Confessions of a Kinky Divorcee (2 page)

‘When I’m studying the stiletto,’ she said, ‘it’s my
girlfriend
’s shoes I watch.’ Then she looked right at me, as if she was saying
, Picture it
.

And just like that, I was wet.

‘Show me yours,’ she said, at last.

It took me a moment to work out what she meant – and when I did, I couldn’t resist standing up and giving a little walk to show my beauties off. Classy black peep-toe heels with supersoft leather – perfect for any kind of business transaction – and she stared at them, her eyes darkening, before letting her stare gloss my legs, my thighs, my blouse, then finally returning to the shoes. ‘They’re hot,’ she said, in a husky voice that made my insides give a little. ‘You wear them well.’ And just like that, I was imagining her kissing my feet.

‘The rent’s four hundred a month,’ I said.

She nodded, ‘The room’s perfect. Lil would stay over a couple of nights a week, but you’ll hardly know she’s there.’

‘Any girl who loves shoes is a friend of mine,’ I told Janey.

So that was that. Janey moved in yesterday.

Well, why am I writing this diary, you ask? Why confess my erotic thoughts about a twenty-something to a blank page? Because I’m worried about myself, Kitten. I mean, I still dream about men, don’t get me wrong. But now I also dream about Janey in a strap-on, sitting on the bed, watching as I parade about in skimpy knickers and high-heeled shoes, that serious stare of hers soldered on mine. And, just like Henry, I’ve always been … you know, sceptical … about girls dating girls. I always wondered what they’d
do
together. Henry said that too. ‘What does anyone do without a cock, my dear?’

But what if I want to find out? After all, I’m not his ‘dear’ any more. And you know what it said in my stars last week? ‘Now look here, you roving Archers,’ said Evita Grant, my astrology guru, when I flicked to her page in my copy of
Fashion Femme.
‘Don’t you go using your secret shame as an excuse to flee. Whatever you’ve been repressing, now’s the time to heal it. Come out, come out, come out! Commit to being you.’

Well, that’s Evita. Sometimes, I wonder if, when she looks at the night sky, the stars spell out words that I just can’t see.

Shameful secret number two: when I went to bed last night, I left my peep-toe shoes by the front door, like I often do. The last thing I expected was what I saw, next morning. There I was, about to walk down the stairs, when I noticed Janey Prince in the entrance hall below me, kneeling on the carpet, wearing nothing but a black T-shirt. She was totally in profile, so I could see the swell of her bum from beneath the black fabric, and her long, slender legs. In her hands she was holding one of my black peep-toe shoes, turning it, gazing at it, running a fingertip down the stiletto heel. I caught my breath, but she can’t have heard, because she turned the shoe upside down and raised it to eye-level. She stared at the heel for a while before putting her face close and licking the length of it, slowly, giving a rough little growl.

Now, it’s not like me to pussyfoot around watching others, but heavens, it was Janey who was invading
my
space, right? Oh, but I was mesmerised, Kitten, standing there in my dressing gown, my heart thumping away, wet between my thighs. What if she licked my heel like that while I was wearing the shoes? What if she lay on the floor, and I slid the heel between her lips and made her, you know, suck it? What if she writhed around, enjoying every inch? And what if this turned me on so much that the moisture slid down my thighs, while she stared at me, lustfully, as I slid that heel in and out?

So you know what I did, Kitten? After she put my shoe down and walked towards the kitchen, all pale thighs and bed-ruffled hair, I went to the bathroom and pushed my fingers inside me and thought about wearing that peep-toe shoe and pressing the heel inside her. I thought about fucking her with it, Kitten, over and over again, while she rolled around, naked, gasping with pleasure. She was so wet that the heel slid in easily and was coated with more moisture at every thrust. And I imagined her coming, Kitten, while she watched me fucking her like that. I imagined her long moan and the way she thrust her hips, slamming her arms against the floor as if to brace herself. I imagined her body arching so much that her firm little breasts rose towards me, and she moaned on and on.

But you know what shames me the most, Kitten? When I touched myself in the shower with my fingers deep inside me, I came like I’ve never come before. So hard and deep that I lost my balance, and had to grasp the shower curtain to stop myself from falling. And then I came again and again and again, in a crescendo, Kitten – just nothing but scorching pleasure, over and over, until, once I’d finished, I found I’d been writhing so much that I was caught in the shower curtain. It was wrapped and twisted around me like a badly clingfilmed haddock, because of just how hard I’d come.

I can’t help wondering if Janey Prince heard me, Kitten, even though she was downstairs. I was so loud, that she surely couldn’t have missed it. And is it awful to say that the very idea made me touch myself again, and come again, hard, just to think of it?

That’s why I got to work late, Kitten. Yes, I, the manager, arrived later than the staff! Pearl, my assistant manager, was watching me sideways all afternoon, a suspicious look in her soft brown eyes that seemed to say, ‘I’m on to you.’

And I don’t have to tell you which shoes I wore to work.

Not that I’m a lesbian, Kitten. At least … no, I’m just playing with the thought.

But I haven’t given Janey a contract, just in case I can’t have her around, in case she spoils my career or puts me off men or makes a cradle-snatcher of me. Anyway, I suppose this is a trial period, really. Rent once a month. And I’ll keep an eye on things. I mean, who knows if I’ll be able to live with a twenty-three-year-old student?

And who knows if she’ll be able to live with me?

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 like 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.