Jess Impiazzi steps into the schoolroom set with the kind of mischief that makes a chalkboard lesson into something else entirely. Dressed in a crisp white shirt knotted at her midriff, a short red tartan skirt riding high on her shapely thighs, white knee socks and patent black heels, she leans against the wooden desk with her hair tied in a high ponytail. Behind her the blackboard has been scrawled with the words "Jess Impiazzi is your girl" and a cheeky message to the boys and girls, the kind of playful confession that sets the tone for everything that follows. The overhead light catches the luminous line of her collarbone and the soft flush along her cheek.

As the lesson deepens Jess loosens the shirt, inching the hem of that little tartan skirt upward as she perches on the colourful cubby unit, one heeled foot planted, the other stretched long in pristine white. She unbuttons slowly, the open shirt framing a pair of lush, rounded breasts and a toned stomach, the tension between uniform and skin holding the eye. By the late frames she is standing at the desk, shirt pushed aside, skirt slipping at the waistband, her gaze smoky and direct beneath the chalk dust. It is a study in schoolgirl fantasy elevated, curves warmed by studio light, every curl of her ponytail and sweep of eyeliner inviting you to stay after class.