The Boy Scout and the Hacker

This is a slow burn tale. An early draft had a little R-rated sex. Then I cleaned it up to PG for publication on Amazon. The 27 people who purchased the book were mostly relatives and friends. I really hope to reach a wider audience, so I revised it to include some fun sex and make it appealing to Literotica.com readers. It is more meet-cute, love at first sight, build a relationship, learn about sex, and enjoy sex at its core, but investigation of crimes and some danger surrounded them.

Chapter 1 introduces characters and has NO sex, so get over it. There are seven more chapters which will be published as each is edited to my satisfaction.

The viewpoint moves back and forth between Chris(topher) and Sam(antha), as noted in section headers. Chris is (was) a Boy Scout and high on the spectrum. Sam has a Ph.D. in computer science, but has a murky back story.

In my opinion, the sex is more realistic and less animalistic than many stories (and certainly my own experience) and nobody jumps into bed on the first meeting. The language is also very tame, as befits a somewhat naive and somewhat oblivious couple.

Note: The couple have a running contest trying to use movie and musical quotes to stump or one-up one another. Some of my beta readers found this tiresome. I ignored them.

Enjoy. Or not.

I'm a Boy Scout - Chris

I was standing in a wooded area not far from Paris, peering in through the dirty windows of a small cabin. A young girl was gagged and tied to the bed, thrashing and crying, unintelligibly begging to be let go. Her tears rolled down her cheeks, leaving tracks.

"Fermez la bouche!" yelled one of the two men beside her bed, slapping her with a resounding crack. I wanted to rush in but was outnumbered, and they had guns. How did I always end up in life-threatening circumstances?

I blamed it on the Boy Scouts. I joined at age eleven, and in my mind, I never left. This kind of obsession was one of many symptoms I displayed in childhood that led to a diagnosis of Asperger's Syndrome, a high-functioning form of autism. Although therapy improved most of my social skills to a "normal" level, the Scout Motto (Be Prepared), Slogan (Do a good turn daily), Law, and Oath weren't mere words to me; they were an ingrained and rigid guide in my life.

That was why I had had no choice but to become involved when I'd learned from a police contact in France that a young Parisian girl had been kidnapped and the ransom drop had been mishandled. The kidnappers now had both the money and the girl. I had no idea why they wanted to keep her, but it couldn't be good. Although I was there on a job, I was offering my help to the girl's father before an hour had passed.

"Monsieur Bisset, I can find her and bring her home," I'd said.

Claude Bisset had lashed out at me, assuming selfish motives. "Go away, bloodsucker!" he'd shouted. "The police have already failed, and my little Nell is gone. You are too late to cash in."

I hadn't let that initial interaction faze me and soon got what I needed to begin searching for Nell Bisset. The police had managed to take pictures during the failed money exchange and I noticed a bumper decal that clicked in my brain, though the police had overlooked it. Examining the drop area, I saw dried mud with pine needles embedded that had obviously fallen out of the tread of an off-road vehicle. These two minor pieces plus the direction they had fled led me to Forêt domaniale de Meudon. It was a secluded nature reserve not far from Paris with few roads leading into the forest, all unpaved and lightly trafficked and full of the same types of pines noted at the drop site. I obtained a topographical map and noted three small cabins within the park, all of them along a single road that passed through the reserve. My gut, aided by my ability to make logic leaps others might miss, reasoned this would be an ideal place to hide. It was then a simple matter to drive down the road and find the one with the kidnappers' SUV outside.

And so, I found myself standing outside the cabin looking through the solitary window. Time slowed. I saw a waste can full of paper being dumped, heard the can hit the floor as it was flung across the room, then heard the distinctive clink of a Zippo lighter being opened, followed by the rasp of the sparking wheel and the flicker of a small flame.

I couldn't wait any longer. I slammed into the door with all my might, splintering the doorjamb as I sailed toward the surprised kidnappers. The one with the lighter had just dropped a flaming piece of paper as I tackled him to the ground, knocking the wind out of both of us with an explosive whoosh. I grabbed the man's gun hand, and we rolled just as the second man fired. I felt a searing pain as the bullet passed through my dearly departed opponent and into my side. The explosion of the slug from the gun's muzzle set my ears ringing a microsecond later.

"Ouch!" I yelped, though that didn't fully capture my feelings. As I threw off the dead weight of the dead guy, I registered two ongoing and competing situations. The kidnapper was fleeing, and the single burning sheet of paper had found its brothers, and all were happily looking for additional fuel. I wrenched the gun from the corpse and shot the first situation somewhere on his dorsal side then concentrated on number two.

The paper fire was about to become a bedpost fire, and Nell was screaming through her gag. The flames weren't high enough to reach her atop the bed, but they were licking at my pants legs as I shoved the bed away from the main fire, yanked out the smelly sock from her mouth, and cut her bindings with my trusty Scout knife--what else? I enveloped her in my arms, protecting her as I ran back through the flames and smoke. We burst out of the cabin coughing and hacking with tears flowing from red eyes and noses running like faucets. Behind us, the cabin was in full bonfire mode, a handy beacon for the police, fire, and EMT vehicles as they approached.

The fire trucks had no chance to save the cabin, though when the flames had died down, they were able to recover the charred body of kidnapper number one. The police recovered kidnapper number two, bloody but alive and looking at a long prison term. The EMTs removed Nell from my arms with difficulty as she clung to me. Only when I was assured that she was fine did I allow them to attend to me. My pants had seen better days, and there were blisters on my legs and arms. The bullet was somewhere in the ruins of the cabin, but the hole in me required antiseptic and patches on both ends. I was also temporarily missing some hair.

I didn't really relish being shot again. It was unpleasant. I told the medic tending my wounds that I planned avoid barbecues in the future. That got lost in translation, as jokes are not a strength at my end of the spectrum.

Claude was overjoyed when I delivered Nell into his arms. He tried to pay me, but the looks on their faces were payment enough. As I made to leave them, Claude embraced me once again and said, "I am forever indebted. Keep in touch."

Nell's face was pink, and her eyes were starry. Her only audible words were, "Thank you," though I may have also heard a whispered, "I love you." Teenagers.

I later found a check in my back pocket--that sneaky Claude!

I'm a Hacker - Sam

I fell in love with computers when I was six. I read everything I could find on the subject (once I could read) and taught myself Basic and a couple other languages before I entered my teens. I loved computer games, so I wrote and published my own. The royalties put me through college.

My best--only--friend, Shay, often told me, "Just because you are the smartest person in the room doesn't give you the right to act like you are." I didn't accept her criticism for some time. I underperformed in class while I expanded my computer skills. I roamed the Dark Web and hacked into the school's grading system. I was pretty much a quintessential bad girl. Shay was the only one in the school who seemed immune to my attitude. Girls saw no advantage to currying my favor, so they avoided me. I treated guys like dirt. The last straw was the dating application form I concocted to screen potential dates. One poor kid actually filled out the application, and I humiliated him by grading it with a profusion of red ink. Nobody ever tried again.

Unfortunately, I was still attractive enough to warrant some male interest. Shay and I were coming out of a movie one night, and a guy I vaguely recognized from World History class approached us and said, "Can I ask you a question about the assignment for Monday?"

"I'll go get the car warm," said Shay. "Don't take too long." Off she went.

I said, "I remember you. Billy, right? So, what is your question?"

Billy puffed up like an adder, looking pretty darn big. "My question is, why are you such a bitch? Your stupid dating application is insulting, and I wonder what you think you have to be so superior about. Is there a sexy body under your baggy clothes? I plan to find out."

He approached me, and I could smell his Old Spice aftershave and matching deodorant wafting toward me. The unmistakable sound of a zipper drew my eyes to his hands, which were below his belt.

"Get away from me! NO!"

He just kept coming, his belt flapping free. Cupping an ear, he said, "I can't hear you, bitch! Let's see what's hiding behind that plain Jane blouse. If I like the visuals, I might have a present for you."

"Help!" I shouted. I didn't hear any responses or scurrying footsteps. I needed to get louder. Suddenly, I heard small objects hitting the pavement and felt cold air on my chest and stomach. The objects were buttons, and my wide-open blouse explained the draft.

"Not bad, but that sturdy bra is covering up the best parts. Let's get it out of the way."

He hooked his fingers into the band between the bra cups and yanked again. It may have been sturdy, but not sturdy enough. It gave way, and I finally regained my faculties. I started punching, scratching, kicking, and yelling, all at peak amplitude. Billy outweighed me by at least a hundred pounds, but hell hath no fury like a woman in fight-or-flight mode. I surprised both of us as I connected with his eye, nose, and lip, drawing bright red blood. Then I stomped his instep, and he began hopping on one foot. Shay appeared from one direction, and several others arrived from the farther parking lot in response to my shrieks. I had kicked Billy multiple times in the shins to no effect. Just as he was about to run away, I managed to deliver a punt between his legs that would have been the envy of any football team. He dropped like a rock, and his groans were music to my ears.

I suddenly realized that all the guys who had gathered were looking at my boobs, not Billy. Shay ran up, threw her voluminous jacket over me, and hugged me. "Are you okay, wild woman? I don't think he is going to be raping anyone in the near future. Maybe never. Well done!"

But the adrenaline rush gave way to a bad case of the shakes. Things could have gone so much worse than a few ogling eyes. Luck and stubbornness had been on my side.

The police came and gave Billy a ride to the police station with a lengthy stop at the ER to evaluate his equipment and the likelihood of heirs. He was in World History on Monday. Obviously, strings had been pulled, and he wasn't charged. His smirk and his Old Spice were the final straws that sent me into therapy.

I was now twenty-six with a Ph.D. and a job, but I still didn't trust men. I only dated when I wanted to seem "normal" or when Shay made me. It was that second one that had me attending a Night Ministry charity gala.

Gala, Saturday, June 10, 2023 - Chris

I was a retired spook. Not a gray-haired old man, but a disillusioned young man. I thought I was doing my duty for God and my country, but it was hard to do both these days. My Boy Scout ethics (yes, I was an Eagle Scout) clashed with the amorality of the CIA, and I looked for greener pastures. I avoid talking about that time in my life. Now I help people instead of destabilizing their country or killing them. It was a pleasant change. And I hadn't shot anybody in nearly a month.

I was back in Chicago after my Parisian kidnapping adventure, living my more typical quiet life. At that moment, it was too quiet, which meant no cash flow. Oh well, we'd always have Paris.Casablanca. Yeah, I tended to think in movie quotes. Annoying, wasn't it?

Rebecca was a friend of mine who believed bachelors must be exterminated--via marriage. She was a board member for The Night Ministry, whose mission was helping and housing homeless--especially pregnant--teens in myriad ways. Knowing that I was a significant donor, she'd twisted my arm to buy a ticket to the Lighting the Night Gala, an annual fundraiser. I didn't love speeches, rubber chicken, or small talk, but it was for a worthy cause. I owned a tux and had nothing better to do that night, so what the heck?

As I stood in a quiet(ish) corner and nursed a ginger ale during the "getting acquainted" cocktail hour, my countenance was calm, but my mind was churning. My therapist was in there, coaching me: make eye contact, but don't stare; appear interested, but don't drool; smile--no, not that serial killer smile, Chris; put together sentences that sound "normal." Social graces were exhausting for someone with Asperger's. As people milled and mingled, many stopped by my sanctuary to talk about the wonderful work The Night Ministry did. The majority were female. A fair share were "classic beauties" or had "star quality" or were just plain hot by current standards.

I was not a prude. I liked the female form as much as the next guy, but the amount of skin some showed made me a little uncomfortable.Save it for the bedroom or the beach, ladies.One well-endowed and well-exposed young lady detected a smudge on my cheek and leaned in to eradicate it with her moistened thumb. I was sure the boobs impinging on my chest was a depth perception problem, like being uncertain where your bumper is when parking--until she shifted side to side. That was a pretty unsubtle message.

I strove to be attentive to each without encouraging them. "Beautiful evening." "Great turnout." "Have you done any volunteer work with The Night Ministry?" "What an attractive dress." "I'm a consultant." "No, I'm not currently dating." "Yes, I love pickleball."

Then I noticed a woman on the other side of the room. Not heeding my therapist's admonitions, I stared. My eyes dried up as I forgot to blink. In spite of the air conditioning, I felt sweat bead on my forehead, and my hands went damp. In mid-sentence, I fell silent and did my impression of a statue. Women started drifting away, and no new ones came to take their place. I had embarked on another Asperger's obsession.

Men surrounded her, each vying for her attention. To me, they were irrelevant. I felt drawn to her like a fly to... no, wait.Inappropriate, I chided myself.Think, dummy! Right... like a bee to honey.

I was sure there was a better metaphor to cover the situation. How about, "She was north, and I was a compass needle veering in her direction?" Alack and alas, Shakespeare, I was not.

The dinner gong sounded, and the crowd was herded into the dining area. True to form, Rebecca had made sure I sat between and across from young, attractive, single women. The company was pleasant and the speeches were stirring. And yet, though the food was better than most banquet fare, my mind kept drifting to a different table.

The meal finished, and people left the tables for a last round of mingling--and drinking--before heading home. I kept my eyes on the prize and started moving through the crowd toward her.

No description of her luminous blue eyes and shiny dark hair would do her justice. She wore her hair in a short, easy-to-maintain style. I was sure a quick towel dry and finger comb in the morning and she would be good to go. My fingers itched to do the same.

Every other woman wore a dress, many revealing. The plunging necklines and slashed skirts demanded attention. Yet in my eyes, she outshone every one of them by rocking an electric-blue high-necked Cossack shirt over vibrant, multicolored gaucho pants. The tall boots she wore looked soft and comfortable, with sensible heels and the tops disappearing beneath the pants. No skin showed except face and hands. No makeup, no visible piercings or tats. No jewelry except a small, unobtrusive necklace. She didn't fawn or simper. She radiated energy, a powerful goddess encased in an impenetrable field, body at ease but not at rest, head held high, daring anyone to come too close.

I drifted ever closer to her as time passed. Fifty feet became twenty, then ten. When I got within a few feet, I heard her voice.A reincarnation of Karen Carpenter, I thought to myself. I closed my eyes for a few seconds and basked in the sound of her mellifluous voice.

Even more appealing, she wore no perfume. My acute sense of smell was one of my autistic oddities. Perfumes gagged me. I vowed to get close enough to her soon to nuzzle her hair and skin, breathing her in to my heart's content.

I caught myself staring, a behavior I had worked hard to eliminate during therapy. After a few seconds, I reached my right hand out and, searching for the wittiest possible introduction, said, "Hello, my name is Christopher." Period. Wow, that intro would win no prizes.

Gala - Sam

I was at that dumb gala because my "boss" had bowed out at the last minute. She had planned to network with the wealthy donors who attended such gatherings, but something came up after she purchased the tickets, so she made me go in her stead. I also had to find a plus-one to replace her husband. I didn't like parties, and I didn't own proper attire, but she wouldn't relent. My "boss" and I were actually equal partners in our fledgling firm, and she'd been my best friend since the age of five. Shay had a flair for fashion and made some of the most amazing outfits, which made her shine in any crowd. Since I was doing this for her, I demanded new clothes befitting the task at hand.

She decided I could look presentable in the outfit she had designed for the gala. It needed to be downsized as I was almost a foot shorter than her statuesque 6' 1". She called the shoe store she frequented, specified what she wanted, and gave them my size. They had a pair in one of their branch stores, so Shay sent me with the company credit card to the other side of the city to pick them up. Shoes! I wouldn't be caught dead in most of those on display.

That weekend, as I left for the party, I glanced at myself in the mirror.Say, who's an ugly duckling? Not I!

Yeah, I tended to think in quotes from movies and musicals. That was from the musical,Hans Christian Andersen, Danny Kaye singing.

The gala was moderately not horrible. I had asked Bruce, a tenant of the same building where Shay and I had our office, to accompany me. He had been nagging me to go out with him for some time, and he lit up like a Christmas tree at the invite. When he picked me up, my regrets began. His hair was slicked back with gel--or grease--and his suit may have fit in the decade when it was purchased, but his belly was bursting forth from that decade and reaching forward to the next. And--oh, no!--I detected Old Spice. Dark recollections sprang up.

As we socialized during cocktail hour, I learned a lot about The Night Ministry and its work. Bruce was enjoying the open bar too much and was getting possessive. He complained about the time I spent talking with other men, but that was why I was there--networking and taking one for the Gipper.

The Boy Scout and the Hacker Ch. 01

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