Takes place the Thursday after "House vs God". One more episode in House and Wilson's screwed-up verging-on-noncon don't-try-this-at-home relationship. Do I have to warn for kink if it's all happening inside House's teeming brain?
If House had thought about it, he'd have expected to be punished for shouting at Wilson during the Thursday night poker game. But if he'd thought about it - and he was too busy thinking about Wilson stupidly involved with a patient, hazarding his license and his career - he wouldn't have expected this.
He'd been playing poker for years with Dry Cleaner, Tax Accountant, Guy From The Bus Stop - he was Piano Man. They'd switched to using his place after the local bar started getting visitors who talked very politely in Italian accents about how the bar needed a gambling license. The bar manager had told them to get used to staking chocolate or matchsticks, or get out.
He wouldn't say they were friends. But it was kind of interesting, having people around at least some of the time who weren't Wilson but who didn't actually seem to dislike him.
"What do they call you?" Wilson asked.
"Piano Man," House said. He wondered why Wilson wanted to know.
Wilson showed up fifteen minutes before the others were due to arrive. House was surprised.
"Listen, I told them your real name's not Wilson, and they probably won't even remember you three months from now if you were just a one-night drop in."
Wilson didn't answer him. He took House's cane away, and reached for the closet door. House looked at him in disbelief.
"No," he said, his voice shaking.
"House," Wilson said, dropping the cane and kicking it away, taking hold of him by the shoulders, "you know what you did last week at poker night? You tried to humiliate and embarrass me in front of your friends. You know you deserve to be punished for that."
"Sure," House said, in resignation. He knew he did deserve it. "But can't you wait?" He had fully expected that now his case was over, Wilson would give him a thorough paddling, maybe a caning too, for bad behavior. His bottom twitched as he thought about it.
Wilson gave him a very disappointed look. "House... you know that's not how it works. I decide how you're punished. I decide when. Do you want to safeword? Get out of being punished for what you did?"
"No..." House said, uneasily. "But the others... they'll be here in about ten minutes. You won't have time."
Wilson glanced pointedly at his watch. "Good. And they normally stay till when?"
"Around eleven," House said. "We finish out the last hand. Everyone's gone by midnight." He wants to suggest Wilson come back for then. Wilson's hands have moved down his back and are rubbing over his jeans-covered bottom. "You could cane me." His voice shakes.
He really doesn't like getting caned. He likes it after, when Wilson is rubbing the marks the cane leaves and scolding him gently about how he should learn to be a good boy.
Wilson pulls down his pants and his undershorts, in one direct move. House gasps, he's so surprised. "I think I will cane you," Wilson says. "Later." He reaches into the closet, finds a bag hanging from a hook, and pulled out a butt plug and some lube. He takes House's arm and turns him round - House is surprised into compliance, he really hadn't expected this - and submits as Wilson pushes lube up his ass, then the plug. It's not a very big plug, and its's flanged so that it can't disappear all the way up House's butt. He pulls House's pants up again afterwards.
"You want me to wear this during the poker game?"
"In a manner of speaking." Wilson pushes him gently towards the closet. "Better get inside now, they'll be here in five."
"You're not going to leave me here all evening," House says. His voice rises. He sounds panicky, he knows, he trusts Wilson, he shouldn't panic.
Wilson fastens House's wrists to the walls. He leans in and kisses House on the mouth, just as he always does when he puts House in the closet.
"Well," he says, and he's smiling. "I think you should hope I do decide to leave you in here all evening, House. Think about what could happen to you at a poker party, if I took you out."
He closes the door. House blinks and stares. The plug is a noticeable presence inside him, filling him. Preparing him to be easily fucked.
What could happen, if Wilson took him out?
The closet makes him compliant. That's why Wilson does it to him. A big enema makes him compliant too, but that's a lot of trouble for Wilson, whereas - as they both found when Wilson was living with him - just putting him into the closet when he's a nuisance, when he gets too demanding, means Wilson can have some time on his own without House bothering hin, means House can get a lesson in remembering that he belongs to Wilson.
There's a knock at the door. House shakes. He wishes he was gagged. He understands what Wilson means to do. The sound of voices. Dry cleaner guy, right on time as usual. They're talking, in the hall, he can hear their voices, though after they move away from the closet door he has no idea what they're saying to each other. Wilson could even be saying...
House opens his mouth in a silent, terrified shape. Only a lifetime of training in not screaming keeps him quiet.
"I've got Piano Man in the closet. He's wearing a butt plug to get him ready."
That's what Wilson meant. They play for cash on poker night - not much, not by House's standards, nickel and dime bets that could add up to a pot of fifty dollars at the end of the night. They don't drink much - everyone except Tax Accountant will bring or drink beer. But no one gets buzzed. Poker is too important for that.
Guy From The Bus Stop arrives next. He's surprised to see Wilson. They talk briefly in the hall. Tax Accountant arrives before they've finished the conversation. House presses himself back against the closet wall. All Wilson has to do is pull the door open and they'll see him. Dry Cleaner guy will join them. They'll know what he is to Wilson. They'll know he's a bad boy who deserves to be punished.
Wilson could take House out of the closet. Put him over the back of the couch, pull his pants down. Any time this evening. Poker is too important for them to stop the game, but everyone gets up once in a while to get a drink or have a whizz.
Wilson will paddle him till his butt is red and stinging. Cane him, a few times, leaving marks. He will be left there, his bottom bare and exposed. Crying helplessly. And any of them could take out the plug and use his ass.
House squirms on the plug filling him. It is shorter and not as thick as Wilson's cock. He is, as Wilson reminded him repeatedly when he first took House in hand, an anal slut: he loves to get fucked up the ass. He loves being penetrated and filled. Wilson first got him to ask for the discipline he needs by withholding ass-fucking. Wilson knows how much House loves getting fucked; what if Wilson thinks House would enjoy being the treat for the poker game?
House can hear voices from the other room. If he makes a noise, they will be able to hear him. He can't hear words, just the sound of four people having a genial good time. He wants to be there. Not bent over the sofa with his ass burning, waiting to be fucked. He wants to be there, a part of the evening.
He would like to get fucked by strangers again. House leans his head back. He hasn't done that in years. Not since the infarction, the scar on his leg. Who'd want to fuck him if they saw that, except for Wilson?
Wilson said it wasn't safe. Said that the idea wasn't safe. He didn't say no one would want to do it to House now, he was nicer than that. He said he was there to take care of House, and he would punish House for anything so risky. But it had been good to bend over and spread his legs and open up his well-lubed butt to all comers; hard cocks pumping inside him. Of course everyone wore condoms, but House knew that if someone had tried to fuck him without a condom, he wouldn't have done anything to stop them. Wouldn't have been able to.
Wilson would make sure they didn't fuck him without a condom. Wilson is the only one who gets to do that now. He'd be bent over the sofa, party favor for the poker group, and they could all fuck him, if Wilson took him out.
House opens his eyes again. He's still in the closet. The door is closed. It's dark and chilly and the plug up his ass is splitting him. He drifts out of it, briefly, thinking about if Wilson fastened the plug to the floor of the closet, if House was always planted on it when he was sat in here. He wriggles, feeling the plug shift inside him, turning him on. If they took him out, he'd get fucked. He was being prepared for that, opened up and lubed. Wilson always takes care of him.
Voices from the sitting-room. A loud laugh. Dry cleaner guy. They're all getting up, getting beers, walking down to the hall to the bathroom. House freezes in the closet, tugging helplessly at his bonds. he was drifting, dreaming, lost in imagination about being made to be the poker group's fuck toy. But if they opened the door, they would really see him. They'd really know.
Footsteps, coming down the hall. The door opens. House's mouth opens in a silent wail. Wilson is there. House mewls with panic and Wilson leans in to touch his mouth. Just touch it, with his fingertips, but House's mouth opens and he tries to kiss and lick Wilson's fingers.
Wilson smiles at him. He doesn't say anything to House, but his smile says Good boy. He closes the door again.
"Please," House says softly. He doesn't like this. He doesn't like what it's doing to him. He belongs to Wilson, he's in the closet because he belongs to Wilson. But he can't get out. Wilson can't let him out without showing him off to the poker group guys. They'll all know, if Wilson gets him out of the closet. He won't be part of the poker group any more. He'll be their toy. Like he's Wilson's toy.
He can hear the noises of a good game. They've had their comfort break. Wilson and Tax Accountant and Dry Cleaner and Bus Stop Guy. They're sitting round the table playing cards. House squirms on the plug. He's in the closet. Where he belongs. He wants to be sitting at Wilson's feet. If wilson took him out. If he was under the table, at Wilson's feet, in the darkness there instead of the darkness of the closet. Warm darkness instead of chilled darkness.
They wouldn't need a comfort break if he was under the table. They would just push his mouth from cock to cock. He'd be plugged to stop himself making a mess. Wilson doesn't like it when he's messy. He would learn the taste of each man's cock. He wouldn't be allowed to suck them off, because they wouldn't want to spoil their focus on poker. They'd just use him as a urinal, fill him with their beer-piss. House's mouth opens, he swallows, thinking about being safe under the table, being used, being useful. Being filled. He would belong to the group.
No. No. He wants to belong to Wilson. He can hear the voices speaking, but he can't pick Wilson's out from them. He cries silently in the dark. He wants to be Wilson's.
He's at the game again, his hands tied together, tethered to Wilson's chair. Sometimes Wilson's hand comes down and pets his hair. Wilson is focussed on the game, he's not paying much attention to House. No one is. House is naked and his ass has been whipped and plugged, but Wilson can have him any time, and right now Wilson's playing poker. Then House hears: Wilson is staking not money but House. Not blow jobs or casual fucks, that the poker group can have for the asking, like a beer or a coffee. Wilson is betting House's ownership. The others are talking about the value of the stake. How good House is at being fucked. How much discipline he needs to keep him in line. He starts thrashing and tugging at the bonds, but he can hardly move. House starts to hyperventilate. He doesn't want to be taken away by a stranger, he doesn't want to lose Wilson, but he never had Wilson: he doesn't want Wilson to lose him. The bonds are tightened. A hood is dropped over his head leaving him in darkness. Open or closed eyes, he can't tell. He is crying, not even able to hear the stakes go up, listening as a hand he can't see is played without him, and people he can't hear are talking about his worth, and Wilson is betting his House on the turn of the cards.
He hears voices through the hood. They're leaving. One of them is taking House with him. House opens his mouth in a silent protest, arching his back, the plug pressing into him, tears hot on his face under the hood. He hears them laughing. The door opens. Closes.
Light breaks in. House isn't hooded. Wilson is there. He's smiling. He looks excited and pleased. He must have won the hand. House is still Wilson's.
Wilson releases him from the cuffs and helps him out of the closet. House sits at Wilson's feet and clings to him. He's rubbing his face against the fabric covering Wilson's thighs and crying. He's Wilson's. He's still Wilson's.
"Good boy," Wilson says. He helps House up. He walks House to the bedroom. He bends House over the bed and pulls his pants and shorts down. He takes out the plug and fits House with an even larger one. He lectures House softly and gently about House's wrongdoings during the week while he paddles him, large heavy strokes, each blow striking the end of the plug. "You've been very good, House. I'm proud of you. Now you understand why you should have gone into the closet when you were told. Three strokes of the cane to help you remember."
House is crying. The paddle has left his bottom stinging hot. Each stroke of the cane makes him scream. Wilson takes out the large plug and leaves him feeling empty. He strips House naked. He rolls House into bed.
"Please," House begs. "Tie me."
Wilson laughs. He tethers House's wrists together in front of him, and pats House on the ass. "I'll be there soon."
It doesn't take Wilson long to get ready for bed. He slides in behind House and puts his arms round him. He shifts and pushes: House is so open that it doesn't take any more preparation for Wilson to get into his ass. House whimpers, happy to have Wilson warm inside him, filling him.
"I love this," Wilson says in House's ear. "All evening, I kept thinking of you, tucked away, just for me." He jerks his hips, spearing House a little deeper, and House lets out a small happy whine. "You're such a good boy," Wilson says, fucking him slowly, warm and good and deep. "Mine."
If you liked this you'll probably also like my stalker Tailkinkers Closet stories! Seems we both like putting House in the closet and gingering him up...