Date: Thu, 12 Aug 2010 10:15:43 +0000
From: Josh Long <joshcock@hotmail.com>
Subject: Rob Boibeder Did Not Pick up Hitchikers

This story is a work of fiction, or even fantasy. It contains scenes of
sexual activities between adult and minor males, so if that's not your
thing you are in the wrong library! If it is your thing, then I hope you
enjoy the read........I certainly enjoyed the write!

It is a story divided into several chapters for the convenience of the
reader, and I don't know, yet, how or when it will end.

Josh.



His somewhat unusual name had been the cause of much teasing when he was at
school, his peers insisting on mispronouncing it. No matter how often he
told them it should be pronounced `bwabeeder', that it was an old name and
had once had an `s' in it, making the first part French for `wood', they
still called him `boybedder', and it was still a source of amusement to him
just how many of the boys he'd been at school with, had indeed had personal
experience of the accuracy of their mispronunciation. Now, at sixty seven
years of age he was well aware that if he wanted to bed a boy he would
have, almost certainly, to pay for it.

The autumnal Wiltshire countryside eased greyly and damply past him as he
drove the A350 towards Dorset and Poole Harbour where he would take the
overnight ferry to St. Malo to start his journey through France and into
Spain, heading south to his villa, close to Marbella.

Rob Boibeder did not pick up hitchhikers, but he always hoped that one day
he would. Something tasty, slim, male and in its mid teens, with an urgent
desire to have its underwear entered by a cock loving hand. Never found
such a one, of course; never even encountered a boy, just an ordinary
teenage boy, in need of a lift; never until today.

Boibeder saw the boy from a distance, saw the figure waving a thumb at the
cars ahead who all ignored him just as Boibeder intended to do, until he
got close enough to see that it was indeed a boy. The cold, drizzly,
autumnal weather made it hard to see what sort of a boy, especially with
his hoody up to protect him from the light, but insistent rain, but it was
definitely a boy, and one of uncertain teenage years.

He didn't fit Boibeder's fantasy, of course. He held his thumb out in the
conventional manner, not indicating his availability for sex by miming
wanking or fondling his crutch as the boys in Boibeder's fantasies always
did, but he was still, most certainly, a boy. The first boy Boibeder had
ever encountered hitching a lift.

He checked his mirror, indicated and pulled in the Range Rover Sport some
ten yards past the hitching boy and waited till he ran up before bringing
the window on the passenger side down. The boy didn't stop at the open
window to ask if the helpful vehicle was going where he wanted to go, he
just opened the door and got in, sat down and reached for the button to
close the window.

Boibeder just stared, slightly open mouthed at the cheek of it. The thought
passed through his mind that he ought to say something, protest at the
boy's assumption that he had stopped like a taxi to pick up a random fare,
but the thought was never vocalised, being replaced by an urging from
somewhere else that roughly translated as `What's the problem? It's a boy.'
Boibeder liked boys and he hadn't been this close to one for a very long
time and no matter what his sensible mind might come up with, he wasn't
going to pass up on the chance of spending an hour or so with a teenager
sitting in his passenger seat.

The open mouthed stare he'd given the boy hadn't revealed much about
him. With his hoody still over his head, Boibeder couldn't get anything
like a decent look at his face, all he could see was eyes, nostrils, cheeks
and mouth, and that was only enough to confirm the boy's status as a
boy. Was he pretty? Ugly? Who knows. But he was a boy and, though he'd had
no intimate acquaintance with one for a long time, Boibeder had enough
experience with the species to know that the face was far less important
that the rest, and with him dressed in hoody and jeans, there was very
little Boibeder could garner about the rest. Except that he seemed slender,
well, not fat anyway; which was good, because Boibeder liked his boys
slender.

Automatically Boibeder rejoined the road at the first gap in the traffic
and only after he'd made a mile or so of progress, one or two minutes, did
it occur to him that he had no idea where the boy was heading.

"Where you going?" he eventually asked.

"Same as you, I guess; wherever." The boy's answer didn't make things
clearer. Or did it?

The boy had no definite destination in mind. He had been hitching a lift on
a major road but without a plan of where he was going? Luggage? Just a
shoulder bag. Not a lot of room in there for much, certainly not for a
sleeping bag or anything like that. If he was doing a runner, and that was
the thought that the boy's answer had brought into Boibeder's mind, he
certainly hadn't given much thought to his sleeping arrangements.

Test the boy's reactions, Boibeder thought. Shock him slightly.

"I'm going to Poole Harbour," he said matter of factly, "Then onto a ferry
to St. Malo, followed by driving down to southern Spain."

"Wicked," the boy replied, seemingly completely unfazed. "Sounds cool."

A distant sound of alarm bells sounded in Boibeder's head. Was the boy
inviting himself for the entire trip? All the way to southern Spain? If he
was then he most certainly was `doing a runner'!

"How old are you?" Boibeder asked, a slight hint of suspicion in his tone.

"Sixteen," the boy said, no pause for thought, no searching for an
appropriate age, and dressed as he was there was no way Boibeder could even
begin to verify the claimed age. Some sixteen year olds looked fourteen,
some twenty. Boibeder preferred the former, and this one certainly didn't
look twenty.

Much as he enjoyed boy company, Boibeder knew he needed to clarify this
situation. Parts of his anatomy reacted with delight at the idea of having
a boy for company all the way to Andalucía, and parts of his sensible mind
said that this was a potentially dangerous situation. It needed to be
clarified, and fast.

He pulled in at the first lay-by he came to, turned off his engine and
reached for his tobacco.

"One or two things need to be cleared up," he said as he rolled a
cigarette. Then he remembered both his manners and the first steps in
seduction. "Sorry," he said, "You want one?"

"Can I?" the boy answered, definitely hopefully.

That, Boibeder's boy bedding mind said, is a good sign. Experience had
shown that boys who smoked were more likely to be adventurous in other
ways, than boys who didn't.

He handed his tobacco and papers across and watched as the boy created
himself a roll up with no difficulty. He'd certainly done that before!

Cigarettes lit, he proceeded with his `interrogation'.

"Where are you really going?" he asked. He knew it was a lame question, but
he had to start somewhere.

"And get that damned hood thing off so I can see you properly."

"Sorry," the boy grinned, and pushed his hood back.

Darkish hair, a bit messed up by the hood, but clean looking. Nothing over
special, just boy attractive, Boibeder's mind registered. And certainly
young looking for sixteen.

"So where are you heading?" Boibeder asked again.

This time the boy did react, dropping his eyes so there was no contact with
Boibeder's stare. He didn't answer at first, but when it became clear to
him that Boibeder's silence was not an acceptance of his lack of an answer,
but an insistent demand that he speak, he felt compelled to reply. He could
feel the man's eyes on him, staring and demanding.

"Anywhere," he muttered.

"You doing a runner?"

The boy nodded, barely moving his head, hid defensive secrecy penetrated.

"Police looking for you?"

This time the boy did look up.

"No fuckin way," he said not quite violently.

"Sure?"

"Yeh, sure."

"Why not? Sixteen year old doing a runner. Bound to have been reported."

"Not a chance," he said, less violently. "I got kicked out."

There was a moment's silence, then the boy said, aggressive again.

"Got told to fuck off, disappear and not to come back. Ever."

"By?" Boibeder enquired, more gently this time.

"Fuckin slag what sposed to be me mother," the boy snarled.

There was real feeling there, this wasn't just a normal teenage anti-parent
thing, Boibeder knew that straight away.

Stay silent, he thought, let the boy say more.

The boy did.

"She sticks fuckin needles in her arm," the boy snarled. "Tried to stop her
and she just hits me. Told me to fuck off out her life." He paused, torn
between tears and anger. "She meant it," he said eventually, in control
again.

He stared out of the window at the grey passing countryside, arms hugged
tightly across his chest.

Then he went aggressive again.

"Now you fuckin know and I spose you're gonna tell me to get out as well."
He spun, facing Boibeder as he spat out the words.

It wasn't aggression, Boibeder knew, it was defence. Get in first, lessen
the pain of the inevitable rejection.

"I can't take you to Spain," Boibeder said quietly, looking at the road
ahead, not at the boy. "Simple matter of a passport, even if plod aren't
looking for you.

The boy actually smiled.

"Got me passport," he grinned. "Passport, birth certificate, medical
card. I took the lot."

Boibeder was forced to smile back.

"Got it planned," he admitted. "You certainly don't sound like you intend
going back tonight."

"Or any other fuckin night," the boy said vehemently.

The drizzle outside gave up and turned into genuine rain, drumming on the
car roof.

"And tonight isn't a good night for sleeping rough," Boibeder commented,
looking out the window.

"So you ain't kicking me out?" a hint of hope in the boy's voice.

"Not yet," Boibeder smiled.

"You gonna take me with you? To Spain?" Real hope now, innocent, young boy
hope, and Boibeder felt himself both melting and hardening at the same
time, though in different places.

"Let's suppose I can talk the ferry people into another passenger, and plod
are not waiting for you at passport control," he said, "Let's suppose I
take you all the way to Andalucía, what you going to do when you get there?
How you going to survive?"

"Work that out when I'm there," the boy said pragmatically. "Don't care how
bad it is, got to be better than what I left."

That, Boibeder didn't doubt, though how long it would stay better for was
another matter.

"What you gonna do in Spain?" the boy asked, changing the subject away from
his already over revealed self.

"I'm going to my villa near Marbella," Boibeder answered, truthfully.

"Wicked, You actually got a place there?" Almost awe in the boy's voice.

"Small villa," Boibeder said. "In the hills above the town. Not tourist
ex-pat land. Real Spain.

"Wicked," the boy said again. It seemed a useful, coverall phrase.

"I like it," Boibeder confessed.

"You could take me there, till I got sorted," the boy suggested, no thought
as to the practicalities of his suggestion.

"If I did, what's in it for me?" Boibeder stared directly into the boy's
eyes. Would he pick up on the suggestion that the boy should do something
for his saviour in return? And if he did, would he reject the idea, leave
of his own volition, probably hurling abuse at Boibeder as he left?

The boy held Boibeder's gaze for a few seconds while his brain processed
the words, then he dropped his eyes and said softly,

"I'd probably do anything."

"Anything?" Boibeder repeated. It was the crucial moment. Although the boy
wasn't looking at Boibeder, he must have sensed the man's gaze,
concentrated as it was on his hidden crutch.

The boy nodded, a little movement of the head, and said, "Yeh." He knew
where the man was looking; he could feel eyes trying to stare through his
jeans, but with the arrogant innocence of youth, he disregarded what he
should have recognised as the price tag. Payment, if there was to be any,
was something that could be dealt with later.

There was no need to take things any further, Boibeder knew that, and he
knew he had a boy he would bed later and his heart gave a bounce of
anticipation and delight.

"Let's go for it, then," he said, looked first into the boy's eyes and then
back down to his groin. Certain that the boy had understood the meaning
behind those looks, he smiled at the boy and restarted his engine.

The two hour drive to Poole was uneventful. Boibeder made no hint of a move
on the boy, though his hand ached to stroke thigh through jeans. He was
content to wait, knowing that soon enough he'd feel more than was possible
at the moment.

The boy drank in the luxury of his surroundings, the leather upholstery
that was so comfortable, the perfectly set climate control; and because he
was innocent and no move had been made on him, he felt safe and forgot all
about the possibility of payment being demanded.

Boibeder learned the boy's name, `Ash', and that, in the unlikely event
that his school would make enquiries about his absence, unlikely because it
was, Ash said, `a crap school an' he almost never went', his mother would
dismiss them, telling them that he'd gone to live with his father,
`somewhere up north.'

She had no more idea than Ash where his father was, Ash had never even seen
him, and he doubted if his mother had from the moment his father had found
out he'd got her pregnant.