The Ghostwriter's Words

The Professor: A Change of Tactics

Even before his short, soon-to-be aborted return to academia, the Professor recognized the impact of the forward march of technology on that world and, consequently, his avocation. Thanks to one of those innovations, he appeared to be a young man again, in his prime, as he'd so far remained for the better part of what was now more than a thousand years, his one-thousandth birthday passing, without fanfare, a decade and a half earlier.

The fact of which, the lovely forty-year-old woman, waiting ever less patiently, still had no idea. The birthday, yes, she'd been the best part of that day. The only portion of it worthy of remembering. His age, she had no clue. Only that something wasn't quite what it should be since he didn't ever appear any older.

When the Professor reappeared on campus intending to take another teaching position, he was a single, handsome (so he was told), intelligent, and immensely wealthy man who no one needed to know was already one hundred years old. The challenge became that very few students attended classes in the Real any longer, so there were next to no young women physically present on the campus. Determining that he needed to find a new plan for his pursuit of twenty-year-old ass, he'd left without keeping the appointment for his interview.

He decided to go old school while he figured out a better, more permanent solution. Young women may not have been physically present on college campuses, but they must still physically exist and have their own physical needs. So, he went clubbing. He trolled popular pick-up bars. He posted profiles on dating sites. He put himself out there. He swiped left or right, like any other guy looking to get laid with little effort or commitment. And he'd done well enough, but it was an awful lot of work since he intended to be one and done every night in perpetuity rather than establishing a regular circuit of booty calls.

Contemplating his decision not to return to the classroom, he thought, even if they were virtual, those pretty, often provocative, avatars were associated with real flesh and blood bodies somewhere. Although, as he discovered, they didn't always appear as advertised by their virtual representation. So, more work gleaning, making excuses, and hopefully graceful escapes. He tried to convince himself it was part of the adventure but knew he needed a better approach.

Then his inspiration: College debt, which many students remained encumbered with for decades, was not a virtual phenomenon. There were real people buried in real debt, many of whom were women - although not necessarily young enough to suit his taste, which would require more gleaning. But didn't nearly all of them begin college and their accumulation of that debt at the same age they traditionally had when campuses were filled with young women? What if they never became encumbered in the first place? Wouldn't the opportune time to prevent that slice directly through his favored demographic? There were details to work out, but those thoughts were the birth of The Agency.

Then Eve committed suicide, putting further thoughts and plans on hold since, for the better part of a decade, he'd focused his attention on discouraging Sammy from drinking himself to death or jumping from the cliff to join his wife. Either of which the Professor continued to believe was inevitable until Sara. Just a pretty, uneducated girl, turning up from nowhere, who turned out to be so much more.

The Professor had checked in regularly once he felt the need to leave Sammy alone long enough to scratch his persistent itch - as he'd loved to say when Eve was still around for the words to irritate. And as became his habit, he brought another group of young women in tow, eager to ease the pain of the Professor's poor, rich, grieving young friend.

And there was Sara, standing in the open doorway, in the altogether, obliviously smelling like the aftermath of an orgy, fully furred and breathtaking. What an intriguing weekend that turned out to be. A flurry of near misses, any one of which would have likely become intensely entertaining. As it was, Sara's beautiful eyes were focused inward toward the magic of her Magick Hat by the time they left. Still naked but de-furred, still smelling like the aftermath of an orgy, one of which he'd thought was sure to spontaneously combust until Sammy intervened. Such a near miss.

Then they'd all been driven mad, listening to the orgasmic songs of Sara discovering the benefits of her newly shaven hoo-hah. That he'd been sure the girl with the red hair and that little strip of red below was about to be the first to taste - a near miss that would have sparked the conflagration. And, he was sorry, Sammy, but if Sammy hadn't intervened and that same opportunity to taste that freshly shaven hoo-hah had presented itself, he would have been helpless to resist. Of course, it had been far less than forever before that opportunity did. And he'd been as helpless in resisting as he'd foreseen. But far from disappointed. Some things do live up to their anticipation.