This takes place in the screwed-up, messed-up, verging-on-noncon, semi-abusive, seriously don't try this at home, Closetverse relationship series. It's a direct sequel to The Gag, though don't feel you have to read that first unless you want to. It seems like whenever I get a bit stuck on the Collarverse story I move into Closetverse... well, no one's complained so far. Warnings for kink, not all of it in House's imagination. All reviews appreciated!

Wilson Inside

House rapped on the glass door of Wilson's office, and walked in. "Lunch," he declared. It was Friday afternoon and he was planning to start the weekend early.

Wilson looked up. "You've solved the case?"

"Solved it, fixed it, patient turning the corner as we speak," House said. Foreman and Chase had gone off to administer the medication, Cameron had gone to talk to the wife. "Let's go to Panico's."

"I have work to do," Wilson said. He looked back down at his desk, frowning for a moment, and when he looked back up, he had a different expression on his face. House stared at him, measuring the difference, feeling it crawl inside him.

"So do you," Wilson said. "You haven't done your clinic hours yet today, have you?"

"No," House said. He could feel his heart beginning to beat faster, his breath coming shorter. Something was going to happen, and he had no idea what.

That was the best part.

"Well, you should certainly eat lunch," Wilson said, still in that different voice. "Why don't you come over here?"

House did as Wilson said, eyeing him. When he was standing by Wilson's desk, Wilson pointed at the floor. "On your knees, House."

They never did this at work. Well, almost never. They'd never done anything like this in working hours. Anyone could come through the door to Wilson's office.

Wilson was waiting for him to obey. House went down on his knees, realising that he was invisible from the door into the hall. Only someone who came over to Wilson's desk and peered behind it would see him. He smiled up at Wilson and parted his lips, wiggling his tongue, thinking that Wilson planned to make House give him a blow-job. He hardly ever got to do that without being punished by Wilson.

Wilson took his cane away. "Good boy," he said, standing up, holding House's cane. "Stay just where you are. I'll come back with lunch for us both."

House looked up at Wilson. It was uncomfortable for him to kneel for long, and Wilson knew it and usually didn't make him do it. But Wilson smiled. "And your Vicodin."

When they did this, Wilson got to decide when House had his painkillers. After a brief struggle with himself, House handed over the prescription bottle. He had another full prescription stashed in his office, not to mention the various caches he had all over his office. It wasn't a big deal.

Wilson went away then, and left House kneeling there. He would have plenty of time, if someone came in, to find an excuse - a prank on Wilson - that meant he needed to be kneeling just here. But House played with the idea that he wouldn't need an excuse: Wilson's assistant could walk in and see him kneeling beside Wilson's chair, and she would just nod and put the files on Wilson's desk, because that was where he was supposed to be.

He couldn't really fall into the fantasy - it stayed just a daydream, a little arousing - because Wilson hadn't collared him or put wristbands on him. Or stripped him naked. There were still bruises on his flesh from the last time Wilson had disciplined him. If Wilson had told him to strip before he knelt down, would he have done it? What if Wilson had said, in that calm way he said it always, "Safeword, House?" and House would know he had the choice of saying the word, accepting what Wilson wanted to do to him, or ... Wilson could walk away. He didn't need to discipline House, he just did it because House deserved it. But House needed Wilson. Not just because Wilson fucked him, if House was a good boy, but because with Wilson, he had a place where he was supposed to be.

Even if that place was in the closet, or kneeling beside Wilson's desk. House's breath caught. Suppose Foreman or Chase were to climb over the balcony wall to find him? Suppose they saw him kneeling by Wilson's chair?

The door opened. House froze, only momentarily: he knew the steps. Wilson didn't say anything to greet him. He paused a moment by the filing-cabinet, opening one of the drawers and taking something out, and then he came over to the desk again and put several things down on it - there was a papery noise like a bag, and a clicking noise of plastic or hard rubber, and a squishy noise, like...

House lifted his head and looked. On the desk, spread out for anyone to see who walked in, Wilson had put a brown paper sack from the canteen, but also two shapes that House hardly recognised, didn't want to recognise, they were so incongruous, and a bag of liquid food, and one of the items he didn't want to recognise was the gag with the feeding tube, and the other was a butt-plug. A big one.

Wilson's hand was on his mouth. "Sh," he said quietly. "The only thing I want to hear you say is the safeword. Do you remember what the safeword is, when you're gagged?"

House nodded. He couldn't take his eyes from the bag of liquid food. It looked horrid lying there. He hadn't really looked at it properly when WIlson had done this to him before. It looked too big. Too much. His stomach growled at him, and Wilson laughed, leaning down and patting his belly. "Show me what your safeword is when you're gagged, House, and I can feed you."

House lifted his hands above his shoulders and put them down. He swallowed. His mouth felt dry. Wilson picked up the gag. "Open up," he said, and House did. The gag went in, and Wilson strapped it on.

"Now I can do something you've deserved for quite a while," Wilson said. He helped House to his feet, and walked him over to the sofa. He bent him over one arm. House was breathing through his nose, terribly worried now. He howled when Wilson hurt him too much, but this gag reduced the noise. Wilson always worried about people hearing, he hardly ever punished House in his office, and before this only when everyone had definitely gone home. This was the middle of the day.

Wilson unbuckled House's belt and drew his jeans and boxers down, exposing House's ass to the balcony doors. House felt like he was tingling all over. Chase or Foreman or Cameron wouldn't have to cross the wall, all they would have to do would be go out on the Diagnostics side and look. And they'd see him, bare-ass over the couch, about to get punished and then fucked. He was very conscious of the gag in his mouth, the tube holding his tongue down, the frame holding his jaws. He could be fed with this gag, but he couldn't eat or speak.

Wilson had planned this, because he reached down and picked a cane out from behind the sofa. House knew it was a cane from the sound it made as Wilson picked it up, and also because Wilson began to try it out by resting it on House's buttocks, not hitting yet, just pressing down at one angle or another. "You're never going to be able to sit on this sofa again without thinking about this," he told House softly, intimately. "You're always going to remember how I caned you. You're always going to know I can do it to you again."

And with that, the cane hit. House would have howled, but the gag filled his mouth and all that came out was a choked quiet grunt. The sharp line of pain cut across his buttocks like a brand. And then it happened again, and he jerked up as he grunted through the gag, but Wilson put his hand on the middle of his back and it was firm and comforting and Wilson caned him again and again and again and it hurt and the last stroke hurt worse than anything.

"Good boy," Wilson said, rubbing his back soothingly. "Stay there. Remember anyone can see your ass who likes." He walked away, over to his desk, and House was suddenly certain all three of his fellows were standing behind the glass door looking in, that Wilson had seen them and meant House to know they were there, seeing what Wilson could do to him. Foreman would want to punish him too. Chase would want to fuck him, if Wilson permitted it. Cameron would pity him. House whined, wanting to get up, wanting to cover himself, feeling his buttocks twitching, knowing - Wilson had told him - this made him look more fuckable: knowing - Wilson had told him that too - that the sight of House's ass, decorated with red stripes of a caning or the tenderized look of a paddling, just made Wilson want to punish him more. Maybe they'd all want to spank him as he lay helpless over the couch.

Wilson was back, standing between House and the glass door, and House whined gratitude. Wilson put the nozzle of a lubricant tube to House's anus - he'd felt this often enough before - and pumped some in, a big cold dollop. Then there was a pause, more lube on the plug, it must be the plug, Wilson wouldn't want anyone to see him fucking House, just House being punished and used...

The plug was big. Wilson eased it in gently. House squirmed, he couldn't help it, and he heard Wilson chuckle. "Good, hold still, easy now..."

Wilson helped him up. House didn't dare look back at the window. Wilson shuffled him across the room to his desk, his jeans falling around his ankles, and made him kneel down again. House watched, swallowing, as Wilson unpacked his own lunch - a sandwich, a blueberry muffin, a cup of coffee, a bottle of water. Then Wilson picked up the bag of liquid food. "I suppose I'd better get your meal fixed first, before I have mine."

House heard the clip of scissors cutting through the bag. He whined in his throat, but his traitor belly rumbled again. Wilson chuckled affectionately. "Hold your head back, and remember, keep swallowing," he told House.

The plug spread House's anus and filled him. The food running into his mouth through the gag seemed to spread and fill him in the same way. Wilson had opened him up and was putting what WIlson wanted inside of him. He began to swallow eagerly. Wilson was filling him.

Wilson finished feeding him. House saw the bulge in Wilson's trousers, and was happy beyond words when Wilson, though he hesitated, undid the mouthpiece and pulled it out. "No words," he warned House, and thrust his cock inside. House could barely move his lips, he had to work his tongue and suck Wilson's cock down his throat, he couldn't raise his hands to clutch at Wilson in case Wilson thought he was safewording. He thought of Foreman and Chase pulling out their cocks to claim a blowjob after Wilson, asking Wilson's permission to unload in his mouth. He thought of Cameron playing with the buttplug, asking him if it hurt, if he wanted it out, and having to admit out loud that it hurt, a bit, stretching him, but he didn't want it out, begging Cameron not until Wilson had enough. Not until Wilson wanted to fuck him. Wilson came and the taste of his cum washed the taste of the food away. Wilson let him clean his cock off very thoroughly with his tongue before he tucked himself back in his shorts and rezipped his flies.

Then Wilson put the gag's mouthpiece back in. House whined, but Wilson shook his head, settling back comfortably to unwrap his sandwich. Was Wilson going to sit there eating lunch while House's fellows watched them? House leaned his head against Wilson's knee, nestling a little closer, the buttplug beginning to feel comfortable now, something he could squirm on, just a little surreptitiously, as Wilson petted his hair and ate his lunch.

Wilson didn't take the gag out until he'd finished his muffin and coffee. Once the gag was out, he fed House water from the bottle, making him drink it all. Then he helped House to his feet and pulled his jeans and underwear up at last. The plug inside House still made him feel speechless and uncertain. He turned House to look at the window on to the balcony, the glass door: the blinds were down.

"You thought someone was watching, didn't you?" Wilson said. He was grinning. "I thought you would, if I distracted you so you didn't hear the blinds go down. Who did you think was watching?"

House swallowed, and told Wilson, burning with humiliation. Wilson laughed, delighted. He put his arms round House and played with the end of the buttplug through House's jeans, making House quiver and jerk. "All of them? You'd like to get screwed by all of them? It's a good thing I'm not possessive, isn't it? If I were a possessive kind of guy - " His palm flattened over the welts left by the cane " - you'd get punished for that."

"Don't let them," House whispered.

"Your ass is mine," Wilson said. "So I can share it with whoever I like. Can't I?"

"Not them," House said. He was whining like a puppy. "Please, not them - "

"All right," Wilson said soothingly, petting him now. "Not them. I'll give you a choice. I'll take that plug out and you can go do four hours of clinic duty until I'm ready to take you back to your apartment... or you can stay here." He made House look at him. "You can stay here, on the couch, with the plug in. Pretend to be asleep if anyone comes in, and as far as anyone knows, you're just catching a nap. No one will know any better... unless I tell him. And then he'll know all he has to do is spread your legs, and take the plug out, and fuck you. Then he just lubes you up and puts the plug back in... ready for the next man."

House swallowed. Wilson couldn't mean it... could he? He opened his mouth, thinking he was going to say "Clinic duty" voluntarily for the first time in his career, but he knew what Wilson wanted. "Not Foreman," he begged. "Not Chase."

"No," Wilson said, reassuringly, petting his back. "So you're going to stay?"

House nodded. He whimpered as Wilson made him lie down on the sofa, nearly started to cry when Wilson checked, careful as always, that House was lying so that his legs could be tilted back to give access to his anus. But Wilson rearranged his legs so he was now just lying there, limp misery, and stroked his face, petting away the tears. "Good boy," WIlson said, sounding happy. "No one will touch you without my permission."

And then Wilson tidied up his lunch and House's - the liquid food bag inside the brown paper sack, the coffee mug and sandwich wrappings on top, the whole thing into the trashcan, a couple of old envelopes on top - and then he went over and unlocked his office door.

The threat to let other people fuck him must have been just a threat, a promise, like Wilson sometimes teased him with exposure. Wilson had locked the door and pulled down the blinds. He really did want to keep what they had safe and secret. Really, he did.

But it was a long afternoon, lying on the sofa, eyes closed whenever the door opened - Wilson had warned him, pretend to be asleep - the buttplug firm inside him, opening him up. House heard the footsteps, some he recognised, some he didn't. Wilson wasn't seeing any patients this afternoon, he rarely did on Fridays, this was routine administration. House was caught between boredom and terror. As much as he was sure Wilson wouldn't tell anyone about the buttplug, every time someone new came in, he held himself still, trying not to shiver, trying not to squirm, Wilson's property, even if no one who came in knew it.