Sally Ann Dorchester & Lucy
I met Sally-Ann on an internet dating site. She was blonde (always does it for me), slim but appeared to have breasts; lived within an hour’s drive; older than me; had a degree; likes the quiet life; recently, given up smoking; ‘intimacy was important’.
So, I summarised to myself, a woman who was hot in the bedroom; available at short notice; will fancy me; intelligent; does not shout; firm resolve not fickle in dating & knows how to have good sex.
I chatted, confidently, on the telephone a few times, because, as they always do: she liked my voice. I have to let it not get too high pitched with excitement but otherwise I was good to go.
Sally-Ann lived in Shoreham, so we planned a date in Brighton but she invited me round to her house to pick her up on the way.
I showered very carefully… all over… twice. We met down the road from a pub restaurant and had dinner and a couple of beers. I was very pleased, Sally-Ann had an older face but a younger body and a cool Joseph multi-coloured hippy long coat & Dr Who scarf.
Almost as soon as we were seated, she announced that she would not have sex with me. I did not have a prepared reply for such an abrupt, blunt statement of fact but she continued ‘not tonight but definitely tomorrow’.
I relaxed & I think we laughed all night about anecdotes that always sounded better after a beer. I hardly cared what the difference was between today & tomorrow. I was so excited that I hardly slept & recalled how I could not sleep when looking forward to collecting my first bicycle. I guess girls & bicycles might have a lot in common.
I did not know the protocol & feeling a little less confident, I called Sally-Ann and made a date to visit Brighton rather than a date for sex as promised. When I arrived, Sally-Ann said she did not really like people and thought Brighton might be too busy.
Relieved & happy to have found some common ground so soon, I agreed that I was perhaps a bit agoraphobic too and preferred quieter places although Central London had so many attractions that the effect of crowds dissipated without effort.
I suggested a quiet drink somewhere then Sally-Ann replied we may as well stay at hers, opened her fridge and offered me a beer. I recall being surprised at how many bottles of beer there were in her fridge. She was, evidently, well organised & always prepared for every eventuality. We shared a beer.
We seemed to laugh all the time except when I was desperately trying to work out how to initiate sex.
I had had so little experience at successful seduction. After my divorce, I found a girlfriend from a newspaper classifieds advert. Seduction was a lunchtime drinking session followed by an attempt to return to work. I have always been practical foremost. My boss suggested it might be a good idea if I were to take the afternoon off since I, clearly, would not be getting anything done.
So, seduction continued with evening drinking, more easy laughter then a slight-of-hand grasped kiss.
It is definitely French when your tongues are fighting; your bodies are pressing and you don’t care who might be watching. So without a seduction plan, I focused on beer amongst small talk. It was a strong German pilsner, I was soon slurring.
Sally-Ann asked me what I would most like to do with the afternoon. I, briefly, pondered my reply of ‘sex’ then suggested a foot massage as the nearest but equally asexual act claiming I had some experience.
Sally-Ann readily agreed “shall we go up to my bedroom then?”.
Super, I must be on the right track. Sally-Ann excused herself and went to the bathroom first as I cursed myself for failing to have the balls & nous to bring an emergency toothbrush. I cleaned my teeth as best I could on her bed sheets and tissues. Sally-Ann quickly returned without having had time to even pee.
“Shall I take my jeans off?” she half smiled.
‘Definitely, like all good things, a good massage needs easy access’, I touchéd.
I asked her to lie on her front & began with softly caressing all over both sides of her pink feet then a firmer massage to the sole to avoid any arousal dousing tickling. After a few twinges of hand cramp, I migrated my massaging up the backs of her legs. Her calves were firm but soft of a ‘don’t get out much’ lily white complexion.
There were no complaints so I moved my hands all the way up her legs to accidentally brush her bottom. As I became more adventurous, I twisted and rolled and stroked out perpendicular lines up her legs but curving around her bottom and into the crevice of her crotch before hastily returning to a firm foot massage to preempt any objections, however, there were none except a suggestion that she had never had a foot massage on her front and that she would roll over.
I was on a roll too and I continued caressing up her legs ever so lightly over her crotch and back to give her special toes full attention. I was enjoying it too, having not felt a woman for some time.
Eventually, there was a small sigh and Sally-Ann got up and suggested beer. Whilst bevering in her fridge, she claimed virgin status in that she had never had an orgasm from a foot massage before.
I repeated the words to be sure I had not misheard.”‘Orgasm, from a foot massage… In silence?”
I, desperately, sought a witty come back, but alas, any come back but I found nothing.
‘Oh, I can do that all the time’, I spouted in a line without verification.
‘But I prefer the other orgasms’, she offered, as I boldly went up to her and kissed her, cocking her head to one side with mine and entwining my body around hers as if we were dancing. I kissed my best kiss. I had done a lot of kissing but the quality comes more naturally than simply with practice.
‘I want to give you a different kind of orgasm’, I hushed.
“I thought you’d never ask. Let’s go to bed?”
Sally-Ann had a beautifully slim, toned body, very pale in that attractive English rose way, and nothing to support her fifty plus age but her face was worn, dried from smoking with puffy eyes that reminded me somewhat of a mutated salmon. I closed my eyes and feasted.
We kissed like teenagers on heat. I encouraged her, as best I could, to begin tearing off, or at least undoing, my clothes but that never happened.
“I only have sex naked”. She demanded.
In a flash I was stripped apart from my socks. “… oh, and I don’t allow socks in bed”.
Never mind Buster Crabbe, I began kissing again, hoping to distract any hindrance, in order to gently lay her down on her back, as I prised her legs apart with one knee. I was already big but unsure whether it should know its own way or needed guidance. My tainted experience was (post a five year, sex free marriage) a nymphomaniac girlfriend for whom I was ever an automatic heat seeking rocket.
As if with instruction, Sally-Ann guided me in. I felt very close to her during this mind reading moment. I held on, and dripped sweat on her face, determined to set a good example and make a worthwhile investment but, eventually, the build up went out of control and flooded past Neptune’s gates. I began strumming gently intending to take her over the edge.
“Oh, I don’t want to come again thanks, let’s have some beer”, Sally-Ann remarked chirpily.
We were then sitting out the party in the kitchen, “I suppose you should know”, Sally-Ann went on as she walked from fridge to kettle, “my name is, actually Lucy, “Sally-Ann Dorchester” is just a pen name in cognito that I use on the dating site in case anyone finds out at work”.
I continued to call her Sally-Ann despite my best efforts to please. After all, we had been chatting like that for some time before we met.
It was about this time, when strange things began to materialise like how I realised that all the beer was hers. One more beer later then Lucy revealed quite a ‘success’ swagger on her.
“Do you want to stay the night? Do you snore? If you do, it’s the spare room when we’ve finished.”
That was quite an exciting proposal which made me freeze, plan then grab Sally-Ann’s forearm and drag her upstairs. I began unpeeling her clothes whilst simultaneously dropping my trousers. When I got her jeans off, I left her white lace in place and bent her over the bed. “If we do it that way, I can’t come. I can only come in missionary.” I’d had a lot of missionary and needed a change simply in order to get aroused once more so soon.
I chuckled a quiet “huh!”, pulled her knickers around her thighs to partly restrain her and guided my erection doggy whilst I checked out her ass hole for future planning. I thrust quite hard and quick (after all, if there was no orgasm in it for her, why waste my energy) forcing Sally-Ann to steady herself on the headboard. I reached round to stroke her tush and with my right hand cup her breast and I was done, bursting forth again. I could do nothing but smile. I suggested a beer. I was way drunk now but Sally-Ann was still guzzling bottles so I excused myself & reverted to coffee. As ‘Sal’ went for another beer, I slipped a couple of spoonfuls of sugar into my coffee.
After a few more quips about the unpleasantness of crowded Brighton & I was hard enough to suggest another foot massage. We both ran upstairs, stripping as we went, Sally-Ann lay down on her back- naked- and I proceeded to massage her feet .
“You’re not really giving me another foot massage are you?”, she queried.
“But you said it gave you an orgasm before?”, I replied, as I filled in cells on a mental ‘foreplay algorithms’ spreadsheet.
“Yes, I did but aren’t you going to fuck me? I always come as long as it is in a missionary position.” She detailed.
“Really, you always come, even if it’s real quick?” I sought.
“Pretty much, let’s see how long it takes?” she giggled. I had already parted her white legs before I got onto the bed. I stroked myself a couple of times whilst reaching for some liquid silk and eased myself inside as I simultaneously lubed. I thrust away very steadily trying to observe any change in facial expression. There were none. Just the same baggy tired eyes and a giggling smile. Without a whimper, squeak or huff, Sally-Ann announced that she had orgasmed.
I stopped to wonder why she always used the term ‘orgasm’ rather than ‘come’. I changed up a gear and finished myself off inside her. As I cleaned her up so gently and softly, she piped up with a cheeky smile
“Are you going to come by tomorrow? It’s just that I need to walk the dog right now”. We agreed to part and I would return in the evening with a towel & toothbrush. I, dutifully, returned that evening and planted more seed-more investment it seemed.
Almost as soon as I relaxed about how things were progressing (I had, completely, given up on trying to get her name right), a hurdle emerged. I could easily remember her real name now, but Lucy introduced a new hurdle.
We had made love again during Saturday night & Sunday morning again before & after breakfast- even before beer. I was expecting a report on another silent orgasm when she just came out with it,
“I can’t have sex with you any longer”.
“What?” incredulously then resigning to my fate and feeling it was all too familiar even though it was not,
“… but I thought you had a good orgasm” I retorted with a weak ‘n.l.p.’ lunge, “you always orgasm- what more is there?”.
“It’s God”, she added.
“I’m sure he approves. After all, he designed the whole system.”
“I’m a good Catholic. I can’t have sex unless we’re married. I really enjoy sex with you but we cannot do it again.” I tried to reconcile her logic of the volume of sex we had had over the last three days but I had nothing. “We should get married then we can have sex”.
“O… K… “ I iterated slowly “We can consider that”, I lied, “How soon could we arrange it?”. I was ready to tot up how many more times we could have sex together with the likely quality deterioration determining whether it was worth doing a bunk at the altar.
I wished I had used a false name now too.
“We can get married real quick in a registry office”.
“Or we could fly to Las Vegas & make a holiday of it?” I visualised sex in Vegas hotel elevators with bunny girls keeping us fed for free.
“You would have to agree to a quick divorce”. You have no idea how quick, I thought.
“See… I’m still in love with my husband. He is much older than me so could not fulfil me sexually, so I had to divorce him so that I could have sex but we still have feelings for each other. We have made a pact that when he gets ill, we would marry real quick so that I can inherit everything so you would need to be able to agree to a quick divorce.
My mind raced around all the things that could go wrong with such a plan balanced against the sex which though not great- it lacked passion- was a good fail safe. A low energy option to empty the sacks with someone who was easily pleased. It was, hardly, my fault that she had no idea what an orgasm was nor my duty to educate what would surely be a stubborn militant mule on the idea.
I spent the rest of Sunday massaging feet, licking her front and back, massaging all over into a super relaxed state of frenzy, begging her to get on her knees but settling for a spooning on our sides, so that I could lube and frig myself stiff and jam it into her slightly fingered (so only slightly lubed ass). With a sharp pant, she arched back describing that tell-tale stabbing pain that confirmed that I had hit my goal.:
“Ooh! Only used for elimination. My ass is forbidden by the bible.”
I apologised. I pretended to be mindful of the Lord God’s wishes. We called half time for a beer but by the second whistle, I was awol.
