Wielding the camera and sitting atop me, he clicked away at my belly and chest, leaning forward to take extreme close-up shots of my nipples. He instructed me to stretch out my arms, then proceeded to take photographs of my hairy pits, obviously leaving no area of my body to chance when deciding what portrait to paint.

And then, he focused his attention on my groin. Looking straight down from his perch on my thighs, he snapped away for what seemed an eternity. Occasionally he would use one of his hands to slide my cock to the right or the left and take several photos, until my ten-incher moved -- or rather, throbbed -- back to its original position and pointed once again at my belly button. He asked for several "stroke shots," but for the most part he wanted no hands in this series of stills.

Finally, he lay the camera on the carpet by his side, then sat up straight. His chest muscles expanded and contracted as he pulled several deep breaths. "You know, Matthew, all the photographs I've taken so far have been in color. I wanted to capture your beautifully tanned flesh, making certain I have the correct hues for the portrait. I had planned to also do a series of black and white shots, using them to make charcoal sketches of your magnificent physique, but ..."

"But what? Anything wrong?"

"No, nothing's wrong. In fact, everything is just too right. Too damned right, and I can't take it any longer."

Without further discussion, he crossed his arms at the waist, grabbed the hem of his T-shirt, and yanked it up and over his head. My gaze encountered the sort of male torso of which I had always fantasized -- muscular, with ridges along the abdomen, and a sea of dark, swirling hair that covered the chest and led downward to surround the navel. Manly as all fucking hell. Yes, indeed, give me an Alec Baldwin or a Pierce Brosnan type of chest any old day, and keep all the Brad Pitt and Justin Timberlake shaved, baby-smooth torsos for the drooling females who preferred their men to look more like women.

Confronted by such divine masculinity, I could barely breathe. Not even thinking, I lifted my hands and ran them over that bared flesh, delighting in the velvety skin, the rock-hard sinew beneath the surface, and the crisp hair. I started to rise, aiming to take one of his large pink nipples into my mouth.

But Novak stopped me. "Not yet. Let me pleasure you, my handsome model. Let me pleasure you until you scream your joy."

He struggled with the button and zipper of his blue jeans. In seconds, his cock sprang outward, pointing toward the skylight. He wore no underwear, so now it made sense how his jeans had gotten so damp so damned fast. From a thick forest of black pubic hair, his shaft stretched a good eight, perhaps eight and a half inches, and to my satisfaction, he also had a foreskin, its shade a bit darker than the crimson crown of his penis. A network of purple veins ran along his entire length, and a stream of fluid oozed from his slit and down to nearly the base of his rod.

He took my erection in hand, then used his thumb to hook onto his own shaft. I groaned in rapture when he squeezed our cocks together. He stroked them in tandem, and they quickly became slick with our combined juice.

"How does that feel, Matthew?" he asked, his voice a raspy whisper.

I didn't answer. I couldn't have done so even if I'd tried. Indeed, I could do nothing but grab handfuls of the soft carpet and force myself to concentrate on other things -- the English exam from last week, my friend's upcoming birthday party, the sunlight spearing through the open windows -- anything to keep from shooting my jizz right then and there. But fuck, the task proved more difficult than anything I had faced during my lifetime. One of the sexiest men I had ever met, with a body to die for, had started me on a journey of sexual enlightenment and I didn't know how much longer I could hold out.

"That good, hmm?" he asked after several moments, a lecherous chuckle rumbling from his throat. "Perhaps you'll also like this ..."

He released his cock, but continued to stroke mine. Then he lowered his head and ran his tongue all along my shaft.

I squirmed and bucked beneath him, a blissfully tormented and willing prisoner of his sexual tutelage. Each lick from his expert tongue, each stroke from his masterful hands, sent me farther into the stratosphere. And I couldn't help it. Not when my fantasy had come to fruition.