Jungle Boy

Jungle Boy 3

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 third installment in the on-going saga of actor Jason Eberly.

It contains graphic descriptions of the male human body and of sexual activity between adult males, the youngest of whom is sixteen years old. It depicts scenes of consensual and non-consensual sexual activity, bondage and submission, and torture. Some of the characters are not nice people. It starts off easy enough. Do not be fooled. Fate had much travail in store for our young hero.

The use of words or terms like 'boy', 'teen', 'youth' etc, are purely intended to identifying gender only and are not meant to imply that the characters are under age.

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 that applies.

It is offered for entertainment. If the story 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 parts one and two.

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.

References to the United States Marine Corps reflect the author's lifelong respect for that elite assault force.

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 only twenty, the young man had made six pictures with him in the last two and a half years--all money makers especially the last two.

"Look who's here" he said to director Jim Nicholls, Leon Potter, production chief for the studio, and Ed Veronese, Jason's agent. They were meeting to pick stories for their next few pictures. Jason's three picture deal now came with a percent of the gross. They wanted to find a concept for each picture that would play to their star's strengths, then set writers to work on scripts.

"Looking good kid," Fletcher continued.

Jason smiled. He had no false modesty about his stunning appearance though at only one inch over five and a half feet (170 cm) and 126 pounds (57 kg) he was fairly small for a leading man. His pretty boy features literally turned heads. Men and women did double takes and stared at him wondering how anyone could be that good looking. Like Rob Lowe for his generation. His eyes were limpid pools of green and his face had an open animated expression on his face, the very opposite of the scowling Hollywood bad boy.

Jason's physical beauty and sheer athleticism made him a standout. Although not very tall, his body was incredibly toned, taut and trim with a surprisingly muscular upper storey for a runner. He still ran cross country just like in high school. Add in those killer abs and all-over tan, he was poetry in motion. The camera loved him. Directors often used slo-mo shots to show off Jason's athleticism and raw animal appeal.

"Hi Jason," Nicholls grinned, looking him over. The young man was dressed in one of his trademark low slung sarongs of blue silk and a tight nearly sheer white tank top showing off his tiny red nipples. The gap between the bottom hem, cut off at the waist, and the top of the sarong was more than the span of his small hand, highlighting a jeweled piercing in his navel. Flip flops and a thin gold neck chain completed the ensemble.

Jason started things off.

"How about a Western? I'd like to do at least one." Jason loved Westerns but hadn't made one yet, even though he had learned to shoot and practiced a fast draw.

"Why not?", Potter said "You could play Billy the Kid easy. You're just the right age, and the right size. He was a little guy whose six gun was his equalizer.

"Wasn't he left-handed?" Jason asked. I remember Paul Newman did "The Left-Handed Gun."

"Right, Warner Brothers, 1958 but he was 33. Too old for the role." Potter noted. "So was Robert Taylor who played the kid when he was thirty."

"Anyway, the Kid wasn't really left-handed." Fletcher added. "The one photo of him was reproduced in reverse making him look left handed."

"Always keeping us straight, eh Fletch." Nicholls chuckled. "Jason, I hear you're a good rider these days."

Jason had been taking riding lessons off and on for over a year now. It wasn't just for westerns; you also had your period dramas, sword and sandal, even life styles of the rich and famous. You never knew when a producer would put a character up on a horse. Same with firearms training. That would be useful in many other genres: war flics, gangster films, film noir, whatever.

He really wished he could ride as well as legendary movie cowboys like Glenn Ford or especially Ben Johnson in "She Wore a Yellow Ribbon." Johnson had even ridden Roman style in "Rio Grande", standing on the backs of two horses like a rider at a circus and had jumped them over fences. That man could ride! Jason took pride in doing most of his stunts, but the insurance company would insist that a stunt man do the most dangerous stuff on horseback.

"OK, he's a natural for Billy the Kid, but how do we get his clothes off?" Nicholls asked with a wink to their star.

Jason got his break in movies because he was willing to wear the skimpiest of costumes or none at all. For his picture set in the Amazon, his costume was a G-string and feather armbands. For his next picture he was stark naked 95 percent of his time on screen as he was chased by savages across French Equatorial Africa. In his last picture he played an ex-Navy SEAL out for revenge and had finished the mission in a skimpy loincloth. Fans clamored now for scenes of the cute young actor in the buff. All his movies capitalized on his sex appeal.

"Easy," Potter assured. "Pat Garret catches up to the infamous desperado swimming in the river. He throws a lasso around him, then drags him from the water and ties him up. The kid will look great all wet and bare assed helpless, especially when Garret takes a horsewhip to him."

"No, we'll give Garret a bull whip like Lash Larue."

Marty Fletcher was a stickler for verisimilitude and explained that a bull whip hung over a saddle horn was more realistic for a lawman to carry with him: the Western equivalent of a night stick. A horsewhip would be for a driver of a stagecoach or a buckboard.

The young actor would not actually feel the sting of the whip, which could easily scar his back or ass. A bull whip makes a sharp crack because its tip actually breaks the sound barrier. No, the director would use forced perspective, shooting from directly in front or back so it would look like the whip struck the trussed up hero but it actually would fall short. They would use CGI to make the whip curl around the outlaw's hips or ribs, and make up artists to apply welts and fake blood to the boy's body. He would take what looked on screen like terrible punishment during which he would writhe sexily.

"Garret can also force his captive to hike all the way into town barefoot and naked showing the welts laid into his bare hide."

Jason rolled his eyes. Here we go again, captured and in bondage, roughed up and humiliated, while stark naked of course. Jason gets captured a lot in his pictures and stripped and brutalized then thrown in a cell. Naturally he later gets away and turns the tables on the bad guys.

"Let me guess," Jason began. "Garret was a spurned lover or a former lover."

Jason's gay fans always liked a gay angle in the plot. Jason's sexual orientation was old news to his fans. Even the gals liked to fantasize that they would be the one female to straighten him out.

Actually the sting of a bull whip was about the only kind of whip he hadn't felt during his kidnapping in the Central American republic of Alturas. Revolutionaries seeking to finance their cause kidnapped Jason and his lover Hank Altobello. They sent Hank back six days later with video of the tortures Jason suffered and warning he would be tortured every day from now on unless they got five million dollars from the studio. The studio stood to make several hundred million dollars off their star over the next five or six years. They would never miss such a sum. Just a sound business decision: pay the ransom. The scheme was the brainchild of Don Vasquez, tired of war and of losing men in bank robberies and of all the collateral damage and the deaths of innocents.

They got the money, but El Jefe, emboldened by quick success, wanted to hold out for another five million. To save the boy and indeed his own soul, Vasquez shot El Jefe and released Jason to his estranged brother, General Ramon, head of the National Constabulary. This gesture lead to tentative peace talks mediated by the Archbishop, and then to a genuine truce. The clergyman was the third brother of the family and had been a go-between in the past for prisoner exchanges.

Jason won international acclaim for his role in promoting civil peace, but he always emphasized that he was just a catalyst. It was the brothers and their factions that had made the peace. With good governance and sound economic reforms maybe Alturas too could do what other poor countries had done, become wealthy in thirty years like Korea. The goal was to join the class of happy countries like Finland, Estonia, and Singapore that had pulled themselves up by their bootstraps. Even the Žlites were tired of the zero sum game that passed for politics in Alturas. Jason and Hank were invited to the opening of the legislature under the new constitution simultaneous with the premiere in Alturas of the movie Jason had gone there to make in the first place.

The plot of that movie was simplicity itself: an ex-Navy Seal goes on a man hunt for revenge on the terrorists who wiped out his whole family. Another jungle pic, but this time Jason was the hunter instead of the prey as he was in his wildly popular African movie. Fans ignored the real titles and called them simply by their working titles, Jungle Boy 1 and Jungle Boy 2 a reference not only to the settings but also to Jason's typically skimpy costumes.

In JB2, he started the mission in jungle fatigues decked out with lethal hardware. Think Arnold in 'Commando'. Of course, this being a Jungle Boy movie all that weaponry and the fatigues and boots were soon lost to bad luck when his Zodiac got sunk in the lagoon. He'd had to ditch his gear or let it drag him under. Unfortunately that included his BDUs; both pants and shirt had their pockets loaded with grenades and ammo and stuff, plus the heavy boots, the assault rifle, etc. Jason's ex-Seal had to finish the mission in a skimpy loin cloth that bared the buttocks, armed only with a K-bar, paddling a dugout canoe through the swamp guarding the lair of the bad guys. Using the knife to take out the sentries, the hero traded up to an AK-47 and an Uzi during his rampage though the villains' lair occasionally pitching grenades or firing an RPG till the climactic explosion of the fuel bunker for the helicopter and boats.

The movie was nothing that hadn't been done before, but Jason's physical beauty and sheer athleticism made this one a standout. He did all his own stunts. It was hard to match a stunt double to Jason's well known physique. No one had the slender but muscular build of a distance runner along with his famously taut buns. Jason's build was the evolutionary ideal of the lean 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.

Fans were a tad disappointed that there was only the one shower scene, the dunking in the lagoon, and a swim in a jungle pool when the actor was entirely nude. Still, the underwater shots of Jason (in mermaid mode, as he liked to quip) showed him moving sleekly through the water. Jason was a good swimmer and his movements were an underwater ballet. Critics complained that the scene was wholly gratuitous, not essential to the plot at all. The studio just wanted to show off the famous ass they had paid five million dollars to save. As always there were no coy camera angles; any strategically placed reeds or fronds were only there momentarily to titillate the audience rather than to shield the fork of the actor's legs. Fans could see for themselves that Jason, like Data on Star Trek, was fully functional.

A lenient R rating helped Jungle Boy 2 get good box office, and anyway many jurisdictions didn't bother much with enforcement these days. Kids and young adults flocked to it. Young ladies insisted it was a good date movie. Needless to say the gay community were his biggest fans. They had long since taken Jason to their hearts. Their fondest wish was to take Jason to their beds.

The story conference finally decided to do the Western after another Jungle Boy picture. The concept for this was a mish-mash of several story ideas. It was Jason's 'sarong picture', after the actor's favorite garment. It had pearl diving and windsurfing, a submarine, and neo-Nazis. Although the Nazis were not quite making a grab for world domination this time, the nefarious activities of Hollywood's favorite movie villains were a serious threat to international peace, until thwarted by Jason's character, a trust fund American beach boy, bumming his way among the islands.

Chapter 2. Across the Pacific

After the festivities in Alturas, Jason and Hank would fly the Pacific to one of the outer Islands of Indonesia east of Borneo to shoot Jason's new movie. Hank would be safety diver on the shoot. The boys had hooked up after Hank pulled the actor out of the water during a near drowning at a river crossing gone bad on their African picture. Working title, inevitably, was Jungle Boy 3.

Six weeks later, the film crew was making good progress. Jim Nicholls, back as Jason's director, was delighted at the chance to work with the young star especially on their windsurfer picture. This was an old 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. Early on it got nixed as "Too much like our last picture". Still the new picture had elements of the original concept.

In the early mornings, before reporting on the set Jason went for a run. It wasn't just to keep in shape, though it did that admirably. Jason loved running itself because it was so intensely physical. It made him feel strong and alive. He loved to feel the sun warming his skin, to fall into a near trance from the rhythmic breathing, to exult in his strength and stamina as his feet flung back the sand. Even the sweat that poured from him was an expression of life and vitality. Also the runner's high kept him calm and centered. A wise man once said that endorphins were the drug of choice of the physically fit. Indeed the young actor's slenderness and grace and bare tanned skin reminded onlookers of an antelope on the African plains.

Hank was a swimmer rather than a runner and he would swim in the lagoon during his lover's early morning runs. Occasionally he joined Jason, but preferred to wear shorts rather than go entirely bare. He was a fine looking young man in his own right, handsome and tall and strongly built, but he knew he wasn't in the same league as his young lover who always turned heads.

Jason took lessons so he could do his own windsurfing sequences. He was already a strong swimmer and something of a scuba diver, a skill he picked up from Hank. The school was run from a pier in a local port that served tourists as well as locals. They were sorry, but whatever he did on location or at an upscale resort, their new pupil could not be fully naked in public. He had to wear something, a thong at least, something to cover his manhood. Not everyone was so blasŽ as the young American about nudity.

"It's so much fuss over nothing, in my humble opinion." Jason complained to no one in particular. Actually he thought he looked rather nice down there. His genitals were not all shriveled up like with so many guys. His cock was smooth not gnarly with purple veins with a foreskin covering the entire glans. 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, just fine when you were running cross country bare ass with your dangly bits bouncing about.

OK OK. Jason complied. Instead of just wearing Speedos, a young man in the costume department was happy to offer an alternative: a fig leaf. The notion appealed to the exhibitionist in Jason. He let the young guy gauge his measurements, talented fingers weighing and stroking. A short while later he produced the classic fig leaf, really a curved sheet of flexible plastic about the size of the actor's hand, cut to shape. A rubber ring behind the fig leaf held it in place. Since Jason was completely hairless even down there, the fig leaf made him look like a Renaissance statue.

"See Jason, it's just the same shade as your eyes and will go just great with your tan and blond hair." he said with a wink as he personally fitted the star, taking his own sweet time about doing it too. He didn't seem to want to let go. Jason just chuckled, indulging the guy. Thus outfitted Jason drew a crowd for his lessons. Some said that he was at least indirectly responsible for that collision between careless boaters shadowing his progress.

On location Hank manned the chase boat, a Zodiac, since Jason wore no life vest. These were occasional sharks in these waters so a lookout with the rifle manned a post on the mother ship. Hank had a long barreled pistol as backup. They also watched for sea snakes since all sea snakes are poisonous. As a precaution the crew checked Jason beforehand for cuts or scrapes. Just a little blood in the water could draw the dangerous creatures. Jason suspected he was being conned, but he went along with the brief inspection each morning. There were two parts to it, a close visual check then a tactile examination with fingertips. The aid man was concerned that Hank and Jason's lusty lovemaking must cause bleeding back there, so he checked carefully. It was done by the numbers, with the delighted crew calling out the commands.

"Assume the position, spread'em, bend over, grab your ankles, cough." That last command was definitely a joke.

Still joke or no, how could he not feel a bit humiliated bent over like that. Indeed did he not deserve derision for a position that so blatantly displayed the most mundane and carnal part of the human form, the posterior, elevated to the higher position, the head, the seat of human intelligence, to the lower. And that posterior, not decently covered with cloth as it should be, not pasty white but tanned as evenly as the rest of the torso, proving that its visibility now was not a thing of the moment but rather the norm for the shameless boy.

Such shameless wantonness deserved more than humiliation. Surely that brown ass with its taut globes should be spanked or paddled or strapped, to say the least. The dangling manhood deserved at least a snap of a towel or a contemptuous slap of a hand. Did this lewd boy think he should get away with such a lubricious display of concupiscence just because he was so very beautiful of face and of form? Look. Was that his virile member plumping up, a droplet of liquid glistening at the tip. The boy was in a state of arousal, a fire burning in his belly. No had no shame at all. Jason felt so terribly naughty.

Jason was always ready to laugh at himself and at the absurdity of many of life's experiences. Jason was a generous lad, glad to share his youth and his sexuality. He was a youth who simply loved to be naked; he loved for people to see him, to admire him, to run their hands over his belly, to slap his buttocks or slip the blade of a hand in between to trace the hairless crack, and to touch him intimately. He really got off when people played with him. Critics sometimes dismissed him as a boy toy.

"And what is wrong with that?" was his reply. "I'm a boy and I liked to be played with. So?"

Isn't that why he had been gifted with such beauty in the first place? Yes he like to be stroked like a pet. Very much as a cat likes to be stroked on top of the head or to be chuckled under the chin. He liked guys to pet his rump, his flanks, and sometimes to do more. Like many young men he was cock proud, glad that his erection looked rather outsized on his small frame. He was quite candid about his uninhibited sexuality.

After all didn't the movie business amount to commercial voyeurism? The audience got intimate glimpses into the lives of the characters, often physical intimacy in love scenes. All that silly pretense in the days of the movie code in mid century: twin beds even for married couples; suggest but don't portray. Like cut from the romantic clinch to a post coital cigarette. Gods, you couldn't even show a guy's navel! Well the audience was welcome to look at any part of Jason. Sure his movies had a lot of action, but the reason the fans watched him and actors like him was simply sex appeal.

In the evenings Jason and Hank went dancing. They made a handsome couple the slender blond in the arms of the tall dark-haired diver. Both liked the old dances where Hank led and Jason followed whirling like Astaire and Rogers. In this warm climate, for his nighttime frolics Jason wore only a silk sarong slung very low, nothing on top but a little glitter on chest and belly, and no foot wear. A shell choker or gold chain and a flower in his hair completed the ensemble. The young man kept his sarong 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.

The management knew a good thing when they saw it. These boys drew a crowd. For the young couple, everything at the club was on the house. They never abused their privileges either. With those early calls on location and hoping to get some quality time in bed before they fell asleep, the young couple usually left early, amazing locals and tourists who expected them to booze it up till dawn. Jason had resisted the siren calls of fame and over-indulgence. He was no Hollywood bad boy. He kept both feet on the ground, a nice kid if not quite a solid citizen. No attitude, no tantrums, no entourage, and no drugs. That was Jason Eberly.

For publicity stills, Jason showed off his physical prowess. He was known for doing his own stunts, so he readily agreed to a photo op of him climbing palm trees to harvest coconuts. With a rope joining his ankles to give him a grip, he shinnied up several palm trees with a knife gripped in his teeth and dropped their coconuts.

"Bombs away!"

Fans loved those shots of his taut brown buns as he hiked himself up the trunk. You felt that surely this was a young male who should always be naked. Displaying such unselfconscious beauty was what he was born for.

The last sequences were filmed at and around a naval base. The host nation gave them an entire day for establishing shots on and about its brand new air-independent submarine. Participating in the film was a way for their proud military to show off a new toy. They shot a key scene atop the conning tower or sail, the confrontation with the bad guy. It is almost obligatory in action flicks for the arch-villain to boast to the captive hero of his sure-fire plan, gloating over how neatly he had trapped his enemy. Indeed premature gloating was an occupational hazard for movie villains.

Finally the picture was in the can. Filming over, the boys would now relax for a few days at the resort, then fly back to the States.

Chapter 3. The Potentate

As the lovers danced, the Sultan of Zuqqat and his entourage made their entrance. His tiny state was well off the beaten path but wealthy from large reserves of natural gas in the geological strata of the small archipelago. His large yacht had just made port to refuel. What amusements could this backwater region hold he wondered? It was only one of the small outer islands of his giant neighbor Indonesia, and he had been here only once himself.

He saw two young Americans dancing together, both male, the taller a man with strong shoulders, dark hair, and flashing blue eyes. His companion, obviously his lover, cavorted about in a sarong slung low on his hips. What a beauty. He must meet them if only to ease his ennui. An eyebrow cocked at his personal attendant and a moment later the man whispered in his ear that these were those movie people. Of course! Now he recognized him. This was the young American actor who had trouble keeping his pants on. Such motion pictures he made, action trash of course, but what visuals! Surely he was the most beautiful person he had ever seen with his own eyes, better than any boy in his harem certainly. Another signal and his man went over to extend an invitation.

The two young men came over and were introduced. The sultan was captivated, could they sit down for a bit. Just to be polite, they spent some time with the monarch, chatting, asking about his country, telling their own stories of happenings behind the scenes, until, pleading a long day, they left early. The next morning on their breakfast tray was an request that they attend an informal soiree on the yacht: casual dress; just a sarong would be fine. Why not? They had never been on the yacht of an oriental potentate. It was all very impressive, Hank thought, as he got the tour of the ship, an opulent craft yes but eminently seaworthy. More than just a showpiece, this was a fine example of naval architecture, with the clean lines of a warship. He said as much to their host who was gratified to receive a sincere compliment. How rare that was these days with flatterers everywhere. These two Americans clearly wanted and needed nothing from him, though they did seem to enjoy his hospitality.

The Sultan kept glancing at the stunning blond seated on pillows at his right hand. That blue sarong complemented his coloring beautifully. The boy seemed unconcerned that it barely covered his trim posterior, showing at least four fingers of cleavage as the taut fabric outlined his crossed limbs. Obviously nothing on underneath and bare feet. Completely hairless, the skin smooth; he must have been depilated several years ago; the follicles had close up. Such smooth skin just begged to be stroked, especially that enticing channel between the buttocks. How the muscles played under the skin; so little body fat. All muscle and bone, yet so slender. The big lover was in drawstring pants gathered at the ankle and a loose shirt open to the breast and sandals.

After a fine meal of local cuisine and some pleasant chit chat the Sultan called for the evening's entertainment. First up was a magician whose act was both amusing and mystifying. The man had good technical skills and excelled in presentation. An amateur magician himself in his youth, the Sultan enjoyed stage magic even when he knew how a trick was done. Next an oriental dancing boy in a tiny G-string, one of his own harem favorites, little Waqqub of the kohl-rimmed eyes, just sixteen. So slim and a good dancer; he was a delight in bed too.

Tonight the youthful dancer was off his game, obviously distracted by the beautiful American youth talking animatedly and seated cross-legged on big pillows in front, casually showing off a fine chest, the nubs of its nipples erect with excitement. Add to that rippled abdominals, bared belly, and a blue sarong hiked up above the knee displaying the musculature of a runner or maybe dancer. In the middle of his routine, set to oriental music, Waqqub tripped and fell clumsily, turning an ankle. What an embarrassment. The sultan was annoyed. Here he had so wanted to impress the pretty blond. He thought a caning might be in order for Waqquf afterward.

Jason was taken aback. The dancer's slip-up was easy to understand and his own fault entirely, the provocative way he had dressed in that midnight blue sarong, knees apart so one could almost look up his 'dress'. No wonder the dancer's infatuation; a joy boy there if he ever saw one. Almost a case of it takes one to know one. He asked that the sultan's displeasure fall on him instead. Nonsense, the sultan replied, he was the host; he would never violate the laws of hospitality that way. Then let his American guest make amends for his provocative distraction. Jason was a good dancer. If he couldn't take the lad's disgrace on himself, let him please the sultan with a dance in the boy's stead. Very well.

Jason asked for different music. This oriental wailing had no real beat to it. Could the sound man provide some break dance music? This was a most unusual request. The sound man always tried to anticipate his monarch's needs, but he needed a minute for this. Magnanimously, the sultan gave his dispensation, and anyway, didn't the American need a moment to stretch and prepare for his dance. Indeed he did. Blithely, Jason unclipped his sarong, giving it to his lover. Let the sultan top this number any time soon! Jason knew that one kind of dancing he really excelled at was break dancing. He just loved to cavort athletically, whirling, doing handsprings, tumbling, spinning on his back, legs raised with hands under the knees as if just begging to be fucked. Doing it naked just made it that much better.

So he got ready, bending and stretching, limbs taut, holding a pose like a human arrow pointed up to the window, his sex hanging vulnerably below. Then he went into his number. The moves were exciting, erotic, and arousing. Jason whirled, and spun, and flung himself about with abandon, sliding on the smooth wooden decking, kneeling and jumping, tumbling and twisting, whirling his legs and pelvis with his weight on his shoulders. He even did a moon walk that made his rump twitch enticingly. No one who loves the youthful male form could have sat unmoved. Jason was lucky the sultan and his guests did not descend on him en masse and gang bang the wanton American youth. He was more a joy boy than Waqqub or any boy in the harem! When Jason finished, arms and legs outstretched and breathing hard, he looked like someone who had just had terrific sex: tousled, naked, hairless, sweaty.

The sultan practically drooled at the sight of a beautiful youth exuding desirability and sexuality from every pore. He had to have this boy, not just for an evening but forever. But how? The monarch thanked his young guest and might he not keep the blue sarong as a souvenir? Why not? The actor bowed, spun around, and he and his lover took their leave, bared dimpled ass cheeks flexing as he walked out, throwing a wink to little Waqqub who mouthed his thanks in return.

Jason was exhilarated at his performance. Take that your magnificence! He hopped onto the dock from the launch that had carried them from the yacht, practically skipping to their hotel. Abruptly he realized that his lover was in a dark mood.

"What's wrong Hank?"

"You weren't paying attention. I saw how he looked at you."

"Everyone looks at me that way. I am beautiful and so sexy when I'm naked!"

"This was different. His gaze was predatory, proprietary even. I don't like it. I have seen men like that before: men of power. He would stop at nothing to take you."

"What...another kidnapping? Twice in a lifetime? No way."

"Jase, oh Jase. You are so...innocent. No, I am not putting you down. You got lucky in Alturas. Don Vasquez is a good man who had steeled himself to do evil for his cause. That is why you got through to him. This man, under his charm, is a monster."

"Hank..."

"If he tries to touch, you I'll kill him."

Jason had never seen his lover so dark, so serious.

"Don't Hank. Don't even think about it. All those bodyguards. You'd never get close."

"I wouldn't even try. I'd take him out with a sniper rifle at 1000 meters or more. I've done it before."

"No, Hank...no, I mean...please. Hank, I'm scared...what do you mean, a thousand yards? That's over half a mile!"

"I was with Force Recon. One scary bunch of guys, let me tell you. A good shooter with the right equipment can take a man out with a single shot at two and half clicks. That's a mile and a half to you civilians. 'course I'm not in that class. It might take me two shots."

He wasn't kidding either. He was serious...dead serious.

They went to their bungalow, Jason drew stares and amused glances at his nudity. No surprise there, just a young man who could never keep his sarong on and always swam at the nude end of the beach. Well, why not? There outta be a law against clothes on any boy with a body like that. Failing that, he should just shuck his garments himself or ask for volunteers to strip him. There would be many takers.

The next day passed normally, but the morning of their departure Hank woke up in their bed alone. There was no sign of a struggle but also no sign of Jason. The sultan's yacht had upped anchor and slipped away with the early tide.

Jason trembled shackled and stuffed in a tiny rope locker; this new captivity revived bad memories of his earlier one in Alturas. He was trying to bear up, but it was hard. There would be no ransom this time. The Sultan was one of the two hundred richest men in the world. Was he to be tortured to provide sadistic pleasures. Was he to be made the sultan's plaything, a sex slave and joy boy. Would he be passed around to the sultan's guests or would the man keep Jason for himself, at least till he tired of him. What then? Jason had always been glad for his beauty. Was the universe striking back to punish him for the sin of pride? And Hank! What he must be thinking. Gods, let's hope he doesn't try anything on his own, ex-marine or not.

Hank was not so foolish. He tried the police, proper channels, diplomacy. The Indonesian government had let the sultan's yacht pass unchallenged from its territorial waters. They had no evidence to warrant interception, and this was the personal vessel of a head of state. It was sovereign territory itself. Two weeks passed as Jason learned what his captor had in mind for him.

The sultan was no vicious sadist. He felt no joy in the pain of others. True a whipped boy will twist and lunge enticingly and his ass cheeks will tremble excitingly. All well and good, but pain for its own sake, no. Of course the application of pain was a normal part of instilling discipline. Young slaves could be ever so stubborn in accepting their fates, especially Westerners with their exaggerated notions of personal freedoms and human rights. This boy in particular, his modest wealth and recent fame gave him an inflated opinion of his place in the scheme of things. There were proven techniques for dealing with this.

In Jason's case that would not include drugs. The sultan did not want a zombie. He wanted a lively boy, and Jason was not just a fantastic sex object, his personality also attracted the older man. Once he accepted his fate, Jason might become his favorite, a confidant even. The boy was intelligent and well read for his age, an incessant chatterbox with an insatiable curiosity. That was the charm of these western boys. You could talk with them as well as enjoy them carnally. It helped that the boy already knew from his captivity in Central America what men with few scruples could do to the human body without destroying its desirability. He might be possessed of a strong will, but his own memories warred against him.

By nature Jason was a sexual submissive and must know deep in his psyche that he really belonged on his knees debasing himself and worshipping his sexual master, a cock down his throat, pleasuring and arousing the superior male, swallowing his seed, then taking the urine in further sign of submission and humility, while all the time, just back of his ball sac, his nether orifice twitched with a deep longing to be penetrated in turn. Only in submission to dominant males would he be able to gratify his sexual cravings. It was only a matter of time, another week or two before Jason came crawling to his new master abjectly debasing himself in total surrender.

The boy must understand that his own pleasure was very much secondary. His world must center on how he pleased those he served with his orifices and his hands. An erect penis was not really necessary or even desirable for that role. Jason had been shocked when a technician pushed a needle through the tip of his foreskin and threaded a gold ring through the holes. The tech called it infibulation. The Romans used in on their slaves, and Renaissance princes did it to their choir boys, those they didn't just turn into castrati, to maintain their sweet unbroken voices. The nose ring was to remind the young American that he truly was a slave now, a chattel rather than a person.

"We want you to look nice for the camera," the tech explained. Yes Jason was still in motion pictures if only the sultan's home movies.

Today's little demonstration was to put the young captive in the proper mood. He was already tired after a long session on the treadmill they had him run on daily to keep his physique pleasing. From lying on the floor, Jason was hoisted slowly by his ankles. Initially his hands were free as first his legs, then his ass, and finally back and head cleared the floor. A trainer then locked his wrists in handcuffs behind his back. The posture and his vulnerability would reinforce the lesson today. His world was literally turned up side down, hung from those slender and muscular legs that should have supported him the other way. Naked of course, helpless to do anything but shout useless threats or utter pointless pleas. The trainer wanted Jason to see what a caning can do. A foot in front of Jason's nose he brought a six foot cane down with brutal force on a block of wood. He whipped it again and again, the slave could feel the wind of its passage on his face, hear the thwack when it made contact, and see the end start to unravel. Would the slave like that done to his rump? How did he think it would feel, the cane slashing and cutting his flesh, leaving scars?

The trainer then took a smaller cane and showed it to Jason before an attendant slipped a blindfold over him. He caned the boy everywhere on his helpless body, but with easier strokes than he had demonstrated; his motion was from the wrist and arm rather than from the shoulder. The strokes with the smaller cane would hurt but would not mar the lovely skin. They could be delivered much faster too. Jason got struck dozens of times on his ass. After a pause of just moments, the cane struck again, this time at the backs of his thighs, another pause, then the cane worked over his back and shoulders. Then they turned him around and the snap of the cane fell on his chest, belly, legs, and groin in succession. Then they started all over again with a new hand wielding the cane. After two hours, his entire body was red from the unrelenting whipping and felt as well as looked on fire. Jason hung there sobbing helplessly, tears dampening his blindfold, never certain of whether this latest pause would be the end of his torment for this day.

What Jason dreaded the trainer enjoyed. He laid the cane straight into his cleavage to ensure the cane hit his trainee's rosebud. Whack, whack, whack, whack, whack. Then across the cleft to make the the buttocks jiggle delightfully -- for the onlookers. They were turning him into not just a slave but a little boy again. Beating and shaming the self-respect and the manhood right out of him. After working over every part of the strung up boy the trainer changed tack. He stroked the boy's torso with his hands, poked at this armpits and nipples, toyed with his genitals, playfully lifting and batting a cock that was itself in bondage, penetrating his orifice with fingers or dildo.

The trainer even talked over the pros and cons of castrating a boy with the other torturer. The trainer favored reserving that punishment for extreme cases. You could cut a boy only once whereas you could humiliate and torture his manhood every day. All just trash talk to show the boy that every part of his sexy body was theirs to abuse or play with, as they chose. This was a mind fuck like interrogators used to break a man. And it was working.

Jason still hoped for rescue but he was so terribly alone, so small and lost, naked and helpless, caged and shackled and beaten, awakened at irregular intervals, never getting enough sleep, to undergo new torments. This time his captor was not a wanted criminal but a government. The sultan had not penetrated Jason's ass with his cock yet, saving it for that special moment. Otherwise he explored the boy's charms especially his talented mouth. Jason gave fantastic head. That tongue piercing of his was so titillating on a man's cock. The earrings were a nice touch, gold like his hair and useful like the ears for guiding a boy's head as you face fucked him, letting him snuffle his master pubic bush, taking his musky scent into his nostrils, licking and tasting the shaft with his talented tongue.

The sultan was a big man only just starting to run to fat. How small Jason looked down there kneeling between his legs, ass impaled on a huge dildo, wrists bound behind with leather ties, dutifully licking and sucking and bobbing his head on the large member thrusting through his pouty lips, distending his throat and making him gag, while the heavy chain between the alligator clamps on his tiny nipples swayed back and forth with the rhythm of his servility.

The sultan like to match him with his joy boy Waqqub. Infibulated, both had to explore the other boy's depths with fingers and tongues and dildos. They looked so cute together: two randy boys kissing, their tongues dueling or nibbling and licking their small nipples. They would sixty-nine lustily, mutually licking and mouthing their smooth scrotums, sucking cocks swollen and straining to escape confinement within their foreskins, nibbling and tugging on those gold rings but ultimately frustrated by an experience of simultaneous arousal and pain. Yes, this American youth would give the potentate years of pleasure.

Just now the sultan's brother Hassan was being tiresome again. Yes the man was competent and trustworthy. He had a keen sense of duty and carried his functions out well. One of these was to occasionally tell his sovereign and brother that he was wrong. The sultan knew better than to keep only yes men around him. Tiresome as it could be, he wanted candid opinions on matters of policy. Only fools killed the messenger who brought bad tidings. In private the brothers spoke familiarly and discussed matters without ceremony or honorifics.

"This is insane, my brother, of course the Americans know we have him."

"Agreed, but they have no proof. Without proof, they will do nothing. They need our energy exports too badly to cross us."

"Arrh!" Hassan threw his hands up. The sultan was not an incompetent ruler, just overly self-indulgent. On this boy he was inflexible. He had him, and he would keep him. Next order of business.

Chapter 4 Resolution

The slave trainers assured the sultan that the American boy was ready. His two escape attempts had been punished with harsh electrical tortures of the genitals; he never suspected that the security system tracked the RFID chip in his arm. Otherwise his plans to get out of the palace would have worked. Jason hadn't expected to get clean away, out of the country, but he had hoped to make his captivity public, to put pressure on the sultan. After these failures, the daily indoctrination plus sleep deprivation, and all manner of humiliations and beatings, he now knew that his fate was entirely out his hands. He must obey orders, do what he was told and accept whatever was done to him, however painful or degrading.

Without back talk or any attempt to resist he crawled into the torture chamber on his belly knowing exactly how the scene would play out. He laid his small physique on the wooden platform, attaching cuffs to his own wrists and ankles, cuffs already hooked to cables and to winches to draw him spread-eagle. Eyes tearing he closed a thick handcuff around his genitals and the other cuff to the chain above, then submitted as trainers worked the winches to shorten the cables and draw his limbs apart leaving him flat on his back in an X. Then the final winch did its work slowly lifting Jason's ass and legs and back off the platform, forming an arch between his heels and his shoulders, the only parts of his form still on the wood taking part of his weight. He hung there with most of his weight suspended from the steel grip on cock and balls.

A whipping with the light cat followed, not so much to inflict pain as to emphasize his utter vulnerability as lashes fell on legs, chest, belly and groin. He sobbed disconsolately, crying out out in his despair for his lost freedom, for the friends he would not see again, for his family, his country, his career, and the life he had known. Jason was utterly broken.

Very well, the sultan decided. Let the boy rest overnight then be scrubbed and coiffed and perfumed and let him report to the sultan clothed, if that is the word, in the pants of a houri boy, a nearly weightless confection of diaphanous green cloth hanging so low on his hips that it seemed the slightest breeze would surely loosen its tenuous grip on the very back of his ass and make it waft to his ankles. The sultan would do the unwrapping himself, stroking the boy's back, running his finger over the exposed buttocks and cleavage to finally snag the fragile band of elastic that kept the sheer pants so precariously in place. One sweep of the hand and the joy boy would be naked again ready to assume a proper position on hands and knees, giving his master access to his innermost being at both ends.

The sultan would take Jason like a dog, on all fours with knees spread and genitals hanging freely between. This was the special moment he had anticipated lo these three weeks. He felt ecstatic as he slipped his member into the submissive boy's lubricated orifice and began to pump, punctuating his thrusts with lusty slaps to that beautiful rump. Just after he reached climax and pumped his seed into the boy a terrible clamor sounded as armed men erupted into the chamber from the secret escape passage. The Marines had landed.

With great presence of mind the sultan pulled out of his slave boy with a plop, hit the panic button to alert the guards, grabbed a pistol from a hidden compartment, and held the boy between himself and the Americans as a shield.

"Let him go". It was Hank's voice!

"I think not. We have a stand off."

Just then Hassan entered with a dozen men at his back. He took in the scene at a glance and shouted for his men to hold their fire. No one moved for a moment. Hassan looked at the leader of the Americans, a captain by his insignia, looked over at his brother and came to a decision.

"You can take the boy and leave."

"Traitor" shouted the sultan and swung his pistol toward Hassan. Hank surged toward the sultan who shifted aim and shot him twice in the chest.

"Nooooo!" screamed Jason. In anguish and rage he spun and rammed the heel of his hand up into the face of his captor driving the nose bone into the brain. The blow killed the man instantly. It was a desperation move Hank had once showed him, delivered with every ounce of the youth's trim but muscular frame, a force that started with his legs braced on the floor up through hips, back, and shoulder and into his straightened arm. He nearly lifted the big man off his feet. Then Jason spun around to see Hank being helped to his feet by a skinny naval corpsman who told Jason.

"He's OK. His body armor stopped them."

Jason sagged with relief, more for Hank's survival than for his own rescue.

Hassan told his men to stand down. One who started to argue was forcibly reminded that Hassan was now Sultan of Zuqqat.

In decisive tones, speaking English so all could follow his meaning, Hassan arranged an end to the confrontation. The Americans would withdraw -- all of them including Jason. An escort would see them safely to their landing craft, and please don't kill any more of my soldiers. The old sultan would be buried the next day with full honors. Hassan knew it would take a couple days to get Jason home. He would use this time to consolidate his position. There would be no official repercussions. The former sultan's acts were personal not those of his government or of his people. Neither should have to pay for what had happened. Captain Jessel allowed that a lot of that was way above his pay grade, but it would probably all happen just that way.

Just then little Waqqub showed up from the escape passage escorted by a Marine. "Is it over?" he asked in his high pitched voice.

"You!" Hassan said, "I might have known."

The marine captain smiled. "He was a big help."

Hassan then surprised everyone by asking the little joy boy what he wanted to do, go with the Americans or stay in his own country. Waqqub surprised everyone even more by walking over to Hassan and taking his hand. He explained to the Americans.

"He was always kind to me. He is a good man. Yes, I want to stay. Uh, Hassan, I mean your Highness, you must do something for the other boys too. Let them have their lives back."

"It shall be so."

Two hours later, on board the submarine Texas Jason learned all that had happened while he was a captive. The US government dispatched a team from Force Recon to rescue Jason. Waqqub's smuggled information was vital to their success. Hank had asked to go along. Jim Jessel, their captain, ignored a dozen regulations. If the old saying 'once a marine always a marine' meant anything at all it had to do so now. No one had a better right to go than Hank. The captain has seen his record, the after-action report for his mission to Paraguay and the citations for Hank's decorations. Though if Hank got killed on this mission or, worse, got someone else killed, it was the captain's ass.

In sick bay, Jason was checked out and pronounced healthy, but could they get those slave rings off him. The skinny sandy haired corpsman, shirtless by now, clipped the nose ring, then addressed the infibulation. He took Jason's cock in his hand, all flustered and trembling. Jason could see why. They let gays serve openly in the military these days, and this cute corpsman was clearly one of the new recruits. He couldn't be more than eighteen either.

The Marine captain chuckled avuncularly then said.

"Shaking like a leaf now, but you should have seen him under fire. When Lopez got hit, he scrambled over to him ignoring the heavy fire and controlled the bleeding. One of the sultan's soldiers who everyone thought was dead brought a pistol to bear on both of them. Simpson here had put his rifle on the ground. Cool as you please he just takes Lopez's K-bar and drives it stiff arm right into the bad guy's heart. Then he plunges the knife blade into the sand and gets back to work. I'm putting him in for a decoration. Now he's nervous, I wonder why?"

He knew damn well why, and, to general merriment, Johnny Simpson told him in a tremulous voice, as if it had not been a rhetorical question.

"I can't believe I have Jason Eberly's cock in my hands!"

After taking a deep breath he got the job done. Hank was grinning wide. "Aren't you going to thank him, Jase, and do it properly mind you."

Jason caught his meaning. He hopped off the examination table and took Johnny Simpson in his arms. He pressed his naked body to the corpsman's hairless chest. Simpson's eyes went wide.

"Put your arms around me. No, not like that. You know where you want to put your hands."

As Simpson slid his hands down to Jason's bare ass, the actor gave Simpson a light kiss, then another and another, first on cheek and nose, then a peck on the lips before really locking lips for a long sensuous kiss, tongues thrusting and hands roaming over their bodies. Jason finally broke the clinch. Simpson just said "Whew!" and stood there with a silly grin on his face.

The gunnery sergeant smiled shaking his head, waving a hand at Hank, Jason, and Simpson. "The big one takes out a sentry, the little one practically beheads the bad guy, and the skinny one is a genuine hero. Three fairies, whodda thunk it!"

But it was said with a wink, and a chuckle. Johnny Simpson's story was soon all over the boat. It made his reputation. He had proved himself. The marine captain simply told him that any time he had a mission he would ask for the young corpsman with his whole team nodding their agreement.

Three months later it was Jason's third anniversary in the movie business. He and Hank and Johnny Simpson would have a quiet dinner with Jason's folks in the evening. Johnny's boat was in port in San Diego, and he would be staying over at Jason's townhouse. The public celebration was staged by the actor's neighbors and movie friends in one of the grassy common areas in the development. Besides his parents, Hank and Johnny, and close neighbors like Bill and Tad, there were movie people like Jim Nicholls, Marty Fletcher, and Leon Potter, his agent Ed Veronese, Phil the cameraman and some guys from the movie crew, and a couple of sailors from the submarine Texas with Captain Jessel to represent the USMC. The picnic was a great success, lots of food, fun and music. No one drank too much beer either.

At one point, Jason was challenged to a frisbee toss with Hank, Johnny, and a young sailor. Jason was usually the best, his petite physique made him quick and nimble as a squirrel, but the others were in shorts and he was in one of his sarongs. The sailor told Johnny:

"We can show them up easy: a couple of old men in their twenties and one hobbled by a skirt".

Jason's mother usually disapproved of his overly casual attitude to clothing, but just this once she unclipped his sarong and drew it off his hips, murmuring something in French, then told him to go beat the pants off those other guys. He ran off, turned to glance back at his folks a big smile on his face, then joined in the game. Jason's dad took his wife by the shoulder and gave it a squeeze to show his support for her gesture. They had never been prouder of their boy.