Mailgirl Number Six

Her red hair was out of place, but Abby otherwise looked aglow. As embarrassed and ashamed of her behavior as she might have been, the girl staring back at her in the mirror looked content, happy, and confident. There was little as satisfying as a good orgasm, even if it had been achieved alone, and Abby felt wicked and naughty -- in a very good way. Whatever the rest of the morning brought, and whatever the afternoon held in store, Abby felt ready for it. As ready as she could be, at least.

She needed a smoke.

***

Barrow found her outside, seated ungraciously on a set of cement stairs leading down from the loading docks behind the building. Abby was on her second cigarette, bummed from Kaitlyn York during a quick trip back up to HR. She was lost in contemplation as the Director of Human Capital joined her, and she almost didn't notice him at first.

"I didn't know you smoked," he remarked, and sat down beside her.

"I don't," she replied with a smile, and then took another puff. "It's just been that kind of day."

Barrow paused, and then offered, "I wouldn't get too hung up on Kristen Metkovich. I wouldn't let her get to you."

Abby didn't answer.

"Casey Campbell..." he went on, "should count for two."

Abby raised an eyebrow. "So then we're good for the day?"

Barrow chuckled a little. "No, not quite. I'm just telling you, she's a vision."

"Are you smitten?" Abby teased.

"Why didn't we lead with her?"

Abby exhaled, the smoke dissipating in the gentle, late summer breeze. "We had better leverage with the first two. Credit card debt...? I don't know. I wasn't sure that'd be enough to entice her."

"What did she buy? Where did it even all come from...?"

"I don't know."

Abby thought about her own situation. She was thirty, divorced, and stuck in a mortgage that would bankrupt her eventually. Jon was gone, and it had been Jon whose money had been tied up at the time of the condo's purchase; because of that, it was Abby's name and Abby's name alone on the bank loan. He'd paid his fair share the first month after he'd taken up residence out in Bushwick with Traci-With-An-I. And he'd eventually done so the second month, after Abby had chased him. Her father had helped out after, but the condo was now on the market and Abby had been looking to downsize. That alone, though, wouldn't have been enough to sign her life away like Mailgirl Number Three had done.

Barrow reached inside his jacket, and produced a packet of paper that had been stapled and folded in three. He extended it to Abby, and said, unceremoniously, "I have a proposal for you."

Abby smiled, shook her head, and took another puff. From beneath her, as she'd been sitting on it, she produced a packet of her own. She held it out for Barrow. "I already signed it."

This clearly caught Barrow of guard. But, he recovered, took the packet, and glanced it over.

"Congratulations," Abby teased. "You're buying me out of a one-bedroom walk-up in Chelsea."

"Am I?"

"The University of Pennsylvania also thanks you for settling the matter of my student loans."

"That's generous of me."

"I'm worth it."

"We'll see."

Abby puckered. That stung. It had been the opportunity for Barrow to compliment her, or to say something nice. Instead, his response was ominous and condescending.

"I guess we will," Abby sighed. "I'm also in-line for Stephanie's job, down in Miami." Stephanie was Chris's peer for the South Atlantic and Latin American divisions; the job would be a step up from where Abby was today, with the opportunity to travel down to Panama, Rio, and Buenos Aires. More importantly, Miami was over a thousand miles from Jersey City.

"What am I doing with Stephanie?"

"You've got twenty-four months to figure that out. I'm sure you'll think of something."

"Anything else I should know?"

Abby leaned over, flipped through the pages in Barrow's hands, and pointed to a dollar figure. "There's a nice little completion bonus in there, too."

Barrow whistled sarcastically. "This is getting expensive."

"I've seen the bottom line. I know what a mailgirl is worth to the company."

Barrow continued to flip through the document, eventually finding the signature he was looking for. Holding up that particular page to Abby, he pointed out, "You understand that, with this, with Power of Attorney, I can go inside and re-write all of this right now?"

Abby shrugged. Of course she did. Of course. She expected the company to fuck her over at some point, maybe with the promotion or maybe with the bonus. Or maybe she'd get bullied into a subsequent contract. It was just how these things worked. But there was nothing overly unreasonable in the contract she'd marked up, even if the dollars and cents were on the higher end when compared to the contracts she'd done for girls Three, Four, and Five. And even if Barrow screwed her on half of the things in here, it still meant he'd be honoring the other half.

Abigail Wagner Williams would become Mailgirl Number Six.

For now, though, she extinguished what was left of her cigarette on the stairs beside her.

"Why?" Barrow asked. Why was she doing this? Why had she taken this on?

"It seemed inevitable," she answered, snark evident in her tone.

Why? Why, exactly? It wasn't the money. Nor was it the promotion. Nor was it even the fact that she likely didn't have much of a choice anyways -- it was probably either this, or returning broke and broken to her parents' house in Massachusetts. She wasn't sure how she'd ever explain this decision to Jim and Angie Wagner. But it was her decision, a decision she'd reached in the ladies' room down in the sub-basement, a decision that was likely the result of being still drunk on a cocktail of post-orgasmic hormones. There was no denying that she was turned on by all of this, so why not lean in? She was no longer Abigail Wagner, up-and-comer. Nor was she Mrs. Jonathan Williams. It was time to see who Mailgirl Number Six would be.

"Alright..." Barrow said, folding her contract, and tucking it into his jacket. He wasn't entirely satisfied with her answer, and he knew that there was more swirling around inside her head than she was going to share with him.

"One favor, though," Abby began.

"Okay."

"Can I tell people that you blackmailed me into this?"

"I'd prefer that you told people you volunteered."

"Right, right. I mean, right. But, my parents, maybe?"

Barrow reached into his pocket, and pulled his phone out. He handed it Abby, and asked, "Would this help?"

The moment she saw the image, Abby blanched. She knew what it was, and knew immediately. How had she been so stupid? How could she not have realized there were cameras in the stairwells at USF?

It was clearly her. Red hair, black dress, black suit jacket. She'd kept her clothes on, at least, but that was small comfort. Her dress was around her waist, her legs were spread open, and her hand was buried under her panties and pantyhose. The camera must have been in the opposite corner, and the resolution above-and-beyond what one might have expected out of security footage. They'd likely been installed by Human Capital, to catch a mailgirl red-handed in the act of doing exactly what Abby was doing to herself. It was a video, but Abby didn't need to press "play" to know Barrow had captured the whole thing.

"Hold on," Barrow said, leaning over the phone, and swiping to the right. "I've got a couple more."

The next image was no better. It was the interior of Abby's office, as seen from her desk.

"You hacked the camera on my laptop?"

Barrow nodded absentmindedly. "The angle's not as good as the stairs, though." He wasn't a wolf, who'd trapped her in his jaws. He was simply proud of what he had on her, as if the two of them were discussing a third party. "You can't see much below the desk, but you can see it on your face." He swiped right again, and then reached for the phone. "...and here, the audio on the third one is the best..."

Abby pulled Barrow's phone away from him. "I don't need to hear," she said. "I was there."

She didn't know what she should have expected. She knew going in that she'd be caught -- Wendy had been caught, Georgeann had been caught.

"And you know about the basement, then?"

"No," he said, shaking it head. "What about the basement?"

"Fuck," she swore. "Never mind."

She'd piqued his curiosity, but he didn't press. At least, not at the moment. "You're not the only one, if that helps," he offered. "It's more men than women, though."

"You have those on your phone, too?"

"Why? Are you interested?"

Abby sighed. It didn't matter, did it? She'd already signed on as a mailgirl, and had agreed to humiliate herself over and over, time and time again over the next two years. Based on her recent track record, she'd be doing exactly this, in front of an audience down in the cafeteria, before the end of the week. She was embarrassed, of course. Humiliated. But she was more embarrassed by the fact that Barrow had likely watched this two weeks ago, and had kept silent about it until now.

"You were going to release this if I said no?"

Barrow looked at her blankly, and took back his phone. "Honestly? I was probably going to release it either way."

Abby couldn't help herself; she laughed. "Oh god," she chuckled, wiping away a tear. "What an asshole."

Barrow laughed along with her, and took the insult in the gentle, joking way it had been offered. Almost as a compliment.

Abby said, "I need another cigarette."

This, Barrow could do. From inside is jacket, he pulled a Parliament Light. When she looked at him, mystified, he shrugged. "Kaitlyn told me where to find you."

Abby took the offered cigarette, and reached for Kaitlyn's borrowed lighter.

"Though, you really should start thinking about your cardio..."

She scowled at him. "I've got a couple more minutes of freedom."

"You know there's no smoking in the building, right? And this may be your last time outside for a while."

On top of everything else, she'd be a prisoner here at Park Place. She took a puff of the cigarette. "Then I better enjoy the fresh air while I can."

She was resigned. This was not the full-throated confrontation she'd had with Metkovich, nor the bitter back-and-forth she'd had with Mailgirl Number Three yesterday. Abby was licked, and she knew it. Her conversation with Barrow was not an angry one, or a threatening one. Rather, they talked like colleagues, joking as if discussing the fate of Marie Partee, and not Abby Wagner Williams.

As if to drive this point home, Barrow asked bluntly, "When was the last time you got laid?"

Abby stared out across the parking lot.

"I mean, with someone else," he added.

She stuck her tongue out at him. "I don't know," she answered honestly. "Valentine's Day, maybe? So, seven months or so?"

"Ouch," Barrow winced.

"Yeah, it wasn't great." She didn't know why she was being this honest. "Why? Are we at this point in the onboarding?"

She ran through the litany of answers she'd be expected to give. "Five-foot-six. A hundred-and-twenty-five. --Ish. Red. Green. May 11th. Thirty-four, twenty-five, thirty-five. Eight. C. Straight. Sixteen. Oral, yes. Anal, no. Never been with a woman..."

"No, no," Barrow said, throwing up his hands. He stopped, and then added, "We'll get there. And I've got some follow-ups. But, just with the 24/7 thing, and the rules against fraternizing with non-mailgirls..."

"...I'm going to grow my virginity back?" she joked. She stared him down, and asked, "Why? Are you offering?"

Barrow smirked. He may have been fucking her metaphorically, but he wasn't going to do so literally. "Talk to me in two years."

"It's a date," she said. She added, "Maybe it's for the best. It might be good to take a break from men for a little."

Abby had meant only that it might be good to be single for a little while. Barrow, however, interpreted it a different way. "I hear Number Two has had some practice," he offered helpfully. "With Number Seven. Or maybe Ten? I don't know, I can't keep the numbers straight sometimes. The blonde one, from Legal, with the nose. Michelle Mayer?"

"'Sir, per Human Capital, she is to be called by her mail room number.'"

"So we're starting with the 'sir' already?"

"I don't know, sir," she said, half-mockingly. "Do you want me to, sir?"

"It can wait a little longer," he said, brushing off the fact that she was making fun of it. But then he turned to her, looked her in the eyes, and asked, "Why? Do want to start now?"

He wasn't asking for her permission to institute the practice, and insist she start calling him "sir" at that very moment. Instead, he seemed to be asking her if calling him "sir" turned her on?

She bit her lip. It did. God help her, it did.

She didn't answer. And he took her non-answer as answer enough. He looked away, and joked, "Too bad about Kristen Metkovich, though."

"Too bad about Kristen Metkovich," Abby parroted back, meaning it on any number of levels. To the point that Barrow had intended to make, though: yes, if she were going to start sleeping women here as a mailgirl, it might have been nice to have someone with a little more practice. She added, "Sir."

That last "sir" hung in the air uncomfortably, it was clear that the mood had shifted. She was bitter, in her way. She might have been volunteering. She might have drawn up the contract herself, and signed it before Barrow even made the offer. And she might have been turned on by all of this, inside and out. But she likely hadn't had as much freedom to choose this life as any of those things might have implied; the videos on Barrow's phone made that clear. If it hadn't been now, it would have been October, or November, or some other point. As wet as she might have been, she wasn't looking forward to what lay ahead.

They sat in silence for another minute or so, until Abby finished her cigarette and put it out with the bottom of her shoe.

"Do we want to go find Mistress Rei?" Abby finally asked. Unsure of herself, she repeated, "Do we want to go find Mistress Rei, sir?"

"Do we need Mistress Rei?"

Abby swallowed. No, of course not. Abby knew the drill. She didn't need the Japanese woman pulling her hair or slapping her around. Not yet, at least. "No, sir" she finally answered.

Abby stood, and turned for the door, but Barrow stopped her. "We can stay here. We can do it here," he offered. It was classic Barrow -- he'd strip her and humiliate her here, out behind the building by the loading docks, and make it sound as if he were doing her a favor. Surely this was better than doing so in the locker room, he seemed to be implying.

"Here? Now?"