Chapter Text
Not good. This is not good.
Wilson fidgets, leans forward, back, wonders how he got here. A full bowl of water courtesy of a triumphant House sits heavily in his swollen bladder, and a freshly filled one is situated in front of him where he kneels on the floor, the inner walls of its ceramic structure embellished with small paw prints. It’d been a gift, the weight at the bottom of a nondescript paper bag, the accompanying dog collar fastened tight around his neck—this sturdy thing made for larger breeds that peeked out coyly from beneath his shirt collar, a simple rope leash attached dangling over his tie. Ridiculous. This was beyond ridiculous. No way was it going to happen.
This isn’t how he thought his submission would be rewarded.
They’d gotten into a bit of a habit recently, House playing the part of the cold, domineering hand and Wilson his servile pet, though it’d never come this far or been this… official. He bounces in place, hands buried between his legs as impressions of a night long past worm their way into his thoughts, making the heady sting of urgency radiating throughout his lower half that much worse. ‘Such a good boy,’ House had praised, ‘always so behaved and obedient.’ But there’s always a catch with him. ‘Since you like being my pup so much, maybe you should really act like one, get into character, yeah? And we both know how much you struggle with making your messes in the right place. Maybe I should start training you.’
It doesn’t seem fair to Wilson. There was one accident weeks ago, when he’d had a little too much to drink and the road had gotten just a shade too jerky for him to hold it in, flooding the passenger seat of House’s car before he could find and pull into a parking lot—and even then he’d apologized profusely and paid him more than he was due for the cost of cleaning. Sure, there’ve also been plenty of close calls, plenty of wet spots in his briefs, but that’s just life when you’ve got a sensitive bladder. Nothing to be ashamed of or punished for.
Except when someone like House is in the picture, he supposes. Somebody that knows just how to embarrass and degrade him and use his own body against him. He had Wilson lapping out of that bowl until he had to lick it clean for Christ’s sake, a feat in itself if only for the fact that he (a grown man) had to lower himself to his knees with his chest practically pressed to the floor to drink out of it, the agony he’d soon know still only a distant forethought as he tried to be good and do as he was told. Because maybe if he was good enough, did it just the way House wanted, he wouldn’t make him go through with this, would let him reemerge on the other side with whatever grain of dignity he still has left after agreeing to this—but there’s no world where House would make it that easy.
He stares down at his reflection in the bowl of water, squirming as another throb of heat blooms in his gut. His hands clamp further down on his crotch, rubbing, stalling for time. He can’t drink this. He’s already stretched so full, so absurdly desperate to piss, and the longer he sits there at the foot of House’s bed and waits and wishes he could be up on the mattress with him, the warmer his face gets when he remembers why he can’t.
‘Down.’
Fingers comb gently through his hair as House clips the leash onto his collar, giving it a firm tug by way of a quality inspection, chuckling at how Wilson whimpers quietly and looks up at him with those big browns sparkling with unshed tears. He’s had to go for some time now thus far, hot tension pooling unrelentingly in his hips and sending shivers up his spine, but he’s already sworn he could hold it. He can’t believe he swore on something like this. Whatever time he’d been allowed to be on the bed with House was gone in the blink of an eye, sent to the floor the moment he began to shift in a not-so-surreptitious manner.
‘Can’t have you breaking your promise on the bed,’ the older man had reasoned, patting Wilson’s reddened cheek before withdrawing back to the plush comfort of his bed, ‘needy puppy like you. Gotta be cautious. You’re too excitable—it’ll get all over the sheets before you can say woof.’
It’s not exactly… not the truth. Wilson’s not sure he’d be able to help it. It still doesn’t stop him from feeling cheated, though, especially as House glances down at him from where he leans against the headboard, much too far away for his liking. He hates it, but he’s clingy when he’s like this, and the terrible pressure he feels gathering low in his belly only makes him want to seek out the warmth of House’s side more, to press into it and curl up there just like a good pup would. More than he ought to be, considering who got him into this predicament in the first place. The mind is a tricky thing sometimes.
“Not thirsty?”
House slides his cane onto the floor and rises from the bed, crouching in front of the bowl, frowning thoughtfully. He dips a fingertip in the water, swirling it around until a vortex forms before pulling it out and holding it up so Wilson can watch how the water adhering to it glistens. Jackass. He almost says it, too, but he bites his tongue to save himself from future misery, instead opting for a look of uncertainty that House meets with a grin. “Open up,” he directs (God, can he read minds now, too?), pressing his finger against Wilson’s lower lip, “you know what to do.”
Maybe he does. Doesn’t make it any easier.
But he wants to be good—to earn House’s favor, to be let back onto the bed—so he swallows whatever remains of his pride and goes along with it, parting his lips around his finger, licking the moisture off, leaving a sheen of spit in place of water as he makes his way down. All he hears, then, is a contented hum before House slips his finger the rest of the way in without warning and hooks downward, taking hold of his jaw with the rest of his hand. He’s effectively been gagged in one fell swoop despite his cry of protest, and boy, does that have him tingling all over, his face instantly heating up at the sound of his own muffled cries, burning at the feeling of his dick throbbing in interested betrayal.
“Listen very carefully,” House says evenly as he brings Wilson forward by the jaw, his words low and rasping, “I’m not going to sit here and spoon-feed you your water like this, as titillating as that would be. You’re a big boy, aren’t you? Told me you didn’t need to be trained, that you could handle it… answer me—isn’t that true?”
Wilson moans around the hand occupying his mouth and nods, squeezing himself through the wool fabric of his pants, another weak attempt to delay his fate that doubles as a call to arms for whatever blood his body can supply. He’s dismayed to not have seen that this was House’s ulterior motive all along, flushing pink at the realization that he’s starting to fill his briefs out from all the touches and attention, praying to whatever higher power is still out there that House doesn’t look down too closely or pay too much attention to the grip he has on himself. God knows he’ll never live it down; House would have a field day with him, both figuratively and literally, intent on dissecting the cognitive involvement of getting hard from a scene like this without even needing to be encouraged. He’ll find out at some point, but it doesn’t need to be now. Not when Wilson is trying as hard as he is to keep himself under control.
“If that’s the truth,” he continues, “then prove it. Drink your water and stop sitting there and staring at me like you need to go out, because I might just take you up on it, and we both know how embarrassing that would be for you. My God, what if the neighbors saw you? The common passerby? What could you even do except cry and scratch at the door and beg to be let back inside before you wet yourself in front of them?” He finally removes his hand at that, retaking his place on the bed…
And in a few moments it’s like the entire past minute had never taken place.
Wilson lets out the breath he was holding and looks back down at the bowl of water, watching his self-respect dwindle away in real time as the whirling motion from House’s dicking around begins to still, those words repeating themselves in his mind. He kneads at his crotch, swallows around the nervous lump in his throat. No use in mourning it. It’s not like you can have a luxury like honor when you’re getting ready to sacrifice it in such a disgraceful way—he knows he doesn’t stand a chance at waiting for the full hour that had originally been proposed, especially if not finishing his water isn’t an option.
It’s fine. He’ll be fine—nothing to worry about. He briefly meets House’s eyes before bending down, taking his hands away to fold his arms and sandwich them between himself and the floor, resting his weight on his elbows as he comes face-to-face with his bowl. He’s a bit exposed like this, his chest pressed back to the ground with his ass pushed unceremoniously into the air, and to make matters worse his belt digs right into his belly at this angle, concentrated so feverishly on stopping himself from leaking that he doesn’t notice House shuffling over to the other side of the bed to loop around and watch him from behind. All that’s left for him to do is lower his lips to the waters level and start sipping from the bowl, whimpering softly with every mouthful of water he manages to get down, a burning tingle in his groin his only warning that his muscles will soon relax themselves if he insists on drinking more. He twists a bit, wiggling into a more comfortable position, hoping it’ll grant him more time. There has to be something I can do, he thinks, his stomach working itself into knots as that tingling travels upward, this can’t just be it. Some way to convince House that this doesn’t need to happen, to let him heed his body’s wishes and scramble over to the bathroom, spared from the humiliating display he’s being primed to put on.
And in a perfect world? Maybe. But what he didn’t expect is that soon looks more like now—that everything has suddenly loosened up in the wake of that tingle, snatching away whatever time he thought he had to weasel out of his current quandary, dribbling into his slacks before he can reach back to get a physical grip on himself. “No- no,” he pleads, a frantic, drawn out whine, his face still so close to the water below, squeezing his thighs together to put as much effort as humanly possible into keeping his urges at bay. This can’t really be happening to him. Now that it’s come to it, that familiar warmth slowly forming a wet spot in his briefs despite his efforts, he can’t even begin to comprehend why on earth he’d let House bully him into doing this so soon after getting home, though House’s intention is obvious. Ruining a cheap pair of jeans is inconsequential; a negligible offense, something Wilson could surely bury in the back of his mind, never to be thought about or reminded of again—but his work clothes are another story. Soaking through triple-digit wool slacks because you couldn’t control yourself tends to leave a mark on your conscience, and the fact that he was so blindly eager to please that it never crossed his mind to set some hard limits before accepting the collar around his neck… it’s not a good look. He didn’t realize he was that pent up.
House’s voice comes from behind. “Already?” Oh God, when did he move? “This is just sad, Jimmy. I mean, look at you…” Fingers graze along his backside, shocking a gasp from his lips, drifting down to cup and grope at his swelling bulge as another gush of liquid seeps through the layers of fabric covering it. Wilson turns his face from the bowl to watch while House admires the view, electrified by the feeling of a hand on his twitching cock, but his visual freedom doesn’t last longer than a few moments. “Keep drinking,” House orders, speaking over the younger man’s anguished moan, “I don’t want to see your face again until that bowl is finished.”
Obedience wins out over obstinacy and he turns away, this soft sound of disappointment leaving his lips as they touch back to the water. Rude. He wants to watch, to see just how good he’s being in House’s eyes, but he knows better than to ignore that flinty tone of voice. Can’t afford to get distracted anyway when his bladder is this close to emptying itself into his pants. He switches gears to focus everything he can give on the hand touching him, on the coolness of the water flowing past his tongue and the rasp of leather against his tender throat, determined to somehow sidetrack his brain from the fated course it’s headed on if only for a minute or so longer. And for that minute or so, it’s damn near smooth sailing—he drinks his water, squeezes his legs around House’s hand and humps into it like the dumb, needy pup he is, almost swearing he could feel that need subsiding in favor of desire—until he realizes that’s not at all what he’s feeling, startled out of his bubble of naivety by the sensation of his bladder throbbing and warmth filling his underwear. “House,” he groans, cold water dripping from his lips as he brings his head up to speak out of turn, “it’s- uh- I can’t—”
Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on who’s asked), it’s too late to unseal his fate. That wet warmth moves fast by preying on Wilson’s lapse in judgment, pooling in House’s palm where it molds to his half-hard cock, trickling down his inner thighs when his palm overflows. He sobs, writhing against it as tears well in his eyes, embarrassment pumping hot through his body while gentle hands pet him through it and soothe his panicked cries of distress, overwhelmed by the whispering pulse of arousal that lurks just beneath his heated skin. Because this is definitely a normal response to wetting yourself with an audience. Leave it to him to get turned on from having his body played with like a toy, at House’s will no less, right? To not know how to tell the difference between need and want?
By the time he’s able to pull himself together long enough to slow it to an intermittent drip, the damage has already been done. He can’t see it, face to the floor with tears blurring his vision and threatening to spill (how symbolic), but he just knows House is back there gloating, no doubt patting himself on the back while he stares at Wilson’s unfinished mess and wonders how he got so lucky. How he got such a willing plaything that would submit to even this.
“Could it be a lack of discipline?” House muses, letting the fluid that’d collected in his hand splash onto the hardwood flooring below, stroking Wilson’s hip thoughtfully before raising his hand and bringing it down on his raised ass. That trademark sting of skin on skin is thankfully dulled by thick fabric, though it does nothing to stop how he jerks forward and squirts out another rush of piss into his clothes, keening high in his throat as the control he’d worked so hard to regain slips from his grasp momentarily. It drips directly onto the floor now that there isn’t a hand stopping it up and he couldn’t be more mortified, forced to listen to the hiss of his own pee hitting wood panels amidst his strain to hold it back. “No,” House then drawls in characteristically assholish fashion, rubbing lightly where he’d smacked, “I suppose you’re plenty disciplined. How about a lack of inhibition? Perhaps there’s just no helping it, hm, puppy?”
House leans onto his cane and stands up from where he’d been crouched at that, towering overhead out of Wilson’s peripheral vision. He circles a bit, bordering on predatory, and Wilson has never felt more like a sitting duck or more helpless to the older man’s whims in the pliant state he’s in or ever felt this small—just this hangdog, weak-kneed wreck on the ground, this trembling tangle of nerves and excitement—as House studies him from on high and rings around him like a vulture waiting to take a bite out of him. He squirms under that piercing gaze and whimpers, still leaking in fits and starts with his hands still trapped uselessly beneath his chest when he begins to work one arm out to reach back for himself to choke off the flow.
The sad part about it? His plan might have even worked. The only issue with it is that his dick is hard, so hypersensitive to every fruitless squeeze and press that trying to cut himself off just makes him stiffen further, turning the prospect of salvation into an impossibility as his overstuffed bladder contracts and sends a hot spurt of fluid into his own palm. Terror bolts through him, setting hairs on end—he doesn’t have time.
“Please,” he wails, cheek squished against the floor at the base of his bowl, grinding into the heel of his palm desperately, “I don’t—it won’t happen again, I swear, I-I’ll watch what I drink and- and I’ll be good, sir, please just let me go..! I’ll start—”
“Shut up. Don’t start groveling now.” House stops behind him again and crouches back down, reaching between Wilson’s legs for the soaked leash laying underneath him. It doesn’t take long for the words to die in his throat (it doesn’t take a genius to figure out how that happened), humbled into silence as his leash is pulled at and played with and wound around a strong hand. He’s only given a meager few seconds of ignorant bliss to ready himself for what awaits before House yanks on it, nearly choking him, forcing his spine into a steeper arch at the same time that the pressure from his coughing and spluttering forces his pelvic floor to give out. Another stream trickles out, but this time he’s not so lucky; once it’s started, he can’t seem to make it stop (ohgodhecan’tstop), tearing his hand away as if he’d been stung while he floods his underwear with piss and tries to pretend he doesn’t notice how it gushes down the front of his shirt faster than he can extend his elbows to get his chest off the floor. He lets out these pathetic little panting noises and pulls weakly against House’s grasp, barely able to get his quivering thighs to keep him from collapsing into his own puddle much less pull a grown man’s weight, slipping further under with every pulse of wet heat that smothers his traitorously hard cock as his body takes care of it and more or less decides for him without regard for the consequences.
To be fair, though, it has no idea how much trouble it’s just gotten him in.
“I’m sorry,” Wilson mumbles diffidently, this clouded over, defeated look in his teary eyes that House can’t get enough of, his previous tears rolling down his cheeks. He’s still going when the other man grabs his bulge and squeezes, chuckling at how he squirts directly into his palm in response and gives this sweet whine while he’s groped and rubbed at through dampened wool, hanging his head in shame like a guilty dog fearing punishment.
“Oh, save it. You know me better than that. You knew it’d end like this,” House counters, moving his hand closer to Wilson’s stomach to undo the zipper on his pants, stroking him teasingly through his open fly. He’s beginning to taper off, though they’re nowhere near done quite yet.
“But I… I still…” His lips tremble over the words and something in House’s heart twinges with sadistic pity, looking down at the mess between Wilson’s legs before turning his gaze to the dripping front of his shirt. He’s just ruined, physically defiled and mentally stripped bare, rutting sloppily against the hand stroking him despite his humiliation with his metaphorical tail tucked between his legs, finalizing the decision for House that his best friend (as it stands) is little more than a filthy slut that could get off on whatever bone was thrown his way. But in his generosity, House takes the road less traveled, settling for lenience instead of cold austerity.
“Poor thing,” he coos, giving Wilson’s leash a few hearty tugs just for the hell of it, parting the wet slit in his briefs to coax his slick, heavy cock free. He slaps at it gently to watch how it swings a bit and twitches, drooling precum, drawing a flustered, needy moan from his mouth that House could die happy listening to. “Sure is a good thing I didn’t let you sit on the bed with me, piss yourself all over it, huh? Look at the mess you made on my floor—on yourself,” he admonishes teasingly, “I thought you were above training. Promised me you didn’t need it.” He closes his fist around the younger’s swollen erection, pumping him with slow deliberation, working at him until he hits his limit and starts fucking into it just to snatch it away and laugh derisively at his indignant cry. “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.”