Front Row Seats
Wilson grasped desperately for the edges of the table and bit his lip just a tad to late to stifle the appreciative whimper that had escaped him. Hopefully, the sounds of the crowded bar around them would cover anything he let slip. He spread his legs as wide as the pants bunched midthigh would allow and slid another inch toward the edge of his seat - another inch into the warm, wet, very talented mouth working his cock under the table.
House took full advantage of the extra room to work, slipping one hand between Wilson's legs to cup his tightening balls. House used his long pianist fingers to gently massage Wilson's sensitive sac in counterpoint to the slick bobbing of his head. Wilson tried to hold out, make it last, by concentrating on the unpleasant stickiness of the chair under his buttocks, the grain of the faux wood of the table, and the bite of the table edge against his clutching hands, but he was close. His breath sped up, he closed his eyes, and...
Wilson's eyes flew open, and his grip on the table tightened. "Cameron!" He knew his greeting was too loud even over the noise of the bar. "Chase. Foreman," he continued, trying to find the correct volume and tone to discourage company without drawing suspicion.
"Are you feeling okay, Wilson?" Chase asked, hovering uncertainly with one hand on the back of the chair next to Wison. "You look like you have a fever or something."
"I'm f...fine," Wilson managed to gasp. Far from being discouraged, House seemed to have doubled his efforts. He had stopped the teasing flicks of tongue and finger in favor of suction, a trick he knew was guaranteed to set Wilson off sooner rather than later. Obviously he was trying to make Wilson come before Wilson could get rid of their audience.
"Are you sure?" Great, now Foreman was getting involved. "You're sweating, and you're face is all red." He pulled out a small flashlight from his inner jacket pocket and leaned closer to shine it in Wilson's eyes. "When's the last time you had your blood pressure checked?"
House stuck his finger into his mouth along side Wilson's cock, breaking the suction somewhat but making it for it with a filthy in and out motion that took away Wilson's ability to answer. Then House - the cheating bastard - wrapped one arm around Wilson's hips, took him in down to the root and swallowed, just as the tip of his wet finger slid inside Wilson's ass from behind.
Wilson gave up; shutting his eyes against the offending light of Forman's penlight and tipping his head back with a soft shuddering moan. House suckled gently through his aftershocks, drawing the orgasm out for an impossibly long time. Wilson slumped forward again, studiously avoiding the looks - ranging from concerned to suspicious - of House's fellows.
Before they could ask any questions, House crawled out from under the table, resumed his seat, and grinned widely at the looks of horror and amusement now being leveled at him and turned to Wilson with a bright - "Your turn!"
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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.