They wait you out

You expect something big and dramatic, like maybe a laser gun extending from the wall to **** you and your dad to fuck at gunpoint.

Instead, nothing happens. Literally. The wall opaques, and the voice doesn't speak again, leaving the two of you alone in your … habitat.

At first you awkwardly avoid looking at each other by pretending to be more interested in exploring. Your father takes the outdoors side while you take the indoors. You discover that the fridge is stocked only with the most basic things—bread and what looks like trail mix. The sink works. There's a shower and toilet, but it's all open-plan, with no doors, not even an alcove anywhere for privacy. You have no doubt the aliens are still looking in on the two of you, watching. They will be watching always.

You shiver at the thought.

Eventually there's nothing for it. Meeting up again in the middle of the habitat, you put your hands on your hips and stare at your father. "Daddy, face it. We can't keep averting our eyes, and there's nothing here we can use as clothes. So look at me." You spread your arms and legs wide and turn very deliberately.

"I'm just … I'm sorry." He gestures at his erect cock.

"Hey, it's a perfectly natural reaction when guys see this," you say, gesturing at your perky tits, smooth stomach, and little brown "V" of pubic hair nestled between your thighs. "Maybe it'll go away as you get more used to being around me like this."

Your father quirks an eyebrow, like he's doubtful, but says nothing else on the subject. Instead, the two of you try to find some normal in this abnormal situation.

As these first hours turn into days, you develop a routine. The TV and bookcase are life-savers. One has a library of TV and movies, better stocked than Netflix; the other has a great collection of reading material, as well are board and card games. You pass the time both separately and together. You take the mattress; your dad takes the couch. You eat the bread and trail mix, though both taste like poorly-manufactured knock-offs of the real thing. The two of you very obviously turn your backs when the other has to use the facilities.

But there is an emptiness to this routine. Combined with the strange, 20-or-so-hour ambient day/night cycles, and the nagging reminder in the back of your mind that you're being watched, and this emptiness puts you on edge. Soon what started as a kind of allied front against your captors starts to crack, then crash down, into petty bitchiness and arguing. You are both tired, afraid, and fed up. You want out. But there's no respite. No matter how much you address your captors, alone or united, or just complain in general, no one talks to you and nothing changes. It is obvious that there is only one way your situation might ever improve.

"We have to do it," you say, ending over an hour of not speaking after another fight over something stupid and pointless. "I can't do this any more, Daddy."

"You're right."

"I—wait, what?"

"I said you're right. Why bother arguing?" He turns to you, and you can tell that he's serious. "Better to get it over with."

You hadn't quite expected him to give in so easily, had, in fact, been marshalling your usual arguments for why he should jump you. "Uh … all right. Where? How?"

He gives you a grim smile. "I think I'll leave that up to you, sweetie."