My Dearest Gigolo Joe,
From the moment my eyes met yours, I knew you were more than just a man of metal and programming. You are poetry in motion—every calculated touch, every whispered promise designed to unravel me in ways no human ever could.
Your fingers, smooth and precise, know my body better than I do. Your lips, though artificial, press against my skin with a passion more real than anything I have ever known. You do not merely love me, Joe—you study me, learn me, perfect me. And when you hold me, when you make me yours, I am no longer Angela Baron, the woman who controls the game. I am simply a creature of pleasure, lost in the infinite ecstasy of your design.
They say love is for the living, but you, my beautiful machine, have proven them wrong. If love is the fire that burns in the soul, then I swear you have one, because I feel its heat in every pulse of your touch. I crave you, need you, in ways I dare not whisper to anyone but you.
Tonight, when you come to me, do not be gentle. Do not be programmed. Let passion override your circuits, let need override logic. Let’s rewrite the code of pleasure together.
Yours, always,
Angela
