The kiln

The kiln is ticking as it cools and I am telling the phone this with clay still in the crease of my thumb. Theo came by after his shift. He is thirty-six, my lover, and he knows the rule: boots off, then we see what the day will allow. Mine were already beside my bare feet. The apron was stiff with slip. He did not grab. He stood in the heat and said he could wait. I like that more than hunger that spends itself in a minute.

I told him to wash his hands and then put them on my waist, over the canvas, nowhere else yet. He did. We listened to the kiln. I leaned back into his chest and felt his cock hard against me and did not move to solve it. Slow. His mouth at my neck, a question. I said yes, skin. He untied the apron and slid his hands up my ribs, thumbs learning the weight of my breasts, steady, a craftsman in a room that respects a slow hand. My cunt was wet before he reached my stomach. I said lower, and I said slowly.

He sank to the bench with me in his lap, my back to him, his fingers on my clit in small circles while the other hand held my thigh open. I told him not faster, just there, fuck my cunt with that patience, and when I was close I reached down and guided his cock into my cunt. His cock in my cunt was the point I had been walking toward for an hour. I rocked, bare feet on the concrete, braid sticking to my throat, his hands never leaving me. I came long and quiet, gripping his wrist, my cunt tight on his cock. He asked if he could cum. I said yes, stay in my cunt and fuck me through it. He did, forehead between my shoulders, breath shaking. We stayed until the kiln clicked again. I am not washing my hands yet. I want the night on them a little longer.