...go through the window to the cellar.

Picking the perfect time, you move out from under the bush, careful not to rustle its leaves. In the space of a few heartbeats, you’re across the lawn and next to the window. No light escapes through the wooden beams; it looks quite lifeless inside from what you can see. The balcony above is quiet and unoccupied, but provides little shade from the eye of the moon. The corner you crouch in is baron of all plants save grass, and feels too empty thanks to the length of the building around the corner. While only the ivy is visible to you, you know a long length of bushes cling to that side of the building, as though pushed back by the jutting lower floor.

Grabbing the first plank of wood, you pull and instantly tumble back as the nails slide out without sound or resistance. Putting it to one side, the next comes off with similar results. Only with the third and final peace does it make a slight squeaking sound, and you put the plank down you as quietly as possible, listening for anyone alerted to the noise inside or out. With a distinct lack of shouts and alarms, you smile as you inspect the window.

Its latch is broken and it swings inward easily. Looking inside, you see a drop into the stone darkness of a long corridor; the thin window, which is level with the ground outside, is up against the ceiling of the cellar below and, while it looks like a reasonable drop, you may not be able to climb back out again. Flickering light is also at the far end of the dark corridor and you think you hear voices from further in. Apart from that, the darkness of the corridor is absolute, save for the patch of moonlight that your form is currently blocking. Anyone inside is unlikely to see you, dressed as you are, and if the place was unoccupied, you wouldn’t be sneaking in at all.

Wasting no more time, you pull your head out and turn yourself around, sliding in feet first. As your legs drop, you take the time to move the planks into a pile in front of the window. It’s not perfect but it’s better than leaving them strewn about and isn’t as eye catching for any wondering guards. Taking one last look at the empty lawn and neatly piled planks, you sink in until you’re hanging from your finger tips and drop. It’s further down than expected, but you manage to land without making too much noise. You look back and, sure enough, there’s no way your climbing out of that without great effort.

You move forward, guided by the distant light at the end of the darkness.

Wooden crates and boxes cover up a third of the corridors exit, but the more you approach, the more you see. For one, both walls of the corridor are lined with wooden shelves; units with small diamond shaped holes that occasionally contain a bottle of what you assume is wine or some other beverage. The closer you get to the light, the less filled the holes are. The sounds get clearer as well, muffled cries and a mad guffaw floating down to you with a slight echo. As you reach the boxes, you see that the corridor leads into a large room, lit by several lanterns which give the grey stones an orange light. There’s a lot to take in, despite the dark that still lingers.

In the middle of the rooms left wall, relative to you at least and only a short dash away, a wide arch leads to stone steps going upwards into the house. Directly across from you, on the far wall, an old Iron door looks very resolutely locked, likely a more secured variant of your current corridor considering its positioning. To the right of said door, what looks like many cages line the wall; metal bars rise from the floor to the ceiling, mortared in place and held more secure by horizontal bars, each containing a door with a stout padlock attached. There are about seven of them in all, connected together and in varying sizes, but all empty. The right of the room deepens, stretching further in, and looking around the crates you can see that the far wall is a good twenty paces away, making this the top of a large rectangle. The majority of the light is coming from a collection of lanterns and candles down there, and unfortunately, they highlight the source of the noises you heard.

Against the far right wall, from left to right, you see two empty wooden stocks designed to hold the head and hands of unfortunate prisoners. Then you see a similar stock, this time filled with a completely naked man. Another naked man stands behind his razed hips and appears to be sexually assaulting him with gleeful gusto. The sight barely registers at first, your eyes dismissing it as an impossibility and forcing you to double take. The stocks are tilted to the side, giving you enough sight to see both of them in profile. Perhaps you were mistaken? But no. They’re both well-muscled, and while the one in the stocks has a mop of black hair, it just can’t be a flat chested woman. Indeed, he is endowed like a man. You go red in the face at the sight. Very well endowed. Men aren’t...equipped like women, so how is he- You wince as you work it out, then belittle yourself at how long it took. That must be... deeply unpleasant. His face is red and tears catch the light as he weeps audibly around a wooden bit in his mouth. The man behind is older than the stocked man, his short hair greying at the temples and his expression rapturous as he holds the other mans hips and moves in and out of him.

Further along is another stock, this time containing a woman. Her rusty brown hair spills over face, jumping slightly as she is equally violated, though probably in a more feminine manner. Both her and her attacker are facing you, while the other man in the stocks and his abuser are turned more to face them. The man behind her holds your attention for a moment, dominating the room as he dominates her, a vast wall of muscle the likes of which you have not seen outside of circus strong men; he’s tall, tanned, and… defined, with his square face bearing a leering grin, mouth moving with words you can just make out.

“...told you this day would come. Ah! Told you.” You watch as the big man grabs the frame of the stocks and push into her hard, his other hand grabbing a handful of her hair and twisting her head as much as the stocks allow. As her hair parts, you see that her face is stained with tears as well, yet when her eyes meet his, all fear and pain gives way to anger and hatred. “Said you’d ave your lips wrapped around me one day, didn’t I?” Her teeth are bared in a snarl as they dig into a wooden bit of her own.

He smiles and lets go of her hair, returning to her rear and taking up a hard and fast attack that jolts her hair worse than before. You watch as her fingers spread before slowly curling into fists. “Remember what you said? ‘Ain’t never gonna happen.’” His voice shakes as he starts to lose control. “Ah. Well. Ah. Its fuckin, ah, happenin now, Ahhhhhh!” He leans back, holding on to her hips and pressing against them with his own. For her part, she remains still, her fists clenched, waiting for him to finish.

Watching all of this is a man with greasy black hair, his back to you as he sits on a nearby wooden stool, watching the show, waiting his turn. You lower your hand from your mouth, yet find it travelling to the stiletto at your thigh. That would be very foolish. There are three of them and one of you, and they would see you before you made it half way. True two of them are still...occupied, but you don’t fancy your odds against the big one even if he was alone. You pull your mind away from the image of him seeding the woman to view the rest of the room. You see that the wall just to your right is lined with crates of various sizes; stacked from where you crouch and reaching down to where the three men and their victims are setup. All the boxes are pressed against the wall and nailed shut, but the ones next to you are blocking some of your corridor and make for some good cover provided no one looks too closely.

“That was as good as I always thought you would be.” You look back at the big man in time to see him slap her rear with a deafening crack. He’d removed himself from her while you looked away. His... compliment, was directed at her but it’s the older man who responds.

“Unf. I’ll take your word for it. Unf. How bout you boy? Unf. How’d you like getting yer pipe cleaned?” The man in the stocks yelps girlishly as the older man increases his depth.

The muscled man laughs a belly bellow, leaning over to the woman still at his hips. “Ha! Can’t believe you picked him over me. Did he ever even take you like a woman?”

You shudder at his frantic, muffled squawking. Is **** worse for a man? What noise would you make, you wonder? He looks to be about your age, and from the pain and horror in his eyes, this is probably his first experience with such...proclivities. At least the receiving side.

There’s nothing you can do for them. You know it. You even whisper it as quietly as you can to yourself. You can only move on. Captain Washkin is clearly not down here. Perhaps her **** will act as some kind of justice for these two. The set of stairs to your left calls to you, beckoning you up to where she no doubt waits. They’re illuminated by a lantern hanging on a hook, one of the few sources of light at this end of the room. The three men at the rooms end seem too wrapped up in their own hedonism to notice if you darted up them, though you would have to be quiet and time it just right.

Then again... You suppress a shudder; you could stay. The three men are talking and may say something useful. Traversing a well-lit mansion would be risky, especially without knowing where you’re going. Perhaps staying is the best way to learn more? Are they likely to talk of such things? The prospect of watching their vile show is enough to drive you to the stairs on its own, but the possibility of more information could balance that out. You bite your bottom lip. What to do, what to do?

Take a risk, killing time here in the hopes of learning more, or just leave, go upstairs and get on with the job, hoping for the best and winging it for the rest.