Nothing Left

The truth about the mailgirls program was that it was never about simply delivering the mail. Nor was it even about the perverse and voyeuristic nature of watching a beautiful naked girl dash through one's place of work. Rather, there was measurable data that showed the impact that the mailgirls program had already had at USF Plaza downtown. Attrition was down. Significantly. Even among women. Employee engagement was up. Significantly. Usage of sick days, vacation time, and even FMLA was down. USF had lost a handful of clients to the negative PR surrounding the "mailgirl issue," but they'd more than made up for those losses with new business, especially if that new business had the opportunity for an on-site meeting at USF Plaza. The more general productivity gains were a bit less straight forward. And it was only when Barrow began sharing some of the theories and speculations of Mailgirl Number Thirteen -- sorry, Mailgirl Number Two, now -- that it began to come together for Abby. The dominance and superiority that USF's employees felt in interacting with the mailgirls at the Plaza had translated into material gains in productivity; in short, feeling superior had a direct and measurable affect in producing superior performance. If Casey fought her new station, if Casey had to be broken -- so much the better. While submission was expected and essential for all mailgirls, dominance required domination, and superiority required USF's non-mailgirl population to claim it.

D's, Abby told herself as Casey's bra came off. She was sure of it. It was one of the data points she'd been asked to provide for each candidate, and she'd spent more time over the last few weeks looking at women's breasts than she would have thought possible for a straight girl. Naked breasts. Fully clothed breasts. Breasts in bras. Breasts in bikini tops. She'd done most of her research on her personal computer, not wanting to get flagged by IT for running afoul of the company's Internet policy. But she'd also done quite a bit of research on USF's own mailgirls app, which thoughtfully provided measurements (and photos) for each member of the mailgirl team. As there hadn't been photos of those girls while dressed, however, Abby still had to make a best guess at what was hiding beneath blouses and blazers here in Jersey City. But now that Casey's two, perfect round globes had introduced themselves to the room, Abby was certain she'd been right. She glanced across the table, hoping to catch eye contact with Barrow and crow; she was kidding herself, though, if she believed Barrow's attention was directed anywhere but on the topless blonde.

No tattoos, Abby confirmed as she turned back to Casey, unless they were hiding beneath the hiphuggers. There was a belly-button ring, but that could come out. In fact, Abby jutted her chin towards it, and said, "You'll need to take out the belly-button piercing."

"Okay," the girl agreed, and began fiddling with her navel.

Abby smiled to herself, knowing that she'd just delayed Casey's final reveal; Barrow and Dreisewerd would have to wait a few moments longer for the panties to come off.

"'Yes, ma'am.'" This from Mistress Rei. She'd let the last one slide, but the corporate dominatrix in her took over this time. It was time for Casey to begin learning her place.

Casey stopped with the jewelry, momentarily, and found Mistress Rei's gaze. She seemed caught off-guard, but recognized her mistake, and offered up an apologetic, "Yes, ma'am" in Abby's direction.

"I think 'Mrs. Williams,' will do," Barrow corrected them both.

There it was again. Barrow had offered the same correction to Erin Higgins yesterday. Abby wondered if he was probing. Did he know about the divorce? Was he teasing her? Was he just trying to ask her if she was single? For a mailgirl, the default form of address to her superiors was "sir" for men and "ma'am" for women. But you could have a mailgirl call you "Mr. So-and-So" or "Ms. So-and-So" if you preferred; even "Miss So-and-So" seemed to be making a surprising comeback at the Plaza. Abby didn't have any particular aversion to "ma'am," though, so she found herself asking if Barrow had an agenda.

"Yes, sir," Casey replied. Flustered, she added, "Yes, Mr. Barrow." And then, "Yes, Mrs. Williams."

Mrs. Williams. Abby was barely thirty, and had less than two full years on Casey Campbell, which made "Mrs. Williams" sound odd coming out of the blonde's mouth. It was intended as a sign of deference, and act of submission to a superior, but it they way it landed made Abby feel old. It made her sound like her mother. No, rather, it made her sound like Jon's mother.

Casey's hands were now trembling as she returned to her bellybutton ring. The admonishment from Mistress Rei had spooked her, and there was a certain amount of nervousness that she couldn't seem to shake off. Perhaps it was that she still had to remove her panties. Or perhaps it was that the reality of her situation had begun to make itself apparent. She fumbled with the piercing a moment longer, but nonetheless managed to remove it without too much more delay.

Casey placed the bellybutton ring on the table, beside her bra, dress, and shoes, and then hesitated. To Abby, she began, "Ma'am -- Mrs. Williams -- should I take the rest of it off, too?"

She meant the rest of her jewelry. But the question was ambiguous, and so Abby offered an impish smile and a comprehensive reply. "It's all got to come off."

"Yes, Mrs. Williams." Casey nodded, and made up her mind that the rest of jewelry would come before her panties. Rings. Watch. A thin, silver necklace. And, finally, with bare breasts framed between her elbows, she took out her earrings.

There'd be no more delay now; Casey had only one final offering for her new masters. She hooked her thumbs into the waistline of her purple panties, and wriggled free. Down her thighs, past her knees, until she was able to step out of them. But, as she went to place them atop the rest of her clothes, she was instructed to give them to Abby, instead.

"I'll take those," Abby said, leaning forward and reaching out with one hand. She knew what she sounded like -- some sort of lesbian pervert who'd be sniffing Casey's panties back in her office. She suspected that Barrow had gotten a kick out of her asking the two girls yesterday, and that he was likely chuckling to himself now. But the claiming of a trophy had become an important rite at USF; there were already a good two-dozen-and-some pairs of women's underwear hanging in the corridor leading to Human Capital on the 18th Floor of the Plaza. Casey's would be added to those of Mailgirls One through Four here at Park Place, downstairs in HR.

Mailgirl Number One, the younger of the two Scott sisters, had surrendered her cute little classic bikini to the company sometime the previous Friday morning. Mailgirl Number Two -- the other Scott sister, the PhD from Yale, the one who'd been Mailgirl Number Thirteen at the Plaza up until Friday night -- already had white lace thong hanging at the Plaza from when she'd originally undressed in front of Barrow back in June. But she'd donated another on Friday, a black one, that she'd stripped out of at the start of her shift that morning. Numbers Three and Four -- Erin Higgins from Commercial Loans and Theresa Gutteridge from Estate Planning -- had handed their respective shimmery yellow briefs and black thong to Abby yesterday, just as Casey Campbell was doing now. And it would be Abby's charge to hang Casey's pair alongside the others later this afternoon.

Casey's hiphuggers were still warm to the touch, a realization that now made Abby actually feel like some sort of lesbian pervert. After all, while Casey's underwear was dry to the touch, Abby knew she couldn't say the same about her own. She was no lesbian. Nor had she ever had any fantasies or any particular curiosity when it came to women. But her current assignment, under Barrow, had clearly struck a nerve over the last few weeks. And whether it was the dominance of her position or the submission of the girls, Abby couldn't deny that she was getting off on this. Maybe even more than Barrow.

She worried she'd let the genie out of the bottle two weeks ago at the Plaza...

The fact that Casey wasn't shaved down below excited her more than it should have. As she understood it, a highlight of a girl's first day -- lowlight, probably, from the girl's perspective -- was the first time she was forced to shave in front of an audience. Theresa Gutteridge's Brazilian had robbed them of that particular spectacle yesterday. But Casey's whispy little blonde triangle would allow her the opportunity to put on a show later that morning -- likely seated on the floor of the shower block, with legs splayed and crotch covered in shaving cream, while a crowd assembled on the far side of the locker's room's mirror glass.

Gutteridge, at least, had still had to endure her anal bleaching, a misery that Casey may or may not have been aware awaited her. After the first time, the girls at the Plaza were generally able to take care of that particular chore on their own time, in the relative privacy of a spa or salon. But the girls of Park Place, guinea pigs for USF's new 24/7 program, would be granted no such luxury.

Abby found herself absentmindedly wondering what Casey's asshole looked like -- a goddess such as this, flawless in just about every way. But it wasn't as if she could ask to see it. Well, technically, she could -- she needed only to give the command. But even as up-close and personal as she'd gotten with the Number Eighteen's rear end at the Plaza, there were some lines that Abby wasn't yet ready to cross on her own. And she certainly wasn't going to ask in front of Barrow. Leave that particular command to Mistress Rei later that morning; leave that to the professional.

Casey was now fully naked in her place of work, in front of an audience of four here in the room, as well as a handful of gawkers outside who'd popped their heads like prairie dogs up over the walls of their cubicles to see for themselves. She had likely had conference calls and Monday morning briefings and birthday parties here in this room. She likely had never imagined herself standing here now, tits out and body on display, utterly humiliated and anticipating two more years of even worse humiliations to come.

Barring some sort of executive's fantasy or the whims of Human Capital, Casey was unlikely to be allowed any opportunity to wear anything again until September rolled back around two years from now. And yet, just as both girls had done yesterday, she asked about the clothes she'd worn to work that morning.

And, just as he had done yesterday, Barrow responded, "They'll be donated to charity." He stopped, pausing for a moment to let that sink in, and then asked, "Do you have any particular charities you'd want them to go to?"

The follow-up question caught Casey off-guard, and she shook her head. "N-n-no. No, sir."

"Well," Barrow said smugly, "we know a few good ones. We'll take care of it for you." He'd just stripped her bare, stolen her clothes, and made it sound like he was doing her a kindness.

Where Casey's outfit would end up wasn't entirely an unfair question, though. Casey had been told, earlier in their conversation, that Barrow would be dispatching his personal secretary and a team of professional movers to Casey's apartment to collect her things. They'd box up and ship everything that Casey owned -- every piece of furniture, every book, every photo album, and every stitch of clothes -- up to a third party storage facility north of Paramus. If she broke contract, and forced her way out of her current role, it'd all default over to USF. If she fulfilled her end of her agreement, she'd get it all back two years from now.

Which itself wasn't entirely true. Mailgirl Number Two had a box of underthings sitting in a storage room down in the subbasement, and similar treasures from the former homes of Mailgirls Three and Four would have arrived here at Park Place that morning. Barrow wouldn't be content with just the single pair of purple hiphuggers Casey had ceded to Abby here. He intended to share a much more extensive trophy collection with the employees of Park Place in the near future, and Abby was admittedly and inhumanly looking forward to the faces on the girls when they were made aware.

Complicating things, however, was the fact that Casey had a roommate, and they'd all been forced to listen on as Casey had called her and lied to her about what was happening to her, and why some men were coming to pack up her things. Apparently, Casey Campbell had been offered a promotion to go work overseas, and she had to jump at that opportunity immediately or risk losing out on it. They'd talk again soon, and Casey promised to be back within a few weeks to visit -- but, for now, could the roommate pretty please make sure she was home when the movers arrived, and make sure they didn't take anything that didn't below to Casey?

Abby understood the lie, and Barrow allowed it, but it'd only be a matter of time before the reality of Casey's new job would be trickle out. Mailgirl photos were now regularly popping up on a social media, and there were only so many times a girl could untag herself before her situation became public knowledge among her friends and family. The elder Scott sister had managed to keep her role as a mailgirl secret from her mother for the entirety of the summer; as Barrow was now employing both of her daughters, however, he'd felt it was the "right thing to do" to inform her of that fact on Monday. In Casey's case, the more immediate concern was packing up her things, and whatever lie the roommate needed to be told to help Barrow's assistant accomplish that task was okay by him.

What now, though? Casey was standing uncomfortably by door, in her altogether, and awaiting what was next. But this was no longer Abby's show -- Casey belonged to Mistress Rei now.