For a moment, it seems like Miles might do just that, might finish in Kurt's mouth, might spill across their abused chest and find something else to occupy his time. He doesn't do anything beyond yank at their hair, force their mouth onto his cock again and again, for enough time that it almost seems possible that he's not as escalated as first anticipated.

But then he loosens his grip on Kurt's shorn hair, hands going instead to squeeze at their tits again, fingers plucking at their peaked, cherry-red nipples, pinching and yanking cruelly, rolling the tender nubs between his rough thumb and forefinger. "Touch yourself," he commands and that's -- that's new, usually Miles doesn't care about whether Kurt finds any pleasure in what he does to them. They're a body, a means to an end, warm flesh to use and hurt and torment and then abandon.

Not this time, it seems. Now he's present, watching with a wild glint in his eyes, foot going to nudge Kurt's knees apart, forcing them to spread their thighs as he says again: "Touch yourself, use your hands to make yourself come. One on your cock, one in your ass. Fuck yourself open for me." He's never forced that before, never made Kurt be so present in their own torture, never demanded that they feel pleasure while he's hurting them. But this time he won't let them retreat, won't let them escape into their mind.