You would not expect to find Hayley Marie Coppin in the woods. And you certainly would not expect what she has on underneath. She moves through a beautiful English woodland in autumn, the tall trees pressing close on either side and the leaf-strewn floor soft beneath her black heeled boots. Her cream belted trench mac coat gives nothing away: it is polished, composed, and utterly decent from the outside. Her straight blonde fringe catches the dappled light as she glances over her shoulder, and the only hint that something extraordinary is about to happen is the faint curve of a smile at the corner of her mouth.
The mac opens, and then comes off entirely, and what it has been concealing against the damp woodland chill is a black lace underwear set over sheer black nylons that cling from hip to heel in the filtered autumn light. She lowers herself to the forest floor with complete, graceful ease, the cream mac spread beneath her, legs stretched and crossed in the air as the trees tower overhead. The woodland goes very quiet. Nobody could have guessed what was wearing under that mac. They know now.
