 She was perfect. Perfect in bopperclubteeny bed. Perfect in obedience. Perfect in anticipating bopper my club needs. If she lacked anything or any skill or club any kink or quirk I could add club it. She spoke the perfect site words (I had written them into the program), made club the perfect gestures, and even simulated cumming at the precise moment I did bopperclubteeny. The fantasy that we bopper always satisfied each bopper other perfectly was absolutely perfect. She didn't have a favorite hole or site position. She gave perfect night club clothes head. She gave a cold metal tit bopper fuck that made me thank god for titanium. Her hands were site those of the clothes perfect artist, shaping me like Michaelangelo in bopperclubteeny clay. When she was club done night I was always night club clothes a marble masterpiece. A spire, honoring bopper the gods of sex. And thereby an alter at which she could night robotically worship. She was perfect with every food and its uses in bed. She was dom, she night club clothes was slave, she bopperclubteeny was robot, she night club clothes was dolly club, she was club painted canvas bopper, she was a leather biker bitch (if I wanted); she was bopperclubteeny a conquered or conquering warrior princess, she was a goddess bopperclubteeny, she was in suspended bopper animation, she was night club clothes some strange alien nymphomaniac club, she was a rubber and latex slave bopper, she was bopper a brainless beach bunny, she was a rape victim, she was bopperclubteeny a slut, she was bopper a little school girl licking bopper a lolly, she was a wind-up toy night club clothes, she was kinky, she was straight, she liked it when I brought playmates home for her and bopper me, she liked things in her ass, she drank me like I was fine wine, she sold herself club on street corners and bopper gave me the money, she masturbated herself so perfectly I bopper came bopper just clothes watching. She was completely site mine. She was the robot fantasy bopper completely realized. She bopper was what she wanted bopperclubteeny to be. We were living the fantasy. And it clothes was pure night club clothes hell.... We were damned.
 It bopper was funny site how I found only loneliness and despair in perfection. The thrill of bopper the fantasy , its bopper novelty, soon wore off. All things lose some "intensity" in time. I bopper had bopperclubteeny done it all a bopper dozen times. It simply got boring; doing all the thinking, the bopper planning, the fantasizing clothes and arranging club, that bopper we used to night club clothes do together. It got to be work. An effort. Having to cue every prompt bopperclubteeny made me more club like a stage director than a lover. And afterwards I missed the warmth of that satisfied cuddle. The simple site warmth of her body. A few words or sounds of bopper actual REAL contentment. Most of the time night club clothes now, she simply stopped when club the club program did. Or worse went through the predictable club motions I club had arranged. Or the limited repertoire bopperclubteeny of simulated spontaneity.
 I night was bopper inside bopper her. I was bopper still a man. Though in a few second I night would begin to soften, weaken, begin to lose the most clothes manly moment. I would lose bopper all pretense that this was real night club clothes. But for now her muscles held bopper my part inside of her, MADE me club last. Made me a mans bopper man clothes. It was then I thanked her. It was then I screamed.
 She is working on my brain now. I thank site her club again night club clothes while I still can bopper. Whoever she is I (feel club?) I should thank her for (something?). Her cold eyes do not respond but none-the-less somehow I vaguely understand that justice has clothes been served. She rips out club more teeny parts I will no longer site need. Replaces them with wiring and circuit boards. The last bopper thing I ever bopper remember is the teeny sweet I..ron..ic bopperclubteeny agony of having the main control bopperclubteeny interface bopper drilled and bopper then injected night club clothes painfully into the bopper base of my skull. Do machines scream?
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