The smell of turpentine hits me first, sharp and medicinal. It clings to the rough concrete floor and the wooden beams, an invisible layer over the sun-warmed studio. The air carries a tang of linseed oil too, blending into something almost earthy. Tall windows soften the afternoon light through muslin curtains, warming the room in gold. The easels stand like sentinels, their frames tattooed with charcoal smudges, sketches, and years of use. My hands, shoved deep in my jeans pockets, start to sweat.
Kim sits in the centre of the room, her calm unnerving. Glen knows her reputation, provocative, fearless, but seeing her in person sharpens the edges of her presence. Pencil tapping against her sketchbook, reminding me she's waiting. Her dark brown hair falls loose around her shoulders, the waves catching the light, framing a face so composed it's almost a mask. She's wearing a loose linen shirt, the sleeves rolled to her elbows, exposing forearms that are stronger than I expected, and black trousers that somehow manage to look both casual and tailored. She looks at me, not smiling, not frowning, just looking. Her eyes pin me in place, almond-shaped, with a depth I can't figure out.
"Glen? You're on time," she says, low and even, like her voice doesn't want to disturb the quiet. "I appreciate that."
I nod, managing a stiff, "Yeah. Didn't want to waste your time."
The words feel inadequate under her gaze. My trainers scrape against the floor as I shift my weight, my body a taut line of nerves. Answering that ad for a life model had seemed bold and daring, but now, with her watching, it feels different.
Tilting her head, studying me for a beat longer before nodding toward the platform. A small wooden stage with a worn stool sits in the centre, simple, functional. "Leave your things over there," she says, gesturing to a coat rack by the door. "Then step up."
My throat tightens. "Everything?"
Kim's lips twitch, a faint curve that's more knowing than kind. "For now, just your shoes and jacket. Step by step."
Step by step. I cling to the phrase, nodding like an idiot. My trainers squeak as I toe them off, lining them up neatly under the rack. I fold my jacket like it's fragile, placing it on the hook, buying time. The air cools my socked feet when I finally step onto the platform. The wood's grain presses into my soles, grounding me more than I thought it would.
Kim flips her sketchbook open, pencil already moving, and I wonder what she sees that I can't.
I try. It's harder than it should be. Her instructions are professional, clinical even, but her gaze, when it lifts to me, burns. It skims over my body like a touch, slow and unhurried. I force myself to exhale, to drop the tension from my neck, my shoulders. Her pencil scratches against the page.
"Good," she murmurs. "You're doing well."
Minutes stretch into something elastic. Time folds around the sound of her pencil, the golden light on the walls, and the way my body feels foreign to me. I shift slightly, testing the pose. Kim smiles faintly. "Better," she says. "You're getting comfortable. That's good. Now, take off your shirt."
I freeze. My hands hover at the hem of my T-shirt. Her gaze doesn't waver. There's no impatience, no amusement. Slowly, I pull it over my head, fabric clinging for a second before it gives. I stand, shirt in hand, unsure of what to do with it.
"Over there," Kim says, pointing to the rack. Her tone doesn't leave room for hesitation.
The platform feels taller when I step back onto it. Exposed. Her eyes sweep over me, but it's not hunger, it's appraisal, like I'm a statue she's just started to carve. "Turn," she instructs.
I do. Slowly. Her gaze follows every line, every curve, and I feel it more than I see it. My back tightens, my stomach twists, but I don't stop until she says, "Hold."
The room is silent except for the pencil's rhythm. My chest tightens as her scrutiny lingers on my back, on the curve of my spine. "You're tense again," she says, more observation than critique. "Drop your arms. Breathe."
I do. My breath shudders on the way out, but the tension eases. "That's better," she says softly. And then she smiles. Not a full smile, but a hint of something warmer than before. "You're learning."
Kim's pencil scraped the paper, quick and unbothered. I shifted again, trying to ignore how obvious the movement felt, but the heat rising off my skin betrayed me.
"You're overthinking it, Glen," she said, not looking up. Her voice was calm, almost lazy, like she had all the time in the world. I didn't.
She reached into the metal toolbox at her feet and pulled out a tape measure, tossing it in my direction. It clinked faintly when I caught it. "Start with this."
"What,?" My voice cracked. I cleared my throat, my hand closing tighter around the tape. "You mean...?"
"Measure it." She pointed with her pencil, her eyes finally meeting mine. Steady. Inescapable. "Length and circumference. Helps with proportion."
The tape felt heavier than it should, the cold plastic pressed against my palm. "You're joking."
"Not about anatomy, Glen." Her pencil tapped against the sketchbook, a slow and deliberate beat.
I swallowed. "It's... smaller right now," I said, my words rushing out too fast. My scrotum still sat tight against me, making everything seem shrunken. Embarrassed. Defensive.
Kim raised an eyebrow, her expression unreadable except for the faintest flicker of amusement. "Of course it is." She didn't look away. "Relax. I'm not judging."
Her tone was light, but it didn't make it easier. My fingers fumbled as I tugged the tape out and pressed the tip to the base of my shaft. The number on the tape blurred before my eyes.
Kim tilted her head. "What's it say, Glen?"
"Nine... nine-point-six." My voice barely made it out.
"Circumference?"
I wet my lips. "Eight-point-three."
Kim's pencil paused mid-stroke. "That won't do," she said, looking up. Her gaze settled on me, calm but certain. "We'll need more than that."
I flinched, heat crawling up my neck, but her voice stayed even.
"Want me to talk dirty?" The faintest smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth. "Help things along?"
The laugh burst out before I could stop it, high and nervous. It felt ridiculous and impossible, but the crack in the tension loosened something in my chest.
"I think I'll manage," I muttered, burning with heat.
"Good. I wasn't offering." Her eyes flicked back to the paper, but the smirk lingered.
The silence stretched again, but it wasn't quite so sharp this time. My breath slowed, and I felt the ache in my stomach begin to spread lower. My skin tingled as warmth returned to my thighs and groin, faint at first but unmistakable.
The tape shifted in my hands as my cock thickened, the sudden weight throwing off my grip. My pulse jumped. I tried not to look at Kim, but I could feel her watching, her pencil moving faster now, like she was chasing something.
"Length now, Glen?"
My voice was rough. "Thirteen-point-one-two."
