She turned out to be much taller than I had anticipated. Much taller and so much prettier, too. There she was in her tight red leotard, her skin moist and glistening from the rain and the exercise, muscles tensing under her tan, tiptoeing around barefoot on the wet floor of this old warehouse, trying not to step on a rusty nail or something. The conditions were uncomfortable, that much is true. Yet she smiled through it all, going through the poses with the grace and tranquility of a true professional, not rushing anything, enjoying the effort and the sweat and the rain dribbling down her chest.
Yeah, take my word for it, Vicky Mérette is the real deal. So I want to shoot her again, and again. Actually, I believe I need to.