. It’s fascinating stuff. Hear this, Kitten: while we were in the Buttercup Cafe, Janey told me that Catherine de Medici was the first woman to wear high-heeled shoes as a fashion accessory, because she was short – and in those days ‘short’ wasn’t pretty for a woman. But in the Shoe book, it also says that she was marrying some powerful duke at the time and didn’t feel she’d get the right respect because of her height. And that’s interesting, Kitten, because we get a lot of shorter women in Pussyfoot Shoes, looking for heels that’ll make them feel more powerful. And I know Gladys has apologised for mocking my interest in shoes, but still, if a shoe can give you power and confidence – and in my case, transform me into a dominatrix – that isn’t a shallow affair! I mean, would Winston Churchill have taken Britain to war if he’d had less confidence? Would Princess Diana have given to all those charities if she felt all squat and unimportant?