Dr Wallace's Casebook 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."

"Where?"

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.