(no subject)
Title: Reality would be much better, but not as good.
Author: rolleson
Fandom: House
Rating: Way Adult
Character/Pairing: House/Cuddy
Spoilers: Around season three.
Warnings: Sex, masturbation and the like.
Summary: also known as; Am I in House's head again?
Notes: Inpsired by this icon
by cutting_onions. 1215 words.
When it came to Cuddy, he had a lot enduring fantasies. The naughty school girl was self explanatory, tiny plaid skirt, stupidly tight white shirt. Pigtails, sometimes braids, sometimes not. On her knees. Lifeguard Cuddy usually saved lives in the tiniest black bikini he could imagine. Scraps of black cloth held together by string, hair wet and slicked back. Mother Superior Cuddy wore absolutely nothing underneath her habit, pulling him into the confessional box to ride him silly.
The fantasy about him washing his car, wearing a red dress and killer heels had started when he'd limped into the parking garage to find her leaning over the hood of his little red Corvette waiting for him. He could see right down the red blouse she had been wearing, and her ass was high up in the air, like she was waiting for him to come up behind her. If he ignored the bored and annoyed expression on her face.
He had been loathe to get rid of the car, he didn't care that it was graft, but he had nearly crashed it twice from trying to drive it with a hard on and the image of Cuddy sprawled out on the car in his mind. Part of him had also been worried that he'd flip one day, do a Thelma and Louise with Wilson at his side and the pain in his leg eating away at his soul as he drove into the nearest ravine.
So he got rid of the car and kept the fantasy. Tight red dress that went down to her knees, flowing around her legs nicely. Cut deep to reveal the pale skin of her upper chest and some cleavage. Bare arms, bare legs, and red shoes with killer heels.
And she was washing his car, a large bucket of water that she was getting all over herself, bubbles on her cleavage, a hose that had more connotations that he liked to think about by the way she was handling it, and a sponge, bending over the hood of his car, stretched out over it. Ass in the air, dress loose across her breasts, giving him a great view into her bra, almost exposing her nipples to him.
In his fantasy he pushed the dress up around her waist, revealing a red thong and perfect legs. He pushed her down onto the hood of the car, the red of the dress and the paint work becoming one. He doesn't mind that he misses out on her breasts in this fantasy, because he has other fantasies that just involve her breasts and his cock. In this fantasy he doesn't pull her thong down, or tear it away, he always wants to push it aside, slide to fingers into her body to see if washing his car does anything for her. It does, but then, it could be the fact that this is fantasy and while he's sure Cuddy owns some red killer heels, he's not sure she has a red dress to match.
Which is a fucking shame.
The Cuddy in his fantasies fights him as much as the real Cuddy does. He gets off on that as much as anything else. She pushes and pulls, goads him into giving her what she wants, while he takes everything he can in return. That's the real fantasy.
It's been a long time since he had a fantasy about having two good legs, and better leverage to fuck someone with. Even when the ketamine treatment worked, he still imagined he had a bad leg and a cane because his mind was still getting his head around having two great legs when the pain started to return. In his fantasies though he could make any position work, because the pain never got worse. He could throw his cane aside, grab Cuddy's hips and put his weight on her and the car and she could take it. He could take it. He worried that it would be too much for them both in reality, but in his fantasies he could let his jeans and boxers drop and pool around his ankles, pull her thong to one side and push his cock into her body slowly. Really, fucking, slowly.
In his fantasies she's tighter than she could ever possibly be in reality, virgin tight, and he's setting himself up for a fall should they ever get to this point, but god he can grip his cock hard, he has strong hands, strong arms, he could pretend she was that tight.
In his fantasies he's slow, because he worries that in reality he wouldn't be able to do anything but hard and fast. Because Cuddy is just that hot. Because his leg wouldn't let him. The feel of Cuddy and the pain in his thigh would be too much from bending her over the hood of his little red car, but alone, on his sofa, in his bed, in the shower, he could be slow because it wasn't as good as it could be. The tight grip of his hand, his lubed up, or soaped up cock was never going to be as good as the heat of Cuddy's muscles reacting around him. To him.
He comes quickly to his fantasies, even if he's pretending he's taking her slow over the hood of his car, or she's riding him slowly in a confessional box, or he's fucking her into the sand, because the images are hot and he knows exactly what to do to get himself off quickly with the maximum pleasure. Even if the maximum pleasure can't compare to his balls slamming against Cuddy's sweet ass though. He comes quickly, over his jeans, his sheets, himself, even though in reality it's going to take longer, to have Cuddy screaming out his name. Hell, if it wasn't for the pain in his leg, he wouldn't be so quick off the mark alone, either.
A cock ring.
That's what he needed, something to make Cuddy scream over and over while he pushed her down hard against the hot metal of his hood, fingers digging into her hip. She always screamed in his fantasies and he had no idea if she was a screamer, he just suspected she was because of the way she yelled at him at the hospital. He really wished he'd slept with her in college, found these things out then, but never mind, he had fantasies.
The idea of her screaming always had him coming harder, grunting or yelling her name, leaving him fucking spent on his bed, or sofa, or occasionally at his desk in his locked office, hand loose around his softening dick, one arm thrown across his eyes to keep the world out and the fantasy in.
God, he missed that car.
He loved these little fantasies he had about Cuddy and wondered if he was confident enough to buy her a sexy red dress.
Of course he was. He spent most of his day either leering at her or thinking about her. He just didn't know what he would bend her over now he'd gotten rid of the car. That was the real problem.
He wondered what would be the best outfit for her to wear while fucking her over his motorbike.
Author: rolleson
Fandom: House
Rating: Way Adult
Character/Pairing: House/Cuddy
Spoilers: Around season three.
Warnings: Sex, masturbation and the like.
Summary: also known as; Am I in House's head again?
Notes: Inpsired by this icon
by cutting_onions. 1215 words.
When it came to Cuddy, he had a lot enduring fantasies. The naughty school girl was self explanatory, tiny plaid skirt, stupidly tight white shirt. Pigtails, sometimes braids, sometimes not. On her knees. Lifeguard Cuddy usually saved lives in the tiniest black bikini he could imagine. Scraps of black cloth held together by string, hair wet and slicked back. Mother Superior Cuddy wore absolutely nothing underneath her habit, pulling him into the confessional box to ride him silly.
The fantasy about him washing his car, wearing a red dress and killer heels had started when he'd limped into the parking garage to find her leaning over the hood of his little red Corvette waiting for him. He could see right down the red blouse she had been wearing, and her ass was high up in the air, like she was waiting for him to come up behind her. If he ignored the bored and annoyed expression on her face.
He had been loathe to get rid of the car, he didn't care that it was graft, but he had nearly crashed it twice from trying to drive it with a hard on and the image of Cuddy sprawled out on the car in his mind. Part of him had also been worried that he'd flip one day, do a Thelma and Louise with Wilson at his side and the pain in his leg eating away at his soul as he drove into the nearest ravine.
So he got rid of the car and kept the fantasy. Tight red dress that went down to her knees, flowing around her legs nicely. Cut deep to reveal the pale skin of her upper chest and some cleavage. Bare arms, bare legs, and red shoes with killer heels.
And she was washing his car, a large bucket of water that she was getting all over herself, bubbles on her cleavage, a hose that had more connotations that he liked to think about by the way she was handling it, and a sponge, bending over the hood of his car, stretched out over it. Ass in the air, dress loose across her breasts, giving him a great view into her bra, almost exposing her nipples to him.
In his fantasy he pushed the dress up around her waist, revealing a red thong and perfect legs. He pushed her down onto the hood of the car, the red of the dress and the paint work becoming one. He doesn't mind that he misses out on her breasts in this fantasy, because he has other fantasies that just involve her breasts and his cock. In this fantasy he doesn't pull her thong down, or tear it away, he always wants to push it aside, slide to fingers into her body to see if washing his car does anything for her. It does, but then, it could be the fact that this is fantasy and while he's sure Cuddy owns some red killer heels, he's not sure she has a red dress to match.
Which is a fucking shame.
The Cuddy in his fantasies fights him as much as the real Cuddy does. He gets off on that as much as anything else. She pushes and pulls, goads him into giving her what she wants, while he takes everything he can in return. That's the real fantasy.
It's been a long time since he had a fantasy about having two good legs, and better leverage to fuck someone with. Even when the ketamine treatment worked, he still imagined he had a bad leg and a cane because his mind was still getting his head around having two great legs when the pain started to return. In his fantasies though he could make any position work, because the pain never got worse. He could throw his cane aside, grab Cuddy's hips and put his weight on her and the car and she could take it. He could take it. He worried that it would be too much for them both in reality, but in his fantasies he could let his jeans and boxers drop and pool around his ankles, pull her thong to one side and push his cock into her body slowly. Really, fucking, slowly.
In his fantasies she's tighter than she could ever possibly be in reality, virgin tight, and he's setting himself up for a fall should they ever get to this point, but god he can grip his cock hard, he has strong hands, strong arms, he could pretend she was that tight.
In his fantasies he's slow, because he worries that in reality he wouldn't be able to do anything but hard and fast. Because Cuddy is just that hot. Because his leg wouldn't let him. The feel of Cuddy and the pain in his thigh would be too much from bending her over the hood of his little red car, but alone, on his sofa, in his bed, in the shower, he could be slow because it wasn't as good as it could be. The tight grip of his hand, his lubed up, or soaped up cock was never going to be as good as the heat of Cuddy's muscles reacting around him. To him.
He comes quickly to his fantasies, even if he's pretending he's taking her slow over the hood of his car, or she's riding him slowly in a confessional box, or he's fucking her into the sand, because the images are hot and he knows exactly what to do to get himself off quickly with the maximum pleasure. Even if the maximum pleasure can't compare to his balls slamming against Cuddy's sweet ass though. He comes quickly, over his jeans, his sheets, himself, even though in reality it's going to take longer, to have Cuddy screaming out his name. Hell, if it wasn't for the pain in his leg, he wouldn't be so quick off the mark alone, either.
A cock ring.
That's what he needed, something to make Cuddy scream over and over while he pushed her down hard against the hot metal of his hood, fingers digging into her hip. She always screamed in his fantasies and he had no idea if she was a screamer, he just suspected she was because of the way she yelled at him at the hospital. He really wished he'd slept with her in college, found these things out then, but never mind, he had fantasies.
The idea of her screaming always had him coming harder, grunting or yelling her name, leaving him fucking spent on his bed, or sofa, or occasionally at his desk in his locked office, hand loose around his softening dick, one arm thrown across his eyes to keep the world out and the fantasy in.
God, he missed that car.
He loved these little fantasies he had about Cuddy and wondered if he was confident enough to buy her a sexy red dress.
Of course he was. He spent most of his day either leering at her or thinking about her. He just didn't know what he would bend her over now he'd gotten rid of the car. That was the real problem.
He wondered what would be the best outfit for her to wear while fucking her over his motorbike.