On the stage, a dressing screen and a table stood. A slip and a black dress hung from the screen and various articles sat upon the table. Across from the furniture, a pair of red shoes had been placed and considered worthy of soft illumination.

The curtain parted and she stepped onto the stage with perfect posture and her hands falling naturally at her sides, perhaps more naked than anyone had dared since Eden.

She was fit but not muscular, slender but not gaunt; there was no grotesque visibility of either muscles or bones. A series of archetypal curves invoking primordial thoughts of divine maidens and cosmic pin-ups defined her form while her crimson hair provided a stark yet appealing contrast against her milky skin.

She removed from the table an emerald green bra which she put on with disinterested ease. The garment had little purpose beyond concealment, serving not as enhancement, but rather as affirmation of her contours. As she brought her arms back to fasten the clasp; there was no overt showmanship, no undue theatrics, yet the lines of her body: the strain in the shoulders and the meeting of the wrists in the center of the back held a touch of supplication, the slighted hint of bondage while making clear that she was both slave and mistress.

This was followed by panties and a garter belt; both put on with a disarming daintiness which made the eroticism of the act seem coincidental.

Putting on the stockings was the one thing that she appeared to intentionally draw out, though not especially for our benefit. Slipping them on millimeter by gossamer millimeter, her eyes closed and her mouth forming a private smile, she looked as though she were savoring some unknowably decadent pleasure. Once on, the stockings were so sheer, the effect so subtle that I wondered if it had been only an effective pantomime and the stockings a mere construct of her considerable powers of suggestion.

The dress and slip followed. A red sash defined the waist and the hem grazed the knee, the overall effect demure yet powerful.

As she padded across the stage, the eye was naturally drawn to her feet. Practically bare; each pink toe, each unlacquered nail signaling a sensuous innocence to my newly refined sensibilities.

When she slipped her feet into those satin sheaths, it was a melding so organic and right that I felt my esteem for both Sigmund Freud and Manahlo Blahnik take an upward tick. One foot at a time, she hooked a finger around the heel straps and pulled them into place. Creasing the flesh ever so slightly, the straps seemed both hostile and loving; their violent red cutting across the skin like a bloodstain on new fallen snow.

The final effect was that of a painting which had maintained the energy of every brushstroke, a finished product which held the immediacy of its creation.