Hephaestus growled in my ear, breathy and possessive, as his meaty thumb replaced his meaty cock to prod where his tip had wetted. These were worker’s hands—those of a blacksmith, sculptor, and painter too—and he twisted his thumb inside me like carving away clay to reveal the true beauty beneath. Beautiful I was for him then, grinding back to take him deeper and inviting whatever else might enter me. My job was to spur my master to passion by showing how impassioned he made me, in whatever ways was most to his tastes. It was no job at all but a privilege when that master had such hands and
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