Sophia Smith stands at the top of a scarlet-railed fire escape, a slender blonde in a short red and blue tartan mini-dress and sharp black-and-white heels, ash-pale hair slipping in a heavy curtain over one shoulder. The stairwell is all red door, safety signage and bright white walls, and she grips the rail with both hands and grins like a girl who has found the best playground in the building. Her willowy frame and long dewy legs read sweet and unguarded, the plaid hem brushing high on pale pantyhose as she poses against the crash bar and turns a mischievous green-blue gaze to the lens.

The tartan begins to loosen and drop from her shoulders, baring the creamy lines of her back and the pert curve of her breast as she crouches low on the landing, bottom resting on her heels and shoes kicked aside. The dress slides further, bunched at her waist, revealing the smooth glide of sheer tan tights over her willowy thighs and a beautifully pert bust barely cradled by her own arm. She rises again, slips the straps back up, and poses one last time in the doorway with a hand on the rail and a bashful, triumphant smile, legs crossed at the ankles, very much the girl who has turned a staff corridor into her own private photo studio.