The future holds laundry and laundry holds clothes

Left. Right. Around. Sideways. Through. Down. Into a dingy basement apartment. A light bulb hangs over a table. There is a mattress off to the side, a rusty-looking kitchen, and a washing machine right by the door.

The gun presses uncomfortably at your side.

"Turn around, sweet tits."

You turn around. Your breasts brush the gun, and you finally get a good look at your kidnapper. White male, dirty blonde hair, lanky. He pulls off the ketchup-stained stocking from his head.

"What's your name?"

"Emily."

"Well, Emily, thanks to you I'm broke and dirty."

"Sorry," you whisper.

"What was that?"

"I'm sorry."

"Not forgiven," the man says as he waves his gun. "Strip."

"No!" you exclaim, belatedly realizing how ridiculous that is when there's a gun pointed at you.

He stares.

Your fingers find the buttons on your silky white blouse. One button. Two buttons. Three. Your lacy white bra, the one you hoped no man would see tonight, comes into view. Your navel follows, and then the blouse flitters to the ground.

"Pick it up and put it in the wash."

"Oh," you mutter. Your green plaid skirt rides up a bit when you pick up the blouse, and then again when you toss it in the washer. The skirt gets tossed in next.

"Good girl. Keep going."

You demurely unhook the bra and toss it in, and then step out of your panties.

"Turn around."

You, Emily, a curvy 18-year-old brunette with freckly boobs, are now naked in front of some lanky guy that tried to rob a store. And kidnapped you.

He strips off his shirt and tosses it to you. The ketchup smears your fingers.

"Laundry."

You toss it in. Jeans follow, along with socks and boxer briefs.

"Let's cuddle and watch some tv, Emily."