A Picture of You
by Jolyon Lewes
Chapter 1
I always hated the Spring Term at boarding school. Starting in early January, what lay before me was nearly three months of cold and dark and every Wednesday and Saturday afternoon came cross-country running. To be fair, by the end of term the weather was marginally warmer and daylight was more plentiful but there were still the dreaded cross-country runs.
I was fifteen when the Spring Term of 1962 commenced and that meant I now had to run with the seniors. In the previous four years I'd run with the juniors which was bad enough but the seniors had a longer course, about eight miles through mud and prickly vegetation and over ploughed fields swept by biting easterly winds straight, it was said, from the Russian steppes. It wasn't possible to escape the run because there was a roll call before the start so you had to be there to shout 'here' when your name was called. To discourage boys from taking short cuts bored schoolmasters were positioned in their cars at two or more turning points ticking off names on a list on a clip board.
The worst part of any cross-country run was actually the bit before the run began, when over a hundred boys would huddle beside the cricket pavilion waiting for the roll call. We looked like a colony of penguins crowded together on a glacier except we were all in white: skimpy cotton shorts and singlet. No other clothing was allowed, certainly not a sweater or anything with long sleeves. Jockstraps were permitted but no other underwear and lots of us weren't considered sufficiently physically mature to warrant a jockstrap. Boys would try to muscle their way into the middle of the crowd but unpopular boys or those with spotty faces were forced to the periphery where they were exposed to the full force of those Soviet winds.
On the Saturday runs only the boarders took part, the dayboys being warm and cosy at home. I'd stand there shivering, waiting for the roll call and wondering whether it would be possible to feel any colder. Rain and snow, of course, made it even worse and wet through, you could guarantee to end up with chapped inner thighs. On wet days some boys wound the waistband of their shorts round and round to raise the shorts and reduce the area between their legs where the shorts could chafe. These boys cared not that this sometimes exposed to view the lower parts of the bottom. If such a boy lacked a jockstrap you'd even see his cock hanging out of his shorts.
That January of 1962 I was blessed with a painful infection - it was a verruca on the heel of my right foot. We were told these horrible little things were caught by walking with bare feet on a wet changing room floor. I'd have gladly avoided changing rooms, wet or dry, for my entire school career but that would not have been allowed. The school doctor bandaged my right foot and I was excused sports for a month. Joy!
Not every boy was forced to do cross-country running. Some actually liked it and were in the school team, competing against other schools and no doubt becoming acquainted with new and exciting muddy cart-tracks, frozen ploughed fields and everything the elements could throw at them. Other boys were excused cross-country because they played football or hockey for school teams and one such boy was Paddy Pearson.
Paddy was my age and we shared our dormitory with ten other boys. Football was his favourite sport and he specialised as goalkeeper. He was in a set of about sixty boys from whom the First and Second Elevens were picked. I tended to mix with non-sporty boys like me so in January 1962 didn't know Paddy very well. We had little in common other than the dormitory in which we slept.
Although excused sport I wasn't allowed to stay indoors on Wednesday and Saturday afternoons; I had to go and support our teams. So I wandered over to watch the football, choosing to position myself behind a goal so I wouldn't be expected to run after and retrieve the ball if it was kicked out of play. It happened that Paddy was stationed in the goal and at half time I went to the other goal so I could continue to watch him in action. I had to stamp my feet to keep them from freezing and that hurt my verruca but rather than go somewhere else I decided I wanted to watch Paddy.
He wore a blue jersey and white shorts and had a flat cap that stayed on his head unless he had to dive to save a goal or do something else acrobatic. While play was up the other end of the pitch he chatted to me about the other players and what he thought would happen next. For the first time I realised he was actually very good-looking. Taller and bulkier than me and fairer of hair, he slowly transformed from the quiet youth with the perpetual drip on the end of his nose I'd known before to become an interesting companion. And he had superb legs.
After the match Paddy asked me if I'd enjoyed watching him.
"Yes, and I learnt a bit about football."
"Will you come and watch me next time? I'd like it if you did."
"So long as it's not pouring with rain," I said.
I'd never seen Paddy smile before. It was a very nice smile.
So the following Wednesday found me standing behind Paddy's goal. There was something different about him. I could see a lot more bare leg.
"Like my new shorts, Jeremy? They're the new Continental style."
"Very nice, Paddy. Quite a lot shorter."
"Yeah, I thought you'd like 'em nice and short," said Paddy. "On me, I mean."
"Yes, I do," said I. Everyone knew I preferred to wear the longest shorts available. Was Paddy flirting with me? He looked rather sexy in his very short shorts. None of his fellow footballers had Continental-style shorts.
The next Saturday, as soon as I'd taken position behind his goal Paddy made a point of pulling his shorts as high as they'd go. Now I could see the start of his bottom and I felt an erection forming. Then he tilted his flat cap to a jaunty angle.
"I like it when you watch me, Jeremy," he said.
"And I like watching you," I said, at once regretting it, in case he thought I was being a bit forward. He looked at me and smiled.
I wondered if I'd given the wrong message but for the next hour or so couldn't help looking at the way his shorts kept giving me enticing glimpses of bare bottom. Despite myself I kept getting an erection. Was I becoming a queer?
Attached to our dormitory was a bathroom just like you'd find in an ordinary house. We were supposed to use the communal washrooms and showers but the plumbing in this bathroom was all connected and sometimes we used it for a long soak after a strenuous day on the sports field. Not once did I use it because I never had a strenuous day on the sports field and therefore never felt I justified such luxury. Some boys are like that, you know.
Paddy liked his bath, however and at the end of the following Wednesday sank into the bath and called me in to see him. A mountain of soapy bubbles covered all but his face and I sat on a stool, in pyjamas and dressing gown, waiting to hear what he'd got to say.
"Thanks for coming to watch me again, today," he said, swirling the hot water about and raising a knee out of the covering of foam. As knees go it was quite a nice knee and his skin was all pink." Is it the football you like or is it me you like to watch?"
He'd caught me there and I sort of stammered "The football, of course," but I could see he didn't believe me. I can't have sounded very convincing.
Paddy swirled the water some more and produced his immense and swollen cock from the hot water and asked me straight "Is it this you're interested in?"
I fled from the bathroom and shot into the dormitory.
I didn't speak to Paddy again till the next Saturday when, once again, I found myself standing behind his goal. It was a bitterly cold day and I had on my raincoat, scarf and as always, my school cap. I'd forgotten my gloves so kept my hands in my trouser pockets. Paddy had woollen gloves on.
"Sorry about the other night in the bathroom," he said.
"That's okay, Paddy, it's just that I didn't expect your cock to be so huge. You must've been thinking of something very nice."
"I was, Jeremy. D'you still like me?"
"Yeah, of course. That's why I'm here."
Paddy pulled up his shorts, allowing me to see the crease at the top of each thigh and the start of his bottom. His skin was even pinker than it had been in the bath. He obviously wanted to give me a spectacle because he came close to me so that only the goal net separated us and then, facing away from me, bent over to retie his boot laces. There were goose pimples on his upper thighs.
I let one of my hands work away in my trouser pocket to encourage my cock to grow big and stiff. I hoped my raincoat would conceal from Paddy my state of arousal.
"The trouble is," said Paddy, a few minutes later, "when your team's as good as this most of the play happens at the far end and I have to stand here freezing. You couldn't give my legs a rub, could you?"
While Paddy kept his eye on the other footballers I saw there were no spectators anywhere near so crouched down in front of him in the goal mouth. I began to rub the outer sides of his legs, just above the knee.
"Ooh, your hands are nice and warm. Can you do the inside of my thighs? Yeah, that's right. Ooh, lovely. You can go higher if you like."
Paddy's legs were icy cold and I rubbed and rubbed and he seemed to like it.
"That feels better," he said. "Can you come round and do my legs at the back, please? All the way to the top."
I did as he asked and found myself enjoying this contact with his long, smooth thighs. They were firm and muscular. I found it easier and more effective if I used both hands on one leg and then swapped to the other. He kept urging me to go higher so I did and a few seconds later, while warming his right thigh, my fingers were inside his shorts and both my thumbs were pressing on his bottom.
He sighed with what I assumed was pleasure and I stopped rubbing and just kept my hands still, allowing my thumbs to straighten and thereby climb a tiny bit further up his bottom.
"I can feel your jockstrap!" I said, withdrawing my hands and transferring them to Paddy's left leg.
"Oh, sorry," he said, "I won't wear it next time!"
For some reason this made my cock harder than ever and I wondered if Paddy's was hard too. Then the opposing players advanced and I scuttled back behind the goal and Paddy reassumed goalkeeping duties so I didn't have a chance to see if he was as aroused as I was. I'd never before stroked another boy's legs - I'd enjoyed it so I must be queer!
After the match he turned to me before running off to the pavilion with the rest of his team. "Thanks, Jerry. Can I call you that? You've really made my day!"
After that session I got cold feet (figuratively speaking) and kept away from him, which is difficult when you sleep in the same dormitory. We made occasional eye contact and said hello but I never again visited him in the bath and although my verruca hadn't gone away I was soon back to compulsory cross-country running so couldn't stand by his goal admiring him. I did, however, wonder if he'd stopped wearing his jockstrap on the off chance that I might turn up to rub his legs warm.
The ball was in his court and I didn't honestly expect him to do anything but one day he did. For once he wasn't playing football and joined us on a cross-country run. He wasn't in his Continental-style shorts. Instead of displaying his superior athletic ability he chose to run alongside me. When, as usual, I felt the onset of stitch and slowed to a walk, clutching my tummy, he persuaded me to keep running, albeit slowly, promising the stitch would soon ease and he was right! For the first time I didn't finish among the boys who always came last but completed the run a mere two thirds of the way down the order. I was moderately elated.
"There you are," he said when it was over, "you can run quite well and you've got stamina!"
"Thanks, Paddy, you've really made my day!"
That made him chuckle. "So we're quits then, Jerry!"
After that I felt less inhibited with him and we chatted more often. After the incident in the bathroom I'd been worried he might try to force himself on me but that didn't happen. I still had erections when I saw him in his Continental-style shorts or undressing in the dormitory but time passed and we behaved properly, as my mother would have put it. He didn't come on any more runs with me but I was more confident and even without him beside me I was finishing much further up the field than before. Better still, my wretched verruca was at last disappearing.
On the last Saturday of term cross-country was cancelled for some reason and Paddy asked me to come and watch him in the last 2nd Eleven match of the season.
"I've got a new pair of shorts," he said, looking excited. "You'll love 'em!"
Well, love 'em I certainly did. The rest of the team wore shirts in the school colours and white shorts but goalkeeper Paddy wore his royal blue jersey over his shirt and instead of traditional white shorts he wore pale blue Continental-style ones in a material that glistened. They were wickedly tight and thrillingly short.
What with his fair hair and blue eyes and what seemed like a yard of bare thigh he looked spectacularly sexy. Oh - there I go again! In white cotton shorts that in some cases almost reached mid-thigh, the other ten boys looked positively dowdy. The opposing team wore red shirts and navy blue woollen shorts that reached below mid-thigh. I took my position behind the goal and for once wasn't cold because the sun was shining and the wind calm.
"What d'you think of 'em then?" asked Paddy.
"Well, they couldn't possibly be any shorter, could they?" I said. "I like the colour."
Paddy's new shorts extended below his bottom by barely half an inch but he tugged them higher and did a twirl for me. The shimmering material clung tightly to the cheeks of his prominent bottom, stopping just above the crease at the top of each thigh. In the front was a considerable bulge and he can't have been wearing a jockstrap because I could see the profile of his massive cock, curving up and then left and making a pattern of light and dark on the blue material of his shorts.
"Where on earth did you get them?" I asked, experiencing the inevitable erection.
"Tell you later."
Paddy had more than usual to do in this match and saved a couple of attempts at goal before having to defend his goal against a penalty kick. Having wished him good luck I moved away so as not to distract the kicker. Paddy tugged up his shorts and waited. The kick went high and the ball flew nowhere near the net..
I heard the disappointed kicker shout "How could I concentrate when the goalie's in shorts like that? "
One of his mates shouted "He's their secret weapon, dressed like that!"
At half time I moved to the other goal and ate a bar of chocolate while I waited for play to recommence. I'd noticed Mr Wilmington, one of our younger masters, had been photographing the players during the first half and now he came to join me behind Paddy's goal.
"Ah," he said, "Pearson's told me you're his greatest fan."
I felt myself blushing. How on earth would Wilmington know that? I'd have to make sure I kept hidden from him any signs of my arousal or he might think Paddy and I had sex together - which, of course, we hadn't. I'd never had sex with anybody and certainly didn't want Wilmington to get ideas.
Instead, it was I who began to get ideas because Wilmington photographed Paddy in action throughout the second half. He even changed the film in his camera twice so he must have got scores of shots at dozens of different angles, all of the bare-thighed Paddy looking very sexy. Bloody hell, I've said sexy again!
"Well played, Pearson!" said Wilmington, just before the final whistle Then he left.
"So where did you get those amazing little shorts?" I asked Paddy a little while later. He was back in school uniform.
"Promise you won't tell anyone?"
"Yeah, I promise."
It was Wilmington who bought them for me. And the other pair. He said it had to be our secret."
"I won't tell anyone," I said, wondering why a master would want to buy shorts for one of the boys. "Do you know him from home or something?"
"Nope, never met 'im till he started here last term but I think he likes me."
"But he teaches the junior kids, not us," I said. "We don't have anything to do with him. And what else has he bought you?"
"Nothing else, just the shorts," said Paddy, his face going a bit pink. "Look, Jerry, I've been to see him in his room a couple of times. He gives me tea and Jaffa Cakes. You'll keep this to yourself, won't you?"
"Yeah, I promise."
A few days later we broke up for the Easter holidays and it was four weeks before I saw Paddy again. I'd hardly thought about him at all and was surprised when he bounded up to me and greeted me as if we were best friends.
"Hey, good to see you, mate, you're looking fantastic! Been doing secret cross-country running?"
I told him no, I hadn't. But it was nice to see him again and it took the edge off the misery I normally felt on going back to school.
I looked around to make sure we were alone. "Have you been wearing your special shorts?"
"Only in my bedroom. They're so nice to wear - you should try 'em some time."
I didn't rush to accept that offer and told him I hoped I'd be excused sports again because my verruca had returned.
"A real doctor would burn it off but the school doc will just bandage you up again. Hey, you could come and watch me on the high jump!"
Boys excused sports fell into two categories: those that were feverish or in frequent need of the toilet were housed in the school sanatorium and those like me with temporary injuries or infections. The latter group had to be out of doors on sports afternoons, watching other boys at play and during the Summer Term had to wear sports kit, even though all they did was stand around getting cold and bored.
So, in my PE kit and a cricket sweater, I found myself at the high jump pit, watching Paddy practise his jumps and offering encouragement. He used two techniques - scissor jump and Western roll. At his request I'd raise or lower the bar and keep a note of his success at clearing different heights. His aim was to win the high jump prize at Sports Day. He'd won it as an Under 15 but now he was competing with the senior boys and faced fierce competition.
It was quite pleasant to sit cross-legged on the grass, admiring Paddy's muscular body as he worked hard at his jumping. Sometimes he'd take a break and sit beside me, our bare knees touching. Once he put his hand on my knee and ran it slowly up my thigh until his fingers were inside my shorts. I should have objected but the feeling was so nice I just let him do it.
"I hope your legs will never get hairy, Jerry. I hate hairy legs, don't you?"
"I suppose so," I replied, as Paddy withdrew his hand from inside my shorts and pressed it on his groin. Yes, he'd got an erection.
"Have a feel of my legs," he said. "You won't find any hairs."
Obligingly, I ran my hand up Paddy's thigh. It was very smooth and firm, just as it had been when I'd rubbed his legs to warm them, back in the winter. I felt an erection building. Paddy straightened his legs and lay back on the grass. His rigid cock was making a large tent in his PE shorts.
"Do you like me, Jerry?"
"Course I do," said I, rather tentatively. I got to my feet and Paddy looked up at me.
"You're the cutest boy I know," he said. "I love the way you pretend to be shy but now you're letting me look right up your shorts and I can see your cock."
Embarrassed, I moved away a couple of yards and tried to tug my shorts down a little. "That's because I haven't got a jockstrap and you know about the bloody no-underwear rule." I heard behind me the noise of someone clearing his throat..
"Well, well, well!" It was Mr Wilmington, who'd appeared from nowhere. "I see you've got your fan club in attendance, Pearson!"
Once again, I felt myself blushing at Wilmington's innuendo and went over to the high jump and fiddled with the bar to make it look like I had a purpose to be there rather than just be an item of decoration.
"Let's see you in action, then," said Wilmington to Paddy and just for a second I thought he was referring to Paddy's tent which, to my relief, had subsided somewhat.
Paddy performed a few jumps and at Wilmington's suggestion I raised the bar about four inches to a height Paddy had cleared only a handful of times. Sure enough, he knocked the bar off three times in succession.
"You know what the problem is," said Wilmington. "You're clearing the bar but it's your shorts that catch on the bar and knock it off. They're too floppy."
"But, sir," said Paddy. I can practise in swimming trunks but on Sports day we've got to wear white shorts."
"Hmm," muttered Wilmington before turning to me and saying I looked like a nice boy. Then he departed.
I took to wearing underpants under my PE shorts for these sessions with Paddy. As I was nowhere near the gym there was little chance of the PE master checking me so the risk of a caning was very low. Paddy spotted my crime though. I blushed when he called me a little imp for spoiling his fun.
The next week he took off his track suit and showed me some new, very tight, white shorts. These were even more revealing than the blue Continental-style shorts he'd worn for football. A decade later the style would become ubiquitous among athletes everywhere. Fitting closely about his bottom - or most of it - they had a V-shaped slit on the side of each leg which exposed a large area of creamy flesh almost as far up as the waistband. At the front his cock and balls were tightly confined behind the shimmering material. So no need for a jockstrap, then.
"Bloody hell, Paddy - those shorts are amazing! I suppose Wilmington got them for you."
"Yeah but remember your promise. Now let's see if I can clear the bar without my shorts knocking it off."
The new shorts certainly worked and that afternoon Paddy jumped higher than he'd ever managed before. His elation washed off on me and when it was time for a break I lay flat on the warm grass with my arms outstretched.
"This is so exciting it's tiring me out," I said. "Why don't you lie down here?"
"Thought you'd never ask!" said Paddy and lay down so close his bottom landed on my right hand. "No, don't move it - I like you touching my bum."
It was true, I was touching his bare bottom and he shifted a little, making the smooth flesh of his bottom glide over my fingers. It was a delicious sensation.
Then we heard voices and I pulled my hand away. "No peace for the wicked," I said.
"We need to find somewhere private for this," said Paddy. I was too shy to reply.
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