Billie Judd kneels at the centre of a wide white bed, the exposed brick wall behind her lit like a stage, and every inch of her carries the easy command of a woman who knows the room is hers. Long golden waves spill over the shoulders of her sheer black blouse, and the floral mini skirt flares softly around her thighs, hinting at the inky black stockings that sheathe her shapely legs right down to a pair of sharp heels. Her smile is wide, bright, just a touch wicked, the kind that tells you the show has not even started yet.

The blouse comes off first, then the floral skirt falls away, leaving Billie stretched out across the bedding in a barely-there sheer black bra and matching suspender set, full bust rising beneath gauzy mesh, hourglass waist nipped in by the thin straps of her garters. A slender hand grazes the sheer panel at her hip, fingers toying with the nylon at her thigh, and a slow close-up catches the dark seam of stocking biting softly into her creamy skin. By the end she is pure statuesque confidence, one stockinged leg slung over the other, grin undimmed, a born centrefold leaning unapologetically into the lens.