Date: Thu, 1 Jun 2017 13:52:57 -0400
From: Orson Cadell <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Beaux Thibodaux 19

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.

*****

"So, we'll talk about the carrot homework this weekend. Here's your next
assignment. Remember the artwork at the Nelson?" No way was I going to
encourage him to fantasize about Hans while there was still a chance the
Norse Nurse was flirting with ME instead. "Think about what it would be
like to be on your knees as Drunken Hercules lets you suck his dick until
he comes. Then think of what it would be like to have Drunken Hercules on
his knees in front of you, devoted to your pleasure. Lastly, you and
Drunken Hercules servicing each other in a 69." His eyes were wide and
breath short. "I'd suggest though, not to think about all three in the same
session. I don't want you hurting yourself." He scowled at me, but damned
near left a contrail on his way to his room when I told him that was enough
for the night.

*****

Beaux Thibodaux 19: Welcome to Sparta

Thursday

By Bear Pup

*****

The morning dawned bright and hazy, the kind of day that made me dread the
Great Plains in high summer. Beaux and I established a pattern over a meal
of granola I'd bought at Sage & Spirit. I encouraged Beaux to try it dry,
then with various dairy products. I was a bit shocked to find that he liked
it with yoghurt, something I used only for marinades and sauces; I couldn't
stand the taste. He loved it.

The pattern was a discussion of the lesson plan for the day. We agreed that
he'd push through everything he could and when he got stuck, he'd put a
marker on the page and move to the next subject. I was amused by his
reaction to Post-It Notes. The idea of sticking something to a page of the
printed word was, to Beaux, simple blasphemy. I have to prove that they
could stick over and over again without hurting the type before he
begrudgingly granted them provisionary-non-heretical status. We discussed
how long his meal that evening would take so I knew when to call it quits
for the day.

We spent the morning clearing half of what I'd always called my Samples
Desk, the place I laid out material choices with clients or just for my own
curiosity on what I should present. It was desk-height so we could use
normal office chairs, like those around my table, to work. At over twelve
feet long, half would be perfect for Beaux as a school-room. We broke for
an early lunch just as the last of the space took shape and we stocked in
the supplies I bought when Beaux first joined me in Kansas City. Comparing
it to the massive binders from the Perez lab made me wince.

I called Barry and left a message, asking him to hit an office supply
store. I asked him to buy a few spiral notebooks and one large, three-ring
binder in each of the subject colors Perez had selected, along with a
more-or-less random sampling of pens and pencils for Beaux to try. We sat
down to a quick and satisfying lunch dredged up from my own childhood. For
some reason, the ultimate school lunch had always been grilled cheese
sandwiches and tomato soup. Beaux was intrigued and not especially
impressed by the idea of a completed soup coming from a can, but he
hoovered it down anyway.

By noon, we were both ensconced in our respective desks. I had a
fairly-complex engineering clarification requested by the Mission Hills
Building Department on a remodel I was doing. I was deeply engrossed when I
heard a door close downstairs and Beaux moved out of the room. Barry must
be there. I sank back into the problem at hand, begrudgingly admitting that
the Building Inspector had been right and I had failed to meet one of their
unique building codes.

Barry and Beaux came back and bustled around at the other desk for a bit
then both move out to the main part of the house again. I pulled out of my
work-trance with a need to piss and realized my tea had gone stone cold
long before. I turned on my electric kettle and notice Beaux was engrossed
in his own work.

I hit the bathroom then went into the kitchen and got Beaux a snack and
some juice-drink. I set the plate and cup next to him and he looked up, a
bit bleary-eyed and thanked me vaguely before his soul was sucked back into
the schoolwork. I smiled. Definitely a Faolan. Once absorbed, the Final
Trump was usually required to pry us out of a task.

I finished the Mission Hills work and noticed that Barry was now sitting at
the table in my office, smiling broadly at Beaux. There was real tenderness
and love in that look and it made me smile as well. Barry noticed I was
heads-up again and spoke in an almost-whisper. I said in a normal tone,
"Don't bother. It looks like Beaux got the 'mindless focus' gene from my
family."

We chatted for a minute and Barry said, "Well, I left gifts for each of you
on your beds. We also now have two stacks of jock straps by the gym
equipment. I took a half-dozen in at the waist and straps for Beaux." He
smiled as my surprise. "He told me about the fit and I had him try some on
for me the other day. It was no trouble. I mean, perhaps ten minutes worth
of work, tops. The ones I altered for Beaux have the bright blue
stitching. Anyway, I'm off, hon."

He kissed me then leaned over and kissed Beaux who absently said, "Bye,
Barry." Barry and I chuckled at that and he made his way out. I pulled out
the notes from Dr Perez and decided to call Charles Atalast. A gruff voice
answered and I mentioned that Dr Perez had suggested I call. We set a time
to meeting with him the following morning, Thursday, at a gym in the
industrial and run-down area called the West Bottoms. I called Louise to
schedule a follow-up with Rob, both general and the ear thing, for next
Tuesday.

I let Beaux work until 5:00, then went to remind him of his cooking that
evening. As his eyes muzzily swam into focus, they also took on a look I
knew all too well from my own experience -- floating eyeballs. He hadn't
moved for perhaps four hours and was desperate for the bathroom. He groaned
as he stood, slightly crouched to accommodate his screaming bladder then
fled.

When he came out, I asked if it was okay that I went through his work and
he readily agreed. There were two sticky notes, one about history and the
other about society, cross-related which made sense. As Beaux set to prep
dinner, I sat at his desk and read snatches of his notes. I was amazed
initially at his handwriting. I'd never made good marks in school for what
used to be called penmanship, and it had devolved in everything but my math
work from there.

Beaux's hand was a precise, tight, upright cursive with clear spaces
between each word. The letters were small and the loops were very, very
narrow but always connected. It was like the cursive you sometimes saw on
expensive labels to imply great craftsmanship and attention to detail in
the product. Every 'i' was dotted exactly over the letter and every t-bar
was wide and strong. Frankly, it looked a lot like Beaux!

It was interesting to see the mix of punctuations. Things that he was
quoting from text were enclosed in double angle-brackets on either end, but
he left spoken-word lines in the double-quotes you would have seen in the
text. LOTS of colons, but never in a way that left you in doubt of the
meaning, but all numbers were written in an "English" manner like 1,234.56
instead of the French 1.234,56. I made a note to myself to ask Perez what
it might mean.

The work itself was meticulous and insightful. I went back and forth from
the lesson plan to the notes and found him making thread-connections
between ideas easily. Another note for Perez. I saw little indication that
Beaux thought or cared about the distinctions between subjects. It was more
like the Greek paideia than any sort of regimented, classified system. I
found myself regretting the subject-color alignment as I saw his notes veer
across all of them on a single page. Overall, the work was solid,
occasionally inspired and occasionally naïve; again, just like Beaux
himself.

I carried the notebook and the page of the lesson plan with the Post-Its
into the kitchen where the smell of heaven itself ensnared me. It dragged
me in like a fish hooked by and invisible line. My mouth was pouring drool
as I sat myself in Beaux's accustomed place and watched that beautiful back
and ass move as he cooked. God, this kid was gorgeous. For the zillionth
time, I thanked the heavens that I was into big, burly types or this would
have been a very, VERY different series of events!

Beaux turned and looked at my slavering face and smiled sweetly. "Oh, go
rest, Oncle. It won't be ready for two or three hours." He exploded in
laughter at the look of horror on my face. "Serves you right with that
Bouef Stroganoff the other night. No. It will be about twenty minutes now."

A few minutes later, Beaux pulled four huge pork chops from the cast iron
skillet and laid them aside under a lid. He had a bottle of white wine,
probably a Pinot Grigio as the bottle was clear and the color pale. He saw
where I was looking and started to speak with a worried face, "No, Beaux,
you did fine. Anything in the liquor or wine cabinets are up for grabs and
long as you're not drinking them. You're not old enough yet." He smiled and
went back to work.

Beaux poured a good quarter of the bottle into a cup to which he added a
generous splash or two of cognac. He set a long-handled whisk to the side
like a surgeon arranging his instruments and poured the wine in quickly. A
massive cloud of steam quickly became a cloud of flame as the alcohol
flash-burned off while Beaux whisked the faun into a pan sauce. He then
dumped a bunch of carrots into the pan stirred them quickly then lidded the
pan. He elbowed another pot off a back burned to a cool spot and pulled the
lid from a heavy braising dish. The room exploded in flavor as he tasted
the dish and added pepper (generously) and salt (sparingly), along with a
few dashes of hot sauce.

Watching Beaux cook was like watching a ballet -- a highly erotic ballet at
that. The muscles in his lithe back and amazing ass were constantly in
motion. I found myself drooling as much over Beaux as the food! He
uncovered and poked the chops with a forefinger, checking for
doneness. Satisfied, he pulled the lid from the carrots and speared one on
a fork. He waggled his head from side to side, cranked the heat up and
returned the lid.

Within five minutes, the carrots met with his approval and he used a spider
to put them in a bowl which he twirled onto the counter. I took that as a
cue and pulled plates, glasses and utensils out. I took the Pinot and pour
glasses for each of us and water as well. Next to the table was a bowl
filled with steaming corn, peppers, onions and, I'm guessing, God's Holy
Glory. It was the contents of that braising pan. Beaux mounted the sauce in
which the carrots had steam with butter, whisking quickly, then decanted it
across big scoops of rice and the pork chops.

Those plates hit the table and I moaned loudly and without a single hint of
forethought or play-acting. I took a bite of the pork with the
gravy-drenched rice and nearly cried. If you took a couple of hogs, got
them very, very drunk and then distilled them down to their essence, you'd
have that pan sauce. Oh. My. God. The pork was tender and slightly
pink. Apparently the Anti-Flavor Squad of the Food Police hadn't made it to
the the Bayou, so he knew better than the cremate pork.

The sides, though; oh, Lord, the sides. The carrots were divine. To start
with, they were hippie-grown, probably sung to sleep each night to strains
of Arlo Guthrie tunes and fed nothing but pure organic cow-shit
fertilizer. Second, the wine and cognac had infused them with
flavor. Oddly, they didn't taste at all of pork! Through some subtle
alchemy, only the wines had penetrated. The last dish, though, was a
revelation.

Beaux called it maque choux (I had him spell it for me). He'd cut corn from
the cob and braised it slowly with a dozen lesser veggies. Predominant were
the sweet red peppers and onions, but also celery, beans (maybe crowders?)
and tomatoes made guest appearances. Herbs and spices abounded. It was
nothing short of divine.

There was nothing, I mean NOTHING, left when I finally gave up. There
wasn't even any leftover rice! I sat back and moaned. "God, Beaux, that was
the best meal I've had in AGES! Just... wow!"

Beaux beamed with pride as he batted away my attempts to clean
up. Apparently, cooking and cleaning had a very specific rhythm for him and
I watched the post-prandial ballet with unrestrained contentment. He
finally settled himself and made a significant head gesture to the
notebooks which had lain forgotten since that first waft of aroma.

The crux of his question was both simple and sad. He'd lived his life in a
society of three people, one of them insane and the other evil. The things
that had stumped him were the utter basics of sociology and government: why
did people band together in tribes and choose to relinquish some or all
their free will and autonomy to the group? The discussion consumed the
evening. Beaux's ideas were often utterly-logical and rational based on
what he knew, and yet so strange as to make them almost alien in outcome.

I wondered later how he could ever have developed the kind of conversation
he showed. His intelligence darted through and around arguments and found
subtle inconsistencies in my statement that I really had to think through
to explain. But when he 'got it', that line of questioning ended instantly,
with no emotional attachment to this former worldview. Another note for
Perez and Company.

The next morning, I mentioned the appointment with Charles Atalas. I'd
forgotten to mention it to Beaux the day before and he was less than
pleased with the news. He got more and more concerned as I drove onto the
West Bottoms. The area had been an industrial part of the city when the
city had, well, industry. It was now a forbidding wasteland of
derelict... everything.

I found the address. It was above a place selling used office
furniture. Technically, the address for the place was on West 11th, but the
entrance was a plain steel door off the alley behind it with stenciled
letters, "Sparta Training & Athletics, Inc." Below was a stylized Hoplite
helmet in the same stark black paint. Underneath were three lines which
read, "By Appointment Only. 816-555-TALA. DO NOT RING BELL EVER!" Beaux
kept looking at me, waiting for me to tell him this was some horrid joke.

I pulled on the incredibly heavy door and it creaked open to reveal a
stygian gloom inside. A gruff voice rang out, "Thibodaux and Faolan?"

"Um, yeah?"

"Close the door and your eyes will adjust quickly. Stairs to the right."
When I let go, the door slammed forcefully with a loud clang. He was
right. Without the blazing sun, the interior was not that poorly lit. To
the right was an old, plain but somehow elegant four-square staircase. We
climbed to the second floor and both of us gasped. The Western wall was a
long row of high windows interrupted by a massive door with a
block-and-tackle swung in next to it. The reasons for that was simple. The
space was a dream gym.

A huge triple-rack of dumbbells sparkled next to a tree for bar
weights. Everything was in threes throughout the space. Three weight
benches. Three pulleys, rowers, treadmills, resistance machines, massage
tables, pommel horses, bars, rings... everything. The two singular items
were on the eastern side where the wall was an unbroken series of mirrors
like a ballet studio. A boxing ring on a three-foot platform and a large
mat on a six-inch base with markings for both wrestling and
gymnastics. "Come in!" The voice boomed making us both jump.

We turned and saw a grizzled older man, well past his sixties. He had
rolling shoulders and thick legs, but otherwise could have been someone
you'd politely ask if he needed help across the street. He was a bit on the
small side with wide, intent eyes and one very enthusiastic eyebrow. We
just blinked as he moved forward. That is when the spell shattered. He
moved like a jungle cat, with a grace and power that exuded confidence and
character. "I'm Charles Atalas. Call me Tala." He said it like TAY-la,
tailor without the 'r'. "Faolan {to me} and Thibodaux {to Beaux} welcome to
Sparta."

He took us over to a set of four heavy wooden benches in a square next to a
series of open cubbies, like lockers without doors. "I spoke to Rob, good
man, and with Dr Perez. I agreed to meet with you and decide if we were a
fit for training. I'd say that you're not exactly in my normal line of
work, but then I doubt you're in anyone's, frankly. To start with, if we
work together, you are both going to hate me with every part of your body
and soul and I'm good with that. Thibodaux, tell me about yourself."

Beaux had a fascinating look in his eye that I could not begin to
interpret. "Yes, sir, Mr. Tala. And please call me Beaux--"

The geezer cut him off. "We go by last names always. And no Misters. I'm
just Tala, and you're just Thibodaux. Go on." I expected this gruff,
abrasive, almost-rude manner to unsettle Beaux. Instead he smiled.

"Tala, I was born and raised by my mother and G-Ma on the bayous of
Louisiana. I never knew anything else. I hear that I have to learn 'Health
and Fitness' from someone, and that someone is supposed to be you. What you
think about that?"

The old man seemed oddly satisfied with the answer. "Faolan, your turn."

"Um, Tala, well. I'm Beaux's -- uh, Thibodaux's -- guardian and am trying
my best to help him learn and adjust to a new life."

"How fit are you?"

"Uh, well, I work out--"

"What's that mean?"

"I, uh, it means that I use a weight-resistance machine and treadmill
inside and run or swim outside. Several times per week, more if I can."

"What brand? The machine?"

I told him and he nodded. "Good brand. Damned good brand. It's the not one
I prefer," he nodded around to the other machines, "but not due to quality
or effectiveness. Just habit." He turned back to Beaux. "Okay, you run, you
probably fish, and you cart-and-carry. How else did you get exercise?"

Beaux smiled, "Well, running, fishing, fixing; garden and forage; carry
stuff; that's about it. Swimming was out. It's hard to outswim a gator. I
never seen machines until my Oncle explained his."

Tala stared at us both long enough that I got uncomfortable. For reasons I
couldn't imagine, Beaux was completely unfazed.

"Okay, here's how this will work if I take you as clients. You'll be here,
in the gym, twice a week to start, then once a week. I'm gonna push you on
every strength and challenge you on every weakness. You can cuss at me,
yell at me, but you're gonna damned well do what I say. After the first
month, then every three months, we sit down just like this and decide if
this is working for all three of us. If not, we shake hands and walk away.

"You will have activities and exercises at home every single day, probably
30 minute to an hour. I suggest morning before you shower. I *will* know if
you slack off and you *will* regret doing so. Can you agree to all that?"

I looked at Beaux who had a slight smile a bright-blue glint to his
eye. "Beaux, you ready to make that kind of commitment?"

Tala laughed, "You misunderstand me, Faolan. Your ass is in this
too. Everything Thibodaux does, so do you. And you keep each other honest
on the homework." The utter dismay must have shown in my face and he
laughed again. "Just to keep it fair, I'm going to do it alongside you. You
telling me you can't keep up with a kid and an old man, Faolan?"

I looked between the two for a minute. "Actually, Tala, that's exactly what
I'm telling you. But I'm sure as hell gonna try!" We all shook hands and
Tala told us to get ready.

"Just hang your crap in the lockers. No one will ever be here except the
three of us during our sessions."

"Um, Tala, we didn't bring workout clothes."

He smiled. "And you won't be. If we're working on any contact sports,
you'll bring cups and jocks. If we're on the machines, a jock is all you
need. If were doing anything else, such as general, simple, easy
calisthenics like today, you'll be in the buff, just like I will. The only
difference is I'll have a whistle." He turned and stripped quickly and
efficiently. "Oh, and feel free to blush. Don't make me no never mind." He
turned back and we saw a lot of white, bristly hair and a respectable is
not enormous cock and balls.

Beaux and I shared a look until "MOVE IT!" barked out. We were naked in
seconds. The bastard then proceeded to do his best to kill us. It was
always, "Oh, come on! That's IT?!?" or "You can't even do ONE more? I'm
hardly sweating!" or "Come on little boy; you gonna let two old men whip
your scrawny ass?" One thing was right, I hated him as surely as I did any
human on the planet at the end of that grueling two hours.

And THAT'S when the fucking lesson *started*. The exercising and everything
was one third of what Tala did for clients. He took Beaux (and me) on a
thirty-minute whirlwind tour of how the male body works, from nerves and
muscles to chemically-stored power (fat and carbs) and how each get
used. He did a quick tour through hygiene (including startlingly- specific
instructions for Beaux with his intact foreskin) and another about
diet. Oddly, he didn't tell us to cut *anything*, only to change the
balance. The shower was a massive rain-head with a pull-string, nothing
else. The towels appeared to be hand-me-downs from the local animal
shelter.

As we finally left in the growing heat of midday, I spotted that fucking
Hoplite helmet outline on the door. "Fuck Sparta." Beaux had just enough
energy to grunt. That was about it.

<eof>

If you want to get mail notifying you of new postings or give me ANY
feedback that could make me a better author, e-mail me at
orson.cadell@gmail.com

Active storelines, all at www.nifty.org/nifty/gay...
Canvas Hell: 27 chapters .../camping/canvas-hell/
Beaux Thibodaux: 19 chapters .../adult-youth/beaux-thibodaux/
The Heathens: 20 chapters .../historical/the-heathens/
Off the Magic Carpet: 13 chapters .../military/off-the-magic-carpet/
Lake Desolation: 12 chapters .../rural/lake-desolation/
Dear John Letter: 3 chapter .../military/dear-john-letter/
Shark Reef: 6 chapters .../adult-youth/shark-reef/
Culberhouse Rules: 3 chapters .../incest/culberhouse-rules/

Special collaboration with Brad Borris: In God's Love (5 installments)
.../incest/in-gods-love/