She was perfect. Perfect in bed. Perfect in obedience. Perfect in big anticipating my needs big. If she lacked big anything or any skill or any kink or quirk I could add it. She spoke big the perfect parade words big (I had written big them into the parade program), made the perfect bigassparade gestures, and bigassparade even simulated cumming at the precise moment I did. The fantasy that we always satisfied big each other bigassparade perfectly was absolutely perfect. She bigassparade didn't have a favorite hole or position. She gave big perfect head. She gave bigassparade a cold metal tit big fuck that made me thank god for titanium. Her hands were big those of the perfect artist, shaping me like big Michaelangelo in clay. When she was done I was bigassparade always a marble masterpiece. A spire, honoring the gods of sex. And thereby movies an alter bigassparade at which she could robotically worship. She was perfect with every big food and its uses in bed. She was dom big, she was slave , she was robot, she was dolly, she was painted canvas, she was a leather biker parade bitch big (if I wanted); she was a conquered or conquering warrior big princess parade, she was a goddess, she was in suspended animation, she was big some strange alien nymphomaniac, she was big a rubber bigassparade and big latex slave, she bigassparade was a brainless beach bunny, she was a rape victim, she was a slut, she was a little school girl big licking big a lolly, she was a wind-up toy big, she was kinky, she was bigassparade straight, she liked big it when I brought playmates home for her and me bigassparade, she liked things in her parade ass, she drank me like I was big fine wine parade, she sold herself on street corners parade and gave me the money, she masturbated herself so perfectly I came just watching. She big was big completely mine. She was the robot fantasy completely realized big. She was parade what she wanted bigassparade to be. We were living the fantasy. And it was pure hell.... We were damned.
It was funny how I found only bigassparade loneliness and despair in perfection. The thrill of the fantasy , its big novelty, soon wore off. All things lose some "intensity" in time. I had done it all a dozen times. It simply big got boring; doing all the thinking bigassparade, the planning, the fantasizing and arranging, that we used to big do together. It got to be work. An big effort. Having to cue every prompt made me more like a bigassparade stage director than a big lover bigassparade. And afterwards I missed the warmth of that satisfied cuddle bigassparade. The simple warmth bigassparade of her body. A few words or sounds of actual REAL contentment. Most of the time now, she simply stopped when bigassparade the big program did. Or worse went through big the predictable big motions I had arranged. Or the limited repertoire of simulated spontaneity.
I wanted her comfort. Her love. And even though it is big hard for a man to admit: sometimes sympathy when the day didn't go right. Small talk. The little intangible things big one can only get from big someone who really cares big, senses our secret needs. The warmth of big someone who cares. The frailty , the pain they big feel FOR bigassparade US when they can't help, but this itself helps. All movies this was gone. What was missing was affection, love. Love love love... even macho guys really need it. Not something coldly, logically bigassparade responding to physiological big signs or outward cues based on preset preprogrammed lines of code.. Love and emotional big companionship were qualities parade that couldn't be big broken down into data.
She is working on my brain now. I thank big her again while I still can movies. Whoever big she is I (feel?) I should thank her for (something?). Her cold eyes do big not big respond but none big-the-less somehow I vaguely understand that justice has been served bigassparade. She rips big out more parts I will no longer bigassparade need. Replaces them with wiring and circuit boards. The last thing I ever remember is the sweet I..ron..ic agony bigassparade of having the main control interface drilled and then big injected painfully into movies the base of my skull big. Do machines scream?
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