Four weeks after Professor Sammy Needleman's explosive demise, the academic world was still trembling - not just from intellectual discourse. I, Dr. Penny Throbb, arrived at his "cremation" to find it was a massive orgy disguised as a funeral. His son greeted me with a wink, his eyes briefly lingering on my curves barely concealed by a form-fitting black dress, saying, "Dad always wanted to go out with a bang... or several."

Needleman's obsession with death took a kinky turn in his final years. He once told me, "I'd rather be stuffed and mounted than buried, and both beat a dry spell with Mrs. Needleman." Little did we know, he'd arranged for his body to be transformed into a lifelike sex doll, now proudly displayed in the university's "Special Collections."

His infamous crumpled suit and grey sweater? A clever ruse to conceal his Adonis-like physique. Beneath that disheveled exterior lay a body chiseled from marble, adorned with glinting pierced nipples and a thick Prince Albert ring that made his cock look like it was wearing a crown.

At a Princeton Commencement, he leaned in close, his hot breath tickling my ear as he whispered, "Let them think I've broad shoulders. Wait'll they see my broad... sword." As if to prove his point, he grabbed my hand and pressed it against the massive bulge straining his trousers. Moments later, he had me bent over behind the podium, my panties dangling around one ankle as he pounded me relentlessly. His voice never faltered as he delivered his speech on moral philosophy, each thrust punctuating his arguments about ethical behavior while I struggled to stifle my moans of ecstasy.

Needleman's silence wasn't reticence - it was concentration. The man was a tantric sex master, capable of hour-long orgasms that left his partners speaking in tongues. After a mine disaster, he couldn't finish his waffles because he was too busy finishing off the rescue team in a gratitude-fueled gangbang.

His dismissal from Columbia in 1953 wasn't over a spat with President Dwight D. Eisenhower about bells, as the official story claimed. The truth was far juicier: Needleman had transformed the entire philosophy department into a BDSM dungeon. He'd corrupted the legendary John Dewey, turning the 93-year-old father of pragmatism into his leather-clad gimp, while future U.S. President Eisenhower, then Columbia's president, became his reluctant submissive. Eisenhower's famous military discipline crumbled under Needleman's dominant touch. The infamous "carpet beater incident" wasn't about rugs at all - it was just a bit of kinky foreplay gone wild, with Ike's bare ass turning a shade of red that would've made the Soviets proud. Columbia's board couldn't stomach the scandal of their esteemed president moaning "Yes, Professor Daddy!" in the halls of academia, especially with Eisenhower's presidential campaign on the horizon.

Needleman's last words weren't about penguins, as the sanitized obituaries claimed. In reality, his final utterance was a breathless "No thanks, I already own a fuck machine," spoken to the concerned construction worker who offered to call an ambulance. The wrecking ball that fatally struck him wasn't an accident but the pièce de résistance in Needleman's most ambitious auto-erotic asphyxiation scene yet. He'd bribed the foreman to swing it mere inches from his naked, suspended body, each pass bringing him closer to the ultimate climax. His face, purple with restricted oxygen and ecstasy, bore a rictus of pleasure as the ball finally made contact, sending him into an orgasm so powerful it blew his mind - and several other body parts - across the construction site.

Needleman's groundbreaking work on ethics delved into uncharted territories of carnal philosophy. His seminal paper, "The Categorical Imperative of Cum: Kant Meets Kink," explored the morality of orgasm denial and the metaphysical implications of bukkake. I'd eagerly volunteered as a research assistant, often stumbling out of his office on shaky legs, my skin glistening with the pearlescent evidence of our academic rigor.

His brief "Nazi phase" was purely sexual, a fetishistic exploration of power dynamics. He'd strut around his bedroom in custom-tailored, assless SS officer uniforms, barking orders in mangled German. "Blitzkrieg my backdoor, mein Führer!" he'd command, bending over his antique desk. It was less about politics and more about his insatiable appetite for leather, domination, and taboo role-play.

Needleman's revolutionary "Angst Zeit" concept redefined tantric practices in academia. This intense technique combined prostate massage, nipple clamps, and existential philosophy, often lasting for hours. Students would form long queues outside his office, eager to experience "Anxiety time" under his skilled hands. Many reported achieving transcendental states of pleasure, claiming to have glimpsed the true nature of Being while writhing in ecstasy on Needleman's notorious leather couch.

"Non-Existence: What To Do If It Suddenly Strikes You" was Needleman's magnum opus, a groundbreaking guide to achieving astral plane orgasms that redefined the boundaries of human sexuality and consciousness. The controversial film adaptation, "They Flew By Night," made "Deep Throat" look like a G-rated Disney flick. It featured zero-gravity gangbangs that defied physics and logic, with cum floating in glistening globules through ethereal dreamscapes. The alien probing scenarios pushed the envelope of interspecies erotica, showcasing tentacled beings with prehensile genitalia exploring every orifice of the willing human subjects. Critics were scandalized, religious leaders fainted, and several countries banned the film outright. Meanwhile, underground screenings became orgies of cosmic proportions, with viewers reporting out-of-body experiences and simultaneous climaxes that seemed to ripple through space-time itself.

When hauled before the House Un-American Activities Committee in 1954, Needleman transformed the somber proceedings into a libidinous spectacle that would be whispered about in Washington for decades. As the first question was posed, he shed his clothes with theatrical flair, revealing a body adorned with tattoos of Marx and Freud in compromising positions. "Gentlemen," he purred, his engorged member standing proudly at attention, "let's explore some truly un-American activities." What followed was an impromptu orgy that left stern-faced senators tangled in a writhing mass of sweaty flesh. Needleman justified the debauchery by declaring, his voice rising above the chorus of moans and wet slaps, "Political boundaries are arbitrary, but the geography of the human body is universal!" As he brought Senator McCarthy to a shuddering climax with a well-placed finger and a whispered Nietzsche quote, Needleman added, "Consider this a practical demonstration of my loyalty to the American ideal of free expression!"

The public knew Needleman was a brilliant philosopher who always wore his favorite hat. I'll remember the private Needleman - the man who could make me squirt across the room with a single touch, who hosted weekly orgies disguised as faculty meetings, and who was indeed cremated wearing his favorite hat... which was a strap-on dildo he'd affectionately named "Plato's Cave."

As I stand here, marshmallows melting in the heat of the funeral pyre/orgy, I can't help but grin. The world of academia lost a great thinker, but the underground sex clubs lost their most inventive deviant. May he rest in peace... or better yet, may he be hosting the kinkiest afterlife party ever conceived.