For Your Eyes Only, Jonty
by Jolyon Lewes
There he was again. For the third time in ten minutes the boy rode past our house on his bike. My parents were sitting with cups of tea with their backs to the window but my chair faced the window, giving me a good view of the road outside and the few people and cars that went past. The boy must have been cycling round the block, which would take only about four minutes. I watched for his next appearance. Sure enough, he passed by for the fourth time, pedalling a little more quickly this time. Was he doing it for exercise or was he just killing time? Was he doing it to catch the attention of somebody he liked?
Well, he wouldn't know me from Adam but he'd unwittingly caught my attention so I went outside to get a better view next time he passed. I stood by the garden gate and waited, noting an enthusiastic stirring in my loins. After all, he made such a beguiling sight. I'd say he was about fifteen, with light brown hair, a slim build and the nicest pair of thighs I'd seen for a long time – well, not since I'd last looked at my naked self in the bathroom mirror. And, thanks to the shorts he was wearing, his thighs were naked too!
I was now in a position to take in more details of the boy as he passed by. I threw a bit of paper on the ground and waited. I was about two yards from the road. I saw him coming and bent down to pick up the paper. I wanted to make it look like I was out there for a purpose, litter picking. I didn't want him to think I was only there to observe him. On my bended knees, of course, I was able to look up as he cycled past and get a good view of those fantastic thighs.
He was cycling more slowly this time and his legs were hardly pumping. Was it for my benefit that he'd slowed down? At a few yards away from me he stopped pedalling and freewheeled, his nearer thigh horizontal. It was as if he was inviting me to look up his shorts, which, naturally, I did but only for a second, as I wanted to look at his face. Briefly, we caught each other's eye. I didn't smile, in case he thought me a bit forward. He certainly wasn't smiling. On his lovely face was an expression of great sadness. In another second he'd passed me and had begun to pedal again.
Would I have another chance to see him close-up? I decided to do a bit of weeding on the garden path. If invited, I could now describe him quite accurately. He was wearing a thick, bottle-green pullover – it was a chilly October afternoon – brown, lace-up shoes, navy-blue knee-socks and the tiniest pair of brown, leather shorts imaginable. His thighs were as smooth as polished marble and I suspected his bottom would be equally smooth and hairless. I now had a hearty hard-on and dared not stand up in case on his next pass he spotted my condition.
But there wasn't another pass. He hove into view again but stopped about fifty yards before he reached me, getting off his bike and wheeling it along the path to the house four doors along from ours. Our front gardens were open-plan, there being no fences, just concrete paths to mark the boundary between one plot and the next. There was something miserable about the boy. His head was down and he walked slowly, as if in dread of what might happen once he'd gone indoors. As you can see, my imagination was working hard.
I went through the gate and entered our back garden. Here there were low fences between each plot so I could easily judge which of the gardens was the boy's. It looked a bit scruffy, with some lawn and a vegetable patch in which cabbages were growing and other bits of greenstuff. Our garden was tidy, as my parents were keen gardeners and, although they'd lived there only two months, my father's newly created patio had pots with dwarf conifers spaced neatly along its edge. I willed my erection to calm down before I went indoors.
This was late October 1972 and my father was an officer in the Royal Air Force and our house was one of a block of about a hundred officers' married quarters within an RAF air base in North Devon. From this you can work out that the boy's father was another RAF officer and that by day the base was quite a noisy place to be, what with three squadrons of Hawker Hunter jet fighters operating there.
I was home for half term from my boarding school in East Anglia and standing in our back garden that afternoon, I decided North Devon suddenly had an unexpected attraction - the boy who lived four doors away. What did I know about this boy? Nothing. Over tea, I asked my parents if they knew any people in the other houses in the road. Of course they did – my father worked with some of them and my mother knew neighbours who were in the Wives Club. I quickly discovered that the boy four doors along was an only child and went to school in nearby Barnstaple. His father was Flight Lieutenant McKellar, a Hunter pilot.
"Not the most popular man on the squadron," said my father. "Nothing wrong with being a perfectionist in his profession but he likes to find fault in others and is always getting into arguments."
"You can hear him shouting in their garden," said my mother, "and his wife never looks happy. I think she only comes to Wives Club because he says it would look bad if she didn't. She'd look so pretty if she could just smile a bit."
I was building a picture of this family; a grumpy husband, a miserable wife and a beautiful son. I wondered what his home life was like. I thought of the sad expression on his lovely face and wondered if he got on with his father. I asked my mother if she knew who McKellar was shouting at in his garden.
"I think it's at his son but I wouldn't put it past him to shout at his wife. The boy's called Ian."
That night in bed I thought about Ian or more specifically, the thrilling brevity of his shorts. As you can imagine, it didn't take long for me to summon sufficient lust for an exceptionally enjoyable wank.
Next morning I tried to think of a way of getting to see more of Ian but I could hardly position myself on our front path in the hope that he'd cycle round the block for my entertainment, nor could I ring his front doorbell and announce that I'd like a closer look at his thighs. Although it was a very cold morning I decided to wear some old khaki shorts, similar in colour to those he wore on his bike ride but much longer, reaching almost to mid-thigh. This would give us something in common if we met. As it happened, the meeting happened in the most natural way possible.
As I walked past his house to the pillar box at the end of the road to post some letters, I noticed three bags of cement on his front path, presumably for Ian's father to indulge in some DIY. As I walked back my pulse quickened at the sight of Ian positioning a wheelbarrow beside the bags of cement. Again, he was in those leather shorts of thrilling brevity. I was about twenty yards away when in trying to lift a bag of cement into the wheelbarrow, he mishandled matters and the wheelbarrow fell onto its side, tipping the bag to the ground. My chance had come!
"Can I give you a hand?" I called.
"Thanks," he said, turning to see who I was. He didn't smile.
I was surprised to hear him speak with a voice that had broken, yet in check shirt and tiny brown shorts his slight, boyish body made him look less than fourteen. He righted the barrow and together we lifted a bag onto it.
"Thanks again," said Ian. "If I wheel it in could you open the gate for me?"
So I went ahead and held the garden gate open. When he'd passed through I followed him and had my first view of his rear. His brown shorts were very old, extremely short and made of leather, the crease of his bottom easily visible as he pushed the barrow. Then my heart jumped. High on each thigh were three horizontal weals that could only have been made by a cane. So his father must have beaten him! How awful! I offered to help him with the other two bags of cement. He thanked me again.
"Nice to see someone else in shorts in this cold weather," I said as we lifted the second bag onto the barrow.
"Yeah, I'm glad I'm not the only one," said Ian. "Is it your choice to be in shorts?"
"Yes, it is," I said.
"Well, I don't have a choice. My father makes me wear shorts at home. Says I can wear long trousers when I've got hair on my legs."
"Bloody hell," I said, "what about at school?"
"Oh, it's long trousers at school but shorts at home. I've had these Lederhosen for years – they just won't wear out."
I knew it wouldn't be long before I had a massive hard-on so I changed the subject.
"My name's Jonty, by the way. I'm at boarding school near Cambridge. My folks live at Number fourteen."
Ian put out his hand and we shook hands. "Well, I'm Ian and I'm in the Sixth Form and I'm sixteen." Still he didn't smile.
That surprised me – he looked so much younger. "Oh, only a year younger than me," I said, with what I hoped looked like a kind smile. "That's nice. I'm in the Sixth Form too."
But he looked away and said he'd have to get the bags of cement shifted, so I helped again and got another pleasing view of the back of Ian's delicious thighs and the purple cane marks.
When the job was done I was anxious to spend a bit longer with Ian. I told him I'd seen him riding his bike round the block and he said he'd seen me watching.
"Look, I don't know anyone round here and I'm off back to school in a couple of days," I said. "If I borrow my Dad's bike, how say we have a little ride together. You could show me the beach."
At last, a little smile from Ian. "Well, I've got school tomorrow but it's not dark till half six so how about we meet at your place at five?"
"Fantastic!" I said, "and to keep you company I'll be in these shorts!"
Another tiny smile from Ian, which vanished when his father bawled at him from the garden gate to get in and shift some paving slabs.
"See you tomorrow, Jonty," said a sad-looking Ian as he turned away from me.
I spent the next day in a state of considerable excitement but would Ian keep to his word and turn up at five? At four I swapped my jeans for my khaki shorts and waited. Maybe I should get hold of shorter shorts to keep in synch with him.
True to his word, Ian wheeled his bike to our front door at five to five. I'd seen him coming, of course, so went out to meet him and off we cycled, out of the airfield, following its perimeter to the estuary. He was in those tiny Lederhosen again, which filled me with joy. He led the way along tracks in the dunes, towards the sea. In the sky were the makings of a glorious sunset.
We presently came to Braunton Burrows and Ian suggested we stop pedalling and have a chat. In the west, over the sea and not far above the horizon, was a golden sun. There was nobody else about and we laid our bikes down and sat on the marram grass that clothed the sand dunes. It didn't take long for me to broach a sensitive subject.
"You said yesterday your father makes you wear shorts at home," I said. "Do you get on with him?"
"Not really," said Ian, candidly adding "I don't think he likes me. He's always finding fault in me and lets me know in no uncertain terms. Sometimes he uses a cane on me."
"Wow, that's horrible! " I said, secretly thrilled that my assumption had been correct. "How often does that happen?"
"About every month. It happened last night, four strokes for answering back. He always makes sure a couple of strokes hit my thighs, because he knows it's more painful there."
"I'd agree with that, from my experiences at boarding school," I said, an erection rapidly forming inside my shorts.
"Yes and it means that with the shorts I have to wear, people can see the marks," said Ian, looking at me, or, more specifically, at my shorts. "If I roll onto my tummy you can have a look."
Sure enough, two fresh weals had joined the purple weals I'd seen the day before, high up on Ian's delicious thighs. One was right on the crease where his bottom started. That must have been agony for him.
"Cripes, you poor thing!" I said. Ever so gently, I put a fingertip on his right thigh, close to one of the weals and stroked his porcelain-smooth skin.
Ian swiftly rolled over to sit with his knees drawn up high, thereby revealing a bit more bare bottom. I retreated and knelt on the grass, hoping he wouldn't see my erection.
"For your eyes only, Jonty," said Ian, making me feel embarrassed. "I'm putting the emphasis on the word 'eyes.' Look but please don't touch."
"Sorry," I said, "I was getting a bit carried away. Your shorts aren't exactly decent, you know."
"I know but he makes me wear them, just to humiliate me."
"Even my PE shorts are longer than that," I said.
"So are mine," said Ian, a look of utter misery on his sweet face.
"We're talking like old mates," I said, trying to sound cheerful, "yet we only met yesterday."
"Well, it's nice to talk to someone who understands. The other kids on the base keep clear of me. They think I'm a freak. They laugh at my stupid little shorts and giggle if they see the cane marks. You do understand, don't you?"
"Yes, of course and whatever you say to me is confidential," I said, "and I'm certainly not laughing at you - or your shorts. I rather like them. I take it you got them when your father was based in Germany."
"Yes, when we were at RAF Laarbruch, five years ago."
"Oh, I went to the primary school at Laarbruch, when we lived at Goch," I said.
We spent some time chatting about living in Germany and the things we did there. The sun had set in a blaze of gold and we realised it would soon be time to cycle home. We chatted a little longer. I wanted to touch him again but dared not do anything that might ruin this budding friendship.
"I've really enjoyed this, Jonty."
"Me too, Ian and just look at that sky!" I got to my feet, thankful that my erection had subsided
"Amazing," said Ian. "Will you be coming for Christmas? I'd love to see you then."
"You bet! Should be home on the sixteenth. We can go for more bike rides."
"We go to church on Christmas Day, Jonty. You won't believe the stupid little grey shorts I'll have to wear. Nearly as short as these. Would you sit beside me there, please?"
"Yeah, of course. Can't wait to see those grey shorts!"
Ian actually gave a little laugh. "It's not fair, you know. You've got no hair on your legs but you're allowed long trousers."
"Have you been peeping, you little tinker?"
"Little tinker, am I? Just cos you're so much bigger than me. Anyway I didn't have to peep. The sun was making your thighs all gold and shiny."
"All compliments gratefully received," I said, feeling yet another erection forming and picking up my bike before Ian could see my state of arousal.
We pedalled home in silence. Outside Ian's house I heard his father shouting at his wife.
"Oh, God, he's in another mood," said Ian.
"Let's look forward to Christmas," I said, "and to more bike rides in shorts."
"Thinking of you will make this evening better," said Ian reaching out to shake my hand. I was at least four inches taller than him.
"Thinking of my golden thighs, you mean."
"Yeah, just like you'll be thinking of my stupid little Lederhosen!"
"Too true!" I said, giving Ian a saucy wink. "Till Christmas, then and by the way, I do hate hairy legs."
Flight Lieutenant McKellar opened the front door and bawled at Ian to get inside. I pushed my bike slowly back to my house.
I went back to boarding school, all atingle. I couldn't stop thinking about Ian. It wasn't just that he was so beautiful and that he might have fresh weals on his thighs that he might let me touch at Christmas but that he'd expressed clear interest in my thighs. It would be so nice if it was a friend like Ian stroking my silken thighs and not just me. He'd asked me to sit beside him in church; if his grey shorts were as he'd described I'd have his bare thighs within easy touching distance. Would it be sacrilegious to spend the entire Christmas service with a whopping hard-on?
Three weeks before Christmas I received a letter from my parents saying that Flight Lieutenant McKellar had been killed in an air accident. That filled me with joy but better was to come. Ian and his mother would be spending Christmas Day with us!
On arriving home, I asked my parents if the funeral had taken place. It had but the coffin largely contained sand as there wasn't much of McKellar's body that could be retrieved form the crash site.
"It was all very serious," said my mother, "but Jenny, that's Ian's mother, has seemed happier than I've seen her before. You might find Ian more cheerful, too. They'll have to vacate the married quarter but not till Jenny's found somewhere nice to live. The RAF won't throw them out."
I went round to Ian's to give my condolences. He was wearing jeans.
"Not in shorts, then?" I said.
"No, Jonty," he said, smiling. "Sorry to disappoint you. Mum bought me these jeans a week ago and I'll be wearing long trousers in church – but still please sit next to me."
Let's now cut to the quick. On Christmas morning we went to church and Ian and I sat together, with my parents to my right and Jenny to Ian's left. If he'd been in shorts I'd have had no chance to stroke his thighs, always assuming he'd have let me, which was very doubtful. After the service we all repaired to our house where Dad poured us mulled wine. Ian was smart in his school uniform and for the first time, looked like a sixth former. It was hardly surprising that both he and Jenny looked happy but Dad kept the champagne in the rack – it might have appeared too celebratory to have drunk bubbly. Mum produced a magnificent Christmas dinner, then we indulged in chocolates, more drinks and television. Ian sat beside me again, this time on the sofa and more than once moved his thigh to touch mine.
In the kitchen Dad told me there'd be a party in the Officers' Mess next day but Jenny couldn't face lots of people coming up to her to express insincere condolences so Mum and Dad would take her out for the day for a drive on Exmoor and a pub lunch.
"We'll probably be out till dark so would you boys be able to amuse yourselves?" said Dad. "There'll be plenty of food here."
Boxing Day morning. Ian came round at about eleven, in his jeans. Mum and Dad took Jenny off to Lynmouth for lunch.
Ian and I had our first meaningful chat since that time on the beach in October. We didn't mention his father but he wasn't relaxed. After some cold turkey he made a suggestion.
"How about coming back to my place for an hour or two? It could be worth your while."
Intrigued, I agreed. Understandably, there were no Christmas decorations in his house. He closed the sitting room curtains and switched on some lights.
"Just a moment, Jonty," he said and left the room.
A couple of minutes later he reappeared, looking just like a little boy. He'd taken off his jeans and jumper and was in a grey suit with knee socks and short trousers almost as thrillingly brief as his Lederhosen. He smiled cheekily.
"This is what I'd have looked like in church if Dad had still been alive. What do you think?"
"You'd have been the star attraction! Nobody would've been able to concentrate on the Christmas story! I'd want to eat you up – and so would half the congregation! D'you really mean you'd have been in church like that?"
"Not just church, Jonty but the dentist, visits to my auntie in Clovelly, all sorts of other things."
"That is so bloody humiliating for a boy your age. What do people say?"
"Nothing to my face but I can hear other boys giggling and grown-ups whispering about me. In church I often have to hand out the hymn books and things so everyone gets a close-up view of me. Tiny kids reach out to tickle my bare thighs."
My erection was now epic. I asked him why he'd decided to wear those little shorts today.
"I thought you'd like to see them, Jonty."
"Thank you, Ian. I feel privileged. I assume your Mum won't make you wear them again, or the Lederhosen."
"No, that's why she bought me the jeans. Can I sit down beside you?"
He sat down so close to me our shoulders were touching.
"Did you see me making faces at you just now?" he asked.
"No, what kind of faces?"
"Just silly ones, Jonty. I was standing right in front of you but you never took your eyes off my legs."
"Oh, sorry but you do have a fantastic pair of legs."
"Remember what I said on Braunton Burrows, Jonty? Look but don't touch. Well, now I think you deserve a touch. So I'll say it again: for your eyes only, Jonty. But this time the emphasis is on the word 'your.'"
He took my right hand and placed it on his left thigh. I almost swooned. I ran my hand slowly up his thigh, as far as the hem of his grey shorts and then, my fingertips closing on his inner thigh, moved my hand slowly towards his knee.
"Beautiful!" I whispered and repeated the stroking. This time as I touched the hem of his shorts I felt his erection.
"This is all a bit one-sided," said Ian in a sultry voice. "When do I get to touch you? "
"Well," I muttered, unsure of what to say next.
"I know," said Ian, removing my hand from his thigh and standing up. "Race you upstairs!"
In his bedroom I took off my jeans but Ian kept his shorts on, leaving us both with entirely bare thighs and huge erections. He sat on his bed and more or less ordered me to stand in front of him, facing him.
"Now I get to feel those smashing thighs of yours," he said, slowly running his hands up my inner thighs right to the top.
Boys at school did this to me but I didn't much like it and their hands felt coarse, whereas Ian's fingers were soft as silk and got me tingling all over. Neither of us said anything – we didn't need to say how much we were enjoying ourselves.
After a couple of minutes Ian told me to turn round so he could see and feel the backs of my legs. I was glad I'd put on clean briefs because he slipped his fingers inside and tickled my bottom. My ecstasy was likely to get out of control. Suddenly he reached round my waist and pulled me onto his bed, on top of him. We indulged in a spot of gentle wrestling, during which I discovered he wasn't wearing anything under his tiny shorts.
"You're the sexiest boy I've ever met," I said, rather breathlessly.
"You're not too bad yourself, Jonty. And you smell lovely."
"Old Spice," I said, "a Christmas present."
"I'm too young to shave but not too young to have fun with you!"
There followed a lot of adolescent groping and a bit of kissing and in no time I just had to shoot my load. Luckily, Ian had a towel handy so his sweet little grey shorts remained unsoiled.
"Where did you learn all this?" I asked, after we'd finished our fun and were side by side on his bed.
"Never done it before," said Ian. "I suppose it just comes naturally. I s'pose you do it all the time at boarding school."
"Yeah, it does happen but never with someone as cute as you."
"A cute little boy, am I, Jonty? A boy in ridiculous little shorts, handing out hymn books and smiling sweetly at the ladies."
"I didn't mean it like that. I meant you're the nicest, sexiest boy I've ever met."
We just held hands and said nothing for a couple of minutes.
I looked at my watch. "Oh God, your Mum will be back any minute!"
We got off the bed, cleaned ourselves up and Ian swapped his shorts for his jeans, then we went back to my house. No sign of any parents.
"It's a whole fortnight before I have to go back to school," I said. "Can we do this again?"
"Absolutely! I've got an idea."
"And what is that, you sweet little tinker?" said I.
"We cycle to Braunton Burrows again, only in sensible clothes but when we get there, off with our jeans, to reveal our shorts and then a nice little romp."
I asked him why he wasn't wearing underwear.
"I didn't want anything to get in the way. I never wear anything under the Lederhosen."
"Why?"
"Well, for one thing, lots of German boys wear nothing under their Lederhosen and for another, mine are so tiny the underpants would show. Maybe you should try wearing them."
"Bloody hell, Ian, if they're too small for you I'd never even get them on!"
"Yeah, OK, but when we go on our bike rides you could wear these grey ones. They're only two years old. I reckon they'd fit you, just."
"Stop it, Ian, I'm getting another hard-on!"
"So am I, at the thought of your golden thighs all bare!"
"But what if it's freezing cold?"
"Can't you think of ways of warming ourselves up, Jonty? And I'm only wearing those Lederhosen with you. I don't want anyone else to see them, ever again. Remember what I said – for your eyes only, Jonty."
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