Kyle Bentworth, Lingerie Inspector

It seemed like a dream job at first, this lingerie inspector gig. After all, who wouldn't want to travel to the homes of women who've just purchased intimate apparel from Naughty N' Nice and inspect their bodies for poorly attached bra straps or crotch openings that could possibly chafe?

After that million dollar class-action lawsuit involving a faulty set of thong-back pantyhose, somebody had to do it; and Kyle was only too happy to be that somebody.

Even with the badge, it wasn't always easy to get in the door. And good luck explaining to the recent purchasers of Naughty N' Nice undergarments the need to test their brand new items for "compatibility with the individual bodily dimensions of each customer."

If the ladies often endured the process with unhappily gritted teeth, they weren't alone. Rarely would their husbands, boyfriends, fuck buddies or clients welcome the intrusion without ire. It didn't help that this clipboard-wielding inspector boasted the build of a Greek god and the cool, unflappable manner of Bogart in The Maltese Falcon. Hostile pouts and angrily knitted brows were not uncommon.

"Rules are rules," Kyle would say with the shrugged shoulders of a man just doing his job. Then he'd run his fingers along the gartered thighs of another man's wife, gently inspecting the meeting of fabric and flesh.

And sometimes a sigh would escape the lips of a reluctant subject. Sometimes a scowl would curl into a grin as he slipped the underside of his thumb into the front of a ruffle-trimmed cami to insure a proper fit. The ladies would always thank him upon his exit. Always.

If nothing else the job gave him plenty of stories to tell.

There was the curvy suburban soccer mom who - shoehorned into a silky black corset - giggled her way through a tsunami of hip-quivering orgasms as Kyle tested the snug fit of her naughty thong. "You can never be too careful with these things," Kyle said. Wiping tears from her eyes, she agreed.

There was the tall redheaded science teacher whose concern for "the limited room" in the crotch of her sky blue bustier was really just an excuse to press her contact-craving clit against his waiting face. And she would grind and grind and grind until her reddened pussy was soaked and her tilted-back face was flush from a shuddering wave of joy.

There was the recent divorcee who wanted to feel wanted again in a leopard-skin negligee. So she stroked the nape of her inspector's neck as his rock-hard hands ventured north, up her thighs, slipping under the flimsy drape of her brave new purchase and tickling her knees into a childlike buckle, with the honey-sweet evidence of heightened desire dripping down both shaking legs.

But then after two years of dutiful undergarment inspection a strange thing happened: the sight of all that soft silk, that unending ocean of frilly black lace and bubblegum pink fishnet grew irreversibly mundane.

One leg swaddled in black satin stockings - however flawlessly toned - soon came to resemble another. Stretch laced teddies? Lycra net panties? Red-ribboned strapless tops holding in place a pair of boobs that danced its devotion to the forces of gravity?

Work, work, work.

Then came Lydia, a raven-haired waitress who answered the door in a breathless storm of heroic multi-tasking. Entwined in a phone call and fighting with a jar of jelly, she nodded hello and ushered him inside between staccato replies to the demanding baritone on the other line. Her half-smile seemed to reveal that she knew the drill. "I'll be with you in a second," she mouthed.

Kyle took a seat, mesmerized by something - her messy nest of a hairdo? Her moon-shaped face and its vaguely Mediterranean features? Nope. It was her uniform, her crumpled shirt smelling of deep fried drive-thru specials, her polyester granny panties peeking up through the back of her ill-fitting pleated pants. Nothing seductive here, nothing soft or frilly. Nothing form-fitted to flatter her curves in just right package.

But somehow: perfection.

She caught him staring and mouthed something else. "Sorry. I'll change in a second."

"No," he barked, rising, approaching, drinking her in. The phone tumbled from her grasp. The jar of jelly followed and they stumbled into a dance of locked eyes and halted breath. His hand extended to meet the tattered lump just above her belly and he traced with a fascinated finger the maze of this glamour-free gridlock, this inglorious mess that dangled from her angular frame like a handkerchief haphazardly tossed over a wire hanger.

"I suppose I should put it on now? My negligee, I mean," was all she could say.

"No," he said.

"Um... you are the inspector, right?"

"I am," he said, eyes still aimed at her wrinkled shawl of a uniform.

She was breathing again by now. Just barely.

"I feel I need to conduct some preliminary inspections."

"I see," she gulped. A shoulder had now slipped free as his hands disappeared and explored the region between granny panties and old-fashioned factory-white bra, sending her chin skyward and pushing her eyebrows into a thicket of bright wrinkled bush.

Her hands behind her, she deftly found a table to fall on, brushing lip to lip, cheek to forehead, nose to nose without the benefit of reliable breaths, those staccato gasps now guiding her into the glory of arousal.

He ripped down her pants with the clumsy but determined grip of an eight-year-old tearing away at a birthday present. The remaining buttons of her blouse soon snapped apart with equal alacrity.

But the factory-white bra - mustard stain and all - stayed on. So did the granny panties, which meant he had to pull this thick, unsexy fabric to one side to find his way into that sweet burning bush of passion, that white-hot gushing love tunnel which, with the aid of her upwardly arched hips, met his tongue and lips in a sweet, wet collision of mutual lust.

She twisted her wiry frame, limbs spastically shaking and stretching, chest heaving upward and outward, hair simply a mess.

But he soldiered on through this demonic dance, this gawky display of too much intensity, his lips and tongue never breaking contact with the gooey mess now dribbling down from her love nest.

She screamed, clawed, pulled, pushed, begged, purred and scratched her manic way through another wet wave of spine-stiffening climaxes.

But Kyle wasn't done. Lifting his face from the dripping source of her passionate pleas he snapped open his pants to reveal a stiff and steady soldier ready for action.

The granny panties once again granted passage to the slippery land of her aching place. A tiny silver spurt of love potion oozed out and greased the lovely tracks to her treasure.

The dance began slowly. Too slowly; her now raspy voice soon croaked exacting demands to quicken the pace. Her hips too demanded more motion and greeted his pelvis halfway with a happy crash of sweat-covered skin.

Her groans, now in concert with his, rose in volume, in urgency. But the words themselves conveyed nothing, just the loudly shouted nonsense of bodies falling further and further into the echo-laden abyss of orgasm.

With one final curling of her back and a grunt from the deepest region of her trembling torso, it was over. And there was nothing left but a soul-stirring glow that seemed likely to last for months.

"I guess you need to see me in my negligee now," she said, really meaning: that was fun, but goodbye.

He nodded yes, and picked up his clipboard. And suddenly it was just day another at work again. But with a lingering mist that had made this day somehow special.