On Christmas Day in the Morning
by Jolyon Lewes
Chapter 1
Home for Christmas, 1963
"I hope your school report's good, Francis," said Dad, his first words to me as I arrived for the Christmas holidays at the army base in West Germany where he worked.
"Yes, Dad, I don't think you'll be too disappointed," I replied, knowing his next comment would be that my hair was too long and that I'd be having it cut before the day was out. The ritual was always the same, and I sometimes wondered whether life at boarding school in England wasn't easier in some ways than holidays at home.
My wickedly short haircut at the NAAFI barber restored me to the condition army officers seemed to think appropriate for their sons. At home all was sweetness and light. Dad even said I could help myself to alcoholic drinks from the trolley. That made me feel very grown up. I enjoyed the company of some of the junior officers in Dad's unit as they weren't much older than me and enjoyed a drink, a pastime that back at school was a discreet feature of Sixth Form life, despite being illegal and probably punishable by death. Which, of course, made it all the more enjoyable.
There'd be drinks parties throughout the Christmas holiday. At seventeen, and reasonably competent in German, I could take myself into a German bar and buy a drink, but my parents preferred me to be doing it with them, rather than in downtown Paderborn. Mind you, I'd still pop into town to see the sights, notably the German boys cycling about in their scandalously skimpy leather shorts. Since I was ten I'd worn shorts only when forced to, like at school for sports, and always the longest I could get hold of. In the freezing midwinter weather, it was deeply thrilling to watch the German boys, wrapped up warmly above the waist but with their pink legs enticingly bare.
The junior boys at my school in England wore grey shorts that usually extended at least halfway down their thighs but in Germany I saw boys – usually the nicest looking ones and some even older than me – wearing Lederhosen that hardly covered the top inch of their thighs. The taller the boy, the shorter seemed his Lederhosen. It made trips into town exciting and provided memories greatly to be savoured as I lay in bed at night.
But I digress. We boarding school kids got to know each other on our school holidays in Germany and one of my friends was Jenny, a girl of seventeen who boarded at a school in Gloucestershire. We'd go to The Globe cinema on the base and to the NAAFI for a snack. Occasionally we'd head into town and spend our meagre pocket money on more exotic fare. Our friendship was very proper, neither of us expecting nor seeking more than a chaste little kiss when the moment arose. She had a young brother called Neil who went to a very prestigious public school in South London.
Between you and me, if given the choice of Jenny or Neil to share my little tent, I'd choose Neil. As you might have gathered from my comments about German boys, I harboured homosexual tendencies. That had been the case since I was ten, when I shared my double desk at school with a nice boy called Peter, who was good company and wore extremely short grey shorts. I couldn't take my eyes off his lovely, smooth legs, nor could I help my fingers occasionally brushing his deliciously bare thighs.
I never saw Peter again after I'd left primary school but there were plenty of nice boys at boarding school with lovely, smooth thighs, often to be seen bare or very nearly bare. I, of course, wore the longest shorts I could get hold of and so did some other boys, which heightened the contrast between us and the boys whose parents preferred their sons to wear much shorter grey shorts.
I kept my thoughts to myself until I was about fourteen when it dawned on me that I wasn't alone in my admiration for some of my schoolmates. Rather to my surprise, I became the object of admiration myself. A boy in my dorm took to crawling silently across the floorboards after midnight about twice a week and kneeling by my bed to spend half an hour with his hand inside my pyjamas, stroking my bottom and inserting a finger from time to time. I lay passively on my tummy, wondering what he could be getting out of this activity. Judging from his heavy breathing, he got quite a lot out of it.
I hoped he wouldn't want me to do the same to him. For one thing he was ugly and unlike me, had hairy legs. Fortunately, he never ever spoke about his nocturnal visits, which went on for months and I never mentioned them to him or to anyone else. It never occurred to me that he might be paying visits to other boys or that other boys might be paying him visits. I deliberately chose the word 'admiration' in the paragraph above. By the time I was fifteen and had at last discovered the joys of a good wank I'd swapped 'admiration' for 'lust.'
Nervous of making a fool of myself, however, I didn't indulge in any fondling, let alone mutual masturbation. The last thing I wanted was a reputation for indecency. I just looked at nice boys and wondered what it would be like to put my hand inside their shorts or to lie with them in bed. Then, when I was almost sixteen, a boy in another dorm actually ordered me to put my hand inside his shorts.
I won't bore you with too many details but this boy tended to flaunt his body and there were rumours that a prefect used him for carnal purposes so why did he choose me? Possibly it was because I habitually came over all innocent so he wanted to corrupt me. One freezing Saturday afternoon he found me in the locker room, changing after a game of squash. I'd showered and was nice and warm as I stood with my shirt on and a little towel round my waist. He'd just come in from the cold and was shivering as he stood side-on before me, in T-shirt, plimsolls and the flimsiest PE shorts you can imagine.
"I'm so cold, Frankie," he said, "will you warm me up a bit?"
"Why don't you have a hot shower?" I said, noting that he was raising his shorts by winding the waistband round on itself and a large chunk of bare bottom began to appear.
"I'd rather it was you, Frankie. Rub my legs warm, please." He turned away from me.
I found myself aroused by the goose-pimples covering his milky thighs and by the silky sheen on his bottom. I sat on the bench and with both hands I began a brisk rubbing of each thigh in turn and when he turned to face me I saw he had a erection pushing at the front of his shorts.
"That's nice, Frankie. Now go up a bit please."
So I did and he said "No, much further up, please."
Soon I had both hands kneading his buttocks and he must have found it exciting because his erection was now enormous. Its tip was only three inches from my face. Fearing that he'd want me to take it in my mouth I put my head down and stared at the floor. He put both hands at the back of my head and pulled me towards him. Next thing I knew was his rigid penis ramming onto my forehead. I stopped kneading his bottom and pulled it closer, with the aim of keeping his penis away from my face and onto the top of my head. I managed it just in time because when he ejaculated his semen came through his shorts and onto my hair.
I wasn't entirely guiltless because in my own excitement I'd come stickily into my towel. He backed away, said thanks and headed for the shower. I wiped my hair with the towel and finished getting dressed. That night, in bed, I relived the experience and managed a much more orderly wank. I decided I'd never again have sex (as I called it) with another boy. Well, not with a boy at my school in case the news got round but if a boy from somewhere else happened to be available, like one of those scrumptious German boys, who knows?
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