Imagine I’m an object and should be packaged accordingly. Like a piece of meat. It’s all part of the work. These are the objects and I’m just on... of them.?She managed to rise with his help and turned around.?Bind my hands behind my back please.? He took the material and saw it was a torn length of calico, quite tough and course. He carefully bound her wrists, looking at the top of her shapely buttocks as he did. Beginning now to smell the sweat on her back, as if the pheromones had triggered. The friend still had power, and they had all the information that was being broadcast by the local news station. The rioting was over, but cleanup was going to take a while."I have to go to work," she moaned, as she hung up. "My boss is an asshole, and if I don't show up, he'll fire me for sure." Where do you work?" I asked."Milford-Watson," she said."The sweat shop?" I asked, raising one eyebrow."The garment factory," she corrected, gently."Not according to the labor unions I've heard mention. More

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