"She laughed, I couldn't stop myself shaking, it was a dungeon ofhorror."This is our guest's playroom," Ms Smythe told me dispassionately."They bring ...heir own playthings, husbands mainly, sometimes women, butit's often difficult to tell. They keep them as slaves for theduration, they make them sleep down here as well, while theirmistresses enjoy the luxury of living in the guest rooms upstairs.They don't need the slaves, you see. They'll have you to attend totheir needs, at least when they're. Her nostrals flared as she picked up the scent of rotten meat and and the stale brown smell of old cigarettes.Her fishnet like shirt did nothing to help with shivers that racked her body, but then again she she didn't think the shivers came from the cold. The heel of her boots sank into the damp carpet of a room that posed as what she thought years ago to be a parlor. The thick kohl liner around her eyes began to permeate as wet tears leaked from her eyes. The smell was so bitter and sweet, but. More

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