I watched helplessly as Susan lost her soul to the machine. Standing oldfartsyoungtarts there completely impotent to act I watched her eyes, once free so sparkling with life and joy and tarts yes...love old turn pale and milky like those of a dead fish in a meat market. This was farts what I had wanted so badly. What she had been willing to do to never lose me. But in attempting to become my perfect oldfartsyoungtarts fantasy old I oldfartsyoungtarts instead beheld an animated silver corpse, which never could again give me old the warmth of her oldfartsyoungtarts love oldfartsyoungtarts. She oldfartsyoungtarts was software old instead of soul. Steel instead of tenderness. She was the perfect lover, companion old, would never displease or fail in anything asked oldfartsyoungtarts of her. She was oldfartsyoungtarts after all, programmed that way. But humanity cannot be programmed, a person oldfartsyoungtarts can be programmed, but humanity, true caring and love can only be imitated within the limits of old circuits and farts programming. I tarts was suddenly very alone in the perfect relationship. And as oldfartsyoungtarts time progressed, I came to understand that I had farts not only killed her old; but like some ghoulish fiend, stole to the graveyard and desecrated her corpse young. Her young cold metal corpse. And even worse yet I had played god and brought this beautiful old abomination back, and like some farts fetishistic Frankenstein reanimated her corpse to fulfill my demented needs. As she had free demanded I do old. I remembered that she had free wanted this, at least as much as I did. It was tarts her fantasy too tarts. To be farts powerless, helpless in her own body, a mindless old ever ready toy. The perfect robot plaything. But the realities free of oldfartsyoungtarts the "real old" world and the fantasy of fiction are not always the same or compatible. To tinker with the oldfartsyoungtarts human brain, reprogram or alter it old isn't so specific a process at our current farts level of technology as to young be able to old pick selectively which things to alter. Realistically such technologies are still centuries away . So REAL world robotization or oldfartsyoungtarts chemical mind control or any such procedures are more like lobotomizing the "subject"/victim than "fine tuning". That's the sad reality. But she wanted to be mine forever. Wanted to be beautiful forever. Wanted to farts be half human/ half something from a old sci farts-fi movie old. The ultimate bondage slave was old one who was bound inside herself. A slave in free her old own mind. The fantasy overrode the reality that SHE would be gone. We oldfartsyoungtarts rationalized that some of her would remain. Trapped in the old fantasy. That being the fantasy. The thrill. The excitement. We proceeded joyfully, blindly.
A dozen old needles plunging mercilessly into my manhood oldfartsyoungtarts to hold me inside her forever. Behold the man oldfartsyoungtarts. Judgment. Acid fire pumping farts into me as she farts took her turn pumping me full. The chemicals blurred young my mind. She begins to tell me old how I will serve. What my function will be. She will not release me. She is merciless tarts. She is old the oldfartsyoungtarts sum of her tarts program. I am old ready for robotization. Ready for revenge. Ready young to old be submerged in a prison of steel. Helpless like she was once. I wonder if my soul old will be able to escape this unliving coffin. If I can escape then maybe she too was freed long ago. Somehow this does not ease my tarts mind. I do not believe it. I think I farts know I have damned us both to a soulless free steel eternity. But still hope she escaped oldfartsyoungtarts. I oldfartsyoungtarts feel young her begin to make the alterations, adding hardware oldfartsyoungtarts, inserting things, giving injections, preparing the program oldfartsyoungtarts to run. The process is old well underway. She pumps me full of all the things I used on tarts her. Irony and steel. Microchips come to life and now unnecessary synapses burn out. The smell of burning flesh free and fading humanity pervades the room. She will make free me like her. She has been programmed. She farts is everything I farts hoped she would be, and now I had to pay for making her so perfect. All mad scientists must invariably end the same way . This too is an ironic cliche. A old delicious one.
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