Date: Sun, 1 Jun 2008 08:57:04 -0500
From: George Gauthier <georgegauthier@verizonmail.com>
Subject: Jungle Boy 3

					Jungle Boy 3
					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 third installment in the on-going saga of actor Jason
Eberly.

It contains graphic descriptions of the male human body and of sexual
activity between adult males, the youngest of whom is sixteen years old. It
depicts scenes of consensual and non-consensual sexual activity, bondage
and submission, and torture. Some of the characters are not nice people.
It starts off easy enough. Do not be fooled. Fate had much travail in store
for our young hero.

The use of words or terms like 'boy', 'teen', 'youth' etc, are purely
intended to identifying gender only and are not meant to imply that the
characters are under age.

If any of this would offend a reader, proceed no further. This is not
intended for persons younger than an age where they may freely and legally
select their reading matter in whatever jurisdiction that applies.

It is offered for entertainment. If the story manages to both amuse and to
provoke prurient interest, it will have succeeded in its aim. Writing this
tale has been the most fun the author has had wearing clothes in a very
long time. Well, since parts one and two.

It is entirely fictional, with no resemblance intended to any person living
or dead.

Occasional references by characters to well-known motion pictures and
actors and others in the movie business are simply to lend verisimilitude
to a tale about persons in show business. None of the real people mentioned
in passing is in any way part of the tale.  Neither the author nor any of
his heirs or assigns has any connection whatsoever to the movies except as
fans.

References to the United States Marine Corps reflect the author's lifelong
respect for that elite assault force.

Before you ask, a 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 only twenty, the young man had
made six pictures with him in the last two and a half years--all money
makers especially the last two.

"Look who's here" he said to director Jim Nicholls, Leon Potter, production
chief for the studio, and Ed Veronese, Jason's agent. They were meeting to
pick stories for their next few pictures. Jason's three picture deal now
came with a percent of the gross. They wanted to find a concept for each
picture that would play to their star's strengths, then set writers to work
on scripts.

"Looking good kid," Fletcher continued.

Jason smiled. He had no false modesty about his stunning appearance though
at only one inch over five and a half feet (170 cm) and 126 pounds (57 kg)
he was fairly small for a leading man. His pretty boy features literally
turned heads. Men and women did double takes and stared at him wondering
how anyone could be that good looking. Like Rob Lowe for his
generation. His eyes were limpid pools of green and his face had an open
animated expression on his face, the very opposite of the scowling
Hollywood bad boy.

Jason's physical beauty and sheer athleticism made him a standout. Although
not very tall, his body was incredibly toned, taut and trim with a
surprisingly muscular upper storey for a runner. He still ran cross country
just like in high school. Add in those killer abs and all-over tan, he was
poetry in motion. The camera loved him. Directors often used slo-mo shots
to show off Jason's athleticism and raw animal appeal.

"Hi Jason," Nicholls grinned, looking him over. The young man was dressed
in one of his trademark low slung sarongs of blue silk and a tight nearly
sheer white tank top showing off his tiny red nipples.  The gap between the
bottom hem, cut off at the waist, and the top of the sarong was more than
the span of his small hand, highlighting a jeweled piercing in his navel.
Flip flops and a thin gold neck chain completed the ensemble.

Jason started things off.

"How about a Western? I'd like to do at least one." Jason loved Westerns
but hadn't made one yet, even though he had learned to shoot and practiced
a fast draw.

"Why not?", Potter said "You could play Billy the Kid easy. You're just the
right age, and the right size. He was a little guy whose six gun was his
equalizer.

"Wasn't he left-handed?" Jason asked. I remember Paul Newman did "The
Left-Handed Gun."

"Right, Warner Brothers, 1958 but he was 33. Too old for the role." Potter
noted. "So was Robert Taylor who played the kid when he was thirty."

"Anyway, the Kid wasn't really left-handed." Fletcher added. "The one photo
of him was reproduced in reverse making him look left handed."

"Always keeping us straight, eh Fletch." Nicholls chuckled. "Jason, I hear
you're a good rider these days."

Jason had been taking riding lessons off and on for over a year now. It
wasn't just for westerns; you also had your period dramas, sword and
sandal, even life styles of the rich and famous. You never knew when a
producer would put a character up on a horse. Same with firearms
training. That would be useful in many other genres: war flics, gangster
films, film noir, whatever.

He really wished he could ride as well as legendary movie cowboys like
Glenn Ford or especially Ben Johnson in "She Wore a Yellow Ribbon." Johnson
had even ridden Roman style in "Rio Grande", standing on the backs of two
horses like a rider at a circus and had jumped them over fences. That man
could ride! Jason took pride in doing most of his stunts, but the insurance
company would insist that a stunt man do the most dangerous stuff on
horseback.

"OK, he's a natural for Billy the Kid, but how do we get his clothes off?"
Nicholls asked with a wink to their star.

Jason got his break in movies because he was willing to wear the skimpiest
of costumes or none at all. For his picture set in the Amazon, his costume
was a G-string and feather armbands. For his next picture he was stark
naked 95 percent of his time on screen as he was chased by savages across
French Equatorial Africa. In his last picture he played an ex-Navy SEAL out
for revenge and had finished the mission in a skimpy loincloth. Fans
clamored now for scenes of the cute young actor in the buff. All his movies
capitalized on his sex appeal.

"Easy," Potter assured. "Pat Garret catches up to the infamous desperado
swimming in the river. He throws a lasso around him, then drags him from
the water and ties him up. The kid will look great all wet and bare assed
helpless, especially when Garret takes a horsewhip to him."

"No, we'll give Garret a bull whip like Lash Larue."

Marty Fletcher was a stickler for verisimilitude and explained that a bull
whip hung over a saddle horn was more realistic for a lawman to carry with
him: the Western equivalent of a night stick. A horsewhip would be for a
driver of a stagecoach or a buckboard.

The young actor would not actually feel the sting of the whip, which could
easily scar his back or ass. A bull whip makes a sharp crack because its
tip actually breaks the sound barrier. No, the director would use forced
perspective, shooting from directly in front or back so it would look like
the whip struck the trussed up hero but it actually would fall short. They
would use CGI to make the whip curl around the outlaw's hips or ribs, and
make up artists to apply welts and fake blood to the boy's body. He would
take what looked on screen like terrible punishment during which he would
writhe sexily.

"Garret can also force his captive to hike all the way into town barefoot
and naked showing the welts laid into his bare hide."

Jason rolled his eyes. Here we go again, captured and in bondage, roughed
up and humiliated, while stark naked of course. Jason gets captured a lot
in his pictures and stripped and brutalized then thrown in a
cell. Naturally he later gets away and turns the tables on the bad guys.

"Let me guess," Jason began. "Garret was a spurned lover or a former
lover."

Jason's gay fans always liked a gay angle in the plot. Jason's sexual
orientation was old news to his fans. Even the gals liked to fantasize that
they would be the one female to straighten him out.

Actually the sting of a bull whip was about the only kind of whip he hadn't
felt during his kidnapping in the Central American republic of
Alturas. Revolutionaries seeking to finance their cause kidnapped Jason and
his lover Hank Altobello. They sent Hank back six days later with video of
the tortures Jason suffered and warning he would be tortured every day from
now on unless they got five million dollars from the studio. The studio
stood to make several hundred million dollars off their star over the next
five or six years. They would never miss such a sum. Just a sound business
decision: pay the ransom. The scheme was the brainchild of Don Vasquez,
tired of war and of losing men in bank robberies and of all the collateral
damage and the deaths of innocents.

They got the money, but El Jefe, emboldened by quick success, wanted to
hold out for another five million. To save the boy and indeed his own soul,
Vasquez shot El Jefe and released Jason to his estranged brother, General
Ramon, head of the National Constabulary. This gesture lead to tentative
peace talks mediated by the Archbishop, and then to a genuine truce. The
clergyman was the third brother of the family and had been a go-between in
the past for prisoner exchanges.

Jason won international acclaim for his role in promoting civil peace, but
he always emphasized that he was just a catalyst. It was the brothers and
their factions that had made the peace. With good governance and sound
economic reforms maybe Alturas too could do what other poor countries had
done, become wealthy in thirty years like Korea. The goal was to join the
class of happy countries like Finland, Estonia, and Singapore that had
pulled themselves up by their bootstraps. Even the ˇlites were tired of
the zero sum game that passed for politics in Alturas. Jason and Hank were
invited to the opening of the legislature under the new constitution
simultaneous with the premiere in Alturas of the movie Jason had gone there
to make in the first place.

The plot of that movie was simplicity itself: an ex-Navy Seal goes on a man
hunt for revenge on the terrorists who wiped out his whole family. Another
jungle pic, but this time Jason was the hunter instead of the prey as he
was in his wildly popular African movie. Fans ignored the real titles and
called them simply by their working titles, Jungle Boy 1 and Jungle Boy 2 a
reference not only to the settings but also to Jason's typically skimpy
costumes.

In JB2, he started the mission in jungle fatigues decked out with lethal
hardware. Think Arnold in 'Commando'.  Of course, this being a Jungle Boy
movie all that weaponry and the fatigues and boots were soon lost to bad
luck when his Zodiac got sunk in the lagoon. He'd had to ditch his gear or
let it drag him under. Unfortunately that included his BDUs; both pants and
shirt had their pockets loaded with grenades and ammo and stuff, plus the
heavy boots, the assault rifle, etc. Jason's ex-Seal had to finish the
mission in a skimpy loin cloth that bared the buttocks, armed only with a
K-bar, paddling a dugout canoe through the swamp guarding the lair of the
bad guys. Using the knife to take out the sentries, the hero traded up to
an AK-47 and an Uzi during his rampage though the villains' lair
occasionally pitching grenades or firing an RPG till the climactic
explosion of the fuel bunker for the helicopter and boats.

The movie was nothing that hadn't been done before, but Jason's physical
beauty and sheer athleticism made this one a standout. He did all his own
stunts. It was hard to match a stunt double to Jason's well known
physique. No one had the slender but muscular build of a distance runner
along with his famously taut buns. Jason's build was the evolutionary ideal
of the lean frame of man the primitive hunter who stalked or ran his prey
down on the open savannah. Primitive man was a natural runner but with
enough upper body strength to drive a spear into the heart of a two ton
beast. That was Jason: muscle, bone, sinew the perfect physique between the
extremes of the overweight and the bodybuilder.

Fans were a tad disappointed that there was only the one shower scene, the
dunking in the lagoon, and a swim in a jungle pool when the actor was
entirely nude. Still, the underwater shots of Jason (in mermaid mode, as he
liked to quip) showed him moving sleekly through the water. Jason was a
good swimmer and his movements were an underwater ballet. Critics
complained that the scene was wholly gratuitous, not essential to the plot
at all. The studio just wanted to show off the famous ass they had paid
five million dollars to save. As always there were no coy camera angles;
any strategically placed reeds or fronds were only there momentarily to
titillate the audience rather than to shield the fork of the actor's
legs. Fans could see for themselves that Jason, like Data on Star Trek, was
fully functional.

A lenient R rating helped Jungle Boy 2 get good box office, and anyway many
jurisdictions didn't bother much with enforcement these days. Kids and
young adults flocked to it. Young ladies insisted it was a good date
movie. Needless to say the gay community were his biggest fans. They had
long since taken Jason to their hearts. Their fondest wish was to take
Jason to their beds.

The story conference finally decided to do the Western after another Jungle
Boy picture. The concept for this was a mish-mash of several story
ideas. It was Jason's 'sarong picture', after the actor's favorite
garment. It had pearl diving and windsurfing, a submarine, and
neo-Nazis. Although the Nazis were not quite making a grab for world
domination this time, the nefarious activities of Hollywood's favorite
movie villains were a serious threat to international peace, until thwarted
by Jason's character, a trust fund American beach boy, bumming his way
among the islands.

			Chapter 2. Across the Pacific

After the festivities in Alturas, Jason and Hank would fly the Pacific to
one of the outer Islands of Indonesia east of Borneo to shoot Jason's new
movie. Hank would be safety diver on the shoot. The boys had hooked up
after Hank pulled the actor out of the water during a near drowning at a
river crossing gone bad on their African picture. Working title,
inevitably, was Jungle Boy 3.

Six weeks later, the film crew was making good progress. Jim Nicholls, back
as Jason's director, was delighted at the chance to work with the young
star especially on their windsurfer picture. This was an old 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. Early on it got nixed as "Too much like our last
picture". Still the new picture had elements of the original concept.

In the early mornings, before reporting on the set Jason went for a run. It
wasn't just to keep in shape, though it did that admirably.  Jason loved
running itself because it was so intensely physical. It made him feel
strong and alive. He loved to feel the sun warming his skin, to fall into a
near trance from the rhythmic breathing, to exult in his strength and
stamina as his feet flung back the sand. Even the sweat that poured from
him was an expression of life and vitality. Also the runner's high kept him
calm and centered. A wise man once said that endorphins were the drug of
choice of the physically fit. Indeed the young actor's slenderness and
grace and bare tanned skin reminded onlookers of an antelope on the African
plains.

Hank was a swimmer rather than a runner and he would swim in the lagoon
during his lover's early morning runs. Occasionally he joined Jason, but
preferred to wear shorts rather than go entirely bare. He was a fine
looking young man in his own right, handsome and tall and strongly built,
but he knew he wasn't in the same league as his young lover who always
turned heads.

Jason took lessons so he could do his own windsurfing sequences. He was
already a strong swimmer and something of a scuba diver, a skill he picked
up from Hank. The school was run from a pier in a local port that served
tourists as well as locals. They were sorry, but whatever he did on
location or at an upscale resort, their new pupil could not be fully naked
in public. He had to wear something, a thong at least, something to cover
his manhood. Not everyone was so blasˇ as the young American about
nudity.

"It's so much fuss over nothing, in my humble opinion." Jason complained to
no one in particular. Actually he thought he looked rather nice down
there. His genitals were not all shriveled up like with so many guys. His
cock was smooth not gnarly with purple veins with a foreskin covering the
entire glans. 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, just fine when you were running cross country
bare ass with your dangly bits bouncing about.

OK OK. Jason complied. Instead of just wearing Speedos, a young man in the
costume department was happy to offer an alternative: a fig leaf. The
notion appealed to the exhibitionist in Jason. He let the young guy gauge
his measurements, talented fingers weighing and stroking. A short while
later he produced the classic fig leaf, really a curved sheet of flexible
plastic about the size of the actor's hand, cut to shape. A rubber ring
behind the fig leaf held it in place. Since Jason was completely hairless
even down there, the fig leaf made him look like a Renaissance statue.

"See Jason, it's just the same shade as your eyes and will go just great
with your tan and blond hair." he said with a wink as he personally fitted
the star, taking his own sweet time about doing it too.  He didn't seem to
want to let go. Jason just chuckled, indulging the guy. Thus outfitted
Jason drew a crowd for his lessons. Some said that he was at least
indirectly responsible for that collision between careless boaters
shadowing his progress.

On location Hank manned the chase boat, a Zodiac, since Jason wore no life
vest. These were occasional sharks in these waters so a lookout with the
rifle manned a post on the mother ship. Hank had a long barreled pistol as
backup. They also watched for sea snakes since all sea snakes are
poisonous. As a precaution the crew checked Jason beforehand for cuts or
scrapes. Just a little blood in the water could draw the dangerous
creatures. Jason suspected he was being conned, but he went along with the
brief inspection each morning. There were two parts to it, a close visual
check then a tactile examination with fingertips. The aid man was concerned
that Hank and Jason's lusty lovemaking must cause bleeding back there, so
he checked carefully. It was done by the numbers, with the delighted crew
calling out the commands.

"Assume the position, spread'em, bend over, grab your ankles, cough." That
last command was definitely a joke.

Still joke or no, how could he not feel a bit humiliated bent over like
that. Indeed did he not deserve derision for a position that so blatantly
displayed the most mundane and carnal part of the human form, the
posterior, elevated to the higher position, the head, the seat of human
intelligence, to the lower. And that posterior, not decently covered with
cloth as it should be, not pasty white but tanned as evenly as the rest of
the torso, proving that its visibility now was not a thing of the moment
but rather the norm for the shameless boy.

Such shameless wantonness deserved more than humiliation. Surely that brown
ass with its taut globes should be spanked or paddled or strapped, to say
the least. The dangling manhood deserved at least a snap of a towel or a
contemptuous slap of a hand. Did this lewd boy think he should get away
with such a lubricious display of concupiscence just because he was so very
beautiful of face and of form? Look. Was that his virile member plumping
up, a droplet of liquid glistening at the tip. The boy was in a state of
arousal, a fire burning in his belly. No had no shame at all. Jason felt so
terribly naughty.

Jason was always ready to laugh at himself and at the absurdity of many of
life's experiences. Jason was a generous lad, glad to share his youth and
his sexuality. He was a youth who simply loved to be naked; he loved for
people to see him, to admire him, to run their hands over his belly, to
slap his buttocks or slip the blade of a hand in between to trace the
hairless crack, and to touch him intimately. He really got off when people
played with him. Critics sometimes dismissed him as a boy toy.

"And what is wrong with that?" was his reply. "I'm a boy and I liked to be
played with. So?"

Isn't that why he had been gifted with such beauty in the first place? Yes
he like to be stroked like a pet. Very much as a cat likes to be stroked on
top of the head or to be chuckled under the chin. He liked guys to pet his
rump, his flanks, and sometimes to do more. Like many young men he was cock
proud, glad that his erection looked rather outsized on his small frame. He
was quite candid about his uninhibited sexuality.

After all didn't the movie business amount to commercial voyeurism? The
audience got intimate glimpses into the lives of the characters, often
physical intimacy in love scenes. All that silly pretense in the days of
the movie code in mid century: twin beds even for married couples; suggest
but don't portray. Like cut from the romantic clinch to a post coital
cigarette. Gods, you couldn't even show a guy's navel!  Well the audience
was welcome to look at any part of Jason. Sure his movies had a lot of
action, but the reason the fans watched him and actors like him was simply
sex appeal.

In the evenings Jason and Hank went dancing. They made a handsome couple
the slender blond in the arms of the tall dark-haired diver. Both liked the
old dances where Hank led and Jason followed whirling like Astaire and
Rogers. In this warm climate, for his nighttime frolics Jason wore only a
silk sarong slung very low, nothing on top but a little glitter on chest
and belly, and no foot wear. A shell choker or gold chain and a flower in
his hair completed the ensemble. The young man kept his sarong 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.

The management knew a good thing when they saw it. These boys drew a crowd.
For the young couple, everything at the club was on the house. They never
abused their privileges either. With those early calls on location and
hoping to get some quality time in bed before they fell asleep, the young
couple usually left early, amazing locals and tourists who expected them to
booze it up till dawn. Jason had resisted the siren calls of fame and
over-indulgence. He was no Hollywood bad boy. He kept both feet on the
ground, a nice kid if not quite a solid citizen. No attitude, no tantrums,
no entourage, and no drugs. That was Jason Eberly.

For publicity stills, Jason showed off his physical prowess. He was known
for doing his own stunts, so he readily agreed to a photo op of him
climbing palm trees to harvest coconuts. With a rope joining his ankles to
give him a grip, he shinnied up several palm trees with a knife gripped in
his teeth and dropped their coconuts.

"Bombs away!"

Fans loved those shots of his taut brown buns as he hiked himself up the
trunk. You felt that surely this was a young male who should always be
naked. Displaying such unselfconscious beauty was what he was born for.

The last sequences were filmed at and around a naval base. The host nation
gave them an entire day for establishing shots on and about its brand new
air-independent submarine. Participating in the film was a way for their
proud military to show off a new toy. They shot a key scene atop the
conning tower or sail, the confrontation with the bad guy. It is almost
obligatory in action flicks for the arch-villain to boast to the captive
hero of his sure-fire plan, gloating over how neatly he had trapped his
enemy. Indeed premature gloating was an occupational hazard for movie
villains.

Finally the picture was in the can. Filming over, the boys would now relax
for a few days at the resort, then fly back to the States.

				Chapter 3. The Potentate

As the lovers danced, the Sultan of Zuqqat and his entourage made their
entrance. His tiny state was well off the beaten path but wealthy from
large reserves of natural gas in the geological strata of the small
archipelago. His large yacht had just made port to refuel. What amusements
could this backwater region hold he wondered? It was only one of the small
outer islands of his giant neighbor Indonesia, and he had been here only
once himself.

He saw two young Americans dancing together, both male, the taller a man
with strong shoulders, dark hair, and flashing blue eyes. His companion,
obviously his lover, cavorted about in a sarong slung low on his hips. What
a beauty. He must meet them if only to ease his ennui. An eyebrow cocked at
his personal attendant and a moment later the man whispered in his ear that
these were those movie people. Of course! Now he recognized him. This was
the young American actor who had trouble keeping his pants on. Such motion
pictures he made, action trash of course, but what visuals!  Surely he was
the most beautiful person he had ever seen with his own eyes, better than
any boy in his harem certainly. Another signal and his man went over to
extend an invitation.

The two young men came over and were introduced. The sultan was captivated,
could they sit down for a bit. Just to be polite, they spent some time with
the monarch, chatting, asking about his country, telling their own stories
of happenings behind the scenes, until, pleading a long day, they left
early. The next morning on their breakfast tray was an request that they
attend an informal soiree on the yacht: casual dress; just a sarong would
be fine. Why not? They had never been on the yacht of an oriental
potentate. It was all very impressive, Hank thought, as he got the tour of
the ship, an opulent craft yes but eminently seaworthy. More than just a
showpiece, this was a fine example of naval architecture, with the clean
lines of a warship. He said as much to their host who was gratified to
receive a sincere compliment. How rare that was these days with flatterers
everywhere. These two Americans clearly wanted and needed nothing from him,
though they did seem to enjoy his hospitality.

The Sultan kept glancing at the stunning blond seated on pillows at his
right hand. That blue sarong complemented his coloring beautifully. The boy
seemed unconcerned that it barely covered his trim posterior, showing at
least four fingers of cleavage as the taut fabric outlined his crossed
limbs. Obviously nothing on underneath and bare feet. Completely hairless,
the skin smooth; he must have been depilated several years ago; the
follicles had close up. Such smooth skin just begged to be stroked,
especially that enticing channel between the buttocks. How the muscles
played under the skin; so little body fat. All muscle and bone, yet so
slender. The big lover was in drawstring pants gathered at the ankle and a
loose shirt open to the breast and sandals.

After a fine meal of local cuisine and some pleasant chit chat the Sultan
called for the evening's entertainment. First up was a magician whose act
was both amusing and mystifying. The man had good technical skills and
excelled in presentation. An amateur magician himself in his youth, the
Sultan enjoyed stage magic even when he knew how a trick was done. Next an
oriental dancing boy in a tiny G-string, one of his own harem favorites,
little Waqqub of the kohl-rimmed eyes, just sixteen. So slim and a good
dancer; he was a delight in bed too.

Tonight the youthful dancer was off his game, obviously distracted by the
beautiful American youth talking animatedly and seated cross-legged on big
pillows in front, casually showing off a fine chest, the nubs of its
nipples erect with excitement. Add to that rippled abdominals, bared belly,
and a blue sarong hiked up above the knee displaying the musculature of a
runner or maybe dancer. In the middle of his routine, set to oriental
music, Waqqub tripped and fell clumsily, turning an ankle. What an
embarrassment. The sultan was annoyed. Here he had so wanted to impress the
pretty blond. He thought a caning might be in order for Waqquf afterward.

Jason was taken aback. The dancer's slip-up was easy to understand and his
own fault entirely, the provocative way he had dressed in that midnight
blue sarong, knees apart so one could almost look up his 'dress'. No wonder
the dancer's infatuation; a joy boy there if he ever saw one. Almost a case
of it takes one to know one. He asked that the sultan's displeasure fall on
him instead. Nonsense, the sultan replied, he was the host; he would never
violate the laws of hospitality that way. Then let his American guest make
amends for his provocative distraction. Jason was a good dancer. If he
couldn't take the lad's disgrace on himself, let him please the sultan with
a dance in the boy's stead. Very well.

Jason asked for different music. This oriental wailing had no real beat to
it. Could the sound man provide some break dance music? This was a most
unusual request. The sound man always tried to anticipate his monarch's
needs, but he needed a minute for this. Magnanimously, the sultan gave his
dispensation, and anyway, didn't the American need a moment to stretch and
prepare for his dance. Indeed he did. Blithely, Jason unclipped his sarong,
giving it to his lover. Let the sultan top this number any time soon! Jason
knew that one kind of dancing he really excelled at was break dancing. He
just loved to cavort athletically, whirling, doing handsprings, tumbling,
spinning on his back, legs raised with hands under the knees as if just
begging to be fucked. Doing it naked just made it that much better.

So he got ready, bending and stretching, limbs taut, holding a pose like a
human arrow pointed up to the window, his sex hanging vulnerably below.
Then he went into his number. The moves were exciting, erotic, and
arousing. Jason whirled, and spun, and flung himself about with abandon,
sliding on the smooth wooden decking, kneeling and jumping, tumbling and
twisting, whirling his legs and pelvis with his weight on his shoulders. He
even did a moon walk that made his rump twitch enticingly. No one who loves
the youthful male form could have sat unmoved.  Jason was lucky the sultan
and his guests did not descend on him en masse and gang bang the wanton
American youth. He was more a joy boy than Waqqub or any boy in the harem!
When Jason finished, arms and legs outstretched and breathing hard, he
looked like someone who had just had terrific sex: tousled, naked,
hairless, sweaty.

The sultan practically drooled at the sight of a beautiful youth exuding
desirability and sexuality from every pore. He had to have this boy, not
just for an evening but forever. But how? The monarch thanked his young
guest and might he not keep the blue sarong as a souvenir? Why not? The
actor bowed, spun around, and he and his lover took their leave, bared
dimpled ass cheeks flexing as he walked out, throwing a wink to little
Waqqub who mouthed his thanks in return.

Jason was exhilarated at his performance. Take that your magnificence! He
hopped onto the dock from the launch that had carried them from the yacht,
practically skipping to their hotel. Abruptly he realized that his lover
was in a dark mood.

"What's wrong Hank?"

"You weren't paying attention. I saw how he looked at you."

"Everyone looks at me that way. I am beautiful and so sexy when I'm naked!"

"This was different. His gaze was predatory, proprietary even. I don't like
it. I have seen men like that before: men of power. He would stop at
nothing to take you."

"What...another kidnapping? Twice in a lifetime? No way."

"Jase, oh Jase. You are so...innocent. No, I am not putting you down. You
got lucky in Alturas. Don Vasquez is a good man who had steeled himself to
do evil for his cause. That is why you got through to him. This man, under
his charm, is a monster."

"Hank..."

"If he tries to touch, you I'll kill him."

Jason had never seen his lover so dark, so serious.

"Don't Hank. Don't even think about it. All those bodyguards. You'd never
get close."

"I wouldn't even try. I'd take him out with a sniper rifle at 1000 meters
or more. I've done it before."

"No, Hank...no, I mean...please. Hank, I'm scared...what do you mean, a
thousand yards? That's over half a mile!"

"I was with Force Recon. One scary bunch of guys, let me tell you. A good
shooter with the right equipment can take a man out with a single shot at
two and half clicks. That's a mile and a half to you civilians. 'course I'm
not in that class. It might take me two shots."

He wasn't kidding either. He was serious...dead serious.

They went to their bungalow, Jason drew stares and amused glances at his
nudity. No surprise there, just a young man who could never keep his sarong
on and always swam at the nude end of the beach. Well, why not? There outta
be a law against clothes on any boy with a body like that. Failing that, he
should just shuck his garments himself or ask for volunteers to strip
him. There would be many takers.

The next day passed normally, but the morning of their departure Hank woke
up in their bed alone. There was no sign of a struggle but also no sign of
Jason. The sultan's yacht had upped anchor and slipped away with the early
tide.

Jason trembled shackled and stuffed in a tiny rope locker; this new
captivity revived bad memories of his earlier one in Alturas. He was trying
to bear up, but it was hard. There would be no ransom this time. The Sultan
was one of the two hundred richest men in the world. Was he to be tortured
to provide sadistic pleasures. Was he to be made the sultan's plaything, a
sex slave and joy boy. Would he be passed around to the sultan's guests or
would the man keep Jason for himself, at least till he tired of him. What
then? Jason had always been glad for his beauty. Was the universe striking
back to punish him for the sin of pride? And Hank! What he must be
thinking. Gods, let's hope he doesn't try anything on his own, ex-marine or
not.

Hank was not so foolish. He tried the police, proper channels,
diplomacy. The Indonesian government had let the sultan's yacht pass
unchallenged from its territorial waters. They had no evidence to warrant
interception, and this was the personal vessel of a head of state. It was
sovereign territory itself. Two weeks passed as Jason learned what his
captor had in mind for him.

The sultan was no vicious sadist. He felt no joy in the pain of
others. True a whipped boy will twist and lunge enticingly and his ass
cheeks will tremble excitingly. All well and good, but pain for its own
sake, no. Of course the application of pain was a normal part of instilling
discipline. Young slaves could be ever so stubborn in accepting their
fates, especially Westerners with their exaggerated notions of personal
freedoms and human rights. This boy in particular, his modest wealth and
recent fame gave him an inflated opinion of his place in the scheme of
things. There were proven techniques for dealing with this.

In Jason's case that would not include drugs. The sultan did not want a
zombie. He wanted a lively boy, and Jason was not just a fantastic sex
object, his personality also attracted the older man.  Once he accepted his
fate, Jason might become his favorite, a confidant even. The boy was
intelligent and well read for his age, an incessant chatterbox with an
insatiable curiosity. That was the charm of these western boys. You could
talk with them as well as enjoy them carnally. It helped that the boy
already knew from his captivity in Central America what men with few
scruples could do to the human body without destroying its desirability. He
might be possessed of a strong will, but his own memories warred against
him.

By nature Jason was a sexual submissive and must know deep in his psyche
that he really belonged on his knees debasing himself and worshipping his
sexual master, a cock down his throat, pleasuring and arousing the superior
male, swallowing his seed, then taking the urine in further sign of
submission and humility, while all the time, just back of his ball sac, his
nether orifice twitched with a deep longing to be penetrated in turn. Only
in submission to dominant males would he be able to gratify his sexual
cravings. It was only a matter of time, another week or two before Jason
came crawling to his new master abjectly debasing himself in total
surrender.

The boy must understand that his own pleasure was very much secondary. His
world must center on how he pleased those he served with his orifices and
his hands. An erect penis was not really necessary or even desirable for
that role. Jason had been shocked when a technician pushed a needle through
the tip of his foreskin and threaded a gold ring through the holes. The
tech called it infibulation. The Romans used in on their slaves, and
Renaissance princes did it to their choir boys, those they didn't just turn
into castrati, to maintain their sweet unbroken voices. The nose ring was
to remind the young American that he truly was a slave now, a chattel
rather than a person.

"We want you to look nice for the camera," the tech explained. Yes Jason
was still in motion pictures if only the sultan's home movies.

Today's little demonstration was to put the young captive in the proper
mood. He was already tired after a long session on the treadmill they had
him run on daily to keep his physique pleasing.  From lying on the floor,
Jason was hoisted slowly by his ankles. Initially his hands were free as
first his legs, then his ass, and finally back and head cleared the
floor. A trainer then locked his wrists in handcuffs behind his back. The
posture and his vulnerability would reinforce the lesson today. His world
was literally turned up side down, hung from those slender and muscular
legs that should have supported him the other way. Naked of course,
helpless to do anything but shout useless threats or utter pointless
pleas. The trainer wanted Jason to see what a caning can do. A foot in
front of Jason's nose he brought a six foot cane down with brutal force on
a block of wood. He whipped it again and again, the slave could feel the
wind of its passage on his face, hear the thwack when it made contact, and
see the end start to unravel. Would the slave like that done to his rump?
How did he think it would feel, the cane slashing and cutting his flesh,
leaving scars?

The trainer then took a smaller cane and showed it to Jason before an
attendant slipped a blindfold over him. He caned the boy everywhere on his
helpless body, but with easier strokes than he had demonstrated; his motion
was from the wrist and arm rather than from the shoulder. The strokes with
the smaller cane would hurt but would not mar the lovely skin. They could
be delivered much faster too. Jason got struck dozens of times on his
ass. After a pause of just moments, the cane struck again, this time at the
backs of his thighs, another pause, then the cane worked over his back and
shoulders. Then they turned him around and the snap of the cane fell on his
chest, belly, legs, and groin in succession. Then they started all over
again with a new hand wielding the cane. After two hours, his entire body
was red from the unrelenting whipping and felt as well as looked on
fire. Jason hung there sobbing helplessly, tears dampening his blindfold,
never certain of whether this latest pause would be the end of his torment
for this day.

What Jason dreaded the trainer enjoyed. He laid the cane straight into his
cleavage to ensure the cane hit his trainee's rosebud. Whack, whack, whack,
whack, whack. Then across the cleft to make the the buttocks jiggle
delightfully -- for the onlookers. They were turning him into not just a
slave but a little boy again. Beating and shaming the self-respect and the
manhood right out of him. After working over every part of the strung up
boy the trainer changed tack. He stroked the boy's torso with his hands,
poked at this armpits and nipples, toyed with his genitals, playfully
lifting and batting a cock that was itself in bondage, penetrating his
orifice with fingers or dildo.

The trainer even talked over the pros and cons of castrating a boy with the
other torturer. The trainer favored reserving that punishment for extreme
cases. You could cut a boy only once whereas you could humiliate and
torture his manhood every day. All just trash talk to show the boy that
every part of his sexy body was theirs to abuse or play with, as they
chose. This was a mind fuck like interrogators used to break a man. And it
was working.

Jason still hoped for rescue but he was so terribly alone, so small and
lost, naked and helpless, caged and shackled and beaten, awakened at
irregular intervals, never getting enough sleep, to undergo new
torments. This time his captor was not a wanted criminal but a government.
The sultan had not penetrated Jason's ass with his cock yet, saving it for
that special moment. Otherwise he explored the boy's charms especially his
talented mouth. Jason gave fantastic head. That tongue piercing of his was
so titillating on a man's cock. The earrings were a nice touch, gold like
his hair and useful like the ears for guiding a boy's head as you face
fucked him, letting him snuffle his master pubic bush, taking his musky
scent into his nostrils, licking and tasting the shaft with his talented
tongue.

The sultan was a big man only just starting to run to fat. How small Jason
looked down there kneeling between his legs, ass impaled on a huge dildo,
wrists bound behind with leather ties, dutifully licking and sucking and
bobbing his head on the large member thrusting through his pouty lips,
distending his throat and making him gag, while the heavy chain between the
alligator clamps on his tiny nipples swayed back and forth with the rhythm
of his servility.

The sultan like to match him with his joy boy Waqqub. Infibulated, both had
to explore the other boy's depths with fingers and tongues and dildos. They
looked so cute together: two randy boys kissing, their tongues dueling or
nibbling and licking their small nipples. They would sixty-nine lustily,
mutually licking and mouthing their smooth scrotums, sucking cocks swollen
and straining to escape confinement within their foreskins, nibbling and
tugging on those gold rings but ultimately frustrated by an experience of
simultaneous arousal and pain. Yes, this American youth would give the
potentate years of pleasure.

Just now the sultan's brother Hassan was being tiresome again. Yes the man
was competent and trustworthy. He had a keen sense of duty and carried his
functions out well. One of these was to occasionally tell his sovereign and
brother that he was wrong. The sultan knew better than to keep only yes men
around him. Tiresome as it could be, he wanted candid opinions on matters
of policy. Only fools killed the messenger who brought bad tidings. In
private the brothers spoke familiarly and discussed matters without
ceremony or honorifics.

"This is insane, my brother, of course the Americans know we have him."

"Agreed, but they have no proof. Without proof, they will do nothing. They
need our energy exports too badly to cross us."

"Arrh!" Hassan threw his hands up. The sultan was not an incompetent ruler,
just overly self-indulgent. On this boy he was inflexible. He had him, and
he would keep him. Next order of business.

				Chapter 4 Resolution

The slave trainers assured the sultan that the American boy was ready.  His
two escape attempts had been punished with harsh electrical tortures of the
genitals; he never suspected that the security system tracked the RFID chip
in his arm. Otherwise his plans to get out of the palace would have
worked. Jason hadn't expected to get clean away, out of the country, but he
had hoped to make his captivity public, to put pressure on the sultan.
After these failures, the daily indoctrination plus sleep deprivation, and
all manner of humiliations and beatings, he now knew that his fate was
entirely out his hands. He must obey orders, do what he was told and accept
whatever was done to him, however painful or degrading.

Without back talk or any attempt to resist he crawled into the torture
chamber on his belly knowing exactly how the scene would play out. He laid
his small physique on the wooden platform, attaching cuffs to his own
wrists and ankles, cuffs already hooked to cables and to winches to draw
him spread-eagle. Eyes tearing he closed a thick handcuff around his
genitals and the other cuff to the chain above, then submitted as trainers
worked the winches to shorten the cables and draw his limbs apart leaving
him flat on his back in an X. Then the final winch did its work slowly
lifting Jason's ass and legs and back off the platform, forming an arch
between his heels and his shoulders, the only parts of his form still on
the wood taking part of his weight. He hung there with most of his weight
suspended from the steel grip on cock and balls.

A whipping with the light cat followed, not so much to inflict pain as to
emphasize his utter vulnerability as lashes fell on legs, chest, belly and
groin. He sobbed disconsolately, crying out out in his despair for his lost
freedom, for the friends he would not see again, for his family, his
country, his career, and the life he had known. Jason was utterly broken.

Very well, the sultan decided. Let the boy rest overnight then be scrubbed
and coiffed and perfumed and let him report to the sultan clothed, if that
is the word, in the pants of a houri boy, a nearly weightless confection of
diaphanous green cloth hanging so low on his hips that it seemed the
slightest breeze would surely loosen its tenuous grip on the very back of
his ass and make it waft to his ankles. The sultan would do the unwrapping
himself, stroking the boy's back, running his finger over the exposed
buttocks and cleavage to finally snag the fragile band of elastic that kept
the sheer pants so precariously in place. One sweep of the hand and the joy
boy would be naked again ready to assume a proper position on hands and
knees, giving his master access to his innermost being at both ends.

The sultan would take Jason like a dog, on all fours with knees spread and
genitals hanging freely between. This was the special moment he had
anticipated lo these three weeks. He felt ecstatic as he slipped his member
into the submissive boy's lubricated orifice and began to pump, punctuating
his thrusts with lusty slaps to that beautiful rump. Just after he reached
climax and pumped his seed into the boy a terrible clamor sounded as armed
men erupted into the chamber from the secret escape passage. The Marines
had landed.

With great presence of mind the sultan pulled out of his slave boy with a
plop, hit the panic button to alert the guards, grabbed a pistol from a
hidden compartment, and held the boy between himself and the Americans as a
shield.

"Let him go". It was Hank's voice!

"I think not. We have a stand off."

Just then Hassan entered with a dozen men at his back. He took in the scene
at a glance and shouted for his men to hold their fire. No one moved for a
moment. Hassan looked at the leader of the Americans, a captain by his
insignia, looked over at his brother and came to a decision.

"You can take the boy and leave."

"Traitor" shouted the sultan and swung his pistol toward Hassan. Hank
surged toward the sultan who shifted aim and shot him twice in the chest.

"Nooooo!" screamed Jason. In anguish and rage he spun and rammed the heel
of his hand up into the face of his captor driving the nose bone into the
brain. The blow killed the man instantly. It was a desperation move Hank
had once showed him, delivered with every ounce of the youth's trim but
muscular frame, a force that started with his legs braced on the floor up
through hips, back, and shoulder and into his straightened arm. He nearly
lifted the big man off his feet. Then Jason spun around to see Hank being
helped to his feet by a skinny naval corpsman who told Jason.

"He's OK. His body armor stopped them."

Jason sagged with relief, more for Hank's survival than for his own rescue.

Hassan told his men to stand down. One who started to argue was forcibly
reminded that Hassan was now Sultan of Zuqqat.

In decisive tones, speaking English so all could follow his meaning, Hassan
arranged an end to the confrontation. The Americans would withdraw -- all
of them including Jason. An escort would see them safely to their landing
craft, and please don't kill any more of my soldiers. The old sultan would
be buried the next day with full honors. Hassan knew it would take a couple
days to get Jason home. He would use this time to consolidate his
position. There would be no official repercussions. The former sultan's
acts were personal not those of his government or of his people. Neither
should have to pay for what had happened. Captain Jessel allowed that a lot
of that was way above his pay grade, but it would probably all happen just
that way.

Just then little Waqqub showed up from the escape passage escorted by a
Marine. "Is it over?" he asked in his high pitched voice.

"You!" Hassan said, "I might have known."

The marine captain smiled. "He was a big help."

Hassan then surprised everyone by asking the little joy boy what he wanted
to do, go with the Americans or stay in his own country. Waqqub surprised
everyone even more by walking over to Hassan and taking his hand. He
explained to the Americans.

"He was always kind to me. He is a good man. Yes, I want to stay. Uh,
Hassan, I mean your Highness, you must do something for the other boys
too. Let them have their lives back."

"It shall be so."

Two hours later, on board the submarine Texas Jason learned all that had
happened while he was a captive. The US government dispatched a team from
Force Recon to rescue Jason. Waqqub's smuggled information was vital to
their success. Hank had asked to go along.  Jim Jessel, their captain,
ignored a dozen regulations. If the old saying 'once a marine always a
marine' meant anything at all it had to do so now. No one had a better
right to go than Hank. The captain has seen his record, the after-action
report for his mission to Paraguay and the citations for Hank's
decorations. Though if Hank got killed on this mission or, worse, got
someone else killed, it was the captain's ass.

In sick bay, Jason was checked out and pronounced healthy, but could they
get those slave rings off him. The skinny sandy haired corpsman, shirtless
by now, clipped the nose ring, then addressed the infibulation. He took
Jason's cock in his hand, all flustered and trembling.  Jason could see
why. They let gays serve openly in the military these days, and this cute
corpsman was clearly one of the new recruits. He couldn't be more than
eighteen either.

The Marine captain chuckled avuncularly then said.

"Shaking like a leaf now, but you should have seen him under fire. When
Lopez got hit, he scrambled over to him ignoring the heavy fire and
controlled the bleeding. One of the sultan's soldiers who everyone thought
was dead brought a pistol to bear on both of them. Simpson here had put his
rifle on the ground. Cool as you please he just takes Lopez's K-bar and
drives it stiff arm right into the bad guy's heart. Then he plunges the
knife blade into the sand and gets back to work. I'm putting him in for a
decoration. Now he's nervous, I wonder why?"

He knew damn well why, and, to general merriment, Johnny Simpson told him
in a tremulous voice, as if it had not been a rhetorical question.

"I can't believe I have Jason Eberly's cock in my hands!"

After taking a deep breath he got the job done. Hank was grinning
wide. "Aren't you going to thank him, Jase, and do it properly mind you."

Jason caught his meaning. He hopped off the examination table and took
Johnny Simpson in his arms. He pressed his naked body to the corpsman's
hairless chest. Simpson's eyes went wide.

"Put your arms around me. No, not like that. You know where you want to put
your hands."

As Simpson slid his hands down to Jason's bare ass, the actor gave Simpson
a light kiss, then another and another, first on cheek and nose, then a
peck on the lips before really locking lips for a long sensuous kiss,
tongues thrusting and hands roaming over their bodies. Jason finally broke
the clinch. Simpson just said "Whew!" and stood there with a silly grin on
his face.

The gunnery sergeant smiled shaking his head, waving a hand at Hank, Jason,
and Simpson. "The big one takes out a sentry, the little one practically
beheads the bad guy, and the skinny one is a genuine hero. Three fairies,
whodda thunk it!"

But it was said with a wink, and a chuckle. Johnny Simpson's story was soon
all over the boat. It made his reputation. He had proved himself. The
marine captain simply told him that any time he had a mission he would ask
for the young corpsman with his whole team nodding their agreement.

Three months later it was Jason's third anniversary in the movie
business. He and Hank and Johnny Simpson would have a quiet dinner with
Jason's folks in the evening. Johnny's boat was in port in San Diego, and
he would be staying over at Jason's townhouse. The public celebration was
staged by the actor's neighbors and movie friends in one of the grassy
common areas in the development. Besides his parents, Hank and Johnny, and
close neighbors like Bill and Tad, there were movie people like Jim
Nicholls, Marty Fletcher, and Leon Potter, his agent Ed Veronese, Phil the
cameraman and some guys from the movie crew, and a couple of sailors from
the submarine Texas with Captain Jessel to represent the USMC. The picnic
was a great success, lots of food, fun and music. No one drank too much
beer either.

At one point, Jason was challenged to a frisbee toss with Hank, Johnny, and
a young sailor. Jason was usually the best, his petite physique made him
quick and nimble as a squirrel, but the others were in shorts and he was in
one of his sarongs. The sailor told Johnny:

"We can show them up easy: a couple of old men in their twenties and one
hobbled by a skirt".

Jason's mother usually disapproved of his overly casual attitude to
clothing, but just this once she unclipped his sarong and drew it off his
hips, murmuring something in French, then told him to go beat the pants off
those other guys. He ran off, turned to glance back at his folks a big
smile on his face, then joined in the game. Jason's dad took his wife by
the shoulder and gave it a squeeze to show his support for her
gesture. They had never been prouder of their boy.