19th February 2006: I used to love supermarkets as a way of cruising guys and so this story was a joy to write.

Dr Wallace’s Casebook

Case 3: George At ASDA

His name didn’t mean much to me so I called him into my consulting room with my usual indifference. I didn’t take a lot of notice of his age or any of the other details on his medical card.

Just his name. George Taylor.

I suppose I was expecting some overweight middle-aged bloke – an accountant or something similar – who wanted me to take a look at his haemorrhoids or to talk about the problems he was having with his prostate.

So when he walked into the room I saw who he was I must have looked pretty shocked. He looked pretty surprised himself.

He was about my age – thirtyish – with short brown hair and a couple of days growth of stubble. His short sleeved short revealed the thick, muscular arms of someone used to doing manual work. For some reason, he just wasn’t the sort of man I would have expected to be called George Taylor.

That wasn’t the cause of my shock, though. And no doubt it wasn’t my own appearance that was the cause of his own look of surprise.

You see, we’d met before. And under very different circumstances.

He sat down and said, before I could compose myself enough to offer him my usual bland greeting, “Nice of you to see me, Dr Wallace. I usually see Dr Jones, next door, but I gather he’s on a course.”

I nodded. “Ah… yeah…”

“There’s still a few things you doctors have to learn, then…?” He threw me a broad grin.

I wasn’t sure how to respond. “Er… I suppose so…”

I looked down at his card. “So… er… Mr Taylor… what can I – ”

“Call me George… or Geordie. Geordie’s my nickname,” he cut in.

I nodded. “Okay. So what’s the problem?”

He fell silent and just stared at me. Perhaps he was making sure that I was really who he thought I was; perhaps he was trying to figure out how to proceed.

At length he said, “If you’d rather I saw someone else, it’s not a problem. I wouldn’t make a big deal about it.”

He knew who I was all right.

I shook my head. “I don’t mind. I don’t mind treating you as a GP if you’re comfortable with that. If you’re not, I can probably arrange for you to see Dr Callaghan later this afternoon…”

He shrugged. “It makes no difference to me, to be honest. It’s not like I’d be self conscious about having you examine me…”

He chuckled and I felt myself blush at little.

I’d met George in the clothing section of our local Asda a couple of months earlier. I’d seen him in the supermarket on previous occasions – we obviously both chose to do our shopping on Friday evenings – but we hadn’t spoken or even acknowledged one another until that particular night.

I was there with my wife, Melissa, and George was with a woman who was presumably his. Melissa and I were alternating between filling and pushing the trolley and looking after the pram containing our baby daughter; George and his wife were similarly occupied with their shopping trolley and a pushchair containing a small boy.

As we walked through the clothing department, I spotted a pair of jeans that looked reasonable and mentioned to Melissa that I might try them on.

“Haven’t you got enough jeans?” she snapped.

“The last pair – my only pair – ended up with creosote on them, if you remember. That was last year.”

“Well, I was under the impression we came here to get the week’s groceries,” she snorted, pushing the trolley and the pram towards the grocery aisles. “A bit of help would be appreciated, when you’ve finished selecting a new wardrobe for yourself, that is…”

I stared after her, still holding the jeans. The smallest change in our routine seemed to really stress her out these days.

Then I heard George having a similar conversation with his wife. He wanted to try on a pair of chinos and she was going on about having to rush to do the shopping to get back in time to bathe Nathan.

After terse words similar to those from Melissa, his wife stormed off, trolley and pushchair in tow, leaving him with the trousers.

He looked at me and smiled forlornly. I nodded and smiled back. “They say the first two years are the worst,” I suggested.

“It’s not Nathan who’s the problem. I can cope pretty easily with two years of him…” he said.

I chuckled and nodded, “Yeah. I know what you mean.” We took our pairs of trousers towards the changing rooms.

He went on, “Stress levels are constantly on the ceiling. For no reason.”

I shrugged. “I guess it’s a post-childbirth thing. Things will get back to normal with a bit of time. That’s what I’m telling myself, anyway.”

The changing rooms were a pretty standard affair: a double row of small curtained cubicles leading off a narrow central walkway.

I suppose it was because we were in conversation when we entered the room – and the fact that there was no-one else in there trying anything on – that George took the cubicle opposite the one I chose and proceeded to undo the belt and fly of the scruffy jeans he was wearing without pulling the curtain across the front of his cubicle. I felt it would look a little prim to draw my own curtain so I followed his lead and started to unfasten the trousers I was wearing in front of him.

George went on, pulling down his jeans to reveal a pair of baggy maroon briefs which looked liked they’d taken too many trips through the washing machine, “She’s fine as long as I’m doing everything. If it was her wanting to try something on while I pushed Nathan around the shop, there’d be no problem with that.”

I pulled down my own trousers – the bottom half of one of my standard work suits – and was pleased that I was wearing an almost-new pair of tight-fitting white boxer briefs. I know it’s a bit immature, but I don’t like to be outdone in the underwear department. My boxers showed my bulge off quite nicely, unlike George’s briefs which sagged so badly that his balls were almost flopping out from the front of them.

I said, “I suppose it’s the feeling of having too much to do… a pushchair and a trolley are quite a handful…”

He looked over at me, and I noticed that he casually checked out the front of my underwear. “Well, it’s not that difficult, is it?”

I nodded. “It can seem difficult when tempers are frayed. Has your wife been losing a lot of sleep since giving birth?” I was trying hard to ask questions without sounding like a GP.

George shook his head and pulled on the chinos, one leg and then the other. “Nathan’s been fine. I mean, there’s been the odd difficult night, but the two of us have taken turns to get up with him. On the whole he’s been better than most kids.”

I pulled on the jeans, which I could tell already were going to be pleasantly tight around my backside. “It must be her hormones, then.” Again, I resisted the urge to become the guy’s doctor; I kept things vague instead of starting to go on about levels of oestrogen and progesterone.

He looked at himself wearing the chinos in the narrow mirror at the rear of the cubicle. He said, “They seem like a nice fit.”

I looked over at him and suggested, “I’d go for a size smaller.”

“Smaller? I’d never get them fastened.”

“It’d be worth a try. You want to show off… you know… your assets a bit.”

He laughed. “Like she’d notice!”

I smiled, fastening the jeans up. “There’s other people who might notice. If you’ve got it, you might as well show it off…”

He looked at the jeans I was wearing and I turned away from him to see how they fitted in the mirror of my own cubicle.

My arse clearly appealed to him because he laughed, “Like you are… eh?”

I turned back to face him and smiled. He kept looking at the jeans, and must have noticed how the their fit emphasized the bulge of my crotch because he jokingly wolf-whistled. Then he chuckled, “Yeah, I see what you mean. I might take your advice… see if I can find a smaller size…”

He disappeared out of the changing room and I pulled the jeans off.

While I was pulling my work trousers back on, he returned with a new pair of chinos and hurriedly got into them.

Now it was my turn to wolf-whistle.

He turned to me and grinned. I got the feeling that it had been a while since anyone had made him feel attractive, even though he quite clearly was.

I said, not knowing how he’d take it but prepared to take the risk: “Nice arse!”

He laughed.

He looked at his rear in the mirror over his shoulder. “I’d kind of forgotten I had one…”

“Well, no-one else is going to – not after seeing you in those trousers!”

He laughed again. Then he surprised with me by asking, “And what about the front? What do you think about that?”

I looked up at his face and got the first inkling of the direction that this might be leading. He was smiling but his eyes were quite serious and firmly locked onto mine.

I knew that look well: he was weighing up his chances.

Until that moment I hadn’t really thought of him as a possible sexual encounter; he’d just been another beleaguered married guy wanting a bit of male support while the wife’s back was turned. But that look on his face made me quickly reassess him.

He was a strong guy and could no doubt pack a punch when one was required – I’d have to be careful that I wasn’t misinterpreting things. But he was pretty handsome, had a pleasantly round arse inside those chinos and had a cock that – from the brief glimpse I’d got of it inside his underwear – wasn’t huge but showed some potential.

I decided it’d be worth going for it. Melissa had suggested I find a new wardrobe for myself; why not spend the time having some fun with this guy.

I said, hesitantly, “I’d need a closer look, but the front looks pretty good to me too…”

He laughed but his eyes were still firmly planted on mine.

He said, his smile fading, “How close you would you need to be?”

I shrugged. “That’s up to you, mate.” I was still all too aware of those muscles and fists of his.

Now he looked serious. “If I said I wanted you right up close…?”

I shrugged, trying to fathom his motives. “You show me where you want my face, and I’ll give you an opinion from there. How does that sound?”

He smiled a little. His expression was warm and inviting; not malicious. My instincts had been right.

He said, with a small chuckle, “Well, it’s a bit small right now, so you’d have to get up pretty close…” He put his hands in front of his crotch as though he were holding onto the head of someone giving him a blow job. “About here…”

I went into his cubicle and yanked the curtain closed behind me.

Now we both knew where we stood.

I said, “Have you done this before?”

He shook his head. “Not here.”


He shrugged. “A few different places. The toilets behind the library in town’s a good place.”

I nodded and he undid the front of his chinos. I could see that his cock was now semi-erect and was making a tent in the saggy briefs was wearing.

I kneeled down in front of him and pulled his briefs down, releasing it. It was about five inches long and the head of it, slick and sticky, was slowly emerging from his puckered foreskin.

He said, “You like giving blow jobs?”

I looked up at him. “Actually, I really like fucking guys’ arses.”

He looked a little disappointed. Like most ostensibly straight men, he clearly preferred to penetrate his male partners rather than the alternative. “We can take it in turns, then…”

I nodded. “Okay.” I turned back to face his cock and enjoyed the strong smell of it and his pubic hair: sweaty and sexual.

Then I took it in my mouth and gently sucked the stickiness from the tip of it, feeling it lengthen and stiffen inside me as I did so.

He grabbed my head and pushed my face onto him, lengthening to about seven inches as my mouth began to slide up and down his shaft.

I grabbed his arse which felt quite hairy, especially around the crack. I pushed my fingers into his cleft and felt the hot wetness around his arsehole.

He moaned.

After a couple of minutes, he pulled me upright and motioned for me to pull down my own trousers. If he’d have been gay, we might have kissed at that point; since he wasn’t, we didn’t.

He went down on my cock with an amateurish technique that involved far more of his teeth than was ideal. He clearly didn’t enjoy giving other men oral sex, but felt obliged to pay me back for pleasuring him. It seemed like he wanted me to enjoy it, the way he vigorously worked at my cock inside his mouth, but he really had no idea about how gentle he ought to be. I let him gnaw his way up and down my length for a minute or so and then pulled myself out of his mouth, thanking him for his efforts.

He looked apologetic when he saw that my cock was limper following his exertions than it had been before. He grabbed it with his right hand and gently wanked it, muttering, “I’ve never been able to get the hang of giving blow jobs.”

I said, “It’s okay. I’m just a not a big fan of them.”

His hand was far more adept at managing cocks than his mouth, and I quickly stiffened back up at the way he worked my foreskin up and down my shaft and squeezed my bell-end with his thumb.

He said, “You’ve got a nice big cock.”

I smiled. It was nearing it’s eight inch maximum size. “Try telling that to my wife. She won’t let it near her these days.”

He smiled back. “I know the feeling. Those hormones again, I suppose…”

I knelt down and fumbled to find my wallet and extract a condom from it.

He said, “Have you got any lube?”

I stood back up, tearing the wrapper open. “No. But I really like licking guys’ arseholes. If you’d be comfortable with that…?”

He shrugged. “I don’t mind. But I won’t do it to you. I’m not into that at all.”

I nodded. “Okay. Well, how about –” I paused to peer out through the curtain to check that no-one was in the changing room with us, listening to us. The room was empty.

I went on, “Sorry. I thought I heard someone. Okay – how about I’ll get your arse nice and wet with my tongue, fuck you and then we can use my cum as lube for my arse…”

He considered the proposal and then nodded seriously. It was like we were just two blokes discussing what was wrong with a car, or how best to insulate a loft; not how best we could fuck each other.

He said, “Okay. If you don’t mind licking my arsehole…?”

I grinned. “I’d love it!”

He looked a little bewildered as to how anyone could enjoy such a thing – clearly, this was quite a novel request for him – and then turned around to face the mirror, exposing his arse for me.

“You’re going to actually push your tongue up it?” he said incredulously.

I nodded, smiling. “As far as it’ll go, mate!”

His cheeks were very round and muscular. Despite being quite hairy, the skin was pale and smooth and almost free from any spots or blemishes. His cleft bristled with wiry hair: it was a line of thick fur between the two ripe cheeks of his arse.

I knelt down and applied my face to his crack, my mouth level with where I thought his hole would be. The smell of it – pungeant and earthy – was alluring.

I pushed my tongue into his crack, feeling the hairs tickle it, and swept it up and down inside the deep cleft to find his hole. The taste of him was exotic and I grabbed at my own cock to attend to its demands as I explored his most intimate area.

With my free hand, I pulled his left hip towards me and he bent lower against the mirror to give me better access to his arse.

When I found his hole – hot and moist with his sweat and his day’s work – I plunged my tongue into it, feeling it open to yield to me and then tighten around me once I was in.

I became dizzy with pleasure, devouring his backside with my lips and tongue: sucking at it, feeding on it, moistening it.

The taste was rich and overpowering; the smell raw and masculine. I was breathing heavily against him as I penetrated him – in and out, in and out – over and over again.

Then I yanked the condom down my shaft and stood up behind him.

I was pleased to see that he was breathing heavily himself and that his face was almost as red as I knew mine would be. He turned to me and, over his shoulder, said, “Jesus, mate. That felt fantastic…”

I smiled, knowing that I had hairs from his arse-crack on my teeth.

I said, breathlessly, holding my cock at his slickened entrance, “You ready for its big brother, then?”

He nodded. “Go for it.”

And I eased my cock into him; going slowly at first to allow him to get used to my girth and then speeding up when his anus had accepted the intrusion and his rectum had widened to accommodate me.

I know he didn’t enjoy me fucking him because his cock stayed steadfastly limp throughout. I tried reaching round and playing with it several times and in different ways, but he clearly felt so little pleasure from what my cock was doing inside his bowels that any attempt to rouse his own was pointless.

Nevertheless, he acted like he was loving every second, making gasping and grunting noises and telling me to do it harder and more roughly. He even helped me out by following my rhythm with his arse, pushing against me to meet every thrust I made.

I grabbed him close to me, holding firmly onto his chest as my hips bucked against his. I heard my balls slapping against his larger pair as my cock slid in and out of him, and I felt his cock flopping around against his thighs and his stomach.

I came with a grunt and whimper, as I often do, and filled the condom with the pent-up semen of a fortnight or so.

When I’d withdrawn myself and was pulling the condom off, and he was wiping his arse with a rag from the pocket of his jeans, I noticed the time.

I said, “Look, I’m not welshing on you, but my wife will be wondering what the hell’s happened to me.”

He looked a little angry. “Come on, mate. We agreed. Your turn, then mine.”

“Yeah, and you can have your turn another time. I’ve seen you in here before and no doubt we’ll see each other again…”

He shook his head. “You agreed, mate. You can’t just do this –”

As if on cue, Melissa’s voice called into the changing room from outside. “Are you in there, Sebastian? What the hell’s been keeping you…”

I shrugged helplessly at George and then called back to her, “Yeah… I’m just on my way… I couldn’t find a size that would fit, that’s all…”

George looked angry with me but he nodded to acquiesce that I really had no alternative but to leave.

He probably heard Melissa scolding me as we walked away from the changing rooms: “You’ve been in there nearly half an hour. And what’s that funny smell on you –”

And now here he was sitting in front of me in my surgery, grinning.

I said, “So what brought you to see a doctor?”

“My knee’s been hurting for nearly a week. I think I must have twisted something playing football…”

I nodded. “Do you want to roll the leg of your trousers up?”

He stood up. “It’s probably easier if I take them off. They’re a bit tight, you know…”

He smiled and I chuckled.

He pulled off his shoes and then yanked down his trousers. He was wearing a pair of green briefs this time, but their condition was no better than the pair he’d worn in Asda.

I felt his knee joint and found that most of the problem was due to bruising.

After I’d told him and recommended painkillers until the inflammation had subsided, he said, “And… er… I think you owe me something, don’t you?”

I’d wondered how he’d get around to this.

I said, “You probably won’t believe it, but I looked for you in Asda. I just never saw you again.”

He nodded. “I saw you at the tills once, but I couldn’t exactly come over and speak to you.”

“So what do you want to do? Can we arrange a time and a place or something?”

“What’s wrong with now?”

I looked around the surgery and laughed. “This is hardly ideal, is it?”

He shrugged. “I don’t see why not. The door’s got a lock on it, hasn’t it?”

“Well, yeah, but –”

“And the windows are frosted.”

“I’ve got someone else due in here in… er…” I looked at the clock. “Well, five minutes ago, actually…”

He smiled. “So I’ll be quick.”

I thought about it and nodded. We both knew that he could kick up quite a fuss about the conduct of a GP. I’d have to lie about why he’d been in here so long; have to say that there’d been complications with the strain to his knee.

I locked the door and then went to remove my white jacket, but he said, “You can leave that on.”

He was rubbing the front of his briefs, trying to rouse his cock into a state of arousal.

I asked him, “You like the idea of screwing your doctor, then?”

“I’d prefer it if you were my woman doctor, obviously, but there’s something kind of interesting about the thought of fucking you over your desk with your white coat on…”

I smiled and found a condom and some lubricant in one of my drawers.

Then, seeing that he was now almost fully hard, I handed the condom to him and starting unfastening my trousers.

He said, glancing down at his cock, “Do you wanna give it a quick suck before I fuck you? Like you did that night…”

I grinned. “You’re pushing it, Mr Taylor, do you know that? But yes, okay. For keeping you waiting so long…”

I knelt in front of him and pulled down his briefs. The smell of his cock was, again, intoxicating. It was so raw and natural: he obviously hadn’t expected for the prospect of sex to arise today.

I feasted on his cock for a couple of minutes, sucking it to its maximum size and then teasing it with my tongue and my lips; pleasuring it and then withholding pleasure in equal doses.

When he could take no more, he pushed me away from him, gestured for me to turn around, and quickly slid the condom down his wet and pulsating cock.

I yanked down my trousers, applied a generous gob of lube around my arsehole, and bent over my desk.

Jesus, if anyone were to come in…

He hitched up the back of my white jacket and my shirt, kicked my feet so that my legs were spread more widely apart, and then forced his cock into me. His anal technique was similar to the oral one he’d used on my cock in the changing room: rough and hurried. He grabbed my hips, held them firmly, and then thrust away at my backside with a fast, frantic rhythm. His hips made loud slapping sounds against my buttocks and his cock would occasionally slide out of me and I’d fart, but he didn’t seem to mind.

My response to his actions was the same as it usually is when I’ve agreed to have another guy fuck me: initial disbelief that I’m allowing someone to do this to me; intense pain during the first few thrusts; then gradual acceptance of the intrusion into my bowels; followed by rapidly growing pleasure at the sensations inside me. My cock was soon as hard as rock and I was masturbating it to the same rhythm of George’s cock in and out of me.

He hadn’t lied when he said he wouldn’t take long: a mere three or four minutes into fucking me at that fast, constant, rate, he abruptly shuddered, grunted and then I felt his hot seed filling the condom inside me. He’d been pretty desperate: clearly his wife had continued to ration sex as much as mine had.

I quickly finished myself off, spewing my mess onto the desk in front of me, as George withdrew from me and pulled the condom from his cock which still arched eagerly upward.

When I’d finished, I turned around to find him grinning at me. “I might start visiting the doctor more often…”

I smiled. “Well, we’re even now. Next time, I get to have a say in what we do, okay?”

He nodded. “And if you ever see me in Asda, how about I give you a nod and we meet up in the gents or something?”

I nodded, tucking my cock back into my boxer briefs. “Sounds fine by me.”

Then, hitching his trousers back up, he hesistantly added, “There’s nothing in this, you know?”

“What do you mean?” I said, pulling my own trousers up.

“This is just a bit of fun, isn’t it? Nothing serious…”

I nodded. “Of course. It’s just… well… a ‘hobby’, I guess.”

He smiled. “Yeah. I can cope with that. Every guy needs a hobby, after all…”

I chuckled, watching him zip himself up and fasten his belt. I was going to have to think of some way of getting rid of the smell of our sex before my next patient arrived.

As he turned to leave, he said, “I like knowing who you are, but… you know… I wouldn’t do anything to mess things up for you… you know that…”

I nodded. “Thanks.”

Then he winked at me, grinned again, and left.


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