tagMatureWalking Jean's Dog

Walking Jean's Dog


Now the frosty mornings were becoming less frequent, I had no real excuse for not re-starting my morning jogs around the neighbourhood. I'd walked the route last Sunday morning and the frost patches on which he'd slipped so dangerously in early January were now confined to the shaded edges of the path.

I got dressed in my old sweats, tightly fastened my new running shoes and began to jog up the hill at the rear of my house, keeping my breathing steady. It was a difficult start but it meant that the route led downhill towards the end, so I'd finish at an impressive pace should any of the neighbours be out of bed to witness my return.

Just over the brow of the hill I entered wood that had also become less hazardous underfoot since dog walkers had been targeted and fined for allowing their dogs to foul the pathway. Dogs were rarely off the leash now, so the chances of having your heels bitten were also less, despite the large numbers of dogs being walked here each morning.

I emerged from the wood with my head down, watching my footing as the path sloped downwards and tangled tree roots began protruding through the rain-eroded soil.

I didn't immediately see the large, mongrel dog sitting on the path at the bottom of the hill and when I saw it I would have given it a wide berth had it not been for the fact that its owner was sitting next to it on the cold, damp grass. I slowed down to a walking pace. From the knitted hat and woollen coat it was apparent the dog owner was an old lady and so probably wasn't sitting there out of choice.

"Are you alright?" I wasn't sure whether to whisper or shout the words. She was facing away from me and the dog had hardly reacted to my arrival. It looked pretty ancient itself.

"Ooh it's my ankle. The bloody stupid dog thinks it can still chase rabbits and pulled me down that hill." she laughed bitterly and turned to look up at me. I could see she was in pain and had shed a tear or two of frustration at her plight. "Could you help me up please?" she said and reached a hand up towards me.

Now middle-aged, slightly overweight joggers are not a normal profile for rapists, muggers or murders. It hadn't struck me before but this vulnerable person didn't consider me a threat. I guess there are some benefits to getting older. I helped Jean - as she introduced herself – to her feet, or rather to her foot, as it was clear that she couldn't put any weight on her left ankle.

I put Jean's left arm over my shoulder and, taking the dog's leash out of her hand, placed my right hand on her right side. By lifting her slightly, I subtly demonstrated I could easily take all her fragile weight without humiliating her.

"Right, Jean. Let's get you both home. Which way is it?" I said in the cheerful and practical tone that I'd heard the ambulance guys use on tv hospital soaps.

By a combination of hopping and lifting I got Jean and her pooch to her front door in ten, fifteen minutes. She called her daughter, while I made her a cup of sugary tea. I said that I'd sit with her until her daughter Lucy had arrived. Lucy was both apologetic and grateful and I'd performed the usual male act of attempting to minimise my contribution and making weak jokes before affecting my escape.

Anyone would have done the same. I'd performed a random act of kindness that entailed no obligation on either party. So why did I feel compelled to go round and knock on Jean's door later that week to check if she was ok? In truth it is a curse of polite modern society that it is considered rude not to allow someone you have been kind to, to thank you in the manner of their choosing. No wonder super heroes keep their identities a secret!

Thankfully, Jean did a double take when she opened the door. At least my role in rescuing her from her misfortune hadn't been elevated to hero status through the re-telling.

"It's you! Oh it's kind of you to come around." she said and then, continuing without drawing a breath she asked "Could you take the dog out for 5 minutes? Lucy won't be round for another hour and Max is pacing the floor through here. I don't want him to pee on the carpet again. I'll put the kettle on and make us a pot of tea while you're out."

Whilst I was standing there open-mouthed Jean handed me Max's leash and he burst out of the door, tail wagging and circling me. I bent down, clipped the leash to Max's collar and without a further word I was being dragged off down to the woods by a mightily relieved Max.

I gave the dog five minutes exactly before heading back to Jean's house. She must have seen me coming because the front door opened as soon as we opened the gate. Max trotted into the house and I followed. Jean was heading to the back kitchen on her crutches calling out over her shoulder "Can you bring the tray through? I can't carry a bloody thing with these crutches."

"Of course." I said moving past her into the small kitchen and picking up the tray of tea and biscuits "How long did the doctor say it would take for your ankle to heal?"

"Eight weeks at least! It's a bloody nuisance Peter. And Lucy is already moaning about coming round to walk Max every day." she said dropping onto the sofa and flinging her crutches to one side.

The words were out of my mouth before I thought them through "I'll take him a few times."

"Would you Peter? Oh thank you so much. You're a saviour." Jean said. And so I that was how I began coming round to Jean's mid-morning every day to walk the dog.

After a week Jean sat beaming at me from the sofa when we sat down for the post-walk tea and cake. "I have a present for you." she said and pulled out a sheet of paper.

I lifted the sheet and saw an incredibly good likeness of myself and Max, drawn in pencil. Man and dog were walking through Jean's gate at the end of a tiring walk. Max with tail up and me smiling warmly. "I'm sure that smile's the result of large helping of artistic licence." I thought uncharitably, but then caught myself. "Jean, this is really fantastic. Thank you so much. I didn't realise you were an artist."

"My ex-husband was an artist. I was his muse, his model – until I got too old." she said with a sigh "But he taught me some technique and I do enjoy it. It makes my current confinement just about bearable if I'm honest."

I hadn't noticed before but the art on the walls resembled a younger Jean in various poses. "Are these all of you?" I said feeling stupid not to have noticed earlier.

"Yes I got them as part of the divorce settlement and a lot more besides." Jean said with a smirk.

I looked from the paintings of the pretty young woman to Jean on the sofa and saw the same clear blue eyes, the same high cheekbones and the same straight carriage of the shoulders and despite the grey hair and wrinkles around the eyes and neck, you could see the beauty that Jean had once been.

It was if Jean could read my mind "I was a bit of a 'looker' wasn't I?" she said with a smile. I nodded and smiled.

"I'll dig out some of his sketches if you'd have the time to see them tomorrow." Jean said. "Lucy will be here in half an hour and she doesn't like me talking about her dad, so forgive me for making you wait a day." she teased.

The morning jogs I took before going round to Jean's each day had become proper runs. I'd bought a proper running shirt and some lycra running pants and I have to say, my thighs had begun looking pretty muscular in them. Perhaps I was half hoping to bump into a sporty woman who, on the sight of my ass in tight lycra would immediately want to have sex with me in the woods. It hadn't happened yet.

I was sweating after a vigorous five mile run by the time I reached Jean's to pick up the dog. "Going out?" I said when I met Jean at the door. She was wearing a thin cream blouse and a straight black skirt and her hair had been nicely styled. The resemblance to the pretty girl in the paintings was even more apparent.

"No." she said with an enigmatic smile and held out the leash to me.

When I opened the gate to Max I looked back and could have sworn that lady in her mid-sixties was checking out my ass. I chuckled to myself as I jogged at a pedestrian pace, an aging Max already panting and struggling to keep up.

When I returned to the house Jean had managed to bring the tea tray through to the lounge by herself. The floor and coffee table was covered with drawing paper and Jean patted the sofa next to her so she could pass me the sketches and paintings in the order she'd chosen.

The first few drawings were much like those on the walls, preliminary sketches she said they were. As she was lifting the sketches and passing them to me I caught a glimpse of a vivid oil painting on the table. Unmistakably it was Jean and she was looking upwards above the artist's head, her blouse was drawn open and her breasts exposed. When my when my brain registered what I'd just glimpsed, my cock stirred and thickened in an automatic reflex under the thin lycra of my tight running pants.

Jean took an age getting to the beautiful semi-nude paining of herself. "This was one of my favourites." she said finally. "But Lucy doesn't like me to have it on display." Jean held the beautiful painting of herself in front of us both for much longer than the other paintings. I felt compelled to comment.

"It's very beautiful Jean." I said half embarrassed. But it was true. The brush work was technically very accomplished. In her pose, Jean's lips were held in an intoxicating half smile. The same half smile she had welcomed me with when I arrived to pick up Max an hour earlier, although now I was seeing a wholly different meaning to her countenance. The Jean in painting had the most gorgeous full breasts that lay an almost elastic firmness on her chest. Her husband had captured her areola as perfectly rounded puffy cones and her nipples were semi-erect. His fine brush work had captured their upward sweep, magically creating the illusion of depth. It was as if her nipples were projecting from the canvass.

My cock had become rock hard but was held down against my thigh by the constraining lycra. It was then that I noticed Jean was wearing the exact same blouse as in the picture. Jean's breasts, although no longer pointing to the stars were evidently bare beneath the semi-transparent semi-transparent material and her nipples were pushing out the blouse to create a pair of rigid bumps.

I let out an involuntary groaned and reached out my hand to touch the painting of Jean's breasts, which she held between us. Jean then leaned back on the sofa, drawing the painting away from my outstretched fingers. She rest against the back of the sofa holding the painting in one hand to one side of her body. I reached out again to touch the painting, circling her nipples with my fingers. Staring intently at the painting my eyes then moved from the image of Jean's crystal clear eyes to her breasts and back again. I was lost in the beauty of the young woman in the painting.

Jean gently placed her hand was on my thigh and softly stroked my erection whilst issuing a soft, motherly 'Coo-ing' sound. She half whispered "It's OK Peter." her long fingers were now placed gently around the base of my penis. She then expertly adjusted my stiff erection under the tight lycra so that it was pointing towards the outside of my thigh.

The effect of Jean's relatively small manipulation was to increase the pleasure of my discomfort and my awareness of the constraints clothes tightly holding my cock.

"Let me help you out of those tight pants." Jean said in a motherly tone. I looked at Jean and nodded helplessly. She could do as she pleased with my cock now. It was hers to play with.

I lifted my ass off the sofa, pushing my erection further into her hand and Jean met it by tensing her grip and expertly drawing her fingers down tightly towards the head of my penis, amplifying the pleasure and frustration in equal measure.

With her free right hand, Jean pulled my pants down below to my thighs and exclaimed with no little surprise as my erection sprang out at 90 degrees "Ooh my!" she said.

By this point I was past the point of caring. With my jogging pants pulled half way down my thighs Jean took a firm grip of the shaft and drew the foreskin right back. She held it and then, loosening her grip, she smoothed the soft skin back up towards the head of my penis. Jean moved her hand back and forth in turns, tightening and relaxing her grip on me.

My eyes returned to the painting. The hard nipples, the smooth skin and the suggestive lips seduced me as an older Jean 'coo-ed' and coaxed my erection to harden further with her expert manipulations.

With her left hand free, Jean began undoing the small ivory blouse buttons, opening her blouse down to her waist and pulling it out from the waistband of her dark skirt. "I used to do this to help my husband relax Peter." She said stroking her own breasts under the thin blouse. "He needed to be fully relaxed before he could begin painting. Many times he mixed his semen with the oils before using them to paint me." All the time she spoke she gazed down adoringly at my cockhead, smiling as the first dewy drops of pre-cum emerged. "Delicious" she said to herself.

The word was like a trigger. The tickle that had begun at the base of my spine and had grown to engulf my belly, my groin and the base of my cock now began to ascend my thickened phallus in waves. Jean's hand sensed this and matched the waves and the waves became pulses. With her hand movements now developing into a vigorous pumping action, the pulses became involuntary jerks. Simultaneously, in the cloying warmth of Jean's lounge, tiny crumpling explosions began to go off somewhere in my brain right behind my ears. The feeling intensified and I clenched my teeth as I released great globs of semen. It shot out in violent jolts from the head of my penis. I threw my head back causing my cock to cough out thin jets of cum in broad arcs onto Jean's open blouse and covering her hanging breasts.

Jean continued to milk every last drop of semen out of me. She gripped the centre of my shaft and squeezed it hard, shaking the last drops of semen onto her clothes.

"Mmmm. I'll take that as a compliment Peter. Thank you." She grinned looking down at the quantity of ejaculate that had landed on her dark skirt and expensive blouse and which had rendered it wetly transparent in patches.

For my part, I blushed furiously and would have stammered pathetically had I have had any idea what to say.

With her cum-covered right hand Jean reached over and retrieving some paper tissues began to mop my still semi-tumescent penis clean of semen. "Now Peter, you will promise me that you will come again tomorrow .....? To walk Max for me won't you?" Jean said looking at me with a charming smile on her lips.

Feeling rather exposed and ludicrous at having this conversation with my pants pulled down round my thighs and with this old lady gently dabbing my cock with a tissue, I could merely croak "Yes. Yes of course Jean."

"Good then." Jean beamed as if what had happened was just some brief sojourn during the course of a pleasant tea-time conversation. She smiled and cheerily said "Same time tomorrow then eh Peter?" as if her blouse were not open and spattered with my semen.

"Same time tomorrow Jean." I said raising myself to my feet, pulling my jogging pants up and tucking my cock back down out of harm's way. In a half dream I walked out of the lounge and stepped out into the front garden from Jean's hallway.

"What the hell was that!" I said to myself, shaking my head and grinning at the madness of what had just occurred. I then began the jog homeward on distinctly shaky legs.

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