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House and the Elusive Orgasm
by lessofmyhead
House, the sexy bastard, is contemplating the rest of his afternoon. He counts- there are 1, 2, 3 hours left till General Hospital starts. In the mean time- what to do, what to do? He's eaten (though he can always eat again), he's showered (though he can always shower again) and he's masturbated (though he can always... heeyyy, why there's an idea). Not a wholly original idea perhaps but what the fuck ever alright? The man, brilliant scientist that he is, sexy hotpot of a sexpot that he may be, is only human after all.
He gives his groin a quick squeeze through his jeans. Unresponsive. He tries again; this time harder. Ugh. Still no response. Why such poor vital signs, he wants to ask the world in general and his penis in particular. Frustrated, he unzips his fly and leers at his friends through the open flap of his boxer briefs. What's up you guys?
Sigh.
The sight that greets House never fails to take his breath away. His balls in particular are heart stopping times a thousand. He's so fond of his friends; he hopes the sentiment is mutual. Let's see if he can wake them. Experience has taught him that the first thing he should do to arouse his testes, Sonny and Sal, is to scratch behind them like so. Mmm. Rise and shine my little ones. For those lacking in aesthetic sensibilities, the smallness is indeed a favourable thing.
His genitals aren't responding to the delicate caresses of his surgeon's hands though, and House takes this as their wish not to be awoken. He considers allowing them their deserved few moments of rest. He did orgasm earlier that day after all. Ugh, and what a disappointment that was! He compares the "mounting excitement" felt in his groin this morning to the dawning of a joke on an exceptionally dull child: Uhhhhhh ooooooooooooohkay? His penis, like the joke, was drawn out long past the point of enjoyment. He felt compelled to measure it again just to make sure he hadn't inadvertently grown 3 inches in the process, but enough humor for now.
If you really want to know, he was thinking of Cuddy this morning when he nearly failed to come at all.
"Wait, what?"
Allow me to explain.
The fact is House has been happily masturbating to his overseer in weirdly incandescent undergarments (see: House's Head) for years and it was just a matter of time for his enthusiasm to cease altogether. There's no other way to put it but to say that in the late, late, late night show that is his fantasy sex life, Cuddy's character has run its course. She's done, over with, due to make a swift but graceful exit early next season. Goodbye!
It was good while it lasted of course. This morning, when he took hold of his penis and made to think erotically, he thought of all the missed opportunities between the both of them; he recalled the made up sex romps they never had. The episode he settled on, an instant Cuddy classic if you ask him, was set in the arctic tundra. He was naked in an igloo and lying on a lofty four poster bed made of snow, which, House figures, must have belonged to Eskimo royalty, so fit for a king was it. His arms and legs were anchored to the frame by... something. Oh you know what sexual fantasies are like. Vague on the whys and wherefores, to say the least. From his estimate he was about 2 hours away from death by hypothermia and then in saunters Cuddy in a mammoth parka looking every bit like the sultry ice queen she was playing.
Her face registers none of the shock or surprise that would normally accompany one seeing a naked, possibly dying, definitely bluish-tinted, man strapped to their lofty four poster bed made of snow. This is because she isn't shocked or surprised, House guesses educatedly. She was expecting him. She kidnapped him. Oh God! House's in real life penis spasms at the thought. Not a big spasm mind you. Just a baby spasm. Kind of looks like an earth worm crawling, but don't let House hear you say that.
She doffs her outerwear and immediately proceeds to the foot of the bed. At this point in the proceedings House is beginning to take on the hue and texture of a blueberry popsicle and it's all Cuddy can do not to drool; if we're to be crude about it and why shouldn't we? Such a course of action will only lead to icicles suspended from her lips. This is just science.
What follows next is a bit of bedroom ruckus. Nothing spectacular and certainly nothing this homosexual fan fiction ought to dwell on. So let's move on.
Cuddy never bothered to untie him though and House eventually turned into an ice sculpture, his soft limp penis frozen in time.
It's that last detail, the one about his eternal genitals, that'd normally bring him over the edge, but not today. Today he's still jerking off even though the reel's stopped rolling and when he comes it's like fucking finally. So when he picks up his penis for the second time today he doesn't immediately think of Cuddy.
Instead he thinks of
Well, that's his dilemma isn't it? House doesn't know what to think of. The problem, House thinks, is that he's jaded. He's seen horrors and no longer is he impressed by them. It took a thousand and plus downloads but House, and it pains him to admit it, has finally become bored with porn.
House takes a minute to absorb this realization. The future has never looked bleaker and he just wants to take a shot gun and end it all now.
See, this is why he hates self-introspection. Nothing has changed. He's still holding his flaccid dick in his right hand, so what was the point? In the end one loves one's desire and not what is desired. House's philosophical moment passes quickly and he's on the road to getting hard again. The long and winding road- his penis is being an absolute bitch. Ugh, it's so frustrating! House estimates he's been going at it for nearly an hour now. He figures it's about time he removes his pants, figures he'll need the room to maneuver (things into his anus), since it's so obviously come to that.
It never used to be this hard, House reminisces forlornly, as he moves to fetch his working implements: lube, a candle, some baby carrots to prep himself with. One thing you probably didn't know about Greg House is that he's pretty old fashioned when it comes to self-sodomy. People often assume based on his fancy sneakers that House has got all the latest sex toys, but they'd be wrong and conjecturing wildly. When choosing what apparatus to shove up his bum hole House prefers the all natural feel of well molded wax, like the Romans used to use.
By the time he makes his way back to the couch it's 4:30. What a day! How altered his life course would have been had he chosen the first option instead, ie to eat again, for those forgetful few.
Instead he's sat here, with no pants on, affixing a baby carrot to a toothpick like some kind of world class chef. The man is absolutely shameless but even he acknowledges the unseemliness of the situation. If his fridge could talk it would definitely voice discontent. What kind of grown man keeps baby carrots anyway? Ridiculous. Next time, he thinks, he'll peel his own mini phallic shaped delights. Or at least get Wilson to and say they're for Steve.
After the preparations are complete, ie he's sufficiently lubed his carrot, House gets on his hands and knees. He hates doggy style masturbation. It makes him feel lonely, which is never not appalling, but it's especially so to one trying to attain his second hard on for the day. House suddenly wishes Wilson were here. (Wilson being someone other than himself and not anyone in particular, House would like to add.)
And at that thought, like a shy snail cautiously emerging from the safety of its shell after an exceptionally long spring rain fall, House is erect again.
In case you're not paying attention, House hasn't actually done anything with the carrot yet. He rose from mind power alone. Ha! His brain is bitchin'! He still hasn't written that letter yet to the fine scientists at PMC requesting they harvest his brain once he dies, if only for the greater good of humanity. See, House cares you guys.
House wiggles the lubed baby carrot up his bottom. It's far more difficult than it looks, if the expression on his face is anything to go by. If his face could talk it'd probably say, 'Sure, it may be a baby carrot on the outside, but it feels like an adult gherkin on the inside!'
And yes, House is as excited as anyone about how tight he is, but remarking on it would be beneath even his modest standards of social etiquette.
House is not a masochist so it follows that his penis has softened a bit during this sexual upheaval. All this hardening and softening, it's like the story of his life being told through the motions of his penis, House reflects, and it's never going to end! Also, despite the "Freshness Guaranteed" emblazoned on the bag, his baby carrot is beginning to wane.
"Seriously? Seriously?"
This is seriously becoming too theatrical, even for House. It's bad enough he's sharing the scene with a vegetable, but a reluctant vegetable? House can't imagine anything less stimulating than a carrot softening inside his rectum. Even House likes to know he's got the consent of his partner.
...................
There comes a time, House thinks, and a place, House follows, when one must let go (see: Last Resort). He can hear Wilson telling him as much. In fact he can hear Wilson chastising him right now for his excessive use of vicodin, as if his non-reaction lately weren't due entirely to the lack of sexual novelty governing the nets these days. Ha, that's a laugh!
Though rather than actually laugh, House is looking down at his penis with what appear to be skeptical (azure/cerulean/sapphire) eyes. You're not a symptom, are you? He waves at it dismissively. There goes Jimmy Wilson (boy wonder oncologist) putting doubts in his head yet again, the bastard (see: Meaning).
All these thoughts of Wilson are making him
And what is his problem anyway? It's not like it's his penis that's refusing to engorge in a timely and traditional (read: not crooked) fashion. Exactly. Unhelpful, to say the least.
Though his most recent physiological developments would say otherwise. Do I spy with my little eye something that begins with an E?
He touches his penis for a bit cause he's suddenly feeling horny. Curious. He touches it some more cause it feels nice. Curiouser. By the time House finishes discovering himself all over again, he's fully hard and aching (to be pummeled by something other than a relaxed carrot, but there's no time).
All this rising and falling is seriously disrupting the natural flow and ebb of good story telling, better tie this up quickly.
And with 1, 2, 3 masterful strokes, he comes.
The End
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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