30 Seconds That Could Have Changed Everything

[cumslutw]

Hey guys, Xmas is over - time for the real thing!

 

Part 6: The Death of Fantasy: A Sick Fuck, a Poz Breeding, and a Broken Man

 

The command from BREEDER was simple. "Downtown park. Public toilet by the lake. Midnight. Be at the urinal trough. Don't be late. Don't talk."

You arrive fifteen minutes early. The air in the blockhouse concrete building is thick with the acrid smell of stale piss, dampness, and cheap chemical cleaner. Flickering fluorescent tubes hum overhead, casting a sickly, intermittent light that makes the shadows dance. Used condoms, like sad, deflated jellyfish, litter the wet floor. You approach the long, metal urinal trough against the far wall. It's stained with years of neglect, and you see the drain at the end is clogged with a dark sludge, leaving a shallow pool of stagnant yellow urine. A couple more used condoms float in the murky water.

Your own bladder is tight with a knot of nerves. You step up to the trough and relieve yourself, the sound of your stream hitting the stagnant water echoing in the silence. Hot splashes of the old piss arc up and land on your sneakers and the cuff of your jeans. You stand there, your cock in hand, feeling more exposed and vulnerable than you have in your entire life. Every creak of the building, every distant car horn, makes you jump.

The door creaks open. Heavy footsteps. A man stands at the trough a few feet away. You risk a glance. He's young, maybe mid-20s. He's painfully thin, with a gaunt face that looks hollowed out, his cheekbones sharp as knives under the dim light. His skin has a greyish, waxy sheen, and his eyes are sunken and shadowed, dark circles pooling beneath them. He's not just skinny; he's being consumed.

Is this BREEDER? Your mind races. Why isn't he doing or saying anything? Does he expect me to act? What am I doing? Should I just run out of here right now? But your feet are rooted to the spot. He's not a dom; he looks like a ghost. He just stands there, pissing a thick, heavy stream that splashes against the urinal wall, generating foam in the piss pool. Finished, he shakes off and starts slowly stroking his cock. You glance over. On his slim, bony body, it looks massive and imposing, a weapon on a dying frame.

You have to prove you want it. You swallow your pride, the taste of it bitter in your throat. You pull down your jeans, letting them pool around your ankles, exposing your naked ass to the cold, damp air. You bend over, stabilizing yourself by planting your hands against the grimy, slick trough and push your ass out, a silent, desperate offering.

You feel him shuffle up behind you. There's a moment of stillness, and then you hear the wet sound of him hocking up phlegm from deep in his chest. A thick, warm glob of spit lands on your hole. A moment later, he shoves his raw cock into you. It's fast, rough, and impersonal. He's not trying to please you; he's just using your body to get off. His bony hips slam against your ass, a frantic, desperate rhythm. He grunts, a high, pathetic sound, and unloads inside you. He pulls out instantly, leaving you feeling empty and used.

And just as he does, the door opens again.

"Well, well. Look what we have here," a new voice, cold and amused, cuts through the silence. "Peter. What the fuck happened to you? You look like shit. You should really get back on those meds."

Your blood runs cold. You slowly turn your head. The man standing there is powerfully built, with a shaved head and a cold, dead-eyed stare. Your eyes are drawn to the side of his thick, muscular neck, where a stark black biohazard symbol is tattooed. This is BREEDER.

The young man, Peter, flinches at the voice. "I... I was just leaving," he mumbles, quickly pulling up his jeans and scurrying out without another word.

You're left bent over, dripping with his load, facing the real monster.

BREEDER laughs, a low, humorless sound. "Well, you obviously couldn't wait. But since you're now already lubed up, we don't need no foreplay." He's on you in an instant, pressing your face against the cold, metal wall. He shoves his hard cock into you. He's so much thicker than Peter that the burn is immediate and intense, a searing pain that makes you cry out. Peter’s load offers little slickness against the sheer size of him.

"Feel that?" he growls in your ear, his thrusts so heavy and forceful that you stumble, your right foot slipping off the wet floor and landing directly in the shallow pool of stale piss. You can feel the cold, disgusting liquid seep into your sneaker, soaking your sock. "That's Peter’s toxic load I'm pushing deeper into you. He's a walking petri dish. Bet you can feel his sickness swimming inside you right now. A two-for-one special. You're a lucky little pig."

He grunts as he unloads deep inside you, a long, powerful pulse that you feel in your guts. He leans in, his voice a low growl. "Enjoy my gift, you [banned word]. You're welcome."

He pulls out, but he's not done. He aims his cock at your back and a hot stream of piss suddenly soaks through your shirt and jeans. You flinch, utterly humiliated. He gives you a contemptuous slap on the ass, zips up, and leaves.

You're left alone in the disgusting, flickering room. Two probably toxic loads are dripping out of your unprotected ass. You're drenched in piss, one foot squishing in a sneaker full of stale urine. The fantasy is dead. The reality is a cold, humiliating violation.

But instead of running, you just... break.

With your jeans still tangled around your ankles, you lean your back against the grimy metal wall and slowly slide down. You feel the shock of the cold, stale piss as your naked ass makes contact with the filthy pool in the trough. You sit there for a long moment, the filth seeping into your clothes, into your skin. And then you start to cry. Not quiet tears, but wracking, gut-wrenching sobs. What did I do? The thought echoes in your head. The husband, the successful businessman... for what? Why did I take this risk? Was this experience really worth it? The shame is a physical weight, crushing you. Realizing there's nothing you can do about it today, that the damage is done, a different kind of desperation takes over.

In a final, depraved act of surrender, you reach out and grab as many of the used condoms from the floor as you can reach. You hold one after the other over your hardening cock and squeeze the cooling, anonymous contents over yourself, using it as lube. The thought of all those anonymous loads, all that potential sickness, coating your own cock makes your grief curdle into a dark, twisted arousal. You pull out your poppers, take a deep, desperate hit, a second, a third, until your head is spinning and the shame and the pleasure blur into one. You start wanking. It doesn't take long. You spray your own cum all over your chest, mixing with the filth, a final act of self-destruction in the face of the overwhelming shame.

Only then do you stand up, pulling your piss-soaked jeans over your filthy ass. It's the middle of December. You have to walk home through the cold, empty town, your wet clothes freezing against your skin, the smell of piss, cum, and violation clinging to you. You came seeking the "real thing," and you found it. And it was nothing like you'd ever dreamed.

[onlyraw]

@cumslutw … that this is based on your own experiences explains a lot. Your descriptions of the actual sex scenes are very good…. But what is truly amazing about your writing is getting inside the head of your narrator (which makes sense as it is you).  But you are so raw and honest in how you explain, expose, share, his (your) thought process.  Your last few lines of the first section 

On 12/12/2025 at 12:41 PM, cumslutw said:

He didn't just fuck your ass—he fucked your brain. He gave you a gift that will last forever: the endless, thrilling question of what he really left behind

Damn … so well written and just so fucking HOT!

your story is one of the hottest descriptions of the “need” guys feel when they are bug chasing that I’ve read on here. That addiction they get, the hunger they feel for the darker, primal sex, where the top is using, claiming, marking the bottom rather than the tender gentle sex between lovers.

looking forward to reading more of your journey 

[onlyraw]

Oh … and by the way …. Your English is very good 

[onlyraw]

On 12/21/2025 at 5:27 AM, cumslutw said:

And in that moment, you realize the chilling, undeniable truth: the memory is not enough. The fantasy is not enough. The hunger is a demand, not a request. And a demand cannot be satisfied by watching. It has to be 

On 12/21/2025 at 5:27 AM, cumslutw said:

The forum is just a collection of words. The clip is just pixels. And you are still alone in your apartment, your pants stiffening with another load. The relief is temporary. The hunger is permanent

Great writing… and very hot in a very dark way…. Thank you for sharing your journey in such an honest way ….. definitely looking forward to your next installments 

[Tanbbottom]

Thanks for sharing these hot twisted encounters and the deep thinking and struggle that goes with the magnetic pull of 'the risk.'

I'll be watching for more!

[thescribe730]

That is an outstanding contribution - well plotted and beautifully written.  If I could give 10/10 I would!

[cumslutw]

All you fellow chasers know the cycle: one day you're consumed by the primal urge to get bred and pozzed, the next you're shattered by regret and vow to be safe forever. The chase is a constant, brutal up and down of desire and shame. And so after that shattering midnight experience in the public toilet, I went to the STD clinic the next day, seeking penance or perhaps just the next chapter in the story.

 

Part 7: The Hard-On in Scrubs: Hippocratic Oath Versus Primal Urge

The midnight experience at the public toilet was a nightmare. You're devastated. You will never do that again. The "real thing" was a cold, hollow violation that left you feeling more alone than ever. You want to stay safe.

The next day, a Friday, you go to work but leave early at noon, the shame from the night before a constant, nagging presence. You drive straight to the STD clinic. The waiting room is a purgatory of sterile, antiseptic smells and hushed, fearful silence. You sit among the other faces, each a mask of shame and regret, just another number in a system designed to manage consequences. When your name is finally called, you follow a nurse down a stark white corridor and into a small, windowless office. The doctor gestures to the hard plastic chair opposite his desk. He can't be more than thirty, with the kind of youthful, earnest face that belongs on a medical school recruitment poster. He looks up, and his expression is one of polite, professional curiosity.

He clicks his pen. "So," he begins, his voice flat. "The nurse tells me you're here for a PEP prescription. Let's go over it. Tell me about the exposure."

You swallow, your throat dry. "It was... last night. Unprotected anal sex."

He nods slowly, making a note. "Receptive or insertive?"

"Receptive," you mumble.

"Receptive." He repeats the word, and as he leans back in his leather chair, the movement stretches the thin fabric of his scrub top taut across his chest. That's when you see it: two nipple piercings. And peeking from the collar of his shirt is a dusting of thick, black chest hair, a stark, masculine contrast to his youthful face. You force your eyes back to his.

"And how many partners were involved in this... encounter?"

The word "encounter" makes it sound so clinical, so detached. "Two," you say. "And me."

He looks up, a bit surprised by the specificity. "Two. Okay. And the status of these partners? Were any of them known to be HIV-positive?"

You hesitate, the images flashing in your mind. "Not sure... probably both…"

The doctor's pen stops. He leans forward slightly, his interest suddenly piqued. "Probably both? What makes you say that? Did they tell you? Or are you guessing?"

"There were signs…."

"Signs?" His voice is a low growl now. He stands. You see the powerful, rounded bubble butt in his scrubs for a second before he moves around the desk, leaning against it right in front of you. Your eyes are immediately drawn to the unmistakable bulge—a thick shape snaking down his left pant leg. It's so defined you can almost make out the ridge of his head. He's commando, and he's either hung or getting hard right here. The thought hits you like a lightning bolt.

"What kind of signs?"

You feel your face flush. "One of them... he looked... wasted. Very thin, gaunt."

The doctor nods, his face unreadable. "Okay. That can be a sign, though it's not definitive. Anything else?"

Your voice drops to a near-whisper. "The other one... he called himself 'BREEDER'. He had a... a biohazard symbol. Tattooed."

The doctor's eyes widen almost imperceptibly. He lets out a slow, heavy breath. "I see. A biohazard tattoo." He makes a note on the chart, his pen pressing hard into the paper. He looks back at you from above, his gaze now sharp, cutting through you. The bulge in his pants seems to have grown even more prominent, a thick, commanding presence right in your line of sight. "And these signs... this knowledge... this did not hold you back?"

You can only shake your head, the shame a physical weight. "No…"

He leans forward again, his voice dropping lower, more serious. "I have to ask you this, and I need you to be honest. Did they rape you? Were you tied up? Forced in any way?"

"No," you say, your voice cracking. "Nothing like that."

"Then you deliberately engaged with them?" he presses, his words precise and damning, his body radiating a tense, authoritative energy. "Knowing what you saw, you still chose to participate?"

You look down at your hands, unable to bear his stare. "Deliberately…" you confess.

He leans back against the desk, letting out a long, weary sigh. For a moment, he is silent. You risk a glance up at him, and his expression has changed. The clinical disappointment is still there, but it's now layered with something else. Something almost... knowing. Almost empathetic.

"Look," he says, his voice softer, almost conspiratorial. "I get it. On some level... I can see how the fantasy is hot. The [banned word], the risk... the idea of being corrupted. I'm not immune to that."

Your heart hammers in your chest. He understands.

And then you see it happen. As he speaks, his eyes flick down, almost involuntarily, to his own crotch. He suddenly becomes aware of it. The thick, hardening bulge straining against the fabric of his scrubs, right in your line of sight. A brief, almost imperceptible flash of panic crosses his face. He shifts his weight, turning his hips slightly as he crosses his arms over his chest—a casual, defensive move designed to obscure the very obvious evidence of his arousal.

The awkwardness hangs in the air for a split second, thick and suffocating. You both know. You both saw. He pushes himself off the desk, his movements suddenly stiff and deliberate. Without another word, he retreats, walking back around to his own chair and sinking down into it. The desk is once again a barrier between you. He picks up his pen, his knuckles white as he grips it, a physical anchor to his professionalism.

"But a fantasy," he continues, his voice now sharper, more forceful, as if to compensate for the momentary loss of control, "is not reality. And in reality, what you did was a stupid, very stupid mistake. A man your age... you lived through the worst of the AIDS crisis. You saw the ads, you knew people who died. To be this reckless now... it's almost willful—"

He stops abruptly, catching himself. He closes his eyes for a second, takes a breath, and when he opens them, the professional mask is back in place, firm and unyielding. He proceeds in a colder, more clinical tone.

"Let's stick to the medical facts..." He continues his lecture, but you barely hear the words. The brief moment of connection, his admission that he "gets it," and the raw, physical proof of his own arousal has done more damage than all his judgment combined. It confirmed that the world you crave is real, and that he, the man who embodies it, is just as susceptible to its pull. All you can see is the glint of his nipple rings, the confident set of his jaw, and the memory of his hardening cock.

You leave the pharmacy with the little paper packet, the doctor's lecture a cold, hard weight in your mind. But it's not his words that are echoing. It's his confession. "I get it." And the image of him retreating behind his desk to hide his own hard-on. You feel a sick, confused heat spreading through you. Your own cock is hard.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

The shame is still there, but now it's tangled with this bizarre, humiliating arousal. The doctor, the voice of reason who understands the fantasy and gets hard from it, has become the ultimate twisted fantasy. You pass the sign for the rest stop. Your foot hovers over the brake. You think of the PEP in your pocket. Then you think of the doctor's piercing, his humiliatingly sexy authority, and the words "I… get… it."

You signal and pull off the road. You need to fuck this feeling out of your head. You need to find something so dirty, so depraved, it will erase the memory of the one man who understands the fantasy but would never, ever, be a part of it.

[kitpig]

Please tell me the Doctor is at the rest stop!

[onlyraw]

Damn this is such a HOT exploration of the “need” 

Would love to know more about the Dr. but would be too cliche to have them meet at a hook up ….. maybe your next story….. (drs in those v neck scrubs with hairy chests…… fuck )

in the meantime…. Can’t wait for the next chapters….. and looking forward to at some point meeting the husband???? Is he an angel during the week? Or what does he get into?

 

[biboy85]

Soo hottt