Kurt glances over at the elevator doors, then at his wrist watch, then back at the doors again. He shoots a look at the clock on the wall, just to make sure his own timepiece isn't off. But no. Fifteen minutes. Blaine is fifteen minutes late. Kurt - Blaine's boyfriend, Kurt – sends out mental good vibes, hoping that nothing happened to Blaine on his way over to the Vogue building from the theater, promising to give him five more minutes before he tries his cell phone again (which he's already done twice).

Kurt - Blaine's Dom, Kurt – simmers patiently beneath his mask of concern, knowing there will be hell to pay if Blaine doesn't have a good excuse for being late. This party at Vogue to celebrate the success of Michael Kors's new fall sportswear line isn't uber important, but it's the first time that Kurt is bringing Blaine to the office as his boyfriend – a momentous first for Kurt Hummel. He's talked Blaine up quite a bit, something he hasn't done with a boyfriend before, and several members of Kurt's team are dying to meet him, including Isabelle Wright, Kurt's boss. Kurt had wanted everything to be perfect. He'd planned for perfect, down to the last detail.

Blaine being late puts a definite kink in perfect.

“So, where is this new man you're always raving about?” Chandler asks, refilling Kurt's champagne glass without being asked. The spritely blond man, sucking up subtly to the man of the hour by wearing a Michael Kors original slim-fit suit from the Vogue vault, is one of Kurt's oldest friends, from the time they were both fledgling musical theater wannabes in the suburbs of buttfuck Ohio. They still occasionally dip their toes into the Broadway cattle corral, but Kurt is happy with his job at Vogue, and Chandler loves being Kurt's assistant. The hours are ideal, the gossip is plentiful, and the perks are to die for.

Kurt and Chandler had their run at dating on and off, but after the sex became mundane and they realized how much they got on each other's nerves (Kurt always needing things his way and Chandler having a dominant personality of his own that clashed), they decided they made better friends than lovers. Chandler has never subbed for Kurt, but he knows about Kurt's lifestyle, and he knows how short-tempered Dom Kurt can get. Chandler's an expert at interpreting Kurt's moods, including his three most used emotions – concern, pride, and anger.

Kurt's current mixture of the first and the last means more champagne.

“Oh, he'll be here soon,” Kurt says with confidence while glancing for the fiftieth time at the elevator doors. He doesn't say the words that come after. He doesn't verbally announce he'd better be. But Chandler knows. He pats Kurt on the shoulder.

“Of course he will,” Chandler says, taking his hand away when steely grey eyes flick his way. “Until then, I'll just open more champagne.”

Chandler sashays away just as the elevator doors open. Kurt sees Blaine bolt through, his cheeks red from the cold, his hair meticulously done, and his smile…

Kurt relaxes when he sees Blaine's genuinely excited smile. It tells Kurt that everything's okay, that rehearsals went well, and that people at work aren't giving him grief. Blaine might have gotten stuck in traffic, but he didn't get attacked, he didn't get mugged, he didn't get hit by a subway train, or any of the other terrible things that generally run through Kurt's mind, warranted or not, when his sub runs late. All of his worries evaporate with the warmth of that one beautiful smile. And Kurt smiles back, even if Blaine hasn't noticed him yet. He's too busy fiddling with the buttons on his peacoat, apologizing profusely to the receptionist waiting politely to hang it in the closet for him.

Kurt waits before he joins Blaine and watches from a distance, admiring his sub, letting that admiration puff up his chest a little as the Dom in him swells to the surface with thoughts of mine, and visions of how he intends to reward Blaine for his attendance here tonight, especially after four hours of rehearsal at the Belasco and an extended shift at the school where he teaches.

But the moment Blaine slips off his coat, Kurt's smile disappears, his mood swiftly turning sour.

The wrong shirt, Kurt thinks. He's wearing the wrong shirt.

Kurt crosses the room quickly, smiling and nodding at co-workers who greet him as he passes by, his eyes fixed on his sub and the outfit he's wearing. And that shirt. The wrong shirt.

“Hello, Blaine,” Kurt says. Blaine stiffens. He knows that tone. It's an immediate trigger. It flips a switch and Blaine knows he's done something wrong.

“Hello, Kurt,” Blaine says, still with that genuine smile on his face, the menacing edge in Kurt's tone not budging it an inch.

People pass close as Kurt and Blaine talk, eager to have a peek at the mystery man who stole Kurt Hummel away from every other eligible gay man in the city, so Kurt has to stay on his guard.

He can handle that, but he hates being put in that position.

“What are you wearing?” Kurt asks, trying to stay conversational even though his voice has gotten tight.

“Excuse me, Sir?” Blaine answers blithely, keeping the ‘Sir' sotto voce when one of Kurt's associates passes by to shake hands and give them a continental kiss on the cheek.

“What…are…you…wearing?” Kurt repeats, punctuated through clenched teeth the way he does when he's holding something back.

“A Burberry shirt and a pair of Brooks Brothers slacks,” Blaine answers, “as you specifically requested, Sir.”

“I know it's a Burberry shirt,” Kurt hisses, his cool slipping when Blaine turns on this fake clueless act. “I work in the fashion industry, so I know a Burberry shirt when I see one. But this is a red shirt. I laid out a purple shirt for you.”

“I know,” Blaine says, trying to sound innocent but coming off as a cheeky brat, “but I like this one so much better.”

Blaine smiles at a woman who comes over to gush about his stylish outfit, making the compliment that Blaine fits in perfectly at Vogue, and Kurt holds his tongue from saying anything crude. He didn't like Blaine's response. He feels it burrow its way under his skin and into his chest. What Blaine said, what he did, is in direct defiance of the rules they set out, the dress code they agreed upon together. This isn't a matter that Kurt can let slide and deal with later. This needs to be addressed now.

If Blaine's going to act like a brat, Kurt is going to treat him like one.

Kurt looks up at the men and women who have gathered around them and flashes an overly bright smile.

“Will you excuse us for a moment?” he says, taking Blaine's elbow and steering him away from the conversation.

A murmur of yes, of course, but don't be too long follows them as Kurt pushes Blaine in front of him, heading for the far side of the room. Blaine's heart starts to thrum with every step as he sees that Kurt is leading him straight for the hallway. Blaine doesn't object, doesn't resist, doesn't say a word as they walk through the quiet space and into the bathrooms. It's not a private bathroom, and Kurt flicks the lock on the door to be safe.

“Here.” Kurt leads his sub to the sink, pushing him hard against the edge and positioning him in front of the large circular mirror so he can see himself, so he can watch Kurt punish him and remember what he did wrong. “Hands on the sink,” Kurt commands, grabbing Blaine's wrists and placing his hands where he wants them, “and don't move them. You don't get to touch anything.”

“Yes, Sir,” Blaine replies, trembling in fear of his angry Dom behind him.

“We talked about this,” Kurt says, tearing open Blaine's buckle. “We have rules, pet. We have rules for a reason.”

“Yes, Sir,” Blaine says, his hands glued to the sink, watching in the mirror as Kurt unbuttons his slacks, “but…”

“But nothing, Blaine.” Kurt shoves Blaine's pants and his briefs down in a single move. “We've discussed the color red, and…and what it does to me when I see you wear it.”

Kurt unbuttons his own pants, being less vicious in the treatment of his McQueen jacquard kickback trousers. Kurt doesn't give Blaine any warning when his long fingers grab the plug in his ass, pushes in hard, and twists back and forth. Blaine moans for a second, then whines when it's yanked out and Kurt puts it in the sink, feeling suddenly empty.

“But…but, Sir,” Blaine whispers, his voice echoing in the tiled room, “what if someone catches us?”

“The door's locked,” Kurt says, the blunt end of his cock pushing into Blaine's prepared entrance.

“But…they'll hear us, won't they?” Blaine asks, shivering when Kurt's body fills him completely.

Kurt catches Blaine's gaze in the mirror and smiles.

“Then you'd better be quiet, pet.”

Kurt grabs hold of Blaine's cock, holding it beneath the head, squeezing tight.

“You'd better control this,” Kurt says. “If you mess up the cuff of my shirt, I'm putting your cock in a cage indefinitely.” Then Kurt pounds into him, using Blaine's body with a single goal in mind.

Punishment.

Blaine broke the rules.

Blaine knew the consequences.

Blaine has to pay the penalty for his deliberate disobedience.

Blaine whimpers when Kurt thrusts even harder, forcing him on to his tiptoes.

“No,” Kurt grunts. “No noise. Nothing. Don't even move.”

Blaine obeys immediately, settling back down on the soles of his feet, even if that makes Kurt's assault on his ass feel like his cock is drilling straight through him. Blaine relaxes his hands on the stone counter of the sink instead of grabbing the edge until his knuckles turn white. And even though every drive into his body makes Blaine want to scream out from a mixture of ecstasy and pain, he resists. He resists and he absorbs and he funnels away.

He is only a body. He's an object. A thing. He's here for Kurt's pleasure.

It's what he agreed to. It's what he wants. Now he needs to prove he can do it.

“Good, pet,” Kurt mutters, his hips faltering, his pounding starting to feel more like rutting. “If you keep this up, then I'll let you cum.”

Blaine feels relieved – relieved that he won't have to suffer through a night of meet-and-greets with a throbbing erection - though cumming here is its own punishment since he'll have to deal with whatever mess he makes.

Kurt's hand slips from Blaine's cock. He grabs hold of his hips, curling his fingernails in hard enough to leave bruises.

“Alright, pet,” Kurt says, breathless, “I'm finished with you. You can cum.” Kurt pulls out of Blaine's body, inserting the plug back before gravity does its thing, and Blaine cums, without his Dom, into the cold porcelain sink.

“You should know better, pet,” Kurt whispers, rough and raw in Blaine's ear, against his neck, panting breaths cooling the sweat on Blaine's skin. “You know what I said would happen if I saw you wearing red.” Kurt does up his fly, straightens his vest, re-assembles the expertly put together visage of Kurt Hummel that he reserves for work. “There's some 409 in the cabinet. Don't forget to clean the sink. When you're done, we'll go to the vault and get you something more appropriate to wear.” Kurt exhales, running both hands through his hair to tame a few strays. He tuts at the image of his sub - bare assed, plug in full view, hips spattered in black and blues, that disastrous red shirt wrinkled beyond repair - a shambles compared to the way he looked when he first arrived. “You should know better.” Kurt turns brusquely and exits the bathroom, leaving his sub to deal with his mess as a last bit of punishment for his disobedience.

Blaine takes a good look at himself, at his reflection in the mirror – his pants still bunched down at his knees, his face flushed, curls damp where they cover his forehead – and smiles.

“I know, Sir,” Blaine whispers, reaching for the paper towels, his cheeks warm with the slight embarrassment of being disciplined in public, and the satisfaction that comes from being owned. “I know.”