22nd August 2006: This story came about because of numerous requests for me to write a story with just Sebastian in it enjoying some ‘me-time’. It didn’t quite work out like that, but that was the original plan!

Home Alone

Every week my wife Melissa very kindly grants me an evening to myself to, as she thinks, catch up on paperwork from the surgery, watch a few of what she calls my boring-old-fart programmes on TV or just do a little quiet reading.

She goes over to visit her parents and drops our daughter Beth off, heads off to her night class and then comes back home after collecting Beth. She’s taken all sorts of courses over the last couple of years: Sign Language for Beginners, Thai Cookery, Essentials of Plumbing and, one which I heartily encouraged, Anger Management.

What I get up to during my Melissa-free evenings rarely involves paperwork, television or quiet reading, though. Indeed, quite often I spend my ‘night alone’ very much not alone.

You see, I regard my weekly night of freedom as an opportunity to give way to certain temptations that I (usually!) manage to keep locked away the rest of the time. Melissa can have me all to herself six nights a week – not that she seems to want to take advantage of that prospect these days – but on the seventh night, I think it’s healthy for me to have a change; to try something a little different.

I find myself looking forward to it. I’ve sometimes worried that patients might catch me grinning at an inappropriate moment during surgery as I’m contemplating how I might be going to spend this week’s evening of supposed solitude. I regularly have to fasten up my white medical jacket to conceal the erection which almost invariably develops as I count the hours down and wonder what I might get up to this particular week.

The anticipation is usually far more exciting than the event, as so often happens in life, but there’s always a chance, every week, that this week is going to be a good one.

At the moment, my evening of fun happens on a Thursday. Melissa busies herself learning relaxation techniques which don’t seem to work terribly well, giving me until about half past ten to enjoy myself in whatever way I choose.

You may not believe it, but my little ‘hobby’, if I can call it that, started off rather by accident. Melissa had gone over to her parents’ and I was spending a few hours on the internet, searching for random stuff as the mood took me.

We hadn’t been married long but already Melissa was starting to show that she was growing bored of having sex with me: I often wonder, actually, how genuinely she ever enjoyed it. She was coming down with almost nightly headaches and her period pains could go on for weeks. I seemed to be requesting sex, or trying to contrive ways to interest her in sex, on a basis she felt was unreasonably frequent.

I must have typed “men’s briefs” or something similar into Google, hoping to find something I could wear as a surprise to relight Melissa’s interest in me.

A opened up a site which showed a dark haired athletic-looking young guy wearing a pair of beautifully-fitting white briefs. My eyes lingered for a few seconds on his very well-equipped bulge. I liked it: partly in the sense of wanting to look as good as he did in a similar state of attire, but also just for the sake of how attractive he looked; how sexy he looked.

I clicked on the “Next” arrow, assuming I’d see another guy wearing just his underwear.

Instead, I got a picture of the same guy from behind, grinning over his shoulder and seductively pulling his briefs down to show off his arse. He had a really nice-looking arse with firm, round cheeks.

I felt my cock beginning to stir in my trousers. This was kind of interesting!

I clicked “Next” again and this time the guy had taken off his briefs and was showing off his semi-erect cock. It was a gorgeous thing: thick and long, with its large shiny helmet fully exposed.

He had a cheeky grin on his face. He was cute and well-hung and Christ did he know it!

I clicked “Next” again, rubbing my own lengthening cock through my trousers, and got another picture of him, this time with his cock at full-mast. It had quite a few prominent veins running down its hard shaft and the purple head of it looked ripe enough to burst.

He was grinning more broadly, clearly enjoying being photographed showing off his extremely hot-looking cock.

Another click of “Next” revealed him from behind again, this time bending forwards to expose his tiny puckered arsehole with his balls dangling between his legs. He was looking back towards the camera, still smiling but looking a little less confident than he had when he’d been flaunting his cock.

I imagined fucking him in that position. He’d need working open with a couple of fingers and a hell of a lot of spit first, but he looked like the kind of guy who’d soon be enjoying it.

I glanced at my watch and realised I had at least half an hour before Melissa was due back from her parents. I thought I might as well take the opportunity to have a bit of solitary fun now that it had presented itself.

I pulled my cock out from my trousers and briefs and wanked myself slowly, enjoying the rest of the photo set showing the athletic-looking guy. There was a beautiful shot of him cumming, with a arc of white semen shooting out from his plum-like bell-end and an expression of amused surprise on his face. Then another nice shot of him wiping himself with his briefs, obviously laughing at some quip made by the cameraman.

I was surprised at how easy it was to find similar stuff and enjoyed several more sets of young men revealing their cocks and arses, and masturbating and climaxing for the camera.

Several young guys came to my surgery every week and had to undress for me, but this was so much better. Not only was I guaranteed to see the guys’ erections, a rarity in the surgery, but I was able to stare at their bodies and appreciate every detail for as long as I wanted to, instead of having to feign professional disinterest.

I was whacking myself to my own climax with a picture of a blond guy’s splayed arsehole on the screen as I heard Melissa unlocking the front door. I hurriedly cleaned myself up as she switched on the kettle and shouted up the stairs demanding to know what I’d been doing.

A few days later, I’d suggested the idea of having some time on my own on a regular basis.

She’d said, snappily, “You get enough time on your own, Sebastian! You get every Sunday afternoon to write those stories you don’t let me see!”

“Not every Sunday afternoon. I only get those when you have nothing planned for us.”

She’d humphed crossly and so I’d continued, “And anyway, it’s not like I’m on my own – you’re just downstairs. And it’s not like I’m able to relax – I’ve told you before, I’m just writing a sort of… er… diary.”

She looked unconvinced.

I went on, desperately, “I’ve felt so much better these last few days – much less tense. And you know how I get when I’m tense – coming onto you for sex all the time. Well, it’s been so much better since having that time alone… I haven’t had to bother you at all…”

It was true; she couldn’t deny that. Since I’d wanked off looking at the pictures of guys on the internet, and had a couple more discrete tugs in the shower in the interim, my interest in Melissa’s charms seemed to have waned.

She considered what I’d said. “I thought it was supposed to work the other way with men. Isn’t tension supposed to make you less aroused?”

I shrugged. “Yeah, I’ve heard that. But maybe it doesn’t work like that with me.”

She nodded suspiciously, clearly drawn toward the idea of having me more chaste for the sake of a few hours on my own. I’d backed her into a corner and she knew it.

“Well, I suppose I could take up evening classes or something. I’ve been meaning to learn a language.”

I nodded enthusiastically. “That’s a great idea!”

And so that’s how it had started.

The following week I was back on the web, finding pictures not only of good-looking guys showing off their cocks and arses, but of guys posing together and even playing around together.

One of the first sets I came across showing two guys together claimed they were brothers; the two lads did, indeed, look rather alike. They were posing as if for a family portrait; their stance was awkward and their smiles forced. Had they been fully clothed, the photo was the sort of thing you might see on someone’s mantelpiece; their nudity gave the shot a surreal and mildly humourous quality.

The guy who was taller, and possibly slightly older, had the larger cock. His bell-end was very bulbous and his foreskin seemed unable to cover it completely. The younger lad’s cock wasn’t so mushroom-shaped and the tip of his foreskin formed a puckered nozzle at the end of it.

I looked at few more photos in the same set in which the guys posed in different positions, revealing their pale, slightly spotty, arses as well as their cocks. I noticed that the older brother’s cock developed noticeably as the shoot went on and, although he didn’t become erect, his cock became excited enough to grow thicker and rather longer. His foreskin retracted gradually back until the pale red head of his cock was almost fully exposed.

I was disappointed that the lads didn’t touch each other in any sexual way. The younger guy was obviously rather shy about showing his body off, but the older one looked like he enjoyed it and I wondered if he might have been up for taking things a little further with his younger brother if things had gone differently.

I hoped that the shoot would end with the two of them wanking together, but the final shot showed them from behind, trying to smile back at the camera which was level with their arse cheeks.

Although I was aroused by the pictures of the two brothers, and a few similar series on the same site, I soon stumbled across photos of guys who were more than happy to touch one another, and usually a lot more than that, and these were the ones that had me unzipping my fly and moving my mouse across to my left hand.

I enjoyed seeing guys masturbating each other; especially younger guys. I think the vast majority of lads, at some point during their teens, end up wanking a mate off. As an early experiment in giving someone else pleasure, it’s always seemed to me an important step in a guy’s developing sexual awareness, no matter what his sexuality ultimately turns out to be.

So I liked looking at those and seeing the expressions on the lads’ faces as the cock being wanked finally exploded.

I also enjoyed the occasional shots that I came across of guys fingering their arseholes or, better still, having another lad finger them while they masturbated themselves. I’ve always seen anal fingering in men as being woefully under-appreciated and was pleased to see that the act received at least some attention on the internet.

Pictures of men sucking each other’s cocks were, of course, easy to find and had me wanking quite happily. Guys take to cock sucking so quickly and naturally compared to women that it wasn’t surprising to find even guys who were apparently “straight” (as the sites claimed) getting down to it like pros.

I also enjoyed shots showing a guy with his face in his mate’s arse. Although it usually wasn’t easy to see what was going on between them, the fact that what they were doing looked so sordid and taboo was seriously arousing.

I was especially fascinated, though, by pictures showing anal sex between two men, especially when the guy being fucked remained fully erect while being penetrated, and was surprised at how beautiful some of the photos appeared, even though they were explicitly pornographic.

That first night, my cock was given one of the best workouts it had had in months!

A few weeks later, I came across a usergroup of other men, some of whom seemed to regard themselves as being straight like me, who enjoyed pictures of naked guys and spent a few evenings chatting online with them and exchanging photos. To my surprise, one of the members of the group turned out to live locally and I agreed to meet him on one of Melissa’s evenings out.

He was called Edward and he was rather older than me, probably heading rapidly towards forty although he claimed to be in his early thirties.

We met in a park near to where I live – neither of us felt confident enough to give out his address or even a phone number – and chatted about why married men, as we both were, might find other guys’ naked bodies so attractive. Edward didn’t have issues with it and didn’t see his interest in males as threatening either his marriage or his image of himself as being heterosexual. He saw it simply as being something he now felt because he hadn’t experimented with other boys when he’d been in his teens and so regarded it as a natural, though secret, addition to complement his marital sex life.

I liked his reasoning and admired the way he was so at ease with himself. I’d been feeling a little awkward about going behind my wife’s back to look at gay pictures and sex, but Edward’s relaxed manner and apparent comfort with having a dual sexuality seemed to rub off on me.

As we talked, it became clear that neither of us had any intention of having sex together, which I was pleased about because I’d worried that Edward might view our meeting as a means of setting up some kind of regular arrangement together. Edward said that he’d simply wanted to meet me because some of the questions I’d asked on the usergroup about whether it was right for a married guy to be looking at this stuff reminded him of the feelings he’d had about five years earlier and so had wanted to meet with me to talk things through.

I was appreciative of his kindness and told him I’d found his opinions very helpful.

As we were parting and it was getting dark, Edward gestured over at a small brick building a few hundreds yards from us in the corner of the park.

He said, smiling, “Of course, if you want to see the real thing, you could always visit the toilets over there…”

“Toilets?”

He nodded. “There’s always stuff going on. Especially at this time of night.”

“Are they safe?”

He shrugged. “As safe as these things can be, I suppose. Occasionally, the police put warning notices up, but I’ve never heard of any trouble.”

I stared over at the building, intrigued. I hadn’t realised such a place was right on my doorstep.

As I watched, a guy wearing motorcycling gear came out from the toilets and walked over to his bike which he’d parked on the roadside. He got on it, put on his helmet, revved it up and drove off.

Needless to say, my next few ‘evenings alone’ saw me going out for short walks to the local park!

I realised though, as quickly as on the way back from my meeting with Edward, that, as a supposedly upstanding GP, I couldn’t afford to take any risks that might land me in difficulties. I could foresee newspaper headlines like “GP caught examining builder in public toilet” and the malicious merriment that my arrest would muster in the local, and possibly national, media.

So I decided that I would treat the toilets like I had the internet and simply enjoy watching men having sex together without getting involved in anything myself. After all, a guy couldn’t be arrested for just happening to notice other guys having sex (over the top of a cubicle partition while standing on the toilet bowl), could he?

Unfortunately, things didn’t turn out as I’d imagined they would.

First of all, I’d underestimated the amount of interest I’d get from attractive-looking guys in the toilets. As a tall(ish) blond guy in his late twenties, I could hardly step into the building without getting guys gesturing for me to follow them into a cubicle or whispering to me to find out what kind of stuff I liked doing.

And the second problem was that I’d vastly overestimated my own ability to control the demands of my cock.

On my first couple of visits to the toilets, I managed to resist getting involved with any of the stuff going on in there. I’d just peer through a hole in the cubicle wall or, when I was sure it was safe to do so, over the partition, and enjoy watching guys doing things together that I’d developed a taste for on the internet. Guys would invite me in with them, either to pair up or for a threesome, but I’d manage to politely decline.

After half an hour or so of furtive voyeurism, I’d sneak back home with the images I’d seen of men cramped together in the cubicles, trousers around their ankles, and enjoy a prolonged wank on me and my wife’s double bed.

On my third or fourth visit, though, the urge to have a little fun myself became too strong.

A young guy was wanking in the cubicle next to mine, and when I looked over the top of the partition at him, he’d whispered up at me, “Let me suck your cock.”

He looked about eighteen and had quite bad acne; I guessed that he probably attended the local college. He was tall and thin and was wearing a pair of small specs. His cock looked about five inches long and the shaft of it was quite thin.

I liked the idea of being sucked by a guy ten years younger than me and the fact that my cock was so much bigger than his. He looked far too young and his offer seemed far too genuine for him to be a cop, so I agreed to let him into my cubicle.

He sucked my cock with confidence and expertise: he was obviously well-practiced in the art, presumably from a wealth of previous visits to the same or similar toilets. He wanked my foreskin with his lips while he used his tongue to tickle the sensitive underside of my oozing bell-end.

I unbuttoned my trousers and yanked them down a little to give him better access, and he began caressing my balls with his delicate fingers. Then he pushed my briefs down further to rub a finger along the hairy ridge underneath my balls before moving further to draw circles around my arsehole.

I was loving it! Melissa wouldn’t even dream of doing anything like this to me!

He withdrew from me abruptly and stared up at my face for a few seconds.

Before I could say, “Jesus, mate, you really need a course of antibiotics for that skin,” he roughly grabbed my hips to turn me around and then plunged his face into my backside.

I felt his tongue teasing my arsehole, wetting it and licking around it, and I began wanking my cock – which felt so large and hard that it was aching – with short, frantic strokes.

Apart from the sensation of his tongue touching my most intimate, sensitive spot, I was really turned on by seeing the lad wanking his own cock as he knelt between my splayed legs. The fact that he’d be so aroused pressing his mouth between my arse-cheeks to have to masturbate almost as quickly as I was, was hugely exciting.

I glanced up to see that we were being watched by another guy over the top of the partition. I’d seen the same guy a couple of weeks earlier – he was Mediterranean-looking and probably in his mid-twenties – and knew that he enjoyed being fucked.

The idea of inviting him in to join us and of fucking him while the young lad was eating my arse sprung into my mind, but I almost instantly started shooting gobs of cum against the wall in front of me.

I think the two of them had coupled up after I’d cleaned up and left.

Over the following few days, I gave a lot of thought to what I’d done in the toilet cubicle with the young lad that evening – and not only to replay it for recreational purposes. It dawned on me how great a risk I’d taken to have sex with a stranger in a place that was such an obvious target for the police or for queer-bashers.

It was too late to try and forget that the toilets existed, I realised that, but I was going to have to be a lot more careful.

I toyed with the idea of meeting guys through the internet and bringing them home with me for sex, but that seemed even more risky than the toilets. After all, I’d have no idea how seedy the guy I’d arranged to meet might turn out to be – photos and descriptions can be very misleading – and what if one of them was to return to my house when Melissa was at home?

No – the internet idea was out of the question.

I decided, then, that I’d pick guys up in the toilets and have sex with them somewhere else that was a lot safer.

The first night I returned to them, a weasly-looking guy in his forties peered over the partition wall to watch me wanking in my cubicle and I asked him, in low whispers, if he fancied taking a walk in the park adjoining the toilet block.

He nodded and we went for a short walk. He told me that he worked for the university – I don’t know if I believed him – and then we found some bushes which seemed to offer us quite a lot of privacy. He sucked my cock quite affectionately – kissing it and murmuring at it – and then I fucked him with him bending over a low-hanging branch.

He thanked me afterward – which struck me as quaintly polite – and we went our separate ways.

Over the following few months, I devised a series of rules to help protect myself during my evenings out. That’s not to say I spent every week prowling the park toilets: if the weather wasn’t up to much, or I felt tired or something, I’d stay in and browse the internet. I’d also managed to discretely acquire a few DVDs which had all-male themes and so some weeks could tell Melissa, in all-honesty, that I’d spent an enjoyable evening in front of the television on her return from her night class.

First of all, I kept away from guys who looked too young and pretty to be looking for sex in a toilet. Apart from the fact that I soon found that they rarely allowed themselves to be fucked – an activity which I soon came to regard as a necessity – someone once tipped me off that a few of them could be ‘plants’, and I don’t think he meant in the green sense.

Second, I kept a good supply of condoms on me. It seemed that whenever I would run out, there’d suddenly be whole armies of hot-looking guys desperate to be fucked without a single johnnie between them.

Third, to invite a guy back to my house – which I’d do occasionally, especially during the summer months in which the park wasn’t a safe option – I’d have to be sure that he was looking only for a one-off sexual encounter with me (so no danger of return visits) and that he preferred to be fucked rather than to do the fucking.

I had a nasty experience, early on, with a guy who had arms as thick as tree-trunks and a chest like concrete. I guess he was a bricklayer or something.

He was about my age, wore a wedding ring I noticed, and on the way back to my place said he liked, as he put it, “being bummed.”

His idea of what being bummed entailed turned out to be widely different from mine, and he ended up, after just a few minutes of half-hearted wanking and cock-sucking, fucking me relentlessly for nearly two hours with one of the biggest, thickest cocks I’ve ever seen.

I was still cleaning up when Melissa got home and had to think quickly of ways to explain the puddle of lube on the dining room table, the fingerprints all over the top of the glass coffee-table where I’d been bending over it, and the small odd-coloured blood stain on the white fabric of the sofa. Fortunately, she didn’t ask why I was walking so uncomfortably.

So from then on, I’d question guys almost neurotically on their sexual preferences before offering them to come over to mine. That’s not to say that I never get fucked – if the mood takes me, I sometimes kind of enjoy it – but I have to be sure that I’m not going to get split in two when I do so.

I’d say about half of my ‘nights alone’ these days involve a visit to the park toilets. Sometimes I go swimming at the local pool because I discovered that the changing rooms offer quite a few opportunities to pick up guys late in the evenings. Or sometimes I stay in.

Occasionally a guy called Malcolm will phone me at work and he’ll come over in the evening for one of his ‘visits’. Malcolm is a couple of years older than me and I think he’s a bank manager, but we don’t say much about our everyday lives. He used to be a regular in the toilets and the two of us had a few sessions in the park bushes. After we’d found that our tastes were very – how shall I put it – complementary, I asked him back home with me and we began meeting up for sex on an occasional basis.

It turned out that Malcolm’s wife worked late nights and he’d developed his taste for same-sex encounters simply because, as he put it, “it’s easier to hook up with a man than a woman”.

Our routine is fairly predictable, but I kind of enjoy that.

He comes over, we make a little small talk while I pour the two of us a glass of wine, and then we head upstairs to the spare room. We undress, making more small talk, and then get onto the bed together. We wank each other a little and then take turns to suck each other off. At some point, I’ll turn him over and rim him – he’s always fastidiously clean – and then pull on a condom and fuck him. He’ll take it for a while, sort of half-enjoying it, and then pull away from me and ask me to suck him again.

If I notice his glass is empty, I’ll offer him a refill and he’ll usually accept it. Sometimes he’ll take a swig of it and say something like, “Lovely vintage this, Sebastian. French is it?” while my face is buried in his arse or I’m sucking his cock, and I’ll murmur an appropriate response while trying to keep up my rhythm.

Occasionally he’ll ask to fuck me, and I’ll let him because his cock is quite a nice fit, but he says – and I don’t take it personally – that he doesn’t like the smell of anal sex and so he doesn’t ask for it very often.

Usually I come inside him while I’m having one of my turns at fucking him and then he’ll pull off me and wank himself to climax while I play with his balls.

We clean up, making more small talk and asking about each other’s wives and kids, and then I see him out.

He’s a nice guy: he adores his wife but just happens to enjoy sex far more than she’s willing to give it. So he uses me, and I use him, and we’re both pretty happy with that.

I once asked Malcolm if he had any other guys who he paid ‘visits’ to.

He’d nodded. “A student I meet over in Headingley and a guy in Beeston; I think he’s a plumber.”

“Do you do the same sort of stuff with them as with me?”

He’d shrugged. “The student is a lot more affectionate with me. Likes to kiss and cuddle. I’m getting a bit worried about him, actually. The plumber is pretty much the same as you. Likes anal sex.”

I’d smiled. “Maybe the four of us should get together some time?”

He’d shook his head, looking like he’d been expecting the suggestion. “I prefer to keep things like this, if you don’t mind. Nice and simple.”

I’d nodded, thinking that perhaps he had a good point.

A month or so later, cleaning up in the bathroom after sex, he’d asked me if I had any other regular ‘visitors’.

I’d pulled the condom from my cock and wrapped it in toilet paper to be slyly disposed of. Malcolm was wiping his arse.

I’d said, “I sometimes pick guys up in the loos or at the swimming pool.”

He’d thrown the toilet paper into the toilet bowl and then pulled a few more sheets from the roll to wipe the beads of semen from his chest and stomach.

He’d said, “Well, you need to be careful.”

I nodded. “I know.”

He went on, cleaning his spent cock with the paper, “It’s better to meet the same people regularly. Much safer.”

“But that would take away most of the fun.”

He’d smiled and nodded. “Well, be sure to be careful.”

He’s right: I do need to be more careful.

Melissa became suspicious about a month ago when she’d phoned up at about nine o’clock to ask me to record some programme on the television for her and had noticed that I was a little breathless when I was talking to her.

She’d asked, “What are you doing, Sebastian? Why are you panting?”

“I just ran downstairs to get to the phone. I’m just a little out of breath from that…”

She’d done one of her ‘hmmm’s and suggested that I ought to start going to the swimming pool more regularly if I was finding running down the stairs so onerous.

I had actually been to the pool that same night. In fact, Melissa had phoned right in the middle of me having a secondary-school teacher who’d I’d met in the changing rooms ride my cock on the kitchen table.

I’d said, “That’s a really good idea. I think I’ll do that.”

She’d hung up and I’d returned to kitchen to see what else the teacher could teach me.

Over the next couple of weeks, I’d half-expected her to surprise me by returning home early on some pretence to try and catch me in the act. I turned Malcolm down when he requested a visit, envisaging Melissa bursting in on us in the spare room: taking a break from lighting incense sticks and sniffing aromatherapy oils to come flailing through the door, wild-eyed and snarling.

But she didn’t so I guess she’d accepted my rather unconvincing excuse.

One of these days, though, I’m going to get caught out. I know that I will – it’s obvious – but until then I’m just going to enjoy my ‘night alone’ while I can.

 

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