'All our dildoes are hand-modelled from life,' said the lively little creature who led me into an ante room. She was wearing a loose-fitting smock that was somewhat spattered with evidence of her work at the potter's wheel. Her hair was piled up high on her head but the odd chestnut-tinted wisp had escaped. With a clay-stained hand, she brushed it away from her forehead. I felt a familiar stirring down below as my member began to come to life. 'Madame will be ready to receive you shortly and will take you in hand.' There was a roguish gleam in her eye as she glanced at the telltale bulge of the erection that was now rising uncontrollably inside my trousers. 'I hope you will in turn be ready for her attentions.' She drew a deep breath and I saw the outline of a pair of quite succulent breasts thrusting out against the thin material of her smock. Quickly, mimicking the curtsy of a servant, she drew up the hem of her dress, bowed her head and bent her knee. To my surprise and delight I realised that she was wearing nothing underneath that enveloping garment. For a brief, utterly tantalising instant I saw revealed the dense curls of her pussey hair. 'In summer it becomes far too hot in the pottery workshop for the wearing of more than the minimum of clothing,' she said, responding at once to my unspoken question. 'How many of you are employed here?' I asked. 'There are usually some fifteen young ladies working at the wheels and the benches,' she replied.

'Are there no male potters employed?' I said. 'Two of the senior modellers, and then there is the young lad. An apprentice, but he is presently at home under the care of a doctor,' she answered.

'What is he suffering from?' I asked. 'Exhaustion.'

'The heat?' I asked. 'The fucking,' she replied. 'The what!' I spluttered. 'The fucking. I am sure, Sir, that you are a man of the world and will therefore understand that a dozen or more young ladies have needs that have to be satisfied, even sometimes during the working day.' 'Yours is a somewhat Bohemian attitude,'