They've finished a large meal. Wilson cooked – he's satisfied and full, curled in the easy chair, scrolling through House's Tivo list with detached curiosity.
House has eaten three servings of the main course – chicken casserole and dumplings – and two generous helpings of chocolate fudge cake and custard for dessert. He's fit to burst. He's hardly paying attention to the television screen. Sprawled on the couch with his jeans undone, he glances at his aching gut – lays a hand gently on it.
He can feel Wilson looking at him.
It's been three weeks since their experiment with Wilson's over-indulgence kink, and in the intervening time they've played around a little, explored a couple of House's choice fetishes, though mostly they've had straight-up sex. Long, delicious blow jobs and enthusiastic, mattress-creaking penetration – one sixty-nine, last Tuesday evening, that didn't go quite as well as they'd hoped and eventually abandoned to suck each other off individually.
They mostly come together in the mornings, when they're still half-asleep. They mingle in a haze of morning breath and half-remembered erotic dreams, mouthing and rutting at each other, House's dirty-talk becoming more and more coherent as he wakes, encouraging Wilson towards the finale, when Wilson slides inside, and House moans and chokes and grins and jacks Wilson off with a lightning-fast fist in between their bellies. House loves being fucked so much that now, all Wilson needs to do is to slick up and slip in – House swallows him easily and flexes around him with relish. It's unlikely and wonderful, though if one thinks about it for long enough, it makes sense, given House's insatiability to take in more and more of everything, suck everything inside him more-or-less indiscriminately, until he's full to bursting.
They haven't forgotten, though, how insane and incredible the sex was that one night, when House was full of two six packs of beer, both of them full of mischief and embarrassment and a sense of illicit adventure.
So now, feeling Wilson's gaze landing on him teasingly like light rain, House shucks up his Status Quo t-shirt and reveals his full, swollen belly to the room. Casually, as though he has no idea it might make Wilson's cock stir and his fingertips tingle.
He hears Wilson shift on the leather chair. The TV remote landing quietly on the side table.
Knowing now for certain that he has Wilson's attention, he lets out a small sound. One that could betray discomfort, pleasure, arousal, impatience, or all four. It's a low, slightly strangled grunt, with a little bit of voice behind it. It sounds flawlessly involuntary, though House has calculated and executed it with deliberation.
House slides his right hand from where it rests, palm-down, on the couch up over his hip and onto his naked belly, rubbing it softly, looking down at it with measured frustration and disbelief.
'God,' he says. 'I overdid it.'
Then he looks at Wilson, whose face, he now sees, has flushed a burning warm shade of crimson, and raises his eyebrows. 'Come on,' House says, with his pointed, heated look. 'Don't make me look like the nutcase, here.'
At last, Wilson pushes himself up to the chair and moves to sit, with badly disguised eagerness, close to House on the couch cushions. Wilson doesn't seem to know what to do with his legs. First he sits with his feet on the floor, then he pulls them up under him and kneels, facing House, with his knees just touching House's right thigh.
He looks at House's belly, House's hand, where it's stilled, the fingers curled loosely around the bottom hem of his t-shirt, holding it up against his ribcage.
House's open fly, and in between, the defined shape of his engorged cock, pressing up through the front of his boxers.
And Wilson realises what he finds so arousing about the whole scenario.
It's things straining, desperate, hard and tight. Greedy, full, ready to pop – at the state he seldom lets himself get into. Wilson, with his impeccable self-discipline, his practised restraint. Masterful self-denial.
He's broken this only in his association with House. And it's liberating beyond words.
'Poor baby,' says Wilson, in a wavering voice, unsure whether he sounds naughty or ridiculous. 'What am I going to do with you?'
House, though, seems thrilled, relieved that Wilson is pleased by this. He spreads his legs a little, pushing the outline of his tumescent prick into more definition. He lets go of the edge of his t-shirt and reaches for Wilson's hands, draws them to his stomach, moans low when the hot flesh impacts his own.
Wilson can't breathe quite deeply enough, can't swallow – a thick bolus of pleasure lodges in his oesophagus.
'You want me to... rub it for you?' he asks. The words catch in his throat.
House takes his hands away from Wilson's.
'Yes please,' he says.
And he does, gently, fascinated by the tautness of the flesh, the way House's belly button is slightly dilated. House has an odd belly button – it's not quite an 'innie', not quite an 'outie' – there's a firm nodule of flesh raised a little in its centre, and this, now, is straining upwards, pushed out just past the rim of his navel, flushed and tender-looking as a women's clitoris. Wilson tickles it with the fingernail of his index finger.
House's head snaps back against the couch – he sucks in a huge, hissing breath.
Hurriedly, with purpose, Wilson leans down and slithers his tongue into House's navel, sealing his lips to create a small vacuum and sucking it out from his belly, flicking the very tip of his tongue against that nodule of flesh, rapidly and firmly.
'Ah,' says House. 'Wait – wait.' He takes Wilson's head in his hands and pushes it away, breathing hard as he lifts his hips, pushes his pants down his thighs just enough to stretch the waistband of his underwear down, past his cock, exposing it to the air like his belly.
He doesn't touch it, doesn't ask Wilson to touch it – just lets it bob there, engorged, fat and ready in the centre of his eye line. He looks at Wilson's crotch, and Wilson takes the cue – fumbles with his own fly, pushes down his pants and his underwear to let his own thickened cock spring free.
'I had kinky sex before you, you know,' House says to Wilson. Wilson doesn't respond verbally – he looks down at his own cock, incongruous beneath his work-clothed chest and stomach. 'Nothing like this, though,' adds House.
Wilson bends his head down again, runs his lips over House's belly, runs them down to his groin, just above his crotch, pulls back to find that House has finally taken his own cock in his right hand and begun masturbating, resolutely, with an almost pained expression on his face. He slicks his own pre-come down the length of his cock with obscene relish, pulls his foreskin back and forth with the fingertips of his left hand as he pumps with his right. Wilson starts to work at himself with his own left hand. He watches House pursue his pleasure doggedly, as though he's running through the pain barrier on a treadmill.
House looks at Wilson's right hand, and then meaningfully towards his own stomach, and Wilson palms House's belly again, sliding his middle finger into the navel, rubbing at it, slicking the pad of it in the cooling saliva he left there some seconds ago.
'I could do this for you,' House says, gruffly. 'If you wanted – if you like it this much. I could do this for you one night a week.' Wilson lets out a cough of pleasure, thrilled by the idea. 'I could do it better, too. Even better. I could make myself so full and so tight for you.' House moans at the outrageous idea of it.
'Yeah,' says Wilson, unable to muster anything more profound. 'I'd like that.'
'I could... do you know what I could do? I could – ah. Would you like to see it if...' He seems to momentarily forget what he's saying, absorbed as he is by the sharp, acute bolts of pleasure he can create by repeatedly rubbing his foreskin back and forth over his glans.
Wilson makes a small noise of encouragement. House's dirty talk is so odd – as unpredictable and imaginative as his solutions to medical mysteries.
Wilson imagines House's filth, spun out in a spider diagram on his whiteboard. Fellatio linked by lines to rim jobs linked by arrows to leather sprouting lines to cock rings, a beautiful, intricate web of salacious fantasy, sparkling in the afternoon sunlight.
'...Would you like to see it if I... grew a... little pot belly for you? If I did that?' He takes a sticky hand off his cock for a moment to squeeze at the flesh at Wilson's waist. 'You're getting love handles,' he says. Wilson panics for a moment at the thought of the laundry, though House interrupts his anxiety with more talk. 'I think it's... unbelievably sexy. Would you find that sexy? If I had a little pot belly? I could hide it with big t-shirts – it would only be for you. I'd come home, to find you washing the dishes in the kitchen, and I'd come up behind you, and rub it up against the small of your back. I'd rub it up against you while your hands were in the water and my cock was rubbing up against you too, against the crack of your ass, and I'd come in my pants.'
Wilson feels suffocated by pleasure. It's too much. Once House discovers which buttons to push, he pushes, and pushes. Until he comes to that great red button that reads 'Do Not Push!' And then, of course, he pushes that one.
'Or... I know... I know since that night in bed. I know what you really want.'
'House,' says Wilson, warningly or pleadingly.
'I know what you really want. You... want... You want me... big... with... your baby.'
Wilson keens out a mortified laugh-scream of guilty arousal. His hand flies faster on his cock.
'You want to knock me up – put your cock up my ass and spurt into me and put a baby inside me, and then watch it grow... over the... months. Watch my...'
Wilson takes his hand off his prick and slaps it over House's mouth.
'That's enough,' he says. 'That's...'
House bites the skin between Wilson's thumb and forefinger, hard, and Wilson yelps and relents, taking his hand away, dragging it down over House's chin, leaving the stubble damp with pre-come, leaving his smell all over House's mouth and nose.
'...You want to watch my belly swell until it's so big, and so ripe, and so full, that I waddle. Go on, then. Go on then, Wilson. Put your cock inside me.'
Though neither of them makes it quite this far. Wilson yips once like a dog and convulses and spills against House's bare hip, his other hand clenching, squeezing House's stomach and wringing a tremendous, wet orgasm from House – three or four good-sized strings of white landing up across House's belly, and three, almost surprised, ecstatic shouts, long, open-throated and involuntary, each one as though House has opened the closet and something startling has jumped out at him. And then several gentler, bubbling ejaculations, as House closes his eyes and keens with quieter, exhausted little cries, still moving his hand slowly and reluctantly over his prick, as it twitches and softens. He lets it go, and it falls gently against his left thigh, still a little hard with the memory of pleasure.
He looks at Wilson. He's begun to fasten up his trousers. His face has flushed red again.
'Are you embarrassed?' asks House, feeling strangely exposed himself, all at once.
'A little,' says Wilson.
Then House pulls himself together.
'Nothing to be embarrassed about,' he says, pulling down his t-shirt decisively over the mess on his torso. 'There's just us two here.' He grins up at Wilson. 'We can do whatever we goddamn want.' He smiles, more softly and genuinely, looking Wilson directly in the eye. 'You can do whatever you want with me,' he says, bluntly, and quite serious. 'There's no need to be shy anymore.'
For the first time in his life, Wilson truly believes this.