Free Confessions of a Kinky Divorcee by Lana Fox

brighten. ‘Yes, I can see that in you! You’re adventurous. Like your choice in shoes.’
    I stretched out my foot to stare at the tiger-print stilettos, which, I might add, were looking stunning, teamed with flesh-toned stockings and my fitted black dress with the lacy trim. I could see his gaze lingering, so I lowered my foot – I didn’t want to destroy this moment. ‘I’m a freethinker, too.’
    ‘You don’t say!’ he says with a smile and a sideways look.
    I slap his arm.
    And with that I’m sinking beneath his weight like some 50s starlet, and his hard on is pressing down on my belly, and my hands are exploring his wonderful backside. ‘I haven’t undressed you yet,’ I murmur, when he comes up for air.
    With a slick grin, he undoes his belt and swishes it from his jeans so it hangs from his hand like a whip.
    I laugh. ‘Careful, cowboy.’
    He drops the belt to the floor. And soon he’s unzipping the back of my dress, and laying damp little kisses down the side of my neck, and I unbutton his shirt, and I slide off his jeans, and I straddle him in his boxers as he wrestles me out of my bra. He insists that I keep my shoes and stockings on, and I have to admit, I’m relieved by this – I love to have him worshipping my shoes. Besides, he’s mad about my legs and feet, and can’t stop running his fingers over my glossy stocking-tops. ‘What shall we start with?’ he asks, as I sit astride him.
    I tell him I’d like to do it just like this. Me in his lap; riding up and down. He agrees – and it’s stupid, I know, but I’m so proud that I’ve brought the condom that I’m feeling rosy-cheeked as I slide it onto him. And oh, when he clasps my hips and pulls me right onto him, I feel him filling every inch of me. I also realise that this was how Henry took the bowler-hatted girl … while I was watching at the window … and I can’t help imagining Janey sitting beneath me with a wonderful black silicone toy. Oh, my! I’m so wet as I fantasise, my hips working harder, my breath coming in starts, that he feels like he’s slicked with oil. And he must be a mind-reader because, once I’m close to climax, he whispers, ‘If there was someone else here, Deborah, would it be a man or a woman?’
    And I say, ‘Guess!’
    And he says, ‘A woman.’
    So I blurt out something – I don’t know what – because mentioning Janey makes me hornier than ever. And my breasts are suddenly Janey’s breasts as I rub and pinch the nipples, and she’s there, beneath me, groaning, gasping and crying, ‘Deborah, baby …’ And that’s when I come too, riding Guy, my hips lunging by themselves, because they’re faster and more desperate than my poor befuddled mind. And it’s as if a wild light is filling every cell of me: I’m firelit and crazy for what seems like an age.
    When I flop on top of him, mumbling, ‘You haven’t come yet, have you?’ Guy says, ‘No, angel, but I won’t take long.’ Then he makes me lie along the couch, while he kneels above me, holding my ankle, pulling my shoe against him, my stiletto heel pressing into his balls, while he fucks my shoe – yes, fucks my shoe – yanking it against himself, before coming in an impressive surge that spurts and showers and spatters my body. And he keeps crying, ‘Fucking your … fucking your … shoes’ right to the very last surge.
    It doesn’t feel very intimate, Kitten. He’s interested in my feet, really. I didn’t see him look up once. But guys are afraid of that sort of thing – you know, intimacy, closeness, bonding, right? And afterwards, he lies on top of me and whispers in my ear, ‘I come so hard with you. So fucking hard. You’re one hell of a woman. Christ, I’m a lucky boy.’
    So here I am now, up in his bed, because he insisted that I stay. And we showered together and he kissed me good night, all sparkly and sweet. But by the time I’d managed to clean the semen off my shoes, he was on his back and snoring. Well, I