The connection between walking the dog and teaching computer basics to over sixties. Believe me, there can be a very real and ultimately carnal connection, at least, that is what two such dog walkers discovered.
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Along the Path.
Every morning I walk the dog. There is a path that follows the river very near my house. If you go walking at a regular time, you tend to pass the same people walking their dogs every day. Most dog walkers are inclined to make an early morning job of it. I go a bit later and so do not see so many people, but there are a number of people I do pass regularly.
Dog walkers are friendly people and greet each other with “Good morning,” or “Hello.” Some stop and have a chat, usually about their dogs or the weather. Often I don’t know their names, so I make up names based on some characteristic feature about them or their dog. For example, there is Mrs. Poodle who obviously has a poodle. Then there is Mrs. Coal Scuttle, so named because she wears a hat that reminds me of a coalscuttle we had when I was a child. There is Mr. Brown coat and Mrs. Foot Dog (Because her dog walks backward watching her feet).
The focus of my story is, however, Mrs. Slow Coach. She got this name because her dog slowly ambles along about two or three hundred metres behind her, looking suspiciously at passersby. She has to stop every now and then to let the dog catch up.
She seemed to be a shy woman, and for a long time walked by without giving any return greeting. This came to an end when one day I caught up with her as she waited for her dog, and she smiled and said “hello”. I stopped for a moment and commented about her dog’s slow pace and his suspicious stare. She told me that the poor creature had been brutally treat as a puppy and this accounted for his suspicion. We spoke a little longer, then I walked on.
For the next few weeks we had further casual conversations whenever we met, then one day I happened to mention that I taught computer basics to people over sixty. She took this up, saying that she had just bought her first computer, and couldn’t understand it. She asked if she would be able to attend the course I taught, and I pointed out that she wouldn’t qualify because of her age.
Computers Do Make Friends.
She was and is somewhere in her mid forties. Like most men when meeting a woman, I had sized her up sexually. She is about five feet five, and has middle age spread – a little plumpness round the waist. She has short fair hair, light blue eyes and soft white skin. Her walking clothes do not offer much chance to weigh up the more subtle aspects of her physique, but I could see the strong possibility of very full breasts. I had noted the wedding ring on her finger, and thought to myself, “Her husband must have enjoyable bedtimes.” She spoke very slowly with a pleasant voice, and her movements were also slow and deliberate.
She seemed mildly disappointed that she would not be able to attend the computer course I taught, so I made a few suggestions about other courses. This ended our conversation for that day, but a few days later we met again, and she presented me with a computer problem she was having. I offered a few suggestions about how she might fix the difficulty, and again, the conversation ended as we departed in opposite directions.
By now, I had learnt that her name was Marion, and it was a few days before I saw her again. I asked if my suggestions had fixed her computer problem, and she said it hadn’t. I went on to enquire if she knew anyone who could come to her house and try to find out what the trouble was. She replied that she didn’t know anyone of that sort.
Now as it happens, I do make a point of going to the homes of a few elderly people who have just bought a computer, and get them started on it. It usually means about four or five one-hour sessions, for which I make no charge. It crossed my mind to offer my home service to Marion, but I hesitated because I felt I had as many as I could manage at that time. I did, however, mention this home service to Marion, and said that in a couple of weeks I would be finishing with two of my current students, and would she like me to come to her house to teach her.
She seemed delighted with this idea, and said, “Would you really?” I said I would, so we made a date and time right then. We parted company with many expressions of thanks on her part and lots of “That’s all rights” from me.
We saw each other a few times in the following fortnight during our walks, and it was clear she was looking forward to my “computer home visit.” On the arranged day and time I rang her doorbell, and was welcomed in with smiling ceremony and questions like, “Would you like a cup of coffee and biscuit, or something.” I refused these offers and was led to her computer.
I was able to do a double assessment, first of Marion and then the computer. For the first time, I saw her not in her walking clothes. She had on a simple dress of the sort many women wear around the house. It was a cotton, demure knee length affair that zipped all the way up in front. Despite it’s simplicity, it looked expensive, and was close fitting enough for me to see her figure more clearly. As I had thought, a little weight around the hips, very full breasts and sturdy but well shaped legs.
I looked at the details of the computer and concluded it was a quite powerful and expensive model. I was not familiar with this machine, and suggested that I should have a “play around with it” so as to familiarize myself with its possibilities. She said, “Of course,” so she sat and watched me as I “played.”
Once I had the hang of the little beast, I was ready to begin. I sat in front of the computer and she drew a chair up beside me. I went through the usual questions I asked beginners, like, “Have you got keyboard skills,” “What sort of work will you be doing on the machine,” and so on. Her answers made it clear that she had used a typewriter some years ago, and her main purpose in buying a computer was to keep up with her grandchildren, write letters and cards to friends and family, and keep a few household accounts. It was also clear that she had got little farther than being able to turn the computer on and off.
The preliminaries over, I got her to sit in front of the computer, and we began the first lesson. She was fairly quick in following my instructions, and we had a happy, non-frustrating session. When we finished I had my cup of coffee and we made arrangements for the next lesson.
Who Said Computers Aren’t Sexy?
The next couple of sessions went well and Marion and I met quite often during dog walking. In fact, I got the impression she was waiting around for me to come along. We talked computers and at one stage got around to talking about her husband. It was nothing very intimate; simply that he was a management consultant who traveled all over the world in the course of his work.
This answered my unasked questions about the obviously elegant and expensive house and contents, together with Marion’s costly clothes. I must admit, I had been a little put out by these signs of prosperity, because Marion could easily have afforded to pay for lessons, but having started to teach her, I could hardly back out now. In any case, I admit I was enjoying her company. Lessons started to extend from one to nearly two hours, and we found we shared a number of common interests in music and literature.
During her third lesson, I got Marion to let me sit in front of the computer to show her a slightly complicated operation. Instead of sitting in the seat I had just vacated, she stood behind me and a little to one side. As I explained the operation to her, I felt her breast pressing against my shoulder. Her face came up beside mine, and she seemed to be breathing rather rapidly, and I could feel her breath on my cheek.
I found this fairly disturbing in an exciting sort of way, and I had to concentrate hard to keep focused on the task. When I had finished, I regretfully returned to my seat beside her. At the end of the lesson, instead of the usual offer of coffee, Marion asked if I would join her in a glass of wine or whisky. Being a whisky drinker, I opted for that, and Marion had wine.
The alcohol loosened our tongues a little, and Marion talked about her husband being away from home more than he was present, and how he hardly ever saw their two grandchildren. She began to probe me about my wife, but I decided not to discuss our domestic problems and limited myself to a few general remarks. I saw that my relationship with Marion was moving beyond that of teacher and student, especially as I remembered the stirring in my groin during her breast pressing.
Arriving for the fourth session, a new Marion greeted me, or rather, I saw a lot more of the old Marion. She came to the door wearing a sort of flimsy lace coat that clearly revealed that she was wearing a somewhat brief bikini underneath. It was pleasantly warm weather and I was only wearing shorts and shirt myself, and she said, “I was just doing a bit of sun bathing. I won’t change if you don’t mind.” I told her I didn’t mind, but thought I should.
When we entered the room where the computer was kept, I saw another change. Instead of a couple of separate chairs in front of the machine, Marion had placed a sort of double seater bench. “I thought it would be much easier for us than two chairs,” she explained. “I said, “Fine,” and left it at that.
The lesson commenced with Marion sitting before the computer and me next to her on one side. It quickly became obvious that the bench was really a sort of one and half seater, and although I tried to keep out of her way, I could feel her thigh pressing against my leg. To add to the growing tension in my groin, I could smell her faint female odour and that really got things coming up.
At one point during the lesson, Marion turned to ask me a question. In doing so, she straddled the bench so that her coat parted up to its light tie round her waist. I could see the slight curve of her stomach leading to her mound, and then to where her bikini moulded into the cleft of her vagina. I had no doubt where things were headed, and it was in the direction I now wanted them to go. The only question was who would make the first open move?
I was trying to hide a raging erection from her, but with little success. She stared at my groin as I was staring at hers. Then, as if some signal had been given, we both looked up into each other’s eyes. I don’t know who moved first, but it seemed we simultaneously came together in a kiss that began as a gentle touching of lips and worked its way up to a raging passion. We broke and I reached for her breasts.
They were full and soft – the sort of breasts men long to lose themselves in. As I gently squeezed them through her bikini top, she began to whisper, “For God’s sake, take me to bed and fuck me.” I might have been surprised at this quietly spoken woman expressing herself in those words, but I was past registering such things. Her hand was fondling my penis through my shorts, and mine had slid along the bench to caress her vagina.
Marion rose and took my hand and started to lead me out of the room and into her bedroom. Once in the bedroom she almost tore off my shorts then dropped to her knees and began to suck my penis. I couldn’t get to her bikini bottoms, but managed to get her top off. I saw her naked breasts, as full and swelling as I thought they would be, and surmounted by pink nipples standing out hard and inviting, just begging to be sucked.
I withdrew my penis from her mouth, raised her up, and laid her on the bed, and tore off her bikini bottoms. My lips went to her nipple and I began to suck her. She groaned and went on saying, “Fuck me, fuck me darling, fuck me now,” but I was too selfish to enter her at that moment. I wanted suck and squeeze her breasts. I wanted to taste her womanhood, to thrust my tongue into her opening, to lick her clitoris.
It was a raging battle between us, with Marion begging and pleading for me to enter her, and I feeding my explosive passion over every hill and dale of her body. I wanted to consume her, to tear her to pieces. Never had I wanted a woman as totally as I wanted Marion.
At last, I entered her. As I brought my penis close to her opening she grasped it and thrust herself onto it. She held nothing back. It was like fighting with a wild thing, challenging, relentless, tearing and willing to be torn. She was screaming and crying and this tumult rose to a great crescendo as her orgasm struck. As she came, I started to spurt into her with great flaming gouts of sperm that smashed to the back of her tunnel of love. It flooded her and then began to roll out of her onto the bed, together with her own animal juices.
The tumult began to recede, and I stayed inside her as I gradually subsided. I was exhausted by the power of our lust, but also completely at peace. Drawing out from her, I rolled away and lay beside her.
Marion lay with her eyes closed as if asleep, but suddenly she opened them and said, “Darling, when’s the next lesson?”
So, what do you think ?