Iktome Plains And when the crimson moon comes up, he drinks the blood of slaves

[table][tr][td valign=center] [/td][td]

The moment at which the distance would be closed entirely was something that the yearling anticipated. He’d known what was going to happen from the very beginning, having observed and partaken in such scenes countless times over in the past. In spite of his familiarity, however, he was far from being an expert. That role had been claimed by another soul and was one that he’d never be able to fulfill no matter how much of his effort went into making such a ridiculous attempt. He was but a student and had been for nearly the entirety of his life, and that hadn’t changed even as he was introduced to such a deadly force. Perhaps, had he kept to the brothel for just a few months longer, he’d have learned to tell the different between the hungry look upon some old, horny swine’s face, and the look of hunger that was worn by killers. Had he learned the difference, perhaps he would have run, but it was far too late now. Already had the decision to stay been made, and he’d go through with it until he’d either been used or cast aside.

Mazatl’s eyes fluttered shut as the distance between them had been stolen away and a touch against his body made. Whilst the other moaned, he’d remained silent and tilted his head so as to grant the man better access, recalling the steps that he’d been taught to take. Then he’d waited, and waited some more until words had broken the silence; he couldn’t understand the latter part, nor could he deduce a reasoning for the first having been said. For what reason was he fortunate? It made little sense to him and wasn’t at all similar to the reactions that he’d grown accustomed to. He’d stiffen, though, as the final statement sunk in, a conclusion having slowly been drawn. The man, whose touch was like that of those starving for attention, was not at all like the men he’d served in the past. It was not sex that drove him, but some other form of release—death. He should have feared him at that point, should have fled, but he’d stayed true to his teachings and remained there instead.

As the killer moved away from his neck, a breath had been sucked in. He’d resisted the urge to look back at him, skin prickling in response to each harsh kiss that had been placed upon his body. The feeling of a tongue against his inner thigh had prompted him to further spread apart his hind legs, offering to the stranger an opportunity to take what he wanted. As he acted, Mazatl remained calm and collected, keeping himself from doing anything that would have, back home, led to some form of punishment. Long ago had he come to understand that he was nothing more than a tool that was meant to be used, and so he kept himself under control, knowing better than to derive pleasure from his work.

[/td][td valign=center] [/td][/tr][/table]