We were driving through the heart of France, deep in the countryside. We had exited the motorway an hour prior. It was a lengthy journey. On that first day, we drove for eight hours to reach a small campground where we would spend the night. My wife mentioned it took two days to get there. This marked her first time selecting our campsite. I saw it as evidence of shifting roles between us. Previously, I always picked the spot, though I kept in mind that she needed an area she’d enjoy too. For me, the key factor was whether we could cycle.
It had been two months since she announced, ‘I’ve found a beautiful campground for our holiday. You’re going to love it!’ I wanted to know what she had picked out immediately. Yet, she kept her mouth shut about it entirely. ‘Let me surprise you,’ she urged. ‘I promise, it’s lovely.’ A bit later, she added, ‘Besides, isn’t the final decision mine?’ Naturally, I agreed. Still, I felt caught off guard and not quite used to our new dynamic. Gradually, step by step, she had assumed control. It was growing more intense. It was delightful, yet also increasingly unnerving.
We pulled into a small town. ‘Let’s have the daily special here,’ she said. I glanced around skeptically. ‘I doubt there is anything decent.’ Her reply hit me like lightning. ‘Oh yes, turn right at the roundabout. That’s Auberge La Fontaine. They appear to offer a very refined menu.’ I shot her a quick glance sideways. She was staring straight ahead, unblinking. I realized this had been orchestrated. Not just this moment, but everything leading up to it. We turned right and there stood: Auberge La Fontaine.
We parked the car and headed inside. The daily special was indeed superb. We started with foie gras, followed by a lovely salmon dish, and finished with crème brûlée—a French dessert we both adore. As we were just finishing our crème brûlée, she handed me that familiar little blue box. ‘Darling, you’d better go to the restroom and put on your device,’ she said. ‘I’ll drive the rest of the way.’ I usually don’t wear my chastity cage while traveling because it’s uncomfortable in car seats and problematic if nature calls along the route. So I knew we were nearing our destination. What did she have planned? I had to admit, curiosity and excitement were building within me. And on one front, she had already scored a win: the surroundings looked perfect for cycling. It seemed like it would be a nice, cozy campsite.
We continued driving. She was at the wheel. After half an hour, we turned off the main road onto a much smaller street, passing through several villages. Then, we veered again into an even narrower lane. With our caravan attached, it would be difficult for another car to pass; the road was simply too tight. I looked somewhat anxious. What if a van or another caravan came from the opposite direction?
Finally, she slowed down further ahead. A sign read ‘Chaîne d’amour’ with a large arrow pointing left. The paved surface turned into sandy dirt and became slightly bumpy. We drove slowly down the hill until we reached a gate, where another ‘Chaîne d’amour’ sign stood out. ‘What does that mean?’ I asked her, even though I knew she wasn’t fluent in French either. ‘Chain of Love,’ she replied, smiling at me with an expression that made my heart flutter. What on earth lay behind the gates? I would soon discover. My wife stepped out of the car toward the gate and rang the bell. Moments later, it opened. ‘You’ll love it,’ she said, flashing that same smile which had caused me more concern in recent months.