Confessions of a Kinky Divorcee
Lana Fox

For Angela

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

Marilyn Monroe

Table of Contents

Title Page

Dedication

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

More from Mischief

About Mischief

Copyright

About the Publisher

Chapter One
Pussyfooting

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 …

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 to her page in my copy of Fashion Femme. ‘Don’t you go using your secret shame as an excuse to flee. Whatever you’ve been repressing, now’s the time to heal it. Come out, come out, come out! Commit to being you.’

Well, that’s Evita. Sometimes, I wonder if, when she looks at the night sky, the stars spell out words that I just can’t see.

Shameful secret number two: when I went to bed last night, I left my peep-toe shoes by the front door, like I often do. The last thing I expected was what I saw, next morning. There I was, about to walk down the stairs, when I noticed Janey Prince in the entrance hall below me, kneeling on the carpet, wearing nothing but a black T-shirt. She was totally in profile, so I could see the swell of her bum from beneath the black fabric, and her long, slender legs. In her hands she was holding one of my black peep-toe shoes, turning it, gazing at it, running a fingertip down the stiletto heel. I caught my breath, but she can’t have heard, because she turned the shoe upside down and raised it to eye-level. She stared at the heel for a while before putting her face close and licking the length of it, slowly, giving a rough little growl.

Now, it’s not like me to pussyfoot around watching others, but heavens, it was Janey who was invading my space, right? Oh, but I was mesmerised, Kitten, standing there in my dressing gown, my heart thumping away, wet between my thighs. What if she licked my heel like that while I was wearing the shoes? What if she lay on the floor, and I slid the heel between her lips and made her, you know, suck it? What if she writhed around, enjoying every inch? And what if this turned me on so much that the moisture slid down my thighs, while she stared at me, lustfully, as I slid that heel in and out?

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?

Chapter Two
A Well-Heeled Guy

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.

‘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).

‘You’re insufferable,’ he tells me, but he’s smiling a little, and his gaze softens thoughtfully as he cups the side of my jaw. ‘I’ve been trying to find a woman like you for a very long time.’

Bingo, Kitten. I beam away. ‘In that case,’ I add, ‘you won’t mind if I take a rain-check on the staying over?’ I explain that I haven’t been with a man since my husband dumped me, and Guy’s immediate response is to pull me into a hug. Totally unexpected from Mr Suave! ‘Of course I understand,’ he says, gently. ‘I’m sorry if my sex-patter makes me seem like a bastard. I can be very patient, I promise.’ And just as I get a lump in my throat, because I can’t remember how long it’s been since a man was actually sweet to me, I find he’s taking my face in his hands and kissing me on the mouth – it’s a soft-firm smoulder of a kiss that tastes of Thai ice cream. It’s been years since someone kissed me with such hunger and affection. And phew, I tell ya, I could get used to this, Kitten! I enjoy it so much that when he pulls back I must look like an idiot with my gob hanging open and my eyes all bugged. He smiles before lifting my hand and kissing it. ‘Promise you’ll take that taxi,’ he says. And, before I know it, he’s walking away.

I get a cab home, and when I arrive there’s a woman sitting on my doorstep in nothing but a loosely buttoned shirt that only just covers the tops of her thighs. She’s petite and tanned, with a black Cleopatra bob, and she’s smoking a cigarette with her slender legs crossed. At her side is a saucer – from my rambling rose set! – filled with cigarette butts. She’s clearly been out here a while. She’s a stunning girl and I’m transfixed for a while before realising the front door is ajar. I’ll bet the hallway is filling with smoke – it’ll take me a year to get that out of the curtains.

‘Hi,’ she says, on an exhale. ‘You must be Deborah.’

‘And you’re Lil,’ I say.

‘Jackpot,’ she says, turning her gaze away. And you know, I don’t like her, Kitten. She’s sullen, this one. To a girl with that kind of attitude, eye-rolls come as easy as pie.

‘We don’t smoke in this house,’ I say.

She sighs, slowly raising her gaze. ‘That’s why I’m outside.’

I ask where Janey is and she says, ‘How should I know?’ before drawing on her cigarette again and saying, ‘Look, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude. We’ve fought is all.’ She watches me as she rises to her feet and shakes my hand. Her fingers are slender and cold. ‘Janey’s watching a movie. Her kind of movie.’

‘Right,’ I say. ‘Well, I’m sure you’ll sort it out.’

‘Oh,’ she says, ‘I’m sure I will.’

On the way in, I make a point of closing the door. And you know what, Kitten? I don’t bother to do it quietly.

In the living-room, Janey is asleep along the brown leather sofa, in the most lovely nightwear I’ve ever seen. Her tiny shorts are made of grey silk with polka dots all over them, and her matching top has spaghetti straps – one of which has slipped down her arm – and a trim of black lace. On the TV, a film plays along. There are gunshots and witty quips, but I take no notice. All I can see is this beautiful girl curled up on her side, an arm draped over the edge of the couch, loosely holding the remote control. Her skin is white as a pearl and, with her legs bent up towards her belly, her tiny shorts can’t quite contain her buttocks. Honestly, they’re so smooth and tight and curved that all I can think of is running my hands up her thigh and exploring that beautiful behind. And there’s something so miraculous about the past few days – what with Guy asking me out, and Janey moving in – that I go a little zany. Down I sit on the sofa next to her, and, leaning over the bottom half of her body, I gently stroke a loose strap back into place. She doesn’t even stir, though her breath changes a little and she makes a tiny moan.

Oh, dear God! Burning to touch more of her, I whisper, ‘Janey?’ and when I get no response I rest a hand on her waist. When this doesn’t wake her, I slide my palm round the dip of her hip, down to her perfect buttock, and I gently stroke her there, exploring the tight flesh. Oh, Kitten! I’m an abuser! I’m guilty of assault! But my pussy is burning so powerfully as I stroke and explore that I can’t seem to stop, and Janey lets out more little moans of pleasure – obviously she thinks I’m Lil. And she even whispers, ‘Oh, God, spank me,’ as she rolls onto her front – and even though it’s nothing more than a dreamy murmur, I’ve never felt so turned on in my whole darn life, especially when the flimsy shorts ride up between her bum cheeks and I can see her buttocks perfectly, rounded and ready.

Now, thank heaven you’re only a notebook, Kitten, because what I did next is dreadful. But I promised to tell you everything, so here goes. I part my knees and slip my fingers up between my thighs and rub myself through my lacy knickers as I imagine slapping Janey’s bum. Just the thought of her lying across me while I lay right into her, making her eyes brighten as she claws my skirt, crying, ‘Yes, yes, yes,’ is enough to make me come in mere seconds, arching and groaning as the orgasm swallows me.

As I collapse back, stunned at myself, I hurriedly try to make myself decent, but Janey is still sleeping, thank God. So I sneak away, devastated at what I’m turning into. Tonight I said no to a man who actually wanted to bed me, and came home to assault my twenty-three-year-old tenant.

I’m turning into a pervert. And I need to take action right now.

So upstairs, in my bedroom, I tell myself, ‘Never again,’ and I vow that, tomorrow, I’ll make plans to meet Guy for dinner and this time we’ll screw one another. Then I won’t think of assaulting Janey Prince again because Guy is a man with a cock – and men with cocks are the only thing I’m into. Really, deep down, I’m a man’s kind of girl.

2.30 a.m.

I can’t sleep, Kitten. All I want is to touch my poor pussy, thinking of Janey’s buttocks. But that’s as bad as touching her again without her permission. And I’m not going to do that, I promise, Kitten. This shoe shop manager had a strange, twisted blip, but she’s committed to becoming respectable again. And so, Kitten, goodnight.

Chapter Four
In His Shoes

Wednesday, 7 March

Dear Kitten,

Today was – and still is – grey and rainy. And who buys shoes on a rainy day? Answer: an elderly woman who has a funeral to dress for and shakes her stick when you suggest court heels. I thought elderly people were usually polite, but since I’ve been working at Pussyfoot I’ve met all types. So, by the time lunch break came, I was relieved to meet Gladys for lunch at the Spring Onion Café. It’s our favourite place because it’s never too crowded – plus their baked potatoes are to die for. Turns out, Gladys is making the most of reverting to being a meat-eater by stuffing her face full of sausages, no less. ‘You’ll starve,’ she tells me as I dip into my baked potato. ‘You need some extra weight,’ she says, glancing at my waistline.

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