Jungle Boy 9
by George Gauthier
Author's Note: This is a tale of a pair of young gay actors in Hollywood and their utterly improbable adventures in the movie business. This ninth installment continues the story of the pair of new protagonists, Sandy Barnett and Terry Knowles introduced in the sixth tale, in place of Jason Eberly, the original Jungle Boy of the first five tales (who has a cameo role in these new tales).
It contains graphic descriptions of the male human body and of sexual activity between adult males, the youngest of whom is nineteen years old. It depicts scenes of consensual and non-consensual sexual activity, bondage and submission.
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 entirely fictional, with no resemblance intended to any person living or dead. Occasional references by characters to real motion pictures and actors and others in the movie business are simply to lend verisimilitude to a tale about persons in show business. None of the real people mentioned in passing is in any way part of the tale. Neither the author nor any of his heirs or assigns has any connection whatsoever to the movies except as fans.
Readers who like the Jungle Boy series should try either of my series of historical novelettes. The 'Daphne Boy' tales depict an eternally youthful protagonist and his adventures in exotic climes and times. The settings for the 'Naked Prey' series are equally exotic, but each story has its own cute protagonist. My other series are the 'Track and Field' stories in Gay/College and my 'Mer-Boy' stories in Gay/Beginnings. For links to all my stories, look on the list of Prolific Authors on the Archive for George Gauthier.
All rights reserved.
Chapter 1. Dracula
"My dear count, I wonder if you are aware of a strange physical phenomenon that centers on your person?".
"What is it young Van Helsing?" the ageless vampire asked in an off hand tone. He did not even bother to look over at his interlocutor, his gaze and mind centered on the pretty youth seated in front of him.
"I was grooming myself in the mirror just now, when you walked into the room. In the glass I saw the door open. I heard you speak to my friend. I can see Luke quite clearly on the settee, his red hair glowing with the light of the fire. The strange phenomenon is that, though you are standing right in front of him, you yourself cast no reflection in the glass ..."
Dracula's expression changed from supercilious boredom to rage. He seized a candlestick from the mantle and flung it at the offending mirror reducing it to shards, shouting:
"Foul bauble of man's vanity!"
His young interlocutor shied away from the mirror, raising his arm to protect his comely face and eyes from broken glass, though he did get nicked on the wrist. Blood welled slowly from the small laceration. The vampire's eyes glittered then fixed his gaze on the young blond man facing him.
"So you know. I should have suspected when he sent for you. Aren't you worried that I might visit violence upon you or upon your delectable friend or both? My kind possesses the strength of ten."
"We mortals have our strengths too, especially our faith and our reason. I have armed myself against you, Count Dracula." the courageous young man replied, a challenge in his voice, though he trembled at the thought of pitting the wisdom of his mere twenty two years against the count's five centuries.
"More wolfsbane, Van Helsing?" the count said with sneer as he took a step toward the much smaller male.
"No, count. Something far more powerful." With that the blond youth drew a small golden monstrance from his inside pocket, a consecrated host visible behind its glass cover, and recited the formula "Noli me tangere" (Don't touch me!) the Latin version of the words of the Christ to Mary Magdalene.
The count turned with a hiss, covering his face with his cloak against the intolerable presence, snarling, "Sacrilege!" at the man who had thwarted his plans. He had no choice but to retreat the way he had come.
"Cut!" yelled the director, Jim Nicholls.
"Good work everyone. That's a wrap for the day."
Hollywood's dream couple, Jungle Boy Sandy Barnett and his lover Terry Knowles were on the set of their latest picture, a gay retelling of the Dracula myth. In this story, Dracula is not interested in swooning female virgins sleepwalking in filmy nightgowns. He wants hot blooded young males, both as a source of nourishment and to indulge his bestial and perverted lusts.
And what better place to find youths collected together, away from the protection of family and neighbors, than in an English boarding school, like the Chelmsford School, located in the County of Essex, northeast of London.
Terry played Luke West, a sixth form student in his last year at the school. He was just the type the count lusted after: a fully formed male eighteen years old but slightly built, his boyish physique measuring just over five four (164 cm) and weighing only eight stone five (117 lbs or 53 kg). A cute red head with a ready smile, graced with sky blue eyes, Terry was the acknowledged beauty of the Chelmsford sixth form. His stylish evening garb did little to conceal the slender but well-knit physique he was blessed with.
Sandy played Pieter Van Helsing, Dutch by birth, recent Oxford graduate, a student at the Royal College of Medicine, and Luke's legal guardian and close friend. This confrontation had confirmed his worst fears, that Dracula had chosen Luke as his prey, someone the count would mesmerize, seduce, debauch, and feed upon for some while, before finally killing the lad by draining his blood.
The count was played by a relative unknown in his early thirties. Conrad Held was tall, dark, and elegantly handsome, with an intent stare and a perpetually half raised eyebrow that hinted at the cruelty beneath the surface elegance He spoke English well but with a distinct Central European accent, in short, the epitome of the suave foreign nobleman.
The two young actors were happy to be doing a costume drama as a change of pace. In most of their pictures, the so-called Jungle Boy series, they wore only the skimpiest of costumes or even none at all. In some of their pictures they went totally bare in every scene. These included such hits as the gay-themed remakes of 'When Dinosaurs Ruled the Earth' and 'The Blue Lagoon'. No coy camera angles either. If the scene called for a shot of their shapely tushes or even the full monty, then so be it.
The production team was at work in a mansion in the Hollywood Hills that often doubled for English country houses (not to mention a stint as stately Wayne Manor in a couple of Batman films). After shooting all the scenes in its public rooms, they would shift to studio sets to film scenes supposedly in the bedrooms of the elegant country house.
Five days later they began doing Terry's solo scenes with Dracula, set earlier in the time line of the picture, before Van Helsing arrives. As the effects folks rattled the French windows and shook the fake shrubbery outside his bedroom to simulate an oncoming storm, "Luke" tossed and turned in his sleep. In the heat of a summer's night, the bedcovers were down by his feet. He wore a loose fitting nightshirt, open at the neck and halfway down his chest affording glimpses of his tiny red nipples. Sweat plastered locks of his hair to his forehead. He looked lovely and vulnerable in the moonlight streaming through the glass.
A shadow outside resolved itself into the dread count in his human form. The wolfsbane and garlic hung around the handles and the brass lock did nothing to detain the determined vampire. With a twist and a ping of metal, his strong grip simply broke the lock apart. The windows opened wide, seemingly of their own accord but really impelled by the vampire's powers of mind over matter. He went to the boy's bed and loomed over him whispering.
"Awaken, young West, and partake of the delights I will offer to you."
Luke had a strong will for a mortal but groggy in the middle of the night and weakened by a drug slipped into his evening glass of port he quickly fell under the count's influence. At the count's unspoken order, Luke slid out of bed and stepped into the center of the room, eyes open, blinking slowly, but moving only by the will of the vampire. The count loomed over the slender boy, shorter than he was by a foot. The disparity in size of the actors was deliberate. Conrad Helm's six foot four frame (plus two inch lifts) would emphasize the boy's slight build and helplessness.
"You will serve me, Luke." the count intoned hypnotically.
"Yes, Master" the boy acknowledged mechanically, caught in the grip of the fiend's mental powers.
"First let us see what has heretofore been hidden from my gaze. Time to unwrap my little gift to myself."
He took hold of the neck opening of the boy's nightshirt and tore the garment down the middle, splitting it along the V down the boy's chest, parting the fabric as easily as if it were tissue paper. The boy did not react, standing mute and motionless as the halves of his night shirt fell away, disclosing his exquisite physique.
This dramatic unveiling was Luke's first nude scene. Dracula gasped with delight and lust. Never had he seen a more beautiful boy. The moonlight painted the youth with a bluish light, creating intriguing chiaroscuro effects which outlined every corrugation of his chest and belly. From his tiny red nipples to a deeply indented navel, to narrow hips framing a surprisingly ample manhood for one so slight of build, Luke was real beauty. He carried so little body fat that his flat belly showed a tracery of downward pointing veins just under the skin. The beat of his heart was visible on the left side of his smooth chest.
The count walked around his mental slave, drinking in the boy's comeliness. The camera circled the boy too, its lenses recording the count's eye view in a full 360 examination of one of the most exquisite boys in the United Kingdom in the mid nineteenth century.
From the front, the boy looked so, well flat, though corrugated with rippled abs, pecs, ribs, and nicely formed muscles, but his fawn-like physique was the very opposite of the bulging muscles of a strong warrior. From the rear, the boy was all curves: the calves, the slender thighs, the firm globes of the buttocks, the swale of the lower back, the slope up to the shoulder blades which formed winglets on his upper back, to the cylinder of his neck.
Farther down Luke had a smooth cock with a vein running along the top from his belly to where the foreskin hugged his cock head, outlining the ridge of the glans under the skin. The sheath of his cock completely covered the head, the folded tip extending perhaps half a finger's breadth beyond. Cock and balls were reasonably sized but he wouldn't be scaring the horses. It might take both his small hands to cover his erection, but only one when he was soft though it did look larger from the way it sprouted out of a smooth bare groin. His body was smooth and virtually hairless, a condition related to his failure to achieve full height.
Dracula placed a hand on the boy's left shoulder and guided his thrall outside onto the terrace where a second camera captured the action. The set grew dark as clouds obscured the moon. Lightning flashed and thunder pealed as a hard rain began to fall. The lightning flashes illuminated a full frontal view of the boy, still in his trance, as waters falling from the sky washed over him, draining off him, slid down chest and belly and sluiced their way over his groin and through his rear cleavage. The count lifted him effortlessly off the ground, cradling the boy in his arms. As the storm increased in intensity, the pair rose into the sky, flying toward the count's hidden lair and love nest.
"Cut!"
They were shooting scenes out of order, as movie productions do. The next scene in the story would be at the count's hidden lair and show the boy sitting on a bearskin before a crackling fire in a chamber under the ruined abbey the count had taken over. As the count seduced and made love to the lovely youth, the cinematographer would be able to capture the boy's physical beauty by the yellow and reddish light cast by burning logs in the fireplace, a deliberate artistic contrast with the lighting in the prior scene. The fire would also suggest the count's burning desire for the lad. However, that scene would not be shot till the following week along with other scenes set in the lair.
Terry's next scene set in the bedroom was just after Luke returns from his first assignation with the count, looking rather the worse for wear, though his only visible injury are the two small puncture on his throat. As dawn breaks, Luke manages to shake off the count's influence long enough to write a desperate appeal to his guardian and friend Van Helsing. He posts it before the count can learn about it or make him change him mind, then falls asleep atop the covers, giving the camera another shot of his fine tush.
Luke does not bother with the nightshirt after his first assignation with Dracula. That garment is in rags and anyway the count has forbidden him to cover his nakedness with either nightshirt or bedclothes while asleep and waiting for him. In subsequent scenes of seduction, the boy is drawn by the count's mental influence to walk the moors to the count's lair. Now in a standard vampire movie that would be an excuse to show a pretty ingenue in a filmy negligee wandering about. This 'Dracula' showed an athletic nude boy, his musculature bunching entrancingly under his bare skin, his manhood swinging with his walk. They particularly wanted to capture the way Terry's butt twitched and dimpled so fetchingly as he walked.
Between scenes the young actors relaxed in chairs with their names on them, just about their only perquisite of fame.
"You know, I really love this costume stuff, Terry, like that stylish suit and ruffled shirt I wore in my first confrontation with Dracula. And that cloak I wore on the train from London, I always wanted to stalk about in an enveloping cloak, letting it swirl around me with my movements. It is very moody and romantic. I wish they would bring back the cloak as outwear."
"They won't Sandy. A cloak is too voluminous. That is fine, even practical on horseback, where you drape the back over his withers. You wouldn't want to try sitting on a cloak in car. Much more practical to wear a coat or jacket with buttons or zipper and a split tail. No, as long as we drive cars instead of ride horses, forget about cloaks. Sorry to spoil it for you."
"Alas, a dream ended!. Anyway, can you believe all these costume changes? The upper classes once changed clothes four times or five times a day, so our characters have to, er ... follow suit -- no pun intended."
"Right. You know Sandy. What I would really like in the way of a costume picture is a pirate story or maybe a Dumas novel. It would be great to wear a red cape on my shoulders and a feathered hat as I swash and buckle my way across the screen, blades flashing, enemies falling dead at my feet."
Sandy smiled at his lover's fancy. Nothing like that was in the pipeline. Terry would have to take it up with Leon Potter, the studio production chief.
Chapter 2. Story Conference
While he waited for the rest of his guests to arrive movie producer Marty Fletcher looked on with a grin as two of his favorite actors tossed a frisbee around the back yard. He reflected, and not for the first time, that the sport must have been purposefully designed to show off the male physique, especially when the athletes were fully nude like these two lads. Their evenly tanned forms darted here and there, bending and twisting, jumping and lunging, occasionally tumbling to the ground, then bouncing back up, a kinetic and sensual display of clean smooth limbs, tight torsos, and taut buns, all to accompaniment of laughter and happy voices. Both nineteen, the lads were the very picture of health and youthful male exuberance and completely unselfconscious about their nudity.
Though a firm ladies man, Fletcher could recognize exquisite male beauty when he saw it. Still, he had a hard time deciding which of the two actors was more stunning, the impossibly cute red head, Terry Knowles, or the blond beauty who was his lover, Sandy Barnett, aka the Jungle Boy. Somehow, as much as Terry had to offer, he would have to pick Sandy.
Sandy was indeed a comely youth and a fine choice as the second Jungle Boy. In keeping with the traditions of the Jungle Boy pictures he was anything but a big muscle man, certainly no Tarzan of the Jungle. Sandy was but a boy who was not quite a man, a short, slender, and slightly built teenager, but in top physical condition. Sandy had more of a swimmer's build than a cross country runner like Jason Eberly, the first Jungle Boy. He was a fine looking lad standing barely four inches over five feet (163 cm) and weighing only 112 pounds (51 kg). He had a fawn-like physique but with a wiry musculature, toned and taut from daily swimming and running and working out with light weights.
Like Jason, Sandy was preternaturally beautiful, much prettier than a boy had any right to be, with delicate features, a straight nose, finely arched brows, a chiseled jaw line, high cheekbones, and large green eyes topped by a thatch the color of straw. As a competitive high school swimmer, he had used the new permanent depilatories to remove the hair on his body, little as it had been, even in his armpits and at the fork of his legs, leaving him permanently smooth and boyish.
The camera loved him. Although short, his body was well proportioned and incredibly toned, taut and trim with the muscular upper storey of a swimmer. Add in those killer abs and an all-over tan, he was poetry in motion. While running, he was as graceful as a gazelle. Climbing trees, he was as quick and nimble as a squirrel. The way he swam it was as if the waters parted willingly to let him pass, taking their pleasure in being able to touch and kiss his lovely body everywhere at once.
In every picture they made sure to do several slo-mo shots just to show off Sandy's athletic prowess and raw animal appeal. From his tiny red nipples to a deeply indented navel, to narrow hips framing a surprisingly ample manhood for one so slight in build, Sandy was real beauty. He carried so little body fat that his flat belly showed a tracery of downward pointing veins just under the skin. The beat of his heart was visible on the left side of his smooth chest. His rump jutted out just the right amount, twin mounds of firm flesh begging to be grabbed. He was sleek and smooth, deeply and evenly tanned from much exposure to the sun while in the nude at the beach or outdoor pool. The sheen of sweat on his skin made him shine in the bright sun, his wiry physique a vision of youthful male pulchritude.
"Here you go, sir. Iced tea for you and a jug of orangeade for Terry and Sandy when they take a break."
Fletcher nodded his thanks to his houseboy, a fine looking lad in his own right if not in their class. A cute dark haired Latino about nineteen, Luis wore nothing but a tiny string thong, the pouch barely larger than his hand. Not that Fletcher was the least bit fey himself, but cute gay houseboys were all the vogue in Hollywood these days, valued not only for their looks but also for their training in household management at community colleges Who wanted a frumpy female housekeeper when they might have a professionally trained pretty gay boy at their beck and call. (Luis lived in a small apartment in the service wing of the house.)
Actually for Luis a string thong practically amounted to formal wear. Most of the time, like when he took care of the lawn, the plantings, and the pool he went around in the buff. He did wear a chef's apron in the kitchen. It was sort of a game among the A List to see whose house boy was the most shameless. Fletcher's boy even walked out to the mail box or to fetch the paper and signed for packages in the buff. Not a big deal in the fourth decade of the twenty-first century, especially in Hollywood.
Attitudes toward nudity had changed a lot even in America, the last hold out for nudity taboos. Generational change was a big part of the reason. The younger generations did not share the attitudes of their prudish elders. The law too had changed with the times, whether by enactment of new statutes or judicial decisions at all levels that recognized public nudity in some contexts as a constitutional right. There were many clothing optional beaches around now with nude beach volley ball competitions, nude swimmers, and nude runners. The larger parks in major cities had sections given over to nude sunbathing. Runners for cross country teams at some colleges thought nothing of loping down the back road absolutely starkers on their training runs. Back in his home town in Florida, locals were used to seeing the "Barnett kid" jogging in the altogether along local residential streets over to the running trails in the nearby park. You had to do something pretty outrageous these days to get arrested for what they used to call public indecency.
Restrictions on what could be shown in the movies or on television were virtually non-existent at this late date, some sixty years after the first instance of full-frontal nudity on American TV. Almost anything could be presented on screen. Jason Eberly had ridden that wave of change starting twenty years earlier, doing many pictures in the rude nude. Sandy and Terry were following in his (bare)footsteps.
Luis hovered attentively, always happy for the chance to ogle the two young actors, especially Terry. They came over maybe twice a week to use his employer's outdoor pool, which was Olympic sized in length though with only half as many lanes. Luis especially liked spreading sun tan oil on the Terry's scrumptious body. The young actor's Irish heritage made him susceptible to sunburn, even through his tan. Many is the time the boy stretched out on his belly on a lounge chair and let Luis attend to every portion of his body, not just the back. He let Luis take control, raising his calfs on command to let the Latino boy spread oil on all surfaces, spreading his legs on cue so Luis could reach his inner thighs and delve into his cleavage, draping his arms over the end of the lounge chair so Luis could reach his sides, his ribs, his pits as well as back and shoulders. The houseboy gave particular attention to the twin buns, spreading the oil with firm strokes, kneading the firm flesh, pulling the globes apart and fingering the boy's crack.
The first time he rolled over on his back and Luis addressed his front, Terry started to object, but Luis's pleading look made him just lie back and let the houseboy do his front too. Luis was just as thorough there. When he spread the protective lotion on the boy's chest, his finger twirled and tweaked Terry's erect nipples and circled the aureoles. His fingers traced every corrugation of the actors ribs and abs and into his Adams girdle. And of course he was properly attentive to the boy's handsome set of genitals. Often Terry couldn't help but get an erection from Luis' ministrations. Sandy looked on, trying hard to suppress a giggle. This was foreplay, not a helping hand. His lover was being a naughty boy. Not that Luis didn't have a thing going with the neighbor's boy, but who would pass up a chance to feel Terry Knowles all over. Luis loved the way the boy's skin felt nearly as soft and smooth as a baby's, though the firm muscles beneath gave evidence of his well-toned athleticism.
Within a few more minutes, Marty Fletcher's other guests arrived for the story conference. Principal photography was over for Dracula, and the movie was in post production. They would agree on film concepts that would play to their stars' strengths, then set writers to work on scripts. Fletcher's guests were his close friend and veteran director, Jim Nicholls, Ed Veronese, the actors' agent, and Leon Potter, studio production chief. Also on hand was Conrad Held. He had played very well against the younger pair in their film together, making a fine villain.
The boys left off their game and joined everyone else under the big lawn umbrella. Not the least bit body shy, especially with this group, neither bothered with clothing, unselfconsciously settling their nude sweaty bodies down on director's chairs and pouring themselves big tumblers of orangeade. Sandy after all had worked for two years as a male model,
"Aaah! Deeelicious!" Sandy said smacking his lips. "You did it perfectly this time, Luis." explaining to the others: "I taught him our old family recipe: mix real orange juice diluted to a soft drink with the juice and skin of a squeezed lemon for that touch of piquancy. None of those awful powdered mixes. And mind you use real Florida orange juice. It's a taste of the Sunshine State! And it is non-alcholic and non-fattening too!"
"As if that were any concern of the two of you, or of Luis either, for that matter." Nicholls observed avuncularly. "There isn't an ounce of extra flesh on any of you."
"Hey, maybe we could get Sandy a gig doing a commercial for Florida oranges or maybe a whole campaign." Ed Veronese.
"For my native state, I might do it pro bono."
"You wound me, Sandy. Orange juice is a business like any other, and surely I am entitled to my percentage."
The others chuckled at the exchange, though conceding Ed's point.
"OK, down to business." Potter began. "I was thinking of doing a remake of 'Young Guns' with a gay angle to add spice to the interpersonal tensions among the young outlaws."
"Sounds good, Leon." Fletcher began, "But as with any Western for these two I gotta ask, how do we get them outta their clothes, other than in the obligatory swimming hole scene."
"Ha, you'll like this, Fletch. I think we should have the outlaws disguise themselves as Indian braves for their daring stagecoach holdups."
"I get it. "Terry piped up. "Young bucks dressed in ever so skimpy loincloths and nothing else."
"Well, add feathers and moccasins and warpaint instead of masks to buckskin loincloths, the color of their tans. From any distance they'll look buck naked, er ... no pun intended. From the side they are bare except for the leather thong tied low on their hips. Get it?"
Terry and Sandy rolled their eyes. The lengths the producers and scriptwriters went to get them out of their clothes on camera. The gimmick for their dinosaur picture was that clothing had not yet been invented! Right. No doubt the loincloth would be more little more than a G-string. They would contrive other reasons to get the boys nude. Very likely the production team would find or create some small waterfall for their characters to shower in too. There was some kind of shower scene in nearly all their pictures. Well that is what the fans expected from Sandy and Terry, scenes with sex appeal.
"And I can play the relentless bounty hunter." Conrad Held added. "who tracks the boys down one by one, inexorably imposing his own harsh version of frontier justice. In other words, he is a combination of Inspector Javert from Les Miserables and the Marquis de Sade."
"I know what that means," Sandy said shaking his head. "So which of us are you going to strip naked and lash with a bull whip?"
"And who gets staked out bare ass in the sun, spread-eagled next to an ant hill with a trail of honey leading to his belly?" Terry asked.
The boys had come to expect to be captured, stripped, and abused by the villains in their pictures. There was a strong gay S&M subtext in so many of their movies with scenes of bondage, whippings, humiliation, and sexual abuse. Conrad Held confirmed their surmises with his vision of the upcoming picture.
"With all due respect to both scriptwriter and director, I can see you, Sandy, tied to a fence as the bull whip lays into your bare flesh. I'll soon have your ass cheeks trembling ever so sexily in anticipation of the next blow. For you Terry, nothing so crude as what as you described. Better to have you kneeling in the desert sands, your wrists tied to your ankles, anchored to a stake in the ground by a leather thong around your genitals. The camera will capture your physique from many more angles, recording your futile struggles against your bonds as you twist and turn, trying to find the impossible, a position that does not bring on muscular cramps.
We will also show you plagued by heat, thirst, and windblown sands. Hell let's toss in a black scorpion for the 'yuck' factor. We'll have it skitter between your legs, waving its pincers perilously close to your manhood. That will raise the audience's anxiety quotient. They will be forced to think the unthinkable: will it be one snip of the claws or a sting that unmans you? Not to worry, the scorpion will be animatronic."
"Thanks." the actor said dryly, trying to act unconcerned though his thighs had spread then closed protectively over his genitals.
"Anything but leeches." Sandy said shaking his head and shuddering. From his own experiences, Sandy could not abide the blood sucking creatures.
"And Terry, the way you hid your genitals just now, " Nicholls added. "making you look like a eunuch ... I never saw such clean lines on a boy before. And the shock value for the fans. We just have to use a shot like that in your future pictures."
Terry could only shake his head at Hollywood's version of inspiration and creativity.
"OK, that's settled. 'Young Guns' it is, but Terry can keep his balls. What else?" Potter asked.
"Well, it is about time for another Jungle Boy picture, boy," Fletcher opined.
"You mean yet another picture where we both run around starkers in every single scene, don't you?" Sandy said, chuckling.
"What else? Think what we can save on the costume budget!".
After much discussion, much of it hilarious but too salacious to be practical, the group decided on two further projects. The next Jungle Boy picture would be set on remote islands in the Indian Ocean during the mid-nineteenth century. Sandy would play Axel Knorr, a boy of Danish extraction working for the proprietor of a copra plantation on the Cocos Islands where he meets Brendan Doyle, a young sailor. The film recounts their love affair and their exploration of heretofore inaccessible Christmas Island. In real life, the young explorers, both nineteen like the protagonists who portray them, had set off entirely nude and spent exciting weeks on the island, culminating in a deadly encounter with Great White Sharks. The movie would have a small role for Conrad Held, portraying Captain Fitzroy of HMS Beagle. Still to be cast was an actor for the role of naturalist Charles Darwin, who would feature only in the first reel.
The second choice was more conventional, a thriller with the young actors playing college roommates and lovers, set up by the bad guys to take the blame in a plot to kidnap the freshmen sons of the President of the United States from their college campus. No Jungle Boy picture but with plenty of opportunity to write in love scenes, shower scenes, etc. Conrad Held would come into his own as the big bad boss man in the plot.
Chapter 3. Angels of the Open Road
The young stars left Fletcher's house in Terry's car, a beat up old roadster open to the sky. A roadster has only a windshield but no roof or side or rear windows. Still it was practical enough in sunny California for a pair of kids dressed only in hot pants (and flip flops which they usually kicked off anyway). They liked the feel of the sun on their chests and thighs and the wind in their hair. It brought the thrill of motoring back. The boys never bothered with the balky side doors, simply sliding onto the bucket seats. The cozy two seater made you feel you were wearing it rather than riding in it. You couldn't get that feeling in a climate controlled glass and metal box, that was for sure! The roadster was also quick and nimble in traffic and easy to park in the tightest of places, being shorter and narrower than a coupe or a sedan. And when you put the pedal down, it really zipped along, though you had better keep an eye peeled for John Law.
That afternoon the boys went for a spin in the Hollywood Hills, tooling along Mulholland Drive in Griffith Park. It was a glorious day for a drive. They had several pictures lined up but nothing in production at the moment. An opportunity then for some quality time with each other. As they drove along, a half dozen motorcycles rolled up beside them, pacing them. The riders were all nice looking young guys, mid to late twenties, wearing only cut off jeans to show off their lean tanned bodies plus boots and helmets. None of them looked like a stereotypical Hell's Angel: older, beefy, hirsute, and dangerous.
One of them leaned over and shouted loud enough to be heard, telling the boys to follow them to the Vasquez Rocks movie location on the outskirts of the city. Why not? The boys had filmed their confrontation with the T. Rex on that location only last year. The Vasquez Rocks Natural Area and Nature Center covers some 932 acres in the high desert near Agua Dulce Springs and features unusual rock formations. It has hiking trails, equestrian trails, self-guided nature trails, a seasonal stream plus those dramatic slanted rock formations featured in hundreds of movies and TV shows.
When they arrived at an obscure corner of the nature area, they found half a dozen other motorcyclists there. With their helmets off, the boys could see that some had neat crew cuts and all were clean shaven. They were kidding around with each other, but nothing really rowdy was going on. The boys hopped out of the roadster leaving their flip flops behind.
"Hey nice threads." one dark haired rider said to the boys.
The boys' sole garments were those extreme short shorts that had come back into fashion. These so-called hot pants had been popular in the 1970s and were fashionable once again fifty years later. With a very low rise waistband and a two-inch inseam and with a loose fit, the hot pants lived up to their name. Anyone standing behind a boy wearing hot pants could look right down his rear cleavage, and the inseam was barely enough to contain him in front. You didn't wear any underwear with hot pants either. If you stretched out like on on a lounge chair, anyone could look right up the shorts. They were perfect for displaying the proportions of the boy's slender but muscular legs. With many slightly built youths, their legs are disproportionately short, accounting for most of the deficit in height. Sandy's and Terry's trim forms were smaller in proportion, retaining the classic ratios which artists have discovered please the eye and excite concupiscence.
"Hi, I'm David and I am the leader of this bunch of riders. We call ourselves Purgatory's Angels. That's because we are sinners still trying to work our way to Heaven. A difficult business what with all the fun but naughty things there are to do in this world."
His laughter was infectious. Soon the boys were sitting among the riders, taking in their stories about the open road. The Angels roamed all up the Pacific Coast as far as Oregon and as far east as Utah. They had lots of stories about snatching chickens out of farmer's coops for roasting over their campfires, of rattlesnakes slithering into tents, of sudden rainstorms that turned a long downhill into a raging river that washed two riders right over the shoulder, and of mountain lions perched atop rocks just waiting for something pouncable to pass by.
The boys smiled. These guys all seemed very nice, not overly loud or raucous, and not drunk either, though several were puffing away on cigarettes with a very suspicious odor. Fortunately marijuana had been legal for the past ten years. (The taxes on it had helped repair California's finances very nicely.) Neither boy smoked and hardly drank, just an occasional beer or glass of wine with dinner.
"Jesus kids. You're practically nekkid in those shorty shorts. I can look right up to the fork of your legs. Hell, they fit so loose, they're practically sliding off your narrow hips. Why not help the lads out there guys?" he asked the other riders.
Before Terry and Sandy could react, their shorts were pulled off and thrown back among the rocks and lost to view.
"My oh my. So this is our catch of the day. Two pretty twinks, smooth and hairless just like we likes 'em. Nice even tans too. You boys must go about naked rather a lot. Don't have much use for clothes, eh? Well, you came to the right place.
The boys were surprised at the sudden turn of events. They hadn't signed up for a sex orgy after all. Before they could react, rough hands pulled their wrists behind them and snapped handcuffs around them. Well equipped ahead of time, the riders also fixed spreader bars to their ankles. Everything about the situation screamed imminent gang bang. The boys looked at each other, anxiety on their faces. Now what?
"Yeah, real nice, David said as he wrapped leather thongs around their genitals, pulling on them like leashes drawing the young actors into the center of the circle of rocks. The boys were well and truly caught.
"What...what are you gonna do with us?" Terry stammered, trying to sound defiant, but his voice came out very young and shaky.
That only endeared the stunning youngster that much more with his captors. These kids were just the sort the gang liked to break in and train for long term service: young, cute, and innocent. The Angels weren't interested in burnt out street kids or losers. They had a whole string of oversexed lads up and down the coast, nice kids, good kids in everyday life, kids who held jobs or kept their grades up at school, but were always ready to drop whatever they were doing and surrender themselves to the Angels for a passion-filled weekend of sexual submission. Why not add these two to the stable? This pair was hot!
The Angels knew there were far better ways to break a lad in than with coercion and brutality. No, the way to control a young male's libido was with a thorough going mind fuck. All you had to do was find a weakness and exploit it. In this case, it was obvious that their love for each other would allow the Angels to play one lad against another. Terry would do anything to protect Sandy and vice-versa. Either would take on any amount of humiliation and sexual degradation to spare the other. The lads fell for the stratagem. Soon they were saying things like:
"Don't hurt Terry. I'm the one you want." Sandy called out. Fuck, whip me, make me suck your cocks, but don't hurt my Terry."
"No, that's wrong, Sandy. I'm the one they will want for my peaches and cream complexion and that pert rump you always go on about. Do what you will with me, you sexy bastards, but leave him alone."
Despite their willingness for self sacrifice, the Angels would not be satisfied with one or the other youth when they had both trussed up and at their mercy. The pair of them were their new toys and such fine boy toys they were too, one a cute as hell red-head with sky blue eyes, the other a supernal blond beauty with eyes the green of growing things.
Terry and Sandy physiques were very much alike, both kids were smooth and boyish; the men felt no hair as they stroked and petted those slender limbs or delved into their cleavages. Neither youth had a feather anywhere on his delectable body, not in the arm pits, nor at the groin, nor on the hairless ballsac, and not even around the crinkly whorl guarding the nether hole.
Soon both boys were thrown belly down across rocks for a preparatory spanking to redden their butts. Then the belts and cocks of the Angels went to work on their asses. Their mouths were put to good use too getting the cocks wet and lubed.
An Angel plugged Terry's ass and pumped away. He reached under Terry feeling for his groin and curled his fingers around the boy's rigid cock.
"Damn! Hey look, the red-head likes it. He's really getting into it." he chortled pointing to Terry's erection.
He pulled the boy to his feet, cupping the boy's genitals in his hand the better to show his shame to the other Angels. The man shifted his grip, engulfing the boy's testicles in his huge fist. He continued the mind fuck, whispering in Terry's ear.
"You reckless fool, following us here, putting yourself into the power of a motorcycle gang. Here I've got your manhood in my fist. One hard squeeze and your nuts are jelly, turning you into eunuch. Maybe that is all you are good for, really. Look at you, bound and helpless in my grasp, a small naked hairless fag boy, cringing before his betters. Isn't that where you belong? Admit it, fag boy. You were made to be used by strong men as a fuck toy, you cocksucking pansy faggot. A cock crazy youth like you needs to be fucked hard and often and by men who know how. Maybe a gang bang will do you some good. Maybe all our male juices injected into your body will finally make a man of you. Nothing else has, you little fairy."
Terry turned red from mortification, forced to acknowledge the essential truth behind the man's strong words. He was a cock crazy pansy faggot. And yes he had been enthusiastic about following the gang to the rendezvous. Now here he was naked and chained, helpless and confused. These motorcycle riders were going to gang bang him, yet the prospect made him hard. Terry whimpered and pulled uselessly against his bonds, overwhelmed by the contrary feelings coursing through him. His head was spinning. He was naked and shackled and helpless and afraid. And yet there was a fire in his belly. The Angels' attentions made him feel incredibly slutty, all that lean masculine flesh pressing around him. Maybe it was male pheromones, he didn't know, but his whole body shuddered with lust, his nether hole twitching in anticipation. He had never felt such sensations. He had lost control of his body. His dominators were in charge of it. They had also taken control of the feelings that coursed through his captive flesh. Terry felt an incredible flush as his belly went all aflutter and his knees went weak at the thought of his helplessness.
He was totally vulnerable as David slapped his face gently, worked his tits, hefted his balls and stroked his cock. That got it even harder. The Angel slapped it again and again. It bounced off his belly but stayed hard. David put the tip of a finger to where a drop of pre-cum had oozed out of the piss slit and held it up, a sardonic grin on his face. Terry's face screwed up in shame at the damning fluid, evidence that his body at least was welcoming these rough attentions. Poor Terry could only bite his lip, tears in his eyes. Was he really such a slut as that? Evidently, because he continued leaking. David used the flow of fluid to paint Terry's glans, his nipples, and even his pouty lips and tongue. Of course, the bound youth had tasted his own pre-ejaculate before but never like this, a gift from these strong males who put him and his sexuality in bondage.
To reinforce the lessons of the mind fuck they told Terry beautiful he looked strung up, every muscle taut. How musical his sobs and cries were. How brave he was to take so many strokes of the belt. How honest he was to recognize his need to submit to stronger males. How generous he was to share his naked beauty with the world, even removing any body hair that might conceal a part of his loveliness from onlookers. They complimented the youth on the smoothness and firmness of the column of his erection, grabbed and weighed his buttocks and complimented the boy on how firm they were, stroked the boy's flanks and ran their thumbs over and around the cock head making him shudder with the desire to come.
The men loved to grapple the youths' trim and taut bodies, small yes, but firm and hard and muscular too. How wonderful it felt to enfold them in their arms, to feel them struggle, all slick with sweat, tugging, pulling, and squirming, twisting and straining those tight little bodies of theirs. The boys' grunts and groans and gasps were like music in the ears of the Angels. A lean cyclist would mount the lad, covering him like a stallion does a filly, practically engulfing the much smaller male then sliding into him in a sudden full penetration bringing a strangled "aaagh' from the boy's throat. Or thumbs would stretch the nether entrance, setting the boy to whimpering so prettily at what he knew would soon follow. The boys took in great breaths of air, when they could around the cocks invading their throats, their torsos flexing sexily as their rib cages expanded and contracted. To the Angels, such labored breathing, the twisting and turning, and moans and groans were signs of the irrepressible vitality of these impossibly sexy youngsters, the best they had ever captured to add to their harem.
Despite the odds against them, a dozen of them to two and being bound hand and foot, the boys still struggled. That was just fine with the Angels. Nothing excites a man more than a boy with a bit of fight in him, a lively lad who wails as he is penetrated, bends his lithe form forward or tries to buck his rider off, one who whimpers or sobs in frustration and defeat as his body is invaded again and again, passed from one assailant after another. Often the young captives found themselves plugged at both ends, even their complaints cut off by thick cocks down their throats, their heads pulled back the better to deep throat the invader. All they could muster in the way of protest was a wet "glumph" as they choked and tried to breathe around the cock thrust down their tube. The boys' wails and whimpering were a serenade accompanying their deflowering by the Angels.
Later on Terry found himself on his knees, his head to the ground as cyclist and cyclist pounded his upthrust ass, slapping away at his rump for emphasis. The guys liked to run their fingers along his ribs and spinal bumps or squeeze the buns hard, making the flesh plump up between their fingers, leaving red marks on the skin, a tactile way of asserting their ownership of his trussed up body. Cuffed as he was, with the man kneeling on the spreader bar, he wasn't going anywhere. He couldn't even close his legs to protect his hole. Fingers invaded his orifice, stretching it, poking deep, searching for and finding his prostate, stimulating and arousing a boy already was crazy with lust. As the fingers of one hand play with his whole and the thumb rolled and stroked his ballsac, the other hand pulled Terry's stiff cock back between his legs, stroking and milking it like the teat on a cow. The hand worked the shaft up and down, sliding the foreskin over the head then pulling it back below the flange of the glans. Terry shuddered with pent up desire.
In truth bondage scenes like this turned Terry on unbearably, like that time at the police station in the Yucatan or his capture by the divers in the Turks and Caicos Islands. Terry's example he had awakened Sandy's interest in light bondage and S&M sex play. The couple occasionally indulged themselves in safe and consensual play with friends.
A couple of the Angels remarked to each other.
"He really is shameless. Lucky us who get to play with such a sexy kid."
"Blondie has gotten turned on too. Look at him panting with desire, cum splashed all over his face. Nothing like a good gang bang to bring out the bottom boy in a natural submissive."
Sandy had got put onto his knees too but with his head high, his pouty lips locked around cock after cock as he deep throated all comers. Before they thrust inside, the Angels liked to make him reach for it, to smooch the purple knobs of their cocks, to have his tongue swirl around the flange of the glans and probe the slit at the tip. Then he went to work to bring them off.
Some liked to pull out early the better to splash his face with their gism, to watch it drip off his forehead, nose, chin or cheeks. A slap to the face was the signal for Sandy to stick his tongue out the better to catch the final dribblings of cum out of their cocks. Some guys liked to lay the swollen head on his tongue or to poke the insides of the submissive boy's mouth. Then they would use the head of their cock to paint his face like some kind of cosmetic or beauty lotion to enrich his unblemished complexion. It made Sandy feel incredibly hot and slutty, especially when the Angels took candid photos of his degradation.
The Angels worked the lads hard for three hours, stimulating each to as many orgasms. They paused only long enough to allow them a couple of drinks of water so they would not dehydrate in the desert heat. Finally, with the boys totally fucked out, the Angels released them from their bonds. Their ordeal was over.
"There now boys, I know we got a little rough with you there, but it wasn't really so bad was it?" David asked. "You may have said NO in the beginning but your bodies soon were shouting YES to everything we did with them. By the end there you were willing particpants in our little gang bang. Admit it. You had a fucking great time of it too, didn't you?"
Both boys looked at each other sheepishly, then nodded, too embarrassed to speak, their cocks still turgid from their final eruptions. After a bit, Sandy did manage to ask:
"But how did you know we would respond that way, and not take all this as, well, criminal rape?"
"Puh-leeze." David said with a big grin. "Just look at yourselves. If ever two kids looked like a pair of bottom boys and cock lovers, it was you two."
"Are we really that transparent? What gave us away?" Terry asked more from mischief than any need to satisfy his curiosity. He was fully aware of how the two of them appeared to the male half of humanity.
"Well, let me count the ways. Let's start with that open top car, which only a narcissist would drive, and what did we see in the bucket seats of the roadster but a pair of super-cute twinks wearing next to nothing, deliberately showing off their shapely physiques in what are aptly named hot pants. Now what kind of male would go to such lengths to display his smooth hairless body on the open road. Add the fact that these were not lads with ordinary good looks but two scrumptious youths blessed with a preternatural loveliness, each in his own way much prettier than any straight boy has a right to be. What is that phrase on the T-shirts? '2QT2BSTR8' for 'Too Cute To Be Straight'. You kids have the sublime looks that make men and women regardless of sexual orientation do double takes and stare after you, wondering how anyone can possibly be that good looking. "
"And don't try to tell me you don't know that yourselves. To anyone like us who values youthful male beauty, it would have been a cosmic waste if you were straight. Get real kids: your looks just scream out: look at me, I am a pretty gay boy and I love to get fucked. Also we saw you ogling our lean bodies as we rode up. Why do you think we wear just cutoffs in warm weather. It's a way to troll for likely lads, a courtship display if you will."
Terry and Sandy smiled ruefully, forced to admit that though what David said was a caricature; it held a lot of truth.
"Besides," David continued. "we did not get very far into things when a couple of the guys recognized you from your movies as Hollywood's Jungle Boys. Everyone knows about you, that you are gay through and through. We heard from friends that you are into light bondage and discipline. We would never take anyone who really objected. Hell, some of us are cops in real life. I'm a deputy sheriff up north myself."
That was how the two young movie actors got added to the string of boy toys of the motorcycle club called the Purgatory Angels which wasn't a gang at all but a band of gay military veterans with good jobs who liked to tool about the West and let off steam, pronging complaisant youths. Obviously they could not all get away from their responsibilities at the same time. Their ranks on the road were a constantly changing roster of members joining the cavalcade for a few hundred miles before peeling off to return to their daily existence. All told, the Angels numbered nearly two hundred. Their boys loved them. Some even spent their vacations riding with the Angels, cute lads that the Angels referred to as their Cherubs.
This band of Angels had actually been heading to a rendezvous in the Central Valley when they passed the roadster, so they tossed the boys their hotpants and got ready to pull out. David and Sandy exchanged numbers so the Angels could arrange a ride-along for their new Cherubs the next time they were in town.
Chapter 4. Making Movies
"You bastard! You'll never get away with this." Sandy spat at Conrad Held's character, Fallon Granger.
"On the contrary, my young friend, you and your red-headed lover here will make perfect fall guys. The new President is a secret homophobe. Oh, he kept it concealed well enough to get elected Vice-President and then to succeed to the Presidency after Dan Baxter's death from a stroke. He will be only too ready to believe that you two kidnapped his sons in some bizarre gay revenge plot, then murdered them when you knew you had not kept your identities from them despite the masks."
Terry and Sandy played college students bound face down by soft ropes to gurneys in the middle of an otherwise bare room. They were naked and helpless, at the mercy of the villain of the piece, a Christian Nationalist trying to undo decades of gay progress in civil rights as an initial objective. This was only the first of the outrages he planned to pin on gays as part of a plot to install a theocratic regime in America.
The interiors for the thriller film were being shot on sound stages in Hollywood. Fallon Granger crossed the warehouse set and picked up a hypodermic needle sitting in a tray next to the nude bound blond boy. He squirted a bit of the fluid out of the needle then plumped up the boy's right ass cheek with his fingers, sliding the needle into the firm tanned flesh and forcing the plunger down with his thumb, giving the boy's rumps a lascivious rub afterwards to show the audience that Granger was deep in denial about his own homosexual tendencies.
"There." he said smugly. "Completely untraceable, of course. No one will never be able to prove that you two were unconscious in the room where the President's sons were debauched and murdered. We'll put trace evidence from you all over their bodies and vice versa. Your gism will be in their rectums. That is why needed your sperm, boys. You'll have their virgins' blood on your cocks and bellies too. One of my men is a cop. When he shoots the both of you, in flagrante delicto, he will be acclaimed a hero. You and your kind will take the blame. It's perfect."
This kind of corny monologue was obligatory for thrillers. You always put in a scene where the arch villain boasts of his plans to the hero, gloating prematurely over his own cleverness. Remember Auric Goldfinger's reply to James Bond's question" "Do you expect me to talk?" "No, Mister Bond. I expect you to die." That sort of thing. Of course, in time the hero manages to escape and turns his detailed knowledge of the plot against the bad guy, thwarting his dastardly plans.
That evening over dinner, the lads talked over the production.
"They're changing the script again, Terry. More chance for us to show skin."
"Oh?"
"Now we get abducted from our apartment right after our shower scene."
"You mean the bad guys are going to grab us and hustle us over to their hideout absolutely starkers. Why am I not surprised?"
They laughed at the absurdity of it all, Hollywood, fame, nudity, sex appeal, the expectations of the fans, all of it, agreeing on one thought:
"What a way to make a living!"
The boys giggled helplessly, rolling around on the rug, thinking about where their careers and ambitions had brought them. Then Sandy gave Terry a big kiss and pulled him back up onto the couch for a serious discussion.
After a candid talk, the young actors agreed that after five years they really should re-evaluate their options. With more money coming in already than they could ever spend in their lifetimes, especially given their moderate habits, why should they assume they had to keep making pictures till they wore out their welcome. After five years, at the grand old age of twenty-three, they would still have time to train for any kind of career that suited their interests and talents. Satisfied with that hazy peek into the future, they went to be early and curled up, with Terry spooned into Sandy. They skipped the wild sex that night. It was just a loving couple getting their rest, feeling safe and comfortable in the embrace of a lover.
The next day was their own, a rare day off during production as the techs rushed to repair an outdoor set damaged by the wind. They went to the clothing optional beach they liked, shucking off in the parking lot next to the highway. Drivers honked as the pretty couple left the lot and went down the slope to the beach proper. Terry and Sandy took just a tatami mat, a couple of magazines, sunblock, and their own delectable selves to a nice spot near the light surf. This particular beach was predominantly gay, so the boys drew looks both of appreciation and recognition but folks did not bother them much. That was an unwritten rule: look but don't intrude.
"I think you have a secret admirer, Terry." Sandy said with a mischievous grin. "Mr. Muscles over there can't keep his eyes off you." he indicated with a nod.
Terry checked the man out. A body builder for sure, executing a slow tai qi routine the better to display his bulging muscular development.
"Too much and no thanks." Terry said dismissively. "To quote from the Rocky Horror Picture Show: I don't like a man with too many muscles. I prefer a slender twink, with um... blond hair, green eyes, a taut body, and devilishly good looks, like that."
"Oh, anyone we know?"
"You know Sandy, sometimes this seems so strange, making our living with our sex appeal. All those nude scenes are so many blatantly sensual. In Dracula, for the scenes where I walked the moors nude to my assignations with the vampire, the makeup guy spread a lustrous oil on my cock to reflect its swing better in the moonlight. My folks watched that. They've been great about everything, but they still don't let me run around the back yard and the pool bareass, like yours."
And some of my friends from high school guessed about the cock makeup. You can imagine what they said. You should have heard the suggestions that bit of news provoked. One old chum suggested I get injections of silicone jelly in the tips of my nipples to keep them permanently erect. Or in my lips to make them poutier. Another said I should get my aureoles tattooed dark red to contrast better with my white nips and tanned pecs. I'm only surprised no one suggested tattooing the head of my cock purple to make it look permanently aroused."
Sandy smiled at Terry's aggrieved look; the boy looked so damn cute when he was cross, his lips pursed in disapprobation but really looking as if he were getting ready to be kissed. Realizing what a good idea that was, Sandy laid a light kiss to Terry's lips then leaned over and nibbled on Terry's nips making them swell visibly.
"See, you don't need injections, just regular attention to these tender titties."
Terry snorted and continued.
"I mean surely we're more than just pretty faces and sexy bodies, Sandy. We're smart. We did well in school. We could have gone on to college. Even with our heavy workload, we are taking college credit courses on line in our spare time. We could train for any kind of career: writer, lawyer, EMT, computers, anything. Instead we take our clothes off in front of the camera and pretend to be someone else."
"Well Terry, it's not like we are uncomfortable with public nudity. I mean look at us here on the beach. Neither of us brought along a 'bathing costume' as the Brits call it. We both have run cross country barefoot and bare ass. When I was on the swimming team we trained in the nude and no one thought that untoward. We spend most of our private lives in the nude: at home, and the backyard, in bed of course, swimming and running, the beach here. Nudity is perfectly natural. When you think about it, it's clothes that are artificial, literally. They are man-made."
"OK, you have a point there, but look at those scenes where we are running away from danger. What always happens? We trip clumsily in typical movie damsel fashion, like: 'Help, I've fallen and I can't get up.' I once asked Jim Nicholls why he always made us do that even if it wasn't in the script. He admitted that it was to titillate for our gay fans with a good shot of our rumps, not to mention our dangly bits with us down on all fours like we were ready to get pronged. I mean, really! What's next? Are they going to have makeup paint our anal whorls a red to make them stand out better on camera?"
"Well Terry, you know that I have more experience cashing in on your sex appeal than you do. I got started in pictures first and before that was a male model for a couple of years. You get over being body shy real fast when you are a male model, especially when you have the 'street urchin' build they like to photograph in the nude to attract prurient attention rather than to show the clothing line. My physique along with my pretty boy looks made me more of a male glamour model than a fashion model, though all male models do nude publicity shots. Fashion model are bigger, around six feet, to show off the clothes, but my size didn't matter for glamour shots. If I wasn't entirely naked, I was usually close to it, photographed wearing just the suit jacket or a necktie and nothing else or with my tighty whitees pulled down below my butt cheeks. They liked to pair me naked with clothed models to emphasize my nudity and sex appeal."
"Even if I were modeling the actual clothes for a shoot, say fashion underwear, they would put me on a beach standing at the water's edge in boxers with three young gals in bikinis all happily engaged in pulling them right off my hips and down to my ankles. One of them tugged them all the way off, so there I was in Malibu stark naked with dozens of beach goers looking on and taking their own pictures. Then we did a second take. Finally the photographer had me lie on my back while two of the beauties supposedly held me down on the sand while the third waved the boxers over me like a trophy of my deflowering. One gal had my nuts wrapped in her fist to keep me 'under control'. The crowd actually applauded my humiliation! They were always putting me in the most outrageous poses too, some only a contortionist could be comfortable with, and telling me to look sexy."
"You know during a fashion show you have to change outfits fast for your next trip down the runway. We had dressers for that, guys and gals who would literally strip othe outfit you had just worn and pulled on the next outfit. No dressing rooms either, just a large room where the dressers tended to several models at once. Your job was to stand there naked while someone fussed with your hair to make it look all tousled and windblown, or a makeup artist brushed a bit of powder on your face or oiled your chest. Sometimes they would tweak and pinch or even bite the nipples to get them erect, like a fluffer in a porn movie. Even if I had a shirt on, they wanted my tits pushing out against the cloth. Meanwhile a nice lady is pulling a swimsuit or undies or jeans up over your bare butt, then arranging you appropriately in front, to left or right. The designers usually wanted a slight hint of the outline of your cock and balls showing through the cloth, though nothing too blatant, of course. And here I used to be a nice Catholic boy."
"Aha! So you have been intimately fondled by a female. Gosh, Sandy, I never knew you were bi!"
Sandy rolled on top of him and planted a big kiss on his lips.
"I'll show you bi, you little scamp!"
"Please, not in front of the children." Terry returned in a falsetto.
Sandy laughed and got to his feet holding out a hand to pull his lover up too. They walked down to the water and went in for a good long swim. Afterwards, they stretched out on the tatami and took a nap.
Waking up sooner, Terry propped himself up on an elbow and swept his gaze over his boyfriend lying beside him. No matter how familiar he became with that splendid face and body, Terry always marveled at how perfectly formed he was and how lucky he had been to find this Golden Boy. It was hard to pick a favorite feature. Was it his preternaturally beautiful face, its features relaxed at that moment as he napped, looking ever so innocent and vulnerable and angelic. Was it the boy's taut musculature, his fine bone structure, the strong shoulders or the narrow hips. Terry smiled as he remembered how Sandy's sharp hip bones could dig into his belly or ass during sex.
He watched as droplets of sweat formed on Sandy's smooth evenly tanned skin, glistening in the sunlight. Growing larger, they broke the surface tension that had held them in place and slid downhill, merging and collecting in rivulets in the channel between the pectorals and in the large hollow between the bottom of the rib cage and the hips.
Terry played with the sweat pooling in the blond boy's navel, smearing a bit with a finger tip to trace a circle on the flat belly, bringing a taste up to his tongue, bending down to lap up the salty beverage, then circled the aureole of the boy's nearer nipple with the tip of his tongue. When the sweat filled the navel to the brim, Terry pressed a spot on one side of Sandy's belly to let it drain down his hip. It was like watching a runnel of liquified cum draining off his belly onto the sheets. Terry smiled as he remembered sniffing and lapping that up too. As far as he was concerned, Sandy was a feast for all the senses.
Many of the onlookers, Mr. Muscles especially, thought it was the most erotic thing they had ever seen apart from actual sex.
When he woke up, Sandy saw Terry's intent look and asked: "What?", but his lover just shook his head and kissed him gently on the lips then lay his head on Sandy's chest. The blond boy wrapped his arms around his lover and held him gently for the longest while. It was one of those sublime moments in life you hope will never end.
Sandy later started talking about the skills that actors pick up so they would look good on camera. Neither of them had ridden a horse before getting into the movies. Now, with a big Western under their belts, they were comfortable in the saddle. It wasn't just for westerns though; you had your period dramas, sword and sandal, dungeons and dragons, even life styles of the rich and famous. You never knew when a producer would put a character up on a horse. They had trained at stuntman school to do choreographed fights and to handle firearms so they would look like they knew what they were doing in front of the camera, though neither was a particularly good shot from lack of practice.
They had also taken sword fighting lessons with Sam Chastain, the sword master who had trained Jason Eberly. The man was in his early sixties but still lean and fit enough to make two athletic lads look slow and clumsy, at least at first. It turned out to be very enjoyable. What young male doesn't have a bit of the swashbuckler in him?
Sometimes an actor waited for a role before, say, training on ice skates for a movie set in the world of ice hockey. Sometimes an actor only had to be able to fake it convincingly, for example, lip synching your vocals when you really couldn't sing or strumming the guitar when you really couldn't play. Actually Terry was good on the guitar and had a fine light tenor to go with it. Sandy wasn't exactly tone deaf, but he was definitely not musical.
"You know Terry, we've been pretty lucky in our encounters with dominants. Sure they like to put bottom boy submissives like us through our paces. My ass remembers the sting of the belts the Purgatory's Angels used on us. But those guys were all right. It was just sexy fun and games with them. Sooner or later we may get in over our heads. Some of those leather masters are way too serious about bondage and sex slavery. And it's not always voluntary. They don't just recruit, they sometimes conscript good looking kids, guys like us. We better get ready to deal with that kind of situation. I don't want to spend years chained in some fucker's basement dungeon, even with you for company, querido. Just think what happened to Jason Eberly in his first few years in pictures."
Jason had been kidnapped no less than three times, first by revolutionaries seeking a ransom of five million dollars. The second time, Jason fell into the clutches of an oriental potentate who turned him over to slave trainers with orders to break his will and transform him into a docile sex slave. Finally he was kidnapped by the leader of a mad cult on Haiti combining voodoo and Maoist political ideology who used him sexually in every conceivable way and came close to cutting his heart out as a sacrifice to their pagan gods.
"So what do we do, Sandy?"
"For starters we upgrade the alarm system at the town house. Then we get those new bio-electronic tracers implanted in our butts. It's not just for old folks or toddlers wandering off either. The new models have a range of more than a kilometer. I think we had better learn some kind of martial arts so we can fight off bad guys if we have too. We can use those skills on screen too. Also my uncle Owen worked the carnivals as a magician and escape artist. He taught me some tricks, which I can pass on to you."
"Tricks?"
"Picking locks with a nail or a safety pin or a paper clip, tensing your muscles when they tie you up to get some slack, how to contort your body to pass through bars. Do you know that if bars are set wide enough for your head, you can almost certainly wriggle the rest of you through?"
Soon the boys had a new hobby as escape artists. Terry was surprised to find it a lot of fun. He liked the challenge of it. It helped that they both had the ideal body type for an escape artist: short, slender, wiry, and flexible.
Of course, stage magicians use tricked-up props when they disappear from a locked trunk or box. The young actors were not interested in such illusionists' techniques. They wanted real results they could use, based on skills like picking locks or contorting the body, genuine acts of flexibility, strength and daring. It was more like: how do you get out of police handcuffs? Easy answer is keep a standard or universal key secreted on your person. Police handcuffs all use the same simple key. The mechanism can be picked easily enough too, if you have practiced a bit. For combination padlocks, use a shim to get it open.
For a lot of the techniques the boys had to refer to books and the web. Sandy had a big head start so he became their coach. Soon the boys were challenging each other to escape using some technique they had recently learned, sometimes as part of their bondage sex play. One evening Terry found himself in hinge type handcuffs and leg irons and couldn't get out of no matter how hard he tried. He just couldn't get the feel of the pick in that lock. He finally called out to Sandy to release him.
Sandy stepped into the room in leather shorts and combat boots, a military style cap on his head. He marched over to the boy kneeling helpless in his bonds. Dreadfully overacting in a way he would never do on the set, he smacked a riding crop against the palm of his hand and sneered.
"So my pretty one. I have you just where I want you. Heh, heh, heh."
Terry rolled his eyes as his lover snapped nipple clamps on his tits and fitted a ball gag in his mouth.
This was going to be one of those nights.
And it was.