You lose track of time

Days pass, weeks pass, months pass—hell, years? Probably not years. But you honestly lose track of time passing. Where once you would mark the day/night cycles—not that you knew if they corresponded to 24 hours on Earth or however many hours passed for a Keltraxan day—you just ignore the passage of time. What did it matter? Toby fucks you when he is hard—you're always wet and ready.

What once was unusual, even unnatural, now feels normal, welcome. When you first arrived here, the idea that you would spend your days lounging naked in an artificial habitat, exposed for everyone to see, having sex with your ex-boyfriend for the amusement of aliens—it sounded like a prison. It is a prison, actually. But it's one you've grown accustomed to.

You like your nudity. You love the way you catch Toby looking at you—not the times he is staring at you, about to pounce upon you and hump you like a dog, but the other times. The times he's stealing glances at you out of the corner of his eye, like he'd be embarrassed if you caught him looking. It's something he did back when you first started going out, one of the things that endeared him to you, this idea that he was quietly admiring you on the sly. Now he does it with your naked body. As his eyes drink in the rise and fall of your chest, the sashay of your hips and bounce of your butt, the length of your legs, the tantalizing hint of the flower between your legs … you see yourself through his eyes. It's this that really turns you on, not the sight of his unnaturally erect member pointing upwards to the fake sky. It's the way he so clearly wants you, even when he thinks you aren't looking.

He's doing it now, again. Looking at you. You very carefully don't return his gaze, lest you frighten him off like a shy prom date.

You are now indifferent to being exposed. "Exhibitionist" was not in your fetish vocabulary before. It isn't now, you suppose, because it isn't like there are other humans around to watch or judge you. But you don't care, any more, that your captors are watching your every move. Caring gives them even more power over you than they already have. Screw them. No, wait—screw Toby some more. That's why he's here, right?

What's come over you? But this question slips out of your mind, and your hand finds its way between your legs. Mmm, yes. Strokes your sensitive, pink lips. Slips between them.

What were you thinking about? Oh, right, sex with your ex for aliens. It could be worse, right? I mean, they could have taken you and your dad or someone totally unsuitable! At least Toby is pretty attractive, and for once he isn't having any trouble—mmm—satisfying you. Also, turns out communication isn't really an issue when you pretty much just fuck.

Speaking of fucking, why hasn't Toby come over here? It's been, like, an hour. Your fingers tease your clit while you ponder whether or not to turn your head and demand he attend you. Pulsing pleasure distracts you from this train of thought. You could swear your clit has gotten bigger over the past weeks (months?). Then again, maybe you're just more sensitive to it now. With all this time spent having sex, you feel so much more in tune with your body. Your hand is no substitute for Toby's thick, unyielding cock, of course, but … yeah, why isn't he inside you, right fucking now?

You look over to where he had been sitting, ostensibly eating while secretly staring at you. But he isn't there any more. You whirl around—sometimes he likes to hide, then surprise you. It adds a layer of thrill to the fuck. Getting up, you pace across the habitat and start looking in the usual places. But he isn't there.

"Toby?" you call out. A nervous smile crosses your face. "Where are you, baby?"

Minutes pass, and a thorough search of the habitat reveals nothing. "OK, Toby. This was fun before, but it's kind of freaky now. Where are you?"