…stay in the dark and hope for more useful information.

No, you’ll stay. Stay present and stay strong. They’re finally talking and you’re going to listen to every word. You lean forward and look again, relying on morbid curiosity to hold you there. The man with the greasy hair stands hunched over the man in the stocks, his scarred face twisted further by a rapturous sneer. Both his humping hips and stroking hand are still for the moment; both men pressed against one another hard. The man in the stocks face is impossibly red and you notice that while the hand on his rod had stilled, the thumb still probes the head.

Why even seed a man? What could possibly be the point? You try to look at it all like a detective; try to work out the clues. You don’t have much experience with the biology of men and the experience you do have you wish you didn’t. You’ve heard whores insinuate that they provide the same rear ‘service’ taken from the man; you always thought it to be a **** and pitiable attempt to avoid pregnancy, or simply assumed it a story meant to shock you or the interrogator. It would no doubt be a less enjoyable alternative for both parties, though you suppose enjoyment doesn’t enter much into the life of a whore. A man has no womanhood, obviously, so you suppose it to be the only viable option, yet patience would no doubt deliver him to one. Indeed, you recall that he had declined his chance previously with the similarly bound woman.

Then there’s the hand. It’s returned to a fast paced stroking motion. The man in the stocks is possessed of quite a... You shake your head, trying to keep the heat and creeping redness out of it. A detective, you remind yourself: all you’re seeing are pieces of a puzzle. It’s quite big. ‘Endowed’, you believe is the term. Bigger than before, you think. It’s covered with what looks like a moveable layer of skin which is being manipulated by the man behind very quickly, back and forth. The idea of one of those inside your... nothing, inside nothing, because you are a detective and that is just...just information.

“Looks like he’s gonna pop” the old man observes.

The bald man looks on curiously. “A milkmaid did that to me once. Only time I wished I was a cow.”

“What? Dick in your shitter and everything?” the old man retorts.

The bald man laughs jovially, five parts genuine humour to two parts dismissive and insulted. “Ha! Fuck off!”

The man in the stocks meanwhile, moans and begins to squirm hard as a ribbon of whiteness comes out of the much observed member, reaching past the wooden restraint to spray against the stone floor.

Seed. There’s so much of it. It sprays again and again, sometimes reaching as far as the first and sometimes dribbling over the hand that summoned it. The mysteries of life contained in a milky liquid are rendered fruitless by the cold stone floor. Why release it now? Did he enjoy it? It doesn’t look like it. So many questions about such a repulsive subject. Perhaps morbid curiosity has taken you too far, though this whole inquiry is well past decency.

As the last few jerks expels the last few dregs, the woman in the stocks takes time from her own rectal trauma to look at him. Perhaps she’s thinking the same thoughts. Whatever her conclusions, she looks away, returning to staring at the floor and trying to ignore the unpleasant looking jolts given to her by the man behind.

The scarred man...extracts himself, moving to a vacant chair with what looks like a satisfied smile on his face, licking his knuckles and fingers. Of all the things you’ve seen, that surprises you the most. You can’t imagine it tasting very pleasant. Then again, you concede; what do you know about it? It could be the finest tasting broth in existence. All you know is that you don’t plan on ever finding out, even if you get a husband one day.

The sudden lack of activity from most of the men, and the woman in the stocks growing silent as she adapts to what’s being done behind her, leaves a quietness descending upon the room and the conversation returns to being discussed quietly and difficult to hear. You creep around the boxes and move forward, sticking to the shadows and crates lining the wall as much as possible.

“...at high tide.” A chuckle rings out at the barely heard comment.

Fortunately, a new noise echo’s out from further away. Where ever the big woman, Vanessa, had gone off to along with the big man, she was letting her presence be known in the form of some very pleased sounding moans. The others talk louder and you start to hear them clearly again.

“You gonna ‘op on?” That was the scarred man. He says it while looking at the older man, his tone respectful.

“Nah. Gonna wait till she’s free. Get some cunt. Man needs some cunt now and then.” You feel your own clenched involuntarily at his words. Why do these types prefer such crude terms? Why not call it ‘the ladies garden’ or ‘her gentle self’ like the few poem indecent enough to broach the subject.

“Don’t see why ones better than tuther.” The scarred faced man says, shrugging his shoulders as he continues to lick his knuckles like a cat licking a bowl of cream.

The bald man considers this unorthodox opinion before venturing his point. “Every mans gotta take a woman as some point, less e aint a man.”

The scarred man responds defensively. “I’ve taken a women before. How’d you think I know I don’t like em?” Again, the bald man takes a moment to consider, letting the sound of flesh on flesh fill the room and mingle with distant but increasingly heavy moaning of Vanessa’s pleasure.

“What’s not to like? Soft on the outside, warm on the inside. Treat em right and they’ll have yer kids, make ya dinner, and suck ya cock. Treat em wrong an there’s fuck all they can do about it cuz there just women. Cunts are tight unless they ain and then you fuck em in the arse anyway. Come in all different shapes an sizes an stuff...”

The scarred man listens to the whole awful monolog before giving his rebuke. “They’re noisy; always shriekin an screamin when they get fucked. They’re complicated to get goin, unlike my boy here. They nag like a storm. Cunts jus basically a ‘airy clam; all reakin an nasty...you want soft then go fuck a jellyfish. When you fuck a man you know where you stand. It’s simple like.”

You...suppose that makes sense. You would never describe yours as a ‘reeking hairy clam’, but neither do you see why a man would be attracted to it, save for pursuing its use.

There’s another, relatively quiet pause. Enough to notice the wild haired man behind the stocks pick up the pace as he nears the end of his marathon. The old man chips in.

“Everyone’s got to get some puss now an then. Even Benji’s upstairs getting some puss tonight.”

Scar face, perhaps looking to change the subject, responds. “What? From who? Not the cap-“

“Nah, nah, nah” the old man cuts across “Maxaine. Girls prolly sucking rudder right now.”

Any response is paused as the group watch the man make several strained noises before coming to a rest inside her. You think you see a tear drop from her downturned face. She makes no noise as he seeds her well ploughed field: rich in manure no doubt, but barren all the same. When the seed sprouts in her womb, she can at least be sure it not his.

When he’s done, the scarred man continues as if nothing happened. “How she get upstairs with the captin up there?”

You feel any ice jolt of thrill run through you. This is it. You were worried that all this would be wasted; that you would observe something that would stain your mind with nightmares and have nothing to show for it.

“What?” The old man asks distractedly. You want to slap him and tell him to pay attention.

“Maxaine. An’t no folk allowed up right? Save who the captain wants seein. Or are they just ‘upstairs’, not ‘up-upstairs’” He makes a hand gesture as he says this, suggesting that by upstairs he means the ground floor.

The inattentive old man is captivated by the head of the woman, contemplating her sweat bedraggled hair. He snaps out of it after a moment. “Oh. Err. Up-upstairs. Kitchen’s my bet.”

The mop haired man pulls himself free with an almost audible pop, and you just about hear the woman’s groan at the release. You’re probably the only one who does. In his toneless, breathless voice, he adds,

“Nah , not kitchen. Samia or Misty would get her up somehow.” He pauses only to pull up his trousers before sitting down hard on one of the remaining chairs.

Eager to rejoin the conversation, the previously chatty bald man pipes up, “They’re those two maids up there right? They get me up that’s for sure.” There’s a titter of laughter from the rest.

What have you learned? Captain Washkin is upstairs. The way upstairs lies in the kitchen or with whoever this ‘Samia’ or ‘Misty’ are. This is gold. This is exactly why it was the right decision to say. It would be inappropriate to smile in front of such suffering, but rest assured, when you leave you will be beaming from ear to ear.

Vanessa sounds just as pleased. Her previously lewd moaning descends into ragged panting breaths. Her gasps have a rhythmic quality to them that are far too fast for regular breathing, and you hear the man as well; it sounds like his breathing is coming solely through gritted teeth.

The bald man brings you back to the conversation. “So...you ever?” Ever? Ever what?

The toneless man, his messy hair now slightly matted with sweat, responds. “With Misty once.” You must have missed something.

The old man adds “Twice” while standing to move behind the restrained woman. “And I had Samia years ago when sh-, I mean, when we was both drunk. Tight as anything, recon I was er first.” Ok, you think you’ve caught up.

“Bullshit!” It’s the first word you’ve heard in that voice that has any humour or passion to it, aimed at the old man’s claim, but more on the edge of laughter than disbelief. The old man makes a satisfied noise as he holds the hips before him. The woman in the stocks doesn’t react at all and you can almost convince yourself that nothing happened, until the man starts moving back and forth.

The man with the usually toneless voice and now only somewhat wild hair looks around him for a moment before slowly rising from his seat. He pauses in the motion when the old man speaks.

“Ahhh. Ya see? Gods made cock to go in women. Uhhh. An they right made women for takin cock...”

The scarred man’s face is hidden but you can tell he doesn’t want to have this debate again. That at least makes two of you. He remains as silent as you, letting the old man punctuate his penetrations with flawed arguments. “This one might be all- ughh!- all loose an, ahhh, all wet an sloppy... but... Ohhh! Sloppy like a fuckin whore already! Eh, bitch!? Wide an sloppy like a whore! Fuuuck!” He punctuates the statement with a ringing slap to her rump. “...But the gods, see, the gods made this, an all other cunts to fit a... to fit a man. Can’t go your whole li- uh –whole life without stuffin a few gashes every now an then. Mmmm. Blast-famous, that is.”

You’re stunned. That he would use the gods in such a warped argument is, in of itself, one of the most blasphemous things you’ve ever heard. It sets your fingers shaking with anger and you realise with shock that you almost forgot the **** happening in front of you. These people made it normal with their indifferent attitude. Worse, you let it happen, let them make this less than what it is. Suddenly the sight of them all makes you sick. It’s past time to leave. You’ve got what you came for, and unless they’re about to start debating Captain Washkin’s greatest fears and weaknesses then there is nothing left to hear.

You ready to move to the stairs and up to the house proper. Perhaps you’ll try the kitchen first. It will be hard to reclaim your good mood though.

The man with the unkempt hair spilling over his shoulders is no longer listening to the old man. Instead he’s coming straight for you. A moment of shear panic hits you like a brick. You’re out in front of the crates, exposed but for the dwindling darkness you crawled to the edge of. He strides forward with carefree boldness and you quickly scuttle back with quiet, **** speed. He’s gaining ground, looming over you like a giant.

‘BAP’

He stops, face barely lit, and from the unshaven angles you see, it carries a look of uncertain confusion. It was such a quiet sound, your foot hitting the unseen crate, yet it changes everything. He half looks back.

“Hey Nic. Come ‘ere a second.” The bald man stands and comes to join you, yet his course bends to follow his friend as he walks over to the lantern hanging from the hook by the stairs. It’s all the time you need to come up to a crouch and quietly dart down the dark corridor you first came out of.

Light chases you as the lantern is carried to the wine filled corridor. You flash through the beam of moonlight before hitting the far wall just under the window you entered by. It sits high in the wall, in the same place you left it, looking down with lofty indifference at your short stature. It would take some effort to climb out of, but with the shelves nearby, it wouldn’t be impossible.

The yellow flickering light almost starts to touch you as its bearer approaches cautiously, stepping down the bottle lined corridor slowly. The lanternless bald one is far less restrained.

“Just pick one. Don’t see why you need me down here...”

The light begins to show you the outline of a nearby wine shelf, its diamond shaped holes holding all manner of dusty bottles. You lean close to one, seeing which are free and foot level so you can climb up them, but they would see you as soon as you try to get through the window. They’ll see you soon anyway if they keep approaching.

“I’m sure I saw...” The confused response trails off as he gets nearer, the light more encompassing. There’s a gap in the shelves on the other side of you; a space between it and the wall the window sits in. You slip in. It’s just wide enough for your shoulders to touch both the end wall and the wine racks side. The rack isn’t deep. If they approach any further they’ll see you for sure. You ease the Stiletto out from your leg.

“There’s nothing down here but old booze.”

You mentally beg the bald man to go on, to convince the other of your none-existence. Footsteps stop a short distance away, just enough for the shelf to keep you hidden. ‘Go. Just go.’ You repeat in your head. ‘Just turn around and walk away.’ The Stiletto quivers in your hand as if eager for action.

“Then...” The familiar toneless voice responds, quiet with thought and tinged with curious consideration. “...why is the window open?”

Damn! The lantern is lifted and the back wall flickers orange for a moment. The dark triangle you stand in shrinks a little further and you hug the shelf to try and stay in the darkness.

“Uhhhh!” The bald man sighs loudly with exaggerated exasperation. Steps approach. “There’s noth-“

Your eyes meet. He stops talking.

As his eyes widen with surprise, yours narrow with attack. With no other alternative, you push off the wall with your feet and lung hard at his mid-section, and he screams, throwing up his hands in a frantic defence. Your blade is diverted upwards by his effort and his scream raises several octaves as the point of your blade catches him in the ear. Far from a killing blow, yet his scream has risen to the point that it has a distinctly feminine sound to it. With your blade sadly not stopping you, you twist your momentum into your side and shoulder, shoving him back into the wine filled shelf. You hear something crack -hopefully not just bottles- as he tumbles to the floor, and the other man lunges forward, baring the lantern like a weapon or some kind of holy talisman that can keep your black clad form at bay. As you lunge forward he darts back.

“Border! Er, Intruder! Whatever! Gethefuck over now!” He sounds ****; down a friend and facing darkness come alive. Your every step forward is met by a measured one back from him. You look back and start to retreat to the window. He advances. Damn it! You hear others coming to his aid. You’re going to have to chance it. You move to the window and put a foot in the empty wine rack hole you saw, pushing yourself up as though on the first rung of a ladder. He keeps his distance, but pulls out a bottle for the shelf next to him, wielding its slim head and wide base like a club of thick green glass. You push up off the hole, trying to keep facing him as you reach up for the window frame. The naked bald man stands, moving behind his friend, who at least has his trousers on. Others are running down the corridor. Your brief glance at them catches sight of several swinging things that should really be behind some clothes. Past time to leave.

You turn, reaching both hands to the window frame and pulling yourself up. A few quick slaps of bare feet on stone and a hand grabs your back and pulls you down, fighting your stubborn grip for supremacy. You’re about to swing the one hand barely holding your blade at whoever’s behind you when something slams into the back of your head first. It’s a bottle; swung like a club and with the wild strength of a man fighting darkness unknown.

Fortunately, it hits the tightly strung bun of hair at the back of your head, narrowly avoiding splitting your skull and spreading its contents across the floor. Unfortunately, it still hurts like blazes and doubles your vision with profound dizziness. Your hands slip from the window and you fall back to the floor, gripping your head tightly with an instinctual need to protect yourself. Your blade clatters noisily on the flagstones nearby.

A forest of legs grows around you, each doubled and all bristling with hair save the four covered by moth eaten fabric. Hands come down. You kick blindly and find grunts and curses in return. The floor moves as the cursing arms and legs start to grab you drag you from the corridor.

As wine racks give way to boxes which give way to open space, your dizziness fades into a pressing headache. Your hands, which seem intent to keep your brain safe no matter what it tells them, finally start to ease their grip on your skull, letting you look around. The people you watched from a distance are all above you, returned to singularity in your one doubled vision, tightly holding your arms and legs. You have a sudden mad though that this is like a stage play where the actors have decided get the audience involved and no one is happy about it. The hands on your arms sense the loss of tension and pull them away, pinning them to the floor. All of them are breathing hard or looking confused or both.