Confessions of a Kinky Divorcee by Lana Fox Read Free Book Online

pussy heat and fill. I feel like grinding my groin against the chair I’m sitting on – grinding and grinding until I come. In fact, just the thought makes me revolve my hips a little and the pleasure is such a relief that I grip the seat of the chair. ‘Touch yourself,’ he moans.
    I’m sorely tempted. ‘It wouldn’t be professional,’ I say.
    ‘That’s what makes it fun,’ he says. ‘God, I’m so close to shooting off.’
    And without even thinking, I’m trailing my fingers up my stockings and beneath my skirt again – except this time I hitch my skirt up a little in order to burrow deeper, and there I am, sitting in Pussyfoot Shoes, with my thighs spread and my fingers rubbing my pussy through the gusset of my knickers, softly at first, and then faster, faster.
    ‘That’s it,’ he says, softly, his voice like a soft roar. ‘I can tell you’re doing it. Your breathing’s changed.’
    ‘Where … are you going to … come?’ I gasp, right at the brink of climax.
    ‘Oh, God,’ he moans, ‘oh, sweet, fucking God.’
    ‘Say it,’ I plead, so close to climax that it hurts.
    ‘All over your shoes,’ he moans, and then he shouts out, ‘All over your fucking feet!’ and suddenly he’s groaning, out of control, all ‘yes’ and ‘God’ and ‘holy fuck’ and ‘sweet Jesus’ and ‘oh, oh, oh’.
    And suddenly, I imagine him walking through the door and finding me there, with my thighs spread, rubbing my pussy as I stare at him, and he glares at me, all lust and power, and unzips his trousers before grasping his cock and jerking away at it, before stumbling towards me as he comes all over my shoes, covering my stockinged feet in a stream of warm liquid. And suddenly, I’m tipping into an unhinged orgasm that arcs and floods and makes me cry out, grasping the chair with my free hand.
    And you know what he says, Kitten, as I sink back, panting and amazed? He says, ‘You are the hottest woman to ever have graced a pair of high heels.’ And though my whole face flushes, I smile.
    7.15 p.m.
    I’m on the bus, on my way home, and the weather’s still hopeless. Plus my afternoon wasn’t exactly a walk in the park. After the sizzling phone sex with Guy, I felt as if I’d tainted the shop. When customers eventually came in, I felt unprofessional, sleazy and corrupt. I was certain I smelled of sex, even though I’d soaped myself down, and my patter wasn’t as smooth as normal. Then Guy called me and said he wanted to buy me the shoes I’d worn, and I accepted – not because I felt I should, but because seeing them there, on the central display, kept making my stomach churn. How could I watch another woman trying them on? I’d feel cheap.
    8.15 p.m.
    So I heated up some soup and had dinner in front of the TV. No sign of Janey. It’s times like these when I kind of miss Henry. I mean, there was always a TV show we’d watch together, chat about it a bit, moan about how improbable the whole lousy plot was. That was Henry all over, though – we got on perfectly when we were complaining about someone that wasn’t one of us. And of course, Gladys works at the pub on Wednesday evenings – she’s only doing the job so she can study half-time in psychology. That’s Gladys for you. Intelligent type.
    Anyhoo, I started worrying about Janey a little. Going out, God knows where, with a girl like Lil? But how silly! Acting like the girl’s mother! (Maybe I need a pet or something. A cat. I’d like a cat.) Still, when I move the magazines out of the way, so I can rest my feet on the coffee table, I notice a battered book with a pic of a platform sandal on the front. It’s called
Shoe: A History
. One of Janey’s study books, I’m guessing. With my feet up, I lie back, letting the aches drain out of my pins, and I open it to a random page and start to read. ‘Yes, limitation was part of the stiletto’s original purpose. By essentially binding the foot, the whole walk and stance of the wearer is