🔥🐍I HELPED MY BOYFRIEND FEED HIS SNAKE WITH MY SLAY QUEEN FRIEND
I used to be a slay queen. Life was clubs, champagne, shiny wigs, and taking selfies in bathrooms with golden mirrors. Every weekend was the same — Sandton on Friday, Pretoria on Saturday, and Durban when we wanted to stunt. We were not just going out for fun; we were hunting. Hunting rich men. And I was the boldest in my circle.
That’s how I met him.
He arrived in a black Range Rover with windows darker than midnight. His walk had no rush, his voice was calm like he already owned the world. He bought us drinks without asking, just a swipe of his black card. While the other girls giggled around him, he kept his eyes on me. That night, he asked me one strange question:
“Have you ever been pregnant?”
I said no, laughing because it felt so random. That’s when he smiled in a way I will never forget, like he had just found what he was looking for. By the end of that week, I had moved into his mansion in Bryanston.
The house was everything we dream of — fountains outside, mirrors as tall as walls, guards at the gate, chandeliers above the dining table. Clothes, bags, and shoes appeared as if from nowhere. I didn’t ask where the money came from, because when you are a slay queen, you don’t ask. You just post the lifestyle on Instagram and let people envy.
But the mansion had rules.
Rule one: never invite my friends over unless he allowed.
Rule two: never go near the basement.
Rule three: every Friday night, I must sleep in the guest room and lock my door until morning.
At first, I obeyed. I told myself maybe he was into private business deals. Maybe he had enemies. But the more I lived there, the more I felt the house breathing, like it had secrets of its own.
One Friday, my curiosity was too strong. I pretended to go out with my girls. Around midnight, I crept back in and tiptoed to the basement. The door was slightly open, and I heard a hiss. Not the hiss of pipes, but of something alive.
What I saw nearly made me collapse.
The basement was glowing with red candles. Money was stacked in piles taller than me. In the middle was a giant snake, thick as a man’s waist, its body coiled around a chest. Its eyes were red — and worse, they looked human. My boyfriend was kneeling in front of it, speaking a language I didn’t understand. When the snake hissed, he nodded like a servant receiving orders.
Then the snake turned its head and looked straight at me.
I screamed. He rushed to me, slapped me across the face, and whispered, “Now you know. You are mine forever. Don’t ever speak of what you saw.”
From that night, everything changed.
The money never stopped flowing. Designer clothes filled my closet. Trips to Dubai, Mauritius, Cape Town — all paid for without me lifting a finger. But with the wealth came shadows. Night after night, I woke up sweating, hearing a hiss by my ear. I dreamed of my body wrapped in scales.
And then my friends started disappearing.
One of my closest friends came to visit, but after that night, she vanished. No calls, no posts, no funeral. It became a pattern. Girls who entered that mansion didn’t come out. I began to suspect what was happening — he was feeding the snake. Feeding it with the wombs of young women like me.
When I confronted him, he told me coldly, “The snake gives, but it also takes. If you want to stay in this life, don’t ask questions. If you betray me, you’ll be next.”
That’s when I understood the truth. I was not his girlfriend. I was part of the ritual, chosen because my womb had never carried a child. I was currency for his wealth, not love.
Now I live in luxury, but I cannot sleep in peace. Every night, I hear the snake calling me. Every time I look at my reflection, I feel its eyes behind me. My body is draped in designer labels, but my soul is owned by that basement.
I helped him feed his snake. And for that, I know I will never be free.
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