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Allen finds courage to tell Stella what he wants.

Above all because now he'd seen-and handled-the man's hard cock, and now he knew, with a shudder, that he would be taxed to his limits when he had to sheath it. Sometime. Unless the man was just toying with him. He certainly had been toying with him.

Philip got up from the chair on the balcony after a few minutes and entered the living room which, in one longer-than-wide space ran into where the dining table was and then to the open kitchen beside the entry door. The eleventh-floor residence at Park Apartments on Oxford Street did have a bedroom and bath in another room. The apartment was small, but Steve had said he lived most of the time elsewhere, and Philip thought this place still was probably expensive. It was more than a hotel room; it was high in the building, and it had a spectacular view toward the city center and Circular Quay where the Sydney Opera House reigned.
Retrieving his glass of wine from the counter between the kitchen and the dining area, Philip started to make a survey of the room. He was still wearing just the open dress shirt Steve had sketched him in. His first stop was at the easel where Steve had been working. He had to admit that Steve had a great deal of artistic talent and had captured him-flattered him even-with a minimum of strokes of the charcoal. If anything, the artist had been generous with the hang of his cock. The sketch was sexy and arousing in its own right. The artist had a talent for focusing on the physical aspects of sex without losing the features that made the individual recognizable.

That led Philip to pay more attention to the rest of the room. He had been so focused on being fucked when he'd come into the apartment that he hadn't paid much attention to the furnishings and decor.

The furniture was spare but obviously of high quality. And the walls were covered with other charcoal sketches-all of other young men, like him. But there many different men were depicted. Gorgeous young men. And the sketches seemed to come in pairs for each of the young men, one an artistic pose like Steve just had done of him, and a second one of the young man in dishabille, sometimes entwined in sheets and other times just a heap on the floor. These, though, were just as sexy looking as the formally posed ones, maybe more so because of the sense-almost a smell-that came off of them of musky sex. And there was a quality about them that made Philip feel exhausted, spent and just a bit apprehensive. They made him conscious of a catch in his breath.

These young men had been sketched after being fucked totally. Fucked by Steve. Maybe fucked again after a quick sketch was done.

At one point, while standing and looking at one of these sketches, Philip had to put his wine glass down on a table, he was trembling so much. The young man looked like he had been fucked to within an inch of his life-and yet there was a sublime, if exhausted, smile on his face as if he would volunteer to die that way given another chance. What, Philip wondered, about the sketch led him to think of the fuck as having been cruel and totally taxing? Then he thought he saw it. The sketch of the young man was from his feet looking up his torso to a face of blissful exhaustion. The view was between spread and bent legs. His hole was gaping, not yet closed, sketched immediately after the cock's withdrawal. And he had been reamed extraordinarily wide. Big splotches of cum still glistened on his belly. Philip looked up and down the walls, suddenly concerned whether there had been another chance at this heaven for that young man. But he saw no more sketches of him.

He moved into the bedroom.

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