30 Seconds That Could Have Changed Everything

[cumslutw]

Part 12: The Doctor's Gift as a Cure

As you reach for your jeans, a shadow falls over the stall door. You look up. He's standing there, leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed. The doctor. From your position on the floor, looking up at him, the bulge in his scrubs looks even more impressive, a formidable weight of flesh. His eyes are dark, fixed on you, and then they drift down to the mess on your chest and the trickle of cum leaking from your ass.

A slow, dangerous smile spreads across his face.

"Well, well," he chuckles, his voice a low, calm rumble. "I was wrong. You do know what you're asking for. And it looks like you've earned my gift after all."

He pushes the door open and steps inside, closing and locking it behind him. He unbuckles his pants, his eyes never leaving yours. He pulls out his cock, already hard and angry-looking. The thick, heavy metal ring is still encircling the base, making it swell to an angry-red, almost purple color, every vein standing out like a roadmap on the engorged flesh. Thick, clear beads of precum drip from the tip, falling directly onto your face, one hitting your eye, burning and clouding your vision. He wipes some off with his thumb, smearing it across your lips like lip balm.

"Taste that," he commands. "That's the real thing. Not that boy's little thrill. That's just the key."

He reaches down, not to grab your arm, but to press two fingers against your pulse point, feeling your heart hammer against his touch. Then he grabs your arm and yanks you to your feet. He spins you around and slams you chest-first against the grimy tile wall, just like in his office. You feel his body press against your back, his cock hot and insistent between your ass cheeks.

"That kid is just an amateur," he growls in your ear, his voice a venomous whisper. "Some college student chasing a thrill, fucking every bare hole he can find, exploring parties... a willing but innocent amateur. I saw his lab results: nothing a few pills can't fix. Importantly, HIV negative. So, a nice mindfuck, but no real risk there. But me... I have the real thing. He was the opening act. I'm the main event."

He lines up his cock and slams into you, his entry made slick and easy by the student's load. You cry out, a mix of pain and profound ecstasy. He doesn't pause. He doesn't tease. He immediately starts fucking you with a furious, punishing rhythm, his hips a piston driving into you.

"Feel that?" he grunts, his breath hot on your neck. "That's my toxic cock rearranging your insides. I'm chasing that boy's cum deeper into you, painting over it. Marking what's mine."

"You wanted to be converted? I'm going to fucking convert you."

His words are a torrent of filth and scientific fact, each one making you harder. "Every thrust is pushing my viral load closer to your bloodstream. That kid's reckless abandon is the welcome wagon for my army. The raw friction from his hard fucking together with whatever else he might have shared with you creates a perfect, fertile pathway. Essentially giving my bugs a ride to the front of the line. You're not just getting fucked, you're getting seized. Permanently."

His pace becomes relentless, brutal. The sound of his hips slapping against your ass echoes in the small room. "You're going to walk out of here with my poison inside you. You're going to feel me for days. And when you get the flu, when your body finally surrenders, you'll know who did it to you. You'll know who claimed you – the person you seeked for help, who gave you the get-out-of-jail card that you decided to flush down the toilet. You deserve it!."

With a final roar, he buries himself to the hilt. He reaches around and presses his hand flat against your lower stomach. His palm is warm, solid. The gesture shockingly gentle. He's holding you, anchoring you both in this intense moment. The touch focuses every sensation on that single point of contact where the hard, deep bulge of his cockhead presses against your inner wall. As his cock begins to pulse and spasm, you feel it from the inside, and his hand presses firmly, as if trying to feel the throb of his own climax from the outside. It's an unspoken, shared experience, a silent acknowledgment of the profound connection as he floods you with his essence.

He stays there, panting, his weight pinning you to the wall, his warm hand still pressed against your stomach, a grounding point in the aftermath. After a long moment, he slowly pulls out. As the flare of his bulbous cockhead pulls out your ass lips, a trickle of the toxic juice begins to escape. Before it can run down your thigh, he presses two fingers against your hole, pushing the escaping seed back inside you.

"Don't waste it," he growls. "Every drop counts." He then brings those two glistening fingers to his own lips, tasting the mixture of your ass and his cum, a final, possessive act.

He gives you a rough shove, stepping back. You slump against the wall, utterly spent, cum leaking from your ass and your own load drying on your chest. He calmly tucks his cock back into his scrubs, buckles his belt, and pulls a prescription pad from his pocket. He scribbles on it, tears off the sheet, and holds it out.

"Same as the college kid will get," he says, his voice once again cold and professional. "Standard dose." He pauses, then adds with a cruel smile, "For the other... there's no cure." You take the paper, your hand trembling. He turns to the door.

"See me in four weeks," he says, without looking back. "Maybe the result will be more to your expectations then." He unlocks the door and walks out, leaving you alone, shaking, loaded with two men's cum, and holding a prescription for the temporary distraction, while forever carrying the one you can't cure.

[sleazebugga]

Wow, that was intense 😈😈☣️☣️😈😈

[kitpig]

Wow… the pozzing cluedo continues… will it be the Dr with his lead piping… time will tell 😈😈

[Oldpeter51]

On 1/28/2026 at 9:31 AM, kitpig said:

Wow… the pozzing cluedo continues… will it be the Dr with his lead piping… time will tell 😈😈

 

[Oldpeter51]

WHEW!!!!  Oh so hot!!!!   Keep it going 

[cumslutw]

Part 13: The Biohazard Number and a Husband's "Hey Honey"

The evening finds you in bed, a knot of conflicting emotions so tight you can barely breathe. The day's events replay in your mind on a relentless loop: the disappointingly negative test result, the doctor's cold rejection, his seething confession, the way he forced your hand against his toxic bulge. Then the bathroom stall, the anonymous student, the feeling of his load of questionable status filling you. And finally, the doctor's return, his possessive rage, the intimate, terrifying connection as he flooded you with his essence.

Your hand drifts down between your legs. Your hole feels wonderfully puffy, swollen, used. You press a finger against it, feeling the tender, bruised flesh. You can feel the wetness inside, a mixture of two distinct loads, a potent cocktail of student and doctor, still resting deep in your guts. The thought of losing even a drop is unbearable.

You reach over to the nightstand and pull out your favorite dildo, a thick, veined thing that always hits the right spot. You skip the lube; there's more than enough left inside of you. You guide it to your sore hole and push it in slowly, a deep moan escaping your lips as it sinks home. You're not fucking yourself for pleasure; you're performing maintenance. You work the dildo in and out, shoving what is left of the precious, toxic loads deeper, making sure your body absorbs every last remaining drop of their gift.

As you work the dildo, your mind races, fixating on the student. You replay the encounter in your head, trying to decipher his true nature. Was he just a horny kid exploring his newfound freedom at college, chasing the thrill of anonymous bareback risk? Is his excitement about the unknown just a newfound kink, a horny reaction to walking the edge of a cliff? Or is he something more deliberate? A calculating hunter, excited by the possibility of a permanent change, even if he doesn't know what he carries? But then the doctor's voice cuts through your fantasy, cold and clinical. That kid was negative. The doctor would know; he knew his lab results. And as much as you wanted to believe the kid was a secret legend in the making, you had to trust the doctor's diagnosis. The student was just a gateway drug, not the main event. A fun, dirty, but ultimately temporary stepping stone.

Then you think about the doctor. He wasn't a bugchaser; he was a man who was pozzed unknowingly by the man he loved, a victim of betrayal. But in that office, something shifted. It wasn't your defiance that changed him; it was your submission. Your desperate, shame-filled honesty, your complete inability to hide your fear and desire—you didn't just challenge his medical authority; you laid your soul bare at his feet.

But there was something more, something undeniable. Even in the midst of his rage, you were aroused by him. You couldn't stop staring at the bulge in his scrubs, a fact he couldn't have missed. And when he confessed his status, that he was poz and highly toxic, your own cock didn't shrink in fear. It throbbed. He saw it. He saw the raw, undeniable proof of your desire for the very thing that had destroyed his life.

In your pathetic vulnerability and your unmistakable arousal, you showed him a new way to see his condition. You weren't horrified by his poison; you were drawn to it. You helped him discover that his "life sentence" could be wielded as power, that his poison could be a gift. You didn't just awaken his rage; you awakened his inner god. He wasn't just a man broken by it; he was a true toxic titan, reborn in that moment.

Your eyes drift to your phone, lying on the nightstand. The memory of the biohazard symbol on the toilet wall flashes in your mind. The phone number written beneath. Who would leave a number like that? The possibilities are endless. A fellow bugchaser, looking for a connection. A true giftgiver, a dispenser of destiny. A poz guy who just got his own positive result and is looking to share the "good news." Or maybe it's just a troll, someone's idea of a sick joke. The uncertainty doesn't deter you; it intoxicates you. The thrill of the unknown pulls at something deep inside you, a primal urge to explore who’s at the end of the line.

Your desire overrides your caution. You leave the dildo buried deep inside you, a constant, full reminder of the day's events. You grab your phone, your hand slick with your own leaking precum, and open your photo gallery. You find the picture of the number. Your heart hammers. A reckless, desperate urge takes over. You need to know. You need to hear the voice on the other end. You don't save the number. You don't give it a name. You just manually type the digits into the keypad, your thumb hovering over the green call button. This is it. An anonymous connection. A step further into the abyss.

You start to stroke your cock. You are hard as hell, massaging your cockhead with the precum flowing from your piss slit. You are building up to a climax.

You press it.

It rings once. Someone picks up.

"Hey honey."

The world stops. It's his voice. Your husband's.

The shock is so profound, so absolute, that it triggers a physical response. Your balls tighten, your ass spasms around the dildo, sucking it in to the hilt, your cock jerks, and you erupt. A thick, powerful rope of cum shoots from your slit, splattering across your chest and stomach. You almost drop the phone. It's a dry, shuddering, soul-crushing orgasm that feels more like a seizure than a release. You're gasping for air, your body convulsing on the bed as the waves of pleasure and horror crash over you.

"Hey," you manage to choke out, your voice a strangled whisper, still panting from your unexpected climax. "I... I think I butt-dialed you. Sorry."

There's a pause on the other end. "Oh, okay," he says, his tone completely normal, utterly unaware of the seismic shock and the simultaneous orgasm ripping through you. "No worries. Everything alright? You sound weird."

"Yeah," you lie, your throat tight, your own cum cooling on your skin. "Just... tired. I'll, uh, I'll see you at home on Friday."

"Okay, love you."

"Love you too."

You hang up. The screen goes dark. You're left in the silence of your bedroom, the phone feeling like a lead weight in your hand, your own load as damning evidence on your chest, the dildo still buried deep inside you. You're not just shaking; you're vibrating.

The realization doesn't just hit you—it unravels you. You knew he was a slut like you. You saw him at the rest stop, heard him beg for a toxic load. That's your shared sickness, your unspoken bond. But this... this is different. The rest stop is a playground. The clinic is a reckoning.

He wasn't just there for a quick, anonymous fuck in the dark. He was there in the light of day, sitting in the same waiting room, filling out the same forms. He was there with a purpose. The questions flood your mind, each one more chilling than the last. Was he there for PEP, trying to crawl back to safety? Was he on PrEP, building a wall against the very gift you both crave? Was he just treating another bug, a simple hurdle on the path? Or was he there for confirmation, just like you, and was he may be more successful?

You have no idea. The ambiguity is a chasm of uncertainty, and you are falling into it. The rest stop made you partners in sin. But this... this makes you competitors. The clinic is no longer just a buffet; it's a race. And you have no idea who's ahead, or even what the finish line looks like for him.

You lie there in the dark, the ghost of his casual "Hey honey" echoing in your mind, your own cum drying on your skin. But then, a new thought cuts through the haze of panic, sharp and cold. In this race, you might just have the advantage. You know about him. You've identified him at the rest stop, and now at the clinic. You've seen his secret life laid bare. Does he have any idea about you? As far as you know, you're still just his husband, his safe harbor. The thought sends a dark thrill through you. You're not just racing him; you're hunting him. And he doesn't even know he's being hunted.

The call wasn't the end. It was the starting gun.