Confessions of a Kinky Divorcee (8 page)

BOOK: Confessions of a Kinky Divorcee
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I tell him I’d like to do it just like this. Me in his lap; riding up and down. He agrees – and it’s stupid, I know, but I’m so proud that I’ve brought the condom that I’m feeling rosy-cheeked as I slide it onto him. And oh, when he clasps my hips and pulls me right onto him, I feel him filling every inch of me. I also realise that this was how Henry took the bowler-hatted girl … while I was watching at the window … and I can’t help imagining Janey sitting beneath me with a wonderful black silicone toy. Oh, my! I’m so wet as I fantasise, my hips working harder, my breath coming in starts, that he feels like he’s slicked with oil. And he must be a mind-reader because, once I’m close to climax, he whispers, ‘If there was someone else here, Deborah, would it be a man or a woman?’

And I say, ‘Guess!’

And he says, ‘A woman.’

So I blurt out something – I don’t know what – because mentioning Janey makes me hornier than ever. And my breasts are suddenly Janey’s breasts as I rub and pinch the nipples, and she’s there, beneath me, groaning, gasping and crying, ‘Deborah, baby …’ And that’s when I come too, riding Guy, my hips lunging by themselves, because they’re faster and more desperate than my poor befuddled mind. And it’s as if a wild light is filling every cell of me: I’m firelit and crazy for what seems like an age.

When I flop on top of him, mumbling, ‘You haven’t come yet, have you?’ Guy says, ‘No, angel, but I won’t take long.’ Then he makes me lie along the couch, while he kneels above me, holding my ankle, pulling my shoe against him, my stiletto heel pressing into his balls, while he fucks my shoe – yes, fucks my shoe – yanking it against himself, before coming in an impressive surge that spurts and showers and spatters my body. And he keeps crying, ‘Fucking your … fucking your … shoes’ right to the very last surge.

It doesn’t feel very intimate, Kitten. He’s interested in my feet, really. I didn’t see him look up once. But guys are afraid of that sort of thing – you know, intimacy, closeness, bonding, right? And afterwards, he lies on top of me and whispers in my ear, ‘I come so hard with you. So fucking hard. You’re one hell of a woman. Christ, I’m a lucky boy.’

So here I am now, up in his bed, because he insisted that I stay. And we showered together and he kissed me good night, all sparkly and sweet. But by the time I’d managed to clean the semen off my shoes, he was on his back and snoring. Well, I can’t say I blame him.

And I don’t suppose it matters, Kitten, but I kind of had sex with Janey tonight. I was both with Guy and
not
with Guy. So is that me being the
real, sexual
me
? Or is that me just hiding? And what if it’s a bit of both?

Chapter Eight
Scratch ’n Sniff Stilettos

Wednesday, 14 March

7 a.m.

Dear Kitten,

This morning, Guy was different. He’s clearly not a morning person. I tried to seduce him by rubbing up against him and biting his ear, but he brushed me off, saying he couldn’t. I was horny as hell, and during Guy’s shower – which, by the way, he didn’t invite me into – I considered digging through my bag for my vibrator, but thought better of it. Instead, I peered through the bathroom door and offered to make him a fry-up, which he turned down straightaway, saying he hadn’t got time for breakfast. ‘Make a fry-up for yourself if you like,’ he called, and he reminded me that the front door locks itself when it closes. He gave me the merest peck on the cheek on his way out. But he did say he had a surprise for me next week, if I was interested. ‘A special something for dinner, next Wednesday,’ he murmured. ‘I’ll confirm with you later today.’ And then, as he pulled away, he sparkled like the Guy I know, and added, ‘This’ll be a real treat for you, Deborah.’

So I guess things are fine after all.

Anyhoo. Today’s my day off, Kitten, so I’m meeting up with Glads around eleven. But before that I’m going to eat a proper breakfast. So I rifle round his beautiful kitchen, which has a stainless-steel oven that looks as if Jamie Oliver has crawled all over it and licked it to a shine. Plus Guy has the whitest kitchen cupboards with classy little silver knobs.

On the hunt for food, the most interesting thing I find is pancake mix,
a la
U.S.A. So I follow the instructions on the box and make myself a set of real American pancakes. They’re rather tasty, if I say so myself, especially when drizzled with lemon and a coating of brown sugar. Unfortunately, the only tea he has is Twinings. I, dear Kitten, am a P.G. girl.

2.15 p.m.

Meeting up with Glads for coffee was a pleasure, as usual, and she even bought me a Danish pastry to make up for being a twerp. The only thing she asked me about the vibrator was, ‘Did the gift work out fine, Miss Scarlet?’ before giving an enormous wink. And I said it was just dandy, thank you very much. (Interesting how I flush again all meekly, while I’m wearing sperm-flavoured scratch-and-sniff stilettos, courtesy of Guy and his little explosion.)

Turns out that things at Academic Central aren’t so rosy right now for Gladys. She got low marks on a Freud essay because she tore the man to bits without discussing his good points. ‘That idiot,’ says Glads. ‘As if women envy penises!’

‘Maybe some of them do,’ I say, picturing Janey looking delicious in a strap-on.

‘Maybe the Tooth Fairy exists,’ says Glads, ‘but we don’t write essays about
that
, now, do we?’

I’m about to say that there must be men who envy vaginas, but then I remember what she said about her parents wanting her to always get A grades, and I suddenly realise this is Glads being defensive. So I say, ‘You tell ’em, Glads,’ and she nods, and we’re just fine.

Apparently, Gladys has a date with a man who is doing her psychology course. A suave Italian called Marco. He’s around the same age as she is. (Wonders may never cease!) ‘He’s so good at psychology,’ she says, her eyes going moony.

‘Will he critique Doctor Freud in the sack?’ I ask.

And she snorts. So I do too. In fact, we’re snorting away for a good long while.

But when she asks why I look so glam and I explain that I stayed at Guy’s last night, Glads isn’t so perky. ‘I thought you were into your tenant?’ she says. And when I remind her that Janey is taken, she narrows her eyes as if she can’t see me right. ‘But you’re a dyke, correct?’

Oh, my gosh. What does ‘dyke’ mean, Kitten? Lesbian? A certain
kind
of lesbian? P.C. or not P.C.? ‘I think I might be into women
and
men,’ I say.

‘Oh.’ She takes a sip of her coffee, but she’s still watching me all the way through. ‘Listen, love,’ she says. ‘I wouldn’t get sweet on the man. He’s a bit of fun, don’t you think? A bauble. He’ll wine and dine a girl, then lay her. Simple.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with a little romance.’

Gladys puts her hand over mine and her eyes go deep and kind. ‘Sweetie, as long as you don’t get hurt, OK? Not after Henry. It’s your first crush since the split.’

The way she looks at me reminds me of the first time I told her what Henry had been up to. She was the first person who heard me say the words ‘Henry’s having an affair.’ In fact, I broke the news in this very coffee shop, two tables to the left of where we’re sitting right now. What was even sadder was the total surprise on her face at the time. ‘No way,’ she said, reaching across the table. ‘Henry’s crazy about you.’ And I could see why she’d think that. I mean, even though Henry and I didn’t have sex, just a few months before I caught him he was buying me flowers every weekend and making me breakfast on Sunday mornings. He’d sit on the bed in his stripy pyjamas, all stubbly, with his greying hair tousled, and he’d take my hands between his own and say, ‘The menu today, Lady Deborah, is …’ and he’d reel off the very things we had in the kitchen. He’d offer a ‘great British fry-up’ or ‘croissants with jam’ or ‘a bacon buttie’ or ‘Scotch pancakes’ and it always made me happy to sit and read a mag while he clanked around in the kitchen downstairs, whistling Louis Armstrong’s ‘Jeepers, Creepers’ or ‘Hello, Dolly!’ He liked his jazz, did Henry.

But I don’t want you to think I was sweet on an arsehole, Kitten. He was only like that towards the end. In fact, he could be extremely romantic. Take our anniversary, for instance, when he always bought me lilies – there were lilies in my wedding bouquet, see, almost twenty years ago now, and not a year went by when I didn’t receive an armful on 30 September. That’s how romantic Henry could be.

All those years, Kitten. I miss him. My Henry.

Gladys pulls her hand away from mine. ‘And anyway,’ she adds, ‘I’d like to see you dating that Janey. Or some other girl. Why not experiment a bit?’

I don’t know what to say about that, so we move on to Gladys’s hot date for tomorrow night – this new forty-something Italian with a flashy red sports car. Apparently, he’s taking her to see a movie, at the artsy picture house on Remington Ave. It’ll probably be some suave international movie. The kind that has subtitles. I hate subtitles. I like to gaze into the faces of the characters and forget to think about anything else.

But Glads says that’s because I’m an old romantic.

‘You get too attached,’ she says. And she’s probably right, because, as soon as she says it, I find myself thinking of Guy when he says, ‘You are the most beautiful woman to grace a pair of heels.’

‘I’m going out with Guy again next week,’ I say. ‘We’re going to dinner. He’s bringing me a gift – a surprise, he says.’

Gladys gives a hefty sigh and stretches her lips, like she’s totally unimpressed. ‘A bottle of lube and a condom, perhaps?’

I can’t help but feel she’s raining on my parade.

‘I’m sorry, sweetie,’ she says, taking my hands. ‘I know he’s very fond of you. But he’s a plaything, yes? A hot bit of hot totty.’

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.’

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