It started as an art project.
A portfolio gig for a graduate student with a reputation: Leo Devlin mid thirties, dangerously talented, and known for pushing his models past comfort into obsession.
He didn’t advertise his private collection.
You had to be chosen.
"You have an untrained hunger," he’d said when we first met. "Untouched, but dying to be seen."
I didn’t correct him.
He was right.
His studio was dimly lit, the air thick with cedarwood and a scent I later learned was him masculine, grounding, completely disarming.
The first session was soft: shadows and silks, me wrapped in gauze, backlit. Innocent.
The second: topless, lying across black velvet with ice cubes melting on my n*****s.
The third there was no clothing at all.
He never touched me at first.
Just posed me.
