Blaine Anderson was the most popular teacher at Dalton Academy.

This was a relatively well-known fact among the student body and faculty of the all-boys school, and it was fairly well-deserved. Mr. Anderson was the youngest teacher at the school at twenty-five; Madame Deschanel, the French teacher, was three years his senior. He himself called Dalton his alma mater, and was a Warbler to boot—everyone knew that the Warblers were like rock stars at that school. His subject, Advanced Placement English Language and Composition, was by no means thrilling to the vast majority of the juniors he instructed, but his age and his passion for English allowed him to connect to his students and thus keep the class average at a promising B minus.

Because of his popularity, Mr. Anderson quickly and easily became the go-to teacher when students needed a guiding hand or homework assistance or help getting out of a sticky situation. He even acted as faculty advisor to the Warblers, though he respected tradition and allowed the group to run itself, stepping in only when major crises arose, or when the council needed a signature. He took the responsibilities of these roles quite seriously, but also with great pride. He never turned away a boy who asked for help, and he never pushed the student-teacher boundary.

Until Kurt Hummel showed up.

Kurt Hummel walked into Blaine's second period AP Lang class three minutes late on the first day of the second quarter. He scanned the already seated students for something and then turned away, decidedly disinterested.

Until he saw Blaine Anderson.

That man was utterly fine. His overly gelled hair had been slicked back, and his hazel eyes danced as he copied something onto the chalkboard behind his desk at the front. He wore an honest-to-God three-piece suit, bowtie and all—and it fit him perfectly.

Licking his lips slightly, Kurt approached the desk, holding a slip out before him. "Excuse me, Mr. Anderson?"

Blaine froze in the middle of transcribing a passage from The Scarlet Letter. The voice that had just sounded from behind him clearly came from an angel, of that he was sure; what other creature could speak so lightly, as though it possessed bells instead of vocal chords?

Blaine turned to greet the speaker, and was astonished to find not an angel, but what could only be an agent of the devil. Pure black skinny jeans hugged every line of his ankles, calves, knees, and thighs, but barely his hips. The plain white long-sleeved tee he wore clung to his supple body just as tightly, his biceps fighting to break free of the constriction. Blaine just knew that incredible muscles hid evilly beneath that burgundy vest. As the demon's arm raised the slip of paper, it lifted the hem of the shirt, revealing porcelain skin and a peek at the waistband of Calvin Klein boxers.

Swallowing back desire and lust and thoroughly inappropriate thoughts, Blaine asked, "May I help you?"

Kurt smiled as he watched a thousand emotions rage in those honey orbs: want, denial, disbelief, confusion, need, panic, fear. "Yes. I'm the new transfer student? Kurt Hummel, sir. I'm sorry I'm not in uniform; I'm still getting acclimated to my dorm."

The boy was completely polite, but something about him threw Blaine off. Maybe it was the smile; those red lips smirked as if they knew exactly what that body was doing to the teacher.

"Ah, yes. Kurt." Speaking the name sent chills down Blaine's already shaky spine. He gently tugged the paper from Kurt's delicate hand. "Welcome to Dalton then, Kurt. You can sit..." He turned to face the class, suddenly remembering that he and the alabaster beauty were not the only two in the classroom; twenty other teenagers watched him from their seats, some bored, some amused, some intrigued by the new kid in their midst. With a silent groan, Blaine realized that the only open seat stood directly in front of his desk: first row, center column.

Blaine didn't have to delegate this place to Kurt, for the teenager figured out the situation on his own. "I'll sit there, Mr. Anderson," he said easily, readjusting the satchel hanging from his shoulder.

As he watched his new student walk away, Blaine could have sworn he saw him wink.

Kurt settled into his seat as Blaine resumed his work at the board. He removed a few sheets of paper and a pen from his satchel and laid them upon his desk. Then he laced his long, slender fingers together and watched Blaine's impressive ass shake and stretch as it moved.

Finally, Blaine finished and addressed the class. "Okay, boys, pull out your close reading of the last chapter." The boys groaned in unison, reaching into their bags and binders to pull out the thin paperbacks. Predictably, Kurt did not follow suit, but raised his hand to catch his teacher's attention.

As though he didn't already have it.

"Yes, Mr. Hummel?"

The smirk returned; Kurt rather enjoyed being addressed so formally. "I'm sorry, sir, but I haven't a copy of the novel. Could you lend me one?"

Kurt's nineteenth-century British diction caught Blaine off-guard. "Uh, sure, yeah, uh, here, take mine." He reached down and grabbed his book from his desk, tossing it gently to Kurt, who caught it lithely. "Have you read The Scarlet Letter yet, Kurt?"

The boy nodded enthusiastically. "Oh yes. I read it some time ago, and several times since. I truly appreciate Hawthorne's emphasis on the natural, human urges the body has, and the sensuality of just giving in."

Blaine positively throbbed as Kurt spoke with such raw passion. As he did so, the student twirled his pen between his ungodly digits, and Blaine couldn't help but wonder what else those fingers were good for.

"Excellent," Blaine choked, remembering himself after a moment. "Well you should have no trouble following along, then."

The rest of the lesson passed with relative ease. Blaine's stuttering died down as he learned to look anywhere but at Kurt, and Kurt decided that Mr. Anderson was by far the hottest man he'd ever seen.

When the bell rang, everyone was relieved—none more so than Blaine—except for Kurt, who was rather disappointed to have to move on to Advanced Placement Chemistry. He allowed his classmates to rush out before approaching the teacher's desk. "Mr. Anderson?"

Blaine looked up, nervous once more. "Yes, Kurt?"

Kurt smiled brightly. "I was wondering if I could schedule a conference with you for sometime this week? I'd like to get caught up on the work pertaining to The Scarlet Letter so I can better participate in class discussions."

If he wasn't so distracted by the way Kurt's blue-gray eyes flashed as he spoke, Blaine would have been impressed by Kurt's propriety and maturity. Blaine knew that he should say no; the last thing he needed was one-on-one time with the magnificent creature before him. That knowledge led him to imagine the two of them one-on-one, and he couldn't say yes.

But Blaine Anderson never turned away a student who needed help.

"Sure," Blaine squeaked, quickly coughing to hide his embarrassment. "When would be convenient for you?"

Kurt's smile widened. "Well, sooner would be better...does today work for you?"

Blaine's heart absolutely stopped beating.

Today.

Him.

Kurt.

Alone.

This was bad. Bad, bad, bad, bad, bad.

He should say no. Invent a meeting. Fake an illness. Remember a phony appointment.

But never say yes.

"Sounds great."

Kurt was thrilled—far more thrilled than a student should be about a conference with a teacher, Blaine thought. With a clap of his hands, Kurt said, "Fantastic! I'll come after school!" He waved goodbye and sauntered—sauntered!—from the room.

Blaine groaned and permitted his forehead to slam upon the desk, trying not to hear the double meaning of Kurt's last sentence.

He was so royally screwed.

The final bell released the students at three o'clock. A few of Blaine's last-period kids asked if they could stay in his room to hang for a while. Normally, he'd have said yes, for it was a fairly common occurrence for a gathering of boys to congregate in his room and help each other with homework or discuss sports or girls for a bit, especially before Warblers practice at four-thirty. However, due to his idiotic consent to a meeting with Kurt, he had to decline. He felt terribly guilty at turning the boys away; he didn't do it often.

Fifteen minutes after the bell, a soft knock sounded at the door, which promptly opened. Kurt's head peeked into the room and, seeing that it was devoid of other teenagers, broke out into a huge grin. "Good afternoon, Mr. Anderson." He danced fully into the room, quietly shutting the door behind him. When he was sure the teacher wasn't looking, he locked it with a near-silent click.

Blaine looked up from an essay. "Hello, Kurt." He tried not to let his eyes trail down those never-ending legs or linger on that pronounced collarbone, but they seemed to have a mind of their own. "This shouldn't take too long. The new quarter just began, after all, and—what are you doing?"

As Blaine had been speaking, Kurt slowly moved closer until he perched on the edge of the desk near Blaine, facing the chalkboard. "Nothing." His smooth, delicate fingers traced the back of Blaine's hand lightly. "Go on."

Blaine lost himself in the unbelievable feel of Kurt—but only for a moment. He yanked his hand away. "Mr. Hummel, what do you think you're doing?"

Smirking once more, Kurt bent down to whisper in Blaine's ear. "Hopefully you."

Blaine leapt up from his seat. "No way, Kurt. You...are a student. A minor! I'm your teacher—your adult teacher. This is illegal."

"So?" Kurt stepped forward slowly, much as a predator stalks its prey. He backed Blaine into a corner—not the corner by the door, the teacher noted with mixed horror and pleasure. "I see how much you want me," Kurt continued, his hands fiddling with Blaine's hot pink bowtie. "I can see your eyes fighting to not look at me—at my body." With that word, Kurt pressed every inch of himself against Blaine, eliciting a choked groan from the man. "Just let go, Mr. Anderson. Follow Hawthorne's lessons. Our animalistic, sinful tendencies are natural. Give in to them."

Before Blaine could protest further, Kurt dropped to his knees, making short work of Blaine's belt buckle and zipper. In a flash, Blaine's trousers had pooled around his ankles, and Kurt pulled Blaine's rock hard cock from his boxers. "See?" he murmured against the pulsating member, the vibrations of the words rocking Blaine's entire body. "You know what you want. Don't let society get in the way. Let me take care of you."

Then he swallowed Blaine whole.

Blaine threw his head back, slamming into the wall. He groaned as Kurt's tongue undulated around his cock, the wet heat of the boy's mouth destroying every last inch of resistance left. The tip of Kurt's tongue tickled the tip of Blaine's cock, and the teacher's hips bucked, slamming into Kurt's throat. Kurt didn't even gag. He merely hollowed out his cheeks and sucked as though the cock was releasing pure oxygen.

Blaine wailed in ecstasy, his eyes screwed shut and his hands weaving through Kurt's unbearably sexy hair. The things that boy could do with his mouth astonished Blaine. He'd received some memorable blow jobs in his life, but none like Kurt's. He could feel the hot, tight coil below his navel, and he tugged Kurt's hair as gently as he could in warning.

But Kurt knew all too well what was about to happen, and encouraged it. He pressed his tongue to the vein running along the underside of Blaine's cock. He smiled at the gasp that followed. He continued to suck Blaine harder then he'd ever sucked before, only now he reached a hand up to stroke the teacher's balls, laughing as Blaine's whole body shook.

That did it. The feeling of Kurt's laughter around his cock pushed Blaine over the edge. He came fast and hard into Kurt's mouth and Kurt swallowed every last drop.

Kurt cleaned his face and tucked Blaine gently back into his boxers. Tugging Blaine's pants back up, he redressed the speechless, breathless teacher. When he had finished his ministrations, he stood and placed his mouth next to Blaine's ear. "You know what, Mr. Anderson?" he breathed. "I think I'm all caught up." He pressed his lips against Blaine's briefly, and then whipped around, ass swinging as he danced to the door. As he picked up his discarded satchel and unlocked the door, he called over his shoulder, "See you tomorrow, sir!"

Then he was gone.

Blaine sunk to the floor, head falling into his hands. What had he done? He'd allowed a student, an underaged student, to give him a blow job. He'd essentially had sex with someone very much off-limits.

He was a felon.

So why did thought of his entire future going up in flames inexplicably turn him on?

Kurt. That damn boy and his damn body and his damn words and his damn hands and his damn tongue. It was all his fault. How was Blaine supposed to refuse that? How was anyone?

See you tomorrow, sir. Oh God, how could he expect to teach the next day when the curse of his existence sat less than ten feet away, smirking and winking and twirling that damn pen in his fingers?

Blaine Anderson was the most screwed teacher at Dalton Academy.