Carly Thorpe has been told a thousand times to stay off socials at her desk, and a thousand times she has ignored the memo. Platinum-blonde hair twisted up in a sculpted quiff, smoky black eyeliner winged to a knife point, she bends over her laptop in a sheer polka-dot blouse and a snug leopard-print mini skirt. The sheer fabric offers a teasing glimpse of the black bra cupping her buxom chest, while the skirt rides up the silken curve of her thighs where inky black fishnets begin their slow climb. One patent stiletto dangles from her toe as she types, entirely unbothered.

Chair pushed back, heels propped on the desk, she tips her head and lets the blouse fall open, the bra cradling her luscious, full bust as she trails a finger along a suspender strap. The blouse drifts away, the skirt soon follows, and Carly perches on the edge of the table in nothing but a delicate black polka-dot bra and matching briefs, those fishnets clipped to lace-topped stockings and plunging into sharp buckled heels. She leans forward with a slow, daring smile, platinum fringe catching the daylight, every golden inch of her curvaceous figure promising that the naughty little memo was worth every word of the telling off.