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The Hooker Pt. V - Rides, Diagnoses, and Confessions Pt. I
by Essex4
Do read before part II! They connect directly, I only split it up to not have a monster file.
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.
TO ALL OF YOU who have kindly followed me so far, there is a V2.0 up of The Hooker Pt. III - Returning a Favour, that I'd recommend you to re-read. It has some major revisions. Minor changes have also been made in Pt. IV - Sneaking Numbers V2.0.
Hopefully, the old versions will be taken down at some point.
As long as they aren't I'd be very interested to know which one you prefer.
Please don't comment on the old versions (without the V2.0 in the title), your comments would go down with them, and be lost!
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Dr House has not called, about games nor anything else.
'Tonight's the night... It's gonna be all right...'
What on Earth do I deserve Rod Stewart for?! This song, the squeaky yet hoarse voice, haunt my mind each- and every time I've got me an allnighter. It's like a mantra, almost. I don't suppose you have to like a mantra for it to work - which so far, this one has done.
*
Ring ring.
Door opens, an almost-welcoming "Come in" greets me. House limps off without bothering to look at me. Can't really tell what mood he is in, today, but probably not good.
I put down my things on the safe, and walk over to the sofa where he's sitting, looking up expectantly now. TV is on without sound, everything else much as usual.
"Hmhm, nice dress. You're not giving anything away... Less than my boss, anyway. Makes one wonder what is underneath."
I smile at him.
"And you're the lucky guy who's going to find out."
"Where's the food?"
"What food?"
"You were supposed to..."
"Oh, was I? So sorry!"
He is grumbling! Can you believe the man? He wants to save a few bucks on food, on a night like this?!
"Mommy didn't bring little baby boy his din-din, sorry."
"Oh, do shut up!"
This annoys the hell out of him, which is actually funny, but I can't possibly let it pass.
"You didn't tell, me, man! I would have, no big deal, but how am I to know? Telepathy is not on the menu! Also, decent people have had dinner alr--"
"Decent people don't hire hookers, and they do bring food to invites!" he interrupts, quite self-contradictory.
Invites!
If I can appreciate where this comes from, there's more to it than meets the eye. Nonetheless, it's so much BS that I can't be bothered to even begin to take it apart for him. He's a miser, the worse with food.
What a start for an all-nighter!
I shake it off, and make to talk shop.
"You must be aware that there is such a thing as a phone! I would have brought some matter of course, but figured since you'd very likely want your dessert first, the other stuff would only get cold. We can order food right now if you wish. Not to worry, I pay, doc. So, where's the money?"
He merely points, annoyed by my failure to read his mind.
I peek into the safe, and count. 2000.
"I see you've made up your mind. What is it going to be extra? Toys? Anal...?"
"Games."
"Oh? What kind of? You'll remember, agreement in advance..."
"Oh, forget it," he scoffs. "It's a tip."
Huh? I wonder... That's not like the man at all. House may have tipped me before, but not before delivery. By definition, tips are not in advance, ever.
"Whiskey?"
He's not a miser with drink, then. Which is something.
"Why, yes, thank you, Mr. House."
Unsurprisingly, I get to get it myself, but there is a fresh glass on the table. I refill his, and pour me a shot. This is bourbon, not the scotch. I like it better with water.
He has not to date offered me his first name; and me, not just because of being a hooker, but of not being the huggy-kissy type in day-to-day life, I don't usually go about giving people their first name without an introduction, or as soon as I know it. Let the boys do that.
Just House fits him well, in any case.
"I don't mean to grumble, myself," I say, "I've been cooked at during in-house all-nighters, first-class five-star cuisine occasionally, to be sure ... I didn't know what to expect, so I didn't eat. I could do with some light food, too."
Thought I'd have him for an ante...
"Hrmph."
Eventually, Dr House orders Thai, without asking back, and like five different dishes. Fine by me.
I do hope he gets over behaving like an idiot child soon, and that he fucks as professionally as he sulks. I inform him there's a regular john on next morning, so I'll have to quit early. It's not true though, but sometimes, you may need a reason to escape.
This suits him fine. I'm amazed he doesn't kick me out right away, the mood he's in. He'll know he'd have to fight for his money, losing it with nothing in exchange if he did.
Only then, I realize that he is in pain.
Next, I notice there are no pill bottles about.
"I'm clean today," he says, reading my every move.
"Because of me?!"
I don't believe it, but appreciate the fact-as-such anyway.
He makes a face.
"And in a crappy mood... Let me see what I can do for you, Doctor House..."
On turning, I open another button of my blouse, to show some skin and lace, and kneel down before him. Gazing up to find approval, I beg for access to the goods; opening his belt and jeans, I start to pull. He's not totally ignoring me, but ostentatiously interested in the TV, and not helpful at all. Nor is he hard yet.
"Come... off!"
I pull. Pants won't move of themselves, just like that. Well, it's his time.
Finally he bothers, lifting his luscious ass.
"Down... you...GO!"
I have to get up once more to grab the lube.
Upon my return, pants and boxers are gone; the doctor invests a little bit more interest in his immediate surroundings now, looking on innocently, half-naked and half-hard.
I do what I did the other time, only without the ice - his scar is not nearly as bad today, while it obviously is a bother. Also, I give more attention to massaging the good leg this time, kissing now and then what's between the two of them.
Soon, he relaxes.
"Want me to do your back and shoulders, too? Hips, maybe?"
"You said you don't do medical," he says, turning already to give me access to his backside.
"I don't. No indemnity for damages."
"That was pretty good, then. Hips, if you will."
Oh? Lighting up a little? In tune with his body, he is...
"Why, thank you. Alleviating tension is my business!"
The small of his back does need it as well. Avoiding his nice, firm bum, I work my way upwards. I know it's unusual, but unusual gets as unusual does.
He takes it all with groaning delight.
He has to move his head down from the armrest for me to dig into his neck, but refuses to change location. A sofa is less than ideal for massage; I'm always wary of neck cricks. So I straddle him and work his shoulders carefully. Like his arms, they are toned, strong, and pretty alright, if having to use a cane does nothing for body symmetry.
After a while, he turns, under me. From his eyes, bright again, I'd say his mood has cleared some, and the pain is better.
"Aha! You want to start with a ride?" I ask, trying to assess his needs when he moves up under me, nicely landing his thing in my crotch, rubbing it there.
"I thought a nice deep throat job..." he starts.
The doorbell announces the food delivery - timing is excellent, the last clouds lifting when I pick up the bill.
Dr House is weird - I reckon we knew that already.
He's dressed again when I come back with the food.
We eat in silence, watching some silly med show on TV.
Food's not bad, for delivery.
When we're done, he makes me clear the leftovers away.
Upon my return from his rather messy kitchen, he limps in from the bathroom. I hear water running.
"It's rather slow," he says, dropping to sit. "You've got about fifteen minutes to get me going, then it's splashy-washy with a ri-hide!"
Oh, idiot! I can't help but grin and roll my eyes at him, making do with his pants again. He hasn't bothered to put the boxers back on, and is generally more helpful than the first time around. His cock is nicely standing to attention now.
I think having a rather light meal with a good dose of spice in it was a good idea.
"Move your butt this way a bit - right!"
I place my left hand under his balls, teasing, probing his cleft.
"No," he says.
Oh?
"Put your mouth to work."
He does not object to my teasing his balls, but nags at me for not deep-throating him.
I surface: "I assumed you wanted a ride in your tub?"
"Right, but a bit of head would be..."
He stops to listen.
"Okay, you won! You're damn slow too, you know?"
Asshole.
Pushing himself up, he makes for the bath, cock standing proud. From the sounds he makes the water is very hot, temperature needs adjusting.
He orders me in from the other room: "Undress, but leave the lace on!"
"Yes, sir!"
I comply.
When I come up behind him and start to touch, he moves away from me.
Soon, the water appears to be perfect; he climbs in and settles. He has not flagged, but the warmth will soften his good-sized somewhat, I think.
"What are you waiting for? Get into the tub! On your knees - no, the other way round, your butt to my face... Right - show me that ass."
The water is hot enough to make me hiss. I have to try to step in a couple of times before I succeed; borders become blurred.
His tub is a big, nice, old-fashioned affair - with two people in them, things tend to become mushy. They really were made for bathing only, in the olden times.
There is a long flexible hose affixed to the fittings that a shower head was attached to for more mobility. Dr House has unscrewed the head, it is on the floor.
So, here's someone else aware of the merits of a warm jet... I wonder how all those good girls make do without that comfort!
The way I kneel gives him enough space to point the water jet at my privates, and they like it. A lot. The temperature's perfect.
"Yessss... Like that..."
He too is hot for this; it's in his voice, that breathless rough erotic drawl.
I do feel his fingers, getting into my cunt, probing, rubbing. I won't consider it games, yet... I can feel myself swell and tighten up as he gently prods and presses on, knowing just what to do - so sweet, so sweet! - a gasping, ceaseless desire, kindled and quenched simultaneously by the jet of water. His fingers are in me, and he remembers what touching a certain spot made me do...
Then the jet is put to my back door.
"Hey!" I move away.
"You did clean your insides, did you?"
"You bet! Since you ordered anal, yes, twice."
"Good girl. I'd like to check..."
"No! Enema applied by a john is games."
"You don't say," he mocks, his index insistently stroking my perineum.
"Yes, I do. Finger me and fuck me all you like, but no water hose to my anus."
I wonder what he's up to. Maybe wants a show? To my relief, he acquiesces, with a slightly exaggerated sigh.
"Oh well! Turn off the jet, girl."
Then, slowly and languidly, a fingertip presses on my rosette, and pushes in, is removed, pushes in again... Opening me up, closing, going in deeper each time, always fully removed again, making me yearn... He is very gentle, his finger probes and wriggles, I moan.
Little by little, his index slips into me, staying down, dilating, deliciously moving and probing, pushing harder.
Another finger goes in, stretching me very carefully: I am getting hot for it, and imagine his cock impaling me, hot and hard, lustful torture...
I have my hand around his engorged member, in the water, moving, caressing. He does not try to get away.
The other hand, fingers in the other orifice, never stops moving. I wince, more with lust than dismay, and cum, more than once.
"You like such games, do you."
His voice is husky. I think he might really go for anal, today.
I could do with something bigger inside of me, and moan again.
"Yes, sir... Will you fuck me?"
"Hmmm."
"Please?" I work him harder under the surface.
He just goes on fingering, one could think dreamily.
"Fuck me already, Dr House! Now!"
"Ah!"
I feel something tickling - his mouth is on that orifice! I almost jump, the water sloshes, and some slops out of the tub.
He kisses, tongues my anus, so sweet to me, stopping my attempts at escape, and feels up inside of me all the time, slick with my lube.
"This... is not... what I... oh god!"
Fingers and mouth - I would so like to watch!
"You are very clean... But this stuff tastes vile."
This must be the lube, then.
"I'm sorry, but the intended use..."
"I'll see that I find something better next time."
There is curiosity and need, but somehow, his mind is not on the action. He holds some rhythm with his hands, pushing another finger into my cunt, and kisses and licks my nub, to satisfy.
The doc knows what he's doing, I like it and try to hold against it, not to move too much, but I really, really need to be filled, and tell him so again.
My moaning and begging turns him on, he is breathing hard now, and alternates the movements of his hands to excite me more...
It stops, like good things always do - to be followed by better things: "Come here then - sit down. On me. No, turn. Face me."
I do that, maneuvering more or less gracefully.
Dr House monitors my actions closely.
His face is flushed, down into the stubble on his throat. His eyes are red-rimmed as usual, like he's missed out on a good night of sleep or two, but there is also a relentless, steely glare to them speaking of different needs. This gaze demands I take seat, impale myself on his member.
"Sit!"
No plea, nor a question.
The glans of his penis is red as well, very swollen - angry they call that color a lot. The whole tool juts out towards me from under the surface, demanding attention. Promising.
I lap at it with my tongue, extracting a wiggle, and move to order.
"Not by the back door," he says. I obey.
House never looks away, not for an instant, while I mount him, sliding down, my meat enveloping his meat. God, is this good!
He sighs while his cock goes in - I can physically gauge his concentration: he wants to feel, see, know all of this, as much of it as as he can, for as long as he can take it. To stay fully conscious, through torture, or through lust... That is not voyeurism, or something.
I do understand, fully I think, what he is up to, and cannot avert or close my own eyes. If my excitement could be increased any more, this would do it - this is a major turn-on.
Slowly, a hand reaches out for my tits. House peels the lace off and moves the peach halves to his mouth with some reverence, nipping, sucking, biting alternately, while I try to move my feet under him to get him in deeper. The action makes me contract convulsively.
"Oh, feel me," I gasp, "feel how tight I am, this is..."
Shhh, baby!
House looks on, holding my eyes. There's amusement in his.
Focussing on my job, I use my pelvic muscles, and tease his nipples.
The doc reciprocates, twisting and twirling mine, nimble, long fingers experienced.
Soon I am swooning, from the heat of water and touch, the intensity of his scrutiny, of feeling him within me. I would push him out if it wasn't for my own weight holding me down, impaled.
The only thing giving his own arousal away, apart from the massive hard-on I ride, is that his mouth is slightly hanging open, almost a smile, a bit out of breath, a bit toothy... His gaze is detached yet always on me, even while he's busy with my buds.
When he's inside to the hilt, his head drops back, eyes closing. This exposes his throat where a strong pulse shows, entirely at odds most of the time with the throb I feel deep inside of me. His skin is flushed over sinewy flesh.
I just have to touch, but House doesn't react - he seems to have no intention to ever move again, or to cum, or to leave me.
By reaching out and touching his throat once more, I startle his eyes back open.
They are brilliant.
"You sure have the tightest little cunt I've ever been into, and..."
Don't want to hear it, so I say it.
"And you've been in a lot of them in your time, right."
"Yea. No kidding."
"No kidding!"
"And they like to ride me, all of them."
I can believe that well enough, but I'll be damned if I tell him so. Mr Superego here sure does not need any boosting.
"I don't want to cum."
"Don't, then," I whisper. "I'll bear with you."
He's perfectly motionless under me, and hard as a rod of iron.
My muscles clamp and contract around his cock... I don't even need to focus on it, like this.
Holding on to me tightly, fully concentrated, inhaling slowly, he interrupts any movement I start that he can, keeping me down, staying inside all the way. He is restraining my body and his own.
I become aware of his breathing chasing mine, trying to synchronize. If he succeeds, surely I'll be lost... Ludicrous idea, but I can't help it. I refuse every which way I can, breaking my rhythm whenever his locks, but it gets too much: I give up.
"Now that is better," is all he mumbles, face buried between my breasts.
Slowly, very slowly, he starts to move, it feels like waves...
For a very long time, we ride, slow-paced, languidly, in unison. He has to add hot water twice, and it isn't even much of a distraction.
This is gorgeous!
"Let's get out of here!"
A pity, but I guess a flood would be a problem with the neighbors. My skin must be all wrinkly, too. I regret leaving the tub.
A little dreamy, I dismount, get out, drop my wet undies, and grab a towel.
On drying down, I turn to let Dr House watch, to find that he's very awkwardly trying to climb out of the tub. He might be in pain, yet won't glance at me. Nor does he ask, but when I extend an arm, he does grab it, and hauls himself out.
Standing on his bathmat, a bit askance and dripping, House raises his eyes; in them an unspoken demand. I remember my service-mindedness, grab another big towel from the shelf, and start to dry him down, very carefully and slowly.
First, it's the neck and chest, so the water won't go down from there over and again; of course my client must not freeze. We stare at each other from very close-by while I rub and dab.
How is it that I don't mind? I like to gaze into those blue eyes, trying to figure them - him - something - out; I don't know what - while I find it hard most of the time, with others. My hands move of their own will, perfectly knowing their way about his body.
No attempt to snatch the towel from me on his part, so what I do must be okay.
Personally, I'd prefer a good rub-down with a rough towel like this - it is unsoftened, making me think he might as well - he's sure to tell me how and what he wants, in a sec.
When I'm done with his shoulders and neck, I don't move on to dry his back right away, but put the towel round him to bring my body close instead to make him feel the heat, and present my firm nipples, letting them brush his chest.
I think he likes it, but he's as a statue.
From the chest, it's down to the nether regions. There's that red hot rod pointing at me stiffly. I kneel to kiss it before I dry it, reverently. Next, I attend his legs, dabbing rather than rubbing.
"You can do that faster and harder, I think," he says.
So I wrap the fabric round his thigh and pull it to and fro vigorously. His bad leg doesn't seem to mind the pressure.
It's up from there, first.
"Bend over!"
House obeys, stabilizing himself with the tub, and brings his face close to my tits once more, snapping at them like some puppy, making me giggle and move about; he fails to make a real catch. I dry his cleft, trying to tease, which goes nowhere. He touches my hair.
All of the time, I make contact with his unflagging hard-on, occasionally kissing or tonguing it. This does have its effects, extracting the odd sigh. He can't possibly get any harder, this side of ossification.
When his buttocks are dry, I put the other towel over the rim of the tub and tell him to sit down. He obediently does, I bend to do his feet and toes. Those feet are long, narrow, straight-toed, and just a little flat; well-tended, too, not very common in men. I like them.
"Move, I want to get on with it," House pushes, a lot of impatience in his voice while he's rising to stand.
Where does that come from?
His cock is nudging me, slapping my cheeks when he moves about; he's unable to sit still with the craving.
It was him who wanted slow, so what's the sudden scramble?
I drop the towel instantly, and swallow the great tool deeply at no advance notice, by that causing Dr House to yelp most satisfactorily.
"No... NO! Stop!"
He pulls out with a plop.
I moan my disappointment.
"You asked for it not all that long ago!"
"Aaarrhh...Damn, that's a greedy throat you have there, but I want a ride next! Stop the foolery!" he grinds.
He must be real close. Well, then... I let go.
"Shut up and get to bed, to work."
The injustice! What does he think this was, so far?! What's more, I didn't say a thing the last quarter of an hour!
House rises, somewhat awkwardly, but has not much difficulty moving without his stick. The heat of the water has probably done him good.
I like to watch his hard-on bob when he walks.
Turning to leave the bathroom, I wiggle my bottom invitingly as I pass, and pay the price: in the short, narrow passage, he grabs me, pulling my body back towards his, and makes both of us fall against the wall, sort-of standing.
He tries to impale me from behind in the movement, hitting my butthole, which does not give just like that.
"Whoa!" I say.
"Gimme! Let me," he demands.
Wiggling some more, I manage to direct his gift to the easier orifice, and in he goes smoothly.
"Hmmm!"
We both moan, I think. Dr House always feels good in me.
He pulls me back hard, trying to thrust deeper for added friction, then bends me over, and buries his face in the crook of my neck. His hands are on my buds.
"You... are... delicious," he breathes, nipping and biting in-between words.
House straightens us up again.
"Do you think we can move on like this?"
Now you can move wrapped around another in close body contact, if you keep step. It does come off rather silly and is a load of fun - still I've never tried it naked, or with the other person dug in deep inside of me... Also, he's got that limp...
Nothing wrong with trying, however.
He permits me to grab behind for his tush, but it is no use. Of course it doesn't work. There's some nice little bit of pushing and shoving in it for me. House slips out before the third step. Our limbs tangle, we are both giggling like teenagers upon reaching the living room.
"Bed's the other way, you know."
"Oh. I forgot."
"You do like that sofa, eh? What is it with you preferring blow jobs? It's not normal! Most girls don't!"
"It sure goes faster," I grin. "Hookers do."
"Hey, I booked you all night!"
"Liking the sofa, even liking blow jobs, doesn't necessarily mean preferring them! We could do lots of things besides on that. We actually have, already. Or, have you ever taken a good ride on an ordinary kitchen chair? Many of them have lost their life over, or under, one..."
He appears to consider the option, so I go on.
"...I think in fact a lot of women do like to give head, but they like to do it at their own speed - and a lot of men just don't get there's two to that tango. Or how to clean their privates, for that matter. Both parties should be getting something out of it--"
"So you're one of those throat cunts?"
He'll never let up, will he?! I retch.
"Eeew! You watch too much porn! Should I suck you like a popsicle? Will your manmeat grow inside of me like that of an elephant? Will this make me your rod's slave, and beg for more all night long, to be filled with your seed? ...Yech! ...Dr House, you really should delete those spam mails ASAP, you know..."
He grins, delighted like a child at having annoyed me. I can't possibly let it rest at that, if I don't really have an idea...
Male fantasies! Who reads the text on porn sites, anyway? Who writes the stuff?! What a cheap thrill!
"Coming twenty times at no notice, somewhere deep down inside of me, is not it! The one good time does it, trust me!"
His still-widening grin makes me go on. I'd say just about anything in moments like this, to get back at the guy, to have the last word!
"What is it with you not wanting fast?! All males do! As soon as they need, they want rid of it! As if need-as-such was nothing! Also, I'd bet you are good for seconds - thirds, even!"
"Why, thank you," he mocks. "What BS! I'm sure I'm flattered, but I do not want fast right now, got it? Bedroom it is! And none of your upper lips!"
He sure can be gross.
"Mhmph...!"
I obey and march on, he follows slowly. After a few steps, stops me: "Fetch us a whiskey, first. No ice!"
I salute, turn, manage to stay out of his reach when passing him and, grabbing my glass, make for kitchen. I put a shot of tap in it, and return to the bottle on the living room table.
House does not comment on my pouring two good shots and a half. He did say 'us' after all, didn't he?
Waving his glass at him, I walk over to the bedroom.
I'm flat on my back, spread-eagled, pretending to be tied up and in full expectation (well, the latter bit's no pretense), and move my pelvis up towards him when he enters. His hard-on has not flagged.
Dr House looks me over and licks his lips. I see lust and heat rise in his eyes, they grow darker. His nostrils flare, mouth opens a little... It's tiny movements and changes only, but they speak volumes.
Yet he does not comment, sticking to his plans: "You want to ride me. Move over."
With a groan, he sits, then sprawls where I just lay.
I start to rub him.
In his most condescending manner, coming on totally superior, he says: "You may eat me a first to cool that pharyngeal itch of yours, but on my order you climb Mt. Gregory."
That catches me unawares - I am hard put to not burst laugh out loud, and cover this with a convincing, rough cough. The conjuncture of nasty paraphrase and ludicrous metaphor!
I've heard sillier names for a man's dick, haven't I? If I can't remember any offhand... Often, even if as such, they seem to point to the opposite, those names give away the lack of pride in their tool of their owners, which is a pity in every single case. Doesn't help the sex, either.
"Yes, sir," I croak, pretending to be hoarse from work - successfully, I think. I can be a very good girl.
Some minutes later, I take a break, and ask, not looking up at House: "Am I to call you - your pretty tool that? Mount Grr..."
"Oh, stop! Heavens, no, you don't call him that, ever! It was a joke, woman, don't you know?"
Great one too, actually!
"Just call him GOD, like you did the other day."
How is it I can't remember for the life of me when I did that?
So, thank you, then, sir... With a snort, I get back to my job.
I hope he's kidding... I doubt he's one of those who have one definite name for their penis, but his ego would be about the size of this.
Intent to merely tease, I lick and blow and stroke, sparsely, focussing on the slit of the glans and on his balls, making him throw his head from side to side. I only swallow him once or twice.
When he groans: "Now," I do as commanded.
I sit down on this.
"Oh yesss..."
My hands are on his chest, doing a little titty-twisting. I move my legs up, like squatting, letting him in deeper still and granting me an amazing amount of control. He holds my sides to steady me, I don't have to ask.
We ride slowly again, without any rush, watching each other. This excites me greatly. I don't mind cumming, of course - who does? - I've hardly ever had to fake it with a john, but there are times better than good and, once in a while, things that get too close, even for me.
They somehow occur a lot with Dr House.
I squeeze his cock inside of me, and am almost over the brink, dizzily. Yet, I am bothered, and lose my concentration from time to time, on the physical plane.
Dr House has seen me cum, I've gotten lost in those blue eyes before, today even, and come to like it - why, then, is this so close to too close for me right now?
Since when, and why, does a ride to glory get to me more than a blow job would? I've no idea. This is nowhere near as close to the head! Why are some folks afraid of spiders and others like cats?
...Yes, that'll do to distract me from distraction.
I clench and unclench, gyrating my hips languidly, grinding House, feeling his cock move in my deepest recesses, while I ponder what's up.
Is it some sort of tedium that makes him check out my limits? What if it was: I love this kind of slow ride; one much alike was a major step for me toward making sex my job.
Although greatly exciting both of us, the goings-on have nothing to do with what you generally get to watch as porn. Wouldn't make for a good movie: not enough visible action.
My head is lowered most of the time, my face hidden by my hair. House is touching it, very lightly. I know he's watching me; I won't escape his gaze forever. Dr House will know. He likely does already. Stopping here would amount to failure.
He's touching my breasts with one hand, gently yet firmly, pinching and rolling the paps just the way I like, which is rather hard, making me clench and contract to his pleasure. His fingers are merciless.
I hold on to his shoulders to make him use his other hand also, and he obliges. Sometimes I have to moan from the pain he gives me, nonetheless my twosome jut toward him eagerly.
Dr House obviously appreciates and enjoy this kind of remote control, twisting, licking and kissing at times, and biting down.
To me, such teasing is something to struggle and press against, more than the meat filling me up - he's doing himself a load of good by using my nipples like that.
There was a time when a deep kiss, in a moment like this, would have been heaven.
Apart from the mouth- and French-kissing bit, I've hardly a problem giving my clients whatever it is they want. I aim to truly deliver, hence am paid what I am, and why I've got a good number of regulars, and have a lot of what I believe today is called peer-to-peer recommendation. Why, then...
While I move on, slowly and deeply, gyrating, enjoying the fullness, and the cruelty of his touch, I reckon this guy wants it all and some, maybe particularly so from a hooker. Men can be like that. I think Dr House usually gets what he wants, or something very close...
"Hey! Where are you? Come back! Work to do!"
Damn! I think I broke the rhythm...
"Look at me."
I swallow hard, and obey.
I am lost in the Blue instantly. Everything clams up.
*
Apparently, I've not been out very long. Dr House tells me that I screamed and tried to dismount, that I convulsed, that he held me down and forced me to ride him out - that he himself came inside of me like a fire hose - Eek! Too much spam and porn really, mister! I think he uses locker room language deliberately, just to annoy me! - and that, in the end, he was so worried about my fainting spell, he had to try and administer the kiss of life.
That last bit, he tells me gleefully, with a grin that's simultaneously nasty and triumphant.
The bastard! He does get what he wants! I can't possibly protest, if I am positive it wasn't necessary. I don't even know whether he's lying, though I don't think he is, judging by taste and the feel of my lips. Hence, I don't comment.
He is disappointed at my failure to rise to the bait.
"You should try to limit your delivery, you know?"
"I will limit my services, I think," I growl. "It can't be that I conk out on a john!"
"Or else you specialize in doctors."
This makes me smile.
"I don't think most of them will appreciate having to deal with an unconscious hooker during their recreational hour..."
"Oh, don't be too sure of that! I know one, for sure..."
Regardless of his words, House seems concerned. The fuss flatters or soothes me: if I've become a subject of medical interest to him by this, he must care in some distant way, right?
On the other hand, if he tends to evade patients, like he once said... I might find I liked his manner of showing interest better when I was merely a hooker to him. Presumably, there will be less of my sort in his life than patients.
Very likely, he's worried about being stuck with some unconscious woman whose state and get-up will raise questions with the paramedics.
It's quite fascinating to see his medical mind at work - how my passing-out intrigues him, and changes his actions towards me. It's a glimpse of the man I won't get to see otherwise - if I can help it at all.
Dr House's interest is heightened when I tell him that, to my knowledge, this hasn't happened before.
He is serious about it: "How can you possibly know?"
Which is precisely what worries me most.
Past, however, is past, and I'll be damned if it tell him that I'm flurried. But in the future - what if it happens again? With someone less - well, benevolent?
"I do remember a kind of waking up, or coming-to, you see. I never experienced it before."
"Hm."
He's lost in thought for a while.
House has not come all that long ago, but needs it bad - he's still half-hard, and wants to move up along my backside, to spoon into me.
This is a position I particularly like. I'm languidly, lazily sleepy.
Turning toward him, I ask: "I've heard about it all - it's not dangerous, doctor, is it?"
Trying to recapture his attention, I make my little girl's face.
House studies me with a vague, condescending smile, completely ignoring my impression. There's the air of annoyance and arrogance or severity again. I rarely see it on in this serious way, though I suspect his team in the hospital does, a lot.
"Hardly. Although... you are not worried, or asking really, are you?"
I wonder what he'd have said instead if I was.
I yawn, and for an answer, since he's deep inside of me, nicely filling me out, I use my pelvic muscles to distract him.
He stops me.
"No. You are amazing, but don't. Sleep."
I'm half asleep already. Can fainting make you tired?
"You know what caused it," I mumble.
"Do I?"
The doc seems surprised.
"There is a name for the thing, you see," I yawn. "It is called an iatrogenic phenomenon."
House barks a laugh that makes my ears ring: "Who-Hoa! You do know words, don't you!"
"Shh-hhh... quiet... some people want to sleep around here..."
I snuggle into him, and can feel him smile when he nuzzles my neck.
Absentmindedly, he is moving inside of me, searching for friction, stroking and touching me, like his hands have a life of their own. They probably need to need to move always when he's thinking. It feels very nice. My skin likes such assiduities.
Apparently, he can't stop thinking.
"Could be lack of prolactin, which would also explain certain other things, at least if you were male... It's nothing serious, really. Means there's no refractional period."
"Aha?"
"No recovery needed after orgasm. Not that frequent in males, but it happens, if less so with age. In women, it ought to be natural, honestly. Someone should file a claim."
"Oh, that's what you've got then!"
I turn a bit, we smile at each other. Pleasure seekers.
I'm sure I'd rather not explain to him that a situation of uncontrollable loss of consciousness must be serious for any pro - the more so if it happens on the job, at the height of their performance.
"I haven't seen it happen before... It's sort-of flattering, I admit... This is called -" he lifts his finger importantly, points at me - and prods my nipple, rather than my nose, with his index, "'la petite mort', sweetums. It is a very interesting condition, but not medically relevant".
"They do? Condition, eh?"
Sweetums...? Is this a soliloquy, or is he referring to my hair? Can't be the teeth, or the nose - I hope. I don't bite, do I.
"I think you may have PSAS, persistent sexual arousal syndrome. It's a bit like a wind generator."
"Huh? ...what, making me fart excessively?! I hope not!"
House snorts.
"'Course not. Wind or something blows, you give. Always give. Sparkles in the dark, strange sounds."
"Oh..." This takes some moments to process, making me giggle when it does. How poetic.
"And that is bad?"
"Not unless you mind, yourself."
I think he is grinning.
"Hmmm... Everything's a medical condition with you, even good sex?"
"Oh, crap - I know I don't mind! - Basically, it means you can come anytime you want, probably will come from just about anything, including for example vibrating cell phone alerts, if you want to or not, and many times a day. You may not need any physical stimulation at all. It's a state of more or less constant physical arousal, as opposed to what is popularly called nymphomania, or hypersexuality... I think it is good for me."
Oh. Pretty much to the point. So that is what it is, and it has a name, too.
"Hmm... I don't mind really, myself - I think... Either's a very convenient condition for a hooker, wouldn't you say?"
House slips out a little to face me to grin down at me, still in that condescending manner.
"Very well. I'll take advantage of the condition-as-is. It isn't necessarily related to that post-orgasmic fainting spell of yours, in any case."
He shoves back in deep, without warning or ceremony.
Oh!
Indeed, I do not mind. I give.
Oh, whatever! Actually, I just can't get enough.
"Wet still," he remarks, more to himself. "Engorged. Very tight, very delectable, very convenient."
We don't talk for a while, moving a lot instead, frantically at times. He's trying to map my inside, his own hard desires. The attempt at lying immobile and synchronizing breathing is forgotten for the time being. The friction sure does feel gorgeous...
I have no idea if this is, clinically, constant orgasming - in truth, I've wondered before, due to the sheer frequency it happens, but decided quite some time ago I couldn't possibly care less, or rather, that it is most gratifying, whatever it is - as long as I don't wane from waste of spinal fluid, or what horrible images they threatened Victorian youths with - the males, anyway.
"There's an easy treatment for possible lack of prolactin..."
Again, he twists and pinches my nipples hard, in his relentless, almost cruel way that makes my body undulate and contract pretty well everywhere.
I buck against him. "Hmmm... how's that to... supposed to help...?"
Deep inside of me and hard, relentlessly pulling and twisting my buds, watching them grow, Dr House lectures: "Stimulated, erect nipples, in either sex, appear to lead to increased production of prolactin... This in turn should decrease desire - would be a shame just, wouldn't it - though somehow I don't see that happen here."
He bites down, and is at it elsewhere as well, pushing and shoving, assessing and measuring my inner space, not romping, but probing deeply for more friction, more access...
"Like this?"
"What do you think...?"
Eventually, Dr House calms down.
"I'll settle for this. I want to stay buried like this forever, if you please. Breathe slowly and steadily, now."
He's hardly moving any more. Even the tiniest twitch is enhanced and enlarged by my state now, clinical or not clinical. There'll be delicious friction in it for me at any point of the journey, as long as he stays put. Wouldn't miss it for the world!
"Yes, sir. Naturally."
Entwined with him, motionless on the outside, I feel my insides move, rhythmically clenching and unclenching around him, growing; the roughened, engorged tissue is rubbing and teasing him all by itself, unable to get away or stop. It might just be me, but he seems to grow still inside of me.
Not all that much later, every breath I take and every clamping movement of my body is met by a jerk of his, as natural, as involuntary as it is welcome.
His breathing begins to hitch when that happens. He reins it in, his eyes close; he hums and moans, very tiny sounds in his throat... Even concentrating away, he can't possibly hold out much longer.
I'm beyond good or evil, everything is enlarged, more somehow, I think I start to glow... Wanting things to last won't help. His pulse deep within me grows stronger; giving a low, long sigh of release, he comes - I think - his deep pulse peaks and lets up. House shudders, and settles as if to sleep, right where he is.
This is very strange, and very beautiful. It should happen again... over again...
Utterly relaxed, I drift off, but not into sleep.
I am worried, as a matter of fact. A whore plainly can't pass out, never mind the quality of the action! While you don't have to be in control necessarily, you ought to be, you MUST be conscious, in a very literal sense, of your situation, always. It's impossible to know what guys are up to - not even those who came across particularly nice just a moment ago. Which House for one sure did not, from the start, making the failure worse.
So, fainting isn't on. It has not happened before, and must not happen again. How can I ever be certain, after today?
The eye as a sex organ is rare, not a concept of Western culture. If sex is at all, except in the negative, or the overly obvious and the purely visceral, and visual. To watch, not to see or feel.
I know eyes can be just that though, in Tantra, for instance. The kind of eye contact I make with Dr House is not what usually happens on the job.
Some time later, we do sleep, spooning. Our breathing has become as one; my misgivings have vanished, I have strange dreams. Very sweet, hot, strange dreams, of detached little penisses and vaginas with wings, and golden light.
House wakes me, interrupting my dreams and worrying by hard demands: he needs to be raised again, as is my job, all night long if he wills. He doesn't seem concerned about possible damage done.
He's found release three times, if leisurely; he must be done in.
It was a long night, a lot of rather hard, satisfying work - the way things should be.
I wonder if Wednesday is his day off - I know I could use one myself. Luckily, my next appointment is only in the evening, my morning regular having cancelled.
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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 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.
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