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