Sally, a Different Style of Sex
by Robin
Copyright© 2025 by Robin
Erotica Sex Story: Jonathon and Sally, two lonely people, meet online and then, in person. Sally has a peculiar way to reach orgasm.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Heterosexual Fiction Sex Toys .
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 script. 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.
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