Carly Thorpe perches on the edge of a white porcelain throne in a sunlit bathroom, a bronzed, athletic blonde with a pixie crop and a grin that lives somewhere between innocent and knowing. She tugs the hem of a short white bodycon dress over toned, golden thighs, striped pink and grey sports socks rumpled at the ankles above bright pink-soled trainers. Blue eyes stare down the lens with unflinching mischief, an ordinary bathroom transformed by the sheer confidence of one shapely girl playing dress-up in the most unlikely setting.

The dress rolls down to reveal the pert, tanned swell of her breasts and a tiny Union Jack thong hugging the peachy curve of her bottom, a patriotic flash against the white tile. Carly turns, arches her back, plants a hand on the wall and glances over her shoulder with a raised brow, those socks still primly in place as every other layer concedes. There is something irresistibly irreverent about the whole performance, a glossy, confident striptease built on cheeky humour and a body that rewards every angle the camera finds.