"Ghostly room service."

Some of the women in the other rooms are making out, licking each others’ nipples, entwined in 69 position on the soft sheets. Others are masturbating, with fingers or vibrators or shower heads, to online erotica or their own imaginations or well-thumbed volumes from the Witch’s Wheel series of epic fantasy novels. Others are watching TV, reading the newspaper, scrolling social media, playing video games.

You spy on them all. Though perhaps some more than others.

“Sitri! Spill the beans!”

“Just one more thing,” you say. The hour is going late. More rooms are filling up as other guests, oddly also all hot women, come back in from important appointments, theatre dates, drinks in incredibly expensive London bars. They kick off their heels, shuck off their silk dresses, unfasten their bras, peel off their lacy panties, shower, slide into bed. “Did you know this hotel is haunted?”

“I don’t care! Wait, I definitely do care about that.”

“Thought you might! They say the Hellfire Club used this place for meetings in the eighteenth century. And they summoned evil spirits from beyond the veil, who never completely left. They’ve been hanging around ever since, playing their wicked pranks on any woman bold enough to spend the night in the building.”

“Was this place even around in the eighteenth century?”

“Don’t worry about it. Look! There’s the evil spirits now!”

A charming redhead who happens to look a bit like Karen Gillen has just turned off the light, and is about to squirm down under the covers for a good night’s sleep when something grabs her ankle. She shrieks in surprise and terror as more invisible hands grab her limbs, pinning her down spread-eagled on the bed. Invisible fingers manipulate her pajama top, unbuttoning it to reveal her small breasts.

As they yank her pajama pants down around her knees, exposing her ginger-thatched pussy, a trolley shimmers into existence beside the bed.

“Ghostly room service,” you explain, as two ghost hands take feathers from the trolley. The redhead, who happens to be an internationally acclaimed expert in nuclear science, squeals some more as the feathers very slowly drift towards her body, and make first contact with her naked pink nipples. But the real squeals are saved for the moment that the invisible, but very hot and hard, spectral cock thrusts between her legs.

“What’s happening next door?”

Next door turns out to be quite similar, only with a lesbian couple. The curly-haired brunette who looks like Nathalie Emmanuel is pinned down to the bed. Her girlfriend, who looks like Emilia Clarke, is actually spread-eagled on the ceiling, held in place so she can bear witness to the brunette’s suffering. Weighted clamps dangle from her nipples as a soft brush teases her pussy, keeping her on edge and making her watch helplessly while the protesting brunette’s inner thighs are worked over with floggers.

In every room of the Bitz, London’s most famous and expensive hotel, incredibly beautiful naked angry helpless women are pinned down on the beds, squirming in sublime frustration as the mischievous evil spirits have their wicked way. There’s nothing the ladies can do. There’s no way to escape. The playful ghosts are going to keep them teased, tormented, nude, squirming and dominated all night long.

Oh, and to make it even more humiliating, each room now contains at least one floating video camera.

“Okay, Meg. It’s finally time to explain to you…”

“Sitri. I’m watching this. Shut up.”