Blaine is stressed out beyond belief. Pressure from work and no sex-life to speak of, are taking its toll. His brother, Cooper, comes up with a solution that he promises will solve his problem for good. Something he calls 'therapeutic'.
One night with an anonymous stranger, no strings attached.
After not enough consideration, Blaine takes him up on it. It's just sex, not love. What can it hurt?
But he may end up regretting it.
Notes: Okay, so this is the Klaine version of my Kurtbastian story 'Fading in the Black'. But if you end up reading them both, you will notice that they are vastly different in some large areas, so you won't be reading exactly the same story. Let me know what you think :D
"Hey ya, Squirt. How's it hanging?"
Blaine scowled at this invasion by his brother into his private studio when he's told him numerous times before not to interrupt him. Not in the middle of the afternoon.
Not when he's in the zone.
"What do you want, Coop?" he replied, furiously scribbling notes on his manuscript. "I don't have time for this."
"Yes, you do." Cooper grabbed a stool and pulled it close, dragging it so that it scraped obnoxiously across Blaine's $200,000 acoustically treated reclaimed tigerwood floor. But that was Cooper for you. A man with all the class of a GOP convention. "And if you don't, you need to make time."
Blaine side-eyed his suddenly serious brother with skeptical concern.
"Is there something going on, Coop?" he asked, giving him as much attention as he could spare. He was working on a deadline. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine," Cooper assured him. "I'm not talking about me."
Blaine sat up, annoyed by his brother's constant vagueness. "Then, who are we talking about? Mom? Dad?" Blaine turned on his stool to face his brother. Their father had fallen down the front steps of their porch last week and hit his head on the sidewalk. His mother took him to the hospital. They said he was fine.
Did he take a turn?
"The children," Cooper replied.
"What? What children?"
"The poor boys and girls of the world that you are going to scar for life if we don't find a way of getting you laid!"
"Go away, Coop!" Blaine snapped, turning his back to him. "I told you, I don't have time for you today!"
"I'm serious!" Cooper insisted, grabbing the rim of Blaine's stool and spinning him back around. "Last week, you chewed the heads off two little boys for mowing a lawn wrong."
"I was simply pointing out their carelessness. They get paid good money to make sure that lawn is trimmed correctly."
"They were nine!"
"So?"
"It wasn't even your lawn! And yesterday, you snapped at a Girl Scout for not having Thin Mints."
"I didn't snap. I merely expressed my disappointment."
"Blaine" – Cooper crossed his arms – "you said, and I quote, "What kind of Girl Scout are you?""
Blaine scoffed. "I did not."
Cooper pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and shook it in his brother's face. "I recorded it. You wanna see?"
Blaine shooed his brother's phone away. "Not particularly. No."
"Look, Blaine, you are an intensely passionate and emotional guy …"
Blaine's lip curled, not sure exactly how he should take that compliment. "Thank you for noticing?"
"… and for the past year, all of that's been bottled up, building inside of you. You need to release it, or …"
"… or?"
Cooper didn't say a word. He simply opened up his video gallery and pressed play.
"So, what you're telling me," Blaine's voice rose from the phone, "is that you're a Girl Scout with no Thin Mints!? How can that be!? It's your most popular cookie! Wha-what kind of Girl Scout are you!?"
"I'm … I'm sorry!" the small girl cried, throwing her hands over her eyes.
"Sir! Please!" her mom pleaded, pulling her weeping daughter away. "We stopped selling cookies last month!"
"That's not an excuse!"
Blaine looked at his brother, smug eyebrow raised, then uncomfortably at the image on the screen. He sat up rigidly, and folded his hands in his lap. "What did you have in mind?"
That was three weeks ago.
Tonight, Blaine stands alone in the dark, bound at the wrists, his hands cuffed to two posts with his arms outstretched.
Waiting.
Waiting for his lover.
A lover he hasn't met yet.
And with a swallow that struggles to make its way down his throat to his stomach, he begins to wonder why he lets his brother talk him into these situations. He's never felt more vulnerable than he does now, the reason kind of obvious, but ironically, he's never felt more self-conscious, more aware of his flaws – the soft pouch of his stomach that he could never get rid of; the protruding roundness of his bubble butt; and the wild thicket of hair sprouting atop his head, his curls unruly without a drop of product to keep them in place.
Of course, he doesn't need to worry about his hair when he's standing naked in total darkness, but gel is kind of his safety blanket.
He doesn't feel as confident without it.
Is sex really worth all of this?
The darkness around him isn't just all encompassing. It's oppressive, like a physical weight crowding in on him, pressing down on him, putting his senses on high alert. He doesn't move, doesn't breath too loudly, doesn't make a sound, trying to pinpoint the presence of someone else in the room. He turns his head from side to side, sweeping his gaze around – not that it helps. It's pitch black. Someone could be standing an inch in front of his face and Blaine would never see them.
That's the catch.
A night of body worship with an anonymous stranger.
That's what Blaine signed up for.
And for his partner to be truly anonymous, he can't talk to him, can't see him. Hence, the utter darkness.
Blaine did what he was told.
Now he has to wait for his partner to come in and get started.
It's been over an hour since he first got here to get to this point.
There's no turning back now.
He'd been on an involuntary sexual leave-of-absence for the better part of a year, and it was beginning to eat away at him. Except for a select group of people, he hated everybody, even before he met them. Every muscle in his body had become permanently tense. Every time he blinked, his head throbbed. (The head on his shoulders wasn't the only one throbbing.) His wet dreams had started to become nightmares of the anxiety inducing variety, so much so that, on some nights, he only got two to three hours of sleep. But when he did, he woke up with a boner so disastrous, if he wasn't careful, he'd piss in his own face.
His brother was right, God damn it. He needed some serious relief.
His nightly ritual of seducing himself under the covers with his trusty right hand wasn't offering him any whatsoever, and he'd nearly turned over his entire wallet to Fort Troff, searching for a combination of dildos and other masturbatory aids to satisfy him. He balked at the idea of seeing a professional, but Cooper assured him this place was nothing like that (not that he particularly trusted his brother as far as he could throw him).
This establishment wasn't underground, wasn't seedy, wasn't hidden in the basement of some run-down brown stone, a back alley door and a password that changed daily the only way in. This place was located in the heart of Upper Manhattan (rather arrogantly situated in Blaine's opinion). The participants weren't sex workers. Every member was one of Manhattan's elite – CEO's, models, execs (which made Blaine wonder who Cooper bribed to get in). There was an application process, background checks, a thorough medical history. And after you were approved, you got to spend a night of total body worship with an anonymous stranger in a room that was completely black, like those trendy upscale eateries on the Upper East Side where all the waiters are blind.
The place was so bougie, they even sent a limo to collect him.
When Blaine arrived at the … God, he doesn't like calling it a bordello … a pretty, polite, but otherwise unenthusiastic receptionist checked him in. She had him put his keys, cell phone, wallet, and other personal belongings into a box with a timed lock, then slid that box into a safe behind her desk. She went over the rules, which Cooper had already outlined for him during their initial discussion in his studio.
All forty-six of them.
It was like the sex talk Cooper gave him in high school all over again, a memory he had carefully stuffed inside the far corners of his brain, only revisiting it during therapy.
The receptionist double-checked a few items from his personal profile, then flashed him a wry smile. She knew him. Of course, she knew him. She was reading the most recent issue of Vogue, the one with his picture in the center spread, accompanied by one of those impossible to digest vanity pieces that outlined a day in the life of a Grammy winning song writer: how he had his clothes delivered from Barneys and ate take-out from the Four Seasons, how he exfoliated with a clay mask made of Tibetan charcoal, and drank ultra-expensive coffee pooped out by Indonesian cats - that sort of superficial tripe.
If that didn't peg him as some sort of subversive eccentric, his trip to this little hideaway cinched it.
He was instructed to undress, shower thoroughly, and douche. The receptionist, who didn't give Blaine her name, informed him that there was a closet in the bathroom for his clothes, and that he should make sure they're secured before he showers since he will not touch them again until after the evening is over. He's not permitted to speak to anyone he encounters – not the other employees, and especially not his partner.
She reached into her desk drawer and pulled out a rectangular box, printed with the picture of a man with come-hither eyes holding an obscenely large red bulb syringe. She used the box to gesture to a far door.
"The instructions are inside the box," she explained in an amused voice, holding the box out to him. "Use it, relieve yourself, put it back in the box, and dispose of it in the trash before you shower. During your shower, you will brush your teeth and shampoo your hair with the products provided. After your shower, you'll dry off thoroughly with the towel hanging over the rod. You can apply the lotion given, but no cologne. Then you will exit through the opposite door."
"Yes. Of course. (ahem) Thank you," he'd mumbled, then left the reception area before their interaction could get any more unbearable. He examined the box in his hands, wondering idly if the employees got to use the services here as a perk. Cooper called it therapeutic. So maybe it was listed in their benefits package under alternative medicine, like massages, high colonics, and Pilates classes.
Blaine showered in a lit private bathroom, which resembled the upscale bathrooms at the Waldorf Astoria. When he'd done everything the receptionist said – hung up his clothes, douched, showered, and dried - he opened the secondary door opposite the first that led to the lobby. The minute he opened it, he was slapped by what looked like a huge gaping hole of nothingness stretching out in front of him. He stepped out, propelled by faith alone since he couldn't see the floor, into a hall so devoid of light, it felt like he was stepping into the unfathomable vastness of space. He closed the door behind him, and in an instant, the light from the bathroom was whisked away, not a ray of it seeping through.
He felt someone touch him. Hands wrapped around his wrists and wordlessly urged him forward. Blaine, with the distinct lack of a discernible world warping his senses, allowed himself to be led by what he deduced were two unseen handlers (who he could only imagine had been waiting outside the bathroom door the entire time since they reached out and grabbed him the second it shut) down a completely darkened hallway into an even darker room. The faceless entities helped him into a pair of leather cuffs, chained to posts at his side (bedposts?), at a distance which forced him to keep his arms outstretched. His ankles were bound in similar leather cuffs but with a bar in between, spreading his legs wide apart. He didn't feel anything of his two assistants except their hands. He couldn't guess their height, their age, or their gender. Not a strand of hair brushed his skin, and they only touched his wrists and ankles. They must have been wearing kidskin leather gloves, because their skin felt unnaturally supple.
Surely, those two people had to be able to see somehow, unless they're blind, like the waiters in the restaurant.
Or sworn to an oath of secrecy.
Bound and unable to move away from the posts or undo the cuffs by himself, the two handlers left, the sound of their footsteps irregularly loud on the featureless floor. He heard the door open and shut, and a lock thrown. Then nothing. Quiet. His own breathing and the blood rushing through his ears.
Blaine swallowed the last of the moisture in his mouth. Suddenly, this didn't seem like the best idea.
He felt like maybe he should have asked Cooper a lot more questions before he agreed to come here.
And he's been waiting ever since.
Blaine reconsiders his choices from the ongoing list he's been compiling for ways to help him through his "funk".
Hot yoga.
Kickboxing.
Bungee jumping.
The shooting range.
A staged kidnapping.
All of which might appeal to the thrill seeker in him, but they wouldn't give him what he ultimately needed.
Being locked in this room without light becomes extremely disorienting very quickly. Without a view of the outside, he has no concept of time. Blaine jiggles his wrists to hear the clanging of the metal chain that attaches the cuffs to the posts. He tugs on them, testing their strength. They seem sturdy, meant to be yanked without the links popping from the chain. He's trapped – thoroughly unable to escape. And even if he could, where would he go? He knows the door is somewhere behind him, but after that?
Blaine has to constantly remind himself that this is what he signed up for – willingly. He can think of a dozen reasons why he should call out for help and put a stop to this, and only one reason to stay.
But that one reason is powerful enough to keep him calm and centered.
As time ticks by, Blaine becomes afraid that he's been forgotten. No one's monitoring these rooms as far as he knows. How the hell do they even run this place? Did they need a permit to open it? He assumes the city doesn't hand out permits for places like this. What does their business license say they do here?
Blinking against darkness that his eyes refuse to adjust to, Blaine wonders what this room looks like in the day time. The walls have to be painted black. What kind of paint do they use to absorb every speck of light like this? With the kind of money this place funnels in (Cooper paid $15,000 just to get Blaine's application into the queue. Not that it was Cooper's money. He'd learned a long time ago how to sign Blaine's name) they can probably get their hands on Vantablack, even if that asshole Anish Kapoor owns the rights to it. Who cleans in here? They put the lights on then, right? As an avid viewer of Cold Case and CSI: New York, Blaine wonders how thoroughly they clean. And with what. How much DNA must be plastered on the walls, these cuffs, the floor beneath his bare feet …?
It makes him wish he'd been allowed to leave his socks on, or wear a pair of flip-flops.
Athlete's foot is a souvenir from tonight he'd rather not contend with.
But if he's going to contract foot-fungus or a flesh-eating bacteria, he hopes, at the very least, that it came from a big name star like Halle Berry or Robert Downey, Jr. He's tempted to come back on another night and smuggle in the UV penlight he uses to find dog urine on his carpet, see if this place lights up like a Christmas tree.
A swarm of progressively ludicrous thoughts and questions skip through his brain to help him pass the time when he hears the door behind him open, and someone walk in. Blaine shoots his head to the side to see if he can catch any glimpse of light, but there's nothing. Total darkness. The same as when he came in.
Blaine's heart speeds to an inhuman pace, pounding in his ears, obscuring the sound of footsteps so that he doesn't know how close they've gotten to him. The person entering the room seems to be alone, and they appear to know where they're going, undeterred by the absolute dark. They don't fumble around, don't trip or stutter their steps. They stride up to Blaine, reaching out strong hands and putting them on his shoulders, as if they could see his silhouette in front of them. Blaine realizes, with a sinking feeling, that this person knows where they're going because they've been here before.
Probably many, many times before.
Blaine had fancied that the person he'd be paired up with might be like himself – new to this, and just as nervous as he is. But this might turn out better, having someone with knowledge guiding him through. Either way, at this point, he gets no other choices.
Since small talk isn't allowed, and they both know why they're there, his anonymous partner wastes no time. He runs the flats of his palms down Blaine's body, starting at his shoulders, down the lines of his back, over his ass, and along the outsides of his thighs, traveling to his ankles, damp hair tickling Blaine's skin as he does. Blaine's head drops forward on his shoulders. It's been a long time since someone has touched him like this … such a long time.
And oh God! This man just came from the shower. Thinking about his partner preparing for him the same way Blaine did proves to be a tremendous turn on. Blaine feels a moan rise up his throat. He bites his tongue to keep it from leaving his mouth.
Silence. Darkness and silence. Total anonymity. Those are the rules.
This man's hands are fluid in their movements, like liquid on Blaine's skin – a sensual libation. He feels calmed by these touches, and a bit tipsy - warm and dizzy, abuzz from the blood evacuating his brain.
The man is meticulous – pausing at certain areas, retracing them with his fingertips. He spends a good ten minutes investigating Blaine's hands alone – his wrist, his palm, the pads of his fingers, stopping to suck on each and every one. He's trying to get a picture of Blaine, Blaine realizes - a luxury that Blaine doesn't have, cuffed the way he is. The hands make the trip back up Blaine's body, and when the man stands fully, he wraps his arms around Blaine from the back, dragging his palms up Blaine's front. Not aggressively, but unashamedly, he gropes between Blaine's legs. His hands find Blaine's cock and stops. He wraps the fingers of one hand around it, holds it, traces over veins and ridges, spending more time here than anywhere else. The man fits his own lengthy erection between Blaine's ass cheeks and presses their bodies together – leg to leg, pelvis to rear, chest to back – so when Blaine's head drops backward, it's resting on the man's shoulder.
The man puts a hand to Blaine's neck. Blaine tenses, almost vocally objects, but the man doesn't squeeze. He holds him possessively, placing a kiss on Blaine's forehead and shaking his head in a way that communicates the fact that he's not trying to hurt Blaine, just that he wants Blaine to keep his head there.
Blaine nods, because he has no plans on moving.
That kiss – tender, feathery – has Blaine's body thrumming, quivering like a telephone wire, pulsing with electricity.
The man's hand leaves Blaine's cock and slides up his chest, exploring Blaine's muscles – where his abs end, the cut of his pecs, the definition in his shoulders and arms. They venture across to his nipples – one dry finger at a time swirling around the pebbled flesh, causing Blaine's breathing, already shallow, to hitch. The man brings his hand to Blaine's mouth, pressing against his lips, and Blaine's lower jaw drops open. The finger that dips inside, Blaine bathes with his tongue, closing his lips around it and sucking, his cock throbbing when the man behind him holds his breath.
Those fingers, remarkably slender considering their strength, return to Blaine's chest, slipping over his right nipple, circling torturously slow, and Blaine, unable to utter a single syllable, rolls his head back and forth with the agony of it.
The hand around Blaine's throat leaves and touches Blaine's face, padding along his cheekbones, his eyebrows, his lips, his ears, threading through Blaine's hair. Blaine can feel the man's mouth right beside his temple, but the man doesn't kiss him again.
Inside Blaine's brain, he's begging him to.
When he's done, the man pulls away, stealing his support and his body heat, leaving Blaine weak and aching. The man takes a single finger and scratches lightly over Blaine's shoulder, forming a deliberate pattern of dips and swirls. As Blaine focuses on it, he realizes it's a word.
Sexy.
Blaine ducks his head and smiles. Without warning, the man's there, capturing that smile with his lips and kissing him. Hands cup Blaine's face and the man steps in close, his cock sliding up against Blaine's, the two sandwiched between them. He ruts against Blaine in a lazy rhythm, just a tease while he kisses him over and over, keeping Blaine on the verge of taking a breath and then stealing it from him, until Blaine feels hot from crown to sole, and he can't think straight.
He feels the man smile, feels him run the tip of his nose against his skin, his chin, his cheek, his biceps pressed against his side as he embraces him, his hands resting on his back, and Blaine tries his best to piece together an image of what this man might look like. But, eventually, he lets go of his need to know, along with his need to be, and opens himself up to the experience. Soon, there is no Blaine. There is no heartbreak, no tragic backstory. He is, instead, a combination of every sensation this man can evoke within him. His concept of up and down becomes skewed, dream and reality blend. There are no physical barriers between them - no cuffs, no chains. Only this man's body against his. This could be oblivion and Blaine wouldn't care. Let it all end here. Tomorrow? There's no reason to think that far ahead.
The man kisses Blaine's chin, down his neck, and Blaine lets his head loll while this man has his way – licking, caressing, leaving no inch of skin ignored. Several times, he sheathes Blaine's cock in the confines of his mouth before traveling to other sensitive areas – his inner thigh, behind his knee, the knob of his ankle - always returning to Blaine's erection to torment it, vacating it shortly after to simmer in a maddening barely there state, where too much attention would push Blaine beyond the breakers, pull him under, too far for him to return.
Blaine wishes he could return the favor, make this man wobble at the knees, make him burn with want for him.
On the application he'd filled out to be considered for membership, he had to choose whether or not he wanted to be the one who was worshipped, or the one who did the worshipping. Blaine had lingered on that question the longest, pondering why it had to be one or the other, but the answer was always clear in his mind.
He deserved to be worshipped.
Blaine would never admit it out loud because how shallow would that sound? Yes, he's burned out, but it's not like he's been building houses for Habitat for Humanities or volunteering down at the soup kitchen. At most, he feels a bit overworked and underappreciated, but that barely qualifies him as deserving of body worship. So if he's going to admit the truth to anyone, he'll admit it to himself.
He's selfish.
But considering what he's dealt with in his life – beaten up by bullies, a less-than-approving father … Cooper - he deserves to be, doesn't he?
This man giving him pleasure - he chose to play this role, so he must enjoy what he's doing. Maybe it gives him a feeling of power, control.
Either way, it's not wrong to want what you want.
And Blaine wants this.
Blaine had been afraid that, chained up like this, especially with the spreader bar between his ankles, ensuring his legs couldn't close, he would feel like a toy - a plaything to be used, here for the enjoyment of some random guy. But he sees now he was mistaken.
Sorely mistaken.
Blaine hears the man shift on his knees, crawling behind him. Then a tongue, sinewy and wet, weeds its way past the crack of Blaine's ass in search of his entrance. His knees sway. He keels backwards. The man grabs his hips to hold him upright and pushes in again, feeling free to part Blaine's cheeks when Blaine locks his knees, stabilizing himself.
Blaine drowns in this sensation, this gentle lapping at nerve-riddled flesh that makes his knees knock and his teeth grind to keep him from keening. The man's tongue takes long, leisurely licks over Blaine's hole, then dips inside, opening Blaine up, relaxing that outer ring of muscle, and it hits Blaine at once what for. This tongue, massaging him in sinful ways, is equal parts exciting and relaxing, but thinking about his partner's cock - rock hard and thick, from what Blaine could feel - replacing it …
Blaine's stomach clenches with a vengeance.
It's been a long time. A very long time.
No dildo from an online sex shop could have prepared him for this.
There's a break when the man's mouth leaves Blaine's skin, and Blaine hears the hurried tearing of a condom wrapper. The man returns, parts Blaine's cheeks, and lines himself up with his entrance. Blaine shivers, the chains clattering loudly, and the man stops. He scratches another word across Blaine's shoulder.
Scared?
He puts a hand to the back of Blaine's head and cradles it, waiting for an answer.
Blaine shakes his head. Blaine's not scared. Nervous, but not scared. The man smiles, his lips pressed against Blaine's shoulder so he can feel it.
Good, he writes. Relax.
Blaine nods. He takes a few deep breaths. He wills his body to open up and allow this man entry. Blaine wants it. He wants it now, and with this person. Nothing could be more perfect than this moment.
The man behind him is in no hurry. He has a bottle of lube, which he was more than likely given along with the condom by the handlers that led them inside. Blaine hears it pop open, the undignified squelch as the man squeezes out the fluid into the palm of his hand, and then a subtle click as he sets it aside.
These noises, insignificant in the world outside this room, are stepping stones for Blaine. They show a progression, a countdown towards a pivotal moment.
There's pressure, a slick bluntness, and then a slight burning as those muscles stretch to accommodate. The man pulls back, then pushes forward; back, and then forward; and Blaine struggles to stay completely silent. He holds on to every moan as if his life depends on it. The sound he does make is a sustained growl, which he does with the air issuing out through his mouth, not vibrating his vocal cords, making it toneless.
The man pushes in until he's completely engulfed by Blaine's body and holds him, arms clutching his chest from behind, resting his forehead against the base of his neck. Heavy puffs of breath ghost over Blaine's back as the man restrains himself from moving any further. Deep breath in, deep breath out - Blaine counts them as they heat his skin, using them as a way to track the seconds going by.
A finger touches Blaine's shoulder, this time trembling.
Okay? he writes.
Blaine nods, hands balled into fists, wrists pulling against his cuffs, the leather biting in. The man behind him feels so incredible inside his body that if he has to wait a second longer, he's going to go insane. The man starts moving again, lips on Blaine's neck and hands kneading his tired arms, the slide in and out of his body effortless.
This man - his body - is different from any other he's ever known.
And it feels fantastic.
The man fills him up, then lets him go, setting him afloat on a rising current of ecstasy. Blaine tugs the cuffs with every plunge, shaking the chains until they sound like they'll shatter.
Blaine never realized how important moaning is to the whole act of sex. Since he can't, he feels like there's something clawing inside that's caged, fighting to take over, withering with each denied cry, each stifled gasp. That should frustrate the hell out of him, but it doesn't.
It's an exercise in control.
The man drives him ruthlessly, hands that once roamed relenting to arms clinging around his chest. His mouth sucks at Blaine's shoulders, occasionally gnawing, but not hard. A hand sneaks down to find his cock and grabs hold, stroking slowly, in insane opposition to his frantic pace. Blaine pushes back and thrusts forward, wanting more, needing more.
And then it happens. It's not supposed to happen. Blaine was fighting so damned hard to make sure it wouldn't happen. But it happened anyway.
And it wasn't Blaine's fault.
"God!" the man grumbles, gravelly and raw, fueled by the snap of his body as his hips begin to race. Blaine bites his lower lip, bites it so hard it might have started bleeding. The sting of it is inconsequential, means less than nothing. He broke the rules. The man broke the rules. They're not supposed to speak, not that anyone is watching or listening. (Blaine keeps saying that to himself, but he doesn't know for sure. There could be night vision cameras mounted in every corner of this place, and Blaine wouldn't know.) Cooper told Blaine that the rules are more for emotional security than anything else – the only thing he'd said that sounded remotely like a warning. This is a no strings attached arrangement. One night – nothing else. Having something to latch on to – a voice, a scent – are ways of identifying a partner in the real world.
A hopeless romantic who equates sex with love might find themselves heartbroken, searching the world a thousand times over for something that doesn't exist.
Blaine is not that person; not anymore, anyway. Not with how badly he's been stung in the past. Still, he can't discount the way his body feels – the way this man makes his body feel – so he tucks the memory of that voice away and hides it in his mind.
It'll be his secret, something he can dig out and use as stroke material during the long continuation of his celibacy.
Blaine cums over the man's fist, long ropes coating his abs, shooting to his chin. His partner slams into him erratically, fingers holding Blaine's convulsing body steady by his hips, nails sinking into the flesh over the bone, then he goes completely still. With choked-off grunts, the man shudders behind Blaine, their bodies locked together as both men continue to reel. He pulls out cautiously, removing the condom, tying it off and tossing it somewhere – apparently he knows where.
The sound of heavy breathing fills the room. It's nearly impossible for Blaine to catch his breath - his abs still quivering, the balls of his feet smarting from supporting his weight. His partner's breathing slows first, fluctuates in volume as the man paces the room. Seconds later, the only breathing in the room belongs to Blaine.
But Blaine didn't hear the door open, so he assumes the man is still there.
There comes a moment of bereavement, and shame when Blaine thinks his partner is just going to leave, but then there's a mouth on his chest, a tongue licking down to his stomach, and oh dear God! Blaine thinks. He's cleaning me off with his mouth!
The man works his way up Blaine's body, and when he stands, he holds Blaine in his arms, which he seems fond of doing. Holding Blaine tight, holding him close, burying his face in the crook of Blaine's neck and hugging him like he doesn't want to let go. The man's mouth covers his, lips parting Blaine's, tongue sweeping through, rubbing lightly over his hard palate, the taste of his own cum sending tingles throughout his body. Blaine's arms tense, reflex causing them to try and hug him back, but he can't. Blaine can't hold him, can't knead his muscles or card his fingers through his hair, and that becomes the only downside of the night.
The man steps away, but his body is reluctant to go. He detaches from Blaine in a wave, with his forehead resting against Blaine's the last to depart. He circles around, fingers grazing Blaine's arm from his shoulder to his hand, linking temporarily with his, weaving together in a brief handhold. Blaine feels a single fingertip scratch over his shoulder – his final words before the man is gone for good.
Thanks, love.
The man seals it with a kiss over the same spot, lips sucking what might turn out to be a purple mark.
Blaine hopes it will.
Footsteps fade toward the door. The man knocks twice. Blaine can't see the door open, but it wouldn't matter. Like before, no light enters the room. The man walks out, the door shuts, and Blaine is left to wait for someone to come in and un-cuff him.
Blaine sighs. It's a content sigh, a satisfied sigh.
But it's sad as well.
This isn't what he expected. What he shared with that man wasn't anonymous sex. It was something more. It was communication, caring, acceptance, mutual attraction.
It isn't what he expected, but it's what he wanted.
And now, it's over.
He can't sulk over that. He got the tension out of his system, freed up his chakras so he can attack his punching bag in the morning and prevail. He can go back to business as usual, go back to being Blaine Anderson, Grammy winning song writer.
He can take this experience and put it behind him. It'll stave off the cravings, tamp down the urges, until he finds someone in the real world worthy of dating him. Till then, he can get his life back on track, get some quality sleep, and be nicer to the neighborhood kids.
Hell, he can use this as inspiration. Get a few songs out of it.
Blaine sighs.
Yup. That's perfect.
From now on, everything will be fine.
Blaine is ruined, so filled with need for this man he's never seen that he's wound even tighter than before. He's so desperate for him, he even tried going back to the bordello twice, shelled out 30 grand for two more anonymous fucks. The first guy Blaine got was too eager, too impetuous; the second, too timid and apprehensive.
Both experiences were decent, worth the money he spent, but they weren't the same.
He shouldn't have spoken. That man not only rocked Blaine's world, he split it in two. God! Blaine wishes he could push the memory away, but he can't. It creeps out of hiding and echoes in his dreams, in his waking thoughts, when he least expects it. And now he knows why talking was forbidden.
Blaine is obsessed with it.
He needs to find its owner.
Blaine knows it's ridiculous. How in hell is he supposed to find someone based on one word alone? It's not like anyone else can hear it. No one can help him with this. He could try suing the bordello, but somehow he feels that would end up making matters worse. They could purge their membership and relocate, send word through the grapevine that it was because of him, and he would be shunned from the New York elite for good. He'd probably be banned from ever returning, and then there'd be no hope of him finding his mystery man again.
But what can he do? Playing Russian Roulette at the bordello will tap his bank account quicker than quick, but he has few other recourses. Is he supposed to go up to every man in New York City and ask them to utter the word God as if they were saying it during sex?
What an awkward conversation that would be.
This is New York, though. If he plays the Do you know who I am? card, men might do it.
Right. And the arresting officers might let him off with a warning.
Blaine decides not to risk it. Instead, he turns himself into the most ridiculous social butterfly there ever was. He goes out every night and talks up every unattached man he sees. He knows he's making a spectacle of himself. Paparazzi will have a field day, but he has no other choice. He's even resorted to eavesdropping, sitting at a table in the dead center of a bar or restaurant and letting his attention jump from conversation to conversation, hoping that his mystery man might be somewhere in the crowd, having a drink, laughing with friends … thinking of him.
Cooper no longer comments on his sex life, which is odd. This change in Blaine has begun to concern Cooper, which is even odder. His brother hasn't come up with a way to broach the subject, but he will.
Blaine knows he will.
He should give up his search for his mystery lover full stop, but he can't. This must be what drug addiction feels like, he thinks, sitting at the bar at Analogue, squatting a green-topped barstool in the midst of the action. He rarely comes here, seeing as it's in the Village. The last time he did, he must have been in college. But something in his gut told him that this was the place to be tonight.
Either to find the man he's looking for, drink him away, or hook up with another lover, remains to be seen.
"Shall I get you another gimlet?" the bartender asks, smiling at him as if she knows too much.
"Yes, please," he says, though he knows he probably won't drink this one. But he hates occupying the seat of a paying, tipping customer without footing his fair share. Along with this drink, he intends to order a cheese platter, as well as leave this kind, attentive young lady a twenty when he goes, which will probably be soon. He has to end this. It was a fool's errand from the start, as it should be. Anonymity is what he paid for. It was to protect him as well as this man.
He should be grateful it works so well.
Besides, how in the hell did he expect, in a city of eight million people, to stumble across a man he heard speak once in the dark?
"Shirley Temple, extra cherries," the bartender calls to the crowd gathered three deep at the bar. Blaine considers himself lucky he got here early enough to secure this barstool. And he's not giving it up yet, regardless of how many people shoot death glares his way.
"A Shirley Temple, extra cherries, for … uh … Kurt Hummel?"
"That's me! That's me! I'm Kurt Hummel! God! Are you guys crowded tonight!?" a chipper voice answers, an arm pushing past Blaine to retrieve his drink. And Blaine would move to let him through, only …
God.
Blaine freezes when he hears it. He's heard about twelve dozen men say God in passing over the past few weeks, so much so that he thought his memory of the man's voice would have dimmed. But no. He may not remember it perfectly, but his body knows. And his body reacts.
His hair stands on end.
His skin prickles.
His heart stops dead.
And his cock throbs.
Blaine watches the man as he weeds his way through, and though he's paralyzed, he forces his head to turn. He has to get a good look at him. He has to know who he is. He has to add a face to the voice. If he doesn't look, he'll regret it for the rest of his life.
Just as Blaine turns to face him, the man looks his way, and, for a moment, time stops. The noises around them dim. And the only two people in the world are the two of them. The man's hair, swooped up in the front, is longer than Blaine had imagined it, but his lips are just as full. Blaine can feel those lips now exploring his body, latched onto his shoulder, sucking the bruise that took a week to fade.
Wrapped around his cock and teasing his hole.
Blaine's eyes widen when they lock with his, clear blue as ocean glass, and they stare unblinkingly at one another. The man grins (and oh, it's a magical grin), and says, "Why, hello, handsome." But when Blaine doesn't respond, his smile dips ever so slightly. "Is there something wrong? Do I … do I have something on my face?" The man nervously wipes at his mouth and under his nose. Time begins again, and Blaine's world slams into focus.
He's here. He's finally here. Blaine found him. As inconceivable as it sounds with the odds stacked against him, he did it.
And he doesn't know what to say.
But the man doesn't seem to have the same problem, and thank God for that.
"Do I … know you?" he asks. "Because I feel like I've seen you somewhere."
"Uh," Blaine says, that first syllable shaky when it comes out of his mouth, "not seen, per se, but …"
"Oh my God!" The man puts a hand to his mouth open in awe. "You're him! You're Blaine Anderson! The song writer!"
"Yes," Blaine says, blushing. "Yes, I am. I'm surprised you recognized me."
"Are you kidding me? Your eyes are one of a kind! And that head of hair? It's a shame you plaster it down all the time. Your curls are your signature feature, after all!"
"Ah. You're quoting Vogue," Blaine says, the blush on his cheeks deepening the more the man talks.
"Quoting it?" The man chuckles. "I wrote it!" He sticks out his hand. "Kurt Hummel. I'm an associate fashion editor at Vogue. I didn't get the chance to meet you when you stopped by the office for your photoshoot, but I wrote the copy."
Blaine gulps, immediately regretting everything he said about that piece being superficial tripe.
"It's nice to meet you," Blaine says, taking Kurt's hand with a bit more gusto than befitting the situation, but he can't help himself. He had to touch him again. He had to feel this man's skin pressed against his one more time. Blaine thinks he sees a hint of recognition when their hands meet. How that can be, Blaine has absolutely no idea, but Kurt had spent a lot of time feeling them in that black room, touching them … kissing them.
"Not to mention your voice," Kurt continues, slipping his hand smoothly out of Blaine's grasp, to Blaine's dismay. His hand hovers in the air, silently begging for Kurt's return. But Kurt puts it over his heart and sighs. "It's just incredible! It's such a shame you don't sing more instead of writing for other people!" He leans in, eyes sparkling in the low light hanging above their heads. "I'd much rather hear you sing than Adam Levine any day."
"Well …" Blaine nearly chokes before he has a chance to respond. Is this happening? Is this really happening? Is the man he had the most mind-blowing sex of his life with, who he's been searching all over New York to find, complimenting him on his music? "I have been thinking of cutting an album."
"Oh, you have to!" Kurt gushes. "I'll buy it! I'll buy ten copies right now! Start a Kickstarter! I'll be your first donor!"
"And I'll be your second," an accented voice behind Kurt adds to the conversation. Kurt smiles brighter. Blaine looks confused.
"Of course!" Kurt says. "We love your music!"
"We?" Blaine asks, and even though he heard the other voice, he prays that, if Kurt doesn't prefer neutral pronouns, that maybe he's referring to him and his dog? Or his cat?
"Me and my fiancé." Kurt grabs the arm of the man behind him – a tall man with lightly tanned skin and dirty blond hair, dashing even though he's dressed in khaki pants, a flannel shirt, and a Boho cap, completely incongruous to Kurt's tailored grey slacks and crisp, baby blue button down. "Blaine, this is Adam Crawford. Adam, this is …"
"Blaine Anderson. I know." Adam smiles warmly and extends his hand Blaine's way. "Pleasure to meet you."
"Likewise," Blaine lies, following Adam's hand with his eyes as it joins its partner resting on Kurt's shoulders. Blaine's heart wrings inside his chest. Whatever romantic notions he'd had about the two of them being reunited have officially been demolished. This isn't Blaine's paradise in the dark. This is the real world. And out here, where people aren't paired by the whims of overpaid matchmakers, where they meet in bars and hope for the best, this man isn't his mystery lover.
He's just a man.
A fan.
And he's engaged. And, apparently, a cheater.
Blaine cheated on someone once, so perhaps he's not the best person to judge. But he saw firsthand what cheating can do to someone, how thoroughly it can tear them apart. To this day, he has yet to forgive himself. He swore he'd never put someone, or himself, in that position again.
So that should do it. That should end Blaine's infatuation, kill it stone dead.
But it doesn't.
And that's when Blaine knows he's completely fucked.