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The Hooker
by Essex4
PWP, House/OFC, unprotected, very graphic, no violence, illegal in some states.
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"Yes, he is my regular, but I really can't keep the date! Will you, Marian? For me? Please?"
""... Okay? And why don't you go?"
"Honestly, Mar, I need to meet Johnny! He made me promise! And you have no date tonight - just think of the money!"
"That's not an answer! ...Hmmm. Never mind. You owe me one, then. What's he like, Lisa? Gimme the full."
"He's cute, nice, sort of, usually very polite, a bit rude sometimes, but only in words, if you get my meaning. Likes playing for reactions, to get a rise out of someone, occasionally, but not too bad. Clean enough. Well hung, but usually only wants head, pity. He's not gentle, but willl not try to hurt on purpose - it's just his size. Doesn't want to talk and doesn't want you to either, very likely. Bad leg, walks with a cane. Has a huge nasty scar on his right thigh, like half his leg was eaten away - gave me the willies the first time I saw it, and some bad dreams. I think he wanted to see my reaction, could've warned me, right? He's on pain meds, and I think he's a doctor, med stuff all over his place. I took a couple of his pills with me for the shock, he never noticed. Pays generously. Might give you a whisky after or might throw you out. Tried to kiss me once. I was surprised, he sure doesn't seem that sort! Shoved him away, and he didn't mind."
*
I ring. The door opens a crack only. A very blue eye can be seen. I have to raise my head to face it regardless of the high heels. The man cracks the door open some more, a faint look of surprise or disappointment on his face. Shaggy hair, stubbly beard, long face, large, amazingly blue eyes. Lots of lines in his face, but he's not all that old.
I cock my head.
"Hi," I say, "You Mr. House? I'm Marnie. Lisa's ill and sends me to say she's sorry. Okay with you?"
Cute? He's a beaut of sorts, I just wish more of them were that way. He just stares at me with those huge eyes, giving me the once-over without moving much, in a manner that's faintly condescending and very piercing at the same time. Nice is another misconstruction. Lisa's either blind or wants rid of Mr. House - the latter, I presume. He's arrogant. Impressive. And, yes, sexy. Oh happy day! I think I am going to enjoy this. That doesn't happen often to a hooker.
Something must be off though - now why would Lisa, who knows a good thing when she sees it, dump this plum and rather go out with Johnny the pinstripe? That guy's a bore if there ever was one, and an accountant with some sort of mob to boot. She sure has him by the balls, but then, that is true of others, as well. Either she's trying to get her foot into some door, or she's really getting serious, planning on settling down. Seems like her infatuation with utter boredom and sweet suburban home life is breaking through... Either way, it seems time for me to move on.
Mr. House shows no intention of letting me step inside, but continues his scrutiny.
"What's she got?"
Ah, the man does talk, after all. He doesn't introduce himself or anything though, probably figuring I know all I need to from Lisa anyway.
He's still staring, into some off distance rather than at me.
"Just common flu."
"No fever?"
"No."
He suddenly looks down with a little shake of his head and grins to himself, like at some private joke, and opens the door for me to get in.
"You won't steal my Vicodin? I have a scar, and am in pain, just so you know. No need to take my drugs away! I can give you better."
I grin, with honesty. One down, Lisa!
That man House is very casually dressed, but clean, like she said. He limps over to the center of the room where there's a leather couch. The place is a mess of papers, a lot of them apparently medical, but there's no real waste like, say, half-eaten pizza. Clothes on a pile by what must be the bedroom door - or a large closet.
"Marnie, eh?"
"Just an artist's name."
"Just so you know, I know the movie."
"Then you have one over a full hundred percent of my other clients, who never make the connection. So it never works to make them try harder, or get curious, or rescue the poor creature. Or even be careful."
He grins again, which I think is good. Seems to be quite relaxed.
"Let's not talk."
"You want me to get down on you?"
"Yep, and don't bite." He drops down to sit.
I decide not to crack the old one about removing my dentures first anyway, but merely roll my eyes, and put my bag and jacket on an old safe by the door.
Nice place. Some antiques, lots and lots of books and, my god, a full-blown grand piano, and a Gibson guitar! I stare, and he notices.
"Like music?"
"Yes."
"Play music?"
"No. Used to. Bass. Ancient Gretsch hollowbody. It got busted. No patience to practice - yet."
"Yet?"
I walk over to the couch where he sits, still fully dressed, and slowly get down on my knees. His eyes follow my every move, and I can see he appreciates what he sees. There's no awkwardness whatsoever. So he's single, and the full-service kind. But the state of the place told me that already. The really messy types never take the time, because they are ashamed of the mess, even if they'd never admit as much, in addition to being ashamed for using a hooker. Then again, you won't belive how much hot action otherwise-unused hotel bathrooms get. The married ones are also nervous. All of them go way too fast - mere release, but then that's what this is about. Should've known that Tantra experience was not really on demand when I took that seminary. It was fun, though.
I run my hands up his legs and gently move my palm over over his right thigh.
"Okay to touch there?"
House whinces, but just a little.
"Yes, but never too gentle. Only if you must."
He still has his eyes trained on me with that piercing look, trying to read my soul. While I don't usually mind, there being not all that much to read anyway, it does make me nervous with this guy. Maybe he's cranky? Whatever. I drop my eyes and concentrate on the task at hand. My hands move under his buttocks, and he lifts them just a bit. Fine. Then I am at his belt, and open it.
"Mind you hand me the whisky? On the table, behind you."
An interruption, at this point? All polite, eye contact again. He is NOT nervous, and he IS cranky. Most men avoid interrupting at all costs as soon as you are anywhere near their privates. They want to see you, but not to be caught watching. They might also be afraid that you stop for good if they stop you now, or maybe that you'd bite, I wouldn't know. After all, I do want to get paid.
I'm also quite sure he won't talk later. A pity. Why do the intelligent ones always clam up? Usually, I cut guys short when they start to talk afterwards. Too heart-renting really, all that being-misunderstood-by-the-whole-wide-world stuff pouring out. If they'd talk like that to their mates instead of a stranger, they might evenually get somewhere, and who on earth would want that?!
But very few of my customers are ever relaxed, and if they are, they are demanding and spoiled.
On handing over the drink, I notice Mr.House has great hands, too. Something's very right about his body, his lines. A shame, that limp.
Well. I do as told, and go back to work, assessing the workplace. He's half-lying now, sprawled over the couch, glass in one hand. As I open the zipper, those eyes close and his head falls back. Finally.
He lifts those nice hips, and down go the pants. He's wearing plain, white, clean boxers that are nicely filled, four points to this candidate, a score hitherto unheard of. Only on second take I see that - that... scar.
I must have made some sound, and I do look up from his crotch, only to find him staring again. Those eyes get to me. Doesn't he ever blink? Does he never look away, does he take it all in? How can he live if he does?
"Nice, huh?" he says.
"Yes, very." I lick my lips. We are talking at cross-purposes on purpose here. I return to the business at hand.
He moves with it, to help me get rid of the wrappings. Nice find indeed, but not in merry expectation of a treat at all... So that is the hitch. He's jaded, he's very smart, and he's on pain killers, surely opiates. This will go the deep, hard way for me then, and it will take time and care. I don't think he's impotent. I sure hope not, because the girl has to take the blame for that always, in my line of business. Lisa would have mentioned that, or would she? That little bitch... Well, she did mention pain meds, I give her that, lazy bitch. Never liked to work for the money. Maybe Pinstripe Johnny is impotent, and ready to pay in more than one way for the privilege to have her intensive care regardless... I am sure now she would never have made me take this date for her if she wanted the client back later.
But me, I am different, of course! I am the hard-working, honest head girl who likes her job and does do it not just well, but strives to excel... Actually, I like to give head very much, given that size and smell and all the other variables fit. They might, here, I'll know in a minute. He's not cut. I like that, for starters. In any case, this House guy is attractive enough to justify some extra attention. He's been a steady customer of Lisa's for a couple of months, too, so let's have him a bonus for supporting our business and having to forego the touch of her sweet big mouth on his privates today.
You need it, but you don't really want it, I think, drawing my tongue alongside the works. You hate having to, needing to, but you do, no less. Let me see what I can give to you - what I can let you have... My thumbs follow the wet trail, gently massaging, and he relaxes somewhat again.
There is no shame whatsoever in him - just adorable. I realize that, from my position, I could probably look him in the eye while I suck him off, and that he might want just that, and keep them open. Those great, unflinching, blue eyes.
Suddenly, I am excited, and something transmits. This does not happen often, but if I do get excited over a blow job, I usually get huge tips afterwards.
My tongue is under his foreskin, and he tastes and smells divine. Not soap or detergent, but clean, like himself, like a man. His taste is just right - a little bit bitter, like all of this is, and he is stirring, growing, now.
I take him in, and very, very carefully touch his balls. There's too many men who hate that, but he apparently likes it. House sighs, relaxes fully, and opens his legs to give me more access. I try and look up but his head is rolled back. He's completely given to his sensations now, and proudly grows into my mouth.
I realize that I badly want to see his face, his eyes, when he comes. He'll be as beautiful as Jesus, I'm sure.
I wish we'd... But I am going to do this right. Just now, it seems that this might not take as long as calculated, in the end.
I let go of him and tease the infinitely soft skin of that head before me with my thumb, looking up. He moves to look at me, and gives a kind of growl, very low. His eyes are still dreamy, but I need to stop indulging myself and go on, or he'll become annoyed rapidly.
"Well, just wanted to see what I am going to eat before I do, right? You have that right even at MacD's..."
House ignores this, so I drop my eyes and put my mouth back to work. And I do like to swallow what I just saw. This pretty, well shaped tool goes down as if made for this particular treatment - and who knows for sure, after all? I've always thought that the female and male sexual organs are somehow a major mismatch for what is supposedly their main purpose. Which fact may also be one big reason for the huge variety of fun one can have with them.
I take him in him deeply, and swallow. He moves under me, but does not buck. Yet. I can tell he's still not fully hard, which is a first with me when doing this to a guy.
Without thinking, I touch his legs, his thighs, to get a better hold on him to take him in deeper. He makes no sound, but twitches and gives a jerk hard enough to tear away from my throat. My hand is away in an instant, and I swallow him back down. This makes him buck up again, this time toward me.
Something must ride me, because I put my palm down flat over that terrible scar. It just covers the width of it where it lies, and I press gently...
House is shaking now, moving his head from side to side, but he does not pull back again. I feel the muscles or whatever is left of them twitch and twist involuntarily, living, raving tissue, but I press down, not moving my hand, and I swallow hard.
Eventually, the man calms down, so does his thigh, and when I start to hum and constrict my throat, my mouth has his full attention. But he makes no sound.
Soon, he is fully hard. I can feel his pulse in my throat. I leave my left hand where it is, the right goes back under his testes, teasing for now. He's as deep inside of me as he can get, which is pretty much up to the hilt. I'll need a trick to get my hand in. This man House is in for some surprises. I plan to make him last, to show him there are other pains than that in his leg.
I look up. Did he feel that thought? Just as I thought, he is staring at my hair. Catching my eyes, he throws back his head, closing his. Was that a faint blush? Strange seeing some distant dreamyness and that unforgiving hardness, the scrutiny, at the same time, in the same eyes... I imagine he never stops thinking, analyzing, rationalizing, even while he comes. No rest for the wicked, no blissful, healing unconsciousness for this man.
Swallowing slowly, humming, and moving my tongue around the base of his cock, my thoughs wander. This is good. I can do it for hours if things go this way, and no creaking jaw later. I can imagine a whole line of my colleagues telling him off for that gaze of his, maybe even stopping what they were doing. Being watched while performing is one thing. Being analyzed, dissected - being, yes, nailed, by such a stare, is something different. This guy wants to be fully seen himself, which is rare under the conditions. It tears at the heart more than most professionals will take. Talking is mostly less weird, and many kisses less intimate...
His hands creep into my hair, a thumb strokes my cheek, amazingly gentle. He will look again, and I will feel it. I will take it. He will have to last.
I gently roll his balls and move them toward my mouth to tickle them with the tip of my tongue if I can get it out - a little artistry that gets me the odd laugh. But it is a ruse just now. I am sure he's close, and staring again. So, he'll see. Not wanting to move my left, I make ready to press down on that spot on the root of his tool to stop him from coming. Soon...
I look up at him, and cool, clear blue seems to have turned to boiling sea, a stormy grey...
I shall get to watch.
Now.
My thumb goes down on the base, pressing, and the flow of things stops.
For an instant, those incredible eyes close. Then he opens his mouth, draws a sharp breath, and gives a sound like 'Augh!' Then that piercing stare is back, the boiling heat has retreated, but is still there in the background, and he is angry. I chuckle, or rather give what goes for a chuckle in my current situation, which makes the anger go away on the spot. I then start to hum again - and, right, his eyes do not close, his head does not loll back - he just holds my look. But he does swallow hard.
I am okay with words, but what passes on here next defies description. I'ts as close as humans can get to each other, loneliness being the given and the precondition of existence, and for some sort of infinity, we drift like that outside of time, eyes locked, communicating.
Infinitely delicate fingers on my cheek, some humidity.
The pulse in my throat grows stronger - no thumbs to save me this time.
A sigh, all breezy, encompassing, like a sudden gust of wind; something melts, melds, and I swallow hard, deep, every drop, never losing eye contact. A minute or so may have passed when for an instant, his eyeballs roll back - his mind comes only now. Those eyes are back with me presently, and now, they are radiant.
Eventually, he flags. Very slowly, I retract, not wanting to break the connection. But little by little, that sadness in him returns. I can see it creeping up, and also that this is something he'd rather not share, yet would not force me out of for what we just had. Only now, I think, we both become aware again of his handicap, of my hand there, of something too much, too close. That marred flesh starts to twitch again. So I withdraw.
I pull off my shoes and try to get up. It hurts a little in the knees, as usual, but they are also a bit wobbly, which is not all that common. I bend over, breathing deeply. The lack of oxygen is the worst in this line of work.
"To the right, the small door," House says, weakly.
"Thanks."
The bathroom has a great dressing mirror with lights all around. The room is messy, but not dirty, much like the rest of the place. There is a board with some small towels that look fresh. Excellent.
After a pee - boy, am I wet! - I check my make-up and decide I like the dishevelled look. And after a drink from the tap, I clean the eyeliner and and freshen up my lips. Then I run hot water for some moments, and wet one of the towels... That man is in for full service.
He's still lounging on the sofa as I return. Apparently, he has not moved, and his eyes are now closed. Mr. House looks even more exhausted than he did when I came, but also more content. There is an air of peace about him now that... Yes, he IS as beautiful as Jesus.
I can't help it, but very gently stroke that stubbly chin line, running my thumb over an eyelid. House does not stir. Leaning back to admire my work for some instants, I decide it is well. Then I go kneel once more between his legs, and gently clean his privates with the hot towel. House sighs and shifts as if asleep. I also put the heat on that scar for some moments. He leans into the treatment, groaning a little. Of course I watch him all the time, but his eyes only open some time later, after I return from the bathroom again. He's neither surprised nor taken aback, nor does he move. Apparently, he inspires that kind of extra service in people?
"No, they usually don't bother," he says, "but I heard the hot water run. Those pipes have their own peculiar sound. One can always hope."
I didn't say a thing! I gape a little, which makes him grin. I grin back, unable to stop myself. He looks... highly fuckable. Bad luck for me there today.
Very lazily, he turns over, groaning, and angles for a biker jacket that has fallen behind the back of the couch. Then he smiles at me. "Thank you," he says, very gently, and adds, much more briskly: "The money is in the safe by the door. You may leave a card."
Right. I do need to leave.
He draws his purse, and pulls another c-note: "I like a job well done. Pull the door close tight behind you."
I take it slowly, avoing his touch. Then I grab my jacket, the cash, and scram as I am told. I am just a little bit sad when I leave.
But the words about the door were merely functional: it does need some force to close tightly.
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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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