It's more than a little difficult to look Kurt in the eyes the next morning, especially since, on top of harboring the taboo memory of Kurt's smiling face weaving in at a critical point during Blaine's earth-shaking, mind-bending, toe-curling orgasm, he's also trying to hide a rather pronounced limp. If it was only his ass that was bothering him, he'd be able to mask it better. Years of dancing, fencing, and boxing taught him how to handle sore glutes long before he ever discovered his kink for rough sex. But everything from his shoulders to his hips to his ass, his thighs and his knees, even his wrists and his ankles, are stiff as a frickin' board, his muscles apparently deciding at this inopportune time to prove what happens when you give up twice weekly racquetball league and forgo the morning jog.

Before Blaine left his apartment, he tried Tylenol, Advil, Icy Hot, a gel pack, a hot shower, a scalding hot shower, then a cold one, but nothing he did would loosen up the muscles, or make the soreness any better. He considered not going to The Hot Shot this morning, but while riding the subway - standing up and holding a pole since sitting on the hard seat, being jarred left and right with the movement of the speeding train, was killing him – thinking about blowing by Kurt's stop and heading straight for NYADA, Blaine realized that he'd rather tell Kurt straight to his face that he spent last night being fucked in the ass by a machine he bought online than to miss one day seeing him.

Blaine gets a decent head start when he leaves his apartment, the various and numerous treatments he experimented with making him limber enough to walk to the subway with relative ease. Climbing the steps from the underground platform and walking to the coffee shop, however, becomes agonizing. Getting there and seeing the line of customers reaching the door (bending to the right so the employees don't have to prop it open and let in the cold) is almost enough to make Blaine burst into rather unmanly tears.

Mrs. Filch sees him approach on her way out, and holds the door open for him, waiting patiently as he shuffles in.

“Are you alright, dear?” she asks, eying Blaine curiously as he hobbles left-right, left-right, left-right, like a penguin,

“I am,” he says, forcing a smile. “Thank you for asking.”

She takes a hold of his coat sleeve and stops him before he gets on line. She looks both ways, then leans in when she's convinced herself no one's listening.

“If it's the hemorrhoids, make sure you get your hands on plenty of bran,” she says. “My cousin” – she lowers her voice – “he's a gay, and he tells me you boys get those a lot.”

“Oh,” Blaine says in surprise. “Okay…”

“And make sure you get one of those donut-shaped pillows. They sell them down at the drugstore, down at Duane Reade's. It will save…your…life.” She says it with a determined face and hand gestures to match, and Blaine, already redder in the face than a scarlet macaw, knowing he's going to have to see Kurt and talk to him, nods aghast, with nothing more intelligent he can think of to say than, “Thank you. I'll keep that in mind.”

She nods, a satisfied grin lifting her thin, pink lips. She pats him kindly on the shoulder and heads down the street, leaving a thunderstruck Blaine to fall in line and join the queue.

Step by step, Blaine inches forward, wishing to God that it was socially acceptable for him to lie down on his stomach while waiting in a public place. Didn't Kurt mention that he put his email address up on his website so customers could send him suggestions?

Cots. Or hammocks. Either one will work for Blaine.

“Two soy lattes and a chocolate chip croissant…”

Shuffle step…ugh.

“A double decaf triple hot with a twist of lime…really? You come into my house and order that?”

Shuffle step…ugh.

“A steamed milk with a pump of caramel, a non-fat mocha, and a bacon, egg, and cheese Panini…and okay, where did you get that sweater? Rue-La-La? And it's reclaimed, right? I thought so! I…thought…so! That is so in right now…”

Shuffle step…uuugggghhhh.

“Hey, Blaine,” Kurt chirps when Blaine makes his way to the counter, wincing with every shuffle step, and dragging his right foot as if it's asleep. “Here's your medium…oh, hey, are you okay?” Kurt tilts his head, examining Blaine's face from a safe distance. “Are you running a fever? You look a little…flushed.”

“Uh, do I?” Blaine asks, pulling up the collar of his coat and hiding his burning cheeks behind it.

“God, yes. And…I think…are you limping?” Kurt asks, sounding concerned. “Oh, don't tell me you're catching that flu that's been going around. I bet you're aching all over.” Blaine sputters a cough at Kurt's astute assessment, ducking deeper into his collar so his cheeks don't burst into flames. Kurt leans over the counter to peer into Blaine's eyes, every-shifting, terrified they'll lock on to Kurt's and he'll somehow divine the truth. It's got to be in there somewhere, windows to the soul and all that. Blaine's mother always said that he has extremely expressive eyes, and that any amateur con artist would be able to mark him in a second. Yes, it has to be there, somewhere in the freckles on the left of his iris – last night, I was masturbating, and your face popped into my head. “Yup,” Kurt announces, and Blaine catches his breath, “your eyes do look a bit blood shot.”

“Oh,” Blaine says, starting to relax. He takes a good look at Kurt's eyes, a better look than he's ever gotten, and finds himself staring into the most mesmerizing blue-grey eyes he's ever seen. Blaine's seen his fair share of blue eyes, but he doesn't remember seeing another human being with eyes like Kurt's. And they're natural, not contacts. Blaine hangs all day with actors and performers; he can definitely tell the difference. “I…I guess I…hadn't…noticed…”

“You shouldn't be out in this cold,” Kurt scolds. “You should be home in bed.”

Blaine gulps.

Home. In bed. Kurt thinks he should be home…in bed.

Kurt smirks, straightening up slowly. “Are you going to be alright?”

“Huh?” Blaine nods his head, blinking his thoughts of being home…in bed…possibly with Kurt…away. “Uh…yeah,” he says, “it's…I guess I just never realized how beautiful your eyes are.”

“Wha---oh,” Kurt says, bashfully averting his eyes, pouring Blaine's coffee as an excuse to keep them that way. “I…thank you.”

“You're welcome,” Blaine says, watching Kurt's smile bloom, burn slow on his face.

That smile.

It triggers a flood of images, tactile memories - Kurt behind his counter, smiling at Blaine, while Blaine is being pounded from behind, back arching, eyes shut, loving every minute of it. Blaine's hands begin to shake, his cock twitching in his pants, his sore ass clenching around something that's not there.

He either has to erase that image from his head fast, or go bolting from The Hot Shot, and Blaine's not sure he can run in the condition he's in.

“So there's…uh, a flu going around?” Blaine asks, handing Kurt a fiver, trying to start a conversation that might take his mind off of last night.

“Oh, yeah,” Kurt says. “About three of my employees are out with it, and we just sent another guy home half an hour ago.”

“Well, that's…that's awful,” Blaine says.

“Don't I know it?” Kurt agrees, passing Blaine his change.

“I wish I could lend you a hand,” Blaine says. “Pour coffee…or something.”

“Oh, God no,” Kurt laughs, putting a hand over his mouth and backing away.

“What?” Blaine asks, confused. “Why?”

“Because the last thing I need is to get sick right now.”

“Really? Why? Wh-what do you have going on?” Blaine feels his stomach cramp, like someone's sucker punched him to the gut, when he sees the dreamy cloud settle over Kurt's eyes. Blaine realizes he's being immature and unfair, considering the fact that every time Kurt asks Blaine out, he turns him down. Kurt's an awesome guy. He deserves to find love, but Blaine can't help himself. He selfishly sees Kurt as his, always has, even though he was the one adamant that he wasn't ready to date.

Had Kurt found a partner a month ago, Blaine might have let him go, slunk off to the sidelines and licked his wounds.

But after last night...

Kurt turns his blue-grey eyes on Blaine and winks. “Well, if I'm sick, I won't get to see your gorgeous face every morning, will I?”

***

Blaine isn't too sure about bringing his machine into the shower, but he couldn't take his mind off the idea either. He wants to give his Fuck Machine a go while standing up, change the angle, put him in a position that forces him to fight for balance. Standing happens to be one of Blaine's favorite sexual positions. It makes him feel a bit submissive, which is one of Blaine's guilty pleasures. He and his ex were huge shower sex enthusiasts. If Blaine had had to pay for water, the bill would have been insane.

Fuck! Blaine thinks. Fuck, fuck, fuck! Damn that that slipped in his head. He didn't want to think about that asshole during this. If his face pops up into Blaine's mind while he's using his machine, he'll never be able to use it again, and that…that would be a sin.

The period of mourning would be extensive.

Blaine snickers ironically at himself. One fuck and he's already hooked. That sounds like him. Thank God his toy isn't a man. That would not be a healthy basis for a relationship.

The fleeting thought of his ex nearly makes Blaine consider putting off using his machine for the night, but as he stands in the bathroom, his cock rapidly hardening in his jeans, thinking about the night before, thinking about standing with this machine pounding into him, how amazing it's going to feel, he decides to risk it.

The damn thing is just too fucking good to resist.

The base of the machine has four huge suction cups, about the size of Blaine's palm, made to stick on to any slick surface. Still, he feels like he's putting far too much faith in the principles of atmospheric pressure by hanging a five pound motor off the wall, thrusting at a rate of two-hundred times per minute, and expecting it to stay put. The website specifically mentioned using it in the shower, but Blaine is wary. What if he switches the machine to high and it falls off in the middle? He has no doubts the machine would come out okay. Fort Troff says they spent numerous hours slamming the thing to the floor to make sure it can survive whatever torture he decides to inflict on it. But the damage that the machine might do to his ass…that picture in Blaine's head is not a pretty one. He values his ability to sit on flat surfaces without the use of a hernia pillow, and to shit through only one hole. He'd like to keep things that way.

Blaine watches the video again (for instructional purposes), making extra certain he's got it right, and then decides to take the plunge. He follows the online directions for adhering the machine to the shower wall and sticks it on. It attaches fairly quick, with a comical splurch. He tugs on it hard, but it doesn't budge, doesn't slip an inch, which he finds reassuring. He figures he has to have a little faith. This is what he bought this machine for, to fulfill his every fantasy.

Time to start fulfilling.

Blaine chooses a larger of the realistic dildos this time, and attaches it to the machine. He takes a deep breath in, lets it out, and starts to undress. He doesn't rush through it like he did the night before, tearing his clothes from his body. He gives himself the freedom to imagine that there's a lover there with him, that the hands on his body belong to someone else - a faceless stranger, a random nobody, unbuttoning his shirt, pulling down his slacks, feeling under his t-shirt, fingertips lightly stroking his abs, caressing his chest. With much better control on the bottle, he pours a dollop of lube on his hands and starts to stroke his cock, already hard, a throbbing symbol of his desperation to be used again

Blaine gets so caught up in the moment, with this fantasy of nobody in particular playing in his head, tweaking his nipples and stroking his cock, fingering his hole that sucks around his finger, eager to be filled, that he actually lets out a gasp.

When he steps into the shower, he doesn't turn on the water, because electrocution, and the last thing he needs is to have that immortalized in his obituary – Blaine Devon Anderson, age 29, Associate Professor at NYADA and boxing enthusiast, electrocuted while masturbating in the shower using a Fort Troff Fuck Machine. In lieu of flowers, send money to his parents, Mr. and Mrs. Anderson, so they can leave the country and hide in shame.

God, if Blaine dies that way and Kurt finds out, it won't matter that Blaine is dead, just as long as he doesn't come back.

Blaine sets the dial to two above low, like before, but when that doesn't seem like enough, even to start, he brings it up a notch more.

He lets the machine work its magic. It sets a pace and he melts into it, more mobile this time, touching himself, stroking, kissing whatever skin he can reach on his arms, his hands, his shoulders. He stands up straight, and then leans over, running his fingers through his hair and tugging at his curls.

Blaine lets his fantasy take on a life of its own, his brain leading it without him giving it any conscious direction. When his fantasy man finally emerges from the shadows to make love to him, it's Kurt's voice Blaine hears.

“Hello, gorgeous."

Those two words thread their way into Blaine's psyche, mix with the touch of fingers, blend with the brush of lips, and Blaine throws his head back and moans.

That voice of Kurt's, that heavenly voice, always finding a way to lure him to it.

Blaine closes his eyes. He feels arms wrap around his chest and hold him tight. In a dark corner of his mind, Blaine knows it's all a fantasy, but it's a good one.

He doesn't have anything else, so this will do for now.

After all, he has no intention of Kurt finding out, so he's not harming anyone.

Blaine bends slightly, moves with the machine, teases himself by letting it get too close to the right spot, then dance away.

“God, yes,” the voice in his head moans. Blaine can almost feel Kurt's breath tickling his skin. “Push back for me, baby…just…just like that…oh, Blaine…gorgeous Blaine…oh God, oh God…oh God…”

The feel of skin against Blaine's skin, even though it's his own, drives the fantasy along, takes it to another level. Blaine's body becomes restless, pinned to this machine with its ruthless, constant pounding in and out, in and out. Blaine flicks the switch, raising the speed until it's almost too much to take. He rolls his head on his neck, mindless mumbles spilling from his trembling lips.

“Yes…oh God, yes…yes…harder…faster…” His thumb flicks the dial on the control, upping the speed, the thrust. He maneuvers on his toes to match it, meet it, find that spot that will make his mind shut down and slip away. He lets Kurt's face, his eyes, float to the forefront of his dream, no longer a faceless, random nobody. That beautiful voice that's carrying him into oblivion belongs to Kurt.

Blaine wants to see Kurt.

And without even planning on doing it, without realizing it's happening, Kurt's name slips past his lips.

“Kurt…oh…oh, God…Kurt…yes, Kurt…”

Saying Kurt's name out loud, hearing it ring in the air around him, brings the orgasm building in Blaine's body to life. His arms wrap tighter around his chest, shivering against his skin, keeping him together while everything else splinters apart.

It's an illusion – a carefully crafted illusion that seems so real. And this one, with his hands touching him, Kurt's eyes to focus on, and his voice, that incredible voice…tonight was even better than last night.

“Oh…oh, God…oh God…” Blaine shakes his head. He can't seem to remember how to say anything else.

Well, he knows how to say one other thing, but with his cock spilling hot over his own feet and his fantastic fantasy coming to an end, it seems sort of sacrilege to say it.

Blaine falls forward, bracing his hands on the lip of his tub so he can ride it out, and as the sensation of warmth and euphoria melts away from his body, all that remains is him, his machine, and the shower he's standing in, convenient since a shower would feel amazing about now.

And if not amazing, well, then it's just the thing he needs to usher him back to reality, wake his ass up, and make him realize where he is, what he's doing…

…that he's alone, being fucked by a machine, and that the handsome man with the stunning blue-grey eyes and the dynamic smile, the only man who's ever called him gorgeous, had no real, corporeal part in it.

But, again, he tacks that in his mind - thoughts for another day.