If Kurt had pulled away, resisted -- well, that's what the shackles bolted to the wall are for, keeping them immobile, helpless as Miles does what he pleases, whether that's using their well-trained, sobbing mouth or their upturned ass, depending on how he binds them. In the first few days, he'd needed the shackles for everything, Kurt's instinctive resistance at being touched by him too much to deal with. They'd never really fought him, not with the threat of harm to their whelp, but they'd cringed away or begged him or even just flinched at his hands on them. Before, Miles had only wanted Kurt's body, no reactions, no movement, as lifeless and emotionless as a doll.
The fact that even the slow pare of his knife between layer's of their skin, like peeling an apple, parting the soft, scarred skin from the muscle and sinew beneath, the newest wound rapidly flooding with blood that drips down to pool in the hollow of their collarbone -- even all that doesn't make Kurt try to escape him. Miles considers that a victory.
As usual, the sight of Kurt's flesh peeling away with such ease, the sound and feel of them screaming around his cock is almost enough to have Miles releasing down their throat, pumping his spend into their belly. But he has his own goals today, namely to see Kurt come with his knife in them, the threads of pleasure and pain tangled so inextricably that every gentle touch will carry a bite of agony, forever. Or, even better, the little human will never again be able to climax without pain, without a blade in their body, painting it alive with cuts and gashes. Miles idly imagines it, Kurt furiously pleasuring themselves, but unable to finish until he bleeds them somehow. It's equally as arousing, so he grabs for their hair with his free hand, yanking them fully onto his cock, letting it rest in their throat, buried to the hilt.
"Come and you'll be allowed to breathe," he rasps out, continuing to slowly flay the mark from their neck. "Whore like you, shouldn't be a problem at all."
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Date: 2023-12-13 02:33 am (UTC)The fact that even the slow pare of his knife between layer's of their skin, like peeling an apple, parting the soft, scarred skin from the muscle and sinew beneath, the newest wound rapidly flooding with blood that drips down to pool in the hollow of their collarbone -- even all that doesn't make Kurt try to escape him. Miles considers that a victory.
As usual, the sight of Kurt's flesh peeling away with such ease, the sound and feel of them screaming around his cock is almost enough to have Miles releasing down their throat, pumping his spend into their belly. But he has his own goals today, namely to see Kurt come with his knife in them, the threads of pleasure and pain tangled so inextricably that every gentle touch will carry a bite of agony, forever. Or, even better, the little human will never again be able to climax without pain, without a blade in their body, painting it alive with cuts and gashes. Miles idly imagines it, Kurt furiously pleasuring themselves, but unable to finish until he bleeds them somehow. It's equally as arousing, so he grabs for their hair with his free hand, yanking them fully onto his cock, letting it rest in their throat, buried to the hilt.
"Come and you'll be allowed to breathe," he rasps out, continuing to slowly flay the mark from their neck. "Whore like you, shouldn't be a problem at all."