Welcome to

The city was quiet for once. No sirens, no explosions, no panicked police scanner chatter about men in animal costumes. It was a rare, gift-wrapped evening of peace. In our apartment, the only sounds were the distant hum of traffic and the soft, rhythmic shluck-shluck-shluck of my hips meeting MJ’s incredible clay form.

She was in her base state—the seven-foot-tall, smooth, powerfully built clay monster that was my wife. I was thrusting into her, my hands gripping the massive, yielding curves of her hips. Her cool, malleable body embraced every inch of me, molding itself perfectly to my movements. I leaned forward, groaning, and captured her malleable mouth in a deep kiss, my fingers kneading the soft, enormous swell of her clay breasts.

“Peter… yes…” she hummed, her voice a resonant vibration I felt in my bones.

That was all it took. With a choked gasp, I climaxed, pouring myself into her with a shudder that left me weak-kneed and breathless. I collapsed onto her, my face buried in the smooth plane of her chest, listening to the low, contented hum that echoed within her.

We lay tangled together for a long, sweet moment. Then she spoke, her voice playful.

“You know,” she murmured, her big clay hand stroking my back. “You could… play with it. If you wanted.”

I lifted my head. “Play with what?”

“My body,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. She gestured with a blunt finger at her own clay form. “It’s clay. It’s for playing with. Sculpting.”

I blinked. “MJ, I’m a photographer and a superhero, not Michelangelo. I’m too old to play with clay.”

She laughed, a sound like stones tumbling in a gentle stream. She leaned down and kissed me, a soft, persuasive press. “Give it a try, tiger. You might like it. Just… be gentle. It’s still me.”

Hesitantly, I sat up. She lay back on our rumpled sheets, a magnificent, featureless sculpture waiting for a sculptor. I reached out and poked her stomach. My finger sank in about half an inch. The clay was cool, firm yet yielding, like very stiff pastry dough.

“See?” she said. “Go on.”

I pushed a little harder, dragging my finger. A groove formed, then smoothed out behind my touch as if her body had a memory, …