Greenwich Goddess
"Art history professor Folake poses for a life drawing class as a favor—and discovers the young artist who can't stop staring wants to study more than her proportions."
Professor Folake Adeyemi didn't know why she'd agreed to this.
The Greenwich art school had begged her—their model cancelled, they needed someone comfortable with their body. And Folake was comfortable. Forty-five, thick, Nigerian. She'd stopped apologizing for her curves decades ago.
Now she stood behind a screen, robe about to come off, questioning everything.
"Ready, Professor?" the instructor called.
She dropped the robe and stepped out.
The class gasped.
Not in horror—in appreciation. Twenty pairs of eyes studying her body like she was a masterpiece. Heavy breasts. Soft belly. Wide hips and thick thighs.
But one pair of eyes stood out.
Young. Male. Dark-skinned. He looked at her like she'd hung the stars.
His canvas remained untouched. He was too busy staring.
After class, he approached.
"I'm Kelechi. Third-year student." He was beautiful—twenty-two, Igbo like her, nervous in a way that charmed her. "I couldn't draw you."
"Why not?"
"You're too much. I couldn't fit you on the canvas."
She should have walked away. He was her junior by decades.
"Would you like to try again? Privately?"
Her flat overlooked the Thames. She posed again, this time just for him.
"You don't have to actually draw," she said.
"I know."
He crossed the room and kissed her like she was oxygen.
He worshipped her body with the focus of an artist studying his muse.
Every curve explored. Every fold kissed. Every inch of her thick frame appreciated.
"You're perfect," he murmured against her belly. "Every part of you."
"I'm old enough to be your—"
"Don't. I know what you are." He looked up at her. "You're everything I've ever wanted."
He was eager and tireless—youth had its advantages.
They made love on her bed, her couch, against the window with Greenwich spread below them. She taught him patience. He taught her she still had passion.
"How are you so good at this?" she gasped as he brought her to peak again.
"I'm an artist. I pay attention to detail."
The semester continued. He drew her obsessively—hundreds of sketches, paintings, studies. She was his muse and his lover.
"People will talk," she warned him.
"Let them. Art is about truth. And the truth is I'm in love with you."
His final exhibition featured her. Every piece was Folake—her body, her curves, her presence.
The art world noticed. Critics praised the "celebration of the mature female form."
She stood at the gallery opening, watching strangers admire her nakedness, and felt nothing but pride.
"What now?" she asked him.
"Now we go home." He pulled her close. "And I study you some more."
Greenwich had given her an unexpected gift.
Not just a lover—but someone who saw her as art.