There are rewards, too -- Kurt is fed, they're clothed, they're allowed to share Miles's home, his fire, his warmth. Occasionally his bed, though he really only lets them in there when he feels like napping while simultaneously warming his cock inside them. Miles overall prefers to fuck them on their hands and knees in front of the fire, or on the ground, amidst the grime and the blood and the rust, or in his chair, forcing them to ride his cock for hours, smacking their hip or ass or thigh whenever they slow down.

Most often, it's their mouth -- easiest, most straightforward, least amount of work on Miles's end. He can eat or sleep or, occasionally, read newspapers he picks up from one of the mountain towns. Usually he just stares into the firelight, face unreadable, only moving to grip Kurt's hair and hold them still when he releases down their throat.

He's more engaged now, though, paying more attention to their stilted, pained movements, the way they have to push past the pain of their flayed neck, the blood beginning to seep through the bandages from the repetitive movements. That's a bad sign, how intently Miles watches Kurt service him, how his hand slides slowly into their stringy, loose hair, gathering it away from their face.

"Hands behind you," he prompts, suddenly, cock thickening and twitching against Kurt's tongue.