FRIDAY 17TH NOVEMBER 1989

The local constable stood in the room, staring at the sculpture. It sat on a raised platform. It looked so real, so well-made and so full of sexual energy that he couldn’t help but feel a slight throbbing deep in his groin. The way the man in the sculpture held onto the fleshy sides of the woman’s waist, his thighs pressing into her ass cheeks, and the way the woman’s breasts hung down in her bent-over position was hypnotising. It was as if the couple had been frozen mid-fuck. The fact that neither the man’s cock nor the woman’s pussy was visible gave it a truly sexually artistic appeal.

The constable had been called in after locals had noticed the shop being closed for over a week. The sculptor who owned the shop was well known and well liked within the local community. The locals had started to wonder why the shop had been closed for so long without any explanation. One of the community leaders had approached the police, and the constable had been asked to look into the matter.

It was Friday and a short while ago, he had arrived to have a look at the shop. After a little exploration, he had found a spare key hidden under the flower pot that sat next to the door. He let himself in and had a quick look around the shop. There was nothing of significance around the shop apart from clay pots, small miniature painted models, and other products lying on the shelves. The sculptor was clearly good at what he did because the pots and small models were very well-made with intricate designs and patterns carved into the clay. The till was shut with no sign of any damage from an attempt to break it open. He then found a door at the back of the shop and decided to enter the back office, which had led him to the workshop where he now stood.

Nothing made sense. There were no signs of any break-in. There was nobody to be found anywhere. No signs of any struggle or damage to property. Nothing. It was as if the sculptor had just vanished into thin air. As the constable stood considering what to do next, he closed his eyes and looked up whilst taking a deep breath. At that moment, he opened his eyes, and that’s when he spotted it… a small security camera, and it was blinking red, still recording. He moved quickly through the shop and the back office, but there was no other camera anywhere. Only the one in the workshop.

Perhaps the sculptor had some expensive tools and equipment in the workshop and therefore had decided to install a camera only here. The constable went back into the office and noticed a small laptop sitting on a desk. The constable went over to have a closer look. The laptop’s power light was on, and it was plugged in. He lifted the closed lid and the screen came to life, showing the login screen, which asked for a password. The constable unplugged the power adaptor from the wall socket, bundled the laptop together with the power adaptor and walked out of the shop, making sure to lock the shop door.

Later that night, whilst having a beer, the constable sat in front of the laptop. The constable had managed to get one of the IT technicians back at the station to hack into the laptop and reset the password so that if it locked again, the constable could enter the new password to reopen the laptop. He lived alone, having separated from his wife a few years ago. His daughter and son came to see him sometimes. These trips were always planned, and nothing had been arranged for tonight.

He tapped in the new password, and the screen brightened with some colourful picture of a river in the mountains. He was hoping his hunch was correct and that he would find what he was looking for. He opened File Explorer and started searching the hard drive for video files. It wasn’t long before he was staring at a huge folder full of videos titled ‘Workshop Sec Cam.’ He took a sip of his beer and got to work.

Each recording was thirty minutes long, and he started from the latest. He doubled up the recording’s playback to speed up the process. As he started playing the latest one, he found himself standing in front of the sculpture again. He paused the video and stared at the view. He was mesmerised. How could someone make something so realistic? After a few moments, he pulled himself together and continued his search.

About two hours later, the constable was still going through the videos. It was a tough job staring at the same scene over and over again. All he could see was the sculpture of the man and woman, mid-fuck, in the middle of the camera’s view. Hours and hours of recordings showing the same thing. He was really struggling to stay awake. He decided to start skipping some of the videos to get through quicker.

He opened the next video, the one that started at 11.30pm last Friday. The constable’s eyes suddenly widened. The sculpture was gone. As the recording reached the fifteen-minute mark, what he saw made his cock throb a little! A man and woman walked into view, naked. He was tall, lean, with long hair. The woman was breathtakingly beautiful. Tanned, with a lean figure. Small but firm breasts. Long auburn hair. They hugged and kissed, before she dropped to her knees and started sucking the sculptor’s hard cock with slow, purposeful intent.

He had his hands on her head, grabbing her hair, pulling her in and pulling her back. The constable paused the video as he took stock of the situation. He quickly established that this man must be the sculptor. He had never met the sculptor, so he couldn’t be completely sure, but his intuition was rarely wrong. He looked around his lounge, feeling a sudden worry that someone might be watching him watching what he was watching. He looked back at the scene in front of him… and cursed under his breath.

“Fuck!”

He settled back and pressed play.

SUNDAY 22ND OCTOBER 1989

The sculptor woke with his cock throbbing, and his sheets damp with sweat and cum. He had dreamt of her again. He remembered every dream he had about her in microscopic detail. He remembered her being on all fours with her ass high as he slammed into her without mercy. Every thrust had made her scream while her pussy clenched around him like a fist. He lay there panting; the image of her sweat-slick body burned behind his eyes.

He had been dreaming of the same tanned, exotic woman for the past week, and he couldn’t understand why. Where her vision had come from. Why? What he did know was that her intoxicating beauty had completely consumed him. He couldn’t stop seeing her, whether asleep or awake. He then realised what he needed to do.

He needed to make her.

He was a pottery maker and sculptor. He loved making things out of clay. He loved the process. He loved how wet clay felt in his hands. He had loved the art for as long as he could remember. Recently, he had started making sculptures to order. The locals considered his work to be so good that he needed very little marketing or advertising. Word of mouth got him more work than he could cope with.

He loved what he did.

That same morning, after having a quick breakfast, he dragged a large, fresh block of clay into the studio and placed it on the rotating platform. Using a wire slicer, he took a chunk of clay and cut it into smaller pieces. Using a head moulding mount, he began shaping her face. The full lips that had begged for his cum, the high cheekbones. He moved onto the upper abdomen. The firm tits he had gripped so hard in the dream. At first, his hands wouldn’t stop shaking, but the shakes subsided as he got more and more into the job at hand. Every time his fingers slid over the wet clay, he felt his cock twitch. By the end of the first day, his jeans were tight and his breathing ragged.

The next day, he woke up and opened his shop. But as soon as he had, he disappeared into his workshop. Throughout the day, he had a trickle of customers. He tried his best to hide his annoyance at being pulled away from his project. He took orders, gave out pre-made pottery, and did this with his usual smile. When the time came to close shop, he would feel relief. He wanted to be with her as much as he could. Each day followed the same routine.

His crafting sessions were starting to become more and more taxing on his emotions. He would sit at the pottery wheel or kneel beside the rotating sculpting platform, and the more he worked her body into existence, the harder his erections got. He shaped her waist, then her hips, then the curve of her ass, and every detail made his balls ache. He stopped wearing underwear because the friction was too much. Sometimes he had to stop sculpting altogether, unzip, and stroke himself while staring at the half-formed woman in front of him. He came on the floor more than once, breathing her name even though he didn’t know it yet.

The dreams followed him every night over the next few weeks. At first, they were the same rough fuck - him pounding her from behind while she clawed the sheets. Then they changed. She started riding him, grinding her clit against his pubic bone, telling him exactly how deep she wanted his cock. Later, she had him on his back while she lowered her dripping pussy onto his face and asked him to eat her until she squirted. The dreams grew so vivid he woke up with the taste of her on his tongue and fresh cum drying on his stomach.

Week after week, the clay woman became more complete. He spent hours perfecting her nipples, rolling the clay between his fingers until they stood stiff. He carved the delicate folds of her pussy with a small tool, then smoothed them with his thumb, imagining how they would feel wrapped around him. Every night the dreams grew louder, wetter, more desperate.

She begged him to fuck her harder, to choke her, to fill every hole until she overflowed. He woke up fucking the mattress more than once, hips jerking as he came in his sleep. His order book sat full and kept growing, but none of the orders had even started. He kept telling customers that he had taken on a huge corporate job and that business would return to normal operation in a few weeks. Some orders got cancelled by unhappy customers. The sculptor did not care. His life had a singular purpose right now.

Her.

SUNDAY 12TH NOVEMBER 1989

On the final night, he added the last touches. Her eyes, the slight part of her lips, the tiny beauty mark on her inner thigh. When he stepped back, the sculpture was finished. She looked alive. His cock was so hard it hurt. It was approaching midnight as he washed his hands, went to bed, and fell into the deepest sleep he had ever known.

In the dream, she came to him, but it was different. In all his previous dreams, he would meet her mid-fuck. As if he had been thrown into a moment with her and simply continued whatever was happening. This time, he saw her come through the door to his bedroom. She walked slowly, with her waist swaying. The walk was agonisingly slow. As she came closer and closer, she slipped out of the silky gown she had on, the material gliding off her like a second skin. She walked up to and stood at the foot of his bed, naked and glistening. “Wake up,” she said, voice low and commanding.

He jolted awake.

Wet heat engulfed his cock. She was real. Kneeling between his legs, lips stretched around his shaft, sucking him with slow, filthy pulls. Her tongue pressed flat against the underside while her hand stroked the base. Spit ran down his balls. She looked up at him with the exact eyes he had sculpted, pupils blown wide with hunger.

“Fuck,” he groaned, hips bucking. She took him deeper, throat relaxing until her nose pressed against his stomach. She gagged once, pulled off with a wet pop, and smiled.

“You took so long with me. I have been dying to be with you. Been waiting for this ever since you started,” she said, then climbed onto the bed and straddled his face. She grabbed his hair and slowly started grinding on his mouth. The sculptor had lost all sense of time, place, and life in general. All he knew was he had to have her in every way, again and again. He greedily sucked and licked her pussy. His tongue flicked back and forth between her lips as she rode his face. She was panting and gasping as his tongue moved faster and deeper. His tongue started hitting her clit, and she let out a deep groan as her body suddenly froze, and then started quivering.

She came while he was still licking her, and he tasted her heavenly juice drip into his mouth. He gave a guttural groan of his own. Without a word, she pulled away and slid down his body until he felt her wet pussy touch his cock. She grabbed it, lined it up, and sank down in one brutal motion. Her pussy was scorching and tight, clenching around every inch as she bottomed out. She didn’t give him time to adjust; she started riding him hard, ass slapping against his thighs, tits bouncing. He grabbed her hips and thrust up to meet her, driving his cock as deep as it would go. Her tits were screaming for attention, and so, he let go of her waist and grabbed her tits. He squeezed them, pinched the nipples, and rolled them between his fingers.

She leaned forward, hands on his chest, pinched his nipples and growled, “Harder. Fuck me like you did in my dreams.”

He flipped her onto her back, hooked her knees over his elbows, and slammed into her. The bed slammed against the wall with every thrust. Her pussy made obscene wet sounds every time he pulled out and drove back in. She reached down and rubbed her clit in tight circles, moaning louder with each stroke.

“Fill this pussy with your cum, my maker!” she warned, voice breaking. He pushed his cock into her even harder and grabbed her tits again. Her pussy walls fluttered, then locked around him as she came, squirting around his cock, soaking his balls and the sheets. He didn’t stop. He kept pounding through her orgasm until she was shaking and babbling.

He pulled out, flipped her onto her stomach, and hauled her hips up. He drove back into her from behind, one hand fisted in her hair, the other slapping her ass hard enough to leave red prints. She pushed back against him, meeting every thrust, begging for more.

“Fill me,” she panted. “I want your cum.”

He fucked her until his vision whited out, then buried himself to the hilt and came with a guttural roar. Thick ropes of cum pumped deep inside her. She milked him with her pussy, squeezing every drop until it leaked out around his cock and ran down her thighs.

They fell asleep at some point, late into the night. He dreamt of pottery making. Brightly coloured clay pots and small figurines. He did not meet her in his dreams. He smiled as he realised that he didn’t need to.

He woke to find her working his cock with her hands. Slow, soft strokes followed by hard, fast strokes. He was already hard as a rock. She saw him and smiled as she dropped her face and swallowed his cock. She sucked him hard while he lay gasping, then climbed on top and rode him until she came, grinding her clit against him.

They moved off the bed, and he took her against the wall, one leg hooked over his arm while he hammered into her. He bent her over the dresser and fucked her ass with spit-slick fingers first, then his cock, stretching her while she clawed the wood and screamed. They moved to the shower, water running over their bodies as he fucked her standing, her back against the tiles, legs locked around his waist. Cum and water mixed and ran down the drain.

The sculptor heard the ring of the shop doorbell downstairs. He couldn’t care less, and he ignored the ringing of the doorbell and phone.

He went to the kitchen and cooked up some breakfast. As he cooked, she sat on the floor, naked, sucking his cock. He made fried eggs and beans. His legs started giving in as he reached his point of no return, and the realisation that she was going to take his load in her mouth pushed him over. The frying spatula fell out of his hand as his cock pulsated in her mouth. She swallowed as much as she could but couldn’t cope with the load he had given her as excess cum dripped down her chin onto her crossed legs. He took the eggs and the pot with the beans to the breakfast table, and together they ate. They spoke little but just kept looking at each other. Their eyes sparkled with excitement. Their smiles were wide, stretching from ear to ear. He kept reaching out to touch her. On her arms. On her face. Letting his hands run through her hair.

He picked up the dishes and took them to the sink. He was about to start washing them when he heard some cutlery fall on the floor, followed by the smashing of glasses. He spun around quickly to see her clearing the breakfast table with one sweep of her arm before climbing on. The table was just wide enough for her body, her head just hanging off the edge and her ass just staying on the opposite side of the table. She placed her feet on the two chairs, causing her to spread her legs.

She proceeded to masturbate, her fingers moving side to side as she groaned and moaned. She then wet two of her fingers and slipped them inside. She fucked herself until she started panting, gasping, and taking sharp, quick breaths. She let out an earth-shattering scream as she shuddered through her orgasm. The sculptor stood watching the whole show, mesmerised, still and motionless. He left the plates in the sink and walked over to her.

Moments later, they were on the wooden floor, her riding him in reverse, his hands spreading her ass while he watched his cock disappear into her pussy again and again. She reached down, grabbed his balls, and squeezed just hard enough to cause him to lose control. He came inside her with a broken moan, and she followed, shaking and dripping. They lay together, sticky, spent, breathing hard. She turned her head and kissed his jaw.

“My maker… I can do this with you, over and over again. I won’t get tired of you fucking me,” she whispered.

FRIDAY 17TH NOVEMBER, 1989

Minutes turned to hours. Hours turned to days. The sculptor and his clay queen sucked and fucked each other into wet, orgasmic ends again and again. She seemed to possess endless energy, which shocked the sculptor. The way she would orgasm, then move seamlessly into another sexual act with him while showing the same relentless energy, left the sculptor amazed. The idea that this woman had been nothing but a dream, and then a sculpting project, left the sculptor feeling lucky.

During the week, they had spoken very little. What words were said were either during their fucking or between fucking when they would be lying with each other. Curses and moans and groans made up most of the fuck talk. Tender words of love during other times. The world had ceased to exist for the sculptor. He only thought of her, her body, and her orgasms. It was as if he had been overtaken by some spell. They slept together, naked. They ate together, naked. They showered together. They sat together, naked. They looked at each other, naked. And in between all that, they fucked… a lot.

They had just had dinner after having fucked in the office. He had taken her while she lay belly down on his work desk. It was a wonder that the table had withstood the force with which he fucked her. He had fucked her in the ass hard and for what felt like hours… and had shot his load inside. His ability to last astounded him. He had always thought the more sexy and beautiful the woman, the less he’d be able to control himself. But with his clay queen, it was only getting better with each fuck. Whenever he looked at her, his cock would harden as if on demand. They had lost count of how many times they had orgasmed during the last five days. But no one was counting.

It was 11.30pm. He was sitting in his study chair. She was on her knees, hands on his upper thighs while slowly sucking his balls. He was stroking his cock, precum helping lubricate his strokes. She was moaning softly as she sucked his balls. She placed her hand over his as they stroked his cock together. The sculptor looked across the room and realised that the one room they had not enjoyed was the workshop. Where he had created her. Where he had dropped his cum thinking of her. He had a sudden desire to want to take her into the workshop. He got up and pulled her up.

“The workshop. It’s where I made you. It’s where I touched your body as I moulded you. I want to fuck you there, now!” He took her hand and moved towards the door.

She hesitated. The sculptor looked at her, and she shook her head.

“I don’t want to go there.” She didn’t move.

The sculptor smiled and asked her what was wrong.

“I don’t know.” She looked at the door to the workshop.

“Don’t worry, my doll. I won’t let anything happen to you,” and he started walking. She reluctantly followed.

As they walked into the workshop, the sculptor had a rush of emotions from the long days and nights he spent on her. The memories caused his cock to throb. They walked over to where she had stood, on the rotating platform. Her dried footprints were still visible on the platform.

The sculptor turned to her and pulled her to him. His still erect cock snuggled between her legs, inches away from her pussy. They kissed, slowly at first and then more urgently, more deeply. Tongues danced in the space their mouths created. He gently pushed her onto her knees and held her head as he entered her mouth. He looked up and closed his eyes as he felt her wetness surround him. Her tongue ran along the underside of his shaft. She caressed his balls as he pulled her head towards him. She gagged a little, and he then pulled back a little.

He started slowly thrusting his cock inside her mouth rhythmically. His waist moved back and forth. Saliva drooled down from her mouth. He grabbed her hair as he pushed deeper, deep-throating her. Her hands lay on his thighs as she pushed away to breathe. She took deep breaths as she pulled away, slithers of saliva and precum stretching from the sculptor’s cock to her lips.

He pulled her up and kissed her again. “Go and stand there, where you stood before, when I made you.” He gently pushed her towards the platform. She looked at him for a second before stepping onto the platform. He came onto the platform and placed his hands on her shoulders, pushing her forward to bend over. She submitted to his will and bent down. As she bent over, he let his hands fall to the side of her legs, and she grabbed his arms. She looked down to see her feet turning grey. The colour slowly started rising up her legs, and she closed her eyes.

FRIDAY 17TH NOVEMBER 1989

The constable sat bolt upright in his chair. A ball of tissue full of his cum lay on the desk next to the laptop. His cock was limp in his lap. He watched as if in a trance as the sculptor pushed his cock inside his clay queen’s pussy. He felt the cogs in his mind begin to turn as he recognised what he saw in front of him. The exact position of the man and woman, the pose, the realism.

In the video, the sculptor let go of the woman’s hands and grabbed her waist by the flesh and dug his fingers in. The grey transformation reached the woman’s waist, but the sculptor’s eyes were closed. The transformation continued up the woman’s body, suddenly accelerating. As the constable stared in disbelief, the sculptor’s hands started turning grey as well. The sculptor whispered something that the security camera couldn’t pick up. He repeated the same phrase and opened his eyes. The sculptor’s eyes widened as he shouted out,

“No!”

The constable watched in horror as both the sculptor and his clay queen turned into the sculpture the constable had first set eyes on earlier that day. The recording stopped the instant the time reached 12.00am, leaving the final frame on the screen… the sculptor and his clay queen, frozen in time.