4:24 PM Tuesday afternoon, Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital.

The clinic was crowded and busy; Cuddy shot the triage nurse a sympathetic 
glance and picked up a file, determined to get things moving along, feeling a 
little tired herself but determined not to show it.

“Let’s see, we’ve got three rooms ready--okay, Mr. Delmaccio, you’re next—“ 
At the sound of her voice, the old wino slumped on the waiting room chair 
perked up and beamed at Cuddy, flashing her a smile that looked like a rotting picket fence.

“Miss Smoky! Gawd, I’d know your voice anywhere, Honeybuns!"

"Excuse me?" Cuddy blurted, startled.

"Oh yeah, I remember,” he cackled, looking pleased with himself. “Long time 
ago, but it's the same voice. Yew got me through a lotta lonely lonely 
nights . . . “ he announced loudly enough to be heard all through the clinic.

Cuddy flashed him a tight, unamused smile and herded him into exam room 
One. “I’m afraid you’ve got me mixed up with someone else, Mr. Delmaccio . . . here’s Doctor House.”

“No it’s yew, Miss Smoky, from fifteen years ago, I KNOW it! Doncha 
remember th’ time you tol me ALL about playn’ tennis with no undies on? Or 
the story about spankin’ your roommate in college? Ah those were good 
times . . . “ the wino mumbled in a daze, his hand moving not so subtly to his 

In the exam room, House glanced up from his Gameboy at the derelict old 
man and then at Cuddy, his expression one of lofty amusement. Cuddy 
sneered back, and slapped the file on the exam table. “Our clearly delirious 
patient is complaining of stomach pain, Doctor House. I expect you to get 
right on the case,” she warned, stepping out briskly and closing the door 
behind her.

Quickly she shot a sharp look around the clinic waiting room, but nobody 
seemed to be paying any attention to her, and Cuddy took the moment to 
slink off to the ladies’ room.

Her hands were shaking slightly.

She splashed a little water on her face to cool it off, certain that she was 
blushing. Dear God—after all these years, who would have ever thought that 
she’d be . . . recognized? Cuddy glanced at her reflection in the mirror, 


The first summer in Michigan.


It was an easy summer job, Glenda assured her. Just talk to old farts over the 
line and tell them some perverted story. Listen for what gets them off and play 
it up. Ten dollars an hour and fifteen percent of the phone tab. You can work 
when you want, but morning calls are the best because the creeps are all at 
work behind office doors charging it to their companies.

She didn’t want to—it sounded sick. But the pay too damned tempting 
because textbooks--even used ones--were outrageous. Flipping burgers or 
filing papers somewhere for a mere five-twenty an hour wouldn't add much to 
her budget; even with her student loans.

Glenda had offered to walk her through it, coaching her and after the first few 
days, Cuddy had realized with a weird pride that she was good at it. That she 
had . . . a knack.

A voice and an imagination.

She sighed, gripping the edges of the sink. Nearly a decade ago; behind her 
now. Damn it, she was a chief administrator! Dean of a major teaching 
hospital, a respected member of the community--light years away from Miss 
Smoky of the Dial-a-Dirty-Dream Line.

That wasn’t HER anymore.

Cuddy drew in a deep breath and kept staring at herself in the mirror, thinking 
back. How many calls? How many regulars? Once the money had started 
coming in it didn’t seem too bad, aside from getting bored with most of the 
callers. There had been one or two, but for the most part it was all talk, none 
of it anything more than an easy way to pay the bills.

With a scowl, Cuddy shook her head. A wino—nobody would take him 
seriously . . . then she remembered who was treating him, and blanched all 
over again.

*** *** ***

10:46 PM Tuesday night, 18446 Magnolia Lane


“Hello, is this Miss Smoky?” came the low, almost seductive question. Cuddy scowled.

“House—not funny.”

“Oh I agree, not funny. Intriguing, and illuminating, but not funny. I always 
thought you were a GOOD girl, Cuddy, and now I find you have a naughty 
past. This makes things much more interesting.”

“I don’t care what that patient said, I’m NOT Miss Smoky, and you certainly 
can’t take his word for anything, House. Obviously I remind him of someone—
a case of mistake identity, nothing more.”

“Is that what the defense claims? Because it’s not holding up, Miss Smoky. 
My little conversation with the patient puts the first holes in THAT assertion. 
Our source is Harold G. Bilmar of Grand Rapids Michigan. I’m fairly sure you remember that state, don’t you, Miss Smoky? Home to a certain school that 
both you and I attended?” came his ruthless question. Cuddy bit her lip; when House took that tone it meant he wasn’t bluffing.

“It’s a big country, House. Lots of people come from Michigan. It doesn’t 
mean every one of them has perfect hearing, or accurate memories for that 

“True, true—and given the amount of sterno our fellow Wolverine has 
consumed in the intervening years I’d normally give you the benefit of the 
doubt. However, Harold was able to cough up a few details along with some 
lung chunks, and those mesh rather nicely with some Internet research I did. 
It turns out that the time frame for his patronage of Miss Smoky’s raunchy 
services does indeed coincide with your first year at school. Furthermore . . . .” 
his voice trailed away, and Cuddy heard him breathing softly.

“Furthermore what?” she snapped, wondering why she didn’t simply hang up 
on him. House’s voice came back on the line, a little rough-edged, but still 

“Furthermore, he elaborated the details of a session or two. Cuddy, Cuddy, Cuddy—tennis without panties? You were on the junior varsity doubles team. 
You’d KNOW all about tennis, panties or not. Too many coincidences, Miss 
Smoky. Don’t make me go through the yearbooks to find your roommate and 
start asking questions, not at this late date.” This last came out in a wheeze, 
and Cuddy realized the sound wasn’t sexual at all.

She recognized it, and a pang of concern flared through her. Carefully she 
sighed into the phone. “Damn it . . . you’re in pain, aren’t you?”

“What makes you say that?” House snapped back over the line. “The fact that 
I’m calling you at eleven on a school night? Just answer the question, Doctor Cuddy.”

“If you’re in pain—“

“Not an ‘if’ and I AM doing something about it, if you’ll just cooperate for a 
damned minute here—“ came his waspish reply. Cuddy took a breath, 
considering the sweet oddness of the moment; of the absurdly tender situation facing her here.

She could hang up; God knew what House would do, but it probably wouldn’t 
be prudent.

She could reason with him.




She could . . . talk to him.

“Lisa?” he whispered into the phone, and that soft little pain-filled plea 
suddenly made the choice for her. Drawing in a deep breath, she settled back 
in her bed and closed her eyes.

“Doctor Greg . . . “ She breathed into the phone, feeling the slow rush come 
back to her. “You can call me Smoky.”

“Well, that’s more like it,” House grunted, his reply a little guarded.

Cuddy laughed throatily, thinking fast. What next--oh yeah--“ So you decided 
to give me a call . . . I love that.”

“You do?” this came out in a slightly cynical snort. Cuddy gave a purr in reply.

“Oh you bet. I get lonely in my little bed here, all alone. Nobody to talk to . . . nobody to touch but myself . . . .” she trailed off. Over the line came the sound 
of House’s breathing, low and deep.

“You . . . touch yourself,” he muttered.

Cuddy flexed her toes, absurdly pleased; fifteen years and she still had the 
knack. She made a tiny purr again. “Yes. I know it’s a naughty thing to do, 
Doctor Greg, but when I get these urges it’s just so hard to ignore them . . . 
those hot little pangs deep between my thighs . . . “

“Those can be . . . hard to ignore—“ he sighed, his voice lower. Cuddy sighed.

“They get really bad when I wear my thongs. I always buy them a size too 
small, and so the tiny little silk panel just rubs and rubs between my legs alllll 
day. It just makes me so squirmy, and by the end of the day my thong is so 
wet . . . “

The noise House made on the other end of the line was midway between a 
groan and a growl; Cuddy felt her nipples harden against the eyelet of her nightgown. She let her hand glide over her breast wonderingly as she spoke 
again, her own voice lower in timbre now.

“Sometimes it gets so bad I just take my thong off and go around the hospital without panties. I have to be careful though about it though, because if people 
knew I was walking around naked under my skirt they might try to . . . “

“ . . . Touch you . . . “ House finished hoarsely, “Slide a hand up—“

“Oh that would be nasty, Doctor Greg,” Cuddy cooed, feeling a flush of heat 
over her skin. She tried to concentrate, but the hand not holding the phone 
slid down her stomach. “If you did that, you’d find out how turned on I was . . . 
how wet . . . “

“Jesus, you’re too damned good at this—“ House groaned a little, trying to be 
funny and not succeeding. Cuddy laughed softly and breathed a bit more 
heavily into the phone, her hand sliding lower.

“Oh no, I’m not good, I’m a bad, bad girl . . . guess where my hand is right 
now?” She groaned into the line. The reckless pleasure flooded her senses as 
she cupped the fur between her thighs.

Dear God this wasn’t how it was supposed to go. House was the one who was supposed to be turned on and touching himself, not her. Cuddy pressed her 
palm against the soft curls between her legs.

“I have a good idea where your hand is, Lisa, but I have a much better 
one . . . “ House growled, his voice suddenly louder. Startled, Cuddy heard 
the sound of a key in a lock; of her front door opening. She froze, and by the 
time she decided to move it was too late; big as life, House stood framed in 
her bedroom doorway, snapping his cell phone shut, looking down at her lying 
on her bed, her hand inside her panties.

He breathed hard, nostrils flaring. “Show me.”

Cuddy stared up, into his bright blue eyes, seeing the sweat of pain and 
arousal dampening his hairline and staining the armpits of his shirt. She 
shifted, licking her lips.

“Greg . . . “

“Show me . . . “ his tone had changed from a command to a quiet, hunger-
filled plea. Cuddy slowly dropped her phone. Carefully, she drew in a shaky 
breath. Very slowly, she let her eyes half-close, and shifted her fingers again. 
With her other hand she slowly pushed down her panties.

“When I get . . . turned on, I take a shower, and get into bed,” she murmured. “Sometimes I get in naked, but usually I wear my nightgown. I love the feel of 
the lace on my skin. And then I touch myself, really really slow.”

“Um hmmm,” House moaned. He was looming over her bed now, watching her 
with rapt eyes in the low light of the lamp. Cuddy shifted her thighs apart, 
fingers raking through her curls.

“And I tease . . . myself. I touch everywhere between my legs but the hottest 
spot . . . “ came her thick confession. House opened his mouth, breathing a 
little more raggedly. Cuddy stroked one hand along the cleft of her pussy, and rubbed her bare, flat stomach with the other.

For a moment neither of them spoke, but the sound of their breathing filled the 
room. House pressed a hand to his fly, swallowing hard. “Fuck.”

Cuddy nodded. “Yeah. Ohhhhh yeah.”

They exploded; Cuddy lunged up for him as House dropped down, mouths 
meeting in a wet clash of teeth and lips. Hands fumbled, tugged, freed; Cuddy squealed against House’s tongue as he yanked her nightie up. With a few 
squeaks of the bedsprings they managed to both fit on the bed; House 
flattened his palms on the mattress on either side of her heaving ribs. Cuddy wrapped her thighs around his hips, struggling with his jeans.

“Damn it, WANT you—“

“You’ll GET me, just don’t claw my ass raw,” House hissed, rocking his hips 
forward. In one glorious thrust he plunged into her, and Cuddy groaned, her 
slender throat arching as the pleasure flared, driving all rational thought from 
her mind.

He was thick, and hot; moving deep in strong thrusts and the wet sound of 
their bodies merged with the creaking of the bed, with her own whimpered 
groans. House dropped his face to the side of her neck and Cuddy felt the 
burning gusts of his breath on her skin along with the nip of his teeth.

“Jesus H. Chrrrrrist you’re fucking tiiiiight . . . “ came his slightly anguished 
growl, “Goddamn it . . .”

“Harder, baby—“ Cuddy gasped, clenching, feeling the hot quick surge of 
sweet lust knifing through her, the undeniable tension drawing closer with 
every smack of their stomachs. House chuffed, big strong body responding helplessly to the low command in her voice, and he tensed, driving deep, 
pinning her even as he grunted his pleasure against the tender skin of her 
throat, his beard scraping her.

“FuckfuckfuckGodcomminnnngg—“ he growled in a husky animal tone that 
seared itself in her mind even as she clung to him, lost in the sweet crest of 
their pleasure.


Later he slept, slumped against her breast, nose pushed into her cleavage, 
and Cuddy gently stroked his damp hair, indulging herself in the rare chance 
to cuddle him. It wouldn’t last long, she suspected; the endorphins would wear 
off, and House would probably pull back from the offered tenderness.

But for now he was relaxed, and neither of them had to get up any time soon, 
and it felt good to have him in her arms, and safe. Cuddy started to doze off, 
drifting into sleep when she felt his lips move.

“You . . . amaze me.”

She smiled and kissed his forehead.





House index