 



 
                           HOUSE CALL

                               by 

                            Joe Doe


HE WAS A JANITOR WHEN SHE FIRED HIM, SO WHEN HE SHOWED UP AT HER 
HOUSE TO PERFORM HER INSURANCE EXAM, SHE WAS STARTLED.  BUT THERE 
WERE MORE SURPRISES TO COME.



When I opened the door and saw Jessie Johnson was standing there, 
my first instinct was to run.  I thought he had come to my house 
to shoot me.

My name is Louise Willis, and I'm the "soon-to-be" Marketing 
Director for a Fortune 1000 firm in Southern California.

Jessie Johnson had been a janitor at my company, until I fired 
him for the suggestive looks he was giving some of our female 
employees...including me.  Unfortunately, the little garbage man 
actually had the audacity to sue us, and we ended up giving him 
his old job back.  A few days after he started, I suggested a 
locker search.  The idiot actually had centerfolds plastered to 
the inside of his locker door, including one with my face pasted 
over the face of Miss January. 

He tried to explain that it was a joke, and I replied that the 
REALLY funny part was that now I could fire him for sexual 
harassment.  He sued again, but lost this time.  So I was more 
than a little frightened to see the extremely bitter and vengeful 
former employee standing at my door.

But Jessie didn't seem angry.  If anything, he seemed happy to see 
me.  He was wearing blue coveralls that looked very much like his 
old janitor's uniform, but there was now a medical insignia on the 
breast pocket.  He was also wearing a white lab coat and carrying 
a very large black doctor's bag.

He explained that, during the legal battle, he had returned to 
school and had gotten his nursing degree.  And, since I had 
"failed the drug test" on my pre-promotion physical, he was 
here to give me my follow up exam.

Naturally I was thunderstruck.  The old geezer who headed up the 
Marketing Department had finally had the decency to die, and the 
board had promoted me, pending the successful completion of my 
routine physical.

I had been pretty nervous about the drug screening part, because 
I had used some marijuana in college, and I was petrified that 
the extremely sophisticated screens my company uses could pick up 
traces of drugs from years ago.  I had asked several people in 
the company just how sensitive the tests were, but no one seemed 
to know.  When Jessie told me that I had failed the test and now 
needed another, more complete physical, my worst fears were 
realized. 

Well, actually, my worst fear was that Jessie, the former employee 
whom I had treated like gum on my shoe, was going to PERFORM my 
physical.

But I wasn't born yesterday, either.  Why had no one scheduled this 
physical with me?  Why had Jessie just shown up at my house?  Was 
it possible he had heard about my promotion and drug test concerns 
through the grapevine?

Certainly the insurance company could send someone other than him 
to perform my physical.  In short, I wasn't about to strip down in 
front of a janitor because he showed up at my front door wearing a 
white coat.

When I told him that I needed to call the insurance company for 
verification, Jessie took out a cell phone, dialed a number, and 
asked for "Susan Watkins, Underwriting Director."  Then he handed 
me the phone.

Miss Watkins explained that she was sorry that I hadn't been 
notified, but, since I had failed the drug test, they tried to 
limit "re-testing notification time" to 24 hours.  This practice 
prevented people from trying to "doctor their bloodstreams" by 
eating a carton of mangos every day or some such nonsense.  
Apparently they couldn't get hold of me yesterday. 

Miss Watkins said that I could try to reschedule the exam at their 
office or with another technician at my house, but she warned me 
that the company president was very angry when he found out that I 
had failed the drug test.  It was only because of her persuasiveness 
that he had agreed to retest me.  But he had told her that, if I 
didn't agree to an immediate test, I could "kiss my fancy job 
goodbye." 

The president was in New York, and I hadn't talked to him in more 
than three weeks, but I knew the old codger's feeling about drug 
use.  That line about "kissing my fancy job goodbye" certainly 
sounded just like him.

With any luck he would die soon, too, and I'd get HIS office.

What choice did I have?  Miss Watkins stressed that Jessie was 
TOTALLY in charge, and, while I could refuse any part of the 
exam that made me uncomfortable, such a refusal was grounds for 
"immediate failure and termination of employment."  I thanked her 
and handed Jessie the phone.  I then ushered my smiling arch-enemy 
into the kitchen of my expensive house for my medical exam.

The first part of the exam was routine enough: blood pressure, 
pulse, medication history, etc.  He also gave me a rather clumsy 
blood test, stabbing me several times before he finally found a 
vein.  But then we got down to the real nitty-gritty.  He ordered 
me to stand up, walk to the center of the room, and take off all 
my clothes.

When I protested that I would do no such thing, he reminded me that 
I had to do EVERYTHING he said, or lose my job.  I asked him if I 
could strip and change into a robe in the other room, and he 
replied that, since I was "a druggie," he would have to keep me 
naked for the entire exam to make sure that I wasn't going to try 
to tamper with my urine samples or other tests in any way.

"But don't be shy," he said with mock sympathy.  "I can even put on 
some music, if you want to dance while you're stripping for me."

He snapped his fingers and pointed to the spot where he wanted my 
strip-down to take place.  He smiled triumphantly as I obediently 
got out of my chair and shuffled slowly to the center of the room.

He didn't even try to be professional, but openly ogled me and made 
lewd remarks as I stripped for him.  I stopped when I got down to 
my bra and panties, but he insisted that I strip "to the skin."

When my panties were off, he complimented me on "my cute little fur 
patch."  It was the first of many such "compliments" that I would 
receive that day.

He started out by taking my height and weight, using a tape measure 
and a small scale that he had in his bag.  He complimented me again 
in his typically backhanded way, saying that he didn't like tubby 
girls, that he preferred slender ones, like me.  He compared the 
dark chocolate color of his skin with the creamy pallor of mine.  
"Mmmm...nice and white...don't often see that here in So Cal....  
I like it."  I ground my teeth and felt myself blush...all over. 

DING-DONG! 

It was the doorbell!  I told Jessie to just ignore it, but he 
ignored me, instead, and hurried off to answer the door.  By and 
by, I heard voices in the next room.  A few moments later Jessie 
returned, closely followed by Tony, our neighborhood paperboy. 

Tony had just turned 18 a few months ago and was a senior in high 
school.  I knew he had a secret crush on me, and I had delighted 
in teasing him and building up his puny hopes only to crush them.  
He was fat, nerdy, and pimply, and I used to delight in teasing 
"tubby Tony" about not having a girlfriend. 

Of course, now my "teasing" consisted of me desperately trying to 
cover my breasts and pussy while my pimply neighbor stood in my 
kitchen doorway with his mouth hanging open.

Jessie quickly explained the new rules of the house to Tony and 
told him that, if he had a few minutes before school, he was 
welcome to watch the remainder of my exam; he could collect 
what I owed for the papers later.  Tony didn't have to be asked 
twice, and he quickly moved a comfortable chair to a prime position.

The next step in the exam was the taking of my measurements, which 
gave Jessie a marvelous opportunity to show off my naked body to 
Tony.  It was an opportunity that he didn't miss, and he made sure 
that Tony got an eyeful.  He also made a point of reading each 
measurement directly in front of me, giving him a good excuse to 
run his fingers over my nipples and "accidentally" brush the fluffy 
hair between my legs.

The next step was my heart check.  Jessie put me through a variety 
of exercise routines -- jumping jacks, "4 count burpees," sit-ups, 
deep knee bends, ankle squats, running in place -- ostensibly for 
the purpose of getting my heart rate up.  His favorite was one 
where I simply jumped up and down and flapped my arms like a bird 
while turning around and around.

Tony liked that one, too. 

I am in excellent shape, and it takes a lot to get my pulse rate 
up.  Fortunately, Jessie was there to provide me with encouragement 
as I moved through my workout.  He punctuated each command with a 
sharp slap on my bare fanny.

"Get those knees up higher, girl!"  SPANK!

"Now SPREAD 'EM!"  SPANK!

"That's it!  Keep those tight little buns bouncing!"  SPANK!

"Now SQUAT!"  SPANK!

"Get those buns in the air and spread 'em wide!"  SPANK!

"No, WIDER!"  SPANK!

"Faster!  Make those titties jiggle for Tony!"  SPANK!

"Flap those arms and keep turning!  Turn!  We want to see your butt 
now!"  SPANK!

Jessie would always pull my arm away to "take my pulse" whenever I 
tried to cover myself in any way. 

The "climax" of my performance was when he brought Tony and me 
into the living room, and the two of them began pawing through my 
exercise videos.  They quickly selected a celebrity workout tape 
for me to dance to, and I was soon doing a vigorous aerobics 
workout routine, totally nude, in front of Jessie and the gawking 
teenager.

"Man, she dances good!" Tony said. 

"Oh, yeah," Jessie agreed.  "She could get a job at one of those 
clubs out by the airport."

"She's even better than the girls on the tape!" Tony exclaimed.  
"They have those stupid leotards on, but she's BARE NAKED!"

I referred to this as the "climax" of my heart test because the 
teenager had his hand down his pants the whole time, and he soon 
did just that.  Jessie assured him that it was "perfectly natural" 
and suggested that he clean up in my bathroom.  "Just leave the 
tissues and any towels you use on the counter...our little dancer 
here can clean up later," he said, helpfully, as the embarrassed 
Tony excused himself. 

After Tony left, Jessie said it was nice that I had "made friends 
with a neighborhood boy who was so full of spunk!"  Judging from 
the stain in Tony's pants, that was a major understatement. 

Jessie then said that since Tony was "indisposed," it was probably 
a good time to go through my medical history.  I asked him if I 
could get dressed now, and he shook his head.  When I tried to sit 
down, he stopped me, and said that I should get on my knees in 
front of him.  Not wanting to argue the point with the man who held 
my fate in his hands, I submissively got on my knees in front of my 
beaming "master."

The questions started out routine, but, as expected, they quickly 
deteriorated into a degrading probe of my sexual history.  He was 
crude, but street smart, and whenever I lied to him or tried to 
evade his questions he quickly sensed it and threatened to fail 
me.  I soon gave up and answered each humiliating question with 
a mortifying level of candor.

When did you lose your virginity?
Tell me about your first time.
Have you ever taken money in exchange for sex?
Have you ever engaged in lesbian sex?
Have you ever given oral sex to a man?  To a woman?
Have you ever received oral sex from a man?  From a woman?
Have you ever engaged in anal sex?
List the age and occupation of each sex partner in the last 2 years. 
Have you ever put on special clothing or costumes during sex?
Have you ever engaged in role play?
Have you ever engaged in bondage or any other form of deviant sex? 
Tell me about it...in detail.
How often do you masturbate?
Do you use a vibrator?
What sort of birth control do you use? 

The questions were even worse than they sounded, because he 
followed up my answers with questions that forced me to reveal 
every intimate secret in lip-smacking detail.  My hesitancy over 
the lesbian question and the oral sex question ended with me 
confessing to my one brief lesbian encounter in college, and he 
then made me describe my 69 session in shameful Technicolor. 

I started to blush when he asked me about bondage, and I ended 
up confessing to an occasion a few years ago when a lover had 
blindfolded me and tied me spread-eagled to the bed.  Jessie made 
me tell him the whole story, and I soon felt like I was dictating 
a letter to "Penthouse."
 
Jessie feigned confusion over the term spread-eagled, and he made 
me recreate the position on the living room rug.

At the conclusion of the session, Jessie made me dutifully scamper 
upstairs and fetch both my diaphragm and the vibrator that I use 
"about twice a week."  By this time, Tony had returned to the room 
also, and he examined these extremely intimate items as if they 
were religious artifacts, bursting into laughter when the vibrator 
turned on with a loud BUZZZZZ!

The sudden noise gave Jessie an idea, and he said that Tony and he 
should watch me masturbate to make sure that I'm "doing it right" 
and not damaging "sensitive vaginal membranes."  The idea that I 
had to get my rocks off in front of a janitor and my drooling 
teenage neighbor for medical reasons was absurd, and I argued 
vigorously against it.  I finally decided to draw the line in 
the sand.  It wasn't until Jessie had packed up and was heading 
out the front door that I broke down and submitted. 

"Please, Jessie, don't go!" I pleaded desperately.  "I've already 
spent the money from my promotion.  If I lose my job now, I'll lose 
everything.  I just have to have that job!" 

Jessie smiled.  He had me, and we both knew it.

Soon I was butt naked on my living room rug with my legs splayed 
wide while I worked the vibrator back and forth.  And Tony soon had 
his hands down the front of his pants again, which quickly resulted 
in a second trip to the bathroom.  Jessie guided me through one, 
then two, then three orgasms before he was satisfied that I was 
indeed "doing it right."

He then ordered me back into the kitchen, so that he could get 
a better look at my "hot little love box."  Although sweaty, 
humiliated, and exhausted, I dutifully paraded back into the 
kitchen for my next debasement.

There is an island in the middle of my kitchen, and he decided to 
use it as a makeshift exam table.  I'm pretty limber, so, even 
though there were no stirrups, I was still able to spread myself 
pretty wide by curling my toes around the edges of the cold counter 
top.

But apparently I wasn't exposed enough for Jessie, and I soon heard 
the sound of the kitchen drapes opening.

With the position I was in, my pussy was now directly facing the 
large sliding glass door that leads into my back yard.  I tried to 
sit up, but Tony grabbed my shoulders and held me in place.  Jessie 
"punished me" by playfully pulling out a few hairs from the 
sensitive area around my clit, as he scolded me for being a 
"disobedient little minx!"

There is a high fence around my back yard, so I knew that people 
passing by my house wouldn't see in.  However, my exposed pussy was 
now totally visible from the house of my dreaded neighbor, Mr. 
Peepers.

Mr. Peepers has been ogling me for years and seems to spend most of 
his day seated at his bedroom window with binoculars, hoping that I 
will come out to sunbathe by my pool.  It has gotten so bad that I 
have even called the police a couple of times, although mostly I'm 
satisfied to just tattle to his battleaxe wife.  Sure enough, I 
hadn't been in the window more than a minute or so when I heard his 
"shave-and-a-haircut" knock on the glass door. 

Needless to say, Jessie invited him in to "join the party."  Mr. 
Peepers eagerly agreed and even snapped on a rubber glove so that 
he could help search my "juicy snatch."  He clearly enjoyed the 
experience, saying how glad he was that someone was "finally 
teaching this snooty bitch her place." 

For my temperature taking, they turned me over onto all fours and 
ordered me to stick my ass in the air.  I flinched when Jessie 
began to "butter up" my tight bottom hole, so Mr. Peepers helpfully 
suggested that they use his thick leather belt to hogtie my knees 
to my neck, so that "the little piggy doesn't wiggle away when we 
pork her."  When I protested that this wasn't necessary, Mr. 
Peepers said that there was no need to thank him for the use 
of his belt, because "that's what neighbors are for."

I was soon trussed up with my bare rump in the air while Jessie 
playfully worked the absurdly long thermometer in and out of my 
helpless rectum.  Tony suggested that I "needed more grease," so 
Jessie gave the anxious teen a rubber glove and a chance to grease 
up my asshole.  All in all, it took the three of them almost half 
an hour to take my temperature. 

Jessie then produced a very large beaker and held it up directly 
in front of my face.  "Time for your urine sample, sweet stuff," 
he said, brightly.

Naturally, I pleaded to be released so that I could use the 
bathroom and have some privacy, but Jessie was adamant.  Since 
I had failed my drug test before, he would have to "witness the 
collection of the specimen," as he put it.  "Besides, you're in 
a perfect position for it."  He grinned as he shoved the beaker 
between my legs.

I looked at the three of them in horror.  "I can't go...like that.  
I'm not an animal.  For god's sake, untie me so I can use the 
bathroom!" 

Jessie just laughed.  Realizing that I had no choice, I closed my 
eyes, clenched my muscles, and strained to pee into the beaker. 

Nothing happened.  I couldn't do it.  Try as I might, I couldn't 
squeeze out a drop. 

Tony suggested giving me a big glass of water and letting nature 
take its course, but Jessie had a "better, faster" method.  He 
dipped into his black bag and fished out a large enema bag.

He went to the sink and playfully began to hum "Anchors Away" as he 
filled the bag with cold water.  He even added some ice cubes to 
the frigid mix, insisting that the "cramping will put pressure on 
her bladder."  All the while, Mr. Peepers lovingly held the nozzle 
that would soon be thrust inside me just a few inches from my nose, 
and greased it thoroughly.  He smirked in triumph as he playfully 
made thrusting motions, as if he was practicing shoving it up my 
rectum.

They hung the bag from the lighting fixture in the kitchen, which 
ensured that the water emptied into me hard and fast.  I tried to 
tighten my sphincter to slow the flow, but that, of course, did 
no good.  The men ignored my pleas for mercy, although Tony was 
thoughtful enough to wipe away my tears and the beads of sweat 
that were accumulating. 

The bag emptied in less than 10 minutes, but my sadistic examiners 
made me hold the icy water in my bowels for over half an hour.  My 
bladder was soon filled to the point of bursting, and the "water 
works project" (as Mr. Peepers described it) was decreed a success.

Mr. Peepers held the beaker between my legs while Jessie teased my 
pussy with his finger.  "Come on, my little doggie bitch!  Tinkle, 
tinkle, tinkle!  Your owners can't wait around all day for their 
little doggie to piddle herself." 

Despite the pressure, I still fought the urge, not wanting to give 
them the satisfaction of "housebreaking the bitch," as Mr. Peepers 
so eloquently put it.  Jessie laughed victoriously as I lost 
control of my bladder, and my pee splashed loudly into the large 
beaker. 

I had never been so humiliated in my life. 

After I filled the beaker, they released me and let me go to the 
bathroom.  They made me use the upstairs bathroom, though, since 
they wanted to "clean me up" after I had "pooped."  As you can 
imagine I made quite a sight, sprinting across my expensive house 
butt-naked with an enema tube still dangling out of me!

Releasing my bowels felt heavenly, even with the three of them 
closely watching my every move.  I thought they were finished with 
me when I got off the toilet, and, since I was reeking with the 
odor of sweat and over-stimulated pussy, I wanted to take a shower.  
But Jessie had other ideas.  "I like your stink...makes you smell 
like a real woman."  Then he held up my diaphragm.  "Besides, honey 
pie, we need to check this out!"     
                
		******************************               

I was unceremoniously ushered into my bedroom for a "test drive."

I have no idea what the blow-jobs I gave Jessie and Mr. Peepers had 
to do with checking my birth control device, but that didn't stop 
me from swallowing every drop.  Jessie wasn't too bad, but Mr. 
Peepers' semen was as rancid, salty, and sour as he was.

Tony finally "got down to business," and I dutifully inserted my 
diaphragm and lay on my expensive bed while the horny, fat teenager 
eagerly lowered his pants.  Jessie wouldn't let me use my 
spermicidal jelly, even though it was my fertile time of the month, 
since he said he wanted to make sure my "pussy wouldn't be too wet 
and sloppy for Tony to enjoy." 

I wasn't too happy about that, since I'm totally opposed to 
abortion, and so I always take a lot of precautions to make 
sure that I don't get pregnant.

Jessie also insisted that Tony not wear a condom, so that he "could 
feel bare skin on bare skin."  He chortled.  "Besides, a stuck up 
little princess like you needs to get it bareback every now and 
then so she knows her place!"  I reluctantly spread my legs.  My 
diaphragm was as thick as a tire, and I knew it would still offer 
me a lot of protection.

Tony had already orgasmed twice that day, so, despite his youthful 
enthusiasm, I got a very vigorous fucking before he finally 
climaxed on top of me.  The real surprise, though, was when I took 
out the diaphragm, and saw the damn thing was leaking like a 
colander.

"Sorry, babe," Jessie said, laughing.  "I must have accidentally 
punched it full of pin holes while you were on the toilet.  Good 
thing we tested it, huh?"  Mr. Peepers and Jessie were almost 
doubling over with laughter as I stood there holding the dripping 
diaphragm.

I glared at Tony, furious over the fact that he'd just fucked me 
with no spermicidal jelly and a diaphragm that had more holes than 
the US tax code.  Tony smiled sheepishly and murmured, "Olive skin 
makes good kin!"  

Bastards!

"I'd love to stay all day and chat about what you're going to name 
the little bambino, but, unfortunately, I have another appointment 
this afternoon," Jessie explained.  "Sharon Peters, that stuck-up 
bitch on the board of directors needs an exam, so I'll be going 
over to her house to give her the old in-and-out." 

Jessie turned to Tony and Mr. Peepers.  "I have some white coats in 
the back of the truck, if you two want to come along."  They 
eagerly agreed, and Jessie turned back to me.  "But don't worry, 
Louise, as soon as I'm out of here I'll call the office and tell 
them you passed your physical with flying colors."

I was pleased that they were going to give Sharon Peters the same 
treatment that I had just undergone.  She was my enemy and had 
opposed my promotion, saying that I was too "ambitious" and 
"impetuous."  The thought of Susan doing naked squats was some 
small consolation to me.

The other "consolation" was that Tony told me that I didn't have 
to pay him my subscription that month.  Great.  My pimply teenage 
neighbor had lost his cherry AND impregnated me for less than 
$7.00.

Laughing, the three of them sauntered out the door, leaving me 
humiliated, naked, and thoroughly fucked.  Tony, at least, did 
stop and thank me for letting him lose his virginity "on such a 
nice bed."  

Bastard!

After I finished douching, I gargled for about 20 minutes, but 
nothing could kill the taste of Mr. Peepers in my mouth.  I 
finally gave up, threw on a robe, and called the insurance 
company to confirm that Jessie had kept his word and passed me.

"I don't know what you mean, Miss Willis," the secretary said.  
"We don't have a Jessie Johnson or a Susan Watkins working here, 
and we never do home physicals.  Besides, your test results came 
back yesterday, and you passed your drug test with no problem."

I immediately put down the phone and began to dial Sharon, thinking 
to save her from the phony exam.  But then I remembered how she had 
treated me when I was in front of the board, and I gently put down 
the phone and smiled.

Maybe I'd call her tomorrow.  After all, I wouldn't want to 
be..."impetuous." 



Edited by C. Lakewood
 
