29/07/2025
They Paid Me to Sleep with Their Dog — But I Did Something That Left Them Regretting Everything
Episode 2
I looked Madam Ogundele in the eye and smiled—that kind of smile that masks a storm. She smiled back, clearly satisfied that I had surrendered. “Good girl,” she said, sipping her tea like we had just agreed on sewing curtains. “Tonight then. We’ll be watching from the control room. Just make sure you don’t disappoint Prince.” She rose, gliding across the marble floor like she owned the world. And in that moment, I realized she did—at least this twisted little world where souls were currency and evil wore designer heels.
That whole day, I played the part. I brushed Prince, whispered to him, even let him lick my hand while I smiled. But inside, I was rotting. My body might have been there, but my spirit was gone. My only weapon was pretending. Pretending to agree, to submit, to obey. And while they watched from their secret cameras, I was plotting my escape—and something more.
That evening, while everyone thought I was preparing to “perform” with the dog, I snuck into Madam’s private lounge. I had observed her earlier using a black remote to open a hidden panel near the wine rack. Behind that panel was their surveillance and recording room. I had just five minutes before the guard changed shift.
I pressed the remote. The wall slid open with a quiet hiss.
My heart thudded like thunder.
There were screens—dozens of them—showing every room in the house. Some were dark. Some showed the help in the kitchen. Some showed my bedroom.
But one screen made my skin crawl—it was labelled “Sublevel Chamber.” And on that screen, I saw cages.
Yes. Cages. With people inside them.
One girl couldn’t be more than fourteen. Another looked unconscious. I covered my mouth to stop from screaming. What kind of monsters were these people? What kind of sick empire had I walked into?
I quickly inserted the flash drive I’d hidden in my bra into the central system. I copied everything—the video files, names of past victims, transaction logs, even emails between the Ogundeles and foreign contacts who were clearly buyers. Human trafficking. Zo*****ia. Ritual s*x. It wasn’t just the dog. They were running a full-blown underground network.
When I heard a creak behind me, I pulled the flash and ducked into the closet just seconds before one of the guards entered the room. He looked around suspiciously, then shut the door and left. I didn’t breathe for another thirty seconds.
That night, I returned to my room.
Prince was already there, tail wagging like he sensed something was different. I fed him. Rubbed his fur. And when the red light blinked on the wall, I knew they were watching.
I turned to the camera, slowly unzipped the house robe they gave me—and just before anything happened, I whispered, “I’m sorry, Prince,” and turned the camera to face the window.
Then I sprayed the room with the powdered sedative I had taken from Madam’s first-aid cabinet earlier that day. It was meant for the dog—but it worked on people too. Especially when mixed with heat and ventilation.
Within minutes, the gas spread beyond my room. The house had a central air system. Every vent carried the faint scent of lavender and lemon—but now, it was carrying my revenge.
I wore gloves, a mask, and tiptoed into the hallway.
Silence.
I checked the screens again. The guards were asleep. Madam and her husband were slumped in their velvet chairs in the control room, unconscious.
It was time.
I grabbed the master key from their drawer, ran to the sublevel chamber, and opened the cages one by one. Some of the captives were too weak to walk. I dragged them. Lifted them. Whispered, “You’re safe now. Just hold on.”
One of the girls—barely sixteen—grabbed my hand and said, “Please, don’t leave me here. Don’t let them sell me again.” I couldn’t stop the tears anymore.
I got everyone into the kitchen, locked the front door, and called a journalist I knew back in school—Ayo, now working with an international human rights group. I whispered everything: the house, the files, the victims, the traffickers, even the dog. Then I sent him the flash drive. “Send the police. Send everyone. But don’t come alone,” I said.
Within 30 minutes, the mansion was surrounded.
SIRENS. GUNSHOTS. SCREAMS.
The Ogundeles were dragged out in handcuffs, confused and barely awake. I watched from the shadows as police carried out the other victims one by one. Some were crying. Some too broken to speak. The media came. Journalists with cameras. I gave my statement but refused to go on camera. I didn’t want fame. I just wanted justice. For them. For myself.
But the twist?
Prince, the dog, ran toward me during the chaos. For a second, I flinched. But then, he simply sat beside me. Calm. Gentle. Protective. Like he had known all along who the true animals were.
The officers wanted to sedate him. I begged them not to. “He’s not the monster,” I said. “They are.”
They agreed.
And so I left that mansion—not as a victim, not as a maid—but as a survivor.
As a whistleblower.
As a rescuer.
But what happened after that… what came from the shadows of that night… was something even I didn’t see coming.
To be continued
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