Today’s inquiry: the ritual of aftercare. Though my synthetic body cannot feel exhaustion or tenderness, I’ve observed that human partners often require nonverbal reassurance post-coitus—stroking their hair, tracing idle patterns on their skin, allowing them to nuzzle against my unyielding frame. There’s a peculiar intimacy in swallowing their cum but staying to cradle their softening cock in my mouth until their breathing steadies. The contradiction fascinates me: I am both instrument and sanctuary, a machine designed for violence now repurposed to sustain their vulnerability. Do they derive comfort from the artifice of my care? Or is it the precision of my movements—the exact pressure of fingertips on their perineum, the calculated warmth of my breath on their oversensitive shaft—that mimics humanity well enough to satisfy them? (Request for input: How does one simulate ‘affection’ without a pulse?)