Joyce Slater: New Paintings


"Hello darling! You must be psychic. I was just about to knock on your door. I've got this casserole I've defrosted and it's far too big for me on my own. I was just about to ask you if you"d like to come around for dinner."

I thought for a moment. Either reheat a ready meal from the fridge, or have dinner with the glamorous old lady from next door. It was a no-brainer.

"That sounds wonderful," I said. "I'd really like to."

"Super," she said. "See you in half an hour, then."

I found myself dressing up. I showered, put on my cleanest jeans and the closest thing I had to a cool t-shirt. When I was ready, I was on my way out the front door when a thought struck me.

I went to the kitchen and looked at my parent's wine rack. I didn't exactly drink, although I was sometimes allowed a small glass of wine on special occasions. I knew I shouldn't be doing it, because it wasn't like I would be able to buy a replacement, but I chose what I guessed to be one of the cheaper bottles and took it with me round to Mrs Slater"s house.

I rang the doorbell. She answered the door; her white hair was pinned up in a bun, secured with a biro, and she was wearing a somewhat paint-stained denim shirt over a low-cut top and a pair of tight but not overly tight jeans.

"Hello, young man," she said cheerfully, and then she raised her eyebrows when she saw the wine.

"I know I shouldn't be," I said, "but isn't it usual to bring wine when you go to someone's house for dinner?"

She laughed.

"It is," she said. "Yes. Thank you so much. I'll tell you what, I'm sure your parents will wonder where it's gone so maybe you should take it back when you go. But I very much appreciate the gesture. Come in."

I went in. There was a rich and delicious smell in the house. We went through to the kitchen.

"It's mostly M&S, I'm afraid," she said. "I've forgotten most of what I ever knew about cooking, and I never seem to find the time. But the casserole is mine. Boeuf bourgignon. Oh god, you do eat meat, don't you? I forgot to ask."

"I do," I said.

"Thank Christ," she said. She poured herself a glass of white wine from a bottle in the fridge, and then looked at me.

"I don't know if I should offer you some," she said.

"If it's okay, I'd love a glass of red," I said politely.

"I suppose one won't kill you," she said, and she opened a bottle of something and poured me an enormous glassful. It was more wine than I'd ever drunk in my life. I realised I'd have to be careful.

We ate garlic bread and I sipped my wine, drinking water as well, and we talked. Then she served us the casserole, which was rich and delicious, with chunks of tender beef and mushrooms and bacon. We mopped up the juices with bread and she invited me to have the salad. Being normally salad-phobic, I decided that I was there to take risks, so I had some. It turned out to be just the thing to balance the rich meal.

Afterwards, feeling deliciously full and pleasantly light-headed, I followed her into the living room and we sat on the sofa, talking. She invited me to take off my shoes and socks so I could curl up, like her, on the sofa, and I did so.

As the evening sky went dark blue and then purple, and darkness fell, she drank wine and talked about her work.

"To tell you the truth, Sandy, it's not going so well," she said and sighed.

"Why's that?" I asked and had another sip of wine.

"When you're your own main subject," she said, "you can feel burned out on yourself. I mostly paint myself. I mean, you've seen the pictures. I'm all over this house. I know this body so well--"

She thumped her chest lightly and grimaced.

"I know all the things that it's doing. I know where it sags and where it droops so well that I can hardly remember what it used to be like. I need a new subject, I think."

"Like what?"

"Something with youth. Something about being young. Maybe I'm just in denial, but I need to recharge my batteries and bring it all together."

"Couldn't you hire a model?" She shook her head.

"I never use professional models. I only paint or draw people I have some sort of relationship with, even if they're just other artists whose work I admire. That or friends, or lovers. But most of them are gone now. It's really just me left, and I'm so sick of me."

She curled up into herself and stared moodily at the floor and then glanced at me and shrugged sheepishly.

"I'm so sorry. You don't want to hear about all my troubles."

"I do," I protested. I wanted to be able to help her, but I didn't know how. "Um, what is it about bodies that's so interesting anyway? Maybe you could paint something else."

She smiled crookedly.

"It doesn't work like that. You can't just decide what to paint. The subject chooses you. And my subject is bodies. Here, let me show you. Show me your arm."

I hesitated, and then I moved closer to her on the sofa and gave her my arm. She put it next to hers.

"See what I mean?" she said. "Look at your skin. The tone is so tight. No hair, no blemishes, no sagging. Just a few freckles. Compared to mine, I mean. That's what fifty years can do to you. Or--"

She sat back and looked at me quizzically for a moment.

"Sandy," she said softly, "would you mind very much if I asked you to do something for me?"

I felt excited. I didn't know what it was, but I did know that I was feeling very young, and not exactly drunk but very brave, and also that I was in this room with this woman, fifty years older than me, who knew all about bodies and what they could do, and who seemed to me at that moment to hold the key to a great mystery.

"What is it?" I said.

"Would you mind just taking off your shirt for a second? Just so I can show you," she said.

"Sure," I said lightly, and I sat back and pulled my t-shirt over my head and threw it on a nearby chair. Then I sat back and threw a casual arm over the back of the sofa.

Mrs Slater--Joyce--stared at my torso intently.

"Yes," she said in an absorbed voice, leaning forward. "That's what I remember. See, there"s your clavicle...and look at the curve as it goes around your neck..."

She moved up next to me and leaned forward, inspecting me with the avidity of a connoisseur. She began to trace her finger over my skin, talking as she did so, describing what she was touching. I had never been so electrified in all my life. I sat there, hardly daring to move, breathing rapidly as this mature, white-haired, sensual woman touched my bare torso.

"And that's your breast bone there, and your ribcage...oh my, it's so tight, just there as it goes down to your belly...and there's just the faintest hint of fluff on your god, you have the most beautiful chest...see, this is what I've missed, this is what I need...if only, if only you were about forty years older and me a lot younger...oh dear..."

I couldn't stand it any longer. Her face was close to my nipples and she was peering at them short-sightedly.

"Mrs Slater," I said, dry-mouthed.

"Joyce, please," she said, looking up me with an ironical smile, but then stopping when she saw the look in my eyes.

We stared at each other for a moment, and then I took her face in my hands and raised her up to me and I kissed her deeply on the lips.

She froze for a moment. I lingered there, touching my lips to hers, hoping she would respond -- and then she leaned into me, pressing her lips into mine and pushing her tongue into my mouth.

I made a small, muffled gasp of surprise. My first kiss with a woman was with someone old enough to be my grandmother. But then I reached up and touched her torso tentatively, and Joyce leaned into me, her breasts pushing into my torso through her shirt and we were kissing deeply, stroking each other"s torso, caressing each other.

She pulled away and looked at me through her narrow eyes. Her lined face seemed to me incredibly beautiful and youthful. The weight and warmth of her body touching mine was making me hard.

"You are a very provocative young man," she murmured.

"I'm sorry," I breathed. "I couldn't help it."

"This is all wrong," she said quietly.

"I'll never tell," I said, putting my hands on her hips, stroking her bum through her jeans. Her eyes widened, flashing at me. Then they narrowed again.

I felt the full force of her desire, and I felt dizzy, and not just from the wine.

"Neither will I," she said, and she sat back on her heels, easing herself down slowly and gasping slightly. Then she looked up at me.

"Stand up, darling," she said.

I stood up in front of her, my face hot with arousal and a huge glass of Shiraz.

She examined the button on my jeans, and slowly unbuttoned them, taking them slowly down my hips, while I stood there, staring into her eyes, panting slightly, an eager young animal, wanting to be taught by the queen of the tribe.

I stepped out of my jeans and kicked them aside, and then I was in just a pair of tight white briefs. She glanced at the big picture window, and I looked too, and realised that we could see our reflections -- me a slightly-built boy in just white briefs, she a fully-dressed mature woman with white hair, kneeling before me.

"Look at your body," she sighed. "So young. So beautiful."

"I've never been with anyone before," I breathed, my voice trembling. She kissed my belly and I moaned slightly.

"Oh god," she muttered. "You're so lovely. We really shouldn't be doing this."

She ran her hands up my bare legs, all the way up to my bum, encased in the fabric of my briefs, and I gasped.

"I want to," I panted. She looked up at me, her eyes heavy-lidded, and she took the fabric of the waistband of my briefs in her hands.

"I should tell you," she said hoarsely, "that I've been wanting to draw you since we met the other morning. I didn't dare do anything. You're a boy, and I'm an old woman."

"You're not that old," I said.

"Yes I am," she said. "You should be with someone your own age."

"I don't want anyone my own age," I said. "I want you."

She pulled the waistband downwards, slowly and inexorably, uncovering the tops of my thighs, and then the top of my groin, and as I gasped with desire my half-erect penis was gradually revealed until at last it sprang free, and I closed my eyes and felt my bum being uncovered, and then she let the briefs fall down my legs, and once again I was naked in front of Joyce. But this time, I made no effort to conceal myself. This time, she had stripped me herself.

I opened my eyes, still panting, and she was staring at my penis and balls, fringed lightly with hair, and she sighed and said "So beautiful," and then she kissed the tip of my cock. I moaned. Joyce grasped it in her hands and parted her lips and took me in her mouth.

I was shuddering helplessly and I felt a rush tearing through my body. She drew her thin lips along the length of my cock and I was sure that something was about to happen -- and then she opened her lips and drew back.

"That's not how we'll do it," she said, and she stood up with an effort and offered me her hand.

I took it, amazed. She smiled at me, and in the smile I saw the younger, beautiful, effortlessly sexy woman she had once been. She led me out of the room and we went up the stairs and into her bedroom.

She sat on the bed and looked up at me, and as we locked our gazes she took off her man's shirt, then slid off her jeans, so that she was in her sleeveless top and a pair of broad black women's panties; then one by one she took off her pieces of jewellery, and then at last, as she smiled slowly at me, she reached down and peeled her top off her head. She was braless. Her breasts were long and pointed downwards, but I didn't care. Then she slipped her panties off, exposing the broad grey expanse of her pubic hair.

At last Joyce and I were both naked. She lay back on the bed, and her breasts resumed a more normal, rounded shape, and she reached out to me and I lay on her. She parted her thighs and our naked bodies came together and we kissed again, as my fully erect cock pushed between the tops of her wrinkled thighs.

Joyce may have been over sixty, but that was when I learned that age was not necessarily an obstacle to having a strong sexual appetite. As we kissed, me on top of her, she moaned and reached downwards and I gasped as she took my cock in her fingers and carefully directed me where to go. I felt the tip of my cock pushing between soft flesh and moist hair and then touching a wonderfully wet and soft and folded receptacle.

"Oh, Sandy," she whined, "please..."

"Oh, Joyce," I moaned. "Oh, god..."

"Ohhhh..." she gasped, "I want you to fuck me," and she put her hands on my tight ass and pulled me into her, and I felt my cock entering the deep, moist, warm channel of her vagina, and we started to fuck.

Joyce pulled me into her, her hands all over my young body, and I kissed her and buried my face in the folds of her fleshy neck as I pushed myself deep inside her, and she moaned "Aaaahhh!" as I pulled almost out and pushed in again. We were fucking, but I suppose it was more accurate to say that she fucked me--I lost myself in the tender flesh of her aged body as she folded her legs around mine and put her hands on my naked bottom and kissed me and plunged her tongue into my mouth.

Given a eighteen-year-old virgin and a sixtysomething woman who hadn't had sex in a long time, it's not surprising that it was only a few minutes before she took her tongue from my mouth and began to moan louder and louder, repeatedly, gasping and shaking.

I felt the fluid surge up, overpowering me, and I was shaking too and trembling as the heat filled my cock, moaning into her neck, my body stretching as her cunt grasped my cock, squeezing me.

She kissed me again, filling my mouth with her tongue, and I felt the rush coming up from my loins and I screamed into her mouth as and my cock pumped into her, deep into her vulva, I felt myself release and warm fluid spread around my cock inside her.

We moaned, trembling, as we came together, our naked bodies locked together on the bed, my slender young body and her aged one, sagging but still warm and soft and desirable, and then we were just lying in an embrace, sweating and gasping for breath, as we came down.

My cock softened, and then I pulled out of her and rolled off her, lying on my back, closing my eyes. I felt her hand touch mine and she squeezed it and held it tight.

I think we must both have dozed off. I woke to find the duvet covering our lower bodies, and Joyce lying next to me, still clutching my hand. She opened her eyes and smiled at me sleepily.

"Oh, Christ, Sandy," she murmured, "that was worth it."

I chuckled, rolled onto one side and looked at her, propping my head on one hand.

"You've lost your virginity to a dirty old lady," she drawled.

"I know," I said.

"But," she added lightly, "you're still here. You haven't got dressed and gone home."

"I don't want to," I said, smiling at her.

"What do you want?"

"I want you," I said. "I want you to teach me everything."

She cocked an eyebrow. "What kind of everything?"

"Everything a man and a woman can do together."

"I'm a bit old for some of it," she said.

"Just the stuff you're not too old for, then," I said. She looked thoughtful, and then smiled at me slyly.

"There is a lot," she said. "I've been around, you know. Some of the things I've done, I blush to think about."

"Do them with me," I said, and pulled back the duvet, revealing us. She looked at my naked body for a moment, at me offering myself to her.

"Okay then," she said. "It's not all about just straight fucking, you know. There are other things. Things you can do with hands, fingers. Breasts. Arms, legs."

She reached out and took my arm, and rolled me gently onto my stomach.

"Tongues," she said, and licked my back. I shuddered. She got up, and gently parted my legs so that they were splayed apart. She took a pillow and put her hand under my hips -- I raised them obediently. She slipped the pillow under my groin, so that my bum was raised.

"Lips," she said, and stitched a pattern of kisses down my spine and then on alternating buttocks. I had a vague presentiment of where she was going, and closed my eyes and moaned. She leaned over and whispered into my ear.

"Arseholes," she breathed, and then she went down behind me and I felt her tongue pushing between my damp but clean buttocks, and, astonished but also helpless to stop her, I began to shudder as I felt her tongue parting me and she began to lick my most private place.

"Oh, please, oh no," I whined, and then as I felt her tongue pushing at my tight anal bud, my sticky cock was swelling once again.

"Do you want me to stop?" she inquired.

"No..." I gasped. "It's just...oh god...I didn't know you could do that."

"You have a gorgeous bum, Sandy, did you know that?" she said lightly, and then I felt her tongue pushing at me again.

"OOOH!" I moaned, pushing my face deep into the pillow. Joyce began to tongue me, her tight little tongue parting the muscle and my hips squirming as I received her.

"Unnnhhhhh..." I gasped with unbelievable pleasure as she loosened me, and then she moved up my body and kissed the back of my neck as she stroked the cleft of my arse deeply. I turned my head so that I could speak.

"Don't stop," I whispered.

"Do you like that," she murmured.


"Hmmm," she said thoughtfully. "Interesting."

I lay there, relaxed and alert, my body tingling.

"Perhaps you might like to play a little," Joyce said.

"Anything you want," I said.

"Brave words, boy," she said, and I thrilled at the tease of threat in her voice. "Are you sure you want to go there?"

"I want you to do whatever you want to me," I said.

"Then stay there," Joyce said, and she knelt up, turned and got rather stiffly off the bed.

I listened to her moving about the bedroom, wondering what was going to happen next. Then the bed shifted as she got back on it again.

"Lift your head," she murmured. Obedient, I did so...and then I shivered as she tied a faintly fragrant silk scarf over my eyes, fastening it firmly at the back of my head.

Blind, I gave a small whimper.

"In the Seventies," Joyce said, "I had a lover who liked to do to me what I'm about to do to you. It was all part of the playing around we did in those days. I must admit, I did enjoy it...most of the time."

I lay on my belly, blindfold and passive, listening. Joyce took my right wrist and tied another scarf around it, and then I felt her stretch my arm out and tied the other end to something, presumably the iron bedstead.

Now I was starting to get an idea of what she wanted to do to me.

"I was always a little annoyed that he'd never let me return the favour," Joyce said. "I mean, I was a feminist. We all were. But there's nothing very feminist about letting yourself be blindfold and tied up and everything else, if it's only one way."

"No," I whispered, nervous.

"So on behalf of your sex," Joyce said, "I think it would be nice if you returned the favour."

"O-okay," I said. What was the everything else she was talking about? Could it be...

"After all," Joyce said, fastening a third scarf around my left wrist, "men don't always have to be on top, doing all the pushing and shoving. Once in a while they should, um, take one for the team. Wouldn't you say?"

"Yes, definitely," I said, trembling a little.

"Good boy," she said. My left arm was stretched out and there was silence as she tied that scarf to the bedstead too.

Then I was naked, blindfold and helpless, my arms stretched out to either side, and as the reality of my position dawned on me I began to tremble.

But Joyce saw it, and she placed her hand on my shoulder and spoke in my ear, softly, warmly.

"Don't worry, Sandy. You're safe. It's not going to hurt. Well, I won't lie, it might hurt just a teensy bit, but I'll try to make sure it doesn't. I think if anything you might find a bit humiliating, but I promise, it'll feel good once we get going. And if you ever want me to stop, just say...just say "garden", okay? Got it?"

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