Date: Sun, 25 May 2008 08:12:30 -0500
From: georgegauthierdc@yahoo.com
Subject: Jungle Boy 2

					Jungle Boy 2
					by GGDC

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

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

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

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

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

It is entirely fictional, with no resemblance intended to any person living
or dead.  Occasional references by characters to well-known motion pictures
and actors and others in the movie business are simply to lend
verisimilitude to a tale about persons in show business. None of the real
people mentioned in passing is in any way part of the tale.  Neither the
author nor any of his heirs or assigns has any connection whatsoever to the
movies except as fans.

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

			Chapter 1. Story Conference

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fair enough."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Your right", Leon the director agreed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Comanche brave, what else?

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

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

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

"In a sarong?" Potter

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

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

"No, Nazis." Potter

"Nazis? In the Pacific?" Nicholls

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

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

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

"Promise, chief".

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Already naked then." Potter

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

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

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

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

				Chapter 2 California

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What are you doing back there, Bill?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

				Chapter 3. Alturas

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

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

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

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

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

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

"So how fast on good ground?"

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

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

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

"So did you fire him?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

			Chapter 4. Hostage

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His English was flawless though spoken with a Spanish accent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

With that he tore off the tape.

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

"Enough! For now." Vasquez

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hank nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

				Chapter 5. Resolution

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vasquez was silent a moment, then said quietly.

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

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

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

The tortures stopped entirely. Enough is enough.

* * * * *

The General agreed that Vasquez would keep his word.

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

"And cruel" Hank said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You must not do this, Jefe."

"And why not, my most loyal lieutenant?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jason paused then simply said:

"Why?"

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

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

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

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

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

"No, a Comanche."

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

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

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

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

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

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