My family were Jehovahs witnesses. Our household all served my father but my mother, sister and I got it worst. My brother got more freedom but he still had to serve our father too. I was his dedicated personal wait servant. Since I was little I was cooking his food, mixing and serving his drinks (mostly rum and cokes) and cleaning up after him. Basically anything he asked for all while he verbally berates you. There were times he'd scream for me on the other side of the house just to hand him a remote that was a little out of his reach. He wasn't sick, injured or disabled at the time. If I refused or wasn't fast enough he would just keep screaming and screaming. He would scream very hurtful things and wouldn't stop until you did what ever he was demanding. Things about how stupid, useless, and ungrateful we were. His favorites for me was "You're only good for keeping the bed from floating away" or just his colorful ways of calling me a lazy slut. He would scream me out of the house regularly and I'd sleep in a park or at school. Our one and only house rule was

"Anything for less bitching."

Note how the rule accepts there will always be screaming tantrums and doesn't have any hope for it to stop, just desperation for it to be less. I ended up leaving that house and town at 16. Whenever he called for me through out the day I had to go to him immediately to do what ever he says. I knew I had no choice. It wasn't often but he hit us sometimes too. Sometimes with one of those cubed yard sticks and so hard he'd break them. The forced servitude hurts more though. I've wondered if I'm exaggerating since he really didn't hit us much. Spanking was normal for the time too. I just feel so much more grief for the forced servitude than the few times he did hurt us physically. To this day I still feel like I'm being called to heel like a dog whenever someone calls my name and I hate it.