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Whew! Doc has some anger issues.

Hey guys, I just want to say thank you to everyone who commented. Your reactions, encouragement, and thoughtful words genuinely inspired me to continue. I hope the next part lives up to your expectations. I always appreciate hearing whether you liked it… 😊 Part 10: The STD Clinic's 'Good News' and a Doctor's Toxic Confession The days after the hotel with Mark are a slow-motion torture of hope and disappointment. You don't feel changed. You don't feel converted. You expected something—a profound shift, a physical marker, the "fuck flu" you'd read about in hushed, excited tones online. You monitor yourself meticulously, a daily ritual of self-betrayal. You take your temperature in the morning, check your lymph nodes in the mirror, searching for the slightest sign of swelling, the faintest flush of fever. Nothing. Each day that passes with your body maddeningly normal is another spike of crushing disappointment. The reality is that conversion is silent, invisible, and utterly indifferent to your desperate, pathetic need for proof. You scour the forums again, this time not for thrills, but for reassurance. "It can take weeks," one post says. "Some people never get the flu," another offers, a cold comfort that feels more like a curse. The waiting becomes a form of purgatory. The intimate, ritualistic act with Mark, which was supposed to be the culmination, now feels like it might have been just another hollow fantasy. Eventually, you can't stand it anymore. It has been more than a month since the hotel breeding session with Mark. The uncertainty is worse than any negative result. You have to know. You drive back to the STD clinic, a place that now feels less like a source of shame and more like the only confessional that can offer you absolution or damnation. In the waiting room, you're a different man from the one who sat here before. You're not here to prevent a possibility; you're here to confirm a prayer. You pray you don't get the young doctor. You don’t want to be lectured by a boy who could easily be your son. You want a stranger, someone neutral, a detached clinician who will just draw your blood and read the results. But of course, it's him. Your name is called. You follow him down the same stark white corridor, and he gestures you into the same small, windowless office. "Back for your check-up, I assume," he says, not looking up from the file. "Your PEP pills empty?" "Yeah," you lie, the word feeling like sandpaper in your throat. "Bottle's empty." He nods, satisfied. "Good. We'll do a rapid test today for some immediate peace of mind, and send the full serology to the lab. The results will not be definitive, but this should give us a strong indicator." He prepares the blood draw, his movements practiced and cold. He fills a vial, then uses a small dropper to place a drop of your blood onto a small plastic cassette. "Alright," he says, setting a timer. "Fifteen minutes. We'll call you back in." You walk out of the office and back into the waiting room and sit. Your bladder stirs, a dull, insistent pressure from the water you drank while waiting. You need to piss. You scan the waiting room, a purgatory of shared secrets. A young guy, maybe twenty, sits with his knees pressed together, chewing his fingernails, his face a mask of pure terror. You peg him as a scare, probably a broken condom. He's praying for a negative. Across from him, a burly, tattooed man in a dirty tank top scrolls on his phone, looking bored. He's here for his routine check-up, you think. He already has his answer. In the corner, a handsome man in a suit that costs more than your car stares at a fixed point on the wall, his jaw tight. He's the classic closet case, probably here every three months after a lunch-break hookup at the club downtown. He's praying his wife doesn't find the clinic number on his phone bill. Each of them is a story, a potential carrier, a fellow traveler. You look at the burly, tattooed man and imagine him breeding the scared kid with a poz load that would make the boy's terror turn to tears of joy. You picture the man in the suit on his knees in a back alley, worshipping the anonymous, toxic cock of a stranger he'll never see again. You wonder which of them holds the gift you so desperately crave, which one would be merciful enough to share it. You think of your husband, at work right now, probably oblivious. He has no idea you're here. He has no idea you know about his own bugchasing activities at the local cruising grounds. The need to piss becomes too much. You get up and walk to the men's restroom. Inside, the air is thick with the sterile smell of disinfectant trying and failing to mask the underlying odor of piss and anxiety. You step into the stall at the back, unzip, and let go, the stream a welcome relief. As you stand there, your eyes drift to the graffiti on the tiled wall dividing the stalls. Amid the crude drawings and phone numbers for cheap lays, one symbol stands out, freshly scratched and aggressive: a biohazard symbol. Below it, a mobile phone number is etched into the grout. You stare at it, your mind momentarily forgetting the test, the doctor, everything. It feels like a sign, a secret invitation left just for you. You finish, shake off, and zip up. You wash your hands, catching your own reflection in the mirror—pale, anxious, and desperate. You return to the waiting room and finally take a seat. The minutes crawl by. Fifteen minutes pass. The nurse hasn't called your name. Twenty. Thirty. The longer you wait, the more your anxiety begins to curdle and twist. The initial fear of a positive result slowly morphs into a sick, excited certainty. They're keeping you this long because the test was positive. The doctor is preparing, maybe even calling in a counselor. This is it. The good news. You're not scared anymore. You're practically vibrating with anticipation, a prayer of thanks on your lips for the gift you're about to receive. Finally, after thirty-seven agonizing minutes, your name is called. When the nurse calls your name again, you follow her back to the same office. The doctor is holding the test cassette, a single, stark line visible in the results window. "Negative," he says, his voice flat, professional, a small, reassuring smile playing on his lips. He's happy to give you the "good" news. "The rapid test is negative. As expected. The full panel will confirm, but you can breathe easy." The word hits you like a physical blow. Negative. All that hope, all that sick excitement, curdles into a vast, crushing disappointment. You feel the blood drain from your face. He looks at you, expecting to see a wave of relief wash over your face. He expects gratitude. He sees nothing. You feel nothing but a hollow, crushing void. Your expression is a blank wall. He frowns slightly, leaning forward. "You're not relieved," he says. It's not a question. "Why aren't you relieved? Did you want it to be positive?" His directness is a slap. You can't answer. You just stare at the desk. "Look at me," he says, his voice losing its clinical softness, gaining an edge. "You came back here. You were praying for a positive result, weren't you? That's why you're not relieved. Tell me about the fantasy. Is it the risk? The [banned word]? Do you get off on the idea of being sick? Help me understand what makes a man throw away a life-saving medication." "Answer me," he presses, his voice gaining an edge. "Did you take the PEP? You told me the bottle was empty." "I flushed them," you confess, the words barely a whisper. "I flushed them down the toilet the day I got home." The silence that follows is absolute and terrifying. When he finally moves, it's with a sudden, violent energy. He shoves his chair back, the legs scraping against the floor with a screech. He stands, pacing the small space like a caged animal. Even in his rage, he's magnificent. The anger flushes his chest, making the thin fabric of his scrubs cling to his sculpted torso. His power is palpable, a raw, dominant energy that makes your own cock ache with need. "You flushed them?" he roars. "I gave you a get-out-of-jail-free card! A goddamn miracle of modern medicine, and you flushed it? Are you insane? Do you have any idea what you've done? You think this is some hot fantasy? You think living with this is a fucking turn-on?" He stops pacing, right in front of you, his hands gripping the edge of his desk, leaning into your space. This is it—the exact same position he was in when he lectured you before, but this time the air is thick with his personal rage. "You have no fucking clue," he spits, his voice cracking with a pain so raw it's almost unbearable. "You think I stand here and lecture you from some ivory tower of health? I'm poz. I'm fucking toxic." The word hangs in the air between you, a bomb detonating in the small room. Your eyes widen. "My partner," he continues, his voice cracking. "He fucked around behind my back. Constantly. Unprotected. Never getting tested, bringing home every bug he could find. He didn't care. He got infected, didn't know. Gave it to me. The man I loved. He's gone. And I'm left with this. This life sentence." He taps his chest, a sharp, angry gesture. "And the meds? The insomnia, the anxiety, the cognitive fog... I can't think straight. The nausea and abdominal cramps are so bad I can't keep food down for days. So I stop. I've been off meds for over two years, just monitoring my CD4. Will only go back on meds if absolutely necessary. I’m so toxic at the moment, I’m frightened of myself." Your cock, which had wilted with the negative result, is now rock-hard, straining against your jeans. You want to fuck the pain right out of him, to breed him with your own negative seed and feel his toxic body accept it. You want him to fuck the fear into you, to make you feel what he feels. He's breathing heavily, his chest heaving. In his rage, he's stepped even closer. His scrub pants are right in front of your face. You can't help it. Your eyes drop. You can see the distinct, heavy outline of his cock, his balls. Full of the bugs. He sees it. He follows your gaze down and then back up to your face. The rage in his eyes curdles into something else. A cold, profound disgust. "You're staring!" he accuses, his voice a low, dangerous hiss. "You're staring at my crotch." Before you can react, he moves. His hand shoots out and grabs your wrist. His grip is iron. He pulls your hand forward and slams it palm-down against his crotch, forcing you to cup his massive, rigid bulge through the thin fabric. You feel the heat of him, the solid weight of his cock and balls. And you feel something else—cold, hard metal. A thick, heavy ring encircling the base of his rigid cock making it feel even thicker and more potent. It makes his bulge even more prominent, a clear, undeniable sign that he is a top, his cock perpetually primed to blow his toxic load anytime he chooses. He feels your desperate, pathetic gratitude in the way your hand trembles against him. He sees the pure, unadulterated longing in your eyes. And something in him snaps. "You want this?" he snarls, his face inches from yours. "Yes, they are full of bugs," his voice a venomous whisper. "My VL came back only yesterday over 800,000. You want this? This is not an offer; it's a challenge." In a single, violent motion, he yanks you up from the chair. He spins you around and shoves you face-first against the wall, the impact knocking the wind out of you. His hands are rough, tearing at your jeans, wrenching them and your underwear down to your knees. You hear the tear of his scrubs, the snap of elastic, and then you feel it—the thick, flared head of his cock, burning hot against your bare ass. "This is what you're asking for," he growls, and then he pushes into you in one long, brutal stroke. A strangled cry escapes your lips. It's pain and it's ecstasy, a fulfillment so sudden and overwhelming it whites out your vision. He doesn't wait for you to adjust. He fucks you with two, three deep, punishing strokes, his hips slamming against your ass, his body a furnace of rage behind you. And then, as suddenly as he entered, he pulls out, leaving you feeling empty and gaping. You hear a guttural groan and feel the wet heat of his cum splashing across your ass cheeks, a thick, coating of his toxic seed marking you from the outside. He's panting behind you, the sound ragged and broken. "You don't deserve my gift yet," he hisses, his voice raw. "You don't yet know what you are asking for." He shoves you hard, propelling you forward. "Get out," he whispers, his voice dangerously quiet. "Get the fuck out of my office!"

Absolutely stunning. What I aspire to be like. Well done mate

I came of sexual age in the late 80s and early 90s when raw sex was a nonstarter. Now that I bareback, a bottom telling me to breed his hole sends me over the edge pretty quickly. The emotional and psychological catharsis is too intense.

The story continues back in the Bug Chasing Fiction forum here

Another hairy hunk [think before following links] https://thisvid.com/videos/hot-hairy-guy-getting-fucked2/

Part of the trouble with those statistics is that it is a self-reporting system, and there is very likely cognitive bias in the reporting based on whether the drug is brand name or generic. Also, it includes common and well-known (although serious) side effects (e.g. kidney damage) so rare but very serious events are numerically swamped in the aggregate data. The data (for the US) is available through the FDA's web site: https://www.fda.gov/drugs/fdas-adverse-event-reporting-system-faers/fda-adverse-event-reporting-system-faers-public-dashboard

Hot hairy hunk takes it [think before following links] https://thisvid.com/videos/cute-uncut-muscle-hunk-gets-fucked-in-the-ass-hard/

Fuck yeah! More slamming and fuck their brain out

Wish I could

Im 55 cum in me.

I need a young guy with a stiff rigid cock to fuck me for hours to teach this old dog new trix 😵

[think before following links] https://lthrbtmboi.gay/paps/ wouldn't ya love to milk these daddy's cocks with your ass?

Ah, Dan is hooked but doesn’t know it yet 😈

Love those veins 👄

Fuck yeah 💋

I have a feeling Sam had fun with the delivery guys.