What about Toby?

Despite leaving him behind, or maybe because of it, you feel a twinge of guilt for Toby. So you ask the Keltraxans what will become of him.

"WE WILL PROCURE A NEW FEMALE HUMAN FOR HIS COMPANIONSHIP."

Oh. OK, then. Guess you're a fungible commodity in the Keltraxans' eyes. Part of you feels offended--not just by the Keltraxans, but by the imaginary Toby who would be so ready to throw you over in favour of a new, nubile mate. Then again, you can't really blame him. You did leave. It's not like you haven't moved on.

"So, I'll never see him again? I'll never leave this place?"

"THIS IS YOUR NEW HABITAT. YOU ARE PART OF THIS EXHIBIT NOW, AND IT IS YOUR PERMANENT OCCUPATION."

That's a no, then.

Sir nuzzles you, then moves his snout down towards your cunt, obviously interested in something other than this discussion. You stroke his head, then lean back and spread your legs almost automatically. He presses his muzzle against the halo of hair surrounding your plump, extremely aroused cunt lips. His wet nose tickles you, then he begins lapping against you with his wet tongue.

Toby, he was your mate? Before? Sir asks.

You play with your dark, hard nipples, moaning happily. "Mmm, yes, ahhh, ohh, yes, faster!" Yes. We come from Earth. You try imagining the stereotypical image of your planet from space, try conveying that to Sir.

He seems to understand. My mate, lost to me too. Image--no, scent of another female, conveyed telepathically. Weird and wonderful

I'm sorry.

Sir gives a growl and pounces on top of you, his paws pressing into your tits and his muzzle up against your mouth. He licks your face. Not sorry. I miss my mate, but that is gone. You are my mate now. You carry my litter.

He playfully nips at your ear. You understand. Sir, like all his species--like you did and will again--lives in the moment. The past is a foreign country, as inaccessible as the future. He cared for his old mate, misses her, but he knows she cannot return to him. He has accepted this, just as he has accepted that the two of you are together.

You arch yourself upwards to give his cock access to your empty, aching vagina. Please.

Sir slips his paws to the ground on either side of you, resting the bulk of his weight against your chest, and positions his cockhead against your vulva. You're so sore with need, you can't wait--you thrust yourself forward, taking him inside you, growling happily. "Fuck me, Sir!" Fuck me! Fuck your pregnant mate!

This is the first time you and Sir have fucked missionary. It's a little awkward; his frame isn't quite built for the task, and you understand now why "doggystyle" isn't just called what it is but feels so natural both to you and your mate. Nevertheless, it's a little hot, being kind of kinky in this way. You manage to find a rhythm wherein Sir stays mostly stationary, with you thrusting yourself up and against his hard penis, kind of like an upside-down cowgirl. You "ride" him in this way, milking his cock happily and energetically, until he reaches his breaking point and presses you down against the ground.

Unfortunately, this causes him to slip violently from you. His barbs scrape against the length of your canal as his cock pulls out, leaving you gasping in pain that tips over into an unanticipated orgasm. As your chest heaves and you try to recover your wits, Sir coats your chest and belly with his cum.

You smile and sit up, then proceed to scoop gobs of his semen up into your hands and feed it to yourself. "Mmm." I love your taste, my mate.

Sir grunts, sniffs at you, then turns and pads away. Despite your new ability to communicate with each other, you remember he is not human. He is an alien, with alien instincts and beliefs. "Love" might not be the same emotion for him that it is for you. He clearly feels fondness for you, enjoys fucking you, is affectionate towards you. But after he has used you for pleasure or breeding, there is a gulf. A separation. You were a thing for him to fill, and having done that, he moves on. But part of you likes that, likes this idea that you are his animal rather than his lover, a mate rather than a wife. A broodmare for a species.

Forget Toby--you have a species to save.