Lana Fox - Confessions of a Kinky Divorcee

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.