A glamorous boss commands the lens in “women of iceland naked.” After hours, she locks her office door, hikes her pencil skirt, and records a ruthless performance of power and pleasure. Stockings rip, heels stay on, and her authoritative voice never wavers even when her fingers make her gasp. Every order she gives the invisible viewer becomes wetter, dirtier, until she comes with the city lights glittering behind her. “women of iceland naked” is dominance wrapped in expensive lace.