"Are you angry, Arabella?"

Somewhere in the basements of the Vatican, in the cool, dripping stony dark, there’s a room full of girls in sacks.

The sacks are tight, like sleeping bags or latex bodysuits. They’re woven from a special, rough, uncomfortable fabric. They’ve been impregnated with specially formulated Vatican itching powder, to make the discomfort of having them next to soft naked skin even worse.

They dangle from the ceiling. The bondage ropes go around the outsides of the sacks, harness breasts, pinning legs together and arms behind backs. There’s a crotch rope looped between each pair of thighs. It’s very, very tight. All the weight of each girl goes onto her crotch rope.

A hole has been cut in each sack. It’s the exact size and shape of its occupant’s ass. Each girl’s buttocks, cleaved by the very tight crotchrope, are exposed to the open air.

Somewhere very far above, in the Vatican cloisters, a monk turns a crank. He’s been turning it his whole life. Someone else will turn it when he dies. He doesn’t know what the crank does, but he knows the church considers it a blessed thing to turn the crank.

Set up behind each sack is a leather paddle mounted on an arm. As the monk turns the crank, the paddles draw back. The elastic tension builds. Finally, a catch releases, and the paddles spring forward to spank the girls’ bare bottoms. Then they draw back again. The whole cycle repeats itself about every five seconds.

The girls in the sacks are witches. They’re immortal. They don’t need to breathe, eat, or sleep. It’s impossible to say how long they’ve been down here.

All the sacks are wriggling. Quite a lot, in fact.

The lights go on.

Prudence walks into the room. She’s carrying a sack over her shoulder. She finds an empty hook, hangs the sack up, and activates the spanking machine behind the sack. The sack wriggles even more than all the other ones as the leather paddle makes first contact with the peachy-pink buttocks exposed by its hole.

Prudence casts an eye over the rows and rows of wriggling sacks, the hundreds of crimson red female bottoms arranged in neat formation in the secret dungeons under the Vatican. For the briefest of moments, she allows herself the tiniest shadow of a smile.

She leaves.

The lights go out.

You wait.

You wait a while longer. You wait for what might be hours, or even days. It’s impossible to tell, down here in the dark.

Then, you float up to Arabella. Invisible. Intangible. Bodiless. An evil spirit in his purest form. Meg’s not with you right now. It’s just you and the witch.

You whisper in her ear.

“Hello, Arabella.”

You sense her entire body tense as she realizes, somehow, this is about to get worse.

You take hold of her breasts through the sackcloth, rubbing, squeezing, forcing the rough cloth into contact with her sensitive pink nipples. Her whole body convulses with hatred. Hatred of Prudence. Hatred of the Vatican. Hatred of God. Hatred of Meg. Hatred of this stupid, horrible, indecent, insulting spanking machine that just keeps on stinging her ass at five second-intervals, again and again and again.

But, especially, hatred of you.

All the girls down here are witches. Each girl has her own evil spirit as a familiar. In some cases, hundreds of them. And when the lights are off, all the evil spirits come out to play.

“Are you angry, Arabella? Just because I tricked you out of your powers, stripped you naked and left you down here to squirm? You’d better get used to it. I think you’re going to be in this sack for a long, long time…”