He can't believe what he's seeing. Wilson answered his door wearing . . . a collar. That part House takes in with an eye roll; no surprise here, not really. Jimmy's always had a submissive streak a mile wide down his spine. No, it's when he pushes the apartment door wider and peers in, looking to see who's playing Mean Mama for the esteemed oncologist and discovers . . . that Lisa Cuddy looks like a fucking wet dream come true in black shiny latex. For a moment, House is utterly speechless.

All three of them know that's a first.


It's driving him nuts—House can't focus on anything at work, because work means he's around both Wilson AND Cuddy, and neither one of them is saying a damned word about it.

The big IT.

The IT that haunts House and makes him crankier than usual. His Fellows are avoiding him and rightly so—House's mental quest and hormones are in overdrive, making him a bigger pain in the ass. Wilson he can understand; but Cuddy? When did she start taking her Luscious Dean act on the road? More importantly, who else is playing games with her behind closed doors?



Just that. She doesn't say anything else, no matter how much he argues / cajoles/ blusters /threatens. Cuddy looks up each time he walks into her office. Her tone is low and firm.


She's not even worried for God's sake. House grits his teeth and thinks hard to find another strategy, because if there's one way to really piss him off; say no and mean it. He figures he can wear Cuddy down if he asks enough.

Since this isn't about budgets or lawyers or dangerous procedures though, House is realizing he may be shit out of luck.


So he follows her, stalking her patiently night after night. Cuddy's aware he's there, and more than once has managed to give him the slip. It's only a week later, when Cameron finally complains to her about how much House is sleeping during the day that Cuddy realizes she may have to take steps. For a day, she debates internally—give in, or fire him? The latter is tempting, but Cuddy knows that the easiest way to kill the man's curiosity is to TMI it to death.

Then she worries that with House that might be like feeding a tribble.


When he lurches in that afternoon, Cuddy sets her pen down and looks at him. House narrows his gaze, realizing something different is happening in the dynamic. Cuddy lets her gaze run from his feet to his face, and draws in a little breath.


"Yes?" House is suspicious, but Cuddy doesn't miss the quick throb along his fly, and that renews her faith and fears. She takes in another calming breath and waits. He stares at her warily for a while.


"Tonight. Bring extra Vicodin."

House purses his mouth and Cuddy wants to laugh at his troubled expression.


He's not afraid.


Pffft! This is Cuddy for God's sake, and House is confident this is alllll going to be a hoot, really. At best, he's going to laugh his head off, and might even get laid if things go well. Yeah, it will be fun to see his Dean slink in latex, trying to order him around.

Hell, House is pretty sure he can even do cuffs, if it comes to that.

And yet, standing on Cuddy's front porch, he feels a surge of something he can't quite define running through his veins; a frisson of anticipation.



Cuddy motions him in, and leads the way to the guest room; she doesn't have to look back to know House is watching her ass as she saunters ahead of him. The steady 'thump' of his cane behind her is reassuring. She turns at the door and pauses, staring at him.

House pauses, staring back. Cuddy's laced up in a leather bustier and short matching skirt; it's a damned fine look for her, especially with her chest straining against the cords.

"Take off your clothes." Comes her quiet command.

"Do I have to?" he mock-whines, unprepared for her next move.


Cuddy has his cane; she yanked it from him before he could react, and now House is forced to brace one hand on the wall.

"Not funny—" he snarls, feeling off-balance in more ways than one. Cuddy flashes a hard smile. She twirls the cane like a baton, spinning it deftly.

"Take off your clothes," she repeats, her voice still soft.

House hesitates, then begins to shrug out of his coat. What the hell—not that big a deal. He tries to hand things to Cuddy but she shakes her head. He's forced to drop them on the floor.


Cuddy feels tension deep in her stomach and forces it to relax. House is waiting, looking a lot less smug than he did a few moments ago now that he's nearly naked. She swings the cane down to lightly rap the side of his shin, and he glares at her, his free hand over the crotch of his boxers.

"Hey, watch it—"

"Not how this goes. Lose the boxers, or get lost yourself, House."

The sheer disbelief on his face is so perfect she wants to frame the moment. To sweeten the order, she licks her lips.

House stiffens.


"Now listen—" He begins, but Cuddy shoves the end of the cane against his chest and manages to pull a lighter from somewhere. She flicks it on and holds it over his pile of clothing on the hallway carpet.

He rolls his eyes. "Oh right, like you're going t—"

She drops the lighter, right on his Cathy and the Catheters shirt. House grabs for the end of the cane, but Cuddy twirls, scoops up the lighter and is back with the rubber end against his chest once more. The shirt has singe marks on it.

"Lose the boxers."


House has to reconsider everything in the blink of an eye and does—chalk one up for Cuddy this time. Grudgingly he shucks off his boxers, scowling. It's not his scar that bothers him, or even his nudity, really—it's the look in Cuddy's impassive face.

She's not smug, or smirking or even eyeing his body. No, she's just standing there with the end of the cane shoved hard between his pecs. Pinning him.

"Tell me what's off-limits," Cuddy demands in a surprisingly gentle voice.

"Torching my clothes."

She smirks, and steps forward, kicking his boxers out of the way.


"I have no qualms sending you home naked," Cuddy informs him blandly. "Bet you'll stick to the vinyl of your bike though."

"It's leather," House corrects her, "probably Corinthian for what I paid."

"It's cold and exposed. Tell me what's off-limits for you."

House looks upward, thinking. "Scat, cross-dressing, edge-play, CBT and auto-erotic asphyxiation. Oh, and I'm pretty sure kneeling is right out too. Other than those—"

His smugness has returned, but Cuddy keeps a straight face. House may THINK he's done his research—

"You're sure?"

"Oh yeah, do your worst, Mistress Cuddy—"

"You'll need a safe word."


House looks down at the cane, but Cuddy is quicker than he is, and shifts it out of his reach. He can't get over how sleek she looks, how sternly serene. For a moment, he hesitates.

"How about sweater meat?"

"How about no. Get your clothes and go home, House."

"Wait . . . okay, cane. Will that work?" he offers, annoyed that his voice is tight. This doesn't matter; he lies to himself. It's all sex hormones and psychological BS.

"Cane," Cuddy murmurs, and strokes the long wooden shaft in her hands.

Damn it, he feels himself stiffen again.


Cuddy smiles. This one is easy, a gentle tug at the corners of her bright red mouth and she knows she looks good. The color has always been one of her favorites; a shade too vivid for work. Her hair is down and her make-up is a bit heavy, but it will look good in the candlelight.

She takes the cane and hands it back to House. "Cane will do . . . if you're serious."

For a moment, House grins, standing in her hallway, naked, his expression clearly wry as he looks down at her.

"Good to go."


It's a twin bed, and House notes that the spread is sumptuous velour. The headboard is wrought iron, and he doesn't miss the padded cuffs firmly attached on each side of it. That stops him a second, but it's too late to protest now and sound like a wimp.

"Love what you've done with the place."

"Shhhh," Cuddy murmurs; House hears distraction in her tone and glances back. She's eyeing his ass unashamedly, and for a second he feels heat on his face. Then Cuddy lets her gaze slide up him, and House sees something mysterious flicker in her eyes.


"Since your list of no-nos didn't include bondage, that will be first," Cuddy purrs. House turns his gaze to the bed and rolls his eyes.

"Sure, let's go for the classics—"

"—And a gag. Oh THAT'S going to be a pleasure," she sweetly tells him. House scowls. This isn't going to be as much fun if he can't go with his running commentary. Cuddy slides her hands along his ribs and gives him a little push towards the bed, like a mother rounding up a reluctant toddler.

"Can I change my mind?"

"You have no rights now, House."


The fun starts when Cuddy leans over him to cuff his wrists because this brings her leather and lace cleavage right into his face. House snorgles it happily, not paying attention to his hands.

Cuddy makes an exasperated sound and pulls back waaay too soon for his liking. She rests a cool finger on his shoulder, looking over his arms. "I need you to be comfortable . . . " she tells him.

House's smirk at that moment is classic; full of lazy, arrogant confidence. Cuddy's finger trails up to his lips and she leans down to whisper very softly.


". . . Because it makes slipping in the butt plug that much easier."

For a moment he almost believes her; after all, Cuddy IS in black leather and he's tied on her guest bed. But they've played too much poker and he knows her too well. He manages a cynical chuckle.

"So NOT going to happen . . . Mistress."

Cuddy smiles—he's falling into line perfectly and doesn't even see it. Naked and cuffed, calling her 'Mistress'. . . She rises up and runs her hands down her ribs, smoothing out the bustier, knowing House is watching her.


"So now what?" he asks, putting on an air of nonchalance. He's got enough Vicodin in his system to keep his pain at bay for a while, and Mr. Happy is definitely interested in the whole scenario, judging by the twitching.

Cuddy considers her options.

She goes to the nightstand, making sure House is watching, and carefully pulls out two items: a little bottle of green liquid and a thin strap. In a big show, she checks the level in the bottle and gives a nod; there's enough, oh yes.

House's focus is on the strap, though. He says nothing.


The lubricant is slick, and slightly tinged with mint; House feels it tingling on his cock and the sensation is maddening. Not enough to burn, no, but it's enough to keep his focus all along the Watchtower, as it were.

But that's not the worst of it. No, the real killer is the combination of Cuddy's hands, and the damned leather band wrapped around the base of his dick. He's hard, definitely that, and every stroke of Luscious Lisa's fingers are driving him out of his mind—

He can't come. Rampant and nicely oiled, but all sensation with no splash.


"I . . . Jesus---"

"Not hardly, House. Just a man in my hands," Cuddy tells him. She's seated near his hip, working her magic fingers along his shaft, humming.

Humming for God's sake!

House wants to throttle her, but then another surge of lust makes his stomach clench. He knows if that the strap were off, he'd be gushing like an oil well, definitely going for height. He groans reluctantly, and Cuddy takes her evil sexy hands off him.

"What? Stopping?" he whines. She leans over and nestles her mouth against his collarbone. Cuddy nips, HARD.

House throbs.


Cuddy loves the way Greg House looks in the candlelight right now, damp and struggling, his stubble dark and his gaze flinty.

James Wilson never looks this way. That one gives in, slips into his zone so easily, so gratefully. Doing a Scene with James is elegant and satisfying, but it's not a challenge.


House is a challenge.

"Take the damned belt off my dick!" he growls. "Gangrene of the penis is NOT sexy."

Cuddy slides her hands down the insides of his thighs. "I wonder if you taste good."

House shuts up, eyes wide and watching.

Cuddy chuckles.


It's not his thing, definitely not, House decides. While he doesn't consider himself sexist, this entire power play with Hottie Cuddy bossing him is too much, and it needs to stop.

The problem is, he can't . . . quite . . . make himself use his safe word.

It's right there, on the tip of his tongue, but every time he opens his mouth he hesitates, because Cuddy is nuzzling his thighs now and toying with his balls, her touch soft.

He wants her, oh hell yes—


He's afraid that if he says 'cane', he'll never have her.


It's exhilarating, this power; Cuddy isn't sure how much longer she can take the thrill. House is groaning, rocking his hips to meet her stroking palms, trying to push himself between her lips. She won't let him quite go past the hot plump kiss around the head though, and the torment is exquisite.

It's more than House wanting her, Cuddy knows; it's about House accepting THIS: the moment, the situation, the beautiful unreality of it all. That despite his much-vaunted intellect Gregory House is as driven by testosterone and libido as any other human male.

Maybe even more so.


It takes a little coordination, but Cuddy undoes the strap with one hand and cups his balls with the other. House hoarsely grunts and comes, the urgent spray of his semen gushing in searing pulses.

Cuddy watches raptly.

House's chest rises and falls; his breathing is wild as he slumps back against the bed. He's quiet. Cuddy waits just the right amount of time, then rises up with queenly elegance. She has the damp warm towel ready, and wipes his stomach and thighs, her touch very gentle. When she's done, she moves closer, bending down to look into House's face.


His confused, vulnerable look says 'What the hell?' so clearly that she laughs, and reaches down to stroke his sweaty forehead.

"That was . . . impressive," she tells him in a soft little voice. House actually blushes. He works his jaw, trying to think of something to say, and tugs on his cuffed wrists.

Cuddy shakes her head. "Not yet."

"Ohh yeah. I suppose you want a turn too," House rasps, trying to sound unaffected. But his eyes are enormous in the candlelight, and there is a new awareness in them.

An uncomfortable awareness.

Cuddy shakes her head, slowly.


"This isn't about sex, House."

"Could have fooled me—"

"Could have HAD you. Instead, I got to watch you losing it, Greg. I got to feel you come in my hands, insanely desperate for erotic release. And I could have kept you on that edge all night."

House automatically tries to deny it, but the new awareness leaves him silent. He's not sure how to get around the truth of her words.

He's not sure how he feels about any of this.

Cuddy kisses him, her hot tongue swiping his lips.

And he feels himself start to stiffen again.


Kissing, slow delicious deep kissing. It's insane to kiss Cuddy without being able to touch her face; her hair. She leans over him, shifting her hot lips, tasting and plunging, laughing at his helplessness.

Damn it. House feels the surge of renewed interest in Mr. Happy, and it's thrilling and scary at the same time. Men his age don't go hair-trigger, not without . . .

He can't think, not with Cuddy's tart little tongue slipping in and out of his mouth. House moans softly and closes his eyes, kissing back.

She's sucking his lips, teasing his tongue, whispering something—


"—About the hardest thing you've ever given. The thing you can't quite let go of, House," Cuddy breathes in his face. She looks elfin and wild, her mouth smiling but her eyes fierce; for a moment House holds his breath.

"Internet porn?" he tries to sneer, but it falls flat in the candlelight and warmth of the bedroom. Cuddy tips her head to one side and licks her upper lip.

The gesture makes his stomach tense up and House sighs harshly. He knows what Cuddy is getting at, but he's not about to admit it.

Not yet.

Not yet.


Then she slowly takes her clothes off, and this is MUCH more interesting. House tries to watch; it's hard to lift his head when his arms are still tied but he manages it as Cuddy slinks out of her leatherwear.

It's a great chest, he has to admit; bouncy and firm. Certainly Mr. Happy thinks so. The small thong is a nice touch too—sheer lace in a shade of baby pink.

Innocence over experience, House thinks to himself.

Cuddy slides onto the bed, onto him, weight on her hands and knees. Her hair hangs down and brushes his chest.


Warm and sleek, Cuddy smells like hot musk with hints of perfume. The weight of her kitten body on him is arousing, and House flexes against her thigh.

"Time to ride me like a birthday pony?" he asks, hopefully.

Cuddy laughs, but shakes her head. "No."

"Well okay, but if you want to do that post-cuddling thing, I'm a little tied up."

Her face is buried against the crook of his neck, her breath hot on his skin. "Oh, I'm actually in the mood for a bite."

Then Cuddy's teeth graze his tender flesh, sending wild shivers down his spine.


House tenses against his bonds. Cuddy straddles him, taking her time in working over his nipples, deliberately tugging and licking them. She knows her hair is tickling him as well, and when she looks up at his face, he's got his eyes closed, his mouth drawn up in a wordless groan.

"You can . . . always stop . . . this—" Cuddy reminds him huskily.

She's feeling the energy in him; anima rising along his bare flesh.

House shakes his head without opening his eyes. Cuddy shifts to the other nipple, like a rivet on his strong chest.


The sweet dark pain is coiling low in his belly, sharpened by every nip of Cuddy's teeth along his skin. She slides on him, brushing his cock against the gossamer of her panties and House aches.

He's dazed, feeling everything in the unreal moment of heat and pinned time here. It's as if this has always been happening and has no beginning or end.

Like an acid trip, without the woozy edges, he thinks, and then Cuddy sinks her teeth into the tender spot along his hip and his cock throbs hard and hot in instant response.

He stops thinking.


Cuddy hears the change in his breathing, and relief, sweet and deep rushes through her. Yes. He's there, right in that head space—

The zone.

She wasn't sure he would reach it—at least not the first time--but for a man as complex as House, anything was possible. Cuddy shifts on his frame, letting her weight press down, slithering in a full-body caress over the red blotches of her love bites.

She's decorated him in a garden of red blooms, and her own breathing is much faster now as she moves to straddle his thighs and watch his face.


"I own your ass," Cuddy purrs. House slowly opens his eyes, his gaze unfocused. He's rocking his hips up again, and his cock is thick and dark. Cuddy caresses it gently. "I own your ass, don't I, Greg?"

"You . . . yes . . . " he agrees in a slightly dazed tone, a faint, wondering smile on his mouth. Cuddy's fingers curl around his erection a bit more tightly.

"And right now, I own a bit more than just that, don't I?"

He nods; it's easier and less distracting. House licks his dry lips, shifting restlessly, wanting . . . . more.


Cuddy sees him hoping for something he can't quite name at this point, and the head fuck is so glorious she moans a little herself. Her body is hungry for him, so she shifts herself, moving up over House's hips now, rising up on her knees as she looks down over his eagle spread torso stretched out on the bed.

Gently she tugs the panties aside with one hand as the other caresses his turgid shaft.

Dimly he groans in a last wry mock-protest. "I thought . . . you said this wasn't about sex."

Cuddy laughs pleasurably. "Everybody lies."


She nestles him between her sleek thighs and impales herself, a low groan of desire rising out of her long throat. House's growl merges with hers as the cords stand out on his neck and all the bite marks on his torso flush a deeper red.

The bed creaks.

House lifts his hips, tries to thrust deeper into the magnificently slick clench of Cuddy's body, but she wriggles, and settles her hands on his chest for leverage.

"Sloooow, baby. This one's mine," she croons possessively. "All mine."

"Jesuuuuusss—" House hisses, his tone ragged with emotion, his breath gusting out.


He can't hold out.

House grits his teeth, dimly tries all the distractions he's ever resorted to in the past: musical notations, long chemical equations, translating Lacrosse regulations into Swahili—

He can't focus on anything but his burning shaft stroking in and out of Cuddy as she moves in beautiful rhythm on him, her cheekbones flushed, her glittering dark eyes half-closed with pleasure.

"Don't you dare come—" she orders in a thick, tight voice even as she quickens her pace.

House pulls hard on his bonds, his teeth gritted so hard they ache. He NEEDs to . . .


. . . . But she told him NOT to, and nothing is making sense; not his body, surging hot and cold, not his enraged dick, not the merging of pain and pleasure spiking though his entire body making the bites on him throb hotly.

"Yessssssss!" Cuddy keens, her head dropping forward, her fingers clenching painfully against his chest as her trim little body shudders in spasms of pleasure.

The pulsing squeeze of her around him makes House gasp, and she nods as she keeps bouncing on him.

House comes, erupting deep, lost in the white-hot pleasure, transcended beyond reasoning.


Much later, when he opens his eyes again, House realizes he's been uncuffed and now has a blanket over him. The muzzy awareness holds a sense of emptiness though since he's alone on the bed.

Carefully he looks around and sees Cuddy sitting on the edge of the mattress, slowly brushing the dark glossy waterfall of her hair.

It's a beautiful sight; intimate and sad. He sits up, awkwardly and leans forward; Cuddy turns to look at him and her smile is enough to send a jolt through his chest.

House takes the brush and asks without speaking.

She nods.


Not a lot is said.

Not a lot needs to be said.

House leaves before sunrise, lurching stiffly down her porch steps and looking up at the faint light in the East. The air is fresh, cool and still; his bike seat has condensation on it.

He wipes the seat down and straddles it, gingerly. House feels the night's aftermath, lightly dulled by fresh Vicodin. He starts the motorcycle and lets it carry him off, into the last dregs of the night.

As he leans forward, House feels the press of Cuddy's hairbrush against his chest, tucked under his shirt.


Cuddy listens to him go, the low drone of the motorcycle fading off in the night. It's nearly time for her to get up and start her day—files and meetings and bills and donors and patients will all be clamoring for her attention in a few hours.

But here in this moment of dark grace, lying in a bed still faintly perfumed with musk, Cuddy trembles.

In games of love and duty, sometimes there are moments of needs fulfilled in ways beyond understanding. A kiss of souls, as the expression goes.

House will come back, she knows.

Some day.