Chapter 8

And so, here we are again dear reader, at one of those interlude in which I flesh out a bit more of the unwritten story you've been reading.

I know some of you have wondered why I don't identify my wife with a name, even if it is not her own. I think it is because, as much as I am writing this story as my own confessional, I still want to protect her somewhat. Yes, I could give her a name, but any name other than those we used when we were married seem suspect. I want to tell the truth as I see it, as biased as that may be, but this is not a police procedural and I will not change any names to protect the innocent.

For most of our lives together, she called me Dearest M. I called her Precious. There were only few moments before these troubled times that we called each other anything else.

That was one of the other problems I had noticed that had lead up to the confrontation at my work. She had started calling me David all the time. "Dearest M" had fallen by the wayside soon after what came to be known as the "Ian fiasco."

I will say from the start that I accept most of the blame for the "Ian fiasco," though it came about in the way most things do - out of a desire to make things better by granting a wish.

"Ian" was a bisexual man living in San Francisco. We had corresponded and talked on the phone for nearly a year before I made any attempt to bring him into our household. He wanted to serve a couple, and would be happy to do so in all ways ... not just sexually, but in all the ways a slave should serve his superiors.

My wife had expressed her desire to have someone come into the household to serve, as she was working a full-time job and felt the need to have some help in the house. Her reasoning was that there were people in the community who desired to serve others, so why shouldn't we provide an outlet for those needs? So I began to search for that third person to add to our household.

To say the experience was frustrating would be understating it immensely. I would talk to numerous people online or on the phone, and we would set up meetings to talk to them in person. Only about 1 in 5 times did the person actually show up for these meetings. Those few that did show up were, with few exceptions, unsuitable for us. They had an air of creepy desperation that made us uncomfortable - so much so that our standard shorthand to refer to these bad meetings became "meet once, block twice" when the question of further communication came up.

My wife had a whole list of demands that she expected to be followed when it came to having a third person in our relationship. Most of them seemed to be aimed at keeping the person always mindful of their place at the bottom of the totem pole. Sleeping on the floor, kneeling, protocols and rituals - she seemed to want to make sure her place as the number one slave would never be usurped.