It's not until your new owner is sitting in his SUV and takes off his designer shades that you realise the stylishy dishevelled man is none other than Russel Brand. You're not sure what about that fact sends chills down your spine -- Maybe it's the rumours of wild sexual appetites and a reckless party lifestyle that makes you pray you won't end up a helpless sex toy, broken or lost in the giant's whirlwind of a life.
"Right." The man says in his slightly uncouth British accent. He's sitting in his car, frowning at you while he turns you over in his clammy palm. The man smells, he has a salty, sweaty natural scent that is absolutely overwhelming to a tiny man like you. "You look good enough to eat, mate." His compliment sounds like anything but, and you try to gauge whether this means he really does intend to use you as a masturbatory aid or if he literally plans on tossing you into his scruffy mouth and gulping you down as a snack.
You're getting more and more nervous by the minute. Things are finally brought to a head when Russel declares, "All right mate, enough sitting around in me hand like a prince on his throne. You're going away where the Sun don't shine till we get home."
And with that, Russel shoves you, squeaking for mercy, into the depths of...
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