He was at the end of his tether. It was ten years since his last big exhibition, and the commissions had dried up two years ago. That was when his wife left him for that mountebank ********* who couldn’t draw his way out of a paper bag, but somehow managed to paint the sort of rubbish that the market wanted. Probably for corporate boardrooms for people with no discernment and execrable tastes.
He wasn’t short of the wherewithal. A few very big commissions in the 1990s had made him a relatively rich man, although he had been forced to sell his big house on the Yorkshire coast with its panoramic view of the changing light over the North Sea. And he supposed that was the way he was famous, with a painting of a major rock star in the National Portrait Gallery and a couple of more intimate portraits in the Dulwich Gallery. Okay, paintings of nudes – very tasteful he thought. The pattern of light and shade on naked female flesh was endlessly fascinating, just like the constantly changing cloud patterns of his northern skies.
The last straw was that he could no longer paint. The gift that he had taken for granted for most of his life – certainly since about the age of ten – had fucking deserted him. Really what was the point of going on. He was no good at anything else. Okay he had been a popular teacher at the Slade, and he had published two anthologies of his poems, but poetry didn’t put dinner on the table. Let’s face it, he thought, he was single with no sign of a lover on the horizon, probably impotent, and totally useless. “Keith,” he said to himself, “You are sixty years old and an utter waste of space.”
ooOoo
He had no idea how it happened. He wasn’t really sure about what was going on around him – that was probably the whisky, his only lover. Whisky asked no awkward questions and would never fail him – the best kind of mistress. However, he was at the wheel of his car – a Porsche – a total extravagance, but it was big enough to carry a few big canvases, a couple of easels and all the other paraphernalia he needed.
He had left London, he knew that, but he had no idea where he was going except it was vaguely westward. Definitely westward since he was on the M4 going in the direction of Bristol. Hours later he found himself in southwest Wales, somehow negotiating the road round Haverfordwest – why did the road signs all have to be in Welsh, they say this was little England inside Wales after all.
He dumped the car by a small harbour, Solva he thought the sign said, and set out on the path around the headland. He had no idea what he was going to do. Topping himself was out of the question, he was too much of a coward, and he would probably make a mess of that too and end up crippled and in pain.
ooOoo
She found him slumped on a bench overlooking the sea. It was his good fortune that she did, because she only took that path because she thought her dog would appreciate a change of scenery, and the forecast for later that night was for strong north-westerly winds with a likelihood of freezing rain. Her first impression was that he was one of the drunks who frequented the Ship Inn in Solva. They often slept off a drinking session on a bench, and his friends would eventually find him. She never frequented the Ship. The clientele were a rough lot, and any single lady drinking in the bar would be the subject of unpleasant comments about her looks, and leering requests for a blow job out the back, or worse suggestions that she must be in need of a man to fuck her.
He wasn’t much to look at – an old man with a shock of unkempt white hair and a beard with most of yesterday’s lunch still evident. He was dressed in a dirty coat, with vomit stains down the front, and an empty bottle of whisky still clutched in his hand. She would have passed by except for something out of place that caught her eye. Sticking out of the pocket of his coat was a rather tatty rolled up canvas, quite obviously a painting of some sort. She was intrigued and had a closer look. Something about him was familiar, but for the life of her she couldn’t think what it was. Anyway, having stopped and realising that he wasn’t one of the locals, there was nothing for it but to take him back to her cottage to sleep off the drink. After that, well she would probably drive him back to wherever his car was parked.
Somehow, she managed to get him to his feet and slowly, one foot at a time, half carrying him at times, covered the two miles to her cottage. Leaving him on the bench beside the front door, went inside to find him a pair of slippers to put on instead of the pair of disgusting brogues he was wearing, and one of her old dressing gowns. Removing his coat, she put it straight into the dustbin along with the shoes, and his socks which were more hole than sock.
Once she had negotiated the way along the narrow corridor leading to the spare bedroom, she more or less dumped him on the bed and left him to sleep off his drunken stupor. As she turned to leave, he mumbled something totally incomprehensible, which she chose to accept as some kind of thanks.
Later that evening, before retiring to her lonely bed for the night, she looked in on the man, who was lying on his back snoring loudly. She was about to shut the door, when something about his face, even covered as it was by his overgrown beard, that triggered a long-hidden memory in her mind. She was certain that she knew him. Then it struck her with a force to match the wind shaking the windows. It was her old professor from the Slade, the distinguished painter of portraits of the wives of well-known members of London society, often, but not always, in the nude.
Going to her sewing basket she came back with a pair of scissors and a wet flannel and did what she could to make him look reasonably presentable, and she was now certain, it was Sir Keith ******, a man with whom she had a very brief affair over twenty years ago.
ooOoo
Eira was standing in the kitchen next morning, making a pot of tea, when Keith shuffled up behind her.
“Ahem,” he muttered, slightly slurring his speech, “Ahem, what’s your name?”
“Eira,” she replied.
“Oh right,” he said, “Erm, you don’t have any aspirin, do you? My head feels as if a herd of cattle are banging around in it. Plus a very large glass of water, and if that’s tea your making, a large mug with several spoonfuls of sugar.”
“Aspirin’s in that cupboard there and help yourself to water. The glasses are in that cupboard there. The water out of the tap is perfectly safe, it comes from a spring deep beneath the cottage.”
“Thank you,” he said, “After that, if I could have a bath or a shower, I would be grateful. And then, if I could have my clothes back, I’ll be on my way. I feel a bit ridiculous in these things.”
“Your clothes were so disgusting I put them straight in the dustbin. I could find you something of my late husband’s. He was shorter than you, but I’m sure I could find something to fit. The shoes might pinch though.”
At this point Eira knew she had to make a decision. She was in two minds, whether to do what he asked, point the way back to the coastal path that would take him back to where his car was parked. Or, what exactly? He obviously didn’t recognise her, and why should he? She only studied with him for a few months before she had to leave art college when her father became ill. The affair was very brief, although she had fallen in love with him, and hoped that she might even become his mistress. His wife was renowned around the London University campus for her infidelities, and it was obvious that he was an unhappy man. She thought she could make him happy again, and he was a very good lover.
“To hell with it,” she thought, “he appears to be a total wreck of the man he was, I’m a forty-five-year-old widow living in a remote location with small chance of picking up a suitable man, and my mental health nursing training makes me an ideal person to look after him until he is well again.”
“Keith,” she said in a warmer tone than she had used up till then, “you are not going anywhere, well not until I have sorted out what is wrong with you because you are obviously in a very bad way mentally, and we’ll see after that.”
“How do you know my name, “he said, somewhat surprised, “have you been going through my pockets?”
“Certainly not,“ she replied, “I studied under you for a few months over twenty years ago, and although I had to leave and give up my artistic pretensions for family reasons, I have followed your career ever since. I have wondered in the last couple of years why someone of your outstanding talent seemed to have dropped out of view. When was the last big picture you produced? Five years ago, or even more?”
“You are either a very kind woman, or very deluded. I don’t know which. I am beyond saving. My gift has left me. Vanished into thin air. Gone forever. My wife left me two years ago, although that wasn’t a big surprise, and my life is a mess. Frankly, I have no desire to go on living, but I’m too much of a coward to top myself. Perhaps I just won’t wake up one day after one of my binges.”
“What utter baloney, you pathetic apology for a man,” she shouted, “no one is beyond saving, and your gift is so fundamentally a part of you that it is merely submerged beneath your morbid introspection.”
“First,” she continued, “we are going to clean you up. That ought to give you back some of your self-respect. Then I am going to help you to start painting again. I have paint, canvases and brushes in a store cupboard – I always thought I might start painting again, but I’ve been too timid. To resurrect Sir Keith ****** will be a real triumph. I might even get a bit of credit as your new muse.”
ooOoo
That is how it started, and for those readers who are impatient to know where this story ends – although it hasn’t really ended – I can assure you that Eira will finally get her heart’s desire, and Keith will find new fame. You will have to wait and see how that happens.
ooOoo
Eira spent the next couple of weeks working on the man rather than his art. First, she pushed him into the bathroom and told him to take off all his clothes, including his underwear, and leave it outside the door. Everything went on the garden incinerator.
“When you have thoroughly washed yourself, “she said, “and brush your teeth. There are new toothbrushes in the cabinet. There is also a razor and scissors in the cabinet, and I suggest that you get rid of that beard behind which you have been hiding. I will cut your hair later. There is a dressing gown hanging in the closet which might look more appropriate, so when you are finished – and I don’t expect you to take less than an hour – you can come out and we’ll rummage among my late husband’s clothes for something that fits. I might have to drop into the nearest town later to find a few pairs of shoes your size. The dog is called Cari by the way, and she is very friendly, especially if you give her biscuits from the tin in the sitting room, but never chocolate because its toxic for dogs.”
Over the next couple of weeks Eira slowly worked on Keith until he began to look a little bit more like the man in the books about British art in the twenty-first century – although not the one that was in all the society magazines at one time which had been extensively airbrushed. She ensured that he ate properly for the first time in years and he soon lost his haggard look as the colour came back to his cheeks. Whisky was banished, although he was allowed one beer or glass of wine with their evening meal. Probably most important of all, Eira encouraged him to talk about himself and so began the long process of healing his broken mind.
Something else very strange happened. Since her husband died Eira had let her own appearance slip. Oh, she still washed and showered every day, but she had let her hair grow, and it was definitely in need of tender loving care, if not shock treatment. She had stopped wearing makeup and the skin of her face was suffering the effects of wind and rain – she had been so careful before, but it didn’t seem to matter anymore. As for her clothes, well a well-worn pair of jeans and a polo neck jumper in the winter or tee shirt in the summer was all she bothered with. As for her underwear, well! Her husband had always bought her sexy lingerie, but that was all pushed to the back of a drawer, and plain cotton knickers and a shapeless cotton bra were good enough when there was never ever again going to be a man who wanted to undress her.
Strange isn’t it, that when a woman takes a man in hand and works on him to make him more presentable, she starts to take care with her own appearance too. Maybe it’s a subconscious thought that if he becomes more attractive, other women might think so too. So Eira decided that a first step would be to spent more time looking after her complexion, and when she had to go into Haverfordwest to have a problem on her car fixed, she went into Boots to buy some new cosmetics and Marks and Spencer for blouses and skirts, and rather nicer underwear than she had been wearing for the last two years – practical rather than sexy, but still attractive. She also made an appointment with a hairdresser to have her hair cut and styled, and a nail bar to see if they could rescue her broken and chipped fingernails.
It took a few days for Keith to notice, but one morning he remarked, “something’s different about you. Have you changed you perfume?”
“How odd,” she thought, “for a man who relies on his powers of visual observation, the only thing that he has noticed is that I’m wearing perfume.”
A bit later, he spoke again, “You’ve changed your hair, and you’re wearing more makeup.”
“More makeup!” she thought, “I suppose that’s progress of a sort, when I wasn’t wearing any before, and it was worth having my hair done.”
Eira had decided that if Keith was going to get fitter, he needed regular exercise. The longest walk he had made she surmised was to his local pub and back again after closing. So, after they had washed up the breakfast things, they went for a long walk along the coastal path in the direction of Porthclais. Cari was bounding ahead as usual and unsuccessfully trying to catch the rabbits that were browsing in the fields alongside that path. Keith was whistling, which was a good sign that the perpetual air of gloom that had hung around him for the first few weeks was lifting.
Suddenly he stopped, and turning round to look at her closely, he said, “Eira, what an interesting name. I suppose that in this land of bards, it must have a meaning, and Cari is rather an odd name for a dog. We had a dog once called Rover, which was fitting because it regularly escaped from the garden and went in search of lady dogs.”
“You are right, Welsh names do have a meaning. That is also true of English names, but you have just forgotten. Keith by the way, is the name of a town in Scotland. It is also a very uncommon name, whereas you will find a lot of Eiras in the phone book. It means snow and Cari means loved, which she certainly is, unlike many dogs.”
“Well,” he replied, “my little snow maiden, you really are rather attractive you know.” But that was all, and he didn’t say much at all for the rest of the walk.
ooOoo
It was only when she thought that Keith might be ready that Eira brought all her painting materials out of storage and left the in the conservatory. “Little steps,” she thought. A few days later when she was working in the garden, she glanced through the windows and saw that he was holding a pencil and occasionally scribbling on a pad of cartridge paper. About a week after that she found crumpled up sheets of paper in the wastepaper basket. When he wasn’t looking, she smoothed one out and was surprised to see a rough portrait sketch of her. Still nowhere close to his potential but better than anything she could do.
Eventually, nearly three months since she had dragged him to her cottage, almost certainly saving his life, she thought that the time had come to broach the subject of his starting to paint again and suggested the only subject which she thought would prick his imagination.
After dinner, when they were sitting either side of a cheerful log fire, she plucked up courage and asked him very nervously, “Keith, can I ask you a favour?”
“Of course, young Eira,” he replied, “what can I do for you to thank you for being so generous and kind to an old man?”
“Would you paint my portrait?” she asked, “Just a simple study sitting at a table reading.”
“I’m not sure how good it will turn out, but I suppose I’m about ready to give it a try. How would you like to be dressed – a jumper or perhaps a simple blouse?”
With a lump in her throat, Eira answered hesitantly, “I would like you to paint me in the nude please.”
“My, that is a surprise,” he chuckled, “I would never have guessed that you were such a forward young lady, but yes, if that is what you want, I will attempt it.”
ooOoo
They started the next day. Eira hadn’t realised how difficult it was to sit for a portrait, and after nearly an hour without moving she was beginning to be very uncomfortable. She hadn’t sat in the nude – well, semi-nude – for a long time. Not since she sat for the life drawing class at college, and her breasts, far from being the pert handfuls of her youth, were several sizes larger now, and sagged. They were beginning to feel very heavy, and every sudden draught through the open window at her right gave her goose bumps. She was sure her nipples were erect, although she didn’t dare look. Actually, she was sure her nipples were standing up, and it wasn’t because of the draught. To make things worse the skirt she was wearing was beginning to get itchy and hot, and she was beginning to get damp between her legs. Did all nude models get sexually excited she wondered?
“Sorry,” she suddenly blurted out, “can I have a break please. I’m hot and thirsty, and this skirt is very uncomfortable. I think I would prefer to be totally nude which would feel more natural, even though you are only painting me from the waist up.”
“If that would help,” he replied, “You have been fidgety for the last half an hour which doesn’t help my concentration, so get a glass of water and come back and resume your pose totally nude then.”
Keith hadn’t seen a naked woman in nearly three years, except the ones in pornographic films, and certainly not an attractive young woman sitting only a few feet in front of him. When Eira stood up and stripped off her skirt and panties it had a most unfortunate effect, and he rapidly developed a very hard and painful erection which he couldn’t hide from Eira. She did have lovely breasts, and he wondered what it would be like to suck them, and her pussy was delightful with enough pubic hair – ginger pubic hair – to frame it beautifully without hiding her inner labia and clitoris, which he noticed, were showing signs of her arousal.
It’s impossible to guess at the unconscious thoughts that had had begun to fill the minds of these two people who were linked by a passion for painting, and who had spent almost every waking moment in each other’s company for several months. Eira’s dreams had almost certainly been filled with memories of their love affair, and although the idea was still only in embryo, the sexual attraction of this gifted, and unexpectedly sensitive man was undeniable.
There are some itches that must be scratched, and as she resumed her pose, Eira saw Keith’s predicament, and after that she could hardly stop looking at it rather than the book she was supposed to be reading. Exciting, naughty thoughts were no longer avoidable as her arousal mounted and she wondered whether his naked penis looked as beautiful as she remembered it, and what it would feel like inside her.
Of course, Keith realised what was happening which made his erection even harder. If he didn’t get relief very soon he was going to have an involuntary orgasm which would be most embarrassing. His penis started to throb and pulse, and Eira was transfixed by the eroticism of his arousal, which only increased her arousal even more. Her vagina was getting wetter and a pool of her secretions was forming on the cushion she was sitting on. A delicious tingling was running from her clitoris up to her nipples which were standing out like organ stops.
Suddenly she got up, threw the book down and shouted, “I’m going for a shower, and I want you to come with me so that I can do something about that,” pointing at the throbbing tent in his trousers, before setting off in the direction of the bathroom.
Keith followed her, sex hormones flooding his body and mind, and struggling out of his clothes he joined her in the shower. They took turns in soaping each other down, hands exploring the most intimate parts of their bodies. Eira took great delight in fondling his scrotum, rolling the heavy balls around in their sac, and circling the head of his shaft with her thumb and fingers.
“I love your cock, it is so beautiful,” she said, and kneeling at his feet, she held it in her fingers and started to lick the head lovingly before taking it in her mouth.
“Oh Eira,” he murmured, “I had forgotten what it was like to be loved by a beautiful young woman simply because she liked me. When my wife consented to have sex it was a negotiation. My orgasm for something she wanted. But please stop now. It’s been so long that I’m going to come very quickly, and I want to make this memorable for you as thanks for everything you’ve done for me. Please stand up and turn round with your back to me.”
Reluctantly she stood up, and facing the shower wall, she bent forward as he indicated with her hands on the wall. Inserting three fingers into her gaping vagina Keith fingered her gently at first, and then more vigorously, until her first climax swept through her like one of the Atlantic storms that battered the cottage in the autumn.
“Oh Keith,” she cried, “I need you inside me. Put your delicious cock in me, and fuck me until I faint with the intensity of pleasure of fucking. Oh yes, you are so big, and it feels so good. Oh, Oh, Oh so fucking amazing.”
Their first mating could hardly be described as love making. They were both so consumed with lust that the only word to describe the urgency of their passion was plain old fucking. From the shower they went to the bedroom and continued to fuck for the next two hours until they both collapsed in exhaustion and fell asleep on sheets soaked with Eira’s copious vaginal secretions and Keith’s excess of semen from his several orgasms.
ooOoo
From that evening Keith moved into Eira’s bed, and what had started in the urgency of lust became leisurely lovemaking and as nature took its course, sexual attraction became love. Eira’s dream of over twenty years ago became reality, and Keith experienced the unselfish and caring love that had never graced his unfortunate marriage. The union of their bodies has developed into a wonderful union of minds of two people who are perfectly matched. Their shared passion for painting unites them in a different way, Keith as the creator and Eira as his muse and model, and through the magic of their partnership Keith’s gift has blossomed in an even more exceptional way than in his earlier career.
Since then, Keith has produced a series of canvases of Eira, all of them nudes, and in each one he has captured a new facet of her personality. The everchanging patterns of light that illuminate her flesh seem to radiate from within rather than being a mere reflection of the sun in the works they create en plein air, or the candlelight which is the sole illumination of those created in the studio or the bedroom.
The art world soon began to take notice of Keith’s reappearance after a long absence from artistic circles and many critics have speculated on the source of his new inspiration. He has become talked about again as one of the most significant painters of the early twenty-first century, and a weekend glossy magazine phoned him recently to ask if they could film an interview at his home. He declined even though they offered him what he considered to be an obscene amount of money. Many of his paintings are bought by galleries in Britain and America, which brings in a nice income with which they have been able to build a studio in the garden of the cottage. One painting, which recently attracted the attention of collectors in Japan, fetched nearly one hundred thousand pounds at auction.
A few months ago, when he was visiting the artists supplies shop in Haverfordwest, the proprietor, who had become a good friend, remarked that the schoolteacher who had been running a weekly art class at the local community centre had been appointed as the head teacher at a school in Cardiff and would be moving away in the next few weeks. Keith thought about it for a while and discussed it with Eira, and they decided that it would be good to share his knowledge and skill with enthusiastic amateur painters. The weekly class has now become two evenings, and Keith also gives occasional lectures on art history and other aspects of painting.
One of the most popular subjects is when he talks about colour. “For years,” he would begin, “before Eira saved me, in my mind the world was utterly grey. Gradually, thanks to her help and counselling, a veil has lifted and I am able to see what I used to take for granted. You see the world to me is a kaleidoscopic riot of colour. Some colours even have a taste of a texture. Orange for example, tastes metallic, similar to the taste of the old copper coins, and cobalt blue has the texture of whipped cream.”
“Colours,” he continued, “express our emotions, so when I paint Eira the colours that I use for her flesh, which are ever changing, speak to me of the love that we have for each other.”
Eira has started painting again, but in her case, she creates studies of the light on the sea outside their front door throughout the seasons of the year. In the summer, Keith and Eira have started to invite some of the students to their home to see where the magic happens – artistic open house is what they put on the invitations.
On most days they paint alongside each other in companionable silence, but in the evening they celebrate their physical union in perfect and wonderful lovemaking, before falling asleep naked in each other’s arms.
Keith has created a few paintings purely for their personal pleasure celebrating the beauty of their physical love, paintings that no one else will ever see and which will be destroyed by the survivor when either of them dies. An outside observer would soon agree that Eira and Keith, despite the difference in their ages are among the most contented and fulfilled couples they have met. They just say that they are happy.
