“How many thorns do you think these roses have, pet? Ten? A dozen a piece?” Kurt pulls on the ropes of Blaine’s harness. He just gives it a gentle tug, but that’s enough to dig the thorns on the stems stuck beneath into the bare skin of Blaine’s chest.

“I don't know, Sir,” Blaine manages through teeth clenched tight. He feels mainly pressure, very little in the way of sting.

“Hmm …” Kurt grabs the ropes crossed between Blaine’s shoulder blades and pulls harder, until the thorns over Blaine’s pecs and sternum drive in. Blaine pinches his lips together, groan stifled. “Well, think harder, pet? How many does it feel like to you?” Kurt twists and the stems bend, some till they snap, their thorns pricking Blaine till he bleeds.

“Uh … ah … a-at least a dozen, S-Sir.” Blaine pulls his shoulders back a hair and sucks in a breath, but not to escape the thorns.

To give Kurt more room to pull the ropes tighter.

Kurt sees.

He sees and he smiles at his little pain slut, at the enjoyment that Blaine thinks he’s hiding.

Blaine may be an exceptional actor, but this stage belongs to Kurt, and Kurt knows most of his tricks by now.

“Well, I'll count them out then, pet,” Kurt says, twisting the ropes again slowly, “and when we get a total, we’ll multiply it by twelve, one for each rose, and that's how many times you'll fuck your special chair.”

Blaine swallows, shallowly in the hopes that Kurt won’t notice. He didn’t think that Kurt caught that subtle inhale, or his shoulders slide back.

But Blaine should have known better. Kurt has a way of seeing everything.

Blaine runs his fingertips over the velvety petals of this new bouquet of long-stemmed roses - a gift from Kurt, delivered to Blaine’s school while Kurt’s away. Blood red roses, always blood red roses. They’re a symbol of more than just the passionate love they share. They represent the things that bind Kurt and Blaine together on both an intellectual and primitive level. Red is the color of seduction, violence, danger, and adventure. It’s a color that represents Blaine’s anxious energy, but also Kurt’s obsessive energy. Red is the color of strength and power.

It’s also the color of sin. 

The thorns on these roses are thicker than those others had been. Blaine’s a disaster at keeping flowers alive. They probably won’t last. These stems will more than likely be brittle by the time Kurt comes home.

An opportunity missed.

Blaine glances over at his “special chair”. It’s just a plain wood chair, used in all sorts of ways for different kinds of scenes, but for that scene in particular, Kurt had attached one of his large, suction cup dildos to it. He’d ordered Blaine to sit on it, and made Blaine fuck it.

Because when Blaine misbehaves, that’s the only cock up his ass he deserves.

Kurt didn’t let him cum, but that was one of Blaine’s first official punishments at the loft. Shame wouldn’t have let him cum if he’d wanted to.

Kurt locked up their dildos and vibrators when he left, but even if he hadn’t, Blaine wouldn’t have permission to use the chair on his own anyway.

And that poses a bit of a problem.

The card on the roses says, “Re-create, pet, but be creative. I love you.”

It’s a task, and Blaine has to complete it.

Complete it alone.

He starts with something easy, something familiar - the ritual of undressing. His clothes get removed in a certain order, so programmed in his brain by now that he’d actually have to concentrate to do it any other way. He methodically puts the pieces of his ensemble away, folding each item carefully and placing it in the hamper for inspection when Kurt returns home. No underwear though. Kurt took all of Blaine’s underwear with him when he left. Sometimes Blaine wonders exactly what Kurt is doing with his underwear.

Did he stuff it in a drawer and forget about it?

Does he look at it from time to time?

Does he touch it and think about Blaine?

It’s difficult to tie the harness by himself. He hasn’t gotten adept at it yet. It requires him to contort his arms almost completely behind his back. He knows there are other methods, easier methods. There are videos online that will show him how to do it if he needs them, but this has always been the way with him – strain and struggle, struggle and strain. Not because he likes to make things difficult on himself. He’s a little stressed and having trouble thinking of another way.

It’s easier to think when Kurt’s around.

Blaine manages the harness, carrying it down his hips and anchoring it to his thighs. It takes him a few times to get it as tight as he wants it, and even then it falls short, but it’s still a decent harness – one he thinks would make Kurt proud. He’s not quite the Shibari expert Kurt is, but Blaine’s practicing. Learning. He’ll take pictures of it, as well as the aftermath. Kurt has a digital SLR and a tripod set up to document their sessions. Blaine will take stark, violent pictures, and soft, diffused pictures. He’ll take pictures that Kurt can put on their blog, with his face turned away from the camera.

He’ll take pictures for Kurt’s personal use, staring into the lens, his eyes filled with the truth of his love, his devotion, and his mild distress at being alone.

One by one, he slides the roses underneath the ropes. He’s only careful not to break the stems; he couldn’t care less what the thorns do to his skin. He picks the areas where the ropes are tied tight and where the skin is most sensitive. There are a dozen roses in all – enough to cover a fair amount of Blaine’s torso, his upper arms, and his thighs. He sticks one in the ropes crisscrossing his abs, the end of the stem positioned over his cock. With the cage on, Blaine can’t feel the thorns there, but in that delicate skin where Kurt keeps Blaine’s happy trail waxed, they leave scratches, and marks almost like teeth.

Now that he’s trussed up, he doesn’t know what to do. What’s the next step? Be creative the card said. How? And how creative does Kurt want him to be? He can’t rig himself to the ceiling. He hasn’t gotten anywhere near that far yet.

He has to think of something, but he’s stymied.

He finds himself in a corner – literally. In his corner – the corner where Kurt sends him when he’s had a bad day, the corner where he goes and kneels when he needs to think, focus, or reflect. He drops to his knees, the shift in muscles and the pull of the rope moving the stems, driving the thorns into new places. But before long, he’s dropping further, lying on the cold floor and rolling into the fetal position. He pulls his knees up to his chest and hugs himself, the way he would hug Kurt if Kurt were there.

But the thorns burying themselves into his skin with no one there to count them remind Blaine that he’s not. He’s alone, and he’ll fall asleep alone, on his bed of thorns.