Tara King wraps one hand around the trunk of a towering tree in Just Tara, standing on a sun-baked dirt path in a pink patterned summer dress with thin spaghetti straps, the dappled light painting her olive skin in shifting patterns of gold and green. Her dark brown hair falls straight and glossy past her shoulders, and a warm breeze catches the hem of the dress just enough to hint at what lies beneath. An old cart wheel rests in the distance, and the park setting has the lazy charm of a place discovered by accident and returned to on purpose.

The dress lifts overhead and Tara stands in a baby-blue lingerie set: a delicate underwired bra, a matching suspender belt with slim straps, and sheer white stockings that climb from white heels to the middle of her toned thighs. She smiles broadly, her body lithe and youthful, and turns her back to the camera in the closing frames, hands resting on the tree bark, the white stockings and the narrow blue suspender straps framing the peachy curve of her backside. Nothing but the lingerie, the tree, and that easy, open smile remain. Just Tara. That is more than enough.