Stoke Sweetness
"Pottery teacher Morenike's hands create beautiful things. When student Christopher stays late for extra lessons, she shows him her hands can do much more than shape clay."
Christopher had signed up for pottery to impress a girl. But after she left him, he kept coming back for Morenike.
The Nigerian teacher was forty-one, with hands that could coax beauty from any lump of clay. She was also, objectively, stunning—thick and graceful, with natural hair wrapped in colorful fabric and a smile that made the whole studio feel warmer.
"Your technique is improving," she said, watching him at the wheel.
"Good teacher."
"Flatterer." But she smiled. "Stay after class. I want to show you something."
The studio was peaceful after hours. Just the two of them, the hum of the kiln, the smell of earth.
"You've been distracted lately," Morenike observed. "Your work shows it."
"Personal stuff."
"The girl?"
"How did you—"
"I notice things." She sat beside him at the wheel. "Put your hands here."
She placed her hands over his, guiding them on a new lump of clay. Her body pressed against his back, warm and soft.
"Feel the clay. Don't fight it."
He felt a lot more than clay.
"Morenike..."
"Shh. Just feel."
Her hands guided his as the wheel spun, but she wasn't focused on the clay anymore. Her breath was warm on his neck.
"I've been watching you too," she admitted. "Every class. Such gentle hands on something beautiful."
"The pottery?"
"The pottery. And you." She turned his face toward her. "Is this okay?"
"More than okay."
She kissed him, and he tasted tea and honey.
They made it to the back room, a small space with a couch for breaks. She pushed him down and straddled him, her thick body a comfortable weight.
"I don't usually do this," she said, pulling off her paint-stained shirt.
"Neither do I."
"Good. Then we're both making exceptions."
Her body was art itself—soft curves, smooth skin, the kind of figure that artists fought to capture. She moved against him with the same fluid grace she brought to her pottery.
"Touch me," she commanded. "Like you would touch clay."
He shaped her with his hands, learning her curves, her responses. She gasped when he found the right spots, guided him when he missed.
"Yes—there—perfect—"
When she finally sank down onto him, they both groaned. She rode him slowly, rolling her hips with artistic precision.
"You feel amazing," she breathed.
"So do you. God, so do you."
She rode him until they both shattered, crying out in the quiet studio.
Afterward, they lay tangled on the small couch, catching their breath.
"What happens now?" Christopher asked.
"Now you keep taking my class. Keep improving." She traced his jaw. "And maybe stay late more often."
"I'd like that."
"Me too." She kissed him softly. "You have good hands, Christopher. They deserve proper training."
"In pottery?"
Her smile was wicked. "Among other things."
Stoke-on-Trent was famous for pottery. But Christopher discovered the most beautiful things were shaped after hours, by a teacher with extraordinary hands.