After throwing on my work clothes and gulping down my morning coffee, I was out the door. I was particularly excited to get to the studio today, as our mystery guest artist would be arriving. I guess I should explain; I'm an artist. Glass blowing is my medium. I had left my family and friends behind a few years back in order to move to the big city and work in one of the best studios around, in hopes of finding success. After struggling to make ends meet, and toiling away in the hot shop day after day, I really thought today might be my chance - a chance to impress this artist who was coming through town, a chance to be discovered as the great artist I knew I could be.
As I arrived at the hot shop, I was faced with the usual onslaught from my male counterparts. As the only girl in the group, I was naturally teased relentlessly.
"Good morning, Ariel, you're looking particularly hot in your overalls this morning!"
I rolled my eyes. But that would just be the start of it. I wondered which of these brilliant minds would contribute to the conversation next.
"Hey, Ariel, I'd like to see your glory hole one of these days!"
Geez, that's not even original. Anyone who's been anywhere near glass blowing has chuckled once at that euphemism ('glory hole' is the name for one of the furnaces used in glass blowing). But I'd learned a while back, the best way to respond to these half-wits was to just simply not respond. I walked past them as they lounged around with their coffee and cigarettes, and quickly got to work. It was actually good inspiration for me - getting right to my task was infinitely better than putting up with their childish flirtations.
I held my breath as I opened the doors of the furnace where my most recent work had been cooling since yesterday evening. Glass blowing was such a delicate process, and it was always possible that the final product from the day before could have broken in the cooling process. An easy sigh escaped my lips as I discovered that all was well - the piece I had created turned out just as I had hoped.
But there's no time to rest. I wanted to be in the middle of working a new piece of glass when our mystery guest arrived. Brad, the owner of the studio, had told us last week that a very important glass artist - whose identity would remain secret - would be paying our studio a visit today. While my cohorts were still busy goofing off, as they always did when Brad wasn't looking, I was already on to my next project.
Before I could pick up my tools and head for the first furnace, I needed to pull my hair back. Impractical as it was for the work I did, I loved letting my natural blonde hair grow long and wild. So each day started with pulling it into a long braid which snaked down my back, nearly reaching my ass. Watching myself in the mirror as I braided my hair, I took a moment to appreciate what it was that got the guys all hot and bothered each morning. I'm 5'7", with nicely tanned skin and green eyes, and I have to admit that my work clothes - although chosen for their practicality - do accentuate my natural assets. Any guy who followed the line of my close-fitting overalls from my long legs past my firm ass to my perky 36C tits would probably like what they saw.
But enough of that, I thought to myself as I picked up the blowpipe and sat on my stool next to the furnace. Before long I was lost in the process that I found so fulfilling. I loved everything about working with glass - the feel of the tools in my hands and mouth, the sounds and sights and smells of the hot shop, the risk that the glass can so easily break, the satisfaction of creating a work of art with such simple ingredients - my hands, my breath, sand, and heat.
A light touch on my arm brought me out of this fog of artistic creation and back to reality. I jumped slightly and turned, expecting to see Brad, but instead seeing a new face. This must be him, our mystery guest! My instinct was to stand up and introduce myself, but this wasn't what he had in mind. "Just keep working, Ariel. Brad told me you were the most talented young artist here, so if you don't mind, I'd just like to watch you work for a little while. We'll have time to talk later."
I obviously wasn't going to object, and returned my piece to the furnace to warm it again as he pulled up a stool next to mine. I had waited for this moment for four years - I was just 19 when I first arrived at the studio, and now, at 23, I had been presented to this prominent visiting artist as the most talented young artist in the place. I had worked hard, developed my technique, and this was my chance to be discovered. I was in the zone, all I had to do was show him what I could do.
But I was suddenly, unexpectedly, having trouble focusing. His touch had sent chills through me. His voice, his eyes looking deep into mine as he spoke, had captivated me. Now, as he sat close to me while I worked, I found myself thinking of nothing but this strange man's body. Suddenly, everything about the process of what I was doing struck me as sexual. After years of ignoring the sophomoric sexual innuendo of the young men around me in the studio, I could think of nothing else. The heat of the studio, my mouth on the blowpipe, the moving of tools in and out of the furnace, it all made me burn with desire. It was more than I could handle, and I set down my tools, turning to him sheepishly.
"I'm sorry if I made you nervous, Ariel - it wasn't my intention. Why don't you take a break, maybe get yourself some lunch, and come back when you're ready."
Humiliated, but maintaining my composure enough to be polite as I left him in the studio, I found my way to the coffee shop down the street, where I asked for a glass of ice water, and slumped down into a chair. How could I crack under pressure like this, after working so hard for so long? I quickly decided that the best thing to do was put that little incident out of my mind and go right back to the studio, confronting my fears. I'm sure he didn't know the affect he had just had on me - he probably just thought I was nervous because I wanted my work to impress him.
I walked slowly back towards the studio, breathing deeply with each step. I can do this, I can do this, I told myself as I entered the hot shop again, and saw that ridiculously handsome man still seated by my work bench. Something was different, though - this time we were alone. As if reading my mind, he turned to me, saying "Yes, I sent everyone away. I don't want any distractions as I work with you."
He motioned for me to return to my stool and pick up where I had left off. I realized I'd have to start over again, since I'd left so abruptly. I placed my blowpipe into the furnace to gather some of the molten glass, rolled the glass on the bench, and then began to blow and shape it. I felt myself returning to the comfortable zone of creativity, rather than the zone of sexuality I had been in a bit earlier. Focused again entirely on my work, I didn't notice when he stood up, didn't hear his footsteps as he walked toward me, didn't feel his proximity as he came up behind me. I didn't even notice his first touch on my arms, as he made himself part of my process, guiding my young hands with his older, more experienced ones.
It wasn't until he spoke that I realized how close he was to me - he whispered directly into my ear, his arms enveloping both me and my tools. "Have you ever applied that wonderful blowing technique of yours to a cock?"
