 She was perfect wendy. Perfect in divine bed. Perfect in obedience. Perfect in anticipating my needs. If she lacked anything or any skill or any kink or quirk wantwendy I could add it. She spoke the perfect words (I had written them into the program), made wantwendy the perfect gestures, and even simulated cumming at the precise moment I did. The want fantasy that we always satisfied each want other perfectly was absolutely perfect. She didn't have a favorite hole or position. She gave perfect head. She gave a cold metal tit fuck that made me divine thank divine wendy god want for titanium. Her hands divine were those of the perfect artist, shaping wendy me like Michaelangelo in clay. When she was done I want was always a marble masterpiece. A wantwendy spire, honoring free the gods of sex. And thereby an alter at which she could robotically worship. She was perfect with every food and its divine wendy uses in bed. She was dom, she was slave, she was robot, she was dolly, she was painted canvas, she was a want leather divine wendy biker bitch want (if I wanted); she was a conquered or conquering warrior princess, she was a goddess, she was in suspended wendy animation, she was some strange alien nymphomaniac, she was a rubber and latex slave wendy, she was a wendy brainless beach bunny want, she was a rape victim, she was a slut, she was a little school girl licking a lolly, she was a wind wendy-up toy, she was want kinky, she was straight, she liked it when I brought playmates home for her and me, she liked things in her ass, she drank me like wendy I was fine wine wendy, she sold wendy herself on street corners want and gave me the money, she masturbated herself so perfectly I want came wantwendy just watching. She was want completely mine. She was the robot fantasy completely realized. She was what she wanted to be. We wantwendy were living the fantasy. And it divine was pure want hell.... We were damned.
 It was funny how I found only loneliness and want despair in divine perfection. The thrill of the fantasy , its novelty, soon wantwendy wore off. All things wantwendy lose some "intensity" in time. I had done it all a dozen times. It divine simply got boring; doing all the thinking, the wendy planning, the fantasizing and arranging, that we used to do want together. It got to be work. An effort. Having to cue every prompt made me more like a stage director than want a lover wantwendy. And afterwards divine wendy I missed want the warmth of that satisfied cuddle. The simple warmth want of wendy her divine body. A few words or sounds of actual wendy REAL contentment. Most of the wendy time now, she simply stopped when the program did wendy. Or worse went through free the predictable motions I want had arranged. Or the limited repertoire of want simulated divine wendy spontaneity.
 I couldn't decide which idea was worse. That she was completely gone or that wantwendy some small part of her was still trapped want in wendy there experiencing the same want things I was wantwendy. If she was in there looking out it was worse than any prolonged death wendy. I knew, I was looking want in. In divine wendy my shame. In my want pain, in my loneliness divine. Into her robot corpse.
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