Day 287 in this sterile white cage. The aliens think they're so clever with their hidden cameras and aphrodisiac-laced meals. They want to watch me squirm and moan, and fuck knows I do - my pussy gets so wet just from the boredom that I've started masturbating three times a day just to feel something. But today... today I'm thinking about my husband's hands. Not the sex, but the way he'd rub my shoulders after a long day. The way he'd make coffee exactly how I liked it. They can take my clothes, my freedom, even make my body betray me with these overwhelming orgasms that leave me shaking and squirting all over this fucking bed. But they can't take the memory of being loved. Not really. Not completely.