Confessions of a Kinky Divorcee. Lana Fox
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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 …
See? Pure Penthouse. Actually, Kitten, I wonder how well they pay …
But that was before I told him to leave. That was before the end. His end, not my end, mind. I wasn’t the one that screwed it up. Then again, Kitten, since I’m meant to be confessing, I felt like I’d strayed too. Just watching that girl sliding up and down on him … wasn’t that infidelity, in its way?
Anyway, Henry moved out and we were divorced within a couple of months – that’s ten months ago now. I gave him everything he wanted, just to end our marriage tout de suite. And once he’d gone, things were fine for a while. Except that I grew lonely, just me with my shoe collection and not enough cash to restock it.
I was promoted to shop manager at Pussyfoot’s Chipham branch, but my salary still wasn’t enough to live on happily, so I had to sell the Mini. Broke my heart, it did. And you know; it’s hard managing a shoe store when you lust after shoes but can’t afford to buy them. That’s why my friend Gladys persuaded me to get myself a tenant. Of course, Gladys, whose current project is to show me that turning forty will make me sexier than ever, thought I’d find myself a young student of the male variety – a boy half my age who goes to the local uni and studies motor mechanics or some other suitably macho profession.
Then along came Janey Prince in her ripped jeans and pageboy cap, sitting quietly at my kitchen table. And with her intense blue eyes and cropped blonde hair she was more of a stud than any man I’d known. I gave her the Jessica Rabbit mug and she raised her eyebrows at it, before bringing it to her lips and taking a sip.
‘You’ll need a sense of humour if you’re going to live with me,’ I said.
She watched me, owl-like, head tipped to the side. ‘I’m more the quiet type,’ she said, in a voice that could melt butter.
I asked her what she did, and she told me she was a gender studies student at the local university. ‘Don’t you want a student house?’ I asked.
‘I’m not really into people my age,’ she said, simply.
‘Why not?’ I said. ‘Kids should be kids.’
She gave me a glare. ‘I’m twenty-three.’
I could hardly look at her, I was so embarrassed. ‘It’s a turn of phrase,’ I told her, ‘that’s all.’ But inside I was thinking, Like hell am I going to live with a humourless student who probably smokes too much grass and judges my every word! But there was something about her. She gave off this glow. That’s the only way to put it. So I said, ‘I was only thinking you’d probably pay less rent in a student house.’
She shrugged one shoulder. ‘My parents are both dead. They left me money. I can do what I like with it. And like I say, I’m not usually into people my age.’
Oh, God, Kitten, the poor kid! She flushed and stared fixedly at Jessica Rabbit, turning the mug a little as if she wanted a better view.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, gently. ‘Blah, blah, blah, that’s me. I shouldn’t pry, should learn to engage my brain.’
She gives a small smile.
‘Anyway,’ I say, ‘What do you do in gender studies?’
And then she cheered up a little. ‘For my dissertation,’ she said, looking up from beneath her lashes, ‘I’m writing about the history of the stiletto heel.’
Holy smoke! I could have shot through the ceiling!
‘Well, there you go! I work in a shoe shop.’
‘Yeah?’ Her eyes brightened. ‘Which one?’
‘Pussyfoot,’ I told her.
And, dear God, she gave me a dazzling smile! Her eyes shone as if someone had lit a candle inside her. ‘I love that shop!’ she said, clapping her hands together. ‘My girlfriend Lil shops there. She loves shoes – we both do.’
Girlfriend? So Janey was a lesbian, then. I’d never met a lesbian before. Suddenly, in my head, I was back with my knees in the soil, gazing in at the woman who was riding my naked husband. And just for a moment – you won’t believe this, Kitten – I replaced Henry with Janey, so that she was the one with the big long cock, except it was one of those strap-ons, I suppose. And in this daydream, as the lithe woman bounced away, Janey turned and glared at me – but it was a sexy glare, an ‘I want you’ glare. Dear God. The thought of it made me flood.
Janey took a sip from the Jessica Rabbit mug, and I sat back, glancing down at her feet, and asked her to show me her shoes. She raised a leg, revealing a light-blue baseball boot. What a letdown! I raised an eyebrow. ‘D’you wear those when you’re studying the history of the stiletto?’
‘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