Jungle Boy

Jungle Boy 2

by GGDC

Author's Note: This is a tale of a young exhibitionist in Hollywood and his utterly improbable adventures in the movie business. It is set a couple of decades in the future when research and vigorous public health measures have eradicated STD's, and social norms have evolved along trends visible today. It is the second installment in an on-going saga.

It contains graphic descriptions of the male human body and of sexual activity between adult males, the youngest of whom is nineteen years old. It depicts scenes of consensual and non-consensual sexual activity, bondage, and sadomasochistic encounters and torture. Some of the characters are not nice people. It starts off easy enough, almost idyllically so. Do not be fooled. Fate had much travail in store for our young hero. The early idyll is, alas, but a set-up for a fall.

If any of this would offend a reader, proceed no further. This is not intended for persons younger than an age where they may freely and legally select their reading matter in whatever jurisdiction applies. The use of words or terms like 'boy', 'teen', 'youth' etc, are intended to identify gender and are not meant to imply that the characters are below legal age.

It is offered for entertainment. Some of what follows is light-hearted, some not so. It would be fair to describe this as a tale of a young innocent who falls into the clutches of brutes who use him in appalling ways in furtherance of their wicked ends. If it manages to both amuse and to provoke prurient interest, it will have succeeded in its aim.

Writing this tale has been the most fun the author has had wearing clothes in a very long time. Well, since part one.

It is entirely fictional, with no resemblance intended to any person living or dead. Occasional references by characters to well-known 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. Neither the author nor any of his heirs or assigns has any connection whatsoever to the movies except as fans.

Address comments to georgegauthierdc@yahoo.com, and before you ask, a sequel is already in the works.

Chapter 1. Story Conference

Movie producer Marty Fletcher looked up with a grin as his favorite actor Jason Eberly breezed into his office. Still not twenty, the young man had made five pictures with him--all money makers especially the last.

"Look who's here" he said to director Jim Nicholls and Leon Potter, production chief for the studio. They were meeting to pick stories for their next two pictures. Maybe Jason would even extend his three picture deal.

"Hi kid," Nicholls grinned, looking him over. The young man was a compact blond bombshell in his low slung sarong of green silk and light yellow tank top chosen as much to enhance his deep tan as to match his hair. Only one-inch over five and a half feet (170 cm), the boy's tight clothes showed off his trim and taut physique. Flip flops and a gold neck chain completed the ensemble.

The runaway success of their last picture gave them a chance to cash in with a follow-up picture that would play to their star's strengths. They had to find a concept, then set a writer to work on a script.

"Sure wish we could do that wind surfer picture, Jason", Nicholls remarked playfully. This was a joke between them. The concept was outrageous: a wind surfer falls into the drink then swims ashore into perils galore. Hostile natives chase the naked young man all over creation..."Too much like our last picture, though".

"Exactly" noted Potter. In their last picture the hostiles had chased a naked young colonial official all over French Equatorial Africa. They needed a new concept.

"How about a tough guy film noir role?" piped the young actor.

"Too different from our last picture," Potter commented. He knew Jason wanted to branch out to avoid typecasting. "Maybe the picture after that, or the next, if you are still with us."

"If I can get it in writing, I'll think it over."

"Fair enough."

By now these men trusted each other, but business is business. That's why there were agents and lawyers.

"So what: a comedy, a war picture, a quest of some kind?"

"A quest! Good idea, Marty." Nicholls said, "Too bad I can't direct". He had prior commitments. "A quest, a solid concept since the Iliad!"

"Odyssey." Jason corrected. They all looked at the young actor. "Hey, just because I look like a dumb blond doesn't mean I'm stupid."

Nor was he. Jason was often seriously underrated. He was bright and well-read if only with a high school education. He had broken into pictures two months before his eighteenth birthday. He wasn't dumb by a long shot, just way too busy to continue in school. People looked at that pretty boy face and boy toy physique and wrote him down. He picked up the thought:

"A quest, but for what: treasure, revenge, the Northwest Passage?"

"That's been done. Spencer Tracy MGM 1940"

"Actually he never got there in either the picture or the book, Leon" Fletcher said.

"No more than Bogart got 'Across the Pacific'" Nicholls added.

At Jason's quizzical look he added: Warner Brothers, 1942. They sailed the Atlantic. I kid you not kid, if you take my meaning."

"OK, I know when I'm overmatched. I guess I am still a lightweight at this." he grinned.

"Is that a pun, my dear boy?" the producer asked, teeth in a grimace.

Jason smiled sweetly. All knew that at 128 pounds (58 kg), a lightweight is exactly what he was.

"You know, maybe we have to come at it from another angle. We have to play to our star's strengths. Now don't let this go to your head, Jason. We need a concept for an athlete, pretty boy, knows savatte, sits a horse well, not afraid of heights, bilingual, looks good in period costume..."

"Or no costume at all" Fletcher added, provoking a general chuckle.

Jason got his break in movies precisely because he was willing to wear the skimpiest of costumes or none at all. For his picture set in the Amazon that was a G-string and feather armbands. For his last picture he was stark naked 95 percent of his time on screen. No cute camera angles either and not just flashes of naughty bits. Lingering shots on his ass as he ran from the savages, full frontal shots as he approached the camera. Everything.

And to stay in character as a white man pursued across the jungle, Jason had actually stayed naked and barefoot for two months and slept in a tent, did all but one of his stunts, dug his own latrine, ignored injuries, braved snakes, sawgrass, and lightning, and saved a man's life, all while turning in an absolutely convincing performance.

Of course it helped that the youth was a notorious exhibitionist. He kept in shape all right--swimming naked at the nudie beach and running cross-country in the clothing-optinal state park next door. That is what made him a natural for his last role.

"Actually I'm a polyglot, native speaker of both French and English, and my Spanish is pretty good too, from school and the neighborhood. Oh, and tourist German: Wo ist der Bahnhof, bitte? Like that."

"For asking the way to the railroad station" Fletcher explained to the others.

"Let's think about costumes for a minute", Marty said, "skimpy costumes." as Jason rolled his eyes. "How about dressed as a Comanche brave trying to win his spurs?

"Indians didn't wear spurs" Jason retorted, he ought to know. He loved westerns. "They wore moccasins and some kind of loincloth."

"Yes about so big," the producer said moving his hands to show a rectangle maybe two foot by one.

"For him that's way too big" Potter said "First, for his size, and then we want it skimpy, to make sure his fans can take a peek at his privates."

"What privates? His aren't private any more, they're out in public."

"Your right", Leon the director agreed.

Truth was between the Jungle Boy movie itself, the Making Of...Video, home movies by the crew, the award winning erotic film short 'Sacrament' and the internet, there was no end of candid snapshots, behind the scenes video, depicting the young actor without a stitch on and even in a state of arousal. There was even a professionally filmed real life tryst with Jason's boyfriend, the director's gift to his star. And his nude training runs drew fans with cameras of course. No, there were few physiques less public than his. Hell the sidewalk to his front door had a sign: Entering clothing optional zone. If you rang his bell, don't expect him to dress for visitors, as that guy from the Salvation Army found out recently. Maybe he thought the sign meant it was a drop-off point for cast-offs for Thanksgiving.

"Besides, do Comanches have blond hair and green eyes like me?"

"Chuck Conners played a blue-eyed Geronimo", Nicholls volunteered.

Three heads turned as one to the young actor and chorused "MGM 1962."

Jason squealed with delight. These veteran movie makers weren't trying to show him up. This was part of his education. Movie people a forever citing movies. And he was one of them! Sure, he had a lot to learn; that was the point. The three movie execs never condescended to him. At nineteen (going on twenty, mind you) he could not know the industry the way they did. But they never just pulled rank and gave him marching orders. They explained; they gave their reasons. These men were well known practitioners and veterans in the business, practical men. He was grateful for everything he could learn from them. He respected them, and he knew he had earned their respect too.

"Yeah, conceded Potter, but he wore a wig."

Jason made a face. He didn't like the thought of wigs or of even dyeing his hair, though it had to happen sooner or later in this business.

"Our boy can keep his blond locks, no problem," Fletcher pronounced, drawing quizzical stares from the others.

"White captives!" Fletcher replied proudly. He always had a comeback when challenged on points of verisimilitude. Just a little game he played.

"Comanche brave, what else?

"Well he looks good in a sarong," Nicholls said gesturing. "In a sea green sarong like the one he's wearing now. Of course, no underwear, Jason".

"What makes you thing I'm wearing underwear?"

"OK, a sarong exactly like that one. Yes, I can see it: the sun, the sea, the islands, the sarong, pearl diving...

"In a sarong?" Potter

"No, with goggles, and I mean just goggles."

Jason rolled his eyes again. "Let me guess, I swim to the surface, a precious black pearl in my mouth, and who shows up, the Royal Navy."

"No, Nazis." Potter

"Nazis? In the Pacific?" Nicholls

"Sure, a submarine!" Potter spread his hands, "Nazis make terrific villains. God's gift to Hollywood. No offense."

"None taken." Fletcher was Jewish, originally Fleischer.

"OK a sarong is at the top of the list. Meanwhile Jason, do me a favor. I won't ask you to wear underwear, but while you're running around town like that please, please promise me you won't tent it out in public."

"Promise, chief".

Of course without any means of support or restraint his generative organs were free to move about under the thin fabric. It took but a glance to discern indentations fairly indicative of the magnitude, position, and shape of what lay beneath. Still, no one could tell for sure that he wasn't circumcised. For Jason, that was modesty enough in the circumstances.

Mischievously Jason said "How about something classical. Perseus and the Medusa." As explanation he added, "there was this statue I saw on TV..."

"Yeah," Nicholls grunted. "Bernini. It's famous. As I recall, Perseus is wearing a helmet, has a sword in his hand, winged sandals (we can do those in CGI) and...(dramatic pause) a fig leaf."

"And from behind, and I do mean behind, [groans] you can't tell he has anything on at all above the ankles. I see why you want do it, Jason. Naughty." This from Nicholls

Potter nodded "I can just see it: our boy here trips over those dang sandals, falls flat on his face, and we give the fans the money shot they have been clamoring for: an extreme close-up of that tiny brown hole between those oh-so-famous ass cheeks of his."

Jason looked indignant for effect. Since he really was a very good actor, he looked like someone doing indignant badly. None of this was lost on the others.

"Besides," continued Potter, in a supercilious tone, "Thanks to Jim here, there is already considerable footage showing just that, er, at-tri-bute...".

Jason had the good grace to blush furiously. His director friend, Nicholls, had filmed Jason and Hank Altobello, his lover and fellow crew member, in a tryst while they were on location in Brazil. It was his housewarming gift, even if all they had was a tent. The young lovers always repaired to Jason's tent, out of consideration for the sensibilities of the crew.

Actually, half the crew didn't care much one way or the other. The relationship between the two young men was no secret or any business of theirs. The other half rather lusted for, using the word advisedly, a chance to see the sexual coupling of the powerfully built swimmer and his over-sexed boy friend. Maybe they didn't see the action, but whenever Hank spent the night in Jason's tent, the sounds of enthusiastic and energetic sexual congress carried all over the camp. In all the excitement, the mosquito net in Jason's tent got torn apart twice, a fact the supply man gleefully communicated to his colleagues.

The 'amateur porno' as they called it, since it was veteran Nicholl's first such effort, left little to the imagination. There was Jason, a little blond boy in bondage, tied hand and foot. A further set of ropes pulled his elbows sharply behind his back thrusting his chest forward and making those tiny red nipples of his just that much more available and vulnerable. The black haired man stood proudly before him, dominating the little slave boy kneeling at his feet.

Nicholls really was a tyro at this sort of thing, so the young lovers improvised corny dialog taken from all those sex videos they had watched. Hank talked trash talk to his captive, slapping his face and warning him his blows would soon fall on his ass and much harder. Jason slipped out of character briefly and begged "Yes, please.". His captor bellowed at this effrontery as Jason hung his head in shame and in submission, begging for mercy. Well, you get the idea.

The close-up of the 'rape' as the big man penetrated his hapless captive showed an alarmingly large virile member somehow managing to penetrate and fit into an impossibly tiny orifice. The crinkly brown anal ring was stretch out almost beyond its fail point. Most viewers allowed that it was a wonder they did not have to rush the boy to emergency surgery.

In a fit of selflessness, the young lovers had agreed to post their video on the internet on Jason's web site. Unaccountably, traffic at standard porno sites fell alarmingly for the next several days as word spread of this marvel of the film maker's art.

"Moving right along..." the others turned their attention to the production chief."So what else?"

"How about a little Dutch boy..." From Nicholls

"What, finger in the dike? How do we get his clothes off, and don't tell me they are ripped off by the flood, Fletch."

"No, no, no. Something I read long ago."Nicholls continued. "Seventeenth century sailing ship runs aground on Ceylon or someplace, boy struggles ashore..."

"Already naked then." Potter

"No, "Nicholls continued, "not till an encounter with a bear who tears the boys pants off with a swipe of his paw. Then he is naked."

"A tiger" Fletcher said. "Make it a young tiger". Before the others could ask he added. "Too young to know all the tricks of the hunt. It is more believable if the kid gets away from a young tiger than from a wily old hunter."

The others all rolled their eyes, except Jason who covered his face giggling. Fletcher and verisimilitude again! Gods this was fun.

After that, an awkward silence reigned. They had run out of ideas. Fletcher's notion of a gender bender 'Lad and the Tiger' got rejected outright. Better to let things percolate in their minds till the next meeting when Jason's agent would get back from New York.

Chapter 2 California

Jason arrived at his townhouse by early afternoon. Technically he lived by himself, but Hank was a frequent visitor and over-night guest and used the spare bedroom as his dressing room to keep his stuff. Jason didn't mind doing their laundry, so Hank never had to lug stuff back and forth to his place.

The townhouse was in one of those new walkable developments that were springing up everywhere. Sidewalks led residents to close-by services: barber shop, convenience store, drug store, liquor store, Chinese take out, pizza parlor, whatever. Clusters of such neighborhoods of houses and services surrounded the main shopping district with supermarket, movie theaters, post office, public library, police sub-station, and so forth. There were no cars parked on the street or in driveways. Indeed there were no driveways on the pedestrian streets. Residents parked cars in the center of the large housing blocks in a lot, carport or garage. It was a place built for people, not for cars. For California, this was revolutionary.

After two months, the young actor was starting to feel at home. He knew his neighbors and many in the area recognized him and waved as he went by. It didn't hurt that while in the neighborhood Jason never bothered with anything on his upper body and went barefoot too, so it was just one of his low slung sarongs. For day wear these were usually of a special tan-thru weave, very lightweight but surprisingly tough. After dark, he preferred silk. The touch of silk against his skin, especially down there, was arousing.

The young man kept his sarongs fastened with a discreet clip; a mere fold and tuck would never suffice for one of Jason's exuberance and physicality. Since he never wore underwear, losing his sarong could prove embarrasing. To his credit, the boy knew that it might also offend. Jason might be carefree and flighty, and you couldn't keep him in a pair of pants, but there wasn't a mean bone in his body. He liked people, and he wanted them to like him.

Hank dared him to wear his sarong even lower, maybe allow a glimpse of where the root of his manhood joined the belly. Even Jason thought that might be going a bit too far. Five or six centimeters of cleavage in back was OK however. The young wanton liked the thought that anyone standing close behind him could see straight down his crack, even while he was fully clothed, as it were.

Jason like many of his contemporaries had learned to appreciate the utility and beauty of the sarong. It came in a near infinite variety of patterns and colors, cost almost nothing, could be donned or doffed in an instant, flattered the slender male physique, especially the rump. Unlike a skirt it draped close to the slender limbs of its male wearers, which is why the original meaning of the word was sheath. A sarong could easily be put into service as a ground cloth too. Just strip it off and lie upon on it. If you really had to put clothes on, you could do a lot worse than a sarong.

Also a sarong was the ultimate in comfort, non-binding and lightweight; some came in a sturdy tan-through fabric. You never had to worry about getting caught in the rain either. The warm rains of Southern California just drained off the treated fabric. The ultimate in wash and wear. You could do both at the same time or just slip the sarong off and hang it over a branch or a chair or a rail and sit in the rain nude. Many passersby welcomed the chance to see both the colorful fabric and the lithe form of the lively lad it had formerly concealed side by side.

Nothing of course inhibited the boy from slipping the sarong off and jumping in the water when invited to use the pool next door. Jason didn't have a pool himself. It was an equitable arrangement. He shared their pool, the gay couple who owned the house shared him, visually anyway and even tactilely if only occasionally carnally. Jason loved to be touched as well as seen. So yes, after thirty minutes in the flow pool, please apply that sunscreen on his back, his entire back, as he stretched out on a mat. Don't forget all the nooks and crannies. He loved the feel of strong hands on him everywhere, spreading the oil, massaging his muscles, making him relax. A touch on his inner thighs and Jason's legs spread automatically further apart.

Bill and Tad enjoyed Jason's company immensely. Both were five or six years older and were partners in a company supplying plumbing fixtures to contractors. Here was one set of plumbing he could really have fun with. Bill tugged the wanton youth's plumbing out from under his belly and exposed that last portion of his anatomy to the sun's tanning rays. Perfect, the undersides of the organs would now get their turn. Let's see, the pipe to one side, the squeeze globe to the other. During arousal the globular sac swelled with blood taking on the standard coloration of the humble commode float it so resembled. Few things turned the blond youth on more than having him swollen sac toyed with as he got hotter and hotter ready to shoot, especially with an audience.

Bill always marveled at how every part of this lovely youth was beautiful. On many guys the genitals were exciting but kind of homely too. Not with this young exhibitionist. What he had at the fork of the legs was really worth putting on display, an originally ivory tube now tanned like the rest of him, smooth and not all gnarly with veins and with a nice foreskin you could rub between your fingers. The testicles were a smooth plum the size of a peach but without any fuzz on them.

Jason was like two boys in one. Here he was stretch out on his belly, propped up on his elbows paging through their printed copy of this week's Economist, the prestigious news weekly. Jason himself subscribed to the electronic edition since he was away so much. He was a voracious reader especially of non-fiction like history and science. He watched documentaries and always tried to learn something from his interlocutors no matter what their station in life. His dad had once mentioned to them that all his life his boy had been an incessant chatterbox with an insatiable curiosity about everything. He called him a natural dilettante who hated the thought of having to specialize and narrow his intellectual horizons. That was one side of Jason, or rather one end today.

The other end was Jason's physicality. Just look at those sculpted calf muscles; squeeze the slender thighs and feel how firm those muscles were, trace the prominent veins running all the way from groin to ankle with smaller veins just below the surface. Only ballet dancers had stronger legs, and theirs were perhaps a bit over-developed. Bill loved to fuck Jason face to face, with those strong slender limbs resting on his broad shoulders. A turn of his head and he could lick the sweat off the firm calves. What a funny face the pretty blond made when he came, half grimace and half smile as his stomach muscles flexed to expel the white gism with enough force to splash his face.

People sometimes got the wrong idea: imagining Jason slept around a lot. Blogs speculated on how many partners he had had. Bill knew for a fact that you could count his friend's sexual partners in the last couple of years on the fingers of your two hands--and one foot. Jason wasn't much of a party animal. For all his outgoing ways Jason was a reader. He really did like to curl up or maybe stretch out with a good book, preferably naked and in public of course. Even at his age, he could be heard to mutter the perpetual lament of readers down the ages: So many books, so little time.

True, there were a couple of times when his then boyfriend towed eighteen year old Jason to wild disco parties, where the blond bottom boy had been rapidly divested of all clothing, drugged out of his senses, encouraged to dance naked on stage and off, then set to taking on all comers at both ends. Those were some of the pictures Hal Browder had used on his TV show to out Jason just before his big success in Jungle Boy 1. Jason had always been glad that, planned or not, he really did get a chance to take part in a couple of orgies. It's not something he wanted to do very often, thank you, but, you're young only once. So no regrets. On second thought, Bill realized he had better at least triple the figure for his friend's lifetime total.

And that overall all tan was another testimony to his vitality and love of display. No hint of a tan line. Even in his crack. Now just how did he do that? With a reflector or maybe some yoga position ass uppermost? He wouldn't put either way past the kid.

Bill was gratified with the way Jason let him play with his tackle, smooth the tanning oil over everything. How exciting it was to just hold everything in his two hands, the genitals of the most desirable boy on the planet, the very source of his masculinity and sexiness. He paused to bend over and kiss that ass which he had had the good fortune to explore in depth twice. A careless man might forget the last spot, but Bill knew that the delicate crinkly ring might also get sunburned with the boy's legs spread so wide. Better work the lotion in with a finger. Knuckle deep ought to do it. On second thought, two knuckles. Ah yes, Jason's shudder showed he had found his joy spot.

"What are you doing back there, Bill?"

"Just making you comfortable boy. Listen to your elders, now or take a spanking," punctuated with a mild slap on the rump. And what should Bill do with the clear fluid leaking from the end of the tube. Yes, put it on a finger and offer it to the boy who dutifully took it on his tongue, twice. Bill himself took the third taste. Tad saw his chance. Straddling the boy's hands still holding that magazine, Tad dropped his shorts and presented his erection as Jason faced front again. The blond boy opened his mouth in surprise and Tad slipped it in. Automatically Jason closed his pouty lips around the shaft. Tad held Jason in place with a hand to the back on his head, fingers gripping his blond locks. The surprised boy opened his lips to explain that he really wanted to catch up on his reading, but Tad just used the chance to stick himself farther in. Jason felt his friend's cock head resting on the back of his tongue. His nose was tickled by Tad's close cropped pubic bush as he inhaled the heady aroma from Tad's groin.

Of course, Jason really wanted to read that quarterly technology update in his magazine, but it was so hard to think about such things with a cock in his mouth and a finger up his ass stroking his joy-spot. His commitment to the life of the mind wavered as Bill presented the head of his cock to Jason's nether orifice. Now Jason was a bottom boy, a sexual submissive. His resistance to their sex play, never serious, melted away and he surrendered to the good feelings coursing through him. The young man spent the rest of the afternoon getting long dicked at both ends.

The neighbors on either side of his townhouse did not mind if their young friend spent hours in his lanai out back without benefit of garments reading or navigating on line, and if he wanted to hop into their yards to borrow a cup of sugar, why there was really no point in going formal. Actually they would have been disappointed otherwise. If ever a young man deserved to spend most of his waking hours naked not to mention all of his sleeping hours, it was beautiful Jason Eberly. Well not just sleeping hours, but whenever he was in bed. He didn't even like a top sheet, not since he learned the term bed clothes. Those sarongs he wore when he did put something on certainly flattered his physique, emphasizing his firm rump.

Sarongs don't have pockets, but this was no problem for Jason. He carried his comphone nearly everywhere on his hip or sometimes on a cord around his neck. Vastly improved since its introduction years earlier, it did far more than act as a phone, computer for email and web browsing, music player, voice recorder, camera, mini-TV or projector, appointment log and such functions. Modern phones were your ID with both fingerprint matching and RFID. The phone passed signals back and forth between the passive ID chip embedded in Jason's arm to confirm just who had the phone in his hand.

You didn't needed credit cards or folding money, not even small change these days. You could buy a pack of cigarettes with a wave of your phone. Not that the health conscious young actor would ever smoke. No need for keys or for a garage door opener. His only real complaint is that wearing the comphone made him feel clothed somehow! He left it home when out for exercise. Oh when would they have those brain implants or nanites he read about in his exciting science fiction stories. That would be so cool! Beam me up Scotty with a built in communicator.

As a change of pace from a sarong, Jason liked to be barefoot and shirtless wearing just oversized jeans with holes at the knees and hanging so low on his hips as to show most of his ass. Most of his pubic hair would have shown if he had any. He knew that those standing behind him could see all the way down the crack. So he was practically begging for some gutsy fan to light-heartedly depants him. A quick tug to the waistband would dislodge the jeans from their precarious perch and his pants would fall to his ankles.

The second time that happened he tripped and fell on his ass giving his young fan a chance to tug the jeans completely off. As he turned to run off with them. Jason called out "My phone!" To his credit the sneak thief stopped and tossed the phone to his idol with a shout of "Sorry!" then ran off with his treasured souvenir. In gratitude for such thoughtfulness, Jason wiped off his fingerprints. Nevertheless security video allowed the cops to track the miscreant down. Jason refused to press charges and even autographed the jeans for his fan. Then he and Hank took the kid with them for a day at the nudie beach, all good clean fun of course. Well mostly. It was great publicity, but that was not why Jason did it. Carefree at heart himself, he recognized a kindred spirit.

It did not take too long for fans to figure out that snatching his sarong off Jason's hips was even easier than depantsing him. Hank took to carrying a skimpy and lightweight pair of shorts in his glove compartment for just such emergencies. The one time Hank wasn't around, a nice lady lent Jason her silk kerchief and kept it ever afterwards in her boudoir. She fancied she could still smell him on the cloth that had touched him so intimately. Indeed with the thin cloth held at his hips, everyone saw the sizeable wet spot produced by Jason's slow discharge of seminal fluid. With cameras everywhere these days, lucky bystanders got to sell their footage to TV news, web media, bloggers, etc. Police suspected some of the kids were put up to it by papparazzi. The public loved it. Jason was becoming nearly as well-known for his continual wardrobe mishaps as for his movies.

Parenthetically Jason welcomed global warming. You did not need clothes so much for protection from the elements. He knew this was silly and irresponsible, but there you were. He never said so out loud. It was too easy already for others to dismiss him as just a pretty face if not an actual airhead or dumb blond. Jason had political opinions, but was far less sure he was right than so many others were. He had just grown up. What could he really know of the lessons of history or of practical affairs? Jason vowed that no matter how long he stayed in pictures, he would never cash in his fame to testify before Congress or become a spokesman, sorry spokesperson. Not that he was ignorant. Just a high school eduction but he was a voracious reader. He probably already knew more history geography, science, and literature than many a college graduate, but Jason was humble about the extent of his knowledge.

The next day would see the young actor off to the SEAL school in Coronado California for three weeks of tough training. The real program was eight times longer. He had to learn enough to portray his next incarnation, an ex-Seal who goes on a man hunt for revenge. He already knew something of unarmed combat; he had learned savatte for his African picture. Hank had been a marine for five years starting at eighteen. Now twenty four, he had kept up his skills. He taught his lover some defensive moves, how to break holds and how to put a man in a wrist lock, but would not teach him offensive moves.

This new movie was another jungle pic, but this time Jason was the hunter. The story was just enough like his last movie and and just enough different. The working title, inevitably, was Jungle Boy 2. True, he would turn twenty just after training with the Navy, but the young actor knew he was stuck with the nickname 'Jungle Boy' till his hair turned white.

In the new movie, he would start the mission in jungle fatigues decked out with lethal hardware. Think Arnold in 'Commando'. What a great scene when the big man had saddled up for action! Of course, this being a Jungle Boy movie all that weaponry and the fatigues and boots would soon be lost thanks to bad luck and the machinations of the opposition. Jason would have to finish the mission in a skimpy loincloth armed only with a K-bar, paddling a dugout canoe through the swamp guarding the lair of the chief bad guy. Think Johnny Weissmuller in Tarzan. A thought struck him. He could almost hear his producer friends shout in his ear: Schwarzenegger Fox 1985 and Weissmuller MGM 1932.

Chapter 3. Alturas

Filming started in two months. After SEAL training Jason and Hank Altobello would go with an advance party to one of the little known Central American republics, Alturas. Besides advance work, the two young men would get the chance to play tourist. They would visit Mayan ruins and frolic on the white sands of a Caribbean beach. Get it out of their system before the shoot.

Jason soon found that the Caribbean was all it was said to be and then some. Better than California for fun in the sun. He was on a beach five miles long. Two resorts one near each end framed the perfect strand otherwise undeveloped. His run today was from one end to the other and back, with a water point at the far end. Hydration is all important. Naturally at a beach resort like this he was running naked. Here he could run and swim and eat and play and make love! Life was wonderful. It did not get any better than this.

The young runner had an appreciative audience at the starting point. A small crowd had walked the half a kilometer from the nearer resort. Their admiring looks roamed over his nakedness. Jason's build was the evolutionary ideal of the lean or slender frame of man the primitive hunter who stalked or ran his prey down on the open savannah. Primitive man was a natural runner but with enough upper body strength to drive a spear into the heart of a two ton beast. That was Jason: muscle, bone, sinew the perfect physique between the extremes of the overweight and the bodybuilder. The former distorted the human shape under folds of soft flesh, the latter under groteque slabs of hard muscle.

"So how fast can you do it, Mr. Eberly, there and back?" asked a tourist in a loud shirt, obviously American.

"Mr. Eberly is my dad", he smiled. "I'm Jason or Jase to my closest friends" said with a wink to Hank.

"This is just for fun and exercise. Besides you cannot run all that well on sand. It has too much give. And the slope puts one leg higher than the other. That's bad for the hips."

"So how fast on good ground?"

"Oh, I can run ten miles in an hour any day for training. Faster if I really push when I race. And for you skeptics in the peanut gallery, yes, that's you, Red, go ahead; look up my times in high school. It's a matter of public record."

"Fair enough, but are you really five nine? I'm five-eight, and I think I'm a little taller."

The young actor laughed. "Ya got me! My publicist started that, and I went along for a while. My new press kit tells the truth."

"So did you fire him?"

This brought a genuine look of shock to the actor's face.

"Of course not. He was just doing his job. Poetic license is pretty much the rule in Hollywood about age, height, all sorts of stuff. Tough guy Charles Bronson went to art school and liked to paint. His publicist once put out that his hobby was throwing knives, until Bronson told him to stop."

Jason's light laugh rang out, and the others joined in. That was the boy's way. He was always remarkably candid, as long as that did not hurt someone else. He said what he meant, and he meant what he said.

"So how does your family feel about all this..well, nudity thing? How long have you been a nudist?"

"Well I'm not a nudist. Nudists take their clothes off because it is supposed to be natural but not sexy. I don't think that is true at all. I take my clothes off because it makes me feel sexy. Don't you think I'm sexy?" said with a big smile.

The boy was outrageous and naughty, but he usually knew how far he could go with taking his clothes off, not only to get away with it legally but to avoid giving serious offense. And he was certainly no flasher, some pathetic slob in a raincoat preying on kids and old ladies. Nor was he a compulsive. It was under control. It was just his thing. Even he did not know why it appealed to him so much.

He had the small crowd with him. They were delighted with his frankness and sense of humor. Here was a beautiful young man who had a good sense of self worth but was not stuck up. A success in the movies, he hadn't gone all Hollywood. At the hotel it was just Jason and his lover, mixing freely with the other guests, no publicity, no entourage, no attitude. With a cheery wave Jason took off on his run, that famously tanned and taut butt flexing and clenching to the delight of female and more than a few of the male onlookers.

He really enjoyed the run. It made him feel so vital and alive, with the sun warming his skin, the rhythmic breathing, the sand flying back. It was so intensely physical. A wise man once said that endorphins were the drug of choice of the physically fit. Some of his fans waited at the finish, while others who had repaired to the resort watched him as he sailed past on the return. He knew cameras were focussed on him, some watching the flexing of his buttocks, others the bouncing of his genitals. You cannot be terribly dignified when running naked. You could look sexy though. Jason settled for sexy and thought himself a notorious flirt for it. He was right, of course. As he finished his run, the crowd collected again. One lady of thirty something years remarked.

"My, my the way you look young man, all sweaty like that, it's simply delicious, like you just had terrific sex! Isn't that how he looks then Mr. Altobello?"

Hank smiled. "A gentleman never tells, ma'am."

"But he does make videos to show, eh" this from Red with a wink and a smile.

Both young men laughed. The video of their tryst in the jungle was a runaway success. Too bad they had posted it on the net, allowing anyone to download it for free. They could have made a fortune. Then again, maybe not. Wouldn't that have made them pornographers?

"Come on Hank, I'm for a swim." and so saying the pretty and indeed very sexy actor turned and jogged toward the water. Hank shrugged, pulled off his regulation Speedos and ran after him calling out cheerily. They made a beautiful couple.

Afterwards, stretched out on a beach towel, Jason got a bit of rest, his habit after exercise. He found it made it easier for him to bounce back, get back that fresh as a daisy look that was part of his image. His fans got a good look at him, this time at rest.

The boy had a beautiful tanned body, toned, taut and muscular with strong shoulders, well defined abdominal muscles, and narrow hips. A prominent vein ran from armpit to wrist and from groin to ankle. A delicate tracery of veins highlighted the inside of his forearms. His hands were small and his legs well muscled with veins prominent under the skin because of a body fat percentage almost in single digits. No hair interrupted the flow of its faultless lines. His sex was in proportion with a smooth cock, foreskin concealing the head and piss slit, the scrotum the size of a large peach but with the divided curvature of a plum and held close to the belly.

Jason was gratified that his genitals didn't look all shriveled up like with so many guys. His cock was smooth not gnarly with purple veins. Yes, he still had his foreskin; it hung about a finger's breadth past the tip of his cock head. Cock and balls were reasonably large but he wouldn't be scaring the horses. It took both his small hands to cover his erection, but only one when it was soft. That was just fine when you were running cross country bare ass with your dangly bits bouncing about.

Lying beside Jason, though back in his Speedos, Hank watched as droplets of sweat formed on the smooth tanned skin, glistening in the sunlight. Growing larger, they broke the surface tension that had held them in place and slid downhill, collecting in rivulets in the channel between the pectorals and in the large hollow between the bottom of the rib cage and the hips.

Hank played with the sweat pooling in the blond boy's navel, smearing a bit with a finger tip to trace a circle on the flat belly, bringing a taste up to his tongue, bending down to lap up the salty beverage, then pressing a spot on one side of Jason's belly to let the remaining pool of sweat drain down his hip, only to watch it slowly fill up again.

Many of the onlookers thought it was about the most erotic thing they had ever seen apart from actual sex. Jason was largely oblivious, half dozing, so if the watchers hoped to see the beauty in arousal, they were disappointed. Hank knew that when Jason took his half hour rest, he wanted no distractions, not conversation, music, not even the normally welcome attentions to his sexy body. So Hank refrained from slurping up the reservoir of sweat from his lover's navel; he did not kiss him or playfully spurt the salty fluid into the boy's mouth. He did not fondle the boy's smooth cock, pretty though it was, or fondle the peach size globe enfolding his masculinity. Not this time. He let Jason doze.

The youth, and that is what he was even though technically no longer a teenager, reflected on how perfect his life now was: he had it all: loving parents, health, youth, beauty, fame, fortune, love. If only his mother could have seen him chatting easily with the crowd earlier or seen him sharing a dinner table with some of the nice folks at the resort last evening. She had always wondered if he would fit in. A gay exhibitionist might not have any easy time in life. He could be a target for bullies, find it hard to make friends, whatever. Of course if she were here right now she would reproach him gently for his nudity and ask him to put on a pair of shorts, which he would. Jason was no mama's boy, but he loved his mother and tried to please her. For her part Marie Eberly dearly loved her beautiful son, but no one knew better than she what a handful he was.

Chapter 4. Hostage

Then, just the very next day, everything went horribly wrong.

It started off normally enough, Jason and Hank were having lunch or brunch on the patio. Jason's run earlier had given him an appetite. Dressed in one of his sarongs, phone on a cord around his neck, Jason was a vision of loveliness sitting in a wicker chair pulled up to a glass table. He rather liked glass tables. They did nothing to conceal him from his public.

After the leisurely meal, they headed toward their rooms to change for a side trip. They never got there. Just as they turned the passageway to their bungalow, a buzzing noise sounded very close by. Then both young men were down on the ground helpless from the sting of tazers.

"Don't look for help muchachos. We are in charge now". Their four assailants taped their mouths, cuffed their hands behind them, and carried them into a waiting van. A bad guy slammed the door, and the van pulled out, headed who knew where.

If this were a movie, the van would have taken them to a deserted warehouse or the aerie of the villain perched on a crag. After a trip of less than an hour, the van pulled onto a farm with a large farmhouse built hacienda style. It had a wall around it for privacy and red tiles on the roof.

The boys were hustled into a doorway, down a passage then downstairs to the basement. Another turn and they went down again into a wine cellar set in a natural cavern. Beyond the wine racks was the dungeon. What else would you call it with a couple of cells, a frame in the shape of an X, a winch mounted on a wall, chains, the works. A lean man, of some forty years, tall with a mustache and piercing brown eyes watched them calmly.

By this time the boys could stand on their own two feet, but each was held tight by a thug.

"No doubt you have many questions, but we will leave the tape on for now. I wish to speak uninterrupted. There is no point really in questions. I shall tell you what I want you to know. No more, no less. I will not necessarily tell you what you wish to know, but if I fail to enlighten you on some point, questions on your part are pointless. I wish to keep you ignorant of everything I do not tell you. Am I making myself clear?"

His English was flawless though spoken with a Spanish accent.

"Also, I will entertain neither threats nor pleas. So you will be silent for now. It is in your best interests to hear me out. Don't you agree, my young friends?" He took their enforced silence for assent.

His speech had been carefully thought out to establish the ground rules, to show who was in charge. Some of it came from old Hollywood thrillers. He was a movie fan and knew most people had lines from old movies rattling around in their heads. Echoing them brought with it useful associations.

"First off, you are not to be killed, not out of hand. This is a kidnap for ransom. You, Mr. Altobello will be released in a few days to carry our demands back to the studio. Your release will also be an earnest of our good faith. You, my young actor friend will also live, as long as we can expect to get the ransom. If we don't get paid, you will die. I can promise this much. If we do kill you it will be sudden and painless. You will never know what hit you, but that is all I can promise. If we get our money, you will go back to your career and to your family, and to your lover here.

Yes, we know all about your relationship. We have had you researched thoroughly. Nice of your studio to put out a release two months ago about your trip here. We were looking for a target and suddenly there you were in our sights. So you must realize, this is not personal, not directed at you for anything you have done or failed to do. You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. In a sense, this is an honor. You are the first participant in my pilot program to raise funds for a revolution our sad country needs so badly. No more bank robberies. We lose too many man and there is too much collateral damage to innocents."

The lean man paced a bit back and forth for effect, as if groping for what he had to say next. He wondered what his old drama coach in college would say of his performance. Unknown to the captives, a hidden camera recorded everything. Selected clips would be part of their ransom demand. The clips, the eyewitness testimony of the older captive, and the ransom victim's own plea for help would make their case for them.

The studio stood to make hundreds of millions of dollars from their popular young actor in the next five or six years. They would never miss five millions. This was a sum large enough to help finance their revolutionary organization for a while, but not so large it could not be raised quickly. It was he, Fernando Vasquez, who had insisted on that point. El Jefe, had wanted ten or twenty millions but had yielded to the judgment of his most trusted lieutenant.

"First things first. Mr. Altobello into that cell, and please, before we take the tape off no threats. It will only go harder for the boy here if you displease me. Understood?"

A quick nod and Hank was walked to the cell, the door locked behind him. Only then did the thugs reach through the bars and take off the cuffs. Hank ripped the tape off his mouth himself. He gripped the bars but said nothing. Hysterics would not help Jason. These men knew what they were doing. So far neither of them had got a chance to use their skills in the martial arts.

As for you, young Jason Eberly. Oh congratulations on your recent birthday. I would have sent a card, but we did not want to tip our hand."

Ah yes, just the kind of irony you would expect from the villain. This would not be lost on these movie people. He was really enjoying their little drama. His chief task in the next few days was to convince them that they were deadly serious, as indeed they were.

"String him up." He said this in English even though he was talking to his own men. All his key people spoke the language. You were nobody these days if you couldn't.

Instead of ropes they used shackles and chains. Jason's arms were pulled apart and up till he was on his toes. The strain was uncomfortable but not painful. A spreader bar was fastened to his ankles.

"You will note, young Jason, that those shackles are lined with leather. We have no wish to mar your skin and thereby reduce the value of the merchandise. That is why that rather alarming cat of nine tails my associate has just picked up has no bits of lead sewn into the tips of the lashes to tear the flesh. No, we will not mar that lovely skin, we will not break your bones, we will not burn you with a blowtorch, or crush your testicles with a press. We will not split your nose nor cut off a finger or ear as proof of purchase. No, we will keep you whole."

"If you get out of this alive. There is no reason why, after a period of recovery, you should not go back to work. That is the point. Your studio is not a philanthropic organization, but they might be open to a business proposition. A certain sum will guarantee their investment in you and their high hopes for the future. Indeed I too look forward to future film efforts from you. In my own humble way I am one of your biggest fans."

Even in his terror Jason fleetingly wondered who wrote his dialog.

"I have said we will not cripple or damage you in any way to diminish your value. I do not promise that we will not hurt you. There are many ways to inflict pain that leave no mark. My men are expert in all of them."

"And no Mr. Altobello, before you speak, remember no threats. Yes we will torture your friend to make our point about the ransom; you can do nothing to help him. If you annoy me, we will hurt him more to punish you. You are here as our witness. We could easily have left you in your rooms and simply taken the boy here. It is you who must convince the studio we are serious. The torture is necessary to speed up the process. We have no interest in keeping a hostage for years and years like groups in other countries. No, the boy will not languish in captivity. He will be tortured every single day till we get our money. If we don't, he dies!"

Hank subsided. Even with his back to him the man had known he had opened his mouth to shout. "Have to keep cool for Jase's sake." he thought. "Punish Jase would they for my misdeed? Bastards."

Vasquez ran his hand lightly over Jason's chest and down his flat belly to the sarong about his hips. He pressed against the actor's genitals then felt the fabric between his fingers.

"Silk and green just like your eyes. You really are a lovely boy. I am sorry we will have to hurt you so much in coming days or weeks. You must understand it is nothing personal. If it is any consolation, none of my men here are sadists. We are all ruthless men, yes, but not needlessly cruel. I am going to remove the tape from your mouth now and wish you to be silent for a moment more. Then you may speak. On second thought you may speak now but not to me. I am sure you to have something to say to each other. But be brief. You will have plenty of time to talk later."

With that he tore off the tape.

"Jason" "Hank" "Hang in there, Jase" "I love you" "I know." "Hank, I'm so afraid" "Me too, for you."

"Enough! For now." Vasquez

They really were a handsome couple. Of course he preferred women, but he had nothing against males such as these. He sometimes wondered about his own macho culture and its attitude to those who could not help being what they were. His hands unclipped the sarong and slipped the green fabric away. Vasquez studied the boy, then reached out to cup his genitals, rolling the balls between his fingers.

"Very nice. I really hope you will soon have these smooth orbs in your hand again Mr. Altobello. As our witness, you will tell what you will have seen here to the studio heads. Much of these proceedings will be captured on film. Take this cloth with you when you go. It is the last thing of his that has touched his flesh, especially here. If things do not work out, let it be a souvenir of what you have loved and lost." Vaquez was particularly proud of that last line. He had worked on it for half an hour.

"Now I know you have just had a meal so I will not now offer you refreshment. Mr. Altobello your cell has adequate facilities. Little one, there is a drain in the floor, but I prefer you do not make a mess."

With that, all the captors simply walked out of the dungeon and shut the door, clanking the bolt ostentatiously for effect.

What passed between the lovers in the next hour can readily be imagined: expressions of love and of support, assurances about a quick ransom, undying devotion, that sort of thing. Even in their predicament, they were there for each other. The slender youth looked so lovely really stretched out like that, belly flat, legs held apart by that spreader bar, his generative organs so lewdly on display. How much Hank wanted to go to him, to embrace him, to put his strong arms around his slender body, to run his hands over those familiar curves, and to tell the boy that it was all right, Hank would protect him. He couldn't and he couldn't.

The sound of the bolt being withdrawn signaled that the first torture session had begun.

Vasquez had given considerable thought to the best methods for inflicting pain on his captive. The tortures must be both non-destructive and strikingly visual for the recording they would send with the ransom demand. Some tortures are simple such as pressing the testicles with your thumbs but not very visual. Nothing much happens; it is a static picture with the victim's balls in another man's grip. Yes, one can easily imagine the agony it causes; you can elicit groans and cries, but that is aural not visual. You cannot let the victim thrash about much because you would loose your grip.

A cat on nine tails was his first choice. A single whip was another fine choice then a riding crop. A riding crop was especially good for torturing the genitals. The young actor would learn the sting of each of these over the next few days.

Electricity was also good if properly done. With electrodes attached to tender portions of the anatomy, a victim would writhe or lock his muscles to graphically show how much it hurt. A plasma ball was even better, far more visual. The victim would jerk back and forth, trying to keep his body away from that ball of lightning.

Jason looked anxiously as one of Vaquez's men, Pedro took the cat in his hands. He swished it through the air twice then smashed the lashes against the bars of Hank's cage. Hank jumped back, hands stung. Gods, just partial contact and it hurt. What would it do to his Jason. Another man, JosŽ put a bit in Jason's mouth like he was a pony or something. Vasquez explained.

"This bit is to protect your teeth, my young friend. You can bite down or open your mouth wide to scream. You are free to scream and plead and cry all you want. It won't do any good, but I cannot expect reticence from you at such a time. You, on the other hand Hank, may I call you Hank, you will be silent, or the boy gets it even harder. Begin."

Jason tried to be brave. He did not scream at the first cut with the cat or at the second. His slender body arced away from each blow, but he let out no more than a groan. The lashes cut his back and his ass. Some wrapped around his ribs. He writhed. Again and again the cat landed from shoulders to ass to back of the thighs leaving red welts but not tearing the skin. It would never do to hurt the merchandise. Pedro worked from behind so the tortured youth could never see it coming. Pedro avoided a predictable rhythm he might anticipate. This was psychological as much as physical torture.

It was not long that the boy was crying out with each slash of the whip, sobbing, tears running down his cheeks. He was just a kid. How could anyone do this to him. He had never hurt these people. He had never hurt anyone really. Why did he have to suffer? It was then he realized why Vasquez had spoken so candidly. He had made sure Jason did know why he was suffering and that it had nothing to do with the boy himself. He had not caused it, and he could not stop it. This realization hurt as much as the physical pain.

Blows landed again and again. Hank wept in frustration. The men had Jason facing Hank so he could see his lover's full reaction. They now turned him around so Hank could see the welts and bruises that had been inflicted on the boy he loved. How could anyone do this to someone so beautiful so young? They gave the youth a half turn and started again. Pedro stood this time with his back to Hank and worked Jason over landing lashes on his chest, belly, and the front of his thighs. Pedro like to aim for the youth's manhood, grinning when the lashes slashed cock and balls setting him howling. Tips of the lashes cut the tiny red nipples, leaving trickles of blood to start their way down his chest. The trickles traced an irregular track down the ribs to the hip to the belly. Sometimes other lash smeared the blood or spread it elsewhere on the boy's front. It was ghastly.

"This may be opening a new avenue for you to explore upon your release, my young friend. Many people derive pleasure from such an experience either as giver or as receiver. I think you may be one of the latter. I should not wonder whether you could be actually whipped to an erection, even an orgasm."

"No, never!" he mumbled around the bit gag.

"Never is a long time, and you are young. Time will tell. In any event JosŽ can assist you to explore this side of your psyche. If you please JosŽ."

Stripping off his jump suit, JosŽ lubbed a cock already at half staff and put some lube up Jason's ass. Without further ado he slammed into the boy. It was so pitiful, the whipped boy, blood running down his flanks and now he was getting raped by a huge animal of a man. Jason raised his head and screamed for help again and again as the man brutally took him. Pedro came and withdrew and gave Jason a parting slap on the ass. The beaten youth hung limp in his chains, sobbing. Softly he murmured 'maman, maman'. Just a little lost boy crying for his mother.

Hank could barely see now he was crying so hard. Vasquez came over to Hank's cell careful not to get within reach of the big man's arms.

"You saw Hank, and what you saw you will tell of."

Hank nodded.

"Let him hang there for a while then take him down and tend to his hurts."

With that the leader of the gang left the two young men alone for a while. Jason started to revive a bit and looked over to his friend.

"It's all right, Hank. I'm alive. I love you."

Hank never loved Jason more than in that brave moment. Even knowing that he faced days of torture himself, he was trying to give comfort to another. That was when Hank knew he loved Jason as much for his soul as for his body.

A male nurse came in and washed Jason's wounds, using a styptic to stop the bleeding from the cuts on the nipples. He gave Jason a slug of some sports drink then water and he and Pedro put Jason on the cot in his cell.

The next day started with a quick whipping with a single whip that left further red welts. The sting of its lash was particularly bad when it hit the penis or the scrotum. No rape though today. Instead the thugs pulled a piece of equipment from a storeroom and set in in the middle of the dungeon. It was a fan type exercise bike. Pedro simply told Jason.

"One hour and make sure you sweat". So saying he locked a chain around Jason's neck attached to a staple in the wall then put a water bottle at his feet. Jason started peddaling. An hour later Vasquez was back.

"You see Hank, we are taking good care of your friend: medical care, exercise, and now nutrition."

The men put the captives together in Hank's cell and gave them a meal. No four star cuisine, but quite good, filling and tasty. At least they weren't planning to starve them, Hank realized. The boys ate quickly then fondled each other. Hank still had on his shorts and tee while Jason was naked. Hank's hands explored his lover's body. No permanent damage, but he was hurting. So it was true about not wanting to damage the merchandise. Vasquez was clearly trying to reassure them on this point. It was a key element of his sales strategy.

Hank stroked Jason's cock which responded as always. Vasquez saw it but said nothing. Their groping became more urgent as Hank swept off his clothing. Jason wanted to suck him but Hank just sat him on his lap facing him and played with him, touching those sore nipples, rolling the balls, pumping the cock. He was trying to bring his friend off, not thinking of himself, but his lover was never so selfish as to forget Hank. He stood up turned and as quickly sat down on the stiff cock he had felt pressed against his back.

Locked together in this fashion the two lovers got lost in each other. From long practice they reached climax at the same instant, the boy's climax set off Hank's own from the way the muscles in his ass suddenly clenched the man's cock. Jason erupted on his chest and legs. They took deep breaths and kissed. Hank slicked up the boy's cum on a finger and offered it to him. Jason licked the finger then took it into his mouth, naughtily bobbing his head up and down.

The men left them alone for a while. Hank showed Jason a deadly technique just in case he had to sell his life dearly. An upward smash with the heel of the hand to the nose killed instantly by driving the bone into the brain. This had only one use: to take a bad guy with you. They would kill you two seconds later, sure, but at least you had evened the score. An hour later Jason was led to his own cell until it was time for the next torture. And so it went, never predictably, torture, rape, exercise, lovemaking, meals, sleep, on and on.

Of all the whippings, Jason felt most humiliated with the riding crop. It is both a whipping and a kind of rape at the same time. The painful snap of the leather on his butt made him drive his hips forward in a parody of a thrust. The heavy breathing and moans mimicked those of intercourse. Pedro shoved the handle of the crop up the rectum in much the way he shoved his cock into the young actor when he raped him. He even put harsh tit clamps on him just like he did when he fucked him. Or he hurt the boy's tiny nipples by snapping at them with the crop itself.

From the front, a crop delivers stinging blows to a male's organs. Pedro liked to bounce the youth's cock on the crop several times before whacking it hard. The thug would snap the crop at the scrotum very fast six or seven times. Nothing is more emasculating than having another man abuse your sexual equipment, making it hurt, alternately grabbing it for a quick squeeze then hitting it with the stinging crop, making fun of Jason's hairlessness down there, calling him a maric—n and a puta and a mariposa then proving it true by raping him again.

He got Jason hard with the stimulation from a fuck then mocked him for wanting to take a beating and for wanting to be raped. He couldn't wait, could he, to spread his legs for a real man. He went at it and at it telling Jason 'you want it'. When he succeeded in getting the youth sobbing again, he called him a pansy crybaby then spanked his butt as fit punishment for it. And then he reminded Jason that this was all on film, but that was OK wasn't it, big movie star that he was.

Strung up spread-eagle, Jason could not defend himself or block the harsh blows from any part of his body. The crop was so light, it didn't need much of a back swing and could shift rapidly from one point on his body to another. He could not tell whether the next blow would be full tilt on his ass or a quick series to the nipples. It drove him mad with pain and frustration and shame.

Vasquez waved Pedro away and lifted the boy's tear stained face. He told him how much he wished this were not necessary. He wondered aloud how Jason's family would take it. Would they ever see their son again. Lifting Jason's genitals and handling them surprisingly gently he said he knew how disappointed a mother could be with no grandchildren to look forward to. The orbs in Jason's sac would never provide the seed; this handsome cock, reddened from blows, would never fulfill its proper purpose to plant that seed deep within a female. Such a shame. No, he had nothing against boys like Jason. Unfortunately Pedro does.

Then they used leeches on him. Leeches were not painful, but they were absolutely disgusting. Ever since his location shoot in Brazil Jason had hated leaches. That first time was bad enough, to splash across a stream and find himself with half a dozen clinging to him. Like every first timer, he had yelped and started pulling them off him. "No!", shouted the aid man. "You gotta use the bug juice!" Jason had to call on every ounce of self-control to keep his hands at his sides while they used insect repellent or matches to make the blood suckers drop off him. "Gettem offa me!" he wailed, skin literally crawling. [Think Humphrey Bogart in The African Queen]

Then the director got the inspiration to use the candid footage in the movie. Would Jason please go back into the water and swim around a bit so more leeches could latch onto him? Then his character Jean could use the shell of a fresh water mussel (dripping really with repellent not water) to get the leeches off again. Almost hating the director but knowing it would make a terrific sequence, Jason went through with it. The worst part was how the critters would sense and latch onto the portion of the male anatomy with the best blood supply just under the skin, adding two extra blood-swollen members to the fork of his legs, both larger than his emotion shrunk natural one. Was any movie worth this?

Now here he was in Alturas making another sequence about leeches. From the point of view of his captors, it made a good visual: the slender youth whose tracery of veins just under the skin on legs and forearms, and belly reminded them of a colt or young deer. He was stretched out standing with arms bound above, helpless to do anything but writhe and thrust his body back and forth in a vain attempt to shake the disgusting critters off him. Then his men forced the leeches to drop off him into their hands. Making a fist, his captors splooshed the youth's "virgin's blood" in his face, on his chest and flanks, and most contemptuously on his manhood, watching it drip off or run down his legs. Then followed a light whipping with the single whip, to smear the blood around a little, to add the element of pain to that of humiliation, and to wipe that defiant glare off his face.

Obviously the boy was drawing moral support from his caged lover. They had a bond that went beyond the physical attraction so obvious between them. Good. Let them help each other. When this was over, the boy would recover so much the quicker. Vasquez had nothing against him after all. This was about extortion, not about the young man himself. Also he really was a fan of Jason's as he had said. He liked action movies even if the actor's earlier ones had had a homoerotic subtext. There was nothing subtextual about that Jungle Boy picture though.

The worst tortures were probably with electricity. With the captive youth tied to all four corners of a large table, JosŽ put electrodes on Jason's ankle and a steel cock ring around his package. It was easy then to clip an electrode to the cock ring and turn on the juice. Jason screamed as the current locked the muscles of his leg, His upper body writhed as he pulled at the restraints around his wrists. Instead of a cock ring they might use a steel probe up his rectum or even a metal sound slipped up the urethra into the body cavity itself. That way they could torture all his genitalia, internal as well as external, the prostate particularly. A very low voltage on the prostate was terribly arousing. Jason's body would shudder all over in a kind of internal male orgasm which cycled endlessly leaving him utterly drained.

If he had not already been an unbeliever, the young man was sure he would have become one then and there. How could a benign power watch someone so harmless as little Jason Eberly suffer this way for so vile a purpose as blackmail?

Vasquez like the visual effect of the plasma globe. Stuck on the end of a rod, the globe was the size of a grapefruit. You could keep the victim lightly bound, just so long as he could not get away or use his hands to defend himself. Electric bolts crackled within the globe and delivered a sting when pressed to the skin. Just getting close was enough for a spark to jump the gap. Great with the lights dim. You could see the spark. You could watch the boy cringe from the globe, cry out as he was touched, then whimper afterward. Pedro liked Jason's whimpers best. Here was a boy who was born to whimper as the men who rightly had charge of him gave him what he deserved, the little pussy boy gringo.

Chapter 5. Resolution

Through it all, occasionally Jason caught a glimpse of pity or regret on Vasquez's face. Then the revolutionary would steel his resolve, though inwardly increasingly ashamed of himself.

Finally Vasquez was satisfied with the tortures he had put his victim through. He had Jason record a plea for ransom. He did not write it out for him; simply gave him talking points he had to cover. Jason added a couple of his own. Jason outlined the deal for the studio, mentioned various sports scores to fix the date of the recording, and made a dignified plea for rescue.

He said he was just a kid like any other. The studio could find pretty boys anywhere about Hollywood. He hoped they did not think him too self important to hope they would find the money. He told them how glad he was that Hank had been with him, a tower of support through all this and that he had not been harmed. He said he was grateful to his captors for allowing him time with his lover as the recordings would show. He expressed his hope that he would soon be free and told his mom and dad that he loved them. It was only that one take. Jason was a pro and he knew how to deliver his lines, but he meant everything he said. Then he broke down and sobbed with shame for his weakness.

After one last night together Hank was on his way. It was Vasquez who reminded him to take the boy's green sarong. He assured Hank that though the tortures would continue at a slower pace, their hostage could still get out of this in fairly good shape if only the studio could trust him and come up with the money. How could they trust him? The revolutionary gave them an unimpeachable reference for his honesty: General Ramon of the National Constabulary, a man who had been hunting Vasquez for a dozen years.

Nevertheless they had had dealings including three prisoner exchanges. One time he gave the General good intelligence on narco traffickers who were trying to take over a district. The police smashed the ring, one of the early successes in the country's anti-trafficking drive. Yes, they were enemies, but both hated what drugs did to poor countries like theirs. In so far as enemies could, they trusted one another; they certainly respected one another. Each was just too good at his job not to.

Meanwhile Jason languished in captivity. Although the pace of torture lifted even skipping whole days, it had not stopped. If need be they could send another disk, a sequel. Jason found he had time on his hands. Hank was gone; he was alone. He had nothing to read no television, certainly no access to the web. He realized that for some reason Vasquez wanted to talk with him, to explain himself. Why not?

The revolutionary told how although himself of the upper class he had turned against a bad system. How much he wanted social justice in his country and good governance. Why couldn't Alturas become a developed country like Finland, Singapore, or Estonia. Why couldn't they go in thirty years from poverty to wealth like Korea. Why hadn't they done it in the thirty wasted years just past?

Jason was a bright lad. He understood that the man was troubled that his commitment to the revolution and to his duty had led him to inflict tortures on a blameless victim. He was looking, even if he did not quite realize it, for absolution.

They talked more and more. Jason said that he might as well practice his Spanish and refused to speak English any more. That brought a smile to the man's face. So, teacher and student was it? So be it. They spoke often over the next tend days, the older man finding his young captive a delightful conversationalist. Jason ultimately learned that the man had been a teacher, a college professor. Did Jason remind him of his students? He was the right age.

Vasquez was silent a moment, then said quietly.

"No, you remind me of my son. He would have been your age."

But he would not elaborate. Jason already knew he had lost both sons years ago.

Vasquez cradled the boy's chin in his hand, looked into his eyes and sighed. The revolutionary was tired of conflict. The kidnapping was a way to get money without all the killing from bank robberies. What had he come to? This boy was innocent of any crimes, and he really could have been his son. So bright and beautiful, and yes, courageous. What kind of a bastard did that make him?

The tortures stopped entirely. Enough is enough.

The General agreed that Vasquez would keep his word.

The one thing Vasquez prizes above all else is his integrity. He is sincere in what he does. That is what makes him so dangerous."

"And cruel" Hank said.

"He would not agree with you, my friend. He would say he is simply ruthless. I see you are not convinced. Very well, both a ruthless man or a cruel one may use violence and do evil deeds: kill, steal, torture, whatever. The ruthless man does so for some definite purpose: wealth, revenge, the revolution. He does bad things toward some aim. A cruel man does evil for its own sake, because he enjoys hurting people. I myself have killed many times, occasionally in cold blood, but always in the line of duty. This is why I must agree with my enemy on this point. I do not wish to think myself cruel, so I cannot think it of him either."

"So how do you know he does not enjoy hurting people?"

"No, no. Even as a boy he was always the one tending a wounded bird or bringing home a kitten. When he can be, he is kind enough."

"How do you know all this, from your spies?"

"Why no. I thought he told you. We are brothers."

That news floored the Americans. They learned that the brothers had chosen opposite sides. Social tensions in Alturas were building that might some day turn into a full-scale civil war, though both men wanted to avoid it. More losers than winners in a civil war.

They sent copies of the disk to the studio. Jason's parent insisted on seeing the whole thing, not just the plea for ransom. They had to pause it several times sickened at what those men had done to their innocent son. Marie Eberly was furious when she watched Pedro torture her son's genitals with the riding crop. When she heard Vasquez talking about grandchildren she lost it completely. This was the boy whose diapers she had changed, sometimes getting squirted for her trouble as will happen with baby boys. She had soothed Jason's tiny sac with her own hands; it was now in the grip of the men who tortured him.

For legal reasons the studio could not pledge its own funds for a ransom right away. A gay media mogul advanced the money on a handshake deal for repayment over time, no interest. That was his contribution to the cause, and could he meet that fascinating boy once he was safe? It took time for the money to be sent through a chain of shady institutions in Eastern Europe and the Islamic world. The captors took another two days to be sure the chain of paper and electronic transactions could not be traced. So had passed eighteen days after Jason's capture.

Early in the evening El Jefe arrived at the hacienda with two of his men, a bodyguard and another man who looked like a brute. He found Vasquez with Jason. El Jefe was delighted; he was expansive. He congratulated everyone on a job well done.

"Now we can really squeeze them. Ask for another five million."

"What? No!" Vasquez shouted. "They kept their side of the bargain and quickly."

"Yes too quickly. They have no spine. We can get twice as much for him."

"You must not do this, Jefe."

"And why not, my most loyal lieutenant?"

"It would ruin everything. This is the first of many kindappings. We must convince everyone that we will deal fairly, otherwise they won't pay. Good faith is all we have to seal the deal."

"No, my old comrade. I have heard how you are speaking with your new friend here, even stopped the tortures. He has turned your head. You have fallen for the pretty face of this naked little maric—n. No, I will turn him over to Diego here. He can be very persuasive. We will shake another five millions out of them."

Vasquez locked eyes for a moment, then bowed his head. He turned to Jason rubbing a finger alongside his nose, then said. I am so sorry little one. I promised you a quick death and a painless one. Yours will be neither. They will never pay more. Diego will kill you. "

Then he gave a quick nod to his own men. Shots rang out killing Diego and the bodyguard. Vasquez pulled out his gun and shot El Jefe himself. He quickly gave a set of orders to deal with this sudden turn of events. Finally he came back to Jason's cell and opened it. The young captive asked:

"So when you rubbed your nose. That was a signal?"

"Yes, to back my play. Shoot whoever I point to with a flash of my eyes. You are a quick study my young student."

Jason paused then simply said:

"Why?"

"Why? Because he was wrong. Because what he wanted was wrong for our cause. Because it was wrong period. Besides, once I shot his men, he could never trust me nor I him. He had to die."

"But you don't, my young friend. Come with me. You are going home."

This brought out a nice smile on Jason's face. It made the older man's heart lift. A beautiful smile on the face of a beautiful boy. No, a young man of courage.

He offered Jason pants and shirt but the young man wanted only a length of cord and strip of cloth. After cutting it down to about a foot and a half long and six inches across Jason smiled mischievously. He tied the cord tight very low on his hips and passed the cloth between his legs. Vasquez wondered why the boy preferred a skimpy loincloth.

"So now, you are a young tribesman of the Maya, is that it?"

"No, a Comanche."

"With blond hair and green eyes? How can this be?" he asked reproachfully.

"White captives!" Jason pronounced triumphantly. Whooping and patting his mouth, right hand raised as if holding a tomahawk, he did a little war dance to prove it.

Vasquez laughed loudly at that. And he was glad his cameraman caught the little scene. It would give him something to remember the boy by, instead of the tortures. He put Jason in a car and gave him his phone back.

"When the driver lets you off, call the General. I put his number in your phone. Say you are at the 'Mercado Sur'. He will know where to find you, and when you see my brother...tell him...tell him that I hope our mother is well."

Then as the car drove off, the tired revolutionary looked fondly after the boy who had saved his soul and whispered.

"Vaya con Dios, hijito mio." Go with God, my son.