Date: Thu, 12 Aug 2010 10:15:43 +0000 From: Josh Long 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.