WARNING! All of my writing is intended for adults over the age of 18 ONLY. Stories may contain strong or even extreme sexual content. All people and events depicted are fictional and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Actions, situations, and responses are fictional ONLY and should not be attempted in real life.

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.

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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.