Of course they aren't enjoying themself—the wet, shattered cries ringing through the cabin should make that perfectly clear. They whimper like a wounded animal with every touch from Alpha's hands, slapping and shoving and crushing their tender breasts in a savage onslaught. It hurts so bad. It's torture. Kurt hates this—
—but that's the whole point, isn't it? Their terror and pain only spurs him on, lets him take his sick pleasure in using their helpless, beaten body like a toy. Making them participate in the abuse is the final insult, the wolf twisting and wrenching their hands to push against their own tits, forcing them to press even harder, squeeze even tighter, wedging his slick, throbbing cock between their aching flesh.
All the while, his grip on their hair is unyielding, forcing them to take every hateful thrust, his cock shoving past their swelling breasts over their twitching tongue into their gagging, convulsing throat again and again and again. The bandages around their neck are soaking through with blood, both the fresh cut and the barely-healing patch of flayed skin alight with agony, steadily weeping crimson. Their cries get them nowhere. They can't fight him. He won't even let them beg him to stop.
This is going to end badly. They can tell. Miles is too aroused, too agitated, pushing them past their limits while his sadistic bloodlust only mounts. Any effort to comply, to get him off with their tits and hands and sobbing mouth, won't be enough. They'll fail to satisfy him the way he wants to be, and he'll take his fury out on them while they're weak and hurt and terrified. Doomed before they even got a chance.
Kurt hopes beyond hope, as their Alpha violently assaults their body, that they're wrong. That he'll stutter and grunt and come all over their face and chest any minute now. That he'll shove them aside and take his knife with him and just go, finally leave them alone, giving them the time it'll take to pick up the pieces he's left them in. To steel themself for next time.
no subject
—but that's the whole point, isn't it? Their terror and pain only spurs him on, lets him take his sick pleasure in using their helpless, beaten body like a toy. Making them participate in the abuse is the final insult, the wolf twisting and wrenching their hands to push against their own tits, forcing them to press even harder, squeeze even tighter, wedging his slick, throbbing cock between their aching flesh.
All the while, his grip on their hair is unyielding, forcing them to take every hateful thrust, his cock shoving past their swelling breasts over their twitching tongue into their gagging, convulsing throat again and again and again. The bandages around their neck are soaking through with blood, both the fresh cut and the barely-healing patch of flayed skin alight with agony, steadily weeping crimson. Their cries get them nowhere. They can't fight him. He won't even let them beg him to stop.
This is going to end badly. They can tell. Miles is too aroused, too agitated, pushing them past their limits while his sadistic bloodlust only mounts. Any effort to comply, to get him off with their tits and hands and sobbing mouth, won't be enough. They'll fail to satisfy him the way he wants to be, and he'll take his fury out on them while they're weak and hurt and terrified. Doomed before they even got a chance.
Kurt hopes beyond hope, as their Alpha violently assaults their body, that they're wrong. That he'll stutter and grunt and come all over their face and chest any minute now. That he'll shove them aside and take his knife with him and just go, finally leave them alone, giving them the time it'll take to pick up the pieces he's left them in. To steel themself for next time.