Izzy steps in front of the life class easel like she was born to be painted, a voluptuous, hourglass blonde whose honeyed waves tumble around her shoulders and frame a warm, smirking mouth. Poured into a little long-sleeved black mini dress with a scooped neckline, she plants her hands on curvaceous hips, buxom chest lifted, her long legs sheathed in opaque black tights that run down into patent heels. The artist glances over with a sketchbook half forgotten, and who can blame her, when the model has glowing golden skin and the sort of commanding, full-figured presence that quiets a whole studio.

The dress soon begins its slow journey south. Izzy tugs the neckline down to let her heavy, luscious breasts spill free into a delicate blue-trimmed white bra, then peels the fabric away entirely, nothing left but those sheer black tights stretched tight across her rounded, peachy hips and the creamy skin of her flat tummy. She lifts the discarded dress playfully over her hair like a veil, one arm crossed in front of her bare chest, eyes bright with that just-caught laugh, her full, womanly figure softly lit against the white studio sweep. It is the sort of impromptu sitting that would keep an art class distracted for hours.