Jungle Boy

Jungle Boy 4

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 medical research and vigorous public health measures have eradicated STD's, and social norms have evolved along trends visible today. It is the fourth 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 eighteen years old. It depicts scenes of consensual and non-consensual sexual activity, bondage and submission. Some of the characters are not nice people. It starts off easy enough. Do not be fooled. Fate has 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 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. Some of what follows is light-hearted, some not so. 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 parts one, two, and three.

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 fifth and final tale is already in the works.

Chapter 1. Danny

Jason was 'in the zone' running at an easy pace, on automatic pilot on familiar trails. He hardly noticed Danny Wilson watching him, admiring his clean stride and steady rhythm. Danny knew Jason had run past him twice so this was his third circuit at least. The guy looked no more than Danny's own age, 18, though Danny was taller and red haired where Jason's coloring was light; a blond, no more than five six or seven. From his technique he must run competitively and from his overall tan often trained in the nude. The sandy trails here were part of a clothing-optional state park, located next to a notorious nudie beach, so seeing runners completely bare was not unusual. But why didn't Danny recognize him if he was from around here. Until his recent graduation Danny had been on the track team at his own school, not a champion maybe, but good. This guy was better. Maybe he had just moved here.

Danny waved and held up a bottle of water.

"How about a drink?"

The blonde boy nodded, trotted up to the red-head, and reached for the proffered bottle of water.

"Thanks. I should have stopped at the fountain back there, but I went past it daydreaming. Now I'm thirsty."

"Never wait to drink till you're thirsty. Drink..."

"Before you're thirsty" they chorused.

"Let me guess" the blond boy asked "track and field and...middle distance right?"

"Got it in one. Gonzaga High. I'm Danny. What about you."

"Jason, Cross country at Lakeland, three years ago now."

Danny looked surprised. Before he could ask Jason said:

"I'm twenty but people usually tell me I look 17."

"Well you're not very uh, physically prepossessing. Though nicely put together, of course."

Jason smiled. He had no false modesty about his stunning appearance but at only one inch over five and a half feet (170 cm) and 126 pounds (57 kg), Danny's description was quite diplomatic. He had heard worse, a lot worse, including 'punk ass little faggot' for instance. His own preferred descriptions ran to things like 'compact blond bombshell'. He told the taller boy and got a laugh.

The redhead stood five inches taller than the blond boy at just under six feet (182 cm). He had a strong but lean build. As befits his Irish heritage he had a milky complexion with just a dusting of freckles. His body was naturally hairless on chest, arms, and legs.

"Want to join me?"

"Sure. Uuh, should I shuck down like you?" Danny had on shorts and a loose tank top.

"If you like."

"Would you like it, Jason?" Danny asked mischievously.

"Definitely."

Danny stripped off but kept his shoes on. Jason always ran barefoot. The boys ran the circuit three times more before halting next to Danny's car. Jason mentioned he had to wait half an hour for his ride. It was only six miles to Jason's town house and in the same general direction, so Danny offered to drive him. Jason called his friend Hank at his home on Danny's phone to cancel the pickup.

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do, Jase," Hank told him chuckling.

They were lovers, but they knew a little variety never hurt.

Danny had a beat up jeep. Danny offered his passenger a towel to wrap around his hips, but the blond shook his head. He grabbed Danny's shirt and shorts out of his hands and threw them in the back.

"You too!"

It was only ten minutes away. With no top and no side doors on the old jeep, they were exposed to the view of motorists or passers by. Should they risk it. Why not? What could happen? Feeling very wicked, the boys hopped in and drove off laughing at their own daring. Alas, though they took the back road, they soon encountered the local constabulary and got pulled over.

"Well, well, well. A couple of nature boys. And look at that if it isn't my kid brother's punk pal from high school 'Fast Danny' Wilson. So who's your faggot boyfriend?"

Jason got the feeling that his new friend's nickname was not a reference to the track team. They checked Danny's license, but it was in order. Then the sheriff's deputies asked Jason for ID. Jason didn't have any except for the RFID chip implanted in his arm [Think EZ-Pass], but the sheriff's department did not use it yet. Just Animal Control, and Jason wasn't road kill, not yet anyway. Both cops thought that very funny.

They handcuffed the boys. The cops made a production of patting them down for concealed firearms and doing a cavity search for contraband, with the boys belly down on a fender. They kicked the kids' feet apart, smacked them on the butt with their hands, and reached between their legs to get a good hold so their prisoners wouldn't squirm too much as they were probed with latex covered fingers. OK it was on a back road--but still right out there in public. Neither cop liked Danny much but they were especially dismissive of the little blond transgressor. He was the instigator, wasn't he? Look at him: small, nude, and hairless even down there -- not much of a male was he? Jason's cop gave his tackle a couple of good squeezes, just to teach the obvious fag boy a lesson.

Better take them to the station, with one of the cops at the wheel of the jeep. The grinning cops dragged the hapless boys to the desk sergeant, making a story of the arrest. The prisoners' nudity caused much merriment, with Jason getting the worst of it. People looked at his pretty boy face and boy toy physique, his complete lack of body hair, and a bronze skin with no tan lines and smirked. Doesn't that one ever wear clothes? One cop sat the boys down on a bench and went inside an office. He came out with a police lieutenant."

"Thought you might want to interview these offenders yourself, sir."

The lieutenant was a big man, six-six and two forty. He glanced at the two captives and raised his eyebrows.

"I'm Lieutenant Greene, with an 'e'. Bring them inside, Corporal, then get out".

Jason almost ran into Greene when the cop turned abruptly at his desk. The man looked down at him. The blond youth suddenly felt very small before this giant. Helpless too. With hands cuffed behind him, he could do nothing the protect his vulnerable chest and belly. Their proximity accentuated his nudity, and the peace officer's uniform and badge and gun symbolized the authority and power the big man had over him.

The cop eyed him critically, put his big hands on the youth's shoulders, slid his palms over the flaring pectorals, ran his hands down the impressively scalloped belly and circled his navel with his thumb, then ran his fingers over the boy's prominent hip bones. He turned the youth around and ran his hands down the boy's shoulder blades and flanks to the flare of his hips and on to the curve of his buttocks, giving them an experimental squeeze with hands that could have crushed a coconut, then slid the blade of his hand between, giving a dismissive grunt as he tapped the small hole. Then he reached forward testing the firmness of the muscles on the back of Jason's thighs and of his calves. Hmmmn. Impressively muscled for such a slender lad. He spun the youth to face him once again, smiling at the boy's embarrassment, the way the intimate visual and physical scrutiny had stimulated him, plumping his cock up a bit, a drop of clear fluid glistening at the tip of the foreskin.

The boy had a beautiful tanned body, toned, taut and muscular with strong shoulders, well defined abdominal muscles, and narrow hips. His hands were small and his legs well muscled with veins prominent under the skin because of a body fat percentage virtually in single digits. No hair interrupted the flow of its faultless lines. Small veins just under the skin of the belly led the eye downwards to the fork of the legs. His sex was in proportion with a smooth cock, foreskin concealing the head, the scrotum the size of a large peach but with the divided curvature of a plum and held close to the belly. A real winner if you liked boys. Greene did, but not that way.

The lieutenant next asked Jason if he shaved. No, the boy told him, no need for that. He had had all his body hair removed: permanent epilation, roots and all. Not that he ever had much, to the contrary. The lieutenant understood all that; it was fairly common these days. What he meant was Jason's face, running a knuckle over the boy's cheek. It was nearly seven in the evening, yet from the very light fuzz near the jaw line, it was clear that no razor had touched those cheeks in days, weeks maybe. You had to get very close up to see the sparse fine down. You couldn't call it stubble.

The youth flushed and stammered. Then he sheepishly admitted that even at twenty he shaved only once every four or five days, and even then only when he was working. This puzzled the law man, it certainly did not seem to be a case of arrested development or of infantile genitals, this said with mock seriousness as he rolled the boy's orbs between his fingers. Giving one of the testicles a bit of a squeeze, he asked Jason. "Aren't these working?"

The boy was mortified. As the lawman continued to handle his genitals and look at them appraisingly, Jason felt heat rush to his belly. Oh, no, please not now, not in front this cop, not in front of his new friend Danny. Of course the wish was its own undoing. The more he thought about his swelling cock, the more it plumped up. The lieutenant watched it quickly rise to vertical. Tut tut. He frigged the cock a bit, drawing the foreskin down to reveal the purple head and slicked a clear drop of fluid on his finger tip and offered it to his prisoner. Jason obediently took it on his tongue and swallowed. Yes, this boy was a natural submissive. The lawman did it again, this time rubbing the boy's tongue piercing, feeling the boy's cock get even harder.

The big cop then pulled the stiff member out at a forty-five degree angle and let it slap back to his belly with an audible thwack. A law enforcement officer of long experience, he knew that sometimes to get the attention of a young male, you had to grab him by the balls. A stiff prick made a good handle too. Greene turned a bit to give the other boy a good look and pulled the rigid member down nearly parallel with the floor. The resulting smack was louder.

"Nothing wrong in this department, don't you agree son?"

Danny's eyes boggled. Greene told himself he'd better stop there. This randy kid might very well splooge on his uniform if he tried that again. Lt. Greene had gently mind fucked the young man, knowing that, as a bottom boy, Jason would respond to this unconventional approach to interrogation. No, the little scamp would never forget this lesson, so fully deserved, with its attendant humiliations, but he also would not have a police record for what amounted to a lark. By all accounts, the young actor was a pretty good kid, certainly not like some of the spoiled Hollywood brats Greene had met before. He'd had his spanking, time to move on.

"So boys, what's your story?"

They told him, contrite and apologetic about their prank. No, they didn't realize it was a violation of section such and such. The cop looked skeptical. OK, maybe with Danny, it was done on the spur of the moment, but what about his accomplice? Wasn't he the instigator, and wasn't there an element of premeditation with Jason. After all, when they met at the park Jason was quite intentionally naked and without a change of clothes or a car or keys or ID or money or phone. He had put himself in that fix and then tempted another boy to do the same. Shame on him.

Danny wasn't having it. No, they were in it together. If Jason was at fault, so was he for taking the dare. Cops never gave kids a break. Always throwing their weight around.

Lieutenant Greene shook his head.

"Don't jump to conclusions Danny. I was about to let the both of you go. You judge too much by appearances. Maybe I look like a big dumb cop, but I have a masters degree and I work with the boys clubs. And I don't really need ID for your friend here. I recognized him, even if you didn't."

Danny narrowed his eyes and studied his partner in crime. Suddenly his eyes went wide in quite a comical fashion, a veritable caricature. On the set Jason would have called it bad acting.

"My God! You're Jason Eberly!" adding in a rush, "I've seen all your pictures!"

"So have I", smiled the big cop.

"But you looked older in your Jungle Boy pictures, and here you look younger than me."

Jason shrugged, quite fetchingly Danny thought. How erotic it was; his slenderness was accentuated by the way the wrists cuffed behind his back thrust his chest forward, emphasizing the vulnerability of his belly and the tiny nipples on the flaring pectorals above.

Jason himself attributed the apparent difference in age to makeup and the short haircuts his characters had worn. Also to good acting of course: carriage, facial expression, body language. With his current floppy top he easily looked seventeen; you saw a tousled twink not a young man of twenty (with a birthday next month).

Greene smiled. Even under arrest, the two sexy kids were eyeing each other with mutual approval. Both were easy on the eyes. Each in his way provoked lust with his boyish good looks. Jason had the kind of looks that made heads turn in a double take from people who wondered how anyone could be so good looking. Danny's good looks made eyes widen in appraisal. He exuded health and good genes.

The lieutenant did counsel Jason not to push his luck too far.

"I'm just surprised you don't already have a string of arrests on your record. What would you have done if you could not get a ride or that planned pickup fell through?"

The young actor shrugged and allowed that he would just have run home. He could do six miles in about a half hour, less if he pushed. And what if he ran into the forces of law and order? Jason smiled and boldly declared,

"I would simply have shaken them off my trail, gone cross country over fences, through trees, fording streams where a cop car could never follow. Those chunky men of yours would never catch a guy like me, quick and nimble as a squirrel!"

The lieutenant gave the kid credit for brass, but reminded him that the police did not have to win stern chases. They could radio ahead. That left Jason crestfallen, provoking Danny to a giggle.

Greene really could have thrown them both in a cell, but he was a fair man and he knew about Jason's kidnappings in Alturas and Zuqqat and the tortures he suffered there. The lieutenant also knew his men had gone too far with the kids. They held something against Danny for sure. But bringing the two boys in for questioning was procedure. Without ID, Jason did have to be checked out. So officially his men might have been overzealous at worst. He took off the cuffs and called on the intercom for one of the cops to fetch Danny's shorts from the jeep. Danny borrowed a pencil, and the boys exchanged phone numbers, then Danny took off.

Greene saw no need for official action. The boys' infraction was a minor misdemeanor at worst. Anyway the laws on public nudity were changing. Some claimed it as civil right, and there were even learned articles in the law journals. There were lots of clothing optional beaches around now with nude beach volley ball competitions. The larger parks had sections given over to nude sunbathing.

The lieutenant was going off shift anyway so he took Jason home. The neighbors got an eyeful as the huge cop escorted the diminutive actor to his door, still entirely naked. The officer did not expect the boy would put anything on once he got inside either; the sign halfway up the walk proclaiming the town house a clothing-optional zone gave that away.

"I hope you're not just going to reach into a flower pot and pull out a key. It's the oldest trick in the book, and the second oldest is a fake rock."

Jason smiled and explained that the security system would get a signal from the RFID chip buried in his arm and manual input of a security code would disarm the alarm and release the lock.

"Finally some one is listening to my anti-crime lectures!"

Jason nodded and thanked the cop. Maybe they could use a celebrity to publicize the work of the boys clubs? Just give Jason a call. So with that Jason turned to his door and went in but not before getting a good swat on the ass from Greene's meaty hand. It left a red handprint. The neighbors applauded. The next day those same neighbors grilled the young actor about his new boyfriend, and won't Hank be jealous?

So once again Jason's charm and earnestness had come through for him, that and his ability to bring out the best in others.

Eventually Jason did help out as a counselor to gay youth.

Over the next three months, Danny and Jason ran together two or three times a week and went on some fun dates, sometimes with Hank. Danny was good in bed if not so uninhibited as the blond youth. He even took to wearing sarongs frequently. He confessed his nickname came from a sad time early in high school when he got found out and blackmailed, forced to serve as a cum dump for much of the senior football squad, sucking them off in the lockers or bathrooms. These guys were always in a hurry so he learned to bring them off quickly, hence the shameful nickname. Then he had his growth spurt, came out to his folks, and anyone who didn't like it could go to hell.

Hank and Danny got on well, and they could share chauffeur duty. Both understood that an outgoing guy like Jason needed both a lover and a good pal. They were more than happy to play their roles. In turn, the blond actor enriched their lives with his company, his antics, and his genuine interest in whatever they were doing.

The TV news had carried the story of their arrest briefly with video taken by comphones at the station, but it was no big deal. Jason was a celebrity, and everyone already knew how much he liked to bare his sexy body. An exhibitionist, if the truth were known.

Chapter 2. Story Conference

Movie producer Marty Fletcher looked up with a grin as his favorite actor Jason Eberly breezed into his office. Just twenty-one now, the young man had made seven pictures with him--all money makers especially the last three.

"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 had extended his three picture deal. They had already agreed to do a Western, a remake of the life of Billy the Kid.

"Hi Jason," Nicholls grinned, looking him over. The young man was a vision of youthful male pulchritude in his low slung sarong of green silk and a light yellow tank top chosen as much to enhance his deep tan as to match his hair. 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 three pictures allowed them to take a little more time with their next project. Jason had made seven pictures in his three years in the movies. They wanted to find a concept that would play to their star's strengths, then set a writer to work on a script.

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

Jason wanted to branch out to avoid typecasting. His last three were all jungle pictures. They had different titles, but the young actor's fans and the industry just called them by their working titles, Jungle Boy 1, Jungle Boy 2, and Jungle Boy 3 or simply JB1, JB2, JB3.

How about this?" began Potter "Our boy here is a PI on a case, on the trail of an arch-criminal..."

Jason brightened visibly at this opening.

"...he is about to close in for the kill when...his plane crashes in Darkest Africa! Sam Spade meets Jungle Boy. What a concept."

The others chuckled and shook their heads.

Actually there was a solid reason Jason got picked for the pictures he had done. Jason typically wore the skimpiest of costumes. Willingness to work in next to nothing or even nude had led to his big break. For his picture set in the Amazon he wore a G-string and feather armbands. For his African escape picture he was stark naked ninety-five percent of his time on screen. No cute camera angles either and not just flashes of naughty bits. Flexing buttocks and the full monty. Everything. His latest was his sarong picture; his only costume. Naturally that garment too had to come off for scenes of pearl diving and windsurfing, and when his character gets captured. Alas, Jason gets captured a lot in his pictures, often stripped and slapped around a bit before the inevitable escape or rescue, when he turns the tables on the bad guys.

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. 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.

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 loved him too, the kids and young men for the action, the females for his looks. Young ladies insisted he made good date movies. Their boyfriends were not so sure. Their girlfriends paid entirely too much attention to the screen. 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.

"Maybe we could try a genre-bender..." Fletcher began.

"You mean gender-bender, boy instead of girl, vice-versa, like 'Victor, Victoria' or 'Million Dollar Baby'?" Jason asked.

"Hmmn, MGM 1982, Warner Brothers 2004. No. Actually a genre bender is when one kind of picture is really another kind. Like Dick Powell in 'Station West' RKO 1948. That was really a film noir; it just looked like a western, A PI hired by the government to investigate the murders of two cavalrymen. Cue the femme fatale."

Jason made a note of it on his comphone. He'd never heard of the movie, but if Fletcher said it was worth checking out, he would. He had come far with these men, and he trusted them with his career.

"You know," Potter ventured, "maybe we should think about a biopic on our boy here. A semi-documentary. Release it to art houses and to TV. We could use clips from his movies, Making Of videos, interviews, even torture shots from Central American or scenes from Zuqqat."

Jason didn't think anyone would watch a biography of someone who had just recently turned twenty-one, and he squirmed at greater visibility of scenes of his degradation at the hands of his real life captors. Potter had referred to Jason's kidnapping in Alturas and the tortures he suffered there from revolutionaries who wanted to shake the studio down for five million dollars. The next year the Sultan of Zuqqat had kidnapped the young actor, handing him over to slave trainers to break the young man's will and turn him into a docile sex slave. In Alturas Jason's plight finally got through to his chief captor, a basically decent man tired of conflict who freed the boy. In Zuqqat Jason was rescued by the Marines including his lover and ex-marine Hank Altobello but not before Jason killed the Sultan himself with a last ditch technique Hank had once taught him. He still had nightmares. Hank called it PTSD.

After some discussion, the biopic project got the go ahead but with a cut off date more than a year into the future. It would cover the first five years of Jason's career. Jason dearly hoped the next year or so would be less eventful than his last two, picture be damned. Potter promised it would be tasteful. A documentary was more a job for a film editor and a director than an actor, so discussion resumed on what the young actor should do next.

In the end they decided to make a genre bender with the plot of a film noir and the look of a pirate movie. Set in the early eighteenth century, the picture makes Jason's character a secret agent blackmailed by the Spanish governor of Cartagena into infiltrating the pirates who plagued the Spanish Main. He would spy out the location of their hidden anchorages. There would be all sorts of plot twists, ambiguities, red herrings, and mysterious goings-on as in any film noir but with action stuff like sea battles with cannon and pirates boarding ships swinging on ropes, cutlasses in hand.

Jason would take sword fighting lessons right away so he would look good with a blade in his hand. The director could just see his young leading man slashing his way through the tropical rain forest, dodging blades barefoot on the deck of a galleon, or swarming up the rigging while wearing a skimpy loincloth and a gold earing. Except, of course, for the swimming scenes, a rape scene (for his gay fans), and, yes, let's also have him take a leisurely bath on deck dumping sea water from a bucket over his head. The working title, inevitably, was Jungle Boy 4.

At Jason' earnest importuning they agreed the picture after JB4 and the Western would be a change of pace. This would be a the umpteenth remake and first gay version of 'A Kiss Before Dying' (United Artists 1956) with Jason in the role that the then twenty-five year old Robert Wagner originated of an unscrupulous fortune hunter. Jason seduces a young man who is an heir to a large fortune to lure him into marriage. When the young heir discovers the truth, he kills him with help from his secret boyfriend. The villain then takes up with the heir's younger brother... No jungle boy picture, but a lot of Jason's physique would be visible in scenes at the pool, running on the beach and skinny dipping. Good love scenes too with both brothers and his secret lover. His gay fans would be ecstatic. So would the ladies who always appreciated the chance to see the cute actor in the buff, fantasizing what it would be like to have his trim body lying next to theirs.

Chapter 3 Domestic Days

Jason caught a ride to his townhouse. The townhouse was in one of those new walkable developments that were springing up everywhere, a place built for people, not for cars. After a year, the young actor felt 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 was often carefree and flighty, and you couldn't keep him in a pair of pants, but he tried not to hurt people's feelings.

Good manners of course did not keep the boy from slipping the sarong off and jumping in the water when invited to use a neighbor's pool. Jason didn't have a pool himself. It was an equitable arrangement. He shared their pool, while Bill and Tad, the gay couple who owned the house shared his company, visually and even tactilely if only rarely 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. One of Bill's favorite duties.

Jason 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 automatically Jason's legs spread apart. He could always swim at the large public pool in a micro bikini, but he preferred his neighbors' pool or the nudie beach. Hank or Danny frequently dropped him off there to swim or to run cross country barefoot and naked in the clothing-optional state park next door.

The truth is Jason was an exhibitionist. He was not a compulsive. It wasn't out of control. It was just his thing. Even he did not know why it appealed to him so much. And he was certainly no flasher, some pathetic slob in a raincoat preying on kids and old ladies. Nor was he a nudist. As he had once explained at the beach to fans with a smile (which was all he was wearing at the time):

"No, 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?"

Jason shared the townhouse with his lover Hank Altobello, now twenty-five. His good pal Danny Wilson, had just moved in. They used a spare bedroom as a changing room for Hank and Danny. The bed there was for when one or two of the young men needed to sleep quietly or alone. Otherwise the three slept and frolicked on Jason's queen size futon. Hank was big, Jason small, and Danny lean. Plenty of room.

The only time there was a tight squeeze in bed was when Jason got double penetrated at the south end. Fortunately, they had taken the time in the two weeks prior to his initiation to train their lover with increasingly larger dildoes and butt plugs. The last couple of sizes had felt huge, and he was afraid that when he was in the lanai out back, neighbors could tell he was plugged from his awkward walk or maybe see the T shaped retainer snugged into the bottom of his cleft as he stretched out belly down to read and sun himself. Flesh colored though it was, the shade did not match his tanned hide very well.

In matters sexual if not much else, the slender youth was a submissive. It felt natural and proper for him to follow the wishes of his larger lovers, to obey their orders, to accept the humiliations that must naturally fall to his lot in a menage where he was very much the bottom boy subject to their masculine powers. In turn they knew not to put to much store in minor grumbling. That was just a sign that they were getting through to their young companion.

"Sure, Jase," Hank allowed "It can be inconvenient walking around the house with that thing up in there, but you will thank us for it later. Stop complaining or you'll get a spanking. If Johnny were here, he'd slap that boy cock of yours around a bit for good measure."

Yes, he would, the blond youth knew. What usually happened in these brief moments of rebellion is that Hank would take Jason captive, locking his arms behind to render him helpless. Standing there defenseless with his chest and belly exposed and his hips shoved forward by Hank's knee in his ass, he had to endure a mild form of genital torture. Johnny would lube his hand with spit and stroke him to an erection then slap the boy's tumescent member back and forth, throwing in a bit of contemptuous trash talk for good measure. He knew that Jason's helplessness and vulnerability and the degrading treatment would make him shudder with arousal. He felt so incredibly slutty. Well Johnny wasn't with them, so unless the kid stopped grumbling, he would get a good spanking.

"Hey, it's a free country, freedom of speech" Jason countered. "So if it's all right with you guys, I'll just exercise my first amendments rights and take that spanking! ... What did I just say?"

Hank was a scuba diver, lifeguard, and a partner in a company providing support for underwater photography in movie productions. They trained actors in scuba and re-breathers, supplied tanks with diving gasses, built and repaired camera housings for underwater photography, etc. 'We do everything but take the pictures'. Danny was getting his foot wet in the motion picture business as a go-fer. After a year or so to learn his way around the set he might take up a skilled trade behind the camera, if he didn't go to college.

Hank had introduced Danny to the martial arts, and Danny had gone on to take lessons at professional bodyguard school. He even learned that fancy driving maneuver that spins a car around to suddenly reverse its direction of travel. Danny was quite a good driver already. Though he could use a pistol pretty well, Danny knew the patchwork of gun laws in this country and abroad made it unwise to rely on firearms alone. He had taken up single stick fighting as his alternate technique. With a stout stick in either hand, you could take out opponents armed with clubs, blades, fists, or even angry dogs. He now worked under contract as Jason's live-in driver and body guard, one intimately familiar with the body he was guarding. On the side, he kept up Jason's official web site and blog.

The part-time member of their menage, Johnny Simpson, was a skinny but cute medical corpsman in the Navy. He had been part of the rescue party that plucked Jason from sexual slavery. He stayed with them whenever his boat was in port. (A submarine is a boat, not a ship.). Making up for lost time, he and Jason would practice docking maneuvers far into the night -- if Jason did not have an early call in the morning. They stayed in touch with e-mail. Since money was no longer a problem, Jason would sometimes meet Johnny at a liberty port and offer him better company and accommodation than any other sailor on the boat.

Not that anyone begrudged their shipmate his privileges. Heads might shake theatrically as the sandy-haired sailor and the pretty blond actor went off arm in arm, but always with smiles on his shipmates' faces. Truth is, they had made the young corpsman the ship's mascot. He had proved himself in combat saving the life of a wounded Marine. Johnny had put his own rifle on the ground to tend his wounds when an enemy soldier suddenly got the drop on them both. Cool as you please he just took the marine's K-bar from its scabbard and drove it stiff arm right into the bad guy's heart. Then he plunged the knife blade into the sand and went back to work. He got a Silver Star for that night's work.

So what if he had a picture of his famous boyfriend on the sick bay bulkhead. A nude study by a famed professional still photographer, it showed a pensive Jason seated on a tatami mat in front of paper and bamboo walls. The inscription said simply: 'For my skinny boyfriend, Always, Jason'.

Jason slipped off his sarong and asked Danny to run him up to the running trails. Danny had errands to do so he wouldn't be joining him today. They went out the back to get to Danny's new car, running into their neighbors who were just coming in with groceries.

"Hi, Jason. Looking good."

"Always", he laughed. By now they were used to their friend's casual attitude toward clothing. On the road, Jason often got double takes from truck drivers. From their high vantage point, they would glimpse his pretty face and look closer expecting a girl. It took a moment for the trucker to realize he was seeing a nude hairless boy. Often recognition would set in and they would give the actor a thumb's up. Truck divers really like action movies. They were some of Jason's biggest fans.

A couple of weeks earlier a motorcycle cop pulled up at a stop light and looked over at Jason in the passenger seat. Jason opened his slender legs and tucked his manhood between. With his thighs pressed together, it disappeared from view, rendering him suddenly sexless. He turned and smiled sweetly at the cop. The officer took in his lithe physique and opened his mouth to say something, but evidently thought better of it. That actor kid again. Jeez he looks like a very pretty girl with a flat chest. Maybe a female kick boxer from his musculature. Shaking his head and hoping that the resemblance was the reason for the wave of lust that had come over him, he rode off.

Jason figured he had just provided him another war story for his cop buddies, maybe even for Jason's friend Lieutenant Greene.

The next day Jason reported for his first sword fighting lesson. Sam Chastain had long experience in making actors look good on screen. He wore a close fitting shirt and pants which looked good on his lean forty-something frame. He had told Jason on the phone not to wear anything too loose, otherwise pants, T shirt, shorts, whatever would be fine. Jason showed up in tri-athalon shorts and a tight tank top. Sam told him to kick his shoes off.

"You're going to fight that way on camera like a pirate, so that's how you'll train. You don't need a fencing uniform because this isn't about fencing. Fencing is a gentleman's sport with rules and scores. I'm here to teach you to fight with a sword. Sword fighting is combat; it's for soldiers; it's not a game. The only way to score is to survive."

"You will learn to fight with a sword for real and then how to do a choreographed fight for the camera. I will show you the basics and let you try to get past my guard. I will jab or whack or tap you lightly to show you have been hit. Please, do not cry 'touchŽ'. That's for fencing. In a real fight, anyone who let himself be distracted like that is gonna get skewered. Those fencing clowns actually pause at a hit and drop their guard! Total bullshit!"

Jason sensed this was a sore point for him. He knew the sign on the door to the training studio had called him a 'sword master' not a fencing instructor. Today was for learning the basics, how to hold a sword, the basic stance, the importance of footwork, the different types of blades: curved or straight, long or short, one and two edged weapons or point weapons. A broadsword has a long blade you swing at your opponent, though you can use the point too. Rapiers are thin, light, sharp-pointed swords for thrusting. Sabers are curved with a single edge and no point. You can lunge with a rapier but not the shorter gladius; that was for stabbing into an enemy's guts. Some swords took two hands to use them effectively, a katana or samurai sword. Then there are the two opposing schools of thought. Is the point really mightier than the edge?

The first class went well. Jason saw he had a good instructor. He made all this sword stuff make sense to a novice without overwhelming him with details. Chastain had little use for fancy French fencing terms. For his part Chastain was satisfied with his new student. Obviously in good shape, on time, respectful, didn't ask dumb questions, and willing to learn. A good foundation to build on.

The next day Jason showed up in a skimpy loincloth and barefoot. The loincloth covered only a very small part of the anatomy between the sharply defined join of legs and hips. To the sword master's raised eyebrow his simply said. "You train as you fight; you fight as you train," something he had picked up from ex-marine Hank. Chastain nodded once, barely suppressing a smile. He had to maintain his aura of hard taskmaster, didn't he? The instructor had to admit the kid was a quick study. It helped that he was so fit, and his small frame made him agile and supple.

Jason came over three times a week and practiced moves at home too, only without the loincloth. His roommates encouraged him, calling out 'en garde' and 'take that, varlet' and sprinkled their conversations with piratical 'arrghs'. He soon got the hang of it, his motions less hesitant than before. After a few weeks he began to feel comfortable with a sword in his hands. He realized it's like that point in learning to ride a bicycle as a kid, when it all clicked. You stopped worrying about keeping your balance. Your weren't wobbly any more or forever running into people and obstacles. You just pedaled and away you went.

People in the neighborhood watched the actor practice his moves from their windows, their yards or the footpath behind the houses. Jason naked was no surprise. His fluid moves in the dance of the sword, was. Not only was the swordplay impressively athletic, it was just about the most erotic thing they had ever seen just one person do alone. His straight neighbor on the right was stunned. He had always been cordial indeed friendly with the young actor. He also respected him for his grit and strength of character. But this was the first time any male had gotten him aroused! Good thing his wife was at her mother's. She would have seen the lust on his face in an instant. A lucky paparazzo got lucrative still and video footage of the sword practice and sold rights to a poster maker. Sales were brisk.

Jason's business manager often fielded proposals for endorsement deals from the young star. It was no surprise to him that his client turned down one potentially lucrative deal with an underwear manufacturer. His dad, bless him, wore boxer briefs. Let the company go there for an endorsement deal, please. Yes, he knew he looked quite fetching in bikini briefs or thongs, but would anyone believe he actually wore underwear under his sarongs or pants? It was fairly well known that Jason always went commando. Sure the folks who invented underwear had made a useful contribution to civilization. People could change their shorts daily, and throw the soiled or sweaty garments into the hamper after a single use, keeping their pants unsoiled. For his part, Jason was quite fastidious about personal hygiene and had no worries about leaving skid marks.

His fan club claimed that Jason spent less than 20 percent of his time clothed -- far too much in their estimation. Why couldn't he sign up for mores picture where he was totally naked from the get-go. Why there outta be a law against clothing for their idol, though it is true Jason looked very sexy in those sarongs of his. The business manager did set up a deal to market designer sarongs with Jason as the pitch man. Danny was good with graphic design on the computer and contributed his talents to the project earning him extra income too.

Chapter 4 Pirates

Jason found himself back in the tropics making a movie. The heat, the humidity, the sweat and the bugs were much the same whether in Central America, Brazil, or the Caribbean except for the pleasant sea breezes. After his previous experiences on location, this was easy. He did not try to stay in character full time, as on location for that picture set in Africa, but he did insist on modest amenities, especially no air-conditioned trailer. His rationale for this regime was his health and comfort. Top priority was to acclimate to the hot climate or run the risk of keeling over from heat stroke. You cannot do that spending half your time in airconditioning. And if sweltering is bad, then going back and forth was worse. Besides sea breezes made the heat tolerable, especially for a slender active guy like him.

There were a few mishaps in filming. Jason got whacked in a sword fight. Hard to say whose fault, or maybe the choreography. They changed the planned moves and the next take came off well. Jason got a scrape on his shin from a rock. For continuity, in post-production, they would CGI a scrape in later scenes already filmed out of sequence.

The bath scene on the deck of a pirate ship gave Jason a chance to show off his sexy body. He made the cleansing ritual utterly sensuous with his movements, the way he sucked in his belly and shifted his stance to flex his buttocks so naughtily. He expelled a big mouthful of salt water showing off the musculature of his belly, and the stream of water was itself deliberately suggestive of ejaculation. The camera lingered on the bucket of water poured over his head to flow in slow motion down his chest and belly to engulf the handsome manhood at the fork of his legs. The water touched him everywhere just as the audience would have loved to do with their hands. Anyone could see from his even tan that this youth must run around bare-ass much of the time, surely not news to his fans.

The out-takes from the rape scene was hilarious as Jason's secret agent was strung up and raped by the pirates. It was staged face to face with Jason trussed up and suspended from a spar with the youth's slender legs spread apart and held by a pirate on either side. The brawny actor who played his rapist, the pirate captain, delivered his lines in a terrific pirate accent worthy of the late Robert Newton. Suddenly he stopped and dropped out of character.

"I don't believe it. He's hard! You're shaming me boy. What will my wife say when I tell her," said with a look of mock indignation on his face, and he gave the young actor a good smack on the rump. Jason flushed but strung up like he was and gagged there was little he could do or say. The burly pirate complained it was all Jason's fault they had to do another take, and could the costume department provide another modesty pouch for their star. Holding up the old one and shoving a finger through the torn end he declared: "See, he's poked a hole in this one."

Of course he hadn't, the man was an amateur magician and had simply used sleight of hand to switch the pouch for one he had damaged earlier. Regardless everyone on set and the cameras too could see that Jason was indeed fully erect, ball sac swollen and pulled up to the groin. The burly man pulled the slender actor's 'functionality' parallel with the deck and let it audibly thwack the kid's belly on the rebound. Anyone could see from the distress on the boy's face that this public cock snap had almost set him off, giving everyone and the cameras visual proof of just how functional Jason really was: a money shot. The pirates and movie crew laughed so hard it hurt.

There followed an ad-libbed discussion among the buccaneers as to what punishment they should administer for such an infraction. Jason wanted to tell them that it was an involuntary reaction; he couldn't help it could he? Besides, as an actor he hadn't really dropped out of character. Lots of male rape victims got erections. He'd read that somewhere. Good points to be sure, but difficult to get across while gagged.

The director Jim Nicholls kept the cameras rolling. Gods, you couldn't script footage like this. Definitely a surefire scene for their 'Making Of...' video. And playing with the kid's dick there was just the right touch. He loved the kid dearly, don't get him wrong, but the little cock tease had it coming to him. This wasn't the first time actors or a crew had taught naughty Jason a lesson. He loved to have people touch him intimately, and once they got going, well sometimes it was they who decided when he had had enough. There were a couple of times on their last picture when a couple of brawny guys simply held the kid's arms while the rest continued to play with him, pinching his tiny tits, rolling his balls with their fingers, goosing his hole, stroking his cock and squeezing his butt cheeks until, in the fullness of time, he shot a huge load then sagged in the arms of his captors, ending up with a silly embarrassed grin on his face.

A property man, ever helpful, threw a whip to the deck, but the director did not want his star's ass marked up with welts. They decided a broad leather belt would do, so they gave the miscreant ten good ones. Jason knew he had to be a good sport about it, but the strapping did hurt. He remained standing for the rest of the day's shoot rather than sit down.

In post-production he complained in the interview done to provide voice-over commentary that the pirate had deliberately stimulated him by tweaking his nipples, nibbling them too, and had rubbed his belly. Could he help it if a hand stroking the inside of his thighs made his legs spread almost automatically and his sphincter clutch and twitch? Then the big guy cupped his scrotum and poked his anal ring with a finger, all unseen by the camera. The man was as gay as Jason; that wife of his was a beard. He knew how to push a young male's buttons, especially a little guy who got turned on by their difference in size and power and by his own helplessnes.

Those stimuli and the general situation are what got the fire in his belly going. Of course he tried to resist the siren call of his own hormones, but everyone knows how over-sexed he is. Gods he is just twenty-one and a youthful twenty-one at that: small in stature, virtually no beard, hairless. He tried to hold back, telling himself, not to get hard in front of all these people on camera and all. Please don't let him get hard. Of course, it backfired. The more he thought about his erection, the harder he got. In no time at all his cock was rampant in all its glory.

After wrapping up production, Jason and Hank and Danny took a short vacation at a good hotel. For their sake he put up with the relative chill of air conditioning but not too cool please. Besides, whatever the room temperature, their three way couplings generated a lot of heat. The mornings found them hot and sweaty. The bemused concierge got full reports from the chambermaid on how damp those sheets were and all those stains! He wished dearly he could watch, but the security system did not cover rooms to ensure the privacy of their guests.

In his own way each of the young men was a catch. Even Danny, the least extraordinary, was quite cute. The redhead stood five inches taller than the blond boy at just under six feet (182 cm). He had a strong but lean build. As befits his Irish heritage he had a milky complexion with just a dusting of freckles, though very few on his face. His body was naturally hairless on chest, arms, and legs. The trio obliged the concierge and their local fans by swimming at the nude section of the beach. Too bad they had to return to work in a couple of days.

Their last evening, with Hank still upstairs finalizing travel arrangements, Jason and Danny took a walk in the cool of the evening amid lovely plantings of flowers, bushes and tropical trees. Jason was in an outfit made of white gauze, matching drawstring pants and a loose shirt bared almost to the waist, plus sandals. The boys felt like they were in an island paradise. The low rise stone built hotel seemed almost part of the landscape against the low hills to the west. A tasteful tranquil setting for sure.

The young friends discussed how well things were going now, not only with the picture, but also with their lives. Theirs was a mŽnage ˆ quatre: Hank, Jason, Danny, and Johnny. They had different backgrounds and not all the same interests, but it worked. Johnny was in the Navy, at least for now. Good for him. Jason did not want an entourage clinging to him. He wanted real friends and lovers, equals not dependents. Hank had his own business and a career that took him out of town a lot. Danny was a paid bodyguard yes, but that job would go on his professional rŽsumŽ. He was good with computers too. He might start community college in the fall. At nineteen, he had many options.

They were compatible both socially and sexually and were versatile too, though Jason really was a bottom boy, a sexual submissive. Outside that sphere Jason had a forceful personality and he had grit. He had bounced back nicely from his ordeals of the last two years on location and those kidnappings. He continued as a volunteer at the gay youth group when he was in town.

He was a polyglot with English and French (from his French Canadian mother). His schoolbook Spanish was fluent now after filming in Latin America. He thought he should take up another language but which one? German was a possibility: the major European tongue in number of native speakers there though far fewer in other countries since WW II. (Russia is a Eurasian country). Too bad German had four grammatical cases and all those declensions and inflections, prepositions that would take this case or that one either always or depending. Jason had even read that languages like Finnish and Estonian had fourteen cases, five 'locative' case alone for where things happened. Insanity! In his mind, the folks who invented grammatical case had a lot to answer for. Then there's that weird sentence structure in German. Why tack the verb onto the end of a sentence? What was that line from Sherlock Holmes: "Only the German is so discourteous to his verbs."

Jason knew he could pick up Italian easily enough; just another Romance language, but his fourth language should be something different. Frankly the Romance languages had the same problem as German: grammatical gender. Yes, to his Francophone half it sounded natural but hardly logical. Is there anything really feminine about a table (la table or la mesa) or masculine about a book (le livre, el libro)? Why should adjectives match the nouns they modify in gender and number anyway. Why not make them invariable like in English? A few already were in the Romance languages. Why should past participles sometimes agree with the subject of the sentence and sometimes not? In French, past participles had to agree with a preceding direct object! Grammatical lunacy. In his humble opinion, grammatical gender was a complete waste of time. And don't get his started on all those tenses. He'd heard that Italian was even worse than French. Did spoken Italian or any language really need a pluperfect subjunctive?

Danny laughed aloud at his lover's venting. Yes Jase was echoing complaints from language learners down the ages. His own high school French was improving mainly because Jason insisted they talk exclusively in that language on alternate mornings. Danny would need language skills if he made a career as a bodyguard or in many other lines of work. His next language definitely had to be Spanish [groan]. Ex-marine Hank, despite his world travels, had English and a working knowledge of Spanish plus some phrases of French he had picked up living with Jason. From his days in the Marines he could give orders like 'Put up your hands' in five more languages. Johnny was tail-end Charlie with only English and half-remembered German. He had told Jason to forget German: the worst mistake in his high school career.

Chapter 5. Voodoo

They were laughing so hard their attackers almost achieved complete surprise. Five of them flung themselves on Jason who managed to kick one in the groin, break another's hold and smash an elbow in another bad guy's face. But there were just too many of them, especially once they got him off the ground so he couldn't use the savatte he had once learned for a picture. Three set upon Danny who whipped out his single sticks slashing and stabbing furiously. He caught one in the throat and broke another guy's wrist, making him drop the club in his hand, then smashed the third man's kneecap with a kick. By the time he looked around for Jason, the others had reached their transport. Mr. Broken Wrist took the passenger seat in the second van and it roared off too, door swinging wildly. Jason was gone.

The next few hours were a nightmare at the hotel. Police, questions, an island wide search, both vans found abandoned at a lonely beach. There were legal formalities over the man Danny had killed though no charges of course. Hank did his level best to assure his lover that no one could have done more. That included him. Yes he was bigger and stronger and had combat experience, but no two guys could take on ten (counting the drivers) and hope to win. That happened only in the movies. Danny had done well. Thanks to him they had a prisoner, one who would talk if Hank had anything to say about it.

It turned out that the assailants were from Haiti, a relatively short sea passage away. Unfortunately the local coast guard service were poorly organized and staffed and often inept and corrupt. Not likely to stop them. They did find the actor's gauze outfit floating off the coast. Nothing to worry about, the police assured his two lovers. The men had not tried to kill Jason after all, just take him away. Stripping a prisoner is just part of breaking his will, achieving dominance, keeping control. It did not mean rape, not necessarily...though for someone of Jason's beauty, a trophy boy, well...

The man Danny had captured was stubborn, but they figured out from his ritual scars and tattoos that he was a member of a new radical religious cult on Haiti that combined voodoo with Maoist political ideology. What they needed from the prisoner was real intelligence of where they were taking Jason and why. It took two days to break him. By that time the Marines had landed -- the same team from Force Recon that had rescued Jason last year in Zuqqat. They had been training in the old Panama Canal Zone when the balloon went up and they got airlifted to the island. They had Johnny Simpson with them too. The submarine Texas was steaming full speed toward Haiti to make the pick up if ever they could pull off the snatch. The Marines would rappel from choppers for the insertion to the inland location.

With the precedent set during their first mission together the Marine captain Jim Jessel saw no reason not to take Hank with him on this one. Hank and their corpsman Johnny Simpson had both seen combat, been decorated for it. Even Danny, who had never been in the service, had killed his man. The Wilson kid could handle a pistol too as he had demonstrated to the captain's satisfaction. Jessel had him carry extra ammo and pull rear security. He might as well bring those damn sticks of his along too. That might not be doctrine, and he usually frowned on personal weapons, but the single sticks weighed next to nothing and you never ran out of ammo, just like with a K-bar.

What a team, his Recon marines plus all three of that movie star's lovers. There he'd said it, if only to himself. Lovers -- not just friends. What's a love affair anyway except a friendship plus sex. Yeah it's gay sex. So what. Anyone who inspired such fierce loyalty as Jason did had his vote. They had to get that nice kid back. Damn shame if anything happened to him.

Meanwhile...

Jason was treated roughly by his captors. They tied his wrists behind him then a thug sat on his legs. After a wild drive of just a few minutes, the van pulled up at a beach. No one else was around. The men hustled him into a small boat that took him out to a large boat, a fishing vessel from the look of it. The vessel put out to sea heading toward the large island of Hispaniola. From the Creole they spoke among themselves, their destination had to be Haiti, Jason concluded.

No one responded to his questions in French except to command him to silence. Creole was based on French so Jason caught a good bit of what they talked about. It didn't sound encouraging. A man came at him with a knife but it was just to cut his shirt away. They pulled his pants off and slipped off his sandals, so he was naked. Tossing everything he had worn overboard, his captors left him with just two guards, but otherwise ignored him. The guards obviously liked what they saw: fingering his blond hair, touching his face and his ass. They found his fear shriveled manhood amusing. One guard rubbed his smooth groin. So it was true, some of these Westerners had no body hair whatever. Not even there. How drole.

After reaching the coast, Jason was forced to march on foot for a couple of kilometers till they came to an unpaved road where motor transport was awaiting. He climbed into one of the two trucks. Jason could not see where they drove, but it was definitely somewhere inland and uphill. They passed a couple of checkpoints and finally pulled into a village of humble white cottages and very dark folk. Now what? No one would say, but they threw him into a makeshift cell in one of the sturdier houses, still bound. In the morning, they led him to a latrine and let him do his business, still tied. Men and boys watched as the guard wiped his behind for him. Jason knew something of the psychology of captivity by now. His own experiences had made him read up on it. That helped him deal with the nightmares too. Okay, I am humbled, infantilized even. What were they setting him up for? After a simple breakfast spoon feed to him, he went back to the cell.

At the north end of the village a ring of boulders taller than a man surrounded a large flat stone obviously brought from elsewhere. Jason did not like the look of it. He had seen something like that in articles and books about the Aztecs: a sacrificial stone. His eight captors led the young man to a pillar and shackled his wrists above his head, watched by a tall man with ritual scars on his face, clearly the man in charge the way he dismissed the others with a wave of the hand.

It was like with the Sultan all over again. Here was another ruthless man who would take his carnal pleasure no matter what Jason himself wanted. Like so many others before him, the man began to acquaint himself with Jason's slender form, sliding his hands over the bound boy's pectorals, flanks and ass, thumbing his nipples and ribs, enjoying the washboard effect of the rib cage and abdominals. The boy trembled under his touch. The man wondered whether it was from fear or anger or perhaps arousal? The boy had no extra flesh anywhere, no surprise his hip bones were so sharp. Such narrow hips too and with the most delightful dimples in that taut rump. At a signal, two of his captors lifted the young man's legs off the ground, fastening them wishbone fashion to shackles high on the stone column at shoulder height. Jason was now spread open, ass and genitals utterly vulnerable. The man stuck two fingers into the youth's anus, spreading some kind of lubricant before dropping his loincloth, his only garment, and plunged in deep.

Jason wasn't sure what this man's game was, but he wasn't about to give him the satisfaction of hearing Jason shout useless demands to stop. This man with the cruel face would not withdraw his cock or explain why Jason was there till he was ready. Eventually and with evident satisfaction he spent his seed deep in his captive's ass.

Jason was surprised that the man started out in standard French with the same movie villain lines he had heard from his kidnapper in Alturas. "No doubt you have many questions..." Don Vasquez was right. Most people do have lines from old movies rattling around in their heads, ready to be declaimed dramatically.

Amazingly the high priest was an educated man who had emigrated to France for a while earning a degree in political science. He cold-bloodedly told his captive that he had only three days to live. The first day they would offer the youth's sexuality to their pagan gods. The second, they would join their sexuality with his. The third day they would offer his life up to their gods: cutting out his heart, then preparing and eating steaks cut from his haunches. They would all share his roasted testicles, with his cock served like a sausage to let them all partake of his masculinity. Jason saw the man was serious, a frightening combination of insanity and rationality.

"Yes, you think me insane. In one sense of course I am. Anyone would have to be crazy to want to desecrate such a lovely human form as yours. As to the existence of the gods, who can say for sure? Is anyone's faith anything more than an affirmation of group solidarity, the idols of the tribe and a consolation for existential angst? Are my half sincere beliefs any more irrational than those of a virgin birth or the fairy tales in Genesis? Was there any rationale other than group solidarity and social utility for the kosher laws of the Jews or the pillars of the faith in Islam, or the sacraments in Christianity to mark rites of passage?

His own cultists needed their beliefs too. Otherwise they would not carry out the political and social and cultural revolution their poor misgoverned country needed so badly. How better to unite his followers than with a religion that appealed to their deepest ethnic roots. Shared cannibalism was both a sacrament and a sin, emblematic of shared commitment and shared guilt. No one who participated could ever turn from the path that he, the High Priest, had set for them.

Jason was gagged so he could not reply to this explanation. Even if he had been able he would not have argued with this monster. Despite his education and intelligence and superficial rationality, this man had long since abandoned the realm of reasoned discourse for his mad politico-religious ideology. Jason's only hope was rescue.

Later that day Jason found out what the high priest meant by offering his sexuality to the gods. First village women bathed and purged him at both ends. The water they gave him to drink had some drug in it that left him listless, unable to exercise his will. The drug had robbed him of his volition. He was no longer bound, but he was was not quite paralyzed since his breathing was unaffected. He just couldn't do anything other than what he was told to do. Almost like a spectator, he watched himself move to their commands, allowing access, spreading his legs, accepting their ministrations. The men laid Jason out on the sacrificial altar. One of them, a particularly large warrior began massaging his captive flesh.

Minutes passed as those big hands worked on him, kneading his flesh, loosening the knots, stimulating circulation. Jason moaned. The big hands rubbed coconut milk into the skin soothing it and leaving a sheen. Big hands squeezed and stroked, and caressed the lovely youth, laid out as a sacrifice. The cultists and villagers looked on joining the warrior in sanctifying the beautiful boy they were offering to their gods. The warriors' hands traced over the boy's belly and shoulders and chest and hips and squeezed his inner thighs. Pictures of past sexual adventures passed through the near comatose lad's mind. The big warrior hadn't touched the boy's genitals yet, but Jason's breathing quickened; the musculature of chest and abdomen flexed rhythmically, belly rising and falling. The High Priest leaned down to whisper to Jason.

"Yes, you feel it now, don't you? The second drug we gave you is starting to take effect, arousing your lusts to unimagined heights, turning you into the love slave of our gods."

Jason tried to rally his will, to gain control of his limbs, but both mind and body were shackled by the drugs and increasingly by his own lustful impulses. He couldn't help it. His smooth cock started to plump up, losing its curvature, straightening and lengthening as the head, the only part of him hidden from view, emerged from the foreskin, to point toward the belly button. Then the cock lifted completely off the boy's hairless belly, cantilevered out from the root, rigid but dipping rhythmically with the throb and beat of his heart, all the time leaking a clear fluid which spread in a limpid pool on his belly.

For nearly an hour the warrior's hands openly caressed this exquisite male, stroking the length of his legs, sliding along his flanks, delving between his thighs into his cleavage making love with his hands but still not touching the boy's proud cock. This was no gentle massage like on location in Brazil but a rape of both body and mind. He was conscious not asleep. He did not want this. But his own body betrayed him as the blood pounded at his temples and his breath came quicker. The warrior started stroking his rampant cock, first with just a single finger along its length, tracing a vein from the root to the glans. The warrior's thumb rubbed the glans, spreading the seminal fluid over the entire head, then fingers circled under the flange, nipping and touching the rim then poking at the tiny orifice.

The members of the cult understood this as an act of worship: simultaneously public and intimate, a physical and tactile rite of worship of a western boy a young 'blanc' laid out as an offering on an altar to their gods of fertility and of life and death. The late afternoon light painted the boy's skin golden. It was a timeless moment.

Suddenly the ball sac pulled tight against the fork of the boy's legs, its globularity in contrast to the cylindrical column of the engorged member. The head purpled, its tiny lips spreading open. Abruptly, with only a quick intake of breath and a tightening around the boy's eyes to indicate his climax was at hand, his proud cock engorged beyond its previous impressive girth and began spurting and spitting his white seed onto his chest. It must the effect of the drug that he came so much. Even after many strong spurts, the gism continued to drain from the still tumescent shaft but now in a slow flow, collecting as a pool in the hollow of the belly above the root of his manhood.

The ejaculate glistened with golden highlights from the sun's rays hinting at the furious activity below the surface as microscopic carriers of life in their millions swam and thrashed and corkscrewed in search of an impossible consummation. Jason sighed exhausted and literally drained. The ejaculate quickly congealed on his pectorals and around the tiny nipples. Some collected in a limpid pool in the hollow of the navel. The rest ran in a milky rivulet down his hip.

Lesser priests reverently collected that white chrism, the boy's ejaculate, the very seed of life, pressing lightly at a spot on the boy's belly to direct a rivulet into the cups of their hands then licked and swallowed it, sharing it with the others. They spread the rest of the precious gism from the hollow of the belly to the flaring hip bones, gently drawing his now flaccid cock and ball sac through their hands to coat all the surfaces of the orbs and the shaft whence it had come with his very own male essence.

One priest swirled a glop of it onto a finger and anointed the recumbent beauty's brow and nose and lips. He spread a large dollop of the congealing chrism around the crinkly ring of the recumbent beauty's nether hole, pushing in very gently so as not to distress the lovely youth lest he incur the wrath of their jealous gods. Finally, he laid the limp cock on the boy's flat belly pointing to the navel as if still erect, with the ball sac visible below between the wide spread slender thighs.

All watching knew that they had witnessed a sublime act of sacrifice and a visual paen to vitality, to the powers of procreation, to continuity of the species and the great chain of being, and, supremely, to the beauty of the sexual male at the very peak of his youthful potency. The boy's masculine climax was like a catharsis for them as they drifted away quietly, leaving the boy to contemplate his eventual fate when they sent him to the gods as a sacrifice. The rise and fall of his chest was a promise of the vitality the cultists would soon offer to their dark deities.

The High Priest could hardly believe his good fortune in capturing the youth he had read about on the web. That film short of his titled "Sacrament" had been the inspiration of his plan to sacrifice the young man. He had got a glimmer of the idea when the film short was released, but had no definite plans. Then he learned the news that the movie actor was vacationing at an island not far from Haiti's shores. He made his plans, and sent a kidnap team to bring the young actor to him.

Jason was indeed all he had hoped for, the perfect boy for the triple sacrament he would offer in those three days. Not only was he a stunning beauty, he was a white male, one of the hated oppressors of his country. With the drugs they put in his system, they did not have to shackle the boy for this day's sacrament. He lay on the altar like a willing sacrifice. That helped make this a religious experience. Rooted in biology maybe, the white living chrism of this sacrament was indeed a gift of a male's generative organs, but a gift more wondrous than any tired voodoo ritual with chicken's blood or burning herbs and chants. The boy's eroticism was symbolic of a youthful vitality they would soon sacrifice to their gods. Too bad the lovely youth had to die. He had never known such pleasure as when he had raped the boy.

Late in the afternoon the next day Jason found out what the High Priest meant by saying his men would join their sexuality with his: a gang rape. No need to drug their captive today. Letting him struggle was half the fun. With eight large warrior to one lithe youth, plus the five priests, it was no contest. To soften him up they punched him in the gut, in the kidneys, and kneed his balls, enjoying the pain it brought on his pretty features. He could do nothing to defend himself from rape or a beating. They held him and bent him over and fucked him in any position they fancied, reveling in a chance to do all these things with a 'blanc'.

Sometimes three took him at once filling his orifices with their manly juices, making him swallow everything they offered him. With a man on each arm and two on each leg he was utterly helpless. Only reflex kept him struggling and jerking. Certainly no martial arts techniques could have the slightest effect on his violaters. He was theirs to use any and every way they fancied, pumping their 'sexuality' into every orifice, splooging his face, hair, belly, and ass; marking him as their very own.

This was a defining moment in Jason's young life. He felt a cold anger come over him. Not just anger at the physical and sexual abuse but at their evil presumption that they, of right, had power over him or anyone just from their overwhelming physical mastery. All for some religious cum political cum racial mumbo jumbo. No. Damn them to hell.

Jason was himself an unbeliever. No, he did not believe in hell, but that is where they deserved to go. An angry and righteous man can be forgiven some logical inconsistency. Jason knew that he was not a bad person. No saint, but he did not deserve this, gang rape and tomorrow human sacrifice and cannibalism! His study of history have given him a hatred of political and religious tyranny over the minds and bodies of men and women and yes, gays like himself. Enough of that shit. His assailants took him physically, but they would never master his mind. He was himself. He had a right to live to love and to learn; to be happy and to make others happy. How dare they take that from him.

With such thoughts Jason spent his last night on earth in his cell. Suddenly he heard a buzzing noise. Damn, bugs. A big one too. It swooped a few feet from him then hovered. What the hell, it was blinking at him, a tiny flashing light, an SOS. Of course, some kind of reconnaissance drone. The military had all sorts these days, some disguised as insects. Hope swelled in his heart. This could mean only one thing. The Marines had landed.

The cult members must have realized something was up for several of them dragged him out and toward the sacrificial stone, trying to complete the sacrifice while they could. Four seized his limbs and held him down. A sub-priest lifted up an obsidian blade to slice his chest open, the High Priest looking on. Without much noise the priest's head exploded, blood and brain matter splashing as his blade fell from his hand. Soft coughs from silenced weapons downed three of those who held Jason. With a surge, Jason kicked the last man in the head, breaking his neck. Rolling off the altar stone he took up a machete and advanced on the High Priest.

Then Hank was there with Force Recon. Hank pointed his assault rifle at the High Priest.

"No, Hank. He's mine. I'm going to take him. He owes me a death."

Hank looked at Jason then at CPT Jessel who shrugged. It was Jason's play. The High Priest saw the total destruction of his power was inevitable, but just maybe he could take that little bastard with him. He drew his machete out of his scabbard and dropped into a crouch.

"You should have let them shoot me, little one. I must die this day, but so will you. Many are those I have killed with this blade. They all died screaming and cursing my gods. So shall you."

Contemptuously Jason said. "Cutting down helpless men doesn't impress me one bit. How many of them had blades in their hands and knew how to use them?" Jason had trained with one of the top sword masters in Hollywood for his pirate movie. Sam Chastain had not taught fencing, he had taught sword fighting, or how to kill a man with a blade. No, it was the High Priest who was overmatched this day, size and long reach notwithstanding.

Cautiously Jason felt his opponent out. No sense getting gutted from overconfidence. Just as he thought. For all his size and strength, the High Priest swung his blade like he was chopping down sugar cane. Probably where he learned to wield it. Jason had learned sword fighting, how to chop men down, and he did. After some preliminary cuts that opened wounds on the priest's ribs, Jason sliced through the tendons of the man's right arm, backing off to let his man try wielding the blade left-handed. Have to watch it, fighting a southpaw was a bit tricky. Don't get careless. Another brief clash and Jason drove his blade into the man's armpit making him drop the machete. Then he slashed a vicious blow into the man's crotch, twisting his wrist at the last moment to bring the edge to bear. Yes! All his hatred and fear went into that strike. All his outrage and shame at what they had done to him and to who knows how many other innocents.

The big man's eyes bulged out. He staggered and fell to the ground. Jason kicked his blade away then stabbed down with his own machete point first into the man's groin pinning him to the ground. "Fuck you and fuck YOUR sexuality!", he screamed. Let the man bleed out and die as a eunuch. Jason looked up into Hank's face. Hank gave him a nod. Good job. Then Jason saw CPT Jessel.

"Hi kid, you know we gotta stop meeting like this." Jessel looked over to his gunnery sergeant. "Are we ready to move out?"

"Affirmative, sir. Just two wounded not bad. Simpson here has already patched them up."

Johnny looked at his lover Jason and his lover Hank. Then their lover Danny popped in. All four hugged fiercely.

"Ahhhh, save the Kumbayah for later gents. We are outta here."

So the intrepid band of Marines and their allies fought their way back to their transport shooting anyone who got in their way but otherwise avoiding confrontation. One man crazed with fear rushed out of the jungle at the rear of the column. Danny shot him down. Probably the guy didn't even know where he was going. Tough. He shoudda stayed home.

Back on the Texas, Johnny as medical corpsman checked Jason out. One of the Marines opined that their navy 'mascot' should have no problem telling if something was amiss with Jason. After all, this is one patient he must know inside and out. A feeble joke, but the kind that comrades in arms tell each other to say: Right on! They thoroughly approved of the medical corpsman and all of his lovers for that matter. Johnny had been so afraid for Jason, he ran his hands over that beloved physique fingers lingering on his lover's hips and ass...

"Ahem", Jessel went. They could have their reunion later. Meanwhile could they get the movie kid a pair of pants. Johnny gave Jason a spare set of his, rather oversize too so they hung very low on his hips. Just asking to be depantsed again.

Hank looked at Jason who seemed almost normal now, not shaken like he had expected. This was a stronger Jason than he had ever seen. He always knew Jason had grit. Now he knew Jason had spine. With a twinkle in his eye and making a V with his fingers Hank said simply:

"That's two you owe me, kid."

"Yes Han" Jason said, deliberately dropping the 'k' to show he got the reference to Star Wars' Han Solo.

Someone blurted out. "Yeah the kid even looks like Luke Skywalker, blond, short, cute... The way he handled that machete, he'd have no trouble with a light saber."

The four lovers spoke animatedly for a bit, then Danny mentioned this incident had to go into Jason's upcoming biopic.

"What's that?" Jessel asked. They explained.

So they were making a movie of this and of their raid on Zuqqat. Could they let him play himself?

"Get a grip Jessel." the boat's commander told his Marine counterpart. "Don't go all Hollywood on us. This kid hasn't."

"No but maybe Eberly or Wilson here could play for our team. Wilson's a professional bodyguard I've seen in action now. Very cool under fire. The kid here I have seen twice, taking men out in close combat, with a kick and a blade today and last year bare handed. He's right handy with a machete, the way he cut that bastard of a High Priest to pieces."

Danny should his head. "Thanks, but I wouldn't like those long separations from family," said with a gesture to his lovers. "That's why Johnny is getting out when his hitch is up. Otherwise, a career in uniform might appeal to me."

"And I don't think Jason is ready to give up the glamourous life of a movie star!" he added ironically.

"Uh, sir," Simpson began, addressing the Marine captain. "If don't mind recruitment advice from a squid, Jason would never make it in uniform. You couldn't keep it on him."