Your college classmates had two reactions to the life you built for yourself: envy and disgust. You met Pete shortly after graduation at a wine mixer for young professionals. In his late 20’s, he was already a Wall Street hot shot, with a seven-figure salary and a fashionable TriBeca loft. Within six months you were engaged. A year after that, you were married. Your friends dutifully attended the wedding in Cape Cod and donned the ugly, pink bridesmaids dresses you had chosen for them, but the entire time they were whispering behind your back. They couldn’t believe a girl as sharp and savvy and you had fallen into a life of utter materialism. Less than a year into your marriage, your hard earned degree had been put on the back burner. You spent your days tidying the condo, fixing Pete dinner, getting lattes with the other Manhattan wives, and having bouts with your personal trainer. You knew what all your old friends said about you but still refused to give them the satisfaction of admitting the truth: you were bored our of your skull and racked with regret.<br/><br/>Pete wasn’t the problem. At least, not completely. You loved him and he loved you. Your sex life though left something to be desired. Most of the time, he was too exhausted from working twelve hour days to fuck. Sex only happened on the weekends, and when it did, it was a slow, uneven, missionary act that ended as soon as he shot his load. No oral. No variety. No kink. Pete wasn’t oblivious to this. He could see the bored, unsatisfied look in your eyes every time he rolled off of you. It ate at him. He knew this wasn’t the life you signed up for and he would do<i>anything</i>to make it better.<br/><br/>“Babe, can you come here in for a minute?” Those were the words he said, sitting at the dining room table, on the day everything changed. His shoulders were tense as he nervously drummed his fingers on a large white envelope. He said he knew you were unhappy. He knew you needed more. He booked you a flight to Montana to spend the weekend with me.<br/><br/>“I don’t care what happens,” he said, “I just don’t want to know about it.”<br/><br/>By the time you met Pete I had already split town but his friends still talked about me like I was some sort of legend. I graduated with them from Harvard business and was considered one of the most promising recruits at Goldman Sachs. I was a fixture at all of the elite cocktail lounges and tennis clubs. Then, without warning, I got up from my desk one day, left Wall Street, and never looked back. I deleted my social media accounts. I sold my penthouse apartment and bought a ranch in rural Montana. Some folks admired my disappearing act, others said that I had gone completely insane.<br/><br/>I met you only once, on your wedding day. While Pete was busy dancing with his frat brothers to the<i>Cha Cha Slide</i>, you and I struck up conversation. I told you about my cowboy lifestyle. You told me about your artistic ambitions. There was a spark between us that was undeniable. A few weeks later, you confessed to Pete that you had a little crush on me. He never forgot it. Across the country on my big lonesome ranch, I thought about you on a nearly nightly basis.<br/><br/>When Pete called one evening near midnight and explained his predicament… your boredom, your unhappiness, your need to get properly fucked… it’s safe to say I was taken aback. Normally, I would never entertain the offer of another man’s wife. I long ago dipped my toes into the swinger lifestyle and decided it wasn’t for me. But this was<i>you</i>and for some reason I couldn’t say no.<br/><br/>---<br/><br/>A car was waiting for you at the Bozeman airport on the day you landed. The gray skies overhead were laden with the threat of snow.  It was a two hour drive from there to my sprawling white estate, which slept on acres of land, miles from any supermarket or post office. As the car pulled up the expanse of my driveway, I stepped onto the porch. From behind the tinted glass, you saw me before I saw you. I was wearing a maroon colored pocket T, a pair of Levi’s, a white cowboy hat. My arms were muscled and sun tanned from working in the fields, tattoos dotted along the length of them. I descended the steps and opened the back door to help you out of the car.<br/><br/>“Hey stranger,” I crooned.<br/><br/>[Thanks for reading. If you’re into this scene please let me know your character’s name, what you look like, and what you’re wearing when you arrive. Feel free to either continue the scene from where I left off or ask any questions you might have.<br/><br/>My character’s name is Thatcher. He’s 30 years old; 6’2, thin lean build, short but messy dark hair with some premature grays peppered in. Despite my thin physique, I’m fit and toned thanks to my lifestyle.<br/><br/>Feel free to respond whenever you read this. Looking forward to exploring this with you!]