Sam Tye walks in for the interview looking every inch the willowy blonde dream, descending the open timber stairs of a bright loft office in a tailored little black shift dress. Her hair is pinned up in a soft chignon, pale porcelain skin catching the skylights, and her toned legs are sheathed in sheer black hold-ups printed with a scatter of little kisses, balanced on a pair of patent stiletto courts. She holds her hands demurely clasped at her waist, poised and composed, yet there is an arresting glint in her eye that suggests the interview panel is about to lose control of the meeting entirely.

Once she is settled across a glass coffee table she kneels up on the white couch and the dress slips into a ruck around her slender hips, revealing the dark lace tops of those kiss-print hold-ups and the shadow of a delicate black thong across her pert, sculpted bottom. The dress drops away to her waist and Sam cups the strapless black bra at her chest, a teasing smile playing on her lips as she draws the fabric down a whisper at a time, small soft breasts framed by the sheer straps of her suspenders. Every line of her lithe, statuesque frame reads like a masterclass in control, the very picture of a candidate who fully intends to be offered the job.