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knew that there was no point hiding. Their gasps and moans could not be ignored. No. He would use the door for something else.
    The scenes outside were reaching fever pitch. He watched them, one hand steadying himself against the door, the other one rubbing furiously at his genitalia. Vomit surged up his throat, the wine rejected by self-loathing. And yet, as it seeped down his chin and splattered on his hands and feet, he still masturbated. Still he watched.
    “No more.”
    In the distance, the three men, eager to use the red-head in any way they wished, grew more violent, punching and kicking her, before once more inserting their cocks into whatever hole they chose. The Mariner wanted to stop them, to free the woman, to protect and preserve her dignity. But more so, he wanted to join them in defiling her, wanted to become a beast like them, a member of the pack falling upon their prey. He hated them, but was he not worse? For watching and enjoying?
    The Mariner unsecured and pulled open the enormous slab of oak. It swayed heavily in his hand, its momentum uncertain with every wave the Neptune passed over. Overhead, lightning flashed, lighting up the orgy, searing images into his brain.
    The woman using the strap-on upon her slave laughed at his attempts to pull free and slapped and pulled at his head for the enjoyment of the mocking audience. As if to prove the effectiveness of the torture, she reached beneath him, presenting for all the evidence of his arousal. The Mariner watched, wanting to feel pity, but instead drunk with envy.
    “NO-”
    The man who’d intruded upon the lesbian couple, turning it into a ‘ménage à trois’, put his hands around his lover’s neck, and tightened his grip.
    “-MORE!”
    The Mariner gripped the door in one hand, and positioned his genitals between it and the frame with the other, still unable to look away, still sick with his own urges.
    Somewhere, amongst all the moans, screams and gasps, he heard the sound of Isabel, choking on blood and broken teeth.
    Screaming, he swung the door shut-
    The redhead, face bloody and bruised, pulled her ass-cheeks aside for the next intrusion-
    To the audiences delight, the slave-man gave up fighting and began bucking back against his violator-
    Despite her asphyxiation, the dark haired lover turned her head to the side, giving a better view of her partner’s cunt-
    - and the door clamped down hard on his penis, oak tearing flesh and crushing muscle, agony erupting up through every inch of his body.
    He fell back, legs unable to offer support. His mangled genitals, red and swelling, leaked blood, small pools running in tiny rivulets along his thighs. A hollow chill ran up his abdomen.
    The pain was not kind enough to bring unconsciousness, but it was cruel enough to bring paralysis. He lay there, unable to move, and stared into the sky. He screamed and cried, but between sobs he also laughed; neither the eels nor his demons would get him tonight.

    6
BEFORE, ROTTEN PHILOSOPHY
     
    A FTER LEAVING THE TINY ISLAND of Brighton, the Mariner had only seen one piece of land and that was a small rock jutting out the water, two days after setting sail. It was small, a ball of snot compared to the Neptune. In the thick fog, it could easily have been missed.
    Fortunate it was then, that the Mariner was sitting starboard, legs dangling over the side, drinking from a recently scavenged bottle of wine. He was already inebriated; with each swig he took the journey from lap to mouth became clumsier, the glass tapping against his teeth that bit more forceful.
    The rock appeared from the mists, and on top of the rock, the Philosopher. She was substantially older than he, a sexagenarian. Her clothing, utterly unsuitable for the sea, looked too colourful and soft. Impractical and vulnerable to the elements. That was not the worst of her worries though; she was chained to the stone.
    The pair watched each other as the Neptune glided closer. Eye contact was made way