Mia Stryker lives up to her surname and then some in Stryking, standing before a brick fireplace in a black camisole top and a burgundy leather mini skirt, clear heeled mules on her feet and her dark curls tumbling past her collarbones. A red poinsettia blooms on the mantelpiece behind her, and the rough brickwork frames her like a stage set built for one. Her tattooed sleeve runs from shoulder to wrist, a visual biography in ink, and her hazel eyes carry a challenge the camera cannot refuse.

She turns and the leather skirt rises to reveal a hot pink cage-strap bra, a scarlet thong, and nude hold-up stockings with lace tops that grip the thick, sculpted curves of her thighs. Mia's backside is a work of art in its own right, round and taut, the red thong merely a line of colour between the stocking tops and the small of her back. By the final frames the bra is gone and she glances over one shoulder, topless, her heavy, ripe breasts visible in profile, the full sleeve tattoo cascading down her arm like armour. Stryking by name. Stryking by every possible measure.