He enjoys working by candlelight on evenings such as this one when there is a hush in the night except for the light rain pitter-pattering against the glass panes. These somber clouds, however, are sparse enough for the moon to peek through and cast a soft glow on the shadows, adding more romance to the setting. 

There are no drapes to draw closed on the windows of his shop — not that he would have closed them, anyway. He never minded passersby watching him. Truthfully, he paid no attention to the onlookers, focusing exclusively on what lies within his hands. 

Despite the lateness of this hour and this poor weather, someone could be walking the damp streets and perhaps peering through his window. That someone would witness the potter’s hands about to guide and mold the malleable clay into something quite beautiful.

And on this night, the malleable form within his grasp is a lovely Mexican woman named Esmeralda. 

She’s shy. Unsure of herself.

And he can’t wait to get his hands on her.

~o~

With fingers trembling and fumbling with each button, she finally opens her ankle-length black trench and eases it off her shoulders. She holds her breath until he speaks. 

He knows of her insecurities and doesn’t make her wait long. “You’re breathtaking, Esmeralda. And the color — perfection!” The potter circles her, admiring her from head to toe, pausing to run a finger along the thin spaghetti strap. “Your red dress perfectly compliments your emerald eyes. These colors are opposites on the color wheel — not harmonious like adjacent colors, but bolder, creating a wonderful partnership.”

She finally meets his eyes and smiles, comforted by his praise and adoring expression. “Red is a favorite color of mine and my people.”

“Then you should wear it with pride.”

He reaches for one of her hands and leads her to the back, positioning Esmeralda on the padded backless bench. Moving into position behind her, he slides his thick, calloused hand underneath her ebony cascading locks to grasp her neck and eases her backward until her head rests against his hip, mere inches from his throbbing cock. 

She flutters her heavily mascara’d lashes at him in growing excitement. The roughness of his hand against her silky skin is a welcome sensation to the contrasting smooth, unskilled hands of the white-collar lovers in the city. 

How many times had she stood at the window, watching his hands manipulate the clay in a seemingly sensual manner before she gained the courage to enter his shop and talk to him? On one night, her longing for more had given her the courage to rap on the window despite the “Closed” sign. 

His shop, filled with vibrantly colored pottery, was a welcome addition to the drab grayness of the city streets. While Esmeralda didn’t regret fleeing her home country for a hopefully better life, she struggled to fit into America. The uncomfortable newness had yet to wear off. Feeling lost, she realized she wanted to be the clay in the potter’s hands, not only to feel seen but meticulously reshaped and formed into something exquisite beyond the boring gray triteness of the life she’d led this far. 

Her tapping on the glass had briefly irritated him, interrupting his sharp focus, but as soon as he saw the lovely woman at his window, he flashed her a smile that instantly warmed her chilly insides. She accepted his invitation to come inside and let him introduce her to his creations. His dark brown eyes had never left her green ones as he spoke of his passion.

Curious, she had asked, “Do you see what the clay will become before your hands even touch it, or do you decide as you go along, feeling it take shape within your fingers?”

“There’s always a communion between myself and the clay,” he replied while manipulating the substance. “Sometimes, a lighter touch is needed. Sometimes more pressure… here…” he said as the muscles in his forearms grew taut and the pottery changed shape, submitting to his touch. 

She admired his unusual combination of manliness and grace and soon longed — then begged — to be the object of his attention. He saw her for what she was — a woman needing to feel connected to something and be seen and heard in her new world. Moreover, like the clay within his hands, he saw her potential. 

He invited her to come back the next night, and instead of the black suit she’d worn to work, which hid her shape and personality, he asked her to wear something that made her feel beautiful. 

Now, she lies within his powerful grasp, preparing to be molded into something new and perhaps unexpected. 

“You’re inspiring me.” He traces the swell of her breast, kneading its fleshy fullness, adding, “The shape of you steals my breath.” 

The potter caresses her neck and dips his fingers underneath the silky plunging neckline. Her chest reddens. Nipples, unusually large, change and threaten to poke through the thin fabric. He gently toys with her pronounced pebbles, gauging her reactions. It isn’t until he roughly twists one that Esmeralda’s back arches, and mouth flies open. 

He smiles. “It seems you’re not as delicate as you first appeared,” he sharply pinches her other nipple, “and enjoy some roughness.” 

Still writhing from the newly experienced sensations, she simply nods in silent agreement. 

“Don’t hold your tongue, Esme. Express what you’re feeling. You’re in a safe place.”

He continues stirring her nipples, and she begins loudly moaning and begging for more. Then, she surprises him by lowering her straps, unveiling her magnificent breasts to more thrilling touches by his skilled hands. He kneads her delicate flesh, paler than the rest of her, and delights as her breasts blush within his hands. 

She sees movement out of the corner of her eye, which causes her to turn her head to the window. Her hands spring to cover her naked breasts upon seeing a dark silhouette in the window holding an umbrella. She worries about how much he can see in their candlelit room. 

The potter uncovers her breasts and turns her face back toward him. “Focus on me, Esme. My hands are bringing you to life, and that’s nothing to hide.” 

Esmeralda glances back at the window to find the silhouette had not moved, then discovers she’s grown wet between her legs — so wet that her skimpy red panties have become uncomfortably glued between the crevices of her sticky lips. 

The observant potter notices her shifting bottom and maneuvers her to lie comfortably on the bench. 

“Patience, Esme. I’ll free you of your panties in due time.”

He drags a fingertip down the valley between her breasts to the side slit of her dress, cut up to her hip. She shivers as he rakes his short nails down her exposed thigh. The voyeur outside steps closer to where his warm breath fogs the glass pane while he massages his cock through his trousers. 

“See all of me, please,” she begs, her voice becoming quite raspy. 

The potter’s excited by her burgeoning confidence but still wants to set the pace of her revival. Very slowly, he tugs on the delicate dress fabric, raising it over her knees, then up her thighs, and hesitates at her crotch as if he’s about to unveil a prized piece of art. 

He kneels on the floor at the end of the bench and tugs her hips until her bottom is on the edge and her legs drape over his broad shoulders. Only then does he flip the front of her dress over her crotch in one hurried movement. Esmeralda gasps at the unexpected quickness of it all. Before she can catch her breath, he tears her panties off and slings them over his shoulder. They land on a nearby coat rack much closer to the window. 

Their unnamed voyeur swallows the saliva that suddenly floods his mouth. Unconsciously, he presses a hand against the pane, splaying his fingers as if beckoning the sopping wet panties to come within his grasp.

The potter, however, is only focused on the breathtaking site before him. “If only I could bottle these shades of pink between your legs, Esme.” He moans, unable to tear his eyes from her glistening lips. “Would make a perfect glaze for my creations.”

“Kiss me,” she says, reaching down and boldly spreading her lips with her long crimson-painted fingernails. “Here.” 

He groans and adjusts the stiffness trapped in his pants. “That’s it, Esme. You’re free to ask for what you want here.” 

His warm breath blows on her sensitive lips before he replaces her fingers with his own and wildly tongues her pussy. Her back arches off the bench amidst ravenous calls for more. The potter thumbs her puffy clit, drawing more begging from Esmeralda. His tongue plunges into her molten core, licking and lapping at the wetness that keeps coming. 

Raising his head from her tasty cunt, the potter asks, “How many of my fingers do you want?”

“Two,” she gasps. “No three,” she pleas, feeling deserving of more. 

Without hesitation, he thrusts three of his fat fingers into her eager cunt, roughly fucking her while his mouth takes over, spoiling her clit with lips and tongue. Her heels dig into his shoulder blades as her hands grip the sides of the bench. Quivers run up her legs from her curling toes to the apex of pleasure between her legs, and she cries out — a high-pitched scream that only comes from the most intense carnal delights. 

Esmeralda cums — hard — and drowns his mouth and fingers with her re-awakening. 

The silhouette in the window shudders with his spurting seed, bracing himself with one hand against the window and panting, “Es… meralda.” Moments later, the falling rain dilutes his thick cum, and the mysterious figure turns and sulks away.