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From: "Eros' Dreams" <eros_dreams@hotmail.com>
Subject: {Adhara} "From the Clay" {MF}
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I hope you enjoy, and please feel free to send me comments.
-- Adhara


FROM THE CLAY
by Adhara Law
Copyright 1998 Adhara Law (eros_dreams@hotmail.com). All rights 
reserved. May not be reproduced or distributed 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 unmoving.

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

She swallowed. "I'm sorry."

"Are you nervous?"

"Yes."

"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.	   	  


-------------------------------------------
Adhara Law: eros_dreams@hotmail.com
more of my stories can be read at:
http://asuwlink.uwyo.edu/~astarte/adhara




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