CHAPTER FIVE
Jocelyn
I stand and take Michael’s hand. My heart thumps in my chest as I lead him down the hallway to the little room in the back of the house. I am so anxious I forget for a moment that I am still naked, and dressed only in the nylon stockings I bought to look sexy for Michael. I am so anxious that for the first time since Michael and I started dating, I’m not desperate for him, at least not for his body.
I squeeze his hand tightly and he squeezes back. I feel his strength and power and love sooth me. That’s what I’m desperate for. I’ve spent the past four months deliriously happy; happier than I’ve ever been since high school, but something’s been missing. I didn’t know what it was, until now.
It feels great having the romance and sex I’d always wanted with Michael, but I realize now that I want something deeper. I suppose I’ve always assumed that once the relationship is in place, I would have the strength to overcome my anxiety and self-doubt. That hasn’t happened and Michael is ready to change that.
My daddy is ready to change that.
So, although I am still nervous, I no longer feel crippling anxiety, as I open the door to the spare room and lead Michael in. I step back and smile nervously, watching his face. His eyes widen as he stares around at my makeshift pottery studio.
“Tada!” I say, comically presenting the disorganized clutter of bowls, vases, urns, and pots – all in various states of completion. On the far wall numerous little clay figurines sit in similarly varying stages of completion. My wheel and lathe sit near the middle of this cluster, next to a table on which sits a lump of clay which I hope will become a ceramic figurine of an owl.
If I ever finish it that is. Pottery has been a passion of mine, since I was a little girl, an actual little girl. I’ve never done anything with it, because my parents wanted me to be sensible. So, I got a business degree and started an online gift shop. Now, I make my living creating gift baskets or making other gifts for Mother’s Day, Valentine’s Day, and Christmas. A steady stream of anniversaries, birthdays, and apologies keep me afloat in between the major holidays. It’s a good business and it pays my bills.
It doesn’t excite me, though. Not the way taking a formless, brown lump of mud and using my own hands to shape and mold it; and then to fire , paint and glaze it, until it becomes a beautiful, pristine work of art; a three-dimensional image of a moment in time.
I have loved pottery and ceramics all my life, but every time I get close to starting something with it, I feel afraid of failure. I’m not afraid of financial hardship, but I am afraid of coming face-to-face with the knowledge that I’m not good enough to be an artist.
The thing is I know I am good enough. I might not be the next Raphael, but I know the art I create is good enough to generate a following. My own knowledge of the ceramic art that’s out there is enough to tell me my work is a significant step above average. If I could overcome my fear of falling short, I could have the career I’ve always wanted.
Now the man I’ve always wanted is going to help me overcome that fear. As he looks over the dilapidated studio, a smile slowly comes to his face. He looks at me and the joy and admiration in his face are so sincere I blush crimson and giggle.
“Princess, this is wonderful!” he says and I am so happy I could explode right there and then.
“Really?” I say, excitement flooding my voice. “You like it?”
“I love it!” he says. He crosses the room and reaches for one of the few complete ceramic figurines. This one is a rabbit standing on its hind legs with its head tilted upward, as it gazes into the distance. He stops just before grabbing it and asks, “May I?”
“Of course,” I say.
He lifts the figurine and turns it over slowly in his hands, running his fingers over the gently textured surface. “Little Girl, this is amazing,” he says softly. “When did you start doing ceramics?”
I blush and hang my head a little but don’t answer him.
“Little Girl, I asked you a question,” he says. His voice is suddenly very stern and it frightens me while simultaneously making me instantly wet.
“I um . . . I started when I was a little girl,” I say. “An actual little girl. I never told you, because I was afraid you wouldn’t like it. I’m always afraid people won’t like it. That’s what you can help me with. I want you to help me be less afraid, so I have the courage to be an artist as I’ve always wanted to be.”
He smiles and gently replaces the figurine. Then, he walks over to me and wraps me in his arms. He lifts one hand to smooth my hair over my forehead and uses that hand to gently cup my chin and tilt my head up so he can kiss me.
The kiss is slow and deep and, although it is sensual and I feel my nipples harden again, it is also sweet, romantic, and loving. I melt into him and – as the kiss continues – all the fear, worry, and stress I feel about being an artist disappear. When we separate there are tears in my eyes.
Michael sees them and frowns. “What’s wrong, Princess?” he asks.
“Nothing, Daddy,” I say, smiling up at him. “Nothing at all.”
He smiles back down at me and kisses me again, briefly. “Okay then, Little Girl. What do you say we go back upstairs and talk about what we can do to help you overcome your fear of rejection and start acting like the amazing artist you clearly are?”
I smile and I’m so happy I begin to bounce on my toes. “That sounds wonderful, Daddy.”
He turns to leave, but I stop him and turn him around. “But, first . . .”
I don’t finish the sentence, but when I lower myself to his knees and pull his shorts down to his ankles, I get my point across very well.