Date: Sat, 7 Jun 2008 04:03:58 -0500
From: George Gauthier <georgegauthier@verizonmail.com>
Subject: Jungle Boy 4

					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."