Page 3 of Ruthless Lullaby

Besides my mother, Betty is the light of my life. She also works at Global Media, except she’s with human resources. And lucky for her, Maron Korolev isn’t her direct superior. Her job is way calmer than mine, and she always has the latest scoop about what's happening in her department and beyond. "Did you hear about Mark having a boyfriend?" Or "Have you met our new co-worker, Thomas? The stud with the black hair and the six-pack?" I couldn't help but ask how she knew about the six-pack, to which she replied, "I saw it under his shirt while he was getting coffee from the canteen."

Her stories make me believe that the most interesting department at Global Media is HR. The complete opposite of thefinancial department which she often refers to as "as exciting as dry camel shit."

"You need some buzz in your life, girl," Betty told me the other day. "At least once a week."

I couldn't help but roll my eyes. "With Maron Korolev around, my wildest idea of excitement is an Excel spreadsheet with the latest numbers from our social media campaigns," I’d said. "Ooh, a hundred and fifty-four new subscribers! Ahh, sixty-seven new likes on our page? And wait for it... a brand new five-star review! Oh Debbie Collins, you are too kind." Cue the laugh track.

“Not work excitement, babe,” she’d said. “I mean, real fun. Dancing. Cocktails. Beach. Sex. You need to spice things up," Betty continued.

I know exactly what she meant. She was referring to the lackluster sex life I had been complaining to her about. “Maurice never initiates sex,” I'd told her earlier. "I think he's too much in love with his video games."

“At least you have a man in your life,” Betty remarked. “I can't even get myself a date. Everyone just swipes left on me on Tinder except a few drunkards and some creepy perverts.”

Maybe Betty’s right. Maybe I shouldn’t complain this much. But what am I supposed to do when my sex drive is constantly driving me up the wall? I am worse than a teenage boy who just opened Playboy for the first time. Some would say that I’m a crazy nympho. Maybe there’s something wrong with my head. Or I have some sort of hormonal imbalance. Either way, I'm constantly horny, especially when Maron Korolev is at the office. It’s driving me nuts and I’m not sure what to do about it.

Perhaps start by getting your mind off your boss, Mindy.

It's dangerous territory.

It’s true. I should get that jerk tyrant out of my head, once and for all. If anything, I should focus on sending those photos to my real boyfriend, Maurice. Sending him hot nudes of myself has worked well in the past. It was all he boost he needed; our monthly blowjob count went from one to three.Maybe this time I can jazz up that number to four.

You gotta appreciate improvement, right?

So far, every time I sent Maurice naughty photos with a naughty message, he would light up like a Christmas tree and we'd end up getting busy instead of him sitting in front of the computer looking like a doofus with his headphones on. But if I'm brutally honest with myself, despite all my efforts, our sex life is still as exciting as watching paint dry.

But then again, who wants to be a constant complainer. No relationship is perfect. Besides, there are many other important things in a relationship than just sex. Maurice is a decent guy. He really is. He may not be setting off fireworks in the bedroom, but he has the qualities of a great husband and a father. And he comes from money, which he inherited from his dad, and now he's using that money to make investments. Not that I've seen any of his investments- he said they're all digital. Things like cryptocurrency and NFTs.

Come on, Mindy, time to get down to business.

Snap those nudes or be stuck in your dull sex life forever.

I get up from the couch and start taking my clothes off. Once naked, I walk over to the mirror and take a good look at myself. I’m somewhat pleased with what I see, even though I'venoticed a few extra pounds on my body lately. I blame Maron Korolev for that. He never lets me sit down and eat a normal meal, so I survive on an ultra-processed diet of Cheetos, donuts, and sodas.

My mind starts to wander, imagining myself standing naked in front of him and complaining about the weight gain caused by the unhealthy lifestyle he's forcing on me with his unrealistic work expectations. In this fantasy, he responds with a seductive promise: "You're beautiful just the way you are, Ms. Williams. And now, I'm going to have my way with you right here and right now."

Jesus, Mindy!

Snap out of it and get to work!

I unlock my phone, my fingers tapping eagerly against the screen. I'm determined to capture the perfect angle.

With a playful smirk, I tilt my head to the side, allowing the soft light to highlight my features and enhance every curve. As I snap a few photos, I can't help but wink at my reflection, a mischievous glint in my eyes.

“That will do”, I think to myself. “Maurice will love it.”

Switching to selfie mode with the tap of a button, I experiment with different expressions, each one more alluring than the last. A subtle pout of my lips channels my inner seductress while playfully sticking out my tongue exudes a hint of innocent mischief. Each click of the shutter feels like a flirtatious dance.

I quickly take another picture and glance at the screen. Ugh, I look like I've had too much botox- delete. Another snap- the scar on my stomach is too visible- delete. I hate that scar.It's a reminder of the operation that made me unable to conceive naturally, which is why I'm pursuing IVF.

When I told Maurice about my infertility, he hugged me and said, “In this day and age it’s not a problem, Mindy. We’ll do IVF and everything will be fine.” Then he kissed me on the temple. He didn't seem to be worried about the astronomical price of the fertility treatment at all.

I strike a last seductive pose and pucker my lips. I adjust my tits to enhance their perkiness, and to make sure I’m hiding my scar. These will be the final naughty photos I'll take before I start gaining more weight and become a hormonal bitch, crying and throwing up all the time.

One last shot and I’m done.

I scroll through the photos on my phone, a bit frustrated by what I see. There are at least thirty, and most of them are terrible: bad lighting, awkward facial expressions, or my post-op scar showing. No way I’m keeping those. I really hate that scar. But then, I find a photo that looks good - sexy even. The last set is actually pretty decent! I decide to keep ten of them. With a tap of a button, I delete the rest.

Ilook at the photos once more, and a grin spreads across my face. These will definitely do the trick. I picture Maurice ripping off my panties, pressing me against the wall, and doing me with such intensity that I’ll walk funny the next day. It will be our final hurrah before we start the treatment and my body becomes a mess.

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