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.