The Hotel Penland

Kendall

Like Brandon across the hall, Kendall was now on her back floating about a foot off the floor. The ghost hands rubbed all over her body, squeezing and cupping her breasts, tugging and rolling her now erect nipples. "No! Don't! Stop!" she tried to protest but the sensations were too intense. "Hmmmh!" she tried to yell again but couldn't. She looked up and a beautiful blonde suspended above her head had rested her ghost muff in Kendall's mouth. The hands ran up and down her legs, pulling apart her thighs. She felt a warm, soft ghost tongue flick at her clit as fingers ran in and out of her slit. She didn't want this at all, and yet every part of her body, inside and out trembling with fire and passion. The juices gushing from her sex and her bucking hips betrayed her.

The translucent woman sitting on her face disappeared and a man she recognized as Joe materialized above her. "What ... who ... what the fuck is going on?" Kendall half screamed, half panted.

"I wanted to make sure you had the night of your life ... at the Hotel Penland. The hands spread her thighs again and she felt Joe press against her pussy. She could see through his cock and yet it was the fullest she had ever been. As he began thrusting in and out, her pelvis returned the motion, jerking back and forth. Joe was thrusting wildly now and Kendall bucked up and down in mid-air, screaming and squirting all over the floor underneath her. She jerked and screamed again as Joe climaxed and disappeared with a flash of light.

The Lobby

Brandon woke up flat on his back, sunlight streaming in an otherwise darkened room. He was sore all over his entire body, like he'd been in a 12-round prize fight. His cock and balls were sore, and his ass was on fire. His arms were covered with scratches and he had the worst hangover in his life. He sat up and looked around, surrounded by broken glass, discarded needles, used condoms and trash. It was an old building, but one that only squatters had used for a long time.

He stood up and felt his pockets; keys, cellphone, wallet all there. "Kendall?! Kendall?!" he cried out, but he didn't see her anywhere. Brandon finally recognized where he was -- it was the lobby of the Penland Hotel, but it looked like it hadn't been that since the old man blew his brains out. He dialed her phone. Voicemail. Sent her a text. No response. "The thirteenth floor! My God!" He ran to the elevator -- there were neither doors nor a cab. He looked at the dial above the opening, reading the numbers "9, 10, 11, 12, 14, 15 -- shit, no thirteen!"

He ran to the stairs and climbed 12 flights as fast as he could, jumping two or three steps at a time. He slowed as he past 12, bent over and panting. He walked up the last flight and saw the door, "14." He kicked it open and entered the dark hallway. Turning his flashlight app on, he light up the hall -- it was covered with undisturbed dust. "If we had been here, we'd have left footprints. Maybe I missed it."

Having caught his breath he rushed back down the stairs in about four jumps. The door was off its hinges lying diagonally on the floor but he could clearly make out the "12." "How can there be no 13th floor?" He ran room to room through half the hallway with no sign of Kendall.

Brandon regained his composure and tried to remember the events of the night. He was sure they had gone to the 13th floor. He walked back down the stairs, texting and calling Kendall again without success. The stairs dumped him off directly in front of the check-in desk. He looked up and saw the faintest outlines of a painting of a beautiful woman in a white lace dress, walking along the lake shore carrying a white parasol. A beautiful, thin red head with large breasts. As he stared longingly at the woman's face in the portrait, he said, mouth hanging open, "I'm never drinking pumpkin ale again for as long as I live."