One Of The Boys

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"A lot?"

"Yes, sir."

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

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

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

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

"What did she say?" Abby asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Abby!"

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

"Abby!" Bagby called out again.

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

"Abby! Abby!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As Abby joined the three male analysts above and around the naked brunette, she recognized she was now almost as much a part of this little scene as Eighteen herself. Did she wonder if this, on some level - on any level - was wrong? Of course. But she liked being a part of Bagby's mean little clique, of being accepted by her peers in Human Capital, of being one of the boys. She made a show of swishing saliva around inside her mouth, and caught the anticipatory looks from them all as she did so. And, with one last wicked smile at her co-conspirators, Abby discharged down onto the mailgirl's back door.

The sound of the impact brought about immediate regret in the redhead. What had she just done?

But that regret didn't last long. The three men around her cheered in celebration, and it was hard not to get swept up in their enthusiasm.

"Bull's eye!" Moses whooped.

Abby's saliva puddled a bit in the pucker, but then began to dribble down between the girl's legs and to her thighs. Eighteen didn't make any attempt to wipe it away or clean it off; she knew she would need permission. She didn't risk wiping it away when she was finally allowed to stand, nor when Bagby stuck a twenty in her armband and sent her off for coffees. She might have cleaned herself off in the service elevator, maybe. Or, maybe she just let it dry naturally. Abby didn't exactly check when Eighteen returned to Human Capital, and delivered her her coffee in the copier room.

Abby knew it was frowned upon to thank a mailgirl, so she resisted the instinct. She also resisted the urge to apologize, or to make a joke about the whole thing. Instead, she donned her best domineering bitch mask, and simply nodded at the naked girl as she received her coffee.

Eighteen wore a mask of her own. There was no evidence of hate or anger or disgust in Abby's direction. Instead, the girl wore only an inscrutable Mona Lisa smile, as if she'd found some sort of amusement in the humiliation she'd just suffered. And, as they met eyes for the briefest of instances, Abby knew that amusement was at Abby's expense. Maybe it was just guilt or paranoia. But, in that moment, it was as if Eighteen could see right through her, and possessed some truth about her that escaped Abby herself. No, Eighteen didn't seem angry at all. She did, however, seem to know how much Abby was affected by her day at the Plaza, how aroused the redhead truly was.

And Abby was aroused. Not by the sight of another girl's anus, of course -- Abby wasn't quite that warped. At least, not yet. It was the dominance and submission involved that had her wet, and she wasn't sure which was affecting her more. Was it the power that Abby felt in owning and humiliating Eighteen? Or was it being owned and humiliated, as imagined vicariously through Eighteen? The two were surprisingly difficult to untangle, and Abby wasn't sure which disturbed her more. All she was sure of was how sexually stimulating the whole thing had been.