For five years, my wife Seraphina' s 'purity' defined my existence. My days were a relentless cycle of scrubbing, proving I was 'clean' enough for her. This pristine, empty marriage felt like a lifelong sentence. Then, a faint love bite on her collarbone sparked a flicker of doubt, quickly replaced by horror when I overheard her chilling phone call. My wife wasn' t just cruel; she was auctioning me off. The 'Ethan Experience' she chirped, chilling me to the bone. Those excruciating 'cleansings' weren't about her mysophobia; they were about erasing me for her lover, Julian. My raw, burning skin wasn't from clumsiness, but industrial-strength soaps meant to wipe away any trace of me. They filmed me, naked, for a pre-auction 'preview,' inviting a crowd of socialites to watch. My wife, the woman who claimed disgust at my touch, was selling me like property. The night arrived, and I found myself sedated, stripped, and pushed into a glass room, the auctioneer's voice already booming my 'unveiling.' How could the woman I vowed to protect turn me into a living spectacle, a commodity of contempt? The betrayal was a physical ache, the humiliation a crushing weight. Was this truly my fate, to be auctioned off, utterly broken and shamed? All for a man who claimed to be 'allergic' to me, a lie she orchestrated for five years. Just as the curtain began to rise, a familiar, commanding voice cut through the haze. My godmother, Eleanor Vance, a formidable force, burst in, holding the annulment papers I thought I'd never need. My escape began not with a fight, but with a signature, as my dignity was finally restored. That night, I didn't become a spectacle; I became free.
For five years, my wife Seraphina' s 'purity' defined my existence.
My days were a relentless cycle of scrubbing, proving I was 'clean' enough for her.
This pristine, empty marriage felt like a lifelong sentence.
Then, a faint love bite on her collarbone sparked a flicker of doubt, quickly replaced by horror when I overheard her chilling phone call.
My wife wasn' t just cruel; she was auctioning me off.
The 'Ethan Experience' she chirped, chilling me to the bone.
Those excruciating 'cleansings' weren't about her mysophobia; they were about erasing me for her lover, Julian.
My raw, burning skin wasn't from clumsiness, but industrial-strength soaps meant to wipe away any trace of me.
They filmed me, naked, for a pre-auction 'preview,' inviting a crowd of socialites to watch.
My wife, the woman who claimed disgust at my touch, was selling me like property.
The night arrived, and I found myself sedated, stripped, and pushed into a glass room, the auctioneer's voice already booming my 'unveiling.'
How could the woman I vowed to protect turn me into a living spectacle, a commodity of contempt?
The betrayal was a physical ache, the humiliation a crushing weight.
Was this truly my fate, to be auctioned off, utterly broken and shamed?
All for a man who claimed to be 'allergic' to me, a lie she orchestrated for five years.
Just as the curtain began to rise, a familiar, commanding voice cut through the haze.
My godmother, Eleanor Vance, a formidable force, burst in, holding the annulment papers I thought I'd never need.
My escape began not with a fight, but with a signature, as my dignity was finally restored.
That night, I didn't become a spectacle; I became free.
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