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.
