The swell of Blaine's ass is beyond words in the aesthetic department, and even if Kurt was fully cognizant at the moment, he wouldn't be able to come up with the proper description. The skin slides over muscle so deliciously as he props his beautiful ass, smattered sparsely with dark freckles, high in the air; face in the sheets, the large purple lovebite still on the side of his neck from last night; hands white-knuckled on the wrought iron bars of the headboard.

He's tinted rose from the rough spanking Kurt had delivered less than an hour ago with Blaine draped over his lap like sinewy silk, responsive as a well-trained retriever being ordered to "speak" for treats. One...Two...Three-ah!...Four!... Counting out the punishment loud and clear, just as Kurt had told him, and taking each one like a champ.

Kurt likes to keep the skin vibrant, smacking him unexpectedly when he feels the color is fading from his cheeks. Blaine loves it, the unexpectedness, always tacking on a breathy, "oh, daddy..." when the flesh is buzzing and tingling with the acceleration of blood and smarting of nerves.

In fact, each slap produces a symphony of organized feedback from Blaine's body. His muscles react first, ass tightening up for just a second before relaxing more than they had been prior, and Kurt's cock really gets the best of both sensations with one stiff blow to Blaine's perky behind. A tight squeeze and an easy slide. Following that is either a low moan, a high whimper, or a melding of the two, but always loud enough to make Kurt's cock throb whether inside Blaine or not. And then Blaine sighs, breathing out his daddy's name in the most devil-infused angelic tone; that sound alone makes Kurt want to start the chain reaction all over again.

Kurt is inching towards his mid-forties now (he's forty-one, but who's counting, right?) and his stamina is definitely not what it used to be, but Blaine keeps him exhausted yet up to snuff with his twenty-one-year-old ticker (and still the recovery rate of a teenager) to entertain him. That being so, anything that Blaine's body can do to spike Kurt's pleasure threshold is a winner in his book.

Blaine certainly gives phenomenal head when prompted. The benefits of having a young, eager lover.

Tonight, however, Blaine is taking Kurt without resistance into his tight hole, that plump ass like a fucking work of art that Kurt would petition to get into a museum if he didn't want it all to himself. He fucks in smooth, sucked in by the pull of Blaine's ass and the incredible loose-enough-yet-tight-enough width of his tiny entrance.

"Oh please, daddy, harder..." Blaine encourages, his knees skidding and spreading wider on their wrinkled sheets to accommodate Kurt's positioning behind him. "Fuck your baby so hard."

The rippling of Blaine's ass is gorgeous, something that Kurt wishes he could record and then slow to about three hundred times its average speed to be able to witness every moment in breath-taking high definition. Kurt's hips impact again and again, the skin moves in thin waves, and Kurt could drown in that ocean, regardless of depth. He'd simply forget to breathe.

The tiny uh-uh-uhs Blaine utters uncontrollably while on the receiving end of each thrust are indescribably sexy to Kurt-how Blaine gets so into everything, so mind-numbingly swallowed up by the sensations in each moment, that his mouth remains open and noises pour out like a waterfall almost incessantly. The fact that what Kurt does to him is good enough to make Blaine make those sounds is a serious ego-booster for him, especially in his older years. (Not that old, Blaine always tells him, but Kurt knows better. He is old).

"You like when daddy fucks you like this? Nice and hard from behind?" Blaine likes being talked to during sex, more than Kurt does-or did before Blaine opened his yap that first time and suddenly Kurt's ambivalence for dirty talk flip-flopped into an actual thing when it's Blaine moaning about what he wants, how good Kurt feels, if he's a good boy or a naughty one.

But Blaine gets off on dirty talk, really hard. He's never been with anybody so hell-bent on being undone by words as Blaine is. God knows why, but Blaine loves Kurt's voice. Kurt thinks it's too high, too unnatural, something he's never quite gotten used to in his deepest insecurities. But Blaine loves it, especially during sex, when it goes grittier, lower from the flow of testosterone in his body. Blaine's cock dangles heavy and red between his legs, swinging like a pendulum as Kurt fucks into him with a quick and dirty rhythm. It leaves Blaine whining and scrabbling at the pillows for something else to grab that isn't the brutal bite of square-shaped metal bars that have surely already dug temporary homes into Blaine's palms.

Kurt feels like a solid smack is due at the lack of a cohesive response from Blaine, and the thought travels from his brain to his arm to the tender give of Blaine's ass like a lightning strike. Blaine's reaction, although predictable, is just as sexy the seventeenth (eighteenth?) time it's acted out as it was the first. "I asked if you like being fucked, baby. You answer daddy when he asks you questions."

His whimper is soft, shamed, but flawless in Kurt's ears. "Yes, daddy. I'm sorry. I love when you fuck me. Love it so much. Love you so much."

"That's my good little boy." Kurt croons, kneading Blaine's reddened ass like bread dough under his fingertips. "Daddy loves you too. Loves fucking your tight little ass that you open up just for him."

And Blaine does open up for him, not just sexually but in other ways as well. So accepting of Kurt's creepy obsession with Blaine's youth (which Blaine insists is completely reciprocated on an opposite scale, and Kurt...well, Kurt believes him. Only because of the way Blaine's fingers somehow always find his crow's feet and laugh lines in the dark), the impossibly open heart he possesses for having such a wounded soul (a soul that Kurt has spent hours attempting to kiss better, but some things can't be healed), the open mind he uses to always try something new, to be accepting of so many changes that Kurt brought into his life upon mixing two different generations because Kurt was far too stubborn to give them up.

But as of right now, Kurt is preoccupied with the openness of his ass, and he's pretty positive that Blaine is just fine with that.

The constant stream of "fuck me fuck me fuck me" evaporates from Blaine's mouth into the heated air of their bedroom, leaving Kurt's skin prickling from the refreshing sensation, like walking through mist. The deep-rooted, carnal desire that courses through Blaine like blood vessels pumping his lifeline right to the core of him.

When Blaine wants to be fucked, he wants to be fucked. By the end of it all, he wants to be fucked up. Fucked up, fucked down, fucked against, fucked over, fucked into, fucked on top of.

He wants everything Kurt has to give him, and he wants it over and over until his lungs peter out and his ass could bleed. That used to terrify Kurt, the thought that he might actually hurt Blaine because he's young and he doesn't really know how much he can take without reaching a limit. When they first started having sex, and Blaine would just ask for more, more, goddamn it Kurt, more! And Kurt would give it, and Blaine would take it, take it until his face was cherry red and his chest was heaving and there were tear streaks on his face and Kurt felt fit to die from exhaustion, but nowhere near how wrecked Blaine would look. When they first started, Kurt honestly thought he was going to kill Blaine, simply because he asked for "more" and that extra bit would cause Blaine's heart to give out.

It took a few months to understand that Blaine just likes to be made to take. To be punished and used until he pulls his hair out and he literally can't keep going. In all Kurt's years, he had never experienced a boy with such an innate need to be fucked. And Kurt likes it a lot.

"That's right. Come on, love, take daddy's cock."

Blaine whimpers at the words, spreading his legs all the more, and the head of his cock rubbing against the bed now with how wide he's presenting himself and how aggressive Kurt is with his thrusts.

"Daddy's gonna come now, baby." Kurt growls into Blaine's ear, and Blaine's hand lashes back to grab at Kurt's ass with a sob.

"No, god, please no! Not yet, daddy, please!"

Kurt lands a powerful blow to Blaine's ass and the boy cries out, retracting his hand immediately from Kurt and returning it to the bed. Kurt fucks into him, unforgiving and violent, and yanks Blaine's hand behind his arched back. He yelps again at the ruthless restraint, but bucks back to meet Kurt half-way each time he slides in. "You are definitely not in a position to argue, baby. You'll take what daddy gives you, won't you?"

"Yes, sir." Blaine whines pathetically, going easily when Kurt pulls Blaine's other arm up to join the one already at his back, locking his wrists together with one broad hand. Blaine is absolutely powerless in this position, and Kurt has learned that this is the only way to make up for Kurt pulling out before Blaine is ready. But as much as Blaine disputes, he loves being denied as well. Being at the mercy of Kurt, doing exactly what he says, and taking what Kurt grants him.

Kurt presses his hips deep inside of him once more and groans out his release, jolting his hips forward to spurt out the last few strands. There is little more that Blaine loves than having Kurt spill inside of him, no condoms in the way. Just Blaine's ass and Kurt's come filling him up like an empty water glass. Kurt fucks his come into Blaine's ass, coating his walls as thoroughly as he can and hearing the obscene squelching noise of it mixing with the lube. Blaine humps at the mattress with abandon until the telling shout from Blaine's mouth and the clenching of his ass around Kurt's spent cock signals his orgasm. Blaine's back tenses, his shoulder blades draw back, and the dip of his lumbar region is severe as his cock pulses the pearlescent evidence onto the bed.

As Kurt finally pulls himself from Blaine's ass, his cock is slick and streaked with marbled white. Blaine's ass flexes around nothing but the ghost of Kurt's cock and the copious amount of come that threatens to slide out and drip down his balls.

Post-sex Blaine is, if possible, even more stunning than mid-sex Blaine. Driblets of sweat drying on his back, the flex of his exhausted muscles underneath miles of glistening skin. Breathing heavily into the thick air with his cheek smushed against the sheets. The fading coloring in his ass that Kurt only lets slide because...well, it's over, and Blaine deserves a break. His drenched hairline that seeps into the already sodden sheets and pillows. Just the total pliancy of his young body laid out between Kurt's legs, shameless and heedless of his grimy state of being. Nothing but the innocence and carelessness that Blaine embodies.

And Kurt is enamored with Blaine's youth, almost embarrassingly so. However, it's more the possessive of the concept that floods Kurt with feelings.

That it's Blaine's.

Sure, youth is beautiful and full of life and an organism thriving in its prime. But Blaine being young makes Kurt's head spin like a child's plastic top. Blaine owns his youth, day after exhilarating day, and Kurt feeds off of it. He had expected, by this age, to be bored of life and want out. To want to try new things, but be too weathered and withered by life to have the energy. And so he was until he spotted one Blaine Anderson dancing and singing his soul out onto the hardwood floor at New York Academy of the Dramatic Arts while Kurt was scouting for Vogue.com.

A breath of fresh air, a splash of water on a sweltering day, a good, solid fuck after a sexual dry spell.

That was Blaine.

A perfectly flawed symbiosis of freedom, expression, youth, and insecurity tangled up into a 5 foot 8 mass of dark curls, toothy smiles, compact muscle, and smooth skin.

And every inch of that boy thrown off his beat the moment he caught Kurt's eye. The music stopped, but his heart had started-that's what Blaine had told him a couple months afterward. Wrapped up in a blanket and Kurt's arms, Blaine told him how everything changed when he noticed Kurt watching him that afternoon. A total stranger, dressed in sharp, shiny Marc Jacobs, with a spark in his eyes. That was Blaine's first impression.

After that arrived the unfortunate boner, and Kurt would never let him live that down-Blaine almost instantly filling out those tight, black, spandex shorts with the seriously impressive indication of uncontrollable arousal.

Kurt's cock wasn't quite so quick to the jump anymore, but he could appreciate Blaine's ability. And appreciate he did. Blaine says he's not ashamed of what they did back at Kurt's apartment a couple hours later, but he always blushes when it's mentioned, and Kurt feels that his reaction proves otherwise.

Blaine's eagerness still lingers, even months after their initial fling, the impenetrable youth that Blaine retains and wears like a badge of honor whenever he's with Kurt. They just fit together. Kurt's age and Blaine's lack of it, nearly twice over, just works for them. It's what makes them unique, makes people stare, makes them happy, makes them...horny. Win/win.

When Blaine finally rolls onto his back to stare dazedly up at Kurt, he always looks as if Kurt is a constellation of stars he's never seen before. Like he can't believe Kurt is here, that he exists, and he has the opportunity to discover him over and over. Like he's brighter and more dazzling than the sun itself. It makes Kurt slightly uncomfortable, knowing how fucked up he is inside which Blaine refuses to pay heed to. Blaine sees the good, the beautiful in Kurt in a way that Kurt has never been able to in himself.

And his arms wrap around Kurt's neck and tug, Kurt always falling into their kisses, something they both have a fondness for.

Blaine whispers against his lips like a song, "Thank you, daddy," as he always does.

And the world falls away again.