Sally, a different kind of sex.
We all have our foibles, kinks, if you like. Most are harmless and meant for our individual pleasure. Kept in the privacy of our minds and imaginations. Our imagination is limitless, travelling far beyond the realms of possibilities and, in some cases, extremes.
A quick trawl through the internet will provide so much food for thought, ideas that had never entered our heads, and why would they? Models in impossible positions with unnatural attributes. Breasts that would cause major back problems or penises that would require rather too much blood to gain an erection.
I admit it, I have done that trawl many times and been fascinated by the imagination and imagery portrayed in fictitious real-life scenarios. Bunkum! I call bunkum. Our bodies, endless sources of pleasure and pain that they are, are just not designed for some of the more extreme acts one can see. Acts with a dubbed soundtrack. Things like snuff movies are so fake, unless one has access to the dark web. Not a good place to be in. But snuff movies are just one of the regular things offered for our delectation, sexual gratification and amusement, and no humans were harmed in the making.
One becomes bored or inured to porn. Seen one body, seen them all. Visits to porn sites become less attractive and just don’t fire up the required excitement.
I live on my own. My long-term girlfriend moved to Canada to take up a position that was a huge promotion and a hike in salary. It was a no-brainer for her, offering financial security and an attractive pension to boot. Ours was a tearful farewell at Gatwick. My last sight of her was her retreating back as she went through the gate, pulling her travel case behind her. Ours had been a nice relationship. Nice? Well, it had been comfortable. I guess we were more friends with benefits than in love. It suited us both to share an apartment and a bed.
Loneliness crept up on me. Not at first, but perhaps two or three weeks after Abigail had left and not called to say she had arrived okay, or what her new living arrangements were like, not even her job. I missed her, pure and simple. Coming home to a ready meal with no chatter, no shared bottle of wine. No cuddles while watching something banal on television. Abigail had moved on. I needed to do the same.
I met Sally on a dating app, “more fish” or something like that. Chatting online was pleasant enough. Her avatar looked nice in a girl-next-door kind of way. She was thirty-five, slim with a five feet five height. Of course, anonymity in chatrooms is rife, a bit like a curriculum vitae is littered with expansive half-truths. Based on fact but with embellishments. It seemed that we were virtual neighbours inasmuch as she was in the same county, about five miles away from me, on the outskirts of London.
Over a few months of nightly chatting and trying to find out more about each other, like a pair of sleuths, we broached the subject of meeting up. A drink, perhaps, to see how we liked each other, in the flesh, so to speak. Sally had been married to a career soldier. His transition from the army to civilian life hadn’t gone well for him. The bottle soon became his best friend, which ruined their marriage and left them broke. Sally needed a job and a fresh start to survive. Her husband just disappeared, out of her life.
We arranged to meet at Costa Coffee. A public place, reasonably safe. I appreciated her caution in meeting a stranger. At my advice, she had told one of her friends where she was going, at what time and the name I had given her. I hadn’t lied, my name is Jonathan, the one I was born with.
The door swung shut behind me, shutting out the noise of traffic and hundreds of conversations. The smell of the coffee was enticing. It was rammed in there. Seems like half of Bromley had had the same idea and descended on the outlet in Market Square at the same time. I didn’t see her. Or at least, I didn’t see the familiar face from the screen. It was stupid of me not to get her number so that we could call upon arrival. I berated my ineptitude and resigned myself to a wasted trip.
Armed with an iced latte with sugar-free caramel, I sought a table. None were to be had at the ground-floor level, so I gingerly went down the steep steps to the lower level. There she was, sitting alone in the corner. I smiled. I smiled in relief that she was there and that she had recognised me.
“Sorry I’m late,” I said as I took the seat opposite her and put my cup on the table.
“You aren’t. I was early.” I detected a slight accent in her voice and logged it away for future conversation. She smiled back.
I stuck out my hand across the table. “Jonathon. Very nice to meet you at last.”
“Sally. Likewise, good to finally meet you too.” She took my hand. We shook. Her skin felt smooth and cool.
“So, Sally can wait.” Dredging up a lyric as an icebreaker. It was lame, but she smiled at my attempt at being funny. ‘Seriously, thank you for waiting and thanks for agreeing to meet.”
“I’ll be honest, I was a little nervous about meeting up. We don’t know each other or what to expect. But I hope it works out okay.” I noticed she had a habit of biting her lower lip, perhaps a nervous trait, I thought. I might exude confidence, a man about town, perhaps or of the world. But inside, I admit, I was nervous too. Nervous at the possibility of a connection. Nervous that she wouldn’t find me repulsive. Worried that she might just bolt out on me.
“I’m sure it will be fine. Give us a chance to get to know each other and see how it goes from there.” Sally is attractive, I thought to myself. Well kept, nicely dressed, and her hair had, obviously, been done recently. It’s hard to pick up smells in such circumstances where coffee is the main olfactory ingredient, but I thought I caught a whiff of perfume, which was quite pleasant.
Chatting was just too hard in the noisy confines of the coffee shop. The hubbub drowned out our attempts. With mutual agreement, we decided to escape and go for a walk.
The Glades, a shopping precinct in Bromley, with far too many shops moving out. The rates were exorbitant, which left quite a few empty slots, boarded up and notices of yet another telephone shop opening soon, plastered on the boards. The centre had not recovered from the closing of ‘Debenhams’, which used to occupy three floors.
Despite the sparsity of window displays and functioning shops, the concourse is cool and quite busy. Not too cold, just comfortable. Seating is provided down the spine of the arcade. We found one of those and sat to talk, uninterrupted and ignored by the passersby.
“So, Sally, tell me all about yourself.’
“Not much to tell, really.” I doubted that and encouraged her to open up a bit, wanting to know all about her life and who she was.
“I grew up in Caterham. It’s a small town in Surrey, everyone knows everyone, and it’s a nice place to be. Then we moved to Croydon, a complete contrast. I hated it. Hated school with all the bullying and tedious lessons. Hated the uniform and the teachers. I met Dave when I was eighteen. We clicked and got married at twenty. Getting away from the parents was the best thing I had done, up until then. I did the math, Twentynine or thirty, perhaps. A couple of years younger than me.
“Being an army wife, we moved around a lot, depending on Dave’s posting. We decided not to have kids; it wouldn’t have been fair to keep uprooting them from country to country. It got worse when Dave was promoted to Gunnery Sergeant. He was rarely home. And then, when he left the army, he became a drunkard. Drank all our savings and nigh on killed himself. I couldn’t take any more of it and left him. He was a mean drunk.”
She told her story without emotion, as if she were citing a movie ***********. But, at the same time, I could see the hurt and pain she had endured. It was apparent in her eyes, which became a little watery. What could I say that would help her? Nothing came to mind.
“So, that’s my story.” She paused. “Now it’s your turn.”
“Born in Dorking, lived in West Kingsdown, went to Warwick University and got a job in finance. I live on my own after Abigail left.”
“Abigail?”
“Long-term girlfriend who moved to Canada for a job. We were together for five years or so.” No, kids didn’t want them, too much of an encumbrance and responsibility. No pets, just an apartment in Southeast London. I don’t own a car, never needed one, although I did pass my test. Learning to cook. Oh! And I play golf at the weekends. That’s me in a nutshell. Pretty boring really.”
“Did you love her?” Her head tilted to one side.
“Not really, it was just convenient, comfortable if you like. She cooked, I ate, and we had a few laughs. Our holidays were a bit special. Perhaps I’ll tell you about them another time.”
“Will there be another time?” Her head remained tilted to one side. Endearing, I thought.
“I very much hope there will be Sally, and thank you for telling me your story; it couldn’t have been easy. Would you like to meet again?”
She paused for a moment before answering, “Yes, I would like that.”
“How about dinner? What do you like?”
“Proper Chinese. Not the takeaway stuff. Proper food cooked there and then at the table.”
Have you been to the Chinese on the Greenwich Peninsula? Can’t remember the name of it. Their sea bass with lemon grass and spring onions is to die for. Cooked in front of you and served right from the skillet.”
“Will you take me there?” Her eyes lit up at the prospect.
“Sure, when are you free?”
We arranged to meet up on Friday.
The meal was as good as I had hyped it up to be. The walk along the riverside was amazing, under the festooned lights, heading towards Greenwich and the Cutty Sark, a copper-bottomed tea clipper ship with three masts. It sits in a dry dock and can be seen if you watch the London marathon. Our conversation covered just about every topic imaginable. Religion, politics, history (there is a lot of it in Greenwich) and our wants and desires. I hadn’t noticed that she had her arm tucked into mine with her breast pressed against my upper arm. We dropped into the Trafalgar Inn and had a drink, looking into each other’s eyes over the glass of wine we each had.
It was romantic and the start of a romance. We didn’t use the chat room any more to communicate, preferring “FaceTime” and “Zoom”. We both admitted that we entered the website because we were lonely. Our meetings went from once weekly to two or three times, always in public spaces. I guess she still had reservations and was being careful. Understandable, given her history with her husband.
Inevitably, we arranged to meet at her place to go out for a meal. Hers is a small apartment in Eltham, very near Eltham Palace. She lives on the ground floor of a converted house. Neat and tidy were the first impressions of the flat. Not overly furnished, nothing out of place. My perusal was done while she got herself ready. I had declined the offer of a drink, wanting to be clear-headed for the evening. The evening went well. The food was okay at best, but being with her made up for the mediocre fare.
And then I saw her home, as a gentleman should, and accepted her invitation to a nightcap.
“Just be a minute.” She said over her shoulder as she shut her bedroom door.
I spent the time looking at her photos on the self-unit. Pictures of her and, I assumed, Dave, in various locations.
Sally came back into the living room. Her clothes had transformed into something diaphanous, and it was all I could do not to splutter at her near-nakedness. The garment was virtually see-through. Panties covered her modesty, but that was it. No bra covered her petite breasts with dark aureoles, high on her chest. All she wore other than the camisole and panties was a smile, enigmatic and enthralling. I was hooked. Hooked like a pike with a treble hook in its mouth. She stood a little away from me, giving me the chance to drink in her body and her beauty. Sally had let loose her hair, auburn and cascading to mid shoulder length.
Like that pike, my mouth opened and closed, as if gasping for breath.
“Let’s go to bed.” I nodded at her invitation, transfixed.
We made love as one does when such a delicious invitation is made. Sally was trim with firm tits, a flat stomach and a neatly trimmed pubis. She tasted wonderful as my tongue delved into her folds or feasted on her erect nipples. Our hands seemed to have a driving force of their own, touching, exploring and learning the topography of each other’s bodies.
It wasn’t hurried or frenetic when we eventually joined at the hip, my cock deep inside her as her Kegel muscles massaged my length. It was a very nice experience, very satisfying as I climaxed within her and her nails dug into my back. I thought she may have got off, but couldn’t be entirely certain. Sally had made very little noise throughout the whole thing. So, I asked her if it was okay for her.
“Um, it was okay, but I have a special way to get there.” She said. “Would you like to see?” She dived out of bed before I could answer. Of course, I wanted to see and was intrigued by what her special way of climaxing might be. Sally had gone into the bathroom but soon returned with an open-ended glass tube, about eight inches in length, with a flexible hose attached at the closed end.
She lay back down next to me, on her back. With no more ado, the open end of the tube was held tight against her pussy, and her other hand began to pump a hand device that was sucking out the air from the eight-inch tube. The effect of the vacuum pulled her lips into the tube, extending them to impossible proportions. She continued to pump the device, drawing her lips even further. I was mesmerised to say the least. I had never seen the like before.
“Open the drawer next to you.” She said, breathlessly. “Take out the small pink dildo and put it on my belly.”
A short rummage found the article alongside several other toys that may or may not vibrate.
After several more pumps, her lips had swollen and suffused with blood. A thin liquid that dribbled from between her lips had collected near where the tube was pressed tightly to her distended pussy lips. After several more pumps, her lips had swollen impossibly, it seemed. She pulled it off with a wet slurp and proudly displayed her vulva, bloated and stretched beyond what I thought to be comfortable. My cock was trying to tell me that this was the most erotic scene I had ever witnessed. Rigid and wanting, it pointed at her.
She dropped the tube and grasped the small vibrator. The thin liquid poured out of the tube onto the bedspread.
“This is how I get off.” She said while the pointed end of the toy poked at her sex between distended lips that resembled a baboon’s arse. Blood engorged and very red. A finger dragged up the extended hood, showing her inner vagina, gaping and looking cavernous. Slowly, she pushed the toy into her urethra and began to push it in and out. And, just like that, Sally came with a crashing climax that soaked her pouting lips, the bed and some over my leg. It had to hurt like hell, I thought. It certainly didn’t look comfortable as the little pink latex toy sank into her by about three inches. Piss issued from around the pink intrusion. Just a small rivulet that ran down to soak the bed below her arse.
“Are you grossed out?’ She asked as her breathing began to normalise. “That is where I want your cock. Do me in the piss hole.” Such profanity from her. A very different Sally was lying beside me, her fingers going to work on her bloated lips.
I tried but without success. I must have been too wide in girth to fit into something that wasn’t designed for such treatment. I fucked her, feeling the extra friction of those extended lips and the warmth they emitted. My load didn’t take long to empty into her depths. Seeing her pull and rub while I fucked her had the desired effect on me.
She finished herself off with the small vibrator, pushing it back into her urethra, screaming she was coming, her legs pumping spasmodically.
Afterwards, my curiosity piqued, I asked how she got into sounding like that. I had seen women push small objects into themselves, sounding they call it. But nothing quite as large as her little toy, with perhaps an inch in diameter.
She lay on her back, pussy lips still swollen, proud and bright red. Her legs were wide apart.
“It was something Dave introduced me to while he was stationed in Germany. He and some other squaddies watched a live show, and he thought it might be a good idea. It hurt like fucking hell the first time he pushed a finger in there. Over time, I got used to it and began to like it very much. The feeling is indescribable, so much more than in my cunt. Then bought a toy for me. For the days that Dave was away on manoeuvres. Gradually, the toys got bigger until the one you just saw. Sex is okay. Rewarding even, but for me to orgasm fully, that is what I need. I hope you aren’t grossed out too much.”
I noticed her pussy lips were still very swollen and very red. The question came unbidden.
“How long will your pussy stay like that?’
“A day or so. It makes me really, really horny, having my panties rub on my cunt when I’m at work.” Her language shocked me a little. Until tonight, Sally hadn’t uttered any profanity at all. “Sometimes, it’s all I can do to stop myself from rubbing one out from the friction and stimulation having big pussy lips gives me. Having my lips trapped between my legs with my panties splitting my crack as I walk can get me off. I love the feeling.”
“I have to say, it was the most erotic thing I have ever seen. Perhaps I could fuck you with the dildo. I will do you want.”
“Another time. I’m done for tonight. Do you want to stay over?”
I did stay over, and then the next night and the next. Sally, with her peculiarity, had ensnared me. I wasn’t so keen on sounding my dick; it was uncomfortable, even with copious amounts of lube. We agreed that it wasn’t to be.
Over time and many ministrations with her fingers stretching her urethra, Sally trained herself enough that I could get my cock into her with a lot of lubrication. The feeling, for me, of being sheathed in such a tight hole is indescribable and one sure to get off in short order. The effect on Sally is nothing short of tumultuous. She would blast an orgasm, the like I had not witnessed before in a woman, wild, ferocious and then, a copious drenching of the bed as her bladder emptied of urine and my cum. It fascinated me, watching her vent her bladder and seeing the white globules I’d left in her being washed out at the same time.
We had to get a rubber sheet; otherwise, we would be buying new mattresses every few weeks. A new bed was just one of the things we had to buy as we set up our forever home.
That accent I had detected was from the West Country. She had picked it up after living there for a few years. I think it was something of an affectation. Nice though.
We each have our foibles. We can always learn new ones.