The Fourth Rule

We had done it. Put it all together. Another weekend away. Strange, how two people can get so entrenched in the trivia of staying alive that a weekend together would require so much planning and footwork. That we had managed this one was due to Laura's efforts. She is forty, beautiful, competent and determined to have her own way about many things, one of which was this weekend.

Laura was driving as usual. She always becomes so excited by our trips that she is too keyed up to be a good passenger. We'd determined long ago that the first leg of the journey was hers to drive.

She drove fast and well. The little red convertible roadster perfectly suits her looks and temperament. I had bought it for her on a whim several years back and knew I had done well. Neither of us had ever regretted the choice. The little car had become synonymous with good and exciting times.

Watching her drive, both hands on the wheel at the ten-and-two positions, expertly downshifting into turns and accelerating smartly back out, I was struck by the picture she presented - as always artfully contrived on these trips to invoke memories of past pleasures and stimulate anticipation of things to come.

Wearing a short flower-print dress and high heels with ankle straps, "come fuck me shoes" as she calls them, her legs were tanned and bare. The dress buttoned full length up the front, a style I had come to appreciate. I was unable to tell what, if any, underwear she might be wearing. If she wished me to know, I'd be shown or allowed to find out before the drive ended. I already suspected she was braless because of the way her breasts responded to the motion of the car. It is always difficult to tell with Laura, she has the body tone of a well-endowed teenager. Tall, long-legged and high-breasted, she looks thirty. With her thick auburn hair and a face out of some fashion magazine, she is a knockout by any standard. And she knows it. Laura makes the most of her attributes in a sultry and unbelievably sexy way. She also talks like a stevedore during sex and is naturally and shamelessly orgasmic.

As we sped up Route 9, destination known only to Laura, my mind drifted back over our weekends and the simple rules that govern them. You see, the primary purpose of these trips is sex. Wild, uninhibited, restorative sex. We both have active imaginations and each trip is an opportunity to act out our sexual fantasies. At first, we had planned nothing specific. But over the past couple of years we had begun a more purposeful approach where one or the other of us would plan and prepare an elaborate scenario. By unspoken agreement we took turns. This trip, and its fantasy, was on Laura.

There are a few rules.

Rule One declares that whoever has ownership of the sexual rites for the trip is completely in charge. The other person, or "victim" as we jokingly refer to the passive partner, is strictly along for the ride. The planner thinks up the fantasy, provides any props required and directs all activities for the weekend. Everything is kept secret until revealed at the proper time.

Rule Two requires the victim to cooperate completely, doing exactly as instructed to allow the fantasy to reach its intended conclusion.

Rule Three permits and encourages any fantasy scenario that does not cause excessive physical pain or embarrassment.

Rule Four is the most important of them all. It mandates that we never question each other about the fantasies themselves; they are shared and enjoyed in total trust as they occur but their origins remain sealed forever. We might discuss how successfully a fantasy played out, but probing questions are not allowed. That simple rule allows complete enjoyment without fear of embarrassment or recrimination later.

Early on, I was the leader in these games, with Laura reluctant to expose her private longings. But over time she had slowly understood that I was not threatened by her fantasies. Once she realized they were as exciting to me as to her, she overcame her inhibitions and became a willing and enthusiastic partner. Learning to act out our fantasies lent a new and more satisfying dimension to our sex lives. Laura had become increasingly inventive so I knew that whatever she had in mind for this trip would provide incredible sexual tension and shattering release for us both, probably several times, before the weekend was over.

The drive itself is an important part of each weekend, a sort of foreplay. We have fun, make the most of our time and build incredible anticipation. We have also learned to keep a watchful eye for truckers. The roadster is in full view of passing trucks when the top is down. Carrying on some of our activities without being observed just adds to the excitement. On a trip last year, with Laura's face purposefully pressed into my lap, we had nearly caused a multiple car pileup after losing track of our surroundings. Laura often props her feet on the dash and uses a vibrator when she is the passenger. Fortunately, most of our trips use secondary roads where traffic is light.

Although a fantasy occasionally requires or permits the passenger to touch the driver, such activity is the exception rather than the rule. But I always try. So, as usual, that Saturday morning I decided to check my theories about Laura's underwear. Turning sideways in my seat, I reached out to lightly stroke her naked thigh. Without so much as a glance in my direction, she pushed my hand sharply away.

Several more attempts, each with the same result, told me two things; something about this fantasy dictated a hands-off policy, at least for the time being, and the bra-and-panty question was to remain unanswered until she decided otherwise. So for the first leg of our journey that day I occupied myself by reviewing previous weekends as I studied Laura in profile. She really is a beautiful woman and it excited me to know that I was going to get laid in some unique and exciting manner later that night.

As my thoughts drifted over the past, a jumble of sexually explicit images came to mind.

Laura the prostitute, allowing me to pick her up in the hotel bar. Later, after an hour and a half of red-light-district sex, demanding and receiving a hundred dollars for her favors. I never saw the hundred dollar bill again. She earned it.

Laura, announcing quietly to me in a crowded nightclub that she had forgotten to wear panties with her garter belt, seamed black stockings and red spike heels. She spent much of the evening showing me the tops of her stockings and a lot of bare thigh. By the time we left after midnight, I was so aroused I forced her into the back seat of the car before we left the parking garage - there to confirm she had indeed forgotten her panties and making her pay the price for her omission.

Laura, blindfolded and tied to the four corners of the bed, face down, arms and legs extended, while I fucked her again and again with the two vibrating dildos. The large one thrusting deeply up between her thighs, the smaller probing her ass. Her orgasms came in waves that night, her cries competing with the sounds of the surf near the remote beach cabin we had rented for the weekend.

Laura the drab librarian in the old, dusty library a hundred miles from home. With severe hairdo, horn rimmed glasses, cardigan sweater and sensible shoes, she was the perfect spinster. Pursued relentlessly along the stacks, finally cornered in a storeroom and molested with probing fingers until she lost the will to resist. Then, abducted under the very nose of the head librarian, led away to a night of sexual awakenings.

Laura, lying naked on the motel bed, describing in exquisite detail her activities with a fantasy lover while I brought her to orgasm again and again with my tongue. Later, roles reversed, forcing me to tell a similar tale while she returned the favor.

***

A change in the engine note broke my reverie. Time to stop for lunch and a change of drivers. We had to sit in the car for a few minutes until my erection subsided to manageable proportions. Swinging her legs out of the car one at a time, then bending forward to grasp my offered hand, the mystery of her underwear was solved. Suspicions confirmed, I escorted her protectively into the small, streamside restaurant. After lunch it would be my turn to drive.

Later, continuing north at Laura's direction, I held the car to a steady pace. Laura ignored me. Reclining the passenger seat slightly, she rested in peaceful repose, eyes shut, hands slightly curled and resting in her lap. I thought she was dozing until her hands started to stir. In slow motion she began to run her hands up and down her thighs. After a while, her right hand sensuously tracing the curves inside her thighs through the material of her dress, she moved her left hand up to lightly stroke her breasts.

My erection was immediate. I had seen this many times before. Laura's masturbatory techniques are unbelievably erotic. In a world entirely her own, she brings herself slowly and gracefully to orgasm. She is a natural exhibitionist who has refined female masturbation into an art form. Watching her is mind-blowing.

As I tried to keep one eye on the road and one on Laura, she slowly parted her legs. Her dress had ridden to mid-thigh. Each motion of her hand now brought the hem fractionally higher until, after an eternity, the dark triangle and creamy skin between her tan lines was exposed. She began to comb her fingers lightly through the silky hair. Gentle, exploratory probing followed. She started a rhythm where slow insertion of her middle finger was followed by withdrawal and a gliding motion up to and around her clitoris. Reinsertion of the finger followed and the pattern repeated.

Laura took her time. After several minutes, she began to slowly open and close her legs in time with the movements of her fingers. A slight arch of her back and tiny pelvic thrusts followed. A small cry escaped her lips, barely audible over the engine note.

I knew the signs. Laura's cries during sex always begin as small sounds of frustration accompanied by a frown until she reaches an acceptable level of excitement. There, she will teeter on the brink until she can't stand the tension any longer. Her orgasms during intercourse are usually accompanied by gutter-talk demands to "fuck me, fuck me harder!", or something of the sort, followed by unintelligible gasps and cries of release. When masturbating, she vocalizes less but can sustain a high level of arousal for lengthy periods because she is in complete control. I watched as her left hand moved down from her breast to assist the efforts of her right.

Parting herself with the fingers of one hand, Laura began a more urgent rhythm, still inserting, withdrawing and circling with one finger. When a second finger was employed to manipulate both sides of her clitoris simultaneously, I knew she was close. Her legs remained open now and her pelvic motion more pronounced. As she moved with greater intensity, she began to softly chant "Oh, oh, oh..." Then, suddenly arching her back, she ceased all motion except the probing fingers. With a muted cry and a slight shudder she fell back into the seat, breathing heavily.

I didn't think I was going to make it. Once, on an earlier trip, I had whipped the car onto a deserted country road seconds after witnessing one of Laura's demonstrations. Sliding the car to a halt on a shaded pullover, I had attacked her in a frenzy, violating the fantasy rules. Although I knew she had been secretly pleased with her affect on me, I never did it again. On this particular morning in early June, a no-touch rule was clearly in effect so I managed, with great difficulty, to keep my hands to myself.

Of its own will, the car had slowed to half the legal limit during the final seconds of Laura's display as my attention was understandably diverted. Fortunately, there was no other traffic on the road.

Controlling myself, I brought the car back to speed and tried to concentrate on my driving. Laura's breathing slowed as she tugged her dress back into place and returned her hands to their original relaxed position in her lap. I knew she would drift off into a light sleep. By her standards the orgasm had been a small one, just enough to take the edge off. It was a good sign. If she had become so excited thinking about the night ahead that she needed interim relief, I was in for a treat later.

The remainder of the drive was considerably less dramatic. Laura's directions eventually led us to a long, tree-lined dirt road that wound for miles back into the mountains, finally arriving at a small lake. Evergreens spilled down from the surrounding hills to enclose the water on all sides. Cabins dotted the shore at intervals a hundred yards or so. One near the road was marked by a carved sign that declared it to be the "Office."

Laura announced she would wait in the car while I checked in. I entered the office to find it deserted. A small bell on the counter invited me to ring for service. At the sound, a woman's voice called from an adjoining room. A moment or so later the voice took on added definition as a beautiful woman of indeterminate age appeared. Eurasian, I guessed, from the slight oriental cast to her Caucasian features and the nearly straight black hair, worn waist length. She was about as tall as Laura, similarly proportioned and nearly as gorgeous. Dressed in jeans and long sleeved blouse in keeping with the cooler mountain temperatures, she was a striking woman.

Laura had arranged everything on the phone. The woman had been expecting us. Our cabin on the far side of the lake had been made ready that morning, she said, by her husband. Certain that we'd find everything to our liking she assured me that ours was the most isolated, yet most nicely appointed, cabin of the lot. She was quite sure we would enjoy our weekend.

As I turned to leave, a nice looking dark-haired man, about my own age and dressed in work clothes, entered the office. With a nod and friendly smile in my direction, he went behind the counter. Casually placing his arm about the woman's waist, he told me where to find kindling, firewood and a canoe near the cabin. Apparently this was the husband referred to earlier. If so, he and I were both lucky men, each married to beautiful creatures.

The cabin was more than I expected. A long porch ran its entire length, facing the lake. French doors opened from the porch into a huge room with a large stone fireplace at one end, a king-sized bed and night tables with small brass lamps at the other. The bed had a beautiful brass headboard with vertical risers and a sweeping arch. Tasteful accessories occupied shelves and walls. Several oriental throw rugs adorned the polished hardwood floors. A small dining area for two was near a large window overlooking the lake. Fresh flowers had been placed about the room. The bath was spacious and modern. It was hardly a "cabin." We were both thrilled.

Laura stood in the center of the room, hands on hips, looking about in concentration while I brought in bags and boxes from the car, their contents unknown to me. I suspected that she was mentally fitting the surroundings into the night's activities.

By the time I finished emptying the car Laura had completed her musings and was ready to unpack. I was banished to the porch for a while so I knew she was unpacking things, critical to success of the fantasy, that I was not yet permitted to see.

When I was allowed to return, I could see nothing unusual. No surprise. I knew that anything needed for later had been carefully positioned to remain unseen but available when required. Laura commanded me to go into the bathroom, shower and put on the clothing I would find there. Closing and carefully dead-bolting the French doors securely behind me, I crossed to the bathroom and did as I was told.

"Clothing" turned out to be a terry cloth wraparound towel reaching from waist to mid-thigh and secured by an attached belt of similar material. Over this a knee-length robe, again made of terry cloth. Nothing else.

When I emerged, Laura placed a glass of white wine into my hand and retreated to the bathroom. In my absence, she had set a table for two with fruit, wine and cheese - a favorite meal of ours. Candles glowed softly. I stood at the window watching the last glow of sunset and sipped the wine.

After a time Laura appeared, beautifully made up and wearing a dark floor-length velvet robe. It had a high collar with white lace trim at neck and cuffs. It revealed nothing. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a style that accentuated her graceful neck and jaw line. She was, as always, breathtakingly beautiful.

She took my hand and led me to the table. As we ate and drank slowly, Laura engaged me in small talk about a variety of topics, none of which gave the slightest clue about what was yet to come.

A long while later, Laura rose from the table. Drawing the curtains, she asked me to go into the bathroom for a few minutes. I did as I was told, straining to decipher the small sounds I could hear through the door. When ready, she called softly to me.

I entered the room and was commanded to halt. I did so, glancing about the room. The changes were subtle. The table had been cleared but the lighted candles remained. A small lamp on one night table cast a soft glow. A fire flickered softly, warming the room. A straight-backed chair from the dining ensemble now faced the bed about three feet from the middle, headboard to the right. Nothing else had changed. Including Laura.

After tying a blindfold around my eyes Laura led me to the chair and removed my bathrobe, leaving only the terry cloth wraparound. She then gently pushed me down into the chair and ordered me to remain motionless. I did exactly as directed and would continue to do so the remainder of the night without hesitation or improvisation. The success or her fantasy would depend on it.

I heard a metallic clinking sound and, seconds later, felt my ankles being secured to the legs of the chair by shackles or handcuffs of some sort. Moments afterward, my wrists were tied with soft ropes to the lower uprights of the chair back.

Standing behind me, Laura removed the blindfold. I could not see her but I was able to examine my bonds. I realized immediately that escape was unlikely. My ankles were secured above the crosspieces between the chair legs. Real handcuffs had been used. My wrists were expertly tied.

After testing the cuffs and ropes, it was plain that this fantasy dictated I remain bound. We had used low-key bondage techniques before. Some were constructed for escape, some were not. Whatever was going to happen tonight required only that I watch until released. That I would become highly aroused in the interim, I had no doubt.

After giving me a few moments to understand the initial rules of the fantasy, Laura stepped out into the light from behind the chair. Her robe was gone. In its place was a baby doll night gown of pale blue silk trimmed with blue eyelet lace. So short it dropped only an inch or two below her breasts, the gown revealed several inches of bare midriff and a pair of brief panties, also of blue silk. Her feet were bare and she wore no jewelry. Her hair had been released to tumble luxuriously below her shoulders. She carried a glass of white wine in one hand.

Ignoring me, she crossed to the bed and sat facing me on its side. Placing the wine on the nightstand nearest my chair, she swung her legs up onto the bed; leaned back on several pillows propped against the headboard and crossed her legs at the ankles. Reaching back under the pillows, she withdrew a small book. I recognized it as one of several I had bought, at her request, from an adult bookstore. I had never seen her read them but as their condition deteriorated over time, I knew that they had seen steady use. As she began to read the book I suddenly knew what this fantasy, at least in part, was all about.