Hellacious Hospitality Ch. 01

Up on her knees, she raised herself, now directly over his throbbing member. A heavy-lidded, glazed look had come over her face now, as she hungrily anticipated the eight inches of his rigid cock standing dutifully at attention. He mused that the matter of lube was probably not something one had to consider when fornicating with an incorporeal entity. Despite the brevity of her foreplay, it was clear that she had him exactly as she needed him. Her eyes flicked back to his, this time alight with fiery lust, and in a mere instant, she was upon him.

Whatever Benson had expected for this moment, this wasn't it. He had braced for a rushing cold to envelop his erect penis, swallowing it whole. Instead, the moment his cock was engulfed by her mist-formed nethers, sparks ignited at the base of his brain. It was if his body had not known life until this very moment, and every single nerve blazed to attention.

It was as if the phantom woman had experienced the same, because she immediately collapsed upon his chest in a silently panting heap. The now familiar crash of cold came down and knocked some of the wind out his lungs. She shuddered now, a blissful shudder that sent ripples down into his cock where they were still connected, and more sparks and lights danced in his head. After taking a moment to catch her breath (or whatever the ghostly equivalent was), she pushed back off him to sit atop him once more.

Slowly, she raised her hips, withdrawing from him part-way. He felt the sparks wane from his mind slightly, before she slammed herself back down over his pelvis, for the flares to ignite and scatter once again. The sensation was disorienting, almost blinding, but not unpleasant. Quite the opposite. Every time a spark flew off, it landed somewhere in the pleasure center of his brain and set off a mini wave of euphoria. This was entirely unlike any sex that Benson had ever experienced, but he wanted more.

Finding her pace, his lover obliged him. Up and down. Gently at first. The sparks weren't nearly so consuming now, and he could drink in their blissful offerings without being overwhelmed. She learned to grind her hips in a small little circle after burying his engorged member to the hilt, causing the sparks to erupt in a controlled crescendo. The sensations started mild, but built upon themselves steadily until the pleasure felt like it would erupt. Despite that intensity, it never felt like enough to bring him to completion.

As she continued to buck and grind her hips, Benson steadily found his regular senses start to return to him amongst the fireworks constantly going off inside his head. The coolness of her being coupled with the inner fire was its own new experience that pushed him to the brink in its own way.

Faster. More wanton. More animalistic now. She could no longer stay upright under her own strength. Her weight was on her arms now, pressing into his chest. Benson assisted, by cupping her ass with his hands and pumping with his own hips. He still couldn't feel her directly, but her non-existent body weight seemed to adjust properly all the same, if the contented expression she wore on her face was any indication, and the flares of pleasure in his own mind seemed to respond in kind. The soothing coldness of her body seemed to ease his muscle fatigue, and Benson felt like he could carry on like this all night.

Somewhere along the way, the quality of the sparks seemed to change. Rather than simply carrying pleasure, more complex sensations became intermingled. Though dulled, as if underwater, he could perceive in the back of his mind a wet squelching sound. Only after intense concentration did he realize it coincided with his vigorous thrusting in-and-out of his ghostly paramour. But it was more than just the sounds of their lovemaking. He could hear a soft, mewling whimper mixed in with the noise as well, with the crash of realization that it was her voice he was suddenly hearing.

Touch soon followed. While not the weight of a full-grown woman he felt, as she pressed herself against his loins, he felt the softness of her round ass push against his fingertips. A mischievous thought crossed his mind, and he suddenly squeezed firmly at the supple hemispheres. Her eyes shot upwards at him, in shock, but also in excited realization at the change in the sensations they were sharing.

With her waning energy, she now bucked against him furiously, and he could now feel the sopping wetness of her vagina as it squeezed and engulfed his own pulsing member. Her eyes were closed now, lost in her own world of euphoric bliss.

In her distracted state, Benson seized the opportunity to cup and fondle her beautiful, small breasts. Gently at first, he massaged and kneaded the soft mounds of her bosom. She responded by arching and stiffening her back, pressing her weight into his hands. Encouraged by her response, he amplified his efforts, now pinching and gently pulling at the grayish buds of her rock-hard nipples.

His efforts clearly pushed her over the edge. She had troubles keeping her tongue in her mouth now, panting and gasping for air to fuel her quickening pace. With long, hard strokes she rocked her entire body against him, driving his length into the furthest reaches of her nethers as she could muster and clearly relishing every sensation it brought with it.

Those final moments, as she milked his cock for all her worth in a frenzied flurry of passion, were enough to finally bring him release.

His long-awaited orgasm finally exploded forth, erupting waves of thick, gloopy semen up into her invisible pussy. Her own release came a moment after, as she threw her head back and arched her spine in an exaggerated manner. The orgasmic scream she unleashed was unlike anything he had ever experienced, its power ripping through him. Every nerve in his body seemed to ignite and explode in a cascading wave that rushed over and through him, only to be immediately extinguished.

She collapsed back against him in a naked embrace. Still joined at the hips, his cock twitched, emptying the final remains of his load deep within her being. Her form quivered with gasping and ragged breaths, completely exhausted. Sadly, he observed, the sound of her soft voice faded from his ears, as did the feeling of her feather-weight pressed against him. She tiredly met his gaze with lonely, but reassuring eyes.

"I just wish that there was more we could have shared," Benson admitted aloud, still relishing the moment, but clearly their time was over. Connected in mind and soul for but one mere moment, and not a moment longer. The beautiful specter nodded solemnly, before donning a contented, exhausted smile. She gave him an icy peck on the cheek, before fading into the darkness.

*****

Benson bathed silently in the afterglow of his mind-blowing orgasm, futilely trying to process all that had just transpired. As if to break him from his dazed trance, the room phone screamed to cacophonic life. Its urgent trills shattered the silence of the now lonely hotel suite. In his love-drunk haze, it took him several minutes before his mind even acknowledged, let alone responded, to the source of incessant ringing.

He barely had the phone off the hook, when he could hear the clear, honeyed voice at the other end of the line. Unlike the collected, professional tone he had been received with earlier, however, it was laced with utter apologetic panic.

"M-Mr. Lachlan? Hello? Pleasedon'tbemadpleasedon'tbemad. How did I let this happen~? Oooohhh-arrgh!" the voice devolved into a frustrated growl, before he heard a sharp exhale.

"Whoa, slow down! Take a breath. What exactly is the problem here?"

Her voice started again, tentatively. "Mr. Lachlan. Benson. Sir. I-I'm afraid that I may have made a teensy-tiiiny mistake with your room booking... heheh. I'm really, truly, deeply, stupendously sorry!"

"I'm sorry, I'm really not following you." Head still fogged in post-coital bliss, his eyes lazily scanned the dark room, trying in vain to determine if something was amiss.

"Umm... I don't really know how to put this... i-is Syl there? Is she mad? Oh, god, she's mad isn't she? Come back downstairs, I'll get you a new room, none of this ever happened, okay? Please, just- just be safe." She prattled on in a nervous rush. Before he could even formulate a response, he heard the click from the other end of the line as she hung up on him. Clearly rattled and distraught, the unerring thoroughness and professionalism he had experienced earlier seemed to have fallen by the wayside.

Benson still really didn't understand what she was talking about. Was there some other angry tenant in the hotel that he was supposed to worry about? Why would such a dangerous guest even have been admitted?

He slowly gathered his clothing strewn about the room while he contemplated the somewhat ominous message. He plucked his errant shoe off the TV cabinet, where he paused for a moment, to regard that dark, empty corner in the room to his right where he had first seen the apparition. A flash of insight crashed into his head like a sack of bricks.

Was this "Syl" her?

All the feelings of uncanniness and unease that had dogged him at the edges of his mind this whole night pushed themselves to the forefront of his mind. She knows about the ghost. What other secrets is she keeping? He recalled his previous "honey-trap" assessment, and wondered yet again if something insidious lurked within these walls.

Benson dressed hurriedly. Overriding his curiosity and his lingering attractions to the strange and beautiful women he had met here, his overwhelming instinct was simply to leave, and be done with this all. All the irritability that had been leached from his soul by the wondrous events of the night came back to roost. He pinched the bridge of his nose, the throbbing ache in his forehead returning. With these thoughts on his mind, he grabbed the room key off the night-stand, threw his jacket over his shoulders, and marched out into the hallway, whereupon he was promptly swallowed by a whirling tide of blackness.

*****

Benson stared absently at his computer monitor, as it stared back by projecting its cold, sterile glow upon his face. Fingers rhythmically tap-tap-tapped on the keyboard, stringing out short strings of code that would get promptly deleted. Despite his private misgivings of his current work environment, he never showed it, and had a reputation for being unfailingly efficient. In truth, his older coworkers didn't really know enough about his work to judge accurately, but he always appeared busy. His current, glacial pace stood in blatant contrast to his normal ethic, enough to draw attention.

"Didn't think you were that much of a lightweight. Still nursing a hangover, champ? You look like shit." Darrell from second floor, and one among many of the Friday pub regulars, sauntered over from the break room, stirring the mug of coffee in his hand. A stereotypically overweight, jolly, insensitive sort of older bloke.

Benson buried his eyes in his palms and rubbed at them, and yawned openly. Ignoring the condescending way Darrell liked to address him with childish terms of endearment, he flashed a wry smile, before bitterly grumbling, "God, no. Fucking raccoons raided the dumpster behind my place at, like, four. Noisy buggers scared the shit out of me, and completely fucked my sleep." He lied.

"Ah, good. Thought maybe we'd have to start cutting the baby off the bottle. Well, good luck with that, then. See ya 'round, sport!" He left with an apathetic wave.

Benson sneered the moment Darrell had his back turned. Interactions like these were why he had quickly grown to resent his older co-workers. Always quick to dismiss his issues as youthful inexperience.

Truth was, Benson wasn't so sure himself why he felt so out-of-sorts. He hazily recalled stumbling from the pub on Friday night, but after that, things were a complete blank. He had awoken in his own bed early Sunday morning, suddenly listless, as if he had suddenly remembered something important, only to promptly forget it again. The fact that his entire Saturday was unaccounted for was troubling, to say the least.

That constant feeling of disorientation and unease plagued Benson, hanging over him throughout the week and disrupting his trains of thought. Several days passed uneventfully, but his brain always felt like it was swimming through mud trying to get where it was trying to go. His restlessness and discontent only grew, dampening his other senses. Some unknown aspect of the world seemed to lack in color, in flavor.

It was Wednesday afternoon that everything changed. He decided to take a brisk walk during the lunch hour to clear his hazed mind. The dismal weather had finally let up that the much-needed change of scenery didn't seem such an absurd prospect.

He made it as far as the nearby park, three blocks from the office, when something caused him to stop dead in his tracks. A gentle breeze tousled his hair and tickled the stubble on his face, and carried with it the vague scent of...lavender? Lilac?... his knowledge of flowers was terrible. But that fragrance was unmistakably familiar, but somehow distant in his recollections. The scent brought with it the sound of a honey-sweet giggle that rang in the recesses of his memory. Cool air swirled and caressed his neck, and he instinctively brought his hand up to greet it there, as if to shake an invisible hand. A warm smile of reminiscence crept upon his face.

He suddenly became aware of a weight in his jacket pocket which he was certain wasn't there a moment ago. Reaching inside, fingertips found cold metal. An unexplainable energy seemed to wash over Benson upon this discovery. He immediately rushed back to the office, and completed the day's goals in record time, clocking out with time to spare.

Thursday brought with it more boundless energy. More rapid progress left him with ample idle time left him plenty opportunity to surreptitiously scan Google Maps for clues for something still buried in his memory. His face lit up as pieces fell into place.

Friday came and went in the blink-of-an-eye. Most of his colleagues had already left for the day, eager to hit the local pub to usher in the weekend. Seeing Benson still at his desk, Darrell speed-shuffled down the cubicle aisle to fetch him, his preponderant girth wobbling exuberantly.

"Heya sport! Aren't you grabbing a drink with the boys and me?"

Benson scanned the text on his monitor again briefly, committing it to memory. He shut down his workstation with a definitive flourish, as he suddenly leapt to his feet, startling Darrell enough that he stumbled backwards a pace.

"No can do, gramps," Benson struck back playfully, an uncharacteristic twinkle in his eye.

"What gives? Knew you were getting soft," he mimed a drunken sway, while giving the younger man the once-over. There was something different going on here that he couldn't quite put a finger on. "...you got a hot date?"

Benson smiled back earnestly, unguarded this time, and shrugged broadly, while throwing a sport jacket over his shoulders. "Dunno, something like that, maybe." He loosened his collar and slicked his hair back with his hand, grooming a more casual look.

"Why don't you have another tall one instead, for me. Don't want our bartender friend missing out on payday, do we?" He gave his portly co-worker a hearty slap on the shoulder, urging him to join his drinking buddies.

Darrell took the hint, but not without giving Benson a quick double-take, the disruption to weekly ritual obviously having a disconcerting effect on him. Benson simply gave him a dismissive wave in return, which finally seemed to get the older man off his back.

Certain that prying interests were no longer upon him, Benson made for his own exit. He felt somewhat silly, treating his evening's plans like some clandestine mission. But he didn't need the office gossips dogging him with where he was about to go.

The moment he left the office, he broke into a brisk jog, a sense of purpose fully consuming him. He headed in the general direction of the pub, but took a zig-zagging route a few blocks over so as not to accidentally meet up with his coworkers again.

Familiar sights came into focus. Benson replayed hazy memories of his stumbling, drunken trek from the previous week, and matched them to what he was seeing now, in full clarity. Storefronts, street signs, and other landmarks raced by as he maintained his pace, his stamina buoyed by giddy anticipation.

The early autumn sunset had begun to cast its reddened glow when Benson finally stopped, having found what he was looking for. For all his broken, unreliable memories from the previous week, one clear image stood out: the entrance to an otherwise nondescript alleyway, tucked in the space between a sleazy adult store and a ramshackle bowling alley-cum-porno theater. The kind of dingy place in an unsavory neighborhood that anybody with a reputation to uphold wouldn't be caught dead in. A place where, at this very moment, he wanted nothing more than to be at.

Partially from the exertion, partially from excitement, Benson's heart pounded as he proceeded into the shadowy gap.

It wasn't long, though, before his feelings of excitement turned to ones of disappointment and dismay.

Something was wrong with the picture before him. The further he walked, the darker it got, separated from the lights of the bustling city streets behind him. This wasn't as he remembered, the warm red glow of a flashing neon sign no longer there to invite him in. It wasn't a matter of the sign not being on; Benson pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and switched it to flashlight mode, swinging it around. There was simply no sign there at all. No evidence of their having ever been one in the first place.

Benson span around, swinging his light back and forth over the brick walls that bordered this space. Absolutely nothing. Practically featureless, if one were to disregard the standard coating of graffiti, and the darkened, stained patches where the walls were used as makeshift urinals. Ordinary.

He hung his head in dejection, pressing his forehead against the rough, cold surface of the hardened-clay wall. He lightly punched it in confusion and frustration. It was all so vivid in his head now. The flashing red "Hotel" marquee. The steel loading doors. And just beyond those doors, a place he now desperately wanted to be, that all the fibers of his being felt like they were clamoring for.

But what he needed, and was his brain was telling him, seemed an utter impossibility when faced with the very sights before him.

Benson felt totally defeated.

He turned away from the wall, and made to leave, sticking a hand in his coat pocket to place his phone.

And then his finger brushed it. Cold, metal, surprisingly heavy. He withdrew it: the ornate iron key that had mysteriously turned up in his possession earlier in the week. Strange that he could forget about it so easily, when his mind kept screaming to him that it, too, played an important role in the burning questions that were currently plaguing his mind.

As his thumb idly brushed over the head of the key, tracing over the embossed "346" numerals on its face, his ears caught wind of a strange sound. A low, rhythmic "bzzt...bzzt..bzzt" sound. Soft, barely perceptible at first. But as Benson struggled with his thoughts, trying to pierce the veil of his hazy memories for more information about the strange key, the noise seemed to grow in strength, becoming ever more incessant until it completely flooded his consciousness.

"What!?" Benson shouted, annoyed, angry at nobody or nothing in particular. He whirled around to regard the irritating sound that seemed to come from behind him. And then he spotted it.