Years passed. No one took sexyroundasses her place. All that stuff about one true love sexyroundasses, an irreplaceable sexyroundasses soulmate is true. And I gutted mine like an old building needing renovation. Yet she remained sexyroundasses; a shiny perfect reminder, a monolith sexyroundasses, a sexyroundasses gravemarker. A tombstone with three words only sexyroundasses: "I love you sexyroundasses".
A dozen needles sexyroundasses plunging mercilessly into my manhood to sexyroundasses hold me inside her forever. Behold the man. Judgment. Acid fire pumping into me as she took her turn pumping me full. The chemicals blurred my mind. She begins to tell me how I will serve. What my function will be. She sexyroundasses will not release me. She is merciless. She is the sum sexyroundasses of her program. I am ready sexyroundasses for robotization. Ready for revenge sexyroundasses. Ready sexyroundasses to be submerged in a sexyroundasses prison sexyroundasses of steel sexyroundasses. Helpless like she was once. I wonder if my soul will be able to escape this unliving coffin. If I can escape then sexyroundasses maybe she too was sexyroundasses freed long ago. Somehow sexyroundasses this does sexyroundasses not ease my mind. I do not believe it. I think I know I have sexyroundasses damned us both to a soulless steel eternity. But still hope she escaped. I feel videos her begin to sexyroundasses make the alterations, adding hardware, inserting things, giving injections, preparing the program sexyroundasses to run. The process is well underway. She pumps sexyroundasses me full of all the things I used on her. Irony sexyroundasses and steel sexyroundasses. Microchips come to life and now sexyroundasses unnecessary synapses burn out sexyroundasses. The smell of sexyroundasses burning flesh and fading humanity pervades the room. She will make me like her. She has sexyroundasses been programmed. She is everything I hoped she would sexyroundasses be, and now I had to pay for making her so perfect sexyroundasses. All mad scientists must invariably end the same way. This too is an ironic cliche. A delicious one.
I..do..not..know..
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