Date: Sun, 11 Oct 2009 10:24:26 -0500
From: George Gauthier <georgegauthier@verizonmail.com>
Subject: Jungle Boy 9

			       Jungle Boy 9
			    by George Gauthier

Author's Note: This is a tale of a pair of young gay actors in Hollywood
and their utterly improbable adventures in the movie business. This ninth
installment continues the story of the pair of new protagonists, Sandy
Barnett and Terry Knowles introduced in the sixth tale, in place of Jason
Eberly, the original Jungle Boy of the first five tales (who has a cameo
role in these new tales).

It contains graphic descriptions of the male human body and of sexual
activity between adult males, the youngest of whom is nineteen years
old. It depicts scenes of consensual and non-consensual sexual activity,
bondage and submission.

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

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

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

All rights reserved.

			Chapter 1. Dracula

"My dear count, I wonder if you are aware of a strange physical phenomenon
that centers on your person?".

"What is it young Van Helsing?" the ageless vampire asked in an off hand
tone. He did not even bother to look over at his interlocutor, his gaze and
mind centered on the pretty youth seated in front of him.

"I was grooming myself in the mirror just now, when you walked into the
room. In the glass I saw the door open. I heard you speak to my friend. I
can see Luke quite clearly on the settee, his red hair glowing with the
light of the fire. The strange phenomenon is that, though you are standing
right in front of him, you yourself cast no reflection in the glass ..."

Dracula's expression changed from supercilious boredom to rage. He seized a
candlestick from the mantle and flung it at the offending mirror reducing
it to shards, shouting:

"Foul bauble of man's vanity!"

His young interlocutor shied away from the mirror, raising his arm to
protect his comely face and eyes from broken glass, though he did get
nicked on the wrist. Blood welled slowly from the small laceration. The
vampire's eyes glittered then fixed his gaze on the young blond man facing
him.

"So you know. I should have suspected when he sent for you. Aren't you
worried that I might visit violence upon you or upon your delectable friend
or both? My kind possesses the strength of ten."

"We mortals have our strengths too, especially our faith and our reason. I
have armed myself against you, Count Dracula." the courageous young man
replied, a challenge in his voice, though he trembled at the thought of
pitting the wisdom of his mere twenty two years against the count's five
centuries.

"More wolfsbane, Van Helsing?" the count said with sneer as he took a step
toward the much smaller male.

"No, count. Something far more powerful." With that the blond youth drew a
small golden monstrance from his inside pocket, a consecrated host visible
behind its glass cover, and recited the formula "Noli me tangere" (Don't
touch me!) the Latin version of the words of the Christ to Mary Magdalene.

The count turned with a hiss, covering his face with his cloak against the
intolerable presence, snarling, "Sacrilege!" at the man who had thwarted
his plans. He had no choice but to retreat the way he had come.

"Cut!" yelled the director, Jim Nicholls.

"Good work everyone. That's a wrap for the day."

Hollywood's dream couple, Jungle Boy Sandy Barnett and his lover Terry
Knowles were on the set of their latest picture, a gay retelling of the
Dracula myth. In this story, Dracula is not interested in swooning female
virgins sleepwalking in filmy nightgowns. He wants hot blooded young males,
both as a source of nourishment and to indulge his bestial and perverted
lusts.

And what better place to find youths collected together, away from the
protection of family and neighbors, than in an English boarding school,
like the Chelmsford School, located in the County of Essex, northeast of
London.

Terry played Luke West, a sixth form student in his last year at the
school. He was just the type the count lusted after: a fully formed male
eighteen years old but slightly built, his boyish physique measuring just
over five four (164 cm) and weighing only eight stone five (117 lbs or 53
kg). A cute red head with a ready smile, graced with sky blue eyes, Terry
was the acknowledged beauty of the Chelmsford sixth form. His stylish
evening garb did little to conceal the slender but well-knit physique he
was blessed with.

Sandy played Pieter Van Helsing, Dutch by birth, recent Oxford graduate, a
student at the Royal College of Medicine, and Luke's legal guardian and
close friend. This confrontation had confirmed his worst fears, that
Dracula had chosen Luke as his prey, someone the count would mesmerize,
seduce, debauch, and feed upon for some while, before finally killing the
lad by draining his blood.

The count was played by a relative unknown in his early thirties. Conrad
Held was tall, dark, and elegantly handsome, with an intent stare and a
perpetually half raised eyebrow that hinted at the cruelty beneath the
surface elegance He spoke English well but with a distinct Central European
accent, in short, the epitome of the suave foreign nobleman.

The two young actors were happy to be doing a costume drama as a change of
pace. In most of their pictures, the so-called Jungle Boy series, they wore
only the skimpiest of costumes or even none at all. In some of their
pictures they went totally bare in every scene. These included such hits as
the gay-themed remakes of 'When Dinosaurs Ruled the Earth' and 'The Blue
Lagoon'. No coy camera angles either. If the scene called for a shot of
their shapely tushes or even the full monty, then so be it.

The production team was at work in a mansion in the Hollywood Hills that
often doubled for English country houses (not to mention a stint as stately
Wayne Manor in a couple of Batman films). After shooting all the scenes in
its public rooms, they would shift to studio sets to film scenes supposedly
in the bedrooms of the elegant country house.

Five days later they began doing Terry's solo scenes with Dracula, set
earlier in the time line of the picture, before Van Helsing arrives. As the
effects folks rattled the French windows and shook the fake shrubbery
outside his bedroom to simulate an oncoming storm, "Luke" tossed and turned
in his sleep. In the heat of a summer's night, the bedcovers were down by
his feet. He wore a loose fitting nightshirt, open at the neck and halfway
down his chest affording glimpses of his tiny red nipples. Sweat plastered
locks of his hair to his forehead. He looked lovely and vulnerable in the
moonlight streaming through the glass.

A shadow outside resolved itself into the dread count in his human
form. The wolfsbane and garlic hung around the handles and the brass lock
did nothing to detain the determined vampire. With a twist and a ping of
metal, his strong grip simply broke the lock apart. The windows opened
wide, seemingly of their own accord but really impelled by the vampire's
powers of mind over matter. He went to the boy's bed and loomed over him
whispering.

"Awaken, young West, and partake of the delights I will offer to you."

Luke had a strong will for a mortal but groggy in the middle of the night
and weakened by a drug slipped into his evening glass of port he quickly
fell under the count's influence. At the count's unspoken order, Luke slid
out of bed and stepped into the center of the room, eyes open, blinking
slowly, but moving only by the will of the vampire. The count loomed over
the slender boy, shorter than he was by a foot. The disparity in size of
the actors was deliberate. Conrad Helm's six foot four frame (plus two inch
lifts) would emphasize the boy's slight build and helplessness.

"You will serve me, Luke." the count intoned hypnotically.

"Yes, Master" the boy acknowledged mechanically, caught in the grip of the
fiend's mental powers.

"First let us see what has heretofore been hidden from my gaze. Time to
unwrap my little gift to myself."

He took hold of the neck opening of the boy's nightshirt and tore the
garment down the middle, splitting it along the V down the boy's chest,
parting the fabric as easily as if it were tissue paper. The boy did not
react, standing mute and motionless as the halves of his night shirt fell
away, disclosing his exquisite physique.

This dramatic unveiling was Luke's first nude scene. Dracula gasped with
delight and lust. Never had he seen a more beautiful boy. The moonlight
painted the youth with a bluish light, creating intriguing chiaroscuro
effects which outlined every corrugation of his chest and belly. From his
tiny red nipples to a deeply indented navel, to narrow hips framing a
surprisingly ample manhood for one so slight of build, Luke was real
beauty. He carried so little body fat that his flat belly showed a tracery
of downward pointing veins just under the skin. The beat of his heart was
visible on the left side of his smooth chest.

The count walked around his mental slave, drinking in the boy's
comeliness. The camera circled the boy too, its lenses recording the
count's eye view in a full 360 examination of one of the most exquisite
boys in the United Kingdom in the mid nineteenth century.

From the front, the boy looked so, well flat, though corrugated with
rippled abs, pecs, ribs, and nicely formed muscles, but his fawn-like
physique was the very opposite of the bulging muscles of a strong
warrior. From the rear, the boy was all curves: the calves, the slender
thighs, the firm globes of the buttocks, the swale of the lower back, the
slope up to the shoulder blades which formed winglets on his upper back, to
the cylinder of his neck.

Farther down Luke had a smooth cock with a vein running along the top from
his belly to where the foreskin hugged his cock head, outlining the ridge
of the glans under the skin. The sheath of his cock completely covered the
head, the folded tip extending perhaps half a finger's breadth beyond. Cock
and balls were reasonably sized but he wouldn't be scaring the horses. It
might take both his small hands to cover his erection, but only one when he
was soft though it did look larger from the way it sprouted out of a smooth
bare groin. His body was smooth and virtually hairless, a condition related
to his failure to achieve full height.

Dracula placed a hand on the boy's left shoulder and guided his thrall
outside onto the terrace where a second camera captured the action. The set
grew dark as clouds obscured the moon. Lightning flashed and thunder pealed
as a hard rain began to fall. The lightning flashes illuminated a full
frontal view of the boy, still in his trance, as waters falling from the
sky washed over him, draining off him, slid down chest and belly and
sluiced their way over his groin and through his rear cleavage. The count
lifted him effortlessly off the ground, cradling the boy in his arms. As
the storm increased in intensity, the pair rose into the sky, flying toward
the count's hidden lair and love nest.

"Cut!"

They were shooting scenes out of order, as movie productions do. The next
scene in the story would be at the count's hidden lair and show the boy
sitting on a bearskin before a crackling fire in a chamber under the ruined
abbey the count had taken over. As the count seduced and made love to the
lovely youth, the cinematographer would be able to capture the boy's
physical beauty by the yellow and reddish light cast by burning logs in the
fireplace, a deliberate artistic contrast with the lighting in the prior
scene. The fire would also suggest the count's burning desire for the lad.
However, that scene would not be shot till the following week along with
other scenes set in the lair.

Terry's next scene set in the bedroom was just after Luke returns from his
first assignation with the count, looking rather the worse for wear, though
his only visible injury are the two small puncture on his throat. As dawn
breaks, Luke manages to shake off the count's influence long enough to
write a desperate appeal to his guardian and friend Van Helsing. He posts
it before the count can learn about it or make him change him mind, then
falls asleep atop the covers, giving the camera another shot of his fine
tush.

Luke does not bother with the nightshirt after his first assignation with
Dracula. That garment is in rags and anyway the count has forbidden him to
cover his nakedness with either nightshirt or bedclothes while asleep and
waiting for him. In subsequent scenes of seduction, the boy is drawn by the
count's mental influence to walk the moors to the count's lair. Now in a
standard vampire movie that would be an excuse to show a pretty ingenue in
a filmy negligee wandering about. This 'Dracula' showed an athletic nude
boy, his musculature bunching entrancingly under his bare skin, his manhood
swinging with his walk. They particularly wanted to capture the way Terry's
butt twitched and dimpled so fetchingly as he walked.

Between scenes the young actors relaxed in chairs with their names on them,
just about their only perquisite of fame.

"You know, I really love this costume stuff, Terry, like that stylish suit
and ruffled shirt I wore in my first confrontation with Dracula. And that
cloak I wore on the train from London, I always wanted to stalk about in an
enveloping cloak, letting it swirl around me with my movements. It is very
moody and romantic. I wish they would bring back the cloak as outwear."

"They won't Sandy. A cloak is too voluminous. That is fine, even practical
on horseback, where you drape the back over his withers. You wouldn't want
to try sitting on a cloak in car. Much more practical to wear a coat or
jacket with buttons or zipper and a split tail. No, as long as we drive
cars instead of ride horses, forget about cloaks. Sorry to spoil it for
you."

"Alas, a dream ended!. Anyway, can you believe all these costume changes?
The upper classes once changed clothes four times or five times a day, so
our characters have to, er ... follow suit -- no pun intended."

"Right. You know Sandy. What I would really like in the way of a costume
picture is a pirate story or maybe a Dumas novel. It would be great to wear
a red cape on my shoulders and a feathered hat as I swash and buckle my way
across the screen, blades flashing, enemies falling dead at my feet."

Sandy smiled at his lover's fancy. Nothing like that was in the
pipeline. Terry would have to take it up with Leon Potter, the studio
production chief.

			Chapter 2. Story Conference

While he waited for the rest of his guests to arrive movie producer Marty
Fletcher looked on with a grin as two of his favorite actors tossed a
frisbee around the back yard. He reflected, and not for the first time,
that the sport must have been purposefully designed to show off the male
physique, especially when the athletes were fully nude like these two
lads. Their evenly tanned forms darted here and there, bending and
twisting, jumping and lunging, occasionally tumbling to the ground, then
bouncing back up, a kinetic and sensual display of clean smooth limbs,
tight torsos, and taut buns, all to accompaniment of laughter and happy
voices. Both nineteen, the lads were the very picture of health and
youthful male exuberance and completely unselfconscious about their nudity.

Though a firm ladies man, Fletcher could recognize exquisite male beauty
when he saw it. Still, he had a hard time deciding which of the two actors
was more stunning, the impossibly cute red head, Terry Knowles, or the
blond beauty who was his lover, Sandy Barnett, aka the Jungle Boy. Somehow,
as much as Terry had to offer, he would have to pick Sandy.

Sandy was indeed a comely youth and a fine choice as the second Jungle
Boy. In keeping with the traditions of the Jungle Boy pictures he was
anything but a big muscle man, certainly no Tarzan of the Jungle. Sandy was
but a boy who was not quite a man, a short, slender, and slightly built
teenager, but in top physical condition. Sandy had more of a swimmer's
build than a cross country runner like Jason Eberly, the first Jungle
Boy. He was a fine looking lad standing barely four inches over five feet
(163 cm) and weighing only 112 pounds (51 kg). He had a fawn-like physique
but with a wiry musculature, toned and taut from daily swimming and running
and working out with light weights.

Like Jason, Sandy was preternaturally beautiful, much prettier than a boy
had any right to be, with delicate features, a straight nose, finely arched
brows, a chiseled jaw line, high cheekbones, and large green eyes topped by
a thatch the color of straw. As a competitive high school swimmer, he had
used the new permanent depilatories to remove the hair on his body, little
as it had been, even in his armpits and at the fork of his legs, leaving
him permanently smooth and boyish.

The camera loved him. Although short, his body was well proportioned and
incredibly toned, taut and trim with the muscular upper storey of a
swimmer. Add in those killer abs and an all-over tan, he was poetry in
motion. While running, he was as graceful as a gazelle. Climbing trees, he
was as quick and nimble as a squirrel. The way he swam it was as if the
waters parted willingly to let him pass, taking their pleasure in being
able to touch and kiss his lovely body everywhere at once.

In every picture they made sure to do several slo-mo shots just to show off
Sandy's athletic prowess and raw animal appeal. From his tiny red nipples
to a deeply indented navel, to narrow hips framing a surprisingly ample
manhood for one so slight in build, Sandy was real beauty. He carried so
little body fat that his flat belly showed a tracery of downward pointing
veins just under the skin. The beat of his heart was visible on the left
side of his smooth chest. His rump jutted out just the right amount, twin
mounds of firm flesh begging to be grabbed. He was sleek and smooth, deeply
and evenly tanned from much exposure to the sun while in the nude at the
beach or outdoor pool. The sheen of sweat on his skin made him shine in the
bright sun, his wiry physique a vision of youthful male pulchritude.

"Here you go, sir. Iced tea for you and a jug of orangeade for Terry and
Sandy when they take a break."

Fletcher nodded his thanks to his houseboy, a fine looking lad in his own
right if not in their class. A cute dark haired Latino about nineteen, Luis
wore nothing but a tiny string thong, the pouch barely larger than his
hand. Not that Fletcher was the least bit fey himself, but cute gay
houseboys were all the vogue in Hollywood these days, valued not only for
their looks but also for their training in household management at
community colleges Who wanted a frumpy female housekeeper when they might
have a professionally trained pretty gay boy at their beck and call. (Luis
lived in a small apartment in the service wing of the house.)

Actually for Luis a string thong practically amounted to formal wear. Most
of the time, like when he took care of the lawn, the plantings, and the
pool he went around in the buff. He did wear a chef's apron in the
kitchen. It was sort of a game among the A List to see whose house boy was
the most shameless. Fletcher's boy even walked out to the mail box or to
fetch the paper and signed for packages in the buff. Not a big deal in the
fourth decade of the twenty-first century, especially in Hollywood.

Attitudes toward nudity had changed a lot even in America, the last hold
out for nudity taboos. Generational change was a big part of the
reason. The younger generations did not share the attitudes of their
prudish elders. The law too had changed with the times, whether by
enactment of new statutes or judicial decisions at all levels that
recognized public nudity in some contexts as a constitutional right. There
were many clothing optional beaches around now with nude beach volley ball
competitions, nude swimmers, and nude runners. The larger parks in major
cities had sections given over to nude sunbathing. Runners for cross
country teams at some colleges thought nothing of loping down the back road
absolutely starkers on their training runs. Back in his home town in
Florida, locals were used to seeing the "Barnett kid" jogging in the
altogether along local residential streets over to the running trails in
the nearby park. You had to do something pretty outrageous these days to
get arrested for what they used to call public indecency.

Restrictions on what could be shown in the movies or on television were
virtually non-existent at this late date, some sixty years after the first
instance of full-frontal nudity on American TV. Almost anything could be
presented on screen. Jason Eberly had ridden that wave of change starting
twenty years earlier, doing many pictures in the rude nude. Sandy and Terry
were following in his (bare)footsteps.

Luis hovered attentively, always happy for the chance to ogle the two young
actors, especially Terry. They came over maybe twice a week to use his
employer's outdoor pool, which was Olympic sized in length though with only
half as many lanes. Luis especially liked spreading sun tan oil on the
Terry's scrumptious body. The young actor's Irish heritage made him
susceptible to sunburn, even through his tan. Many is the time the boy
stretched out on his belly on a lounge chair and let Luis attend to every
portion of his body, not just the back. He let Luis take control, raising
his calfs on command to let the Latino boy spread oil on all surfaces,
spreading his legs on cue so Luis could reach his inner thighs and delve
into his cleavage, draping his arms over the end of the lounge chair so
Luis could reach his sides, his ribs, his pits as well as back and
shoulders. The houseboy gave particular attention to the twin buns,
spreading the oil with firm strokes, kneading the firm flesh, pulling the
globes apart and fingering the boy's crack.

The first time he rolled over on his back and Luis addressed his front,
Terry started to object, but Luis's pleading look made him just lie back
and let the houseboy do his front too. Luis was just as thorough
there. When he spread the protective lotion on the boy's chest, his finger
twirled and tweaked Terry's erect nipples and circled the aureoles. His
fingers traced every corrugation of the actors ribs and abs and into his
Adams girdle. And of course he was properly attentive to the boy's handsome
set of genitals. Often Terry couldn't help but get an erection from Luis'
ministrations. Sandy looked on, trying hard to suppress a giggle. This was
foreplay, not a helping hand. His lover was being a naughty boy. Not that
Luis didn't have a thing going with the neighbor's boy, but who would pass
up a chance to feel Terry Knowles all over. Luis loved the way the boy's
skin felt nearly as soft and smooth as a baby's, though the firm muscles
beneath gave evidence of his well-toned athleticism.

Within a few more minutes, Marty Fletcher's other guests arrived for the
story conference.  Principal photography was over for Dracula, and the
movie was in post production. They would agree on film concepts that would
play to their stars' strengths, then set writers to work on
scripts. Fletcher's guests were his close friend and veteran director, Jim
Nicholls, Ed Veronese, the actors' agent, and Leon Potter, studio
production chief. Also on hand was Conrad Held. He had played very well
against the younger pair in their film together, making a fine villain.

The boys left off their game and joined everyone else under the big lawn
umbrella. Not the least bit body shy, especially with this group, neither
bothered with clothing, unselfconsciously settling their nude sweaty bodies
down on director's chairs and pouring themselves big tumblers of orangeade.
Sandy after all had worked for two years as a male model,

"Aaah! Deeelicious!" Sandy said smacking his lips. "You did it perfectly
this time, Luis." explaining to the others: "I taught him our old family
recipe: mix real orange juice diluted to a soft drink with the juice and
skin of a squeezed lemon for that touch of piquancy. None of those awful
powdered mixes. And mind you use real Florida orange juice. It's a taste of
the Sunshine State! And it is non-alcholic and non-fattening too!"

"As if that were any concern of the two of you, or of Luis either, for that
matter." Nicholls observed avuncularly. "There isn't an ounce of extra
flesh on any of you."

"Hey, maybe we could get Sandy a gig doing a commercial for Florida oranges
or maybe a whole campaign." Ed Veronese.

"For my native state, I might do it pro bono."

"You wound me, Sandy. Orange juice is a business like any other, and surely
I am entitled to my percentage."

The others chuckled at the exchange, though conceding Ed's point.

"OK, down to business." Potter began. "I was thinking of doing a remake of
'Young Guns' with a gay angle to add spice to the interpersonal tensions
among the young outlaws."

"Sounds good, Leon." Fletcher began, "But as with any Western for these two
I gotta ask, how do we get them outta their clothes, other than in the
obligatory swimming hole scene."

"Ha, you'll like this, Fletch. I think we should have the outlaws disguise
themselves as Indian braves for their daring stagecoach holdups."

"I get it. "Terry piped up. "Young bucks dressed in ever so skimpy
loincloths and nothing else."

"Well, add feathers and moccasins and warpaint instead of masks to buckskin
loincloths, the color of their tans. From any distance they'll look buck
naked, er ... no pun intended. From the side they are bare except for the
leather thong tied low on their hips. Get it?"

Terry and Sandy rolled their eyes. The lengths the producers and
scriptwriters went to get them out of their clothes on camera. The gimmick
for their dinosaur picture was that clothing had not yet been invented!
Right. No doubt the loincloth would be more little more than a
G-string. They would contrive other reasons to get the boys nude. Very
likely the production team would find or create some small waterfall for
their characters to shower in too. There was some kind of shower scene in
nearly all their pictures. Well that is what the fans expected from Sandy
and Terry, scenes with sex appeal.

"And I can play the relentless bounty hunter." Conrad Held added. "who
tracks the boys down one by one, inexorably imposing his own harsh version
of frontier justice. In other words, he is a combination of Inspector
Javert from Les Miserables and the Marquis de Sade."

"I know what that means," Sandy said shaking his head. "So which of us are
you going to strip naked and lash with a bull whip?"

"And who gets staked out bare ass in the sun, spread-eagled next to an ant
hill with a trail of honey leading to his belly?" Terry asked.

The boys had come to expect to be captured, stripped, and abused by the
villains in their pictures. There was a strong gay S&M subtext in so many
of their movies with scenes of bondage, whippings, humiliation, and sexual
abuse. Conrad Held confirmed their surmises with his vision of the upcoming
picture.

"With all due respect to both scriptwriter and director, I can see you,
Sandy, tied to a fence as the bull whip lays into your bare flesh. I'll
soon have your ass cheeks trembling ever so sexily in anticipation of the
next blow. For you Terry, nothing so crude as what as you described. Better
to have you kneeling in the desert sands, your wrists tied to your ankles,
anchored to a stake in the ground by a leather thong around your
genitals. The camera will capture your physique from many more angles,
recording your futile struggles against your bonds as you twist and turn,
trying to find the impossible, a position that does not bring on muscular
cramps.

We will also show you plagued by heat, thirst, and windblown sands. Hell
let's toss in a black scorpion for the 'yuck' factor. We'll have it skitter
between your legs, waving its pincers perilously close to your
manhood. That will raise the audience's anxiety quotient. They will be
forced to think the unthinkable: will it be one snip of the claws or a
sting that unmans you? Not to worry, the scorpion will be animatronic."

"Thanks." the actor said dryly, trying to act unconcerned though his thighs
had spread then closed protectively over his genitals.

"Anything but leeches." Sandy said shaking his head and shuddering. From
his own experiences, Sandy could not abide the blood sucking creatures.

"And Terry, the way you hid your genitals just now, " Nicholls
added. "making you look like a eunuch ... I never saw such clean lines on a
boy before. And the shock value for the fans. We just have to use a shot
like that in your future pictures."

Terry could only shake his head at Hollywood's version of inspiration and
creativity.

"OK, that's settled. 'Young Guns' it is, but Terry can keep his balls. What
else?" Potter asked.

"Well, it is about time for another Jungle Boy picture, boy," Fletcher
opined.

"You mean yet another picture where we both run around starkers in every
single scene, don't you?" Sandy said, chuckling.

"What else? Think what we can save on the costume budget!".

After much discussion, much of it hilarious but too salacious to be
practical, the group decided on two further projects. The next Jungle Boy
picture would be set on remote islands in the Indian Ocean during the
mid-nineteenth century. Sandy would play Axel Knorr, a boy of Danish
extraction working for the proprietor of a copra plantation on the Cocos
Islands where he meets Brendan Doyle, a young sailor. The film recounts
their love affair and their exploration of heretofore inaccessible
Christmas Island. In real life, the young explorers, both nineteen like the
protagonists who portray them, had set off entirely nude and spent exciting
weeks on the island, culminating in a deadly encounter with Great White
Sharks. The movie would have a small role for Conrad Held, portraying
Captain Fitzroy of HMS Beagle. Still to be cast was an actor for the role
of naturalist Charles Darwin, who would feature only in the first reel.

The second choice was more conventional, a thriller with the young actors
playing college roommates and lovers, set up by the bad guys to take the
blame in a plot to kidnap the freshmen sons of the President of the United
States from their college campus. No Jungle Boy picture but with plenty of
opportunity to write in love scenes, shower scenes, etc. Conrad Held would
come into his own as the big bad boss man in the plot.

		Chapter 3. Angels of the Open Road

The young stars left Fletcher's house in Terry's car, a beat up old
roadster open to the sky. A roadster has only a windshield but no roof or
side or rear windows. Still it was practical enough in sunny California for
a pair of kids dressed only in hot pants (and flip flops which they usually
kicked off anyway). They liked the feel of the sun on their chests and
thighs and the wind in their hair. It brought the thrill of motoring
back. The boys never bothered with the balky side doors, simply sliding
onto the bucket seats. The cozy two seater made you feel you were wearing
it rather than riding in it. You couldn't get that feeling in a climate
controlled glass and metal box, that was for sure! The roadster was also
quick and nimble in traffic and easy to park in the tightest of places,
being shorter and narrower than a coupe or a sedan. And when you put the
pedal down, it really zipped along, though you had better keep an eye
peeled for John Law.

That afternoon the boys went for a spin in the Hollywood Hills, tooling
along Mulholland Drive in Griffith Park. It was a glorious day for a
drive. They had several pictures lined up but nothing in production at the
moment. An opportunity then for some quality time with each other. As they
drove along, a half dozen motorcycles rolled up beside them, pacing
them. The riders were all nice looking young guys, mid to late twenties,
wearing only cut off jeans to show off their lean tanned bodies plus boots
and helmets. None of them looked like a stereotypical Hell's Angel: older,
beefy, hirsute, and dangerous.

One of them leaned over and shouted loud enough to be heard, telling the
boys to follow them to the Vasquez Rocks movie location on the outskirts of
the city. Why not? The boys had filmed their confrontation with the T. Rex
on that location only last year. The Vasquez Rocks Natural Area and Nature
Center covers some 932 acres in the high desert near Agua Dulce Springs and
features unusual rock formations. It has hiking trails, equestrian trails,
self-guided nature trails, a seasonal stream plus those dramatic slanted
rock formations featured in hundreds of movies and TV shows.

When they arrived at an obscure corner of the nature area, they found half
a dozen other motorcyclists there. With their helmets off, the boys could
see that some had neat crew cuts and all were clean shaven. They were
kidding around with each other, but nothing really rowdy was going on. The
boys hopped out of the roadster leaving their flip flops behind.

"Hey nice threads." one dark haired rider said to the boys.

The boys' sole garments were those extreme short shorts that had come back
into fashion. These so-called hot pants had been popular in the 1970s and
were fashionable once again fifty years later. With a very low rise
waistband and a two-inch inseam and with a loose fit, the hot pants lived
up to their name. Anyone standing behind a boy wearing hot pants could look
right down his rear cleavage, and the inseam was barely enough to contain
him in front. You didn't wear any underwear with hot pants either. If you
stretched out like on on a lounge chair, anyone could look right up the
shorts. They were perfect for displaying the proportions of the boy's
slender but muscular legs.  With many slightly built youths, their legs are
disproportionately short, accounting for most of the deficit in
height. Sandy's and Terry's trim forms were smaller in proportion,
retaining the classic ratios which artists have discovered please the eye
and excite concupiscence.

"Hi, I'm David and I am the leader of this bunch of riders. We call
ourselves Purgatory's Angels. That's because we are sinners still trying to
work our way to Heaven. A difficult business what with all the fun but
naughty things there are to do in this world."

His laughter was infectious. Soon the boys were sitting among the riders,
taking in their stories about the open road. The Angels roamed all up the
Pacific Coast as far as Oregon and as far east as Utah. They had lots of
stories about snatching chickens out of farmer's coops for roasting over
their campfires, of rattlesnakes slithering into tents, of sudden
rainstorms that turned a long downhill into a raging river that washed two
riders right over the shoulder, and of mountain lions perched atop rocks
just waiting for something pouncable to pass by.

The boys smiled. These guys all seemed very nice, not overly loud or
raucous, and not drunk either, though several were puffing away on
cigarettes with a very suspicious odor. Fortunately marijuana had been
legal for the past ten years. (The taxes on it had helped repair
California's finances very nicely.) Neither boy smoked and hardly drank,
just an occasional beer or glass of wine with dinner.

"Jesus kids. You're practically nekkid in those shorty shorts. I can look
right up to the fork of your legs. Hell, they fit so loose, they're
practically sliding off your narrow hips. Why not help the lads out there
guys?" he asked the other riders.

Before Terry and Sandy could react, their shorts were pulled off and thrown
back among the rocks and lost to view.

"My oh my. So this is our catch of the day. Two pretty twinks, smooth and
hairless just like we likes 'em. Nice even tans too. You boys must go about
naked rather a lot. Don't have much use for clothes, eh? Well, you came to
the right place.

The boys were surprised at the sudden turn of events. They hadn't signed up
for a sex orgy after all. Before they could react, rough hands pulled their
wrists behind them and snapped handcuffs around them. Well equipped ahead
of time, the riders also fixed spreader bars to their ankles. Everything
about the situation screamed imminent gang bang. The boys looked at each
other, anxiety on their faces. Now what?

"Yeah, real nice, David said as he wrapped leather thongs around their
genitals, pulling on them like leashes drawing the young actors into the
center of the circle of rocks. The boys were well and truly caught.

"What...what are you gonna do with us?" Terry stammered, trying to sound
defiant, but his voice came out very young and shaky.

That only endeared the stunning youngster that much more with his
captors. These kids were just the sort the gang liked to break in and train
for long term service: young, cute, and innocent. The Angels weren't
interested in burnt out street kids or losers. They had a whole string of
oversexed lads up and down the coast, nice kids, good kids in everyday
life, kids who held jobs or kept their grades up at school, but were always
ready to drop whatever they were doing and surrender themselves to the
Angels for a passion-filled weekend of sexual submission. Why not add these
two to the stable? This pair was hot!

The Angels knew there were far better ways to break a lad in than with
coercion and brutality. No, the way to control a young male's libido was
with a thorough going mind fuck. All you had to do was find a weakness and
exploit it. In this case, it was obvious that their love for each other
would allow the Angels to play one lad against another. Terry would do
anything to protect Sandy and vice-versa. Either would take on any amount
of humiliation and sexual degradation to spare the other. The lads fell for
the stratagem. Soon they were saying things like:

"Don't hurt Terry. I'm the one you want." Sandy called out. Fuck, whip me,
make me suck your cocks, but don't hurt my Terry."

"No, that's wrong, Sandy. I'm the one they will want for my peaches and
cream complexion and that pert rump you always go on about. Do what you
will with me, you sexy bastards, but leave him alone."

Despite their willingness for self sacrifice, the Angels would not be
satisfied with one or the other youth when they had both trussed up and at
their mercy. The pair of them were their new toys and such fine boy toys
they were too, one a cute as hell red-head with sky blue eyes, the other a
supernal blond beauty with eyes the green of growing things.

Terry and Sandy physiques were very much alike, both kids were smooth and
boyish; the men felt no hair as they stroked and petted those slender limbs
or delved into their cleavages. Neither youth had a feather anywhere on his
delectable body, not in the arm pits, nor at the groin, nor on the hairless
ballsac, and not even around the crinkly whorl guarding the nether hole.

Soon both boys were thrown belly down across rocks for a preparatory
spanking to redden their butts. Then the belts and cocks of the Angels went
to work on their asses. Their mouths were put to good use too getting the
cocks wet and lubed.

An Angel plugged Terry's ass and pumped away. He reached under Terry
feeling for his groin and curled his fingers around the boy's rigid cock.

"Damn! Hey look, the red-head likes it. He's really getting into it." he
chortled pointing to Terry's erection.

He pulled the boy to his feet, cupping the boy's genitals in his hand the
better to show his shame to the other Angels. The man shifted his grip,
engulfing the boy's testicles in his huge fist. He continued the mind fuck,
whispering in Terry's ear.

"You reckless fool, following us here, putting yourself into the power of a
motorcycle gang. Here I've got your manhood in my fist. One hard squeeze
and your nuts are jelly, turning you into eunuch. Maybe that is all you are
good for, really. Look at you, bound and helpless in my grasp, a small
naked hairless fag boy, cringing before his betters. Isn't that where you
belong? Admit it, fag boy. You were made to be used by strong men as a fuck
toy, you cocksucking pansy faggot. A cock crazy youth like you needs to be
fucked hard and often and by men who know how. Maybe a gang bang will do
you some good. Maybe all our male juices injected into your body will
finally make a man of you. Nothing else has, you little fairy."

Terry turned red from mortification, forced to acknowledge the essential
truth behind the man's strong words. He was a cock crazy pansy faggot. And
yes he had been enthusiastic about following the gang to the
rendezvous. Now here he was naked and chained, helpless and confused. These
motorcycle riders were going to gang bang him, yet the prospect made him
hard. Terry whimpered and pulled uselessly against his bonds, overwhelmed
by the contrary feelings coursing through him. His head was spinning. He
was naked and shackled and helpless and afraid. And yet there was a fire in
his belly. The Angels' attentions made him feel incredibly slutty, all that
lean masculine flesh pressing around him. Maybe it was male pheromones, he
didn't know, but his whole body shuddered with lust, his nether hole
twitching in anticipation. He had never felt such sensations. He had lost
control of his body. His dominators were in charge of it. They had also
taken control of the feelings that coursed through his captive flesh. Terry
felt an incredible flush as his belly went all aflutter and his knees went
weak at the thought of his helplessness.

He was totally vulnerable as David slapped his face gently, worked his
tits, hefted his balls and stroked his cock. That got it even harder. The
Angel slapped it again and again. It bounced off his belly but stayed
hard. David put the tip of a finger to where a drop of pre-cum had oozed
out of the piss slit and held it up, a sardonic grin on his face. Terry's
face screwed up in shame at the damning fluid, evidence that his body at
least was welcoming these rough attentions. Poor Terry could only bite his
lip, tears in his eyes. Was he really such a slut as that? Evidently,
because he continued leaking. David used the flow of fluid to paint Terry's
glans, his nipples, and even his pouty lips and tongue. Of course, the
bound youth had tasted his own pre-ejaculate before but never like this, a
gift from these strong males who put him and his sexuality in bondage.

To reinforce the lessons of the mind fuck they told Terry beautiful he
looked strung up, every muscle taut. How musical his sobs and cries were.
How brave he was to take so many strokes of the belt. How honest he was to
recognize his need to submit to stronger males. How generous he was to
share his naked beauty with the world, even removing any body hair that
might conceal a part of his loveliness from onlookers. They complimented
the youth on the smoothness and firmness of the column of his erection,
grabbed and weighed his buttocks and complimented the boy on how firm they
were, stroked the boy's flanks and ran their thumbs over and around the
cock head making him shudder with the desire to come.

The men loved to grapple the youths' trim and taut bodies, small yes, but
firm and hard and muscular too. How wonderful it felt to enfold them in
their arms, to feel them struggle, all slick with sweat, tugging, pulling,
and squirming, twisting and straining those tight little bodies of
theirs. The boys' grunts and groans and gasps were like music in the ears
of the Angels. A lean cyclist would mount the lad, covering him like a
stallion does a filly, practically engulfing the much smaller male then
sliding into him in a sudden full penetration bringing a strangled "aaagh'
from the boy's throat. Or thumbs would stretch the nether entrance, setting
the boy to whimpering so prettily at what he knew would soon follow. The
boys took in great breaths of air, when they could around the cocks
invading their throats, their torsos flexing sexily as their rib cages
expanded and contracted. To the Angels, such labored breathing, the
twisting and turning, and moans and groans were signs of the irrepressible
vitality of these impossibly sexy youngsters, the best they had ever
captured to add to their harem.

Despite the odds against them, a dozen of them to two and being bound hand
and foot, the boys still struggled. That was just fine with the
Angels. Nothing excites a man more than a boy with a bit of fight in him, a
lively lad who wails as he is penetrated, bends his lithe form forward or
tries to buck his rider off, one who whimpers or sobs in frustration and
defeat as his body is invaded again and again, passed from one assailant
after another. Often the young captives found themselves plugged at both
ends, even their complaints cut off by thick cocks down their throats,
their heads pulled back the better to deep throat the invader. All they
could muster in the way of protest was a wet "glumph" as they choked and
tried to breathe around the cock thrust down their tube. The boys' wails
and whimpering were a serenade accompanying their deflowering by the
Angels.

Later on Terry found himself on his knees, his head to the ground as
cyclist and cyclist pounded his upthrust ass, slapping away at his rump for
emphasis. The guys liked to run their fingers along his ribs and spinal
bumps or squeeze the buns hard, making the flesh plump up between their
fingers, leaving red marks on the skin, a tactile way of asserting their
ownership of his trussed up body. Cuffed as he was, with the man kneeling
on the spreader bar, he wasn't going anywhere. He couldn't even close his
legs to protect his hole. Fingers invaded his orifice, stretching it,
poking deep, searching for and finding his prostate, stimulating and
arousing a boy already was crazy with lust. As the fingers of one hand play
with his whole and the thumb rolled and stroked his ballsac, the other hand
pulled Terry's stiff cock back between his legs, stroking and milking it
like the teat on a cow. The hand worked the shaft up and down, sliding the
foreskin over the head then pulling it back below the flange of the
glans. Terry shuddered with pent up desire.

In truth bondage scenes like this turned Terry on unbearably, like that
time at the police station in the Yucatan or his capture by the divers in
the Turks and Caicos Islands. Terry's example he had awakened Sandy's
interest in light bondage and S&M sex play. The couple occasionally
indulged themselves in safe and consensual play with friends.

A couple of the Angels remarked to each other.

"He really is shameless. Lucky us who get to play with such a sexy kid."

"Blondie has gotten turned on too. Look at him panting with desire, cum
splashed all over his face. Nothing like a good gang bang to bring out the
bottom boy in a natural submissive."

Sandy had got put onto his knees too but with his head high, his pouty lips
locked around cock after cock as he deep throated all comers. Before they
thrust inside, the Angels liked to make him reach for it, to smooch the
purple knobs of their cocks, to have his tongue swirl around the flange of
the glans and probe the slit at the tip. Then he went to work to bring them
off.

Some liked to pull out early the better to splash his face with their gism,
to watch it drip off his forehead, nose, chin or cheeks. A slap to the face
was the signal for Sandy to stick his tongue out the better to catch the
final dribblings of cum out of their cocks. Some guys liked to lay the
swollen head on his tongue or to poke the insides of the submissive boy's
mouth. Then they would use the head of their cock to paint his face like
some kind of cosmetic or beauty lotion to enrich his unblemished
complexion. It made Sandy feel incredibly hot and slutty, especially when
the Angels took candid photos of his degradation.

The Angels worked the lads hard for three hours, stimulating each to as
many orgasms. They paused only long enough to allow them a couple of drinks
of water so they would not dehydrate in the desert heat. Finally, with the
boys totally fucked out, the Angels released them from their bonds. Their
ordeal was over.

"There now boys, I know we got a little rough with you there, but it wasn't
really so bad was it?" David asked. "You may have said NO in the beginning
but your bodies soon were shouting YES to everything we did with them. By
the end there you were willing particpants in our little gang bang. Admit
it. You had a fucking great time of it too, didn't you?"

Both boys looked at each other sheepishly, then nodded, too embarrassed to
speak, their cocks still turgid from their final eruptions. After a bit,
Sandy did manage to ask:

"But how did you know we would respond that way, and not take all this as,
well, criminal rape?"

"Puh-leeze." David said with a big grin. "Just look at yourselves. If ever
two kids looked like a pair of bottom boys and cock lovers, it was you
two."

"Are we really that transparent? What gave us away?" Terry asked more from
mischief than any need to satisfy his curiosity. He was fully aware of how
the two of them appeared to the male half of humanity.

"Well, let me count the ways. Let's start with that open top car, which
only a narcissist would drive, and what did we see in the bucket seats of
the roadster but a pair of super-cute twinks wearing next to nothing,
deliberately showing off their shapely physiques in what are aptly named
hot pants. Now what kind of male would go to such lengths to display his
smooth hairless body on the open road. Add the fact that these were not
lads with ordinary good looks but two scrumptious youths blessed with a
preternatural loveliness, each in his own way much prettier than any
straight boy has a right to be. What is that phrase on the T-shirts?
'2QT2BSTR8' for 'Too Cute To Be Straight'. You kids have the sublime looks
that make men and women regardless of sexual orientation do double takes
and stare after you, wondering how anyone can possibly be that good
looking. "

"And don't try to tell me you don't know that yourselves. To anyone like us
who values youthful male beauty, it would have been a cosmic waste if you
were straight. Get real kids: your looks just scream out: look at me, I am
a pretty gay boy and I love to get fucked. Also we saw you ogling our lean
bodies as we rode up. Why do you think we wear just cutoffs in warm
weather. It's a way to troll for likely lads, a courtship display if you
will."

Terry and Sandy smiled ruefully, forced to admit that though what David
said was a caricature; it held a lot of truth.

"Besides," David continued. "we did not get very far into things when a
couple of the guys recognized you from your movies as Hollywood's Jungle
Boys. Everyone knows about you, that you are gay through and through. We
heard from friends that you are into light bondage and discipline. We would
never take anyone who really objected. Hell, some of us are cops in real
life. I'm a deputy sheriff up north myself."

That was how the two young movie actors got added to the string of boy toys
of the motorcycle club called the Purgatory Angels which wasn't a gang at
all but a band of gay military veterans with good jobs who liked to tool
about the West and let off steam, pronging complaisant youths. Obviously
they could not all get away from their responsibilities at the same
time. Their ranks on the road were a constantly changing roster of members
joining the cavalcade for a few hundred miles before peeling off to return
to their daily existence. All told, the Angels numbered nearly two
hundred. Their boys loved them. Some even spent their vacations riding with
the Angels, cute lads that the Angels referred to as their Cherubs.

This band of Angels had actually been heading to a rendezvous in the
Central Valley when they passed the roadster, so they tossed the boys their
hotpants and got ready to pull out. David and Sandy exchanged numbers so
the Angels could arrange a ride-along for their new Cherubs the next time
they were in town.

			Chapter 4. Making Movies

"You bastard! You'll never get away with this." Sandy spat at Conrad Held's
character, Fallon Granger.

"On the contrary, my young friend, you and your red-headed lover here will
make perfect fall guys. The new President is a secret homophobe. Oh, he
kept it concealed well enough to get elected Vice-President and then to
succeed to the Presidency after Dan Baxter's death from a stroke. He will
be only too ready to believe that you two kidnapped his sons in some
bizarre gay revenge plot, then murdered them when you knew you had not kept
your identities from them despite the masks."

Terry and Sandy played college students bound face down by soft ropes to
gurneys in the middle of an otherwise bare room. They were naked and
helpless, at the mercy of the villain of the piece, a Christian Nationalist
trying to undo decades of gay progress in civil rights as an initial
objective. This was only the first of the outrages he planned to pin on
gays as part of a plot to install a theocratic regime in America.

The interiors for the thriller film were being shot on sound stages in
Hollywood. Fallon Granger crossed the warehouse set and picked up a
hypodermic needle sitting in a tray next to the nude bound blond boy. He
squirted a bit of the fluid out of the needle then plumped up the boy's
right ass cheek with his fingers, sliding the needle into the firm tanned
flesh and forcing the plunger down with his thumb, giving the boy's rumps a
lascivious rub afterwards to show the audience that Granger was deep in
denial about his own homosexual tendencies.

"There." he said smugly. "Completely untraceable, of course. No one will
never be able to prove that you two were unconscious in the room where the
President's sons were debauched and murdered. We'll put trace evidence from
you all over their bodies and vice versa. Your gism will be in their
rectums. That is why needed your sperm, boys. You'll have their virgins'
blood on your cocks and bellies too. One of my men is a cop. When he shoots
the both of you, in flagrante delicto, he will be acclaimed a hero. You and
your kind will take the blame. It's perfect."

This kind of corny monologue was obligatory for thrillers. You always put
in a scene where the arch villain boasts of his plans to the hero, gloating
prematurely over his own cleverness. Remember Auric Goldfinger's reply to
James Bond's question" "Do you expect me to talk?" "No, Mister Bond. I
expect you to die." That sort of thing. Of course, in time the hero manages
to escape and turns his detailed knowledge of the plot against the bad guy,
thwarting his dastardly plans.

That evening over dinner, the lads talked over the production.

"They're changing the script again, Terry. More chance for us to show
skin."

"Oh?"

"Now we get abducted from our apartment right after our shower scene."

"You mean the bad guys are going to grab us and hustle us over to their
hideout absolutely starkers. Why am I not surprised?"

They laughed at the absurdity of it all, Hollywood, fame, nudity, sex
appeal, the expectations of the fans, all of it, agreeing on one thought:

"What a way to make a living!"

The boys giggled helplessly, rolling around on the rug, thinking about
where their careers and ambitions had brought them. Then Sandy gave Terry a
big kiss and pulled him back up onto the couch for a serious discussion.

After a candid talk, the young actors agreed that after five years they
really should re-evaluate their options. With more money coming in already
than they could ever spend in their lifetimes, especially given their
moderate habits, why should they assume they had to keep making pictures
till they wore out their welcome. After five years, at the grand old age of
twenty-three, they would still have time to train for any kind of career
that suited their interests and talents. Satisfied with that hazy peek into
the future, they went to be early and curled up, with Terry spooned into
Sandy. They skipped the wild sex that night. It was just a loving couple
getting their rest, feeling safe and comfortable in the embrace of a lover.

The next day was their own, a rare day off during production as the techs
rushed to repair an outdoor set damaged by the wind. They went to the
clothing optional beach they liked, shucking off in the parking lot next to
the highway. Drivers honked as the pretty couple left the lot and went down
the slope to the beach proper. Terry and Sandy took just a tatami mat, a
couple of magazines, sunblock, and their own delectable selves to a nice
spot near the light surf. This particular beach was predominantly gay, so
the boys drew looks both of appreciation and recognition but folks did not
bother them much. That was an unwritten rule: look but don't intrude.

"I think you have a secret admirer, Terry." Sandy said with a mischievous
grin. "Mr. Muscles over there can't keep his eyes off you." he indicated
with a nod.

Terry checked the man out. A body builder for sure, executing a slow tai qi
routine the better to display his bulging muscular development.

"Too much and no thanks." Terry said dismissively. "To quote from the Rocky
Horror Picture Show: I don't like a man with too many muscles. I prefer a
slender twink, with um... blond hair, green eyes, a taut body, and
devilishly good looks, like that."

"Oh, anyone we know?"

"You know Sandy, sometimes this seems so strange, making our living with
our sex appeal. All those nude scenes are so many blatantly sensual. In
Dracula, for the scenes where I walked the moors nude to my assignations
with the vampire, the makeup guy spread a lustrous oil on my cock to
reflect its swing better in the moonlight. My folks watched that. They've
been great about everything, but they still don't let me run around the
back yard and the pool bareass, like yours."

And some of my friends from high school guessed about the cock makeup. You
can imagine what they said. You should have heard the suggestions that bit
of news provoked. One old chum suggested I get injections of silicone jelly
in the tips of my nipples to keep them permanently erect. Or in my lips to
make them poutier. Another said I should get my aureoles tattooed dark red
to contrast better with my white nips and tanned pecs. I'm only surprised
no one suggested tattooing the head of my cock purple to make it look
permanently aroused."

Sandy smiled at Terry's aggrieved look; the boy looked so damn cute when he
was cross, his lips pursed in disapprobation but really looking as if he
were getting ready to be kissed. Realizing what a good idea that was, Sandy
laid a light kiss to Terry's lips then leaned over and nibbled on Terry's
nips making them swell visibly.

"See, you don't need injections, just regular attention to these tender
titties."

Terry snorted and continued.

"I mean surely we're more than just pretty faces and sexy bodies,
Sandy. We're smart. We did well in school. We could have gone on to
college. Even with our heavy workload, we are taking college credit courses
on line in our spare time. We could train for any kind of career: writer,
lawyer, EMT, computers, anything. Instead we take our clothes off in front
of the camera and pretend to be someone else."

"Well Terry, it's not like we are uncomfortable with public nudity. I mean
look at us here on the beach. Neither of us brought along a 'bathing
costume' as the Brits call it. We both have run cross country barefoot and
bare ass. When I was on the swimming team we trained in the nude and no one
thought that untoward. We spend most of our private lives in the nude: at
home, and the backyard, in bed of course, swimming and running, the beach
here. Nudity is perfectly natural. When you think about it, it's clothes
that are artificial, literally. They are man-made."

"OK, you have a point there, but look at those scenes where we are running
away from danger. What always happens? We trip clumsily in typical movie
damsel fashion, like: 'Help, I've fallen and I can't get up.' I once asked
Jim Nicholls why he always made us do that even if it wasn't in the
script. He admitted that it was to titillate for our gay fans with a good
shot of our rumps, not to mention our dangly bits with us down on all fours
like we were ready to get pronged. I mean, really! What's next? Are they
going to have makeup paint our anal whorls a red to make them stand out
better on camera?"

"Well Terry, you know that I have more experience cashing in on your sex
appeal than you do. I got started in pictures first and before that was a
male model for a couple of years. You get over being body shy real fast
when you are a male model, especially when you have the 'street urchin'
build they like to photograph in the nude to attract prurient attention
rather than to show the clothing line. My physique along with my pretty boy
looks made me more of a male glamour model than a fashion model, though all
male models do nude publicity shots. Fashion model are bigger, around six
feet, to show off the clothes, but my size didn't matter for glamour
shots. If I wasn't entirely naked, I was usually close to it, photographed
wearing just the suit jacket or a necktie and nothing else or with my
tighty whitees pulled down below my butt cheeks. They liked to pair me
naked with clothed models to emphasize my nudity and sex appeal."

"Even if I were modeling the actual clothes for a shoot, say fashion
underwear, they would put me on a beach standing at the water's edge in
boxers with three young gals in bikinis all happily engaged in pulling them
right off my hips and down to my ankles. One of them tugged them all the
way off, so there I was in Malibu stark naked with dozens of beach goers
looking on and taking their own pictures. Then we did a second
take. Finally the photographer had me lie on my back while two of the
beauties supposedly held me down on the sand while the third waved the
boxers over me like a trophy of my deflowering. One gal had my nuts wrapped
in her fist to keep me 'under control'. The crowd actually applauded my
humiliation! They were always putting me in the most outrageous poses too,
some only a contortionist could be comfortable with, and telling me to look
sexy."

"You know during a fashion show you have to change outfits fast for your
next trip down the runway. We had dressers for that, guys and gals who
would literally strip othe outfit you had just worn and pulled on the next
outfit. No dressing rooms either, just a large room where the dressers
tended to several models at once. Your job was to stand there naked while
someone fussed with your hair to make it look all tousled and windblown, or
a makeup artist brushed a bit of powder on your face or oiled your
chest. Sometimes they would tweak and pinch or even bite the nipples to get
them erect, like a fluffer in a porn movie. Even if I had a shirt on, they
wanted my tits pushing out against the cloth. Meanwhile a nice lady is
pulling a swimsuit or undies or jeans up over your bare butt, then
arranging you appropriately in front, to left or right. The designers
usually wanted a slight hint of the outline of your cock and balls showing
through the cloth, though nothing too blatant, of course. And here I used
to be a nice Catholic boy."

"Aha! So you have been intimately fondled by a female. Gosh, Sandy, I never
knew you were bi!"

Sandy rolled on top of him and planted a big kiss on his lips.

"I'll show you bi, you little scamp!"

"Please, not in front of the children." Terry returned in a falsetto.

Sandy laughed and got to his feet holding out a hand to pull his lover up
too. They walked down to the water and went in for a good long
swim. Afterwards, they stretched out on the tatami and took a nap.

Waking up sooner, Terry propped himself up on an elbow and swept his gaze
over his boyfriend lying beside him. No matter how familiar he became with
that splendid face and body, Terry always marveled at how perfectly formed
he was and how lucky he had been to find this Golden Boy. It was hard to
pick a favorite feature. Was it his preternaturally beautiful face, its
features relaxed at that moment as he napped, looking ever so innocent and
vulnerable and angelic. Was it the boy's taut musculature, his fine bone
structure, the strong shoulders or the narrow hips. Terry smiled as he
remembered how Sandy's sharp hip bones could dig into his belly or ass
during sex.

He watched as droplets of sweat formed on Sandy's smooth evenly tanned
skin, glistening in the sunlight. Growing larger, they broke the surface
tension that had held them in place and slid downhill, merging and
collecting in rivulets in the channel between the pectorals and in the
large hollow between the bottom of the rib cage and the hips.

Terry played with the sweat pooling in the blond boy's navel, smearing a
bit with a finger tip to trace a circle on the flat belly, bringing a taste
up to his tongue, bending down to lap up the salty beverage, then circled
the aureole of the boy's nearer nipple with the tip of his tongue. When the
sweat filled the navel to the brim, Terry pressed a spot on one side of
Sandy's belly to let it drain down his hip. It was like watching a runnel
of liquified cum draining off his belly onto the sheets. Terry smiled as he
remembered sniffing and lapping that up too. As far as he was concerned,
Sandy was a feast for all the senses.

Many of the onlookers, Mr. Muscles especially, thought it was the most
erotic thing they had ever seen apart from actual sex.

When he woke up, Sandy saw Terry's intent look and asked: "What?", but his
lover just shook his head and kissed him gently on the lips then lay his
head on Sandy's chest. The blond boy wrapped his arms around his lover and
held him gently for the longest while. It was one of those sublime moments
in life you hope will never end.

Sandy later started talking about the skills that actors pick up so they
would look good on camera. Neither of them had ridden a horse before
getting into the movies. Now, with a big Western under their belts, they
were comfortable in the saddle. It wasn't just for westerns though; you had
your period dramas, sword and sandal, dungeons and dragons, even life
styles of the rich and famous. You never knew when a producer would put a
character up on a horse. They had trained at stuntman school to do
choreographed fights and to handle firearms so they would look like they
knew what they were doing in front of the camera, though neither was a
particularly good shot from lack of practice.

They had also taken sword fighting lessons with Sam Chastain, the sword
master who had trained Jason Eberly. The man was in his early sixties but
still lean and fit enough to make two athletic lads look slow and clumsy,
at least at first. It turned out to be very enjoyable. What young male
doesn't have a bit of the swashbuckler in him?

Sometimes an actor waited for a role before, say, training on ice skates
for a movie set in the world of ice hockey. Sometimes an actor only had to
be able to fake it convincingly, for example, lip synching your vocals when
you really couldn't sing or strumming the guitar when you really couldn't
play. Actually Terry was good on the guitar and had a fine light tenor to
go with it. Sandy wasn't exactly tone deaf, but he was definitely not
musical.

"You know Terry, we've been pretty lucky in our encounters with
dominants. Sure they like to put bottom boy submissives like us through our
paces. My ass remembers the sting of the belts the Purgatory's Angels used
on us. But those guys were all right. It was just sexy fun and games with
them. Sooner or later we may get in over our heads. Some of those leather
masters are way too serious about bondage and sex slavery. And it's not
always voluntary. They don't just recruit, they sometimes conscript good
looking kids, guys like us. We better get ready to deal with that kind of
situation. I don't want to spend years chained in some fucker's basement
dungeon, even with you for company, querido. Just think what happened to
Jason Eberly in his first few years in pictures."

Jason had been kidnapped no less than three times, first by revolutionaries
seeking a ransom of five million dollars. The second time, Jason fell into
the clutches of an oriental potentate who turned him over to slave trainers
with orders to break his will and transform him into a docile sex
slave. Finally he was kidnapped by the leader of a mad cult on Haiti
combining voodoo and Maoist political ideology who used him sexually in
every conceivable way and came close to cutting his heart out as a
sacrifice to their pagan gods.

"So what do we do, Sandy?"

"For starters we upgrade the alarm system at the town house. Then we get
those new bio-electronic tracers implanted in our butts. It's not just for
old folks or toddlers wandering off either. The new models have a range of
more than a kilometer. I think we had better learn some kind of martial
arts so we can fight off bad guys if we have too. We can use those skills
on screen too. Also my uncle Owen worked the carnivals as a magician and
escape artist. He taught me some tricks, which I can pass on to you."

"Tricks?"

"Picking locks with a nail or a safety pin or a paper clip, tensing your
muscles when they tie you up to get some slack, how to contort your body to
pass through bars. Do you know that if bars are set wide enough for your
head, you can almost certainly wriggle the rest of you through?"

Soon the boys had a new hobby as escape artists. Terry was surprised to
find it a lot of fun. He liked the challenge of it. It helped that they
both had the ideal body type for an escape artist: short, slender, wiry,
and flexible.

Of course, stage magicians use tricked-up props when they disappear from a
locked trunk or box. The young actors were not interested in such
illusionists' techniques. They wanted real results they could use, based on
skills like picking locks or contorting the body, genuine acts of
flexibility, strength and daring. It was more like: how do you get out of
police handcuffs? Easy answer is keep a standard or universal key secreted
on your person. Police handcuffs all use the same simple key. The mechanism
can be picked easily enough too, if you have practiced a bit. For
combination padlocks, use a shim to get it open.

For a lot of the techniques the boys had to refer to books and the
web. Sandy had a big head start so he became their coach. Soon the boys
were challenging each other to escape using some technique they had
recently learned, sometimes as part of their bondage sex play. One evening
Terry found himself in hinge type handcuffs and leg irons and couldn't get
out of no matter how hard he tried. He just couldn't get the feel of the
pick in that lock. He finally called out to Sandy to release him.

Sandy stepped into the room in leather shorts and combat boots, a military
style cap on his head. He marched over to the boy kneeling helpless in his
bonds. Dreadfully overacting in a way he would never do on the set, he
smacked a riding crop against the palm of his hand and sneered.

"So my pretty one. I have you just where I want you. Heh, heh, heh."

Terry rolled his eyes as his lover snapped nipple clamps on his tits and
fitted a ball gag in his mouth.

This was going to be one of those nights.

And it was.