Go Deeper Press

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.

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.