James Bond's Boyhood Adventures 13

By Pueros

(With thanks to Erik for some of the original ideas behind this saga.)

Chapter 13 – Fortifications

(Jersey, Channel Islands, October 1941)

It was the October half-term holidays again and John Bond, known to many of his friends as ‘JJ2’, because his older brother was regularly called ‘JJ1’, both siblings sharing the same initials, knocked on James’ bedroom door. “I’m going now,” the 12 years old declared.

John had volunteered to perform the first furtive espionage shift of the day. The younger members of ‘Jerm’ were currently concentrating on secretly watching and recording the ominous increased shipping movements in St. Helier harbour before reporting their findings back to Boothroyd, also known as ‘Q’. The late winter sun was just rising to provide enough light to enable the 12 years old to pursue his mission.

John would not be alone, as he went about his potentially dangerous task, because he would be accompanied by his first girlfriend.

James, David and Moneypenny had initially recoiled in horror at the idea of accepting a female as a colleague in ‘Jerm’. However, the three 14 years olds had eventually, albeit very reluctantly, been convinced by their persuasive 12 years old colleague that a feminine presence amongst their number would provide their organisation with greater flexibility.

James, David and Moneypenny only conceded the membership after securing the agreement of David that they themselves would not have to bear the brunt of the distasteful task of working with the girl. Naturally, this condition was not one that the two 12 years olds were displeased to concede.

John knew that Boothroyd would take much more persuading about the intrusion of a young female and so he just presented Q with a fait accompli in respect of 12 years old Maureen, whom the three older boys thereafter afforded the nickname of ‘M’. They deliberately gave the girl this abbreviated pseudonym, which they knew copied that of the mysterious head of the British Secret Intelligence Service in London, because she seemed to be the dominant partner in the relationship with James’ younger brother.

The joking appellation would actually one day prove premonitory.

“Take care,” James replied to John’s declaration, “ and, as agreed, we’ll relieve you at noon.” “Alright,” the 12 years old responded, “see you then.” However, the younger brother now remembered a message he had been asked to convey to his older sibling, who was sharing his bedroom with David and Moneypenny because his fellow 14 years olds had been given permission to stay over the previous night.

“Oh, by the way,” John advised, “mum says she wants you all up for breakfast in half an hour.” “Tell her we’ll be down by then,” James responded. His younger brother then acknowledged the fresh communication he had to pass on before departing the pleasant family cottage in the village of St. Aubin, which was located across the eponymous bay from the capital of Jersey, St. Helier.

John first cycled, on a cool but dry day, to the nearby community of La Haule to collect Maureen from her own house before both then advanced on their bicycles along the curving coast road to St. Helier. Boy and girl were both well protected in warm clothing against the autumnal chill. Their mutual temperatures were also temporarily boosted by the short but charming kiss they enjoined when they first met, an action the young male certainly would not have contemplated if his peers had been around.

Meanwhile, back in the Bonds’ cottage, three 14 years olds, wearing pyjamas and lying next to each other under the warm covers of James’ large bed, were discussing John’s relationship. “I think it’s disgusting,” David announced with clear conviction, “for a boy his age to be messing with those horrible creatures, girls. I can’t work out what he sees in them!”

“I agree,” advised Moneypenny, “mums might be alright and useful at times but I can’t see what good other females are to the world. I think they should be banned!” “You’re only saying that,” James retorted, whilst bearing a broad mischievous grin, “because you envy the way they dress!”

“You cheeky blighter!” Moneypenny exclaimed, with a suddenly formed similarly wide smile and just before attacking James with his fingers. Flailing hands and legs now quickly despatched the young host’s bedcovers up into the air and then on to the adjacent floor as, amidst feverish giggles and many desperate entreaties, begging “Stop!”, the red-haired boy took his revenge on JJ1. David, not wanting to be left out, decided to join the assault.

“No, please stop!” James screamed several times, as the remorseless tickling by four hands continued. However, his pleas not only went unheeded but also apparently only induced greater determination on the part of his assailants to pursue their aggression towards a satisfactory conclusion, which they had now decreed had to involve the abject unconditional surrender of their victim.

“Help me take his pyjamas off,” Moneypenny ordered David, who was more than happy to comply with the command. James now increased his struggles but to no avail because he was out-numbered. First, the pretty 14 years old was eventually deprived of his top, at the expense of a few buttons, and then finally his trousers also flew through the air, leaving the boy dressed only in his sparse tight underpants.

“You can tell he likes this,” Moneypenny now laughingly suggested, as the his firm control, and that of his ally, David, on their friend’s vainly resisting body was remorselessly maintained, “because he’s got a stiffie!” As the relevant outline of James’ underwear provided undeniable evidence as to the veracity of this remark, neither the victim nor the delighted other 14 years olds tried to refute the claim.

Instead, James was alarmed and David further pleased when Moneypenny instructed his combat partner to “Take his undies off!”

The struggle immediately intensified but James’ valiant attempt at counter-attack eventually proved futile, although his opponents had now also lost some buttons belonging to their pyjama tops, a development which exposed their own very pleasant bare chests. The inevitable instead happened and JJ1’s underpants were soon also flying across his bedroom, the eradication of the boy’s final covering fortification now vulnerably exposing a throbbing erection to enemy offensive action.

It was Moneypenny’s eager lips, helped by the continued pinioning by David of James’ arms, in a position above his lovely head that was of no use whatsoever to JJ1’s genital defences, that finally achieved the required complete capitulation of the older Bond.

Instead of fruitless resistance, whilst issuing loud giggles and entreaties, James now just lay quietly and uttered low moans, as the removal of his penile cover and subsequent genital assault by an overwhelming force, namely Moneypenny’s mouth, led to the total conquest of the 14 years old’s beautiful form. The successful oral invader rapidly brought the subjugated territory close to producing liquid reparations for the verbal insult that had led to the short bedroom war. However, the red-haired victor now demonstrated that the peace treaty was not to be so generous to the vanquished when his lips and tongue ceased their campaign of disarmament.

Deprived of the delicious damp skilful orifice that had finally induced his meek submission, James, whose arms were still held immovably above him by David, now pleaded with the tormenting winners of the recent conflict. “Please don’t stop,” JJ1 begged, “as you can’t leave me this way!” Meanwhile, the 14 years old’s fulsome cock throbbed wildly as evidence of its frantic need for a resumption of attention.

“Why can’t we leave you?” Moneypenny teased with a smirk, which was shared by David. “You know why,” JJ1 answered with clear desperation, “so please either continue or let me finish myself off!” However, the tormenting reply from his red-haired friend was “Tell me why we should bother!” “Because I need to cum!” the older Bond then quickly confessed, whilst his rigid penis, pointing towards his own cute navel, vibrated in line with his current very fast heartbeat.

“What’s in it for us” Moneypenny not unreasonably enquired, “as we, after all, won the war?” “I’ll do absolutely anything in reparation,” James responded, “anything, just let me cum, please!”

“Anything?” Moneypenny asked. “Yes, I promise, absolutely anything,” James repeated. The latter then felt his hands being released by David, and soon JJ1’s right palm had engulfed his needy cock. Unfortunately, the manual contact was all too brief.

Moneypenny admonished James’ premature action by hitting his friend’s right knuckles, whilst simultaneously instructing the relevant miscreant hand to release the wanton erection. “Let go,” the red-haired boy commanded, “because the peace agreement you’ve committed yourself to means that you’ve got work to do before you can treat yourself that way.” Somehow, JJ1 complied with the victor’s order, leaving his desperate penis still on the brink of explosion.

“That’s better,” Moneypenny commented, as both he and David now speedily joined James in nudity. JJ1 then saw that the smooth uncut penises of both of his friends were also now fully hard.

James now heard Moneypenny demand “Now, whilst keeping your own dick unmolested, you can suck mine whilst you wank David’s, and I’ll tell you when it’s time to swap attentions. You’ll better be good because you don’t get to cum until you’ve satisfied both of us completely!” The defeated JJ1 immediately meekly began to obey.

James, after all, had to honour his word. He also knew that Moneypenny and David were only securing revenge for what he had instigated on them during overnight stays at their houses over the last couple of months, amidst many other delightful sex games the trio now played as a full threesome or in pairs. A certain August afternoon, in a little copse on the promontory overlooking St. Helier harbour, would have a lot to answer for over the next few years.

Later, after washing, dressing and going downstairs to enjoy the breakfast prepared by James’ mother, the three friends could not help but smile when issued with the preliminary course. Food rationing had caused bowls of semolina to be served instead of porridge.

The 14 years olds immediately thought back to what James had so recently swallowed in his bedroom, before being kindly sucked to his own climax by Moneypenny. The threesome recognised the resemblance, in both name and appearance, to what they were now about to consume orally.

Meanwhile, the maternal host, in the adjacent kitchen preparing scrambled eggs, laid by the Bond family's own hens, again speculated about the cause of much giggling, which was now emerging from the dining-room. However, like earlier, when she had heard the ructions in her older son’s bedroom, she had decided that it was best not to interfere with three delightful lively boys, who were clearly so enjoying their own company and life in general, despite the war grievously afflicting the surrounding world.

James’ mother therefore, probably most fortunately for all concerned, did not gain an appreciation of the reason for the sudden eruption of boyish laughter from next door, as her son wiggled his tongue before pretending to perform fellatio on his semolina-filled spoon.

Meanwhile, John and Maureen stood by some railings on St. Helier harbour front, furtively observing and noting the local happenings. The location provided an excellent perspective of what was going on in the small port, where many of Jersey’s diminutive fishing-boats were currently literally overshadowed by a number of large German military cargo vessels.

One of the entries made in John’s notebook, in his own private code, was the disembarkation from one of the German ships of a senior S.S. officer, who looked like Stromberg, although the distance made such identification difficult. Whoever the Nazi was, the 12 years old also recorded that the man appeared to be accompanied by a young blonde boy.

John did not, of course, know, as he made his observations at this location, that this very spot would be the scene, just before his 16th birthday in over 3½ years’ time, of a defining cathartic moment in his life.

(Brittany, France, that night)

Both Felix and Jean had tears in their eyes, as they waited for the aircraft to land. They had already placed into position the special lamps that would guide the small, highly manoeuvrable plane towards the very short landing area on this moonlit night.

Felix had been recalled to England for consultations but his request to be accompanied by Jean had been rejected by his controllers. The latter had argued that the French youth would better serve the cause of his homeland by staying put to continue to help his resistance cell, restored to proficiency by the young American.

Neither Felix nor Jean could really argue with the logic behind this mutual disappointment, recognising that the war effort had to take precedence over their love for each other. However, this did not make the parting between young American and French youth any easier, especially as they did not know when, if ever, they would meet again. Consequently, as the quiet Lysander aircraft landed successfully, the pair unashamedly embraced and kissed before very reluctantly finally fortifying their courage to enable them to release each other.

The short take-off and landing, or STOL, features of the Westland Lysander, affectionately nicknamed the ‘Lyzzie’, made the aircraft ideal for the invariably moonlit nighttime smuggling of agents and their equipment in and out of occupied Europe. For such operations of 138 and 161 squadrons of the RAF, the planes were modified to carry an extra external fuel tank, to increase range, and fitted with a ladder to the left side of the fuselage, to facilitate quick access or exit for those they had come to collect or deliver.

Although not as famous as the Spitfire or other renowned World War 2 aircraft, the Lysander was to play a significant role in the conflict, helped by the audacity, courage and expertise of the aviators. The pilots usually performed these daring night missions alone and without navigation aids, landing in enemy-occupied territory, on narrow, short, undulating strips of land, marked out only by a few electric torches. They must also have often wondered whether members of the resistance were truly waiting for them or if they were flying into a trap.

The first clandestine Lysander assignment took place during the night of 4/5th September 1941. By the end of the war, 180 successful missions had been accomplished, with about 700 agents transferred across the English Channel.

Felix and Jean rushed to the landed Lysander, appreciating that time was of the essence, to unload the precious cargo of espionage and resistance materials stored on the passenger seat and in the cramped rear of the small aircraft. The plane normally accommodated only two people but could carry more in an emergency.

The pilot’s eyes then fairly bulged in shock when he saw his passenger hug and kiss, with clear passion, the very handsome French youth before clambering into the cockpit besides the skilled and bold RAF officer. Fortunately, the latter, usually conservatively heterosexual, was liberal enough in times of war, especially when dealing with obviously highly courageous secret operatives, to ignore the fact that his new companion was apparently at least bisexual.

The pilot’s attitude was fortunate for the passenger. Homosexuality was an illegality in the 1940s Britain to which the flyer and spy were now destined, despite the fact that many men with such inclinations would bravely serve their country well in World War 2, many dying in the process.

As the Lysander quickly made its short run down the remote farmer’s field before searing into the air, tears began to flow down the American passenger’s face. His lachrymose display was matched by the French youth he had left behind.

(Jersey, Channel Islands, same time)

As was now usual at this time of night, Yuri lay naked on Stromberg’s bed. The beautiful boy was face up and holding his legs in the air to present the Obersturmbannfuehrer with the required easy target, the lovely 12 years old’s sphincter, still pink and tight despite many recent Nazi incursions into previously virgin Russian territory. The large Teutonic cockhead, already drooling copious precum, of the eager S.S. officer was hovering just above the little anal guardian, poised to invade.

Stromberg’s strong hands rested either side of Yuri’s gorgeous head, which was topped by neat straight blonde hair, cut short in the true traditions of both German militarism and Russian totalitarianism. The Obersturmbannfuehrer then again launched his own personal, very nasty version of ‘Operation Barbarossa’ by brutally thrusting the full length of his keen, throbbing, long and broad Nazi erection deep into communist terrain.

As usual, Yuri uttered a muffled groan, as his protective anal fortifications were quickly and painfully overcome. Some tears also flowed down the boy’s sublime face, as the S.S. once more perpetrated an atrocity against Russian youth.

Stromberg’s initial desire for complete subjugation and Nazification of his communist conquest had been so strong that his early intrusions into Yuri’s anal and oral innards had invariably led to rapid fertilization of Russian dominions by fulsome quantities of German seed. However, the physically very fit Obersturmbannfuehrer had since learnt to prolong his pleasure and now regularly managed to maintain his viciously practised acts of sodomy for up to an hour. As he did so, he regularly swore and spat at the beautiful boyish visage below.

Afterwards, after finally impregnating Yuri, Stromberg would usually insist that the young Russian showed his gratitude for receiving such German benevolence by cleaning the military tool that had provided the fecundity. The 12 years old’s lips and tongue would frequently now be occupied with this unpleasant chore for another hour or so before the boy was allowed to swallow his abundant reward. Generally only then would the S.S. officer be ready to sleep.

Stromberg owed his unexpected but nevertheless welcome recall, from the eastern front, where the terrible Russian winter was about to arrive, to the pleasant temperate quiet of Jersey, to Hitler’s recent Führerbefehl, commanding that the Channel Islands be turned into impregnable fortresses by the construction of many fortifications. The newly promoted and unusually young Obersturmbannfuehrer had been given a senior role to play in the delivery of his leader’s edict, namely the supervision of the many slave labourers who would actually perform most of the work.

The majority of these forced labourers were Slav prisoners of war, mainly from Poland and the USSR. It was the presence of the latter that enabled Stromberg to maintain his coercive hold on Yuri, by means of continued threats to the lives of fellow Russians if the 12 years old did not continue to behave and acquiesce compliantly to the Obersturmbannfuehrer’s every need.

Yuri eventually lay next to the similarly naked, and finally somnolent, Stromberg on the bed of their roomy and splendid accommodation, which had been allocated to the Obersturmbannfuehrer in the palatial mansion requisitioned by the occupying Germans to form the local S.S. headquarters. The boy’s anal and oral orifices were both sore again, with the former oozing extraneous semen whilst the latter endured the unpleasant residual taste of similar penile product.

Yuri, as he now often did, once more contemplated removing Stromberg’s Walther PPK, from the S.S. officer's temporarily shed leather military holster, to shoot the obnoxious man lying next to him. However, the 12 years old again eventually demurred, but not out of any regard for his own subsequent personal safety because, given the alternatives, the boy would have been truly happy to turn the pistol on himself.

Instead, it was the thought of Yuri’s own compatriots being killed, in the retaliation promised by Stromberg if fatality ever befell the Obersturmbannfuehrer or his young Russian sex toy, at the 12 years old’s own hands, which induced the boy’s reluctant inaction.

Yuri therefore just closed his own eyes to try to gain some rest, hoping not to experience the sorts of nightmares he had frequently suffered of late. These mainly related to the horrors and atrocities he had witnessed in his homeland whilst at Stromberg’s side, many of them instigated by the ruthless Obersturmbannfuehrer. The boy, of course, did not yet know that he was to witness more terrible events of this nature in the normally beautiful and tranquil surrounds of Jersey, including some that would take place just a few floors below where he now lay.

In the mansion’s former wine cellar, interrogation facilities had been installed, including a fully equipped torture chamber.

(Brittany, France, November 1941)

Jean observed the small convoy of German military vehicles advance up the narrow lane to the remote farmhouse, which formed the secret base of his resistance group, restored to effectiveness by his lover, Felix Leiter, who was still in England. However, the French youth was not over-troubled by the arrival because the Bosch, as he termed the Nazi occupiers, had been expected, having already visited many other agricultural establishments in the neighbourhood in their search for the local insurgents who were causing them so much trouble.

Jean’s comfort was reinforced by recognition that all signs of resistance activities were very well concealed around the little farm and he himself had been supplied with a convincing new identity, with associated impeccably forged papers. The fact that the 17 years old was apparently currently running the run-down small-holding on his own should also not be particularly suspicious, given its humble acreage, the reality that the harvest and fresh seeding had already been completed and the efficacy of the youth’s cover story. The latter, if needed, could be authenticated by expertly fabricated written records.

The covering fiction suggested that Jean was the orphaned nephew of the original owners, who had genuinely been killed during the German invasion. His older brother and he had supposedly inherited the small-holding and had accordingly recently moved to the area from Paris. In fact, the real heir, a member of the resistance movement in the French capital, had lent the facility to his colleagues in Brittany for the duration of the war.

The story was designed to explain convincingly the new proprietorship of the farm, including Felix’s usual presence, as much to the potentially gossipy locals as to the Germans. Jean was now supposedly running the small-holding alone in the absence of his older brother, whom it was claimed had temporarily returned to Paris.

Jean was confident that no German would recognise his face from the short but dreadful period he spent in Gestapo captivity, exactly one year earlier, apart from young Blofeld, who was the only Nazi to spend much time with the young Frenchman. That time had, of course, been very traumatic for the Gallic youth because the young Teutonic monster had not only raped and tortured him but also castrated him.

Jean’s confidence was also fortified by the belief that Blofeld would not be amongst his imminent German visitors, as the holidaying Hitler Youth Oberjunker must have long returned to his own homeland. It was therefore with some assurance that the brave and beautiful Gallic 17 years old, somehow sadly uninformed about certain changes to the contingent of evil Gestapo located in the town of Dinard, exited the farmhouse to greet his hated Teutonic guests.

Meanwhile, Rottenfuehrer, or Private 1st Class, Blofeld of the Gestapo, was obscured from Jean’s view because he was riding in the back seat of the leading vehicle, an open-top Mercedes saloon, as the small German convoy approached the farmhouse and the unsuspecting French youth.

(To be continued in chapter 14 – ‘Mosquitoes’)