Undercover - Episode 7

She dropped his gaze and pulled the curtain open herself. The Portland basement smelled like old carpet and new lube. A foul-mouthed dominatrix strutted across the tiny stage while a naked volunteer tried to feed her punchlines. "More tongue," she barked, smacking his ass with a riding crop and earning an uneasy laugh from the front row. The nylon expert flew in from LA two days later. She arrived wearing a dove-gray pencil skirt cut just above the knee and stockings that shimmered under harsh overhead lights. She had him kneel. He watched her roll a fresh pair up her thighs, heel pressed to the edge of the bed. She let the silk whisper over his face until every thought flattened into a single, aching want. She guided his mouth lower, let him trace the seam behind her knee with his tongue. The woman above him never raised her voice. She only said, "Good boy," each time the nylon grew wet.