Cuddy's Pair
Author's
Notes: I'm grateful to Good Vibrations and
Doctor David Ruben for the medical and erotic information in this
story.
Research is a very fun thing sometimes. Thank you Lovellama for the
beta, and
this one's for my dear friend Jane, who is Da Bomb!
She was on her feet when her cellphone rang.
Cuddy (wisely, it turned out) checked the number before putting the
thing to
her ear, so when House’s voice came over the connection she
was ready.
“What?”
He came right to the point. “You’re
tense.”
“Given who I’m talking to, it’s clearly
cause and effect,” She countered in a
terse tone. ”Which is why I’m going to make this
conversation very short—what
do you want?”
“Ah, such a loaded question, fraught with
possibilities,” came his low murmur.
Not expecting this, Cuddy caught her breath a moment, and shifted
uneasily,
wishing (not for the first time) that her office didn’t have
quite as many
glass windows, and that her agitation wasn’t obvious.
“House—“ she warned, trying to sound
stern, and almost succeeding. On matters
medical she could still shut him down quite efficiently; it was on
nearly
everything else that he could (and did) manipulate her. Part of her
despaired
at ever regaining his respect for her position, and part of her
admitted it
didn’t really matter—the man did what he did better
than anyone else in the
country.
Probably the world, for that matter.
“I have a gift to help you ease some of the awesome and
terrible strain you
bear,” House told her in a low (and suspiciously) seductive
tone. Cuddy closed
her eyes while visions of lurid battery operated devices paraded across
her
mind, (most of them gyrating or playing tinny versions of
‘Love to Love You,
Baby.)
“No.” came her swift response.
“NO.”
“Too late; I’ve already spent the money,”
came House’s mild reply. “Quite a
bundle too, and I have an offer to make that you, in all your
snappy, cranky
not-getting-laid-
enough glory ought to LOVE.”
“There isn’t a single THING you can offer
me—“
“—I will do clinic for a MONTH straight, and cover
for anyone needing it during
that time. Do I have your attention so far?”
“--I’m listening; what’s the
catch?” came her swift (and skeptical) reply.
Cuddy turned her back to the glass front of her office and looked down
at her desk,
wishing she could see more blotter and fewer files. In her ear, House
purred,
and she pictured him suddenly as Shere Khan, from Disney’s
The Jungle Book—the
same George Sanders smugness in his tone.
“In your desk I’ve left an ancient stress-relieving
device, procured through a
hell of a lot of finesse and wrangling. You will use said
device for the next
three days. If applied correctly I predict that Lisa Cuddy, world class
virago
and undisputed alpha bitch of the greater
Cuddy’s brows drew together. “I don’t
have hypertension or
TMJ.”
A loud and annoyed sigh echoed in her ear. “Listen
carefully—Board. Certified.
Diagnostician. That big word on the end means that I look at symptoms
and
figure out what’s wrong with people. That’s why you
give me those pretty pieces
of paper with large denominations on them.”
“House, I know
what you are on TOP of your qualifications,” she replied,
forcing herself to be calm. “What you are not is my personal
doctor.”
“Consider mine a second and overriding opinion then. Six
Tylenol in twenty
hours is not a good sign—take it from someone who has a
lit-tle more experience
with pain management.”
“You counted my doses?” Cuddy growled, slightly
embarrassed to be caught out.
“A month of clinic . . . fifteen days of semi-legitimate work
out of me . . . “
he crooned.
“A month is twenty days. Nothing less than twenty
days.”
“Seventeen,” House countered. I’m taking
the next three days off to monitor
your treatment. It’s only fair you know—if I
prescribed it, I should follow
through like the responsible and caring public servant that I
am.”
Cuddy blew a loud, wet raspberry into her phone and hung up.
She’d barely had
the chance to sit down at her desk and eye it suspiciously (her mind
contemplating the worst case scenario of the Bomb Squad deactivating a
dildo
roughly the size of the
“I turned in my rotation schedule for the clinic. You can
call Brenda the
Barbarian to confirm it, if you like. However, if you sign off on it,
Cuddy,
then we have a deal. Seventeen straight days of clinic for three days
of . . .
therapy.”
Cuddy was silent. Never in a hundred thousand million years would she
admit
that yes, lately her jaw ached, and sometimes when rushing between
crises she
got faint-headed and had to catch her breath, because the only thing
she hated
more than House being right was House finding out he was right and
lording it
over her.
Clearly, the best way to prove him wrong was to do whatever the damned
‘therapy’ was, and then go back to Tylenol when he
was wrong.
“Fine. I’ll be out to stick my signature on
it after
I find this mysterious
device of yours,” she replied, and hung up again.
It felt good to hang up on House—she so rarely got to do it,
and twice in an
hour had to be some sort of record. Carefully Cuddy opened the drawers
of her
desk and began to look. A few moments later, she found a small grey
silk box in
the very back of the left hand drawer. Drawing it out into the light,
she noted
it was heavy, and that the pink embroidery on it had little
dragonflies.
She shot a guilty look at the glass doors, half-expecting House to be
looming
outside watching her, but no one was there, so she used her thumb to
flip open
the ivory little hook and eye catch on the box. Inside, nestled in two
hollow
spaces in the black velvet sat two gold spheres.
Cuddy stared at them for a moment, then drew in a breath. “Oh
God. No. He
can-NOT be serious. Nooo.” Alarmed, she tried to shove the
box back into her
drawer, but her hand shook, and one of the gleaming balls wobbled out.
Reflexively she caught it, the heavy weight startling her anew. Cuddy
unwillingly brought it closer for examination, and noted the tiny 18kt
mark
under the delicately etched dragonfly motif.
She groaned. “Crap. I don’t believe
it—eighteen karat so I can’t
just throw
them away—what the hell is he
thinking?”
When he caught up with her in the elevator on the way home (which was a
minor
miracle in and of itself—she’d doubled back twice
from her office and taken the
cargo lift to avoid House, all to no avail) Cuddy flamed into a rosy
blush and
glared at him, mentally willing him to stay quiet in front of the other
passengers.
Her mind control attempt failed. (Of course.)
“So . . . I take it you got that therapeutic device
I left for you?” House
announced loudly. The two interns and the pharmacy rep in the car with
them
pretended not to listen in. Cuddy knew better.
“Yes I did. I’m sorry you went to all that expense, Doctor
House, especially
for something that isn’t
going to be used,” Cuddy replied loudly. “Given how
you feel about Eastern medicine in general.”
“So you’re saying you’re willfully
choosing to be non-compliant with my medical
instructions, Doctor Cuddy? That despite my accurate
and professional
diagnosis of your medical
condition--”
House cheerfully began yelling back,
nodding at the now staring interns. The pharmacy rep began jabbing the
elevator
buttons repeatedly.
Cuddy quietly, firmly stepped on House’s foot, making him
break off with a
yelp. “Perhaps we should continue this at another time,
House—“ she hissed.
He glared at her. “Maybe on the way to Orthopedics, while I
get damaged metatarsals
treated?”
“Don’t be a baby.”
“Don’t drive that railroad spike you call a heel
into my foot then,” he growled
back. The doors opened onto the lobby; the interns and rep fled, moving
out at
breakneck speed.
Cuddy moved to follow them, but the sudden swing of House’s
cane into her path
forced her to stop. She didn’t look at him.
“No.”
“I spared no expense—“
“No.”
“I know they’re the right size—“
“No.”
“Fine. I can say ‘no’ too. As in no
clinic. Kiss seventeen days of devoted
doctorly duty goodbye. AND I’m submitting my receipt to
Accounting.”
The thought of Karl seeing a reimbursement slip for solid gold Ben Wa
balls put
her in a serious panic, and Cuddy turned to House, nostrils flaring.
“No. And
by that I mean yes. All right, whatever it takes to get you into doing
your
damned fair share of work!”
He held back his smugness (but only slightly, Cuddy noticed; the curl
at the
corner of his scruffy mouth burned like acid for her) and gave a nod.
“See?
That wasn’t so hard. Because I don’t trust you an
inch, let’s get you started
right now.”
“Now?” Cuddy blurted as House grabbed her wrist and
towed her back towards the
clinic. Cuddy wrestled to free her hand, but House glanced back at her
and
nodded, his gaze sharp.
“Certainly. Given the value, I know you have them on you
instead of leaving
them in your office, and the sooner you get them in, the sooner you can
. . .
benefit.”
There was something so blatantly salacious about how he rolled that out
that
Cuddy squirmed. Trying to look calm she followed House reluctantly into
Exam
Room Three, frowning as he locked the door behind them. “The
nurses will talk—“
“—Well if you’d feel better with a
chaperone—“
“GOD no!” Cuddy shot back, glaring at him.
“You are determined
to humiliate
me, but that’s not going to happen. I’ll go through
this, oh yes, but in the
end, you WILL be doing seventeen days of clinic duty, AND filling in
for anyone
who happens to need a sub in that time.”
House said nothing, but Cuddy noted he wasn’t smiling;
instead, he had the
glittery-eyed intensity that meant he was taking her words seriously.
She
slammed her purse on the exam table and began to fish in it nervously.
He
opened a drawer and pulled out a tube, handing it to her.
“KY meets Ben Wa—sounds a bit like a Kung Fu movie,
don’t you think?”
She’d gone behind the screen and propped one leg up on a
chair, insisting House
stay on the other side. Cuddy felt defensively detached; as if the
whole
situation was some odd nightmarish dream. All it needed now was a
walk-through
by her old Social Studies Teacher and a talking animal. Through the
screen
House was tapping his cane impatiently.
“Heavy ball first, then the lighter one; not rocket science
here Cuddy.”
“What’s rolling around in this first
one?” she demanded, shifting a little as
she tucked the small sphere in, (grateful she’d warmed it a
bit first) and
flexed a little.
“Traditionally it was mercury, but the core of these is
silver,” he replied.
“Just be glad I didn’t get the chiming
ones.”
Cuddy gave a moue and lightly tucked the other ball in, feeling . . .
full.
Unimpressed, she wiped her hands on one of the paper towels and tugged
her
underwear back up, along with her panty hose, then smoothed her skirt
down.
It happened as she stepped around the screen. When she moved, (trying
like hell
to put her focus back on regaining her dignity) the little shift deep
within her
made her flex, convulsively. House was intently watching her.
“Felt that,” came his comment.
Cuddy lifted her chin higher. “I’ve got weights in
me. No big deal.”
“It will be,” he predicted confidently, moving
closer to her. In one quick move
her grabbed her slender hips and shook them; startled, Cuddy reached up
and
shoved him, but the vibration of the two balls within her was enough of
a
sensation to make her tighten all her muscles, and House’s
grin flared out, his
stubble-flecked dimples deep. “Oh yeah. Just wait until your
drive home.”
He turned and lurched to the door, unlocking it as he called over his
shoulder
to her. “Three days. You can take them out for urination or
bathing, but other
than that I expect you to keep them in that snug silk quim of yours
Cuddy.”
Stunned at his audacity, she stared after him and wondered how she
would ever
get through her hour on the treadmill later that night.
It was good. Cuddy didn’t want to admit it (no she did NOT
want to come out
with that confession to anyone, least of all House) but the low and
heavy
weight was creating some amazing
sensations.
Climbing stairs was nice. Yoga was incredible. The old rocking chair
was
fabulous, and even the simple act of walking made her smile lazily.
Cuddy could
feel the click and shift deep within her, and the sweet pressure and
nudges
relaxing and tensing her by turns.
She hated that House was right, but that hate was fading hour by hour,
replaced
by a serene pleasure. It wasn’t the earth shaking intensity
of an orgasm; more
like that pleasant little ping of arousal on a constant muted note. At
any
point in the day, Cuddy was , , , aware of herself. Certainly one thing
was
clear—whatever clenching she was doing, it wasn’t
along her jaw line.
House studied her the first day, his expression shifting from curious
to
intrigued when she merely smiled back at him. Just to tease, Cuddy
swayed her
hips a bit more exaggeratedly and gave a soft moan as the balls swirled
within
her.
Later, he stopped into her office and cocked his head, watching her.
“Having
fun?”
“Having a ball,” came her lazy retort.
“I’m keeping my end of the bargain.”
“So it seems. I haven’t seen that much hip action
since
By the evening of the second day, Cuddy’s simmer (which had
already been going
well before House’s gift had made an appearance) was on full,
slow boil, and
she made her decision.
Thoughtfully she called House down for a consultation, and once he
stepped into
the exam room, she slipped around him and locked the door. He blinked.
“Patient?”
“Not any more,” Came her deliberate growl. With a
little push she forced him
back against the exam table and cupped his scratchy face in her hands,
kissing
him softly. House responded with alacrity (and talent—even
Cuddy had to admit
the man had the sexiest tongue she’d ever sucked), pulling
her to him firmly.
In between slick, deep kisses, he tried to talk. Tried to, anyway.
“So . . .
feeling . . . a bit . . . horny?”
Cuddy chose to answer by example, slithering around him until her pert
fanny
rested on the table, at a lovely and convenient height for more
in-depth
action, (action indeed being the operative word). She had him out of
his jeans
and boxers, hooking her own bare legs over the crooks of his elbows.
“Do me.
Now.”
“Oh yeah. CAN do—“ House croaked, and
thrust himself forward.
The slick rolling sensation of the balls along the underside of his
cock did
indeed make him grunt, and Cuddy arched her hips up, her own long nails
digging
into the crinkly paper and Naugahyde of the exam table.
They huffed and puffed, and by the time demolition was inevitable, the
House
indeed came, in every way including down. Cuddy let him collapse across
her
bare stomach, savoring the sweet aftermath of her soul deep orgasm
quaking
through her in tiny, sensual aftershocks.
“I love your balls,” she told him huskily.
“My balls love you,” he groaned, his words muffled
against her half-open bra.
“All four of them.”
end
