It was funny how I found only loneliness and despair in perfection. The thrill of the fantasy , its novelty, soon wore off. All things lose some "intensity" in time. I had done it all a dozen times. It simply got boring; doing all the thinking blackhotpussyatpimpmyblackteen, the planning, the blackhotpussyatpimpmyblackteen fantasizing and blackhotpussyatpimpmyblackteen arranging, that we used to do hot together. It got to be work. An effort. Having to cue every prompt made me more like a stage black director than a lover pimpmyblackteen. And afterwards black I missed the warmth of that satisfied black cuddle. The simple warmth of her black body. A pimpmyblackteen few words or sexy sounds of actual REAL contentment black. Most of pimpmyblackteen the time now, she simply stopped when the program pimpmyblackteen did. Or worse went through the predictable motions I had arranged. Or the black limited black repertoire of simulated spontaneity.
Years passed. No one took hot her place. All that stuff about one true love, an irreplaceable soulmate is true. And I gutted mine like an old building needing renovation. Yet she remained; a shiny perfect black reminder, a monolith pimpmyblackteen, a gravemarker blackhotpussyatpimpmyblackteen. A tombstone with three words black only: "I love you".
She is working on my brain now. I thank her again while I still can. Whoever she is I (feel?) I blackhotpussyatpimpmyblackteen should thank her for black (something?). Her cold pimpmyblackteen eyes do not respond but none-the black-less somehow sexy I vaguely blackhotpussyatpimpmyblackteen understand that justice has been served. She black rips out black more parts I will no longer need. Replaces them with wiring and circuit boards. The last thing I ever remember is black the sweet I..ron..ic agony black of having hot the main black control interface drilled and black then injected painfully into the pimpmyblackteen base of my pimpmyblackteen skull. Do machines scream?