When my pottery instructor said that we would be working with clay he brought back from the ruins of an ancient fertility temple, I was bothered by the idea that we were looting someone else’s history. I figured the deed was done, so I started on the lesson and resolved that I would raise my concerns with the instructor after class.

The clay certainly felt different than other clays we’d worked with. It was smooth and silky, and shockingly warm! It felt almost like stroking a lover’s flesh as I shaped my piece on the wheel. Everywhere it clung to my skin felt like I was being kissed. Even the smell of it was a rich, musky scent that filled the room. I couldn’t help but sigh as I kneaded the clay between my fingers.

It felt so good in my hands that when my instructor suggested that it would feel just as good on other parts of my body, I went along. First I tossed aside my smock, but before long, my shirt and bra were on the floor. Everyone else in class peeled off their clothes, moaning as they spread the rich clay on their nude forms.

“Art is a form of worship,” said the instructor as he circled among us. He examined our technique with the clay, as well as with our bodies. His strong hands shaped us in offering our devotion of lust to Goddess Fertility. I screamed out my prayer of climax as another student nibbled my clay-anointed sex.

The only concern I raised after class was to ask how soon we’d be able to work with the special clay again!