Confessions of a Kinky Divorcee

‘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.

‘Good,’ he says. ‘Let’s go to dinner. Tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow?’

Suddenly, Gladys is back, giving me a private wink. ‘Do you two lovebirds need some time alone?’ she says, looking like she might explode with the giggles.

‘Don’t be daft,’ I tell her. ‘I haven’t even ordered my drink yet.’

Staring at me, Guy says, ‘I would offer to go to the bar, but I’m so horny right now it would be indecent.’

Of course, Gladys thought this was a riot! And that’s how it was all evening. Guy making hot little comments as he glared into my eyes, and Gladys giggling away or nudging my elbow, telling me Guy and I should date. And all the way through, as we talked about this and that, I’m imagining him throwing me down on the table and fucking me, as glasses and silverware crash to the floor. Besides, I was so hot and wet that it wouldn’t have taken much to make me come. One thrust, two thrusts, three thrusts, Kitten, and I’d be high as a kite, soaring on an orgasm, as he fucked and fucked with my foot in his hand.

See what you’re doing to me, Kitten? Penthouse, here we come.

Anyway, at the end of the night he asks for my number, and before I’m even home he’s texting to arrange dinner. I accept his offer with as much grace as I can after a few wobbly drinks, and I’m still thinking about it later when I’m climbing the stairs to bed, my mug of cocoa in hand. But on my way to my room I’m brought to a standstill by the sound of soft moaning. Whatever next, Kitten? It looks like the gods heard my mission to explore all things sexy, and are bombarding me with hotness wherever I walk. As I stand there, I have to steady myself against the wall because the bathroom door is ajar and I can see Janey against the bathroom wall, kissing a woman – Lil, I presume. I’ve ended up just at the right angle to watch, and believe me, Kitten, watch I do. Their kiss is a rough one, and Janey’s cheeks are flushed and her blonde hair is tousled, and her jeans are undone, and on top she’s wearing a simple black bra. And though I can’t see Lil, I can see her mouth, her jaw, and her jet-black hair as she kisses Janey, scratching her nails down the girl’s lovely arms. Janey arches and looks agonised as Lil pulls down her jeans and reaches around to unclip her bra. And suddenly, Janey’s breasts are spilling loose. Such perfect round little breasts, so smooth and pale, their nipples a dusty pink, that I find my fingers inching towards my thirsty pussy. I should leave, Kitten, go to my bedroom, shut the door, go to sleep. But now Lil is down on her knees and Janey’s jeans are falling round her ankles, and I watch her as she arches and claws at the wall, her lashes flickering.

Well, after that, what’s a woman meant to do? Once I’ve sidled quietly into my room, I don’t really want my cocoa anymore, so I go to bed and climax harder than ever. In fact, all through the night, I have wet dreams about Guy screwing me on the restaurant table, with my legs in the air, while Janey, in nothing but her black T-shirt, licks my stiletto heel, murmuring, ‘Oh, we shouldn’t, we shouldn’t,’ over and over again.

Chapter Three

Tongue-Tied Thai

Saturday, 3 March

6.30 p.m.

Oh, Kitten! Two sexy things happened today. The first was small and hot. The second was so hot that I had to get myself off at the store. But let’s start at the beginning …

First, I had the strangest dream. Oh, this was a doozy! In it, an angel with her hair in sexy plaits is wearing a French maid’s outfit. (Dear God, even my subconscious is going all Playboy.) Her wings stick out of the back of her costume, somehow, and her halo is perfectly straight – in spite of the kinky gear. The angel has this gorgeous smile, all peaceful and kind. She takes my hands and tells me, ‘Let go of your shame, Deborah, dear. That’s the number one rule.’

And what I realise, when I wake up, is that I think I believe her.

This is what I realise when I wake up to noises in Janey’s room – Janey sounds like she’s digging for gold and finding bigger and bigger chunks the deeper she shovels. ‘Oh, God,’ she’s crying, ‘Oh, God, God, God … ’ The bed frame – which I really ought to replace – is bashing against the wall, softly at first, and then louder and louder, like some scene from a steamy movie. And then, suddenly, something’s changed – something very, very hot – and the bangs become louder and faster and harder, and Janey shouts, ‘Oh, fuck, baby.’ And once again, I’m burying my fingers inside me.

I climax like the clappers, Kitten. Oh. My. Gosh.

After this, I shower, dress and go to breakfast, thinking about Guy and the date we have this evening. Someone – hopefully Janey, not Lil – is making breakfast and the aroma of coffee is wonderful. It reminds me of Henry and the way he used to look after me, bringing me breakfast in the mornings, and croissants on Saturdays.

Still, he’s gone. Get over it, Debs.

In the kitchen, my tenant’s laptop is open on the table, next to an empty plate. On the screen is a picture of a giant red stiletto shoe. The headline of the article is Why We Can’t Let Go of Our Heels. Janey herself is standing at the coffee maker in a new, shorter T-shirt, which shows a tantalising glimpse of her wonderful buttocks in a pair of pale-blue Lycra briefs. And oh, my gosh, I so want to stroke those buttocks – tiptoe up and lean against her back, cupping each cheek and feeling her respond. If I did so, God knows what would happen. Perhaps she’d give a little jolt of surprise before leaning back into me, purring as she presses my hand against the outline of her breast. If I had a cock, Kitten, I’d sweep aside her briefs just enough to push myself into her and feel her, wet from Lil, her lovely muscles gripping this new bit of me as I slide in and out, harder each time. (Honestly! This ‘diary’ business is hard. I’m embarrassed just writing about my fantasies, and you’re not even human.) And anyway, what does this penis envy say about me? Does it make me lesbian? Henry would call me a gender-bender – and he’d probably be right. But is that such a bad thing? Gender-bending, I mean? This is what I’m thinking in the kitchen, when Janey turns back towards her computer and jumps with surprise to see me there. ‘Oh, gosh,’ she says, laughing and rolling her eyes. ‘You startled me. Again.’

I tell her I’m sorry. I’m so used to living alone. At least, for the past year anyway. ‘Hard at work, I see?’ I say, pointing at her laptop screen.

‘Did you know “stiletto” means “needle” in Italian?’ says Janey.

‘Really?’ This floors me a little. The things I don’t know about shoes.

Janey walks to her laptop, coffee mug in hand. ‘In the 60s, the fashion gurus tried to get rid of stilettos. But women weren’t having it. Demand was so high that the shoe shops had to give in.’

‘I wouldn’t give up my high heels for anything,’ I tell her.

‘I wouldn’t either,’ says Janey. ‘If I wore them, I mean.’ Then she looks me right in the eyes. ‘What size are you?’ she asks. ‘Feet,’ she adds, when I look at her blankly.

I tell her I’m a six. ‘Why d’you ask?’

Turns out she bought Lil some sexy shoes, but the girl doesn’t like them. Lil takes a size five, I take a size six. The sad thing is, she’d have given them to me, if we shared a shoe-size.

I all but gush my thanks, and Janey gives a small smile. ‘I just like it that you appreciate these things,’ she says, sitting back at her computer screen. And I felt a little disappointed that she didn’t look down at my red, furry boudoir-slippers – with kitten heels, no less.

‘I bet we’ve got some lovely shoes for Lil at Pussyfoot’s,’ I say, ever the saleswoman. ‘You should drop by.’

‘Oh, I will,’ says Janey, looking up, gaze intense. ‘Soon, in fact. And if Lil can’t make it, you can model them for me.’ She stares at me for a moment, her pupils blackening with meaning, before turning back to her screen.

And, once again, I’m wet because of my twenty-three-year-old tenant. I have got to get over this. If anyone found out, what would I say? I wish you had a padlock, Kitten, but you haven’t, so that’s that. You know, I think it’s time I started packing you in my handbag, carrying you with me, scrawling my secrets on the sly.

Anyhoo, the other things that happened today were both shoe-related. I’d been at Pussyfoot Shoes for about an hour when I went to take a loo break. On my return, I find my Saturday girl, Cheryl Brown, prancing around the sale section in a pair of Jimmy Choos. Dressed in her Pussyfoot uniform, which, by the way, is the same as mine – a white blouse with a pink, flared skirt – she looks like a gangly flamingo as she tries to strut in six-inch heels that are far too small. What’s more, some boy in saggy teenage clothes (I assume this is her boyfriend) is half-snorting, half-laughing behind his hand as she performs this whole pantomime. It wouldn’t have been so bad if there hadn’t been a woman waiting, shoe in hand, clearly after some help. And by the look of her reddened cheeks and pursed lips, she’d been waiting quite a while.

This is not the first time this sort of thing has happened with Cheryl. She’s a sweet girl, but lazy, and she seems to think it’s fine to leave customers waiting while she has her fun. I should have fired her, Kitten – after all, she’s already had two warnings – but when I got her into the back room and her boy wasn’t there to impress, she looked paper-pale, and I felt sorry for her. ‘I love working for you, Deborah,’ she said, her bottom lip all quivery. ‘This is the best job I’ve had.’

So I gave her a formal warning and sent her back to the shop floor. What a softie I am, Kitten. I wish I could be all strict and pro, like they are at Shoes by J down the street. People come from all over the country to shop at Shoes by J. The managers have more self-control than I have – and there’s no way they wouldn’t fire Cheryl on the spot. Maybe this weakness of mine is why I lost Henry, Kitten. I didn’t assert myself. I just let him treat me like I didn’t exist.

What’s more, those poor Jimmy Choos that Cheryl had toyed with were so stretched that I had to take ten pounds off the price. My gosh, I love those shoes. They’re black and lilac with steel heels. Steel heels! Delicious. Someone put care into those, Kitten. Mark my words, they were made with love.

Thank heaven for this afternoon, when an elegant man walks into the store. He’s like a jaguar in his stylishness – all designer suit and cool stance. It’s raining outside, which is why I wasn’t expecting many customers. Besides, Cheryl’s popped out for a coffee break and Pearl, my other member of staff, must be in the stockroom. So I dash over to help him, but when I get close he gives me a dazzling smile and I realise it’s Guy. He kisses me on the cheek, takes my hand and says, ‘Just thought I’d stop by and make sure we’re good for tonight,’ and he holds my gaze with those deep-brown peepers that swallow you up before you’ve even breathed.

I tell him I haven’t forgotten. He’s picking me up around seven.

‘Ready for a little spice?’ he says, raising a single eyebrow. It takes me a moment to get it – we’re eating Thai tonight.

‘I’m all about spice,’ I say, gesturing towards the central display, where shoes rest on fur-trimmed shelves, their gold inner soles gleaming in the light.

I feel a glow of pride as Guy wanders across to the shoes. And guess which ones he reaches for first? The tiger-print stilettos! Kitten, I almost die. ‘I’ve been saving up for those,’ I say. ‘They’re rather too … dear for me.’

‘Well, my dear,’ he says, with a wink that makes me smile, ‘let’s see how you look in them.’ And before I’ve had a moment to object, he’s down on one knee, sliding my stockinged foot out of my pink three-inchers and into the tiger-print beauties. His fingers on my ankle make my legs tingle and the tingle shoots up my thighs, making me giddy and light. He gives a long ‘Mmm’ while he strokes the arch of my foot, as he places me into the shoe. And I must say, he handles me beautifully! So firm and in control, with just the right touch. When the delectable shoes are on, he even runs a hand down one of my calves, giving a breathy sigh. As he rises again, his gaze burns on my feet and legs, and oh, my gosh, I’m more turned on than ever!

He tells me to model them, and off I strut, proudly showing off these high-heeled beauties. There’s something of Janey Prince in his stare, and when I return to him my cheeks are burning at being watched like this. With a sideways grin, he sinks to one knee again and says, ‘Give me your left foot, beautiful.’ I have to check for customers before placing a fully clad foot onto the bridge of his knee and thigh.

He gives the tiniest groan as I grind my heel into his flesh, and when he runs a finger across the furry material, then down the needle-thin six-inch heel, I notice that I’m not the only one who’s horny: the bulge in his grey suit trousers is big – oh, very big, Kitten! The kind of ‘big’ that sends a girl to the moon!

Then suddenly, he’s getting up again and asking for the bathroom. I admit, I feel rather abandoned when I show him round the back to the staff toilet. But I know he still has his stiffy, so something tells me to listen at the door. Well! I only have to wait half a minute before I start hearing his moans, rising one after the other, interspersed by a sort of chafing, which I guess is his hand working that sizeable cock of his. ‘Yeah,’ he groans, in that sexy American drawl, ‘Oh, fuck, yeah, press the heel right into it.’ And I get wetter and wetter as I listen to him coming, shouting: ‘All over your feet, all over your fucking feet …’ before crying out, long and low, like some kind of wounded animal.

I scamper off as soon as the noise dies down, and to my shame there is an unserved customer waiting at the counter on my return. I flush but greet her smilingly, reach down to the shelf below the counter and hand over the box of gold princess sandals that were waiting to be picked up. And as I ring her sale up, I see Mr Coming-All-Over-Your-Feet swaggering towards the shop door, calling, ‘See ya at seven, angel,’ as he gives a wave.

So, I’ve been soaking wet all afternoon, and now I’m about to get ready for Guy to pick me up. Have I touched myself? No! And it’s your fault, Kitten! What would I rather do? Touch myself or write to you? Is it awfully bizarre to say the latter? It’s as if giving you all my darkest secrets releases me somehow, makes me game to be myself. Anyway, I’ve decided to start carrying you with me in my bag. That way, I can update you whenever I like, and no one gets to see my Playboy bunny fantasies.

8 p.m.

Holy mackerel, Kitten, I’m just popping to the ladies to give you the latest! We’re at the Thai Garden, and he’s plied me with some kind of fancy white wine. Well, I let him ply me, let’s face it. I’m a pushover for Chardonnay, so I admit I’m a bit tipsy. Maybe that’s why Guy seems so sizzlingly irresistible.

But I have to hurry, so here’s a quick list, before I forget the story …

1 He picks me up in the most exquisite Mercedes – a silver convertible with seats that smell of leather – and, rather than just tooting his horn like Henry would have, he parks the car, comes to the door and greets me in person. ‘You look positively stunning,’ he says, when I answer the door. And adds, ‘A perfect wet dream.’ How lovely it is to be craved by this smartly suited thirty-something with eyes that undress me … starting – or maybe ending – with my gold, evening sandals. Seriously, these have stiletto heels to die for.

2 As he drives, he lounges there like a jaguar, a single hand leisurely draped on the wheel. I tell him what Janey said about women in the 60s who wouldn’t allow stilettos to disappear from the stores. He laughs, then says, ‘Women who wear heels are hard to say no to.’ Then he glances down at my flirty dress teamed with nylons, saying, ‘Especially when they’re as delectable as you.’

3 OK, Kitten, I’ve got to run now or he’ll think I have the kind of problems only fibre can fix. The waiters and waitresses, who aren’t all Thai by any stretch, are dressed in white with blue flowers in their hair. Also, there are coloured paper lanterns in red, gold and blue, and there’s a huge tank filled with tropical fish. Guy’s ordered us prawn crackers, spring rolls, little shrimp toasts with chili sauce. All gorgeous! And I do love Chardonnay, especially when it’s cold and served in crystal glasses, while the stud across the table presses his leg against mine.

4 I have to go now, Kitten. Back in a few …

10.50 p.m.

Well, that was quite a date. He was utterly charming, dreadfully seductive, and his clear interest in bedding me made quite a delicious distraction. That man has eyes that bore through your clothes and touch your flesh – not softly, but firmly, as if you’re an avocado and he’s checking to see if you’re ripe. But the most exciting thing was talking to him about shoes! Henry never took an interest in my shoe collection, or much else of mine for that matter. Guy, on the other hand, asked for the details of my every pair, not to mention my job at Pussyfoot Shoes and the women I serve. Now I’m not a fool, Kitten! I know he wants to imagine me touching women’s feet, and getting aroused by it or something. But the thing about Guy is how direct he is. Here’s an example …

I get back from the ladies to find our main courses in front of us – prawns with basil and chili for me; beef in tamarind sauce for him. As we start to eat, I can feel him watching me, but I don’t rise to it straightaway – partly because I like him admiring me, and also because OH, MY GOD, THAI FOOD IS GORGEOUS! (Why has no one ever mentioned this before? All spices and sweetness and heat.) Anyway, finally he puts down his chopsticks, takes a swig of wine and leans towards me properly. ‘I hope you don’t think me rude,’ he says, ‘treating you so directly. I find you very attractive. And the fact that you have such taste in shoes … well, frankly, I got hard the moment I met you and haven’t calmed down since.’

I flush, unable to meet his gaze. ‘Oh my,’ I say, ‘you’re very forward, aren’t you.’

‘It’s my way of saying, “This is who I am.”’ He pauses for a beat, as I look into his eyes. Then, with the most devilish smile I’ve ever seen, he murmurs, ‘I want to screw you, Deborah. Over and over again. And as I think you know, we’ll be leaving your shoes on.’ If I don’t feel the same, he says, I should speak up now. Like Gladys would, God love her.

I laugh. ‘That’s Gladys for you.’

‘I’m not really thinking of Gladys right now,’ he says, pressing his knee against mine. Oh, gosh, his attention is wonderful! It makes me feel all precious and twinkly – I haven’t felt like that in years. But I don’t know how to respond. And I know I should hint that I’m not a sex-on-the-first-date girl. Suddenly, I don’t want to look at him, so I gaze at the fish tank by the entrance, where large fish in all sorts of colours spread their glamorous fins.

‘I’m embarrassing you, aren’t I?’ he says, at last. ‘Forgive me. It’s the Dom in me. I should share some more about myself. Let me tell you about my own workplace.’

He talks on and on about his big fancy office, but I’m not really listening. I’m full of delicious spices and the feel of his breath when he leans in close, and the way he talks about his clients as if they don’t matter a jot. What a lean, mean man! And oh, my gosh, how sexy! As for me, I notice how fascinated he seems by my own work situation. He wants to know story after story of shoe sales – including what sort of women buy what, and why.

Anyway, we eat dinner, exchange small talk and have coconut ice cream for dessert. Oh, my goodness! And when I insist on splitting the bill, we have a small tiff before he caves. ‘Gone are the days when a man could buy a lady a meal,’ he says, with a glare.

To which I say, ‘Instead, we have the days when a woman can pay for whatever she darn well chooses.’

He raises one eyebrow, but a smile plays over his lips. ‘You’ve caught my weakness, Deborah dear.’

‘Control,’ I say. And I have a sudden image of me sitting astride him riding up and down, while he grasps one of my shoes in his left hand and one of my breasts with his right. I’m going at it hard, with my wrists bound behind me, and he’s glaring at me, fiercely, like an angry dog and his lips are parted and wet with saliva. And I ride and ride, letting out cry after cry as he groans beneath. ‘All over your shoes,’ he moans. ‘All over your fucking shoes.’ But he comes inside me, long and hard, calling out my name.

Anyway, Kitten, I digress. Let’s fast forward to outside the restaurant, where I tell him he shouldn’t drive because he’s been drinking. ‘I’m going to drive regardless,’ he tells me, cool as butter, but he also reaches up and smoothes a curl of hair from my face. It’s begun to rain a little, but it’s more like a fine mist – like when film stars spray perfume into the air then walk through it, to make sure of an even coverage. (That’s what it says in Cosmo. I’m more of a ‘squirt and go’ kinda gal. These Hollywood women have more time than sense.)

So I tell Guy, ‘Fine, but I’m getting a cab.’ I hold up my hand as he tries to interrupt me. ‘I’m paying for it. No question.’

‘I wasn’t going to offer to pay. I was going to offer to stay.’

‘You’re a poet and you don’t know it,’ I say. (Terrible rhyme. Shoot me now).