Jungle Boy

Jungle Boy 12

by George Gauthier

Fair warning: This story features explicit and graphic depictions of gay sex. The story takes place forty years in the future.

Chapter 1. Story Conference

Martin Fletcher lifted the glass of iced tea from the tray borne by Luis, his attentive houseboy, a cute dark haired Latino about nineteen. Luis wore nothing but a tiny string thong, the pouch barely larger than his hand. What a picture Luis's stance made, the boy's slender arm extended, deltoid and biceps tensed, the veins running from armpit to wrist standing out like on a fawn, his scrumptious young body leaning forward, as if he were offering himself, not just the beverage.

Not that Fletcher was fey himself, but cute gay houseboys were all the vogue in Hollywood these days, valued not only for their looks but also for their training in household management at community colleges Why hire a frumpy female housekeeper when you might have a professionally trained pretty gay boy at your beck and call?

Actually, for Luis a string thong amounted to formal wear. Most of the time, such as when he tended the lawn and plantings or cleaned the pool he went around in the rude nude. It was something of a naughty game among A List celebrities to see whose house boy was the most brazen. Fletcher's boy thought nothing of walking out to the mail box or to fetch the papers in the buff. He signed for deliveries that way too. It was all part of the Hollywood scene. Casual public nudity was really no big deal -- not in the fourth decade of the twenty-first century -- especially not in the movie capital of the world.

While Fletcher awaited the arrival of his colleagues, the movie producer looked on indulgently while his two favorite actors tossed a frisbee back and forth on the lawn beyond the pool. He reflected, not for the first time, that the sport might have been designed to show off the male physique, especially when the athletes were fully nude as these two lads were. Their evenly tanned forms darted here and there, bending and twisting, jumping and lunging, occasionally tumbling on the grass, then bouncing back up. It was a kinetic and sensual display of clean limbs, tight torsos, and taut buns, all to the accompaniment of laughter and cheerful voices. Barely twenty, the actors were the very picture of health and youthful male exuberance and completely unselfconscious about their nudity.

Though a devoted ladies man himself, Fletcher could recognize exquisite male beauty when he saw it. It was not easy to decide which of the two young beauties was the more stunning. On the one hand, there was the impossibly cute red head, Terry Knowles, on the other, the classic blond beauty, Sandy Barnett, aka the second Jungle Boy. Somehow, even as pretty as Terry was, Fletcher would have to pick Sandy.

Sandy Barnett was blessed with the kind of good looks that turned heads. He had been Marty's and Jason Eberly's personal choice to take up the mantle of the Hollywood Jungle Boy. Like Jason in his prime, Sandy was preternaturally beautiful, much prettier than a boy had any right to be, with delicate features, a straight nose, finely arched brows, a chiseled jaw line, high cheekbones, and large green eyes topped by a thatch the color of straw.

In keeping with the traditions of the Jungle Boy pictures Sandy was no body builder, certainly no Tarzan like Gordon Scott eighty years earlier. Sandy had the physique of a boy not quite grown into manhood: short, slender, and slightly built but toned and muscular, a swimmer's build then in contrast to that of a cross country runner like Jason Eberly, the first Jungle Boy, or Terry.

Sandy was a fine looking specimen but diminutive in stature, standing barely four inches over five feet (163 cm) and weighing only 112 pounds (51 kg). He had a fawn-like physique but with a wiry musculature, toned and taut from daily swimming and running and working out with light weights. As a competitive high school swimmer, he had used the new permanent depilatories to suppress the growth of hair on his body, little as it had been, even in his armpits and at the fork of his legs, leaving him permanently smooth and boyish.

Terry was no slouch in the looks department himself. A cute red head, lightly freckled and with sky blue eyes, Terry was a beauty in his own right. His slender but well-knit physique physique measured just over five four (164 cm) (a half inch more than Sandy) and he weighted 117 pounds (53 kg). His fawn-like physique was the very opposite of the bulging muscles of a gym bunny. He didn't have a gymnast's build but he was quite the acrobat and liked to show off climbing and swinging on ropes and such.

Luis hovered attentively, always happy for the chance to ogle the two young actors, especially Terry, whom he had a crush on. They came over maybe twice a week to use his employer's outdoor pool, which was Olympic sized in length though with only half as many lanes. Luis especially liked spreading sun tan oil on the Terry's scrumptious body. The young actor's Irish heritage made him susceptible to sunburn, even through his tan. Many is the time the boy stretched out on a lounge chair and let Luis attend to every portion of his body, not just the back.

The young actors broke off tossing the Frisbee when Marty Fletcher's other guests arrived for the story conference. Together they would confer on film concepts that would play to their stars' strengths, then set writers to work on actual scripts. Fletcher's colleagues were his close friend the veteran director, Jim Nicholls, plus Ed Veronese, the actors' agent, and Leon Potter, studio production chief. Also on hand was Conrad Held. a relative unknown in his early thirties till the spectacular success of their first Dracula movie. Tall, dark, and elegantly handsome, Conrad had played very well against the younger pair, making a fine villain.

The boys bounced over to join the others under the big lawn umbrella. Not the least bit body shy, neither bothered to dress, settling their nude sweaty bodies down on director's chairs and pouring themselves big tumblers of iced tea. That was Fletcher's cue.

"My friends, the word of the day is: Bomba."

Sandy and Terry frowned, clueless. The Hollywood veterans reacted quite differently. They had caught the reference.

"Good grief, Marty," Potter expostulated. I can't see selling that concept to the moneybags of Hollywood. Why it's positively prehistoric."

Ed Veronese and Jim Nichols were not so adamant in their opposition, but they did shake their heads doubtfully. Jim Nichols spoke up for both.

"I dunno, Marty, they churned out those Bomba pictures way back in the 1950s. Those were juveniles, kids stuff, with low production values, all shot on a sound stage in black and white. Are you serious?"

"Never more serious." Fletcher replied. "Think about it. What could be more appropriate for today's Jungle Boy or rather our own fine Jungle Boys, Sandy and Terry here, than a revival of Bomba, the original Jungle Boy, before anyone tagged Jason Eberly! Don't you get it. This character is a pretty white boy, orphaned in the jungle and raised by apes. He swings through the trees in constant danger from predators, snakes, hostile tribes, slavers, man-eating plants, you name it. If we play this right, we'll have a new franchise to alternate with Conrad's and the boys' Dracula pictures."

Turning to the young actors, Flether explained that the Bomba pictures were a spin-off from Johnny Weismuller's Tarzan pix. Johnny Sheffield, the child actor who had played Boy in the Tarzan movies, was tapped to star in a series of low budget jungle adventures of his own. Meanwhile Weissmuller himself, already in his mid-forties, went on to make a series of Jungle Jim quickies and then a television series. Their concept was simple: Tarzan in clothes.

Leaning back in his chair, Fletcher smiled as he added:

"Of course, the original concept of Bomba is totally out of date. Those old books and movies reflect a different social consciousness. The depiction of sex in movies was a much less explicit. Hell in movies made under the Hays code, even married couples in the movies slept in separate beds.There were strict limits on the display of the human body. You couldn't even show the navel. Even in his loincloth Bomba seems chaste even sexless to today's audience. A jungle boy like Bomba might have a schoolboy crush on some girl but it never got physical."

So we have to update the concept. For starters, hold the loincloth. Our Bomba runs around in the altogether like a wild animal. Also our boy will be gay. So will his love interest. That would be you Terry. Your characters fall in love after Bomba rescues the milquetoast city boy."

"So what else is new. Terry and I have made entire movies naked in every scene." Sandy sighed theatrically. "Sorry Terry. No tastefully tailored loincloths for us. And here I hoped we would be making another costume picture. Someday I'd like to do a remake of 'Flame of Araby' with myself as the Arab sheik and Terry as his red headed love interest, just like in the original."

"Oh?" Terry asked.

"Herself, Maureen O'Hara." Sandy explained.

"So Terry starts out as a city boy, eh. So how do we get his clothes off? Do I rescue him from hostile natives and take him back to my love nest where I relieve him of every stitch -- pith helmet, shirt, and shorts -- or will the natives do the honors stripping him to the buff before tying him to a stake?"

"No need for sarcasm, Sandy" Fletcher replied somewhat defensively. Naturally, you will both be nude in virtually all of your scenes. That what your fans like to see. As for Terry, much as you might like to strip him slowly and sensually in a love scene, the picture will be more exciting if a gang of big blacks simply rips his clothes to shreds and throws the rags in a fire. Thereafter he will have to go about in the nude. Also, forget that stake. Terry would look more fetching strung up between two trees spread-eagle fashion, tied at wrists and ankles in an X, looking helpless and vulnerable and sexy."

"And to complete the scene, acacia thorns piercing his tits, trickles of blood running down his ribs. Terry is kinky enough to get off on that." added Conrad Helm, noted in the movie community for his sardonic wit. They all knew that Terry was into BDSM, at least in a moderation, so the older actor's verbal thrust was right on target.

"Hey guys!" Terry exclaimed. "Give me a break."

Both young actors rolled their eyes heavenward in supplication. Though Conrad and Fletch did have a point. In their pictures, their characters get captured rather a lot, usually stripped and treated roughly, often abused both physically and sexually. The Jungle Boys could expect beatings, whippings, and rape almost as a matter of course. And Terry in real life did occasionally surrender himself for a few days or a week into temporary sexual slavery with masters he knew and trusted. His rump had felt the kiss of a cat of nine tails, buggy whip, fraternity paddle, and studded leather belt. The only limitation was they couldn't leave permanent marks.

No surprise about the on-camera nudity. That was par for most of their pictures. Though their first Dracula flick had been a welcome change of pace. Oh it had a few nude love scenes, but Hollywood did not call it a costume picture for nothing. Sandy loved to stalk through the fog swirling an enveloping cloak. He fervently wished cloaks would come back into fashion. Terry liked the formal wear that upper class Brits donned back then when they dressed for dinner. These Bomba pictures were a return to the tried and true, a Jungle Boy picture in more ways than one. The movie would have the boys bare ass in virtually every scene. So lots of skinny dipping in jungle pools, love scenes in the tree tops, swinging on vines, running across the veldt their buns twitching fetchingly as they try to escape a tribe of howling savages, and so forth.

The two young actors sighed philosophically. Been there done that. The boys had not worn a stitch for entire pictures like their gay remakes of 'Blue Lagoon' and 'When Dinosaurs Ruled the Earth'. If that was the only problem with Fletcher's concept, it was not a problem at all. In truth, they knew that their success in the movies owed less to their talents as thespians than to their willingness to go in front of the camera in the skimpiest of costumes or even none at all, revealing their sexy bodies to audiences worldwide.

Even straight teens, always Hollywood's prime audience, flocked to their movies. Terry and Sandy did not threaten their standards of masculinity. With short slender physiques and pretty boy good looks as well as their obviously gay personalities, their movies appealed to the straight male audience as action comedies. What better way to take a movie about a pair of bare ass punks killing dinosaurs or slaying vampires?

Fletcher gradually won over the doubters. It helped that the movie rights to Bomba had lapsed long ago, so the studio would not have to pay to use the character. Potter committed to lining up the money, and the discussion turned to the script of their next Dracula picture. As always, no matter how definitively destroyed in a previous picture, somehow the dread count would manage to rise from the (un)dead.

Chapter 2. On Location in the Yucatan

Within three months, 'Bomba, the Jungle Boy' started shooting on location deep in the Yucatan. Many of the movie folks simply called it "Bomba 1" in anticipation of a franchise. In this picture set in the nineteen thirties, Bomba (Sandy Barnett) is the son of missionaries orphaned at eight years of age when a hippo capsized their canoe and killed both parents. The orphan was sheltered and raised by bonobos (in a nod to Edgar Rice Burroughs). Nine years later, Bomba has grown into a fine looking specimen of youthful male pulchritude.

Terry plays Bryce, the effeminate son of a bull-headed tycoon on safari in Darkest Africa, who has dragged his seventeen year son old along to toughen him up. The father hoped that the hardships of the wilds would force his rather swishy son to man up. In the script, the tycoon fights off kidnappers long enough for his son to get away. The story then revolves around how Bryce and Bomba meet, fall in love, and join forces to rescue the father who is being held for political reasons, not for ransom.

The ending is bittersweet as the father, even after his dramatic rescue, cannot accept his son's gay relationship. His chief concern is not for his son, but how he himself could explain to his rich friends that his son and heir Bryce would rather run around the jungle stark naked with a homosexual lover than return with him to civilization. The denouement is a way of keeping Bryce at Bomba's side for the sequel. Already writers were working on scripts including some that would have the pair traveling to India or South America or New Guinea. With any luck, in coming years, the series would set them down in all the jungles of the world, maybe even on other planets with an alien abduction subplot.

Though both actors were nearly twenty-one, they could easily play seventeen. Both were short and slightly built, and prettier than boys had any right to be. It was quite common in movies for actors even in their later twenties to play teenagers. Most did not really look it, but these two young actors were uber-twinks and very much looked the part.

The young actors had little trouble adjusting to the oppressive tropical heat or to the rigors of jungle existence. Their bare feet were toughened from going without shoes back in the States. They had long since taken up Jason Eberly's old practice of running cross country trails in the nude at a clothing optional state park.

After three years in the business with all those nude scenes under their belts (so to speak), neither actor bothered with clothing between takes, figuring they might as well be bare ass off camera as well as on. During rain delays, seated in their directors chairs, they waved off the umbrella guy. What was the point? It was hot, they were naked, and the rain felt good. Often the director didn't even halt the shoot, just incorporating the rain into the script. What could be more natural in a jungle than a rain shower. It was not called a rain forest for nothing.

The script called for plenty of stunts, which the young actors really had to do themselves. Their physiques were so well known to audiences, that substituting a stunt man for either of them would be jarringly obvious. The audience just hates that sort of thing.

Sandy and Terry practiced rope and tree climbing, both with regular ropes and those tricked up by the prop department to look like vines. The script called for some vine swinging like Tarzan, and both boys wanted it to look natural. No CGI substitutes for either of them. Sandy was strong enough he could hoist himself upwards with just his arms. Terry could do it better, like a gymnast with the legs straight out so that his nude body formed an L. Their climbing attracted quite a few cameras. Few forms of exercise were better suited to display the strength and agility of the human frame.

Actually they looked just great, both of them. The muscle bundles of shoulders and arms stood out under the smooth tawny skin of the two lads. Back muscles bunched and moved erotically. Buns tightened and dimpled fetchingly. The boys always practiced climbing in the nude, never no mind who was watching. Their slight builds and natural agility made them natural for scrambling in the tree tops, swinging on ropes, collecting fruits or the occasional exotic orchid. They looked like two nature children, perched on high branches surveying their jungle domain, their evenly tanned, hairless bodies toned, taut, slender, and boyish.

The camera loved them. Although short, their bodies were well proportioned and incredibly toned, taut and trim. Add in killer abs and all-over tans, they was poetry in motion. In every picture the director made sure to do several slo-mo shots just to show off his stars' athletic prowess and raw animal appeal. No one bothered with coy camera angles any more. If a shot called for a good look at their bare rumps or even the full monty, then so be it.

The scene where the two boys meet is typical of the genre. It owed more to Sandy's conception of the picture than Fletcher's original notions. They meet, they fight, and even though they do realize it, the audience knows that it is a case of love at first sight. And it not hostile natives who strip Terry's character naked. He does that himself for their first love scene:

"'Ware below!" Bomba calls out as he cuts several coconuts free from the cluster of palm leaves at the top of the tree and lets them fall to the sand with a heavy thud.

"Hell and damnation! Hey, you up there blondie. Are you trying to crack my skull open?"

Surprised, Bomba looks down to see a young white man on the ground, nursing a sore shoulder. The nude climber slides down the trunk of the palm to the sand below.

"Are you all right, Red?"

"See for yourself, Yellow." he retorts with considerable asperity.

The red haired youth is wearing safari garb: shorts, shirt, and boots though topped off with a Yankees baseball cap. He slides his shirt half way off his shoulders to display a large bruise where the heavy fruit struck him in its descent.

"What kind of an idiot are you, Blondie, to drop coconuts on your betters without warning?"

"Now look, I am sorry. Maybe I did not delay long enough but I did shout a warning before I let the coconuts drop. And what is with this "betters" stuff, anyway. You're just a kid yourself. You can't be twenty years old and likely less!" Bomba replies hotly.

"Really, boy? I'd say you cannot be more than fifteen yourself, to judge by appearances. Here you are a bare assed runt without a hair anywhere on his body, not even down there. And running around stark naked like a native child. Do you have any idea who my father is? Why he could buy this whole jungle."

"Well at least I look out for myself. I am on my own. I don't try to impress folks with my father's importance. That's kid stuff. Look, maybe I was in the wrong there, getting careless with the coconuts, but that was an accident, and I am sorry for it. But I did not intentionally give offense the way you have been doing, my red headed friend. I think you went over the line, belittling me that way."

"If anyone has belittled you, little boy, it is Mother Nature herself!" the angry rich kid retorts with a barking laugh.

That does it. Though not combative, Bomba does not suffer fools gladly or allow himself to be mocked. He had after all apologized for his carelessness and given the kid a chance to apologize in turn. How dare this rude fellow continue to belittle him in that fashion.

With a pang of regret that this was a white boy of about his age who might have become a friend, Bomba throws an inexpert punch at the red head's chin. With the benefit of boxing lessons his father forced on him, Bryce lets it slip past his shoulder and punches Bomba hard in the solar plexus. The smaller boy goes down on to his knees and haunches, the wind knocked out of him, gasping for breath. He can hardly hold back tears of shame at how easily he had been bested by a single punch.

Suddenly the other youth kneels beside him, holding him gently by the shoulders, murmuring words of regret.

"Here, sit up straight, kid. It will help you breathe easier. Look, I am really sorry I hit you just now, catching you with that sucker punch. It was all my fault, provoking you that way. But I have something of a temper. It runs in the family, but like a squall at sea it soon blows over. I can never stay mad for long, especially not with a nice looking kid like you. Can we just, well, start over, blondie? I think we might become friends. Look, what do I call you? My name is Bryce, Bryce O'Hanlon. I am Irish, actually Irish American. I am from New York."

"Uh, that's OK with me, I guess. My name is Bomba, at least that is what I go by these days. I am English though of German extraction. That wasn't too popular back home after the Great War which is why my parents left for Africa." They shake hands firmly, if a little warily.

"Aren't you rather far from England, Bomba, and what kind of a name is that anyway?"

The Jungle Boy explains about his origins and that the name was conferred on him by tribesmen who could not twist their tongues around the consonants of his original name, Wolfgang Schleiermacher. Soon the boys are chatting away companionably, their earlier discord forgiven if not quite forgotten. They half kneel, half sit side by side, their bare legs and flanks touching.

Human nature and youthful hormones do the rest. Although not very experienced himself, it is Bryce who introduces Bomba the Jungle Boy to human sexuality. It was one of their tenderest scenes reflecting the actual love between the two actors, though of course this is the movies so there is no actual intercourse on camera. This movie is action-adventure, not a porno flick.

Bryce (Terry) can hardly keep his hands off Bomba. Jungle wise though he might be, the boy is so naive, so young, so beautiful, so close, and so very naked. Bomba even smells good: of sweat, and salt, and good clean boy. No wonder Brendan's comforting hand slides down from Bomba's shoulder along his spine down to the boy's cleavage. Brendan's other hand slips from his shoulder to finger the blond boy's nipples and to stroke his chest the ridges of his belly, and his inner thighs. Bomba is confused but does not mind the exploratory touching, either. He actually sidles closer, putting his arm around Bryce's waist, so their bodies press together.

"This feels very nice Bryce, sitting here together, feeling the warmth of your body. I hope you won't mind my putting my arm around you, holding you close. No, don't stop what you are doing with your hands. I have never had hands on me like this. It feels good. It is making me tingly all over. If you want to touch me, to play with my body, go ahead. You have my permission to touch me anywhere, even in my secret places."

Bryce avails himself of the privilege reaching between Bomba's legs. Bomba gulps as the older youth excites him. Never before has a man's touch brought such satisfaction to the Jungle Boy. He accepts these ministrations willingly, murmuring contentedly as the red haired young man's hands touch him virtually everywhere.

"Uh, Bomba, don't take this the wrong way, but do you have any idea how truly beautiful you are? You are so much prettier than any girl I ever saw. This firm young body of yours would make a sculptor drool with envy. Those old time Greeks and Romans liked to put up statues of athletic boys, nudes just like you."

"You don't look so bad yourself, Bryce. I don't remember much about those ancients. My school days are only hazy memories, but I suspect they would like to drool over you. I don't mind admitting that I am close to doing the same myself. Not that I really know how to take it further than a kiss. The fact is that I have never been with anyone, man or woman or boy. That does make me feel like I am still fourteen, but I really am seventeen, as of last month anyway, just as I told you."

"And still a complete virgin?".

The Jungle Boy reddens and nods, too embarrassed to speak further.

"Given how few opportunities you have had around here, that is not surprising. Bomba, would you let me make love to you, to teach you about male love? I am sure you would like it. I know I would. You are the sexiest creature I ever encountered."

The blond boy's nervous nod indicates his assent.

Brendan has them gather some palm leaves for a bed which they lay out in the shade. The rest of the tender love scene has little dialogue, their physical union filmed tastefully by Jim Nichols.

Afterward, to seal their bond, Bomba tells his new found lover:

"To everyone else in Africa, I am still Bomba the Jungle Boy, but you must call me Wolf in private".

He pronounces it with an initial V sound, the German way. Bryce hugs the blond boy, pleased with this confirmation of their intimacy. And so ends their big love scene. Actually Potter thought Bomba a dumb name for a cute twink like Sandy's character, but they were stuck with it, hence the alternate name of Wolf.

It was a very sexy scene, yes, but it was explicit rather than graphic. There was no doubt as to what was happening but they did not show anatomical details. Restrictions on what could be shown in the movies or on television were virtually non-existent at this late date, some sixty years after the first instance of full-frontal nudity on American TV. Almost anything could be presented on screen. Jason Eberly had ridden that wave of change starting twenty years earlier, doing many pictures in the rude nude. Sandy and Terry were following in his (bare) footsteps.

There is a lot of down time for an actor on a movie set as the crew gets things ready. Actors even have stand-ins who take their place while cameras, lighting, and sound are set up. So the boys had time on their hands. Both boys were natural athletes and used their free time in active pursuits, now virtually always in the nude. They liked to swim but did so only when the waters were clear and they had a boat with them and a lookout armed with a rifle in case of caimans or other predators. The boys had been competitive athletes and could do laps for a couple of hours at a time. They often played in the water with a large inflated beach ball or clambered onto the bank and threw a frisbee around.

Chapter 3. Taken

One sunny Saturday Sandy Barnett went out the door of his parent's home near the Gulf Coast of Florida. The young actor's folks were away at a medical convention. So Sandy had flown in to see his parents off and to house sit. Someone had to feed the cats and water the plants, and pick up the mail.

The boy was unconcerned that he was out in public on a residential side street stark naked. That was nothing the neighbors hadn't seen before. To them it was just "the Barnett kid" in the altogether trotting along local streets as usual.

As a Florida lad Sandy considered clothes something of a bother what with global warming and all. The state's climate was almost tropical these days. It was only smart to be careful about heat exhaustion or even heat stroke. Going bare ass was Sandy's coping mechanism. Besides, he hated tan lines almost as much as body hair. Sandy had neither.

By the middle of the twenty-first century nudity taboos were dying in America, the last holdout for prudery in the developed countries. Generational change was the biggest part of the reason. Young people did not share the attitudes of their prudish elders. The law too had changed with the times, through enactment of new statutes and judicial decisions that recognized public nudity in some contexts as a constitutional right. With global warming still unchecked, many of the younger sort saw public nudity as a practical solution to climate change.

There were many clothing optional beaches around with nude beach volley ball competitions as well as nude swimmers and sunbathers. The larger urban parks had sections given over to nude sunbathing much like the Englischer Garten in Munich. Runners for cross country teams thought nothing of loping down the back road or cross country trails in parks, barefoot and absolutely starkers on their training runs, emulating the Olympians of ancient times. You had to do something pretty outrageous these days to get arrested for what they used to call public indecency. That suited Sandy just fine.

Much of his time outdoors was spent at nude beaches and pools or along running trails in clothing optional parks. In high school he had trained and competed nude on his swim team. Did that make him an exhibitionist?

Weren't the paparazzi with their intrusive photo drones really voyeurs? Originally developed for the military, video drones were a standard tool for the paparazzi. At least the law had been changed to discourage the near constant surveillance of celebrities by those miniature helicopters. The video surveillance drones had to stay prescribed distances from their residences and work places, but celebrities were fair game everywhere else.

Sandy had lost count of how many videos of him were posted to the internet. The paparazzi particularly liked to capture him walking and running laps or trails where his nude body was more visible than say swimming at the beach. Enterprising photographers had managed to take videos of him from the bottom of swimming pools, providing their viewers with an excellent view of Sandy's stroke. Actually the first such videos had been taken by his coaches when he had trained and competed nude on his high school swim team. Of course their purpose, at least originally, was pedagogical. Not so the newer sort.

And really, could not the same thing be said about his movie audiences? Weren't movies really a socially approved form of voyeurism, a window into the private lives of mostly fictitious persons?

Still Sandy was rightly proud of his tempting body and knew full well how easily the sight of it could excite concupiscence in persons of both genders.

That day Sandy was running alone. After production wrapped on Bomba 1, Terry stayed in Hollywood for a few days, putting in long hours doing some voice acting in an animated feature.

Sandy trotted along the sidewalk, taking it easy because concrete could be hard on one's feet. He would pick up the pace once he reached honest dirt. The running trails were constructed of dirt or sand or wood chips and much easier, orthopedically speaking.

As he ran along, Sandy fell into a state of euphoria and contentment known as a runner's high, induced by endorphins bonding to the pleasure centers of the brain. His mind wandered as he followed the twists and turns of a familiar route which he could almost navigate in his sleep. After eight miles he reached the parcours course for his twice weekly traceur training. This was a line of outdoor equipment stationed a short jog apart, each designed to strengthen a specific muscle group or stretch the body.

Like most experienced traceurs Sandy trained barefoot, said to be the best way to feel the environment. As the saying goes ""Bare feet are the best shoes!" Well if so, then bare ass made the best outfit. Sandy always liked the kiss of the sun on his back and bare buns. When he was being honest, he admitted it made him feel so very naked. The young actor was something of an exhibitionist, after all. In a way that was why he had gone into pictures in the first place and why he usually wasn't bothered by the paparazzi posting nude videos of his athletic exploits.

On this particular day he found the parcours course already in use by a tall dark haired man barefoot like himself but dressed in skimpy skin-tight lycra shorts. They were sky blue just like the man's eyes. In back the shorts concealed his cleavage about as much (really as little) as ballet tights did for male ballerinos, if there was such a word. The thin fabric delved deep between his buns hugging the globes of his ass. In front, well, suffice it to say you could pretty much guess that the man was not circumcised. Sandy found himself wondering why the man bothered with them at all.

Sandy found himself trying not to ogle the other athlete. The man looked to be in his late twenties and stood much taller than Sandy did by at least two hand spans. Powerfully built, lean but muscular, the stranger moved with the grace of a panther. His face was comely but with a manly set to it, with a square chin, dark hair and blue eyes.

It was all the thunderstruck youth could do not to exclaim "Wow!" out loud. The man was very much the dominant type that appealed to his submissive side. He badly wanted this potent male to make love to him. Actually Sandy's face must have given him away, for the man smiled and winked at him. Sandy gulped and tried to appear nonchalant, drawing on his acting skills. Though by now he was a good actor, he knew that his performance fooled no one.

"Hi, kid" the man called out. "The name is Jake. I haven't seen you on the course before but you look like you belong here. Parcours is just the thing to maintain that swimmer's build of yours. You're kinda small, but you have one of those physiques that is more about quality than quantity -- taut and toned and zero body fat. And I know what I am talking about, Blondie. I am a professional traceur. I do commercials and train folks at a gym I own."

"Thanks, and the name is Sandy."

"Sandy eh. I'll bet you are on a high school team. These days kids in competitive sports mostly train and compete stark naked like in the ancient Olympics. Not that I'm complaining -- not at all. The look suits you. Listen, Sandy, if you like, I could critique your form. No charge for a stunning blond boy like you. I think I would like to get to know you."

Sandy accepted the offer, pleased that the man had not recognized him nor tried to gush at him like so many fans did. Jake just liked what he saw. And why the hell not? False modesty had never been one of Sandy faults. The two males alternated at each exercise station. Jake went first so show how the routine should be done. Then Sandy took his turn under the watchful eye of his new-found trainer.

It wasn't long before the man graduated from verbal tips to putting his hands to Sandy's body, to guide him into proper stance and form. Oh he had to stand back at some stations where the body had to been in constant motion, like hopping over a low obstacle. At others, you did the exercise in place. These gave the man his maximum opportunity to put his hands on the boy.

Already hooked though he didn't quite know it, Sandy readily accepted the tactile as well as verbal guidance. So when Sandy bent all the way over a waist high support and hooked his ankles to brace himself for repeatedly lifting his torso up to vertical, Jake could run his hands all along Sandy's back and bum and legs. To start off Jake kept the boy bent all the way over, his bare ass temptingly uppermost, hands clasped behind his head as the big man explained which muscle group in his back and ass and limbs were stressed with the exercise.

At one point, Jake reached between Sandy's legs and tugged his genitals back, simply commenting that the boy surely did not want to press his weight down on such a vulnerable portion of his anatomy. He ran his hands along the boy's back to his rump, naming each muscle and its function in the body. Jake liked to keep his fingers pressed lightly to the young actor's back and bum, his thumbs tracing the top of his cleavage as he went through the full range of motion, the better to gauge muscle tension and tone, of course.

When Sandy was doing pull ups, Jake pressed at his abs and belly demonstrating that pull ups stress more than just the arms and shoulders. The whole body is in tension. As Jake's hand fell away, it accidentally brushed the young actors genitals. Between exercises, he had Sandy halt a minute as he knuckled or kneaded largely imaginary knots out of the young actor's muscles. Sandy had never experienced anything like this treatment. It was a combination of training, exercise, anatomy lesson, massage, and foreplay all rolled into one.

Then it was on to yet another station a couple of hundred meters along the trail. Sandy flushed as the man looked down at the fork of his legs where Sandy's cock had visibly plumped up. No it wasn't dripping, not yet, but there was no doubt the sexy youth was becoming aroused. Sandy flushed and stammered in embarrassment. Here this nice man was trying help him, and all he could think of was jumping his bones. He chided himself for his forwardness and was relieved to see that the man was not offended but nodded to him with an amused tolerance.

"I know that, at your age, you can't rightly help it kid. It's almost inevitable when a virile grown man like myself takes a keen interest in a nice looking twink like you, with that trim body of yours."

Relieved to see that he had not given offense and that his personal charm was still working, Sandy let Jake set the pace for the rest of the parcours course, letting Jake continue to take considerable liberties with his bare body, touching and feeling and stroking him everywhere. Once finished Sandy readily assented to the man's suggestion that they jog over to his place, which was no more than a half mile away for a shower, a sports drink, and perhaps a swim when they had had their second wind. As they jogged down a path along the border of the park, Jake called a halt, saying he recognized the van parked there as belonging to a friend of his. Looking inside they saw no one, but the passenger door was unlocked so Sandy figured the driver must be somewhere about. Jake slid the side door open and reached in for something. Suddenly he exclaimed.

"Well I'll be damned. Look at that, Sandy."

When the unsuspecting youth poked his head inside, Jake pushed him to the floor and bent his arm painfully behind his back, snapping handcuffs on his wrists. A kidney punch took all resistance out of the boy as the man fitted leg irons to his ankles and shoved a dildo gag into his mouth, locking the straps behind his head followed by a blindfold. Lifting the boy's bound body fully into the back of the van, the man locked the doors, found his keys, and drove off to who knew where.

Sandy was helpless, a captive of this stranger who had fooled him completely. He was entirely at the man's mercy. What would become of him now? The bound boy struggled and rolled around as much as he could, deliberately banging his feet against the side of the van when it pulled to a stop to attract attention. The man cursed and climbed into the back. Suddenly the boy felt a prick in his buttock as Jake injected a drug to knock him out completely. As the boy lost consciousness he thought of Terry and how much he loved him and how much he was going to miss him. Then everything went dark.

Chapter 4. In Captivity

Sandy woke up in a cage like those they use to transport the largest dogs. He was still shackled but no longer gagged or blindfolded. He sensed he was in a large room but he could not get a good idea of its real size. The only illumination was a feeble night light set shoulder height next to a doorway. Sandy also had no idea how far he had been transported. It could have been hundreds of miles to another state. Some considerable time must have elapsed since his capture since Sandy badly needed to empty his bladder.

Suddenly the door opened and the lights came on. Once his eyes adjusted, the young captive could see he was in a large underground room fitted out as a dungeon. It was lined with sheeting made up to resemble cut stone, though the effect was more corny than intimidating. Three leather clad men surrounded him. One was Jake, the other two wore small masks. All of them were large men and bare to the waist. Jake's familiar voice rang out with false bonhomie.

"Hello, Sunshine. My oh my, you look positively scrumptious. Today will be largely an intro to what you can expect from me and The Brotherhood. Frank and Jim here are the lucky winners of a drawing to see who gets first crack at you."

Sandy could hear the capital letters. He was in the clutches of an organization, not just an individual. They sounded serious. Still maybe he could talk his way out of this.

"You do realize that you are criminals, every one of you. There's kidnapping for starters. And now you're talking rape."

"Yes Sandy, and aggravated assault, sexual assault, false imprisonment, etc. We aren't worried, though you oughta be. You're the one in trouble, kid."

"Let me explain the facts of life. No one knows you are here. Hell no one knows you are missing and they won't for a few days at least, not with your boyfriend out on the West Coast. There is no way to trace us either. It was your misfortune to jog over to the park when no one else was around. Make up your mind. You are here for as long as we care to keep you."

"I won't promise we won't hurt you, but we will not damage you, not permanently, not a lovely fawn like you. We have brought you here for rough sex, not to inflict pain for its own sake, much less to injure you. You might find that hard to believe during the next few hours as you writhe under the lash, but that is just to instill obdedience."

"Now just as we are not full-fledged sadists, we know that you are not a true masochist, but it really would help you adjust if you could get your mind beyond the concept of pain as totally negative. After all, pain is a warning, nature's way of pointing to an injury, which in your case will never be serious anyway. Just welts and bruises and soreness from the sting of the whip or the smack of the paddle. Oh and your muscles will ache too from confinement and immobilization in awkward positions. Nothing too bad really.

"Some people, the true masochists, get off on pain. They actively seek it out and embrace it, the wiring in their brains transforming it into pleasure. Others much less so. Still everyone has a bit of the masochist in him, most especially sexual submissives like yourself. Try to work with that side of you. Believe me, it will help."

"Your sort gets off on losing control to dominant males who subjugate you to their lusts. It's a craving. You want them to take charge of you and force you to do the naughty things you are too chicken to ask for or seek out on your own. That is where bondage comes in. It forces you to face up to your true nature."

"You see, both the masochist and the submissive feel the fight or flight impulse, just as everyone does, but bondage makes either impossible, takes both out of the equation. Accept your fate. We have you and we will do with you whatever we desire, for as long as we desire. Something in that should appeal to an abject submissive like you."

"I would tell you not to bother begging but you probably will anyway. Naturally it will have no effect. Do you really think that men like us would be moved by pleas from a punk kid like you? That is what you are now, a punk, in the sense of that word in prison slang: a passive and effeminate male homosexual of tender years. Anyway your pleas, your sobs or your screams are all so much music to our ears."

"And yes, all this frank talk admittedly is part of the psychological manipulation we will put you through but it no less effective for your knowing that. So welcome to your first dungeon experience with The Brotherhood. Now to work."

With that Jake and his men dragged the boy out of the cage and shackled him by the wrists to an overhead beam. Short as he was Sandy's toes barely grazed the concrete floor. Then they pulled his legs wide apart and shackled his ankles to the floor. With his body in an X, he was totally vulnerable.

One by one the men embraced the boy like a lover pressing his slender nude body to their hairy chests and leather clad legs. They made lewd love to the boy, kissing him and thrusting their tongues into his mouth and touching him intimately. Callused hands explored his trim body, grabbing, squeezing, slapping, and spanking. They told him how sexy he looked strung up in an X, which made every part of his body accessible and vulnerable to whatever they desired to inflict on him.

Then the men took their turns with Sandy's ass. Jake started off spanking his buns, getting him warmed up, he called it. In turn the men stepped behind him and slammed their cocks into him. At least they had lubed him beforehand. As they fucked him, they reached around to manipulate him, getting him hard, but they never let him climax. Soon the boy's distended bunghole was dripping with their manly juices until the men took to shoving a butt plug up his ass when they weren't actually fucking him.

In between fuck sessions the men whipped Sandy's back and legs body or caned his rump. Jake also flicked a light riding crop at his genitals. As Sandy found out to his sorrow, things could go very badly for a small youth in heavy bondage locked into a dungeon with three men with cruel streaks and nasty imaginations.

All the while they belittled Sandy with hypocritical reproaches and trash talk, Jake most of all.

"You silly fool, putting yourself in my power. I almost laughed out loud at the parcours course, the way you let a complete stranger put his hands on you everywhere, the way you were nearly drooling and dripping, your boy cock halfway engorged with blood. What a slut!"

Look at yourself in that mirror in the wall, hanging helpless, your feet drawn apart, ankles chained to rings set in the floor, a kilo of iron hanging from your nuts, alligator clamps on your tits. Sharp teeth eh. You cannot see it of course, but take my word for it. Your back and ass and legs are criss-crossed with red welts. Anyone for tic-tac-toe?"

"Here you hang, a small naked hairless boy, cringing before his betters. That is where you belong, little one. You were made to be used by strong men as a fuck toy, you little cocksucking pansy faggot. A cock crazy youth like you needs to be fucked hard and often and by men who know how. And we are those men."

"See how I am marking your tawny skin, putting red welts on your chest and the front of your legs. Afterwards I am going to lift them up and chain your ankles next to your wrists, turning you into a human wishbone, helpless and suspended in bondage for our delectation. I intend to beat that round rump of yours till you are sobbing and begging me to stop. Oh I will stop for a while, but only to thrust my manhood into your punk ass. Maybe my male juices will make a man of you. Nothing else has, you little fairy."

Sandy's head whirled at verbal assault and the sensations coursing through his bound body, a wild combination of pain and humiliation and lust. He had a fire in his belly, and his cock was rock hard. He couldn't believe he would ever feel aroused by such rough treatment. Yes he was in pain, and the trash talk made him feel about two inches tall. What did that say about his masculinity or the fact that he only got harder when Jake snapped the riding crop against the shaft of his erection. Oh they were getting to him all right, Jake and this Brotherhood of his. He was more like Terry than he had ever realized. How long could Sandy hold onto his identity?

He thought of Terry and how his kinky lover might respond more readily to this kind of sexual torment. Poor Terry would be even more vulnerable to this assault on his sense of identity. Sandy had read about the Stockholm Syndrome. These men could break Terry utterly, more easily than Sandy himself. Was that their future, a pair of shell-shocked sex slaves, their wills permanently subordinate to their new masters. This was all too similar to the treatment by their captors in the mountains two years ago. He hoped these men would not drag Terry into this hell hole too.

At one point, he simply had to let go his bladder. The yellow stream splashed on the floor then flowed to a drain in the corner. That provoked more hilarity. As he hosed off the concrete, one captor suggested they fit him with a diaper. Another suggested a balloon catheter to block his urethra giving them total control of that orifices to match the alternating cocks and butt plug up his ass. Fortunately that was just trash talk.

From their talk among themselves Sandy realized that the whippings had more than one purpose: to establish their control, to instill discipline, to mark his body, and to let them watch him writhe sexily under the lash. At least they weren't breaking the skin. No scarring.

"You have no idea how sexy you look, Sandy, chest heaving, muscles bunching up, your torso twisting, trying to avoid the next snap of the riding crop or slash from the whip, your thighs pulling at the shackles on your ankles, trying to shield your groin. All quite useless of course. We have access to every part of your body and all your bodily orifices.

Adding to his misery were the red lights on the video cameras that meant these men were recording every moment of his degradation. Sandy tried to be brave it out, but gradually gave in to a sense of hopelessness. This wasn't the movies, where the director would soon call 'Cut'. He was trapped, immobilized, spread-eagled, his small body vulnerable. The sting of the whips, impalement on their cocks, the trash talk had taken their toll. Caged, shackled, tormented, raped, and humiliated, is it any wonder that a slightly built boy of only twenty might give in to despair and self-pity. Tears welled up in his eyes at the thought of what his fate might be in the hands of his captors. Jake noticed it too.

"Har. Already with the water works. At any moment you'll burst into tears and start sobbing. Go ahead, you cock crazy little faggot. Bawl your eyes out. That will only confirm your utter lack of manliness, you scrawny little punk."

Jake's helper Frank typically put the boy on his knees or on all fours, his small body bound tight at ankles, knees, elbows, and wrists, a slave collar locked around his throat. Frank chose oral service for starters.

Sandy gasped for air around the invading shaft, his spit and drool leaking out of the corners of his mouth as Frank face fucked him all the while bad mouthing him with the crudest and vilest of language, occasionally slashing at his bound body with a riding crop.

"Ah, the soft whimper of defeat and submission." Jake intoned. "That means this lad won't be giving us any trouble. Isn't that right, little one?" he asked, patting Sandy's rump in approval. "Pretty little thing, isn't he, Jake whether kneeling or bent over and submissive, ass in the air. Such a nice trim figure too: good chest, round rump, and taut buns. The best boy flesh I have ever encountered."

Frank slapped his ass hard, as if he needed a reminder to stay in place, bound as he was. The leather man unsnapped his cod piece preparing for the fuck. He put his big hands to Sandy's rump, squeezing his cheeks, digging in rather hard actually, then used his thumbs to stretch the bung hole, lubricating it with what smelled like olive oil. Sandy felt his hairy chest scrape his back as Frank laid his body over him, practically engulfing him, covering him much like a stallion does a filly, using his knees to prod the legs wider apart to give him better access to the battered boy hole. When he was all the way in, deeply seated, he sighed.

"Ah, you have no idea how wonderful it feels to be clutched by the velvet warmth of your depths, little Sandy or should I call you Alexander. That is your full name isn't it? Small and tight as you are, yet you can accommodate even a man of my dimensions. Now I am going to pump you steadily. I suspect you will get off on that, but even if you do not, I certainly shall."

"Right on Frank," Jake said enthusiastically. "Lay it into him. He is a pretty one, all right. You had the right of it. Running around buck nekkid like that, prettier than any girl, the youngster was fairly begging to be treated like the frisky little filly that he is. He was lucky he caught the attention of The Brotherhood before more savory characters got him. You will thank us for this one day, you little tramp."

"From the way the boy is moaning and shuddering in arousal, you might think he was enjoying this. Then again,he is a professional actor. Lucky you, Sandy. Hollywood saved you from a life as some rich man's catamite or boy toy. That's true, isn't it, Blondie? You would otherwise be a kept boy and likely get passed around a lot at orgies."

The man grabbed Sandy's shoulders and pulled his whole body back onto his cock, sinking all the way in. He held it there a moment then withdrew till only the head of his cock was within the anal ring. Then he reversed direction and shoved all the way in again, rhythmically pumping away. Sandy's body quivered as the man's cock stroked his prostate setting off waves of arousal. The hapless youth grew light-heated, carried away by a tide of emotion compounded of sexual arousal, humiliation, his helplessness, and a deep seated sense of abject subservience to dominant males.

"Tighter than a virgin." grunted the leather man. "Our lucky day. You never just know what you might flush out in the country on those running trails. Though in your case Sandy we have been watching you with video drones. So it was no accident Jake was there to snare you. Why don't you try his mouth, Jake, and I will continue pronging this end. Alexander, get those pouty lips of yours working on my friend's cock."

The big man used Sandy's ears to control the pace. He must still have been very horny, for he reached his climax very soon, pulling out at the late minute and shooting his splooge all over the blond boy's face. Jake used his still tumescent cock like an obscene paint brush to spread his gism over his victim's forehead, cheeks, nose, and chin.

Meanwhile Frank pumped away at his ass, punctuating his thrusts with a series of spanks. Frank felt reached under and found the rigid boy cock and pulled it painfully back between his legs, frigging it up and down as a farmer does a cow's teat, literally trying to milk him. His finger rubbed the sweet spot under the cockhead time and again, inducing the most exquisite sensation. Soon Sandy was moving my hips not just to raise his ass meet his own lusty thrusts but also to rub his manhood against Frank's fingers, trying to bring himself off.

"Har! Just as I thought. The little slut is hard. He is just begging for it. Oh, I know, Alexander, a boy like you can't rightly help himself. Your kind needs cock bad, lots of cock. Your day isn't complete unless you get impaled on the horn of a real man. That is why your little thing is hard now, because I am working away at you."

Through his tears, Sandy wanted to protest that his erection was just the natural reaction of any bottom boy getting pronged and having his cock manipulated. Even straight men could get hard from anal rape. His tumescence certainly was no indication of consent. But all Sandy could do was grunt his objections his mouth stuffed with cock. Even if he could have talked he knew his words would fall on deaf ears. Jake smiled down at him, saying:

"You just don't realize how exciting it is for us to wrestle you, pretty one, to grab and hold on to your sexy body as you struggle, all slick with sweat, tugging, pulling at your bonds, squirming in our arms, twisting and straining that tight little body of yours. The play of your muscles is intensely erotic."

"Aye, sir," Frank agreed, "though it's his cute face that really makes me hard. A natural beauty with those pouty lips locked around a man's cock, sucking away."

The man's thumbs wiped at the tears running down the boys smooth cheeks, his questing fingers finding the nubbins of the boy's tiny nipples and tweaking them, pulling them out from his chest, digging in with his finger nails. As Sandy hissed from the pain, Jake whispered:

"I won't damage you, little one, but remember I never promised this would be a painless encounter. I like to see my boys squirm a bit, to struggle to accept whatever I want to inflict on their luscious bodies. That was why I strapped your ass to start with. Nothing shows a boy is readier to be penetrated than an ass striped and reddened from a whipping, which is your case is well deserved, you shameless twink running around buck nekkid among decent folk."

The three men worked him over for hours, switching places in a round robin, with one of them catching his breath between bouts. Frank was the easiest to please. His cock was not so big and he came very quickly. The third man, Jim, was a plodder, his sexual repertoire utterly unimaginative. Jake was insatiable, and he had to knack of controlling himself, holding his ejaculation back while he long dicked a boy.

Sandy could not keep the tears back during his ordeal no matter the shame of it. He let his tears flow heedless of their taunts. He was beyond shame. He no longer begged for relief, not so much from any remaining courage but because his pleas only seemed to excite them, inspiring his tormenters to new taunts for his weakness, for being a cry baby.

"Awwh, the little pussy boy is bawling his eyes out. What's the matter, a bit of stretching and pain too much for you, there blondie?"

"Naw, you got it all wrong, Frank. The boy is simply delirious with happiness. He is in heaven with all this stud service. He never had it so good."

When the men finally finished with him, they locked Sandy in a cell instead of his cage. A short while later Frank shoved a bowl of stew between the bars. With no utensils, Sandy had to eat it with his fingers after it cooled off. He washed that down with water from a two liter bottle he found in the cell. The sanitary facilities consisted of one of those bombsight latrines you see in third world countries. Just squat and do your business. Must he hard on the knees for old folks.

At least Sandy had room to stretch out on the thin mattress in the corner. Tired and sore as he was, the boy fell asleep right away and actually got a good night's sleep. Evidently sleep deprivation was not on the agenda. It gave him a glimmer of hope. Decent food and enough sleep were something.

Chapter 5. Mind Games

The four days of Sandy's captivity passed in a blur till, in the end, he was literally fucked senseless. Finally, battered, bruised, his fundament fucked raw, Sandy found himself once more blindfolded, gagged, shackled, and shoved into the van. The trip ended at the same park where he had been abducted. It was past midnight so no one else was around. Jake dragged the exhausted youth out of the vehicle, released him from bondage, and sat him on the stump of a tree.

"Comfy, blondie? Listen up. You are probably wondering why we brought you here of all places. It is simple. We are letting you go free, at least for now"

"For now?"

"Yes, for now."

In cold calculated language Jake explained the terms of Sandy's conditional release. The young actor would never be entirely free of The Brotherhood, at least not till he grew too old to please them. But for the time being he would go back to his normal life. The catch was that, from time to time, they would take him captive again and torment him. It would always be in some new location, a well equipped dungeon or play room owned by a member, usually for a few days or a week at a time and rarely for as much as two weeks.

The Brotherhood had no wish to interrupt Sandy's movie career. They were big fans and some owned stock in the studio. So he was immune as long as he was working on a picture and that included most pre and post production. During his down time, and not always then, he would be vulnerable, liable to capture. So he could count on a reprieve of at least one and more likely two pictures between his brief periods of captivity, call it six months.

Of course they fully expected him to report his abduction to the authorities, to take precautions, to hire bodyguards, install alarms, to be on the alert. Jake assured him that such measures would ultimately be of no avail, not in the long run. Even genetic testing would not help track them down. None of theirs was on file, and anyway they had enough power to make DNA samples disappear from crime labs.

"You have no idea how powerful The Brotherhood is. Our tentacles are everywhere. Yes the FBI will investigate, but in time, after two or three cycles of kidnapping and release they will consider your absences to be voluntary and consensual, maybe some sicko sexual scenario, maybe a kinky publicity stunt."

"The good news is that we will keep and eye on you and protect you when you are not in our custody. We will head off the crazies who might take you for a sex slave, full time, 24/7 and 365 days a year, like those creeps who captured you and Terry in the mountains a couple of years ago. If that happens we will rescue you and kill the bastards.

"We are very good at what we do. Also, as we have already proved, we will never inflict permanent damage, never leave you scarred. Nor let anyone else do so either. You can have peace of mind on that score. We want you to remain as fresh and perky for us as you are for your fans. I only wish we had the elixir of life to preserve your ethereal beauty forever. I am being totally sincere in telling you that, were it in our power, we would confer the boon of immortality upon you right after ensuring our own. We desire you that much."

"We have had our eye on you from the beginning but waited till you were established in Hollywood and well known in the business. There is no reason your career should not continue to flourish. Do not try to go into hiding. We will find you. Your face and that of your lover Terry are too famous to go unnoticed for long."

"Above all don't let these few hard days prey on your mind. Think of these periodic episodes of sexual servitude as occasional short term acting gigs, where you play a recurring role in our sexual fantasies -- only in the flesh, not just in the imagination -- and in front of our cameras. From time to time we will post carefully edited videos of your torment and degradation. They will likely go viral immediately. Hey, you can't buy publicity like that. Meanwhile, don't quit your day job."

"If you think about it, this is a case of life imitating art. You know how often the Jungle Boy get taken captive in your pictures, put into sexy bondage, and abused both physically and sexually. It's what sells your pictures. So in a sense this is really your fault, making those salacious movies, putting yourself totally on display with nary a stitch -- all those close-ups of your impossibly pretty face, your sexy body and especially that curvaceous rump. You deliberately inspire men who lust after pretty boys to fantasize about doing naughty things to you just like in your movies. That might be enough for the ordinary breed of men, but not for The Brotherhood. We are above the law. What we want, we take, and what we want is you."

"All that being said, we do not expect you to simply surrender yourself to us on demand next time. Instead, there will always be an abduction. We can grab you anywhere, even from the bed you share with your lover. Be sure about this: when it is time, we will take you. So you might as well stay naked."

"Remember, we know everything about you and about your lover Terry. You don't want us to seize Terry instead of you, do you? You know his weakness. He really is into all this BDSM stuff. If we really wanted to, we could work on him with sleep deprivation, psychoactive drugs, physical torments, and psychological manipulation and break him utterly, turn him into a real slave in his own mind. Believe me. It is all too possible. His libido makes him vulnerable. Also his love for you. You must know that he would willingly sacrifice himself to save you, as you would do for him. That is another vulnerability. So do as we say. I really do envy you boys your selfless love for each other."

"So for his sake and for yours too, you must accept the new dispensation, as I know you will, in time, intelligent young man that you are. Sandy, you can continue to live the good life, to enjoy everything that our bountiful planet has to offer, much as you have been doing till now. Go with the flow. Take your occasional sabbaticals with us in stride."

"Also, if you are totally honest with yourself, you will realize that part of you responded to the rough treatment. You were incredibly aroused much of the time. Think it over. We are counting on you to do the right thing."

With that Jake got into the van and nodded to Jim who was seated behind the wheel. As the vehicle pulled away, Sandy distinctly heard Jake say.

"Home, James," chortling as he added, "I always wanted to say that!"

Sandy made his way on foot to his folks' home, drawing stares from the very few late night passersby not so much for his nudity as his battered and shaken demeanor. Terry was waiting up for him, having flown in just hours before to find the plants wilting, the cats hungry and yowling, and no Sandy. His lover told him everything, even confessing his own arousal during the rough treatment, and his fears for Terry.

The authorities, private detectives, and the studio did their best. And they were successful in keeping the story out of the news, but no one had ever found a trace of The Brotherhood. The fruitless investigation did nothing to calm Sandy's fears.

It was Terry, an unlooked for tower of strength, who kept his lover from going crazy with worry. His love, his support, his constant presence guarding Sandy's back brought the fearful youth back from the brink of paranoia. It helped that under the terms of his conditional release, once he got back to work on his next picture, Sandy was supposed to be left unmolested.

As production finished up on the second Dracula picture, Sandy went into a funk, worried about being abducted. He was hugely relieved when he got right back to work, this time on Bomba 2, without incident. But what about the next hiatus after seven months in "conditional freedom" making those two pictures. What would happen during his coming two months off? Would The Brotherhood change their mind and keep him longer this time, maybe forever?

Angry with his own morbid dwelling on these possibilities, Sandy became fatalistic about his chances. Unable to cope otherwise, he flatly refused to live his life in a security cocoon, hemmed in by bodyguards, his head on swivel searching for threats. Yes, it was true that if he continued to go running in the woods stark naked and alone he would be both unarmed and incommunicado, limited in his ability to both fight and to call for help. So be it. He would not give up his unencumbered life style. He would carry on just as before: no clothes and no guns. If he were snatched from the beach or his bedroom, he would deal with it. He would never let them go after Terry in place of himself. No way. He would die first.

Or maybe, just maybe, all this stuff about a mysterious and all powerful Brotherhood with its tentacles everywhere was just a cruel mind game. Maybe it boiled down to role playing on Jake's part. An elaborate hoax. As far as he knew there were just the three of them: Jake, Jim, and Frank.

When he really thought about it, he realized that he worst of his experience was not the four days he was held captive, painful and degrading though it was. It was the seven months of fear and uncertainty that followed. Their worst cruelty was the way they had worked him over psychologically not physically. Of course! That was why Jake spent so much time bragging about his organization, belittling his victim's masculinity, threatening his freedom and his lover's sanity. It was all about manipulating Sandy's thinking. Their real target was Sandy's peace of mind. A cruel mind game indeed. If he ever got his hands on them, look out. He hadn't studied aikido for nothing.

So why did they let him go just when they did? They must have realized that they could not hold him forever, and they were not killers. He'd give them that much. Anyway, disposing of a body is not so easy as you might think from the movies. By releasing Sandy before Terry raised the hue and the cry, they forestalled detection and interception. They got rid of a hot potato before it burned their fingers. And they left Sandy in emotional turmoil, which was their true purpose after all.

They claimed not to be sadists, but whatever you might call their pathology, they thoroughly enjoyed what they did to him, what they made him believe, instilling fear for the future. That was the worst of it. A boy Sandy's age should rightly look forward to the future, especially with the happy life he had with his career, his friends and folks, and with Terry.

Still, the threat of another kidnapping might be real. Or maybe it was bullshit. Bring it on. He and Terry were on their guard, both of them trained in the martial arts and as escape artists too, proficient in Houdini's methods. That was how they had got away two years ago, after all. It was The Brotherhood that had better look out. Sure, Sandy had lost the first round, but that was really by default, before he knew he was in a fight. Forewarned now, round two might easily go to him, or better to them, him and Terry. Maybe all it took to be safe was levelheaded caution. Don't always take things at face value and don't go sticking your head into strange vans.

Now in the world of the movies, the "reel world" as Hollywood calls it, Sandy and his lover would go on the offensive and launch their own investigation. In the tradition of such films, after meetings in spooky locations with unsavory characters, mysterious disappearances, blackmail, fist fights, shootouts, and car chases, the trail would lead to a fiery climax in the corridors of power. Hell, maybe there was a movie in all this. He would talk about it with Marty Fletcher.

With these more optimistic thoughts, the cloud lifted. Sandy was more like his old self.

Four weeks later .....

With a blissful sigh Sandy Barnett snuggled into Terry's Knowles embrace while staring at the dance of flames in the fireplace of their cozy cabin. Terry leaned forward and kissed the top of Sandy's head, noting how the fire added orange and red highlights to Sandy's golden mane. Late Fall could be cool in the foothills of the Sierras so both kids wore jeans and flannel shirts. They were seated on a braided throw rug in front of the fireplace with Terry leaning against the front of the couch, just two lovers enjoying the warmth from the hearth and their closeness.

This past week had been idyllic. Terry kicked himself for not thinking of it before. The boys had gone away by themselves to a private corner of Heaven communing with nature. They spent their days taking long walks in the woods, cooking on the barbecue, chopping wood, and playing checkers. At night they gazed at the stars and the annual meteor shower then settled down before a fire. Together the boys found contentment and peace of mind. Terry had given Sandy the gift he needed most, himself.

Their good friend Jason Eberly, the first Jungle Boy, had helped too, speaking quietly of his own dire experiences. Jason had been taken captive no less than three times. Revolutionaries in Central America had kidnapped him for ransom. To encourage prompt payment, they had provided video of the daily whippings and rape they subjected their captive to. The next year, an oriental despot had snatched Jason and had him trained to be a sex slave in his boy harem. Two years later, a mad cult of Maoists cum voodoo witch doctors had taken Jason to Haiti to be raped and offered to their pagan gods as a human sacrifice. So Jason knew whereof he spoke.

"It gets better, it really does. Particularly if you love someone and are loved in return."

Sandy and Terry smiled at that. Still both young actors were realists enough to train daily in martial arts and pistol shooting. Anyone who came looking for them had better watch out.

Author's Note

This is another tale about the lives of a pair of young gay actors in Hollywood and their utterly improbable adventures in the movie business. It takes place thirty to forty years in the future. This twelfth installment continues the story of the pair of protagonists, Sandy Barnett and Terry Knowles, introduced in Jungle Boy 6, in place of Jason Eberly, the original Jungle Boy of the first five tales (who is occasionally mentioned in these new tales).

If Alexander, the Daphne Boy in my series of that name, is "the ultimate twink" then Jason, Sandy, and Terry are "the penultimate twinks". I just love writing about them. These kids are hot.

This tale is entirely fictional, with no resemblance intended to any person living or dead. Neither the author nor any of his heirs or assigns has any connection whatsoever to the movies except as fans. Occasional references by characters to real motion pictures and actors and others in the movie business are simply to lend verisimilitude to a tale about persons in show business. None of the real people mentioned in passing is in any way part of the tale.

Readers who like the Jungle Boy series should try either of my series of historical novelettes. The 'Daphne Boy' tales depict an eternally youthful protagonist and his adventures in exotic climes and times. The settings for the 'Naked Prey' series are equally exotic, but each story has its own cute twink protagonist. My other series are the 'Track and Field' stories in Gay/College and my 'Mer-Boy' stories in Gay/Beginnings. For links to all my stories, look on the list of Prolific Authors on the Archive for George Gauthier.

Comments and feedback welcome at georgegauthierdc@gmail.com

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