Mailgirl Number Six

Abby wasn't sure who she'd been expecting to waltz out of the ladies' room, but Wendy Brown was a surprise. She had to have been no older than twenty-four or twenty-five. She would have been a little mousey and flat-chested to be tapped for mailgirl duty, but she wasn't unattractive -- rail thin and long straight brown hair. A respectable "6." What had made a girl like feel the need to get herself off at work?

The ER Reps with whom Abby was sitting had their theories.

"Mind control," Diane Harris offered.

"Drugs," Nicole Culberson disagreed. "Aphrodisiacs."

"Mind control drugs?" Diane joked, and the two laughed.

Abby hadn't shared the incident with the two women, and wasn't even a part of their conversation at that point. She was seated in her own cubicle, and Diane and Nicole might not have even remembered she was there. She was theoretically focused on her list of prospects, going back and forth as to whether the leverage she had on Erin Higgins outweighed the sheer, undeniable attractiveness of Casey Campbell, and whether Will Barrow would agree with her assessment. She was eavesdropping on Diane and Nicole, however, as they joked about what had transformed the social and sexual mores of USF Plaza so quickly.

"I mean, it has to be mind control," Diane laughed. "Women don't act this way in real life. There's no other way to explain it."

"Maybe they're putting something in the water?" Nicole speculated. "Maybe it was only supposed to be for the mailgirls at first..."

"It's a theory," Diane conceded. "Have you stopped and watched recently? There's two of them -- Meredith Ferris from Middle Markets, and what's-her-name from Asset Management..."

"Amanda Dobson."

"Right, Amanda Dobson. Two and Three. They're down there touching themselves in the shower every time they're on break together, making eye contact and googly eyes at one another."

Nicole laughed.

Diane went on, "They're not even gay. At least, they weren't before. Did you know Meredith was engaged before all this started?"

"That's too bad," Nicole responded, genuine empathy evident in her tone. It was obvious that, given her current predicament, Meredith's wedding had been called off. But Nicole seemed to recover, and whispered, "I heard they're all sleeping with each other."

"Like in a big pile?"

The two women both chuckled at this suggestion. Diane said, "But that's what I mean. God help me, but if you took off my clothes, and sent me running around the building in my birthday suit, I'm not going to suddenly become a lesbian. I'm not going to be all 'ungh, ungh, ungh' with myself in the locker room."

"So you think it's mind control?"

Diane paused, and answered, "I mean, no, not really. Maybe you're right? Maybe they're dosing them with something, and it's...I don't know...seeping out their pores into the rest of the building."

"Maybe they screened for exhibitionists?"

"I don't know. I mean, I don't know. Those particular twenty-four girls? Those twenty-four knockouts and visions were all secretly flashers and fetishists? And Will Barrow was able to sniff them out from everyone else here in the building?"

"What they're doing has to have some effect on them..."

Diane ignored her, and added, "And even that wouldn't explain what's going on with everyone else."

She stopped, and Abby heard her open the drawer to her desk. Diane asked, "Do you want to see what I had to confiscate up on the 32nd Floor this morning?"

"No!" Nicole laughed. But, based on the pause and her ultimate reaction, Nicole clearly stood up and looked over the cubicle wall at Diane's prize. She shrieked, softly, "No!"

"Yes!" Diane laughed.

"No!" Nicole insisted. "Oh my god! Look at the size of that thing!"

Clearly a sex toy, Abby guessed. Vibrator? Dildo?

"I know!"

"Were they going to use it on a girl?"

"No," Diane answered. "Do you know Georgeann DiMaggio? In Product?"

"No."

"Okay. Well, she's in her fifties. Senior Vice President. Married. Kids. This was just for her. Brought it in from home. And I got a 'noise complaint' from the woman in the office next door."

"Like, during work hours?"

"Nine in the morning!"

The two women laughed a few more minutes, and then seemed to quiet down. After a bit, though, Nicole coughed and spoke up. "If you're going to bring something like that to work, it's got to be small. And quiet." To Abby, it sounded almost like a confession. As in, if Nicole "hypothetically" had thought through the issue herself.

There was hesitation from Diane, Diane apparently having had the same thought Abby had. "Like what?"

"Like, I don't know..." Nicole began. "...like, I don't know, one of those little egg things."

Diane snorted. "'Egg things'?"

"Yeah, you know. They're little, and rubbery, and they vibrate?"

"No, I'm sorry..."

"It's like an egg," Nicole insisted. "It fits in your purse."

"No, I get it," Diane answered. "I've just never heard of an 'egg' before."

A few beats passed. Nicole, in a whisper that Abby had to strain to hear, offered, "Like this." The woman clearly had exactly such a device in her own purse, and was now clearly showing it to her counterpart. Abby desperately wanted to see it for herself.

Diane guffawed, and feigned a scandalized gasp. She giggled, and then warned Nicole, "Don't let me catch you using that here at work."

"Of course not!" Nicole whispered. But Abby found herself wondering why Nicole had it with her, if not to use it here at work.

"I've got my rabbit," Diane added to the conversation. "But it's at home."

Rabbits and eggs. It was like the two women were discussing Easter, and not sex toys. Abby couldn't believe the direction the conversation was going in. Especially here in Human Resources. Especially between two Employee Relations reps. She stayed quiet, and tried not to inadvertently remind them she was there.

"I've got one at home that's bigger," Nicole confessed, "and it's got a little curve to it." Pause. "You know..." Pause. "...to get in there."

Diane laughed again. "Like a g-spot one?"

"Yeah."

"Does Paul know?" Nicole was married. Apparently, to a Paul.

"He knows..." Nicole replied, and then trailed off. There was more to that response, but Nicole had already shared more than she'd intended to.

Diane sighed. "This is what I mean, though. It's like the whole building has been doused in some sort of animal pheromones."

The theory landed with Abby. Of course USF hadn't been dousing its employees with some sort of sex chemical. Of course there wasn't mind control involved. Of course they weren't drugging the mailgirls or spiking the water supply. But there was no doubt that, since the roll-out of the program that Spring, there had been an effect on the entire USF population here at the Plaza, mailgirl or not. Abby was glad to know that, with Wendy Brown and Georgeann DiMaggio and even maybe Nicole Culberson, Abby wasn't alone in being affected by the mailgirls' presence. ER was dealing with fewer issues around tardiness, or performance, or disability claims. But they apparently had found their hands full when it came to vibrators in the office, blowjobs in the parking garage, and meet-ups in the supply closets.

Thirteen's research called out that female employees, in particular, had been dressing differently since April. Controlling for the summer weather, she was tracking the rise of hemlines and the drop of necklines. Abby wondered if she, herself, had dressed differently today than she might have a year ago.

She had on a black, relatively tight-fitting pencil dress - not entirely dissimilar from the sleeveless sheath dress she'd strip Casey Campbell of two weeks later. Abby's had sleeves, though, short as they were, which were hidden away beneath a one-button suit jacket. She'd bought the dress the previous Winter, which potentially invalidated Thirteen's theory. But she could admit that the hem was a little higher than some of her other dresses, and that maybe it was a little tighter than something she would have worn to Park Place. She had on nude pantyhose, but that had been a conscious decision - she usually wore them when she worked at USF Plaza, even in the summer. Chris's "heads up" about Barrow's preferences in women's work-wear didn't change that fact. Hidden away was a pink-ish white lace tanga and a matching underwire bra, neither of which she had any intention of exposing in the workplace, even if both were a bit out-of-the-ordinary when compared to what she typically wore to work. But, she liked the confidence she felt when wearing them; she liked feeling sexy when she had to go toe-to-toe with Barrow.

But whether Abby was suffering the effects of animal pheromones, or under the thrall of a mind-controlling puppet master, there was no denying that the mailgirls' presence at USF was having an affect on her. The last time she'd come to the Plaza, she'd arrived to the sight of Number Thirteen rubbing herself just off the elevator lobby, and she hadn't been able to forget it. Whenever she caught sight of one of the girls running through Human Resources, or passing her in the halls, she couldn't help but crane her neck for a better view. The whole thing was like a car wreck that Abby couldn't look away from. Squeezing her thighs together in her cubicle, she could feel the dampness between her legs, and could tell how much her own pussy ached to be touched.

Again, it wasn't the mailgirls themselves who were doing this to her. At least, not directly. She could appreciate the female form, of course. And she was comfortable enough in her own sexuality that she could admit the twenty-four girls Barrow had handpicked for the Plaza were beautiful, sexually attractive creatures no one could be faulted for admiring. But it was the concept in its entirety that seemed to do it for her: the dominance and submission, the exhibition and exposure, the embarrassment and humiliation. Not for the first time, Abby wondered if something were broken about her, that such degradation and debasement had the power to get her sexually excited. Had that been what was missing with Jon? Was he not mean enough to her? Or vice versa? Abby took comfort in the fact that, mailgirl and non-mailgirl alike, she didn't seem to be the only one who found all this weirdly arousing.

As if to illustrate that point, as if to underline the "weirding" effect that the mailgirls had upon her, it was the posterior of Mailgirl Number Eighteen that had sent Abby Wagner Williams over the edge later that same afternoon. Specifically...

"What an asshole!" Alan Bagby announced from around the corner. It wasn't as if that utterance had never been offered up at the Plaza before. But Abby doubted it had have been called out quite so literally.

She was in the copy room inside the Human Capital offices, making duplicates for Barrow for a presentation entirely unrelated to her project at Park Place. They'd had their meeting, they'd shuffled around their list, and they'd decided upon their first class of prospects: Higgins, Gutteridge, Campbell, Metkovich, Partee, and Johnson, with McBride and Ryba held in reserve, in case of a decline or two. But Barrow's administrative assistant had been tasked with some other job for the afternoon, and so it was Abby who'd been pressed into service doing work that Barrow apparently felt was beneath him. Abby didn't push back or complain, though; as usual, she wanted to please him, she wanted to make him happy, even if it meant doing a job that was likely beneath her, too.

Human Capital was set apart from the rest of Human Resources, accessible only via the "Hall of Panties" from the reception desk, and the atmosphere was different than Abby felt in Payroll, or Benefits, or Employee Relations. There was definitely an air of testosterone, as Human Capital was unique among its sister teams within Human Resources for employing more men than women. Significantly more men than women. Once you subtracted the mailgirls and their direct supervisor, the only other woman under Barrow was his AA. Two technicians and four analysts, all male, plus Barrow himself, made the program run. And the praise and adulation they'd received for their work had been internalized: these were USF's heroes and rising stars. Still, the chauvinism, sexism, and unspoken misogyny ("Not that unspoken," Abby would remark to Chris) were rarely so blatant as what Abby caught sight of as she poked her head out of the copy room, to catch sight of the asshole in question.

"You could eat off it," joked Mike Moses, one of the analysts, to the laughter of the others.

Bagby, Moses, and a third analyst, Spencer Russell, were gathered menacingly around Mailgirl Number Eighteen -- a tall, leggy brunette who had to have been about Abby's age. If Abby remembered correctly, she was a Brown grad. She was on the floor in front of them, up towards the entrance to Human Capital's private kitchen, and alongside the trash and recycling bins. Her face was pressed into the carpet, in what Abby believed to be called either the "Forehead" or "Forehead-and-Knees" position. Her knees were apart and her legs spread, and even her normal exposure hadn't been quite enough for the analysts here in Human Capital; they'd asked her spread her ass cheeks and expose herself even more.

"You realize she shits out of that thing, right?" Abby called down the hall.

She was met with a big, wide smile from Bagby. None of the men looked at all embarrassed about fun they were having at Eighteen's expense. If anything, they all lit up at the sight of Abby, at the prospect she was joining in.

"Quiet," Bagby chuckled. "Mailgirls don't poop. You'll ruin the illusion."

"I mean, you should see this thing," Moses added. "It's spotless."

"Did it burn?" Russell asked the girl, referring to the bleach job she'd been subjected to.

"The first time, sir." The girl's response was partially muffled in the carpet.

"A lot?"

"Yes, sir."

Outside of "Feet," "Knees," and maybe "Toes," it was rare for a girl to be asked to take one of the other positions she was still expected to know. Mistress Rei's counterpart here at the Plaza, one Mistress Zero, might run them through the full gamut every now and then, and might even have asked Eighteen to take this exact posture to inspect that her "uniform" was up to USF's standards. But this was still likely a very rare humiliation for Eighteen, the men of Human Capital knowing full-well what they were within their rights to order.

"How frequently does she have to do that?" Abby couldn't help but ask. She was curious.

"How often do you have to do that?" Russell asked the girl.

Eighteen responded, but Abby didn't catch it. She took another step out of the copier room, but no further; not so close that she was a part of what was going down.

"What did she say?" Abby asked.

"Once a month," Russell repeated, for Abby's benefit.

"It's the first time that burns," Bagby added. "Because they're pressed into service right away, they use something that's a little more harsh."

Abby shuddered. She couldn't imagine smearing chemicals in and around something as sensitive as her butthole, especially if they had be qualified by levels of harshness.

"And after that first time?" Abby asked Bagby, but Bagby turned to the girl.

Abby took another step closer. "And after that first time?" she asked again, this time louder, and in Eighteen's direction.

"It still tingles, ma'am," the girl answered, her voice still muffled.

Abby cringed, and made an exaggerated show of horror to the three men gathered around Eighteen. Abby, certainly, had no interest in the routine. She shook her head, turned, and went back to the copier.

There were a few more comments, a bit more back-and-forth, and more laughter. Abby did her best to focus on Barrow's presentation, however, ignoring the naked girl out in the hall and the abuse she was suffering. Her curiosity was piqued, and there was a sadistic little kernel inside of her that was intrigued by just how far Bagby, Moses, and Russell would go. But, as a woman especially, she should have more control than to join in, should she?

The three men all roared at one point, and Abby heard Russell protest, "No, no. I'm not going do that!" She cocked her head, and heard him clarify, "I'm not going to spit on it."

The "it," in question, was in no doubt still Eighteen's exposed asshole. The mailgirls may have been entirely dehumanized here at USF, but they were still treated to the proper pronouns of "she" and "her."

Abby giggled to herself, and shook her head. They were like a group of schoolyard boys, daring and double-daring one another to see what they could get away with. If they touched "it," if they stuck anything into "it," if they did anything blatantly sexual to "it," they'd be crossing the line, and would have to answer to Barrow. Apparently, spitting on "it" was -- at least to Bagby and Moses -- still on the right side of that line. It may have even been on the right side of the line for Russell; he just wasn't going to be the one to do it.

"Abby!"

"No, no, no," Abby thought to herself, and pretended she hadn't heard her name shouted from up the hall.

"Abby!" Bagby called out again.

"No!" she shouted back. She didn't budge from the copier.

"Abby! Abby!"

She steeled herself, and then peeked around the corner. "No," she said again, forcefully, even through a laugh. "I'm not going spit on her asshole." Her tone emphasized how ridiculous she found the request.

Bagby gestured in the girl's direction, and said, "She doesn't mind." To the girl, "You don't mind, do you?"

There was hesitation on the part of the brunette. And, in a less charged environment, Abby might even have felt some sympathy for her as another human being. After all, what choice did the girl really have? She might be able to get out of this in another department, on another floor. But this was Human Capital; there was no higher power to which Eighteen could appeal. The girl answered, "No, sir. I don't mind, sir."

"No," Abby said again. She still had a smile on her face, though, and it was evident that Bagby thought she was at least beginning to entertain the thought. Maybe she was. But she returned to the copier all the same, ignoring the pleas from the hall.

"That's what they're here for!" Bagby called after her.

Abby should have resisted. This was like a game now, and even engaging with Bagby meant she was still playing along. Against her better judgment, she leaned back around the corner and offered, "I'm pretty sure that's not what they're here for."

"You think she's here to deliver the mail?"

There was a teasing condescension in Bagby's voice, condescension that she could be so naïve as believe that a mailgirl's role was the deliver the mail. She was working on a project for Barrow. She was here, in the inner circle of Human Capital. She had access to Thirteen's research. Surely, surely, she knew better than that.

The punch landed. Of course Abby recognized that Eighteen wasn't naked and prostrate here at in the workplace simply to deliver the mail. There was a reason she was naked. There was a reason she was punished, publicly, on a regular basis. There was a reason she had to eat out of a dog dish and wear a slave collar. None of that was really and truly being done on the behalf of more efficient interoffice communication. Abby had heard Barrow expound upon his views as to what drove the bottom line, of what made a successful mailgirl here at USF. Being demeaned and degraded by her betters? Being teased and tormented by non-mailgirls? Being put her place so that others could find theirs? This was exactly what Eighteen was here for.

Bagby tempted Abby further with the offer of a coffee. And then brought Moses and Russell in for peer pressure, by announcing he'd buy them all -- Eighteen included -- a round of coffees if Abby gave in. But Abby had already given in, and so this additional "prize" or "thank you" was unnecessary. Still, at least she'd get a free coffee out of debasing another human being.