Lady Owner: Doesn't know it yet

I woke up, yawning, and stretched.

Fuck, I still wasn't used to just how damn good silk sheets felt against my body.

Of course, I was only about a year out from getting my MBA. Couldn't afford all the luxuries just yet. And had a pile of student debt.

I padded downstairs, not bothering to dress, in the small house I shared with the woman who'd been my roommate since our first year of undergrad. We graduated together, went to business school together, and now worked at the same firm together.

"Hey, big tits," she said as I walked into the kitchen, pouring myself a cup of coffee. She was also naked. We had no modesty around each other.

"Hey yourself, fatass." I took a sip of coffee and started feeling less woozy. "Ah, coffee. Nectar of the fucking gods."

I should probably explain a few things, shouldn't I?

My name's Ashley Cutler, and my friend's Megan Tanner. I have a degree in psychology and she in economics, and then we went and got MBAs together.

Over the last seven or so years, we've become completely comfortable with each other. Happens when you catch each other in flagrante delicto one too many times. Neither of us bothers to dress at home unless someone else is coming over.

Yeah, Megan's straight and I'm a lesbian, but she doesn't mind that I ogle her openly. For that matter, she doesn't mind that I'm perpetually single. She says she likes the idea that she's so hot that I'd rather have futile daydreams about getting her in bed than actually go find a girlfriend.

For her part, she doesn't have a boyfriend, but she won't tell me why. Maybe she can't find one who's hung enough. She's got a bunch of huge dildos in her drawers.

Oh, did I mention that we look like we stepped straight out of some absurd, unrealistic fetish porn story?

We're both ridiculously tall, seven feet even. Meg calls me "big tits" since I've got 38R-cup boobs, and I call her "fatass" because she's got a 56-inch ass.

Don't read too much into that; Meg's got 38Q-cup tits and I've got a 54-inch ass.

Funny thing, for our entire first term as undergraduates we were members of an internet group for women who probably could've played basketball except for their curves. Honestly both of us probably could have done anyway; we're both muscular and athletic. We each didn't realize the other was in there until Meg looked over her shoulder to stretch while we were cramming for exams and saw my laptop open to the page.

And just to top it all off, we've got smiles that can give a dead guy a hard-on and thick hair down to our massive asses. I'm blonde and Megan's a redhead. It's natural. There's too much to dye, but if you were going to check whether the carpet matched the drapes, don't bother; we both have a rare mutation that led neither of us to have any pubic hair.

Like I said, we look like fetish porn come to life. All that's missing is something like one of us sporting a massive dick, or a third tit, or tentacles, or something like that.

Anyway, fresh out of business school, we interviewed for positions at a company that was taking some PR flak for not having a sufficiently diverse workforce. Not that the shareholders cared much; profits were mostly steady since the business customers didn't care about that sort of thing. But the retail side was suffering, even though that didn't make up much of the revenue stream, and the downturn on that side made the company look bad.

Well, when you're a young, hot-as-fuck woman who has no shame in wearing the tightest skirt you can squeeze your huge ass into and tactically unbuttoning your blazer and blouse in a room of mostly old men deciding whether they want to hire you, and you talk about "inclusivity" and "diversity" and how hiring people with different life experiences will grow the business and make them do better than ever--and get the bad PR to go away--you can get brought in as a hiring manager or talent acquisition specialist or whatever they want to call the position pretty easily.

Which is what Meg and I do there.

I think they suspected our idea of "diversity" would just mean "hiring more hot, shameless women", but we actually took it seriously, reaching out to disadvantaged communities of all sorts to find suitable candidates for jobs. Maybe the higher-ups were disappointed that there wasn't more eye candy in the office, but nobody could complain when our policies had driven profits up as much as they were.

Which was good for us, given our mountains of student debt, since part of our compensation package was an ownership stake and a stack of stock options.

Yeah, yeah, I know what you're thinking, absurdly attractive women let themselves be objectified by horny old men to get good jobs. But hey, if you've got it, you can damn well flaunt it if you like, and I figure we're doing some good in the bargain.

And that brings us back to the morning being presented for your consideration.

Normally Meg would say something like, "Yeah, yeah, feed your addiction and let's get going," as if she didn't also need an IV of caffeine and even while she made a huge stack of waffles--she got up earlier than me and was a better breakfast cook, but I made dinner for us every night--but this time she said something completely unexpected.

"So, uh, can I drink it, then, Ash?"

"What?" That seemed like a complete non sequitur.

"Can I drink the coffee? I'm not a god. Not last time I checked, anyway."

"The fuck?" I took a sip of coffee and Megan backed away ever so slightly. "Meg, what's up?"

"Are, are you a god, Ash?" She looked a little scared. "Have I been living with a god this whole time?"

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Coffee's the nectar of the gods, right? You said so. So if you drank it, you must be a god. Or maybe it'll turn you into a god." Her eyes widened. "Do you feel yourself becoming a god?"

"Uh, no?" I took another sip. "It's fucking coffee, Meg. You know, that thing we have every morning?"

"Yeah, but, I dunno, it's different this time. Because you said it's for gods."

"Because I said?"

"Maybe?" Meg seemed as confused as I was. Probably more tired since she was letting her coffee go cold. "Look, do you think it's safe for me to drink it? I don't want to get fried by a thunderbolt or something. Or be able to fry people with thunderbolts. Being a god just sounds like a lot of stress and responsibility, and I got enough of that at work."

"It's a saying, Meg. It's not literal, you know that."

"So I can drink it?" Her voice sounded hopeful.

"Oh, yeah, sure. It's not for gods and it won't turn you into a god or anything like that. Though I bet gods would love it just as much as I do."

"Thank goodness." Meg sounded genuinely relieved and quickly drank down the rest of her mug while it was still lukewarm, and went back to mixing waffle batter.

I plopped my huge, nude ass on a chair. Thank goodness for comfortable slipcovers.

"Over-under on how many erections we'll see around the office today?" I asked.

"I'll say twenty point five," Meg guessed. That sounded about right for fifty-fifty odds. But Meg played closer attention to schedules than I did, so she was generally more correct about these things.

"No bet."

"Spoilsport."

Meg served up the waffles and butter and syrup.

"Hey Meg," I said, between bites, "ever wonder what it'd be like to have boobs as big as mine?" A silly question, considering that hers were almost as large as mine anyway, but we were pretty silly with each other.

"Why do you ask?" She wriggled a little to get more comfortable on her chair. Finding furniture for people built like us is no mean feat. "Have you been wondering what it'd be like to have my ass?" She knew full well that I wanted her ass, in more ways than one.

"Won't deny that the idea of another inch or two of padding down there has its appeal."

"Well, I'm glad I don't have your tits," Megan said. "Don't have the money for new clothes right now and you have the worst fashion sense of anyone I've ever met."

"Which is why I'm glad I don't have your butt."

That was another thing we had in common: a shared disdain for the other's preferences in clothing design.

Didn't mean we didn't mind being seen together or anything like that. I felt ten times sexier with someone as hot as Meg next to me, and Meg admitted that she felt the same. But if we had been the same size, we could never have just shared our clothes and done laundry more often.

I washed the dishes while Meg took a shower. We had this down to a science; her shower took as long as my doing the dishes; my shower took as long as her getting dressed; and by the time I was dressed we had just enough time to drive to the office.

Of course, for people built like us showering and getting dressed were no small things. But you had to get good at them with bodies like ours, so we probably did better than someone who just found herself being absurdly busty and tall and big-assed. I couldn't imagine how much trouble someone who just woke up with a body like ours would have.

"Hurry up, slowpoke," Meg teased as she watched me pull on my clothes.

"It's a wonder you get any sleep at night," I retorted. Meg did the dishes after dinner.

The downside of having been hired partly because you're a hot piece of ass is that you have to keep looking like a hot piece of ass. Granted, Meg and I would've been damn good in garbage bags, but that would never have done for the pervs upstairs. So the sexy clothes had to stay, which meant tight skirts on the one hand, and, depending on the weather, unbuttoned blazer and blouse, off-the-shoulder sweater, or form-fitting turtleneck. Bonus points for no bra.

Thankfully neither of us actually needed one, despite how huge our racks were.

It was warm out, so Meg had gone for the blazer, while I went for a comfortable low-cut sweater.

"It's why I get all my yawning out before I risk bursting the buttons," Meg shot back.

For that I openly licked my lips while staring at Meg's vast expanse of exposed cleavage.

"In your dreams, Ash."

"Prominently," I assured her.

We barely fit in our shared car. Meg put it in gear and we peeled off. I probably would have preferred to walk, or take public transit, or ride a bike, but bikes were impractical for us, the office was a little far for a walk, and while I was comfortable with Meg, I didn't like how so many people brushed up against me--and a few tried to sneak in a grope--on transit. And if someone was going to take a nap against my tits, it'd be my lover, not some random dude on the bus.

Meg's head against my breasts also featured prominently in my dreams. But it'd never happen.

We waited at a red light. "Ugh, another morning of mollifying the dicks," Meg complained.

We never got complaints about being late, but that was only because we made sure to give whatever vice-president of who-knows-what who was coming down to see why we hadn't gotten the overnight reports in first thing more important things to remember.

"Who knows, we hit green lights and we're on time," I said.

"Yeah, because green lights are well known not to be mythical in this city."

Myth or not, though, we somehow hit green lights the rest of the way and got to work five minutes early.

There was nothing of note in the overnight reports, so those got sent off promptly and I leaned back in my office chair, looking over to Meg in the adjoining office. "So who're you giving a bonus to today?" I asked.

That was another great thing about our jobs. Between being able to give a guy with permanent erectile dysfunction a stiffy just by stretching the right way and being mostly responsible for all the good press the company was getting for its "diversity and inclusion" hiring initiatives, getting our budget increased every so often was pretty easy. And since all the people we hired whom the execs deemed "nonstandard" had to fall within our budget, and not the standard departmental ones, getting a larger budget meant we could give out pay raises and bonuses and better benefits more freely. We were too valuable to both the company and the managers' imaginations to audit more than superficially.

We had other things, too, like our own internal email server that nobody else could access, a private group chat, the works. In some ways it was like we were a small consulting firm providing services to the company more than an actual part of it.

Our employees shared stuff with us that you'd never see in a more traditional job. It was us, a few seasoned industry vets we'd brought in as mentors, and a bunch of people around our age who'd struggled to find work ever since high school. But I had a good eye for identifying people who could add to the company even if there weren't a regular job posting for them.

"Not sure yet," Meg said. "Gonna take a look and see who's worried about not making rent, or who looks like they're down to one meal a day again."

I nodded. Meg was the financial whiz, figuring out proper compensation packages and handing out both performance- and need-based bonuses. (According to her, the value our little group added to the company, between work and good press, was such that as soon as she could swing the budget we were all on six figures.) I was the people person, making sure everyone was on track and comfortable with their jobs.

One side effect of which was that, since most of them hadn't been in any sort of setting like this for the better part of a decade, I ended up being, functionally, a counselor of sorts. That's where they'd gone when they had had trouble in school; now they came to me.

Didn't matter what it was about. Trouble with a team manager? I'd see that they got a stern talking-to at minimum. Bullying by a coworker? Some jobs had been terminated rather abruptly. Social anxiety at company functions? Nobody dared reject anyone in whom both Meg and I took a visible interest for fear of pissing us off. We might've been the same age as them, but those Mama Bear instincts were strong in both of us.

We were a family every bit as much as we were coworkers.

"Have fun with the spreadsheets," I said and closed the door.

There wasn't much for me to do until someone decided they needed to speak to me. The employee evaluations were up to date. There weren't any emails or messages that needed urgent attention, just a few boilerplate responses.

Thankfully, I was rescued from terminal boredom after only fifteen minutes or so when someone walked in.

Not an exec, thankfully; I preferred to psych myself up for a good show. No, just one of my coworkers, closing the door and sitting down.