This is another deviation from my normal fare (at least, I think so; some would disagree). Please pay attention to the category the story is in because the story caters to it; those looking for characters or situations more like my long series will be disappointed. That said, this one isn't as harsh as "Post-Nuptial agreement".
Hopefully some readers will enjoy this.
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I'm a dirty old man. The worst of the worst. Society looks down on me in almost every way, and many consider me worse than murderers and violent racists. Worse than pedophiles, even; at least they own up to their desires.
What they really mean is they can be arrested for them, because what they're doing is actually illegal. Me, I'm just immoral. A-moral, maybe, too.
But I still have integrity.
"Old" is debatable, but given the perspective of the people involved, 46 is definitely old. I have, however, taken pains to make sure I don't look it as much as possible. When my hair started greying, got rid of it. when my eyesight faded, got contacts, then laser surgery when I could afford it. I figured out in college that while many women might talk about guy's personalities and getting to know them, having limited body fat, good grooming, and decent muscle definition got many of them naked more reliably than anything else except chemicals. With that knowledge, I made sure to exercise and eat in a way that kept my physique better than average for men of my age.
Eventually I attracted a particular woman who stuck around longer than average, and I didn't mind as much. We got married, had a couple of kids, got a house, but things didn't work out. It was my fault, one hundred percent. I didn't even contest it in the divorce.
My first problem was that I liked my work more than I liked my wife or kids. Where the kids were concerned, I made the effort to show up at the appropriate events and functions, and I made sure Christmases and birthdays were acknowledged, but my heart wasn't in it. I was going through the motions, and everyone could tell. My wife was fully devoted to my kids, and she tried to pay attention to me too, but gradually my lack of interest in my children began overshadowing her interest in me. That dovetailed with my other problem.
I figured out a long time ago I like thin women, in all respects. Curves don't do it for me. As soon as the measurements between a girl's hips and waist differ by more than 10, I lose interest, ditto if any number involved is above a 35. And if they have to wear a bra I'm out. Forget a handful; I'm one of those odd guys who actually likes it if a girl raises her arms and her boobs vanish.
I also don't like wrinkles, which is where things fell apart with my wife and I cemented my legacy as a dirty old man. It's hard for women over a certain age to stay thin and keep their skin perfectly smooth. There's a billion dollar industry of creams, injections, and surgeries built around that fact.
You really only find it in teenage girls.
That's why I'm sitting up in a hotel room, pouring a glass of sweet Riesling on a side table while swirling a bit of bourbon in my rocks glass, and waiting.
Downstairs and across a connecting corridor or two are several thousand chairs being set up in a ballroom, and milling around between the two buildings and all sites around are somewhere between one and two thousand teenagers with maybe three to four hundred chaperones trying to keep them from getting into trouble. It's a state-wide science competition for the students, competing for scholarship awards. Day one of the competition is complete. I was one of the judges.
I work as a chemical engineer for a pharmaceutical company and have a masters in chemical engineering and a minor in computer science. Judging is volunteer work, unpaid (though the organization usually likes to throw some five to ten dollar swag at the judges as a thank you, and pays for some food). You spend a few hours watching the kids give presentations on their efforts to revolutionize the world of science. Most of it is mundane, though some of the groups show real innovation and understanding beyond what you'd expect at their level. A lot of them are fully invested too; many of the kids are the high-flying types, desperate to maintain a GPA that gets them into Ivy schools, and looking for any accolades that might boost that hallowed transcript.
Despite what anyone might think, I judge the projects objectively, based on the merits of the science. Maybe I only tell myself that, but my track record shows I have no problem giving high marks to a bunch of pimply, glasses-wearing, shabby guys who seem allergic to bright light, just like I won't hesitate to sink the scores of a group of bubbly bimbos who can't even bother to stay consistent in using the metric system. I am, as I said, a man of integrity.
But I also keep my own notes. I mark the teams with senior girls. And I have my own scoring system. It's usually based on body weight, height, hip/waist ratio, and cup size.
Even though they don't get their final numeric scores until well after the competition, the teams get access to written comments from the judges as soon as they're done scoring. That's where I let my computer science degree work for me.
The security on the system that records and reports the scores is laughable. It was built for a group run by public and private school teachers; they may not have gotten the lowest bidder to do it, but whoever it was definitely bid in the bottom tier. It's not as bad as it could be, but security was not their primary concern, and it hasn't had a real overhaul or update on the software in at least 5 years. So slipping a little virus in there is child's play, at least for me.
My person of interest this time is Rory. Budding materials scientist who, along with her partners, tried to design a more efficient soldering torch based on the melting points of modern solder materials. Their presentation was good, but they suffered because their prototype failed in their demonstration when their power cord broke. It would be an easy fix, but without a demonstration their score suffered.
Today had been round one. The best performers of today's rounds compete tomorrow, and that was where you could win real money; scholarships, grants, that kind of thing. Their team might get there; some of the other projects were truly abysmal. But a higher score would help.
So when Rory logged in to check on the comments from me (by phone, of course, because all of the kids used their phones), my virus grabbed her cell number. And then it sent her a text.
"If you want to guarantee you make it to the next round, go to room 1712 at 5:30 tonight. You'll find a keycard behind the planter just outside the elevator. Yes, this is for exactly what you think it is. Except your ass is what I'm interested in. I promise if you let yourself, you'll enjoy it."
I'm good at sex. I've had several women tell me that over the years, and before things fell apart my wife definitely shared my bed more often than was necessary just to have kids. And I either got them off or all the women I was with were really good at faking muscle spasms and Kegel contractions. Either way, I'd bet any amount of money I had that I knew more and was more skilled at sex than any of the boys these girls might have been with.
The insistence on anal? That's just sensible. These kids think they're invincible. Sure the girls might be on birth control, but are they always remembering their pills? Are they remembering not to also take something or eat something that might counteract the effects? And one broken condom screws up things for everyone; even a mil of precum leaking in the vagina means pregnancy chances are no longer zero.
I'm a dirty old man, but I'm not an idiot. Mostly.
After leaving the glass of wine and a few other things, I take the stairs up four floors to my actual hotel room and open my laptop. In a small window in one corner is the webcam feed from room 1712. In the other is output from the texting client I set up.
As I said, I'm not an idiot. The students are often desperate for grades and recognition, but not all of them have the right mix of personality issues and competitive nature that make them willing to take me up on the offer. No less than ten girls got texts from my anonymous virus bot with similar invites. Two of the girls didn't even look at the messages, four more deleted them shortly after reading, and two others wrote back fairly aggressive and inventive replies questioning my gender, sexual orientation, hygiene, fashion, and housing status.
Rory and one other girl named Nadia were the only ones that had read them and not replied, but also hadn't deleted them. The texts self-deleted after 5 minutes to erase evidence that could be shown to administrators or chaperones. And, of course, I wasn't actually in the room they were invited to. If they dragged a bunch of other people there to show them what was going on, there was vanishingly little evidence for them to find.
Maybe they'd just ignored them, but in my experience when the messages were read and not deleted or replied to it meant the girls were thinking about it. It remained to be seen whether thought would turn into action.
5:30 passed with no activity through the camera. I sat in sweatpants, Crocs, and a loose sweatshirt, waiting. The anticipation and my mental memory of the girl, half dressed up in slacks and a navy blue blouse, were enough to make me half hard. I resisted the urge to start playing with myself; if things went well I wouldn't need to bother with that.
At 5:38, as I was starting to think I might have to give up on Rory's charms, I heard scraping at the door through the webcam's mic. Then there was the whirr-click of the lock disengaging.
The door opened and she shuffled in quickly, nervously. She let the door close behind her and she jumped as it closed. Then she looked around.
She was in the same outfit from the competition. The slacks were tight on her slim legs. When she stood still her thighs had almost a two inch gap between them. Her ass was a perfect oval, curving around and up to her back but not pushing out or protruding. Her blouse was loose, but it hung evenly all over, no bulging mammaries pushing out the material. Her head was an inverted teardrop, with her chin so narrow it almost seemed to come to a sharp point. Her face was a little flat, but her cheeks popped out under her oval eyes. Her long hair was light brown with blonde highlights and ruler straight, falling down to her mid back and framing her face in a square with her bangs.
My groin surged in anticipation.
I clicked a few buttons and her phone rang. That also startled her and she studied the phone for a while as it rang at her. I wasn't sure if she was hesitant or just confused; half the kids forgot that their phones were actually capable of real-time voice communication, and they only knew what their ringtone sounded like because they'd heard it used as a sound effect on a show. She finally clicked to answer.
I typed, and the words came through her phone by hijacking its onboard assistant voice program. Siri was about to get naughty.
"Hello Rory. Thank you for coming. There's some wine on the table if you'd like."
