Step by step by step, she ascended towards the 26th Floor. She dreaded it no less than she had yesterday, or the day before, but she hurried upwards at a good clip nonetheless. Her thighs burned. Her chest heaved. And she could feel a trickle of sweat running down her back. But the clock was always ticking, and there would be repercussions if she were late.

Amanda Dobson had long prided herself on the fact that she took the stairs whenever possible. She lived on the fourth floor of a six-story apartment building in SoHo, and could have counted on one hand the number of times she'd ridden the building's elevator in those first few months after moving in. She worked out religiously, even if that had meant arriving at US Financial Plaza before six to do so; but she spent so much of her day behind a desk that any additional opportunity to move her body and burn a few calories needed to be seized. She'd pushed her colleagues in Asset Management to avoid the elevators when running between meetings on the 26th and 24th Floors, but had had little success, and it was often just Amanda - alone - ascending and descending the stairs.

As opposed to the ornate and opulent décor that graced the offices, conference rooms, cubicles, and elevator lobbies throughout the rest of the building, the stairwells at the Plaza were unremarkable and utilitarian. They went more or less unused by most of USF's employees, aside from maintenance and mail staff, tucked away and out-of-sight alongside the service elevators entrances and janitors' closets that graced each floor. Decorated with nothing more than metal railings, cinderblock walls, and the occasional, watchful security camera, the stairwell seemed as if it belonged more in a state-run prison than in the interior of one of the biggest, most successful bulge-bracket financial service firms on Wall Street. Maybe it was unsurprising that USF's employees preferred the elevators.

She was alone in the stairwell again now – alone on this errand, alone in facing Joe Hoblitzel, and alone in her thoughts. She knew that some of her peers could go blank, and find a peaceful, Zen-like place when running the stairs; the bareness of the stairwell worked in their favor, in that regard. But that had never been Amanda. She'd always been focused to a fault: planning out her day while on the treadmill in the morning, working through a task list in her mind while in the middle of sit-ups, writing and re-writing briefs while getting undressed in the locker room. She knew exactly how it was going to go with Hoblitzel – the same as it had yesterday, the same as it had the day before. And yet she was preparing for it, rehearsing for it internally, all the same. What he'd say. What she'd be expected to say, in return. How he'd react to her. How she'd react to him. What her posture would be like. How she'd stay in control of herself, even while being subjected to Hoblitzel's demands.

Her chest bounced with each step, and she wished – not for the first time – that she were wearing a sports bra.

Self-control was a laughable objective, given everything that had happened since April. Everything that had been done to her. Everything she had allowed to be done to her. Everything she had done to herself. She was increasingly tempted to believe that giving up self-control, as a goal, would do her a world of good. Would she be happier? Maybe. She wasn't sure. But there was no doubt that all of this would be easier if she cut her better angels loose and succumbed to the demons whispering in her ear.

23 became 24. 24 became 25. And, soon enough, she'd completed her eight-flight climb from Human Capital on the 18th. She reached for the handle on the heavy metal door leading to Asset Management, and paused only just long enough to compose herself, to catch her breath as best she could, and to brace for what lay on the other side. Amanda Dobson didn't work on the 26th Floor anymore. Amanda Dobson wasn't a fast-rising Research Analyst out of Tuck anymore. And Amanda Dobson could take her preference for the stairs and shove it up her ass.

It was Mailgirl Number Three who emerged from the stairwell that morning, wearing an ugly-looking black metal collar, an armband with a pocket for her work-issued smartphone, and nothing else.

On most floors at the Plaza, the stairs emptied into a recess where the service elevators could be accessed, where the custodial staff kept their supplies, and where both the men's and women's rooms could be found. The 26th Floor was no different, and Three found those first few seconds before being spotted to be the most unnerving. Luckily or unluckily, Three didn't have to wait for long.

She was greeted by the lecherous smile of Parker Wertz, who was waiting for her to pass by his office. Three had been beckoned to Hoblitzel's office at approximately the same time every morning for months now, but it was the sound of the stairwell door creaking open that likely alerted Wertz to her presence. As a mailgirl, Three was forbidden from making eye contact with her betters – a broad, all-encompassing designation that accounted for everyone at the Plaza, save for the other mailgirls themselves. But the chances of Three making eye contact with Wertz were slim to none; Wertz never bothered to take his eyes off her tits any more.

Back in the day, Wertz had been more discrete about where his eyes wandered, even if Three had been aware of the occasional glance or the fleeting look – in the same way that all attractive women were aware of such attention. In fact, she used to get a kick out of the clumsy, half-concealed ways her coworkers checked her out – drawn to her chest, drawn to her legs, drawn to her ass – and loved the embarrassed, flustered way they reacted when they realized they'd been caught. Oops! Had she crossed her legs just a little too slowly? Had she given one of the boys even the faintest whiff of a hope that her panties might be exposed for an ever-so-fleeting millisecond?

No, that wasn't fair. That hadn't been Amanda Dobson. That hadn't been like Amanda to tease like that. Still, she'd worked in an office full of men, she knew she was young and attractive, and she knew that being on the receiving end of a quick little look was harmless enough.

Wertz was no longer obligated to look away, however. Very much the opposite, in fact. Three had volunteered to pilot an application of the "mailgirls" concept here at USF Plaza oh-so-many months ago. It was now her job to be ogled, to be eyeballed, to be stared at like nothing more than a set of standout tits and a warm-and-welcoming pussy.

On top of that, and adding insult to injury, Three's new job freed up her office for someone else in Asset Management, someone else who'd been sitting out in the bullpen until then. Three had been demoted down to the mailroom on a Monday, only to find that Wertz had taken up residence in her old office by the following morning. It hadn't been a good office, per se: no bigger than a walk-in closet, no exterior windows, and no view aside from the comings-and-goings of the men's room and the stairwell. But at twenty-nine, Three had had her own private office on Wall Street, such as it was, and it felt like yet another slight to have it so quickly be bequeathed upon someone of such inferior aptitude as Parker Wertz. She'd had to remind herself that there was a Portfolio Manager's role waiting for on the far end of this ordeal – with a bigger and better office, and a say in the career advancement of lowly research analysts like the Parker Wertzes, the Nick Pagliaros, and the Amanda Dobsons.

Wertz's eyes were on her, but his fingers were flying over keyboard, banging madly and frantically away. Everyone on the floor on USF's chat-and-instant messaging platform was going to be alerted to her presence. Everyone would be given their opportunity to hoot and holler, to whistle and catcall, to heap scorn upon the girl who'd raised her hand to run naked through their offices. Somehow, the details of the arrangement Three had hammered out with the company had been made public that summer, and Three's former peers had not been pleased with the willing slut whoring herself out to leapfrog past them and up the corporate ladder. In their eyes – justifiably – the opportunity to manage a portfolio should be awarded to an analyst who'd proven himself (or herself) by the caliber of his (or her) work. It had been that much more excruciating for Three to show her face up on the 26th Floor in the immediate aftermath of that reveal, and Hoblitzel had been forced to replace her with another mailgirl for his little morning routine, for a time. The anger and annoyance in Three's direction had subsided some when Mailgirl Number Thirteen had been shipped out to Jersey City and Mailgirl Number Three retook her rightful place on Hoblitzel's floor. There were some members of Asset Management who were clearly holding back, and treating Three with more respect than that might have another mailgirl, perhaps in fear of sort of retribution down the line. But there were still plenty of others that heaped abuses upon her for her decisions, and seemed to see Three's stint as a mailgirl as an outlet for all their frustrations with the company, their standing within the company, and Three's promised payoff.

Nick Pagliaro didn't bother to hide his disdain, any more than Parker Wertz did his creeper tendencies. Three passed by her former friend, who'd started in Asset Management with her a year ago, and with whom Three had shared drinks, lunches, and a wall. Pags just glowered at her from behind his desk, continuing on with whatever phone call he was taking this early in the morning. He was one of those rare people at USF Plaza who still looked at Three as a real person, instead of just as a naked piece of meat. He looked at her as a real person, yes, but as a real person who now disgusted and offended him. He didn't know the whole story, Three told herself, before shaking free of the excuse. No, he didn't know the whole story, but he knew enough. And the truth of the matter was that Three was, in fact, whoring herself out for the chance to manage a portfolio here at USF. Maybe she hadn't crossed that line and become a full-on fuck-toy, but she had certainly tiptoed up to that line. And still only eight months into a twenty-four month contract, Three was not alone among the mailgirls as one who believed that crossing that line was all but inevitable at some point.

After Pags, it was Ezra Fischer. Then Ryan Brandenburg. Tetsuya Uehara. Moyer. Reddy. Greenwell. Research had been a boys' club here at USF long before Three had been hired. It was even more so now, after Leslie Weiland had resigned and Three had been demoted down to the 2nd Floor. Only Martyna Hriniak remained. It had never bothered Three at the time – she'd always gotten along with men better than women, and had historically always had more guy friends than girls. She was shit at relationships, when it came to the lovey-dovey, kissy-face, and handholding sort of thing, but she had a natural rapport with her male colleagues that neither Martyna nor Leslie had been able to replicate. Men were straightforward, they were simple, they were predictable. Women? Too much drama. Too much emotion. Too manipulative and passive aggressive. Too catty and cliquish.

Past Research, it was out into the bullpen, through all the twenty-two-year-olds and administrative assistants. Along the far wall, tits bouncing out in the open for George Strunk, for Mark Stansbury, for Mitch Miller, for Debbie Truesdale. Three didn't recognize a good number of the people on the floor anymore; attrition had spiked when USF rolled out its mailgirls pilot in the Spring. But Hoblitzel had also managed to work out a tit-for-tat with Human Capital in exchange for sacrificing one his best analysts to the mailroom. A few months after Three's transfer, her old department - understaffed for the length of Three's tenure – was now afloat with additional headcount.

That said, Three still knew enough people here in Asset Management that being summoned to the 26th Floor was more uncomfortable than being called anywhere else in the building. The other girls all felt the same way about pick-ups and deliveries to their own former offices, be it Two to Middle Market, Seven to Legal, or Nineteen to Marketing. It made sense, of course – they were exposing themselves to people who'd known them best in their prior lives and prior roles, people who could attach their degradation with a name and not just a number. Everything was heightened and made more intense, whether it it the humiliation and the shame on the one hand, or the weird, masochistic arousal at playing the part of the naked submissive on the other. The only difference between Three and Two, or Three and Seven, or Three and Nineteen, was that Three was called up to her former superior's office day-in and day-out, forced to visit her old stomping grounds each and every morning. This was Three's routine because it was Hoblitzel's.

And, as she had yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that, Three was subjected to the same routine dick measuring by Alexis Fisk before she was allowed to pass. "Miss Fisk," as she preferred Three to call her, was a child, maybe no more than twenty-four. She'd been with Hoblitzel since back when Three herself had still been at Credit Manhattan, and – like any good executive assistant – she served as a watchdog and gatekeeper for her boss. Hoblitzel expected Three. He'd sent for her. He'd requested Three specifically through the mailgirls app. And, though Miss Fisk knew that, she couldn't help but toy with the naked mailgirl, getting off on the power of making the former Research Analyst squirm.

"And?" Miss Fisk asked, expectantly.

Three had come to a standstill in front of the younger girl's desk. She immediately took the standard mailgirls "ready" position, known simply as "Feet" here at USF Plaza. She planted her feet a bit wider than shoulder-width apart, spreading her thighs and exposing her sex. She took her left wrist into the palm of her right hand, behind her back, and clasped shut around it. Her chest, still heaving with the exertion of eight flights of stairs, was jutted out in front of her just so. Her eyes stared blankly down at an imaginary and arbitrary spot on Miss Fisk's desk, dutifully and submissively avoiding direct eye contact.

"Please, Miss Fisk, may I go in? I was summoned by Mr. Hoblitzel."

"Hmmmm," Miss Fisk replied, making an act of pulling up Hoblitzel's schedule. "I don't see you on Mr. Hoblitzel's calendar. What was your name again?"

Three swallowed her anger. Out of the corner of her eye, Three could see the smartphone secured in the black lycra armband around her left bicep had begun to blink. The clock was still running, as Three hadn't yet technically reached her destination – Hoblitzel's office. She didn't have time for this little game with Miss Fisk, but she didn't have any other choice but to submit. The sooner she gave the secretary what she wanted out of this interaction, the sooner she'd be allowed to pass.

"Miss Fisk, per Human Capital, I am to be called by mailroom number," Three parroted out. "Mailgirl Number Three."

But what Miss Fisk wanted out of the interaction was nothing more than to screw over Mailgirl Number Three. Coyly, and dripping with sarcasm, she responded, "Oh, of course, of course. I can see that by your little number." She pointed at the large, black number three inked upon the naked girl's hip.

The secretary leaned in closer, across her desk, and whispered, "I think you know what I want."

Three gritted her teeth. Same as yesterday. Same as the day before. "Please," she pleaded. "Please, Miss Fisk."

From the edge of her vision, Three could see Miss Fisk's lips curl into an evil smile. She wanted Three to beg.

"Please, Miss Fisk," Three repeated, playing along, and doing her best to sound both pathetic and earnest. "Please let me through. If I'm late, I'll be hit with an automatic demerit. And Mister Hoblitzel will likely hit me with another. Please!"

"And why should I care about whether you get demerits? If you'd been her earlier, this wouldn't be an issue."

Three had arrived on time. Early, even. It was only this back-and-forth that put hitting her deadline in jeopardy. But she and Miss Fisk had run this drama through more than once over the last few months; it was a series of call-and-response lines each girl needed to deliver before Miss Fisk would let Three pass. "I'm sorry, Miss Fisk," Three mewed. "This worthless mailgirl was too slow and too lazy to get here earlier." In truth, the only way Three could have arrived any sooner would have been if she'd taken the elevator; such a luxury was forbidden for deliveries and pick-ups of less than ten floors, but there was no degrading boilerplate response for such an explanation. It was beside the point, regardless. "Too many demerits, and I'll be spanked."

Three's face no longer turned beet red when she had to utter such a phrase out loud.

"It sounds like this worthless mailgirl could benefit from a spanking, hmmm? To spank the slow and lazy out of her?"

"Yes, Miss Fisk. This worthless mailgirl could benefit from a spanking. To spank the slow and lazy out of her."

"Though, I don't know," the secretary said absently, scratching her chin. "I've seen you on the receiving end of spankings down there in the locker room. And I'm not sure it's a punishment any more, the way it might have the first time."

Three remained silent.

"Tell me," Miss Fisk said. "Are you getting off on them? Does it turn you on? Does it make you ...moist?" She overemphasized that last word, but not before glance around to make sure no one else was listening.

Three cringed, but nodded along nonetheless. It did no good to disagree, or to reply in the negative. Especially since it was true.

"Say it."

"This mailgirl gets off on being spanked," Three repeated back softly. "This mailgirl gets turned on when being spanked. This mailgirl is...moist...when being spanked."

"Are you getting turned on just talking about it? You are, aren't you?" She cackled. "Oh my god, you are!"

"Yes, Miss Fisk."

"Say it. Say it like the slut you are."

The truth of it was that she was, in fact, getting turned on just talking about it. She'd long since come to realization that her body had a mind of its own, and that it was complicit in the torment she was forced to suffer through here at USF Plaza. It had betrayed her time and time again, her pussy playing Judas to the image of the respectable young businesswoman she'd constructed for herself. Body over mind. Id over ego. Self-gratification over self-control. As collected and composed as she might have wanted to project outwardly to the world, there was an animal inside of her that reacted instinctively at the basest of levels. From the very first time Mistress Zero had laid a hand on her, Three's reaction had been complex, confusing, and confounding.

"Ene mene miste," Three heard, echoing through her subconscious. "Es rappelt in der Kiste..."

"This slut is getting turned on just talking about being spanked. This slut gets turned on thinking about being spanked."

Miss Fisk laughed aloud, mockingly. "I knew it. I knew it."

Three risked a glance at the smartphone on her arm, to confirm what her own internal clock was telling her.

Miss Fisk caught the look, and began counting down aloud for her. "...and six. Five. Four. Three. Two. And one." She beamed, gloating, in Three's direction. "You're welcome."

Three gritted her teeth. "Thank you, Miss Fisk."

"Say it."

"Thank you, Miss Fisk, for the demerit. It gets this slut one step closer to her next spanking." God, Three didn't truly believe that, did she? She may have had conflicting, confusing, psychosexual reactions to being on the receiving end of her mistress's justice, but she wasn't actually grateful for them, was she?
Was she?

Was she?!!

"You can go in," Miss Fisk allowed, waving her past.

"Thank you, Miss Fisk."

Three rapped softly on the office door behind the secretary, and was called in by an impatient Joe Hoblitzel. "You're late," he greeted. "Again."

Three took a deep breath, stepped into Hoblitzel's office, and closed the door behind her. "I'm sorry, Mister Hoblitzel," Three began anew. "This worthless mailgirl was too slow and too lazy to get here on time."

"Again," Hoblitzel barked. "Again and again. Every day." He tapped at the smartphone on his desk, and a familiar vibration buzzed on her arm. In addition to the demerits automatically doled out for missing her deadline, Hoblitzel was now piling on with his own – as was his right. "This happens again tomorrow, and I'm going to take you over my own goddamn knee."

There was no doubt that Three would be late again tomorrow. Miss Fisk would see to that. But Hoblitzel's threat was an empty one; the company might look the other way if someone at his level slapped her playfully on the ass, but corporal punishment remained the exclusive right and responsibility of Three's mistress down the locker room. Hoblitzel knew this. Three knew this. But the frustration and displeasure was evident in Hoblitzel's tone all the same, and Three knew she could count on enough demerits from him tomorrow to guarantee a paddling from Mistress Zero all the same.

"I'm sorry, Mister Hoblitzel. I'm sorry." Three crossed the office to his desk, where he was waiting for her expectantly. The silk tie that had become a part of her morning's routine was already out, and lay in a pile beside his laptop. "This worthless mailgirl –"

He cut off with a wave. "For fuck's sake," he sighed with exasperation. "You were one of our best analysts. You've got how many fucking Ivy League degrees? Can you not read a fucking clock?"

She stewed to herself, vowing vengeance upon Miss Fisk. It was unclear what Hoblitzel wanted her to say, beyond the pathetic mewing she was expected to reel off. And so she began again, offering, "I'm sorry, Mister Hoblitzel. This worthless mailgirl was too slow..."

"Fine, fine, fine. Fuck. Fine. You're worthless. You're lazy. You're slow. I get it." He composed himself, ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, and then took her in as she got into her standard "Feet" posture before him. She'd never heard him swear in her old life, but this sort of abusive language had become standard operating procedure since she'd become a mailgirl.

Three was tall, as most of the mailgirls at USF were. She was fit and well-toned, in better shape over the last seven months of running the stairs than she had ever been prior. Her weight was monitored down to the tenth of a pound, and her diet between the hours of seven and seven was strictly controlled. Three was even one of those handful of mailgirls who opted for a dinner of "mailgirl chow" in the locker room at the end of her shift; she'd grown indifferent to the taste (or lack thereof), and viewed the thick, grey gruel as a healthier and more complete alternative to anything she might have picked up or pulled together on her own. Her skin, from head-to-toe, sported a healthy-looking tan that was at odds with the weather outside, courtesy of regular upkeep at the Manhattan Beach Sun Club off Crosby. She was speckled with the occasional mole, which she had been self-conscious about initially, but which had come to see as a sort of uniqueness and element of individuality when compared to the backdrop of naked skin in the locker room. Her breasts were more-or-less average-sized for a mailgirl here at USF, which was another way of saying they were notably larger than average for the general female population, overall. Per regulation, she was devoid of any body hair anywhere – shaving between her legs was a part of her morning routine, just as regular waxing had become ritual on her days off. Her dirty blonde hair had been only just a little longer than chin-length when she'd become a mailgirl in the Spring, but she'd been instructed to grow it out since then; that morning, it was done up into a pair of pigtails. The schoolgirl hairstyle was often done up only by order of Mistress Zero, but Three had done it voluntarily that morning on her own, as there was a playfulness and a naughtiness to it that she'd only recently been able to admit to herself that she liked. It gave her some sense of agency, and she hoped the jailbait nature of the hairdo might make some of her old colleagues squirm.

Taken in in her altogether, Three was a goddess – one of twenty-four such goddesses that USF had plucked from the ranks of junior executives and management-track young professionals and pressed into service as naked mailgirls. They didn't have that "porn star" sort of look that might have better matched their new duties at USF Plaza, but any one of them could have just as easily graced the pages of a high-end lingerie catalog. Three had read accounts of mailgirls elsewhere being forced to go under the knife and get fake-looking silicon implants; she supposed she should be grateful for Human Capital sparing her from the worst impulses and rampant abuses of senior executives that plagued mailgirl programs elsewhere.

All twenty-four mailgirls - as well as the handful of others who'd come and gone - were beauties in their own right, visions of loveliness and femininity made flesh. But, in a way that Three never would have confessed aloud, she had found a sick sense of pride in being among that first group of girls that Human Capital had tapped.

"Don't be late tomorrow," Hoblitzel huffed menacingly. "You've got one simple fucking job. Don't fuck it up."

Joe Hoblitzel has once been someone Three considered a mentor. She, in turn, had once been one of the rising stars in his department. She'd never reported to him directly, but he'd had a say in her performance evaluation last year, and she'd arguably spent more time with him than she had her actual supervisor, Charlie Farrell. Now, though, he talked to her as if she were a fuck-up and a failure, a set of tits-and-ass that couldn't be relied upon for even the simplest of tasks. It made her fear for the promises he and Will Barrow had put in front of her so many months ago. How would he ever be able to take her seriously as a portfolio manager, if and when that opportunity ever presented itself?

"Yes, Mister Hoblitzel," Three swallowed.

He handed her the black silk tie. She knew what to do with it. "Thank you, Mister Hoblitzel," she said with a half-curtsy, and turned for corner of his office. She dutifully settled down onto her knees in the corner, facing away from him, and granted him a full, unobstructed view of her naked backside. She secured the tie around her head and over her eyes, tying it tightly behind her, and then proceeded to correct her posture, so that she was in the proper "resting" position. Hands behind her, left wrist clutched in her right hand. Seated back on her haunches, with her knees spread and her thighs open. Straight back, chest out, and head down.

Hoblitzel would spend the next thirty-to-forty minutes perusing the Internet – Wall Street Journal, Bloomberg, Forbes, and a dozen other sites – extracting what he thought was interesting to share with his team. The idea that he was upset about her being late, even by just a few seconds, was laughable; she wouldn't be sent scurrying with a round of Hoblitzel's morning insights for some time. He'd click and read, ogle her up and down a bit, click and read some more, ogle her up and down a bit more, and so on. He'd appreciate her naked body, of course. But this was less Peeping Tom and more Power Trip. He'd spend a good dozen or so of his mailgirl chits to keep her here, a luxury awarded to executives at his level. And while some of this was undoubtedly designed to demonstrate Three's new place in his world, she suspected that she herself was an afterthought; this morning ritual was done to demonstrate Three's new place in his world to the rest of his team.

When the old Mailgirl Number Thirteen had replaced her for a time over the summer, there'd been no blindfold and there'd been no facing away and into the corner. This treatment was reserved for Three and Three alone, and done intentionally to remind her of that first brutal day in April, when she'd been left to stew in the aftermath of her life-changing decision. The embarrassment and humiliation of all this hadn't gone away, but its impact had waned. Amanda Dobson had metamorphosized into Mailgirl Number Three. But though Hoblitzel's necktie had replaced Mistress Zero's blindfold, Three very much could have been back on Day One.

***

Hoblitzel had come and gone. And come and gone again. The girl wasn't sure if she were alone in his office, or if he was seated behind her now. She listened as quietly as she could for some sort of giveaway – a tapping on the keyboard, a squeak from his chair, a chime from his smartphone. But, unfortunately, all Mailgirl Number Three could hear was her own labored in-and-out breathing, the throb of her pulse in her ear, and the distant hustle and bustle of a still busy office beyond the door.

She'd lost all sense of time. Had she been here an hour? Two? Could it maybe have been as little as ten minutes? Each second dragged liked an infinity, the gravity of her decision bending and warping time, with the end of her day moving further and further out of reach. She wanted to go home. She wanted to curl up in a ball in bed, and forget that this morning had ever happened. Maybe it had all been some elaborate prank, and no one would think twice when she showed up, fully dressed, for work tomorrow morning. Maybe it had all been just a bad dream – a terrible, terrible nightmare, like the one where she'd show up naked for school and unprepared to that morning's pop quiz. After all, this couldn't be real, could it? This couldn't actually be happening to her, right? Right?

She had known about the mailgirl concept, at least in the abstract. It had been a world away, though, a cultural quirk built upon the individual kink of some senior executive in Japan and confined to the likes of Tokyo, Hong Kong, and Seoul. Yes, there'd been some traction in the Bay Area and the Pacific Northwest, but even that had seemed distant and unreal. Somewhere out in the world, there were bikini baristas and topless barbers, too. Strippers and sex-workers. It was the stuff of Internet pornography and dirty movies, so far removed from her life that it might have been fiction and urban legend, for all the attention that Three had paid it. Never in her wildest imagination had she thought mailgirls would come to Wall Street. Never, certainly, could she have imagined a world in which Amanda Dobson, Princeton grad and Tuck MBA, would join their ranks. Never, never, never.

And yet Amanda Dobson's clothes – most of them, at least – were folded neatly in a pile on Hoblitzel's desk behind her. Amanda Dobson herself, meanwhile, was kneeling naked in the corner of Hoblitzel's office. Naked, that is, save for a blindfold and a dog collar. Stripped of her clothes. Stripped of her dignity. Stripped even of her name.

"Per Human Capital, I am to be called by my mailgirl number," she'd been forced to practice. Again and again, until the German woman was satisfied, until the message of that recitation had begun to sink in.

Amanda Dobson's clothes were on Hoblitzel's desk. Mailgirl Number Three had no clothes.

Her head was spinning at how quickly it had all happened. She'd arrived at work only a few hours earlier, gotten in a quick workout at the new gym, and ascended up to the 26th Floor the same as she had every morning since the previous summer. She'd been a research analyst for US Financial's Asset Management arm, covering a wide swath of the market from tech and dot.coms to hardware and infrastructure. An initial start back at Credit Manhattan, an MBA under her belt, and a well-thought-through career path towards one day becoming a Portfolio Manager. The Portfolio Manager's role was still within her sights, and might even now be closer than it been the night before – but the path from here to there was not a straightforward one, and not one that Mailgirl Number Three was proud of.

She'd gotten herself a coffee from the kitchen, nearly bumped into Ezra as she rounded the corner, and had enjoyed a brief, flirty little back-and-forth with Pags before closing her office door and booting up her laptop. She had a meeting invite waiting for her from Charlie, her boss, that had apparently been sent in that short period of time since she'd last looked at her smartphone down in the locker room. There had been no content – just a subject line that read "Special Assignment," a confirmed time of 9 AM, a location that read "Joe's office," and an invite list that included her, Charlie, Hoblitzel, and someone named Barrow-comma-William from HR. She felt the briefest of panics at HR's inclusion, and worried that this was some sort of layoff. But she'd been doing good work for Charlie and for Hoblitzel, and "Special Assignment" seemed to suggest something above-and-beyond. Maybe HR was there to offer her more money?

She'd gone looking for Charlie, hoping to catch him before being blindsided in front of Hoblitzel about whatever this was about. But Uehara had informed her that Charlie was already in Hoblitzel's office, with a good amount of loud disagreement going back and forth behind closed doors. And so Three had been forced to wait for nine.

Barrow-comma-William had apparently joined Charlie and Hoblitzel just before Three was welcomed in. They had also been joined by a tall, frigid-looking woman who began sizing Three up the moment she crossed the threshold into Hoblitzel's office. Three didn't recognize either of them. Barrow was young and handsome, but young and handsome might have described about half of the company. The woman, who wasn't introduced and didn't bother to introduce herself, was more noteworthy; her outfit was just on this side of being a little too risqué, and clung to a form that pulled focus for even a red-blooded heterosexual like Three.

The meeting was Barrow's, and it was Barrow who launched into the pitch. The long and short of it was that USF had begun to kick the tires on introducing a "Mailgirls" model at the Plaza. They'd done their homework, and believed the concept to be worth exploring. In addition to improving morale and employee engagement in the companies they'd looked at overseas, they'd found shocking downstream increases in productivity that couldn't in good conscience be ignored. Important communications that had been previously been lost and overlooked amid the daily onslaught of email were given the attention they deserved when delivered by beautiful, stark naked mailgirls. The idea was relatively new to the US, but had weathered early legal challenges, and the West Coast companies who'd been early adopters had been able to replicate the success rates enjoyed by their foreign precursors.

Five minutes in, Three had still been naively unaware as to how any of this had to do with her. It seemed nothing more than a sick, perverted joke. Only when Barrow directed her attention to two envelopes before her did Three begin to realize that this joke was on her.

The first envelope contained a contract, with a signing bonus to be paid out immediately, grossed up to an amount that would have taken Three six months to earn in her current role. There was a biweekly figure nearly three times higher than what Three saw in her regular paychecks. There were promises of career advancement: upon completion of the contract, Three would be named USF's newest portfolio manager in Asset Management, with a focus to-be-determined, depending on what could be carved out for her at that time. If the program floundered and failed during its initial, month-long pilot stage, Three would still be given "serious consideration" for the Mid-Cap role opening up when George Strunk retired at the end of the year. It was more money and opportunity than Three ever could have imagined so early in her career with USF, and it was all too good to be true.

And that was where the second envelope came in. Three's involvement in the mailgirls program was entirely voluntary, and Barrow emphasized that – of course – she had a choice in all this. But the choice was to accept or to not accept, and the choice to not accept was no real choice at all. As far as USF was concerned, her position in Asset Management had been eliminated that morning, and she was being "reassigned" to Barrow. The role wasn't directly comparable – not by a long shot – but they'd be compensating her more than fairly for her new duties; any hope of severance, therefore, was off the table. Resigning wasn't even really an option, either; should Three have opted out, she'd be terminated involuntarily for failing to perform her newly assigned function to the minimum standards. The company would enact the clawback language it had quietly inserted in everyone's bonus payouts earlier that year, and she could expect that they'd be enforcing the Non-Compete/Non-Solicit she'd signed with them coming out of business school. She'd be forbidden from accepting another job in finance, she'd be challenged if she applied for unemployment, and she'd be fought tooth-and-nail if she dared to violate her Non-Disclosure and go after USF in court.

No, Three's only real option was to slink home to Minnesota, hat in hand, and move back into her parent's house. She'd be broke, she'd be buried in debt, and she'd be a failure. Maybe not in the eyes of Sue and Roger Dobson, but certainly in her own. What would she do with herself? She'd been moving directionally towards becoming a portfolio manager since she'd been a sophomore at Princeton, with stints at Credit Manhattan and Tuck along the way. She'd passed up opportunities at Mountbatten Asset Management and Duke & Duke coming out of business school because she believed that USF had the chance to provide her more exposure, and allow her a quicker path towards realizing her ultimate career aspirations. She'd been singularly focused on this one thing and one thing only, and now all of her hard work and planning was going to be derailed by Will Barrow and his sick and twisted, misogynistic proposition.

That is, unless she were willing to play ball.

"How can you do this to me?" she'd wailed. "This isn't right! It isn't fair!" Her protestations were directed to room, as a whole – Charlie and Hoblitzel, included – but it had been Barrow who'd answered.

"I don't care about you," Barrow had answered coldly. "I don't care about your career or what you have going on in your life. I've been tasked with moving the needle for the company as a whole. All 80,000 employees. Not just one. If you're willing to help me, I'll make sure you're richly rewarded. I'll take care of you. Financially. Career-wise.

"But if I'm being honest, you're useful to me either way. Help me test this here at the Plaza, and let's see how much an impact we can make together. Don't help, and I can hold you up an example of consequences and repercussions when I go talk to the next girl. I came to you this morning because I can tell you've got talent and drive, and assets that would serve the program well. But the next girl has talent and assets, too. And the one after that. And the one after that. This isn't PhD work. This isn't neuroscience. This isn't High Finance."

There'd been more. Three had cried. Three had yelled. Three had accused Charlie and Hoblitzel of selling her away to this monster. Every protestation was parried, though, and every threat from the girl was countered. In the end, it was the promise that this would be no more than a month-long pilot that began to chip away at Three's defenses. Four weeks. Surely this would all fail. Surely this would all go nowhere. Surely the population at the Plaza would reject the program for being as disgusting and degenerate as it was. Maybe the mailgirls idea had found a foothold in the bro-coder, start-up culture of San Francisco and Silicon Valley – but this was New York, this was Wall Street, and this was USF. USF, with its staid, conservative culture, and a de facto dress code where women were expected to wear stockings and dresses, with nary even a pantsuit in sight. Maybe, and just maybe, Three could see herself playing along for the next four weeks, pocketing the sign-on and holding Hoblitzel accountable for his promises around Strunk's job.
Three's remembrances of that morning's confrontation were interrupted by a loud, furious pounding at Hoblitzel's door. Hoblitzel was, in fact, still seated as his desk behind her, as she heard him clear his throat. But Debbie Truesdale didn't wait for a response, or an invitation in. Instead, she barged in angrily, slamming the door wide open with enough force that Three winced involuntarily. Behind her, Alexis Fisk continued to voice her objections, but Debbie just ignored the secretary and focused her rage on Joe Hoblitzel.

"Are you kidding me?!!" she screeched.

Three didn't budge from her corner. Her back was to Debbie, to Hoblitzel, and she remained frozen in place, blindfold firmly affixed over her eyes and the world around her black. Still, she could imagine the jowls of the heavy-set portfolio manager shaking with rage.

"Are you kidding me?!! Are you kidding me?" Debbie repeated. "What is this?"

"Debbie-" Hoblitzel began, but was shouted over.

"This can't be real! It can't be! This isn't us."

"She volunteered," Hoblitzel offered calmly. Which was true. Three had, in fact, volunteered, even if there'd been some coercion involved. She'd signed on the dotted line, attesting as much, and inked a thumbprint at the bottom of Barrow's contract to further signify that she was doing this of her own volition.

"I don't care if she opened her legs and begged for it. This is the real world, Joe. This is a place of business. This isn't some fantasy titty flick."

"She's a consenting adult," Hoblitzel answered. He growled, accusingly, "We're all adults."

"Are we?" Debbie mocked. "There's a naked girl in your office, Joe, with – seriously?!! – a dog collar and a blindfold. Do we all get a turn with her? Is that how this works? Or is it just the men?"

"No," Hoblitzel responded. He was getting angry, but he kept himself composed. "This isn't that. She's not a sex slave. She's not a prostitute."

Three certainly felt like a prostitute.

"So what is it then?"

"There's a memo coming from management at noon. This is a trial balloon, to see if there's an appetite for mailgirls at USF."

"Are you serious? Are you really serious right now? Cambridge & Caine? Dumpster Dog? Finder-Spyder and all of those idiot dot.coms out there? That's who we're looking to for how to run USF?"

"I wasn't on board at first, either," Hoblitzel said. "But Human Capital showed me the financials."

"Financials?!!" Debbie shrieked. "What about right and wrong, Joe? We can't seriously be treating women this way. This is the twenty-first century!"

"It's a trial balloon," Hoblitzel repeated. "A pilot. Maybe it'll take. Maybe it won't. We'll know in a month, once they've tested it and compiled some data."

"Right and wrong."

"Senior Management has decided that this is something they're looking at. Right or wrong. This is the world we're living in now. We've got competitors in Tokyo and Frankfurt who've launched this, too – two, three, four years ago. They learned what worked, they learned what didn't. The metrics are there. This is more than just somebody's kink, Debbie. And, like it or not, you and I don't get a lot of say in it."

"Right and wrong."

"Right or wrong," Hoblitzel growled. His frustration with the portfolio manager was becoming more apparent. "You're on board or you're not. HR's bracing for the reaction, and is prepared for a mass exit if our employees aren't willing accept this. So the choice is yours. Just like Amanda. You can accept this. You can look past it. You can come to terms with it. Otherwise, draft a resignation and put it on my desk."

Stunned silence. And then Alexis Fisk, who'd apparently stayed half-in and half-out of Hoblitzel's office all along, coughed, and asked meekly, "Should I go?"

Three groaned to herself. Hoblitzel's secretary was a bit of a bitch, even on her best days. Most of the administrative assistants who supported executives at Hoblitzel's level were, confusing the power and influence of their boss's position as their own. Three's fall, and the degrading position she now found herself in, must have been delicious to the little cupcake.

Hoblitzel ignored the question. Silence lasted another beat or two. And then Debbie responded.

"You'll have it in an hour."

"Fine," Hoblitzel huffed.

"And you," Debbie began, with Three now sensing the woman was talking to her. "You're an absolute disgrace. You had promise. But if this is what you'd rather do, if what we do here in Asset Management was too hard for you, then you deserve everything coming your way."

Three stifled a sob.

Angry footsteps stormed away, and Three guessed that she was now alone again with Hoblitzel. Hoblitzel and his secretary.

"Do you need anything?" the secretary asked her boss.

"No," Hoblitzel barked back tersely. But then he hesitated, and answered. "I'm not supposed to let her out of that corner, until the dominatrix-woman comes back to get her. But it's been an hour. Amanda, do you need a break? Water? The ladies' room?"

It was a kindness, in its way. Even if Three dreaded the idea of leaving the relative privacy of Hoblitzel's office and facing all of her colleagues.

Three swallowed. "Sir, per Human Capital, I am to be called by mailroom number." Mistress Zero, the "dominatrix-woman" who'd accompanied Barrow that morning and to whom Hoblitzel had referred, had made her repeat the line back a good dozen times before she and Barrow had left to find their next victim.

The secretary laughed. Hoblitzel sighed.

"Right, right," he said. He began again, annoyance in his voice, and asked, "Mailgirl Number Three, do you need to use the ladies' room?"

"Yes, sir," Three answered meekly. It had been since that morning in the women's locker room that she'd had a chance to pee.

"You have to take her, Lex," Hoblitzel explained. "There's more coming with the memo, I think, but they apparently need escorts or chaperones or supervisors or something to be allowed to tinkle."

"Sure," the secretary replied. "Gross. But, sure, okay."

"She can't make eye contact with anyone, she can't speak unless spoken to, and she's supposed to call you ma'am or 'Ms. Fisk' or whatever."

"Miss Fisk is fine," the girl said.

"Good. Take her. Go, and come right back." To Three, he instructed, "Take the mask off. You can put it back on when you get back."

"Yes, sir," Three croaked, her mouth dry. "Thank you, sir." She felt like a moron calling him "sir." But she did as instructed all the same, standing and removing the blindfold. And punishing herself with one fleeting, longing look at the pile of clothes on the corner of Hoblitzel's desk.

"Come right back when you're done," Hoblitzel called out behind them. "She's supposed to leave the stall door open – no privacy. Follow the rules. I don't want to lose my secretary and my star analyst in the same day."

Three hadn't had more than a few minutes to peruse the dense contract Barrow had given her, scanning it as best as she could, as quickly as she could, while blinking back tears. She'd read the bit about asking for permission and requiring a chaperone when using the restrooms, as well as the bit about giving up all expectations around any privacy. She hadn't realized it would mean peeing with the stall door open; she wondered if that was in the contract and if she'd skipped over it. And, if she had skipped over that, what else didn't she know?

There was an audience waiting for the naked girl the moment she exited Hoblitzel's office. There were no hoots or hollers, no wolf whistles, no catcalls – not yet. Instead, Three was greeted with stunned silence, the 26th Floor enveloped by an eerie hush in the immediate vicinity beyond the desk of "Miss Fisk." But Three felt their eyes upon her nakedness, and she fought the urge to run and hide back in her corner. In that moment, the rule against making eye contact with any of her "superiors" felt like a blessing in disguise, as it allowed her to avoid having to see any of their faces. Instead, head down, she dutifully followed a step behind Hoblitzel's secretary.

Three wanted desperately to cover herself, though. Instinctually, her right arm twitched, and moved towards covering her naked breasts as if it had made the decision to do so on its own. Higher brain functions prevailed, and Three resisted the urge. "A mailgirl feels no embarrassment at her nudity, and knows exposing herself is for the benefit of the company." Mistress Zero had instilled that little nugget into her already. It was a line, and a line that had zero truth to it. But Three kept her arms at her sides all the same.

More embarrassing, as if that were possible, was the wild, untamed patch of pubic hair between Three's legs. Three had been working so hard over the last few months that grooming of the intimate variety had fallen by the wayside. She worked until nine or ten every night. She was at the Plaza regularly on Saturdays. She resisted the urge to dial-in over VPN on Sundays usually only until about two or three. There was simply no time in her life for a boyfriend, and therefore no need to worry about the chances of anyone outside the women's locker room catching a glimpse of Three's overgrown snatch. Besides, it was April – bikini season was still weeks away. If she'd known ahead of time that she'd be streaking naked out in front of all her coworkers, she might have cleaned up and been able to present herself at her best.

The path from Hoblitzel's office to the ladies' room was a circuitous one, and one that took Miss Fisk and the naked girl behind her past the offices of a good half-dozen portfolio managers, through a maze of cubicles occupied by support people and junior staff, and along the closet-sized offices where Three and her peers worked. All along the way, Three never once dared to look up, never once let her eyes wander off of Miss Fisk's calves. She pretended as if none of colleagues were there.

There were gasps and whispers. A few quiet, uncomfortable laughs. A cough. More than one hushed "hey..." as someone nudged someone else to get his or her attention, and alert him or her to Three's presence and her state of dress. The memo Hoblitzel had promised Debbie hadn't yet been sent out, and so everyone on the 26th Floor was in the dark as to why Three was strutting through the office in her birthday suit.

Her birthday suit, a bit of ink on her hip designating her as Mailgirl Number "3," and a sadistic looking metal collar fastened tightly and securely around her neck. As she stepped into the ladies' room, and padded barefoot across the cool, tiled floor, Three couldn't help but glance in the direction of the mirror. Naively, she'd wanted to get a better look at the collar, as Mistress Zero had slipped it around her neck only after Three was already naked and in the corner. It had been slowly strangling her since then. No - maybe not strangling her, exactly. But tighter than Three felt it needed to be, a choker that choked a bit too much. It was just on this side of being too tight, and would undoubtedly leave an impression behind once it was finally removed.

The collar itself was, as expected, awful. It was some sort of black metal composite, three inches wide, and affixed with a series of D-rings in the front, the back, and on either side – suggesting that a leash or some worse horror awaited Mailgirl Number Three in the near future. To drive home the point that she was now little more than a naked, subhuman animal, a silver number "3" dangled from the ring at her throat like a dog tag. In stark contrast to the ugliness of the collar itself, Three's silver number was girlish and pretty, an elegant pendant that nonetheless signified the price Three had paid in giving up even her name.

But the collar wasn't the worst of it. Staring back at Three in the mirror was a naked slave girl, tits out and pussy exposed. Her shoulders were slumped and her eyes puffy from the crying. She looked as beaten and owned as she felt. Horrified, Three turned away as fast as she could, unwilling to acknowledge that the naked girl in the mirror could possibly be her.

"The door needs to stay open," Miss Fisk instructed as Three stepped into one of the stalls.

Three had heard Hoblitzel's orders, same as the other girl. And while maybe she'd had some hope Miss Fisk might have ignored them, she hadn't expected her to. She gloomily cheeped out a, "Yes, Miss Fisk."

The secretary remained around the corner, thankfully, and out of sight. But she made her presence felt all the same, as Three sat down onto the toilet.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked.

Three hesitated. "I volunteered," she offered in response.

"Right, right," Miss Fisk shot back. "But why?"

Hesitation again, as Three searched for a good answer. Why had she volunteered? Why was she doing this? Why was she allowing USF to subject her to this? "The money," Three ultimately answered, finding the answer to be mostly true. She didn't need to get into the threats or the coercion – Miss Fisk was neither her confidante nor her confessor.

Miss Fisk clucked her tongue, and hissed through her teeth. "Jesus," she remarked. "There's no amount of money that could get me to do what you're doing."

Three didn't respond.

Miss Fisk seemed to reconsider her position on her own, however. "Okay, maybe. Maybe. How much was it? How much are they giving you?"

Not enough, Three thought to herself.

"Enough," she replied.

"So, more than you were making as an analyst, at least," Miss Fisk said. She didn't press for the specific dollar figure. Instead, she asked, "Is this your first time doing something like this? I mean, obviously, this is your first time doing this. But is this sort of thing...your...I don't know...is this sort of thing your thing? Are you, like, an exhibitionist or something like that?"

"First time." Mailgirl Number Three was no exhibitionist. She'd never gone streaking. The Nude Olympics out in the Holder Courtyard were done and gone by the time she'd gotten to Princeton, and she doubted she'd have had the balls to actually participate, regardless. No nude beaches. No sunbathing. No wet T-shirt contests or strip poker. She wasn't a prude; she was probably more comfortable in her own skin than most women; she was one of the few female USF employees unfazed by the open shower block in the new gym on the first floor. She knew she was pretty. She knew she was attractive. It had taken her into her early twenties to get there, to get as comfortable with her body as she was now – but not so comfortable that she didn't shudder at the thought of having to walk back to Hoblitzel's office in the nude. She had always liked sleeping naked, but refrained from doing so regularly out of an irrational fear that someone might break into her apartment in the middle of the night. About as far down the exhibitionist path as Three had ever dared to go was having sex with Greg Burke with the lights on; even that had been something Three hadn't been bold enough to suggest more than two or three times, despite the general naughtiness and awfulness that had otherwise defined the affair.

But...maybe? As terrifying as it had been to undress in front of Charlie and Hoblitzel and Will Barrow and Mistress Zero, there'd been a butterflies-in-the-stomach sense of excitement present all the same. She'd had the stripper fantasies, same as any girl. If she were being stripped down and turned into nothing more than a sexual object, was it wrong that it might be a turn-on for her? The idea that others were getting turned on by the sight of her?

Three shook the idea from her head. It was a dangerous line of thinking, and robbed some of the power from the "woe-is-me, innocent victim" narrative she'd been constructing in Hoblitzel's office. She was further aided in distracting herself when a light rapping came from the far side of the ladies' room door.

"Amanda?" It was Pags. "Amanda? Are you alright? What's going on? Are you okay? Can I come in?"

Three knew she was supposed to respond with the bit about Human Capital and her mailroom number, but she simply couldn't bring herself to do so. It got caught in her throat, unable and unwilling to be uttered aloud to the likes of Nick Pagliaro. Instead, she called back – with her voice breaking – "Give me a second!" She finished, flushed, and stepped from the stall.

"Can I come in?" Pags asked again. "I just want to..." He trailed off, perhaps unsure of exactly what it was that he wanted.

Three meekly looked to Miss Fisk, already playing the part of the submissive she was expected to become. The secretary simply shrugged before Three even realized what she had done. "We need to get back," was all the other girl offered, but her tone seemed to indicate she was willing to grant Three a few short seconds with Pags.

Rather than having to talk to him in the hall, she instead invited him in; it was just Three and Miss Fisk in the ladies' room.

Three was washing her hands, and avoiding eye contact with the naked girl in the mirror, when Pags stepped nervously into the bathroom. "What happened? What's going on?"

He couldn't help but eye her up and down. Three understood. She worked with almost all men – boys, really – and she knew that looking was hardwired into them, civility and etiquette be damned. She'd witnessed Parker Wertz staring as Leslie's ass more than once. And she was capable of admitting that she herself felt an ego-boost when she caught Wertz or Uehara or Moyer or Pags checking her out. She could even be a bit of a tease from time to time, bending over the conference room and watching them – in the reflection of the pane glass windows - sneak a peak behind her.

Pags realized what he'd done instantly, and then locked eyes uncomfortably with Three. Again, this was technically against the rules for Three now. "Look down," Mistress Zero had instructed her. "Eye contact is not allowed unless authorized by a superior."

"This is a joke, right?" he asked. "April Fools?"

Three shook her head glumly. "Not a joke."

"Why would you do this?" He jutted his chin towards the number scrawled on her right hip. "Are they really launching mailgirls here at USF?"

"It's a test. HR is testing it," she explained. She then corrected herself. "Human Capital, that is. It's a new group within HR. They're testing it for the next couple of weeks, to see if it'll work here at the Plaza."

Pags shook his head. "This is so, so fucked up."

Three agreed.

Pags had been one of her closest friends here on the 26th Floor since she'd started with the company the previous summer. He'd joined Charlie's team a year earlier, when Three was still in business school. Though his main area of focus was Biotech and Pharma, he'd helped cover Internet and Infrastructure as Three had gotten up to speed. They'd had shared an instant rapport, each of them finding a kindred spirit in the other. There were nights that Three was in the office until after ten, but – because of Pags – she was rarely alone. They joked and swapped stories with one another, and they enjoyed a little harmless flirting back and forth. But nothing had ever happened between them; Three had been married to her job, while Pags had just hit the one-year mark with a girl who worked for one of the major labels up in the Garment District. For the best, Three had told herself a few times, after catching herself daydreaming about what it might be like with Pags. She'd never been good at that sort of thing; she knew she'd screw it all up somehow, anyways.

"Are you serious about this?"

Three bit her lip. Miss Fisk wasn't someone in whom she could confide, but Pags was. This didn't seem to be the place or the time, however. Maybe she could give him the full story after work, or over a good, stiff drink. For now, she met his eyes, and told him, "I volunteered."
"Why?!!"

"The money," Miss Fisk answered for her.

Pags shot her an angry look, as if warning her to butt out.

Three just nodded, and repeated, "The money."

"No," Pags responded. "No, no, no. There has to be more to this. This isn't you."

It is now, Three thought to herself. Like it or not. "It's a lot of money."

He didn't believe her, and he shook his head to show as much. "How long?"

"A month."

"Seriously?"

"A month," she repeated.

"And it's a full-on mailgirls program? Like, you're working out of the mailroom and running deliveries around the building like this?"

"It is. I'm not sure about the mailroom, though. I haven't really gone through much of an orientation yet."

"She's not even supposed to be out of Joe's office," Miss Fisk offered up.

Three shrugged. "Bathroom break," she explained.

"Who's going to cover for you?"

"I don't know."

"But you're back in May, right? They'll find someone else to do this?"

"I'll be back in May," Three answered, confident in her answer. Given that Debbie Truesdale had just verbally resigned, Three couldn't imagine a scenario in which this pilot would go well for Will Barrow. If Debbie was the yardstick to be measured against, half the company could be expected to walk; Miss Fisk and her gloating, vicious smile aside, Three expected the reaction from USF's female population to be more like Debbie's. The shouting from behind Hoblitzel's closed office door, and the angry, hostile looks Charlie kept giving Barrow throughout the course of the meeting suggested that Three's direct supervisor had been vehemently opposed to all this, as well. "It's just a pilot."

"Okay," Pags said, seeming relieved. His relief came out sounding almost as if his primary concern was that he'd have to do all her work on top of his own. But Three knew him well enough to known that his worry was actually more about her, and about her well-being, than it came across. It was sweet. She loved him for it.

"Are you sure about this?" he asked suspiciously. He knew there was more going on to all this than just the money.

"No," Three answered, holding back a sob. She shook her head. "Not at all."

"Can't you just say no? Can you change your mind?"

Three shook her head again. He was worried about her, and she found herself in the weird position of trying to comfort him. "It's okay. I'm okay. I volunteered for this. And they're making it worth it."

Pags was unconvinced.

"It's complicated," she went on. "I can call you tonight and explain a little more, if you're around?"

"I've got..." he began, before stopping himself. Something with Rachel, Three surmised. But whatever was going on with Three, Pags knew that Three was the priority. "I'm around. I'll make sure I'm around."

"Okay. I'll call you tonight. After." She looked to Miss Fisk. "She's right, though. They told Joe not to let me up...er, out. Not until my new boss comes to get me. I've got to get back."

As if to signal their time together was up, the door to the ladies' room swung open, and an oblivious young admin – Ema Cepeda – joined their odd little party. The EVP's secretary, one of the male analysts, and a naked girl in a dog collar greeted her. Ema did a quick double-take, not fully comprehending what she'd just walked in on, and then froze in place.

"Just give us a second," Pags asked the girl. Ema squeaked out an "okay..." and then stepped back into the hall.

"She sits on the other side of the floor," Three explained, more for herself than for Pags or Miss Fisk. "Maybe they haven't heard yet." Maybe there were still a few of Three's coworkers who hadn't witnessed her nude walk to the ladies' room first-hand, or who hadn't yet heard about her from someone else.

Pags nodded absently. He could have cared less about Ema Cepeda. Meeting Three's eyes one last time, he offered, "I will walk out of you here right now with you, if you want me to. You can have my jacket. I'll find you some shoes. I can take you home. Whatever this is, however you landed in this, I can help."

"Pags," she started – his name getting caught in her throat. "Nick..."

Every part of her wanted to take him up on his proposition. It wasn't too late. She could still run. She could still be free. She could still be Amanda Dobson.

But that wasn't entirely true. Being Amanda Dobson – the Amanda Dobson she'd been just a few hours earlier – was no longer an option. Will Barrow had seen to that. She could be Amanda Dobson again - but not Amanda Dobson, the Research Analyst. Not Amanda Dobson, the prospective Portfolio Manager. Not Amanda Dobson, the fast-rising success story. That chapter in her life was over, and it had been over the moment she'd accepted the meeting invite from Charlie that morning. The only way she'd ever get back on track was to surrender herself the company's plans for her, terrifying and humiliating as those plans might have been.

"I can't," she whined. "I can't."

"Are you sure? Are you really sure? Really really?"

She shook her head. "I can't," she repeated. "This was my choice. I volunteered. I agreed to it. I signed a contract. I know how it all looks, but you have to trust me – I know what I'm doing. It's going to be hard. It's going to be...just...just...awful. But I'm a big girl. I don't need you to rescue me. I chose this."

Pags held her eyes a moment longer, and then looked away. It was clear he was still unsettled, and that he was struggling with his own better judgment in letting her go.

"Besides," Three added, "half the floor has already seen me this way. Might as well let the rest of them in on the show."

It was a joke, of sorts. A joke that didn't land. Pags had a grim look on his face. "Can I at least walk you back?"

Three bit her lip, and declined politely once more. He wanted to protect her, to keep her safe. But as easy as it would have been to let him do so, it would only have advertised just how scared and embarrassed and conflicted she was about her new role. Better to own it, and feign some level of confidence. Pags couldn't protect her forever.

Three breathed deeply, and dared to take another look at the naked girl in the mirror. She tossed her hair just so, gritted her teeth, and promised herself she wouldn't let anyone see just how terrified she was. She wanted to give Pags a hug, or a kiss on the cheek, but thought better of it. And with Miss Fisk trailing behind her, the girl pulled open the ladies' room door, stepped out into the hall past a wide-eyed Ema Cepeda, and began her trek back to Hoblitzel's office.

As before, Three didn't attempt look up to meet the faces of the colleagues she passed. But unlike before, she kept her shoulders back, and walked with a confidence she didn't remotely feel. She moved quickly and purposefully, but not so quickly that it would come across as a fearful retreat to safety. As she passed through the bullpen, and up along the portfolio managers' offices on the far wall, she was once again greeted by a dumbfounded hush.

Hoblitzel looked up as she returned, his eyes lingering on the bare breasts and exposed pussy that had been facing the corner for the last however long. He didn't seem to realize that he was doing it, however, and only when Miss Fisk followed behind did he shift his gaze. "Any issues?"

"No," Miss Fisk answered on behalf of both of them. "But we got a pretty sizable audience to-and-from. You may have to say something if that memo doesn't come soon."

Hoblitzel gave little more than a chin-jut towards the corner. Three nodded, but stepped with uncertainty towards his desk first, to retrieve the black leather blindfold she'd been given by Mistress Zero. It sat on the edge, only a few inches from the pile of clothes she'd surrendered earlier that morning. It was all she could do to keep from snatching them up, and running pell-mell towards the exit.

Jacket. Skirt. Blouse. All folded neatly, and stacked one atop the other in the reverse order she'd stripped them off. Her stockings, and the garter belt that had held them up, were a more disorderly pile on top, but she'd at least folded her bra over on itself so that one cup sat within the other. Her heels – an expensive pair of Louboutins – stood guard alongside. Missing, however, were the black lace hiphuggers she'd given up last.

Will Barrow had taken her panties as a souvenir.

Three would get the rest of her clothes back at the end of the day – she had Barrow's word. But he'd helped himself to her underwear, telling her matter-of-factly that he'd be keeping them. No. No, that the company would be keeping them. Three, stark naked from head-to-toe, was in no position to argue with him. But she'd been so surprised by the nonchalant way he'd informed her of the act that Three didn't even think to argue. It wasn't a request, or a discussion – Barrow would be taking her panties, and that was that.

Three didn't dare linger at Hoblitzel's desk longer than she had to. She took the blindfold, returned to her corner, and settled onto her knees. She tugged the blindfold over her eyes, securing it behind her head, and returned to the posture Mistress Zero had left her in – thighs apart, shoulders back, head down, and hands behind her back.

Three wasn't looking forward to commuting home commando – a thought that flashed through her head just momentarily, before she laughed bitterly and inwardly to herself.

"Any further objections?" Hoblitzel asked his secretary, referring to the incident with Debbie Truesdale.

"No," Miss Fisk answered. "Just a lot of shocked and confused faces."

Hoblitzel weighed whether to take action or not. "No," he finally said. "This is the company's decision. Let them be the ones to defend it."

"Got it," the girl replied. There was a beat. "Do you want the door open or closed?"

Hoblitzel rarely left his door open. "Open," he said, all the same.

Three returned to the darkened world of her blindfold, the uncomfortable ache of her knees on the hard floor, and the inner voices screaming at her and scolding her for what she'd done to herself. Minutes ticked by. A half hour turned into an hour. Barrow's inbox chimed the arrival of email after email, and his phone rang a handful of times. Only once did the conversation turn towards Three, and only in passing. There was a naked blonde on Hoblitzel's floor, and he was carrying on with his morning business-as-usual.

But then the call came, and Three was granted her release. She heard only Hoblitzel's side of the conversation, and she wondered if he was talking to Barrow, or Mistress Zero. She supposed it didn't matter.

"Okay," her former mentor answered. "Okay. Where? Okay. I'll let her know." He paused for a moment. "And her things? Right. Understood." He hung up.

"Uh, Number Three?" Hoblitzel began awkwardly, still getting accustomed to referring to her as such, as much as the girl herself was still getting accustomed to answering to it.

"Yes, sir?"

"That was the German woman. She's not coming back to get you. You're supposed to go down to the 2nd Floor to meet her and the rest of them there."

"Yes, sir," Three repeated. Not the mailroom, but the 2nd Floor. Three swallowed hard. The 2nd Floor was the elevator lobby, just up a flight of escalators from the Plaza's main entrance.

"Take the service elevators," Hoblitzel instructed her. "Leave the mask with Lex. And your things. Someone will be by later this afternoon to retrieve them for you."

"Yes, sir," Three answered, but she still didn't move. The dread of what awaited her on the 2nd Floor kept her from vacating the relative safety of her corner.

"That's it. Go ahead."

"Yes, sir."

She took a deep breath, and reached for her blindfold. She blinked as she removed it, adjusting to the light, and reflected once more upon the idea that she was about to walk through a busy Manhattan office building in nothing more than a dog collar. She stood, gathered her clothes from Hoblitzel's desk, and headed for the door.

"Amanda..." Hoblitzel began.

"Sir, per Human Capital, I am to be called by my mailroom number," she spat back, hate and vitriol more evident in her tone than she'd intended. "Mailgirl Number Three."

She could tell by Hoblitzel's own tone that he was about to try to say something to wrap all this up, to offer her some advice, or to console her with something reassuring. The girl wanted none of it. Instead, without waiting for his release, Three turned and left. Hoblitzel let her go.

It was a mistake. It was a stupid one. As angry as Three may have been with Hoblitzel, it would be dangerous to alienate him. Yes, he was partly to blame for her current situation – he'd betrayed her, and sold her off to Human Capital like a prize sow. But she was complicit, herself; she'd signed the contract, she'd gotten naked in his office, and she'd agreed to be a USF mailgirl – with all that it entailed. And what it entailed was smiling and playing along, taking up the role of the submissive mailgirl, and chanting out Miss Zero's little phrases when she needed to. Attitude in Hoblitzel's direction would get her nowhere.

"Miss Fisk," Three mewed, as deferentially as she could muster, "I'm supposed to leave these with you."

The secretary's face went sour as she saw the pile of clothes – lace bra and garter on top – being offered in her direction. Three supposed she understood, putting herself in the other girl's shoes and imagining a naked girl handing off her underthings to her. She wished the empathy extended both ways, however. "Just, leave them on the floor next to my desk."

"Yes, Miss Fisk." She squatted down in front of the desk, and placed her things on the floor, up against the far side of the desk. She slipped her bra, garter, and stockings between her blouse and her skirt – out of sight and away from prying eyes. She laughed to herself about being embarrassed by someone seeing her intimate apparel. Still, she put her heels neatly on top, as if the weight of the shoes would somehow hold everything in place.

She stood, turned, and was immediately greeted by the artificial "click" of a camera phone from somewhere in the maze of cubicle beyond.

And realized how much worse this was going to be.

Maybe she could handle a month in the nude. Maybe she couldn't. Either way, it'd be over soon. It'd be over by May. But the pictures...the pictures would live forever.

Her whole world dropped out from under her, and her stomach twisted itself into knots. She fought the urge to retch. How had she not thought of this? How had she not realized people would be taking pictures? How did she not think this through, and remember that each and every person at USF Plaza likely had a camera phone waiting to bag a shot of her? They'd be emailed. They'd be texted. They'd be posted. Suddenly, the distance between New York and Minnesota, between USF and her parents, seemed frighteningly close together.

All she could do was move. And so she moved.

Three couldn't tell who'd taken the first shot, but it didn't matter. There were others. The first few, as she hurried back in the direction of her office, were subtle. Sneaky. Secretive. But then she heard someone shout out, "Say cheese!" and any remaining sense of decency was gone. She was sure that there were a good half-dozen shots of her naked ass scurrying down the corridor. Only once she'd rounded the corner into the little recess where the service elevators and stairwell were housed did she finally escape the amateur paparazzi.

She was trembling as she pressed the "down" button, and looked nervously back over her shoulder while simultaneously willing the elevator to arrive. Whatever awaited her on the 2nd Floor seemed – at that moment – preferable to the bare-assed snapshots of her that would be circulated throughout Asset Management. An eternity later, the elevator to her left chimed its arrival, and Three escaped. Once onboard, she forcefully and frantically jabbed at the button to close the doors.

The girl braced herself against the handrail as the car began its descent, desperately trying to catch her breath and feeling the onset of a panic attack. As her chest heaved, Three lied to herself, and attempted to convince herself that cameras didn't make this any worse. She was already naked at work, and she'd soon be sent bustling around the building dressed as such. The fact that there were a few perverts with camera phones didn't change that, nor did it make the calculus behind her decision any different. Even if she had thought it through beforehand, her choice had still been really no choice at all.

Her head was spinning. Her palms were sweaty against the metal railing. Her ears were buzzing.

And there was a very distinct throbbing between her legs.

Her pulse, she told herself.

But she knew better.

She reached up and covered her mouth, horrified at the realization.

She was getting turned on by this.

There was no time to reflect on that reaction, however. The elevator slowed as it neared its destination, and Three glanced up in time to see the display tick past the 5th Floor, then the 4th, then 3rd. She had arrived.

The girl composed herself as best she could, burying it all deep. She refused to acknowledge where her mind had just gone, where her body was leading her. She'd deal with it later. Or, better yet, not at all. For now, she focused on the elevator lobby here on the 2nd Floor, and the open room beyond.

Three had never actually ridden the service elevators before, so she was unsure of exactly where she was. The elevator itself had been dirty, dingy, and bit scuffed up, and lit with a painfully bright and unforgiving fluorescent light. The lobby beyond – tucked somewhere behind the old company gym, Three suspected – was more of the same. There were three other doors, leading to three other service elevators, as well as entrances to the East, North, and West staircases. A janitor's closet. Some sort of storage room. And a pallet in the corner with a stack of white tiles, and a few construction-related odds-and-ends being stored on top of them.

Three's focus, though, was pulled towards the open corridor opposite her, where a simple, unadorned metal toilet was affixed to the wall. There was no lid. There was no toilet seat. It was the sort of thing that Three had only seen before in prisons, and then only in movies. And, like in those movies, there were no partitions – only a toilet bowl, jutting freely into the corridor, for all to see.

She stepped closer, tentatively, and was greeted by more – three to the left, three to right – standing guard on either side of the corridor. In addition to lacking partitions or any sort of privacy screens, the toilets appeared to have been installed by someone who didn't understand proper placing; were two of these toilets to be pressed into service side-by-side, whoever was seated upon one would unfailingly be rubbing up against the shoulders and thighs of the person seated beside them.

Three gagged.

The same white tile that was stacked in the corner of the elevator lobby began where the corridor began, and ran all the way down into the room beyond. As she stared down the corridor, and through the gauntlet of open toilets, Three called out, "Hello?" She was greeted, on the other end, by a utilitarian-looking metal desk, and her own reflection in a mirror beyond.

"Come!" a German-accented voiced shouted from afar.

Doing her best to ignore the bathroom situation, Three walked down the short corridor, and into a well-lit locker room on the far side. She immediately recognized where she was, and looked nervously to the far wall. Thankfully, the large picture-glass windows that had once lined the gym had been removed, and only Three herself – stark naked – was visible in the mirrors that ran from one end of the room to the other. Three may not have wanted to have the constant reminder of her own nakedness staring back at her, but it was preferable to the see-through windows that had once looked out on the elevator banks beyond.
The truth of it was that Three hadn't entirely minded the windows, back when this had been the building's gym. She'd heard complaints from some of her female colleagues about feeling like they were on display when they were working out, and many of them refused to work out at USF Plaza because of it. The windows had looked out upon the elevator lobby that all USF employees took to-and-from their floors, up a set of escalators from the security desk at street level. The main elevator lobby had consequently also looked in towards the gym. For her own part, Three had typically arrived at the building so early that there'd been little traffic in the lobby beyond as she climbed the Stairmaster or got in a jog on the treadmill. Say nothing of the fact that the windows keeping folks away meant that Three had never had difficulty getting a machine, or being forced to wait her turn. Or that Three, secretly, got a bit of a thrill out of the idea that someone might see her in her tight-fitting gym outfit.

The exercise bikes had been over to her far right. Now, there was an open shower block, with four showerheads embedded in the wall. To her far left had been the free weights; another open shower block, with another four showerheads. Over here had been ellipticals – now, a row of sinks. Another row where the treadmills had once been. Against the walls to either side of her, stretching the length of the room, were wooden lockers – cubbies, really, given that they had no doors. Beyond the metal desk in the center of the room was a double door that hadn't been there before - presumably emptying out to the lobby. On either side of the doors were pieces of furniture which Three couldn't quite make sense of – one part sawhorse, one part weight bench, fitted and overlaid with black leather.

USF had closed this gym towards the beginning of the year, papered over the big windows, and relocated most of the equipment into a more cramped, confined space downstairs on the 1st Floor. Management had been unclear as to why they were doing so, as well as to whether the relocation was temporary or permanent. Three had rolled with the change, but the move had alienated even more of her female colleagues. While the old gym had had a women's locker room (now walled up behind the lockers to Three's left, she believed) with changing stalls and individual showers, the tighter quarters on the 1st Floor had made such privacy unfeasible. There was a single, open shower block in the new women's locker room – not entirely dissimilar to the open shower blocks here, but at least walled off from the open changing room beyond. The building had defended the new layout by pointing to the fact that the men had the same exact set-up in their locker room, but that defense had mostly fallen on deaf ears. Though nearly as uncomfortable as Martyna or Leslie had been by the change, Three had followed the gym the 1st Floor nonetheless; she wasn't so uncomfortable with her body that she was willing to sacrifice the convenience of being able to get a workout in at the Plaza.

As she oriented herself now in what had once been the old gym, and what looked to be a new locker room specifically for mailgirls, it struck Three how much time, effort, and money had apparently been spent to support a month-long pilot. There were twelve lockers to her right, and twelve to her left – enough to accommodate a small army of mailgirls. Will Barrow clearly felt more confident in the long-term prospects of the mailgirls concept at USF than Three had. In that moment, she fretted that freedom in May might not be as assured as she ha believed it to be earlier that morning.

"Come!" Mistress Zero shouted to her again. "There will be time enough for a tour later."

Three found the German woman – her new supervisor – to her right, towards the far end of the locker room. Mistress Zero had shed the jacket she'd been wearing earlier, in Hoblitzel's office, and Three could now clearly make out the woman's black bra through her tight-fitting white blouse. A few of the higher buttons had been undone, and there was just a hint of cleavage visible. Her high-waisted pencil skirt clung to her hips, to her thighs, and stopped a bit below her knees. Already tall, she was balanced imposingly upon a frightening pair of four-or-five-inch heels that toed the line on being inappropriate for the workplace.

Of course, Mistress Zero was towering over a line of bare-skinned girls on their knees, so the old standards of what was appropriate and what was inappropriate were perhaps tilting towards obsolescence.

The scene was jarring. There were four other girls, in the same state of dress as Three herself, with their backs to the lockers and in the "Knees" position Mistress Zero had drilled into her up on the 26th Floor. Heads down, tits out, and knees spread. Each had been fitted with the same wicked-looking black metal collar, and each had a number scribbled across her hip: One, Four, Five, and Six. Three's eyes couldn't help but be drawn towards the other girls' exposed groins; One's pubic hair was little more than a thin landing strip, and Four's was a wild and unkempt tangle, but Five and Six both sported the same neat-but-in-need-of-attention triangle as Three. Three took some comfort in that fact.

She didn't know any of them personally. She recognized Number Five as Chi-Yong Cho from the Quant Desk. Number Six worked – had worked? - in Capital Markets. She didn't know anything about Number One, but she'd seen her in passing – a stunning, drop-dead attractive brunette capable of turning heads in or out of clothes. The same, arguably, could have been said about any of one them; as vulgar and in-your-face as they were being displayed now, each and every one of them was a paragon of the female form. Each and every one of them could have passed as a high-end fashion model. Three felt oddly complimented to be including among them. Two brunettes (One and Six), two blondes (Four a baby blonde, Three a dirty blonde), and a dark-haired Korean girl.

"Knees!" Mistress Zero barked impatiently. "At your locker!"

Time enough for the tour later. Time enough for introductions later, as well.

Three hadn't been told, specifically, which was her locker. But she was a smart girl with two Ivy League degrees; she got to her knees beside Mailgirl Number Four, and assumed the proper posture.

"Chest out."

Three complied.

Mistress Zero kicked her right knee with the toe of her shoe. "Further apart."

Three complied.

"Eyes down."

Three complied.

Beside her, Number Four was trembling – ever so slightly – with fear. Further down the line, she heard Number Five whimper. Three wondered how long they'd been waiting for her. She wondered how long they'd be waiting for Mailgirl Number Two.

Satisfied for the moment that Three was in the proper "resting" position, Mistress Zero reached down and petted the girl, running her fingers through the girl's dark blonde hair. "You'll need to grow this out," she instructed. It wasn't a discussion.

"Y-Yes, Mistress," Three answered on auto-pilot.

Mistress Zero continued to stroke the girl's hair – once, twice, three times. She was a predator, playing with her meal. She seemed on the verge of saying something else, but the distant chime of the elevator pull her attention away.

Three kept her eyes fixed on an imaginary point on the floor in front of her. The routine went the same as it just had for Three herself. A few quick minutes later, there was another naked body to Three's right, at locker number Two. Three didn't dare look up to see who Number Two was. She didn't dare defy Mistress Zero. Beside her, a sniffle indicated that Number Two had been crying, but had stopped.

"Before we begin," the German woman said, "let me assure you that the worst is behind you. The decision you all made to be a part of this program is a difficult one. The decision to become a mailgirl will define you, will define what others think of you, and will define what you think of yourself. The decision to volunteer is not one that any of you made lightly – we have shared tears, accusations, and harsh words this morning. But I can promise you that the rest of this will be easier. So long as you understand that that decision is the last decision you will need to make to be a successful member of this team."

Three swallowed hard.

Mistress Zero continued. "You are mine now."

The full implications of Three's "decision" continued to sink in. She was now naked in her place of work, relieved of the duties of her old job, and expected to be little more than a mindless bimbo, ferrying mail and messages from floor to floor. She'd volunteered for this; that was what she'd tell her friends and colleagues, and that is what they'd be told by the company. No one would know about the threats or the intimidation. Instead, everyone would buy into the narrative that Amanda Dobson had willingly chosen to take off her clothes and prance about the workplace with her breasts out and her legs spread. Debbie's ire hadn't been reserved for the company alone.

"First, water," the woman announced. "In and out. It has been a long morning. Toilets, and then a drink. Water is by my desk."

None of them budged. None of them wanted to be the first. Mistress Zero snapped her fingers twice, and barked, "Now!"

"I can't do this..." the girl denoted as Number Two whispered under her breath, as the pack of naked mailgirls approached the toilets guarding either side of the corridor back towards the elevator lobby. Two appeared to be talking more to herself than any of the other girls.

Three got her first good look at the last member of their party. Tall, thin, and pretty, with an ample chest and a well-toned body; admittedly, though, this was a description that could have been used to describe any one of them. Two was yet another brunette, something that Three found mildly interesting – she wondered if it suggested a preference on Barrow's part, or maybe that of someone else higher up in the company. Three didn't recognize her, but this was unsurprising, as there were countless multitudes of USF employees here in the building. She looked Mediterranean. Italian, maybe? This in contrast to the Eastern elite-looking Mailgirl Number One, or the "Midwest Farmer's Daughter" box that Three likely would have checked.

Mailgirl Number Four was the first to take a seat, on the far toilet, towards the back right. "I have a small bladder," she offered in defense to the rest of the girls. Number One followed behind, choosing the middle toilet to the left. She offered no apology of her own.

Three couldn't blame them. She guessed that it was noon, or maybe a bit after; her sense of time was out of whack, given how long she'd spent blindfolded up on the 26th Floor. Hoblitzel had offered her an unauthorized reprieve, but she could have just as likely been denied one; she suspected the others might not all have been allowed such a kindness. But Three, too, felt the urge – nerves – and so she opted for the seat to Number One's right, closest to her.

Chi Yong – Number Five – followed suit.

As did Number Six, who sat across from Three. With a shrug and a grimace, Six whispered, "I'm not sure I can pee in front of an audience..."

"Better us than a 'chaperone,'" Three quipped quietly. The only ones watching here and now were all experiencing this embarrassment and lack of privacy together.

Number Two had backed away, and had chosen to instead explore the water situation. What she had to report back wasn't promising.

"No, no, no!" she complained loudly, in Mistress Zero's direction. "Come on! This isn't what I signed up for!"

Mistress Zero didn't respond right away. Three didn't have a good vantage point, but she could hear the woman's heels click towards the group – the sound and the pace filled with menace.

"No!" Two repeated. "This is too much. This is too much. We're supposed to be 'naked delivery girls.' That's it. That's all. That's what we signed up for. That's what I agreed to. The collar? Permission to go to the bathroom? These? Dog bowls?!! This is too far!"

Dog bowls. They'd be expected to drink out of dog bowls on the floor. Three flushed and went to investigate. She hadn't noticed them as she'd entered the locker room; Mistress Zero's desk had been in the way. Three had to admit that she was thirsty. And though she was just as taken aback by this next humiliation as Two, she hung back and waited to see how this would all play out with Mistress Zero.

"You are a mailgirl," the woman hissed as she got closer. "You signed up to be a mailgirl. With everything that is required of a mailgirl."

She stepped uncomfortably close to Number Two. She towered over her. And, leaning in to speak to her, she went on. "From seven in the morning to seven at night, you are the property of US Financial. You are my property. You are to deliver the mail, yes. But you will take on more, as I so choose. You will do as you are told. You will stand as I tell you to stand. You will answer as I tell you to answer. You will use the toilet when I allow you to use the toilet. You will drink out of this bowl.

"You do not like it?" She pointed to the door. "Leave."

Two's clothes, like Three's, were likely somewhere else in the building. The door to the lobby, out to the escalators, and down to the Plaza's main entrance, was no real option. As much as Three could understand the other girl's objections, and as much as Three wanted to object herself, she didn't see how it would change anything. Maybe she'd agreed to become a mailgirl for the rewards promised her in Barrow's first envelope; she'd remain one, and suffer the indignities planned for her, to keep from triggering the items in the second.

Two remained frozen in place, lower lip out in a pout and tears beginning to well up in her eyes.

Three didn't wait for the next exchange. To cut the tension, and to keep Two from saying anything further, Three rounded the desk, got into a squat, and then lowered herself down onto her hands and knees. She kept her legs together, but was well aware that there was no graceful way to drink out of a dog bowl – especially while in the nude. As her face met the room-temperature water, and she began to slurp through puckered lips, her rear end was in the air, up and on display for her new boss and her new colleagues.

There were only two bowls. As the drama played out between Mistress Zero and Mailgirl Number Two, Three felt a presence joining her on the floor. Looking up momentarily, she confirmed that Five had joined her, and was waiting patiently for a turn. At the other bowl, One was similarly trying to find the best way to take a drink, on all fours but using one hand to hold her hair back. Four took up position behind her.

Two backed down. "I'm sorry," she choked out. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, 'Mistress.'" Three could hear the air-quotes around the last word, and winced. Mistress Zero chose to accept the address at face value.

Three rose to her feet, and watched as the other girl looked nervously towards the dog bowls, and then back to the toilets. For the moment, Two opted for the latter, taking tentative steps back behind Mistress Zero's desk. It wouldn't have surprised Three if those steps turned into a mad dash back to the service elevators and up to wherever Two's clothes were being kept. But Two now seemed resigned to her fate, as much as the rest of them.

"Back to your lockers," the German woman instructed them, and the group returned to their assigned locations, on their knees.

Three had been treated to the basics in Hoblitzel's office, before Barrow and Mistress Zero had departed. "A mailgirl is to be referred to only by her mailroom number." "A mailgirl feels no embarrassment at her nudity, and knows exposing herself is for the benefit of the company." "A mailgirl is not allowed eye contact unless authorized by a superior." There were more.

"A mailgirl will be respectful. She will refer to all other members of staff as 'Sir' or 'Ma'am,' maintaining her respect and position as the lowest in the company hierarchy."

"A mailgirl is to be hygienic, her uniform maintained diligently, cleanly shaved from neck to toes and free of all significant dirt, dust, grime, grit, or sweat."

"A mailgirl will be prompt. It is the primary duty of a mailgirl, above all others, to be punctual, to meet or exceed their deadlines, and to maintain delivery schedules to ensure the smooth operation of all departments within the company."

"A mailgirl is to be polite, respectful, humble, and thankful for any activity imparted upon her by her superiors. She follows all commands as issued, so long as those commands are themselves compliant with restrictions as set out by Human Capital."

"A mailgirl is forbidden from using the restrooms outside of the mailgirls' locker room, unless authorized, documented, escorted, and monitored by a superior."

"A mailgirl is prohibited from any sexual activity with a superior, on- or off-duty, on- or off- campus."

The list went on. And on. Rule after rule. Regulation after regulation. Some of them Three had seen explicitly laid out in the contract to which she'd affixed her signature that morning. Some of them seemed to double down and take the language of the contract to the furthest extreme. Some of them seemed to come completely out of left field, restricting freedoms and behaviors Three never would have considered.

"A mailgirl is prohibited from pleasuring herself outside of the mailgirls locker room."

This particular restriction elicited an uncomfortable snicker from Mailgirl Number One, which Mistress Zero either didn't hear, or chose to ignore. The chances that Three would feel the need to masturbate at work were pretty slim – in or out of the locker room. The rule itself seemed only to further humiliate and denigrate them all, by assuming they were all whores. Whores whose hands would be between their legs any chance they got. Three, like the other girls, chanted it all back, feeling herself blush as she did so.

There were more. If they were to "accidentally" or "inadvertently" reach climax while outside of the locker room, they were required to report it to Mistress Zero for documentation, and submit themselves for "discipline" and "correction." During their "time of the month," they were to report it to Mistress Zero for documentation. They were to submit themselves for "inspection" each morning, prior to the start of their shifts. They were to be denied the use of hot water in the locker room's showers.

"That ought to help with the need to masturbate," Three thought sarcastically to herself.

"A mailgirl agrees to adopt any of the standard mailgirl positions, at any time, when instructed to do so by a superior."

Mistress Zero used this rule as an opportunity to pause. Addressing the girls, she began, "You are currently in the 'Mailgirls Resting Position.' At USF, we will refer to this position as 'Knees.' While on-duty, but between assignments, this is a mailgirl's default position. You will find designated spots for you on each floor here at the Plaza, where you can rest until you are called upon for your next assignment. At no point will you be allowed to sit down while on duty, while outside of this room. This is an issue of hygiene and cleanliness. Chairs. Benches. Desks. Tables. The floor. All are off-limits."

Three's knees ached already. She'd been on them since that morning.

"Sit back on your legs, your ankles. Open your thighs. Your knees shall be no less than shoulder-width apart. Both hands behind your back. Left wrist in the palm of your right hand. Back arched, chest out. Head down. Eyes to the floor."

If the other girls' inductions had been anything like what Three had experienced in Hoblitzel's office, this was a pose Mistress Zero had already run them through. So, too, was the next.
"Up," the woman instructed them, and the girls all rose to their feet. "'Feet.'"

Three planted her bare feet flat on the white tile floor. Again, legs spread shoulder-width apart. Again, hands behind her back. Back arched and chest out. Head down. Eyes to the floor.

"This the is the 'Mailgirls Ready Position.' At USF, we will refer to this position as 'Feet.' When engaged, this will be your standard posture. As you wait for your package to be handed to you. As you wait for your next set of orders. As you wait to be dismissed."

"Now," she went on. "Up on your toes. Up. Up. Number Six – up! Number Four – legs further apart! Hands behind your head, with your elbows out. Lock your fingers. Eyes forward. All of you, arch your back. More. Breasts up and out."

Without warning or permission, Mistress Zero's hands were on Three's body. Cupping the underside of Three's right breast in her left hand, and putting her right upon the small of Three's back, Mistress Zero repeatedly herself impatiently. "Up and out!" She manhandled Three into the proper posture.

Three bristled at the violation, but said nothing.

Mistress Zero went on. "This is the 'Mailgirls Inspection Position.' At USF, will refer to this position as 'Toes.' You will be expected to take this position for me each morning, each afternoon following lunch, and after each of your breaks. You are to be shaved from the neck down, with no stubble. You are to be wearing lipstick and make-up – not too heavy, not like little tarts. Nail polish – fingers and toes – to be provided. Perfume, to be provided. Teeth brushed, with toothbrush and toothpaste to be provided. Hair clean and neat. Jewelry removed.

"You may be ordered to take this position by any superior here at Plaza, however, so long as you are not actively engaged in a pick-up, delivery, or another assignment. You are the whole company's account, and therefore are the whole company's responsibility. Deadlines will be tight and use of the elevators limited; you will most certainly break a sweat. Light perspiration during an inspection in permissible. Heavy sweating is not. Nor is body odor.

"Should you fail an inspection, that failure will be logged, and you will be issued demerits. You will be taken off-duty and sent immediately back here, to the locker room, to bring your 'uniform' up to the standards expected of you. You will then return to the site of your failure, and submit yourself for a second inspection. You are not to fail your second inspection."

With both the "Knees" and "Feet" postures, the girls had been instructed to stare submissively at the floor. "Toes," on the other hand, had Three staring straightforward. There was no avoiding the naked blonde staring back at her from the mirror across the locker room.

"Knees" had been humiliating enough. It was the posture of a submissive slave girl, perfect height for a master to unzip his pants and slip a cock into her mouth. There'd be none of that here at USF, thankfully; Barrow had promised. But up in "Toes" and submitting herself for inspection was something else altogether, and Three couldn't help but feel a new level of humiliation. It was going to be bad enough to be "inspected" by Mistress Zero. The idea that she'd be allowing herself to be examined and judged by anyone here at the Plaza was excruciating. Any superior. Which, as Barrow and Mistress Zero had previously informed her, was literally everyone at the Plaza but other mailgirls. Admins and interns. IT. Security. The custodial staff. Any one of them could order her to her toes and eyeball her whole body up and down in search of violations.

Any relief that Three felt in being let out of "Toes," however, was short-lived. No sooner had the girls been order back into "Feet," they were instructed to turn around, bend at the waist, and grab their ankles. They all complied. Slowly. Hesitatingly. Awkwardly. But they all complied, all the same.

"'Ankles,'" Mistress Zero informed them.

And so it went. "Hands-and-Knees" was next. "Elbows-and-Knees." "Forehead-and-Knees." One after another, position after position. There were enough positions that Three struggled to remember them all. She found herself making mental connections to yoga poses, in the hopes that she'd have an easier time remembering them all that way. Box Pose. Camel Pose. Lotus. Dolphin. Hero. Bridge. Three wasn't sure what any of this had to do with delivering the mail.

"We shall take a break," Mistress Zero announced finally, satisfied that the girls had at least mastered "Knees," "Feet," and "Toes" to her exacting standards. She promised they'd find each of the positions described in detail, in the instructional handbook they'd be taking home with them that evening. And she promised to run them through the full gamut again the following morning, before their shifts began. "Six, Five – with me. The rest of you: Knees."

Six and Five dutifully followed behind Mistress Zero, up to and around her desk, and disappeared with her down the corridor towards the service elevators. The remaining girls got to their knees, as instructed, and suffered silently in misery and fear over what was coming next. From the around the corner, they heard one of the storage room doors swing open.

"I can't..." Two whispered. "I can't do this."

"What choice do you have?" This from Mailgirl Number One.

"They...they...they promised me the West Coast," Two whimpered. The girl came from some sort of sales department, Three surmised. "A transfer. A promotion. Money. Relo. Everything I could have wanted."

"...or else," Four added, bitterly.

"Or else," Two agreed.

"The same," Three said softly. "Or else."

"Did anyone say no?" Two asked.

"There was an issue with someone," One joined in. "In Emerging Markets, I overheard. They just moved to the next girl on the list."

"I should have said no," Two muttered.

"You can still say no," Four offered.

"We can all still say no," Three added. It was true. Mistress Zero had shown them where the door was. The logistics of getting back up to the 26th Floor and of getting her clothes back were frightening, but that had to be the lesser evil when compared to four more weeks of this.

"No, we can't," One spat. She quoted, "'Or else.'"

Or else. Or else they'd be ruined. Finances. Careers. Job prospects. Whoever the girl was in Emerging Markets who'd gotten free, her whole life would be ruined. Barrow would see to it. He'd promised Three the same.

As mailgirls, it was more like their lives were on "pause." At some point down the road, Amanda Dobson, Portfolio Manager, would strut confidently into the building, fully dressed, and this little detour as Mailgirl Number Three would be behind her. Tit-for-tat. Quid pro quo. You wash my back, I'll wash yours. So long as Three played along, and took whatever abuses were thrown at her, USF would reward her in the end; she was sacrificing herself for the company.

She wasn't sure how much she could trust Will Barrow, but – god help her – she trusted Joe Hoblitzel and Charlie Farrell. She'd been assured that USF would be enforcing a strict "look-but-don't-touch" policy when it came to the mailgirls, and that anyone who dared to cross that line would be dealt with harshly – termination, certainly, with the potential of both criminal and civil penalties to be explored, depending on the offense. But she'd also been assured that nothing was off the table up to that line – humiliation, verbal abuse, and even corporal punishment. She'd be expected to put up with it all for the length of her contract. In exchange, she'd have the job of her dreams and a sum of money that might have otherwise taken her years to amass.

There was a good distance between here and there, however, and a good deal of nonsense Three would be forced to endure to get there. As Mistress Three had pointed out to Number Two earlier, delivering the mail was the least of it.

And, as if to underline that particular point, Three was treated to her "lunch."

Five placed it down in front of her, and then set another bowl down in front of Four. They were being served in dog dishes similar to those filled with water at Mistress Zero's desk. And what they were being served might well have been actual dog food. Or, at the very least, a close approximation to dog food. Even before she leaned down over the bowl, Three could smell it. She stifled a gag.

It was "mailgirl chow," Mistress Zero explained. Perfectly formulated with all of the vitamins and nutrients they required for their new "lifestyle," with no room for unneeded fat, salt, or empty calories. She assured them that programs on the West Coast had been utilizing this particular brand of food almost since the beginning, and that programs in Germany and Eastern Europe fed their girls something almost identical. If they wanted their bodies to operate at peak performance – and USF wanted their bodies to operate at peak performance – the girls would eat this morning, noon, and night. Mornings and nights still belonged to the girls, Mistress Zero admitted. But so long as they were here at the Plaza, this is what they'd be fed.

Three looked to her bowl with disgust. Grey. Chunky. And more than a little runny. She wasn't sure she had much of an appetite.

"Eat up," Mistress Zero instructed them. "I want to see clean bowls."

As she had with the water bowl, Three got to her hands and her knees. The fact that she wasn't allowed to pick up the bowl, and the fact that she wouldn't be allowed to use her hands, went unsaid. She tucked her hair behind her ears, and leaned in for her first, stomach-churning mouthful. The food was room temperature, and tasted no better than it smelled. There was no chance that Three was going to be able to choke it all down.

And yet, she did. The taste, the smell, the texture, the consistency – all of it was terrible. But she fought through it, and forced herself to take larger and larger bites to get to the bottom of the bowl. Again, what choice did she have? She could undress in Hoblitzel's office, or she could find the door. She could grab her ankles for her new boss, or she could find the door. She could choke down her serving of mailgirl chow, or she could find the door. Mistress Zero was wrong about the decision to become a mailgirl being her last; being a mailgirl was a decision she'd be forced to make over and over and over again.

Pags teased her that she had the palate of a thirteen-year-old boy. Hamburgers and French fries. Hot dogs from one of the street vendors. Pizza. She dutifully ate a salad for lunch a few times a week, and she was enough of a grown-up that vegetables were a part of her normal routine, whether she was out for dinner or cooking for herself. But she didn't like them all that much. She didn't love them, the way that Leslie seemed to. She knew they were good for her, they were good for her body, they were good for her figure – and so she ate them. Three approached lunch that afternoon with the same mindset. By the end of her meal, she'd grown numb the overall nastiness of the contents of her bowl.

Three glanced up, and confirmed that she was the first to be done. Three wasn't sure if this was an accomplishment she should have been proud of. Beside her, Two made a retching sound.

"Clean," Mistress Zero barked in her direction. "You should be able to see your reflection."

Three had eaten her meal. What remained might have generously been referred to as "gravy."

Three licked the bowl clean. She then fought the urge to vomit.

She sat back on her haunches, and risked a look in her supervisor's direction. "Water?" she croaked. "May I get some water, mistress?"

Three was once again on all fours, once again with her face in a dog bowl, when the door to the locker room swung open to her right. Three couldn't see the lobby beyond, as there was apparently an inner door and an outer door. That much was reassuring, given that the row of toilets on the far side of the desk was straight in the line-of-sight of the entrance. But Three had only just begun to get accustomed to being naked in front of Mistress Zero and her five new coworkers. The presence of the locker room's new guests brought a new wave of embarrassment over her – a combination of her state of dress and the position they found her in.

First through the door was a tall, skinny blonde of some sort of Scandinavian descent. On any other day, Three might have described her as attractive. Pretty, maybe. In a generic, tall blonde sort of way. But the girl suffered in comparison to the six naked beauties already assembled in the locker room. She carried a large, heavy toolbox in one hand, and thanked the man coming in behind her for carrying what appeared to be a massage table.

Three could have been forgiven for thinking of the mailgirls' locker room as a women's locker room. The showers, the sinks, the lockers – were it not for the open toilets and the line of girls eating their lunches from dog bowls on the floor, this could very well have been a women's locker room anywhere. Therefore, it was jarring when the first man joined them all. His eyes immediately locked onto the body of the naked blonde directly in front of him, on all fours on the floor. He was maybe in his early forties, and a little round at the mid-section. Glasses. Nerdy. IT, Three thought to herself. Some sort of computer guy or technical support.

Behind him was a figure that shot an instinctual shiver up Three's spine. Will Barrow, smiling from ear to ear.

"Are we early?" Barrow asked of Mistress Zero, nodding to the five girls still eating their lunches.

"We are a little slow," Mistress Zero replied.

Three was unsure of how to react to the newcomers in their midst. Should she stay where she was? Should she stand? Should she say hello? Barrow glanced her up and down casually, without pretending he wasn't. The other man seemed to be a bit more circumspect, at least after that first moment through the door. Three wanted more water, but couldn't bring herself to do so; somehow, being caught with her face in the bowl seemed that much more humiliating now. Instead, the taste of her lunch still in her teeth, Three stood and returned to her locker.

The early afternoon was a blur, with one new humiliation being piled on top of the last. The girls were divided into pairs – One and Two, Three and Four, Five and Six – and then handed off to Barrow and his friends to continue their training, set up their profiles, and prep themselves for being released back out into the Plaza. As Three was in no way looking forward to being sent on her first delivery, she suffered the indignities thrust upon her without complaint – hoping they'd run long, and that that particular hell could be put off until tomorrow.

For Three and Four, Barrow was first. Or, rather, Barrow and Mistress Zero; Barrow seated at the metal desk in the center of the locker room, with Mistress Zero standing in "Feet" position a few feet behind him. The two nude girls stood in the same position on the far side of the desk, backs to the door.

Height. Weight. Hair color. Eye color. Birthday. Barrow went one-by-one down his list, and the two girls chirped back their responses. The Director of Human Capital recorded them all on his tablet. Measurements. Dress size. Shoe size. Cup size. And then things got personal.

"Sexual orientation?" Barrow asked.

"Straight, sir," Three answered.

"Straight, sir," Four answered, as well.

"Are you a virgin?"

"No."

"No."

"How many partners have you been with?"

"Six," Three lied. It was actually ten.

"Four," Four answered. Was she lying, too? How many was too many for a twenty-something-year-old single girl in New York City?

"Have you had had vaginal intercourse?"

How else would she have lost her virginity? "Yes, sir."

"Yes."

"Oral?"

"Yes."

"Yes."

"How many partners?"

"Six," Three lied again.

"Twelve," Four answered. Whoa.

"Anal?"

"No," Three replied quickly. Perhaps too quickly? There'd been that time in business school, when she and Greg had both gotten a little too drunk, and he'd slipped a thumb into her ass while taking her doggy-style. They hadn't talked about it beforehand, and he hadn't asked permission – but she hadn't stopped him, either. She hadn't objected. They never talked about it the next morning, and he'd never done anything like that again. She wondered if he even remembered doing it. She herself had been conflicted as to whether she had wanted him to do it again.

"No," Four offered.

"Have you ever been with a woman?"

"No," Three answered, but hesitated. "I kissed a girl." Why had she offered that?

"Kissed?" Barrow asked, probing.

"Made out with?" Three responded, not sure what he was fishing for. She'd been a sophomore at Princeton. Again, she'd had maybe a little too much to drink. She and Colleen Duffy, back in Colleen's room in Campbell Hall. It had been innocent enough. Kissing. No more. They were both straight. Colleen had a husband now. Three had seen the updates on Facebook.

"Okay," Barrow said, nodding. "Maybe we'll probe that one a bit more, up on the 18th Floor. Some other time." To Four: "And you?"

"No," Four responded, succinctly.

And so on. The last time Three had had her period? Was she on birth control? What sort of birth control? How often did she masturbate? When the last time she masturbated? Did she watch pornography? Movies? Internet? Print?

After Barrow and his endless list of humiliating questions, it was off to Matt Doyle. Doyle was, as Three has suspected, technical support. With Three and Four again standing in "Feet" position at their lockers, Doyle walked them through everything they needed to know about the smartphones they were being issued for their official mailgirl duties, as well as the mailgirls app USF would be running. The two girls may have been forbidden from making eye contact, but Doyle seemed incapable of it himself; he spent the entire time they were with him with his eyes on their breasts.

While on duty, the girls would each be outfitted with a black lycra armband, to be worn around their left bicep. In the armband was a pocket, where the smartphone would sit. The girls would be expected to clock in and re-affirm the voluntary nature of their participation in the program each and every morning, signing with a thumbprint. After that, however, they would be forbidden from touching the unit until the end of the day, when they clocked out. They could remove it only to shower.

Three slid the armband on, as instructed. As the phone booted up, she was greeted by a digital clock, and she was asked to record a time stamp. Next, it was the affirmation Doyle had promised. "I swear, under the penalty of law," it read, "that I submit under my own free will to the terms and conditions of the 'Fixed Term Mailgirls Contract' entered into with United States Financial Group, Inc. I consent to, and confirm that I have read, all clauses in this contract, and understand all clauses to the fullest." It went on. Three scrolled through – it was the same contract she had signed that morning.

"You can sign with your thumbprint at the bottom," Doyle offered helpfully. "With the touch ID function."

Three very much needed to read this contract through, in its entirety. She knew the big ticket items: forfeiture of clothes and forfeiture of privacy, submission to her new supervisor for the purposes of deliveries and any other duties as assigned, the surrendering of her name and agreement to be referred to only by her mailroom number, the relinquishing of Power-of-Attorney to Human Capital, and even the bit about agreeing to corporal punishment should her performance not be up to expected standards. But she hadn't had the opportunity to go through it with a fine-tooth comb, line-by-line. She hoped she'd find some sort of loophole that would free her. She feared there were indignities she'd skipped over.
Now wasn't the time, however. Figuring she'd signed it once already, Three placed her thumb on the reader and affirmed that she had knowingly and willingly volunteered for the role of mailgirl.

"Alright, next," Doyle went on, after Four had done the same. He held up a simple, silver-looking metal scale. "Weigh-ins. Once your phone is on in the morning, you'll need to weigh in. We'll keep this over by your...er...your...uh...by Mistress Zero's desk. For now, you can do it here."

Doyle placed the scale down on the floor in front of Three, and looked at her expectantly. There was no cruelty in this for him, no glee at making her suffer. Barrow had had a cat-who-ate-the-canary smile the entire time she'd been with him, and Mistress Zero seemed to smirk with each new humiliation. Doyle displayed none of that. For him, this was no more than a task that needed to be completed. Three gritted her teeth, and stepped onto the scale.

She'd told Barrow that she was 125 pounds. "One-twenty-nine point seven," Doyle read from the display, loudly, as the smartphone on her arm chimed and indicated the girl's weight had been synched from the scale. Three blushed. The tenths-of-a-pound seemed unnecessarily petty.

Though the girls would be forbidden from touching their own smartphones, they'd be expected to provide tutorials to new users throughout the building. And so Doyle walked them through the app – how to summon a mailgirl, how to dispatch a girl on a delivery, how to spend credits (or "chits," as Doyle referred to them) for rush deliveries or whatever else, how to record a bathroom break, how to issue demerits, how to log a failed inspection. In addition to delivering regular mail and interoffice envelopes, the girls would also serve as couriers for digital messages; Doyle bumped his phone against the one on Four's arm to demonstrate a transfer.

All deliveries would need to be completed within a set time period, and a countdown timer on the girls' phone would indicate just how long they had to get from Point A to Point B. Doyle explained that, at this point, delivery times were really just Human Capital's best guess as to how long it might take at the pace of a brisk walk; as the girls began making deliveries, and generating data, Human Capital would be able to calibrate recommended times accordingly. A "rush" delivery reduced the time allowed by twenty-five percent, and Doyle guessed it'd require a light jog. "Premium rush" halved the time allowed, and Doyle discouragingly shook his head as he said, "You're really just going to have to haul ass."

Demerits would be awarded automatically if and when a girl was late. Less than sixty seconds past deadline, they'd get one demerit. Between one and two minutes late, two demerits. The number of demerits increased exponentially after that. They could also be awarded demerits for other infractions, for just about anything under the sun. Being out of position, being discourteous - whatever a superior decided felt like a violation of all that being a mailgirl entailed. Demerits would stack up in a running total from now until the day their contracts were up, but every increment of twenty-five would earn them – as Doyle euphemistically put it – a "corrective action" from Mistress Zero.

Three gasped when Doyle pulled up her profile on his phone, to show her what was included. Literally every piece of data she'd just supplied to Will Barrow had already been uploaded from his tablet. Everything. Not just height and weight and measurements, but everything. Anyone with access to the mailgirls app – which was, apparently, everyone at the Plaza – would know that the last time she'd gotten laid was last November, that the last time she'd touched herself was last week.

Three blushed from head to toe.

For now, the profile picture was empty. But Doyle promised them both that Barrow had a cameraman coming in a little while, after they'd paid a visit with Miss Henriksen.

Miss Henriksen, it turned out, was a representative of Maiden Lane Spa & Salon, brought in to get the girls ready for their big reveal. As Three answered each of Barrow's questions, and as she did her best to pay attention to Doyle, she couldn't help but be distracted by the yelps of pain from the far end of the locker room. Five and Six went first. One and Two next. Three and Four visited Miss Henriksen's station last; Three wondered if it might have been better not to know what was coming.

The "massage table" Doyle had carried in on Miss Henriksen's behalf had been set up down towards lockers reserved for Mailgirls Nineteen, Twenty, Twenty-One, and so on. As Four stood a few feet away, watching and cringing, Three was directed to climb up on the table and open her legs. Her head was towards the back of locker room, her legs wide open and spread in the direction of the mirrors.

This wasn't Three's first Brazilian wax, though it had been a while. Most of Miss Henriksen's procedure was routine and professional, even if "routine and professional" in this instance meant that her hands were literally all over Three's crotch. Miss Henriksen tugged and pulled and ripped, and Three barked out in pain when one particular strip was removed.

Somewhere, on the other side of the mirror, Three thought she heard laughter. Just her imagination, she told herself.

Miss Henriksen flipped Three onto her hands-and-knees ("Elbows-and-Knees," actually) to address the girl's rear end. Unorthodox, maybe, but not unheard of. Wax applied and removed, she warned Three about what was coming next.

Never in her right mind would Amanda Dobson have considered bleaching her anus. Mailgirl Number Three, on the other hand, had no say in the matter. As if to pile injury upon insult, the fact that Three would be trotted through the building that very afternoon forced Miss Henriksen to use a move aggressive topical solution than the girls would be allowed when it came to regular upkeep down the road. As the other woman's index and middle fingers traced the outline of Three's asshole, the cream felt warm. The burning started a moment later.

"It will pass," Three was told. It'd burn something awful for the next twenty-to-thirty minutes. But though she'd likely feel it for the next twelve hours or so, she was assured the worst of it be over soon. As she stood off to one side and watched as Miss Henriksen run through the same routine on Mailgirl Number Four, Three fought the overwhelming urge to rub her butthole and find some sort of relief.

As Doyle had promised, Barrow's photographer arrived shortly thereafter. One through Six, one after the other, the girls were asked to climb atop Mistress Zero's desk and get to their knees. The photographer – in his early 50's, Three guessed – had set up a backdrop behind them, and he proceeded to snap shot after shot after shot as each girl took her turn. Unlike the professionalism of Miss Henriksen, or the matter-of-fact delivery of Matt Doyle, he seemed to be having the time of his life, with a lecherous grin stretched from ear to ear.

"Play with your nipples a little first," he told Two, when it was her turn.

"What?" Two replied, horrified.

"Play with your nipples a little," the photographer repeated, as businesslike as he might have told her to smile. Gesturing towards One, he explained, "Get them hard, like the last girl."

One hadn't had to touch hers – they'd already been standing at attention. Three, too, wouldn't have to do anything, as her own nipples were rock hard from some combination of fear, excitement, and the temperature of the locker room.

Two hesitated, looking to the other girls, and then Mistress Zero – as if someone were going to jump in and come to her rescue. No rescue came. The girl begrudgingly did as she was told, blushing all over.

When it was Three's turn, the photographer let out a low, soft whistle of appreciation. It brought with it intense shame, as Three realized that her first reaction had been one of pride.

"Right at the camera," Three was instructed. "Smile." He snapped away. "Now purse your lips. Blow me a kiss." Like Two before her, Three obeyed.

Not only would these pictures be visible on their profile pages, the girls were told, but they'd also grace their new employee IDs. The smartphones themselves would replace their badges in the building, and automatically unlock any door anywhere in the building – even those they hadn't had access to in their prior roles. But they'd still need their IDs to get into the building and past the security desk in the morning – IDs that would now be graced with full-body nude shots and their mailroom numbers.

"How's this?" the photographer asked, taking a step closer, and showing the display to Three. She felt the warmth of his breath upon her bare skin.

Three was startled by the girl staring back at her. Tits out and bare pussy prominently on display. A number three scrawled across her right hip, a dog collar around her neck, and a black lycra armband around her left bicep. It was the smile on her face that unnerved her most; none of the embarrassment or mortification she felt came through. Instead, Mailgirl Number Three sported a knowing, bemused smile, as if she were well aware of all the dirty, sexual things the viewer was thinking about her, and was somehow enjoying it. It was not the smile of a young professional. It was the smile of a porn star.

"Oh my god," Three choked.

"Right?" the photographer grinned, turning the camera and taking another lecherous look of his own.

When it was her turn, Four was told to open her legs more. Five was asked to put her hair up, to keep it from covering her chest. Six was greeted with a chuckle, and a comment about the size of her massive breasts.

It was mid-afternoon by the time the six naked mailgirls were back on their knees in front of their lockers. Doyle, Miss Henriksen, and the photographer had all departed soon enough after their respective tasks had been completed. Barrow lingered long enough to witness Mistress Zero introduce the girls to their leashes, and watched - smirking – as they were chained into place against the wall. But, ultimately, he excused himself and headed back up to the 18th Floor.

He missed the show that followed.

"Ene mene miste," Mistress Zero hummed to herself, as she went girl to girl to girl. "Es rappelt in der kiste..."

Eeny meeny miney mo.

"Ene mene mu. Und dran bist Du." The German woman stopped at Mailgirl Number Two. Three doubted it was as coincidental as the rhyme attempted to make them believe.

"It is important that you understand there are consequences for too many demerits. There are consequences for misbehavior. There are consequences for disobedience." She used the key secured around her wrist to free Two from her leash. "Number Two has been chosen – at random - to demonstrate what awaits you if you fail to perform at the standards expected of you." Number Two rose to her feet aas Mistress Zero tugged her collar upwards and towards the doors.

There was a thin smile on Mistress Zero's lips. She was enjoying this, and was looking forward to what was to come. She released the girl's collar, but then patted her on the ass, and gently pushed her ahead. "To the bench," she instructed.

"No," Three said softly to herself. Not today. Not without reason. Not without provocation. Not without a single demerit earned. Three had every intention of meeting every delivery deadline, of completing every task, or smiling as she did so – anything to avoid the "punishments" laid out in her contract.

Two walked slowly and nervously towards the "bench" on the right of the double doors leading into and out of the mailgirls locker room. She glanced back over her shoulder at the other girls, eyes wide and full of fear.

"Twenty-five demerits," Mistress Zero carried on, heels clicking behind Number Two, "and you will be paying a visit to my bench. Twenty-five demerits, and you will have earned my attention." To Two, she instructed, "Lie over the bench. Legs apart."

As Two complied, Mistress Zero walked to her desk, opened one of the lower drawers, and retrieved something from within. Three watched as her new supervisor approached her new colleague with a spanking paddle in hand.

Two had taken up position over the bench as instructed, but she risked a look behind her, saw what was coming, and decided she'd had enough.

"No!" she yelled. "No! No. No. No. No, no, no." She spun around, held up her hands in self-defense, and announced she was through. "Too far."

"Too far," she repeated – though this time she was talking to the five other naked girls trembling at their lockers. "This is too far. I can't do this. I can't!"

She stepped sideways, giving Mistress Zero wide berth. As if Mistress Zero was about to attack her with the paddle whether Two submitted or not.

"I'm not doing this," Two cried. "I'm going back to conference room and getting my things. I'm going home."

If Mistress Zero was upset, she didn't let it show. She was cool, calm, and collected. Cold, even, as she warned the girl, "You understand what this means."

"Screw it," the girl spat back. "Screw this whole twisted thing, and this whole twisted company. Nothing is worth this. Not the West Coast. Not the money. Not even the awful shit you all promised to do to me if I said no."

Mistress Zero gestured towards the door.

The girl ripped off her armband, and tossed it – smartphone still inside – at the German woman's feet. She tugged defiantly, but pointlessly, at her collar. Realizing the futility of it, she gave up, and backed towards the door. If she had to go home wearing the collar, she'd do it; anything to get free of this room.

"I was willing to do this," she insisted. "I mean – what's wrong with me? Sure. But I was willing to do this. I was willing to take off my clothes and run around the building for you all to laugh at. To demean myself. But this is too far. This is too much. I'm not going to let you spank me!"

Mistress Zero said nothing. She just waited for Two to finish.

Two wasn't done, however. To the five other girls watching the scene unfold, she warned, "Don't let them do this. Anything is better than this. Whatever they threatened you with, it's not this. It's not this. It's not as bad as this. Whatever they promised you, it's not worth subjecting yourself to this."

She ran her hands through her hair. Tears had begun streaming down her cheeks. She did her best to compose herself.

"I'm going to get my things," she told Mistress Barrow. "And I'm going to sue."

Mailgirl Number One sighed, resignedly. "She signed the contract," she said softly and to no one in particular. "Even if it was under duress. They'll fight her tooth-and-nail. Even if they end up losing, they'll bankrupt her with legal fees."

"To serve as a warning to the rest of us," Three whispered in agreement.

Two was already through the first set of doors. She called back, "And tell your sadistic prick of a boss than I want my goddamn underwear back."

As the girl stepped through the second set of doors, a roar erupted from the elevator lobby on the other side. Two was apparently greeted by a large and raucous crowd.

As the din died down, Mistress Zero returned to the five remaining mailgirls still chained to their lockers. Still holding her paddle menacingly in her grip, she looked them all over, daring any of them to speak up. "Would anyone else care to leave?"

Two had been right, of course. Nothing was worth this. No portfolio manager's job was worth this. No amount of money was worth this. No promise of advancement or gratitude on the part of USF. Even having to start over, in some other job and some other industry, crippled by debt she'd never escape – even avoiding that fate wasn't forth enduring this one.

And yet all five girls stayed put. None of them was going to follow behind Mailgirl Number Two.

It was momentum. Three had come this far. To Mistress Zero's earlier point, she'd already made up her mind. She'd signed the contract. She'd taken off her clothes in front of Charlie and Hoblitzel. And walked naked through the 26th Floor - in front of Pags and Ezra and Uehara, and Leslie and Martyna, and Mark Stansbury and George Strunk, and goddamn Parker Wertz. She'd let them put a dog collar on her, made her choke down dog food for lunch, and harnessed her with a dog's leash here and now. They'd torn out all her pubic hair at the root, and bleached her asshole (which still stung, by the way). They'd snapped pictures of her in the altogether, which would soon enough grace a profile viewable by anyone with a USF account. Having her rear end paddled was, of course, not something that she was looking forward to. But it was also an arbitrary line in the sand; why was it this that was finally the bridge too far?

"Ene mene miste," Mistress Zero began again when none of them stirred. She pointed the paddle at each of them as she progressed through the rhyme. "Es rappelt in der Kiste..."

Three didn't have to hear the rest. She knew she'd be the one fated for the bench. She was resigned to it.

If she'd been forced to confess her deepest, darkest sexual fantasies, Three wasn't sure getting spanked would have made her list. It wouldn't even have occurred to her. Stripper? Sure. What girl didn't fantasize about being a stripper every now and then? Being with another girl? Of course. Having a partner talk dirty to her, maybe? Hell, maybe even playing the part of a submissive, and having someone dominate her and use her as a sexual plaything might have been on there, and might well have explained why she'd volunteered to become a mailgirl in the first place.

At the first strike of Mistress Zero's paddle, Three knew she was in trouble.

"Count," Mistress Zero instructed.

"Yes, mistress," Three answered. "One."

It hurt more than she had expected, and she had expected it to hurt. She was bent over the spanking bench to the right of the locker room's front entrance, ass in the air and eyes on the floor. Mistress Zero was behind her, and to her left. The German woman swung again.

Three yipped when the paddle kissed her bottom. "Two," she grunted out. Again. "Three."

As she had before, Three swore she could hear laughs and cheers from the elevator lobby on the other side of the wall. Almost as if the windows of the old gym were still up. Almost as if there was an audience out there watching her get spanked.

"Four."

What would be Three's arbitrary line in the sand? What would be the point she'd follow Two out the door? If she were willing to put up with this, then...

"Five."

...then what would she say "no" to?

"Six."

In a day filled with new humiliations and new personal lows, being spanked still stood out as something else entirely. She felt beaten – mentally and physically, both. Degraded. Broken. Humiliated. She wasn't sure if there was a line anymore.

"Seven."

And then something else began to creep up on her.

"Eight."

She felt naughty. Whorish. Slutty. A sexual object who now served at the whim of USF. At the whim of Mistress Zero. At the whim of Will Barrow.

"Nine."

This was turning her on. This was making her wet. This was exciting her sexually.

"Ten."

In that moment, Three hated herself in a way she'd never hated herself before.

Three may have physically returned to her locker when it was all through, but her mind lingered at that spanking bench for much longer, unable to escape its pull or the place to which it had brought her. She got a few looks of sympathy from the other girls, but she was so distant and shell-shocked that they hardly registered. She obediently got back down on her knees between One and Four, and let Mistress Zero re-attach her leash and pat her on the head without reaction. Her behind stung as she sat back on her heels, and she was sure it was glowing a radioactive shade of red – but the real pain was deeper, and more piercing than anything her mistress could have delivered with a paddle alone.
Not for the first time, Three wondered just how broken she was. She had had ten sexual partners over the course of her life, sure. But she could count the number of honest-to-god boyfriends on one hand. Three fingers. Four, tops, depending on how she categorized whatever it had been with Greg Burke up in Hanover.

That Greg had been married clouded things some. They'd met at Tuck. And though Greg was wearing a wedding ring, Three had fallen into bed with him all the same. His wife was half a continent away, and the pair was doing the "long distance thing" while he got his MBA; he was in New Hampshire, and she stayed behind in Houston. Greg had initiated, but Three hadn't protested or said no, hadn't raised any objections over the fact that she was sleeping with a married man. Greg had a magnetism to him, to which Three had been inexplicably drawn, and she'd found herself more than a little excited about the scandalous nature of their affair, the secretive way they'd had to sneak around even just their fellow classmates, and the immoral nature of it all.

Greg had never given any indication that he'd ever consider leaving his wife for her, and Three had been entirely okay with that. He used her – sexually, physically. But she used him, too. Sexually, physically. The difference was that Greg had always seemed to know what he wanted, and never hesitated in taking it. He'd been rough with her in a way that other partners had never been before. Not abusive – Greg had never spanked her, for instance – but certainly not as tentative or as delicate as she'd experienced with prior lovers. He'd pull her into place and manhandle her as he saw fit, for the purposes of getting his own rocks off. He'd pull her hair, from time-to-time, if they were in doggy-style, or if she were going down on him. He'd grab a handful of ass, and squeeze so tight Three had been afraid of bruising. He'd fondle and tweak her nipples so roughly that Three might yip or yelp out in protest.

She'd gobbled up every bit of it.

Greg had never concerned himself over whether or not she came – that wasn't what their relationship was. But, paradoxically, Three had climaxed more frequently and more consistently than she had with any other partner, before or since.

Why were good girls drawn to bad boys? Leaving aside, momentarily, as to whether Three was, in fact, a "good" girl - it was an age-old question that Three could only speculate upon as an armchair psychologist. She'd attended worship each and every Sunday growing up back in Kawishiwi, Minnesota, where her father had served as a Deacon, her brothers had all played for the church basketball team, and her mother had run every bake sale, raffle, and get-together on the church calendar. On the one hand, she could frame her behavior – the one-night-stands, the affair with the married man, the descent into becoming naked mailgirl – as a reaction to and rejection of that upbringing. She had the same sexual needs as any girl, but exploring those needs required her to go outside the abstinence-and-denial teachings she'd been forced to swallow every Sunday.

There was some truth to all that, but Three had come to view her affair with Greg Burke as something more complicated. It wasn't so much a rejection of her parents, as much as it was a replication of the relationship they'd shared, a replication of the relationship Three had had with her father. Not sexually, of course – she wasn't that broken, and her story was not going in that direction. But Roger Dobson was a dominant and domineering father figure. Caring, in his way. But Three had grown up in a household with rules and responsibilities and repercussions, overseen by a dictatorial figure at the head of the household, a controlling father figure who told her what she was allowed to wear out of the house and how she was supposed to behave with others.

In Greg Burke, Three had found that same powerful, assertive presence.

In Mistress Zero, she wondered if she'd found another, and if she'd become a mailgirl in a twisted, Alice-Through-The-Looking-Glass attempt to re-create her family dynamics at home.

If so, the fact that her pussy was as wet as it was now was only that much more deviant and damaged.

Naughty.

Forbidden.

Immoral.

Whore-ish.

"...prides itself on being innovative, and a leader in the market," Mistress Zero droned on, Mailgirl Number Three only just barely paying her any attention. The German woman was reading them the memo that USF's CEO and Head of HR had sent out jointly earlier in the afternoon. "We understand that this program will elicit strong reactions from many of you, and we look forward to engaging in a spirited dialogue as to its merits here at USF Plaza, as well as the merits of such programs within in the broader context of the American business world. We hope that, over the next four weeks, you will allow us..."

Four weeks. One month. Three wasn't sure she was going to make it through the day, let alone to the end of the pilot.

No, she'd make it through the day. Through the week, the month, and to the end of her two-year contract, if called upon to do so. She might very well be broken and damaged. But she also might very well be broken and damaged in just such a way that she'd never be able to say no to this, broken and damaged in such a way that her new role made sense, scratching an itch she'd never known was there before.

Part of her now understood why there were restrictions on when and where she'd be allowed to touch herself.

Mistress Zero continued on, with Three tuning in and tuning out along the way. She was buoyed by the memo's insistence that this was only a month-long pilot program, and by the strong language it used to warn against any touching of the mailgirls or sexual misconduct with them. Both seemed like wins in a day otherwise characterized only by crushing and humiliating losses. She was less happy about the memo directing employees to the program's guide on the intranet, for a "more complete description" about what sorts of behavior were permissible, and what sorts of behavior were impermissible. The way it had been phrased left Three concerned about how long the former list was, and what was on it.

She'd find out soon enough.

She wasn't focused on tomorrow, or the next day, or the month to come. She wanted only to make it through the day. But, though Mistress Zero continued to press upon them their new place in the company, and run through the do's and don'ts of being a mailgirl here at the Plaza, that day's training drew to a close before four o'clock. Three hours remained before the end of her first shift, and Mistress Zero felt they were all prepared enough for their first ventures out of the locker room. Unleashed, but wearing the smartphones that would track their every movement, the girls were sent forth on their first pick-ups in their new roles.

Mailgirls, generally-speaking worldwide, were mostly forbidden from using elevators. There were some allowances, now and then, based on the size or weight of a delivery, and with the permission of a superior. In all other instances, though, mailgirls were to take the stairs. Such restrictions likely made more sense when they were first enacted among the sprawling, low- to medium-rise corporate offices of the keiretsus in Japan, or even in the suburban campuses of some of the early adopters out on the West Coast. A forty-eight-story skyscraper in Lower Manhattan, though, made such restrictions impractical.

Still, USF had chosen to honor the practice as much as possible. Any delivery within ten floors – up or down – and the girls were to take the stairs. Somewhere, Amanda Dobson was smiling; Mailgirl Number Three was not. Mistress Zero promised them that, as they recruited more mailgirls, Human Capital would do its best to cluster deliveries within that range. For now, however, those distances might be greater, and they might be riding the service elevators more than they should expect to be if the program were picked up after the pilot.

And so, Three ascended up into the Plaza in the service elevator with three other naked mailgirls, with only Mailgirl Number Five not among them. Their first scheduled pick-ups were spread throughout the building; Five was only going up to the 8th Floor, while Three's destination was Legal on the 21st. Mistress Zero had instructed them to fetch the clothes and personal items of the other girls, and bring them back down to the locker room.

Three was conflicted as to whether it was better or worse that she was being sent to get Mailgirl Number One's things on the 21st Floor, rather than her own on the 26th. Was it more embarrassing to been seen naked again by people whom she knew and with whom worked? Or by total strangers? It was moot, she supposed; she didn't have much choice in the matter.

"Oh-my-god-oh-my-god-oh-my-god-oh-my-god..." Mailgirl Number Four chanted from the back of the elevator.

Mailgirl Number One smirked, and shared a look with Three. The brunette was undoubtedly just as nervous as the rest of them, but she had taken on an air of nonchalance and bemusement, feigning a confidence she couldn't possibly feel. Three again told herself that it was probably the best approach, and chose to emulate her.

"Dress, jacket, bra, hose, heels," One instructed her. Three nodded. "Coat and purse, if you have a chance. If they let you into my office."

"It sounded like we were getting everything?" Six said from her corner. Six had been tasked with retrieving Three's items.

"Everything everything?" Four asked, interrupting her stream of oh-my-gods. "Like, cleaning out our desk?"

Three frowned. "I don't think so," she replied, but didn't feel confident in her answer.

"Dress, bra, heels," One said, in her direction. "I can go back and get the rest at the end of the day."

"I don't think you can?" Three half-answered, half-asked. "Not wearing the dress, bra, and heels, at least. If we're at the Plaza, we're supposed to be uniform, even if it's before or after hours."

"Fuck me," One sighed, voicing a sentiment they were all likely feeling. "And how long, do you think, before they decide that means stripping off on the sidewalk out front?"

Mistress Zero had been very clear that they were allowed to, and expected to, come to work each morning dressed as if they were still going to their old jobs. And that they'd be expected to undress and "get into uniform" in the locker room. Three understood that One was joking, though, reducing the already absurd to a place even more so.

"Loading dock would be more likely," Six offered up, joining in.

Three shook her head with a smile. "Parking garage beneath the building."

The elevator began to slow its ascent, and any trace of the briefest moment of mirth died.

"Dress, bra, hose, heels. Coat and purse," One offered up again.

"Dress, bra, hose, heels, coat, purse," Three repeated back. Catching Six's eyes in the reflection of the elevator door, she made a similar list. "Skirt, blouse, jacket, bra, garter belt, and stockings. Shoes. Coat, if you can. Pocket book, if you can. Brief case, if you can."

The elevator chimed its arrival on the 21st Floor, and the elevator doors began to open. Three steeled herself, and stepped out into the unknown.

"Go get 'em," One encouraged her softly, sensing the naked blonde hesitate.

"Gym bag," was all Three offered in return. Turning back to the elevator, she caught Six's eye contact directly this time. "Gym bag."

And with that, the elevator doors slid closed, and Three was now naked in the middle of USF's Legal Department.

Three remembered the time her laptop had stopped working, back when she'd still been at Credit Manhattan. It had taken IT the better part of the morning before someone had shown up to help her, and he'd pled that he'd been wandering around her floor, looking for her desk, for the last forty-five minutes. It had been a lie, one intended to explain away at least some of the technician's tardiness. But it was a lie rooted in some measure of truth; Three's old desk had been nestled deep within a rabbits' warren of other cubicles, each one nearly indistinguishable from the last.

There were no such issues at USF. Every cubicle, every office, and every conference room was clearly emblazoned with a mail code, so that people could find exactly who they were looking for. Find one code – say, 2652, which was Three's office up on the 26th Floor - and you could orient yourself accordingly. It was helpful when IT came looking to install new equipment. It was helpful for the custodial and maintenance staff when there was an overflowing trash barrel or an accident to clean up. And it'd be helpful to the new mail staff USF had just recruited to run deliveries through the building in the nude.

The 21st Floor was laid out similarly to the 26th, with the service elevators dumping Three out in a relatively private hallway by the stairs and the restrooms. She had been instructed to meet Lisa D'Alessandro, one of the company's Associate General Counsels, at mail stop 2106. If Legal were really and truly arranged as Asset Management was, that meant she'd be tucked away, back in northwest corner, on the exterior – where George Strunk sat up on the 26th. She took a few timid steps in that direction, with no one catching sight of her just yet, before the timer on her smartphone began to blink – indicating that she was already running low on time.

Matt Doyle had assured them all that deadlines had been assigned based on assumptions of a brisk walk from Point A to Point B. But he'd also admitted that, at this point, those assumptions were imperfect, and that the girls themselves would help him and his team calibrate the times more accurately. This didn't help in the here-and-now, Three scowled to herself; she was going to pick up demerits on overly ambitious deadlines as the program gathered more data. To make it to mail stop 2106 on time, Three was going to have to pick up the pace.

"This is definitely not how I thought this day was going to go," Three thought to herself, while hurrying down the corridor at a light jog. She was self-conscious about the way her bare breasts bounced with each step, but there wasn't much she could do about it. Her pace was an ally at this moment, just as the restriction against eye contact had been earlier the day up on the 26th Floor. She was now moving quickly enough past the glass-walled offices that their occupants barely had enough time to register the flesh-toned blur that streaked by.

As Three rounded the corner at the end of the corridor, and was dumped out in front of a conference room, she nearly collided with a cluster of USF employees chatting away. Three men, one woman, either lingering in the aftermath of a meeting just convened, or killing time before a meeting was to begin.

One of the men was as startled and surprised as Three was, herself. "Holy shit!" he blurted out.

"It's another one!" said one of the other men. He couldn't help but laugh, partly out of nervousness and embarrassment at being face-to-face with a naked girl in the office. But also partly at Three's expense.

Three wasn't allowed to say "excuse me," or ask them to move – Mistress Zero had been very clear on that point. The girls were expected to give way to everyone else in the building, even if that meant clinging to the wall and sliding past, or finding an alternative route. In this case, Three knew if she went back to the left, and towards the far wall, she could simply run a parallel path on the other side of the cubicles.

Turning back, however, meant turning her back to the small group. As she did so, she heard the woman cackle, and point out the fact that Three's ass was still red. "She's the one that got spanked!"

Three blushed, her whole body turning the same shade of red. She supposed the lingering evidence of the attention Mistress Zero had paid her backside gave away that she'd been spanked. But she was confused as to how the woman knew she was the only one. Were rumors already circulating through the building? Were their cameras in the locker room she didn't know about?

"Oh, my god. Does that mean they're going to spank Laurie, too?"

Mailgirl Number One's name was Laurie, Three surmised.

"At some point," the woman answered, and laughed once more.

"That," said one of the men, as Three rounded the corner and moved away from them, "I want to watch."

Three's smartphone began to blink red as she hurried towards Lisa D'Alessandro's office. She was close enough that she could actually see her destination when the smartphone vibrated and signaled she'd missed the deadline. Three had picked up a demerit on her very first pick-up.

Three knocked lightly on the wooden door when she arrived, and was beckoned in. She was greeted by a good-looking woman in her mid-forties behind a desk. As well as a shorter, rounder man in glasses seated in a chair in front.

"You're late," was the first thing Lisa D'Alessandro said to Three.

"I'm sorry," Three stammered, caught off guard by being spoken to so sternly. Catching herself, she added, "I'm sorry, ma'am."

Lisa looked up at her expectantly. She wanted the whole thing.

Three didn't want to do it. She couldn't quite bring herself to say it. "I'm sorry, ma'am. It won't happen again, ma'am."

Not what Lisa wanted to hear. She picked up her smartphone and made a few quick taps. A second later, the smartphone on Three's arm buzzed twice.

"That's two," Lisa told her coldly. "One for being late. The other..."

Three took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, ma'am," she began through clenched teeth. "I'm sorry that this worthless mailgirl was too slow and too lazy to get here on time."

"No fucking way," the man remarked. "She's got to say that? Just like that?"

"Some variation of it," Lisa answered. "Something in that general spirit and tone."

"There is no way Laurie is standing here and saying that."

Laurie smiled, and nodded. "She will. She will or it's..."

Three's smartphone buzzed again, with another demerit. Three wasn't sure what she'd done this time, but she was already on pace for a return visit to Mistress Zero's spanking bench before day's end.

"You're supposed to be in your 'Ready' position. 'Feet'? Correct?"

Three cursed herself, and did as she was told. "Yes, ma'am," she replied, putting her arms behind her back and spreading her legs.

"Good girl," Lisa purred.

The rotund little man just sat and stared at her with his mouth agape. Three did her best to ignore his attention.

Lisa seemed to think that her male colleague's reaction was amusing, and she seemed to enjoy the discomfort she was inflicting upon the naked blonde.

Three was here for Mailgirl Number One's things, which Lisa knew full well. The Associate General Counsel gestured to an open cardboard box by the door, and informed the naked delivery girl that Laurie's things from today were all there. Her coat and purse had been retrieved from her office earlier that afternoon, and Lisa coldly asked Three to relay to One that she needed to come clear out the rest of her office by end-of-day tomorrow. Three wondered to herself when or how One was going to do so – after hours tonight or before her shift tomorrow, she supposed. She wondered if Six was being told to relay the same message to Three. None of that was Lisa D'Alessandro's concern, so Three didn't bother with working through the logistics at that moment.

The pick-up, though, turned out to be less about One's things, and more about Lisa playing with the mailgirls app, as well as the mailgirl herself who just happened to be there in front of her. After announcing that she had chits to spend, and confirming just how long each chit would buy her, Lisa made Mailgirl Number Three put on a show.
"Ankles," she ordered, and Three – groaning on the inside – complied.

"No, no," Lisa tisk-tisked. "Turn around. Maybe over by the door? Give Jim the full show."

"It's fine," Jim stammered. "I'm fine. I don't need her to –" He stopped short as Three got into position. "Wow."

She left her body. Mailgirl Number Three did as she was told, on auto-pilot, while Amanda Dobson floated away to somewhere else. Anywhere else. There was no more blushing, no more tears, no more embarrassment. Lisa told her to get all fours, Mailgirl Number Three got all fours. Lisa told her to get into her "inspection position," up on her toes, and Mailgirl Number Three got up on her toes. There was simply no fight left in her.

"Jesus, Jesus, Jesus..." Jim exhaled as Three got into "Shoulders-and-Toes" on the floor of Lisa's office. She was on her back, knees bent, and legs spread, but her ass was off the ground and she was up on her toes – thrusting her pussy sexually up and into the room. "Bridge Pose" – sort of – as Three had thought of it in yoga terms. It wasn't a position that Mistress Zero had spent much time on, but she'd touched upon it, all the same. Lisa, though, was glancing back and forth between her phone and the girl, running through position after position after position after position.

Three could hear the change in the man's breathing, and a quick glance in his direction told her that he was beginning to sweat. He was getting turned on by all this, and undoubtedly had an erection straining against the confines of his pants.

Three was in no position to judge.

She was aroused. She couldn't help herself. She couldn't control herself. She couldn't stop it. All she could do was hope that neither Lisa nor Jim noticed. Or, even if they noticed, that neither would call her out on it. She was sure she'd die of shame if she were forced to confess to it.

This wasn't sexual to Lisa. At least, Three didn't think that this was sexual to Lisa. This was something more akin to sadism, a casual sort of cruelty towards Three to show off her control, to put Three in her place, and to see if Three would actually do everything that the mailgirls app promised she would. She likely knew the effect that this was having on Jim. Whether or not she knew the effect that this was having on Three was unclear.

"What a little slut!" Lisa laughed again, as Three strained to hold herself in Shoulder-and-Toes.

"Lisa," Jim chided the woman, cautioning her over her language.

Thank you, Jim.

"She doesn't mind," Lisa responded. "She doesn't get to mind. This is what she signed up for."

"Still..."

"Why do you think she's doing this? Why do you think Laurie's doing this?"

"Because I'm being blackmailed!" Three screamed internally.

Jim shrugged. "Money?"

"Money?" Lisa mocked him. "Tell me. How much money would you need to take off your clothes at work and wave your dick around like this in front of people?"

"Me?"

The question was rhetorical, and so Lisa didn't wait for an answer. "Laurie's getting money. Laurie's not getting the money that you or I would need."

"How much money would you need?" Jim teased, turning the question back on Lisa.

"For this?" Lisa responded, gesturing to Three. As an aside, she told the girl, "You can stand. Feet." Back to Jim, she answered, "There's not enough in this world. And I suspect that any normal person with any measure of self-respect would say the same."

Three crawled back to her feet, feeling as low as she had all day. Feeling as if Lisa had just slapped her. Feeling as owned and as degraded as she had eating out of a dog dish, or stripping in front of her bosses, or having her ass checks spread and bleached. She had assured Pags she was doing this for the money. Lisa D'Alessandro was calling bullshit on that explanation, and Lisa wouldn't be the only one to reach that conclusion. Three was doing this because, deep down, she was little more than a wanton slut.

Lisa must have been aware of the pressure and coercion involved; after all, she'd undoubtedly been a part of the conversation with Mailgirl Number One, just as Charlie and Hoblitzel had been involved in the conversation with Three. But neither the promises nor the threats seemed to matter to her; rather, she was reducing a mailgirl's motivation down to the simple, base need of being a depraved and degenerate whore.

She was dismissed shortly thereafter, with Lisa's assessment stinging more than any of the blows she'd suffered from Mistress Zero's paddle. She carried One's box back through the 21st Floor, snaking her way between offices, desks, and cubicles, and lost in her own head as the people she passed gawked, jeered, and laughed at her. She was shaken by Lisa's judgment, and by the expectation that this was what others would think of her. But she was also shaken by just how true it all might have been.

The service elevator arrived. Three got on board. She hesitated – just for a moment – and pressed the button for the 2nd Floor.

Dress. Bra. Hose. Heels. Coat. All of those things, plus One's purse, were right there, in her hands. Why couldn't she get off on the 3rd Floor, or in the garage, and just simply go home? Why shouldn't she follow Mailgirl Number Two's advice, and walk out? Two had left in the nude, but Three had clothes here now, with her. They weren't hers, but they'd do. She could go back to her apartment, leave USF behind, and wait for the hammer to fall. Maybe she'd never be a portfolio manager. Maybe she'd never work in High Finance again. And maybe it'd take her ten or twenty years to crawl out of the debt Will Barrow had threatened her with.

Anything had to be better than this.

Anything had to be better than subjecting herself to this humiliation.

Anything had to be better than letting herself become the naked plaything of strangers and former colleagues here in the building.

So why did Three ride the elevator all the way back to the 2nd Floor? Why did she remain stark naked, despite having One's clothes literally in her grasp? Why did she step back into the locker room, knowing full well that further torture was waiting for her?

Maybe she was just a slut.

There was no denying that she was getting aroused by all of this – the exhibition, the spanking, the submission in Lisa D'Alessandro's office. However her conscious mind reacted to it all, her body reacted differently, her pussy confessing – in its way – to some heretofore-unknown fetish.

Mistress Zero was waiting for her on the other end of the short passageway from the service elevators, leaning up against the edge of desk with her arms crossed. "Four demerits on your very first delivery?" she scolded the girl. "How hard is it to follow simple instructions?"

Three cringed. "I'm sorry, mistress. This mailgirl was too slow and too lazy to get there on time. This mailgirl was too stupid to follow simple instructions."

The German woman scowled. She was still unhappy, but at least Three had chanted out a pathetic-enough apology, following the script she had drilled into them all earlier. She sighed, overselling her exasperation with the sorry mailgirl routine, and directed the girl to the end of locker room. "Go put those away in Number One's locker. Then wait at your own until you get your next summons." She glanced down at the tablet on her desk. "They're starting to pick up. It shouldn't be long."

"Yes, mistress," Three replied.

Mailgirl Number One – Laurie, Three had learned – was at her locker, was on her knees, and was waiting obediently for her own next summons. As Three approached with the box, the brunette looked up, and greeted her with an anxious look.

"Dress, bra, hose, heels, coat, and purse," Three assured her.

One looked relieved, as if she had partially been expecting to commute home in the nude that evening. Having had a moment's temptation to steal the girl's clothes and flee the building, Three supposed One's concern might not have been entirely unfounded. Glancing into her own locker, she saw that Six had similarly resisted the temptation with Three's things.

Three's jacket, skirt, and blouse were all folded neatly atop one another, just as she'd left them up on the 26th Floor. But her bra, garter, and stockings were now on top, out in the open, per Mistress Zero's nitpicky rules about apparel stacking. Her heels were in the cubby underneath. Six, though, had apparently been unable to get her coat. Or her pocket book. Or her brief case. Or her gym bag. It meant that Three would have to return to the 26th Floor after her shift was over, still fully "in uniform," and gather up the rest of her things before she headed home. Given the hours everyone worked in Asset Management, half of her fellow Research Analysts would undoubtedly still be there. Though maybe not Pags, as it had sounded like he had a date with Rachel.

"How'd it go with the Dragon Lady?" One asked, taking the box from Three. Three wasn't sure if she was supposed to be putting away One's things, as Six had done for her. But she let the other girl take the box all the same, and stepped back towards her own locker.

The look that Three shot One told One all she needed to know about how it had gone with Lisa D'Alessandro.

"I'm sorry," One offered, but with the hint of a smile. She wasn't laughing at Three, as Lisa herself had been. She was laughing because she apparently knew just how awful Lisa could be. "She's the worst boss I've ever had."

Three didn't say it aloud, but she cocked and eyebrow and made a head-nod towards Mistress Zero's desk.

"We'll see," One smirked.

One's smartphone pinged first, and Three was left alone in the locker room with Mistress Zero for what felt like an eternity – but was likely no more than five or six minutes, tops. Her own smartphone signaled a job, and Three was up off her knees and out to the service elevators without even bothering to glance down at her smartphone first. If she were headed down to the actual mailroom, or up anywhere to the 12th Floor, she'd just take the stairs. But when she did finally look down at her arm, she saw that she was being called all the way up to the 45th Floor. She tried to remember on what floor the Executive Offices started. Was it 45? 46? She knew the Executive Dining Room was on the 44th; she'd been treated to that luxury just once, by Joe Hoblitzel himself, back in February.

It didn't matter. Whether she was headed to the CEO's office or someone else's, she was determined to make it there by her deadline.

So long the elevators cooperated.

She waited. And waited. And waited. Every second that ticked by was excruciating, and Three even went so far as to begin wondering if she should just start up the forty-three flights of stairs. Her car arrived before she could anything quite so stupid, and Three stepped in, punched the button for the 45th Floor, jabbed repeatedly as the "close" button for the doors, and began her ascent.

The 45th Floor, as it turned out, was not one the executive floors. Instead, it was made up of a hodge-podge of different departments – among them Government Relations, Three's destination. "Mark Lonergan," her smartphone displayed. "Mail Stop 4514D." Beneath those instructions, the countdown to Three's deadline. It was again going to be tight.

Heads turned. People stood up for a better view. Laughter. As Three dashed to her pick-up, these things faded to the background. She made eye contact with no one. She acknowledged no one. She responded to not a single shout or shitty comment. She was focused only on getting to Mark Lonergan's cubicle before her time ran out.

Three was in the single digits, but still on the right side of the deadline, when she arrived. She was greeted by a baby-faced twenty-something in an expensive suit. He seemed shocked to see her, standing there naked from tits to toes, despite the fact that he'd called for her.

"I can't believe that this is real!" Mark Lonergan exclaimed, sizing her up. He drank her in, his eyes lingering upon her crotch, her hips, and her breasts, before finally rising to her face. Instinctively, he apologized, knowing he'd just been caught staring.

"You're not supposed to apologize mailgirls, sir," Three replied. Another one of the rules and restrictions Mistress Zero had drilled into them over the course of the afternoon.

"Oh, okay," Lonergan, caught off-guard. "Sorry."

Three rolled her eyes.

"You sent for a pick-up, sir?"

Lonergan's eyes had begun to wander once more, but the mention of what the naked blonde was doing in his office snapped him back to attention. "Right, right, right," he began. "Sorry. Right! I'm not sorry."

He shrugged. "Sorry. I'm just having a hard time wrapping my head around how this could be real."

"Me, too," Three offered. "Sir."

"I mean, you like...work here, right? I mean, 'work here,' work here, right? Like, you're not just like a stripper we hired?"

Three winced.

"Sorry," he apologized again. "Fuck! I'm sorry I keep apologizing. This is just so weird."

Three nodded. It had been a weird day for her, too. "As of this morning, sir, I work for the mailroom," she answered. It struck her as odd, perhaps, that her orientation with Mistress Zero hadn't included a trip down to B-2, to the actual mailroom. It spoke volumes as to what this job was really about.

"Right, I know. But before...?"

"Asset Management. I'm a –" she began, but stopped herself. "I was a Research Analyst in the Tech and Internet space." She wasn't used to referring to her job in the past tense.

"Wow," Lonergan offered, shaking his head. "If you don't mind me saying it – and I'm sure you're smart and hardworking and really good at what you do and all that – but I think you may have been wasting your real talents. I mean..." He whistled. "...you're like a model. Just so, so freaking hot."

He meant it as a compliment, but of course Three felt embarrassed about it all the same. This little boy, up on the 45th Floor, was commenting on how sexually attractive he found her naked body.

Still, a compliment was a compliment. Given the world she was now living in, she supposed that she should at least be grateful that people found her attractive.

"Thank you, sir," the girl replied.

"Were you...were you...shaved...you know, down there...before?"

Three gritted her teeth. Just give me the fucking package or message you want me to deliver, she screamed to herself. "No, sir," she instead responded. "That was done this afternoon."

"Oh, okay," he said. "No, sorry, I was just...I guess...I don't know. Curious, I guess?"

Lonergan glanced nervously back towards his computer. "I honestly didn't think that was real. April Fools, you know? But...uh...I've got a message. I could send it over email, though. Right? Or, am I supposed to have you send it? How does this work?"

"What are you trying to do? Who are you sending it to?" A part of Three wished she were back in Lisa D'Alessandro's office. At least there, she had been able to shut down and follow orders, and not have to engage in this back-and-forth.

"Do you follow politics at all?" His eyes were on her tits again. "Maybe not...?"

Because she was strutting around USF with her clothes off, she couldn't possibly be smart enough to follow politics. That was Lonergan's unspoken slight. "Some," she answered.

"Have you been following the Don Pickering thing at all? Illinois 6?"

Three shook her head. Had she just proven him right?

"The Congressman," he explained. "The one that had the cardiac thing a few weeks ago?"

"Okay. Yeah?"

"So, his seat? I heard from someone down in Springfield that the Governor's thinking about his daughter for the interim."

"The Governor's daughter?"

"No, no. Pickering's daughter. She's some sort of real estate lawyer in Chicago."

"Okay...?"

"Okay, well...Pickering used to sit on the House Financial Institutions and Consumer Credit Committee, which has implications for..." Lonergan trailed off, once again distracted by the naked blonde.

"...for USF?" Three finished his thought, after a short and awkward pause.

"For USF, right," he said dreamily, paying the conversation little attention. His eyes were back to her crotch.

Three did her best to hurry this along, wanting to escape his stares. "And you want to tell someone about Don Pickering's daughter?"

"What? About? Oh, right. Right. Sorry. I'm sorry! Yes. Yes. I guess I just want to tell my boss. And that's something I can use you for?"

"Yes, sir."

"How do I...?"

Three took a deep breath, and stepped further into Lonergan's cubicle. Feeling self-conscious as she did so, and painfully aware of how close her bare breasts hung down in front of this man-boy's face, she walked him through drafting a quick memo on his computer, transferring it through the app to her smartphone, setting a destination, and agreeing to the deadline provided. She skipped over the "rush" and "premium rush" options for now; no need to flirt with the possibility of more demerits if she didn't have to.

Lonergan was a cute, in a boyish sort of way. She probably had five or six years on him – he couldn't have been any older than twenty-four, and couldn't have worked for USF for much longer than had Three, herself. As she hovered over him and walked him through the app, she felt his warm breath upon her naked skin, and an inadvertent shiver shot up her spine. She was so unbelievably naked. She was in such close, intimate proximity. She couldn't help but be affected by it.

"Thank you," Lonergan said finally, as he pressed "submit" and the timer on Three's arm sprung to life. His eyes never strayed from Three's breasts. Her nipples were standing straight out, at attention.

"You're not supposed to thank mailgirls, sir," Three chided him gently.

"Really?"

"Really."

"Sorry. Fuck. Right, sorry. I can't help it. It's just...I don't know...I can't help it. Being polite."

"You don't need to be polite," Three answered. "This is what I'm here for. And they want us in our place."

"'They?'"

"The company. Human Capital. My boss." Three turned, and started swiftly in the direction of Lonergan's boss. She had less than thirty seconds to make this delivery.

"Really?" he said, standing. Even with her back to him, Three could feel his eyes. "That's harsh."

"They" didn't want the girls on the receiving end of "please" or "thank you" or "I'm sorry." The exposure, the collars, the leashes, the spankings, the dog dishes, and so on – it was all done to objectify them, and turn them into something less than human. Common courtesy posed a danger of undercutting that message.

Lonergan's boss, as it turned out, was quick to get Three in and out of his office. And, in contrast to Lonergan, he kept his eyes from roaming up and down Three's body, completely avoiding looking in her direction. If anything, it was might have been more awkward – she was standing naked in front him, completely exposed, and he refused to acknowledge it. Three found herself hoping for a quick glance, or a comment, or something else along those lines. She was oddly disconcerted when she was dismissed without any such lascivious behavior.

If it was attention she was looking for, she received it in spades over the next couple of hours. She was down to the 43rd Floor, up to the 47th, down to the 40th, down to the 34th, up to the 37th, down to 35th, down to the 29th, and so on – ascending and descending and ascending and descending the stairs nearly every time. The pick-ups were similar in nature to what she'd experienced with Mark Lonergan: curiosity more than actual need. When she got to one of the desks on the 24th Floor, she was greeted by a group of traders who'd apparently summoned Mailgirls One and Five earlier, and who'd go on to summon Four and Six; they wanted to see each and every one of them before the day was through. She was given empty interoffice envelopes, and had her smartphone loaded with made-up and inconsequential messages, done to justify calling one of USF's new mailgirls and getting a look at one in the flesh.
On the whole, people were polite and respectful. So polite and respectful, in fact, that Three was forced to tell them again and again to tone it down. She was complimented on her body more times than she could count. Usually it was general and all-encompassing, with Three being told that she looked "great," or that she was "hot," or that her body was "amazing." Occasionally, it would veer uncomfortably into specifics, with her breasts and her ass receiving the bulk of the compliments. Embarrassing, to be sure, but benign and well-intentioned for the most part.

Three endured her fair share of abuse, though, too. If two-thirds of her pick-ups that afternoon were about nothing more than curiosity, the others were about expressing outrage at the company and heaping derision upon Three, specifically, for whoring herself out to the mailroom. Women, mostly. One particular female executive spent Three's time in her presence screeching at her for being a tramp and a prostitute, and asking how someone with such "fat thighs" could be selected as a mailgirl. Three began dreading interacting with women, preferring the predictability of the leers and the lust she experienced from the men.

Three's first trip to the 18th Floor happened a little before six. She'd been called up to Direct Private Investing by a furious female AVP, and had a four-page resignation letter shoved angrily into her hands. The letter was addressed to Human Capital, and not Human Resources, and went on and on and on about how vile and despicable the whole department was for launching something as loathsome as the mailgirl program. Three read the letter in the elevator, and smiled to herself; hopefully, this was the first of many such letters, and would help nip the program in the bud. She could have done without the paragraph comparing the mailgirls to streetwalkers and call girls, but Three nonetheless appreciated the overarching sentiment of the letter.

Three had been with USF for nine months, since finishing business school, but had thankfully never had the need to report to Human Resources before. As it turned out, and as explained by the scowling secretary out front, Human Capital actually sat in its own private suite of offices separate from Payroll, Benefits, Compensation, and so on, down a long hallway off the reception area. A long hallway, as it turned out, that was in the middle of being decorated with the trophies Will Barrow had collected that morning.

Though on the clock, and though aware her smartphone's timer continued to tick closer to zero, Three froze in place when she saw her black lace hiphuggers hanging on the wall before her. They were positioned, just so, behind a pane of glass, inside an ornate picture frame that seemed more appropriate for executive portraits elsewhere in the building. There was a big, bold number "3" that clearly identified this pair of stolen panties as belonging to Mailgirl Number Three; if that weren't enough, there was a small-ish, 3x5 picture of Mailgirl Number Three herself, naked and on her knees, in the bottom left-hand corner of the frame.

Mailgirl Number One had a similar set-up to the left of Mailgirl Three's, though there was significantly less material on display; One's contribution to Human Capital was dark, purple G-string. Behind Three, on the opposite wall, was a set of bikini briefs that had belonged to Mailgirl Number Two, as well as an embarrassing set of high-waisted cotton "grandma panties" identified as Mailgirl Number Four's. Five's briefs and Six's thong had been mounted inside frames, as well, but still sat up against the wall, waiting to be hung.

Three's mouth was agape. She'd half expected the underwear that Barrow had pinched that morning to disappear into some executive's sock drawer, becoming little more than a jizz rag. There'd been that tiny part of her that had been perversely excited by the idea Barrow might use them as such, himself. Such an end might have been preferable to this; anyone coming up and down the hallway to Human Capital would be greeted by Three's intimate apparel.

Of course, given that she'd been traipsing around the building that day in nothing more than a dog collar, an unoccupied pair of panties was perhaps a stupid thing to be embarrassed over. But it was yet another humiliation all the same, and further evidence of just how screwed she really was.

The blinking of the smartphone on her arm brought her back to life. She took off at a sprint, eager to leave the display behind. She made no comment about it when she handed the resignation letter from Direct Private Investing to Barrow. She resolved not to give him the pleasure of shooting down protests or pleas.

Later, she wondered if Mailgirl Number Two would get her underwear back. She doubted it.

Things began to slow as seven o'clock approached, and USF Plaza emptied out at the end of the day. There were still plenty of employees working after hours; Three had regularly been among them in Asset Management. But the sideshow (peep show?) that was the mailgirl program received less and less attention the later the day got. Three had her first moment of rest on the 36th Floor, in the lobby outside of Middle Market, and was obediently waiting on her knees on a thin, pink yoga mat by the elevators. There was a silver dog bowl filled with water beside her, and though Three was thirsty, she didn't lean down to take a drink; one of the mailgirl program's many fans had taken it upon herself (Three was sure it had been a woman) to spit in the bowl. She also had to pee. But with Middle Market's reception desk unoccupied, there was no "superior" to grant her permission or play chaperone. Just as well, Three told herself – that was an embarrassment that could wait until tomorrow. She could hold it until she got back to the locker room.

Her whole body ached. Her thighs and calves burned from all the stairs she'd run that afternoon, and she was unsure of how she was going to spend an entire twelve-hour shift doing this tomorrow. Her knees hurt, and the thin mat beneath her did little to relieve the pain. Her breasts, jiggling and flopping around when running, and unconstrained by a sports bra, were sore. Her anus still felt warm from the bleach, though the sting was gone. She thought she could still feel where Mistress Zero's paddle had landed on her ass, but that might have just been her imagination.

And all of that was nothing compared to the ache Three felt between her legs.

Her body had been buzzing on and off all day, and Three struggled to think of time she'd ever been sexually excited for such a long duration. Her nipples were so hard they hurt, and she could no longer tell herself that it was just the temperature. She'd been fighting her own arousal since that morning - denying it, avoiding it, hating it. But now, alone by the elevator banks on the 36th Floor, Three couldn't hide from it any longer. She couldn't pretend that her new role wasn't affecting her. There'd been an exhibitionist hiding inside her for her whole life, waiting to be let free. There'd been a submissive tucked away somewhere deep in the recesses of her personality, as well, a submissive that apparently found sexual pleasure in being dominated, humiliated, and controlled.

She listened for any footsteps, and – hearing none – she risked an exploration of her sex.

It was a mistake.

Three gasped out loud at the sensation of her fingertips against her bare slit, and her whole lower body convulsed. She was wet, wetter she'd expected to be, and her pussy radiated heat. She wasn't going to continue to touch herself. Not here. Not in the locker room. Not at the Plaza. But, if she were, it wouldn't have taken her long to get off.

Hating herself, and feeling every bit the slut and the whore she'd been called and called herself all day, Three put her hands behind her back, and clasped her left wrist tightly in her right hand. She squeezed tightly, as if she were fighting back a set of defiant and deviant fingertips that would betray her if she let them, that would have her singing out an orgasm at her place of work if her grip slipped at all.

And not a moment too soon, as it turned out. Two sets of footsteps echoed down the hall, approaching her, and Three could hear two girls talking.

"You'll be okay," one of them assured the other.

"No, I know," was the reply. "I just wish everyone didn't know. I wish I didn't have to look them in their eyes."

"You could put in a transfer?" the first girl said suggestively and sarcastically, once she'd caught sight of Mailgirl Number Three on her mat. "I hear the mailroom is looking for volunteers."

"Right," scoffed the second girl. "Maybe that's what Keith wants to talk to me about tomorrow morning."

Three wasn't certain who Keith was to the second girl, but she assumed he was her boss. And, as the blonde stepped into view, Three didn't think an ambush - similar to one she'd been through that morning in Hoblitzel's office – was such a stretch. The girl was tall, thin, and breathtakingly gorgeous. Will Barrow could do worse than choosing her for the open Mailgirl Number Two slot.

"What do you think?" the first girl asked Number Three. "Are you looking for more volunteers?"

"Stop!" the second responded, pushing the first playfully. To Three, she smiled, and apologized. "I'm not sure I could do what you're doing."

Three grimaced, and nodded. She could, if properly motivated by Barrow and his two envelopes. She could, given the right mix of promises and threats.

"Meredith, meet Three. Three, meet Meredith," the first girl introduced the second. "Meredith's just had her heart broken. Wedding called off. Dickhole of a fiancée decided to take a job in London without telling her."

"Vickie..."

"Without inviting her along."

"Vickie, stop."

"And everyone in the office knows," the girl went on. Pointedly, she asked Number Three, "Can you imagine anything so humiliating?"

Three turned bright red.

"Stop!" Meredith chided her friend. To Three, she apologized again. "I'm sorry. I'm sure today's been hard."

The kindness stung more than the scorn. It made her feel like an actual human being. Eyes down, cast upon the floor, Three corrected her. "You're not supposed to apologize to a mailgirl."

"I'm not supposed to apologize to a mailgirl?" Meredith asked incredulously, while Vickie snickered beside her. "That's fucked up."

Three said nothing.

"The whole thing is fucked up," Vickie answered for her. "I don't understand how they got a single volunteer."

"Money?" Meredith guessed. She directed the question to Three. "Was it money?"

"Yes, ma'am," Three answered. But then she hesitated, and added, "At least, mostly."

"What does that mean?!!" Vickie howled, and Meredith shot her a disapproving look.

"Career opportunity," Three offered meekly.

"This is the career opportunity?" Meredith asked, not understanding.

"No, ma'am," Three said. "They promised me my dream job. Afterwards."

"Tits for tat," Vickie joked.

"So money. And career opportunity. And in exchange? The company gets to do this to you? Naked, embarrassed, treated like an animal." Meredith was confused. There had to be more. "There has to be more. Right?"

Three wanted to tell her about Barrow's second envelope. She wanted to tell this girl that she was coerced and blackmailed and threatened into this position. Thinking better of it, however, she bit her tongue, and – violating the rule against making eye contact – met Meredith's gaze. As their eyes met, Meredith saw that there was more. Money and career were part of it, as was the intimidation. But, in that instant, Meredith began to understand the "more."

Meredith appeared frightened by this glimpse into Three's soul, and – startled – took a step back.

Vickie was still confused. She looked to the mailgirl on her knees, and then back to her friend. "What?" she asked.

Meredith shook her head, but didn't break eye contact with Three. "Nothing," she responded, distracted.

Vickie shrugged it off. Laughing, she ran her hands up and down her body suggestively. In contrast to her friend, she was short and chubby. She possessed an enormous pair of breasts, sure. They were largely a product of her weight, though. "How about it?" she joked. "Do you think they'll take me?"

There was no good answer. Three simply smiled, and answered, "I don't know, ma'am."

Vickie guffawed. Pointing a thumb in Meredith's direction, she asked, "And her?"

Meredith, in contrast to her friend, was mailgirl material. Late twenties, maybe even early thirties. Similar build to Three - from tits to hips to legs. Baby blonde hair that fell just so, framing sparkling blue eyes and a beautiful smile. Meredith, though, jumped in before Three was forced to answer. "I'm not going to be a mailgirl."

Vickie shrugged. "The right amount of money. Maybe Keith's job when you're all done?"

"I'm not going to be a mailgirl," Meredith said. She said so with less confidence than she had the first time, however. Seemingly believing that it had something to do with Three's look, she broke eye contact, and glanced away nervously. She repeated, again, "I'm not going to be a mailgirl."

"You don't want to be a mailgirl," Three offered, sounding apologetic. For a moment, Meredith had seen the lust and the arousal in the naked girl's eyes, and had been almost hypnotized by it.

"I'm not going to be a mailgirl," the girl said again. She reached for the elevator's call button, and waited impatiently for it to arrive. She wanted to escape.

Three couldn't blame her. Today had been awful. Tomorrow would no doubt be awful, too. And the day after that. And the day after that. And only when it was May would Three finally be able to escape, as well, and be free of Will Barrow, Mistress Zero, and Human Capital.

But there was something else at work. Something deeper. Something darker. Something that had spooked Meredith, and something that scared Mailgirl Number Three. The embarrassments and humiliations of the day had touched a nerve, and Three wasn't sure that she was looking forward to seeing her reflection in the mirror when she returned to the locker room at day's end. As much as she wanted to show upon the 26th Floor tomorrow, fully dressed, and with the events of today forgotten and ignored, she wasn't sure she could – even if she'd have been allowed. There was a gravity to this thing she'd begun, this experiment, and she wasn't sure that she'd ever be the same.

Meredith had felt the same pull. Naked from head to toe – save her own collar, her own armband, and the number "2" scrawled across her hip – she got to her knees beside Mailgirl Number Three, and reached for hand. Three shimmied over, making room her, and smiled as she held the other girl's hand.

It had been nearly eight months since that first day. And nearly eight months, less a day, since Meredith Ferris had become the next Mailgirl Number Two. The meeting with her boss, Keith, had indeed been an ambush, attended by Will Barrow and Mistress Zero. Two had joined One, Three, Four, Five, and Six naked in the locker room. She had been run through the same "Feet" and "Knees" and "Toes" exercise as the other girls had the day before. She had had her pussy waxed and her asshole bleached, her picture taken and her panties hung on the 18th Floor. And she'd succumbed to the same deep, dark desire as the rest of them, finding an unexpected sense of excitement and arousal in a place where there should have only been shame.

Prior to that first night, back in her apartment after the longest day of her life, Mailgirl Number Three had never been rocked by an orgasm with the intensity that she experienced at her own hand. Once. Twice. Three times. Then four. She was still half-dressed, and still on the couch in her living room, when she came a fourth time. Her briefcase and gym bag were still by the front door. An old copier paper box containing the contents of her office, too. The lights were mostly still off. But Three had needed to touch herself before she could do anything else, and had been thinking about it her entire commute back to her apartment. Ever since she'd walked out of the locker room, turned around, and made the realization that the mirrors inside the locker room were actually mirror-glass, and that everyone in the elevator lobby had an unobstructed view of the interior.

The laughter she though she'd heard while getting her asshole bleached. The cheers when getting paddled. The voices on the far side of the mirror while she'd showered, when her shift was through? None of it had been her imagination. USF had replaced the large, plate glass windows between the elevator lobby and the old gym with something even more sinister and embarrassing, turning the mailgirls locker room into a mailgirls terrarium. The company's employees were able to watch the goings-on inside the locker room, while the mailgirls themselves were treated only to their own naked reflections.

The revelation had put Mailgirl Number Three over the edge. Even though it was well after eight by the time she'd finished cleaning out her office up on the 26th Floor, showered, and gotten dressed at her locker, there was still a sizable crowd milling about when she exited the locker room. A cheer had gone up for the stunned mailgirl, and Three received a round of applause. The shouts of "See you tomorrow!" and "I think you forgot your panties!" reverberated in her ears as she scurried out of the building and into a cab, and she'd spent the ride up to SoHo squeezing her thighs together and willing the cabbie to get her home faster.

But even the intensity of masturbating that first night, on Day One, paled in comparison to the first time she'd touched herself in the locker room, knowing full well she had an audience to witness how far she'd sunk. Mailgirl Number One gave in first, and masturbated in the showers that first Thursday, on Day Four. Three had made it through the first week, but surrendered to herself on Monday afternoon on the floor in front of her locker. Two and Six followed suit shortly thereafter.

The original Mailgirl Number Four resigned after that first week. Like the original Number Two, she was replaced the very next day. May 1st came and went, and – of course – USF's mailgirls pilot turned into a full program, with the full, two year contracts expected to be honored. Six more girls were recruited into the ranks. Then six more in June. And six more after that, in July. There were some comings and goings. Girls like the original Seven, the original Twenty-Three, and the original Seventeen couldn't quite hack it, and chose financial ruin over continued enslavement at the hands of USF. The original Mailgirl Number Thirteen had been shipped to USF's back office across the Hudson, in an effort to "seed" a new, experimental 24/7 program at Park Place.

Mailgirl Number Two, though, had been with Three since that first Tuesday, and their friendship had morphed and blossomed into something else somewhere along the way. Three still wasn't quite at the point that she would have described herself as an out-and-out lesbian, but the reality was that she'd been in a monogamous relationship with another woman since that summer, qualifying what she shared with Two as the longest relationship she'd ever been in. In Two, she'd found a friend and a lover, and one of a very small, select people in New York capable of understanding the psychology – in its entirety – of what it meant to live the life of a mailgirl. Two had moved in with her in September, and the pair commuted back and forth to the Plaza together each and every day. And, when Three's own family had found out what she'd "volunteered" for and had effectively disowned her, it was Two's mother out on Long Island who'd opened her arms and opened her house to her daughter's new girlfriend and the couple's new life together.
Three squeezed the other girl's hand, and Two squeezed back. The two girls knelt together on the 36th Floor, holding hands, and waited for seven o'clock.

Eight months down, with sixteen more to go. Lately, Three wasn't sure she wanted to return to her old job in Asset Management. Two was of a similar mindset with Middle Management. It wasn't just the awkwardness of re-integrating into an office full of people who'd seen her naked, subjugated, and spanked. Though – of course – that was a part of it. And she had her fair share of vengeance-seeking fantasies that could only be made real by taking the promotion to Portfolio Manager – of putting Miss Fisk in her place, of being the one to sign Parker Wertz's performance evaluations, of screaming at Pags that Rachel breaking up with him wasn't her fault, of telling off Debbie Truesdale for reneging on her threat to resign. But she'd found a sense of place in the mailgirls locker room, a feeling of purpose, and a more profound sense of herself, warts and all, than she'd ever known before. She'd found a partner in Two whom she loved, and who loved her in return. And, through it all – every new embarrassment, every new humiliation, every new horror – there'd been an associated sense of adventure and excitement. Just how far was she willing to go? Just how much was she willing to endure?

Three couldn't bring herself to confess it out loud – not to the other girls, not to Two, and not even to herself – but the idea of re-upping with Human Capital was not as unthinkable as it might have been in the Spring. Maybe, just maybe, she could see herself doing this for a little longer. Maybe, just maybe, she'd be a mailgirl as long as they let her.