When Correctly Viewed, Everything is Lewd

If you are under the age or 18 or do not understand the difference between fantasy and reality or if you reside in any state, province, nation, or tribal territory that prohibits the reading of acts depicted in these stories, please stop reading immediately and move to somewhere that exists in the twenty-first century.

Archiving and reposting of this story is permitted, but only if acknowledgment of copyright and statement of limitation of use is included with the article. This story is copyright (c) 2017 by The Technician.

Individual readers may archive and/or print single copies of this story for personal, non-commercial use. Production of multiple copies of this story on paper, disk, or other fixed format is expressly forbidden.

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
* * * * * * * * * * * *

The following is the text of the commencement address recently given at South Harbor Institute of Technology.

Students, Faculty, Esteemed Guests, and those watching the live streaming;

I was once a student right here at South Harbor, though I never graduated. I guess you would say that business and financial success got in the way of my education. Despite not being a true graduate alumni of South Harbor, I have been asked today to share with you the secret of my success. Dean Smathers insisted that I tell– and I am quoting him here– “the whole story, the true story, a story our students can take with them into their lives as they leave South Harbor.” So… here it is.

It all started my sophomore year when I noticed that one of the machines which we were studying in my robotics course might have a different use than what it was originally designed for. The machine was supposed to “hand roll” taffy into a long tube that would be cut up and wrapped for sale. It was one of a couple hundred industrial machines which were used in the robotics labs here at South Harbor. The devices had been contributed by various local industries because they were either obsolete or a product line had changed and they were no longer needed.

We didn’t have the whole machine, of course. The portions which actually made the taffy and blended it to the proper consistency weren’t there. We didn’t have the big stainless steel rollers that formed the batch of taffy into a long log for processing by the small rollers. And we didn’t have the machines which cut the long tubes of taffy produced by the small rollers to length and then quickly wrapped them. What we had was one sub-assembly with two small sets of computer-controlled, medium-soft rollers that could spin and also move from side to side. We were supposed to program them to properly pull and shape the taffy– or in our case, a Play-Doh- like putty.

Maybe it was because my assigned partner for this project was a rather busty blond whose tits kept getting in her way– and mine– as we tried to make the roller assemblies spin and slide back and forth properly, but I started imagining the device fondling a nipple rather than pulling on taffy.

The problem with such thoughts is that once you start seeing mechanical actions in sexual terms, all of the machines suddenly take on totally new possibilities. As Tom Lehrer, once sang way back in the 1960s, “When correctly viewed, EVERTHING is lewd.”

The ram cylinder which could be programed for different depth, speed, and intensity suddenly becomes a fucking machine in need of a dildo. That strange tube used to hold sausage casings for a continuous stuffing operation suddenly becomes a very expensive Fleshlight. There were hundreds of machines in the school labs and my mind was starting to see sexual uses for each and every one of them.

All of that would have remained just a distraction to my pursuit of an eventual automation management degree if fate had not intervened in the form of a small overnight fire in the engineering building. It wasn’t a large fire, but it was very smoky. And that smoky fire smouldered for several hours overnight in the ceiling area of the engineering building before becoming hot enough to trigger the sprinkler system. Everything in the classrooms and labs ended up covered in wet, greasy soot. The insurance covered the costs of repairing and cleaning the building and furniture and so forth, but the cost of cleaning the contents of the labs– like the hundreds of little donated robot parts– was not.

It was close enough to the end of the year, that they cancelled all labs and called off most classes, or held necessary ones in various places around the community. But that still left the problem of the dirty, greasy little robots.

Then somebody came up with the idea of giving several of us students who didn’t live very far away an opportunity for at-home, summer work-study jobs. The idea was that we would take home as many of the devices as we could carry in our cars, vans, or pickup trucks, and then carefully disassemble and clean them. It would even count as class credit since we were learning even more about robotics design as we reassembled and tested the various subsystems.

I really didn’t need the money since my dad is a vice-president of a multi-national company, but I did need something to do over the summer so dad didn’t think I was “spending my time smoking dope and loafing around.” This was perfect for me– and for Tiffany, my project partner. She really needed the money, but lived in a small apartment with three roommates and had no place where she could work. I lived in an apartment over my parents’ garage. That doesn’t sound like much until you consider that my dad collects antique cars and keeps a dozen or so at home in the garage in various stages of restoration. I would provide the place and Tiffany would provide most of the work.

Fate wasn’t done blessing me, though. Just after the fire, my father was asked by his company if he could temporarily transfer to one of their subsidiaries in Europe while they got a new product line up and running. That meant that rather than just having the apartment over the garage at my dad’s house, I had the whole house to myself for at least the summer and possibly all of the next year.

Dad put his antique cars– including the convertible– in storage while he was gone so he didn’t have to worry about me wrecking them or something. And my car– well it wouldn’t hurt my car at all to sit out in the weather. So we had the whole garage area to use as a workshop. We set it up like a production line, but like I said, Tiffany did most of the dirty work. I primarily tested the assemblies once they were cleaned and re-assembled.

I also began working on a side project. I was honest about it. I didn’t charge the time I spent building my personal machine against my work-study hours. I just borrowed more and more subassemblies as Tiffany got them clean and ready to test. I also borrowed time on the school’s control computer which we had been loaned to use for testing.

That was my downfall. I should have used my own computer. The interfaces necessary to actually control the subassemblies were relatively cheap. But how was I to know that Tiffany would also be working on a side project. And that side project was trying to figure out what I was doing instead of helping her clean subassemblies.

About half-way through the summer my side project was complete and ready for testing. I felt a little like Tony Stark transforming himself into Iron Man as I slowly situated my naked self inside the finished machine late one Friday night. Tiffany wouldn’t be back until Monday, so I had the whole weekend to myself. The “suit” was suspended from a small electric crane my dad used when he had to pull an engine out of one of the antique cars he was restoring. It fit around my body, encasing my arms, legs, head, neck and torso in a motley collection of subassemblies which had been designed for some entirely different purpose. In addition to the taffy rollers, there were assemblies that were originally supposed to smooth cloth for printing and some intended to lift castings out of molds. There were weird “thumpers” which were intended to vibrate the long trays which slid potato chips from the cooker to the bagging area. And scattered throughout the machine were small power boxes whose original purpose had been to weld battery packs for toys.

There were one hundred seventeen subassemblies built into my machine, and I had re-purposed each and every one of them for sexual stimulation. The first step, of course, is to relax. And what is more relaxing than an all over body massage. The soft, warm rollers running up and down my arms and legs were heavenly, especially with the warm mist of oil sprayed from the produce moisturizers. The slightly harder rollers on my back caused me to sigh in contentment as the knots slowly disappeared from my lower back.

Meanwhile, the taffy rollers which started this whole thing were pulling and twisting my nipples just enough to cause them to start to swell and harden. I had to really fine-tune those rollers to work with a man’s nipples. Programming them for a woman’s nipples was easy in comparison.

I was totally relaxing and letting the sensations wash over me. I had drifted so far into Nirvana that I didn’t even notice as the suit slowly rotated so that I was effectively on my stomach. The adjustable air bladders located throughout the suit held me so softly that it was like lying in the most comfortable bed ever created. The sensors noted my growing erection, and just as programed, the sausage casing subassembly pulled my growing member into its well-lubricated opening.

I wasn’t trying for edging when I set the parameters of the program, but I didn’t want a mechanical quickie, so after only a couple of slides up and down the well-fitting tube, the movement stopped. The ultra-thin latex sheeting, which I had substituted for the sausage casing in the subassembly, made the sensations feel almost real. If anything, it was a little too warm. I would have to adjust the program to slightly cut back the heaters which were intended to keep the casings supple during a long production run.

My first indication of a problem was when the suit began to bend in the middle. I had designed it to do that, but my intention when I added that feature was to make the suit bi-sexual, meaning that it could be used by either a man or a woman. I had even designed in three ram cylinders, one for the pussy, one for the mouth, and one for the back door. I didn’t know if I would ever find a volunteer to test it, but the engineer in me said that if I was going to design a sex machine, it was going to be a complete machine.

I was bent all the way into a “V” with my butt high in the air when the warm oil began spraying on my ass. I knew what that meant and began shouting “Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Computer Override! Computer Override! Terminate Program! Terminate Program! Terminate Program!”

I had used “whoa” rather than “stop” for the vocal shut down command because someone might shout out “Stop!” when sexually excited and not really mean it. “Whoa,” was my programmed safe word. Shouting “Whoa!” should have stopped everything.

But it didn’t.

The backup of calling for computer override or saying “terminate program” should also have totally stopped everything.

But nothing happened.

Instead, the computer responded in its snotty little voice, “Program control transferred to alternate account.”

“What the hell?!?” I screamed back. Then my mind went into that panic mode where you are thinking so fast that when you play it back later in your memory, it’s in slow motion. “Shit!” I screamed. I was using a university computer that automatically connected back to the main system through the net. Someone had hacked into my account or had authority to take over my account. Someone else was now controlling the machine’s programming.

The rollers on my arms and legs began moving slightly faster. The sausage tube started sliding all the way up to the top with each stroke. And I felt the tip of the anal ram cylinder touch my asshole. Actually, what I felt was the seven-inch dildo that was attached to the end of the ram cylinder. It stopped as soon as it felt resistance. I knew what it was doing. It was recording the entry point. It would now move very slowly forward exactly three centimeters and then pause for two seconds before pulling fully back out. That would be repeated five times before it added three more centimeters to its travel and recycled. After doing that twice it would be pushing nine centimeters– about three and one-half inches– into my ass. Then it would begin fucking me with all seven inches of hard rubber.

I had designed in a lubrication system for the dildo, but hadn’t filled the tanks because I wasn’t going to be using any of the rams. I don’t know if I was scared or relieved when I felt warm oil oozing from the top of the dildo as it pushed against my asshole the second time. When I felt that, though, I knew who had to be controlling the machine.

“Tiffany!” I yelled out. “What are you doing?”

“Having some remote control fun,” her voice replied. It sounded rather tinny coming from the speakers on the computer. “You make me do all the work while you have all the fun, so I thought I would make you work for a while and I will have some fun.”

“Tiffany,” I yelled, “you let me go.” I started to say “If you don’t you will be in big trouble!” but I had only gotten as far as “If you don’t…” when the supports on my head tilted me to face the incoming mouth ram.

“Open wide,” Tiffany said with a giggle as the ram touched my lips. “Don’t make me spin it to force your mouth open,” she added firmly.

Why had I added that feature to the programming?

I opened my mouth and the soft, six-inch dildo slid onto my tongue. There was also a lubrication system for the mouth dildo, but I had it set as more of an ejaculation system. After every so many thrusts, the dildo would spurt an artificial cum composed of egg whites, powdered sugar, and lemon juice. It looked very real when I made a test batch. I can’t vouch for taste, but it smelled amazingly close. I was really hoping it was the fake mixture that was spurting into my mouth. It seemed a lot more slimy on my tongue than I remembered it, but I had only tasted a small drop on my finger.

“I hope you enjoy yourself,” Tiffany’s voice said from the computer. “I will be over in a couple hours to see how you’re doing. I’ve reset the intervals and activated the power packs to keep you on the edge, but I’m not sure of my settings. Who knows? You might be able to pop off before it takes you back down.”

What did she mean, “Take me back down?” I found out a few minutes later when the soft contact probes pushed out against my skin and the power packs triggered. I had modified the outputs so they were more like TENS units than welders, but they still had more than enough power to deliver whatever Tiffany had programmed them to do.

She had set them for a series of eight or ten high intensity pulses about every second. I don’t know if she set a constant number of cycles or if the program sensed when my prick became totally limp, but after about ten seconds the pulses stopped.

It took several minutes for my whimpering to stop and my breathing to return to normal. Then the dildos started up once again. After about a minute, the tube began sliding slowly on my prick. I really didn’t want to respond because I knew what would happen once I got hard, but I was totally at the mercy of the machine… and Tiffany.

After a little while, my prick once again became stiff and I could feel an orgasm just starting to boil deep in my balls. Then “Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam!” the pulses tore through me. I don’t know if she intended it that way or it was an accident, but I was pretty sure that the anal dildo was conducting pulses directly into my ass. The one in my mouth tingled my tongue with every hit, but it was nothing like the one in my ass. That one convulsed my abdomen with each surge of electricity. I screamed with each pulse and when they had finished my prick– and my entire body– was once again limp. My flaccid penis was almost pulled out of the tube, but not quite.

I lost track of how many times my hijacked machine took me just to the edge and then slammed me back down, but it was starting to get light in the garage when I heard Tiffany’s voice from somewhere behind me.

“How was your night?” she asked brightly. “Was your machine everything you expected it to be?”

I couldn’t answer with the dildo moving in my mouth, but I grunted back at her. I was hoping she could hear the anger– and desperation– in my voice. She walked over to the work bench and picked up a control that was sitting next to the computer. “Let’s see now,” she said softly as she held her fingers over the buttons.

Soon the anal ram was out of my ass and I was straightened out and flipped over so that I was lying more or less on my back. The suit was then lowered down so that I was almost on the garage floor. Tiffany came over and, after using the controller to remove the mouth dildo, began removing the head portion of the suit.

I immediately started yelling at her and calling her a stupid bitch. She looked down at me and said, “This goes back on as easily as it comes off. I could let you stew until tomorrow morning and see if you’re in a better mood.”

Actually, it was harder to put the head gear on than to take it off, but I got her meaning and shut up.

“So here is the situation,” she said in a calm, matter-of-fact voice. “You have been tormented by this sex machine of yours all night long and you really need release.” She smiled and her voice changed to almost a sing-song as she continued, “And I have been watching you regularly on the video surveillance cameras and really need an orgasm.”

She knelt so that her legs were on either side of my head. I could see that she was naked under her short skirt. “Here’s what we’re going to do,” she said firmly. “You are going to give me what I want and I will let the machine give you what you want. Does that sound fair?”

The tube had gotten me almost to the point where the shocks would start, so I said, “Anything! Yes, anything to get this to stop… or complete.”

“I thought you’d say that,” she said sweetly, “but we’d better wait a few seconds so we both start at the same point.” She smiled again and said, “Don’t you think that’s fair?”

“Yes!” I said, then yelled “NO!” when I realized what she had actually just said.

I yelled and screamed again as the pulses started. While I was yelling, Tiffany turned herself around and lowered her cunt down over my face. She was definitely excited. The smell of her sex was almost overpowering and juices where seeping from between her pussy lips.

“Remember,” she said, “you give me what I want and I give you what you want.”

She lowered herself down slightly more so that her clit was riding on my nose. I tilted my head and pushed my tongue as far into her as I could. My nostrils were now rubbing against her swollen pleasure gland.

I concentrated all my effort on bringing her to orgasm before the shocks started up once again… but I failed. She was moaning and rubbing against me when suddenly the lightning struck. I heard her go “Aaaahhh” as the tingle of electricity went through my tongue into her sopping cunt.

“Maybe I should try that again,” she said when the pulses stopped. I didn’t say anything, but redoubled my efforts sucking and lapping at her cunt and clit. I knew that she was close when she started yelping with each lap of my tongue. Her “ah, ah, ah, ah,” was becoming louder and shriller, but I was in a race against my body as the sliding tube took me closer and closer to release… or electrical torture.

Finally Tiffany began shrieking and clamped my head firmly between her legs as she rocked her cunt against my face. She dropped the control as she bounced and trembled in an explosive orgasm.

Either she pressed the right button before she lost control or she was holding a deadman button that activated when she dropped the remote. In either case, for the first time in hours, the machine did not spark me back down when I reached the edge. Instead, just as Tiffany started into her orgasm, the tube began moving almost furiously on my prick.

My balls erupted as if they had been holding back for hours and hours… which was exactly what had been happening. I screamed into Tiffany’s cunt as my body bounced within my custom built sex suit.

I must have passed out or something because the next thing I remember, Tiffany was working the remote and the suit was bringing me back to the standing position. I could hear the latches releasing and the front and back of the suit began to move apart.

“Can you stand by yourself?” Tiffany asked.

I mumbled something and stepped away from the suit. Then I screamed at her, “Why did you do that to me?”

“You wanted it!” she yelled back. “I’ve been reading your diaries. You wanted me to take over your machine and drive you crazy for hours and hours.”

“That wasn’t a diary!” I screamed at her. “It was the first draft of one of my stories that I post on those erotic story sites– like the ones you read when you think I’m not watching.”

“Oh,” she said very softly. Then she looked at me very sheepishly for a long while and asked, “So, did you enjoy it?”

“Yeah,” I replied softly. “I guess so.”

“You guess so?” she replied. “You passed out from pleasure when you finally came. If I could do that, I would scream, ‘Yes! I enjoyed it!’”

“Do you want to?” I asked.

“Want to what?” she answered.

“Enjoy my machine,” I replied. “We’d have to wait until next weekend when we can be sure that nobody will be around, but with just a few adjustments, it would work for a woman.”

“Sounds good to me,” she said as she brushed the front of her blouse up against my naked chest. “And in the meantime,” she added, “we can explore what we like and don’t like in regular sex together.”

She started walking toward the steps which led to my living area. “I’m losing my apartment at the end of the month anyway,” she said over her shoulder. “My roomies have all graduated and I can’t find anyone to share the expenses.”

She stopped and turned so she could look back at me with a pouting expression on her face and said, “You wouldn’t want me thrown out on the street would you?”

And that’s how Tiffany Sexbots was born. For the rest of the summer, Tiffany and I worked together cleaning the remaining subassemblies… and building a true prototype of the first Tiffany Pleasure Machine. What we ended up selling as a product a year later looked nothing like my original machine, which we both enjoyed in my parents’ garage that summer, but the basic idea remained the same. It adapted the most sophisticated robotics available for pleasure purposes.

My wife and I have made a fortune selling sexbots and pleasure machines since then, and I owe it all to a dirty mind which caused me to see a sexual use for an insignificant, little, taffy-rolling subassembly.

That’s the whole story, the true story, a story you can take with you as you graduate and leave South Hampton Institute of Technology. So, remember: (Sung) “When correctly viewed, everything is lewd. I could tell you things about Peter Pan, and the Wizard of Oz, there’s a dirty old man.”

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
END OF STORY
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =