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She circles her thumb over her clit in time with her pumping fingers. Her pink flush spreads from her cheeks to her chest and belly as she writhes on the chair.
She is so damn close.
My cock is so hard, it’s painful against the weight of my loincloth. The rounded bumps on my tail and dick are so sensitive, a strong breeze would give me release.
Come for me, little human.
She rocks her hips on the edge of the chair, fucking her fingers back. The soaked rhythm of her palm slapping against her cunt echoes in the courtyard. This is for me.
All of this is a gift for me.
“Come for me,” I growl.
“Oh… fuck!” she moans, eyes never leaving me as her body shakes and strains, her feet pressing into the sill so hard, I worry she might break it.
One hand still works her pussy as the other grips the soft flesh of her breast. Her legs tense, then start to quake, her toes curling. Then, at her pinnacle, when all her pretty curves are so overloaded with pleasure she can no longer speak, she lets out a silent, shaking scream.
Limp and satisfied, she drops back into the chair, her show complete. She is slick with sweat and flushed pink, her limbs splayed, seemingly incapable of moving, too satisfied to make the effort. Her blond curls spring out around her like a halo, like some feral angel too wild to be kept in heaven, a shining star in the darkness.
My Star.
Lightning streaks the sky, and thunder cracks. My muscles flinch—not to save myself from the weather, but to jump to her sill and close the window before the upcoming downpour. I hear a group of men in the distance, blocks away, but their drunk voices carry. They’d have to hop a fence to get on campus, I tell myself, but adrenaline still courses through me.
The little human stands before I can make the leap. With languid steps, she rises from her seat, her dress left on the cushion as she walks naked to the window. She bites her full bottom lip as she looks up at me and smiles, locking the window and closing the curtains.
There is no doubt in my mind now. She knows I’m alive.
She must.
I finally understand my purpose, the unending pull to protect something, someone. Her.
Chapter2
ASTRA
Ibreathe in the cool, earthy calm of the pottery studio. Exhaling, I let my shoulders drop and shake out my arms before cutting off my completed piece and placing it on a wooden plank on the table next to me.
“Jesus, Astra, that’s gorgeous!” Glynnes, my student turned occasional assistant and friend, exclaims, jarring me from my meditative state.
The sound of at least a dozen bangles jangling together gives me the warning I need to move my still-wet vase out of the eccentric seventy-something year old’s way. She stops her smartly trimmed, hot pink manicured hand inches from the piece. She’s what we call a “tactile learner”. It has been a process to get her to stop touching other people’s work, but she’s turned out to be a quick study, offering to assist me in exchange for using the space to get in extra practice. She lives not too far from campus, so it worked out well for both of us this summer break.
“They are going to snap you up, honey.” She smiles brightly.
“Thanks. I hope so.” It’s been too long since I’ve created for myself, and I’m no longer confident in my ability to judge my own work.
“They will.” She narrows her brown eyes at me, stroking the crystals that hang on her necklace as she speaks. “You know I can sense these things. Your aura is all kinds of pink and red today, which means you’re in a good place to be creative. Well, either that, or you just got lucky.”
I nearly choke on my spit, the memory of what I did last night in my window, and the statue I’d done it to, heating my cheeks.
“Yeah, I’m feeling the creative juices really flowing.” I swallow hard and let out a nervous laugh as Glynnes takes the wooden plank with my piece into the drying room.
It’s past midnight, and we’re on the far side of campus. The old part of the school lacks the updated safety lighting or fresh paint, but it’s peaceful here. Without the din of students asking me to repeat their assignments, or long-winded faculty members I must evade, lest I be put on another committee, I’m finally able to work on my submission for a yearlong artist residency at the prestigious Los Angeles Museum of Ceramic Arts. It’s the reason I decided to stay on campus for the summer, even though it’s a major hit to my bank account to not take on extra work.
Cutting a fresh piece of red clay from the block at my feet, I toss it onto the wheel. I dip my hand into the bucket next to me and scoop out some of the cold water, wetting the clay. My arms and hands ache after hours in this position, but I’ll worry about that tomorrow. Several vases sit in the drying room just out of eyeshot, motivating me to add another to the collection.
Their varying large forms are made up of dramatic, swelling curves that narrow into delicate necks before flowing into generously splayed lips. Their fluid shapes are marked with distinct divots that comfortably cradle the tips of my fingers. These pieces are meant to be picked up and held, their soft contours designed to be caressed.
Maybe Glynnes had stumbled onto the truth, about both the creativity and the sex. The absence of outside intrusions has made it my most productive studio session in a semester, but it wasn’t the reason my pieces have turned sensual in their voluptuous forms. No, that is due to something—someone—else completely.
