James Bond's Boyhood Adventures 2

By Pueros

(With belated thanks to Erik, whose imaginative mind is behind some of the descriptions in this saga.)

Chapter 2 – Occupations

(Dinard, Brittany, France, July 1940)

The uniformed 15 years old Oberjunker Ernst Stavro Blofeld of the Hitler Youth, holidaying with his father, a plain-clothes Hauptsturmfuhrer of the Gestapo, approached the terrified naked 14 years old Pierre in the basement of the new local headquarters of the Third Reich’s security police. The French boy, suspended from the ceiling of the cellar, was hurting, and not just from the agony induced by the rope biting painfully into his wrists. His shameful nudity and the sight of the many implements of torture that rested on a trellis table, located not far in front of him, were also adding considerably to his woes.

Pierre saw canes and whips, clamps of various sizes, knives and other bladed instruments, as well as a number of other evil-looking devices, the purpose of which he hesitated to consider. However, perhaps the most worrisome item on the table was the paraffin-fuelled blowtorch. As the French boy observed the young but rather ugly and sniggering blonde German enter, he began to beg “Please let me go. I’m sorry for letting the lorry tyre down. I won’t do it again. Please, please, let me go!”

The 15 years old, maintaining his snigger, slowly and menacingly approached the helpless 14 years old until he was finally standing in front of the dangling nude. The Teuton spoke good French, his family having originally owned a farm in bilingual Alsace-Lorraine, a region annexed by the Germans as an imperial territory, or Reichsland, after the Franco-Prussian War of 1871. However, the area was returned to Gallic possession after the 1st World War and his Francophobe family had eventually felt compelled to sell up cheaply and move across the border to Baden.

This history had increased the family's particular dislike for the French, a hatred deeply instilled in both Blofeld Senior and Junior. This had caused the evil duo to anticipate much delight from the former’s new position and power, resulting from the occupation of France, with the latter very grateful to his father for being granted the opportunity to inflict the initial pleasurable vengeance. Pierre was to be the pair's first victim but by no means their last.

Blofeld Junior replied to the desperately pleading Pierre, whose lovely brown eyes were now damp, “I can't let you go, as an example must be made of you and I have been charged with its implementation. If we were lenient, others might be encouraged to repeat such misbehaviour or perpetrate even worse. No, we shall demonstrate, by what we do to you, that we gloriously victorious Germans are to be respected, and not to be messed about with, by you ignominiously vanquished French. Also, we need to find out who put you up to such an act of sabotage, as we suspect that you are part of a much bigger conspiracy against the Reich!”

“No!” entreated the tremulous Pierre, “no, no-one put me up to it as I just did it on the spur of the moment.” The petrified French boy then repeated “Please let me go. I’m sorry for letting the lorry’s tyre down. I won’t do it again. Please, please, let me go!” Blofeld did not respond immediately but, instead, walked slowly round the naked 14 years old to feast his eyes with an intimate viewing of his delicious Gallic form.

Blofeld now knew that he was homosexual but had taken great care to disguise the fact, given that discovery of his true sexuality would result in dismissal from the Hitler Youth, the display of a pink triangle on his new civilian clothing and banishment to a concentration camp. The young German also appreciated that his tastes extended to the extreme sadism exhibited by his father. The 15 years old recognised that his time alone in the cellar with the gorgeous brown-haired Pierre gave him an ideal opportunity to release years of suppressed desires, with the occasion enabling him to satisfy both of his sexual predilections.

Blofeld, substantial cock throbbing in anticipation within the confines of his uniform, causing a noticeable bulge, detected by Pierre, to appear at the front of his trousers, eventually returned to the door of the cellar after fully taking in the marvellous sight of the French lad’s naked body. The highlight of the boyish panorama had been the 14 years old’s nicely proportioned, completely smooth and currently flaccid genitalia.

This time, Blofeld did not open the door but instead locked it, as he did not want to be disturbed over the pleasant hours ahead. The realisation that the young German was not going to release him but rather torture him caused the now crying young French boy to increase the volume of his pleas. “Please, no,” he begged, “please don’t hurt me. I’m sorry for what I did. I’ll be good in future, I promise. Please let me go!” However, the entreaties only made the Oberjunker’s cock harder, as the 15 years old resumed his position in front of the suspended 14 years old.

“Now, you will tell me who put you up to your act of sabotage,” Blofeld announced, as he picked up a thin leather crop, “or you shall begin to pay the penalty for lack of co-operation!” Tears dripped from Pierre’s beautiful face as he started to reply “Please believe me, no-one….” However, the French boy’s answer was cut short when he instead felt instinctively compelled to utter a loud yelp, as the unoccupied hand of his young German interrogator clasped and harshly squeezed the lovely twin orbs of his nicely dangling Gallic ball sac.

“I don’t believe you,” declared Blofeld to Pierre, whose voice had been taken away by the sudden acute agony in his groin, to be replaced by many loud and rapidly expelled groans. It was the first time that the young German had laid a hand on the young French boy and he was enjoying every moment, for not only was he feeling the 14 years old’s delectable scrotum but also inflicting pain. The bulge at the front of 15 year’s old’s trousers became even more prominent as a result.

Pierre’s tears started to drip from his gorgeous face onto his chest and then further downwards, as Blofeld maintained his excruciating hold, for what seemed like an eternity to his distressed victim. However, it was actually only a minute before the sadistic young interrogator eventually relaxed his grip, causing the French boy to release a long thankful sigh as the agony within his genitalia began to subside.

Unfortunately, Pierre’s relief was to be only momentary as Blofeld now repositioned himself at the rear of the French boy. “You have one last chance,” advised the young German, “to tell me who was behind your criminal act before I begin to thrash your bare bottom with this crop. I won’t be stopping until you do, even if that means that I have to flay the skin from the whole of your backside!”

Pierre’s plea, already appreciated as truthful by Blofeld, of “Please believe me, no-one….” was then again interrupted when his mouth instead began to utter another loud yelp, as the first hard blow of the crop despoiled the lustrous curves of the middle of his sublime Gallic bum. The French boy followed this noise up with a sharp intake of breath when, shortly after the initial hit, he felt Teutonic fingers exploring the full length of the vivid red stripe that had been created across his buttocks.

To Pierre, the digits seemed to linger unnecessarily before they were eventually withdrawn, giving him the first insight into the fact that there might be alternative motives behind the young German’s actions other than the need to elicit the truth. “Well, are you going to tell me,” Blofeld asked, “or do I continue?” The French boy now noticed the change in his young interrogator’s voice, as it had become higher in tone through intense excitement.

“Please, please, believe me,” Pierre begged, “I acted on my own.” The French boy desperately hoped that the young German would accept the veracity of what he was saying but his wish was apparently quickly dashed when the second viscous strike of the crop landed, a little above where the first had hit. The sobbing 14 years old issued a voluminous scream before continuing his pleading. “Please believe me, I acted on my own,” he now repeated over and over between sobs. However, it was not these entreaties that caused Blofeld to pause and change tactics but rather the now urgent needs of the Oberjunker’s rampant cock.

Blofeld, as he returned his fingers to the wondrous curvature of Pierre’s bottom, now decorated with two red stripes, ordered “Tell me the truth. It was your father who put you up to it, wasn’t it?” The French boy responded rather quietly but hopefully, despite the fact that his answer contained a personally sad statement, “No, my father’s dead. He was a soldier and you Germans killed him.”

“Too bad,” declared a smiling Blofeld, “but the information only proves that the culprit must therefore be your mother.” “No,” yelled Pierre desperately, “no, my mother is innocent. She does not know what I’ve been up to.” However, his reply did not discourage the young German from enquiring “How old is she?” The French boy, disliking the direction in which his questioning was going, was reluctant to answer and remained silent. It took another nasty blow across his backside to make him shout “32!”

Blofeld’s smile broadened as he felt the third stripe, created just below the earlier duo. His grin was not caused just by the thought of interrogating a 32 years old woman, presumably beautiful if her son’s looks were anything to go by, in the same way as her offspring. The reaction had also resulted from noticing, as he moved to the side of the French boy to finger his handiwork, that the 14 years old’s own cock, previously soft, was now fully erect. The Oberjunker had finally observed for the first time something that he had been told commonly occurred during such interrogation sessions despite, or presumably more correctly because of, the agony inflicted. The delightful vision served to increase further the 15 years old’s sexual craving, which he was now intent on relieving as quickly as possible.

“I shall have your mother arrested,” Blofeld informed, “and brought here to be questioned alongside you and in a similar unclothed manner.” “No,” Pierre yelled again, even more desperately than previously, “no, my mother is innocent. Please, please, believe me. Do anything to me but please leave my mother alone.” “But I can do anything to you already,” the young German replied, whilst still running his fingers across the French boy’s bottom, “why shouldn’t I enjoy the pleasure of inflicting similar on your mother? She’s also probably a typical French whore who might want to be pleasured by a nice large young German prick!”

Pierre’s frantic begging intensified as he implored “Please, I’ll do anything for you, anything, just leave my mother alone!” “But where’s my prick going to go for entertainment if I do that?” Blofeld asked as he now ran his forefinger down the French boy’s bumcrack before forcing its way to the lips of the 14 years old’s virgin sphincter.

Pierre, not naïve about sexual matters and having already correctly suspected the young German’s ulterior motives, now realised what his interrogator wanted in return for letting his mother be. “Please, I’ll do anything for you, anything,” the French boy repeated, although in a now quieter and more sombre tone, “just leave my mother alone!”

Blofeld, as he continued his careful fingering of Pierre’s anal opening, causing both Gallic and Teutonic cocks to become engorged, believed that the French boy now fully appreciated what was required of him and was resigned to his fate, even if the 14 years old had not declared the fact. However, for the Oberjunker, that was not enough.

Blofeld wanted the French boy to beg to be sodomised. The Oberjunker threw his crop onto the floor and began to use his freed hand to explore gently the curvature of Pierre’s bottom, whilst the other lingered at the 14 years old’s sphincter, an activity that caused the Gallic cock to rise to the vertical and ooze precum. The young German then commanded “Tell me what you mean by ‘anything’!”

Pierre could not help himself and he started moaning, but not now as a result of pain. Despite his terror at his situation and surroundings, and the excruciation induced by his suspension from the ceiling and the three blows from the crop, the young German’s manual ministrations were providing the French boy’s body with a delightful flow of multifarious pleasurable sensations, of an intensity never experienced previously.

“Tell me what you mean by ‘anything’!” Blofeld repeated quietly as he proceeded. He was rewarded when Pierre answered stutteringly “Please….fuck me….please….fuck me….not my….mother!” “Why should I do that?” the young German tormentor enquired, as he maintained his fondling. “Because….because….” the French boy began to reply, intending to continue with ‘you want me.’ However, he suddenly realised, despite his sexual reverie, that he had to be more careful with his responses, rightfully believing that the ugly 15 years old was not someone who should be insulted or upset. The pretty 14 years old therefore finished his statement with the humiliating and untruthful announcement “Because….I….want….you to….I want….you….to fuck me….please!”

Blofeld withdrew his hands from Pierre’s backside and returned to a position at the front of the dangling French boy, who had stopped crying and producing tears and had instead closed his eyes as he shamefully enjoyed the young German’s attentions to his rear. Because of the abstraction that had overwhelmed his mind as a result of what was now seemingly sexual foreplay, the 14 years old had not realised that the pleasurable ministrations had come to come to an abrupt end until he suddenly felt his acutely excited genitals receive similar handling.

Pierre opened his eyelids to find the young German standing immediately in front of him, sporting a bigger than ever smirk and protuberance in his trousers. “So, it’s not just your mother who’s a whore,” Blofeld suggested, as he fondled the French boy’s smooth hard penis and full ball sac, “but her son too!” The 14 years old, anger swelling at the comment, bit his lip to prevent himself from returning the insult, something that he knew the young interrogator would make him regret.

“Tell me what you are,” Blofeld ordered as he proceeded with his genital manoeuvres, “as I want to hear it from your own lips.” However, Pierre’s voice was temporarily taken away, to be replaced again by low moaning as he felt himself being inexorably brought towards climax. His tormentor recognised the fact and so again harshly squeezed the French boy’s scrotum, producing another loud yelp. “Tell me what you are,” the young German repeated as he squashed the ball sac even more rigorously. He was compensated for his trouble by the 14 years old finally confessing, between deep intakes of breath, much needed because of his genital distress, “I’m….a….whore!” However, the Teutonic verbal torment was not yet over, although the pressure on Gallic testicles was removed.

“Now, you can tell me politely what you are and what you want,” commanded Blofeld, as he stood back to feast his eyes again on the delicious naked front of the French boy, now exhibiting the delectable fulsome throbbing erection. Apparently in order to encourage the desired response, the Oberjunker picked up a knife from the table. The sight of the sharp blade in his young interrogator’s hands quickly spurred the 14 years old to confirm “I’m a whore, sir. Would you kindly please me by fucking me!” However, the tormentor seemed dissatisfied, replying “You can do better than that. I want you to beg me, telling me what you want to experience from the kind attentions of your German conqueror!”

Blofeld’s hidden but rigid cock vibrated as he heard Pierre, tears returned to his face, obey, after taking some time to formulate the necessary and appropriately shameful words, “I’m a true French boy whore, sir. I beseech you….to ram your magnificent and glorious German manhood into my ass. I want….I want….to feel its throbbing splendour occupy me to the hilt over and over. I want….I want….to feel German occupation of France extend to my innards. Please….please….fill me with your cock and glorious German seed. I beg you…I beg you….fuck me forever. Please fuck me into delirium. My French boy pussy’s desperate for German invasion and conquest!”

Blofeld’s smile widened as he listened to Pierre’s humiliating lies before he shocked the French boy by answering, after an apparently thoughtful pause, “No, I don’t think so. I think that I’d prefer to do that to your mother.” The 14 years old gasped in horror, as he wondered whether his outrageous pleading had been in vain. His terror was clouding his mind, hampering his attempts to formulate a cohesive and persuasive response when the young German suddenly added “Unless you want to give something else to me besides your anal virginity!”

“Anything,” screeched Pierre, “you can take anything that belongs to me. Just tell me what you want and you can have it!”

“I want your balls,” announced Blofeld, as he carefully ran a finger along the blade he held in his hand, “I want to sever your scrotum at the same time that I impregnate your, as you describe it, French boy pussy with my glorious German seed. I also want you to beg me to do it to you!”

(Jersey, Channel Islands, July 1940)

At this same moment, 13 years old James Bond was sitting at his desk, located towards the back of his class in school. Life on Jersey was trying to carry on as normal despite the imminent arrival of the Germans to begin their occupation of the island. There were a number of empty desks around him, formerly occupied by boys whose families had fled to the British mainland. However, there was someone sat at the desk next to him, his best friend, David, a pretty blonde blue-eyed lad.

The class bully, much bigger, taller and stronger than any other of the school’s 13 years olds, had that day suddenly chosen to give the reserved David a bad time whenever the more intimidating James was not around. He had targeted the former to be one of the replacements for those previously tormented but who had now departed as part of the evacuation. However, David had confided his new problem to his friend, who decided to begin to fight fire with fire with a first strike.

As the science master was chalking something on the blackboard, James aimed an old conker, still in his possession from the previous autumn, at the rear of the ugly brutish head of the bully, who was sitting towards the front of the class. Unfortunately, just as the missile was accurately launched, the bully dropped his pen onto the floor and bent over to pick it up. The noise of the fallen writing tool caused the teacher to turn his head around and the projectile hit him in the middle of the forehead, to many giggles from the twenty or so boys who remained in the form.

It was not obvious to the science master who the culprit had been and so, as he rubbed his stinging and rapidly bruising forehead, and ordered the class to stop the loud tittering, he told the miscreant to stand up to identify himself. At first, no-one moved until the teacher then advised that he would cane everyone for co-conspiracy. James then immediately sprang to his feet and announced “I’m sorry sir, it was me, although I was not aiming at you.”

“You again, Bond Senior,” Mr. Boothroyd admonished, as he picked up a cane from his desk, “you’re always getting into bother. It doesn’t matter who you were targeting, you should not be throwing missiles around the classroom. I also suggest that your poor aim will cost you very dear this time. Come forward to the front of the class!”

James reluctantly complied, already imagining the pain to be imminently inflicted on his bum. He was dressed in his red blazer with badge, red tie with school crest, white shirt, short grey trousers, extending to just below his groin, grey socks and polished laced shoes. His school cap was in his blazer pocket as he was indoors. Titters returned to the classroom as all his fellow pupils, except his best friend, became excited at what they were about to observe. Every 13 years old present, except the bully, liked the older Bond but natural boyhood enthusiasm for certain humiliating and sadistic practices, as long as they were perpetrated on others, temporarily overcame their fondness, an attitude intensified by expanding organs in over twenty young teenage loins.

“I’m afraid that this time, Bond Senior,” Mr. Boothroyd appraised James, as the boy arrived at the front of the class with obvious trepidation in his sensuous brown eyes even though he was trying to put on a brave show, “your rear will not gather a modicum of protection from having some covering. For what you’ve just done, and the fact that this is the umpteenth time that you’ve had this implement laid across your bottom, none of the previous punishments apparently relaying the relevant message from your chastised posterior to your naughty mind, you will now receive a beating across your bare behind. Please remove your blazer, you can hang it over my chair, and pull your shorts and underpants down. You can then bend over, facing away from the class with legs slightly apart, holding your ankles tightly with your hands. After I lift the tail of your shirt and rest it on your back, I should then have my own target to aim my own projectile at. Your fellow pupils will also gain a full view of your reddening buttocks as a warning to them not to repeat your follies!”

At the same time that James began to comply with Mr. Boothroyd’s orders, by removing his blazer and very reluctantly lowering his shorts and underpants, German troops landed on Jersey for the first time to begin the 5-year occupation of the island.

Meanwhile, the tearful, horrified but immensely selfless and courageous Pierre was simultaneously begging, less than 40 miles away to the south, across the Gulf of St. Malo in Dinard, “Please….sir….please….I’m just a French whore….fuck me….and……..castrate me….both at the same time….Please….please….sir, take my virginity and………………..my balls!”

(To be continued in chapter 3 – ‘Resistance’)