Read the Opening of “Confessions of a Kinky Divorcee” by Lana Fox (Sex Scene included)

Courtesy of Mischief Books

Courtesy of Mischief Books

This free sample contains explicit detail and is for adults only. 

Chapter One

Pussyfooting

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?

Thanks for reading!  To buy the rest of the novel at a mere $1.99 (US) or 99 p (UK)…

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