All names in this article have been changed to protect the identities of those involved. But trust me, every word is true!

Some life mistakes make for a good laugh over drinks years later. Others? They leave you jolting awake at 3 a.m., heart pounding, wondering if your kidneys are still yours. My story falls squarely in the latter camp—a wild ride with a woman so powerful, so twisted, that I’m still piecing myself together. Welcome to my nightmare with Madam V, a tale of cash, kinks, and a devil I had to ghost.

The Sugar Mummy Mirage

I was 24, a level 400 student hustling on vibes and “Insha-Allah,” with empty pockets and a head full of dreams. Madam V? If you’re Ghanaian, you know her type—her smile graces billboards, her connections sway industries, and her husband drones on TV in ill-fitting suits. We met at an exclusive Accra bar, her eyes locking onto me like I was prey. That night, she wasn’t the untouchable figure—she was a dangerously beautiful woman, and I, naive and broke, was her next meal.

At first, it was a dream. Cash flowed—bundles of cedis, trips to Cape Coast, gifts like a gold watch that screamed wealth. She rented me a sleek apartment in Osu, bought me a secondhand car, and even hooked me up with a gig at her friend’s firm. The high was intoxicating, drowning out morals and sanity. I thought I’d hit the sugar mummy jackpot. Little did I know, she saw me not as a partner, but as a toy to control, break, and reshape.

The Descent into Pain

The red flags came fast. Madam V craved pain—not the playful kind, but the kind that left marks. One night, mid-intimacy, she sank her teeth into my shoulder so hard I screamed. Her response? A maniacal laugh, as if my agony fueled her ecstasy. Another time, she gripped my throat, her fingers tightening until I saw my late grandmother waving me toward the light. Gasping, I begged for air; when she released me, she purred, “I love the fear in your eyes.” That’s when I knew—I was trapped with a predator.

Her sadism escalated. One evening, she tied me to her bed, and I naively thought, Okay, some light BDSM. For the uninitiated, BDSM—Bondage, Discipline, Dominance, Submission, Sadism, Masochism—is about consensual pleasure mixed with power and pain. Key word: consensual. This was no Fifty Shades of Grey fantasy; it was Fifty Shades of Run for Your Life. Out came a knife—yes, a knife—and my soul nearly exited stage left. “I won’t cut deep,” she cooed, tracing the cold blade across my chest, leaving shallow scars that still haunt me. “Just memorable.” Memorable? More like a permanent reminder of my desperation.

Then there was the wax ordeal. In her dimly lit bedroom, she lit a candle, and before I could protest, poured hot wax onto my chest. I screamed—unexpected and searing—while she moaned, reveling in it. As if that wasn’t enough, she flipped open a Bible, reciting, “Even Christ suffered,” as she dripped more. At that moment, I saw her not as a woman, but a supervillain—Joker to my battered Harley Quinn, lost in her chaos.

The Blood Covenant Trap

The breaking point arrived at a private mansion in Aburi. Candles flickered everywhere, casting eerie shadows. Madam V stood in a red silk robe, holding a bowl. “We need to take this further,” she intoned. I frowned—after knives and wax, what more could there be? Then she produced a razor blade, slicing her palm, letting blood drip into the bowl. My heart stopped as she grabbed my hand. “Just a small cut,” she whispered. “It will bind us forever.” Forever? Even my mother doesn’t demand that level of loyalty!

I stammered, “Madam, I have anemia—small blood loss, and I’m out!” She smirked, “You’re weak.” Weak? No, it was survival instinct kicking in. I knew then I had to escape this devil’s pact.

The Great Ghosting

Running that night wasn’t an option—I needed strategy. I pulled back gradually: ignored calls, made excuses, faked malaria twice. Finally, I vanished—new number, new apartment, new life. Freedom tasted sweet, but the relief was short-lived. The messages began: first, “I miss you.” Then, “You belong to me.” The clincher? “We have a child. You abandoned us. I will destroy you.” A child? From where—telepathy? We’d had countless unprotected encounters during those five months, and her childless rants about her absent husband fueled the fear. Is there a mini-me out there? I’ll never know—and I don’t plan to find out.

Life After the Devil

Today, I’m done with rich, married women. If a lady shows too much interest, I bolt. Mention candles? I’m gone faster than you can say “pim.” I’ve seen therapists—three this year alone—unraveling the verbal and mental abuse that lingers. Madam V’s chapter is closed, but the scars—physical and psychological—remind me daily. Poverty drove me to her, but survival pulled me out. Crazy? You bet. But I’m here, alive, and wiser. And that’s a story worth telling.