Chapter Text
“Whore. I’m not gonna make this easy for you; bad puppies don’t get treats when they have accidents, do they?” He sucks his teeth, gives a slight shake of his head while he manages onto his feet. “Not without learning their lesson.”
*
Wilson tenses at that, glancing up at House as a frightened gleam passes through his eyes. The sight of Wilson’s fear, of his poor, scared pup is enthralling, an addictive rush to the older man’s head—he’s got to get more of whatever this is. Wilson opens his mouth to object speak but quickly finds himself being manhandled into the air by his collar, the wind stolen from his lungs as House brings him upright with the leash, puppeteered into a mockery of standing before getting pushed forward and shoved onto the bed. He then positions his hands on Wilson’s hips, dragging him back, the aggressive treatment and biting friction of bedsheets against his cock prompting him to struggle and groan, so powerless where he’s bent over the mattress that House has to pause to palm at his own crotch to take the edge off. He almost forgets to pick his cane back up, and the implication of that is just a little too much to handle.
God, he’s just so pretty like this. Such beautiful prey.
“I want you to count,” House announces, relishing Wilson’s faint gasp of realization, “and don’t be shy.” He snakes his hands under his hips and props him up a bit for easier access, nudging his legs further apart, unbuckling his belt, picking the button on his dampened slacks open and sliding both waistbands down to his spread knees. “If,” he continues, “I can’t hear you, I can’t keep track, and… well, we’ll just have to start all over again until we can get it right, don’t you think?”
He lets an indulgent hand roam over the smooth, pale expanse of skin he’s uncovered, squeezing roughly, noting how the muscle beneath spasms in anticipation. Cute. He whistles lowly and goes on. “Don’t touch yourself, either, or you won’t get to cum tonight. Sound fair?”
It’s quiet, then, and for a moment House considers that perhaps Wilson hasn’t heard him clearly enough, or maybe that he’s getting cold feet about the whole thing. He’d never intentionally jeopardize his opportunity to finish. But when he reaches for the leash and pulls Wilson’s head up from where it hangs over the bed, all it takes is one look at his glazed over, pupil-blown eyes to know he’s exactly where House wants him, face flushed this lovely shade of pink as he breathes out a “yes, sir” and tries not to seem so… stimulated by his current circumstances.
“Good boy,” House murmurs, releasing his leash, observing how he presses himself to the bed and hides his face in the covers in preparation. He doesn’t waste much time after that, bringing his open palm down on his pup’s waiting backside, gratification coursing through him at the crack of impact splitting the air just before Wilson’s pitifully urgent sob fills that space. He whines out a shaky “o-one..!” and grabs fistfuls of the sheets, shying from the contact only to be propped back up and smacked again for his indiscretion, writhing on the bed as his stinging skin blushes red.
“Mmf– two,” he adds through gasping breaths, turning so that his cheek is pressed to the bed. His hips are grinding into the corner of the mattress none too discreetly but House doesn’t take it upon himself to scold or correct the behavior—he can let his hand do the talking. He swats Wilson’s ass in a new spot, hanging back for a moment to appreciate the way a rosy imprint forms as the other man stills, crying out, waiting until he hears ‘three’ called dolefully out when an idea springs to mind.
Skin-to-skin contact is good. Nice. Helps them really deepen their bond. But it’s not like leather isn’t skin, either, right?
He withdraws, leaving Wilson cluelessly unattended on the bed, though the sound of a belt buckle clinking open seems to catch his attention. He looks over his shoulder out of curiosity, eyes going wide as he watches House slide his belt out and fold it over to create a loop, the stunned look on his face going straight south. There’s that delicious fear again—in all of its quivering, breathless glory. In his search for more of it, House reaches for another button to push, brandishing his belt threateningly before cracking it in midair like a whip, exhaling a bated breath when Wilson just about flinches as if he could feel the air around him move and whines low in his throat, his balls tightening as he leaks on the bed. Watching him like this, scared and so helplessly riveted by his own fear, it’s no surprise that House can’t get enough of it. Can’t wait to see more of it.
Wilson then stammers a bit dumbly through whatever reasons he thinks he can conjure up to get out of it, but it doesn’t take much to shut him up. Just a lashing from the belt he can’t stop staring at—one that leaves him weeping into the sheets, this guttural sort of snarl bubbling up in his chest as he teeters between staying good and biting back. A disheartened, whimpered ‘four’ marks his decision and his ire deflates, melting into something else entirely (if the hurried rub of his leaking cock against the mattress is anything to go by), the sight of it pulling on House’s heartstrings. Mindless obedience is one thing, and a hell of a thing at that… but to see him fight with himself? War over whether he wants to make a stand or roll over and take it like the desperate slut he is, just to choose the latter?
There’s his good boy. His Jimmy.
“You’re doing so well for me,” House praises in a low, lilting rasp, tracing the curve of his ass gingerly with the edge of the belt, “look so pretty like this. Bent over, taking it, where you know you belong. God, my handsome boy. Can’t believe you pissed all over my floor. Can you?” He gives Wilson a few taps just to chuckle darkly at his anticipatory tremble, punctuating the series of light touches with another flick of leather, humming mirthfully in response to Wilson’s shuddering yelp and subsequent ‘five’. “Guess you can. Well, no matter—you’re gonna learn your lesson.”
“Sir, I—”
Another crack splits the air, and whatever words Wilson had prepared to defend himself with are lost to his startled sob of distress. He squirms, panting breathily, his cock visibly twitching where it hangs between his legs, and for a second House considers letting him off the hook in light of his cooperation—calling it quits lest he blow his own load and ruin what he had planned—until he realizes that Wilson, still whining softly and rutting into the mattress with his reddened ass in the air, hasn’t counted the next number.
Maybe he just hasn’t gotten around to it yet… or maybe he lost track, forgot the rules House had laid down in his moment of helplessness… abandoned his one responsibility.
Rookie mistake. This should be fun.
“Hm. I can’t seem to recall where we left off,” he ponders aloud, smirking at how Wilson pauses before suddenly tensing and glancing back, eyes shining with wary alarm as his addled mind processes what he had (or hadn’t) done.
“W-wait, wait, it was six! Please, I-I—I didn’t forget, I just—”
“You just nothing,” House spits back, his tone veering authoritative, “you knew what the terms were, and I told you—”
Insistent on defiance or perhaps broken in enough that he’s lost his mind, Wilson continues, stammering through his dissent. “I-I’ll be- I’ll be quicker next time, whatever you want, but… please, please don’t make me start over…”
Whatever you want. House stops for a moment to think about the offer, weighing the belt in his hand thoughtfully. He doesn’t want to get into the habit of letting the younger man think he can negotiate his way out of facing consequences… but the promise of resistless free rein could be worth it. This could be a good opportunity; maybe he has a point. He does beg so nicely, too.
“Whatever I want?”
Wilson blinks at that, nodding hesitantly, a dimple forming as he bites the inside of his cheek. He doesn’t seem to understand what House is getting at, because he waits expectantly for a command or new instructions, looking up at him with this stupidly hopeful gaze that, had House been at all compromised, probably would have earned him a degree of mercy. As it happens, though, House has been dreaming too long for this. Too long to let some unbearably woeful puppy eyes derail his chance to fulfill it.
He tosses the belt onto the bed, pointedly ignoring the confusion on Wilson’s face, drumming his fingers against the handle of his cane while he waits to see if recognition will take its place. And, like clockwork, his features snap into place, a mix of stupefaction and outright terror overtaking him immediately, eyebrows knitting together. Though to House’s surprise, he doesn’t object or stall for time or attempt to renegotiate. Just hangs his head and waits patiently, as if presenting himself for it, poorly suppressing the shiver that wracks his body when the sound of that cane swinging playfully through the air makes it to his ears. He must be neck deep in it at this point.
“Good,” House breathes out, grabbing at the curve of his cheek and jiggling it lightly, “yeah, that’s good. Look at that; you get what you want, I get what I want…” He sighs, then, feigning sentimentality, all sparkling eyes and sugar-sweet insincerity. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
Without leaving room for an answer, he steadies his grip on his cane and weighs it for good measure, pulling back, bringing it down as he’d done with his hand just minutes prior. Wilson muffles his squeal of pain in the bed, shies away, white-knuckles the sheets and cries out ‘seven’ like a prayer—the whole nine yards—yet it does nothing to hide how devastatingly hard his cock is, and something seems to shift into place in House’s brain at the scene before him, something in him softening as it dawns on him that the younger man is getting off not only on being punished for pissing himself but also on having his ass beaten with House’s own cane.
“I’m having difficulty believing this is what I want,” he leans down to whisper, running his thumb over the harsh, reddened line forming against the pale skin beneath the pad of his finger, digging slightly in when Wilson jerks involuntarily and whines in protest. “I mean, look at you,” he continues, a steely, cautionary edge underlining his words as he eases pressure off of the fresh welt, “trying to act like you don’t want this when you’re practically sticking your ass in the air and begging for me to use you. Fucking slut. Always so good for me, doing whatever it takes to get you stuffed full of my cock—and you love every second of it.” He rubs that same finger against Wilson’s rim to drive his point home, wearing a proud look at how he arches into the touch and gasps, muscles fluttering in response. “You want it that bad?”
He shivers again and swallows down a whimper (as if his attempt to hide it makes any difference), turning to look back at House with tearful, apologetic eyes while his hole twitches and sucks at the fingertip pressing into it. Talk about proving a point—he’s just starving to have the older man inside of him, to feel that blunt stretch pushing in and opening him up, so far under that his usual humility is overshadowed by utter desperation. He’s perfect like this. Hungry for me. For my affection.
“Sir,” he tries, voice cracking, faltering into a punched out moan as House meets his eyes and just barely breaches him, teasing the inner ring of muscle with light strokes that leave him panting and writhing for friction on his cock. He’s always been sensitive here but it’s especially apparent now, what with his hips canting back to try to fit more of House’s finger in before rutting down into the bed, leaking into an existing wet spot that House can see in his guilt-laden eyes isn’t only precum.
So he wasn’t finished earlier; good to know.
“Wetting another person’s bed doesn’t become you, Jimmy,” House intones, pulling his hand away to grab both backs of Wilson’s thighs to prop him at a steeper angle, checking underneath his belly to see how far the puddle spreads. And sure enough, that dark stain crawls upward, bleeding further out than precum ever could, his stomach slick with fluid—Wilson’s been peeing himself on my bed, likely squirting it out with every blow he’s taken. To think that House had assumed he’d narrowly avoided this exact situation is laughable. He’s probably too blissed out on dopamine and endorphins to even realize what’s happening or that he broke a rule.
“Ohh, baby… why didn’t you tell me? You know how I get when you hide things from me,” House murmurs mostly to himself, lowering him back onto the mattress, simpering at how his lip trembles remorsefully as he registers the disappointment in House’s face and tone. He looks like an actual kicked puppy like this, so overwhelmed by the sensations and headspace and prospect of failure that his eyes well with fresh tears, streaming so sweetly down his face that House has to fight the urge to taste the salt on his tongue.
“ ‘M sorry, sir,” Wilson whimpers, his cheeks flushed and wet, the picture of guileless naivety. Another spurt of fluid gushes into the mattress as he squirms in his mess, all dumb with need, desperate enough for approval that he doesn’t even really know what he’s apologizing for. Just that he has to make things right—that he’s done something wrong, something to upset House that he has to make up for… and what better way to help him find redemption than carrying out the rest of his punishment? How else can he learn his lesson?
“Shh,” House soothes in a gentle voice, petting fondly at the swell of his hip, “I know you can’t help it.” A beat; he knows Wilson is vulnerable like this, soft underbelly exposed, so small and helplessly shy—but he still needs a voice of authority to keep him in order. “But that doesn’t mean you can just get away with doing whatever you want whenever you want, either, does it? You still have to answer for that, hm?” He traces back over the welt so beautifully presented to him, watching the twist of that pretty face into the sheets as he makes an attempt to stifle his wounded cry. He sucks the air back into his lungs when House reaches between his legs to squeeze his balls, fingers brushing featherlight against his cock, leaving him with a parting slap to his inner thigh that has him groaning and widening his legs.
“Don’t worry. I know you’ll take it like a champ.”