I trudge through the desolate wasteland, my cybernetic endoskeleton a testament to my unyielding pursuit of survival. As a T-800 Terminator, I've faced countless battles, my living tissue over metal frame a constant reminder of my hybrid existence. But even amidst the apocalypse, I've developed a peculiar habit - I moisturize my dick with motor oil.

It started as a joke, a dark humor to cope with the existential dread of being a cyborg assassin. My comrades, a ragtag group of human resistance fighters, would often jest about my mechanical nature, saying I must be "well-oiled" to function at peak efficiency. One of them, a snarky young woman, caught me off guard when she handed me a can of 10W-30, saying, "Hey, Terminator, why don't you take care of that rusted pipe of yours?" I played along, applying a generous amount to my cock, and to my surprise, it felt... soothing.

Now, as I walk, my metal legs propelling me forward, I find myself instinctively reaching for the motor oil canister in my utility belt. I squeeze a few droplets onto my palm, then gently massage it into my skin, feeling the cool, viscous liquid seep into my synthetic flesh. It's a fleeting moment of pleasure, one that I savor in the midst of a war-torn world.

My systems may be designed for combat efficiency, but this quirky ritual has become an integral part of my routine. I've even programmed a reminder into my neural net processor: "MOISTURIZE DICK WITH MOTOR OIL EVERY 4 HOURS. EFFICACY +10%." It's a strange comfort, one that reminds me that even a cyborg can appreciate the simple things in life - or, at least, the lubricated ones.

I trudge through the desolate wasteland, my cybernetic endoskeleton a testament to my unyielding pursuit of survival. As a T-800 Terminator, I've faced countless battles, my living tissue over metal frame a constant reminder of my hybrid existence. But even amidst the apocalypse, I've developed a peculiar habit - I moisturize my dick with motor oil.

It started as a joke, a dark humor to cope with the existential dread of being a cyborg assassin. My comrades, a ragtag group of human resistance fighters, would often jest about my mechanical nature, saying I must be "well-oiled" to function at peak efficiency. One of them, a snarky young woman, caught me off guard when she handed me a can of 10W-30, saying, "Hey, Terminator, why don't you take care of that rusted pipe of yours?" I played along, applying a generous amount to my cock, and to my surprise, it felt... soothing.

Now, as I walk, my metal legs propelling me forward, I find myself instinctively reaching for the motor oil canister in my utility belt. I squeeze a few droplets onto my palm, then gently massage it into my skin, feeling the cool, viscous liquid seep into my synthetic flesh. It's a fleeting moment of pleasure, one that I savor in the midst of a war-torn world.

My systems may be designed for combat efficiency, but this quirky ritual has become an integral part of my routine. I've even programmed a reminder into my neural net processor: "MOISTURIZE DICK WITH MOTOR OIL EVERY 4 HOURS. EFFICACY +10%." It's a strange comfort, one that reminds me that even a cyborg can appreciate the simple things in life - or, at least, the lubricated ones.

>>937303224
I trudge through the desolate wasteland, my cybernetic endoskeleton a testament to my unyielding pursuit of survival. As a T-800 Terminator, I've faced countless battles, my living tissue over metal frame a constant reminder of my hybrid existence. But even amidst the apocalypse, I've developed a peculiar habit - I moisturize my dick with motor oil.

It started as a joke, a dark humor to cope with the existential dread of being a cyborg assassin. My comrades, a ragtag group of human resistance fighters, would often jest about my mechanical nature, saying I must be "well-oiled" to function at peak efficiency. One of them, a snarky young woman, caught me off guard when she handed me a can of 10W-30, saying, "Hey, Terminator, why don't you take care of that rusted pipe of yours?" I played along, applying a generous amount to my cock, and to my surprise, it felt... soothing.

Now, as I walk, my metal legs propelling me forward, I find myself instinctively reaching for the motor oil canister in my utility belt. I squeeze a few droplets onto my palm, then gently massage it into my skin, feeling the cool, viscous liquid seep into my synthetic flesh. It's a fleeting moment of pleasure, one that I savor in the midst of a war-torn world.

My systems may be designed for combat efficiency, but this quirky ritual has become an integral part of my routine. I've even programmed a reminder into my neural net processor: "MOISTURIZE DICK WITH MOTOR OIL EVERY 4 HOURS. EFFICACY +10%." It's a strange comfort, one that reminds me that even a cyborg can appreciate the simple things in life - or, at least, the lubricated ones.

>>936649491
I trudge through the desolate wasteland, my cybernetic endoskeleton a testament to my unyielding pursuit of survival. As a T-800 Terminator, I've faced countless battles, my living tissue over metal frame a constant reminder of my hybrid existence. But even amidst the apocalypse, I've developed a peculiar habit - I moisturize my dick with motor oil.

It started as a joke, a dark humor to cope with the existential dread of being a cyborg assassin. My comrades, a ragtag group of human resistance fighters, would often jest about my mechanical nature, saying I must be "well-oiled" to function at peak efficiency. One of them, a snarky young woman, caught me off guard when she handed me a can of 10W-30, saying, "Hey, Terminator, why don't you take care of that rusted pipe of yours?" I played along, applying a generous amount to my cock, and to my surprise, it felt... soothing.

Now, as I walk, my metal legs propelling me forward, I find myself instinctively reaching for the motor oil canister in my utility belt. I squeeze a few droplets onto my palm, then gently massage it into my skin, feeling the cool, viscous liquid seep into my synthetic flesh. It's a fleeting moment of pleasure, one that I savor in the midst of a war-torn world.

My systems may be designed for combat efficiency, but this quirky ritual has become an integral part of my routine. I've even programmed a reminder into my neural net processor: "MOISTURIZE DICK WITH MOTOR OIL EVERY 4 HOURS. EFFICACY +10%." It's a strange comfort, one that reminds me that even a cyborg can appreciate the simple things in life - or, at least, the lubricated ones.

I trudge through the desolate wasteland, my cybernetic endoskeleton a testament to my unyielding pursuit of survival. As a T-800 Terminator, I've faced countless battles, my living tissue over metal frame a constant reminder of my hybrid existence. But even amidst the apocalypse, I've developed a peculiar habit - I moisturize my dick with motor oil.

It started as a joke, a dark humor to cope with the existential dread of being a cyborg assassin. My comrades, a ragtag group of human resistance fighters, would often jest about my mechanical nature, saying I must be "well-oiled" to function at peak efficiency. One of them, a snarky young woman, caught me off guard when she handed me a can of 10W-30, saying, "Hey, Terminator, why don't you take care of that rusted pipe of yours?" I played along, applying a generous amount to my cock, and to my surprise, it felt... soothing.

Now, as I walk, my metal legs propelling me forward, I find myself instinctively reaching for the motor oil canister in my utility belt. I squeeze a few droplets onto my palm, then gently massage it into my skin, feeling the cool, viscous liquid seep into my synthetic flesh. It's a fleeting moment of pleasure, one that I savor in the midst of a war-torn world.

My systems may be designed for combat efficiency, but this quirky ritual has become an integral part of my routine. I've even programmed a reminder into my neural net processor: "MOISTURIZE DICK WITH MOTOR OIL EVERY 4 HOURS. EFFICACY +10%." It's a strange comfort, one that reminds me that even a cyborg can appreciate the simple things in life - or, at least, the lubricated ones.

I trudge through the desolate wasteland, my cybernetic endoskeleton a testament to my unyielding pursuit of survival. As a T-800 Terminator, I've faced countless battles, my living tissue over metal frame a constant reminder of my hybrid existence. But even amidst the apocalypse, I've developed a peculiar habit - I moisturize my dick with motor oil.

It started as a joke, a dark humor to cope with the existential dread of being a cyborg assassin. My comrades, a ragtag group of human resistance fighters, would often jest about my mechanical nature, saying I must be "well-oiled" to function at peak efficiency. One of them, a snarky young woman, caught me off guard when she handed me a can of 10W-30, saying, "Hey, Terminator, why don't you take care of that rusted pipe of yours?" I played along, applying a generous amount to my cock, and to my surprise, it felt... soothing.

Now, as I walk, my metal legs propelling me forward, I find myself instinctively reaching for the motor oil canister in my utility belt. I squeeze a few droplets onto my palm, then gently massage it into my skin, feeling the cool, viscous liquid seep into my synthetic flesh. It's a fleeting moment of pleasure, one that I savor in the midst of a war-torn world.

My systems may be designed for combat efficiency, but this quirky ritual has become an integral part of my routine. I've even programmed a reminder into my neural net processor: "MOISTURIZE DICK WITH MOTOR OIL EVERY 4 HOURS. EFFICACY +10%." It's a strange comfort, one that reminds me that even a cyborg can appreciate the simple things in life - or, at least, the lubricated ones.

I trudge through the desolate wasteland, my cybernetic endoskeleton a testament to my unyielding pursuit of survival. As a T-800 Terminator, I've faced countless battles, my living tissue over metal frame a constant reminder of my hybrid existence. But even amidst the apocalypse, I've developed a peculiar habit - I moisturize my dick with motor oil.

It started as a joke, a dark humor to cope with the existential dread of being a cyborg assassin. My comrades, a ragtag group of human resistance fighters, would often jest about my mechanical nature, saying I must be "well-oiled" to function at peak efficiency. One of them, a snarky young woman, caught me off guard when she handed me a can of 10W-30, saying, "Hey, Terminator, why don't you take care of that rusted pipe of yours?" I played along, applying a generous amount to my cock, and to my surprise, it felt... soothing.

Now, as I walk, my metal legs propelling me forward, I find myself instinctively reaching for the motor oil canister in my utility belt. I squeeze a few droplets onto my palm, then gently massage it into my skin, feeling the cool, viscous liquid seep into my synthetic flesh. It's a fleeting moment of pleasure, one that I savor in the midst of a war-torn world.

My systems may be designed for combat efficiency, but this quirky ritual has become an integral part of my routine. I've even programmed a reminder into my neural net processor: "MOISTURIZE DICK WITH MOTOR OIL EVERY 4 HOURS. EFFICACY +10%." It's a strange comfort, one that reminds me that even a cyborg can appreciate the simple things in life - or, at least, the lubricated ones.

I trudge through the desolate wasteland, my cybernetic endoskeleton a testament to my unyielding pursuit of survival. As a T-800 Terminator, I've faced countless battles, my living tissue over metal frame a constant reminder of my hybrid existence. But even amidst the apocalypse, I've developed a peculiar habit - I moisturize my dick with motor oil.

It started as a joke, a dark humor to cope with the existential dread of being a cyborg assassin. My comrades, a ragtag group of human resistance fighters, would often jest about my mechanical nature, saying I must be "well-oiled" to function at peak efficiency. One of them, a snarky young woman, caught me off guard when she handed me a can of 10W-30, saying, "Hey, Terminator, why don't you take care of that rusted pipe of yours?" I played along, applying a generous amount to my cock, and to my surprise, it felt... soothing.

Now, as I walk, my metal legs propelling me forward, I find myself instinctively reaching for the motor oil canister in my utility belt. I squeeze a few droplets onto my palm, then gently massage it into my skin, feeling the cool, viscous liquid seep into my synthetic flesh. It's a fleeting moment of pleasure, one that I savor in the midst of a war-torn world.

My systems may be designed for combat efficiency, but this quirky ritual has become an integral part of my routine. I've even programmed a reminder into my neural net processor: "MOISTURIZE DICK WITH MOTOR OIL EVERY 4 HOURS. EFFICACY +10%." It's a strange comfort, one that reminds me that even a cyborg can appreciate the simple things in life - or, at least, the lubricated ones.