Date: Fri, 3 Feb 2017 18:27:03 -0500
From: Bear Pup <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Beaux Thibodaux 2

Please see original story
(https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/beaux-thibodaux/) for warnings
and copyright. Highlights: All fiction. All rights reserved. Includes sex
between adult and young-adult men, some of them related to one another. Go
away if any of that is against your local rules. Practice safer sex than my
characters. Write if you like, but flamers end up in the nasty bits of
future stories. Donate to Nifty **TODAY** at donate.nifty.org/donate.html
to keep the cum coming.

*****

As Henri chattered on, I noticed that Beaux was in full sensory overload. I
pressed a large-denomination bill into Henri's hand and gave a curt look to
get him to leave. I walked up to Beaux and put my hand on his shoulder.
Suddenly, he broke and grabbed me, sobbing into my shirt. I dragged him
over to one of the couches and cradled him. He wept and wept. I simply held
him, petting his hair and back, letting him simply let go of the grief and
hurt. Little did I know just how much this man-child had endured, and how
much help and support he would need to survive his transition to the world
most of us take for granted.

*****

Beaux Thibodaux 2: Judgement Day

By Bear Pup

M/T; no sex yet (just plot)

Beaux finally cried himself to sleep, and I found myself with a beautiful
young man curled up in my lap. Not that I'd normally have objected, even
though I tend to prefer older guys, the big bruiser types that my part of
the world tend to produce: corn-fed Cornhuskers, nekkid-as-a-jay-bird
Jayhawks that turn to Wildcats in bed... you know the type. More muscles
than brain cells? Yum!

But what to do with this frail (perhaps broken) man-child? I kept rocking
gently, both to soothe him and keep some circulation in my limbs. All I
could think of, though, was, 'What next?'

I'm good at making long and detailed mental lists. It's one of the things
that makes me a successful custom architect and builder. The list for my
new ward was long indeed. I was hoping to get the legal stuff out of the
way today and tomorrow. Becoming his guardian, being assigned permanent
custody, getting his legal records. After that, chaos ruled. Top of the
list was the doctor (and now the psychiatrist) to make sure he's healthy
and get a programme together to make sure he stays that way.

Shopping! Oh, lord, so much shopping. Yep, that has to start even before
the legal stuff. Complete rebuild of my home stores as well. I wasn't much
for crunchy snacks but I knew that a teen without a bag of crisps was a
rare and dangerous thing. My lawyer, so he's taken care of if I die. Oh,
dentist! Fuck, I hate dentists. I wondered if there was any way to get him
to go that wouldn't mean I'd have to as well... What about schools? Has he
ever even BEEN to school? Fuck, can he READ? I mean *seriously*; he's never
been in a *car* and the Sherriff didn't have scratch in that folder about
school records. Will he need tutors? How do you even FIND tutors? What do
tutors *do*?

I had never imagined that I would have kids at all. I'm gay, fercrissakes!
What did I know about kids; worse, TEENS?!? I know they eat constantly, are
temperamentally incapable of cleanliness, moody and sullen... I searched my
mind for other Hollywood cliches. My sudden and very deep sigh caused my
new charge to stir.

He looked up at me as he woke, obviously both confused and curious. "Ah'm
so sorry, soor, don't know what cum ovah me." I'm not going to try again to
reproduce that luscious, velvet-over-brass mix of southern drawl and
French, with the spiky consonants unique to the bayou.

"You're fine, Beaux. Let's freshen up a bit and get started. There's a lot
of do, and you and I need to get to know each other. I." I took a deep,
guilty breath, "I am ashamed to tell you that Leanna, your mother, never
told the family about you. I found out you existed when the Sherriff called
me. I am so sorry, Beaux, you deserve so much better, but I'll do
everything I can to make it right for you."

Beaux was the most reserved person I'd met in a long time, not just for a
young man but of any age. He simply looked at me the longest time. "Don't
feel bad, sir. I know nothing of you either, other than when G-Ma talked
just after you left. And I really, thank you, um..." Beaux blushed hard,
"what do I call you? It's a bit odd to think of you as an uncle and I can't
just keep saying sir."

"How about Kevin, then? Let's start out by treating each other as equals
and see how far that takes us?"

He nodded, perhaps shyly.

"Okay, first order of business, I gotta piss, then we'll both get freshened
up and start the chores."

We shifted about and I made it to the bath just before my bladder, trapped
for an hour under the considerable weight of the lithe young man, wanted to
explode. A long and thunderous piss later, I washed my face and hands in
the delightfully-cold water and emerged. Beaux moved into the bath as I
left. Without really intending to, my perv side took over and I lingered at
the door, listening for the tell-tale sounds of a man relieving himself. I
love that sound; sue me, already! What I heard was... odd. No great
splashing, just a small liquid sound. Hmm.

When he came out, I had jotted down some notes from the file that the
Sherriff had supplied and arranged the jumble of confusing and
often-contradictory documents to my satisfaction. The biggest problem was
the lack of a birth certificate, but the Sherriff had included a photo of
the Parish Register of the nearby Catholic Church showing when Beaux had
presumably been born. There was no specific date, just a year that could
mean Beaux was either 15 or 16.

"Okay, Beaux, this is going to be a very busy few days, and a lot
overwhelming for both of us. If things get too intense, you need to tell
me, and if I suddenly sit down on a bench, take that as me saying I need a
minute as well. There is no shame in that. We need to keep at least a
little sane through this." I smiled and he returned it, albeit nervously.

First stop was Godchaux's on Canal. This boy needed at least one set of
clothes that would not look out of place in the courthouse where we'd
likely spend much of the day. We got to the second floor via the impeccable
marble staircase, where we were met by this absolutely flaming caricature
of a salesman in Men's Apparel. I watched, amused, as he ravished my new
ward with his eyes, practically drooling over the lean and
obviously-bayou-bred youth who paid him not the slightest attention. Beaux
was frankly shocked by the merchandise and grand displays; it occurred to
me that he would never have been in a department store, a vaguely sad but
fascinating thought. Never in a car. Never a hotel. Never a department
store. What other firsts would I show him?

I finally wrenched the breathy little man's attention north of Beaux's ass
long enough to explain that I needed two full sets of comfortable but nice
clothes. At the time, that meant Dockers, belts, shirts, undershirts,
drawers and socks. When Mr Flame asked, "Boxers or briefs?" Beaux turned to
me in a bland panic and I intervened.

"We're going to splurge. Give us some boxers, some briefs, and a pack of
those new Docker low-rise so the young man can decide which he likes best."

For all the man's flamboyance, he was masterfully-efficient and good at his
trade. He had a half-dozen options ready in moments, floating through the
racks and never even seeming to pause as he whipped articles of clothing
from their places. He ushered us back to the dressing rooms and hung the
pants and shirts in sets that matched beautifully. I ripped open the
package of Fruit of the Looms Y-Fronts and another of Hanes undershirts.

"Beaux, we're going to step out," Mr Flame gave me an utterly- and
amusingly-mournful look at this news. "You strip off and put on this pair
of undies and the t-shirt, then we'll work on the rest." I closed the
curtain and the sales-swish sashayed off to collect things like belts,
socks and such.

Beaux poked his head out, "Kevin? I'm, I guess I'm ready. You sure it's
okay to be seen like this?"

"You're in a dressing room, Beaux, that is specifically for this. No one
will see you other than me and the, um, gentleman helping us pick stuff
out. Let's see how the under-things fit first, then start on the rest."

He pulled the curtain full open just as the salesman reappeared. Even were
the sight not utterly entrancing, the smell that had been released when he
dropped his under-things was an intoxicating mixture of raw male animal,
innocence and clean sweat. I thought I was going to have to hold up the
little sales-guy; he nearly swooned at the vision that Beaux suddenly
provided.

Beaux was about 5' 10", the same as me. He looked smaller simply because he
was so thin and pale. Ropey muscles etched his arms and legs, and were
strongly hinted at by the thin and tight shirt. What so fixated the clerk
was the fact that, if there had been any doubt before, Beaux was definitely
NOT a child. He had a remarkably-impressive bulge down below, and there was
a glimpse thick, black treasure trail between the bottom of the shirt and
the top of the Y-Fronts. I had never liked the thin, young look, but even I
had to admit that this young man was stunning in the extreme.

I started looking about for smelling salts to revive the salesman when he
suddenly snapped back into his professional mode. "Turn for me, sir and
let's see the fit."

The long, lean and lithe body before us transformed when seen from
behind. His shouldered seemed wider and waist smaller, but what dominated
the view was the breath-taking ass. It looked to have been stolen from a
Renaissance masterpiece of sculpture. There was simply no other word than,
'perfect', unless the word was something unspellable like,
'grrrrrohmyfuckinggod'.

When sales-sissy got himself under control again, we started having Beaux
try on the various clothes. After losing the initial furious blush of
embarrassment at being seen in so little, Beaux lost his modesty and
replaced it with wonder at the feel and shape of the things we had him try
on. He gulped when he first felt the soft chamois of one of the shirts, and
ran his hands over and over the cotton twill of the Dockers.

The clerk darted in and out, swapping items almost as quickly as Beaux
could put on and take off various pieces. Beaux's dumpy pants and pert ass
had deceived even the experienced fitter who had to get much
smaller-waisted versions. The shirts, though, fit perfectly, every single
one. It was like Beaux had been the original tailor's dummy for the brands
the salesman chose.

The best-looking outfit by far on his milky-pale complexion was a cobalt
Izod 3-button shirt and dusky-grey Dockers. I pulled the tags and handed
them to the sales-queen. I told Beaux to go over and start looking at shoes
(next department over) and tell the clerk that I'd be over in a minute. I
decided to buy four outfits, including one with jeans that the flirty
little flamer insisted that Beaux try (and that looked
shockingly-wonderful), plus two additional shirts that could go with
anything, including the chamois one that so enthralled Beaux. I told Mr
Flame to pull all the tags, steam the clothes out (almost as good as
washing) and have them wrapped and delivered to the hotel, tipping him
generously.

When I got to the shoe department, I found two clerks, one man and one
woman, glaring daggers at each other with frequent glances to my new
ward. I have to admit, he looked good enough to eat. The woman was
something of a prune, so I walked up to the more-or-less good-looking man
and said, "I'll need three pairs for this young man," drawing Beaux over to
me. "I want a pair of very nice sneakers, and pair of comfortable but nice
boots and a pair of dress shoes, no laces." The clerk's eyes dropped to
Beaux's feet.

"Could you remove your socks, sir?" Beaux did and the man brought over a
black board and had Beaux stand on it. There were no marks and I was amazed
that the man presented shoes for the next half-hour that, every one, fit
Beaux perfectly. Some felt too snug to him, others too slippery, some just
looked funny; we finally settled on three: a new line of athletic footwear
called Puma with a leaping cat on the heel in the colour of tawny fur, some
embellished half-boots that really intrigued Beaux and some supple,
Moroccan leather dress shoes. The boots were what he chose to wear out of
the store. I paid for all three and directed the other pairs delivered that
afternoon to the hotel.

The next stop was the one I dreaded. As an architect, I deal with
bureaucracy every day. That doesn't make it any easier. The courthouse
closed at four-thirty and it was already close to one o'clock. I budgeted
one hour for nonsense and was not disappointed. We bounced from counter to
desk, flunky to flack as I learned the layout and rivalries of the various
groups. Beaux was visibly getting upset by the time I walked out of an
office and sat him on a mahogany bench.

"Wait here, son. I'll be back in a jiffy."

I found the inevitable bank of pay-phones and called my business manager,
Louise. I explained where I was and asked her to access the vast computer
banks that were her brains. Louise is instantly friends with everyone she
encounters, especially clients. By the end of the third meeting, she knows
their kid's birthdays, sister-in-law's favourite cocktail and which cousin
is flunking out of which prestigious school.

"Oh, that's an easy one, Kevin! Remember that Ward Parkway rebuild we did
two years back for the Parkers? Such a nice couple! Her sister's ex-husband
is a judge and I'm just sure she said it was in New Orleans; that's where
Francis, the sister you recall, moved back from when they split. His name
was Banks. I am pretty sure it's William J Banks, to be precise. Call me
back if I've misremembered, okay, dear?" Sigh. 'Dear'. Louise is a rare
gem.

The chance of her memory blowing a fuse was slim; zero as soon as I checked
the courthouse directory. I gathered Beaux who had calmed significantly but
still looked sad and grave made my way to the chambers of Judge W J
Banks. I was surprised to find a magnificent hunk of bear as his
secretary. It took me a minute to find my voice after he turned his
gargantuan smile toward me.

"G, good afternoon and sorry to intrude. I am an acquaintance of Judge
Bank's family and was hoping I could have a moment to get his advice."

"As it happens, the judge is in," he lowered his voice conspiratorially,
"and bored shitless." Back to a normal voice, "Let me see if I can get him
to see you. What's your name, um, sir?" Oh my, there was a leer under that
question that I did not mind at-all-atall.

I handed him my card, "Kevin Faolan. I'm and architect from Kansas City,
but in the Crescent City on a family matter."

Within minutes I was settled in front of the Judge's massive, beautiful
desk, Beaux and I in matching chairs, all antiques. Beaux had a glass of
water and I had a "glass a punch" that had to be 2/3 bourbon; the Judge
also had punch, but his was in a glass the size of your average wine
barrel.

"What can the Parish of Orleans do for you, Mr Faolan?" The hunky secretary
had even given him the right pronunciation.

"I did work for the Parkers in Kansas City. I believe that you may know
them?"

"Yes indeed! Lovely family. I made the mistake of marrying into it,
actually, but that's another tale. Architect, you say? Did you do the work
for my ex's sister on the Ward Parkway manse?" I allowed as I
had. "Impressive. Even though Francis and I didn't exactly work out, we're
still very close and I was up there for Yuletide last year. Amazing work,
young man!"

"Thank you, sir. It was a pleasure to work on such a stunning old home and
for such truly delightful clients." They were, too. Some of the easiest
I've worked for. "I'm down here on a family matter and was hoping I could
get some advice."

The Judge sat back with steepled fingers, furrowed brows and narrowed eyes,
the archetypal image of a judge in chambers. "I doubt I can help, and I
can't give legal advice you understand, but I'm willing to listen and, if
possible, point you in the right direction."

I outlined Beaux's situation and loss, explained that I was the only kin on
either side. He called his assistant in briefly, and I continued. The big
problem was the rather weak paperwork since my sister had not exactly been
'close to the law'. He smiled at that and asked for the papers. Perhaps
half and hour or more passed as he read and chatted with me, with the
occasional glance to the mute and worried Beaux.

Judge Banks finally sat back and gave me a searching and shrewd look. "Do
you perchance know what kind of cases I preside over, young man?"

"Honestly, no, your honour. I remembered the connexion (actually, truth be
told, by business manager did), and thought I'd take a chance that you
could give me pointers on working my way through the process. I'm really
sorry if I've inconvenienced you."

He cocked his head and stared for a minute, then turned his attention to
Beaux. "Well dressed young man for the situation you describe..."

"We just left Godchaux's, sir. I didn't want him to, um, worry about
clothes. I knew we'd be in places where folks were far more dressed up than
he might be used to." Beaux flushed brightly (and adorably) and stared at
his new boots.

"What he sayin right, boy?"

Beaux looked up, eyes wide and scared. "Yessir. Your honour, sir. Yes."
Before going back to boot-gazing.

The Judge turned his attention back to me for far, far longer than was
comfortable. "My court sees family law cases. As it happens, I also know
Pierre Guidry; we went to school together more years ago than I'd care to
admit. He doesn't make the kind of mistakes that might worry me in a case
like this, and I know for damn sure he checked every corner of his bayou
for kin before calling, no offense intended, some faceless Yankee to take
charge of a young man born and bred in Lafourche Parish.

"Harold!" he called out in that very strong and nicely-accented voice. The
delectable mountain of a man came in and a whispered conversation ensued,
more on the part of Harold than the Judge. "Okay, then. Get me..." and
rattled off a string of letters and numbers for various
forms. Hunka-Hunka-Harold returned with the most-lascivious smile for me
and a stack of papers in every shade and size for his honour.

Judge Banks set out filling in various things, writing quickly and
illegibly. He grunted a question at me or Harold on occasion, looked
something up in the folder several times, and once, for maybe five minutes,
sat staring into the middle distance. This in particular unnerved young
Beaux who had even less clue than I did what was happening. He went back to
scribbling and Beaux was getting more and more nervous, glancing to me, the
Judge the papers and his boots. He was literally quivering with nerves.

Beaux and I both jumped a foot when a thunderous BANG echoed as Judge Banks
stamped something brutally. Five of six more shotgun-blast noises and he
looked up. He got a very worried look on his face and moved quickly around
his desk, crouching next to a completely undone Beaux.

"I am right sorry, young man. I forget just how worried and confused you
must be. Please forgive me, I am an old man and forget how important this
is to you. Everything is fine, boy, fine indeed. You're in good hands and
will be well cared-for. I should have done more than mumble so you'd know
what was happening. Those forms there -- Harold is going to make copies for
you and Kevin both -- make Kevin your legal guardian and grant custody to
him.

"I know quite a bit more than I let on about this man..." I startled and
the Judge noticed, "...than I let on. While we were chatting I had Harold
-- a most efficient... assistant -- make some calls. I think you are
leaving this fine state to live with a good, honest and nice young man who
I believe will take excellent care of you.

"However," in a voice of doom rumbled as he handed Beaux three cards, "keep
these with you. One in a wallet, one with your papers and one someplace you
feel is safe. If *anything* ever goes wrong, if anyone -- including your
new guardian -- treats you poorly in any way at all, you call that number
immediately. It's toll free and it rings me directly. I take a personal
interest in those who come through my court," Judge Banks locked his steely
gaze with me and his eyes blazed with conviction, "and I will not brook
anyone, ever, anywhere taking advantage or neglecting a youth that I place
in a person's care." Still looking at me, "Do you understand, Beaux?"

Beaux mumbled his assent, and I nodded maniacally. I nodded as well,
knowing that the entire last part of the speech was for my benefit... and
warning. Harold returned with two file folders, one for me and one for
Beaux. With some additional thanks and promises, we left. Beaux practically
melted onto a bench in the corridor and just stared at me. He'd never
opened the folder. He trembled a little then seemed to get a second
wind. His eyes locked with mine, probably for the first time. He had looked
at me plenty during the bizarre and stressful day, but the eye-lock was
new.

"You called me son." Flat. Direct. Factual.

It took me a minute. What the hell? Then I recalled. Even considering the
whole thing with the Judge, the last thing I'd really said to Beaux, was,
'Wait here, *son*. I'll be back in a jiffy.'

"I'm sorry, Beaux. I didn't mean..." My voice trailed off. What didn't I
mean? What *did* I mean? Calling a young man 'son' was common for me, but
obviously not for Beaux. Would he freak out and reject me? Did I fuck this
up completely before I'd even started?

Beaux's eyes dropped to the folder and then back to me. "Am I your son,
now, Kevin? Sir?"

I flashed back to this morning, back to the point when Beaux had started
shredding my soul with his loss, his need, his sadness. This was perhaps
the worst yet. What possible answer was there?

"I am whatever you want me to be, Beaux." I said quietly, never losing his
gaze. "I want to be your friend, and I want to be your teacher and I want
to protect you and, if you'll let me, love you, too. If that makes me
y... your father, that's your choice. But I guarantee you, threat from the
scary Judge or not, I will always, *always* be here for you, no matter what
or when or why. But I, I, I won't call you son again unless you tell me
it's okay, Beaux." I finally broke the gaze and looked down at my hands.

The faintest whisper came back, "I never had no father. Not sure I know
what that is."

I looked back to him, and said nothing for the longest time. Content to
look at him, his long lashes and chiselled face.

"Let's go to the hotel, Beaux, and I can tell you about our home."

"Our?" His voice and eyes were sharp.

"Yes, Beaux. The house I built is yours now as well as mine. And if we
outgrow it, I'll build another. And as soon as we go to see my own lawyer,
it will be official. The house we will live in will be ours, Beaux."

This time he just stared and I could read nothing from his eyes. It was the
longest, oldest, deepest stare I ever endured. He finally blinked and
looked down, but not before I saw a tear form. He stood and turned
abruptly, "Back to the Hotel, then, sir?" That single tear and the way he
turned to hide it ripped another little bit of my soul away, but I found,
suddenly, that I'd been wrong. Beaux had not been dropping bits of my soul
across Louisiana; every single piece was stored in that tear, his
expressions of hope and fear and worry and loss, the firm shoulder-set that
screamed of stoic resolve and desperate loneliness and a reluctance to
believe that, perhaps, just this once in his entire life, things would turn
out right.

<eof>

Author's Note: I have a feeling it's going to be quite a while before these
is any real sex. Beaux seems too fragile and Kevin seems too caring. Let me
know if that feels "right" to you. Your correspondence has frequently
changed the way the characters have acted in other storylines, so your
input really does help.

Also, if you're interested, here are the threads I have iopen:

Beaux Thibodaux (this one): 2 chapters, LOTS more coming, www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/beaux-thibodaux/
Canvas Hell: 10 chapters, more coming, .../camping/canvas-hell/
Karl & Greg: 12 chapters, more coming, .../incest/karl-and-greg/
The Heathens: 2 chapters, more coming, .../historical/the-heathens/
Mud Lark Holler: 1 chapter, more coming, .../rural/mud-lark-holler
Turntable Rehab: 1 chapter, more coming, .../authoritarian/turntable-rehabilitation-services
Off the Magic Carpet: 1 chapter, not sure yet, .../military/off-the-magic-carpet
Temple Street: 5 chapters (on hiatus), .../authoritarian/temple-street/
Virtual Master: 1 story (not a series), .../authoritarian/virtual-master