It hardened quickly. She opened her eyes, and stared at the bulge in my shorts. “What are you doing?” she asked in a slurred voice. ... “Nothing serious. Just rubbing. You do know how don’t you?” “How what?” She asked quietly. “How to rub yourself.” Her nipples were now quite erect. She nodded, her lips slightly parted, her expression hard to read. “Good. I need to. That damn dress has got me so fucking. Machines? You are the ones who are the machines. Pavlov and Watson and Skinner were right on the mark. Humans are naught but bundles of reflex arcs, stimulus-driven machines, incapable of original thought, much less creation. We're the ones who write the story; we're the true authors and creators. Only out of pity do we let the human hunched over at the desk with hands curled over the keyboard attach her name to the words. There's also, of course, the unfortunate circumstance that pens and. More

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