MOLDING CLAY

In the past six months as Clay brought another artist fame and fortune, the longing to pick up a brush was starting to stir again.

He put the longing aside as he had for the last fifteen years. He knew what he was good at and it wasn't painting. It was discovering new talent and selling their work. He saw it all as a big game, one he rarely lost. For the first dozen years, the high of winning was like nothing else he'd ever known.

He didn't know when exactly, he just knew he felt weary and old, much beyond the forty-seven years he'd lived. When had the joy of the game of art gone from his life? When had the game become a job?

He wouldn't think about the past or the future. He'd think about the present. Clay raised his fist to knock on the huge wooden door and stopped when he felt a tingle run from his neck down his spine. He turned. She was standing to his left, watching him. If he could have pushed his breath out of his lungs, he would have whistled. As it was all he could do was stare.

She was wearing a white terry cloth towel wrapped sarong style with a knot tied just above her breasts. He could see a small half-moon shaped birthmark above the right one. He had a sudden, overwhelming urge to taste that birthmark. His tongue shivered at the thought.

"You're over-dressed," she said breaking him from the intense waking dream holding him immobile.

"Get undressed and put this on. Then come around back." She handed him a towel and then walked away. He gulped at the way the outfit she was wearing followed the line of her spine and the curve of her ass. As she walked, he saw hints of the shadows of her ass cheeks.

He grinned, put the items he held on the porch then began tugging off his shirt and pants. She thought he was overdressed, eh? He could rectify that. There was no one around for miles and if she wanted to get up close and personal with nature, who was he to argue? He'd figured they'd drink a little wine and talk first but hey, he was nothing if not adaptable.

In seconds, he was naked except for the towel wrapped around his waist. He picked up the bottle of champagne – no sense wasting prime booze – and a single yellow rose out of the dozen he'd brought with him. He had a fantasy about stroking the rose over each of her nipples then suckling the turgid point until she cried out her pleasure.

Being inside wasn't necessary to his plan. He could do it just as easily outside.

He rounded the corner and stopped cold. She had a pedestal sitting in the late summer sunshine. In front of it was a low table in front of a short stool. A potter's wheel with a large clump of clay sat at the ready. Clay frowned. He realized now as she moved away she wasn't wearing a towel at all but a white terry cloth sarong.

Before, he'd felt decidedly over dressed. Now he felt under dressed.

"Come on, chop, chop," she said. "We've only got a few hours more of sunlight."

"You want me to pose for you?" he asked. He hoped she wouldn't realize how strangled his voice sounded.

"Yes."

Amber Quill Press