Miles had intended to wait until they got to the cabin before fully claiming Kurt the first time. He'd had ideas of making an event of it, a ceremony akin to the one that had first bound Kurt to the others of the pack. Perhaps it was an attempt to reclaim what the others -- what Corrigan had taken from him.
This idea had only lasted until the afternoon of the second day on the road. Grimy and tired from another long series of hours spent pushing the panting, shivering horses past their limits, Miles had experienced a change of heart. Kurt was spoiled, ruined -- they didn't deserve the dignity and ceremony of a formal claiming. So he'd given them what they did deserve: his cock driving inside their ass as they waited on hands and knees by another miserable fire. He fucked them hard and quick and businesslike, then and ever after, each time they stopped to rest on the long, endless road through the woods. Miles would tug Kurt into his lap or spoon up behind them as they slept, dragging up their coarse skirts and plunging inside them for a handful of rough, silent moments.
And then they'd push forward again, day after day until the horses were near dead from exhaustion and the air took on the bitter chill of the climate near the mountains. Corrigan's territory was beautiful and temperate, closer to the coast, but Miles's cabin was far from that. It had only been a few weeks -- one of travel, the others settling into the cabin, training Kurt on their new duties -- and the air already had the bitter chill of winter, as opposed to the mellow early autumn they'd left behind.
Miles pushes open the door now, arms full of wood, sighing in a heavy, put-upon way. It's obviously a great trial for him, having to warm the miserable hovel they live in. He dumps the wood by the smoldering fire, then drops heavily into his chair -- the only chair. The rug in front of him is where Kurt usually stays, on their knees, either stoking the fire or servicing their Alpha. Now, gesturing vaguely at the coals, Miles grunts a short: "Well? Hurry up."
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This idea had only lasted until the afternoon of the second day on the road. Grimy and tired from another long series of hours spent pushing the panting, shivering horses past their limits, Miles had experienced a change of heart. Kurt was spoiled, ruined -- they didn't deserve the dignity and ceremony of a formal claiming. So he'd given them what they did deserve: his cock driving inside their ass as they waited on hands and knees by another miserable fire. He fucked them hard and quick and businesslike, then and ever after, each time they stopped to rest on the long, endless road through the woods. Miles would tug Kurt into his lap or spoon up behind them as they slept, dragging up their coarse skirts and plunging inside them for a handful of rough, silent moments.
And then they'd push forward again, day after day until the horses were near dead from exhaustion and the air took on the bitter chill of the climate near the mountains. Corrigan's territory was beautiful and temperate, closer to the coast, but Miles's cabin was far from that. It had only been a few weeks -- one of travel, the others settling into the cabin, training Kurt on their new duties -- and the air already had the bitter chill of winter, as opposed to the mellow early autumn they'd left behind.
Miles pushes open the door now, arms full of wood, sighing in a heavy, put-upon way. It's obviously a great trial for him, having to warm the miserable hovel they live in. He dumps the wood by the smoldering fire, then drops heavily into his chair -- the only chair. The rug in front of him is where Kurt usually stays, on their knees, either stoking the fire or servicing their Alpha. Now, gesturing vaguely at the coals, Miles grunts a short: "Well? Hurry up."