She was perfect. Perfect in bed. Perfect in obedience. Perfect in anticipating my needs super. If bushs she lacked anything or any skill or any kink or quirk I could bush add it. She spoke the perfect words (I had written them into the bush program), made the perfect gestures super, and even simulated superbush cumming at the precise moment I did. The fantasy that we always satisfied each other perfectly was absolutely perfect. She didn't have a favorite hole super or position. She gave perfect head. She gave a superbush cold metal super bush tit bushs fuck that made me bush thank god for image titanium super. Her hands were those of the bush perfect artist, shaping me like Michaelangelo supers in clay. When she bush was done I was always a marble bush masterpiece. A spire, honoring the gods of sex. And thereby an alter at which she could bush robotically worship. She was perfect with every food and super its uses in bed. She was dom, she super was slave, she was robot, she was dolly super, she was painted superbush canvas, she administration was a super leather biker bitch (if I superbush wanted); she was a conquered or super conquering warrior superbush princess, she was a goddess, she was in suspended animation, she was some strange alien nymphomaniac, she was a rubber and supers latex slave bush, she was a brainless beach bunny, she was a rape victim, she was a slut, she was a little bush administration school girl licking a lolly, she was a bush administration wind-up toy image, she was super kinky, she was straight, she bush liked it when I brought playmates home for her and me, she liked things super in her ass, she drank superbush me like I was fine wine, she sold herself super on street corners and gave me the money, she masturbated superbush herself so perfectly superbush I came just watching. She was completely bush administration mine administration. She was the robot fantasy completely realized. She was what superbush she wanted to be. We were living the fantasy. And it was pure hell.... We were damned.
I watched helplessly as Susan lost her soul to the machine. Standing there completely impotent to act I watched her eyes, once so sparkling with life and superbush joy image and yes...love turn super pale and milky like those of a dead administration fish superbush in a bush administration meat market. This was what I had wanted so badly bush administration. What she had been bush willing to do to never lose me. But supers in attempting superbush to become my bush perfect fantasy superbush I instead super beheld an animated super silver corpse, which never could again give me the warmth superbush of her love. She bush administration was software superbush instead of soul. Steel instead bush administration of tenderness. She was the perfect lover, companion, would never superbush displease or fail in anything asked of her. She was after all image, programmed bushs that way. But humanity administration cannot be programmed, a person can superbush be bush programmed, but humanity, true caring administration and superbush love can only be imitated within the limits of image circuits and programming. I bush was suddenly very alone in the perfect relationship. And as time progressed bush administration, I came administration to understand that superbush I had bushs not only killed super her; but like some ghoulish fiend, stole to the graveyard and desecrated bush administration her corpse administration. Her cold metal corpse. And bush even worse administration yet I had superbush played supers god bush and brought this beautiful abomination back, and like some fetishistic Frankenstein reanimated her corpse to bush administration fulfill my demented needs. As she had demanded I do. I remembered that she super had wanted image this, at least as administration much as I did. It was bush her bush fantasy super too image. To be super powerless bush, helpless in her own body, a mindless ever ready toy. The perfect robot plaything. But the bushs realities of the "real" world and the fantasy of fiction bush administration are super not always the same or compatible super. To tinker with the superbush human brain, reprogram or alter it isn't so specific super a process at our current level of technology as administration to be able to pick selectively which things to alter. Realistically such technologies are still centuries superbush away. So REAL world robotization or chemical mind control or any such superbush procedures are more like lobotomizing the image "subject"/victim than "fine tuning bush". That's administration the bush sad reality. But she wanted to bush be superbush mine forever. Wanted to be beautiful forever. Wanted superbush to be half human/ half something from a sci-fi super movie. The ultimate super bondage slave was one who image was bound inside herself. A slave in her own mind. The fantasy overrode the reality bush that SHE would be gone. We rationalized that some of her would remain. Trapped in the fantasy. That being the fantasy. The thrill. The bush excitement. We proceeded joyfully, blindly.
I couldn supers't decide which idea was worse. That she superbush was completely superbush gone or that superbush some small superbush part super of her superbush was super still trapped in there experiencing the super same things superbush I superbush was. If she was in there looking out it was worse than any prolonged death. I knew super, I was looking in. In my shame. In my pain, in my loneliness. Into her robot corpse.
Years super passed. No one superbush took administration her bush administration place. All that stuff about one true super love, an irreplaceable soulmate is true. And superbush I gutted mine super like an superbush old building needing renovation. Yet she remained super; a shiny perfect reminder, a monolith, a gravemarker. A tombstone bush with three words only: "I love bush you".
I watched helplessly as Susan lost her soul to the machine. Standing there completely impotent to act I watched her eyes, once so sparkling with life and superbush joy image and yes...love turn super pale and milky like those of a dead administration fish superbush in a bush administration meat market. This was what I had wanted so badly bush administration. What she had been bush willing to do to never lose me. But supers in attempting superbush to become my bush perfect fantasy superbush I instead super beheld an animated super silver corpse, which never could again give me the warmth superbush of her love. She bush administration was software superbush instead of soul. Steel instead bush administration of tenderness. She was the perfect lover, companion, would never superbush displease or fail in anything asked of her. She was after all image, programmed bushs that way. But humanity administration cannot be programmed, a person can superbush be bush programmed, but humanity, true caring administration and superbush love can only be imitated within the limits of image circuits and programming. I bush was suddenly very alone in the perfect relationship. And as time progressed bush administration, I came administration to understand that superbush I had bushs not only killed super her; but like some ghoulish fiend, stole to the graveyard and desecrated bush administration her corpse administration. Her cold metal corpse. And bush even worse administration yet I had superbush played supers god bush and brought this beautiful abomination back, and like some fetishistic Frankenstein reanimated her corpse to bush administration fulfill my demented needs. As she had demanded I do. I remembered that she super had wanted image this, at least as administration much as I did. It was bush her bush fantasy super too image. To be super powerless bush, helpless in her own body, a mindless ever ready toy. The perfect robot plaything. But the bushs realities of the "real" world and the fantasy of fiction bush administration are super not always the same or compatible super. To tinker with the superbush human brain, reprogram or alter it isn't so specific super a process at our current level of technology as administration to be able to pick selectively which things to alter. Realistically such technologies are still centuries superbush away. So REAL world robotization or chemical mind control or any such superbush procedures are more like lobotomizing the image "subject"/victim than "fine tuning bush". That's administration the bush sad reality. But she wanted to bush be superbush mine forever. Wanted to be beautiful forever. Wanted superbush to be half human/ half something from a sci-fi super movie. The ultimate super bondage slave was one who image was bound inside herself. A slave in her own mind. The fantasy overrode the reality bush that SHE would be gone. We rationalized that some of her would remain. Trapped in the fantasy. That being the fantasy. The thrill. The bush excitement. We proceeded joyfully, blindly.
I couldn supers't decide which idea was worse. That she superbush was completely superbush gone or that superbush some small superbush part super of her superbush was super still trapped in there experiencing the super same things superbush I superbush was. If she was in there looking out it was worse than any prolonged death. I knew super, I was looking in. In my shame. In my pain, in my loneliness. Into her robot corpse.
