It must have happened while he was asleep.

It wasn't the first time, nor did it shock or even surprise him. He slept so much, it only made sense that he was still available to work while he was asleep. His shaft ached for attention that he - for now - knew better than to give it. His ass had a lingering empty feeling, where his anus had been stretched and was still retaking shape. It wasn't sore, by any means. His routine helped with that.

The dispenser in his room wouldn't provide him with food - if the low-fibre nutrient shake could be called that - until he'd showered. The huge, two-person walk-in shower wouldn't turn on until he'd filled the bar on the screen in the small gym attached to his room by working out. To call it a gym would be generous, but with a treadmill, cycle machine and various weight apparatuses, there lacked another word for it. The gym itself seemed to know what it was he should be doing at any given time, since it would only let him use certain equipment at any given time, the rest being folded away, like the exercise equipment in those ancient, cramped, primordial stations, with no gravity of their own.

And most pertinently, the gym wouldn't open until he had taken the dildo next to the door all the way to the hilt. Once pressed all the way down, it would detach from its stand, inflating a little to knot inside, and he'd have to carry it while he exercised. Uncomfortable as it made certain stretches, it was also a measure for his safety. His ass was always ready to take anything that could be thrown at it - cocks of any size, any toy here, fists, improbable household objects...

And then once he was done, there was nothing for him to do but do it again. Or sleep. It would be difficult to sleep so much, but for the collar. All he had to do to fall asleep within seconds was try to tamper with the collar, or try to stimulate his cock. Again it called out to him, a physiological demand, filibustering his attention, held back only by the knowledge that doing so would drop him into oblivion for fifteen minutes at a minimum - possibly hours otherwise. He was just waking up, but... what else was there to do? He can remember having the occasional fall when he went to scratch an itch under the collar while he was standing up, when he was first getting used to it...

Remember. If he could remember anything outside this tiny room, that would help him make so much more sense of this. His mind was criss-crossed with boundaries and barriers and discontinuities, unexpected connections. When he thought of his name, "Clipped Wings" was what sat in that place in his brain. He wasn't sure if he was the one that put it there. He knew that when someone told him to put something on he did it immediately, but couldn't remember why. And so, so many holes in his memory. Anything that wasn't this place was a vague blur, a half-remembered dream. Sometimes he dreamed of blue skies, of crowds of people, of halls filled with books - at least they were maybe books. He didn't remember having ever seen one. He couldn't be sure if those things in his dreams actually existed. And of course, very often, he dreamed of this cell he was trapped in.

It happened a lot when he had a visitor who didn't let him finish, or if he'd not had a visitor at all for a while. He dreamed of being pounded against the bed, in the shower, of being strapped down and having someone tenderly fellate him for hours just to watch him squirm in desperation. Having him be pent-up and needy all the time was part of the point, he supposed. His visitors would appear from the sealed door and have their way with him. He couldn't use this opportunity to escape - tampering with the door would also cause his collar to put him to sleep, as would trying to attack his visitor - even if his ruthless gym routine made him frequently stronger and fitter than them. A sympathetic (or greedy) visitor would also not be able to take him with them, because the door would fail to open if he was close to it, and as had been explained to him, to get access, his visitors had to check their weapons and tools at the docking ring to gain access. A shame, because the station was otherwise unmanned - just a self-sufficient cublcle, floating in a secret, distant orbit. They also had to shower to get in, which he was informed was a blessing.

75 days since his last orgasm and no indication of a new client on the way. The last one had arrived while he was sleeping and not even bothered to wake him. Some of them liked that - they even had the ability to make sure he was asleep while they were here. They were also able to break his routine while he was there, so they could facefuck him in the shower before he was done at the gym if they wanted to, or have him top, putting his toned thighs to work jackhammering the client until they were satisfied (and maybe getting his reward). One time, somebody just wanted to watch him work out.

God he was horny. The intrusive thoughts won, and he started pumping his cock, once, twice... his grip weakened, and before the third pull, consciousness left him again. Which meant he was unaware when glowing hot metal started sparking from a brand new hole in the door...