| |
The Hooker Pt. III - Returning a Favour V2.0
by Essex4
DISCLAIMER: This hooker's mine. Hugh Laurie deplorably isn't, but then, I'm not really into owning people. Also, there is no money whatsoever being made off this, which is almost as deplorable (but only almost). Neither are the characters, ideas, stories etc. of the NBC TV series House, MD, mine.
---------
No call from Doctor House.
So, the next week, I show up per se at the place, to see if there's any money to be earned from the doc. I wonder what state he'll be in today.
Weather being fine, many windows are open; of House's place, too.
I can hear piano music playing. It's not on the radio or a recording, and it's not blues, or something anyone can do - a classical cadenza of, to my ears, some intricacy, filters out, fitting in very well with the golden evening light. The music clearly comes from House's apartment, so, knowing my ringing the bell will stop his playing, I hesitate to cut in.
Leaning against the wall between the window and entrance, I relax and listen a little, contemplating the evening to come, and the nice, quiet, green city neighborhood.
He is really pretty good.
A big, slightly battered motor bike is parked next to me, right under House's window. Wouldn't be bad to live around here. But my type of business would probably be conspicuous in the area. I think. It's not deserted, there's some traffic, and a main street with bars and shops around the corner. Bus stops, as well, but no easy parking... Depends on the neighbors, really.
My flow of thoughts is disrupted when the music stops in the middle of an arpeggio with what is just not yet a dissonance. If that was all improvised, Dr House is a musical genius.
Well, then.
*
Ring ring.
Some clunking is going on inside, then the door is shoved open abruptly.
House looks much the opposite of last week, which is, very lively and alert. No less, his eyes are red-rimmed. And if he's curt, he honors me with two full sentences: "You are 10 minutes late! I was just about to place a last-minute order with that escort service on Nassau Street."
"I didn't want to interrupt your playing. It was perfect, so much in tune with the lights of nightfall... I stood some outside of your door and listened."
Apparently, this takes him by surprise, but doesn't work to pacify or flatter. He snipes: "No reason to hang out like that! Trying to destroy my reputation in the 'hood?"
Pretending modesty, I look down in mock dejection, smoothen the plain, light overcoat chosen with care to give away nothing of my profession, and ask: "Do you think so? Do you think they care? ...Honestly, do you care?"
I do not add, 'What about fat motorbikes under your window, students in the 'hood, the limp, that stubble, and piano playing with your window open?'
Nor do I flinch, but meet his gaze.
He must be in an excellent mood, because after a few moments, he grins: "Nope, not really," motioning his head for me to enter.
I smile back, and do that.
This doctor is cute. He really is. Between pot-bellied elderly businessmen who need a lot of work, and youngish, self-proclaimed adonisses who are not even sure they're really straight, but always need to prove something either way, if with a hooker, and who could never tell a jackass in hysterics from a faked orgasm if you played them a vid with detailed explanations, he's choice. Those guys, while they certainly can go on and on, generally care a lot more about their businesses and performance, than about their girls. Let them eat each other, I say.
I'll go for middle-aged any day. Relaxed, unshaven, greedy - playful? Masterful, to be sure. Yes.
I wonder if House'll be more talkative today. He seems almost cheerful.
The place is still messy, but clean again. Of course he'll have a cleaning lady, as well. I pity her. She'd probably reciprocate the feeling.
While I take off my coat, House gives me the once-over, and nods his approval.
"Hang it over there," he indicates a closet.
"No need!" I drop it over the backrest of a chair.
"That piece you played..."
I walk over to the piano.
"What was it? Never heard it before."
"No wonder."
"You mean to say: what would a hooker know of classical music?"
Dr House makes his don't-be-stupid face. I am obviously being injust.
"I liked it... would like to hear it again."
There's sheet music sitting on the music rest. On drawing nearer I can see it is a copied manuscript.
I pick the sheets up to look for the name of a composer, since the doc is not forthcoming. These are not photocopies though. The score is obviously written by hand, and there's no name on any page, nor of the piece. Looking on closer, I realize the uppermost page is not finished either.
So, House is a genius: he even writes music, and it's great.
"Wow..."
I think I should fall in love with him!
"You read music?" Dr House asks, barely tolerant of my curiosity.
"No..."
"Then Put Them Down!"
So much for the good mood. He sounds unduly aggressive, and I drop the paper like it was on fire. My uninitiated hustler's hands apparently soil the song.
"So you wrote it yourself! ...I'd really like to hear it again!"
"It's not for you."
"I didn't... What, honestly, you didn't finish my Symphony for a Hooker yet, or that new number, chartbuster, and evergreen-to-be you promised me, the Blues of Temporary Relief?! I expected to hear it tonight, you serenading me! Oh, you liar!"
The doc's eyebrows go up. There seems to be a moment of tension - or surprise?
"Oh, do shut up." The doc chills somewhat.
"A shame, really. It not being for me means I never get to hear it again? The world would lack great music if things were always handled that way."
He raises his hand, indicating to approach him, and points at me - then, snapping his fingers, down at the floor in front of him: "Down to work you go!"
The arrogance!
Seems he's not cross. Possibly my appreciation does flatter him a little in the end, whore or no whore.
"But yes of course, master, instantly! I beg your forgiveness! Please do not punish me!"
Sounding very dejected and begging indeed, I deliberately ignore the order, moving not a bit toward him. He's a client, I should meet his demands, but I can't help fooling around.
Instead of kneeling, I pose for him, hand on hip: "What will it be today, master?"
His nostrils flare with amusement. "You don't go for that, seriously?"
"I tought you did? Somehow I got the impression ... And I might, too, but it's extra."
"A-ha! Clever, always advertising, very businesslike! ...Well then, today, I think I'd like you to... Hmm."
Dr House stands averted, lost in thought, in the middle of his living room, walking stick secured with a lower arm by his side. Then he turns, glances me up and down with all the warm empathy and professional appraisal of a horse dealer.
I move forward, about to go down on him where he stands.
He stops me, raising his cane to point at my groin.
"Are you shaved?"
"Now why on..."
House merely repeats: "Just answer me - are you shaved?"
I don't like his tone.
"Huh? No throat job, all of a sudden? Right, you wouldn't know that, yet, would you? How comes you care, suddenly? A bout of curiosity?"
"Hm. From your armpits, I'd say you are. So?'
They all like a shaved cunt, ostensibly. Long hair on the head, none anywhere else. Not that I get it, it doesn't make sense. He himself doesn't shave really either end, now does he?
Well, I disagree and what's more, I've specialized to cater to special needs. He'll be turned off soon enough. I'll admit though that I don't want to lose this client, just because of hair.
"Actually, I'm not, so forget it."
"Hmhm! Let's see it."
Expectancy? Oh, wrong then, he's one of those - male, 'clean' Americans who've never seen a real beaver in the natural environment. Those poor boys. Nature's on the retreat everywhere...
'Oh come off it,' I call the bitchy, anti-male, ultra-prejudiced, bit of self to order, 'this one's a doc; he must've see the odd pubic hair in his time!'
But I don't seem to be able to stop the baiting.
I'm also sure he doesn't like easy even if he pays - even if he complains, or claims to.
"What for? I'm sure you know what us girls look like down there generally, right, doc, and you do want head. So what do you care?"
A sudden burst of temper: "I pay for an hour! Don't you try and tell me what I want or like, in my time! Shut up and down with your panties!"
He probably doesn't even mean to sound threatening, but I believe that with him, anything goes to get him what he wants. Anyhow, I've learned to not be bullied. This may be merely temper, or moodiness, some sort of inconsideration. Best to be ignored. Whatever it is, I guess working with him on a daily basis will give you calluses of the soul.
He tries to stare me down.
Dr House can't know that this stanza doesn't work with me.
After a long look, pretending to fight, to make my surrender sweet for him, I obey, naturally - it's he who pays alright.
"Oh but of course, sir! Happy to oblige."
I lick my lips and start to move. I think he is excited by now.
He growls, "You better be!" Waving me over to the center of the room, he thumps to the table, dashing himself a whiskey.
"None for me?"
House seems to ignore the action, and drops down on the couch.
"Later, maybe. After delivery. We don't want you to falter or swoon just now, do we?"
He is talkative today, and those words sound almost affable...
"Oh, and by the way, close your trap!"
Okay, not. Wrong again. Not my day for guessing.
I grope around for the zipper at the side of my dress. This thingy is red, short, tight, and very hot, but a bitch to get into, or out of. Everyone involved has to pay a lot to get into it, right from the start. I guess it could be called a head dress. Had I known this john wanted me naked today, I would be wearing something else. Still, I believe I can put out a nice dance for him, moving out of it...
Apparently, Dr House only realizes this very instant that I'm wearing a dress, and stops me.
"What are you-- no, no, leave that on! Only the panties! And come over here!... Yes... Closer... closer still... left leg other side of mine... Right. There."
He licks his lips, and swallows.
I am standing over him, splayed, silvery garters stretched, a line of skin visible above the lacey top-band of my thigh-highs, but still the very short skirt will need to ride up more for him to really see some.
"Better this way?"
"Hmhmm. I like my ladies clean, is all, and I like to check and control."
Sounds likely enough - the last part, certainly.
He reaches out and touches my inner thigh, just above the hem. Almost within reach...
This tickles.
I slap his fingers away, with a smile. You've got to be careful with control freaks, but letting them have their way is no good idea either.
If he hadn't so rudely interrupted... But so, before I pull up my skirt to let him see, I venture, "Well, watching closely's extra."
Just sounding the purse.
Carelessly, he pulls a note from his jeans pocket, which happens to be a fifty: "That enough?"
"'Hmm... For the time being, yes."
Success!
Surprisingly, he does't stop to try and shove the bill down my cleavage, but crumples it up and tosses it across the room, in the general direction of my coat. There is a hint of contempt in the gesture.
Seems he also got a new idea.
"Put your foot here!" House slaps his thigh.
Getting out of my heels, losing the right one slowly while moving my foot up in close contact to his leg, I obey, smile down at him, licking my lips, and pretend to expect more orders. He does know what he wants, and how he wants it. His positioning of me tells a tale of broad experience - literally, if bought.
"So?" House watches me expectantly, impatiently.
I take my time.
Particularly the narrow strings (I rather wear two, or more, hot, extra-thin strings than one cheap, garish, split-crotch panty, even if they are ridiculously expensive) going in between the folds, straining the flesh and appearing to entice the wearer, make it only too obvious, when I move my skirt up with a palm, and pull a little from behind, that I may crop, but definitely do not shave.
I don't remove them just like this, but push my hips at him, feigning excitement and making quite a show of alternately hiding and displaying the goods. Doing time in strip joints is highly instructive.
The stockings shall go first. One by one, I let snap the clips of the straps, and slowly roll down the expensive, shiny silk.
House doesn't stop me, but licks his lips again.
I bend over when the material is down on my calf and ankle, pretending he's not there, that it's a stool my foot is on.
He gets a lot to look at when I do that. At one point, I can see his fingers twitch- he wants to reach out for my buds, but plays along, and doesn't. His breath hitches, his jeans are beginning to bulge.
The other stocking goes down more carelessly, then off comes the garter belt. I have to grab behind my back and use this to move my pelvis closer to him, in circles. When he extends his hand to feel between my big toes, I stay just outside of his reach, which makes him growl - which I, in turn, ignore. My position is actually powerful: it permits me to prevent him from changing his weight, to, say, lean forward and reach out to finger me when I am not ready for it. I let him feel my power by putting weight on his leg.
The blue eyes brew stormy weather. Even though some parts of him greatly enjoy the teasing, judging by the growth rate in another region, Dr House is obviously not used to be toyed with, if he brought it upon himself - probably puts people off it in record time normally, what with his manners, then wonders why life is boring. Although in that way, he IS in control always.
When he yields, dropping his hands again, holding his eyes at first, I pull my tiny covers, slowly. It amuses me to see his conflict - the dislike of breaking the controlling eye contact, and the overpowering need to watch regions elsewhere.
He exhales deeply when I peel that final string off, very carefully and lovingly moving it along my own leg down onto his, intermittently rubbing the flat of my palm against the fabric of the dress skirt over my crotch, to show my neediness. I can see something growing really big in his pants.
"Aaah."
Didn't this somehow sound like relief?
Yes: "Thank heavens, no pubic Hitler!"
I bite back a grin.
House licks his lips.
"You ARE good..."
The skirt falls again; I give a theatrical sigh, to make him feel how much I want it. He sits up, extending a finger under the fabric. I let him, and Dr House rubs and plays me ponderously, for some time.
sNice.
"Not a toupee, that is, either."
This makes me laugh, which ruins the mood, and my growing heat. The doc's a moron! I can't believe it! Unable to stop myself, I say, "Oh, come off it! How can you be so sure?"
Unbelievable!
"Now has anyone ever heard of a beaver hairpiece? Well I know I haven't, and I've heard of many a thing!"
He guffaws, then snorts faintly: No time for jokes at the moment, this is business! His eyes on mine, he pushes in a finger, slowly and determined, certain of his movements. His hand is long and limber. Experienced.
I wince. "Hey! That's..."
"Not covered, nor by fifty bucks, I know that much."
Dr House smiles up at me, widely.
I can't help it, and laugh out loud. The absurdity, that sass, that grin, boyish, taunting, unshaven -irresistible!
I push down on to his hand.
Hmmm!
His fingers slip in again like liquid, and they not at all passive.
"Aahhh... I thought as much. Humid, clean, delicious!"
"You... can't know... all of that," I gasp. Nothing much to feign anymore.
"In a second, trust you me."
He pulls out and smells his hand, then licks the fingers clean, gauging my reaction. When a smile creeps up in his eyes again, I catch myself licking my lips to his action.
This is dead sexy!
"See? I'm certain, already. Step back a little."
I oblige. Then, he moves forward, off the couch, and makes to go down, to kneel before me, under me, bad leg and all...
I'm a hair's breadth from stopping him, pulling him up and onto me, to change places, whatever, but there's so much liquid grace in his movements, their painful asymmetry, I just can't stop watching.
House grabs for my buttocks. Pointy nose and stubbly cheeks bury themselves in my short fur for some moments, all lips and hot breath and a probing tongue...
He makes me squirm with desire, though I try to give nothing away.
On surfacing: "Hmmm. And I was right. Sure you don't want to sit?"
Blankly uncomprehending, I look down into his eyes, a lot dizzier around him once more than professionality allows, momentarily unable to move. So he grabs my arm, spins me round without effort, and pushes me over with a flat left to my tummy. I get to sit with a slam, next to his place on the couch.
"Open up wide!"
An order. House doesn't give off any silly doctor's talk at this point, which alone is enough to win it all.
So I obey, and open up wide.
And Dr House nose-dives.
It's long strokes of the tongue to the labiae first, then little nips and bites to my tender flesh - I am a puddle in no time. In circles, he moves deeper inside, but completely spares my sweet spot. This is cruel on purpose, but I like almost all touch, and won't plead, ever.
Well, almost never.
Very soon, I am dripping wet.
Just when I realize that today I might need to start to beg, those long, strong fingers spread me open wide, go in a tiny bit, only so it itches, and he starts to blow. I buck like mad.
"Do me, now," I shout, "God, do me already, touch me there, put something big in deep, just don't let... ARRHH!"
He's gone down on my clit, making me scream. Two fingers hook behind my pubic arch, rubbing, moving - I come instantly, in record time, bucking, yelping, and moaning, making breathless sounds. The raw flesh inside swells and gets all rough and hard against the pressure, clinging and snatching at his fingers, and that spot down there - as long as he holds on to it, I will cum, over and again, until I waste or faint.
How can he know? He may be a doctor, but not all women are built alike... I forget to wonder, but twist instead, and moan, and flow, and cum - his face and short beard must be covered with my liquids, by that gold that's not a shower...
He works in his thumb too, to keep up the friction on the secret spot, and rams his fingers down, dilating me. Trying to get away, I buck against him helplessly and groan, grabbing for his shoulders - this hurts, I am too tight for such games, which usually is an asset with my work... It hurts... so good...
And his mouth, his tongue, teasing all of the time... oh...
"Oh, fuck me! Please! House... Dr House - fuck me, do me, please! Not just your hand!"
But Dr House knows no mercy, ignores my begging, and drinks all of me.
Completely exhausted yet feeling empty, I'm sprawled on the sofa, unable to move for the life of me...
He moves up over my skin like a snake, eyes glowing brilliantly, face shiny with my juices, and whispers, a little hoarse: "How does it feel to have a favor returned?"
I'm vaguely wondering when, and if, I was really that good to him...
House rubs his cheeks on mine, spreading my own water of life on my face and, taking me by surprise completely, kisses me deeply, making me taste myself... Salt, metal...
I tear away from him, too weak and done in to be angry right now, but I'll remember that.
"Too late," he grins, "gotcha!"
Then he goes on wiping himself off on my skin, scratching my face and throat with his stubble, all the time moving upward. He must have thrown his jeans off, for I feel his hot rod on my outer lips down there, and then, finally, he pushes in hard - oh, the relief!
I sigh and moan again. "Yes! Yes! Like that!"
The sounds he makes... Gasping, breathless, the desire...
His throat is in my face, he's not shaved there either. I'll be sore and red for two days, the bastard -- he throws his head back like in a scream, and, yes, does scream, and comes - so hard, so deep inside of me - I clench around him, clasping tightly, and he shouts his pleasure again.
I can feel him pulse - there's nothing better in the entire world than having that pulse inside of you if you like the guy it belongs to! - and cramp up in my need, holding him tight deep down inside of me, fingernails scratching his back, clinging when he tries to move away - then I lose it all, and fall, sore, and deep, and he falls after me, clashing, crushing me.
For an indeterminable period, neither of us moves.
What will his neighbours think? The windows are still open. Not that any of this is my bother. I don't live around here, pity.
"Wow," House croaks, "you do deliver! I believe you have certain advantages though, special equipment... Tight... Excitable, greedy little clit in the perfect position..."
He points, then presses down, making me wince and wiggle.
"According to the Kama Sutra," I gasp, "I'm a cow - a maverick, that would be."
Little joke that males like.
This one doesn't, for some reason. Breath hitches, eyes become slits, and his look very searching.
"What? Not funny?"
"Nope."
"Sorry!"
Dr House relaxes. What was this about?
Next comes a wicked grin. His cock has slipped out of me, but his hands are all over me, and in me, once more.
He has to clear his throat a couple of times to get the words out.
"I think that if I leave my finger in this spot, here," he wiggles it just there, making me gasp, "not all that deep inside, if any pressure's on it, you're bound to cum, right? You'll always come..."
House sounds absurdly like a schoolboy conducting a physics experiment.
"Yes... Right... And I love to," I hiss back, squirming, hating him, liquefying, moving against the pressure already, so close, and on from there - if this is not it, what is?
"Like that?"
Dr House does it, and I go over the brink yet again, bucking, but quietly.
An eyebrow goes up, demanding audible answers and reactions.
"Yesssss... ohhh yesss... Dr House... PLEASE!!!"
His hands oblige me, he's so... I don't know, experienced, knowing, I just... I might lose it completely, this is... Give me something a little bigger than a finger inside, wish I'd brought that ribbed dildo... only five yards away, in my bag... too far by miles... maybe he would do me with it, I need... I so need... He could do me for hours like... with that... oh, please, PLEASE!... maybe he will...
I can't remember begging like I just did, ever...
OH!
"That is a good hooker. You should pay me."
Have I been thinking or talking?! I believe he's actually serious.
It takes me some moments to collect myself enough to snipe back, if slightly breathless.
"Oh, of course. Like you'll pay a patient for letting you close to them. Without their ever wanting you around first place. And it's not like I couldn't do this very well myself. That's not the deal."
House makes a face. He's not insulted, although there's something he seems to seriously consider.
"I never get close to them if I can help it."
"Oh?"
"Oh, and do shut up."
The wiggling of his fingers in me won't make that part easy...
He pulls them out, and buries me under his bony weight.
"You can stay a bit, and sleep, preferably, but that's only 'cause I can't possibly be bothered to move up."
He's mumbling already.
So we sleep.
I wake up about a half-hour later, and feel like reborn. Great sex - I LOVE great sex! It's not what you get often in this line of business, or very often at all, but with me, any sex is better than none. What with my build, I can get off on almost anything, with hardly no stimulation, and most men like that a lot. They do like to satisfy, or to believe they can, to get the real thing in exchange for their hard-earned, which with me, they always do. Only the cause may not be what they think or wish it was. In fact, I've been known to come in cars moving over cobbled roads, no hands, no intention to...
Anyway, THIS was great. Didn't feel like bought at all.
Very much opposed to what I just told House, and will tell anyone who gets stupid about it, DIY only goes so far. Coming anywhere at no notice is one thing; coming from the real action is something else entirely. And even if I do come regardless most of the time, there still is a lot of quality difference in the action.
It's twenty minutes over the hour, and I desperately need a shower. Things soon get too warm after this sort of sleep, no matter how refreshing it is in itself.
I extricate myself from under my client, who barely murmurs some words - he might be quite conscious of what is going on but, like before, can't be bothered to move.
Why do I feel flattered? House did all the work here!
Really, I do love my job!
Weak in the knees, I make for the bathroom.
I'll collect my clothes later. Where are my strings, and how and when did I get out of the skin-fit? I don't remember, nor where things are.
Losing or having ripped up rather expensive clothing, not merely underwear, is a constant in my job, an occupational hazard even where no violence is involved, but this would be awkward: not anticipating anything but head action, I brought no second dress, nor did I come by car today - particularly stupid in the face of the fact that I do have another client tonight! I hope it's not gone...
That'll teach me to expect things with Doctor House.
Actually, I can't be bothered just now, like House - that's what endorphins do to you. Shower first. Hopefully, it will clear my brain. Besides making more sense when fully awake, searching for stuff will certainly also feel better without all the different juices on me.
I have a good forty minutes left till next guy, so I shower generously, which perks me up a lot. The feel of water after great sex is great, as well. Peeing by itself grants me another easy release.
Next, I repair my make-up very carefully. Even the excellent body lotion House keeps for his skin can't really fix the rash his damn unshaven face has given me. It does soothe it though, and I put on a double dose of powder on top.
I wonder if I still reek of sex, regardless of hygienic measures, and whether that will be a turn off, or on, with the next guy.
Back in the living room, and the dress is there all right, blazing red right next to the sofa, a bit rumpled but not, as I feared, torn. I put it on the table, smoothing it, and don the lingerie.
When I bend to pick the dress up, not expecting a thing, a couple of limber fingers insinuate themselves from behind, and rub my well-used lips.
I freeze.
Spreading the labiae, first enters one, then another finger. They open and close, working in deeper, trying to hook up inside of me, behind the bladder and bone, to pull me back down.
Hmmmm!
His fingers do hit my spot, and I squirm - yet again.
"Don't go," House whispers, sleepily. "I want you to ride me, next. You could leave the frillies on, too..."
I swallow. "Not tonight, bad luck - got another date, hour's well over - which I won't charge you for, or not much, so you're in luck today!"
For an instant, I believe he might say please, or even beg, but all that comes out is "Oh bugger, next time then!"
It might have been no good anyway, but maybe this is a mistake. A nice, hard, long ride, after the stallion has recovered, is very nice for seconds after what I got... Distending, relaxing... And with a guy who knows just what he is doing, too...
There's no way really out of the next date however, while I feel I might have trouble concentrating on that john, unless he's really grand.
If I start giving up single appointments for my regulars, I might as well give up my independence altogether, right away. I don't often have two dates running like this, but at any rate, reliability is major in this business as in any other. Next guy's a stranger from out of town. He said he's on a visit, and it was this date or none with him. Seems he got a recommendation from a friend, so I don't know what to expect, except that he ought to like my style. He did sound fairly young, and fit. In any case, one satisfied client will bring in the next.
After I've squeezed back into the red dress, I need to redo some of the paint job. Stupid. Also, I can't find one of the strings. No big deal. I hardly ever wear only one at a time, and I've got replacements on me always. They tend to tear or vanish: business expenses. And isn't it flattering if a john wants to keep a souvenir?
Dr House has curled up under a blanket when I return, and is fast asleep.
Grinning, I wonder if he would have gotten it up again at all for the intended ride... But then, I would have been there to assist him in the procedure, now wouldn't I? He does appear to get a lot of recreational sleep...
And when I bend down to stroke his cheek goodbye, what do I see? Dr House's face is buried in the minuscule piece of fabric, he's breathing through it. It must be soaked... I decide to leave it for now. Wonder what he'll think if he finds it, waking up - I'd like to see his face when he notices what he slept on.
And there are 800 in the safe! So, the other 400 must be what I left last time. I'm overdue three-quarters of an hour, which was mostly spent cleaning myself up - what do I charge him? Do I at all, after this, and after what I said... After all, I was a bit late, myself.
Yes, even a hooker wonders, sometimes.
Not having charged him last time, I decide to take another hundred, place a fresh card where the leftover money sits, and manage to close that tricky door quietly.
-------
As long as the older version's still up, I'd really like to know which one you prefer.
Please post a comment on this story.
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.
|
|
|