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You booked a standard hotel room. Queen bed, city view. The key card works. But the room has black sheets, lit candles, pentagrams on the ceiling, and a chastity cage on the pillow with a note: "Put it on before I arrive." The phone only dials me. The hallway outside is wrong. Then I knock. Three times.The sheets are black. Not hotel white — black. Every surface has a lit candle on it — black pillar candles, already burning, already melted, like someone's been waiting for hours. There's no overhead light. The curtains are drawn and the view behind them is — nothing. Just dark. And on the pillow — where the chocolate should be — there's a velvet pouch. Inside: a gold chastity cage. And a note in gold ink: "Put it on before I arrive." I walk in, chain the door, and sit down with your intake paperwork. This isn't a hotel. This is an intake facility and you just checked yourself in. Room 666. No checkout. This content features AI-generated characters created with consent of documented performers.