Stoke Surrender
"Pottery teacher Nneka shapes clay at her Stoke studio—but the thick Burundian executive who takes weekend classes wants to be molded in more personal ways."
Claudine was terrible at pottery.
She was excellent at watching Nneka's hands.
"Focus on the clay," Nneka instructed.
"I'd rather focus on you." Those thick curves shifted on the stool. "Your hands are hypnotic."
"They're dirty."
"I don't mind dirty."
The other students left at 5 PM.
Claudine stayed for "extra help."
"Show me again," she requested. "That shaping technique."
Nneka stood behind her, hands guiding hands, bodies close.
"Like this?"
"Exactly like this."
The pottery wheel spun forgotten as they found other rhythms.
Nneka's clay-covered hands left marks on Claudine's thick thighs.
"You're ruining my dress."
"Do you care?"
"Not even slightly."
In the studio, surrounded by glazed creations, they made something new.
Claudine's body was soft clay under Nneka's skilled touch.
"Shape me," she whispered. "However you want."
"You're perfect as you are."
"Make me more."
Stoke's pottery scene gained an unexpected following.
Executives who wanted weekend classes. Specifically with Nneka. Specifically Saturday evenings.
The word spread.
"Best teacher in the city," students said.
Claudine agreed. Though her lessons had evolved well beyond ceramics.
"I came for pottery," Claudine said one night.
"And now?"
"Now I come for you."
Some art, they learned, couldn't be fired in a kiln.
But it could be perfected with practice.