When Obedience Becomes Enslavement

When Obedience Becomes Enslavement

Gavin

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My wedding day was supposed to be the happiest day of my life, a celebration of Mark and me, successful professionals building our dream home. But the nightmare began the moment his mother, Eleanor, stopped us with a prenuptial agreement none of us had ever discussed. This wasn't just about assets; it was a contract of enslavement: unconditional obedience to her, living under her "guidance," every penny of Mark's income going to her, and his loyalty to her always, always coming before me. I looked at Mark, expecting him to laugh, to tear up the papers, to tell her she was insane, but he just stood there, weak and pleading, signing away our entire future. The joy of the day evaporated, replaced by a cold, heavy dread. Our honeymoon was miserable, and when we returned, the reality hit me: Eleanor had taken over my master bedroom, the one I designed, and announced she was giving us a measly allowance for our "little expenses." The mortgage on my house, the one I fully paid for, was over three thousand dollars a month. That was it. "You will not control my life. You will not control my finances. And you are not the head of this household," I declared, walking out the door. I returned to constant oppression, her early morning demands, her judgments about my career, her attempts to control my meals. Mark, the man I married, just withered under her shadow, a pathetic puppet on his mother's strings. He didn't defend me, he didn't take a side; he only ever chose her. The final straw came when Eleanor, in a deranged attempt to secure her grandson' s future (which meant MY house), demanded Mark and I legally adopt my destructive nephew. She wanted to erase me completely and hand over my future, my property, my identity. "No," I said, my voice dangerously quiet. Her face contorted with rage. "I am the head of this family! My son will do as I say, and as his wife, you will too! We are doing this! I've already told Brenda!" That was the unforgivable line. I pulled out the divorce petition from my briefcase. "Here," I said, my voice ringing with authority, "Read this." Mark's face went pale as he read "PETITION FOR DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE." "Divorce?" he whispered. "Yes, Mark." I looked at him, at Eleanor, at Brenda. "I am divorcing you. I am done with this family. I am done with your mother's insanity. And I want all of you out of my house. Now." I walked out of my house, the feeling of liberation washing over me, ready to fight for my freedom.

Introduction

My wedding day was supposed to be the happiest day of my life, a celebration of Mark and me, successful professionals building our dream home.

But the nightmare began the moment his mother, Eleanor, stopped us with a prenuptial agreement none of us had ever discussed.

This wasn't just about assets; it was a contract of enslavement: unconditional obedience to her, living under her "guidance," every penny of Mark's income going to her, and his loyalty to her always, always coming before me.

I looked at Mark, expecting him to laugh, to tear up the papers, to tell her she was insane, but he just stood there, weak and pleading, signing away our entire future.

The joy of the day evaporated, replaced by a cold, heavy dread.

Our honeymoon was miserable, and when we returned, the reality hit me: Eleanor had taken over my master bedroom, the one I designed, and announced she was giving us a measly allowance for our "little expenses."

The mortgage on my house, the one I fully paid for, was over three thousand dollars a month.

That was it.

"You will not control my life. You will not control my finances. And you are not the head of this household," I declared, walking out the door.

I returned to constant oppression, her early morning demands, her judgments about my career, her attempts to control my meals.

Mark, the man I married, just withered under her shadow, a pathetic puppet on his mother's strings.

He didn't defend me, he didn't take a side; he only ever chose her.

The final straw came when Eleanor, in a deranged attempt to secure her grandson' s future (which meant MY house), demanded Mark and I legally adopt my destructive nephew.

She wanted to erase me completely and hand over my future, my property, my identity.

"No," I said, my voice dangerously quiet.

Her face contorted with rage. "I am the head of this family! My son will do as I say, and as his wife, you will too! We are doing this! I've already told Brenda!"

That was the unforgivable line.

I pulled out the divorce petition from my briefcase.

"Here," I said, my voice ringing with authority, "Read this."

Mark's face went pale as he read "PETITION FOR DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE."

"Divorce?" he whispered.

"Yes, Mark." I looked at him, at Eleanor, at Brenda. "I am divorcing you. I am done with this family. I am done with your mother's insanity. And I want all of you out of my house. Now."

I walked out of my house, the feeling of liberation washing over me, ready to fight for my freedom.

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I received a pornographic video. "Do you like this?" The man speaking in the video is my husband, Mark, whom I haven't seen for several months. He is naked, his shirt and pants scattered on the ground, thrusting forcefully on a woman whose face I can't see, her plump and round breasts bouncing vigorously. I can clearly hear the slapping sounds in the video, mixed with lustful moans and grunts. "Yes, yes, fuck me hard, baby," the woman screams ecstatically in response. "You naughty girl!" Mark stands up and flips her over, slapping her buttocks as he speaks. "Stick your ass up!" The woman giggles, turns around, sways her buttocks, and kneels on the bed. I feel like someone has poured a bucket of ice water on my head. It's bad enough that my husband is having an affair, but what's worse is that the other woman is my own sister, Bella. ************************************************************************************************************************ "I want to get a divorce, Mark," I repeated myself in case he didn't hear me the first time-even though I knew he'd heard me clearly. He stared at me with a frown before answering coldly, "It's not up to you! I'm very busy, don't waste my time with such boring topics, or try to attract my attention!" The last thing I was going to do was argue or bicker with him. "I will have the lawyer send you the divorce agreement," was all I said, as calmly as I could muster. He didn't even say another word after that and just went through the door he'd been standing in front of, slamming it harshly behind him. My eyes lingered on the knob of the door a bit absentmindedly before I pulled the wedding ring off my finger and placed it on the table. I grabbed my suitcase, which I'd already had my things packed in and headed out of the house.

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