The Upper Hand

Cuddy likes being the Dean of Medicine. She's worked hard to get there; dedicating years to get to this point in her career. She's studied and put in time in all the right sorts of classes and seminars and courses, learning far too much chemistry and statistics and biology. She's taken business and management courses too, sharpening those skills to the fine edge that keeps Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital in the black most of the time.

And then there are other skills.

Cuddy has those too, and has honed a few of them over the years as well. Darker little talents that have come in handy when a proposition becomes harassment, or when a donor suggests that a business dinner roll over into a personal breakfast. She's perfected the art of very nearly agreeing; a verbal demi-virgin who might be called a cocktease except she's too charming and gets away with it on her smile and smoky voice.

And then there are the other, other skills.

These are the ones that she resorts to for only a very few people in her life. They're hidden away, but hints of them come to the surface every now and then, like flecks of gold in a miner's wash pan, glittering and intriguing. House hunts for them in her expression, and yearns for them because they're rare and precious, those skills of hers.

They haunt him.

And when she surprises him, House can't stand against her cunning. He tries to bluff, and be arch and sharp, but Cuddy on her game is no man's plaything . . . unless she wants to be.

Then House feels the blood thicken his shaft and his tongue go heavy and useless. Her eyes, normally so blue go a slate grey, and he's reminded of the elemental force of the woman; like a storm, with no defined edges, but full of power and grace. Her very femininity comes into focus: the lift of her chin, the flutter of her dark eyelashes, the flick of her tongue over her lower lip.

When her oiled hands glide over his turgid erection, stroking the heavy veins standing out in relief along the shaft, he groans. She's a witch, pure and simple, applying pressure just lightly enough to make him throb, but not enough to let him come—not yet. He knows he can't do anything; the cuffs keep his hands trapped and useless against her headboard, but House still tugs and tests them.

Statistically, being bound and stroked or sucked off is the second most common male sexual fantasy, she tells him, slowing her stroke. House rocks his hips up.

Nice to know I fall in the majority then.

And she smiles. It's not a nice smile; it's voluptuous and knowing. The smile of a woman out for a little mean-spirited fun. The smile of a bitch. Her fingers stroke him, sliding around the hot flesh, caressing it slowly and House closes his eyes for a moment, loving the sensation, hating himself of loving it. His big useless hands ball into fists, and he breathes through his mouth. The sensations leave him hot and cold, his nipples aching.

Bitch. Oh you bitch.

She says nothing. The insult blows away, dissipating like candle smoke and the rattle of the cuffs is loud, but not loud enough to mask the slick sounds of oil on angry flesh, hungry flesh.

You love this. You absolutely love it when I tie you down and make you come, Greg.

Shut up—

Can't pay for this, can you? Can't trust a hooker to tie you down, so when you get hungry for it, you come to me. And FOR me—

House groans, trying to thrust himself into her hands, to get her to stroke him harder, to God damn it, let him COME. Cuddy twists her pretty fingers around his shaft and leans forward to kiss it lightly. He looks down and although he fights it, a whimper rasps out of his throat.

She's going to leave lipstick on his . . .. Jesus—

Cuddy gives a single light lap to the sensitive underside and he feels the rasp of her tongue, hot and slick. He grits his teeth as shivers of raw pleasure surge up the length of his erection.

Fuck!

No.

She arches an eyebrow at him and in his aching rage House wants to shake her, smack her, throw her down and force himself deep inside her. Just HAVE her and be done with it.

Get her OUT of his system once and for all, damn it.

Then Cuddy leans forward again and plants loving kisses all up along his shaft, her lipstick leaving little rosy marks there and he grunts.

Goddamn it Lisa, stop playing and get me off . . . now! his voice is a guttural whisper and even though he's trying to be commanding, both of them know his plea for what it is.

She laughs, and with erotic grace, grips him just right, sliding tight hard strokes that bring him arching off the bed, cuffs clinking as he glories in the mindless release, long thick sprays jetting out and over her wrists, splattering across his bare hips, the heat of his wet lust searing him.

Cuddy wipes her hands along his stomach with lingering strokes. It's not a loving touch, but a possessive one. She rises and moves to the cuffs, unfastening them in an absent-minded way. She looms over House, locking her gaze with his, and there, in the depths of her eyes he sees the tiniest flicker of something that makes his throat tighten.

I'll never fuck you Greg, she whispers. And you'll always love me.

And he closes his eyes.

Because—

She's right.

End.