Four years into marriage, hubby’s company went tits up—come to think of it—forcing us to crash at his folks’ place. We were solid, sure, but them bedroom sessions? Bloody tragic. Dude tapped out faster than a dodgy WiFi signal, never once got me proper sorted.
That being said—one arvo, mid-self-service, the old man caught me red-handed. Next thing I know, he’s pouncing like a pensioner at a Black Friday sale. ISO-standard hypocrisy, innit? “Good girls take it all,” he growled, and Christ help me—I let him.