Jaye Rose settles onto a cream stool at her dressing table in a hot-pink bra and matching knickers, fishnet hold-ups in the same candy shade running the length of her shapely legs, her glossy auburn hair tumbling loose past her shoulders. The room is bright and feminine, dotted with mannequins and a gilt-framed mirror, and Jaye is utterly at home in it, voluptuous and womanly with a soft Rubenesque belly and the kind of lush, rounded thighs the pink fishnets were made to flatter. She crosses her legs in towering black platforms and reaches for her lipstick with a quiet little smile.

She rises to admire her silhouette, smoothing one hand over the curve of her hip as the pink bra strains pleasantly against her full bust. The bra finally falls away and Jaye is gloriously bare on top, sat sideways on the stool with creamy, heavy breasts catching the soft window light and a pink suspender strap snaking down her thigh. There is a sweet, mischievous tilt to her mouth, the kind that suggests she knows exactly how perfect she looks in nothing but pink stockings and a pair of skyscraper heels.