All characters involved in sexual activity are over 18 years of age.
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Some guys are strong, with big rippling muscles. Some are athletes, like the guys who captained the football team at high school, then go on to set the record on the rowing machine at the work gym. I am neither, and I've always known it. I am, however, clever. It took me a long time to learn and accept that I was never going to be tall, and I was never going to run fast or kick a ball well, but actually being clever didn't mean being an unpopular geek. For example, I was about 11 when the biggest, coolest boy in the class was sat next to me by the teacher in the hope he'd get more work done if he was sat next to a nerd, and he and I struck what became around school a very famous deal: I agreed to do his homework (he was so far into remedial, I could do it in seconds), and he would beat the living shit out of anyone who picked on me. I would still call on his services years later.
As years passed, I grew into a sturdy, deceptively healthy-looking lad. The beautiful girls gave their first blowjobs to the football team guys and the guys who were always in trouble, and I desperately tried to find ways to ensure these girls found their way into the back of my car (when I got the cash to buy one).
I tried romance and poetry. I taught myself guitar easily enough, and wrote a song for a girl, but she was more embarrassed than impressed, and a few other attempts with flowers and so on never worked that well. I was kissed by a few girls, of varying degrees of prettiness, and I got to second base with a crazy girl who joined the school and left the month after.
The solution hit me almost by accident.
Obviously, like most smart kids, I used a computer to do most of my homework (obviously, when I wasn't masturbating). When I wanted the computer to do something it didn't do automatically, I just wrote a piece of software that would do it. I didn't think this was anything special, and when I talked on-line it seemed other people were doing it too, so when I published an application on a donations-based site for web apps that made your computer send text messages reminding me of stuff I had to do, I didn't think anything of it. When I re-wrote it to handle the strings as data instead of text, to save cost and reduce system burden, and to enable it to recode in other languages using google APIs, I still thought nothing of it, but I was pleased when it got a few hundred 'kudos' points on the website.
I was walking from school back home, kicking a pebble shaped like Donald Trump's toupe, when my dodgy old mobile rang. An American voice from the applications and systems development team at a big media company asked me to confirm if I was the author of this application, and if I was happy to sign to say I hadn't used anyone else's code or work in producing it, and to take the code off the website. Then they asked if they could use it in one of their systems. I nearly said 'yes' immediately, but had just enough nous to say 'how much are we talking about, here?'
"Well, I'm not in a position to discuss financials, but it'll reflect the business value of the application," I was told.
A letter arrived in the post, and I signed it and sent it back. I got a letter two days later by registered post and in it was a contract, which I signed. I had to say I would keep the sale secret for at least 4 weeks, but during this time, I simply never thought about it. I got on with my life.
"Tony, there's a letter for you," Mom yelled from the front door. "I'll leave it on the side". I heard her close the door of our suburban 2-bed town house, and slumped downstairs to open the envelope. I pulled out a 'with compliments' slip, and a cheque. I stood and read the cheque. I'd never seen one like it. The number was broken with each digit in its own little box, and there were ones, tens, hundreds, thousands, and tens of thousands. And fucking hundreds of thousands. I read it again. About one thousand times. I counted the columns. Then I counted them again.
I had been paid $172,429 US fucking dollars for an application that took me an afternoon and evening to write, and less than a day to debug. That was about £120,000 here in Britain.
That's more than Dad made in a year. No wait, that's more than Dad made in 3 years. That's more than his entire estate was worth when he died. That's about what this house is worth. I'm fucking rich! I'm gonna need a bloody bank account, I thought.
I was about to rush straight out the door to head into town when it occurred to me that I was wearing just my underwear.
An hour later, showered and breakfasted, with my ID and a stack of letters with my address on tucked into my old Business Studies folder, I headed over to the bank. There were three cashiers serving: two grumpy but pleasant looking guys, and a stunning, sophisticated blonde, with neat, short hair, manicured finger nails and a plunging neckline that showed a tantalising glimpse of cleavage each time she leant forward to stamp something. And of course, there was a 'retail' smile turned dazzlingly at each customer in turn. I guessed she must've been no more than 22, but when you're only 18, that few years makes the world of difference. Somehow I knew immediately that I'd be picturing myself cumming over her pretty, round tits as soon as I was back home in my bedroom.
When the bloke at the end pressed his annoying 'cashier number 5' button to call me over I had to stifle a lot of swearwords. Then I decided, probably for the first time in ages, that no, I wasn't going to be told what to do. I let the old woman beside me go ahead, and waited in line. Then the next guy buzzed, and I did the same again, this time a married-looking guy in his forties chuckled, knowing exactly why I was waiting. The girl at the checkout briefly made eye contact with me as I let him past, and I thought I noticed a smile creep over her pretty, inviting lips.
She buzzed, and I walked calmly up to her till. Something about having money had changed me already. Maybe I was walking taller, maybe I was just more confident. Either way, I was looking straight into the eye of the most beautiful, slightly older woman, and I felt on top of the world. 'Hello, I'm Tony. I need to open a bank account and pay my first paycheque into it.' I was impressed she maintained her professionalism, even though I knew her personal interest would be lost already.
"Hi, Tony. I'm Rebecca. Have you brought ID with you today?" I produced my passport and drivers licence.
"Our current accounts require a £1000 deposit each month for the higher interest rates. How much will you be paying in?" she asked.
"A lot more than that," I chuckled, and handed her the envelope. She pulled the cheque out, still attached to the compliments slip, and another folded piece of paper I hadn't seen before. She unfolded the letter, read a couple of lines and gasped. Then she resumed the professional face, and folded the paper again. "Tony, you need to be talking to one of our investment, or savings specialists. I'm also pretty sure the mortgage people will want to speak to you. Do you have another appointment, or have you got some time this morning to look at how we can help you make the most of your fortune, I mean your money?" Her smile was exciting and enlivening. A spark was twinkling in her eye, and there was a slight flush of embarrassment to her face.
"Can't you help me?" I asked, confused at why this was suddenly getting out of hand.
"Let's go to a meeting room," She answered me. "Wait here a second, and I'll come round".
