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Ruth slammed down the phone. She was annoyed, angry, pissed, really pissed with it all; curses were flowing voluminously. "That's the second one this month" she declaimed, looking over at Belinda, her boss, nonchalantly sat on her office desk, skirt riding high, legs slightly apart, black lace stocking welts well visible. "It's the same as the last one, selling drugs to staff. Heaven knows we've enough problems finding good personnel and then another stupid bitch wastes all the training, just to earn some extra money. It's not as though they're poorly paid, is it? Merde, scheisse" she shouted. "Never mind" Belinda said soothingly, "Jo will handle this one, just like she does with the others." Angry, Ruth got up from her chair whilst Belinda sat back in the comfy chair, thighs exposed as skirt rode up. Ruth perched on the desk, letting her skirt hem lift to show welts of gartered grey stockings. She very deliberately put legs either side of Belinda's left one, more than happy to let her boss see the black satin panties she wore, knowing what they concealed. The ladies were very good friends. Ruth opted for Jo and her team again. The video material that came out of those days was easy to produce and made a lot of sales. "I want this bitch to suffer" exclaimed Ruth, "so I'll put her in the old factory for her last night, where she can be cold, dirty, frightened and thoroughly miserable. Belinda stood up, held out her arms pulling Ruth towards her, putting a hand on Ruth's hip as the other woman's fingers went to the hem of both skirts, lifting them enticingly. Belinda observed, "It's late in the day and we've had a rough afternoon. Come over to my office; we can have a drink or two and use the bed in the back room there. Let's relax and have some fun; what say you?" "I say 'yes please'" replied Ruth, turning to place a gentle kiss on B's lips . . . . Ruth instructed her secretary to contact Jo and arrange for a couple of days work. Jo was to call her back in, well, how long she asked, looking at Belinda. Better allow a couple of hours she said . . . . She and her boss were chilling out after a hot session when the call came in. "Yes please, Jo, another bitch for your distinctive treatment. This one needs something extra, so I'd like for you to take her to the old clay works and chain her up overnight. I want you to make her very miserable. Be cruel if you wish, but I know sadistic stuff isn't your style. You don't need to whip or knock her about any, just let her know that she's powerless, beyond help, alone." "That's fine" said the voice on the other end of the line, "You're right, I don't usually use violence on my subjects and I won't on this one, but she will receive attention that will make her despondent, wretched and utterly desolate. Leave it to me." "Yes, I will leave it to you. Don't I always?" relied Ruth. No, you don't, mused Jo. Too many times had Ruth demanded the victim be allowed some scrap of clothing when crucified, against Jo's methodology. Still, 'he who pays the piper' and all that, but there were occasions when Jo went ahead and did it her way regardless . . . . The delivery girls transported the girl to the old factory and dropped her into Jo's care a few hundred yards from the buildings. Hands were bound and she wore a ragged cloth around her hips. Jo had arrived earlier and made the necessary arrangements. Using the delivery team for support, she pointed the subject to the open doorway and the party moved slowly in that direction, helped along with a few shouts. Into the building, cold, dark and gloomy after the warmth of the afternoon sun, the girl stood, dismayed, emotion visibly draining from her face. She sat herself down, but not for long. Jo kept her moving, no time to relax, to feel safe. First she was tied to a huge post, a roof support, so her back might be chafed, then face to the post, for soft breasts to suffer similarly. Rusty chains were looped around wrists and fastened to hooks high on the big posts. Now she was hanging there; all she had to do was survive the cold, dark night. It wasn't long before her modesty wrap became unfastened. The fragment of cloth fell away. She tried to prevent it, clasping it between knees, to no avail. Then she finally 'lost it', shouting, crying, twisting and turning this way and that, until she realised it was all futile, calmed down and wept quietly, looking forlorn, miserable. [amended 2023/02/14]
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