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From the Clay


"From the Clay"
by Adhara Law

(c) 1998 Adhara Law. All rights reserved. May not be reproduced
without express written permission by the author.

"Come in." His eyes roamed over her as she stood awkwardly in the doorway.
She took a tentative step into the room.

White chunks of clay littered the floor like muddled, dirty snow amidst
furniture that had seen better days. She stood in the center of the room,
hands by her sides, waiting for him to speak.

"You can get undressed in there," he said, gesturing to the only other room
in the apartment.

She pulled a faded white curtain closed behind her, emerging a few minutes
later in a thin cotton bathrobe. The couch waited in the corner.

"Don't be shy," he said, watching her reticence with some impatience. His
voice was neither commanding nor condescending.

As she lowered herself onto the long, flat couch, she let the black fabric of
the robe slip past her naked shoulders, artfully arranging it so as to reveal
as little as possible, though she knew what she was there for. She looked at
him expectantly.

"On your side, your arms along the front." He walked to her and began posing
her delicately, moving arms and legs into a seductive arrangement. Then he
sat in the middle of the room and began working.

She watched the clay in front of him take shape, slowly and methodically, as
he worked it with his hands. The unruly strands of his blond hair lay tucked
behind an ear while he stared at her intently every few moments. She glanced
out the window.

"So, you're a student?"

Her head bobbed in a tiny nod.

"And what do you study?"

"English literature." She watched his eyebrows twitch and wondered how much
older than her he was.

They were silent as he worked, shaping the dark mass of unformed clay as he
examined her. She watched the sunlight move across the room as she lay

"You're too stiff," he said quietly, his hands moving over the clay.

She swallowed. "I'm sorry."

"Are you nervous?"


"There's no need to be." His voice was flat, consumed by the clay. "The naked
body is a natural thing. That's why I want to sculpt it."

She was silent.

"You don't think so?"

She struggled for something to say.

"You should be proud, you're a beautiful woman," he said, but there was no
lust in his voice, only the presentation of a fact. "You should let it show,
like a work of art."

She wondered if she should thank him.

He stopped. His hands dropped to the table as he looked at her. "Why did you
answer the advertisement for a nude model?"

Her voice caught in her throat as her attention focused briefly on the patch
of sun warming her naked thighs. "I don't know," she said.

"Then I guess we have to find out."
* * *
She came back the next morning, taking almost no time to arrange herself on
the flat couch the way she thought he'd want her arranged. A few moments
later, he began sculpting.

"What's your favorite?"

She frowned. "Excuse me?"

"Author. You're an English literature student," he answered.

"I study mostly Shakespeare."

He sniffed as his hands continued to move swiftly over the clay. "Don't you
find it boring?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, everyone's read it. You can't go through an entire day without a
Shakespearean reference of some sort." He squinted at her for a moment before
returning his attention to the clay. "Besides, what's left to study?"

She laughed. "So much! You're not reading him properly if you find him
boring." She smiled at him.

"So what am I missing?"

"Well," she began, her body shifting slightly as she turned to face him. The
burning awareness of her nudity faded into her intense expression. "For one
thing, his use of language. It's poetic, beautiful."

"It's English," he said provocatively.

As the sound of her bell-like laughter faded into the expanse of the room,
his attention became riveted on her. "That's it," he said quietly.

"That's what?"

He was silent for a moment. "Tell me about Shakespeare," he said.

She talked. The sunlight from the high window in the room moved across her
naked body as she spoke, lectured, laughed, reveled. He laughed with her
occasionally as he sculpted. The visceral passion she had for her subject was
obvious as she began moving on the couch, forgetting her nakedness and
instead reveling in it. He worked furiously as she spoke, listening and
sculpting at the same time. The way the skin of her cheeks stretched across
the high bones of her heart-shaped face took shape in the clay, the same way
that the slight bow of her belly just above the soft tuft between her legs
found its expression in the same medium. She emerged, slowly, on the table in
front of him, her animation and energy showing through the immobile clay.

As she finished waxing rhapsodic about the beauty of a Shakespearean sonnet,
he stood up and went to her, making her pause and falter momentarily. Her
smile, which had been constant until now, tripped slightly as he sat next to
her on the couch.

A slight tremble began in her feet and worked its way to her belly as he lay
a clay-covered hand against her cheek. His darkened and dirty nails, caked
with an alabaster version of her, contrasted with the clean, white canvas of
her cheek. She shook. Slowly, she closed her eyes and let his hand slide
slowly down her skin.

"Tomorrow, I have something different in mind," he said.
* * *
Morning sunlight filtered in through the high window of the room, marred by
the shadows of the windowpane frames as it crept almost imperceptibly along
her calf toward her inner thigh. He moved from his table to her.

This time, she didn't tremble. She watched as he sat next to her, his eyes
traveling methodically over her skin, taking in the vision of her as if she
were living sculpture. She felt as if she was.

He leaned down slowly, the strands of his blond hair falling over her chest
and teasing her nipples. She tried to remember to breathe. The light touch of
his hand tickled her collarbone and then found its way to her own hand as he
took it. Then, he kissed her.

The tremble began again in her feet and traveled enticingly to her thighs as
she wondered if she should stop him. She didn't want to. She felt him move
her hand between her own legs and entwine his fingers together with hers as
he ran the backs of them over her sex, barely touching the skin but making
her shiver just the same. As they kissed, he began a rhythm between both of
their hands, first using his own fingers to reach the hidden, secret spot and
then using hers. The rise and fall of her chest became faster as it moved in
time with him.

"I want to sculpt this," he breathed into her ear when he broke the kiss.

Her eyes closed, she shook slightly as her lips parted, but no sound emerged.

"But it's so secret," she answered finally.

"It's beautiful," he said. "Like you."

Her eyes answered for her as they closed, her hands moving with their own
rhythm while his slowly moved away. He rose silently and went to the table.

They worked. Two sets of hands, one on clay and the other on skin, both
shaping art. He watched, fascinated, trying to capture the moment in clay as
she moved, wave-like, on the couch. Her lips slightly parted, red and flushed
like her cheeks. Her nipples hard and dark as one finger traced them lazily
while the other hand moved almost imperceptibly between her legs. And the sun
crept further upon her as if it were an ethereal lover.

Faster now, her breathing could almost be heard through the room as her head
turned, eyes closed, on the pillow under her. There was no room, no sculptor.
There was sunlight and her and art. Her fingers moved more quickly over her
as he worked furiously over the clay.

She whispered. What, he couldn't hear. She was alone even in this room with
him. Her head slowly tipped back as her lips parted further, the hills of her
curving hips moving in tiny circles up and down, side to side. Small sounds
filled the apartment, and he sculpted faster, showers of tiny clay pieces
falling to the floor like snow.

She was close. He worked faster and faster, trying to keep up with her as she
arched her back with fingers still working between her legs. Her closed eyes
were still filled with expression, more than he had ever seen. Every pore of
her skin as it stretched over her, flush with adrenaline, seemed alive and
animate. She gave a short cry and clenched her teeth as she came, her hips
arching up to meet her hand, the patch of sun laying over them and adding to
the warmth mixed with wetness that was already there.

Her breathing slowed. Only the sound of fingers against wet clay could be
heard as he added the finishing touches. Smiling as she stretched in the
growing sunlight that covered her, she stood up and walked to the table.

"This is why," he said.

She looked down at the table at the curving, delicate beauty of a secret
moment captured in clay, and she smiled.
I strongly encourage both positive and negative feedback on my stories.
Please write to me, Adhara Law, at and let me know
what you thought of this story.


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