Jet-lagged from my red-eye flight, I checked into the bland airport hotel on the outskirts of N. Swipe the keycard, elevator hums up to floor 7. Room smells of stale coffee and bleach. Unpack my roller suitcase—rumpled shirts, passport tossed on the bed. City lights flicker outside, runways glowing in the distance. Planes roar, a constant reminder: I’m gone tomorrow. Anonymity hits hard. No one knows me here. Craving a drink, I hit the empty bar downstairs. Dim lights, ice clinking in glasses. That’s when I spot the old house across the boulevard—dilapidated, overgrown, like it’s pregnant with secrets. I’ve passed it twice daily on my fake commute in my mind, but tonight, door’s ajar. Full moon rising. Fuck it, one-night thrill.
Grab my jacket, slip out. No one notices. Cross the street, push the rusty gate. Ferns whip my legs, nettles sting. Door creaks open, hinges screaming rust. Phone flashlight on—yellow peeling paint, massive round window like a phallic stained glass, red and purple tiles with obscene mosaics. Floor littered with empties, dust bunnies. Odor of incense, damp rot. Heart pounds. This place reeks of my traumas—mom’s late miscarriage, blood on kitchen tiles, her dive into booze. Pregnant houses? Grotesque. Yet I push deeper. Black shag carpet, stained white like old cum spots. Flashes: chained men, dominatrix whips, eyeless succubi. My cock twitches.
The Stopover
She’s there. Brunette in black silk blouse, legs crossed endless. Cigar smoke curls. Mirrors everywhere—she saw me enter. ‘I was waiting,’ she purrs. ‘You’re late.’ Invent bullshit: ‘Sorry, Madame, forgot our date.’ ‘Strip.’ Hypnotized by her scent, I peel off clothes. Naked but boxers. ‘Pudgy? Show your cock. Toss in the hole.’ Pit in floor yawns black. Whip nearby. I obey, hard as fuck. Kneel. She uncrosses legs—bushy cunt, blacker than night. Snake head emerges, fangs gleam. Survival gone, lust rules. Crawl, lick her sweaty feet, toes in throat. Serpent coils neck. ‘Make me cum.’ Tongue dives pussy, finger ass. She crushes my jaw, orgasms savage—growl like a demon, floods my mouth. Vagina widens, swallows me whole. Bliss.
Voices: her and shadow figure. ‘Men so docile now.’ Chat noir with emerald collar watches. Snakes vanish. ‘Fuck me.’ Hands under blouse, perfect tits. Cunt sucks my dick impossible tight. Drains me dry, pain mixes pleasure. Blackout.
The Transit
Dawn. Firefighters dump me naked on sidewalk. Hotel keycard in hand? No memory. They call anonymous tip, ghost number. Hospital: nuts drained, nurses milk me in corridor—public wank, agony. Lilith badge on one—steel eyes, gropes her tits while I stroke. Strapped down, orange shot in balls, forced fuck under skirts. Surgeon straps on dildo, cruel beauty. Survive barely.
Next day, house gone—office tower risen overnight. Cat sleeps on sill. Bluff: ‘Police for Lilith.’ Receptionist Judith: ‘Nude for 50th floor.’ Strip, box clothes. Elevator: lovers Sabrina, Catherine make out, teach virgin anatomy—hands on cock, balls. Door with same knocker. Inside: huge room, same vitrail. Lilith at desk, Amelie varnishes toes nude. ‘Jump,’ she orders. Girl plummets—bakery cutie? Lilith plots mass suicides for profits, cold. She’s my dark fantasy incarnate. Offers marriage, rings. Refuse—cunt spirals, devours.
Wake in real hospital. Car crash illusion. Real Lili (Elisabeth) nurses me, erection constant. Months later, she’s pregnant—phobia triggers. Old lady in actual house, clean, her cat. ‘See Coline, bakery girl.’ Angel advice. Transit ends: check out, keycard drop, suitcase rolls to gate. Scars throb, cock aches. Planes wait. That naughty blur—real or fever? Depart with ghosts.