Finally. The relief is palpable as Miles at long last empties himself down their ruined throat, before briskly yanking them off his cock, flooding their lungs with air. His spend is like molten iron in their stomach, so heavy it's painful. The shame doesn't help. Even through sobs and coughs and gasps, even through the terror and tears, Kurt still aches between their legs. They still long for Alpha's cock inside. Their new Alpha, their true Alpha, it doesn't seem to matter which.
At least they remain good at this one thing. Being a loyal, eager mate. As they lick him clean and tuck his softening cock back in his pants, as they curl up beside him to cry themself to sleep, Kurt prays it will be enough to keep them and the baby safe.
Safety is, they quickly learn, relative. They're never safe from his threats, nor the back of his hand, nor the awful howling emptiness he floods their mind with when they don't do as he pleases. Any straying thought, any resistance to bowing to him as Alpha, is punished with a merciless denial of their link. Kurt didn't even know that was possible, to close a bonded pack member off like that, to leave them adrift in the cold and dark. It's a violence much worse than the strikes, the kicks and shoves, the tightly gripping fists. Kurt very quickly learns to obey.
Not that they can go anywhere. After what felt like days on the road, stopping for only hours at a time for a nap and a brisk fuck, Miles leads them inside a derelict cabin nestled partway up a mountain overlooking a human village to the north, and he never lets them leave. Their new home is dark, cold, dusty, the wood rotting and splintering, the windows caked in ancient grime. There's a constant musty smell they can never seem to get used to. There's always a draft coming from somewhere. When they're not sleeping or servicing their Alpha, Kurt tries to clean and maintain the cabin as best they can.
The chain is never quite long enough. From where it's bolted into the wall and fastened to the humiliating dog collar around their neck, it only lets them get partway into the cabin. Maybe fifteen feet before it goes taut. Enough for them to reach the wash basin and the fireplace and — most importantly — the bed. But not the door. Never the door.
There's that draft again. Kurt curls up tighter where they're sitting against the wall, hand absently smoothing over their stomach in silent apology to the baby. Bizarrely, they're grateful that Alpha makes them wear clothes now. It would be much too cold in here without the modest, protective layers of skirts and dresses and aprons. If they were allowed knitting needles, they would busy themself making clothes for the baby too. Kurt can only sit idle and stare into space, hoping and praying Miles will provide when the time comes.
Any day now. They stroke their stomach again, a fervent plea for forgiveness. This isn't the life Kurt had wanted for them.
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At least they remain good at this one thing. Being a loyal, eager mate. As they lick him clean and tuck his softening cock back in his pants, as they curl up beside him to cry themself to sleep, Kurt prays it will be enough to keep them and the baby safe.
Safety is, they quickly learn, relative. They're never safe from his threats, nor the back of his hand, nor the awful howling emptiness he floods their mind with when they don't do as he pleases. Any straying thought, any resistance to bowing to him as Alpha, is punished with a merciless denial of their link. Kurt didn't even know that was possible, to close a bonded pack member off like that, to leave them adrift in the cold and dark. It's a violence much worse than the strikes, the kicks and shoves, the tightly gripping fists. Kurt very quickly learns to obey.
Not that they can go anywhere. After what felt like days on the road, stopping for only hours at a time for a nap and a brisk fuck, Miles leads them inside a derelict cabin nestled partway up a mountain overlooking a human village to the north, and he never lets them leave. Their new home is dark, cold, dusty, the wood rotting and splintering, the windows caked in ancient grime. There's a constant musty smell they can never seem to get used to. There's always a draft coming from somewhere. When they're not sleeping or servicing their Alpha, Kurt tries to clean and maintain the cabin as best they can.
The chain is never quite long enough. From where it's bolted into the wall and fastened to the humiliating dog collar around their neck, it only lets them get partway into the cabin. Maybe fifteen feet before it goes taut. Enough for them to reach the wash basin and the fireplace and — most importantly — the bed. But not the door. Never the door.
There's that draft again. Kurt curls up tighter where they're sitting against the wall, hand absently smoothing over their stomach in silent apology to the baby. Bizarrely, they're grateful that Alpha makes them wear clothes now. It would be much too cold in here without the modest, protective layers of skirts and dresses and aprons. If they were allowed knitting needles, they would busy themself making clothes for the baby too. Kurt can only sit idle and stare into space, hoping and praying Miles will provide when the time comes.
Any day now. They stroke their stomach again, a fervent plea for forgiveness. This isn't the life Kurt had wanted for them.