Blaine dreaded his second period the next day. He kept fumbling through his notes during the first class, as a torturous pair of glasz orbs kept flooding his vision every time he so much as blinked. His students could tell that something was off, but didn't say anything, as he'd forgotten to assign them homework, and they didn't want to remind him.

The bell of doom signaled both the end of class and Blaine's own personal hell descending upon him. He sat at his desk as boys filed out and different ones filed in, each in identical blue-and-red uniforms. No one broke the dress code today.

Which was why Blaine almost missed him. He'd been staring determinedly at a quiz paper as he waited for class to begin, his hazel eyes flicking up occasionally to search for the axe above his head. Finally he found him, but it was after the boy was already seated; Kurt sat there, right there, nearly within touching distance, staring at him intently with those piercing eyes.

The shrill, unforgivable bell ripped his attention away from the perfection before him and onto the task at hand. "Alright, guys, you know the drill: pull out The Scarlet Letter and your highlighters." Despite the familiarity of the routine, most of the boys still groaned.

Kurt, however, already had his book out, with six different colored highlighters at the ready. He'd reread the short novel the previous night to catch up to where the class was. Much to his delight, they had reached his favorite portion of the story: Arthur Dimmesdale just agreed to flee Boston with Hester Prynne and Pearl, and was returning to the city from their counsel in the woods as he felt a barrage of sinful urges crash over him like never before.

And Kurt was ever-so-please that this discussion would be coming up right after his encounter with Mr. Anderson the day before.

When he saw that the boys were ready, Blaine called out, "Okay, themes?" A few hands shot up, including Kurt's. "Let's see...Trent?"

"Nature," the large boy replied succinctly.

Kurt rolled his eyes at the simplicity of the answer. Blaine noticed the gesture, but purposefully ignored it. "Care to expand for us, Trent?"

"Before Hester removed the A, the woods were all dark and creepy, but when she took it off, the sun shone on her and everything was bright and she looked hot again. It was like nature approved."

Blaine nodded enthusiastically. "Exactly! So what is Hawthorne telling us? Nick?"

The dark-haired boy in the back check the notes he'd made in the margins of his book. "Um...that suppressing natural tendencies and living under the pressure of societal idealism is not good for humans?"

Blaine smirked. "Internet?"

Smiling sheepishly, Nick replied, "Internet."

"Whatever gets you to understand Hawthorne's awesome complexities," Blaine shrugged. "Just remember that you can't use the Internet on the exam. Anyone else?" This time only Kurt raised his hand. Blaine paused for a long moment, not wanting to look at the boy, but it was inevitable. "Yes, Kurt?"

Kurt lowered his hand and smiled intelligently at the teacher. "During his return trip to Boston, Dimmesdale found himself desiring to sin in various ways, including cursing at children and blaspheming in front of church elders. Hawthorne is telling us that allowing ourselves to feel natural—have sex, in Dimmesdale's case—will lead us to give in to more 'sinful' tendencies—and Dimmesdale's uncharacteristic glee concerning these tendencies is a message saying, 'It's okay to give in.'"

Blaine had no idea how to respond to that. He knew exactly what his student was driving at: give in to me. After gawking at Kurt for a conspicuous amount of time, the teacher swallowed hard and nodded. "Interesting interpretation, Kurt. Now, I want all of you to pair up and complete a theme chart for this chapter. Include quotes!"

Unsurprisingly, several students asked to be Kurt's partner, as he was one of the few who seemed to understand the nuances of the novel. The new boy ended up working with Nick, who moved his things to the front to sit beside Kurt. As the students worked, Blaine sat at his desk, grading the theme charts of the period before. A light babble, accented by an occasional barking laugh, blanketed the room, but under that Blaine heard comments most clearly directed at him.

"What's so amazing about this novel, Nick, is Hawthorne's condemnation of the Puritan society from which he was descended. His own great-great-grandfather, or something along those lines, was a Salem judge. It's like Hawthorne understood the repressiveness of such a cloistered society."

"While Hawthorne doesn't necessarily glorify sexual promiscuity, he doesn't condemn it, which is an important point to remember."

"I think if this story were to be written in a modern context, an analogous plot line would be a teacher having sex with a student."

Blaine nearly choked on the sip of coffee he had been taking when he heard that. He gawked at the pair of students in front of his desk. Nick was intently scrawling on his sheet, but Kurt winked at his flustered teacher above his book.

The bell rang, and Blaine could not have been happier. The boys shuffled out, dropping their completed theme charts on the corner of Blaine's desk. Kurt melted into the crowd exiting the classroom, not even sparing a haughty smirk for his teacher.

During the next class period, the same routine played out: quick discussion of themes, partner up, theme charts. As the pairs worked, Blaine read over his second period's work.

When he reached Kurt's paper, he nearly passed out. In the middle of the page, the boy had affixed a hot pink Post-It note with a simple message on it.

Third floor.
Room 3H.
6 sharp.
Come alone.

Blaine stared at the tiny fluorescent square like a train wreck he just couldn't look away from. There, in his hands, he held physical proof of the end of his career—of his life.

He knew what he had to do. He had to shred the tiny piece of paper into tinier pieces of paper and wash them down the drain, permanently erasing all evidence of his one-time—and one-time only—indiscretion. He had so crumple it up and dunk it in his coffee. He had to utterly destroy it, eliminating its entire existence.

So he slipped it in the pocket of his sports coat.

When the final bell rang, Blaine nodded his assent to the boys who wanted to hang out in his room. He had three hours until he had to be in Kurt's dorm room—no, until he had to be as far away from Kurt's dorm room as humanly possible—so he graded his last period's theme charts and a few last-minute essays. That task should have taken him only an hour and a half at most, but the Warblers had already been practicing for over an hour by the time he finished; his wild, erratic thoughts prevented him from focusing on any one topic for too long.

When he scribbled the last B+ on an essay, he glanced at the clock: five-fifteen. All the boys had left the room. His lessons were already planned for the next few days, and he was up-to-date on grading. He should just go home; there was nothing for him here. He could finally start reading that Grisham novel the AP English Literature and Composition professor kept recommending to him, and there was a glass of scotch with his name on it waiting in the cupboard. Or perhaps he could make another valiant attempt at the short story he was writing, despite having already given up on it a good ten or so times. Or maybe he would just retire early and catch up on the sleep he most certainly did not get the night before.

Before he could make up his mind, it was nearly twenty to six. Twenty minutes to get the hell out of dodge. Twenty minutes to prevent the biggest mistake of his young life. Twenty minutes to run.

He stood slowly and slung his bag over his shoulder. He halfheartedly adjusted the haphazard piles of papers on his desk, and then shrugged and took his keys out of his pocket. He switched off all the lights and left his classroom, locking the door behind him.

He knew where he had to go: the teacher's parking lot. That was on the east side of campus. His traitorous feet, however, took him west, toward student dorms. Miraculously, no one spotted him as he exited the main building, crossed a small courtyard, and entered the dormitories. There was no one in the richly decorated but predictably cluttered common room. That's when Blaine remembered the lacrosse game scheduled for six o'clock that night. Dalton boasted one of the best lacrosse teams in the state, so game were school-encompassing events, much like Warbler performances. No one was around to gawk awkwardly at him because they were all in the sports complex behind the school.

Like a zombie, Blaine made his way to the elevator, pressing the button for the third floor. The entire ride up, an alarmingly loud voice in his head kept yelling, "NO NO NO NO NO!" He almost listened to it and rode the elevator back down to the ground level, but a tinier, malicious voice sneered, "You know you want this."

Then the metal doors slid open and Blaine was ghosting forward, magically finding himself in front of Room 3H. He lifted a shaking hand to knock twice on the wood. Not three seconds later, it creaked open, and the person on the other side made Blaine gasp.

Kurt was dressed from head to toe in black leather. His pants clung to his mile-long legs like a second skin. A tight tank top did nothing to shield his rippling muscles. His form-fitting jacket, ripped in all the right places, hid his delectable arms. Kurt's hair had been irresistibly mussed, no longer coiffed to perfection. The only unsurprising aspect of Kurt's appearance was the smirk that lit up his haughty face.

"Mr. Anderson!" he exclaimed lightly, feigning surprise at his teacher's presence. "How lovely for you to stop by! Please, come in." Then, without warning, Kurt grabbed Blaine by the buttons of his shirt and dragged him into the room, crashing their lips together and kicking the door shut behind them. After a passionate moment, he shoved the teacher away, locking the door with an even wider smirk. "So, how do you want to do this?"

Blaine looked confused. "How do I...what?"

Kurt rolled his eyes. "Do you want to top or bottom? Personally, I like to top, but..." He slunk closer to Blaine, teasingly walking his fingers up and down Blaine's shuddering throat. "...something tells me that there's an animal in there just waiting to let loose and take control."

It was almost as if Kurt's verbal recognition of this part of Blaine brought it to life. With a feral growl, the older man seized the younger by the straps of his tank top and threw him onto the bed. He then climbed on top, immediately grinding his half-hard cock into Kurt's own.

Kurt groaned. "Fuck yes. Let go, Blaine. Control me."

Blaine ripped the leather jacket from Kurt's shoulders, not even trying to be tender. He ran his hand along the smooth porcelain skin of Kurt's bare arms, and then bit down animally on the crook of his neck. "That's Mr. Anderson to you, Kurt," he snarled. He hands twisted in the hem of Kurt's leather tank top and yanked it upward, breaking contact with the boy's skin only momentarily. He threw the garment across the room, not even caring where it landed. Then he sat back, admiring the way Kurt was stretched out before him, eyes wide and dark with unmistakable lust.

Blaine slid of the bed and crossed over to the bureau, ignoring Kurt's whines of protest. He threw open drawers, rifling through their contents, until at last he found what he was looking for. When he turned back to face Kurt, he held four ties in his hands. Two were Dalton-issued blue-and-red striped, one was black, and one was hot pink. He made his way back to Kurt, and used the two Dalton ties to bind the boy's hands to the top two posters of the bed. Then, straddling Kurt's legs, he slowly unlatched his impossibly tight leather pants and stripped them off of the boy. He groaned when he discovered that Kurt was not wearing boxers.

Kurt gasped at the relief of the pressure that the constricting leather had put on his achingly hard cock. When his pants were fully removed, he stretched his legs, allowing his teacher to fasten the remaining ties to his ankles, which he then wrapped around the posts at the foot of the bed. Unable to use his hands, he whimpered at the lack of contact. "Mr. Anderson," he seethed. "Touch me."

Blaine smirked. "Not yet." He sat back on his haunches, his fingers beginning to unbutton his shirt—his sports coat already laying forgotten on the floor—one agonizing button at a time. "Do you know what you did to me? How long of a cold shower I took when I got home? The number of tissues I went through last night? The thoughts that raced through my mind all day? No, I'm going to make you suffer, just like you made me suffer all day." By the time he finished, his shirt was open, and in the next moment, discarded on the floor. Kurt moaned piteously, desperate to run his fingers through the thick trail of dark hair that started below the waistband of his jeans and crawled upward. He jerked against his ties momentarily, growling at the self-satisfied smirk that grew on Blaine's face.

Blaine bent down, careful not to touch Kurt's throbbing member, and whispered roughly into the boy's ear, "I'm going to fuck you so hard that you'll crawl into class tomorrow." Then he leaned back and whipped his belt out of the loops, clawing at his own zipper until his jeans were off. "Condom," he barked out, slipping out of his boxers.

Temporarily distracted by the utter hardness of Blaine's cock, Kurt nodded. "Nightstand." Blaine reached over, purposefully brushing Kurt's cock with his own, and opened the drawer of the bedside table, pulling out a condom and a bottle of lube. He drizzled some of the cold liquid onto his fingers. Not bothering to warm it up, he pressed the tip of his finger to Kurt's puckered entrance, eliciting a keening whine from the boy. "You want this?" he murmured, increasing the pressure on the skin there. When Kurt nodded, he slid his finger in to the knuckle. Kurt's tight heat surrounded was fucking unbelievable. Kurt groaned obscenely, and the sound prompted Blaine to pull his finger out and shove it back in, the middle one beside it. He scissored his fingers, stretching Kurt wide and grinning at the moans that ripped from the boy's throat. Another finger, and Kurt was ready. Blaine tore into the condom like an animal, quickly covering his painfully hard member, and slicked it up with cold lube, hissing softly at the temperature change.

Then, with an evil smirk, Blaine covered Kurt's body with his own. He exerted just enough pressure onto the boy below him to cause him to thrash, but not enough to offer any kind of relief. His head twisted down to suck a deep, thick bruise on the underside of Kurt's chin. Then with no warning, he jerked his hips back and slammed them into Kurt. The younger boy screamed with pain and pleasure, his legs fighting the ties to wrap around Blaine's waist.

Blaine bottomed out and held himself there, fully sheathed in Kurt's heat. He locked eyes with the boy below him, and the fire there nearly sent him over the edge. Steadying his hands on either side of Kurt's shoulders, Blaine pulled out almost all the way before jerking forward again. "Fuck, Blaine," Kurt groaned, his eyes rolling back into his head. "I need you to touch me."

Biting down on Kurt's ear, Blaine growled, "No. You're going to come from my dick and my dick only." Then he began fucking into Kurt as hard as he could, slamming into him again and again until he finally found the little nub of pleasure that caused Kurt's back to arch off of the tangled sheets and a keen to ring out from his debauched mouth.

The painful coil of heat right below his navel was killing him. Blaine could feel himself about to come, and he used the energy to slam hard one more time into Kurt's prostate. With a positively filthy moan, Kurt came in long spurts between their chests. The clenching of Kurt's muscles around his shuddering dick sent Blaine over the edge, and he collapsed on top of Kurt.

For a long while, they panted together wordlessly, exchanging a groan-inducing kiss when the heat cropped back up. Blaine felt his cock trying to harden again, so he rolled off of Kurt and spread out on his back, still trying to catch his breath.

"Well," Kurt finally breathed. "That was fun."

And then it hit him. I just had actual, penetrative sex with a student. Blaine leapt off of the bed and began to scramble for his clothes, wincing when he had to retrieve his boxers from atop Kurt's math homework. He dressed as carefully as he could while moving at mach two, because if he left the students' dormitories looking like he'd just had sex, he'd be done for.

The whole time he rearranged his clothes, he was babbling. "Oh my God, oh my God, I'm so sorry, Kurt, I just—I can't—dear Jesus, you're a student, and I'm your teacher, and this is eight different kinds of illegal, and I could be fucking arrested for this, forget my job—and you! You're just a kid—"

"I'm seventeen," Kurt interjected lazily.

But Blaine wasn't listening. "This damn shirt—but we can't—this never happened, okay? Never happened. We never had sex, you never—dear God—you never blew me, and we aren't anything more than two people who occupy the same room for an hour a day. That's it. Oh God, I have to go." He snatched his bag from the floor and made to bolt.

"WAIT!" Blaine froze, and slowly turned to face Kurt. The boy's face was hard and unfeeling, though his eyes betrayed his true emotions: fear and pain. "I'm still tied up."

Blaine's own eyes blew wide, and for a moment he didn't move. Then he rushed back over to Kurt and made quick work of the knots that bound him to the bed posts. After untying each one, he rubbed his fingers gently over the angry red marks there. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I don't know what happened. I'm sorry. It'll never happen again."

"What if I want it to?" Blaine looked up at Kurt, startled. The broken eyes now blazed with a stubborn fire. "What if I don't want you to just disappear, for us to go back to 'two people who occupy the same room for an hour a day'? What if I want you?"

No no no no no. "Kurt—what—?"

Kurt's hands flew to the back of Blaine's neck and pulled him down for a searing kiss. For a moment, things made sense.

Until Blaine ripped his face away and mumbled, "I can't, I'm sorry," before rushing out of the rooming, leaving a confused and hurt seventeen-year-old in his wake.