Blaine paces. He fidgets. He runs his hands through his hair to keep for reaching for things he's not supposed to touch – things he wants to touch so, so badly. He tries to think of anything that might distract him. He goes over his lines, grades some papers, Googles New York tax codes for the upcoming filing year, but everything, in some way, leads him back to the one thing he wants that he can't have. Walking's not helping. It's actually making things worse, sending vibrations to places that desperately want his attention. But sitting does him no good, either – the friction on his balls, the squeeze, the pressure, the heat.

In general, he's screwed for comfort.

He's not stressed.

He's not anxious.

He's horny as fuck, and he can't take it anymore.

Kurt's been gone for two weeks, and he'll be gone for two more. He has no reason not to trust Blaine to be a good boy and follow the rules, but as an extra measure, he locked up all the toys, including Blaine's cock, and took the key.

Blaine made things worse for himself by window shopping for new toys, daydreaming about having his own at his disposal, watching the demo videos of the hot guy models and imagining they were him and his Dom, teasing, playing, and having sex - in locker rooms, in showers, on benches. He was so tempted to buy something new, his hand on the mouse pad actually started twitching, but he can't. He can't risk Kurt finding out that he spent money without permission.

Blaine has his own money, his own accounts, but Kurt has the access codes. He can view the balances and the statements via his computer whenever he feels like it. Kurt makes a budget for Blaine to follow, and Blaine's forbidden to keep cash on him, only plastic. Every few days, they sit down at the computer and go over the numbers. So if Blaine clicks ‘place order' on that shopping cart he filled on the Fort Troff website with hundreds of dollars' worth of vibrators, male masturbators, and lube, Kurt will damn well find out about it.

And he won't be very forgiving.

Blaine can't remember ever being this desperate. Kurt's been on business trips before, but not for a month, hence the chastity device, which has become maddening. It's not just that Blaine can't masturbate – he and his Dom have a rule against Blaine masturbating when Kurt's not home, so Blaine wouldn't have anyway. But Kurt had this device special made. It's for the shaft only, made of cool titanium, with the smooth edge falling right beneath Blaine's overly-sensitive head. Instead of restricting sensation, it enhances it, maintains it, tightening around him when his cock swells, shifting just barely when he's flaccid, creating constant low murmurs of movement all around his cock, which get worse when he's on the subway, when he's running the dishwasher and the counter shakes, when he's in the shower. The non-stop rubbing of his ridge against that edge ratchets up his sensitivity without him being able to do a thing about it.

The ultimate insult onto injury – Kurt took away his underwear, literally packed it in his suitcase and took it with him, and then forbade Blaine from washing his clothes, so Kurt can check for himself when he comes home that his Blaine has been a good boy.

Blaine takes another turn around the living room. His sensitive member, so close to what could become a severely ruined and painful orgasm, brushes against his slacks, and he starts to think that it might actually be worth whatever punishment Kurt has planned for him for spending money without permission, for buying a vibrator specifically, and for soiling his clothes. But he can't wait three to four days for delivery, and he'll never make it down to the adult shop on Bergen Street with this thing torturing his shaft.

Blaine knows where his toys are. Kurt made sure Blaine was present when he locked them up in his safe, the last nail in the coffin, showing Blaine that they were so close, since the safe is on the floor beside Kurt's side of the bed, and yet so far.

Blaine walks to the bedroom and kneels in front of the safe, wincing at the combination of friction/pressure/heat created by his thighs squeezing together. He stares at the thick, black metal box with his salvation locked inside. He doesn't know the combination. It's a touch pad lock with a six-digit code.

Maybe Blaine could figure it out. Six digits? That could be a birth date, part of a social security number, Kurt's name and his initials in numeral form.

Or they could be random, an old phone number, some former pet's birth date, the opening night of Kurt's favorite Broadway musical but performed by the UK cast.

God!

Blaine's cock throbs, strangled by its metal cuff, sending shivers up and down his body that would be absolutely delicious if Kurt was there to guide them, control them. Blaine's on the verge of a break down. He wants to scream out in frustration, but he also wants to collapse to the floor, curl in a ball, and surrender to ridiculous, immature sobs.

Would it be worth it to start pressing buttons and see what happens? Worth the deception if he somehow falls on the right combination and opens the door? Worth breaking the rules and lying to his Dom by just trying?

He takes a deep breath and holds it, hoping to numb those shivers away.

No, he decides. It's not. It's nowhere near worth breaking the rules. Maybe he could do it, hide it and get away with it, but then he'd have to live with knowing he disobeyed Kurt. He could fix it later on by admitting to it and accepting his punishment, but he wouldn't want to hear Kurt say that he's disappointed in him.

That's worse than most of the punishments Kurt can dish out.

Blaine sighs. He takes a finger and outlines the seam on the door of the safe, picking up a thin film of dust and brushing it away.

“Two more weeks,” he whispers to himself. “All I have to do is last two more weeks.”

Right now, though, it seems impossible.

A vibrating in his pocket takes his attention from the safe. He shoves his hand in his pocket to retrieve his phone before the vibrating drives him insane. A peek at the screen shows him that it's Kurt calling - oddly coincidental, but welcome considering. Hearing his Dom's voice will give Blaine the strength to resist temptation.

Blaine answers the call on the third ring.

“Hello, Sir?”

Kurt doesn't say hello.

“Stay away from my safe, pet.”

Blaine's jaw drops.

“But…how did you…”

“I have a silent alarm on that safe,” Kurt explains. “It emails me if someone messes with the lock or the door.”

“Oh…” Blaine said it as the start of an explanation, an excuse, but then a shaky, “God…” slips from his mouth, and Kurt chuckles.

“Nice try, pet.”

“But, Sir…I didn't…I swear I didn't…”

“Uh-huh. We'll discuss it when I get back,” Kurt says nonchalantly. “You only have two more weeks, pet. I have faith in you.”

“Yes, Sir,” Blaine replies, humbled by disbelief.

“Oh, and pet?” Kurt adds. “We'll talk about your punishment when I come back.”

Kurt hangs up, leaving Blaine to stare blankly at the phone in his hand. When Blaine can finally breathe, it comes out a curse.

“Fuck!”