Mad About The Boy

Author: Dolores Labouchere
E-mail: dolores_l@hotmail.com

Summary: No-one but the still-life model turns up to Joyce’s art class.

Spoilers: None.

Rating: NC-17 for lurve.

Distribution: UCSL, otherwise just ask

Disclaimer: The characters are, but of course, the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Kuzui Productions, 18th Century Fox, WB Network, etc. etc. etc. and I have no wish to in any way impinge upon that copyright.

Notes: Your basic PWP. Te asked for some Joyce smut, so here you go! It’s set in the beginning of Season Two, and it’s also my first ever het fic. Scary.

"This is not a novel to be tossed aside lightly. It should be thrown with great force."

- Dorothy Parker

***

Joyce Summers adjusted the little bronze sculpture on its plinth. She glanced at her watch, and let out an irritated sigh. Standing in the foyer of Sunnydale Art Gallery, the mother of the Vampire Slayer (although she didn’t know it yet) did not look to be a happy woman. With good reason; in an attempt to attract more visitors to the Gallery, more local interest, she’d organised a series of art classes, the first of which to be held that that night. A still life class, for which she’d booked a model, and given up her evening. The leaflet she’d had printed said 7pm sharp. It was now 7.15, and not a soul had passed through the glass doors that loomed in front of her. Not a one.

Another five minutes passed. Letting her shoulders sag a little Joyce accepted that the first class had been a disaster. Still, it could only get better. She walked along the corridor to the meeting room where she’d intended the class should be held. A semi-circle of empty chairs surrounded a stool, on which her model sat, looking bored and wrapped in a blanket.

She gave him a weak smile. "Hi, I’m really sorry, but I don’t think anyone’s going to turn up. Sorry to have wasted your time."

The model cocked his head to one side. "Hey, don’t worry. And you’ve paid me, so you can still paint me if you want. I haven’t got much else to do tonight anyway."

"Well, I… yes. Why not? I might as well make some use of this evening."

"Cool." He stood up, and dropped the blanket. It pooled around his ankles, and before Joyce stood a naked young man, barely older than Buffy. /Very handsome/ she thought letting her eyes trail up and down his lean body, before she tried to suppress that thought. /He’s just a boy./

"How d’you want me to stand?" he asked, cutting into her thoughts.

"Oh, well, if you put your weight on your left foot, and lean on the stool… no, move your body more to the right… well, no…" without thinking about it she moved across to the youth and took his arm in her hand. "If you move a bit… this way, and…"

She looked up. He was staring into her face, brown eyes meeting her own. He reached forward and his lips brushed hers, a featherlight kiss that nevertheless sent prickles racing across her body. When she didn’t pull away he kissed her again, this time applying a little more pressure, taking a little longer, letting the tip of his tongue trail across her lips, and pulled her close to his skin. She let her hands slide across it, warm and supple to the touch, and opened her mouth to his insistent tongue.

She felt his hardness through her mint-green blouse almost immediately. /The young are so eager/ she thought, trying not to giggle. His hands were on the buttons of her top, fumbling and awkward, his mind only just paying attention to the mechanics of undoing them. She let her hands drift around his back, marvelling at the tight muscles that she could feel rippling beneath the skin. Not since her college days had she been like *this* with anyone as young as he. And, damn, did it feel good.

The blouse was finally removed, and her youthful suitor was cupping her breasts, coated in the satin of her bra. He bent to kiss them through the material, and his hands moved on to the next, much more difficult challenge of undoing the clasp.

"Honey, let me," she drawled, and reached behind her back to effortlessly complete the task. The bra sagged forward and in a moment it fell to the floor. He rushed to place a strawberry-coloured nipple in his mouth, letting his tongue roll wetly around the aureole. Joyce let out a little gasp and her back arched a little. His hands moved to their penultimate trial, the three small buttons on the side of Joyce’s skirt. Practice made perfect, and the skirt soon settled on the floor. With a kick she sent it floating across the room, joined by her left shoe, and a second kick disposed of the right. Now only the pale peach satin of her panties separated the boy from his ultimate goal.

He moved down her body, softly trailing his lips along her flat belly to the waistband of her underwear, and gently tugged her downwards so that she lay out on the blanket. With a swift movement aided by Joyce’s timely lifting of her back, the panties were gone, and his mouth eagerly consumed her sex. Long dormant nerve-endings suddenly fired into life under his unsure touch, for what he lacked in technical expertise he made up for in enthusiasm. Joyce let the sensations overwhelm her, her knuckles whitening as she gripped the soft cotton of the blanket. Perhaps it had been the length of time she had not allowed herself to enjoy her body, perhaps the youth was better than she thought, perhaps it was both, but after but a few minutes she felt her muscles spasm. The rush of orgasm tensed her body, and her mouth opened in a silent cry, the blanket crunched in her fists. For a moment there was nothing but pleasure, then she felt the boy’s soft lips on her own, and the evidence of his own needs against her belly. She guided him inside her, and used fifteen years of marriage and 5 years of courting to ensure the lad enjoyed it. He grunted as his pistoning picked up speed, his breaths coming in gasps towards the end, before his own climax was reached, the final few thrusts accompanied by a low moan. He kissed her again, the sweat from his chest mingling with her own. His eyes were shut, and he did not see the single tear that trickled down Joyce’s cheek to be absorbed by the blanket.

They lay for a moment, basking in each other’s pleasure. Then he moved, and twisted into a sitting position.

"Do you still want to paint me?"

She smiled. "No, I think that’s enough for tonight."

"Cool."

He got to his feet and padded to the little cupboard in the corner of the room where he’d left his clothes. She watched him go, and chided herself for focusing on his very pert backside. A few seconds later he was dressed, and made to leave. He turned to where Joyce still lay on the blanket.

"G’night, Mrs. Summers."

"Goodnight, Devon."