Jodie Gasson settles onto a warm oak floor beside a tall gilded mirror, the rich gold frame reflecting her every angle as she tucks her legs beneath her in a plum satin mini dress. Sheer black tights patterned with tiny polka-dot hearts sweep the length of her voluptuous legs, the glossy black of discarded stilettos tipped at her side. Soft auburn hair spills across one freckled shoulder, a sweet crinkle at the corner of her eyes as she peeks into the looking glass, the glossy fabric skimming the generous, lush curve of her bust.

She rises onto her knees, slipping the plum straps down her arms until the satin falls away from a bosomy, hourglass shape that has no need of a mirror to confirm what the lens already adores. Jodie drapes the dress at her waist, cradling porcelain skin in her arms with an impish tilt of her chin, the patterned nylons stretching taut over Rubenesque thighs as she reclines against the frame. She finishes sat back with the mirror doubling her profile, one shoulder bare, a soft and sweet smile curled for the camera.