Clay For The Potter - Sex Stories

Clay For The Potter

He enjoys working by candlelight on evenings such as this one when there is a hush in the night except for the light rain pitter-pattering against the glass panes. These somber clouds, however, are sparse enough for the moon to peek through and cast a soft glow on the shadows, adding more romance to the setting.

There are no drapes to draw closed on the windows of his shop — not that he would have closed them, anyway. He never minded passersby watching him. Truthfully, he paid no attention to the onlookers, focusing exclusively on what lies within his hands.

Despite the lateness of this hour and this poor weather, someone could be walking the damp streets and perhaps peering through his window. That someone would witness the potter’s hands about to guide and mold the malleable clay into something quite beautiful.

And on this night, the malleable form within his grasp is a lovely Mexican woman named Esmeralda.

She’s shy. Unsure of herself.

And he can’t wait to get his hands on her.

~o~

With fingers trembling and fumbling with each button, she finally opens her ankle-length black trench and eases it off her shoulders. She holds her breath until he speaks.

He knows of her insecurities and doesn’t make her wait long. “You’re breathtaking, Esmeralda. And the color — perfection!” The potter circles her, admiring her from head to toe, pausing to run a finger along the thin spaghetti strap. “Your red dress perfectly compliments your emerald eyes. These ...

... colors are opposites on the color wheel — not harmonious like adjacent colors, but bolder, creating a wonderful partnership.”

She finally meets his eyes and smiles, comforted by his praise and adoring expression. “Red is a favorite color of mine and my people.”

“Then you should wear it with pride.”

He reaches for one of her hands and leads her to the back, positioning Esmeralda on the padded backless bench. Moving into position behind her, he slides his thick, calloused hand underneath her ebony cascading locks to grasp her neck and eases her backward until her head rests against his hip, mere inches from his throbbing cock.

She flutters her heavily mascara’d lashes at him in growing excitement. The roughness of his hand against her silky skin is a welcome sensation to the contrasting smooth, unskilled hands of the white-collar lovers in the city.

How many times had she stood at the window, watching his hands manipulate the clay in a seemingly sensual manner before she gained the courage to enter his shop and talk to him? On one night, her longing formorehad given her the courage to rap on the window despite the “Closed” sign.

His shop, filled with vibrantly colored pottery, was a welcome addition to the drab grayness of the city streets. While Esmeralda didn’t regret fleeing her home country for a hopefully better life, she struggled to fit into America. The uncomfortable newness had yet to wear off. Feeling lost, she realized she wanted to be the clay in the ...