While searching for ways to cure my husband’s lack of desire,
the system recommended a post with 100,000 likes:
"He says all claims of low libido are lies."
The post was accompanied by several photos of the poster’s boyfriend’s strong, defined hands.
"My boss boyfriend wears a suit every day, pretending to be a pristine, abstinent CEO in front of his subordinates."
"But the moment the office door closes, he can’t wait to pin me to the desk, tearing my shirt to shreds in his rush.
"
"Last time in his car, he didn’t even leave a single one condom in the box."
"They say the more prominent the knuckles, the wilder the skills in bed—he certainly didn’t disappoint, hehe."
Reading her words, my heart raced.
In the monthly “intimate request” I sent to my husband, I changed the location to the car.
He had rejected me for three whole months, but this time he approved it instantly.
Overjoyed, I grabbed my sexiest lingerie and headed straight to the underground garage.
But on the passenger seat, I found a full box of used condoms and a bottle of cloyingly sweet, girlish perfume.
When I confronted him, Richard Edith skillfully turned the steering wheel, expressionless:
"I lent the car to Justin Hicks the day before yesterday."
I stayed silent and contacted his assistant, only to learn that the company had hired a new junior receptionist.
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