The Importance Of Being George
- an immoral romantic comedy by WTSman – with apologies to Oscar
Wilde.

If you need to be trusted, you should be called George. The
surname doesn’t matter. Luckily.
______________________

I’m fairly anonymous. I look like all those other co-workers at
your large corporation that you don’t quite know either. When I
smile and nod at you in the cafeteria, in the elevator or at the
photo-copier, you will nod back and force a smile while you rack
your brain trying to remember who I am. You’re sure you’ve seen
me before (even if you haven’t), and if you ever bother to check
up on who I am you will be told that my name is George. That will
put you at ease.

It shouldn’t. If you ever see me you should start checking job
advertisements. I’m called in when there is something fishy going
on, or at least when someone suspects there is something fishy
going on. Usually there is. Usually it is so bad that by the time
my report hits the boardroom table, some of the people who would
usually be sitting around said table in Armani suits will be
donning orange jumpsuits in a Federal facility somewhere. Quite
often bankruptcy and massive lay-offs follow. To protect my
cover, I hang around and get laid off with everyone else. Those
of you who remember I’ve only been there for a short while (and
surprisingly few of you do) will commiserate with me. “Poor Old
George,” you’ll say to your colleagues. “He sure wasn’t here long
– can’t be much of a redundancy package for him.”

There isn’t and nor do I need it. My pay, my real pay, is very
good. It is up front and untraceable. The money I receive as an
“employee” is sent directly to the account of a charity of my
choosing. That’s where the pitiful redundancy pay, if any, will
also go. For the neglected street kids that money is a god-send.
They don’t know where the money comes from; they don’t know me
and they never will. I prefer it that way. If anyone ever
bothered checking, they would find out that the money came on
behalf of a Mr. G. Something-or-other. The Something-or-other
varies, but the G is constant.

For a good reason: I’m always George. That’s the safest way. If
anyone of you ever comes across me again, being George is a must.
You can’t remember my last name anyway. You’ll be at ease again.
“Funny coincidence that good old George ended up the same place
as me,” you’ll think. I, on the other hand, will pity you. In all
likelihood you’re about to be struck by lightning a second time.
But you will never associate that with me. After all, it’s just
good old George whose luck is as bad as your own.

So, yeah, I’m always George and you hardly ever notice me. I like
it that way.

You see, my name is George. Truly, it is. It's a good trustworthy
name. People like that name. Three US presidents – starting with
the Father of the Nation – and two vice-presidents were called
George, making it the fourth most presidential name after James,
John and William – a huge overrepresentation. I'm not saying it
is the name that got them elected (although I'm stumped to come
up with an explanation on how the most recent clown got in
otherwise). But Americans like their Georges. There's one in many
movies – think the morose side-kick in "You've Got Mail". And
there's one in every class. There were three in my graduating
class at college.

Actually, were you to look up the records of said college you
would find no less than ten people named "George" graduating that
year – even if seven of them are somehow absent from the year
book.

And no, I'm not going to tell you which college – they're
innocent. Only I and the FBI know about it. And the Feds aren’t
telling either. They know and they approve; the fake Georges help
solve white collar crime. I am not allowed to tell you details of
those investigations. But I'll tell you how the seven fake
Georges came to be.
______________________

I was visiting my home town as I do quite often – Grandma who
raised me still lives there, and it coincided with my tenth
anniversary. Having nothing better to do I rang the college to
hear if there were any arrangements for old students at the
ceremony. I never found out if there was – Miss B, who'd been the
college secretary since Reconstruction answered the phone in
person – and she was in tears. "Oh George," she wailed – she
knows Grandma very well – "Oh George, that dratted computer has
crashed. We can't access our records and we can't print out
diplomas and transcripts and everything is chaos."

"But surely you have a backup Miss B," I said – anything else was
unimaginable. Miss B might be way past ordinary retirement age,
but she runs a tight ship.

"Yes George," she confirmed. "We do. But the dratted thing caught
fire – actually caught fire – so there's nowhere to read back the
backup."

I think I forgot to mention that I've 'done computers' all my
life. I didn't know this system from Adam, but I was willing to
help, so I said "Dry your eyes Miss B – I'll be right over."

"Oh George, thank you," she said and I drove over to campus.

On arrival, there could be no doubt that Miss B had told Gospel
Truth – the whole administration building stank of burned-out
power supply. I looked at the ruin of the machine – a PC so old
it belonged in a museum, except that this specimen had definitely
had it. Under normal circumstances you can have a go at the hard
disk too see if it will spin, but the little circuit board on the
disk itself was torched and melted. There are some very clever
people, who can retrieve data even from such wrecks, but they
need weeks – and we had days; this was Friday afternoon and the
graduation ceremony was on Monday.

"Yup," I said after the distasteful examination. "This is toast.
We need another machine and we need it fast."

"Do you think that Joe's Computer Store can help?" the President
of the college asked – he had joined us when he heard a male
voice in the front office.

"I’m sure he can sir," I replied. I actually called him by name,
but since it is very unusual and could identify the place, I
shan't write it here. He was already President when I myself had
graduated and I also knew him very well privately. Grandma knows
everybody, you see. Actually I suspect she knew the President
better than his wife would like, but I’ve never asked.

The suggestion of checking out Joe’s store was a good one. If
anyone was likely to have the antique tape-readers Miss B used
for backups, it would be Joe. Joe’s been there forever. I bought
my first computer from him and I had an after-school job there
years ago. He would be the man.

There was an exceedingly pretty girl in the office and Miss B
performed introductions. "This is George, our knight in shining
armor," she said to the girl. "He graduated ten years ago but
comes back every so often to visit his grandma. George, this is
Annabel Lee – our exam administration secretary.  She joined us
three years ago."

"Annabel Lee, like the beautiful girl in the love poem by Edgar
Allan Poe?" I exclaimed – remembering snippets from my one
compulsory literature course. "Very apt. I sincerely hope no-one
is going to send you to an early grave by the sea – that would be
a sad waste."

I don't think Annabel Lee knew any Poe, but she certainly knew
the appreciative looking over I had given her and she giggled and
blushed prettily. The President tut-tutted and returned to his
office.

“I think the graduating students will put us all in our graves,
early or otherwise, if they can’t get their diplomas on Monday,”
Miss B said gloomily. “They will be severely disadvantaged if
they can’t apply for jobs or graduate schools like everyone
else.”

“Well, we’d better get cracking then,” I said. “Off to Joe’s.”

"Oh thank you George – you always were such a sweet boy!" Miss B
exclaimed.

Annabel Lee giggled again. “I’ll come with you – sweet boy,” she
said; the last two words only mouthed, “To make sure your
purchases are invoiced to the College,” she added by way of
explanation to Miss B.

“Hmph,” was all Miss B said. She’d been quite a girl in her day
and even if she hadn’t heard the banter, she clearly doubted
Annabel Lee’s motives. I hoped she was right!
______________________

So we walked out to the staff parking lot, where I had
shamelessly parked. Annabel Lee was most appreciative of my car.
So she should be. I drive a nice car. A very nice car. My 1967
Corvette Sting Ray Convertible with the optional wire wheels is
my pride and joy. It was also one hell of a pussy magnet back
then. Now I just enjoy driving it, having all the pussy I can
handle, but sadly I can’t drive it very often these days. It
doesn’t go well with anonymity so I leave it at Grandma’s and
only drive it when I’m back home. She teases me that the car
makes me come home much more often than I otherwise would. She
may be right on that one, although I do love Grandma too. After
all it was her who gave me that car. She had bought it herself
new and – unknown to me – she had it completely restored as a
graduation gift.

If Annabel Lee was appreciative of the car, I was appreciative of
Annabel Lee. I got to see a lot of leg when she got in, and her
blouse – already struggling to hold in a truly splendid pair of
tits, was strained to breaking point when she sat in the Sting
Ray’s bucket seat. Highly distracting I must say. But distracting
in the nicest way.

Even with the college a fair way outside of town, the drive to
Joe’s was much too short, but we did get some wind in our hair.
OK, mine’s short and uninteresting but Annabel Lee has a shock of
long gorgeous auburn curls.  Always the gentleman (yeah, right!)
I got out of the car quickly so that I could dash round and
assist Annabel Lee out. The ‘accidental’ grope of her firm little
bottom was met with that cute giggle of hers. This was turning
into a great day.

Joe was there himself and received me like a long lost son. When
he realized our errand – needing not just a good a sturdy PC, if
not exactly latest and greatest, but also hardware to read the
tapes from the antique PC, he became positively animated – eyeing
a chance to get rid of some otherwise worthless junk, no doubt.
But he could deliver the goods – he had the relevant tape drive
and components to connect the old stuff to a modern machine, at
least temporarily. The combination of my history with Joe, and
Annabel Lee’s pretty smiles and generous display of cleavage,
tempered Joe’s lust for profit, so for a very reasonable sum we
ended up with a mass of parts that would combine into a powerful
replacement for Miss B’s wreck.

Now, the Sting Ray doesn’t have a lot of luggage space so Annabel
Lee ended up having to sit with a lot of it in her lap. Naturally
I had to hand it in to her, getting me close-up views of that
cleavage – which caused an immediate constriction in my jeans.
.Annabel Lee noticed and giggled. A fine day indeed.

Back at the College, Miss B approved of the purchases at once,
relieved that the expense was so far modest. She had found the
backup tapes, but when asked for installation disks for the
backup software she looked blank. I explained what I was after
and she vaguely replied that the “software was on the computer”.
She had no manuals, no disks and no recollection of the name of
the stuff. I anticipated a long night.

Miss B excused herself around 7 PM. She was invited for dinner at
Grandma’s house and would convey my apologies. Putting together
the PC took quite a while. Annabel Lee phoned in for some chicken
wings with all the trimmings and kept me entertained while we
waited for the delivery. We kept up a happy banter while I
worked. Annabel Lee was 100% sexy. She would wriggle her butt and
sway her hips, setting her truly splendid tits in motion. I was
constantly hard. By the time the food arrived I wasn’t sure that
my primary hunger was for food! But OK, we ate.

Having no idea what I was after, software wise, I decided to put
a standard Linux distro on the PC and get some tools to do a raw
read of the backup tapes. As I had hoped, the name of the backup
product was written in clear text in the headers and that at once
both helped and hindered the process. Helped, because I now knew
what was on the tapes. Hindered, because the company that
produced the original software no longer existed and I drew
blanks trying to get hold of the software on the ‘net. But I got
a very good description of the format from a very obscure
archived bulletin board that some geek for reasons unknown –
although I am eternally grateful for his efforts – had put on the
‘net.

Writing a program that would read the content of the tapes was
easy enough. But working out what to do with the data was a
different matter altogether. If Miss B had been vague about the
backup software, she was even more so about the actual
application. She had provided a “manual” before she left, but it
was obviously some garage-product and there was no documentation
on the formats involved.
______________________

While the Linux code read the tapes and the chicken wings got
eaten I picked Annabel Lee’s brains on the actual application.
She had been there long enough to run it for several years and
knew it well. She also hated it, but she had a deep understanding
of how it worked. My lustful appreciation of Annabel Lee went up
a notch. Not only was she smoking hot, she was also exceedingly
bright. I was now seriously in lust.

As could more or less be expected, the tapes caused us grief.
These old things cannot always be read on any other drive than
the one that wrote it. Besides, the tapes had been reused for
years and were essentially worn out. The most recent backup –
from only a few days ago – was largely unreadable. We had much
better luck with the one used two weeks previously. Annabel Lee
told me not to worry; the exam results entered in the last two
weeks were still available on paper and could be reentered fairly
quickly. It was the loss of historical data that would be
catastrophic. Just reconstructing the exam results of all
presently enrolled students would be bad enough (and quite
possibly unfeasible with the time-restraints we were working
under); having to type in data for the last thirty years would be
a killer, but the College had to be able to look up results when
students required certified copies of the transcripts, or when
prospective employers did a check on applicants.

While the tape-reader was grinding away again, we had time to
talk and the conversation turned personal. She asked me about my
background and learned I had grown up with my grandmother. “How
come you were staying with her and not your parents?” she asked.

“I never knew them,” I replied. “My mother was barely sixteen
when she had me. She took off just days after giving birth to me
and has never been heard from again. I don’t know who my father
was – Grandma doesn’t know and she suspects my mother didn’t know
either.”

“Gosh, that must have been hard on you,” Annabel Lee said with
sympathy. “My Dad was a womanizing drunk and Mom threw his
cheating ass out when I was little, but at least I knew him – and
I’ve always had my Mom.”

“I suppose it was hard, but I never worried about it. Grandma has
been wonderful to me,” I mused. “She has done an amazing job
raising me. She even provided a very good sex-education; quite
possibly to stop me from making choices as bad as my parents' but
nonetheless cool.”

“Neat!” Annabel Lee said.  “If your mother was just sixteen, your
grandmother can’t be all that old?”

“No, she isn’t,” I agreed. “A lot of people though she was my
mother. But I’ve always been told to call her Grandma – no
deception there.”

“I can’t imagine getting sex-ed from my grandmother,” Annabel Lee
said with a grin, “but come to think of it, Gran’s frequently
been the one I talked to about boyfriend trouble.”

The conversation, having turned to these more intimate subjects,
naturally led to not so subtle questions about possible current
partners which turned up negative for both of us. Annabel Lee had
recently broken up with a boyfriend because he was “pushy”. When
probing gently what she meant by that, it turned out that the
young man was getting impatient. “I’m saving myself for
marriage,” Annabel Lee stated both sounding and looking like a
Southern Belle of a much earlier epoch than the present.

Privately I sympathized with the bloke; I would get terminal blue
balls going out with so fine a specimen as Annabel Lee without
getting any, but outwardly I expressed my sympathy and admiration
for her stance – although I did suggest that young men (I
estimated I was 8 or 9 years older than her and thus probably at
least 7 years older than the bloke) did tend to think with the
“little head” (Annabel Lee giggled at that) “when the pressure
was on”.

“Oh, I take the pressure off alright!” she countered in a matter
of fact tone of voice. “I had all kinds of trouble getting his
stuff off of the dashboard of Mum’s car one night”. I had been
leaning my chair backwards and nearly lost my balance. The
continuation was even more blunt:. “Another time it both got in
my hair and practically ruined my favorite dress dripping down.
After that I only gave him blowjobs – that avoids the mess.”

All this was delivered in a way suggesting it wasn’t anything out
of the ordinary. My conclusion was that the ex-boyfriend was an
utter idiot – and that my initial urge to get to know young
Annabel Lee much better was worth following up on. I decided to
up the ante – a bit of grab-ass and bumping of hips when we went
to get refills from the hard-working coffee brewer became the
order of the night. Annabel Lee responded with her infectious
giggle and much swaying of that perfect little bubble butt of
hers.

Around midnight we had practically all the data. The file formats
of the ”database” program was not exactly advanced – a number of
tables, each occupying separate files, with obvious names – and,
after some probing, fairly obvious content. For instance, the
file called “STUDENTS” contained student number, name, date of
birth and some codes about year, class and study program and so
on for each student. With Annabel Lee’s help I decoded that
without much trouble. Another file contained the study programs –
numbered, titled and with a list of subjects that must be passed
to graduate in that specific program. It was brute force – if
you, for simplicity’s sake, could choose between three subjects
in one area, two subjects in another and everything else was the
same then there would be six programs: But there were of course
many more – and as all was spelled out with all combinations, the
file was massive. When courses changed title, even slightly, they
got new numbers and thus the number of combinations where
endless. Some business logic would help a lot here!

To boot, the real bastard of a file – the one containing results
and with the imaginative name “RESULTS” – simply had a line with
student number, course number and grade for each result achieved
over 30 years, along with the date and initials of the teacher
responsible for the entry. But at least the format was simple.
Annabel Lee had reconstructed the missing recent data from hand
written exam protocols and that could easily be arranged in the
same way, making the data set complete and ready to put in to the
new computer.

Getting data out for any one student meant brute force reading –
a lot of reading. No wonder the primitive DOS program had crawled
in recent years. It was screaming for a real relational database
so I decided there and then to make no attempt at resurrecting
the original program but rather write a simple front-end to MySQL
I set Annabel Lee to work with describing the study-programs –
current and old – in a simple meta-language and I got cracking
coding.

At 3 AM we were both too tired to continue and had a bit of
shut-eye in the President’s office – Annabel Lee on a couch and
me curled up in a reasonably comfortable recliner chair. I had an
“emergency” toiletry kit in the car and Annabel Lee had stuff in
her desk drawer, so we were fine. The night was not cold, but we
pinched a couple of blankets from the first aid room anyway.
Getting ready for “bed” was quite interesting. Annabel Lee
stripped down to bra and panties, losing her blouse, skirts,
shoes and stockings in a show that would have earned top dollar
at any strip joint. Not to be undone, I stripped down to my
boxers – which were by that stage grotesquely tented out. Annabel
Lee leered at me and licked her lips very suggestively before
sashaying away to clean her teeth. Sleep did not come easy!
______________________

Around 8 AM the front office phone started ringing. I stumbled
out to pick it up. “This is George,” I said – and I guess I must
have sounded groggy.

“When your grandma told me you hadn’t come home, I thought you
would be at College still dear boy,” Miss B’s voice was heard to
say.

“Uhu,” I mumbled in reply. Or something of similar coherence.

“Give me the worst – what’s the story?” Miss B demanded. She
might have been anxious, but she was never one to shy away from
the realities.

I pulled myself together. “Not too bad, actually,” I replied.
“Between the various tapes I think we have almost all the data –
excluding the last two weeks’ worth of input, but Annabel Lee has
reconstructed that from the paper protocols.”

“That’s a mercy!” Miss B exclaimed. “So we’re all set?”

“Hardly,” I replied. “The program is dead and gone and buried.
I’ll have to write something else.”

“George, I hate to remind you that we have the graduation
ceremony on Monday at 11!” Miss B said.

“Yup, I know,” I replied. “But I think we can do it.”

“’We?’” Miss B queried.

“Yes, we.” I replied. “Without Annabel Lee I wouldn’t have a snow
ball’s chance in hell working out what the data meant. She’s a
trouper.”

“Yes, she’s a good girl. When did she go home?” Miss B said.

“She didn’t,” I replied unthinkingly.

“WHAT?” Miss B exploded. “Do you mean to say she spent the night
with you? Shame on you both. She’s practically engaged to the
Parker boy!”

“Calm down Miss B,” I replied. “She’s not. She told me she sent
that young man packing when he wouldn’t respect that no means no
until they were married.”

“Oh,” Miss B said, sounding mollified.

“She spent the night on the couch in the President’s office and I
slept in the recliner. No-one could have taken offence,” I
hedged. I am pretty darn sure Miss B would have taken serious
offence, had she seen our strip-shows, but mercifully she hadn’t.

“Oh,” Miss B repeated.

After a brief pause, Miss B asked if there was anything she could
do.

“Absolutely,” I replied. “If you could organize some food for us
that would be great. If you head past Grandma’s and pick up a
change of clothes, well, several changes of clothes actually – I
anticipate a couple of long days – and my shaving kit and some
towels, I would be most grateful.”

“Sure, can do,” Miss B said, back to her usual practical self.

“And please smooth things out with Grandma too,” I begged.
“She’ll think I’ve abandoned her.”

“Have no fear – she knows you’re helping me,” Miss B said. “But
I’ll fill her in.”

“Thanks,” I said with feeling. “And if you could head past
Annabel Lee’s place too and do something similar for her perhaps?
Oh, and say where she is and what she’s doing, of course. Her
mother must be frantic.”

“Hardly,” Miss B replied drily. “If I know that woman she spent
Friday night dancing and would have no idea if her daughter was
home or not. But I’ll go past and get stuff for Annabel Lee too.
Put her on so I can ask her what she wants.”

Women! Clothes are clothes, right? Wrong. I went back to the
President’s office, shook Annabel Lee gently awake and told her
to come to the ‘phone to arrange what Miss B should pick up.
______________________

Miss B brought enough breakfast to feed an army. She also had
clean clothes for both of us and suggested we use the showers in
the gym, retrieving a pass-key from her purse. We did take up the
suggestion – regrettably in separate facilities, but much
refreshed we returned to the administration building and a crisis
conference with Miss B.

At least Miss B thought it was a crisis after I told her I
envisaged spending all day writing the remaining parts of the
program. “I am not belittling your effort George – or yours
Annabel Lee,” she started. “But I can’t see how we could possibly
make it in time. I mean, you haven’t even written the program
yet. It is now Saturday morning and given that the process of
printing the diploma and transcript takes over 20 minutes per
student...”

“20 minutes?” I spluttered, sending coffee down my no longer
quite so clean shirt. “Is the printer and plotter that slow?”

“Oh no,” Miss B replied, slightly shocked at my outburst and
looking at me reproachfully. After all, a gentleman is not
supposed to interrupt a lady talking. “No,” she took up the
thread again. “The plotter is not fast, but the diplomas are
largely pre-printed. All we need is the name of the student, the
degree and the date. Signatures are added by hand, of course. It
only takes a minute or so to print. No it is the program that
spends nearly 20 minutes finding the data.”

“The program is dead,” I replied firmly. “The new one I’m writing
is a real database application. Retrieving the data for a student
should be a matter of seconds.”

“Seconds?” Miss B echoed with incredulity.

“Seconds!” I confirmed. “At most. The original program was very
primitive.”

“It worked much faster in the beginning,” Miss B faltered.

“Of course it did,” I replied scornfully. “But as I say, the
method was primitive and once you added data it got slower and
slower.”

“So you really think we have a chance?” Miss B asked – sounding
like she didn’t really dare believe salvation was near.

“Absolutely,” I replied. “As long as I can have Annabel Lee
helping me. I need someone to play around with a form builder for
the formatting of the diplomas and transcripts. She knows what
the old ones looked like. She can do it.”

Annabel Lee beamed.

“Oh, you can have her,” Miss B said unthinkingly.

Annabel Lee beamed even more. She later claimed I blushed.
______________________

We spent all of Saturday on the programs. I had Annabel Lee
working on the output formatting. Luckily she had done a lot of
desktop publishing  while taking her secretary’s courses and she
was a natural. After a couple of hours she had a fair forgery of
the previous program’s output. I then got her to work on the
look-and-feel of the input sections of the new program – the ones
she and her colleagues would be using to administer students,
courses and exams. The new computer would be networked; something
the old one most certainly hadn’t been, and while results could
only be entered on the console of the new machine – for security
– data could be retrieved with a simple web-interface from the
other office computers, making the daily admin work much simpler.


My fascinating assistant got cracking on her tasks and completed
them fairly quickly. My own work took longer. I am not the
world’s fastest programmer and there was a lot of business logic
to code but the turn-key Linux distro had all I needed for
database, web-server and so on in a simple package. As I said,
slow work, but late in the afternoon we had the first prototype
to test. Annabel Lee was working from Miss B’s workstation. (I
had temporarily allowed that, but would later enable the security
of only permitting data entry from the new machine’s console – we
didn’t want students to be able to hack their way to better
grades!)

Annabel Lee was sitting down typing away. I was standing behind
her chair, massaging her shoulders – she almost purred at that! –
and I was splitting my attention between what happened on the
screen and what happened to her cleavage when she typed.
Decisions decisions!  Her cleavage won. But that was OK; the
program was so far working! “Yes!” she squealed. She was of
course just excited about our progress with the program, but I
was envisaging a situation where Annabel Lee would squeal “Yes”
for a completely different reason and those impure thoughts had
an immediate effect on my anatomy.

Annabel Lee spun around on the chair and her face came close to
said anatomy. She was momentarily startled by the tent, but then,
looking up at me with the sexiest look I have ever seen, she
unzipped me, liberated my straining dick and for the next many
minutes I was subjected to the best oral sex I had so far ever
experienced. God, can that girl give head! It was the purest
sexual bliss of my life to date; she kept bringing me to the
brink, then backing down, then repeating until my legs were
almost jelly. Then and only then did she take me the last little
step to Nirvana and I came like a fire hose into her sweet mouth.

I pulled her up for a wet kiss. A first for me, tasting myself. I
then lifted up her skirt, pushed her backwards onto the desk –
knocking over assorted brick-a-brack in the process and pulled
down her panties.

“What are you doing?” Annabel Lee squealed.

“Returning the favor, of course!” I replied and dove in.

I gather no-one had eaten Annabel Lee’s pussy before. Initially
she claimed that it was nasty. She very quickly changed her tune
and a few minutes later she was screaming down the house. I kept
licking and she kept screaming. And gushing so much pussy juice
that I couldn’t keep up. Miss B’s desk pad was soaked.

It was Annabel Lee’s turn to pull at me. “Fuck me now,” she
yelled when she had breath again after a long string of orgasms.
“I want you in me,” she panted.

“Are you sure?” I asked. “I have no condoms or anything.”

“I don’t care. I need you. Just shut up and fuck me,” she yelled.

Only an idiot would argue with such a demand. “As you wish,” I
said, dropped my pants and slammed my re-hardened rod into her
pussy. She “umph’ed” a little when her hymen tore, but she was so
hyped up on a sexual high that she didn’t care. We rutted like
rabbits. Annabel Lee was quickly back at her orgasmic plateau –
very loud and sounding very happy – and despite the recent
blow-job, I wasn’t far behind.

“I’m close to coming,” I panted. “Do you want me to pull out?”

“Noooooooo,” she yelled, locked her legs around me and took me
over the brink. Feeling me cum, or knowing I did, brought her a
final orgasm and Annabel Lee howled and thrashed around. Miss B’s
desk looked like a war-zone afterwards.

I’ve been around. I’ve had a lot of sex. Good sex too. With
good-looking girls. But never anything like what I’d just had
with this dynamo. It took me quite a while to come down.

Finally I had breath again. “I thought you were saving yourself
for marriage,” I teased.

“I was. I don’t care. I just had to have you,” she replied
huskily.

“You’ll have to marry me now,” I said – only half in jest.

“Deal,” she said and kissed me.

“I think I just got engaged,” I mused.

“Yup,” Annabel Lee replied happily.

“You’ll have to wait until the shops open Monday before I can put
some sparkly on your finger,” I said.

That got me another kiss. There were many kisses and several
heavy make-out sessions during the rest of the day, but no more
actual sex before bedtime. We slipped in to town late Saturday
night for a quick meal but with me staying at Grandma’s and
Annabel Lee’s mother likely to be home – not to mention a lot of
still unfinished business with the exam data, we returned to the
college. Still, having Miss B’s passkey improved the night over
the previous one. We entered the deserted college clinic and
fucked ourselves silly in a comfortable, if narrow bed.
______________________

Sunday morning we didn’t shower in separate facilities. As I said
I’ve been around and I’ve had shower sex before, but only at
home. I’ve never done it at a motel, hotel – or college gym, with
an unlimited hot water supply. Let me tell you it was fun. And
loud. The hard industrial tiling of a college gym bathroom
amplified the high pitch screaming every time Annabel Lee came.
It ended up kind of embarrassing since a cleaning lady walked in
on us, no doubt summoned by the noise. The sight of the two us,
soaked, with Annabel Lee bent over with my rampant dick shoved up
her sexy ass, and both of us howling out in orgasm, made her beat
a hasty retreat

We quickly dried each other, got dressed and hastened back to the
administration building just in time as Miss B arrived with
breakfast. “You poor things – you are working so hard,” she said
while fussing over us. “You look so tired – did you get to bed
late again last night?”

“Fairly,” I replied – actually it wasn’t all that late, but we
hadn’t gotten much sleep…

“But we made a lot of progress yesterday,” Annabel Lee added.
“George’s program is marvelous – it is so easy to use.”

“That’s lovely dear,” Miss B said. She had been eyeing Annabel
Lee closely when she gushed about me. Now she was scrutinizing
me. “When can I get to see that marvelous program, George?” she
inquired.

“Not for some time,” I replied. “It is true that we’ve gotten a
lot of this to work – Annabel Lee and I work very well together.
But there is still a lot of stuff missing. We also have to test
it very thoroughly before loading all the historical data. Still,
we’ll get there in time, don’t worry.”

“I’ll leave you two to work together on it,” Miss B said with a
wink and got up to leave.

I heard the front door downstairs close behind her a few moments
later. I looked out the window and saw her heading towards the
staff parking lot. Before she could get there, she was
intercepted by the cleaner who’d walked in on us earlier in the
bath. The cleaner was telling Miss B something – she looked
agitated, so it almost had to be about Annabel Lee and me. But at
the end Miss B just shrugged, then leant in close and whispered
something to the cleaner.

Moments later they were both laughing. Miss B walked over to her
car, shaking her head. As I said, according to Grandma she’d been
quite a girl in her day!
______________________

The historical data would be bulk-loaded – a process likely to
take quite some time. But to test the input, search and printing
parts of program thoroughly, we needed a smaller data-set to work
on. For that purpose I created seven fictitious students – George
S. Agnew, George S. Barkley, George D. Curtis, George D. Dawes,
George H. Fairbanks, George B. Garner and George G. Hamlin.

Do you get it? They all had the first name “George” of course. If
you are keen on American history you’ll spot that the surnames
are those of Vice-presidents who did not end up as Presidents.
The middle-initials are a bit more quirky. They are the first
letters of the names of the dwarfs in “Snow White and the seven
dwarfs”. OK. Sorry. My mind works that way. Finally, the keen
reader will notice the lack of any surname starting with “E”. You
see, the surname of the real me does. But I ain’t tellin’ what it
is. (The keen student of American history will also know that
there was never a Vice-president with a surname starting with an
“E”, but as I said, that’s not the reason for the omission.)

Anyway, the Seven Fake Georges where assigned birthdays close to
mine (same year, day=month=1 for A, 2 for B and so on), given
variants of study programs in force when I studied and provided
with respectable but unremarkable grades. They were coded like
they had been entered over the course of their degrees (sorry,
pun intended) with the initials of real teachers of the day. In
other words quite kosher data.

Playing around with that data, we got the last details of the
input and output systems to work. It took all day, but it was
steady, if slow, progress with no unexpected set-backs. Annabel
Lee’s work with the formatting had been excellent – the
transcripts were clear and easy to read and the diplomas were
nothing short of perfect – she’d found a perfect match for the
old font. We tested the diplomas plotting on cheap photocopies of
the expensive pre-printed forms and the transcripts on plain
paper without watermarks, but when we were sure it all worked we
did a “production-run” of them all to time the system. One minute
forty seconds on average; we had saved the day!

We loaded up the historical data, set the program to work on the
years’ graduates and at nine in the evening we went back to “our”
bed at the clinic. Once more there was more sex than sleep. I
briefly mentioned birth control again, but Annabel Lee said she
didn’t care. “We’ll just marry before I start showing,” she said.
Christ – life was suddenly moving fast.

Monday morning was mad. The office was frantically busy, but busy
in a good way with the President and the Deans signing diplomas
until their hands were numb. No-one noticed when Annabel Lee and
I slipped out at 10 AM and found a jeweler’s shop who sold us a
very nice engagement ring.

We watched the Graduation ceremony go off without a hitch and
afterwards there was a small celebration in the President’s
office. “I cannot thank you enough for your outstanding and
dedicated help to the College,” the old boy said. “You saved us
from a very serious problem. How can we ever repay you?”

“You already did,” I said coolly – holding up Annabel Lee’s hand
for all to see. “My ‘fee’ is your secretary. We’re engaged.”

Over the general congratulatory mayhem, Miss B was heard to
mutter “Yes, so Mrs. Anderson informs me.”

Mrs. Anderson is the cleaner who walked in on us. Annabel Lee
blushed profusely, but I just took dear old Miss B in my arms and
said earnestly “But you told me I could have her!”

It was Miss B’s turn to blush. “You get out of here boy!” she
exclaimed. “You have to tell your grandmother – and the young
lady’s mother too. And you had better treat Annabel Lee right, or
I will have your hide.”

I kissed her and then went to obey her instructions to the
letter. You always do what Miss B tells you to!
______________________

I promised to tell you how my handy extra identities came to be
and so far I’ve only told you a romantic story. So OK, at this
stage I hadn’t planned on using the seven fake Georges for
anything. I swear! But a couple of coincidences conspired. First
of all, the test transcripts and diplomas were just lying around
near the plotter and printer. In the rush on Monday morning, they
were gathered up with the real documents, sorted by faculty, and
signed by the President and the respective Deans. As I said, the
President had been President when I graduated ten years
previously. And the Dean of my faculty was likewise still in
office. No-one had any time to look at what they were signing.
But Annabel Lee’s colleague who subsequently organized the
documents according to her roll call lists had discovered the
seven additional sets and laughingly handed them to me after the
Graduation ceremony “to keep as souvenirs.”

And still, I didn’t think of using them. Despite having the
correct date of ten years ago – technically the day of graduation
is when you pass the last exam, so the program had put ten year
old dates on them, they would have been dangerous fakes with no
underlying data in the database to back them up, if not for
another accidental error, that is. To facilitate regular backups
and easy disaster recovery – something which under the
circumstances seemed prudent, I had configured the computer to be
able to boot up in a minimal maintenance mode where it would copy
the entire system to a DVD-R disk. The disks themselves were
bootable so you could restore onto a completely blank system
after a disaster. I tested it extensively.

After the test-prints, I decided to “nuke” the system before
doing the bulk-load of the historical data. But I was tired (or
got distracted – you try to do this kind of work with an über
sexy half-naked girl sucking your dick!) and the DVD-R used to
restore a “blank” system had the test-data in it! It got loaded
into the production database and to this day it remains there. So
anyone checking with the college to determine if the seven fake
Georges’ college degrees are genuine will be told that they are:
The system says so.

I was already doing forensic accounting when this episode
happened. The company I work for is private, but closely
connected with the FBI. Shortly after the episode with the
college database, we were contracted to look into top-level fraud
in a major corporation. The Feds were precluded from going in
themselves so they asked if any one from our firm would like to
try working under cover. That’s when I remembered the seven fake
Georges. I still had the perfectly good diplomas and transcripts
and when I had loaded the original “blank” DVD-R recovery disk in
order to document the system (with a view to turning it into a
commercial product), I discovered it wasn’t blank at all.

I told our FBI contact who loved the idea. He made a quick call
to the college under an assumed name and got confirmation that
George S. Agnew was indeed a graduate.

No-one at the college today knows any better: Annabel Lee left
shortly after we married (she was showing, but didn’t mind). She
has been busy raising our babies since. In fact she has never had
a period in all of our married life. We are both only children
and subconsciously decided to compensate; number five is on the
way at the moment. Miss B finally retired when the President did.
She’s a little frail, but otherwise fine. We visit often. The
President retired less than a year after this episode. His
harridan of a wife turned positively nasty when he was suddenly
at home most days. He left her (something he should have done
years ago) and my suspicions about him and Grandma proved well
founded; he moved in with her immediately. The two of them look
after our steadily increasing flock of children whenever we
visit. We arrive in a people-mover, but if we visit in summer,
Annabel Lee and I always take the Sting Ray out for a spin. At
least one if not two of our kids have been conceived in that car.

And in case you wondered: Yes, we have a boy called George. Our
first-born. It is such a trustworthy name.

THE END.