Epiphany sprawls across a damask-papered nook in a cropped black and white striped jumper and a short black skirt, one leg slung wide over the bench beneath her so that white polka-dot stockings pop against the shadowy pattern behind. Her long, glossy dark hair pours down her shoulders, bronzed skin warm against cream and monochrome, and she gives the camera a knowing, half-lidded glance that is pure mischief. Black platform heels frame a pair of shapely, luscious thighs, and the satin flash of black suspenders peeks from under the hem of that skirt, daring you to look a little longer.

The jumper rides up and comes away to reveal a delicate ivory lace bra cradling her voluptuous, full-bosomed chest, and soon the bra itself is slipped loose as Epiphany kneels on the little bench with her back arching, those polka dots stretching up her buxom legs toward a black lace suspender belt. She turns to face the wall, rounded Rubenesque hips cocked, and lets the camera follow the soft dip of her spine to the peachy roundness below, hair falling forward like a curtain. She is playful and unashamed, grinning over her shoulder, every spot and stripe working in her favour.