His mouth hung open, his eyes narrowed, his hands fisted so hard his nails dug crescents into the stiff leather in his grip. At Master Ryan’s words, Atticus snarled, twisting his head towards the man over him.<em>Bastard. Unholy, mother’s spurned pox-ridden bastard, it hurt, it hurt! Unnatural spawn of a horse-  </em><br/><br/>Then he started to move again, and there was no room between the pain and anger and dizzily staggering pleasure to think of what Master Ryan was, only of what he was doing. The pull back lasted forever, and he gasped and whimpered in relief – but when he was driving in again, all power and rush. Atticus’ breath shuddered and jerked, desperately gulping air only to be unable to keep it in, half-formed curses and raw, strained noises he couldn’t hold back.<br/><br/>With each thrust, his own cock gave an eager twitch, drips of precome sliding down onto his belly. Each moment that passed, his body yielded a little more to Master Ryan, easing some of the bright, tearing agony and letting pleasure take its place. His mind was still overwhelmed with sensation, his cries still more from pain, but it was starting to feel his kind of perfect, dark and intimate and wanted.<em>Wanted</em>.<br/>