The Engineering Project

As a professor of mechanical engineering, I strongly believe that students learn most from hands-on projects. I also believe that engineers nearly always work in teams, so learning to collaborate is as important as learning how to calculate structural weight loads. So, in fifteen years of teaching, I have honed a very effective, semester-long capstone project for seniors in our engineering program, in which teams of students design and build some kind of useful machine, write documentation for it, and develop a marketing plan for it.

Over the years, students have built all kinds of devices, some crappy and some ingenious. A few have even patented their devices and started their own businesses after graduating. None was as memorable as a project undertaken last year by a couple of my best students.

Shyla, a dark-skinned, Rubenesque beauty with almond-shaped eyes and the most alluring, full lips, and Bobby, a slender redhead who couldn't have been taller than five foot nothing, seemed inseparable. They both wore sweatshirts from the same sorority, and never appeared in one of my classes without the other. Neither was particularly talkative; in fact, both seemed to be a bit shy. From the work they submitted, I knew they were smart enough, but in class, they listened, took notes, and did fairly well on exams but rarely raised a hand to speak. They typically earned respectable B's on their assignments.

I was unsurprised, then, that they asked to work together on their capstone project. I tend to hang back as students work on their projects, since they will not have constant supervision and support once they enter the workplace, so, unless a group was running into trouble and sought my advice, I typically didn't know what students were working on until the semester-end symposium in which they presented their work. Such was the case with Shyla's and Bobby's project. I had no idea what they were designing and building. I expected it would demonstrate some proficiency, but I didn't think I'd be particularly impressed.

As the end of the term neared, the students were instructed to bring their projects to school, and to store them in a large, empty classroom in an older, seldom-used building on campus. The next day, they were to move their projects to designated areas for the symposium, when each team, in turn, would present its work to peers, visitors, administrators, and me.

It was my habit to preview the projects on my own, the night before the symposium, so I can take detailed notes for later grading. So, after dark one weeknight, I unlocked the door, entered the room, and turned on the lights.

I wandered through the labyrinth of projects of all sizes, taking notes, moving things this way or that, studying their design. After a couple of hours, I reached the project created by Bobby and Shyla.

At first, I had trouble making heads or tails of it. Labelled most unhelpfully with a hand-lettered sign reading "A Machine," it looked like a hybrid between a chest-pull machine from the gym and one of those posture-friendly chairs from the '80s that provided pads on which to rest your shins and a forward-tilted seat to sit upon.

I puzzled over it for a while, and blushed hard when I realized that it was some kind of sexual device. I could see that, if one were to sit upon the seat, some kind of tube would sit right between one's thighs, essentially in one's crotch. Examining it more closely, I could see that the tube emanated from a pump affixed farther down the bench that extended away from the front of the chair.

Despite myself, I felt myself getting a bit aroused, particularly having suppressed my attraction to these two young women since I first met them months ago. I have to admit, I thought about these women often, usually in ways that I'd be embarrassed to verbalize. Now, though, I could not but help fantasize about them, and about what this machine might do.

You have to understand that I'm typically a fairly conservative guy--long, monogamous marriage, many years with the same employer, a two-year-old sedan in the garage--so what happened next mystifies me to this day.

I checked the door to make sure it locked behind me when I let myself in, and returned to the device. Then, inexplicably, I undressed. I left my loosely-folded slacks on a neighboring project, hung my shirt over it, and pulled a leg over the saddle, with my shins against the padded rests, and my nether region, which by then was semi-erect, fit easily in the crotch-level tube made of black rubber. Immediately before me was another padded panel, angled slightly up and away from me at chest-height, such that I could rest my torso upon it. I found that it became necessary to do so, because the machine's control panel required me to stretch pretty far forward to reach it (a design flaw, I noted). The panel was simple, with just an on/off toggle switch.

My sense of caution utterly abandoned me at that point, partly from arousal, partly from curiosity. Reaching far forward, I flipped the switch to "on."

I was startled--frightened half to death, really--when semi-circular steel cuffs, padded with foam, bolted from the panel I was leaning on and captured my wrists. Although I couldn't see them, I could feel another pair of cuffs trap my ankles. They didn't hurt, but they were somewhat uncomfortable, especially the way the wrist cuffs kept me stretched awkwardly forward. I tried to struggle my way out of them, but the cuffs held fast, and I could not pull my hands or feet out of them.

At the same time, and equally startling, I felt a vibration and gentle suction begin down below. It felt amazingly good, but I was not in a position, as it were, to enjoy my predicament. With my wrists cuffed, however, I was unable to reach the toggle switch to turn the machine off.

What could I do? I could shout for help, but getting discovered like this was the last thing I wanted. Would it stop on its own? I could only hope that the two women programmed a timed shut-off for the machine. I would die if I were found here in the morning, still strapped onto this damned thing.

Ten or fifteen agonizing minutes later, my heart stopped once again when I heard a door open behind me. I cursed myself for checking only the door through which I entered. Although I could turn my head from side to side, I was unable to look behind me.

I heard a woman's titter. But it was worse than that. I could see upon the floor two shadows approaching.

The two figures stepped into my field of vision. I was horrified to see Bobby and Shyla. Instead of registering anger at what I had done to their machine, though, they both grinned, their arms folded across their chests.

"Well, well! Professor, just what is going on here? How did you end up in such a position?" Bobby asked through her mischievous smile.

"Look, please, you guys, please let me off this thing."

Shyla's eyebrows arched in mock surprise. "What? Let you off? But, Professor, we built this for you! Why would you want to get off it?"

Humiliated, I begged for them at least to turn the machine off.

"Well, we aren't cruel girls, Professor," Shyla said. "We can let you off. But under one condition."

"What?! What?!"

"Professor," Bobby said, "you will give Shyla and me an A in your class."

"I can't do that, and you know it. You don't have enough points left in the class to make it up to an A level. Quit this nonsense and let me up."

"I'm sorry, Professor," she said. "I think you don't understand that we're not asking. We're telling. As you can see from the sign, this is an 'A machine.'"

"Or else what?" I asked, trying to muster a defiant tone despite my fear.

"Hmm. I think the Dean would be most interested in how we found you here," Shyla said.

"She won't believe you. It would sound utterly ridiculous."

"Not if we have pictures," she said, producing a small, digital camera from her purse.

I was stunned for a moment, but an idea occurred to me.

"I'll say it was Photoshopped, that I was never here."

"Ah, that's where it gets interesting, Professor," Bobby said. "Don't you think we would have anticipated that?"

"Then what kind of proof will you have? I'll deny it to my last, dying day."

"We'll have DNA evidence," Bobby said.

DNA evidence? What is she talking about? But I saw her eyes drop down toward the suction tube, and I realized, with horror, what she intended.

But I also realized there was a flaw in their plan. Terror isn't exactly conducive to an erection, and, without one, my member lay loosely in the tube, the whooshing suction having little effect.

Shyla seemed to understand what I was thinking. Her grin widened as she looked into my panicked eyes. She turned to Bobby, who was a good half-foot shorter, put her hands on either side of Bobby's face, and softly, ever so softly, kissed her.

Damn me, but my heart began to race. I had never seen two women kiss. The idea had always seemed repugnant. I had no idea how beautiful, how erotic it was. I felt a stirring.

Standing before me, the women began to kiss more deeply, more passionately. I watched helplessly as their hands stroked each others' backs, buttocks, faces. They made soft moaning noises. And they began to undress one another, first removing their shirts, then--oh, god--their bras, freeing their breasts, Shyla's larger ones, Bobby's smaller. Pulling Bobby toward her, Shyla stooped a bit, and pressed her chest against Bobby's, occasionally brushing her own dark nipples against Bobby's light pink ones.

They knew what they were doing. This clearly wasn't the first time they had done this.

They gently sank to the floor, and Shyla laid Bobby on her back upon their discarded shirts. She unbuttoned Bobby's jeans, and deftly pulled them off, and then pulled away the wispy, lace panties. I couldn't look away. I was mesmerized, not wanting to see, but so much wanting to see. As Shyla kissed her way down Bobby's breastbone, then pale belly, then pubic mound, my breath became shallow and rapid.

At last, Shyla began to kiss Bobby's sex, eliciting a soft moan. A few more kisses there, and then Shyla pressed her face more deeply into Bobby's folds. Bobby began to grind her hips against Shyla's face, holding her own breasts in her hands.

This was more than I could stand. Against my desires, despite my desperate attempt to think of something else, I felt the blood fill my member. As it stiffened, the seal from the tube became more firm, which in turn made me even harder. As I swelled and stiffened, the machine's suction became increasingly effective. It felt incredible, despite my anxiety over my predicament. I was determined, though, to deny them my ejaculate. I would refuse to come.

Bobby did not resist, however. With a growl, she bucked once, twice against Shyla's smeared mouth, letting out a prolonged yelp that accompanied a long, violent shudder.

Pulling away from Bobby's labia, a satisfied look on her face, Shyla wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and turned to me. "How are you doing there, Professor? You're not going to come, are you?"

"No, no I'm not," I said, determined.

She got up, walked to the machine, and pushed a button on the reverse side of the control panel, one I hadn't seen from this side. The suction pump began to hum and vibrate, sending unwelcome waves of pleasure up through my body. Although I knew it would be disastrous, I so much wanted to come. But I fought it off. I can be stubborn when I need to be. I couldn't let them have unimpeachable proof of what I had done. I could not, must not reach orgasm. It was so hard to fight the urge, but I held on, trying unsuccessfully to ignore the intense pleasure.

I had to concentrate on resisting an orgasm. I couldn't talk. I panted through gritted teeth.

I thought I just might be able to hold on. I began to have hope of winning this battle. If I could hang on for another ten or fifteen minutes, my erection might dissipate, releasing me from the suction, and I'd be home-free.

Pulling her jeans back on, but not bothering with her bra or shirt, Bobby finally arose from her prone position on the floor. I thought she was going to join Shyla at the head of the machine, but she kept walking until she was behind me, just off-center to the right. I couldn't see her anymore, but I could feel her presence. I thought I could even smell the musky scent of her sex. But I had no idea what she was doing.

"You can't make me come!" I shouted, with a voice more high-pitched than I intended or wanted.

I heard Bobby laugh, but she said nothing. Out of the corner of my eye, though, I could see her hand reach for the padded end of a lever that lay along the base of the machine, near the floor. It looked a bit like a broom handle. A few feet in front of me, I could see that the lever was attached to an axle emerging from the side of the machine.

Bobby began to lift the handle very slowly, while Shyla watched my face, her mouth in a mocking half-smile.

At first, I couldn't tell what the lever was doing. But soon, I felt something smooth and hard press against my anus from within the saddle. No. No!

It felt slick, as if covered in a viscous oil. As Bobby continued to lift the lever, the cylinder pushed into my anus. I tried to clench my muscles to keep it out, but that only increased the sensation, and did nothing to slow its assault. I began to groan.

Without warning, Bobby heaved the lever upward, and the cylindrical thing rammed hard into me. I felt it hit my prostate, and my rectum began to spasm. I swear I saw stars as, despite everything, I began to come, hard. The suction, the vibration, and now this violation of the most private part of me--I could stand it no longer. I came and came and came, with an animalistic yell, my body shaking as if electrified. I felt like my soul had sloughed off from my interior and shot out of me, into the god-damned machine, and my brain flooded in a pool of endorphins. It took forever for the orgasm to subside.

After what seemed like hours, Bobby mercifully lowered the lever, slowly pulling the cylinder out of me, triggering one last spasm of ejaculation. Shyla reached to the control panel, paused a moment while she looked in my eyes, relishing the desperation she saw, and then pushed the switch to "off."

The vibration and suction stopped, and the four cuffs were released with a loud clunk.

I was shaking violently, and the two women had to help me off the machine. With my arms over their shoulders on either side of me, they walked me to the spot where they had made love earlier, and lay me down. Out of her large handbag, Twyla pulled out a couple of soft, white towels, and the two women began to clean me with a tenderness that brought a sob to my throat. No one spoke.

I eventually mustered the strength to stand, and I got dressed with trembling hands. I looked at them. Bobby was unscrewing a bottle from the machine's interior. I didn't want to see it. I turned and walked unsteadily out of the building.

****

The two women graduated last spring, and I never saw them again. My colleagues who attended the symposium the next day--I did not go--asked me why Bobby and Shyla didn't have a machine on display. I said I had no idea.

Nevertheless, each earned straight As in their final semester.