Little red dress
When I get home, Wilson is already passed out on my couch, snoring like a truck downshifting on the highway. I ponder briefly whether there's a simpler reason why his wives always leave him, than his problems with commitment. I sure as hell can't put up with his snoring for many more nights.
I go into my bedroom and shut the door, which muffles the sound somewhat. I pull my tux off and lie down on the bed but closing my eyes doesn't help. All I can see behind my eyelids is a memory movie of her in that damn red dress, playing on a loop. I turn round, I see her, I wait for her to drop her gaze, and she stares straight back, like she can tell all my secrets, read everything I really think about her. I am an open book to her; I feel her cataloguing my expressions, my reactions.
I mentally add the picture to my Cameron show reel, which includes...how she looked in her dark suit, the day I interviewed her...her ass in the jeans she wore when we went to the monster trucks...the pink shirt she wore when I was drinking with Death Row Guy...and a few other choice selections from the last year.
It's become a ritual before I go to sleep. I lie on the bed, take a Vicodin, call up one of those pictures...and, well you can guess. I'm hard already, thinking about how her tits looked spilling out of her strapless top. Don't think she had a bra on. Underwear...I'm thinking a thong. A black, lacy thong. One that just skims her hips.
I imagine the door creaks open and she walks in. When did she get so bold? I remember how easy it was to make her blush when I first met her. If she only knew the hours I spend, at the piano, on the bike, messing about on the PlayStation, thinking up lines to use on her. Anything to get a reaction. It's getting harder lately; she's playing me at my own game. It's my own fault; she's had just enough Greg House exposure now to become resistant.
Over to the bed she comes, kicking off her high heels on the way. My, what big eyes you have Dr Cameron. Gonna kiss the big bad wolf? She hitches her dress up slowly, and crawls up the bed, giving me a view straight down her cleavage. I palm my cock, imagining it is her small hand doing it. She starts to work me with a firm, smooth stroke and takes my balls in her other hand, squeezing gently.
I wish she would go down on me, and because this is my fantasy, she does. She burns like the morning sun as she swipes the head of my cock with smooth, wet passes of her tongue. I can smell her perfume - she doesn't normally wear any; her scent is normally a mixture of lavender shower gel and the mousse she uses on her hair - but tonight she has used something new; I don't know the name of it.
I can feel the familiar tightening in my balls, and I thrust upwards into her welcoming mouth, imagining the silky fabric of the dress pooling around me as I come hard in waves into her warm wetness.
When I finally open my eyes, she is gone, of course. The room smells of nothing more than alcohol and fresh spunk and the familiar pain in my thigh returns with a vengeance. I disentangle myself from the bed sheets, and look down at the floor, where my abandoned tux jacket is a pool of inky blackness. I imagine how it would look tangled up with the red fabric of the dress. In your dreams, Greg, I think, and drift off to sleep.
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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 Fox Television, 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.