Mailgirl Number Six

Barrow had apparently intended to send the elder of the two girls, the famous Mailgirl Number Thirteen, over to Jersey City for some time, and had made all of the arrangements with the university in New Haven on his own. The second sister, though, was a rising second-year dental student out in Los Angeles, who had just happened to fall into Barrow's lap earlier in the day on Friday, before he'd sprung his trap on the first. Neither were true USF employees, per se, but Barrow believed the program at Park Place would benefit from having an already trained, already broken mailgirl in its initial cohort, to help impart some of the Plaza's "culture" upon the new recruits. Marie Partee and Jill Johnson, Abby's prospective numbers five and six, got bumped down the list, and would have to wait until October. With Casey, Abby and Barrow were now up to five, and Kristen Metkovich would round out the first class as Mailgirl Number Six.

***

Kristen Metkovich, however, had other ideas. She had an inch or two on Abby, though Abby's heels help close the gap. She'd been a field hockey star at Lehigh, and still carried herself with an athlete's confidence seven years after graduation. She made no secret of the fact that she was gay, a fact that that her pantsuit, flats, and short, chin-length bob seemed to underline. She was no lipstick lesbian, to be sure, but was attractive enough to turn heads of both genders all the same. Abby was sure that, once undressed, Kristen would prove herself every bit as feminine as the other mailgirls, and her sexuality would be an interesting wildcard once introduced to her new team.

Any sexual relations with or among the mailgirls was strictly forbidden at the Plaza, and enforced with terminations among the non-mailgirl population and severe punishments for the girls themselves. An entire team in IT had felt Barrow's wrath when one of them was found fucking Mailgirl Number Twenty-One -- willingly and consentingly on the girl's part. All the girls themselves, all twenty-four of them, had been punished for Twenty-One's sins. But, off-hours, there was apparently rampant bisexuality among the girls themselves. They were "letter-carrying lesbians," lesbians of convenience, using each other to get their rocks off without having to string together random one-night stands or having to explain to a boyfriend what they did for work. In that environment, a practiced hand like Kristen Metkovich could prove popular.

The idea of 24/7 mailgirls was not one that had sprung forth from Barrow. Rather, it had been handed down to him by Senior Management. As Barrow had explained to Abby, he actually preferred the daily rite of the girls undressing for their shifts; he liked that that particular embarrassment was one they had to live through each and every day. Still, he was willing to experiment here in the back office, and he was testing out a handful of other concepts before they decided what the regional programs would look like in Boston, Philadelphia, Chicago, Miami, Houston, and San Francisco.

The squat toilets were a good example. The trough was another: rather then being fed from a dish of their own, mailgirls at Park Place would eat from a communal trough. And, because of the research that Mailgirl Number Thirteen-now-Two had done that summer at the Plaza, the Park Place mailgirls would be given a few hours of relative liberty on Saturday nights (on campus, of course), and be granted some leniency when coupling off for a quick round of pussy-eating with one another. Only during "off hours" - which was really only seven to nine each night -- and only in the locker room.

But a veritable buffet of mailgirls was not enticement enough for Kristen Metkovich, apparently.

"No!" she shouted, the moment she caught sight of Abby. "No! Fuck you!"

It was a perfectly normal reaction; even Mailgirl Number Five had had a few off-color outbursts that morning, before ultimately becoming more subdued. Abby just wished Kristen had waited until they'd gone behind closed doors. Here, out in the open, she had an audience.

Kristen glanced behind Abby, and saw Barrow and Mistress Rei with. But her ire was reserved for Abby.

"This is why you were sniffing around Lauren Zuber, isn't it?" she asked. Lauren Zuber was the second girl who'd agreed to file a sexual harassment claim against Kristen, with Abby pushing her to do so. Abby might have dismissed a claim as flimsy and petty as Lauren's if she'd been really-and-truly wearing her Human Resources hat. But, coupled with an equally questionable and similarly marginal claim from another woman, a few months earlier, it fit a narrative that Abby had hoped to exploit in coercing Kristen out of her clothes.

"Do you want to do this here?" Abby asked.

"Is this too public for you?" Kristen seethed. "Or are you going to get me into an office and blackmail me?"

Abby didn't want a scene. Not a scene like this, at least. USF's mailgirls were technically volunteers. The dirty secret, though, was that most were given little choice but to volunteer. "Blackmail" was an extreme word for it, but even Barrow's claim of "incentivizing" the girls didn't quite capture the menacing nature of the conversation Abby was hoping to have with Kristen.

The brunette didn't wait for a response. "No," she repeated. "No. Fuck you. Fuck off." She grabbed a small clutch from her desk and walked in the opposite direction, away from where Abby, Barrow, and Mistress Rei were standing.

"Security?" Mistress Rei asked Barrow softly, loud enough so that only Abby and Barrow could hear.

Barrow shook his head. "Not like this."

Abby had no choice but to follow. Kristen's coworkers were now standing up in their cubicles, looking to see what the commotion was. As much as many of them probably hoped to see Kristen in the nude, Abby doubted she'd be able to win their hearts and minds if she got into a full-on shouting match with a girl they worked with on a daily basis. Kristen had friends in this room; Abby did not.

"Kristen, slow down," Abby called behind her. "We need to talk."

The girl didn't turn around. Instead, she flipped Abby the finger. "There's your fucking contract."

Abby had expected things with Mailgirl Number Six to be a bit messier than they had been with Mailgirl Number Five. But she had expected that messiness to come later, when it came time for Kristen to call her partner and tell her she was moving out. This, this head-on conflict, had caught her by surprise.

"I think it's in your best interest..." This from Barrow, who also appeared to be unnerved about the audience watching the confrontation unfold.

She turned and stopped, and pointed an angry finger in Barrow's direction. "I know who you are. I know why you're here." Pointing to Mistress Rei, she added, "I know why she's here."

Back to Barrow, Kristen growled, "Fuck you, too. I know you're the one pulling the strings here. You're just having your ginger bitch here do the dirty work. And when she's done, she'll hand me off to that other fucking cunt so that I can take a spanking and ask for another."

"Kristen," Abby began, trying to reel her back in.

"No, fuck this," Kristen responded, and then turned back towards the door. "I quit."

Abby couldn't let her go. If she could just get her alone, without spectators, she could apply some leverage. There were carrots to be offered. And Kristen didn't yet fully grasp the size of the stick Abby was carrying.

"Kristen," she called again, but the girl had already pushed through the rear door leading out of Trade Ops. She was on her way up the corridor towards the lobby.

"Security?" Mistress Rei asked Barrow again.

This time, the Director of Human Capital hesitated before he responded. Though Abby was already at the door, and beginning to round out into the corridor, she heard Barrow reply, "No, no. Not like this. We've got other options."

Abby, though, wasn't going to let Kristen get away that easy.

There were a few other employees here in corridor, but nothing like the row-upon-row of cubicles and desks back in Trade Ops. And so it was time to fire back.

"You've got two sexual harassment claims on your record now," Abby barked after her. "I guarantee we'll make sure at least one of them turns into criminal charges. You'll be radioactive."

"Better to be radioactive out there than sucking dick in here," Kristen replied. She didn't slow down. She was wearing flats to Abby's heels, pants to Abby's tight-fitting black dress, and had a longer stride on top of all that.

"Your 401K is frozen," Abby called out. "Benefits are cancelled. And we'll be applying a clawback on all incentives you've received from us to-date."

"Great," Kristen snorted. "And you can shove it all up your ass."

Abby was running out of bullets. Maybe it was time for carrots?

"Name your job," Abby tried, desperately.

No response.

"Name your figure," she tried. "On the back end."

No response.

Abby was huffing and puffing, doing her best to keep up. But Kristen was now rounding the corner into the Main Entrance's lobby, and she was going to get away.

"Come back!" Abby yelled. "Come back here! Right now!"

As Abby turned the corner, she found Kristen waiting for her by the security desk. There was anger written all over her face, but also something that Abby hadn't seen before. Pity.

"Last chance," Kristen announced, nodding towards the two security guards seated behind the desk. "Are you going to lock me up? Haul me off into some dungeon? Whip me into shape?"

"No," Abby answered. "No...I...just..."

"You want a mailgirl?" Kristen asked. "Be a mailgirl."

It was like Abby had been slapped.

"That's what this is about, right? You're doing this for him, but you're also doing this to save yourself."

Abby offered an unconvincing shake of her head.

"Walk out with me right now," Kristen offered. "Walk out with me. Just quit. You know he's going to fuck you in the ass. That's how this sort of thing plays out every fucking time. It practically writes itself. You can see it coming from a mile away."

"No, it's not. It's not."

"It is."

"No, it's --"

"It is." Kristen reached forward, and jammed a finger into Abby's chest. She then pulled it back, and pointed to herself. "But this? This shit with me? And the other girls? Whoever's next? Go fuck yourself."

"Ma'am?" This from the security guard, to Abby, as he watched the exchange.

Kristen wasn't done yet, though. She ignored him, and went on. "No, seriously, go fuck yourself. Just go fuck yourself. This can't happen. This can't happen in the fucking real world. You can't just strip and enslave women like this. And fucking chain them up and whip them. All so a guy like that," -- she pointed back over Abby's shoulder, to Barrow, who'd managed to catch up -- "all so a fucking asshole like that can jack off to their misery? You're going to humiliate them and treat them like dogs?"

Abby didn't have a response.

Kristen was fed up. "Fuck you," she said, throwing up her hands, and turning back towards the front entrance. She sounded more tired than angry now, resigned to her fate outside Park Place, resigned to fact she knew full well that USF would come after her finances and reputation. "You might as well just be one of his submissive little bitches, on your back and performing for him. Like you have no control."

And then, she was gone.

It had been a scene, and the whole lobby was frozen in anticipation of how the redhead would react. Someone chuckled softly, and uncomfortably, across the way. There was a nervous cough. Abby had no choice but to return to Barrow.

She joined him, hesitated, but didn't address what had just unfolded. Instead, she took a deep breath and offered, "On to Marie Partee?"

Barrow sized her up, nodded, and replied, "Yes. Marie Partee." It looked as if she wanted to reach out, and give her a hug, but he held back.

He was good-looking. Of that, there could be no argument. Tall, dark hair, in good shape. Young; maybe mid-to-late thirties? He was whip-smart, with an MBA of his own. In what was perhaps the understatement of the century, Abby's boss Chris had warned her that Barrow could be "condescending to women." Abby had found herself fetching coffee and making copies for him when she'd come to give him updates at the Plaza, and he'd basically evicted her from her own office that week in Park Place -- setting up shop and forcing her down the hall to the reception desk. But he also had a power to him, an undeniable magnetism that Abby (and others, it seemed) couldn't resist; she found herself wanting to please him. Chris had told her, before that first meeting, that she needed to make sure she was well-dressed for him, in a skirt and hose, and Abby had dutifully allowed that instruction to dictate how she'd dressed around him every time since.

The fact that Kristen Metkovich had just escaped, that Abby had failed Will Barrow, was crushing.

He recognized that she wasn't quite ready to move on to Marie Partee just yet. "No need to fall on your sword," he offered. "We get a 'no' sometimes."

"No, of course," Abby responded. "Of course. I know."

"Why don't we regroup, lick our wounds, and plan on meeting down in the call center at eleven?" Marie was a team leader for the escalated customer complaints group, with a staff of sixteen under her. At thirty-four, she was among the oldest of Abby's candidates. But she was single, gorgeous, and took to every assignment she was given with enthusiasm and company spirit. And, as a native of Montreal, she'd be USF's first Canadian-born mailgirl, one whose work visa Abby and Barrow were hoping to exploit as leverage.

"Sure," Abby answered. "Makes sense."

"I'll have Mistress Rei get started with Number Five a little early," Barrow continued on. "I'm just going to be in your office, making a couple of calls. Are you coming?"

Abby shook her head. "No, I..." she started, then stopped. Then started again, "No, I think I'm going to go grab a coffee downstairs, and maybe take in the show?" Number Five would have an audience as she was introduced to the locker room for the first time. It came out a little creepy, and certainly had some homosexual undertones to it. But she and Barrow had watched Numbers Three and Four join the ranks from a lunch table together yesterday, so she knew he'd understand that the place she was operating from was one more akin to the pride of ownership. She'd bask in that morning's success to get over the subsequent failure.

She wasn't actually going to head to the cafeteria, but it made a believable enough cover -- so long as Barrow didn't invite himself along.

He didn't. "Call center," he confirmed. "Eleven."

"Eleven," Abby repeated.

He looked past her, out the door, and after Kristen Metkovich. He smiled, and then offered up only, "Cunt."

Abby couldn't help but laugh a little. In whatever regards Barrow held the whole of her gender, he was never one to speak to bluntly or with such vulgarity. He was doing this for her benefit, and with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

"Cunt," Abby agreed.

Barrow turned, headed for the elevators, and gave Abby her leave.

She looked at her smartphone. It was already ten past. She wouldn't have a lot of time. As Barrow returned to her office, Abby was off to the stairwell, and down into the depths of Park Place.

***

Two weeks earlier, Abby Wagner Williams had walked in on someone masturbating in the ladies' room.

The Junior Vice President of Talent Management for Park Place, Paramus, and Princeton was at USF Plaza for the day, checking in with her direct supervisor, Christine Klinger, and working with Human Capital to stack-rank Abby's Park Place mailgirl candidates. She was squatting in an open cubicle on the 18th Floor, in Human Resources proper, and surrounded by ER reps and HR strategy analysts; every time Will Barrow called her over to his office in Human Capital, she had the make the trek through the gauntlet of mailgirl panties in the corridor down towards Human Capital. Pink and purple, white and black, satin and lace, bikinis and thongs -- a reminder, each time, of how Human Capital had treated twenty-some women here at the Plaza. A reminder, each time, of what Abby had been tasked to do at Park Place.

But Abby stepped out of the cubicle for a few minutes around mid-morning, and headed to the ladies' room that was tucked around the corner from the elevator banks. As she crossed the 18th Floor's reception area, she passed an unoccupied mailgirls mat and a silver dog dish that was three-quarters full. The mat was nothing more than a thin layer of foam, no thicker than a standard yoga mat, colored pink and imprinted with the USF logo in one corner. In those moments that a mailgirl wasn't actively involved in a delivery or some other task, she'd be expected to take her "resting" position -- that is, "Knees" -- on one of these mats scattered throughout the building. On her knees with her legs spread, hands behind her back, and gazing emptily and submissively at an imaginary spot on the floor. There could be as many as two girls at a time on a particular mat, and Abby had seen a pair of girls holding hands on her last trip into the Plaza. It was vacant at the moment, however, and so Abby was able to make it to the bathroom without the distraction of having to pass a naked girl in what had once been a boring, conservative office.

USF Plaza, though, was far from boring anymore. If Abby needed any further proof of that, the moan that greeted her in the ladies' room would have sufficed.

It hadn't been a loud moan, and it had been cut short by the sound of the door as Abby entered. But it had been a moan all the same. The soft inhale-exhale-inhale-exhale panting that followed, and signaled that the moaner was working to catch her breath, was further evidence that Abby had just walked in on someone masturbating in the near stall. The pair of red pumps, visible beneath the stall door, was spread wide and frozen in place.

"Oh!" Abby gasped. And without even thinking about it, amended an "I'm sorry!" and backed out of the ladies' room.

She immediately kicked herself for doing so, and prayed that Red Pumps hadn't recognized her voice. She wasn't at the Plaza often -- one day a month prior to her current project, really only once every other week since -- and it was reasonable to think she wouldn't be placed by her "sorry" alone. It had been instinctual, automatic; how was she supposed to have reacted to someone playing with herself in a public bathroom?

Abby, too, was now frozen in place, unsure of what to do next. She should have been making a b-line back to her desk. That's what she should have done. Instead, she hesitated, stayed quiet, and listened. Red Pumps had let a moan escape before. But she'd just been caught with her hand in the proverbial cookie jar, and so it probably made sense that Abby couldn't hear anything else from the far side of ladies' room door.

Curiosity got the best of her, though. She wasn't going to wait here, and greet Red Pumps as she exited -- Abby didn't want to deal with the awkwardness of the masturbator knowing by whom she'd just been interrupted. Instead, Abby took up position out by the reception desk; she said a quick hello to the receptionist, and then made a show of flicking through her emails on her phone.

Whether Red Pumps had returned to her task-at-hand, or whether she'd simply remained in the ladies' room to avoid whomever had just caught her, Abby couldn't be sure. Either way, it was another six or seven minutes before Wendy Brown from Benefits came walking nervously up the hall, red pumps carrying her past Abby and back to her desk. If she suspected Abby had been the one who'd walked in on her, Wendy gave no indication; she even offered a polite "hi" as she saw Abby, and returned to work as if nothing of interest had taken place that morning.