Gianna Dior is ready to graduate and doesn’t know what to do with her life. "Maybe I’ll just do what all the lost girls do," she tells her boyfriend as they cruise through rural Malibu in his Mercedes convertible. "Stay in my home town, hang out with boys, smoke a joint, enroll in a local community college and take psych classes until the jig's up." The philosophical discussion is cut short by an unexpected text on her phone, leading to the boyfriend losing control, first emotionally, then of the car. Bandaged, medicated and sent home, she sits bolt upright in bed, flashing back to the crash. Blackout. 

Ten years later, we catch up with Dior as her sexless, loveless marriage is dissected by her husband. Montage of office work, coffee consumption, late night anonymous sex, "lather, rinse, repeat," as the montage fades to Dior, businesslike, taking notes as the man (Oliver Flynn) continues his description of his marriage and we see psychology diplomas on Dior's wall. Oh. It's not her husband. Therapist Dior suggests pleasure-centering exercises Flynn can do with his wife, demonstrating until she stops cold: "That's all it takes." That night, Dior heads off to a bar and instigates a zipless encounter ("Don't you want to know my name?" "No.") with Tony Francisco in the bar's ladies room as the women inside, outraged, run off—but not before capturing a quick shot on their cell phones. She strips down, finds a condom wrapper in her pocket, flushes it down the toilet and then joins Mick Blue in bed. He wraps an arm around her as she turns on the lights and announces, "I'm going to try something new. I want you to fuck me in the ass. Only in the ass"—re-creating Flynn's frustrated complaint about his own wife. 

Elsewhere, Flynn tries pleasure-centering exercises with Avery Cristy, who is not his wife if the envelope full of $20s and $50s is any indication. She slowly, teasingly arouses him as he lies on his back, eventually mounting him, staying in control until she is ready to let him take the lead, ending with her looking up at him with a jizz-spattered face and cooing, "Good boy." 

Back at home, Dior surveys a half-empty closet (Blue was upset at finding the condom wrapper, which didn’t get flushed after all) and flashes back to the car accident, violently tearing apart her appointment calendar and grabbing Rob Piper and Jax Slayher from the bar ("I don’t want to know who you are!") for a cathartic fuck session. When Flynn comes back to Dior's therapy office to admit that he got "professional help" Dior says he can't keep doing that and Flynn explodes that he can, he wants to, he wants to be dominated.

"You want some professional advice?" Dior snaps. "Fucking tell her that." 

Dior texts her husband, saying she'd like to talk. "I want to try something. This is the last thing you'll ever have to try with me. After that, whatever decision you make, I will respect. Just trust me long enough to get through this last thing. Please? As a birthday present?" 

Blue presents a birthday cake, which he dumps on the floor as they coldly glare at each other, then confronts her with home security footage of last night's romp. She pushes him into a chair, and says, "Bear with me," as she duct-tapes him to it. She pulls off his blindfold, pointing out that she comes in late without explanation, and never asked his name when they met as she kneels before Manuel Ferrara, opening his pants and devouring his cock as she speaks. "It's compulsive for me. I fuck. I have to fuck. But you—it's what you think about. It was okay as long as there was no evidence. You didn’t have to reckon with it.

"Tonight, we're going to reckon with it."

Dior and Ferrara fuck in front of Blue as he watches, bound to the chair, and the sex footage plays on monitors behind them. After Ferrara spews on her face, she crawls over to Blue, opens his pants and strokes his cock while murmuring about how much he liked watching her get fucked. She licks his jizz off her fingers and purrs ... "Good boy."

The next morning, Dior wakes up, goes to the closet, finds Blue's suits back on their hangers. She goes to the kitchen, he's making coffee, hands her a cup, looks her in the eye. "Good morning." 

Director/scenarist Kross captures eye-catching shots and sets up situations that intrigue the mind as well as the eye. A handful of cameos by familiar adult-industry faces adds depth, and tech credits across the board are top notch, including photography, editing and sound mixing.