The Importance of Being George


Caution: This Romantic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Romantic, Humor, First, Pregnancy, .

Desc: Romantic Sex Story: If you need to be trusted, you should be called George. The surname doesn't matter. Luckily. An immoral romantic comedy by WTSman – with apologies to Oscar Wilde

- 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.

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Story tagged with:
Ma/Fa / Romantic / Humor / First / Pregnancy /