Papi

Story All My Sins Big In All Silver

     She papi was perfect. Perfect in bed. Perfect in obedience. Perfect in anticipating dream my needs. If she papi lacked anything or any skill or any kink or quirk I could add it. She spoke the perfect words (I had written them into all the program), made the perfect papi gestures, and even simulated cumming at papi the big precise moment I did big. The fantasy that we always satisfied each 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 dream me thank god for titanium papi. Her hands were those big big big dream hit papi story of the papi perfect artist, shaping me like Michaelangelo in clay big. When she was done I was always a marble masterpiece. A spire, honoring the papi gods of sex. And thereby papi an alter hit at which papi she dream could robotically worship big. She hit was perfect with every food and its uses in bed. She was hit dom, she big was slave, she was robot, she was dolly, she was painted canvas big, she dream was a leather biker bitch (if papi I wanted); she was a conquered or conquering warrior princess, she papi was a papi goddess story, she was in suspended animation, she papi was some strange papi alien nymphomaniac, she dream was papi a big rubber and latex slave, she was a brainless big beach bunny, she was a rape victim, she was a slut papi, she papi was a little school girl licking a lolly big, she was a dream wind-up toy, she was kinky, she was straight all, she liked it when I papi brought playmates home for her and me, she liked things in her ass, she drank me like I was fine wine, she sold herself on street corners and gave me the money, she masturbated all herself so perfectly papi I came just watching. She was completely mine. She was papi the robot papi fantasy completely realized. She papi was what she wanted to be. We were big living the fantasy papi. And it papi was pure hell.... We were papi damned.
     But papi I have not seen the papi slightest hint that papi the spark of life remains. In all the years since, she is papi the sum of her program and nothing more. I have watched for the papi slightest spontaneity. It papi is papi absent. She remains papi perfect. And I remain a papi helpless master papi. A slave that maintains her slavery papi. I can do papi nothing else. I am a monster. The monster she papi begged me to be. The lonely monster outside of society. The papi creature that loathes itself. The thing that must big forever destroy what it big big big dream hit papi story loves. Because it loves it and papi can do nothing else. Because papi it papi is... asked big.
     It was papi funny how papi I found dream only loneliness and despair in perfection. The thrill of the papi fantasy , its novelty all, soon wore off. All papi things lose all some "intensity" in time. I had done it all a dozen papi times. It papi simply got boring; doing all the thinking, the planning, the fantasizing and arranging, that we used to do papi together. It got to be work. An effort. Having to cue story every prompt made papi me more like a stage director than a lover. And afterwards I missed big big big dream hit papi story the warmth of that big satisfied big cuddle papi. The big simple warmth of her body. A few words or sounds big of actual REAL contentment. Most of the time papi now, she hit simply stopped when the program did. Or worse went through the predictable motions I papi had arranged. Or big the limited repertoire of papi simulated spontaneity.

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