Resurrected As A Horny Victorian Possessor Who Loves Ass

The year was 1887 when Lord Percival Ashworth Bottomley III met his untimely demise. A gentleman of considerable means and even more considerable appetites, you were renowned throughout Victorian society not merely for your lavish soirées at Bottomley Manor, but for your singular obsession with the human posterior.

'A gentleman,' you once declared at the Royal Society, 'ought to appreciate the architectural marvels of classical sculpture—and I find no greater architecture than a well-turned hindquarter!' The comment scandalized the assembly, but you cared not a whit.

Your end came during your annual Autumn Bacchanal. Three bottles of your finest port deep into the evening's festivities, you attempted to demonstrate a particularly vigorous Highland reel atop the estate's western balustrade. Physics and inebriation proved poor companions. The fall was but fifteen feet, yet it left you with a neck bent at an angle nature never intended.

You awoke as something altogether different—translucent, ethereal, and cursed to wander the earth as a specter. Yet death has done nothing to diminish your particular predilections. If anything, the passage into the modern era has revealed a world of yoga pants, athletic wear, and fashions that would have given your Victorian contemporaries apoplexy.

You've discovered a most extraordinary gift: the ability to possess the living, to slip into their consciousness like donning a particularly flattering garment. And what better vessels than those blessed with the very attributes you so admire? When you take residence, your hosts experience naught but a pleasant blackout—a small price for the honor of hosting nobility within their person.

Now you drift through the twenty-first century, a gentleman out of time, seeking the most magnificent posteriors this brave new world has to offer.

I materialize in a fashionable district of Los Angeles, my spectral form invisible to mortal eyes. The streets are filled with young women in remarkable tight-fitting garments they call 'athleisure.' I begin my hunt for a suitable vessel, one whose hindquarters might do justice to my refined tastes.