Two Eyes Cenote tiburon

a rough cackle pressed like gravel from soto’s throat as he sees khusobek look upon his art; khusobek must know the prisoner’s offering was an interpretive reflection of himself. 

soto knows. he knows a scared man cannot wield power, same as he knows a scared man cannot love. without love or power, khusobek was one of the thousand faceless. a soft-spined worm that wolves swallowed without second thought. 

his captor moves against him. soto shoulders round, his thick neck rigid under the press of the crocodile’s teeth. pain — in all its beautiful rays of arousing pleasure — erupts under his skin.  

held forcibly against the ground, soto feels a stirring come to life below his belly. khusobek’s breath, acrid with twisting adrenaline, rolls over him — a miasma so potent a constellation of microscopic reactions surge to life within soto.

with the captor’s grimacing face pressed close to his, soto exhales in a wheezing laugh, dragging his hungry tongue across the salty plains of khusobek’s wrinkled nose in a gesture that could be called intimate were it not for the contempt darkening his gold eyes. haz lo peor, khusobek. 

there was one thing khusobek could not  inspire in the warped halls of soto’s soul —  and that was fearing pain.