Date: Sun, 12 Feb 2017 15:48:21 -0500
From: Bear Pup <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Beaux Thibodaux 4

Please see original story
(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.

*****

"For only having three letters, I know it's a big word, Beaux, and
important. A lot of people, me included, use it to mean 'young man' or
'buddy' or 'guy' or 'boy'. Some young guys find it insulting. I want you to
know two things: First, I'll be using it that way cuz it's a hard habit to
break. Second, though: One day I hope to use it to mean that you're really
my son, that we see each other as pure family. That's going to be a lot of
work for both of us, Beaux."

 He looked back down. "Yes, sir, it surely will," he said softly.

*****

Beaux Thibodaux 4: Homeward Bound

By Bear Pup

M/T; bonding (NOT bondage); no sex yet (just plot)

We finished up the morning with shopping some more, but targeted and
specific. First was a piece of luggage for the clothes and such we'd
bought. Virtually every shop offered something, but at the time it was rare
to find a shop devoted to luggage outside the insanely-priced custom
leather-good shops. I have money, more than I'll need, but I'll never waste
a penny. I found what I actually wanted as a fairly upscale clothing
boutique. A nice, soft-sided piece large enough for whatever we'd buy but
not heavy or bulky. It was, as was virtually all soft-side luggage in those
days, black.

In a shop I'd frequented in the past, I bought Beaux a watch as well, which
he protested. I don't waste money on needlessly-expensive things, but I
also refuse to buy things cheap either. For the time the watch was surely
expensive; not Rolex but up there from a leading Swiss brand. It was
expensive, though, because of the impeccable workmanship and durability
inherent in the near-ancient brand. I could tell, though, that Beaux adored
the timepiece.

I stood slimly staring at his reflection in the shop's mirror as he stood,
looking at the watch against his wrist. I picked the watch's style because
the silver-steel drew out his pale if tanned complexion. And his eyes were
startling. With the dark hair with sun-gilded glints of auburn, you
expected dark eyes. Beaux's were a strange hazel; they'd glow intensely
blue when he was excited or pleased, like now, but a dark green when
worried or upset. This was one of the few times I had seen that flash of
blue other than the dinner the previous night; it warmed me.

The drudgery of shopping soon palled for Beaux. We lunched at Napoleon
House. Everyone (including me) raves about the muffulettas at Central
Grocery down by the Market, and they are certainly superb. I'd always loved
the ones they served at Napoleon House, though, and the setting has
literally been unchanged since the structure was original built to house
Napoleon in exile, something that never came to pass. We sat in a whitewash
plaster-over-brick nook off the bar.

I ordered us one sandwich to split which made my perpetually-hungry teen
charge narrow his eyes, but those same eyes popped huge when the waiter
delivered the enormous, warm and scrumptious pile of cured meats, luscious
cheeses and olive "salad" (tapenade). I think I was lucky to get a third of
it, but the lust with which the man-child attacked that sandwich made a
less-than-full tummy utterly irrelevant. We were both beaming, for quite
different reasons, when we finished and walked back toward the hotel.

We passed between the Cathedral and Jackson Square again, not the quiet and
restful place of early morning but the bustling and informal market of
artists, palmists and buskers it became in the sultry afternoons. I
realised suddenly that Beaux was no longer at my side and turned to find
him transfixed by some art hung on the wrought-iron fence of the
square-proper.

A man sat selling custom portraits in a quirky, bright, vibrant style. The
paintings hung behind him, though, included a number of impressionist,
perhaps almost abstract works showing the iconic buildings of the French
Quarter in a riot of deep and penetrating shades, each angle distorted as
the structures bent and moved as if living things. I'd later come to own a
number of works from Michalopoulos, some before but most after he came to
fame, and have never tired of them. That first one, though, discovered on a
French Quarter fence by my new ward, remains unquestionably my favourite. A
night scene with a blue-black Van Gogh sky wrapped around a balconied
dark-red corner home, streetlight nearly blinding in contrast.

I bought it instantly, over Beaux's protests. I forget the price, some
amount that even then barely exceeded daily pocket-money. I simply said it
was more for me than him, but he could use it in his room when we got
home. Beaux went silent and thoughtful then, 'his room' and 'home' clearly
echoing through his thoughts. Since we were nearly there anyway, I dropped
the painting at the hotel asking Henri, again on duty, to get it wrapped
for shipment. He had my address and was happy to do so.

We then strolled the gardens as Beaux gradually relaxed and again began to
smile at some of the beauty of this historic city. We ended up the late
afternoon as I'd planned, covered head to toe in a cloud of powdered sugar
that made the beignets of Cafe du Monde the incomparable and uncopiable New
Orleans snack.

We returned to the hotel to rest, both of us ending up dozing a bit. I
watched as he dropped into the light-switch-fast sleep of youth. His
featured softened and flowed. He was truly a beautiful young man, strong
but fragile; elegant and rough; inescapably innocent. As a surrogate
father, I knew I was going to have my hands full keeping him safe from the
predatory schoolgirls (and boys and not a few men!) his looks would surely
attract in droves.

We woke and refreshed ourselves. I had sweated profusely in the southern
humid heat, but Beaux decided that he was still quite fresh and kept his
outfit unchanged.  It turned out I had a deep green dress shirt with me
that complemented the one Beaux wore, and we looked like a father-son pair
as we walked up the street. I'd originally thought to visit The Clover
across from the storied and ancient gay bar, Cafe Lafitte in Exile. I had
spent many evenings on that bar's balcony overlooking the seedy part of
Bourbon Street, ending the night across at The Clover with one of the
brilliantly-greasy burgers that made them famous. After last night, though,
I decided to rein it in a bit.

Instead, I took Beaux to a chophouse (now long-defunct) called Claude's
after the chef-owner. It was a half-block off the noise and bustle of
Bourbon Street (something that even in the tame of midsummer made Beaux's
eyes pop). Inside the cool and dark interior, oak and burgundy reigned
supreme. I ordered something that Claude had brought with him from San
Francisco, that city's version of the Delmonico.

Unlike the "real" one from New York, this was a thick, bone-in rib steak
seared hard and finished in a very slow oven. It was the best union of a
ribeye and prime rib. He always paired it with fluffy mashed potatoes and
bacon-wilted spinach, both of which were huge hits with my ward. Again,
though, in the midst of gastronomic splendour, the steaming-hot,
fresh-baked loaves and golden-yellow butter were what lit Beaux's eyes with
blue fire.

We both agreed that dessert would be 'gilding the lily', a phrase I
expected to need to explain. Beaux again shocked me with the depth of
specific areas of knowledge, knowing both the original phrase (and the
play, Shakespeare's 'King John': To *gild* refined gold, to *paint* the
lily / To throw a perfume on the violet...) but also the modern corruption
that, honestly, sounds better: 'One may gild the lily and paint the
rose...'

"You did it again, Beaux." That brought him up short and he grew
serious. "No, you ninny! You just plucked Shakespeare from thin air and
even knew how the modern phrase came to be. It's amazing and incredibly
impressive. Be proud. You know things that I doubt any kid does! Yeah,
you've got a lot to learn, but perhaps even more to teach them, and me!"
Beaux blushed adorably but smiled shyly. Maybe I was finally breaking down
that reserve.

We slowly walked the darkening streets to the hotel, again detouring so we
could see the third of the four incarnations of the Cathedral's plaza (the
last, the depths of the southern night, were for older and more-seasoned
senses). Early evening saw the night-blooming jasmine perfuming the air as
sultry breezes moved the leaves of the now-locked square. St Louis
Cathedral glowed above us, reminding any and all that the real power in New
Orleans had been and to some extent remained the Roman Catholic Church. To
this day, Louisiana has no counties; they have parishes.

The night passed uneventfully. Beaux started to watch TV with me but grew
bored in minutes (smart kid) then drowsy. I suggested bed and he was
relived to be 'released' from what must have seemed the chore of watching
mindless drivel. The light stayed on a while and I noticed him
reading. Since I knew I'd brought and bought no books, I inquired. "I'm
reading the Bible someone left here, Oncle. It always did relax me so." I
smiled, charmed and bemused in equal parts and closed the door.

I called the airline to arrange my return flight and one added passenger
one way, explaining the situation to the initially-snippy and suddenly
charmed-to-help lady. I booked us on a mid-morning flight that stopped but
did not change in St Louis. We'd be home in time for a late lunch. I made a
few more calls.

Barry, the guy who cleans for me, might be an issue so I called him
next. He habitually the same outfit round the house when cleaning than I
did when lounging -- the suit delivered by God at birth. I figured that
would complete unhinge poor Beaux, and he agreed to stay clothed as he did
"for a few of my most-prudish clients." The sniff in his voice was
hysterical. He did, however, agree to make a 'teen boy food raid' at the
grocery store and drop the results off the next morning so we'd have
Beaux-compatible foodstuffs when we arrived. He also promised to freshen
and prep the guest room that would now be Beaux's home. His voice softened
at that and I smiled.

Next was Louise. I knew I'd be interrupting dinner and apologised
profusely, but wanted to update her on my schedule. Nothing important
there. I also called my lawyer's office; a late-working intern took my
particulars and promised to pass them to Mr Walsh the following morning.

As late as it was, I was surprised when Eloise, Dr Martin's lovely
wife-nurse-secretary answered instead of the machine. I told her about
Beaux. She was delighted, having just lost her last son to the horrors of
adult life -- he'd married and moved to Denver the previous spring. A new
teen to dote on what just the 'prescription' she needed. She found time for
us the next afternoon, in fact, and promised to ask 'Bobby' (her husband,
Robert) to find a really-talented Psychiatrist for Beaux as well.

Done with those, I found myself suddenly agreeing with Beaux's tacit
disregard of the TV shows. It was useless drivel as his face had so-plainly
shown. I shut the box off and stepped out into the courtyard. The fountain
for this rear-most courtyard was near the other end, but there was a
charming wrought-iron table and chairs nestled against the fern-encrusted
brick of the enclosing wall. The sky was ink-black, no stars penetrating
the city's perpetual light, but I could still get a whiff of jasmine and
magnolia, with the intensely-relaxing melody of the burbling fountain
singing from twenty yards away.

I was supremely contented as I made my way into suite and back to the
bedroom and hour or so later. Beaux snored softly, erratically,
almost-musically. Between the serenity from the courtyard, the wondrous
meal and the simple abandon of the boy at rest, I was asleep before I
realised it.

I was again up first in the morning and finished my ablutions without
waking the boy. I set about quietly packing all but one outfit. Since he
slept, I picked the jeans and soft-blue chamois shirt. Subconsciously, I
think I was hoping some sympathetic magic would draw the blue of delight to
Beaux's eyes and banish the green flashes that came with distress. I knew
we had only moderate walking (and the sneakers are easier to pack), so I
left out the boots. I also left him a pair of the new-style low-rise
briefs, wondering what he'd make of them. He worn the y-front that I had
handed him the first day as we left the store, and he wore (and slept in) a
pair of the boxers the day before.

Undershirt, socks, wallet and wristwatch completed the outfit. All were
laid out in the bathroom for him and I had nearly finished packing the rest
when Beaux woke. He went to get up and froze. I choked back a laugh,
knowing his predicament. A teen, after a full night's sleep of
hormone-laced dreams and with a full bladder? He had to be hard as a
rock. I got up and left the room, chattering about getting ready and the
flight, leaving my back conspicuously turned. Perv that I was, though, I
wasn't about to miss a show. I made sure that I had a clear view in the
mirror as he scurried to the bath and closed the door.

Holy fuck and Saints preserve us! Either my new ward was smuggling a
large-calibre handgun in his boxers or I really needed to up my planned
protection quotient again the men and women who might get a glimpse of that
package! Just... wow. I physically shook myself out of pervert mode,
smiling to myself. 'Thank God and the Virgin Mary that I'm not attracted to
slim young things', I thought.

One of the many oddities of the Crescent City is getting to and from the
airport which is way out in Kenner, the other side of Metairie. A cab there
costs just fractionally-less than a stretch limo. Don't ask me why; I'll
never understand it. I'd dropped my rental when we first got back to the
city (there is neither use nor room for a car in the Vieux Carre), and a
long, black car with a tall, black driver in a long, black suit awaited
us. He grabbed the bags as Beaux gawked at him, the car and everything
else.

The ride was, as always, a nightmare of starts, stops and honking
horns. Lanes were things that happened to other people in the New Orleans
of those days, especially around the inevitable wrecks on the
Interstate. Neither of us made use of the completely stock bar, however,
but I could see a very calculating look in the teen's eye. As per usual,
I'd planned for delays and we got to the counter in plenty of time. I paid
for the tickets and dropped both bags (why bother with a carry-on?) and we
headed out to the concourse.

Still called Moisant Field at the time (ironically after the first
air-crash casualty, daredevil John Moisant who'd crashed there), the
airport was then rather grubby, much like the City itself. Unlike
Mid-Continent that served Kansas City, the older style worked well in this
age of heightened security. Whilst long before the TSA and such, hijacking
in the 70s meant being metal-detected. It was more of formality then, but
still a nuisance. I could tell Beaux was getting really nervous and was
about to suggest he sit down when he tugged my arm.

"Kevin, can I go into that there bookseller?"

"Of course! I'll come with you and pick up something to read myself."

"Um, sir, do you think I got enough to actually *buy* a book? I don't know
what such things cost only having read from the lending library."

I laughed and smiled. "Sure you do, Beaux. You have plenty. And I told you
to worry less about the costs and let me do that, okay?"

We entered the bookshop and Beaux's head near exploded. The riot of colour
of the bindings blew him away. Library books at the time were
universally-dark, boring and rough. We had lots and lots of time to kill,
so I just let him roam. I had to remind him several times that he could
touch and read anything he wanted, even if he didn't buy it. I think that
shocked him as much as the colours!

He calmed like a lamb around the books. The written word was, obviously, a
long and treasured friend. I found a relatively-new work by a science
fiction author I liked named Samuel R Delaney called 'Stars in My Pocket
like Grains of Sand'. I finally wandered over to where Beaux sat on a
bench, looking troubled.

"What's up, son?"

"I don't know which one to get."

"How many are you interested in?"

He looked at me blankly, confused, "All of them, Oncle, all of them." I
smiled and perhaps chuckled.

"Let's pick three." He was astounded at such largesse, but I was fascinated
by his choices. This was an airport bookstore, so heavy works were thin on
the ground.

"There's so much I never saw, Oncle. I'm real drawn to histories of real
people, though. I never seen those." He reached out and picked up 'The
Kennedys'. I hadn't read it; I rarely even ventured into the non-fiction
shelves I realised with a guilty flush. He also pulled out a book I'd
actually heard of, 'Modern Times', largely about the transformation of
society by the science of the 20th century. I considered both to be superb
choices for my own reasons: They introduced an America that Beaux would
have to come to terms with.

I insisted on something fiction to round it out, but here Beaus was at a
complete loss. Other than the classics, I don't think he'd ever read
fiction at all. I decided to choose for him. 'Watership Down' was one of my
perennial favourites and I knew my own copy was haggard. Yes, it was a bit
stark, but it was also a masterwork of the times. I grabbed all three and
my own purchase and checked out.

We walked down to the gate and lounged. I just watched. Beaux opened and
read some of each book in turn, leaving the highly-suspicious fiction item
for last. I smiled as it was also the one he kept reading, curling his legs
beneath him in a pose unknown over the age of 30. I could see his frowns
and smiles, vaguely following the narrative in his expressive face. They
finally called our flight and Beaux near jumped out of his skin when the
speaker above us crackled to life.

Beaux had been lost in the world of rabbits for a while, but every
uncertainty came flooding back. His eyes now shone with green and he
whispered to me, "I don't know what to do, Oncle."

I smiled and said, "That's why they have all these people," pointing to the
stewardesses that were helping people down the ramp. I got him seated at
the window, me next to him (this was before airline seats became slightly
smaller than your average paperback). He paid rapt attention to the Safety
Briefing, blanching at the whole 'masks will fall from the ceiling' and
'seat cushion as a floatation device' concepts. He turned to me in terror.

"Settle down, Beaux. Millions of people fly every day and accidents are
really, really rare. It'll be fine, son, just fine. Settle back and get to
reading some more. I find that helps." I took my own advice and opened my
book. The was a sharp squeak from Beaux when we finally pulled away and
what I recognised as a fervent prayer in French as we were pushed back in
our seats at take-off, but his breathing returned to normal and his eyes
grew large and bright as he watched the City dwindle and Lake Pontchartrain
spread below us. I worried that I would have to use some kind of solvent to
unstick him from the window, but just smiled. I'd done the same when I
first flew, not that much younger than Beaux!

The landing at St Louis was rough and Beaux startled like a rabbit, but
calmed again and was less shocked at the next take-off. Sadly, Midwest
summers mean frequent storms, and the pilot couldn't get us around the one
that towered between St Louis and Kansas City. To say that it was turbulent
was a tragic understatement.

I will say this, though, Beaux may have been even more green than the
storm-light coming through the windows, but he toughed it out. Eyes wide,
dark green and fixed, frequently staring up at where the oxygen masks would
come when the plane inevitably disintegrated, he nonetheless made it to
solid ground without resorting to the bag from the seat pocket that he
clutched to his lap for that interminable hour of misery.

When we got to the terminal, Beaux practically sprinted off the plane and
sat breathing deep in a chair in the waiting area. It was a good five
minutes before he turned to me and said, "Oh Lord, please tell me we ain't
got to that again soon, do we, Oncle?" I smiled and agreed. Kansas City was
NOT particularly security-friendly, but it was a marvel when you got off
the plane. The luggage carousel was right next to the gate itself, and our
bags appeared just moments after Beaux regained his composure.

We collected the bags and in minutes was encased in my Toyota Celica Supra,
my "non-working" car, plush with every extra the model had to offer. My
"normal" mode of transport was, of course, my giant Ford pickup truck,
still upgraded but definitely a workhorse. Both were manual transmissions
and I realised I'd have to teach beaux to drive a stick... oops; I'd have
to teach him to drive *at all*. Whew.

I shook my head. I pulled out and Beaux was openly shocked. I guess he
thought that all cities would be like the Big Easy. The barren-looking
fields of browning grain without open water in sight at all obviously threw
him. I'd built my home on some extraordinarily cheap land with a nice lake
just south of the airport, which was also the reason it was cheap. No one
wanted to build right in the flight path. But one of my residential
specialities is absolute noise control. Jets could do everything but crash
into my house and we'd never hear a whisper. Regardless, it was still a
15-minute drive as I live southwest and the airport entrances are north or
northeast. I made a quick detour onto Barry and raided a Wendy's (I wasn't
sure Beaux, of I for that matter, was up to Taco Hell).

Six minutes later, Beaux's stomach growling and eye fixed like a hound on
the bag emitting the wondrous smells, we wove our way to the house. I had a
gate that recognised my car, but normally stood open anyway; it was more
for show. The garage door also opened when the car got within range. Beaux
just goggled trying and failing to drag his attention away from the food.

The house is not huge, but it is both my home and my workaday office, thus
requiring it to be my showplace to tempt and impress my clients. The drive
circles under a portico at the front before dipping and curving into the
lower-level garage. The hills of KC-MO give a lot of advantages for the
creative builder. The entire house is faced with fieldstone matching the
muted browns and reds of the surrounding countryside. The roof is a complex
shape that draws the eyes to features like the chimneys, huge windows and
spacious porch of laid stone and a raised wooden platform.

We pulled into the garage, my huge grey truck parked there already, and
climbed out. In an act of simple self-preservation, I made sure to keep a
tight grip on the food sack. I grabbed my bag and made Beaux trail behind
me carrying the one containing his new wardrobe. His eyes rarely left the
food, though, and we reach the place I called The Bar and I dropped my case
and told Beaux to do the same. I spread the food out on the bar and watched
in amazement as Beaux began a full-frontal assault on the various greasy
delights. I saved a bacon-double and some o-rings from the carnage along
with a bucket-sized root beer and sat back to enjoy the show. For a kid
who'd never seen fast food before, he really made me believe in the genetic
inevitability of a teen's love for deep-fried salt.

Halfway through a moan of appreciation, Beaux pulled up and gulped his
mouthful of burger, eyes wide and breathless. It was perhaps five minutes
from our entry and, for the first time, Beaux got a look at the view. The
back of The Bar is nearly wall-to-wall glass, broken by thick supports
required from the noise-proofing.

The house stood on a moderate hill above a pool that I called a lake but
the pre-airport owners likely called a horse-pond. Kidney-shaped and
perhaps 100 feet by 300, I'd cleared the trees between the house and the
lake but left the thick woods intact (even adding new trees and shrub)
around the remaining 3/4. This was before the modern strictures on land
use, so I'd drastically deepened the lake and used the fill to build up and
level the site of the home. A tiny rocky "island" was off-centre to the
left which I'd left in place, and I'd built a dock as the last stage of a
series of decks that descended to the water. It was just past 2:00, so the
summer sun made the wind-whipped ripples glint and glow as the trees shone
in greens and tans.

Beaux sat, transfixed. I watched him watching an enormous jet taking off
just to the right of the home itself. I frowned. Even with the rebuild and
new materials for the underpinning that acted as both foundation and shock
absorbers, I could still detect a slight tremor. I'd have to work on some
other materials and made a mental note to call my partners over in the KU
Materials Engineering team an hour to our west.

Beaux just sat gulping over and over, Adam's apple bouncing like a toy
ball. He turned to me, the food (for at least those few millisecond)
forgotten. "You own all this?"

"No, Beaux." I blushed hard as my voice choked a bit. "No, *we* own all of
this. This is *our* home, not mine now. You understand that, right?"

He went still and silent and I saw a tear work its way down his pale cheek
just before he nodded brusquely as the ravenous stomach monster reasserted
it dominance over the boy. I reached over and laid my hand on his
shoulder. Beaux stiffened, then sighed and relaxed. It was a start at
least.

<eof>

A lot of folks like this story and worry over where it's going. I don't
want to give too much away, but I also want to make sure you know: Kevin is
not a predator. If you are hoping for or expecting that outcome (something
I've done in other stories), that won't be happening here. There will be
sex (lots) and Kevin will gently mentor Beaux on certain aspect of
sexuality, but if you're waiting hungrily for the "rape of innocence"
scene, you'll be disappointed.

Please keep the comments coming. I've only been writing for a couple months
and commentary from readers has made a huge difference in the quality of
both the stories and the writing.

*****

Active storelines, all at www.nifty.org/nifty/gay...
Canvas Hell: 12 chapters, more coming, .../camping/canvas-hell/
Karl & Greg: 14 chapters, more coming, .../incest/karl-and-greg/
The Heathens: 3 chapters, more coming, .../historical/the-heathens/
Beaux Thibodaux: 4 chapters, LOTS more coming, .../adult-youth/beaux-thibodaux/
Mud Lark Holler: 3 chapters, more coming, .../rural/mud-lark-holler/
Turntable Rehab: 4 chapter, more coming, .../authoritarian/turntable-rehabilitation-services/