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H e had the night to himself. He was out at the fishing cabins in Tinder Valley and would hole up in one of them overnight and fish in the morning before going home.

It was easy cover and a solid story that would hold up to scrutiny.

Logical and timely, his trip to Tinder Valley could be corroborated should she decide to check his story.

It was what he needed—a night to himself.

Enough time to have his visit, stay a while afterward to be respectful.

Maybe share some dinner. He could take his time tonight, not like some other visits when things were rushed and abrupt and forced.

Those visits were never fun. They typically ended in fights and arguments and resentment, and he never felt good about himself when he left.

But time was on his side tonight. Time allowed them both to work through the things that got overlooked during rushed visits.

Time prevented fights and scuffles. Tonight he had all the time he needed.

He pulled his car to the curb and turned off the headlights.

It was dark here with no streetlights. Quiet, too.

No highways. It would be a nice place to live, but that was not possible.

For him, he could only visit this place.

But what he found here he could find nowhere else.

So empty was his life at home. There was no love there.

There was no intimacy. He went through the motions when necessary.

When she pressed him. But his thoughts were always here.

He tolerated her touch because it was what he had to do to get by.

He stomached her advances because he knew it was the only way to protect his secret.

But here, with his love, he could play out his wildest fantasies.

Here, he could service and please and pamper.

Of course, it didn’t always work the way he imagined it.

Some didn’t appreciate his efforts. Some even rejected his generosity.

He was willing to allow rebellion initially, even put up with the early arguments and tantrums that came with new relationships.

But ultimately, he expected this behavior to subside.

Once his intentions were made clear, he wanted acceptance.

He wanted gratitude. He wanted submission.

More than anything, though, he wanted reciprocation.

Sadly, for a few, this never transpired.

And when his efforts were exhausted and he saw no hope on the horizon, he knew the end of the affair was near.

There was guilt when things culminated this way.

Sadness when a relationship ended. He felt genuine remorse when he could not make things work.

Regret, because he understood the finality of failure.

After an unsuccessful relationship he allowed himself to bathe in those emotions.

He gave himself that much—the opportunity to grieve.

But then, like spring tulips, someone else caught his eye and those feelings of want and desire budded inside him, eventually blossoming into something new and hopeful.

A fresh relationship was out there and waiting.

He just needed to find the right person.

He stood from his car and adjusted himself.

He walked inside with a frozen Stouffer’s dinner, locking the door behind him.

He listened for a moment, to make sure nothing was out of order.

Then he walked to the cellar door, slid the lock, and clicked on his flashlight.

He opened the door, which scraped against the wooden floor, and stared at the bare wooden stairs as a feeling of ecstasy burned in his loins.

He started down the steps to his prize, who he knew would be waiting, shackled to her bed like a good and wanting servant.

He had left a bucket and sponge for her to bathe, hoping tonight might be special.

“I’m back, my Love,” he said as he took his first step down the rickety cellar stairs, his insides exploding with eagerness and lust. “I’m back.”