[MF] Jane's friend: The artistic nude model.

Jane had always known I had skilled hands. She used to say it often, "You have the touch of an artist."
It didn't take long for her to realize that clay sculpting wasn't just a hobby for me. It was something deeper. Sensual. Intimate.
"You should take it more seriously," she once told me, watching my fingers knead a soft lump of red clay. "There's something in the way you touch it. Something precise… almost personal."

What I didn't expect was that one of her friends, having heard about my "gifted hands," had an idea, she wanted to pose for me. Nude.

At first, I laughed. I thought it was a joke. But Jane was serious. And excited.
She treated it like it was just another creative experiment.
But for me… I knew this was going to be something else entirely.

Sculpting a naked body, especially a beautiful woman's, isn't something I take lightly. It's vulnerable. For both of us. You don't just look. You study. You translate curves into touch, tension into texture. And every moment is thick with unspoken heat.

We scheduled an afternoon session at my studio. The sunlight was soft that day, filtering through the old wooden blinds and casting golden slats across the concrete floor.
Jane arrived first, energized. "I'm really curious to see how you'll handle this," she grinned, sipping from a glass of water.

Her friend arrived shortly after.
She was tall, sun-kissed, and draped in a dark satin robe that hung loose around her shoulders. It was unclear if she had anything on underneath.

She walked in quietly, but her confidence filled the room. Her eyes scanned the space, then landed on me, calm, assessing. Then over to Jane, as if confirming that this was all real.

"Ready?" Jane asked casually, as if this were just another sketching session.

I nodded, trying to appear composed, even as I felt a low pulse stirring in my neck.

And then, without hesitation, she reached for the tie of the robe and loosened it slowly, deliberately.
The fabric slid from her shoulders, revealing a smooth, tanned chest, bare and proud. The robe dropped to the floor in one graceful motion.

Underneath it, there was a tiny, nearly invisible thong, which she now slipped off with a casual flick of her thumb.

She was completely naked.

She didn't cover herself. Didn't flinch.
Instead, she stepped forward, sat on a low wooden stool, and spread her thighs just slightly. Her back was straight, hands resting on her hips, breasts full and exposed, nipples tight in the soft afternoon light.

I stood there, silently, unsure where to rest my gaze.
She was stunning, confident, radiant, utterly at ease in her skin.

"Do you want to take some measurements first?" she asked, her voice calm, seeing my hesitation.

"Uh, yes. Of course," I managed, grabbing my measuring tape.

I knelt before her, pretending to focus.
I started with the foot, soft arch, elegant toes.
Then the shin, the curve of the outer thigh…
Moving inward, I approached the inner thigh, warm, taut, close.
I paused at the crease of her pelvis, careful not to touch.

I moved up to her waist, her arms, her clavicles… then paused again.

"I need to measure the front too," I said. "From the base, just beneath, to the navel, and from the navel to the breasts. Is that alright?"

"Of course," she replied, rising to her feet.

She stood directly in front of me, unapologetically exposed.
I tried to hold the tape close to the base of her sex without touching, but my hand trembled slightly.

"Could you maybe hold it here for me?" I asked.

"You can touch me as much as you need," she smiled.
Then, with calm assurance, she took my hand—and placed it right on her mound.
My fingers met the soft, bare flesh. The heat. The silk of her skin. The gentle cleft between her lips.

I guided the tape upward to her navel, then measured from there to the valley between her small, firm breasts. Her nipples were flushed, barely brushing the cool air.

"I think I've got everything I need to start. Do you have a preferred pose?"

"I think I'll lie on my side," she said. "One knee down, the other lifted. It'll open the hips more. Give you better visual access to… anatomical details.
Jane told me you're a man of detail, so don't hesitate to get as close as you need."

She lowered herself onto the padded mat and shifted gracefully into position, one leg tucked beneath her, the other bent and lifted. Her hips opened, revealing the soft folds of her sex in a tender, deliberate invitation.

I stood over her, clay in hand, pulse quickening.
I began shaping the figure. Slowly. Broad strokes at first. The back, the thighs, the hips.
Then more deliberate detail.
My fingers glided over the clay legs, pressing, molding, teasing the form out of the formless.
Each motion drew me closer to the center. The intimate zone.

I hesitated when I reached the pubic area.
How explicit should I get?

But I knew the answer.
No shortcuts. No avoidance.
"May I?" I asked softly, moving closer.

I looked down at her open body. Her vulva was beautiful, tight, delicate, a closed blossom awaiting bloom.
I placed my hands gently on either side of her pelvis, my fingers brushing over the warm, sensitive skin. I traced the shape, learning its terrain. Mapping sensation into form.
The lips. The subtle curve. The clitoral hood.

She exhaled softly.

"You're not hurting me," she said. "Take your time. I want it to be perfect."

I turned back to the sculpture, fingers slick with water, shaping the clay with intent and reverence.
I sculpted her vulva, stroking, pressing, slipping just inside to form that shallow divide.
And it was far more erotic than I had expected.
There was a quiet, hypnotic rhythm to it. My breath slowed. My body tingled.
The boundary between art and desire blurred.

Then… I heard her.

Soft breathing. Louder now. Uneven.
I looked up.

She was lying back, one hand between her legs, moving.
Mirroring my touch on the sculpture, on herself.

Her eyes were half-lidded, mouth slightly parted.

"Don't stop," she whispered. "Keep going. Right there."

I obeyed. I dragged my fingers along the groove of the clay vulva, gliding over where I had formed the clitoris. Gently. Back and forth.

And she followed.
Her hips lifted, her hand worked in tandem with mine.
The air was thick with her scent. With arousal. With heat.

There was no mistaking it, Jane's friend was touching herself.
Nude, aroused, watching me work her into clay… and working herself into climax.

It continued for several long, agonizingly erotic moments.
Her breathing quickened. Her body trembled.

And then, suddenly, she gasped.
Her back arched.
A deep, shaking moan escaped her lips.
Her body pulsed in release.

I stood there, still holding the clay, hands wet not just with water.

And I knew, without a doubt,
this sculpture would be my most intimate work yet.