Date: Wed, 10 Nov 2010 11:47:20 -0500
From: George Gauthier <georgegauthierdc@gmail.com>
Subject: Jungle Boy 12

					Jungle Boy 12
					by George Gauthier

Fair warning: This story features explicit and graphic depictions of gay
sex.  The story takes place forty years in the future.

			Chapter 1. Story Conference

Martin Fletcher lifted the glass of iced tea from the tray borne by Luis,
his attentive houseboy, a cute dark haired Latino about nineteen. Luis wore
nothing but a tiny string thong, the pouch barely larger than his
hand. What a picture Luis's stance made, the boy's slender arm extended,
deltoid and biceps tensed, the veins running from armpit to wrist standing
out like on a fawn, his scrumptious young body leaning forward, as if he
were offering himself, not just the beverage.

Not that Fletcher was fey himself, but cute gay houseboys were all the
vogue in Hollywood these days, valued not only for their looks but also for
their training in household management at community colleges Why hire a
frumpy female housekeeper when you might have a professionally trained
pretty gay boy at your beck and call?

Actually, for Luis a string thong amounted to formal wear. Most of the
time, such as when he tended the lawn and plantings or cleaned the pool he
went around in the rude nude. It was something of a naughty game among A
List celebrities to see whose house boy was the most brazen. Fletcher's boy
thought nothing of walking out to the mail box or to fetch the papers in
the buff. He signed for deliveries that way too. It was all part of the
Hollywood scene. Casual public nudity was really no big deal -- not in the
fourth decade of the twenty-first century -- especially not in the movie
capital of the world.

While Fletcher awaited the arrival of his colleagues, the movie producer
looked on indulgently while his two favorite actors tossed a frisbee back
and forth on the lawn beyond the pool. He reflected, not for the first
time, that the sport might have been designed to show off the male
physique, especially when the athletes were fully nude as these two lads
were. Their evenly tanned forms darted here and there, bending and
twisting, jumping and lunging, occasionally tumbling on the grass, then
bouncing back up. It was a kinetic and sensual display of clean limbs,
tight torsos, and taut buns, all to the accompaniment of laughter and
cheerful voices. Barely twenty, the actors were the very picture of health
and youthful male exuberance and completely unselfconscious about their
nudity.

Though a devoted ladies man himself, Fletcher could recognize exquisite
male beauty when he saw it. It was not easy to decide which of the two
young beauties was the more stunning. On the one hand, there was the
impossibly cute red head, Terry Knowles, on the other, the classic blond
beauty, Sandy Barnett, aka the second Jungle Boy. Somehow, even as pretty
as Terry was, Fletcher would have to pick Sandy.

Sandy Barnett was blessed with the kind of good looks that turned heads. He
had been Marty's and Jason Eberly's personal choice to take up the mantle
of the Hollywood Jungle Boy. Like Jason in his prime, Sandy was
preternaturally beautiful, much prettier than a boy had any right to be,
with delicate features, a straight nose, finely arched brows, a chiseled
jaw line, high cheekbones, and large green eyes topped by a thatch the
color of straw.

In keeping with the traditions of the Jungle Boy pictures Sandy was no body
builder, certainly no Tarzan like Gordon Scott eighty years earlier. Sandy
had the physique of a boy not quite grown into manhood: short, slender, and
slightly built but toned and muscular, a swimmer's build then in contrast
to that of a cross country runner like Jason Eberly, the first Jungle Boy,
or Terry.

Sandy was a fine looking specimen but diminutive in stature, standing
barely four inches over five feet (163 cm) and weighing only 112 pounds (51
kg). He had a fawn-like physique but with a wiry musculature, toned and
taut from daily swimming and running and working out with light weights. As
a competitive high school swimmer, he had used the new permanent
depilatories to suppress the growth of hair on his body, little as it had
been, even in his armpits and at the fork of his legs, leaving him
permanently smooth and boyish.

Terry was no slouch in the looks department himself. A cute red head,
lightly freckled and with sky blue eyes, Terry was a beauty in his own
right. His slender but well-knit physique physique measured just over five
four (164 cm) (a half inch more than Sandy) and he weighted 117 pounds (53
kg). His fawn-like physique was the very opposite of the bulging muscles of
a gym bunny. He didn't have a gymnast's build but he was quite the acrobat
and liked to show off climbing and swinging on ropes and such.

Luis hovered attentively, always happy for the chance to ogle the two young
actors, especially Terry, whom he had a crush on. They came over maybe
twice a week to use his employer's outdoor pool, which was Olympic sized in
length though with only half as many lanes. Luis especially liked spreading
sun tan oil on the Terry's scrumptious body. The young actor's Irish
heritage made him susceptible to sunburn, even through his tan. Many is the
time the boy stretched out on a lounge chair and let Luis attend to every
portion of his body, not just the back.

The young actors broke off tossing the Frisbee when Marty Fletcher's other
guests arrived for the story conference. Together they would confer on film
concepts that would play to their stars' strengths, then set writers to
work on actual scripts. Fletcher's colleagues were his close friend the
veteran director, Jim Nicholls, plus Ed Veronese, the actors' agent, and
Leon Potter, studio production chief. Also on hand was Conrad Held. a
relative unknown in his early thirties till the spectacular success of
their first Dracula movie. Tall, dark, and elegantly handsome, Conrad had
played very well against the younger pair, making a fine villain.

The boys bounced over to join the others under the big lawn umbrella. Not
the least bit body shy, neither bothered to dress, settling their nude
sweaty bodies down on director's chairs and pouring themselves big tumblers
of iced tea. That was Fletcher's cue.

"My friends, the word of the day is: Bomba."

Sandy and Terry frowned, clueless. The Hollywood veterans reacted quite
differently. They had caught the reference.

"Good grief, Marty," Potter expostulated. I can't see selling that concept
to the moneybags of Hollywood. Why it's positively prehistoric."

Ed Veronese and Jim Nichols were not so adamant in their opposition, but
they did shake their heads doubtfully. Jim Nichols spoke up for both.

"I dunno, Marty, they churned out those Bomba pictures way back in the
1950s. Those were juveniles, kids stuff, with low production values, all
shot on a sound stage in black and white. Are you serious?"

"Never more serious." Fletcher replied. "Think about it. What could be more
appropriate for today's Jungle Boy or rather our own fine Jungle Boys,
Sandy and Terry here, than a revival of Bomba, the original Jungle Boy,
before anyone tagged Jason Eberly! Don't you get it. This character is a
pretty white boy, orphaned in the jungle and raised by apes. He swings
through the trees in constant danger from predators, snakes, hostile
tribes, slavers, man-eating plants, you name it. If we play this right,
we'll have a new franchise to alternate with Conrad's and the boys' Dracula
pictures."

Turning to the young actors, Flether explained that the Bomba pictures were
a spin-off from Johnny Weismuller's Tarzan pix. Johnny Sheffield, the child
actor who had played Boy in the Tarzan movies, was tapped to star in a
series of low budget jungle adventures of his own. Meanwhile Weissmuller
himself, already in his mid-forties, went on to make a series of Jungle Jim
quickies and then a television series. Their concept was simple: Tarzan in
clothes.

Leaning back in his chair, Fletcher smiled as he added:

"Of course, the original concept of Bomba is totally out of date. Those old
books and movies reflect a different social consciousness. The depiction of
sex in movies was a much less explicit.  Hell in movies made under the Hays
code, even married couples in the movies slept in separate beds.There were
strict limits on the display of the human body. You couldn't even show the
navel. Even in his loincloth Bomba seems chaste even sexless to today's
audience. A jungle boy like Bomba might have a schoolboy crush on some girl
but it never got physical."

So we have to update the concept. For starters, hold the loincloth. Our
Bomba runs around in the altogether like a wild animal. Also our boy will
be gay. So will his love interest. That would be you Terry. Your characters
fall in love after Bomba rescues the milquetoast city boy."

"So what else is new. Terry and I have made entire movies naked in every
scene." Sandy sighed theatrically. "Sorry Terry. No tastefully tailored
loincloths for us. And here I hoped we would be making another costume
picture. Someday I'd like to do a remake of 'Flame of Araby' with myself as
the Arab sheik and Terry as his red headed love interest, just like in the
original."

"Oh?" Terry asked.

"Herself, Maureen O'Hara." Sandy explained.

"So Terry starts out as a city boy, eh. So how do we get his clothes off?
Do I rescue him from hostile natives and take him back to my love nest
where I relieve him of every stitch -- pith helmet, shirt, and shorts -- or
will the natives do the honors stripping him to the buff before tying him
to a stake?"

"No need for sarcasm, Sandy" Fletcher replied somewhat
defensively. Naturally, you will both be nude in virtually all of your
scenes. That what your fans like to see. As for Terry, much as you might
like to strip him slowly and sensually in a love scene, the picture will be
more exciting if a gang of big blacks simply rips his clothes to shreds and
throws the rags in a fire. Thereafter he will have to go about in the
nude. Also, forget that stake. Terry would look more fetching strung up
between two trees spread-eagle fashion, tied at wrists and ankles in an X,
looking helpless and vulnerable and sexy."

"And to complete the scene, acacia thorns piercing his tits, trickles of
blood running down his ribs. Terry is kinky enough to get off on that."
added Conrad Helm, noted in the movie community for his sardonic wit. They
all knew that Terry was into BDSM, at least in a moderation, so the older
actor's verbal thrust was right on target.

"Hey guys!" Terry exclaimed. "Give me a break."

Both young actors rolled their eyes heavenward in supplication. Though
Conrad and Fletch did have a point. In their pictures, their characters get
captured rather a lot, usually stripped and treated roughly, often abused
both physically and sexually. The Jungle Boys could expect beatings,
whippings, and rape almost as a matter of course. And Terry in real life
did occasionally surrender himself for a few days or a week into temporary
sexual slavery with masters he knew and trusted. His rump had felt the kiss
of a cat of nine tails, buggy whip, fraternity paddle, and studded leather
belt. The only limitation was they couldn't leave permanent marks.

No surprise about the on-camera nudity. That was par for most of their
pictures. Though their first Dracula flick had been a welcome change of
pace. Oh it had a few nude love scenes, but Hollywood did not call it a
costume picture for nothing. Sandy loved to stalk through the fog swirling
an enveloping cloak. He fervently wished cloaks would come back into
fashion. Terry liked the formal wear that upper class Brits donned back
then when they dressed for dinner. These Bomba pictures were a return to
the tried and true, a Jungle Boy picture in more ways than one. The movie
would have the boys bare ass in virtually every scene. So lots of skinny
dipping in jungle pools, love scenes in the tree tops, swinging on vines,
running across the veldt their buns twitching fetchingly as they try to
escape a tribe of howling savages, and so forth.

The two young actors sighed philosophically. Been there done that. The boys
had not worn a stitch for entire pictures like their gay remakes of 'Blue
Lagoon' and 'When Dinosaurs Ruled the Earth'. If that was the only problem
with Fletcher's concept, it was not a problem at all. In truth, they knew
that their success in the movies owed less to their talents as thespians
than to their willingness to go in front of the camera in the skimpiest of
costumes or even none at all, revealing their sexy bodies to audiences
worldwide.

Even straight teens, always Hollywood's prime audience, flocked to their
movies. Terry and Sandy did not threaten their standards of
masculinity. With short slender physiques and pretty boy good looks as well
as their obviously gay personalities, their movies appealed to the straight
male audience as action comedies. What better way to take a movie about a
pair of bare ass punks killing dinosaurs or slaying vampires?

Fletcher gradually won over the doubters. It helped that the movie rights
to Bomba had lapsed long ago, so the studio would not have to pay to use
the character. Potter committed to lining up the money, and the discussion
turned to the script of their next Dracula picture. As always, no matter
how definitively destroyed in a previous picture, somehow the dread count
would manage to rise from the (un)dead.

			Chapter 2. On Location in the Yucatan

Within three months, 'Bomba, the Jungle Boy' started shooting on location
deep in the Yucatan. Many of the movie folks simply called it "Bomba 1" in
anticipation of a franchise. In this picture set in the nineteen thirties,
Bomba (Sandy Barnett) is the son of missionaries orphaned at eight years of
age when a hippo capsized their canoe and killed both parents. The orphan
was sheltered and raised by bonobos (in a nod to Edgar Rice
Burroughs). Nine years later, Bomba has grown into a fine looking specimen
of youthful male pulchritude.

Terry plays Bryce, the effeminate son of a bull-headed tycoon on safari in
Darkest Africa, who has dragged his seventeen year son old along to toughen
him up. The father hoped that the hardships of the wilds would force his
rather swishy son to man up. In the script, the tycoon fights off
kidnappers long enough for his son to get away. The story then revolves
around how Bryce and Bomba meet, fall in love, and join forces to rescue
the father who is being held for political reasons, not for ransom.

The ending is bittersweet as the father, even after his dramatic rescue,
cannot accept his son's gay relationship. His chief concern is not for his
son, but how he himself could explain to his rich friends that his son and
heir Bryce would rather run around the jungle stark naked with a homosexual
lover than return with him to civilization. The denouement is a way of
keeping Bryce at Bomba's side for the sequel. Already writers were working
on scripts including some that would have the pair traveling to India or
South America or New Guinea. With any luck, in coming years, the series
would set them down in all the jungles of the world, maybe even on other
planets with an alien abduction subplot.

Though both actors were nearly twenty-one, they could easily play
seventeen. Both were short and slightly built, and prettier than boys had
any right to be. It was quite common in movies for actors even in their
later twenties to play teenagers. Most did not really look it, but these
two young actors were uber-twinks and very much looked the part.

The young actors had little trouble adjusting to the oppressive tropical
heat or to the rigors of jungle existence. Their bare feet were toughened
from going without shoes back in the States. They had long since taken up
Jason Eberly's old practice of running cross country trails in the nude at
a clothing optional state park.

After three years in the business with all those nude scenes under their
belts (so to speak), neither actor bothered with clothing between takes,
figuring they might as well be bare ass off camera as well as on. During
rain delays, seated in their directors chairs, they waved off the umbrella
guy. What was the point? It was hot, they were naked, and the rain felt
good. Often the director didn't even halt the shoot, just incorporating the
rain into the script. What could be more natural in a jungle than a rain
shower. It was not called a rain forest for nothing.

The script called for plenty of stunts, which the young actors really had
to do themselves. Their physiques were so well known to audiences, that
substituting a stunt man for either of them would be jarringly obvious. The
audience just hates that sort of thing.

Sandy and Terry practiced rope and tree climbing, both with regular ropes
and those tricked up by the prop department to look like vines. The script
called for some vine swinging like Tarzan, and both boys wanted it to look
natural. No CGI substitutes for either of them. Sandy was strong enough he
could hoist himself upwards with just his arms. Terry could do it better,
like a gymnast with the legs straight out so that his nude body formed an
L. Their climbing attracted quite a few cameras. Few forms of exercise were
better suited to display the strength and agility of the human frame.

Actually they looked just great, both of them. The muscle bundles of
shoulders and arms stood out under the smooth tawny skin of the two
lads. Back muscles bunched and moved erotically. Buns tightened and dimpled
fetchingly. The boys always practiced climbing in the nude, never no mind
who was watching. Their slight builds and natural agility made them natural
for scrambling in the tree tops, swinging on ropes, collecting fruits or
the occasional exotic orchid. They looked like two nature children, perched
on high branches surveying their jungle domain, their evenly tanned,
hairless bodies toned, taut, slender, and boyish.

The camera loved them. Although short, their bodies were well proportioned
and incredibly toned, taut and trim. Add in killer abs and all-over tans,
they was poetry in motion. In every picture the director made sure to do
several slo-mo shots just to show off his stars' athletic prowess and raw
animal appeal. No one bothered with coy camera angles any more. If a shot
called for a good look at their bare rumps or even the full monty, then so
be it.

The scene where the two boys meet is typical of the genre. It owed more to
Sandy's conception of the picture than Fletcher's original notions. They
meet, they fight, and even though they do realize it, the audience knows
that it is a case of love at first sight. And it not hostile natives who
strip Terry's character naked. He does that himself for their first love
scene:

"'Ware below!" Bomba calls out as he cuts several coconuts free from the
cluster of palm leaves at the top of the tree and lets them fall to the
sand with a heavy thud.

"Hell and damnation! Hey, you up there blondie. Are you trying to crack my
skull open?"

Surprised, Bomba looks down to see a young white man on the ground, nursing
a sore shoulder. The nude climber slides down the trunk of the palm to the
sand below.

"Are you all right, Red?"

"See for yourself, Yellow." he retorts with considerable asperity.

The red haired youth is wearing safari garb: shorts, shirt, and boots
though topped off with a Yankees baseball cap. He slides his shirt half way
off his shoulders to display a large bruise where the heavy fruit struck
him in its descent.

"What kind of an idiot are you, Blondie, to drop coconuts on your betters
without warning?"

"Now look, I am sorry. Maybe I did not delay long enough but I did shout a
warning before I let the coconuts drop. And what is with this "betters"
stuff, anyway. You're just a kid yourself. You can't be twenty years old
and likely less!" Bomba replies hotly.

"Really, boy? I'd say you cannot be more than fifteen yourself, to judge by
appearances. Here you are a bare assed runt without a hair anywhere on his
body, not even down there. And running around stark naked like a native
child. Do you have any idea who my father is? Why he could buy this whole
jungle."

"Well at least I look out for myself. I am on my own. I don't try to
impress folks with my father's importance. That's kid stuff. Look, maybe I
was in the wrong there, getting careless with the coconuts, but that was an
accident, and I am sorry for it. But I did not intentionally give offense
the way you have been doing, my red headed friend. I think you went over
the line, belittling me that way."

"If anyone has belittled you, little boy, it is Mother Nature herself!" the
angry rich kid retorts with a barking laugh.

That does it. Though not combative, Bomba does not suffer fools gladly or
allow himself to be mocked. He had after all apologized for his
carelessness and given the kid a chance to apologize in turn. How dare this
rude fellow continue to belittle him in that fashion.

With a pang of regret that this was a white boy of about his age who might
have become a friend, Bomba throws an inexpert punch at the red head's
chin. With the benefit of boxing lessons his father forced on him, Bryce
lets it slip past his shoulder and punches Bomba hard in the solar
plexus. The smaller boy goes down on to his knees and haunches, the wind
knocked out of him, gasping for breath. He can hardly hold back tears of
shame at how easily he had been bested by a single punch.

Suddenly the other youth kneels beside him, holding him gently by the
shoulders, murmuring words of regret.

"Here, sit up straight, kid. It will help you breathe easier. Look, I am
really sorry I hit you just now, catching you with that sucker punch. It
was all my fault, provoking you that way. But I have something of a
temper. It runs in the family, but like a squall at sea it soon blows
over. I can never stay mad for long, especially not with a nice looking kid
like you. Can we just, well, start over, blondie? I think we might become
friends. Look, what do I call you? My name is Bryce, Bryce O'Hanlon. I am
Irish, actually Irish American. I am from New York."

"Uh, that's OK with me, I guess. My name is Bomba, at least that is what I
go by these days. I am English though of German extraction. That wasn't too
popular back home after the Great War which is why my parents left for
Africa." They shake hands firmly, if a little warily.

"Aren't you rather far from England, Bomba, and what kind of a name is that
anyway?"

The Jungle Boy explains about his origins and that the name was conferred
on him by tribesmen who could not twist their tongues around the consonants
of his original name, Wolfgang Schleiermacher.  Soon the boys are chatting
away companionably, their earlier discord forgiven if not quite
forgotten. They half kneel, half sit side by side, their bare legs and
flanks touching.

Human nature and youthful hormones do the rest. Although not very
experienced himself, it is Bryce who introduces Bomba the Jungle Boy to
human sexuality. It was one of their tenderest scenes reflecting the actual
love between the two actors, though of course this is the movies so there
is no actual intercourse on camera. This movie is action-adventure, not a
porno flick.

Bryce (Terry) can hardly keep his hands off Bomba. Jungle wise though he
might be, the boy is so naive, so young, so beautiful, so close, and so
very naked. Bomba even smells good: of sweat, and salt, and good clean
boy. No wonder Brendan's comforting hand slides down from Bomba's shoulder
along his spine down to the boy's cleavage. Brendan's other hand slips from
his shoulder to finger the blond boy's nipples and to stroke his chest the
ridges of his belly, and his inner thighs. Bomba is confused but does not
mind the exploratory touching, either. He actually sidles closer, putting
his arm around Bryce's waist, so their bodies press together.

"This feels very nice Bryce, sitting here together, feeling the warmth of
your body. I hope you won't mind my putting my arm around you, holding you
close. No, don't stop what you are doing with your hands. I have never had
hands on me like this. It feels good. It is making me tingly all over. If
you want to touch me, to play with my body, go ahead. You have my
permission to touch me anywhere, even in my secret places."

Bryce avails himself of the privilege reaching between Bomba's legs. Bomba
gulps as the older youth excites him. Never before has a man's touch
brought such satisfaction to the Jungle Boy. He accepts these ministrations
willingly, murmuring contentedly as the red haired young man's hands touch
him virtually everywhere.

"Uh, Bomba, don't take this the wrong way, but do you have any idea how
truly beautiful you are? You are so much prettier than any girl I ever
saw. This firm young body of yours would make a sculptor drool with
envy. Those old time Greeks and Romans liked to put up statues of athletic
boys, nudes just like you."

"You don't look so bad yourself, Bryce. I don't remember much about those
ancients. My school days are only hazy memories, but I suspect they would
like to drool over you. I don't mind admitting that I am close to doing the
same myself. Not that I really know how to take it further than a kiss. The
fact is that I have never been with anyone, man or woman or boy. That does
make me feel like I am still fourteen, but I really am seventeen, as of
last month anyway, just as I told you."

"And still a complete virgin?".

The Jungle Boy reddens and nods, too embarrassed to speak further.

"Given how few opportunities you have had around here, that is not
surprising. Bomba, would you let me make love to you, to teach you about
male love? I am sure you would like it. I know I would. You are the sexiest
creature I ever encountered."

The blond boy's nervous nod indicates his assent.

Brendan has them gather some palm leaves for a bed which they lay out in
the shade. The rest of the tender love scene has little dialogue, their
physical union filmed tastefully by Jim Nichols.

Afterward, to seal their bond, Bomba tells his new found lover:

"To everyone else in Africa, I am still Bomba the Jungle Boy, but you must
call me Wolf in private".

He pronounces it with an initial V sound, the German way. Bryce hugs the
blond boy, pleased with this confirmation of their intimacy. And so ends
their big love scene. Actually Potter thought Bomba a dumb name for a cute
twink like Sandy's character, but they were stuck with it, hence the
alternate name of Wolf.

It was a very sexy scene, yes, but it was explicit rather than
graphic. There was no doubt as to what was happening but they did not show
anatomical details. Restrictions on what could be shown in the movies or on
television were virtually non-existent at this late date, some sixty years
after the first instance of full-frontal nudity on American TV. Almost
anything could be presented on screen. Jason Eberly had ridden that wave of
change starting twenty years earlier, doing many pictures in the rude
nude. Sandy and Terry were following in his (bare) footsteps.

There is a lot of down time for an actor on a movie set as the crew gets
things ready. Actors even have stand-ins who take their place while
cameras, lighting, and sound are set up. So the boys had time on their
hands. Both boys were natural athletes and used their free time in active
pursuits, now virtually always in the nude.  They liked to swim but did so
only when the waters were clear and they had a boat with them and a lookout
armed with a rifle in case of caimans or other predators. The boys had been
competitive athletes and could do laps for a couple of hours at a
time. They often played in the water with a large inflated beach ball or
clambered onto the bank and threw a frisbee around.

			Chapter 3. Taken

One sunny Saturday Sandy Barnett went out the door of his parent's home
near the Gulf Coast of Florida. The young actor's folks were away at a
medical convention. So Sandy had flown in to see his parents off and to
house sit. Someone had to feed the cats and water the plants, and pick up
the mail.

The boy was unconcerned that he was out in public on a residential side
street stark naked. That was nothing the neighbors hadn't seen before. To
them it was just "the Barnett kid" in the altogether trotting along local
streets as usual.

As a Florida lad Sandy considered clothes something of a bother what with
global warming and all. The state's climate was almost tropical these
days. It was only smart to be careful about heat exhaustion or even heat
stroke. Going bare ass was Sandy's coping mechanism. Besides, he hated tan
lines almost as much as body hair. Sandy had neither.

By the middle of the twenty-first century nudity taboos were dying in
America, the last holdout for prudery in the developed
countries. Generational change was the biggest part of the reason. Young
people did not share the attitudes of their prudish elders. The law too had
changed with the times, through enactment of new statutes and judicial
decisions that recognized public nudity in some contexts as a
constitutional right. With global warming still unchecked, many of the
younger sort saw public nudity as a practical solution to climate change.

There were many clothing optional beaches around with nude beach volley
ball competitions as well as nude swimmers and sunbathers. The larger urban
parks had sections given over to nude sunbathing much like the Englischer
Garten in Munich. Runners for cross country teams thought nothing of loping
down the back road or cross country trails in parks, barefoot and
absolutely starkers on their training runs, emulating the Olympians of
ancient times. You had to do something pretty outrageous these days to get
arrested for what they used to call public indecency. That suited Sandy
just fine.

Much of his time outdoors was spent at nude beaches and pools or along
running trails in clothing optional parks. In high school he had trained
and competed nude on his swim team. Did that make him an exhibitionist?

Weren't the paparazzi with their intrusive photo drones really voyeurs?
Originally developed for the military, video drones were a standard tool
for the paparazzi. At least the law had been changed to discourage the near
constant surveillance of celebrities by those miniature helicopters. The
video surveillance drones had to stay prescribed distances from their
residences and work places, but celebrities were fair game everywhere else.

Sandy had lost count of how many videos of him were posted to the
internet. The paparazzi particularly liked to capture him walking and
running laps or trails where his nude body was more visible than say
swimming at the beach. Enterprising photographers had managed to take
videos of him from the bottom of swimming pools, providing their viewers
with an excellent view of Sandy's stroke. Actually the first such videos
had been taken by his coaches when he had trained and competed nude on his
high school swim team. Of course their purpose, at least originally, was
pedagogical. Not so the newer sort.

And really, could not the same thing be said about his movie audiences?
Weren't movies really a socially approved form of voyeurism, a window into
the private lives of mostly fictitious persons?

Still Sandy was rightly proud of his tempting body and knew full well how
easily the sight of it could excite concupiscence in persons of both
genders.

That day Sandy was running alone. After production wrapped on Bomba 1,
Terry stayed in Hollywood for a few days, putting in long hours doing some
voice acting in an animated feature.

Sandy trotted along the sidewalk, taking it easy because concrete could be
hard on one's feet. He would pick up the pace once he reached honest
dirt. The running trails were constructed of dirt or sand or wood chips and
much easier, orthopedically speaking.

As he ran along, Sandy fell into a state of euphoria and contentment known
as a runner's high, induced by endorphins bonding to the pleasure centers
of the brain. His mind wandered as he followed the twists and turns of a
familiar route which he could almost navigate in his sleep. After eight
miles he reached the parcours course for his twice weekly traceur
training. This was a line of outdoor equipment stationed a short jog apart,
each designed to strengthen a specific muscle group or stretch the body.

Like most experienced traceurs Sandy trained barefoot, said to be the best
way to feel the environment.  As the saying goes ""Bare feet are the best
shoes!" Well if so, then bare ass made the best outfit. Sandy always liked
the kiss of the sun on his back and bare buns. When he was being honest, he
admitted it made him feel so very naked. The young actor was something of
an exhibitionist, after all. In a way that was why he had gone into
pictures in the first place and why he usually wasn't bothered by the
paparazzi posting nude videos of his athletic exploits.

On this particular day he found the parcours course already in use by a
tall dark haired man barefoot like himself but dressed in skimpy skin-tight
lycra shorts. They were sky blue just like the man's eyes. In back the
shorts concealed his cleavage about as much (really as little) as ballet
tights did for male ballerinos, if there was such a word. The thin fabric
delved deep between his buns hugging the globes of his ass. In front, well,
suffice it to say you could pretty much guess that the man was not
circumcised. Sandy found himself wondering why the man bothered with them
at all.

Sandy found himself trying not to ogle the other athlete. The man looked to
be in his late twenties and stood much taller than Sandy did by at least
two hand spans. Powerfully built, lean but muscular, the stranger moved
with the grace of a panther. His face was comely but with a manly set to
it, with a square chin, dark hair and blue eyes.

It was all the thunderstruck youth could do not to exclaim "Wow!" out
loud. The man was very much the dominant type that appealed to his
submissive side. He badly wanted this potent male to make love to
him. Actually Sandy's face must have given him away, for the man smiled and
winked at him. Sandy gulped and tried to appear nonchalant, drawing on his
acting skills. Though by now he was a good actor, he knew that his
performance fooled no one.

"Hi, kid" the man called out. "The name is Jake. I haven't seen you on the
course before but you look like you belong here. Parcours is just the thing
to maintain that swimmer's build of yours. You're kinda small, but you have
one of those physiques that is more about quality than quantity -- taut and
toned and zero body fat. And I know what I am talking about, Blondie. I am
a professional traceur. I do commercials and train folks at a gym I own."

"Thanks, and the name is Sandy."

"Sandy eh. I'll bet you are on a high school team. These days kids in
competitive sports mostly train and compete stark naked like in the ancient
Olympics. Not that I'm complaining -- not at all. The look suits
you. Listen, Sandy, if you like, I could critique your form. No charge for
a stunning blond boy like you. I think I would like to get to know you."

Sandy accepted the offer, pleased that the man had not recognized him nor
tried to gush at him like so many fans did. Jake just liked what he
saw. And why the hell not? False modesty had never been one of Sandy
faults. The two males alternated at each exercise station. Jake went first
so show how the routine should be done. Then Sandy took his turn under the
watchful eye of his new-found trainer.

It wasn't long before the man graduated from verbal tips to putting his
hands to Sandy's body, to guide him into proper stance and form. Oh he had
to stand back at some stations where the body had to been in constant
motion, like hopping over a low obstacle. At others, you did the exercise
in place. These gave the man his maximum opportunity to put his hands on
the boy.

Already hooked though he didn't quite know it, Sandy readily accepted the
tactile as well as verbal guidance. So when Sandy bent all the way over a
waist high support and hooked his ankles to brace himself for repeatedly
lifting his torso up to vertical, Jake could run his hands all along
Sandy's back and bum and legs. To start off Jake kept the boy bent all the
way over, his bare ass temptingly uppermost, hands clasped behind his head
as the big man explained which muscle group in his back and ass and limbs
were stressed with the exercise.

At one point, Jake reached between Sandy's legs and tugged his genitals
back, simply commenting that the boy surely did not want to press his
weight down on such a vulnerable portion of his anatomy. He ran his hands
along the boy's back to his rump, naming each muscle and its function in
the body. Jake liked to keep his fingers pressed lightly to the young
actor's back and bum, his thumbs tracing the top of his cleavage as he went
through the full range of motion, the better to gauge muscle tension and
tone, of course.

When Sandy was doing pull ups, Jake pressed at his abs and belly
demonstrating that pull ups stress more than just the arms and
shoulders. The whole body is in tension. As Jake's hand fell away, it
accidentally brushed the young actors genitals. Between exercises, he had
Sandy halt a minute as he knuckled or kneaded largely imaginary knots out
of the young actor's muscles. Sandy had never experienced anything like
this treatment. It was a combination of training, exercise, anatomy lesson,
massage, and foreplay all rolled into one.

Then it was on to yet another station a couple of hundred meters along the
trail. Sandy flushed as the man looked down at the fork of his legs where
Sandy's cock had visibly plumped up. No it wasn't dripping, not yet, but
there was no doubt the sexy youth was becoming aroused. Sandy flushed and
stammered in embarrassment. Here this nice man was trying help him, and all
he could think of was jumping his bones. He chided himself for his
forwardness and was relieved to see that the man was not offended but
nodded to him with an amused tolerance.

"I know that, at your age, you can't rightly help it kid. It's almost
inevitable when a virile grown man like myself takes a keen interest in a
nice looking twink like you, with that trim body of yours."

Relieved to see that he had not given offense and that his personal charm
was still working, Sandy let Jake set the pace for the rest of the parcours
course, letting Jake continue to take considerable liberties with his bare
body, touching and feeling and stroking him everywhere. Once finished Sandy
readily assented to the man's suggestion that they jog over to his place,
which was no more than a half mile away for a shower, a sports drink, and
perhaps a swim when they had had their second wind. As they jogged down a
path along the border of the park, Jake called a halt, saying he recognized
the van parked there as belonging to a friend of his. Looking inside they
saw no one, but the passenger door was unlocked so Sandy figured the driver
must be somewhere about. Jake slid the side door open and reached in for
something. Suddenly he exclaimed.

"Well I'll be damned. Look at that, Sandy."

When the unsuspecting youth poked his head inside, Jake pushed him to the
floor and bent his arm painfully behind his back, snapping handcuffs on his
wrists. A kidney punch took all resistance out of the boy as the man fitted
leg irons to his ankles and shoved a dildo gag into his mouth, locking the
straps behind his head followed by a blindfold. Lifting the boy's bound
body fully into the back of the van, the man locked the doors, found his
keys, and drove off to who knew where.

Sandy was helpless, a captive of this stranger who had fooled him
completely. He was entirely at the man's mercy. What would become of him
now? The bound boy struggled and rolled around as much as he could,
deliberately banging his feet against the side of the van when it pulled to
a stop to attract attention. The man cursed and climbed into the
back. Suddenly the boy felt a prick in his buttock as Jake injected a drug
to knock him out completely. As the boy lost consciousness he thought of
Terry and how much he loved him and how much he was going to miss him. Then
everything went dark.

			Chapter 4. In Captivity

Sandy woke up in a cage like those they use to transport the largest
dogs. He was still shackled but no longer gagged or blindfolded. He sensed
he was in a large room but he could not get a good idea of its real
size. The only illumination was a feeble night light set shoulder height
next to a doorway. Sandy also had no idea how far he had been
transported. It could have been hundreds of miles to another state. Some
considerable time must have elapsed since his capture since Sandy badly
needed to empty his bladder.

Suddenly the door opened and the lights came on. Once his eyes adjusted,
the young captive could see he was in a large underground room fitted out
as a dungeon. It was lined with sheeting made up to resemble cut stone,
though the effect was more corny than intimidating. Three leather clad men
surrounded him. One was Jake, the other two wore small masks. All of them
were large men and bare to the waist. Jake's familiar voice rang out with
false bonhomie.

"Hello, Sunshine. My oh my, you look positively scrumptious. Today will be
largely an intro to what you can expect from me and The Brotherhood. Frank
and Jim here are the lucky winners of a drawing to see who gets first crack
at you."

Sandy could hear the capital letters. He was in the clutches of an
organization, not just an individual. They sounded serious. Still maybe he
could talk his way out of this.

"You do realize that you are criminals, every one of you. There's
kidnapping for starters. And now you're talking rape."

"Yes Sandy, and aggravated assault, sexual assault, false imprisonment,
etc. We aren't worried, though you oughta be. You're the one in trouble,
kid."

"Let me explain the facts of life. No one knows you are here. Hell no one
knows you are missing and they won't for a few days at least, not with your
boyfriend out on the West Coast. There is no way to trace us either. It was
your misfortune to jog over to the park when no one else was around. Make
up your mind. You are here for as long as we care to keep you."

"I won't promise we won't hurt you, but we will not damage you, not
permanently, not a lovely fawn like you. We have brought you here for rough
sex, not to inflict pain for its own sake, much less to injure you. You
might find that hard to believe during the next few hours as you writhe
under the lash, but that is just to instill obdedience."

"Now just as we are not full-fledged sadists, we know that you are not a
true masochist, but it really would help you adjust if you could get your
mind beyond the concept of pain as totally negative. After all, pain is a
warning, nature's way of pointing to an injury, which in your case will
never be serious anyway. Just welts and bruises and soreness from the sting
of the whip or the smack of the paddle. Oh and your muscles will ache too
from confinement and immobilization in awkward positions. Nothing too bad
really.

"Some people, the true masochists, get off on pain. They actively seek it
out and embrace it, the wiring in their brains transforming it into
pleasure. Others much less so. Still everyone has a bit of the masochist in
him, most especially sexual submissives like yourself. Try to work with
that side of you. Believe me, it will help."

"Your sort gets off on losing control to dominant males who subjugate you
to their lusts. It's a craving. You want them to take charge of you and
force you to do the naughty things you are too chicken to ask for or seek
out on your own. That is where bondage comes in. It forces you to face up
to your true nature."

"You see, both the masochist and the submissive feel the fight or flight
impulse, just as everyone does, but bondage makes either impossible, takes
both out of the equation. Accept your fate. We have you and we will do with
you whatever we desire, for as long as we desire. Something in that should
appeal to an abject submissive like you."

"I would tell you not to bother begging but you probably will
anyway. Naturally it will have no effect. Do you really think that men like
us would be moved by pleas from a punk kid like you? That is what you are
now, a punk, in the sense of that word in prison slang: a passive and
effeminate male homosexual of tender years. Anyway your pleas, your sobs or
your screams are all so much music to our ears."

"And yes, all this frank talk admittedly is part of the psychological
manipulation we will put you through but it no less effective for your
knowing that. So welcome to your first dungeon experience with The
Brotherhood. Now to work."

With that Jake and his men dragged the boy out of the cage and shackled him
by the wrists to an overhead beam. Short as he was Sandy's toes barely
grazed the concrete floor. Then they pulled his legs wide apart and
shackled his ankles to the floor. With his body in an X, he was totally
vulnerable.

One by one the men embraced the boy like a lover pressing his slender nude
body to their hairy chests and leather clad legs. They made lewd love to
the boy, kissing him and thrusting their tongues into his mouth and
touching him intimately. Callused hands explored his trim body, grabbing,
squeezing, slapping, and spanking. They told him how sexy he looked strung
up in an X, which made every part of his body accessible and vulnerable to
whatever they desired to inflict on him.

Then the men took their turns with Sandy's ass. Jake started off spanking
his buns, getting him warmed up, he called it. In turn the men stepped
behind him and slammed their cocks into him. At least they had lubed him
beforehand. As they fucked him, they reached around to manipulate him,
getting him hard, but they never let him climax. Soon the boy's distended
bunghole was dripping with their manly juices until the men took to shoving
a butt plug up his ass when they weren't actually fucking him.

In between fuck sessions the men whipped Sandy's back and legs body or
caned his rump. Jake also flicked a light riding crop at his genitals. As
Sandy found out to his sorrow, things could go very badly for a small youth
in heavy bondage locked into a dungeon with three men with cruel streaks
and nasty imaginations.

All the while they belittled Sandy with hypocritical reproaches and trash
talk, Jake most of all.

"You silly fool, putting yourself in my power. I almost laughed out loud at
the parcours course, the way you let a complete stranger put his hands on
you everywhere, the way you were nearly drooling and dripping, your boy
cock halfway engorged with blood. What a slut!"

Look at yourself in that mirror in the wall, hanging helpless, your feet
drawn apart, ankles chained to rings set in the floor, a kilo of iron
hanging from your nuts, alligator clamps on your tits.  Sharp teeth eh. You
cannot see it of course, but take my word for it. Your back and ass and
legs are criss-crossed with red welts. Anyone for tic-tac-toe?"

"Here you hang, a small naked hairless boy, cringing before his
betters. That is where you belong, little one. You were made to be used by
strong men as a fuck toy, you little cocksucking pansy faggot. A cock crazy
youth like you needs to be fucked hard and often and by men who know
how. And we are those men."

"See how I am marking your tawny skin, putting red welts on your chest and
the front of your legs. Afterwards I am going to lift them up and chain
your ankles next to your wrists, turning you into a human wishbone,
helpless and suspended in bondage for our delectation. I intend to beat
that round rump of yours till you are sobbing and begging me to stop. Oh I
will stop for a while, but only to thrust my manhood into your punk
ass. Maybe my male juices will make a man of you. Nothing else has, you
little fairy."

Sandy's head whirled at verbal assault and the sensations coursing through
his bound body, a wild combination of pain and humiliation and lust. He had
a fire in his belly, and his cock was rock hard. He couldn't believe he
would ever feel aroused by such rough treatment. Yes he was in pain, and
the trash talk made him feel about two inches tall. What did that say about
his masculinity or the fact that he only got harder when Jake snapped the
riding crop against the shaft of his erection. Oh they were getting to him
all right, Jake and this Brotherhood of his. He was more like Terry than he
had ever realized. How long could Sandy hold onto his identity?

He thought of Terry and how his kinky lover might respond more readily to
this kind of sexual torment. Poor Terry would be even more vulnerable to
this assault on his sense of identity. Sandy had read about the Stockholm
Syndrome. These men could break Terry utterly, more easily than Sandy
himself. Was that their future, a pair of shell-shocked sex slaves, their
wills permanently subordinate to their new masters. This was all too
similar to the treatment by their captors in the mountains two years
ago. He hoped these men would not drag Terry into this hell hole too.

At one point, he simply had to let go his bladder. The yellow stream
splashed on the floor then flowed to a drain in the corner. That provoked
more hilarity. As he hosed off the concrete, one captor suggested they fit
him with a diaper. Another suggested a balloon catheter to block his
urethra giving them total control of that orifices to match the alternating
cocks and butt plug up his ass. Fortunately that was just trash talk.

From their talk among themselves Sandy realized that the whippings had more
than one purpose: to establish their control, to instill discipline, to
mark his body, and to let them watch him writhe sexily under the lash. At
least they weren't breaking the skin. No scarring.

"You have no idea how sexy you look, Sandy, chest heaving, muscles bunching
up, your torso twisting, trying to avoid the next snap of the riding crop
or slash from the whip, your thighs pulling at the shackles on your ankles,
trying to shield your groin. All quite useless of course. We have access to
every part of your body and all your bodily orifices.

Adding to his misery were the red lights on the video cameras that meant
these men were recording every moment of his degradation. Sandy tried to be
brave it out, but gradually gave in to a sense of hopelessness. This wasn't
the movies, where the director would soon call 'Cut'. He was trapped,
immobilized, spread-eagled, his small body vulnerable. The sting of the
whips, impalement on their cocks, the trash talk had taken their
toll. Caged, shackled, tormented, raped, and humiliated, is it any wonder
that a slightly built boy of only twenty might give in to despair and
self-pity. Tears welled up in his eyes at the thought of what his fate
might be in the hands of his captors. Jake noticed it too.

"Har. Already with the water works. At any moment you'll burst into tears
and start sobbing. Go ahead, you cock crazy little faggot. Bawl your eyes
out. That will only confirm your utter lack of manliness, you scrawny
little punk."

Jake's helper Frank typically put the boy on his knees or on all fours, his
small body bound tight at ankles, knees, elbows, and wrists, a slave collar
locked around his throat. Frank chose oral service for starters.

Sandy gasped for air around the invading shaft, his spit and drool leaking
out of the corners of his mouth as Frank face fucked him all the while bad
mouthing him with the crudest and vilest of language, occasionally slashing
at his bound body with a riding crop.

"Ah, the soft whimper of defeat and submission." Jake intoned. "That means
this lad won't be giving us any trouble. Isn't that right, little one?" he
asked, patting Sandy's rump in approval. "Pretty little thing, isn't he,
Jake whether kneeling or bent over and submissive, ass in the air. Such a
nice trim figure too: good chest, round rump, and taut buns. The best boy
flesh I have ever encountered."

Frank slapped his ass hard, as if he needed a reminder to stay in place,
bound as he was. The leather man unsnapped his cod piece preparing for the
fuck. He put his big hands to Sandy's rump, squeezing his cheeks, digging
in rather hard actually, then used his thumbs to stretch the bung hole,
lubricating it with what smelled like olive oil. Sandy felt his hairy chest
scrape his back as Frank laid his body over him, practically engulfing him,
covering him much like a stallion does a filly, using his knees to prod the
legs wider apart to give him better access to the battered boy hole. When
he was all the way in, deeply seated, he sighed.

"Ah, you have no idea how wonderful it feels to be clutched by the velvet
warmth of your depths, little Sandy or should I call you Alexander. That is
your full name isn't it? Small and tight as you are, yet you can
accommodate even a man of my dimensions. Now I am going to pump you
steadily. I suspect you will get off on that, but even if you do not, I
certainly shall."

"Right on Frank," Jake said enthusiastically. "Lay it into him. He is a
pretty one, all right. You had the right of it. Running around buck nekkid
like that, prettier than any girl, the youngster was fairly begging to be
treated like the frisky little filly that he is. He was lucky he caught the
attention of The Brotherhood before more savory characters got him. You
will thank us for this one day, you little tramp."

"From the way the boy is moaning and shuddering in arousal, you might think
he was enjoying this. Then again,he is a professional actor. Lucky you,
Sandy. Hollywood saved you from a life as some rich man's catamite or boy
toy. That's true, isn't it, Blondie? You would otherwise be a kept boy and
likely get passed around a lot at orgies."

The man grabbed Sandy's shoulders and pulled his whole body back onto his
cock, sinking all the way in. He held it there a moment then withdrew till
only the head of his cock was within the anal ring. Then he reversed
direction and shoved all the way in again, rhythmically pumping
away. Sandy's body quivered as the man's cock stroked his prostate setting
off waves of arousal. The hapless youth grew light-heated, carried away by
a tide of emotion compounded of sexual arousal, humiliation, his
helplessness, and a deep seated sense of abject subservience to dominant
males.

"Tighter than a virgin." grunted the leather man. "Our lucky day. You never
just know what you might flush out in the country on those running
trails. Though in your case Sandy we have been watching you with video
drones. So it was no accident Jake was there to snare you. Why don't you
try his mouth, Jake, and I will continue pronging this end. Alexander, get
those pouty lips of yours working on my friend's cock."

The big man used Sandy's ears to control the pace. He must still have been
very horny, for he reached his climax very soon, pulling out at the late
minute and shooting his splooge all over the blond boy's face. Jake used
his still tumescent cock like an obscene paint brush to spread his gism
over his victim's forehead, cheeks, nose, and chin.

Meanwhile Frank pumped away at his ass, punctuating his thrusts with a
series of spanks. Frank felt reached under and found the rigid boy cock and
pulled it painfully back between his legs, frigging it up and down as a
farmer does a cow's teat, literally trying to milk him. His finger rubbed
the sweet spot under the cockhead time and again, inducing the most
exquisite sensation. Soon Sandy was moving my hips not just to raise his
ass meet his own lusty thrusts but also to rub his manhood against Frank's
fingers, trying to bring himself off.

"Har! Just as I thought. The little slut is hard. He is just begging for
it. Oh, I know, Alexander, a boy like you can't rightly help himself. Your
kind needs cock bad, lots of cock. Your day isn't complete unless you get
impaled on the horn of a real man. That is why your little thing is hard
now, because I am working away at you."

Through his tears, Sandy wanted to protest that his erection was just the
natural reaction of any bottom boy getting pronged and having his cock
manipulated. Even straight men could get hard from anal rape. His
tumescence certainly was no indication of consent. But all Sandy could do
was grunt his objections his mouth stuffed with cock. Even if he could have
talked he knew his words would fall on deaf ears. Jake smiled down at him,
saying:

"You just don't realize how exciting it is for us to wrestle you, pretty
one, to grab and hold on to your sexy body as you struggle, all slick with
sweat, tugging, pulling at your bonds, squirming in our arms, twisting and
straining that tight little body of yours. The play of your muscles is
intensely erotic."

"Aye, sir," Frank agreed, "though it's his cute face that really makes me
hard. A natural beauty with those pouty lips locked around a man's cock,
sucking away."

The man's thumbs wiped at the tears running down the boys smooth cheeks,
his questing fingers finding the nubbins of the boy's tiny nipples and
tweaking them, pulling them out from his chest, digging in with his finger
nails. As Sandy hissed from the pain, Jake whispered:

"I won't damage you, little one, but remember I never promised this would
be a painless encounter. I like to see my boys squirm a bit, to struggle to
accept whatever I want to inflict on their luscious bodies. That was why I
strapped your ass to start with. Nothing shows a boy is readier to be
penetrated than an ass striped and reddened from a whipping, which is your
case is well deserved, you shameless twink running around buck nekkid among
decent folk."

The three men worked him over for hours, switching places in a round robin,
with one of them catching his breath between bouts. Frank was the easiest
to please. His cock was not so big and he came very quickly. The third man,
Jim, was a plodder, his sexual repertoire utterly unimaginative. Jake was
insatiable, and he had to knack of controlling himself, holding his
ejaculation back while he long dicked a boy.

Sandy could not keep the tears back during his ordeal no matter the shame
of it. He let his tears flow heedless of their taunts. He was beyond
shame. He no longer begged for relief, not so much from any remaining
courage but because his pleas only seemed to excite them, inspiring his
tormenters to new taunts for his weakness, for being a cry baby.

"Awwh, the little pussy boy is bawling his eyes out. What's the matter, a
bit of stretching and pain too much for you, there blondie?"

"Naw, you got it all wrong, Frank. The boy is simply delirious with
happiness. He is in heaven with all this stud service. He never had it so
good."

When the men finally finished with him, they locked Sandy in a cell instead
of his cage. A short while later Frank shoved a bowl of stew between the
bars. With no utensils, Sandy had to eat it with his fingers after it
cooled off. He washed that down with water from a two liter bottle he found
in the cell. The sanitary facilities consisted of one of those bombsight
latrines you see in third world countries. Just squat and do your
business. Must he hard on the knees for old folks.

At least Sandy had room to stretch out on the thin mattress in the
corner. Tired and sore as he was, the boy fell asleep right away and
actually got a good night's sleep. Evidently sleep deprivation was not on
the agenda. It gave him a glimmer of hope. Decent food and enough sleep
were something.

			Chapter 5. Mind Games

The four days of Sandy's captivity passed in a blur till, in the end, he
was literally fucked senseless. Finally, battered, bruised, his fundament
fucked raw, Sandy found himself once more blindfolded, gagged, shackled,
and shoved into the van. The trip ended at the same park where he had been
abducted. It was past midnight so no one else was around. Jake dragged the
exhausted youth out of the vehicle, released him from bondage, and sat him
on the stump of a tree.

"Comfy, blondie? Listen up. You are probably wondering why we brought you
here of all places. It is simple. We are letting you go free, at least for
now"

"For now?"

"Yes, for now."

In cold calculated language Jake explained the terms of Sandy's conditional
release. The young actor would never be entirely free of The Brotherhood,
at least not till he grew too old to please them. But for the time being he
would go back to his normal life. The catch was that, from time to time,
they would take him captive again and torment him. It would always be in
some new location, a well equipped dungeon or play room owned by a member,
usually for a few days or a week at a time and rarely for as much as two
weeks.

The Brotherhood had no wish to interrupt Sandy's movie career. They were
big fans and some owned stock in the studio. So he was immune as long as he
was working on a picture and that included most pre and post
production. During his down time, and not always then, he would be
vulnerable, liable to capture. So he could count on a reprieve of at least
one and more likely two pictures between his brief periods of captivity,
call it six months.

Of course they fully expected him to report his abduction to the
authorities, to take precautions, to hire bodyguards, install alarms, to be
on the alert. Jake assured him that such measures would ultimately be of no
avail, not in the long run. Even genetic testing would not help track them
down. None of theirs was on file, and anyway they had enough power to make
DNA samples disappear from crime labs.

"You have no idea how powerful The Brotherhood is. Our tentacles are
everywhere. Yes the FBI will investigate, but in time, after two or three
cycles of kidnapping and release they will consider your absences to be
voluntary and consensual, maybe some sicko sexual scenario, maybe a kinky
publicity stunt."

"The good news is that we will keep and eye on you and protect you when you
are not in our custody. We will head off the crazies who might take you for
a sex slave, full time, 24/7 and 365 days a year, like those creeps who
captured you and Terry in the mountains a couple of years ago. If that
happens we will rescue you and kill the bastards.

"We are very good at what we do. Also, as we have already proved, we will
never inflict permanent damage, never leave you scarred. Nor let anyone
else do so either. You can have peace of mind on that score. We want you to
remain as fresh and perky for us as you are for your fans. I only wish we
had the elixir of life to preserve your ethereal beauty forever. I am being
totally sincere in telling you that, were it in our power, we would confer
the boon of immortality upon you right after ensuring our own. We desire
you that much."

"We have had our eye on you from the beginning but waited till you were
established in Hollywood and well known in the business. There is no reason
your career should not continue to flourish. Do not try to go into
hiding. We will find you. Your face and that of your lover Terry are too
famous to go unnoticed for long."

"Above all don't let these few hard days prey on your mind. Think of these
periodic episodes of sexual servitude as occasional short term acting gigs,
where you play a recurring role in our sexual fantasies -- only in the
flesh, not just in the imagination -- and in front of our cameras. From
time to time we will post carefully edited videos of your torment and
degradation. They will likely go viral immediately. Hey, you can't buy
publicity like that. Meanwhile, don't quit your day job."

"If you think about it, this is a case of life imitating art. You know how
often the Jungle Boy get taken captive in your pictures, put into sexy
bondage, and abused both physically and sexually. It's what sells your
pictures. So in a sense this is really your fault, making those salacious
movies, putting yourself totally on display with nary a stitch -- all those
close-ups of your impossibly pretty face, your sexy body and especially
that curvaceous rump. You deliberately inspire men who lust after pretty
boys to fantasize about doing naughty things to you just like in your
movies. That might be enough for the ordinary breed of men, but not for The
Brotherhood. We are above the law. What we want, we take, and what we want
is you."

"All that being said, we do not expect you to simply surrender yourself to
us on demand next time. Instead, there will always be an abduction. We can
grab you anywhere, even from the bed you share with your lover. Be sure
about this: when it is time, we will take you. So you might as well stay
naked."

"Remember, we know everything about you and about your lover Terry. You
don't want us to seize Terry instead of you, do you? You know his
weakness. He really is into all this BDSM stuff. If we really wanted to, we
could work on him with sleep deprivation, psychoactive drugs, physical
torments, and psychological manipulation and break him utterly, turn him
into a real slave in his own mind. Believe me. It is all too possible. His
libido makes him vulnerable. Also his love for you. You must know that he
would willingly sacrifice himself to save you, as you would do for
him. That is another vulnerability. So do as we say. I really do envy you
boys your selfless love for each other."

"So for his sake and for yours too, you must accept the new dispensation,
as I know you will, in time, intelligent young man that you are. Sandy, you
can continue to live the good life, to enjoy everything that our bountiful
planet has to offer, much as you have been doing till now. Go with the
flow. Take your occasional sabbaticals with us in stride."

"Also, if you are totally honest with yourself, you will realize that part
of you responded to the rough treatment. You were incredibly aroused much
of the time. Think it over. We are counting on you to do the right thing."

With that Jake got into the van and nodded to Jim who was seated behind the
wheel. As the vehicle pulled away, Sandy distinctly heard Jake say.

"Home, James," chortling as he added, "I always wanted to say that!"

Sandy made his way on foot to his folks' home, drawing stares from the very
few late night passersby not so much for his nudity as his battered and
shaken demeanor. Terry was waiting up for him, having flown in just hours
before to find the plants wilting, the cats hungry and yowling, and no
Sandy. His lover told him everything, even confessing his own arousal
during the rough treatment, and his fears for Terry.

The authorities, private detectives, and the studio did their best. And
they were successful in keeping the story out of the news, but no one had
ever found a trace of The Brotherhood. The fruitless investigation did
nothing to calm Sandy's fears.

It was Terry, an unlooked for tower of strength, who kept his lover from
going crazy with worry. His love, his support, his constant presence
guarding Sandy's back brought the fearful youth back from the brink of
paranoia. It helped that under the terms of his conditional release, once
he got back to work on his next picture, Sandy was supposed to be left
unmolested.

As production finished up on the second Dracula picture, Sandy went into a
funk, worried about being abducted. He was hugely relieved when he got
right back to work, this time on Bomba 2, without incident. But what about
the next hiatus after seven months in "conditional freedom" making those
two pictures. What would happen during his coming two months off? Would The
Brotherhood change their mind and keep him longer this time, maybe forever?

Angry with his own morbid dwelling on these possibilities, Sandy became
fatalistic about his chances. Unable to cope otherwise, he flatly refused
to live his life in a security cocoon, hemmed in by bodyguards, his head on
swivel searching for threats. Yes, it was true that if he continued to go
running in the woods stark naked and alone he would be both unarmed and
incommunicado, limited in his ability to both fight and to call for
help. So be it. He would not give up his unencumbered life style. He would
carry on just as before: no clothes and no guns. If he were snatched from
the beach or his bedroom, he would deal with it. He would never let them go
after Terry in place of himself. No way. He would die first.

Or maybe, just maybe, all this stuff about a mysterious and all powerful
Brotherhood with its tentacles everywhere was just a cruel mind game. Maybe
it boiled down to role playing on Jake's part. An elaborate hoax. As far as
he knew there were just the three of them: Jake, Jim, and Frank.

When he really thought about it, he realized that he worst of his
experience was not the four days he was held captive, painful and degrading
though it was. It was the seven months of fear and uncertainty that
followed. Their worst cruelty was the way they had worked him over
psychologically not physically. Of course! That was why Jake spent so much
time bragging about his organization, belittling his victim's masculinity,
threatening his freedom and his lover's sanity. It was all about
manipulating Sandy's thinking. Their real target was Sandy's peace of
mind. A cruel mind game indeed. If he ever got his hands on them, look
out. He hadn't studied aikido for nothing.

So why did they let him go just when they did? They must have realized that
they could not hold him forever, and they were not killers. He'd give them
that much. Anyway, disposing of a body is not so easy as you might think
from the movies. By releasing Sandy before Terry raised the hue and the
cry, they forestalled detection and interception. They got rid of a hot
potato before it burned their fingers. And they left Sandy in emotional
turmoil, which was their true purpose after all.

They claimed not to be sadists, but whatever you might call their
pathology, they thoroughly enjoyed what they did to him, what they made him
believe, instilling fear for the future. That was the worst of it. A boy
Sandy's age should rightly look forward to the future, especially with the
happy life he had with his career, his friends and folks, and with Terry.

Still, the threat of another kidnapping might be real. Or maybe it was
bullshit. Bring it on. He and Terry were on their guard, both of them
trained in the martial arts and as escape artists too, proficient in
Houdini's methods. That was how they had got away two years ago, after
all. It was The Brotherhood that had better look out. Sure, Sandy had lost
the first round, but that was really by default, before he knew he was in a
fight. Forewarned now, round two might easily go to him, or better to them,
him and Terry. Maybe all it took to be safe was levelheaded caution. Don't
always take things at face value and don't go sticking your head into
strange vans.

Now in the world of the movies, the "reel world" as Hollywood calls it,
Sandy and his lover would go on the offensive and launch their own
investigation. In the tradition of such films, after meetings in spooky
locations with unsavory characters, mysterious disappearances, blackmail,
fist fights, shootouts, and car chases, the trail would lead to a fiery
climax in the corridors of power. Hell, maybe there was a movie in all
this. He would talk about it with Marty Fletcher.

With these more optimistic thoughts, the cloud lifted. Sandy was more like
his old self.

Four weeks later .....

With a blissful sigh Sandy Barnett snuggled into Terry's Knowles embrace
while staring at the dance of flames in the fireplace of their cozy
cabin. Terry leaned forward and kissed the top of Sandy's head, noting how
the fire added orange and red highlights to Sandy's golden mane.  Late Fall
could be cool in the foothills of the Sierras so both kids wore jeans and
flannel shirts. They were seated on a braided throw rug in front of the
fireplace with Terry leaning against the front of the couch, just two
lovers enjoying the warmth from the hearth and their closeness.

This past week had been idyllic. Terry kicked himself for not thinking of
it before. The boys had gone away by themselves to a private corner of
Heaven communing with nature. They spent their days taking long walks in
the woods, cooking on the barbecue, chopping wood, and playing checkers. At
night they gazed at the stars and the annual meteor shower then settled
down before a fire. Together the boys found contentment and peace of
mind. Terry had given Sandy the gift he needed most, himself.

Their good friend Jason Eberly, the first Jungle Boy, had helped too,
speaking quietly of his own dire experiences. Jason had been taken captive
no less than three times. Revolutionaries in Central America had kidnapped
him for ransom. To encourage prompt payment, they had provided video of the
daily whippings and rape they subjected their captive to. The next year, an
oriental despot had snatched Jason and had him trained to be a sex slave in
his boy harem. Two years later, a mad cult of Maoists cum voodoo witch
doctors had taken Jason to Haiti to be raped and offered to their pagan
gods as a human sacrifice. So Jason knew whereof he spoke.

"It gets better, it really does. Particularly if you love someone and are
loved in return."

Sandy and Terry smiled at that. Still both young actors were realists
enough to train daily in martial arts and pistol shooting. Anyone who came
looking for them had better watch out.

		Author's Note

This is another tale about the lives of a pair of young gay actors in
Hollywood and their utterly improbable adventures in the movie business. It
takes place thirty to forty years in the future. This twelfth installment
continues the story of the pair of protagonists, Sandy Barnett and Terry
Knowles, introduced in Jungle Boy 6, in place of Jason Eberly, the original
Jungle Boy of the first five tales (who is occasionally mentioned in these
new tales).

If Alexander, the Daphne Boy in my series of that name, is "the ultimate
twink" then Jason, Sandy, and Terry are "the penultimate twinks". I just
love writing about them. These kids are hot.

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

Readers who like the Jungle Boy series should try either of my series of
historical novelettes. The 'Daphne Boy' tales depict an eternally youthful
protagonist and his adventures in exotic climes and times. The settings for
the 'Naked Prey' series are equally exotic, but each story has its own cute
twink protagonist. My other series are the 'Track and Field' stories in
Gay/College and my 'Mer-Boy' stories in Gay/Beginnings. For links to all my
stories, look on the list of Prolific Authors on the Archive for George
Gauthier.

Comments and feedback welcome at georgegauthierdc@gmail.com

All rights reserved.