This is a fic for my friend Lana (lana_ftw over at LiveJournal) who wanted some Thirteen/House bondage, inspired by the lovely promos of "Last Resort".

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"I brought you something," she said, holding a gift bag.

"Bourbon and naked pictures?" He snapped quickly.

"No, better," she smiled.

"Nothing's better than that," House said, continuing to pay attention to the TV, looking through the channel guide for something interesting to watch. Remy walked over and sat herself down next to him, gift bag still in hand. She casually reached down into it, pulling out the item inside, the ruffling of the tissue catching his attention.

"What the hell are those?"

"Handcuffs."

House rolled his eyes, "Being bi-sexual wasn't enough? You have to be kinky too?"

"Well, see, I decided that the only thing better than screwing girls, was screwing girls while they were tied up."

House swallowed at that sentence. The image of Remy and another girl practicing the art of bondage was... a little enticing, to say the least. It certainly didn't help that she had a look in her eyes saying 'fuck me'.

She twirled them in her hand. "I just thought, that…" she said as she turned herself around, crawling on top of his lap and facing him, "we could," she paused, bringing her face closer to his, "use them."

"I've always wanted to cuff a girl to a bedpost," House said, a lace of sarcasm to his voice.

"I've always wanted to cuff a boy of my own," she whispered, bringing her mouth close to his. If House could have pulled back his head any more, he would have. But unfortunately, the back of the couch stopped that from happening.

"You've got to be kidding me," he said.

"You don't tie the guy down, except in gay pornos. And unless you've been hiding something from me…."

"Now I'm more interested in knowing how you're familiar with the content of gay pornos," she said.

"Wilson came to the conclusion he was tired of Girls Gone Wild," House replied. Remy wondered if there was actually any truth in that statement. She wasn't sure if she should be surprised that she wouldn't be surprised if there were.

"You're not using those things on me."

"What?" she asked, raising an eyebrow seductively, "Poor Greg doesn't like not being in control?" Her voice sounded as if she were speaking to a child.

"The last thing you want to do," he paused, "is sound like my mom. I don't know if you've noticed, but that's not very sexy."

"Depends who you are, I heard the Oedipus Complex is all the rage."

House rolled his eyes. "The fact is, you are not using those things on me," he repeated. He wasn't going to let up. Remy finally got the picture, crawling off of him and sitting herself back down. "Suit yourself," she said.

House turned his head to look at her, "Does this mean you're going to deny sex until I let you handcuff me?"

"Oh yeah."

"It's on, woman."

---

House soon realized that going without sex was a lot harder than he previously thought. It had been a while since he was in a relationship before Remy, but he was used to having hookers to fulfill his needs. That was sort of out of the question, although he briefly considered it (more than once).

He felt like the stereotypical male, but it was true. There was only so much masturbating could do. And it wasn't doing enough- that was for sure.

Not that Remy made it any easier. She made the whole ordeal as difficult as possible. She would trick him; make him think she was giving in, by lavishing him with physical affection until he had a hard-on. Sometimes it'd take a while because of the Vicodin and his age (she didn't seem to be phased by any of it), but she would keep going until she achieved her goal.

But then she would bring out the handcuffs, he would shake his head, and she'd leave him there hanging.

It was getting a little insane. He had been without sex for a month now. He honestly thought she would have folded by this point, and he cursed himself for underestimating her willpower. Apparently his good looks and charm just didn't cut it.

He couldn't back down, though. He had too much pride to do that. He wasn't going to, no matter what. He would go without sex for a year if he had to. He had a point to prove, and by damn, he was going to prove it.

Of course, he almost lost that point when one day he came home to find Remy seated on his couch, sprawled out and wearing nothing but a black dog collar and latex boots. His jaw dropped as he realized she was holding the handcuffs in her mouth, and blood immediately rushed to his cock. Not even Vicodin and age were stronger than that sight.

He gulped, trying to think of some witty remark to say, but none came to mind. All he could think with was his dick. She continued to stare up at him, and he continued to be unable to form any coherent thought.

When he finally was able to, he walked over to her, and then promptly asked her if she could move. "Blackadder's on TV," he stated. "Prince George doesn't need to wear a sex outfit to catch my attention."

Unfortunately, watching Blackadder proved to be impossible with Remy still sitting next to him dressed that way. About halfway through, he excused himself to go pee, and jerked off in the bathroom.

---

About two months in, he finds himself handcuffed to a chair of his (his bedpost was completely flat, no room for handcuffs). Remy is riding him rough and hard, bouncing up and down. She's nearly panting, and he can tell that she had been on the edge of her nerve too. She lets out a moan, and he feels himself reaching climax.

When he comes, he decides that some things are just much greater than pride.