The clay had been worked so long it was warm to my touch. I had been sculpting it for hours and hours, I was not even sure if it was day or night anymore. Out of the slippery wet clay I had formed her though, a thing of pure beauty.

My hands had drawn her from the earth I worked. Like some elemental force she had taken form before me, I was only the instrument any more, she was the artist. Her heavy breasts were formed by my hands but I was breathless to see how they would turn out. My fingers traced the large nipples and pulled them to perky perfection and I was amazed.

I allowed my fingers to play over her long hair as it cascaded down her shoulders. So wet and warm, almost like flesh it was. I swear I could feel her breathing as I rubbed across the breast bone and throat. She was almost alive under my hands. She was. . .perfect.

As I moved around, the left over clay sloshed at my feet forgotten. I had long ago tossed my shoes and socks away and felt it as it squished between my toes. My pants had become so saturated as I added water to the clay I had also thrown them to the corner and at some point, I am not sure when, I had discarded my shirt and underwear as well. As my hands continued to work her I was naked and dirty and aroused and in almost a trance. My body touched the clay at various points and left traces of gray streaking over my skin. I was almost as much a statue as she was.