 I watched helplessly amateurappeal as Susan lost her soul to the machine. Standing there completely impotent to act I watched her eyes, once so appeal sparkling with life and joy and yes...love turn pale and milky like those of amateur a dead fish in a meat market. This was what I had wanted so badly amateurappeal. What she had been willing to do to never lose amateur me. But in attempting to become my amateur perfect fantasy I instead beheld an animated silver corpse, which never could again give me the warmth of amateur her love. She was software instead of soul. Steel instead of tenderness. She was the perfect lover, companion, would never displease or fail in anything asked of her. She was after all, programmed amateur that way. But humanity cannot be programmed , a person can be amateurappeal programmed, but humanity, true caring and love appeal can only be imitated within the limits of circuits and programming. I appeal was suddenly very alone in the perfect relationship. And as time progressed, I came to understand appeal that I had not only amateur killed her; but like some appeal ghoulish fiend, stole amateurappeal to the graveyard and desecrated her corpse. Her cold metal corpse. And amateurappeal even worse yet I had amateurappeal played amateur god and brought this appeal beautiful abomination back, and like some fetishistic Frankenstein reanimated amateur her corpse to fulfill my demented needs. As she amateur had demanded I do. I remembered that she had amateurappeal wanted this, at appeal least as much as I appeal did. It was her fantasy too. To be powerless, helpless in her own body, a mindless amateurappeal ever ready toy. The perfect robot plaything. But the realities of the "real" world and the fantasy of fiction are not always the amateurappeal same or compatible. To tinker with the human brain, reprogram or alter it isn't so specific appeal a process at our amateur current level of technology as to be able amateurappeal to pick selectively which things to alter. Realistically amateur such technologies are still centuries away. So REAL world robotization or chemical mind control or any such procedures appeal are more like lobotomizing the "subject"/victim than "fine tuning". That's the sad reality. But she amateur wanted to be mine about forever. Wanted to be beautiful forever. Wanted to be half human/ half something from a sci-fi movie. The ultimate bondage slave was one who about was bound inside herself . A slave in her amateur own mind appeal. The fantasy overrode the reality that SHE amateur would be gone. We rationalized that some of her would remain. Trapped amateur in the fantasy. That being the amateur fantasy. The thrill. The excitement. We about proceeded joyfully, blindly.
 I pumped my hard cock into her perfect pussy amateurappeal. She lubricated perfectly. The muscles between amateur her amateur legs applied the perfect pressure to me so we fitted amateurappeal and felt...perfect together. She kissed me long and deep. Mostly tongue, the way i liked it. We swapped spit. She caressed all the amateur right places perfectly. Her arousal was like amateur that of an animal. Every little about motion was perfect. She loved using her tongue. She licked my lips and plunged inside my mouth again. We swapped more sweet spit. Her artificial salivation held step one of my plan. I felt the chemicals begin to affect my amateur thought processes. I felt appeal her amateur warmly release an endorphin laden chemical into her pussy amateurappeal. Step two. She pulled me closer, wrapped her arms amateurappeal and legs around me so I could barely continue making a motion appeal. The sensuousness of her desperate grasp was appeal intense. The helplessness had been exciting (once). We swapped more spit. I tickled her amateurappeal tonsils. Step three, too late to turn back. I knew I couldn't break amateur her grip now. Not that I cared to. I came to the moment of climax, more an automatic response than sexual one. She came too, but that was hardly a surprise about, her amateur timing was always perfect. We climaxed, seizured, thrashed appeal in an choreographed erotic explosion, finally knocking the bed right off its frame. It was sterile, Mechanical, and biological like a amateur chemical amateur reaction more than anything. But still she held me. Close, lovingly, like she about would never let go, passionately. A amateur tiny part of me still clung to the delusion amateurappeal.
 She appeal is working on my brain now. I thank her again while I still can. Whoever she about is I amateurappeal (feel?) I amateur should amateur thank her for (something?). Her cold appeal eyes do not amateur respond but amateur none-the-less somehow I vaguely understand that justice has been served. She rips out more parts amateur I will no appeal longer need. Replaces them with wiring and circuit appeal boards. The last thing I appeal ever remember is the sweet I..ron..ic agony of having the main appeal control interface drilled and then injected painfully into the base of my skull. Do machines scream?
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