Notting Hill Carnival Queen
"Costume designer Rochelle has built the most spectacular Carnival outfit for herself—and when photographer Lucas asks for a private shoot, she shows him what the Queen does after the parade."
Notting Hill Carnival, August Monday. The streets exploded with colour, music, life.
Lucas had photographed hundreds of costumes. Then he saw Rochelle.
Her outfit was magnificent—feathers, sequins, beads—but she was more magnificent still. Thick body barely contained, dark skin gleaming with glitter, moving to the soca like it was her heartbeat.
"Can I shoot you? Professionally?"
"Come to mi studio after. Yuh can shoot me however yuh want."
Her studio was in Ladbroke Grove, filled with half-finished costumes. She still wore the outfit, minus the headdress.
"Where yuh want me?"
Everywhere, he thought. "By the window. Natural light."
She posed. He shot. The chemistry built with every click.
"Yuh can get closer," she said. "I don't bite."
"What if I want you to?"
The camera dropped. Her costume followed piece by piece—each reveal more stunning than the last.
"Yuh like what yuh see, photographer?"
"I want to shoot you like this."
"Shoot me first. Then yuh can have me."
The most erotic photos of his career. Her thick body in carnival remnants, then nothing at all, poses that would break Instagram's guidelines.
Then the camera went away.
"Now," she said, pulling him close, "show mi how yuh celebrate Carnival."
They celebrated on fabric bolts, surrounded by feathers and sequins. That thick body bouncing on his like she was still on the parade route.
"Yes! Harder! Give mi that carnival energy!"
Glitter everywhere. Sweat everywhere. Pleasure everywhere.
The photos were exhibited. Sold out. Made both their names.
But the private collection—that stayed between them.
Now every Carnival, Rochelle wears his ring alongside her crown. Queen of the parade, queen of his heart.
Notting Hill's finest tradition.
Their finest pleasure.