I met him at a local craft fair. He is a glass blower, and his work is stunningly beautiful. The designs are organic: elegant, flowing, natural shapes that are both crisp and soft. As soon as I saw his work in his booth, the word that came to my mind was "sensuous." Not that any item looked like a specific part of human anatomy. In fact, everything was abstract. But universal images of penises and skin and breasts and thighs and backs and lips and fingers all floated through my mind's eye as I looked at the body of his work.

Then I turned around and looked at him, and those same images were reinforced in my imagination. He was a hunk. Big and strong and intense. He must stand 6'4" or more. But he wasn't standing; he was sitting on a stool, head tipped back, arms crossed on his huge chest, staring into space. I hesitated to break his serenity by speaking to him, but I was genuinely interested in his work. In fact, with a wedding coming up soon, I needed a present to give to the lucky couple. One of these glass sculptures would be perfect to help "keep the fires burning" in their long life together.

So I asked the craftsman about how the pieces were made. My question sort of startled him out of his trance, but he looked over to me and stared deeply into my eyes in a way that seemed to penetrate my very soul. Most men will look into my face, and then their gaze starts to travel over my body, sneaking peeks at my hair, my breasts, my legs,... but this guy (his name was Malcolm) kept his eyes zeroed in on mine in a way that felt inviting and warm. Warm enough to melt my heart, and to make my body tingle. Not incidentally, I could feel a little gush of moisture form within my cunt.

But he certainly wasn't much of a conversationalist. He answered my questions, but offered no elaborations. Eventually, we both became aware that it was frustrating for him to try to put into words what was an inexplicable creative process, and we spoke about that for a few minutes. As a solution, he suggested that I could come by his studio some day to watch him work. Perhaps that would help answer my questions. He had a showroom there, too, so I could pick out something for my wedding gift at the same time. That sounded fine, and it would give me time to think about my purchase. At least that what I told him. To myself, I was being more honest. I found this guy attractive. A visceral hunger began to gnaw at me, and over the next week, I thought about Malcolm and his beautiful craftwork frequently. On Friday, I called him and made an appointment to visit his workshop the next day.

It is way out in the sticks, perhaps a half-mile down a single lane dirt road that made me concerned about the suspension on my little Miata. Anyway, I made it OK, but my knock on the front door elicited no response. But there was an old beat-up van in the driveway, so I walked around the house through some absolutely stunning gardens of perennials and wildflowers. It made me feel that I had worn just the right outfit for this setting: a lightweight cotton peasant dress with a floral print. A scooped neckline and knee-length hemline. Underneath, a loose-fitting golden silk chemise with a snap crotch. Nothing else. It all seemed so free and flowing and natural, just like this afternoon in nature with a craftsman. All was well with the world at that moment, and I was so happy that I raised my arms into the air and kind of danced and pirouetted around the gardens, proceeding in the general direction of the building behind the house, which was obviously Malcolm's studio.

I danced all the way to the doorway, discovering that it was open. Inside, I could see Malcolm working. Undetected, I watched him for a few minutes as he moved from a furnace over to his work area, where he spun and shaped an orange glob of soft glass into a elongated shape. When he got up again to go back to the furnace, he saw me at the doorway. He waved for me to come on over, which I did. Immediately, I was struck by how warm it was inside, in contrast to the slight chill in the air. The building housed several furnaces, all going at once. Some held pots of molten glass of various kinds, and one was the furnace that he used to heat and reheat the piece that he was working on at the moment. Around the rest of the shop were shelves of items -- works in progress and experiments of all sorts. The same sorts of sensuous, organic shapes that I had seen in his booth at the craft fair. In fact, some of the work was more blatantly erotic, and I could see why he might not choose to show it in a public setting.

Hardly ever saying a word, Malcolm allowed me to watch him complete the item he had started before my arrival. His movements were smooth and muscular. He and his work were so alike in that way. When he finished this item, he knocked it off the puttee (the iron blow pipe) with a decisive rap that seemed to endanger the result of his hard efforts..., but the glass fell safely into a tray of sand, where it cooled off. Then he asked me if I'd like to work on one with him. Of course, what an opportunity to learn -- and to get closer to his magnetic physique! He gathered up a new glob of molten glass on the puttee, and then had me sit at his bench while he and I together held and rolled the piece across the rails on the bench. At first, I was unable to get a bubble of air blown into the center of the glass, but he got it started, and then I was able to open it up more. Malcolm showed me how to use the pincer things to change the outside shape, and together we worked on the piece. He allowed me to choose the form, but I relied mostly on him to make the thing happen.

While we were working on it, he kneeled on the hard floor, so close that his shoulders bumped into my arms. His hands intertwined with mine to guide and strengthen my motions. His thin sheen of perspiration mingled with mine. I had to spread my legs to straddle the end of the bench, and to gain leverage for the manipulation of the glass. I could feel the warm air pressing into my skin all over. When we got up to reheat the glass in the furnace, Malcolm stood right behind me and reached around me on both sides to help hold the puttee in position, and to keep it turning. The heat radiating out of the open door of the furnace burned into my skin, and yet I could still feel the heat radiating from his body into my back, and the light touch of the front of his jeans grazed over my ass cheeks. The brilliant cherry color of the molten glass put a blush on my skin. Or was it the fiery lust that was building higher and higher as we worked?

The glass had started as an amorphous ball, but I kept squeezing it out longer and longer, When I blew into the puttee, the whole sausage shape got both wider and more elongated. The surface remained somewhat ridged and bumpy, with thick walls. Then I pinched in more a few inches behind the head of it, which caused the end to swell out more. Perhaps he had suspected what I was up to before that moment, but now there could be no mistaking it. He burst out with a deep-throated laugh that was so sincere and jovial that I too joined in with my own giggles.

Of course, the piece was pretty much done, although Malcolm added more glass to the base of it, making a wide flange. When we knocked it off the puttee into the sand, we both spent a few moments staring at the transparent, shiny phallus that I had just made. He said that he had never actually made one before, but from what I could see of his work, I knew that everything he made came from his erotic sensibilities. I was just not talented enough to be so indirect and abstract.

He put the puttee down and then grasped my shoulders and turned me around, so that I was facing out through the open doorway, looking out into the incredibly lush gardens. His fingers traced down the outside of my arms, over my wrists, past the end of my fingers, onto the front of my thighs, and then touched my knees. I was quivering with anticipation as he took hold of the hem of my dress and pulled slowly upwards. I raised my arms toward the lintel of the door, and he pulled my dress upward and over my hands, tossing it aside. I left my arms up, and his fingers traced back down along my arms to my neck, and forward onto my chin. He fluttered and swirled all over my face, pulling my long blond hair out of the way and over to one side. His hands moved down onto my throat, and continued onto my breasts, cupping and milking them through the sheer satin. He tweaked and massaged my nipples, which stood out like pink pencil erasers, tenting the silk fabric.

When I brought my own hands down so that they rested on the top of my head, it made room for Malcolm's face to come in and nestle alongside of mine, his stubbly chin resting lightly on my shoulder. His hands were so strong, yet his fingers were so gentle. Every move was smooth and controlled, just the way that he worked on his glass. I felt like he was memorizing my curves and concavities. Under his touch, I felt so voluptuous and pliant. He pushed my flesh around as if it was molten glass. His hot breath acted like the invasive fires of the furnace, melting away my resistance (actually, I was totally receptive to his advances). Sun light poured through the doorway, fanning the flames more. I stared in mesmerized euphoria into the tapestry of enchanting flowers.