The Manfred Method

Have you ever imagined being able to make any woman desperate to sleep with you—just by saying a single phrase?

My name is Eduardo Lemos, 35 years old. Accountant by weekday, divorced by weekend. I wake up every day at 6 a.m., drink black coffee while staring at my kitchen wall, and spend the rest of the day trying not to explode inside that cursed office where I work.

The place is called “Premier Tax Solutions.” Go figure.

My boss, Katarina, is 45. She dresses like she’s about to walk a runway every morning and talks to me like I’m a dog that peed on the wrong carpet. She’s stunning, sure—but beauty doesn’t mean much when it’s laced with venom. Working for her is like walking on glass: it cuts, but you learn to smile through the blood.

Then there’s Mariana. Twenty-five. Intern. Into bands I thought had died in 1979. She wears faded jeans, a Nirvana T-shirt, and always looks like she’s seconds away from falling asleep—especially when I ask her to do anything remotely useful.

These two—Katarina the ice queen and Mariana the space cadet—are the twin gatekeepers of my personal hell.

“Eduardo. My office. Now!” Katarina barks, the queen of doom.

I drag myself there, already dreading it. She hands me a beast of a spreadsheet, overflowing with numbers going in and out that I need to organize, balance, and file by tomorrow at ten. On top of everything else I already had to do.

I leave her office and head straight to Mariana’s desk. It takes a good while before she even notices I’m there—too focused on a Smashing Pumpkins video in her headphones. Fine. But I need her.

“Mariana… drop Major Tom and come back to Earth. Please.”

She looks at me like I just asked her to dig a tunnel with a spoon.

“I’m drowning over here, and Katarina needs this by tomorrow. It’s tedious, not rocket science—I know you can handle it. I need it by 3 p.m. today. Please. Help me out.”

She gives me a sly smile. To my surprise—and temporary relief—she actually agrees.

“You got it, boss.”

She’s gorgeous, no doubt, but keeping up appearances clearly isn’t on her list. That smile always gives me mixed feelings—part admiration, part pure rage. Mostly rage.

While Mariana worked, I started thinking about my plan for tonight: the nightclub.

Ever since the divorce, things haven’t exactly been smooth with women. Not at work. Not anywhere. So I decided to do something about it. A few months ago, I got into PUA stuff—Pick-Up Artists. Guys who claim to crack the code of seduction. They study female behavior, the mental triggers that ignite desire in a woman’s brain, the magic words and moves that supposedly make you irresistible.

I’ve read The Mystery Method five times. Mystery is like the godfather of PUA. He’s slept with countless gorgeous women and mapped out his entire method in detail—flowcharts and all. My analytical brain ate it up.

Phase one: identify your target and approach the group, not her directly. Win over the crowd first. Once you’ve got them on your side, isolate her. That’s when the tests come in—psychological games that, according to Mystery, all women play. Then you gain her trust, escalate physically, go in for the kiss. Last phase: bring her to bed.

I love how it reads like a video game—each phase, a new level. Each level, a mini-boss.

You’re probably wondering how successful I’ve been with all that… Yeah, well, I haven’t. Not even close. I’m still a rookie. I skip steps. I get nervous. I freeze.

But tonight? I’ve got a good feeling.

I bought a bunch of online courses from other PUA coaches. Stuff to help me with group dynamics, body language, passing tests—all the way to sealing the deal. It cost me a fortune.

Back to reality: at 2:42 p.m., Mariana sends me the file. Done. Before the deadline. I glance over at her, a little impressed. Not every day my intern finishes a soul-crushing task ahead of schedule.

I forward it straight to Katarina, who replies with a thank-you. I had finished her job early too.

I smiled. That almost never happens at the office.

Maybe tonight really would be different.

---

8:10 p.m.

I was standing in front of my bathroom mirror, staring at my own reflection, trying to find traces of an “alpha male” somewhere between my thinning hairline and my sad excuse for a mustache. The cold lighting did me no favors.

“Posture, Eduardo. Posture,” I muttered. Chin up. Chest out. Predatory gaze. Just like in the “Alpha Supreme Coach” video. That guy clearly never had credit card debt or a cavity in his life.

Black shirt. Dark jeans. Sneakers that scream “casual,” but in a “please like me” kind of way. I walked out the door rehearsing my opening lines:

“You know what goes great with that smile? You and me, getting to know each other.”

“Did you know 93% of communication is non-verbal? So… mind if I just look at you for a second?”

I got to the nightclub around nine. Dim lights. Red glow. People who looked drunk before the second EDM track even dropped. I leaned against the bar and ordered something that sounded fancy. The bartender handed me what tasted like cough syrup and vodka.

I scanned the room. Mission: find the group, pick the target, warm up the crowd.

I spotted a redhead laughing with two other girls. I walked over like I was crossing a rope bridge over lava.

“Hey, good evening. Didn’t mean to interrupt—just wanted to say, you ladies have a really interesting vibe.”

They looked at me like I’d just offered them Jehovah’s Witness pamphlets at an open bar. One gave me a pity smile. The redhead turned her back.

Abort mission.

Second attempt: blonde girl wearing sunglasses—indoors. I walked up with more confidence this time, nearly yelling over the music.

“Do you believe in instant energy connections?”

“I believe in not talking to drunk strangers.”

“I’m not dru—”

“Next, loser.”

Ouch.

I wandered around the club for another hour, repeating Coach Pegasus’ mantra in my head: “Every no is one step closer to a yes.”

By 1:12 a.m., I was back home. Defeated. Bank account: four reais. Mood: existential.

I was ready to throw everything out—the books, the videos, the “Seduce Like a Wolf” course. I was exhausted. I unlocked my phone one last time before going to sleep.

That’s when it popped up.

“YOU’RE ONE STEP AWAY FROM HAVING THEM ALL AT YOUR FEET.”
THE MANFRED METHOD — WORKS 100% OF THE TIME. 100% OF WOMEN. 100% GUARANTEED.

And right below, a button:
“Change your life for just $500. Only for the first 10.”

My rational mind screamed. My bank account whimpered. My desperation smiled.

I clicked.

My phone loaded a PDF. A weird one.

“Be careful not to activate the Manfred Method by accident. It is 100% effective and will make any woman absolutely crazy about you. Forget all the game phases. Just say the phrase, and they’ll want you immediately. It’s like a glitch in the Matrix. A cheat code hidden in the game. Or magic, if you prefer that.”

“Just say the words: Femina, desideriis meis pare.”

“And that’s it. That’s all you need to know to seduce any woman you want, whenever you want.”

“Good luck. Only you and nine others have access to this knowledge.”

I stared at the screen. Thought about my bank balance. Re-read the PDF. Then I screamed into the void.

Five hundred bucks down the drain. Another scam. Great.

I told myself to sleep it off. I had to be up early, and I couldn’t afford any more dumb decisions.

*********************************************************************

The next morning, I showed up to work with my usual cup of coffee in hand, hoping caffeine would be enough to suppress the existential dread.

I spotted Mariana at her desk. No headphones. No music videos. Her expression? Somewhere between anxious and outright terrified.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“Katarina’s freaking out,” she said. “She wants to see us in her office. Like, right now.”

“Eduardo!” Katarina shouted from behind her door—like she’d heard us. “And Mariana too. Both of you. My office. Now.”

We walked in together, bracing for whatever disaster was about to land on our heads.

Katarina’s desk was covered in printouts—the spreadsheets Mariana had finished for me last week.

“I sent these files to the client yesterday,” she said. “They’re a mess. Totally wrong. The client is going to lose money. Who’s responsible?”

“I asked Mariana to help me with part of the task,” I admitted. “What exactly is wrong with them?”

“Everything,” she said flatly. “Looks like she just made stuff up.”

I turned to Mariana, silently asking for an explanation.

“I just wanted to finish fast,” she muttered. “Didn’t think it was that serious.”

“Seriously, Mariana? That’s why you finished early? Because you didn’t even do the job?” I snapped, losing patience.

“Did you review it, Eduardo?” Katarina cut in. “Her error is on her. But the negligence? That’s on you. I need a fix. Now.”

I put my hands on my head. Great. Sandwiched between an impossible boss and a lazy intern. No sex, no success, and now this mess.

And then I remembered it—the scammy little PDF that promised miracles.

Maybe it was a joke. Maybe I’d lost my mind. But at that point, what did I have to lose?

I took a breath.

“Femina, desideriis meis pare.”

The lights in the office flickered. The air conditioning sputtered like it had asthma. Something shifted.

I stood still.

Katarina and Mariana both turned toward me with a strange expression. Their eyes locked onto mine—not angry. Not annoyed. Just… different.

“I think we should… look into a better way to fix this,” Katarina said slowly, her tone changing mid-sentence like she’d forgotten what she was even talking about.

“Yeah… maybe there’s a more… productive approach,” Mariana added, blinking like she’d just woken up.

“You two okay?” I asked, unsure if I was imagining things.

“Better than ever, boss,” Mariana said, smiling.

“The day started off wrong, but…” Katarina hesitated, eyes scanning me, softer now, “…we can figure it out later. Right now, I just can’t believe I never noticed you before, Eduardo.”

They looked at each other. Then at me. And I realized something deep, strange, and absolutely insane.

It worked.

The Manfred Method actually worked.

From that moment on, there was no Premier Tax Solutions. No deadlines. No spreadsheets. Just two gorgeous women in a closed office… and me, in the middle of something I couldn’t even begin to explain.

Katarina removes her glasses with a sharp flick, like she’s shedding armor. Mariana leans on a chair, yanking her Nirvana tee over her head, revealing pale skin and curves she’d hidden under her careless vibe. I never imagined her like this. Never knew it was right there.

I stand frozen, silent, afraid a word might snap me back to reality.

Katarina strides toward me—not rushed, but certain. Her hand grazes my chest, then my belt, wordless. She’s not the boss anymore. She’s a woman in control.

Mariana approaches, slow, like she’s reading my mind.

Katarina unbuttons my pants with the same cold precision she uses to demand revised reports. But her commanding gaze has shifted—to desire.

Mariana, grinning—not her usual smirk, but a “let’s see how long you last” smile—kneels and tugs my boxers down fast. I’m exposed, painfully hard.

“All this hiding behind spreadsheets?” she teases, her lips dangerously close.

Before I can answer, her tongue hits me. Warm, wet, precise. She starts slow, testing, then dives in like she’s settling a score for every task I’ve given her.

Katarina doesn’t sit idle. She grabs my face, forcing my eyes to hers.

“Look at me, Eduardo. Time to learn how to be useful.”

She sheds her blouse, revealing a lacy bra that was probably planned for this moment. She guides my hand to her breasts, no gentleness. I obey—kissing, licking, sucking like a student facing a test.

Mariana shifts her pace—slow, then deep—driving me to the edge of control. And it’s working.

“Let’s see if he can handle it,” she says, voice husky, lips glistening.

Katarina pushes me into a chair, climbs onto my lap, and slides down—hot, wet, full. She arches, letting out a low moan that echoes in the sealed room.

Her movements are commanding. Each thrust feels like a strike, each rise a verdict. My mind’s blank, consumed by sensation—the pressure, the grip, the rhythm.

Mariana slips behind me, her arms around my neck, breasts brushing my nape. She kisses my ear and whispers, “You haven’t seen half of what we’re gonna do.”

Her hands slide down my chest, ripping my shirt open, buttons popping. I want to protest, but logic’s gone. Just heavy breaths, sweaty bodies, and desire crackling like static.

Katarina rides me like she’s claiming her own pleasure—steady, deliberate, a woman who knows exactly what she wants. Her short moans are orders my body follows without thought.

Mariana kisses Katarina’s back, shoulders, neck, her hands gripping Katarina’s waist, lips trailing to her breasts. They move in sync—one on me, the other pressed to her. It’s a forbidden dance, and I’m both spectator and star.

“Hold on, accountant,” Mariana murmurs, sliding down to straddle my face.

I lick—gentle, then firm, guided by her moans as she grinds, knees braced on the chair, while Katarina rides me like she’s staking a claim.

The heat builds. Each move sparks a new wave of pleasure, surging through my legs, exploding in my chest. I’m caught between two forces—one fierce and commanding, the other quick and teasing.

Katarina picks up speed, her hips slamming harder, moans now gritted through clenched teeth, fighting to keep control.

Mariana trembles above me, muscles taut, breath ragged.

“Go… go…” she gasps, gripping my shoulders.

It hits all at once. Katarina cries out, her body seizing in a violent shudder. Mariana moans softer, shaking as my tongue buries deeper. And me—I explode inside Katarina, no shame, no fear, no brakes.

For a moment, we all freeze. Silence. Heat. Sweat dripping down tangled bodies.

Katarina rises first, composed, like she’s just left a routine meeting.

“Good work, Eduardo,” she says, lips still flushed. “Now you’ll learn what real excellence looks like.”

They kneel before me, as if this second round was always the plan. Katarina, still dripping, breasts marked by my hands; Mariana, lost in the game, eager to join fully.

My cock, fresh from Katarina, glistens, half-hard, coated in our mess. Mariana eyes it like forbidden dessert. Katarina grips the base, guiding it to Mariana’s mouth.

“Go on… taste. It’s still warm.”

Mariana licks slowly, then harder, savoring every inch. In seconds, I’m throbbing again. The mix of my cum and Katarina’s juices slides down Mariana’s tongue as she devours it.

Katarina joins in, vying for space, alternating deep sucks with hungry kisses on Mariana, each trying to outdo the other. My body reignites. They trade off—one teasing the tip, the other sucking my balls—moving in perfect sync, like they’ve done this before.

The sight is unreal: the polished boss, now on her knees, mouth wide, licking eagerly; the angelic intern, messy with lust, trying to swallow me whole. I groan, beyond control.

“You’re gonna make me cum again…”

They open their mouths wide, side by side, tongues out, eyes locked on me. Katarina strokes me with precision, each move calculated to push me over. Mariana teases the tip with kisses and flicks.

“Come on, Eduardo… give it to us,” Katarina purrs.

The pressure surges. I erupt—a hot jet hits Mariana’s face, another fills Katarina’s mouth. She doesn’t spill a drop. They lick each other, laughing, sharing my cum like a toast.

****************************************

The days that followed were… different.

I used the phrase again. And again. With Katarina. With Mariana. With both of them. With other women, too. A stranger waiting for the train. A girl in a café. A woman who looked like she walked off a fashion magazine cover.

Didn’t matter who. Didn’t matter where.

The moment I said the words, something lit up behind their eyes.

And they wanted me.

Badly.

It sounds impossible, I know. But it happened. Repeatedly.

Somehow, the Manfred Method did exactly what it promised.

Now, with my newfound confidence—and, okay, a few unexplainable sexual miracles under my belt—I opened my own accounting office. Hired Katarina to be my right hand. She’s actually good at her job when she’s not trying to kill me with stilettos.

And Mariana? She still works under her. And surprisingly, she works. Really works. Maybe it’s the supervision. Maybe it’s the spell.

I don’t question it.

As for the Method itself—I’m just glad I memorized the phrase, because the PDF? Gone. Corrupted. Just… disappeared. And every single reference to the Manfred Method vanished from the internet. Poof.

If you search now, you’ll find some obscure accounting technique and maybe a weird erotic story on a blog—but nothing about the phrase. Nothing about what it can actually do.

It’s like it was never there.

The ad I clicked said it was only available to the first ten people. So I guess, somewhere out there, nine other guys are walking around with the same phrase in their heads.

Nine other men who, just like me, stumbled across the only seduction method in the world that actually works.

Where are they now?