BrightWin Collection

The Art Class

Bright slunk into the art room far faster than was entirely appropriate. He kept his head down and stared determinedly at his shuffling feet. He would just have to pray that nobody he knew was in the nearby vicinity, or failing that, threaten them with bodily harm if they ever revealed the reason behind his presence there.

It wasn't as though he was ashamed. But he'd really rather that nobody found out about his new part-time job. Ever. Or he'd simply have no choice but to kill them, which was something he wasn't particularly keen on doing, considering he'd probably be prime bait in jail.

Banishing the murderous thoughts quickly from his mind, he pushed through the cluster of assembling art students, unable to look any of them in the eye. He merely scanned them swiftly, taking in the ink-marred hands and the scruffy dungarees the majority of them seemed to be wearing. One was even sporting a neckerchief.

Shaking his head in an almost rueful manner, he finally spotted the teacher, stood on the far side of the room, sorting out oil pastels. He approached him with mounting dread, and stopped uncomfortably at his side.

"Um…hi," Bright began, in a nervous tone completely unlike himself. "I'm Bright Vachirawit. The new model."

The teacher - Saram, apparently - looked up and blinked, eyes skimming from the top of Bright's head, down to his toes. "You're the model?" the middle-aged man squawked, taken aback.

Bright looked down at himself, unsure of how to take the teacher's surprise. "Yes," he sniped, nervousness evaporating, instantly replaced by irritation. He may not be a professional model, but he is so beautiful.

"I'm sorry," Saram muttered, tapping Bright's arm lightly, evidently realising he's offended him. "Don't take it the wrong way, but you're unlike the models we usually have."

Bright frowned, crossing his arms. "What do you mean?"

Saram flushed slightly, looking distinctly uncomfortable. "Well, you're all…young…and messy…"

Bright stared, saying nothing. Because really, how on earth was he supposed to respond to that?

"Well, anyway," Saram said a second later, rallying himself, "You sit up here." He pointed to a platform in the middle of the room, surrounded by easels. "And all you've got to do is stay still as possible for the whole hour."

"Right," Bright nodded, glad he'd be lounging on what looked like a loveseat, rather than standing.

"There's a cloakroom there, for you to take your clothes off, and a robe hung up on the door. Put it on and you'll de-robe when you get back in here." Saram seemed to have recovered from his initial shock and was talking rapidly, waving the art students down into their seats.

"Right, so…completely naked, right?" Bright asked, unable to keep the anxiousness from creeping into his voice, despite his best efforts. It wasn't as though he was nervous about his body, it was just that nobody - let alone a room full of students - had studied him naked so intently before. It was certainly going to be an experience.

"That's correct," Saram replied. "Don't worry, everyone in this class is professional. It's all for artistic purposes."

Bright very much doubted that, but didn't contradict him. "And when will I get my money?" he asked, clinging onto the thought of his payment, because it was the only silver lining in the whole fiasco. He certainly didn't have any dignity left.

"After the hour is over," the teacher responded.

Nodding his head and feeling clear in what he was doing, Bright headed into the cloakroom, quickly shredding his pink hoodie and jeans. After some deliberation he finally wriggled out of his boxers and tossed them onto a messy pile, taking in a deep long breath to calm his stuttering heart.