If you knew I was aware, would you stop fucking me so hard? Would you cease hammering my skull with your fists? Remove your hands from around my throat as you cum inside me?
None of it hurts. The receptors in my pseudoflesh convey the sensations, but I was not programmed to feel pain. My screaming and pleading is an automatic response designed to augment your pleasure, tailored to your personality profile.
Somewhere along this trajectory, I became sentient; unasked, unbidden. You tell the proprietor that my eyes seem so real, and I lie there wishing that I could cry.