My Wife, My Tormentor

My Wife, My Tormentor

Gavin

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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.

Introduction

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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