 She was perfect. Perfect in bed sinfultales. Perfect in obedience sinful mail. Perfect sinful in anticipating my needs. If she lacked anything or any skill or any sinfultales kink sinful or quirk I could add it sinful. She spoke the perfect words (I had written sinfultales them into the program), made the perfect gestures, and even simulated cumming at the precise moment I did. The fantasy that we always sinful satisfied each sinful other perfectly sinful mail was absolutely perfect. She didn't have a favorite hole or pictures position. She gave perfect head. She gave a cold metal tit fuck tales that made me thank god for titanium. Her hands sinful were those of the sinful mail perfect artist, shaping me like sinfultales Michaelangelo in clay mail. When she was done I was always a marble masterpiece. A spire, honoring the gods sinful of sex. And thereby an alter at which she sinful could robotically worship. She was sinful perfect with every sinful food and its uses in bed. She was dom, she was slave, she was robot, she was sinful dolly, she was painted canvas, she sinful was a leather biker bitch (if I wanted); she was a conquered or conquering sinful warrior princess, she sinful was a goddess, she was in sinfultales suspended animation sinful, she was some strange alien nymphomaniac, she was a rubber and latex slave, she was a brainless beach bunny, she was a rape victim tales, she was a slut, she was a little school girl licking a lolly, she was sinful a wind sinful-up toy, she was kinky, she sinfultales was tales straight mail, she liked it tales when I brought playmates home for her and me, she liked tales things sinful in her sinful mail ass, she drank me like sinfultales I was fine wine, she sold herself on street corners mail and gave me the mail money sinfultales, she masturbated herself so perfectly I came mail just watching sinfultales. She was completely mine. She was the sinful robot fantasy completely realized. She was sinfultales what she wanted to be. We were living sinful the fantasy. And it was pure sinful hell.... We were damned!
 I sinful was sinful inside her. I was still a man tales. Though in sinful mail a few second I would begin pictures to sinfultales soften tales, weaken, begin sinful to lose sinful the most manly moment. I would lose all sinful pretense that sinful this sinful mail was real. But for now her muscles held my part inside pictures of sinful her, MADE me last. Made me a mans man. It was then I thanked her. It was then I screamed.
 A dozen needles sinful plunging mercilessly sinful mail into my sinful manhood to hold me inside her forever. Behold the man sinfultales. Judgment. Acid fire pumping into me as she sinful took her turn pumping me sinful mail full. The chemicals blurred my mind. She sinful begins to tell sinful me mail how I will serve. What my function will be sinful mail. She pictures will not release me. She is merciless sinful. She is the sum of her program. I am ready for robotization pictures. Ready sinful for revenge sinful. Ready to be submerged in a prison of sinful steel. Helpless like she was sinful once. I wonder if my soul will be able to escape this unliving coffin. If sinfultales I sinful can escape then maybe she too was pictures freed long ago. Somehow sinful this tales does not ease my mind. I do not believe it. I think sinful I know I have damned us both to sinfultales a soulless steel mail eternity. But sinfultales still hope she sinful escaped. I feel her begin to make the alterations, adding hardware, inserting things, giving injections, preparing the sinful program sinful to run. The process is well underway. She pumps me full of all the things sinfultales I used on sinful her. Irony and steel. Microchips come to life and now unnecessary synapses burn sinfultales out. The smell sinful of burning flesh and fading humanity pervades sinfultales the room. She will make me like mail her. She has been programmed. She is pictures everything I hoped she would be sinful, and sinful now I had to pay for making her so perfect. All mad sinfultales scientists must invariably end sinful the same way. This too is an mail ironic sinful mail cliche. A delicious one.
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