Lana Fox - Confessions of a Kinky Divorcee

For Angela

‘Give a girl the right shoes and she can conquer the world.’

Marilyn Monroe

Table of Contents

Title Page Confessions of a Kinky Divorcee Lana Fox

Dedication For Angela ‘Give a girl the right shoes and she can conquer the world.’ Marilyn Monroe

Chapter One: Pussyfooting

Chapter Two: A Well-Heeled Guy

Chapter Three: Tongue-Tied Thai

Chapter Four: In His Shoes

Chapter Five: Bang Goes My Saturday Girl

Chapter Six: Meaningful Stilettos

Chapter Seven: His and Hers

Chapter Eight: Scratch ’n Sniff Stilettos

Chapter Nine: Three: A Crowd?

Chapter Ten: Frisson at Buttercup’s

Chapter Eleven: To Be or Not

Chapter Twelve: Just a Bit of Totty

Chapter Thirteen: Give a Queen a Stiletto

Chapter Fourteen: Stripped Down

Chapter Fifteen: Magnificent

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About Mischief

Copyright

About the Publisher

Thursday, 1 March

Dear Kitten,

I know your new name sounds silly, Kitten, especially considering you’re only a notebook, but how can I begin every sex-crazed confession with the words ‘Dear Diary’? Even Anais Nin didn’t do that. Anyway, once you’ve heard what I’ve been up to recently, you’ll probably be pushing me to quit the shoe biz and commit to my calling as a writer of smut. But let’s start with the basics. Why ‘Kitten’? you ask. Well, as soon as I saw your tiger-fur cover, I was smitten, Kitten. You reminded me of those tiger-print stilettos I’ve been saving up for – even with my staff discount it’ll be weeks before I can buy them. But if anything would make me feel like a goddess, it’s those.

Anyway, ‘Tiger’ seemed like a bad name for a sex-confession diary – after all, I don’t want to share my secrets with some savage animal. So yes, you will be my kittenly confidante, because I may not be able to share my kinky secrets with anyone else. But you – with your furry cover? I’m up to the task.

So. Secret number one.

Just one year ago, when I first found those pale-blue lacy knickers in Henry’s suit pocket, my heart didn’t break even slightly. That’s the real tragedy.

See, it felt like I should have been broken by this, him being my husband, but nope, his having a ‘bit on the side’ didn’t even surprise me. Instead, I stretched those flimsy things out and gazed at them, imagining the curvy body of the woman they belonged to. Skimpy little things that cup the bum cheeks. And between you and me, Kitten, I just had to bury my face in them – to find out how a woman smells. And this one smelled so musky, so deliciously off-bounds, that I felt myself getting damp. Wet. That’s right. Burning between the thighs too, like the times when Henry actually bothered to screw me. In fact, I was so turned on that I wanted to meet this lay of Henry’s, this bit on the side, and touch her and taste her, push my tongue inside her, like a tabby with a tub of cream. I wanted to make her simper and tremble and beg me to, well … fuck her! Is that obscene? Gotta get used to saying the word. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Why the heck not? I don’t think I care anymore.

Anyhoo, after that came some crying, and a few friends who said, ‘Debs, he’s eight years younger than you, what did you expect?’

I expect faithfulness, for starters, I’d say! It isn’t like he’d asked me for an open relationship where I could get bouncy with muscular boys for a hundred pounds a pop.

Truth was; the end had come.

So why not go out with a bang?

Well, it was easy enough to park outside his workplace on Friday night and follow him as he pulled away from his so-called ‘Friday drinks with the crew’. I tracked him in my Mini. A right little secret agent, I was. And when we arrived at a tiny cottage, with ivy trailing down the walls and porcelain dogs in the window, he parked the car, strode up to the front door and – get this, Kitten! – let himself in with a key.

I was out of that car lickety-split, nose against the front window. But they weren’t in the front room and, when I looked through the letterbox, they weren’t in the hallway either. Only when I scooted round the back of the house and crouched in front of one of the back windows, my court heels sinking down into a flowerbed, did I see them together. Henry sat calmly on the white leather sofa, his arm along the back, while she stood in front of him dressed in a short beige mackintosh, with a bowler hat and a pair of black stilettos. Her legs and thighs were bare – and, dear God, so tanned and slender! – and beneath her hat she was a stunning bleach-blonde.

I have never seen anyone in all my days that made me burn like she did, and I longed to keep watching, so I sank to my knees, ducking down low to keep myself hidden. And there was Henry, appraising her slowly, his gaze all gleaming and wicked while he beckoned her to come closer. The bastard had never looked at me that way! He’d been lying to me, all that time, while I was longing for a sex life! All those silky nighties I’d bought! And all for nothing!

But once she was right in front of him, one foot raised and planted on the couch next to him, all I could do was gape at her slender legs, and the way the mac fell apart at the join, revealing her inner thigh. And when Henry leaned forward and slid a hand up and down her shin, watching the path of his fingers, while he murmured some quiet command, I wished I was in his place. Then, slowly, she undid the buttons on her mac, holding his gaze until it slid to the floor and her bare body stood before me, all supple skin, high breasts and oh-so-hard nipples.

Then, in an instant, Henry was unzipping his flies and pulling her hips towards him so she fell into his lap, her knees either side of his. I heard her little cry of pleasure – like a girl at Christmas – and for just a moment I saw his cock in his hand before she sank down onto it, so the tip disappeared into her neatly trimmed … you know … (yes, all right, I can do this) … into the trimmed hair of her pussy.

There. See? Bring on the smut.

Anyway, soon she was riding him and his hands were on her hips, pulling her down over and over, his stare big and dark as it glossed that beautiful body, resting for a while on those lovely, leaping breasts. He’d never looked at me with such gargantuan lust! But it didn’t bother me really – it was the woman I wanted to watch. Dear heaven, I’d never seen another woman’s bosoms during sex and I could see what all the fuss was about. They were so voluptuously full, and their bouncing was so keen, so pretty, so utterly obscene, especially when accompanied by her sweet little cries – cries that grew breathier as she rode him. She had a wonderful bottom too. So shapely and firm. So mesmerised was I that I hardly noticed Henry’s grunting – I was imagining I was Henry and that she was riding me , slicking it up with every thrust. I’d cup a breast, if it were me, pressing a nipple in my palm, while with my other hand I pawed a single buttock … or maybe even slapped it. And as I thought this, I found my fingers creeping beneath my skirt, so I burrowed deeper, shamelessly slipping inside my briefs. But it wasn’t just my fingers that made me come. It was her glazing gaze, the way she threw back her head, her curls dancing down her back. And the thread of moisture that had crawled across her thigh and was creeping towards her stiletto shoes – because she was too wet to hold it in, while her hips pumped up and down, faster and faster still …