Sophia Smith is the last thing two unsuspecting customers expect to see drifting between the tables of the little gallery cafe. A slender, lithe blonde with her hair pulled up in a neat high ponytail, she balances a cup of coffee on a saucer in one hand, waitress-slim in a crisp white blouse, black braces and the shortest little black skirt. Long, milky-pale legs stretch endlessly down into thigh-high white cotton socks and jewelled stiletto heels, and there is a flicker of mischief in her soft blue eyes that says the service might be about to get very personal.

Once the customers wander off Sophia hikes herself up onto the white table and the uniform begins to unravel. The blouse falls open to show a delicate pastel bra cupping pert, softly rounded breasts, the braces slide loose from her pale shoulders, and that tiny skirt rides high on her creamy, toned thighs. She reclines back across the table top with arms lifted into her hair, stomach flat and luminous under the gallery lights, those white socks still stretched perfectly up her legs as she arches into a slow, coaxing stretch. It is a cheeky little daydream of a shift, and Sophia is clearly working for tips of a very different kind.