Her head lowered, long hair falling in soft waves over shoulder and arm like a curtain that hides more than it reveals. Her hand rests there as if she’s not sure what to do with it. Arms loosely over her knees, turned slightly sideways to the viewer — a pose of restraint that still gives everything away.

The dark fur beneath her clings to her skin, warm and rough. The wooden furniture creaks under her weight as light from the window slants across her back. Her skin gleams in the light, but the tension says something else.

Her body leans forward a little, as if guarding a secret no one should hear. The room smells of wood and time, muted brightness sneaks through the windows and turns this moment into something between reflection and inwardness.

It’s the moment between everything and nothing. Between desire and wanting. The body speaks, but the head is quiet. The fur beneath her is old, worn, has held other bodies — but none ever sat like she does.

Erotic photography, yes — but not the kind you grasp easily. She knows better. Sits there in warm light, hair like a shield, and lets you guess what’s moving in her head.

She knows better. The fur knows, too.

More in the blog.