I first met Pete a couple of years ago when I moved to Leeds from Southampton .  He'd been working for a couple of years at the medical practice I was just joining, and, being of similar temperament and having similar tastes music, food and alcohol, we naturally became friends.

I remember that he was, indirectly, introduced to me even before I got to the surgery.  One of the receptionists had muttered the comment, when I'd phoned in to find out when I'd be starting, "Oh, you'll get on well with Dr Jones... he likes to have a chat with all the young doctors when they get here... likes to show them round..."  I don't know why but the image that sprung to my mind was of some ancient bearded physician leading me into his leather-upholstered office, the smell of pipe smoke heavy in the air.  I fully expected him to want to sit me down, like all the new recruits before me, to disabuse me of all the trendy, highfalutin ideas I'd picked up at medical school and to remind me that, "Out here, son, in the real world, we stick to the tried and tested ways..."

But all that turned out to be a figment of my over-active imagination.  Reality, as is usually the case, bore no resemblance to my expectations of it.

Dr Jones – Pete – turned out to be a guy, like me, in his mid-twenties, who liked to show new arrivals at the surgery around Leeds , introduce them to the local pubs and be generally amicable and helpful toward them.  Just the kind of guy you like to meet when you arrive in a new city , knowing no-one and nothing.

I went out with him and his girlfriend that first weekend and found them to be a really affable, affectionate couple: not overly luvvy-duvvy together or smoochy or anything; just clearly very much in love and pleasantly comfortable with one another.  We had a nice evening but I think I came away feeling slightly envious of him: I'd just broken up with my previous girlfriend Helen in Southampton and, since Leeds was totally alien to me right then, the chances of finding another seemed pretty remote.

Anyway, over the next few months, Pete and I gradually became good friends.  We started playing squash on Tuesday evenings and going out to the pub for a game of pool and a few drinks on Thursdays.  He'd offer to cover my night call-out shifts when I looked exhausted and in need of some unbroken sleep, and I began to do the same for him.

But the thing that really united us was when his girlfriend – Karen, I think her name was – dumped him.

Pete was devastated.  I don't remember ever seeing a guy so acutely affected, so utterly broken, by the collapse of a relationship.  In an emotional sense, he'd had his teeth kicked out.

He came to work as usual, even the day after she told him it was over, and blankly went through the motions of treating people as though on auto-pilot.  But when, while he and I were alone together, he was able to take his professional face off, behind it was a wreck.

I used to go round to his place after work to be with him; pick up a couple of videos and a takeaway and sit in with him.  It wasn't that I was worried he might "do something silly", as people love to say in such situations; I just thought he needed the company.

By then, I'd started seeing a girl called Melissa, and I must say that she wasn't greatly impressed that our relationship was effectively put on a hold for the sake of Pete, but she had to accept it.  Apart from anything else, he'd been good to me when I'd first arrived in Leeds: if for no other reason than that, and there were many others, he deserved having me around as a mate.

I started sleeping over at his place more out of convenience than preference.  We'd get a few packs of beers in, if neither of us was on night call-out duty, and chat or watch telly while we drank them together.  I was leaving his flat later and later and in the end it seemed ridiculous for me to walk back to my own place when I might as well sleep over at his.  In any case, Pete's flat was far closer to the surgery, so it was a much easier journey into work the following morning.

He only had one bed, a double, but that didn't represent a problem for either of us.  We were mates; both straight; it just wasn't an issue.  I mean, it wasn't like one of us going to jump on the other and bugger him in his sleep!  Of course it wasn't...!

Or at least, that's what I had thought – in the event, late one night, it had actually turned out to be very much like that.

Let me say, though, at this point, that neither Pete nor I had ever shown any sexual interest in the other up to that point.  And, for that matter, we haven't had any repeat of it since.  We've always just been mates; two guys who like similar things who play squash and go out together sometimes.  He's been a friend for me when things weren't going to well, and I've been the same for him.

So this isn't one of those stories where two guys, who've always been straight, suddenly become attracted to one another and, after a wildly passionate night of mutual exploration, spend the rest of their lives madly in love one another.  There's no romance here, I'm afraid.  There's not even a line of whispered affection; not even a hint of a manly but lingering slap on the backside with a meaningful wink afterwards.

No.  There's just this one night when Pete roughly and hurriedly fucked me.

And I'm not even sure that he knows he did it.

I'd seen his cock loads of times, just as he'd seen mine; usually inside his briefs but often naked.  I'd thought nothing of it, other than an initial mild interest in how it compared with my own; it was just one of those things that you get to see occasionally when you spend a lot of time around another guy.

In the showers after a game of squash; in his bathroom in the morning; in the staff toilet at the surgery or the gents in the pub: the opportunities for us to see each other were pretty endless.  I'd glanced over at it from time to time – it was always limp of course – and, while it and his balls were pleasantly large and made an admirable bulge in his briefs, I'd never really given it a second thought.

It certainly never occurred to me that I might, at some point, have a direct experience of it.

But then, I suppose, in the same situations I'm sure he'd never looked over at my arse and considered that he might, one night, force his cock up it.

It happened about a month after Karen – if that was her name – dumped him.  She'd suddenly got cold feet about the wedding, apparently, and had given up work in Leeds to go back to live with her parents in Keighley.  I suspect that there was more to it than that, probably a lot more, but Pete accepted her story, grieving at her decision and mourning her loss.

He'd spent many evenings on the phone trying, desperately, to persuade her to change her mind, until her dad had intervened and threatened him with the police if he called again.

Over the following few weeks he slowly picked up the pieces.  Evenings at his place went from being near-silent affairs, to being highly-emotional ("Why, Seb, just explain to me why?") to gradually becoming more upbeat and social.

It was during this more positive phase that it happened.  A couple of weeks before he met Rachel and the two of them settled socially with Melissa and I into a conventional two-couples routine.

We'd gone back to his place after a late evening in the surgery, watched a movie, drank a few cans, ate a takeaway pizza and done the usual stuff together.

Then, at about twelve, we'd stripped to get into bed and he'd set the alarm for seven.  Again nothing odd there.

The only slightly weird thing, and even this wasn't particularly strange, was that he had a hard-on when he pulled off his jeans.

I wouldn't have noticed it if he hadn't have made a joke of it; like I said before the contents of his briefs weren't something that interested me.

He'd muttered, "Jeez – I need a woman, Seb.  This thing's gonna end up going off in my face..."

I'd just come back into the room from the bathroom, wearing only a Moby teeshirt and a pair of white briefs.  I'd glanced over and saw that his cock was making a solid diagonal rod in the front of his blue briefs.  It was about as thick as mine but looked like it was an inch or so shorter: about seven inches probably.  The head of it was large and clearly defined, the base of his helmet making a discernible ridge against the blue cotton.

While it is, perhaps, a little uncommon for one straight guy to see another with a stiffie, it isn't exactly unknown, and as Pete and I were good mates I'd just laughed it off: "Hey – I don't want you keeping me awake wanking all fuckin' night!"

Pete had chuckled at first, unbuttoning his shirt, but then became subdued and looked maudlin.  He'd said, quietly, "It's not a wank I need, mate.  It's a woman..."

I nodded.  "Yeah, I know, Pete.  We'll start going out on a Friday night or something.  Get you sorted..."

He looked over at me, still dispirited but clearly grateful at my attempt at encouragement, and nodded.  "It's not even a woman I need... it's Karen [or whatever her name was]..."

He left his vest on, which was the same shade blue as his briefs, like he always did and pulled off his socks.

I said, "Yeah... I know... but it's time to move on..."

He smiled sadly, "She had this way of giving a blow job..."  I saw his cock swell at the memory and a small wet circle appeared at the tip of it.

I quickly intervened.  "Come on, mate... we're not getting back onto the past... it's not good for you..."

And, still smiling weakly, he nodded and left it there.  Went off to brush his teeth and stuff.

I thanked God I'd managed to shut him up; that the old, by now monotonous, wound hadn't been reopened.

His cock was still fully hard in his briefs, with the bulbous mushroom head looking swollen and prominent, when he came back into the room and I was in bed.  He hadn't even tried to conceal it among the folds of cotton at the bottom of his vest; I guess he felt comfortable that we were such good friends that he had nothing to be embarrassed about.

I noticed that the wet spot on the material at the end of it was a bit bigger: I would assume that was from a small leakage of piss after he'd been to the loo rather than dribbles of precum.

He rubbed the stem of it gently through his briefs with one hand while he checked the alarm with the other, obviously unaware he was almost masturbating in front of me.  When he saw I was looking over at him, he abruptly stopped, flashed me a self-conscious smirk and muttered, "Sorry, mate... I even felt myself getting boned up when I was talking to Gladys on reception today... I'm that horny..."

I grinned.  "I think it's time to squeeze the cheese, mate..."

He smiled back but shook his head.  "Naah... not in polite company, Seb..."

"I wasn't suggesting you do it here, mate!" I laughed (although, to be honest, I wouldn't have minded if he had).  "I meant in the bathroom or something."

He got into bed alongside me.  "To be honest, it's not worth the effort.  It's not exactly a fulfilling substitute for the real thing, is it?  I find it makes me more depressed afterwards..."

I shrugged.  "I've always been a pretty active fan of it, actually..."

He smiled, shook his head and turned off the bedside lamp.  Then, in the darkness, "I'll see you in the morning, mate."

I shifted my position slightly.  "Yeah.  'Night."

It took me a while to get to sleep, as I remember.  Pete seemed to be unconscious within seconds of switching the lamp off and snored next to me gently.  I was surprised by how he did that because when I feel horny it takes me ages to nod off; if I'd have been him I'd have either had to masturbate, whether in the bed or in the bathroom, or would have lain there for an hour or so, my cock throbbing and my mind racing through different fantasies.

But Pete just seemed to instantly slump into a deep sleep.

I vaguely remember, when I was in a state of being four-fifths asleep, the bed intermittently vibrating slightly: gently moving in a rapid rhythm for a few seconds and then being still for a minute or so.  I dimly wondered if Pete was wanking in his sleep or was having an erotic dream, but oblivion overcame me before the question could pique my interest.

The next part, though, I remember very clearly.

I think you would too, if it had happened to you.

It must have been three or four o'clock in the morning – the room was still pitch black – and I awoke to feel one of Pete's arms splayed over me and his groin grinding against my hip.  His state of heightened excitement was obvious: apart from the feel of his rock hard cock rubbing against me, he was panting warm breath into my ear.

I tried to ease him off me, but my movement seemed to stimulate him further, as though persuading his unconscious mind that the woman he was obviously dreaming about was real.  I felt his other arm snake beneath my back and he grabbed me more tightly.  His cock really stabbed into my hip and he groaned in appreciation, perhaps at the friction of his briefs against his engorged bell-end.

He began making low grunting noises which would have been comical if it were not for the awkward position we were in.  He sounded like an ape; he'd no doubt be embarrassed but amused when I did an impersonation of his noises to him as we dressed the following morning.

It was the strangeness of the noises he made that convinced me he really was asleep: until then, I'd wondered if he might be having a joke with me or was perhaps – however out-of-character it might have been – using me as a kind of masturbatory aid.

But now I was certain he was quite deeply asleep.  Highly aroused, yes; but even vaguely aware of what he was doing, no.

I thought I'd turn my back to him, hoping I could give his unconscious mind the brush off; that it might take the hint.  That turned out to be a major mistake.  The first of several.

I managed to squeeze my body around – his grip was almost excruciating – so that I faced away from him, but again my movements just served to elevate his excitement.  He began thrusting his hips towards me and panting gruffly against the back of my head like an over-amorous dog.

I felt his cock against one of the cheeks of my arse but I still didn't foresee what might be round the corner.  I was wondering whether to wake him up; how ashamed he'd be when he realised what he'd been doing to me.

I opted not too.  My second mistake.

Pete kept grunting, stabbing his cock against my bum with rapid but uncoordinated thrusts.  It just sort of lunged around, as though not knowing what it was looking for.  His arms tightened around my chest.  My teeshirt was being squeezed so hard against my nipples I could feel friction burns developing.

His breath was hot and his grunting becoming louder.

I kept thinking, "He'll wake himself up and I'll pretend I'm still asleep, so as not to embarrass him..."

But he didn't.

He began pushing his crotch even harder against me and I felt a hot, moist sensation against the top of my arse, just above the waistband of my briefs.  His cock had forced its way out from his own briefs; it was exposed.

Again I wondered whether to awaken him.  I was thinking, "This has gone way too far..."  But again I hesitated.  Now that his cock had pushed its way out from his briefs, his embarrassment would be multiplied.  This wasn't something we could so easily laugh off; this was becoming too serious even to be the subject of ribbing the next morning.

I realised that I ought to have awoken him at the beginning but the knowledge of that wasn't really any use now.

I tried again to move away from him but, like before, his passions were simply further inflamed.  He held onto me firmly, gasping aggressively, and, as I tried to twist my body to free myself from his grip, he struggled to restrain my movements by rolling on top of my back.

Now I thought, "Oh, shit..."

Pete wasn't too heavy – his build was actually slim and athletic – but the position he held me made it almost impossible for me to free myself.  My arms were held tightly by my sides and my face was pressed closely into the pillow.  His chest was heaving against my back while his hips continued to thrust his crotch against the top of my arse cheeks.

I tried to lever myself upwards by opening my legs and bending my knees, but that made his legs fall down into the space between mine, bringing his cock more solidly in contact with my behind and further exciting him.  He began rubbing it up and down the length of my cleft, making rough fast fucking motions against the material of my briefs.  He was grunting and panting, his guttural noises becoming yet more feral, and I felt his warm drool on the back of my neck.

I was wishing I could share the dream he was having.  It must have been a pretty good one.

I think he would have continued in that position until he climaxed, probably within just a few minutes, if I hadn't have made what has to have been my silliest mistake.

The problem was – and I guess this is the reason I didn't want to let him continue rubbing himself against my backside – that I was starting to develop an erection of my own.  I don't know what it was exactly, but the feel of him thrusting against me, panting against my neck – of his sweat and his saliva – coupled with the sound of him being at his most sexual and primitive, made my cock start to stir inside my briefs.  I wasn't too comfortable with that: apart from other considerations, if he awoke now it would look like I'd somehow encouraged what he was doing.

So I tried to gently throw him off, bucking my hips back into him to try and destabilise him from my back.

I think I made four attempts.  The first couple of times his cock ended up against one of my arse cheeks, rather than in my cleft.

Making good progress, or so I thought.

The third time I was stronger and it ended up being directed between my legs, his ripe bell-end smacking against my balls.

He liked that a lot and his thrusts became even more impassioned.  He started making weird croaking noises from the back of his throat as he fucked the narrow space between by thighs.

My balls started aching by the roughness of his cock slamming against them.  My own crotch was pressed down into the mattress and my balls were trapped inside my briefs, so they had nowhere to go: they just had to endure his onslaught.

So then, lastly, I tried to buck my hips quite roughly towards him, to push Pete upwards and away from me, but his cock ended up slamming, tip first, right into my arsehole.

He moaned in appreciation at that.  He seemed to be aware that his cock had found somewhere more yielding and inviting than the other places he'd tried.

I pushed back against him again, trying to redirect it, but it withstood my attempt and pressed heavily into me through the material of my briefs.

I felt the tip of it trying to enter my anus, pushing insistently against it.  The thin cotton of my briefs offered a little resistance to the pressure, but I could feel my hole being forced open.

All I could think of was the stretching that was being inflicted to the seat of what was one of my favourite pair of white briefs.  Not to mention the skid marks.

Pete became almost uncontrolled.  Perhaps the sensation of entering me had caused his dream to take an especially pleasant twist, or perhaps the physical pleasure of feeling his cock beginning to push its way into such a tight hole was responsible.  Whichever it was, he started to make noises like he was snarling and slammed his cock against my arse so roughly and frantically that the whole bed creaked and rocked to his rhythm.

We were both sweating profusely by now and, even though I could feel his cock pushing slightly further into my bum with each of his increasingly violent thrusts, my own cock was throbbing painfully against the mattress.  I think it was the fact I was being mounted and penetrated by him in such a wild, untamed state that was exciting me so much; the fact that he was so crudely and fiercely using my body to pleasure himself.

If such a situation had been presented to me in the cold light of day, I'd have found it sickening and repellent, I think: but now that it was happening to me, now that I was being sodomised by this guy in such an uncouth and uncompromising way, I was unexpectedly excited by it.

I think his cock had managed to force its way a couple of inches inside me by the time he came.  By now I wasn't resisting him – I was actually enjoying it and pushing my arse out towards him – but the back of my briefs prevented further entry.

He gripped me so tightly that I couldn't breathe and began shuddering against me.  The ape noises returned, now much louder and more nasal.  He was panting and gasping against me, his hips still humping me while his cock released his semen through the material of my briefs and into my rectum.

There was little time for his climax to subside: just as it seemed as if it had peaked, he withdrew abruptly and flopped off me, back onto his own side of the bed.  He spread out, spent, and began snoring heavily.

I thanked God he hadn't woken at this stage; that he seemed completely oblivious.

I recovered my breath for a minute or so, then got out of bed and went quietly to the bathroom.  My cock was aching for its own release and, after pulling off my briefs and trying not to notice the horrific stain on the heavily-distorted back of them, I attended to it.  I fondled my arsehole as I masturbated, marvelling at how stretched and open it was following Pete's assault on it, and began fingering the warm wet passage inside it with the same rhythm that I was using on my cock.  I imagined Pete was still inside me, imagined him grunting and panting on my back as he slept and dreamed he was fucking a woman, and found myself cumming against the toilet cistern almost immediately.

When I returned to the bedroom, I groped around in the dark to find a clean pair of briefs from my rucksack and to hide the stained ones in one of its pockets.  Wearing the fresh underwear, I climbed back into bed alongside Pete's splayed snoring body. 

Before I tried to get back to sleep, I reached over and tucked his shrivelled wet cock back into his briefs.

I thought, "We've really got to find you a girlfriend, Pete, mate..."

The next morning, things between us were pretty normal.  Pete made us coffee, chatted about the usual stuff while we drank it and suggested we go out into Leeds on Friday evening after work.

Only a few things struck me as a bit odd.

The first was that he'd asked me if I'd slept okay.  Pete had never done that before; it just wasn't his style.

I'd replied, "I think so.  Why?"

He'd shook his head.  "Nothing.  I just wondered.  I think I was having some pretty weird dreams..."

Another thing was that I caught him looking at my arse through the mirror after I'd showered and was drying myself, and he was shaving.  I'd been bending over to dry my feet and when I'd stood up I noticed him staring at my arse.

I said, "Everything okay, mate?"

He'd nodded and smiled slightly.  "Yeah."  But then, after I'd turned away I glanced back at him and noticed his expression was pensive and serious.

I wondered then if some of what had happened during the night was coming back to him; if he was starting to remember snippets of it.

While we were on the way to work, I made a joke that I thought I must be coming down with the shits; that my bowels were not too happy this morning.

Normally he'd chuckle and blame the takeaway food or the beer.

This time he looked over at me sharply and then turned away without saying anything.

So I'm not sure whether or not Pete knew what he'd done.  We never made any other comment about it – never any jokes or indirect allusions to it: we just left it at that.

After that night, he made a pretty obvious concerted effort to find a girlfriend and, like I said, managed to get himself hitched up nicely within a couple of weeks.  I never stayed over with him again and he never invited me.

We're still good mates, though: in fact, he's one of my best.

Sometimes, when he gets upset about something but he doesn't want to show how sensitive he is, he'll say, "Hey, it doesn't matter... you don't want to hear this..."

And I'll say, "Come on, Pete, it's me, Seb.  If you can't talk to me about stuff, who the fuck can you talk to...?"

And I'm sure we're both remembering that night; both thinking of how he used my body when he was desperate for sex, and that I didn't – and wouldn't – condemn him for it.

After that he seems to relax a little; his expression warms and he starts talking to me.

This less-than-memorable story prequels my "Casebook" series as it introduces the medical practice in Leeds in which those stories take place.

The story rehashes the idea of straight men unknowingly having sex while they sleep which I'd already used far more successfully in "The Photo Opportunity".  It just goes to show that it's really not worth trying to reinvent the wheel...