“Oh, Blai-ne! Can you come here, please? There’s some people I’d like you to meet.”

Blaine locks eyes with his Dom, beckoning him from across the room, and his stomach sinks – falls straight to the floor with no stops in between. Kurt’s not too far away, probably the distance of about twenty feet or so, but Blaine isn’t looking forward to making the journey.

The bell hanging from Blaine’s balls makes him self-conscious as hell.

This is a test, an exercise in Blaine being more aware of his body – how it moves, how it responds, how it feels to be a creature in touch with his sexuality, to become more at ease with being vulnerable in public – in preparation for performing the role of Hedwig. As Hedwig, Blaine will have to interact with an audience while being exposed both emotionally and physically.

After his fifth rehearsal, Blaine confided to his Dom that he feels anxiety building when he thinks of all the costume changes, stripping down piece by piece until he’s left in only a pair of tight black shorts.

But it’s not the lack of clothing that really has him scared. It’s getting to that point that terrifies him.

So Kurt devised this plan to help Blaine over the hurdle.

The bell makes Blaine aware of his body in a different way, more so than his cage does. He thought that the new vibrator - the Remote Buzz Bomb Climax 6.0, Fort Troff’s most intense vibrating plug ever, controllable from up to 30 feet with the wireless remote (according to their website) - which Kurt had inserted into his ass before they left would be the most difficult predicament to bear, especially when every step he take jostles it, impact tremors sending constant pulsations circulating throughout his lower body. Set to a low simmer, it has simply made him numb at this point, fueling an ache in his oversensitive prostate.

But the bell definitely takes the cake.

This particular bell is part of a sinister ball stretching device made of metal instead of leather, so it’s entirely unyielding, with hex screws to keep it uncomfortably snug. When he moves certain ways, it not only stretches his sack, it upsets the clapper inside the bell, and the bell makes a noise. It’s worse when he bends over to pick something up, which Kurt knows. Blaine has been doing the rounds, at Kurt’s command, and every time Blaine walks by, Kurt finds something to drop – a fork, a napkin, his keys. Then Blaine has to stop, brace without being obvious, and bend over.

If the bell makes a noise and Kurt hears it, Kurt ratchets up the vibrations. For now, Blaine has been able to avoid the vibrator going much higher than the second setting.

When they first got it, Kurt wasted no time sticking it inside Blaine and turning it to high. Blaine didn’t only cum, he wet his pants.

Without a change of clothing, Blaine doesn’t want to lose bladder control here, at the Vogue after party for the release of Tom Ford’s 2016 Winter Collection.

The bell feels way too big crammed inside the tight pants that Kurt chose for him to wear this evening. Blaine feels like a penguin waddling around the room, afraid that everyone notices, even though they’re nose deep into their champagne flutes and filthy gossip that doesn’t concern him.

“Blaine,” Kurt calls a terse second time.

“I’m coming,” Blaine calls back, trying not to come off as annoyed. He strolls as best he can across the room while, inside his ass, he feels the vibrator speed up a notch.

Damn!

“Here he is,” Kurt announces with a satisfied smile when his sub finally arrives. “You all remember my boyfriend, Blaine Anderson, rising Broadway star extraordinaire.”

“Hello,” Blaine says to the faces around him, and the faces, “Hello,” back. These are faces of people he’s been introduced to before, and whom he should know, but for the buzzing in his ass, he can’t remember a single name. Worse yet, if he stands perfectly still, his vision starts to blur, making it nearly impossible for him to concentrate.

“Guess what, Blaine? I was telling these wonderful people about how you just scored the role of Hedwig, and oops …” The pen that Kurt had in his hand, that he was gesturing with during the conversation, goes flying from his fingers. Blaine follows where it goes, watching it hit the floor, bounce, then somersault away.

“Oh! Clumsy me! Blaine, would you be a dear and get that? It’s a present from Isabelle. I wouldn’t want to lose it.”

Blaine looks at the gold pen, lying on the floor, and swallows. He knows the longer he stares at it, someone else from Kurt’s group will offer to pick it up, and that would mean an immediate increase in vibrations.

“Of course,” Blaine says, tight smile masking the fact that he’s trying his hardest to figure out how in the hell he’s going to bend over and pick up that pen since most of his lower body has gone numb. If he crouches down, he’s done for. He’ll tear the crotch of his pants for sure. He can’t get down on his knees because that’s strictly forbidden. His only recourse is to bend over, but he knows that comes with a 50/50 chance of falling forward onto his face, and an even greater chance of jingling that bell.

Blaine sighs. He can do this. He knows he can. He can pick up the pen and avoid jingling that bell. He’d done it over a dozen times earlier, but he still has to make himself believe that he can.

Blaine bends over slowly, slower than he should. He folds at the waist till he reaches the pen. The knocker slides inside the bell, but not with enough force to make it jingle. Blaine blows out a breath, relieved. Grasping the pen with his fingers, he prepares mentally for the return trip. It should be as easy as that …

… but it isn’t.

He feels a pinch in his flank. That pinch becomes the beginnings of a cramp. He feels it sprout to life, feels it blossom. He can’t let it form. He can’t add that on top of the insane radiating pain retarding his lower half. He has two options. Let the cramp develop, give Kurt the pen, then try to rub it out, which will more than likely be its own special kind of torture, or take his chances, stand up as smoothly as he can, and avoid it. As the torqueing agony spreads throughout his side, he has to go with choice B. It’s a long shot, but it might work.  

Blaine springs up to the surprised yelps of the eight people watching, but most profoundly Kurt, listening intently for any sign of a jingle.

There isn’t one.

But before Blaine can get too cocky about succeeding, too proud for defeating the bell, inertia continues to carry him through. He’s unable to stop it. It happens as if in slow motion. He plants his foot forward. He feels the bell move. When his heel touches the ground, he hears a single, stunted jingle, and Blaine freezes.

Kurt can’t have heard. It was so faint, Blaine’s not even sure it was a jingle. It might just have been the sound of his belt buckle rubbing against itself, or the chain on his bow tie jangling.

It can’t be the bell, and even if it was, Kurt can’t have heard.

But no. One glance into Kurt’s eyes and Blaine knows. Somehow, he heard. Blaine has no idea how he heard, but he did.

Kurt reaches into his pocket.

Blaine holds his breath.

When Kurt turns the remote up to high, Blaine fights to remain standing. His body goes hot, then cold. His abs tense. That spot of temporary numbness and dull, thudding oversensitivity burns with the screaming vibrations of the plug. They bypass his prostate and hit his muscles, making his entire lower body shake, the sharp pulses like needles pinging through his nerves. He feels himself take a knee, descending to the floor at half-speed, his body collapsing in on itself trying to encompass the thing causing the pain. Then he curls into a ball. He can’t help it. He can’t stay standing. He can’t pull himself straight. It’s just too much.

“Oh, Blaine.” Kurt crouches down to check on him. “Are you having fun down here?” he asks, running a hand down Blaine’s back.

“Is he okay?”

“Is he going to be ill?”

“He’s fine,” Kurt says, addressing the worried faces looking down at them from above. “I’m sure it’s just a little stomach thing.”

“A stomach thing?” one woman says. She puts a hand to her stomach, wondering if that slight acid reflux she felt earlier might actually be a touch of food poisoning.

“Yeah. I’m not saying he has the flu or anything like that, but he has been hitting the tuna tartar pretty hard, and I don’t know about you, but it smelled kind of funny. Didn’t it smell funny to you?”

“I didn’t notice …”

“I don’t think …”

“Well, did they use the caterer from last time when …”

“Oh my God! Do you remember that?”

“Yes. Now that you mention it, it did smell a little off …”

Kurt bites his lip in amusement as mutters of concern travel around the circle. And while the group engages in trading off horror stories of tainted hors d’oeuvres they’ve sampled at previous Vogue functions, Kurt leans closer to Blaine’s ear and whispers, “You know I love you. Don’t you pet?”

“Y-yes, S-sir,” Blaine stutters. “I d-do, S-sir.”

“Good,” Kurt says, kissing his sub on the shoulder and letting him suffer for a few more seconds on high before he turns the vibrating plug back down to low. “Just remember that. Because I might love you, but I may get a little less than fair later on.”