The studio smelled of clay and fire, the wheel humming like a secret. She told me to sit, to learn, to trust her hands on mine. By the time the door locked, I knew I had come for more than pottery.
The bell above the door made a tired little sound when I pushed it open.
The street outside was almost empty, just the takeaway next door still lit, its neon bleeding red and green across the front windows of the ceramics studio. Inside, the light was low and yellow, the kind of warmth that made everything softer, even the racks of bowls stacked like a regiment against the wall.
I had only come to collect a mug. The one with my thumbprint fixed into the handle, the one she had promised to patch and glaze. I expected a quick handover, a thank you, a goodnight.
Instead, I found her still at the wheel.
She was bent close, forearms taut, hands steady on the clay as it spun between them. The wheel hummed, steady, hypnotic. Her hair had been tied up in a knot, but half of it had fallen loose, strands sticking to her cheek where the air was damp. There was slip on her wrists, a pale film that made her skin shine.
She looked up when I came in. Eyes dark, clear, and unhurried.
“You are early,” she said. Her voice was low and even, as if the hour had stripped it back to something more honest. “I told you I would need until tonight to finish the firing.”
“It is tonight,” I said.
That earned me the smallest smile. She lifted her hands from the spinning lump of clay, reached to flick the wheel slower with her foot, and wiped her forearm against her apron. The mark it left was the colour of wet stone.
“You can wait,” she said. “Or come back tomorrow.”
I should have said I would come back. Instead I walked further in, drawn by the sound of the wheel and the sight of her hands.
“I will wait.”
The kiln ticked in the corner, cooling slowly. Somewhere outside, the takeaway’s neon buzzed like a fly. She turned back to the clay, pressed her palms into it, and the spin picked up again.
“Then sit,” she said, tilting her head towards the stool across from her. “You can keep me company. Just do not distract me unless you mean to be distracted yourself.”
I sat, the stool creaking under me, and tried to make myself smaller than I felt. The wheel whirred between us. Her hands pressed down, knuckles whitening as she centred the clay. The movement was patient, almost meditative, and I found myself staring at the rise and fall of her forearms, the way her fingers curved just enough to guide, never enough to force.
She glanced up. “You are watching like a man who wants to learn.”
“I do not know a thing about it.”
“Then you are perfect. Clean hands, no bad habits.” She patted the empty space behind her. “Come here. I will show you.”
I hesitated, but the wordless invitation of her eyes pulled me forward. I stood, moved around, and settled where she told me, knees bracketing her hips as she shifted a little on the stool to make room. My chest almost brushed her back. I could smell clay, kiln dust, something faintly metallic that might have been her sweat.
“Hands,” she said softly, and lifted mine to the clay. Her palms guided my palms, her fingers threaded between mine like we had been made to work together. The wheel hummed under us. The clay pushed back, stubborn at first, then pliant as we leaned our weight in time.
“Not force,” she said. “Pressure. Listen to the spin. Match it.”
The clay began to rise, a wet cylinder stretching under our hands. She pressed her thumb in, shaped the hollow, and the wheel carried our touch round and round until the wall was even and smooth.
“Good,” she murmured. Her cheek brushed my jaw when she leaned closer to adjust my grip. Her voice thinned to a whisper. “Better when you do not overthink it. You will find the rhythm if you trust me.”
I wanted to tell her I trusted her already. The words caught somewhere between my teeth. My heart had begun to keep time with the wheel.
The kiln ticked again. She drew back my hands, let the clay spin unguarded, and reached down to press the pedal off. The wheel slowed. The hum died.
“Enough lesson for tonight,” she said, her voice rougher now. She stood, wiped her palms on her apron, and crossed to the studio door. I watched her turn the key, the bolt sliding home with a sound that left no space for pretending.
She leaned her back against the glass and looked at me. Her chest rose, fell. She touched the strap of her apron and loosened the knot with one hand.
“Stay,” she said. “But not as a student. Not unless you mean it.”
I stayed where I was, hands still tingling from the wheel, watching her untie the apron. She let it hang loose, the bow a limp knot at her hip. A streak of clay cut across her collarbone like a mark she had forgotten to wipe away. She lifted one shoulder, brushed her cheek with the back of her wrist, and left another pale smear there.
“You do not talk much,” she said.
“I thought I was meant to be quiet in class.”
Her smile tilted, tired but sharp. “Maybe. Or maybe you are just waiting to see what happens if you keep your mouth shut.”
The kiln ticked again, louder this time. A car rolled past outside, headlights flaring against the window, then gone. For a moment it felt like we were underwater, sealed in warmth and damp air.
She crossed back to me, slow, each step deliberate. Her boots left faint prints of dust on the concrete. She stopped in front of me, close enough that the hem of her apron brushed my knees. Her eyes searched mine, steady, almost daring.
“You came for a mug,” she said. “You stayed for something else.”
I nodded, because lying seemed pointless.
She let the silence stretch. Her hands, still streaked with slip, came to rest on the edge of the stool, caging me there. I could smell the wet clay on her skin, faintly sour, earthy, and human. Her lips parted as if she might say more, then closed again.
At last she leaned in, her mouth a whisper from my ear. “I will ask once, and only once. Do you want this?”
I turned, caught her gaze, and answered. “Yes.”
She nodded, satisfied, as if she had known already but needed to hear it. She straightened, fingers sliding from the stool to my thigh, leaving a cool streak of slip that felt heavier than it should.
“Good,” she said. “Then sit still while I decide how much trouble you can stand.”
Her hand lingered on my thigh, thumb stroking once through the damp streak she had left. Then she stepped closer, her body fitting between my knees, and caught my face in her slip-stained fingers.
The first kiss was not hurried. She pressed her mouth to mine as if she wanted to test the shape of it, to taste me before deciding what else I might be good for. Her lips were warm, faintly salted with sweat, and when she pulled back a fraction, I could feel the damp clay she had smeared against my cheek cooling in the air.
“Soft,” she murmured. “I thought so.”
She kissed me again, harder this time, mouth opening, tongue slick against mine. The taste of her was earth and dust and woman, grounding, unavoidable. I reached for her waist but she caught my wrist and pinned it against the stool, a small smile against my mouth as if to remind me who was setting the pace.
“Not yet,” she said.
Her thumb brushed my lip, drawing another faint streak across my skin. She stepped back, letting the space open just enough to make me ache with it. She circled the stool once, her fingertips grazing my shoulder as she passed behind me, her breath a low current against my neck.
The wheel still sat silent at our knees, the clay slumped and drying. She pressed the pedal with her foot, let it hum again, the sound vibrating in the air like a low chord.
“Do you feel that?” she asked from behind me, her lips close to my ear. “That pull, that spin under your hands? That is what you will give me.”
Her hands slid down my chest, palms flat, pressing me into the seat. The hum of the wheel filled my bones.
Then she came around again, knee brushing mine, and kissed me once more, slower, deeper, as if she had already decided how much trouble I was worth.
Her mouth moved against mine until I had no sense of time, only the heat of her lips and the steady vibration of the wheel still humming below us. She dragged my hands to her waist at last, pressing them there until my fingers found the warm cling of cotton under her apron.
“Now,” she whispered, and the word was both permission and command.
I gripped her, slid up over the curve of her ribs, felt her body arch into my touch. The vest she wore was thin with sweat, nearly sheer in the lamp light, and her nipples pushed hard against the fabric. I bent forward, kissed through the cotton, left a wet mark that darkened the patch already clinging to her. She laughed softly, pleased, and wound her fingers into my hair to keep me there.
The apron slipped from her shoulder. She tugged it down with one hand, baring herself piece by piece, then tossed it aside. Clay dust fell from it like pale confetti.
Her skin was hot beneath my palms, smoother than I had expected, streaked with faint smudges where slip had dried. I licked one from her collarbone, tasted earth and salt together, and she gasped in surprise, then shoved me back against the stool with enough force to rattle it.
“Good student,” she said, voice ragged. “Learning fast.”
She sank to her knees without ceremony. My breath broke at the sight of her there, hair falling loose around her face, eyes steady as she tugged open my jeans. She freed me in one smooth pull, and her hand wrapped firm around the base, thumb smearing the bead already shining at the tip.
I groaned, the sound pulled straight from my chest.
She leaned in, tongue flicking quick and hot, then sealed her mouth around me. The heat was instant, complete, wet enough to make me clutch the edge of the stool for balance. She set a pace, slow at first, patient as she learned the weight of me, then deeper, greedy, the wheel’s hum nothing compared to the noise rising in my throat.
When she looked up at me, lashes damp, lips stretched around my cock, I nearly came undone.
Her free hand pressed hard against my thigh, pinning me as if to remind me that this was her lesson, not mine.
Her mouth worked me until my thighs shook against the stool, until I could barely hold back the guttural sound building in my chest. Each time she pulled back, spit stretched from her lips to my cock, a glistening thread that caught the lamp light. She licked it away, humming as if the taste amused her, then sank back down until her throat clenched around me.
I swore. My hand found her hair, tried to guide her, but she caught my wrist and pressed it flat to my own thigh. A warning and a promise in one.
“You will not finish here,” she said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, a wicked shine on her lips. “Not yet.”
She rose in one motion, gripped my shirt at the collar, and dragged me to my feet. The stool spun away behind us. She shoved me back until my hips hit the edge of the wedging table. Clay dust bloomed under my palms when I caught myself.
“Here,” she said. She pushed at my chest until I sat on the table, then stepped between my knees, stripping her vest over her head in a single smooth pull. Her breasts spilled free, flushed and full, nipples dark and already stiff. She watched me watching her, let me drink in the sight, then caught my jaw and pressed one against my mouth.
I sucked, tongued, bit gently until she gasped. Her fingers dug into my hair, urging me harder.
“Enough,” she panted. “I want you where it matters.”
She tugged her shorts down and kicked them away, bare and gleaming in the hot lamplight. She turned, bent forward over the table, and looked back at me with a smirk that made my pulse hammer.
“Now,” she said again, firmer. “Give me what you have been holding back.”
I slid off the table, gripped her hips, and dragged the tip of my cock through the wet heat already waiting for me. We both groaned when I pushed inside, slow at first, then deeper, until I was buried in her and she was braced against the wood with her back arched, her body clenching around me like a fist.
The kiln ticked, the wheel sat silent, and the room filled with the sound of skin on skin.
I set my hands on her hips and drove. Each thrust landed with a wet slap, her body taking me and urging me deeper. She shoved back hard, meeting me stroke for stroke, palms braced flat against the table, clay dust marking her skin like fingerprints.
Her breath broke into rough little sounds, honest and jagged, nothing she tried to hide. She reached between her thighs, fingers working her clit in tight circles while I filled her from behind. Her back bowed, hair swinging against her shoulders, sweat catching the lamp’s yellow glow.
“Harder,” she growled, and I obeyed, pulling her into me until the table squealed against the floor. My chest pressed to her back, my mouth at her ear, teeth grazing the curve. She clenched around me, sharp, desperate, and I felt my control slipping.
“Iris,” I managed. “I am close.”
“Good,” she panted. “So am I. Do not stop.”
Her body trembled, thighs shaking as she pushed herself against my cock again and again, chasing her edge. She broke with a cry that echoed off the racks of bowls, her cunt clamping around me so tight it dragged my orgasm out in a hot rush. I groaned against her neck, spilling deep, filling her until I could feel it run slick down both our thighs.
We stayed there for a long, shuddering moment, her cheek against the cool table, my chest pressed to her back, the smell of clay and sweat and sex thick in the air. Then she pulled free, slow, her body slick with our mess.
She turned, sat back on the table, legs spread, chest rising and falling. My cum glazed her thighs, her belly, a streak glistening high across her breast where it had spattered when she came. She touched her fingers to it, smeared it lazily over her nipple, and brought them to her mouth.
Her eyes locked on mine as she sucked them clean.
“Now that,” she said, voice low, satisfied, “is a finish worth firing.”
The kiln ticked in the corner, steady as a metronome. She leaned back on her palms, cum shining across her skin, and smiled like the lesson had only just begun.
The air was thick and damp, heavy with the scent of clay and sweat and sex. I stood there, still breathing hard, watching her shine on the table. She let me look, unashamed, until the heat in my chest eased into something quieter.
Then she swung her legs down, reached for a rag from the sink, and tossed it to me with a crooked grin. “Clean up before you drip on the floor. Clay stains I can scrub, but you… you leave different marks.”
I laughed, shaky, wiped myself down, then crossed to her. She let me press the cloth over her thighs, let me touch gently where moments ago I had been rough. She caught my hand halfway and lifted it to her mouth, sucking the taste from my fingers until the rag slipped to the ground.
When she was satisfied, she stood, hair tangled, skin still glazed in patches she had not bothered to wipe away. She rinsed her arms at the sink, ran cool water down her chest, then left the streaks shining like she wanted them to dry there.
“You came for a mug,” she said, pulling a small parcel from the shelf. She handed it to me, wrapped in brown paper, still faintly warm from the kiln. “Here. Thumbprint fixed. Glazed and fired. Stronger now than when it cracked.”
I turned it in my hands, felt the weight of it. My print sat under the handle, patched neat, sealed forever in clear shine.
She leaned on the wedging table, hair falling over one shoulder, and studied me. “Bring it back if it chips again. I like repairs.”
“I will,” I said.
She smiled, sharp and fond. “Good. Because you are not finished either.”
The kiln ticked like a clock, steady, unhurried. She cupped her palm against her own throat, where my cum still glistened faintly, drying in the lamp’s glow. Her eyes closed for a second, as if she were savouring it, then she looked back at me.
“Consider that your first lesson,” she said. “Next time, I teach you how to keep your hands steady.”
I left with the mug warm in my grip, her taste still on my tongue, and the street outside felt strange, too clean, too ordinary. My chest was sticky where she had pressed herself against me, and I knew I would smell of her all night.
The neon buzzed across the glass behind me, throwing colour on the wet patch of her apron still hanging near the door. The kiln ticked on, cooling, but all I could think of was the shine she wore like it had been made for her, and the promise in her voice that this was only the beginning.
🍑 From Plain Smut
I love when lust hides inside the ordinary. A mug, a wheel, a kiln cooling in the corner… and suddenly the room is thick with want. This story is about letting yourself be pressed, pulled, and shaped until you discover the heat that was already waiting under your skin.
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Less Righteous Brothers, more Paula Cole. With a side of AWOLNATION.