and a wonderful spring to be sprung
"Too Little, Too Much" - Kurt/Blaine

A little bird dropped a hint in my ear about something a certain someone asked for last night, so here you go.  ;)

Warnings for: overstimulation, prostate play, and phone sex.

It happens for two reason: he has the house to himself and Kurt is teasing the hell out of him over the phone.

The first thing he’d done when his parents went out, of course, was invite Kurt over, but Kurt is grounded (something about wallpaper samples and Burt’s man cave and Kurt won’t go into any more detail than that) and is sneaking the phone call as it is, so they don’t want to push it.

Blaine has always had a habit of idly touching himself when he talks to Kurt over the phone; half of the time it isn’t even sexual or meant to lead to anything, it’s just a security blanket kind of thing, one hand tucked over himself and every now and then he’ll give himself a little squeeze.  

It’s quite another thing when Kurt’s voice is low and rough in his ear, when they’re talking about the last time they’d been able to be alone in cut off sentences and breathy whines.  

The more innocent Kurt is about it, the harder Blaine gets.  He can be cool as a cucumber and as chaste as a monk when it comes to talking about sex, but the minute he’s able to have it, to enjoy it, to talk about it with someone who he is actually naked with a regular basis, he devolves into a drooling, potty-mouthed slut, apparently.

Kurt, on the other hand, hasn’t stopped blushing since—probably the first time they came together, grinding and panting and fully clothed in Kurt’s bedroom between dinner and family movie time.

Thinking about that certainly is not helping, Blaine thinks.

This time, he’d taken the vibrator out five minutes into their conversation.  He just—can’t, today, something in the air or in his body and he just—he’s so fucking horny.  He turns it to the lowest setting and tries not to be obvious about it.  

He certainly hadn’t known at the time that Kurt would stay on the phone with him for hours.  After the first hour, stomach covered in layers of dried pre-ejaculate that is constantly being refreshed by wet, new gushes, he thinks that perhaps he should stop.  He should at least take the vibrator out of his ass, should at least let his cock have a rest.

But Kurt is whispering confessions into his hear, jerky little phrases filled with substitutes for dirtier words because he is still embarrassed about talking about what they do when they’re alone.  It makes Blaine so hard that he could cry.

He’d stopped touching his cock about a half hour into it because he just couldn’t stand the friction anymore without coming, but this doesn’t stop him from continuing to fuck himself and massage his prostate, making it happen again and again.  The gland is so swollen—so much more sensitive than he has ever allowed it to get—that it’s actually started to hurt a little.

He’s sweat-soaked and shaking, legs bent at the knee and spread out on either side of him as far as they can go.  The room is so hot that he can’t even stand the blankets under body.  His cock has gone soft and re-hardened so many times that he’s lost count—and every time it’s hard and he’s rapidly pushing the toy in and out of his hole it jerks, untouched, spitting weakly and then sometimes for no reason at all gushing fluid out of the head.

The pretense is dropped, of course, somewhere around hour two when Kurt starts panting into the phone.

"Are you…?" he asks.

"I have been for a while," Blaine answers, mouth close against receiver.

"Blaine," Kurt whines. "T-tell me what you’re doing."

"Using my vibrator," he admits. "Thinking about how I wish it was you instead.  Fuck, Kurt, I’m so hard."

"Keep talking," Kurt gasps.  Blaine can tell that he’s close.

"I’m so fucking loose now," he pants. "God, Kurt, I—I think I could fit you in next to this toy.  I think I could take both at once.  Oh, fuck.  God.  I—want you so bad.  Want you here and pressing me down and fucking into me hard and fast, want you to make it hurt—"

He almost comes when Kurt does, whimpering into the phone on a frantic rush of breath that blows up loudly through the microphone.  But he doesn’t—he hasn’t touched his cock and every time he feels that he might get close from prostate stimulation alone, he pushes the vibrator into a different spot.

They’re on the phone so long that Kurt actually manages to come a second time, and he still hasn’t, which has Kurt in awe.

"How have you not…?  Oh my god, Blaine.  If I hadn’t—twice already—"

He is shaking and uncomfortable but it’s gone past discomfort and into blind sensation that is neither pain nor pleasure.  It’s just there, huge and overwhelming and taking up literally every nerve response that he has to spare.

He wishes he was on his knees being driven into.  He imagines Kurt’s long, slender cock, slamming home so deeply that he could feel it in his belly.  He imagines fingers biting bruises into his hips and bite marks on the back of his neck and balls slapping against his ass.

His cock is literally quivering, the slit at the head gaping, swollen and wet and an angry red-blue.

"Next time," Kurt whispers, panting.  Blaine wonders if he’s trying for a third—another hour has passed, so maybe not out of the realm of possibility? "Next time, we’re going to do that.  Use the toy and me at the same time.  Want to fill you up and—Blaine, I’ll do whatever you want, I’ll—f-fuck you so hard, make it last."

This is the straw that breaks the camel’s back; Kurt never says dirty things like that, never swears like that, and Blaine can’t handle it.  He sobs.  His face is actually tear-streaked already, just as wet as his sweat-covered skin and his pre-come painted thighs and belly. 

He honestly has no idea if he can even come, it’s that far gone.  He’s scared to touch his cock, and scared because even after hours of this it’s—still not enough.  He wants more.  His body is so greedy.

"Kurt," he breathes. "Kurt, I need to come.  I—it fucking hurts, I—shit.  Shit, shit, shit."

"Go slow, just—squeeze slow, take—take the toy out, maybe use your fingers instead?"

His boyfriend is an unintentional genius.  He slowly, slowly edges the toy out, feeling his body gape—he knows that his ass is spread obscenely wide without even needing to see it.  He carefully curls three fingers inside, crooking them and pushing them deep and hard.  Holding his breath, he wraps his left hand around the base of his cock and squeezes up the shaft, turning the circle of his fist around the head.

It’s almost like coming in slow motion; he feels the tightening and then the rush of sensation from his balls and up the shaft and it hurts, it fucking hurts, but it feels so good, and he watches transfixed as a small quantity of thick, white come gushes lazily over his hand.  The orgasm is so intense compared to how little come that he has left to give; it literally feels as if something important breaks, rocketing through his groin and belly and thighs like a shot.

When it’s over and his body is still twitching, he breathes into the phone with Kurt for a while, unable to muster up the will to speak, much less speak with any coherency.  He is shaking so hard that he almost drops the phone, and tears keep welling up in his eyes.  His cock is still throbbing against his thigh, almost purple at the tip, skin still stretched shiny and tight and slick over the head.

"H-how long until you can do that again?  Preferably with me?" Kurt asks, high-pitched.

Blaine groans into the phone. “Can I get back to you on that?”

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    It happens for two reason: he has the house to himself and Kurt is teasing the hell out of him over the phone. The first...
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