I was asked to back for a drink with a bloke I’d met in the pub. Having had a few beers, it seemed like a good idea, and on arrival at his house we went to the kitchen to start on the cans of lager. That was when he slammed the door shut and told me to strip naked. I thought he was joking, but, naively, removed all my clothes. It was late, and I wanted a beer. I realised I had made a big mistake when he gathered my clothes together and walked out of the kitchen, locking the door. He was only gone a few minutes, but they seemed like an eternity in this cold and deserted kitchen where I shivered in my nudity. “Are you OK?” a voice shouted. And then the door swung open. “Come with me. I’ve got your your new clothes and your new identity. I’m your pimp, now, and you are going to be my best tart ever.
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