Mailgirl Number Six

"Here? Now?"

There was disbelief in the girl's voice, as if she'd misunderstood. As if she'd misheard. As if she'd misinterpreted her new station. It was as if the conversation that had preceded the instruction had been a purely rhetorical exercise, or as if they'd been talking about someone else. She couldn't possibly comply. Not here. Not now.

Abigail Wagner Williams fought back her annoyance. Of course there'd be hesitation and disbelief, and Abby wasn't entirely devoid of empathy. The direction of this poor girl's life had just changed dramatically, and what was about to happen to her -- what had already begun happening to her -- would have been unthinkable even just sixty minutes earlier. And, even if she had truly and fully understood what her new role was in the company and what would be expected of her, the immediacy of her induction was admittedly startling. Despite that week's announcements and demonstrations, Abby doubted that the girl had left for work that morning thinking that this could happen to her.

"Here," Abby responded. "Now."

As much empathy as Abby may have had, however, she still felt annoyed by the pushback. It shouldn't have mattered to Casey Campbell whether she undressed here in the middle of Regulatory Compliance or if she undressed downstairs in the basement. Her current coworkers and colleagues were going to see her in all her glory soon enough; there was no gradual easing into the life of a naked mailgirl.

Casey looked to Will Barrow to overrule Abby, and then to Steve Dreisewerd for support. Neither was going to help. Barrow was Director of US Financial's Human Capital unit, a specialized team within Human Resources that had been tasked first with launching the Mailgirls Program at USF Plaza downtown, and now expanding said program to the company's back office here in Jersey City; everything that Abby was doing was at his direction. Dreisewerd, a middle manager with all the power and personality one might have expected out of a career compliance officer, was in no position step in even if he'd wanted to.

Casey didn't bother to seek assistance from the other woman in the room. Mistress Rei, her new supervisor, stood behind Barrow with her hands behind her back, legs ever-so-slightly apart, and chest puffed out. Abby was doing her best to swallow her annoyance at the girl. Mistress Rei made no such effort.

Smartly, though, Casey gave in. She'd already fought the good fight over the course of the preceding hour, exploring any alternatives that she might have had, and she seemed beaten. Meekly, she offered up only an, "Okay." She glanced nervously over her shoulder, through the glass walls of the conference room, and out into the cubicle farm that lay beyond. Her fellow compliance officers were trying -- and failing -- to pretend they weren't doing everything in their power to sneak a peek at what was unfolding here in the room. And as Casey stood, and reached for the lapels of her blazer, Abby could have sworn that what had been a dull murmur in the workplace outside hushed in anticipation.

Historically, the dress code at USF's Park Place office in Jersey City had been less formal than at the Plaza downtown. But Casey Campbell was still a lawyer by training, and Park Place was still generally representative of USF's staid, conservative financial services culture. And so it wasn't out of place for Casey to be wearing a charcoal grey suit jacket and a matching, formal sheath dress. No, she wasn't wearing pantyhose. Or stockings, as Abby was. But even Abby usually went without when here in Jersey City. And it was only when she went in-town, or when she was entertaining senior staff here at Park Place, that Abby made the effort to don hose.

Casey shed the blazer, and then first glanced nervously over to Abby, and to Barrow immediately after. She looked unsure of what to do with it. Casey was already looking for instruction of how to fold her clothes or where to put them. But neither Abby nor Barrow offered more direction than they already had, and so the girl neatly folded her jacket and draped it over the back of an empty chair.

She was gorgeous, to be sure. Of this first cohort of mailgirl prospects, she was probably the only one that Abby and Barrow both agreed was a good, solid "10." Five-foot-eight, maybe even five-foot-nine, with long, wavy blonde hair that she let fall loose. She had "high school cheerleader" written all over her, a tidbit that Abby had confirmed while doing her background research. Perfect teeth and a big, happy smile -- though, admittedly, not at the moment. Bright blue eyes. And, breasts. The breasts. Not even the bateau neckline could hide the girl's curves. Abby and Barrow had debated over whether she was a D-cup or a C. She'd been a party girl at one time; Abby was sure of it. Three years of law school and a compliance job in a cubicle farm in New Jersey had managed to stamp most of it out her. Even though Casey had been a no-brainer from the beginning, from a looks standpoint, she was also the one that Abby most worried would be sporting some sort of tramp stamp or tribal tattoo that would could threaten her candidacy.

Balancing herself against the conference table, Casey stepped out of her black pumps, and then bent forward to retrieve them. They were placed neatly side-by-side on the table, the girl taking care to make sure they were perfectly aligned in a transparent attempt to stall what was coming next.

She didn't look up at Abby or Barrow at this point. Nor did she risk a glance back towards her old desk, her old coworkers, or her old life. Instead, she seemed to focus herself within, calm herself down, and proceed. She reached back over her shoulder with her right hand and unfastened the sleeveless dress at the top of the zipper. One or two quick tugs at the zipper from the top, to get it started, and then she changed positions; she pulled her arm from over her shoulder, twisted it awkwardly behind her back, and then found the zipper once more. All the way down her back, to just above her waist, and the dress began to loosen around her shoulders.

The conference room was almost entirely glass on one side, and exposed to Regulatory Compliance here on the 6th Floor beyond. Abby and Casey were both on the near side -- Abby seated towards the head, with Casey now standing towards the foot, near the door. Barrow and Dreisewerd were seated on the other side, across from Abby, with only a single empty chair between them. Mistress Rei, meanwhile, was standing comfortably enough behind Barrow, close to the wall. Casey had spent the better part of the last hour seated at one end of the table, being talked into a job she didn't want. And so it was therefore natural for her to continue facing the four people in the room, ignoring the rest of Regulatory Compliance and perhaps pretending they weren't out there.

Abby wasn't sure what she'd hoped Casey would be wearing beneath her dress, but she found herself mildly disappointed. When the mailgirls program had begun rolling out at the Plaza, women throughout the company confessed to one another they'd worn their best out of fear they'd be forced to undress in front of an audience. Even yesterday, when Abby and Barrow had tapped Theresa Gutteridge here at Park Place, Theresa had been wearing a ridiculous black g-string that Abby doubted was in her regular rotation. Casey, as she slithered out of her dress, revealed a simple and boring bra-and-panty set made of lavender/violet nylon. The wireless bra sported a plunging neckline that lifted Casey's generous cleavage. And the hip hugger panties had lace trim along the waist and either leg, as well a pretty little bow at the top. Nothing that Casey would have any reason to be embarrassed about, per se. But the set was ordinary and run-of-the mill, something that could have been picked up on clearance just about anywhere, and didn't do justice to the stunning blonde contained within.

And Casey Campbell was stunning. Abby knew the moment that the dress puddled around her ankles that she'd be the standard against which the rest of Park Place's mailgirls would be measured. What this girl had been doing in a cubicle, working a 9-to-5 in Jersey City, was -- at this moment -- baffling. Abby knew her inside and out, though: twenty-eight-years-old, Buffalo native, Binghamton graduate, with a JD from City College. She'd apparently hated the two summers she'd spent at Hobson Morgan McNamara while in law school, and had landed in USF's Compliance department as a way to use her law degree without necessarily having to be a lawyer. But her true talents, as her now-exposed figure made apparent, had been going to waste here on the 6th Floor.

Casey bent at the waist, gathered her dress, and then folded it neatly. She placed it on the conference table beside her shoes. To her credit, she didn't default to the uncomfortable "cover-myself-with-my-arms" position both girls had instinctively taken yesterday. And she didn't hesitate in reaching behind her back for her bra clasp. She wanted to get this over with, yes. But there was also an undercurrent of anger and defiance that Abby detected, which paradoxically only further underlined her potential as a mailgirl.

The truth about the mailgirls program was that it was never about simply delivering the mail. Nor was it even about the perverse and voyeuristic nature of watching a beautiful naked girl dash through one's place of work. Rather, there was measurable data that showed the impact that the mailgirls program had already had at USF Plaza downtown. Attrition was down. Significantly. Even among women. Employee engagement was up. Significantly. Usage of sick days, vacation time, and even FMLA was down. USF had lost a handful of clients to the negative PR surrounding the "mailgirl issue," but they'd more than made up for those losses with new business, especially if that new business had the opportunity for an on-site meeting at USF Plaza. The more general productivity gains were a bit less straight forward. And it was only when Barrow began sharing some of the theories and speculations of Mailgirl Number Thirteen -- sorry, Mailgirl Number Two, now -- that it began to come together for Abby. The dominance and superiority that USF's employees felt in interacting with the mailgirls at the Plaza had translated into material gains in productivity; in short, feeling superior had a direct and measurable affect in producing superior performance. If Casey fought her new station, if Casey had to be broken -- so much the better. While submission was expected and essential for all mailgirls, dominance required domination, and superiority required USF's non-mailgirl population to claim it.

D's, Abby told herself as Casey's bra came off. She was sure of it. It was one of the data points she'd been asked to provide for each candidate, and she'd spent more time over the last few weeks looking at women's breasts than she would have thought possible for a straight girl. Naked breasts. Fully clothed breasts. Breasts in bras. Breasts in bikini tops. She'd done most of her research on her personal computer, not wanting to get flagged by IT for running afoul of the company's Internet policy. But she'd also done quite a bit of research on USF's own mailgirls app, which thoughtfully provided measurements (and photos) for each member of the mailgirl team. As there hadn't been photos of those girls while dressed, however, Abby still had to make a best guess at what was hiding beneath blouses and blazers here in Jersey City. But now that Casey's two, perfect round globes had introduced themselves to the room, Abby was certain she'd been right. She glanced across the table, hoping to catch eye contact with Barrow and crow; she was kidding herself, though, if she believed Barrow's attention was directed anywhere but on the topless blonde.

No tattoos, Abby confirmed as she turned back to Casey, unless they were hiding beneath the hiphuggers. There was a belly-button ring, but that could come out. In fact, Abby jutted her chin towards it, and said, "You'll need to take out the belly-button piercing."

"Okay," the girl agreed, and began fiddling with her navel.

Abby smiled to herself, knowing that she'd just delayed Casey's final reveal; Barrow and Dreisewerd would have to wait a few moments longer for the panties to come off.

"'Yes, ma'am.'" This from Mistress Rei. She'd let the last one slide, but the corporate dominatrix in her took over this time. It was time for Casey to begin learning her place.

Casey stopped with the jewelry, momentarily, and found Mistress Rei's gaze. She seemed caught off-guard, but recognized her mistake, and offered up an apologetic, "Yes, ma'am" in Abby's direction.

"I think 'Mrs. Williams,' will do," Barrow corrected them both.

There it was again. Barrow had offered the same correction to Erin Higgins yesterday. Abby wondered if he was probing. Did he know about the divorce? Was he teasing her? Was he just trying to ask her if she was single? For a mailgirl, the default form of address to her superiors was "sir" for men and "ma'am" for women. But you could have a mailgirl call you "Mr. So-and-So" or "Ms. So-and-So" if you preferred; even "Miss So-and-So" seemed to be making a surprising comeback at the Plaza. Abby didn't have any particular aversion to "ma'am," though, so she found herself asking if Barrow had an agenda.

"Yes, sir," Casey replied. Flustered, she added, "Yes, Mr. Barrow." And then, "Yes, Mrs. Williams."

Mrs. Williams. Abby was barely thirty, and had less than two full years on Casey Campbell, which made "Mrs. Williams" sound odd coming out of the blonde's mouth. It was intended as a sign of deference, and act of submission to a superior, but it they way it landed made Abby feel old. It made her sound like her mother. No, rather, it made her sound like Jon's mother.

Casey's hands were now trembling as she returned to her bellybutton ring. The admonishment from Mistress Rei had spooked her, and there was a certain amount of nervousness that she couldn't seem to shake off. Perhaps it was that she still had to remove her panties. Or perhaps it was that the reality of her situation had begun to make itself apparent. She fumbled with the piercing a moment longer, but nonetheless managed to remove it without too much more delay.

Casey placed the bellybutton ring on the table, beside her bra, dress, and shoes, and then hesitated. To Abby, she began, "Ma'am -- Mrs. Williams -- should I take the rest of it off, too?"

She meant the rest of her jewelry. But the question was ambiguous, and so Abby offered an impish smile and a comprehensive reply. "It's all got to come off."

"Yes, Mrs. Williams." Casey nodded, and made up her mind that the rest of jewelry would come before her panties. Rings. Watch. A thin, silver necklace. And, finally, with bare breasts framed between her elbows, she took out her earrings.

There'd be no more delay now; Casey had only one final offering for her new masters. She hooked her thumbs into the waistline of her purple panties, and wriggled free. Down her thighs, past her knees, until she was able to step out of them. But, as she went to place them atop the rest of her clothes, she was instructed to give them to Abby, instead.

"I'll take those," Abby said, leaning forward and reaching out with one hand. She knew what she sounded like -- some sort of lesbian pervert who'd be sniffing Casey's panties back in her office. She suspected that Barrow had gotten a kick out of her asking the two girls yesterday, and that he was likely chuckling to himself now. But the claiming of a trophy had become an important rite at USF; there were already a good two-dozen-and-some pairs of women's underwear hanging in the corridor leading to Human Capital on the 18th Floor of the Plaza. Casey's would be added to those of Mailgirls One through Four here at Park Place, downstairs in HR.

Mailgirl Number One, the younger of the two Scott sisters, had surrendered her cute little classic bikini to the company sometime the previous Friday morning. Mailgirl Number Two -- the other Scott sister, the PhD from Yale, the one who'd been Mailgirl Number Thirteen at the Plaza up until Friday night -- already had white lace thong hanging at the Plaza from when she'd originally undressed in front of Barrow back in June. But she'd donated another on Friday, a black one, that she'd stripped out of at the start of her shift that morning. Numbers Three and Four -- Erin Higgins from Commercial Loans and Theresa Gutteridge from Estate Planning -- had handed their respective shimmery yellow briefs and black thong to Abby yesterday, just as Casey Campbell was doing now. And it would be Abby's charge to hang Casey's pair alongside the others later this afternoon.

Casey's hiphuggers were still warm to the touch, a realization that now made Abby actually feel like some sort of lesbian pervert. After all, while Casey's underwear was dry to the touch, Abby knew she couldn't say the same about her own. She was no lesbian. Nor had she ever had any fantasies or any particular curiosity when it came to women. But her current assignment, under Barrow, had clearly struck a nerve over the last few weeks. And whether it was the dominance of her position or the submission of the girls, Abby couldn't deny that she was getting off on this. Maybe even more than Barrow.

She worried she'd let the genie out of the bottle two weeks ago at the Plaza...

The fact that Casey wasn't shaved down below excited her more than it should have. As she understood it, a highlight of a girl's first day -- lowlight, probably, from the girl's perspective -- was the first time she was forced to shave in front of an audience. Theresa Gutteridge's Brazilian had robbed them of that particular spectacle yesterday. But Casey's whispy little blonde triangle would allow her the opportunity to put on a show later that morning -- likely seated on the floor of the shower block, with legs splayed and crotch covered in shaving cream, while a crowd assembled on the far side of the locker's room's mirror glass.

Gutteridge, at least, had still had to endure her anal bleaching, a misery that Casey may or may not have been aware awaited her. After the first time, the girls at the Plaza were generally able to take care of that particular chore on their own time, in the relative privacy of a spa or salon. But the girls of Park Place, guinea pigs for USF's new 24/7 program, would be granted no such luxury.

Abby found herself absentmindedly wondering what Casey's asshole looked like -- a goddess such as this, flawless in just about every way. But it wasn't as if she could ask to see it. Well, technically, she could -- she needed only to give the command. But even as up-close and personal as she'd gotten with the Number Eighteen's rear end at the Plaza, there were some lines that Abby wasn't yet ready to cross on her own. And she certainly wasn't going to ask in front of Barrow. Leave that particular command to Mistress Rei later that morning; leave that to the professional.

Casey was now fully naked in her place of work, in front of an audience of four here in the room, as well as a handful of gawkers outside who'd popped their heads like prairie dogs up over the walls of their cubicles to see for themselves. She had likely had conference calls and Monday morning briefings and birthday parties here in this room. She likely had never imagined herself standing here now, tits out and body on display, utterly humiliated and anticipating two more years of even worse humiliations to come.

Barring some sort of executive's fantasy or the whims of Human Capital, Casey was unlikely to be allowed any opportunity to wear anything again until September rolled back around two years from now. And yet, just as both girls had done yesterday, she asked about the clothes she'd worn to work that morning.