They Paid Me to Sleep with Their Dog — But I Did Something That Left Them Regretting Everything Episode [1 - 3]

 They Paid Me to Sleep with Their Dog — But I Did Something That Left Them Regretting Everything

They Paid Me to Sleep with Their Dog — But I Did Something That Left Them Regretting Everything

                                                                   Episode 1

My name is Ifunanya, and what I’m about to tell you is not just a story—it’s a wound I carry inside me. It started the day I walked into the massive gates of the Olowu mansion in Lekki, thinking I had finally secured the job that would change my life. At 24, a struggling graduate of Microbiology with a dying mother and two younger siblings to care for, desperation had already swallowed my dignity whole. I was tired of cleaning other people’s toilets for ₦10,000 a month. Tired of wearing shoes with holes. Tired of lying to my siblings about why there was no food in the house.

So when Madam Uju, my former secondary school teacher, told me about a “special maid opportunity” with a very rich family that was ready to pay me half a million naira monthly, I didn’t even ask questions. She said they needed a loyal girl to live in and take care of “a special pet.” That was the exact phrase she used—special pet. I thought it meant an exotic parrot or a blind dog or maybe even a monkey. I didn’t care. ₦500,000 could pay my mum’s hospital bills and settle my siblings’ school fees.

The house was beautiful in a haunting way. Cold white walls, long corridors, shiny floors that echoed your footsteps, and silence so loud it followed you like a shadow. The owners were a couple—Mr. and Mrs. Ogundele. Both in their early 40s, polished, rich, and intimidating. They didn’t smile much. They only observed. It felt like I was walking into a palace of eyes.

They welcomed me politely and asked me to sign a non-disclosure agreement. I hesitated for a second, but when I saw the ₦500,000 figure written clearly in the offer letter beside my name, I signed with trembling hands. That evening, I was shown my room—spacious, cool, and luxurious. A far cry from the mat I slept on with my siblings back in Ajegunle. It was too good to be true.

And then, it started.

They brought out the dog.

Its name was Prince. A massive, silver-furred husky with eyes so icy blue they felt human. The way it looked at me was not normal. I wasn’t afraid of dogs, but something about Prince made my stomach twist. Mrs. Ogundele said, “You’ll sleep in the same room with him. Feed him. Bathe him. Talk to him. He doesn’t like strangers, but he’ll warm up to you.”

I nodded quietly, still thinking, ₦500,000… it’s just a dog. I can handle this.

But it didn’t take long to realise the job wasn’t normal. One night, I was in bed reading when Prince jumped on the mattress, sniffed my body from head to toe, and growled—not aggressively—but as if something was expected of me. Then the door creaked open, and I saw Mr. Ogundele standing in the hallway, watching. Not saying a word. Just watching. I pretended not to notice. That same night, I heard whispers through the walls. Murmurs. Footsteps.

By the fourth day, they made the request.

Over dinner, Mrs. Ogundele looked at me calmly and said, “Ifunanya, you’ve done well. But it’s time for the real job. Sleep with Prince. We’ll pay you ₦5 million upfront.”

The fork dropped from my hand.

I couldn’t breathe.

I thought I had misheard. I stared at her, then her husband. Their faces were blank, calm, as if what they had just asked was perfectly normal. I stammered, “Madam… I—I’m not that kind of person. You want me to what?!”

Mr. Ogundele placed a black duffel bag on the table and unzipped it. Neatly arranged ₦1,000 notes filled the bag to the brim.

“₦5 million tonight. ₦10 million more if you do it every week for the next month,” he said, sipping his wine like we were negotiating tomatoes.

I got up, shaking, heart racing. “I’m not a beast!” I screamed.

But they didn’t flinch.

“You signed a contract, Ifunanya,” Madam said coldly. “And you’ll find that leaving here isn’t as easy as you think.”

I ran to my room, locked the door, and collapsed on the floor, crying until I had no tears left. My mind was spinning. What sort of evil was this? I had walked into a mansion thinking I found my miracle, not knowing I had entered a pit of demons. But I wasn’t stupid.

That night, I didn’t sleep. I pretended to. I allowed Prince on the bed, pet him gently, and turned to the wall. I needed a plan. And I found one.

The next morning, I smiled at Madam and told her I had changed my mind. That I was ready to “try.” They were pleased. Too pleased.

And that was their mistake.

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. Zoophilia. Ritual sex. 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.

Episode 3

I thought that once the Ogundeles were arrested and the mansion was raided, the nightmare would end. I believed that justice would sweep through the corridors of power like a cleansing fire, that the story would be told, and that I could finally breathe. But I was wrong. Evil doesn’t die easily—especially when it’s dressed in wealth, connected to power, and protected by silence. What I had done—exposing them, rescuing the girls, giving the police evidence—was only the beginning of a storm that would try to break me in ways I wasn’t prepared for.

The very next morning, my name was on the internet.

Not as a hero.

Not as the girl who saved trafficked victims.

But as “a desperate housemaid who fabricated lies against a respected couple after being caught stealing.”

News blogs twisted the story.

Influencers picked it up.

Anonymous accounts started posting my pictures with captions like “Jezebel maid caught blackmailing her employers with fake rape stories.” The Ogundeles’ legal team—ruthless and well-funded—claimed that I had been paid to sabotage them by business rivals. They even brought a fake psychiatrist on TV who said I was mentally unstable.

I was shattered.

But Ayo, the journalist who received the flash drive, didn’t stop. He took the footage to an international investigative team. They traced the accounts. Found the secret transactions. Connected the Ogundeles to a wider ring spanning three other countries. More victims came forward—girls from Cameroon, Ghana, even South Africa. Some were children sold under the guise of foreign scholarships. Some had died.

As the real truth began surfacing internationally, the Nigerian public started asking questions.

And finally—finally—justice responded.

The Ogundeles were officially charged with child trafficking, illegal imprisonment, sexual exploitation, and attempted bestiality, among other crimes. International human rights organizations stepped in. Pressure mounted. Interpol got involved. The court ordered a psychiatric evaluation of the victims and the accused. And this time, the truth could not be buried under money or lawyers.

But something strange happened while the legal chaos unfolded.

One of the rescued girls—the 16-year-old who had clung to me that night—began having dreams. Dreams she claimed were visions. She would wake up in the middle of the night crying and whispering in languages she didn’t speak. She said she saw Prince, the dog, standing between her and a dark, faceless shadow.

“Something is wrong,” she told me one morning, eyes wide with fear. “He wasn’t just a dog. He was protecting us from something they were trying to summon.”

That’s when it hit me.

What if the Ogundeles weren’t just trafficking humans and exploiting people?

What if they were doing rituals?

I returned to the mansion with investigators. The basement had been sealed off for forensic reasons, but with court permission, I went in with the team. And what we discovered confirmed our worst fears.

Behind one of the false walls in the basement was a hidden shrine—carved with symbols I had never seen. Animal skulls. Bloodstained robes. Candles. Ancient books in Latin and something that looked like old Yoruba incantations. The authorities later confirmed that the couple were part of a dark cult—one that believed in gaining wealth and power through forbidden spiritual covenants. Every victim had been part of a ritual. Every act was an offering.

And Prince? He had been part of the spell—but somehow, he had resisted.

Somehow, he had chosen to protect.

The dog was taken by an animal rescue group. And to my surprise, they asked if I wanted to adopt him.

I said yes.

Not because I needed a pet, but because I knew he had saved me too.

And because even in a world where humans choose darkness, sometimes beasts choose light.

Six months later, I stood in court as the Ogundeles were sentenced to life imprisonment. The judge called the case one of the darkest and most bizarre in the nation’s history. Survivors were placed under therapy and protection. International media carried the headlines. And me? I was offered scholarships, awards, even interviews.

But I turned most of them down.

Because this story wasn’t about making me famous.

It was about the voiceless.

The unseen.

The children behind cages. The girls sold under fake promises. The silence that almost buried the truth.

I now run a foundation—Nanya’s Voice—for victims of abuse and human trafficking. I use my voice to amplify theirs. I tell their stories. I fight with every breath.

Because what they meant for my shame became my rising.

They paid me to sleep with their dog.

But I uncovered their darkness, rescued their victims, and shattered their empire.

And now… they live in cages.

While I walk free—louder, stronger, and unbroken.

---THE END---