Walking the dog in the field at the top of our road is a lone, but sort of companionable activity. You "meet" other dog walkers, some men, but more women. Often you see them the other side of the field, and raise an arm in greeting. Occasionally you pass them close enough to say hello, and sometimes cross at the gate and stop for a brief chat. You don't really get to know their names, so they are associated with their dogs. A few you see in all weathers.
One such is the albino German Shepherd: A powerfully built blond with her curly hair in a pony tail through the back of her ever-present baseball cap. Her muscular thighs are a sight to behold in summer shorts.
Then there's the Red Setter: A voluptuous dark blond with flowery Wellington boots. I don't know what it is about her green trousers, but her ass is so gorgeous in them.
There's the three Spaniels: A petite brunette, ironically with two blond hottie daughters makes three.
My story starts about fifteen years ago. Just as I was going in through the gate, a loveable Golden Labrador puppy on a day-glow yellow lead was about to go out. I think I said something inane like, "What a lovely puppy."
The dark-haired brunette seemed to want to chat in her lilting welsh accent. She was friendly and outgoing, and confided in me that the puppy was to try to help take her daughters' (five and three years old) minds off the fact that their father had left them all. Again inanity struck, and I muttered something like. "I am sorry."
She was puppy walking for Guide Dogs for the Blind, as she wasn't sure she wanted to take on a dog. She went on to say that she had just had a cancer operation and had a breast removed. He felt she was not a complete woman any more and not the woman he married.
"He's a bastard." I blurted out.
She looked slightly shocked.
I blushed and stammered, "I'm sorry. It's not my place to say that. I'm so sorry he left you, and I think he is the loser, as you are a lovely person."
"Thank you," she responded.
We continued our walks, and I saw her a few times after that day until my job changed and I didn't walk at that time any more. I still occasionally thought of her, and the damage that one person can do to another.
Fifteen years later, I had just been widowed. Walking the dog was balm to my soul and a time to think. And I ran into her again. This time she had her own dog, and the conversation began with that. After a bit, she mentioned that I seemed upset. I told her what had happened.
"Listen, you did me so much good when my husband left me. Calling him a bastard really shocked me, but then I realised that he was and it helped so much. And you said a really nice thing that I never forgot, that I was lovely. I thought about that remark a lot in the bad times. Thank you. Now, will you come to supper and join in with the family? Both girls are home."
I was grateful to take my mind off brooding at home on my own, so I turned up with a bottle of wine and a bottle of coke for the girls. I realised my mistake when the door opened, as did my mouth when I saw this tall athletic red-head in a tight t-shirt and shorts. We established I was at the right house, and I realised that five plus fifteen was twenty, and her name was Steph. The now eighteen year old daughter was a petite blond, equally jaw dropping, and called Claire.
When their mum walked in, I realised that I had over-dressed in slacks and a short sleeved shirt. Dressed like her daughters in a t-shirt and shorts, she looked stunning. A more voluptuous mature figure with a neat cleavage, slightly rounded stomach and long toned legs, like Steph only with more curves to them.
After the introductions, during which I realised that I hadn't know that my dog walking friend's name was Megan, the conversation flowed noisily and ceaselessly, and for almost the first time, I actually forgot my sadness. Towards the end of the evening, the girls said they were going to the pub to meet some mates, so I started to make leaving noises. Megan obviously had other ideas.
"Just wait there while I say goodbye to Steph and Claire, and I'll bring you some coffee."
I was nervous. I really wasn't sure where I wanted this to go. It seemed too soon, and yet I'd really enjoyed myself. I could hear them agreeing what time they would be in – a sensible precaution I thought. Then the door shut and Megan came back in without coffee, walked straight up to me and kissed me on the mouth.
I was stunned, but my arms went round her on automatic, and I felt her rubbing up against me. I knew she'd be able to feel my instant attraction, hard against her midriff, and I was both embarrassed and pleased that she would know how I felt. Then she really shocked me.
"You know, I've been waiting for you. Ever since you said I was lovely."
"Ummm. Sorry. I don't know what to say." I stumbled like a schoolboy on his first date. I knew she could be hurt, so I pulled my mind together to reassure her. "I do think you are really lovely, and very physically attractive too."
Her face split into a big smile at that, and she blushed slightly.
"It's so soon after my wife died that I don't know what to think. And you deserve a man fifteen years younger than me."
She whispered back so quietly that I strained to hear, "But I don't want another man, I want you. It's not for lack of looking, because I knew you were married. I've just never found anyone, and when your wife died I was praying that we could meet. You made me feel like a woman again, and I wanted that more than anything."
We kissed, and I could feel my insecurities melting away. Pressed together we kissed as if we were drowning and until we were both on fire with lust. Suddenly, as if by mutual agreement, we were both moving towards the stairs. Megan took my hand and led me to the bedroom, saying,
"I always ask the girls what time they are going to be in, but I had an ulterior motive tonight. We've got a clear two hours."
