"I could walk out and leave you like this all night," Kurt mused - it wasn't a threat. If anything, he was as surprised by the notion as Blaine (who whined as if wounded, hips pressed hard against the mattress). All at once the power he was wielding occurred to him, and he tested the notion by saying it out loud, noting its weight on his tongue.
It was tempting.
But this was better.
The bar propped between Blaine's ankles, holding him open for Kurt to observe, was superfluous. Wholly unnecessary. If Kurt let him go, if he untied his hands from the headboard, he'd be in exactly the same position - face down, knees apart, ass in the air and begging for it.
Poor little lamb was insatiable. And Kurt knew all his tricks.
If Kurt refused to touch him he'd grind down into the blankets, squirming across them to uncover even a scrap of pleasure. But if Kurt so much as ghosted a touch or a toy near the curve of Blaine's ass, he'd go the other way, reaching up to absorb all that he could, try to take it in, then try to take it deeper.
Kurt did both, for now, to be sure that neither offered any relief. Blaine trying to press against the sheets made Kurt send a hand between his legs, where he thumbed the dense, hungry rim of his asshole, drawing him up from the bed. And he kept him there, never pressing harder, never satisfying the need to be filled up and spread over something, but never stopping, either; he suspended Blaine between wanting to buck at the sensation of a probing finger that refused to slip inside, and wanting to collapse on the bed where a solid surface might satisfy the ache in his cock for touch.
They both had to be patient. It was a slow build. Games like this took time to play. Took minute upon minute upon hot, terrible, hungry minute.
Kurt waited it out through the deep, sweet groans that sounded like they meant pain. He waited through the unsuccessful twisting Blaine did to try and satisfy both urges at once, though neither one would've ever been enough. He waited through what almost sounded like a soft, breathless sobbing, bubbling up in his throat when he said, "Kurt, in. Please, in."
"Not yet, baby," he answered, not disguising an affectionate giggle. "Not even close."
Pleading didn't move him from his course. Neither did the growl that his refusal ripped out of Blaine. Getting angry. That was much better than pleading. That meant Blaine wasn't having fun anymore - want turned to need. Literal, physical, furious need.
Still Kurt waited, applying the faintest pressure he could get away with, stroking across Blaine's hole and toying with the sensitive skin around it. He was serenely aware of how easy it would be to wind his free hand under Blaine's hips and relieve him, but still, still he waited, waited for God knows how long, until beads of sweat began to crown Blaine's forehead and shine between his shoulders. Until his mouth could only form the words 'please' and 'Kurt' and 'give it, give it, now,' near-silently.
Without warning, he withdrew his hand, and Blaine sagged back down, a bundle of frustrated gestures. He tugged uselessly at the ties around his wrists. Kurt even thought he saw the muscles in Blaine's backside flex, as though he were trying to close his legs; as though another second of being touched too little was impossible, and he wanted to hide from Kurt's deprivation and cruelty.
"I could get anything I wanted out of you right now," Kurt said, another revelation, another non-threat. He wasn't in Blaine's position. He wasn't being worn down, he wasn't tense all over. He had the capacity to enjoy himself and he wanted to indulge, to play with him.
First, it was jest, pure and simple.
"I could get you to surrender the Cavalli sweater you got at Neiman Marcus, spoiled little thing. I know you only bought it to show off. Strutting around like a show pony. I could get you to destroy your yellow pants, even - for the greater good."
