You watch smugly as Blaine lifts a hand to his head, brushing his unruly curls back for the fourth time in a minute. He huffs quietly as they simply flop back into their previous position almost immediately, and you rub his knee soothingly under the desk. He shoots you a pout, and you so badlywant to take that lower lip into your mouth, suck on it, nibble it, but you don't think that would go down too well with the rest of your history class, so you just settle for giving his knee a squeeze.

You look back at your notes, trying to take in what the teacher's saying about some revolution somewhere, but then Blaine shifts under where your hand is still resting on his leg, tucking his chair in further so he's closer to the desk. To the innocent observer, it just looks like he's trying to get into the optimum note-taking position, but they can't see where your hand is. You feel your face begin to redden as you take in quite how inappropriately high your hand is now resting on his thigh, but then you're just lost in appreciating quite how tight those jeans you bought him last week are, and how his perfectly toned legs are practically busting out of them. The heat you can feel emanating so close to your hand is like a magnet to it, and you find your fingers wandering upwards entirely of their own accord.

They're about to strike gold when Blaine lets out another very-annoyed sounding huff. You freeze in surprise, looking up like a startled animal. You relax as soon as you see that he's just failing to tame his hair again, and are about to continue your little journey of discovery when he suddenly puts up his hand and requests to go to the toilet, his voice slightly rougher than usual. You smirk. Perhaps your wanderings had gotten to him more than you'd suspected. You sit there commending yourself on how quickly you got him flustered, but a sudden thought hits you and the smile drips off your face like an ice-cold slushy. You think back to what he said this morning about gelling his hair in the bathrooms in the middle of the day. He wouldn't dare … would he?

As soon as the lesson's over you're up out of your seat, determined to find him and see if your suspicions were correct. The first place you look is in the bathrooms, but he's not there. You scour the corridors, slightly offended that he's not waiting for you by your locker to walk you into lunch. You come to the conclusion that he's avoiding you, so he must have been a bad boy. A very bad boy indeed. You chew on your salad, mulling over various punishment ideas – some tame ones, like not touching him for a week or baking cookies and not giving him any, but then some not-so-tame ones which you try very hard not to focus on too much, or you'll have to make a quick bathroom visit, and without Blaine to help you out, that'd just be embarrassing.

You get up to put your rubbish in the bin, missing the warm presence which is usually glued to your side. You sigh as you turn around, managing to bump straight into someone. You both hurry to apologise before you look up and lock eyes. Your glasz eyes bore in to honey gold and you think you melt a little bit. "Hey, baby," you murmur, pulling him into a hug, "I missed you." He nuzzles into your neck, letting out those little kittenish noises that he knows dive you wild. You gasp a little, just breathing in his scent … and the distinctly chemical smell of his hair gel.

You pull back abruptly, glaring. "Oh, you did not. Oh, you did not!" And you try ridiculously hard to make it look like his little sheepish grin has no effect on you at all. "I don't believe you!" and the way his eyes fall makes you want to do something, anything just to make him smile again, but you know that's pathetic. You also know that you have a very fun punishment planned for him, so it gives you the strength you need to hold off. You grab his wrist, dragging him out of the cafeteria and down the corridor, checking through the windows of the classrooms to see if they're deserted. You find one, pull him and lock the door behind you. "Right," you growl, and you see his breathing hitch at the tone of your voice. "Pants down," you order, and he lets out a little whimper.
"But, Kurt! Anyone could see through the window!"
"You'd better hurry up then, hadn't you? And what have I told you about whining?" you allow yourself a smirk of satisfaction as he gets to work on his zipper and struggles to get it over his impressively swelling hard-on. He squirms, biting back a moan as he pulls his jeans down to mid-thigh and looks up at you, his eyes darkening over as you bite your lip. "Well, Blaine, you know you've been a bad boy, don't you?" and your voice is sugary sweet, but the slight quirk of his eyebrows means that he can sense the dangerous undertone to it.
"Y-yes," he stutters out.
"What did you do that was bad, Blaine? Tell me."
"I-I disobeyed you. I gelled my hair. Sorry?" and he says it like a question.
"Oh, no, Blaine – you're not getting out of it that easily." And his audible gulp makes you lose control enough to smile before your façade snaps back into place.

"Now, Blaine, I want you to wipe that disgusting gel out of your hair with your hands so it looks all loose and sexy again. Can you do that for me?" and he just nods mutely, running his hands through his gelled-solid locks, slowly working it free from its prison. "Good boy," you croon, and he hums at the praise. It takes a while, but then it's free, and his hands are full of gloopy gel. He looks up at you, at a loss at what to do. You just smile and your voice drops another octave. "Now," and he shivers in anticipation, "I want you to finger yourself for me, Blaine."

His mouth drops open in surprise, his eyes wide. You simply raise a perfectly sculpted eyebrow and gesture him to get on with it. "And I would shut your mouth if I were you … or I might have to shove something in it," you threaten, and he genuinely looks torn between closing it and leaving it open. "But no, I don't think you deserve that privilege, do you, Blaine?" he just blinks in response, slowly moving one of his hands to the small of his back. Slowly dipping one finger below the waistband of his boxers, he gasps and pulls back.
"S'cold," he whimpers, but he sees from the unimpressed look on your face that that's not going to get him out of it. And, to be honest, you don't think he really wants to get out of it anymore. His whole hand disappears below his waistband this time, and you know when he pushes in from the hiss he lets out, and from the familiar way in which his little nose screws up against the burn, but you're sure the copious amounts of, ahem,lubricant, makes it easier.

You go to him then, stroking his shoulder softly and murmuring encouragements into his ear. He starts working his digit in and out, slowly at first, but speeding up in time to his panting. "Another one," you order, and you love the way he squirms under your gaze, bucking his hips erratically. "Another one,"and this time it's a full on growl, because damn he looks hot. He gasps at the stretch, then lets out a wanton moan as you whisper "Deeper," as dirtily as you can into his ear.

The strangled gasp-groan hybrid he chokes out lets you know when he hits his prostate, and the way his hips jerk in time to his thrusts has you gawping at him through a haze of lust. You can tell he's getting close, and it would only take a couple of strokes to push him over the edge. "Come on, baby," you coo, stilling his wrist by grabbing onto it, "that's enough." He whimpers at the loss as you pull him out and looks up at you from under dark lashes with pleading eyes.
"Please … I want …"
"What do you want baby? Do you want my thick cock filling you up? Thrusting into you so hard you won't be able to walk for a week? Is that what you want? Do you want me to make you come so hard you see stars?"
"Yes yes yes," and he's writhing in your grip now, desperately trying to rut against your leg.
"Well then," you say, reaching down, "That's why this is your punishment, because you can't always get what you want." And you're yanking his jeans back up, tucking him back in as gently as you can and letting out a little chuckle at how strained the zipper is over his raging erection. He lets out a little choking sound of disbelief as you turn to unlock the door of the room. You look at him over your shoulder, highly satisfied by the sight of him, flushed and panting, his hands covered in gel and his jeans looking uncomfortably tight. You feel a something stirring in your belly at the thought that you did that, you made him this wrecked.

"Have you learnt your lesson, Blaine?"
"Yes yes never gonna wear gel again, now please-" but you cut off his breathless rambling.
"Good. I'll see you later," and with that you saunter out without a backwards glance. You smile to yourself as you make your way to the toilets – that was a good punishment, but there was one major flaw – now your own jeans are getting uncomfortably tight, and you can't exactly ask Blaine to help you out with that. So you've been reduced to jerking off in the bathrooms after all. You sigh as you lock the stall door behind you. Well, at least you've got enough mental images to make it a quick one.