Clay on her wrists

I am on the stool at the wheel and the phone is on a dry shelf, recording, because my hands are a mess and I do not trust myself to write this later without tidying it. Theo is on the floor beside me. Thirty-six. He asked if he could watch the bowl come up. I said yes, and I said he could touch me when I nodded, not before. The apron is on. Braid over one shoulder. Clay wet on my wrists. The wheel hums in my palms.

He put his clean hands on my knees first. I nodded. They moved up, slow, under the apron, over my bare thighs. I kept centering. It is a good trick, holding a form while someone learns your cunt. His fingers found my cunt wet and he made a surprised sound that almost broke the wall of the bowl. I told him to fuck my cunt with his fingers, circles on my clit, the way I like, and I did not speed the wheel. Slip dripped. He slid one finger into my cunt, then two, thumb on my clit, and I rode his hand in tiny lifts that did not wreck the clay. I said I am going to cum if you keep fucking me exactly there. He stayed. I came with my forearms braced on the pan, mouth open, the bowl wobbling and then trued again because I refused to lose it.

When I could talk I turned the wheel off and told him to stand. I stroked his cock with a wet, earth-smelling hand, both of us laughing once at the mess, and then I said I want your cock in my mouth, and I want you to hold my braid and not push. He nodded. I took his cock deep on my terms, clay smearing his hip, until he warned me in a cracked voice. I stayed on him and swallowed his cum. He knelt after and kissed my clay-streaked wrists. The bowl survived. So did I. I am keeping the apron on until I decide the day may have me.