Date: Sun, 29 Jan 2017 15:28:08 -0500 From: Bear Pup Subject: Beaux Thibodaux This story and its characters are fiction. It is a personal fantasy which I am sharing with you. If any character resembles you or someone you know, I WANT DETAILS, you lucky fucker, preferably with photos! It is, of course, copyrighted by the author with all rights reserved and very, very negotiable. Also, keep the cum coming -- Donate to Nifty **TODAY** at donate.nifty.org/donate.html! I'm an old guy (>30). I know what it was like when you had to BUY porn. Five miles uphill both ways in the snow just to GET to the XXX store. You whippersnapper don't know how good you've got it. This involves sex or sexual situations between consenting (>16 yo) males, some of which are related; if that is illegal for who/where you may be right now, fuck off and get thee to a monastery (where you might just find scenes similar to some below). Also, please note that all my stories exist in a world where STDs are neither common nor deadly. Don't be a fucking idiot; use protection. 'To die for' sex should never lead to your actual death. I like hearing from people but I also hate spam. If you get off on flaming people, please know that you will HATE the results. I will read your missive and weave you and your comments into my next story to the point that you cry like a little girl. Bullies get as bullies give. PLEASE NOTE: There are a of number of fantasies that I've constructed over the decades. Some are simple, some take setup. This is one of the latter. What you read below will only become a real story if people like it (see postscript). Let me know if you think there should be a Chapter 2. ***** Beaux Thibodaux 1: Death and Rebirth By Bear Pup M/T; no sex yet (just plot) "Mr Faolan?" Obviously not someone who knows me, otherwise they'd know it's FWAY-luhn, not FAY-oh-land or whatever the fuck he just said. Probably not a telemarketer, though, they normally are smart enough to give up and either call me Kevin or just launch the spiel. "Speaking." "This is Sherriff Guidry? of Lafourche Parish? In Louisiana?" I really, really hate people who make every part of a sentence into a question. "Yes, sir, Sherriff. Is this about my sister Leanna Thibodaux? I know she lives down your way." "Yes, sir, yes 'tis? I'm affray't to tell yew? Yore sistah's done passed?" Fuck, fuck, FUCK! I'd last spoken with Leanna 12 years ago. At Mama's insistence, I'd gone down there with a big ole wad of cash in some insane attempt to bribe her to her senses. When she was 20 and I was 12, Leanna had dropped out of her self-chosen college, Louisiana State University. We heard from her again four years later. She was in New Orleans livin-the-dream as a waitress in a seedy tavern on the edge of the CBD. She begged money from Papa (our grandfather), who had sent her a money order via Western Union that neither his wife, Mama, nor my dad knew about. When Dad called back to find out what was up, Leanna laughed at him and said it was for an abortion. That news basically killed Papa. Six years later, Mama got a hand-made and tawdry "invitation" to her wedding. The date was a year prior and the groom was named as "Greatest Lover on Earth Scottie Thibodaux." The invitation went on to describe their 'blessed union' in vulgar and explicit terms. Mama called a Family Meeting at the Ranch, a nice house built by Papa when The Company found modest oil deposits under our far-southeast Nebraska farm. It sounds like a grand affair, but it was Mama, Dad and me. My own mom had dropped dead without warning of a brain aneurism when I was 17; Leanna had been gone for five years then. We were celebrating mom's birthday at a grand and delightful party with plenty of friends. She was so delighted and so happy. She laughed at a gift and gave a gasp of surprise, a relieved sigh and simply closed her eyes. She was still smiling. It's hard to grieve when your last memories are of an utterly-fulfilled and blissfully-contented person. It may be why Dad and I moved on so easily. Could anyone with an ounce of soul want any other death for a woman that they loved? Leanna did not come to the funeral or even acknowledge her own mother's passing. Anyway, so the family meeting was held. Dad was having some breathing trouble (he'd smoked up until Mom's death and still had a few lingering problems), so Mama put a wad of miscellaneous bills in my hand and told me to go and 'rescue' my sister. I didn't count it. It wouldn't matter. Leanna had been a whack job as a child and had gradually lost even that tenuous grasp on reality when she left for school. I was 22 and about to start my last year as Mizzou studying residential architecture. It struck me then that both Leanna and I had chosen schools with tiger mascots. I shuddered a little at the thought. So I drove the sultry two hours to the Kansas City airport and bought a round-trip no-fixed-return (yeah, they had them; yes, I *am* that old) ticket to New Orleans, rented a car and headed into one of the most frightening landscape I'd ever seen. For a man who'd grow up in the windy, open and flowing spaces of the great plains, the cloistered summer heat and encroaching Spanish moss of the deep bayous was daunting. I used the envelope of the 'invitation' to navigate as far as the Cajun Country Casino, a creepy storefront with a Mexican restaurant and six decrepit slot machines. After bribing pretty much everyone ($5 each; cheap bribes), they finally got me to Labedeaux (LA-bee-doo), a massive black woman who gave me direction to a locked fence that I could walk but not drive around, and foot directions another mile into swamp-bounded service roads. I got to the, um, house? that she's hinted at an hour later. From the end of the dirt track (I can't call it a driveway since no wheeled vehicle had ever traversed it), it looked like the demolition phase of a construction project. A close look showed a hint of smoke from the eaves. I approached cautiously and, as Labedeaux suggested, hollered out, "HI THERE! I'M A RELATIVE! ANYONE HOME?" A gunshot stopped me in my tracks. The explosive sound was quickly eaten by the sodden earth, hanging moss and rotting leaf-mould of the 'yard'. A massive splash to my right heralded the departure of some enormous bayou-dweller I had neither seen nor wanted to meet. "Rel-a-Teef, mon cul! Who you be, cher?" "Um, I'm Kevin Faolan. I'm Leanna's brother. Can I come close enough I don't have to shout? I'm not armed!" "Come slow, cher. Don't you reach for nuttin, you a-hearin me, cher?" FUCK! I was in some twisted movie of Beverly Hillbillies Meet Deliverance. I sidled forward, sorta crab-walking as Mama's voice drew me closer and self-preservation screamed for me to run back to the car. I finally made out a huge, grossly-fat woman holding a shotgun that had likely seen service in a half-dozen wars, none later than the War of Northern Aggression. She had a muumuu and a cartoon-character's moustache. I saw wide, staring baby-eyes behind her briefly but they vanished in a swirl of skirts as my sister came forward. Leanna was a wreck of her former self. I will freely admit that I never liked her. She was a complete and irrational tyrant who tormented my youth. Like so many of the most-lethal plants and animals on Earth, she had, however, been beautiful. But here was a kohl-eyed fiend with claws instead of nails and the look of a vulture in her eyes. "Shoot him, Ma." The fat woman raised her arm and I blanched. "Leanna, NO! I came to give you a wedding present!" I was inventing frantically. The word, 'present', struck home, though. Both women narrowed their eyes. "Can I give you and, um, Scottie your present?" The mother answered first. "Scottie's done gone and good riddance to my worthless son, abandoning wife and mother in their time of need. You got something for that useless turd, LEAVE IT!" The gun rose slightly. "NO! No! It's for, for you and Leanna." I reached into my pocket and palmed off two or three of the bills. I brandished the bills like a Monopoly get-out-of-here-alive card and watched the women eye the money. I set the money on the dirt and put a rock on it. "Mama will pay to get you home, Leanna..." Oh dear, I knew instantly that it was the very wrong thing to say. "She BE home, poo-tayn BATtard. Vayen enfer purl'amour du ciel before I gives you more holes than you gots in your tete, mon bon hom-mie!" I dropped two more bills and ran for it. It was the last I'd seen of Leanna Thibodaux nee Faolan, and from that day to this I prayed it would stay that way. Mama and Dad had died together in a robbery gone (seriously) wrong in the great and dangerous metropolis of Falls City, population 4,671. Some crack-head was robbing the store they were in and freaked when he heard the sirens. Two shots, two dead and I was the last of the family other than my vanished sister. Now some backwoods, Cajun sheriff had my number? What NEXT? "Okay, Sherriff. I see. What do you need from me, sir?" "You know about Beaux, then?" "Beaux who?" "Um, Beaux Thibodaux? Your nephew? Son of Leanna and, well, he called himself Scottie?" FUUUUUUCK! "So I have a nephew named Beaux?" "Yes, sir?" "What about this Scottie's family? Are there any of them going to object?" "Well, sir? Scottie he OD'ed bout a dozen years back? His mama lived with your sister? Leanna? And best we can tell? She died a day or two fore Leanna? Beaux was in a right state when we found them?" FUUUUUUUUCK!!!!! "We'd be right pleased? If you could come and comfort this poor boy? You there, Mr Fay-OH-luhn?" Mama's face and then Dad's and then Papa's popped up and frowned so hard at me that I cringed, just for hesitating. This was blood, no matter what my bitch of a sister did. "I'll be there tomorrow, Sherriff." I hung up on his relieved thanks. I was back in that fucking swamp, dripping sweat all over the leather interior as I roared South toward whatever awaited me. No, I didn't even know I had a nephew. I'd recalled that flash of baby eyes at that moustachioed bitch's skirts as Leanna taunted from the side, but I never thought there was a child of our family involved. I had cried more than once since the Sherriff's call, sometimes tears of rage or regret or loss or confusion or the hole left in my heart by the absence of Mama and Dad. I'd pulled myself together as I pulled up at the furthest point a car could travel. The industrial gate that had blocked me on my last visit had been swung out and I was able to get all the way to the path leading to the shack. I had to smile. The Sherriff was the Central Casting version of JW Pepper from Live and Let Die. Big, florid, swaggering and completely out of his depth. He even was chawing a bight of chew bigger than the cud of your average cow. It took all I had not to laugh. "We are right glad you could come, Mr FAY-oh-lin. Yore nephew is in there getting hisself ready." I nodded and walked up to the 'porch'. The door (actually a thick curtain) swung aside at a breath and I went in. The main room, of one could call it that, was of cushions and stained rugs, reeking of something I wished never to know. The kitchen was next up. It was spotless other than the pile of dishes in the sink. Someone took great pride in the preparation of food and someone else took no pride at all in its disposition. A soft sound drew me deeper. I swept aside another fabric curtain and saw a boy holding a hand against his cheek and crying silently. This had to be Beaux. As soon as I focused, I saw my father and grandfather echoed in his bones. He was unquestionably a Faolan. His grief, if grief it was, could not disguise that. I stepped forward and he noticed me and recoiled. I kept my voice simple and calm and helpful. "We almost met once. You're Beaux? I was here, oh, a lot of years ago. You won't recall..." "Ya brought Mama and G-ma money," the bourbon-smooth Cajun-French accent was overlaid with the husky sound of a voice rarely used above a whisper. It radiated a sort of conquered sadness and was as flat and simple as possible in that rich dialect. "You said ya wanted to help. Then ya left. Ya went away." I don't think that anything ever said to me shredded my heart like those few sentences. He remembered. He saw. He knew that I left and did NOTHING to help him. The fact that I didn't know until a few days ago that he even existed as kin meant nothing to me, or to him. I was... undone. "Why ya here now? Yall gonna help me bury Mama? Bury G-ma?" "I" My throat froze. "I, I will do whatever you want me to, Beaux." He turned. He picked up a reed. A pressed leaf. A fishhook. Each in turn endured that critical and unflinching gaze. "No. They don't need us no more. They're gone. You come to take me away?" The wisdom and worldliness behind those words left me stuttering. "If, if you, y, you will let me, B, Beaux?" "What's your name?" "I, I, I am, uh, Kevin? Your uncle? Kevin? I was your, um, your mama's brother?" I loathed myself for the question-marks at the end of each clause. But I could do nothing else in the face of this man-child's passionless stare. The boy flung the reed, leaf and hook down onto the floor. He looked about the room carefully, searchingly, as if to ask, 'What do I want to remind myself of this life'? He shook himself, a tear in his eye, and looked through me. "Can you take me someplace? Someplace not here?" I nodded like a marionette. He never looked right or left as he walked out the front of the shack. He stopped and I saw him shiver like a fawn for a moment, then continue walking. He guessed which was my car, or he'd seen me arrive. He walked to it and turned to me. His voice dropped to barely a whisper and the blush shone through each word. "I ain't never been in a car. What m'I supposed to do?" I was a confirm bachelor. I never had kids and was never really around any, and always felt a pang of pity on the poor sops I'd see out and about catering to the whims of their eventually-to-become-human offspring. All of that fell away. Every word Beaux uttered saw another piece of my soul sundered and left in the dirt of that driveway. I opened the door and he sat. I reached across his body to buckle the seatbelt around him. It was then that I recognised that this boy was not a boy at all, but a young man. He was small, true, and preternaturally smooth, but a young man nonetheless. I could pick up the tell-tale musk of unwashed male, not the smell of childhood or even adolescence. His hair was shaggy and obviously cut with kitchen shears. His jeans were old and too short, and his boots worn near through. The shirt looked like it had been very carefully if inexpertly sewn. The t-shirt underneath was white, but threadbare. I went round to the driver's side and slipped in, started the car and watched him startle when the AC started to blow. He was so out of his element, but also had such a level of control he could have been fifty. I did some quick math. Thinking on the eyes that scampered away and the fact that he could remember my visit, he must have been around four when I was here. That would make him around 16. "How old are you, Beaux?" He looked at me with a flat expression, not hostile but not welcoming either. "Why?" "It's as good a place to start as any. I really want to get to know you, Beaux, and I hope you'll want to know me, too. How about if I start?" I was pulling out onto the blacktop and driving away from Raceland and toward US-90 and eventually New Orleans. "I'm 34, and I design houses for people to live in. I grew up like your Mama in Nebraska and I live in Kansas City now. I have a nice house, and a room for you. Now your turn, Beaux." He just looked at me for a minute. "I think I'm sixteen. Mama and G-Ma never told me exact. My father, G-Ma's son, was gone before I could recall." His voice trailed off as he stared into the middle distance of the swampy scrub that ruled this part of the bayou country. I let him sit for a minute, at a loss on how to talk to this man-child. I knew nothing, *nothing* of his life. He'd never been in a *car*? One thought popped up though as I approached the intersection with Louisiana-1. This was a young man in his late teens who, as far as I could recall, not eaten anything in at least ten minutes. "Okay, Beaux, what do you feel like. Looks like they have Taco Bell, Sonic, McDonalds and Burger King. Which do you want." Beaux glanced at me, then down at his hands, clutched at his knees. "I," followed by a deep sigh, "I don't know what those things are." His voice shook and I could tell that such an admission humiliated him. Another shred of my soul was dropped on the roadside. I force some cheer into my voice. "You, son, are a lucky man. Fast food sucks. However, it is both fast and food. Let's do McDonalds." I pulled in and decided not to even ask. I got a burger, cheeseburger, nuggets, super-size fries and a coke for Beaux and my usual QPC Meal with root beer for me. I pulled round the side and parked. It was sultry but not oppressive out, so I shut down the car and rolled down the windows. I handed food items out to Beaux and he looked utterly confused. "Eat what you like and don't worry about the rest, Beaux. I know you don't know what you'll like, so if you don't like it don't eat it." He looked at me like I'd just dropped down from Planet Idiot. "But you paid real money for this." "Don't you worry about that, Beaux. I can afford to waste a burger or two, okay? Just let's take some time to figure out what you like, alright?" It turned out that I needn't have worried. The Teen Hoover Effect was in full force. But the time I finished my QPC, Beaux was searching the bottom of the bag for escaped fries and had visibly brightened. I pulled back onto the road and headed toward the Big Easy. Now, the fact that I had little use for my sister did nothing to turn me off of the Vieux Carre, the most magical part of one of the most intriguing cities in America. The French Quarter of New Orleans was nothing short of another world. Whilst the novelty of the car ride quickly faded, Beaux's jaw dropped steadily as we entered the complex metropolis (and traffic nightmare) that was New Orleans of that long-ago time. Sky scrapers housing oil empires had started to colonise the Central Business District (CBD), but the Quarter had fended off all comers, just as it had since real pirates sailed up the Mississippi to trade (and drink and whore and revel). I'd taken rooms at one of my favourite hotels on Earth, the Place d'Armes just off Jackson Square. The summer heat had chased off the casual tourists and I could see Beaux's nose crinkle in disgust when I cracked the doors. At the best of times, the French Quarter reeked of second-hand beer and the bodily products of overindulgence. In late August? Oh, dear. I pulled the gaping Beaux into the lobby. The desk clerk knew me from previous stays and started to flirt before seeing Beaux dragged in my wake. A cocked eyebrow was all I got (the staff at the Place was nothing if not discreet). "Henri, this is my nephew, Beaux. He'll stay with me tonight as I hope to be leaving tomorrow of we can arranging things. He just lost his family and I've come to help." Henri's eyes misted over and he came round the counter and grasped the stunned Beaux by the shoulders. "I am so sorry, mon cher!" Beaux brightened and there ensued a rapid exchange in the impenetrable Cajun French dialect. I caught words like welcome and assistance and condolences and something about a good uncle before Henri grabbed my bags and trundling off. I knew it wasn't his job, but also knew that Henri was a softie (and a supremely talented fuck). He kept up a bilingual patter to both of us. We ended up in the rear courtyard. The room I normally reserve was occupied, but Henri ushered us to a room on the far edge. Henri opened the lead-paned door and showed us into a charming and spacious sitting room. A bust of Napoleon (who else) was on the mantle above the gas fireplace. The ancient wood floor creaked and shifted under us. The room had a massive rug centred between two ornate couches and a pair of Regency chairs. Simple, almost austere art hung in lavish and baroque frames on every whitewashed plaster wall. A huge bath with claw-footed tub and antique commode was to the right. The bedroom held two huge queen beds each with voluminous mosquito netting depended from an oval rosette in the ceiling. Instead of closets, a matched pair of armoires flanked a dressing desk complete with silvered mirror. It was like stepping back in time. 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. *If* this becomes a series, we'll find out in the next chapter just how insulated from the world Beaux has been, and how twisted a view of that world his mother and paternal grandmother instilled in the boy. Key is the fact that both Mama and G-ma fiercely repressed any sexual development in their man-child and forcefully prevented his interaction with others. Kevin is literally the first male person with whom Beaux has even interacted for more than a few minutes, and his work to bring the boy out of his shell will hit some startling twists and turns. Let me know if you think you'd like to follow that journey.