Miles rams his cock all the way down their throat once more, holding them in place, completely choking out their shattered screams—though not for lack of trying. Even though this is the fifth time he's taken his blade to their neck, flaying the skin from their living flesh, the pain is no easier to bear now than the first time. It's blinding. Every nerve in their body is on fire with agony, every muscle going tight, jerking, convulsing, futilely trying to make the pain stop. They can't see, can't hear, can't think, their entire world narrowed down to the feeling of their skin splitting open.
It already feels so wrong. Like the human mind is incapable of comprehending the shock of being flayed alive. Being forced to pleasure themself at the same time makes it all the more unreal. Pleasure doesn't belong in a body capable of enduring such anguish. There's only room for the excruciating pain here. That's all there's ever been. It doesn't make any sense. It's not real. It's all wrong.
Kurt tries to scream again, pure animal instinct, but Miles' throbbing cock won't let them force out so much as a gurgle. That's what snaps them out of it, finally, however briefly. They can't breathe. They'll die if they can't breathe. The baby will die. Fighting through the shock, the pain, the shame, racing against their pouring blood and their rapidly caving lungs, Kurt desperately fucks themself on their hands like their life depends on it.
They know how, mercifully, muscle memory making their fist squeeze tighter around their cock, wrists pumping faster and harder, slamming into their shuddering body. Their fingers go tight in their ass, curling and pointing and stabbing at that one spot inside them with manic jackhammer thrusts, making their thighs quiver wildly. Sparks of savage pleasure demand their attention, even as the knife continues to peel them open. Everything feel wrong.
Kurt goes stiff when they come. The guilt crushes them as they spill all over the floor, their lap, their belly, unseeing eyes rolling into the back of their skull. It feels like they should relax now, finally go slack between Miles' legs and fade into the quiet gray for a moment, but they just won't stop shaking.
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It already feels so wrong. Like the human mind is incapable of comprehending the shock of being flayed alive. Being forced to pleasure themself at the same time makes it all the more unreal. Pleasure doesn't belong in a body capable of enduring such anguish. There's only room for the excruciating pain here. That's all there's ever been. It doesn't make any sense. It's not real. It's all wrong.
Kurt tries to scream again, pure animal instinct, but Miles' throbbing cock won't let them force out so much as a gurgle. That's what snaps them out of it, finally, however briefly. They can't breathe. They'll die if they can't breathe. The baby will die. Fighting through the shock, the pain, the shame, racing against their pouring blood and their rapidly caving lungs, Kurt desperately fucks themself on their hands like their life depends on it.
They know how, mercifully, muscle memory making their fist squeeze tighter around their cock, wrists pumping faster and harder, slamming into their shuddering body. Their fingers go tight in their ass, curling and pointing and stabbing at that one spot inside them with manic jackhammer thrusts, making their thighs quiver wildly. Sparks of savage pleasure demand their attention, even as the knife continues to peel them open. Everything feel wrong.
Kurt goes stiff when they come. The guilt crushes them as they spill all over the floor, their lap, their belly, unseeing eyes rolling into the back of their skull. It feels like they should relax now, finally go slack between Miles' legs and fade into the quiet gray for a moment, but they just won't stop shaking.