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The alarm clock went off at 4 AM. Kirsten Allen cursed the early hour, just like she did every day.
She rolled out of bed. Her boyfriend groaned, then fell asleep again. He was one of several she'd been through since her fiancé had left her. These days, she was only dating losers, scrubs who didn't pry too deeply into her work life. She wondered why she cared enough to date anyone, but she did. Maybe because it was nice to be around someone who saw her as something other than a lackey to order around or a hole to fuck. That was the theory anyway; her recent string of boyfriends had been pretty close to the assholes who abused her at work.
She stepped into her neatly appointed bathroom and stripped from her pajamas before stepping into the shower. She washed quickly as the cold water warmed, turning into steaming rivulets that cascaded over her toned, naked form. If there was one thing to thank the program for, it was fitness. She'd taken on the taut, lean physique of a runner, appropriate as she ran for miles every day through the halls of the office.
She shut off the water and rubbed her hairless body with depilatory cream, as per company memorandum MR-038. She dried, and then finished her ablutions, quickly doing her hair and makeup (slutty, not too slutty, per memorandum MR-031.
She returned to her room and dressed in her Ann Taylor suit. The girls had to wear their best to work, even though they only wore them from the walk from the garage to the mail room. Once, she'd asked Mr. Pinkman in Human Resources why this was so. His answer was predictable. "It keeps up appearances, #12," he'd said. "It's not just from the garage; it's on the ride to and from work. You girls represent the company and we don't want you looking like little tramps, do we?"
That was one reason, she supposed. That and it was one more petty regulation for them to follow. The company was big on stupid rules, and the ubiquitous interoffice memorandum that heralded their adoption. Still, there was one reason to be grateful for; it gave her one less thing to explain to the boyfriend. He knew she worked in an office, and he supposed she had a job commensurate with her intelligence and education. She saw no reason to disavow him of the impression just yet.
By 4:30 she was behind the wheel of her car, eating a Nutragrain bar she'd grabbed from the kitchen. She tossed her laptop bag on the passenger seat - it was full of papers from her old job, in case anyone asked, but no one ever did. This was fortunate, as the papers were months old, but also a little sad. The Toyota rattled as she started it. It needed some engine work, but lately there hadn't been the time or money to get it looked at. Another thing to take care of.
The drive to the office took 20 minutes. There were only a few cars on the freeway. Kirsten wondered how many of them were driven by other mailroom girls, on their way to jobs like her own. She saw one car she recognized for certain: she recognized the Saturn S-1 driven by Girl #2, Elyse Peldon. She caught up to the Saturn on the off ramp, followed Elyse three blocks to the office garage. They drove down the winding ramps five floors to the crappiest spots.
Kirsten and Elyse met at the elevator, exchanging wan smiles. Elyse was wearing an Armani suit, the same one that had served her so well when she had been the director of New Media Marketing. They took the garage elevator up to the lobby and walked past the tiled atrium to the basement stairs. The bored guard at the reception desk barely spared a look at them, though he'd be staring plenty when they were in their "uniforms."
They took the staircase down to the basement and walked through the swinging door into the mailroom.
There were 12 cubbies by the door, one for each of the mailroom girls. Kirsten and Elyse stripped wordlessly out of their smart suits and sensible pumps. It occurred to Kirsten that H.R. might have been onto something, it was far more humiliating to strip out of clothes, especially professional clothes that keenly drove home all that they'd lost. As Kirsten and Elyse stripped, the other girls entered, silently removing their smart, professional outfits.
Kirsten opened the door to the twelfth, numbered cubby. Her armband was waiting for her in its charger. It was a black, neoprene band inset with a specially programmed iPhone. She pulled it onto her left arm, three inches about her elbow, transforming herself from the relatively insignificant Kirsten Allen to the truly insignificant Mailroom Girl #12. Instinctively, she glanced at the display, but the screen was idling green. Naturally, there was nothing on the boards as no of importance would have been in the office at that ungodly hour. Kirsten folded her suit as best she could, then tucked it away with her shoes and shut the door.
Kirsten checked herself in the mirror. She was stark naked save for her armband and some slutty makeup. In other words, the regulation mailroom girl outfit. She completed the effect by pouring some oil out from a bottle on the mailroom counter, applying a light coat so her tanned skin shone. Elyse followed suit. Kirsten noted that she was on her period, her pussy couldn't quite conceal the tampon with the string cut off.
By that time it was 5:00 exactly.
The girls spent the next thirty minutes running through the eight floors of the office, doing the morning prep. They put fruit bowls in the conference rooms, checked the water coolers, started pots of coffee, delivered the trades and newspapers that had come that morning and the interoffice memorandums that had come that night. By 5:29 it was done and they were back in the mailroom. They knelt in rows, waiting for their boss, Carl Wilcox, to come in and give them their morning instructions.
Carl entered at 5:47, 17 minutes late, but it hardly seemed prudent to mention that. Carl was 29 and paunchy and kind of a slob. His Oxford shirt was wrinkled and he gripped a sloppily stained cup of Starbucks coffee in his right hand. He handed the cup off to Elyse, who held it aloft, still on her knees, like cupbearer.
Carl addressed the girls, standing. "Good morning, Skanks," he said.
"Good morning, Mr. Wilcox," they chimed back, like good little school girls.
"We've been getting some complaints that you've been making eye contact with the executives. Knock it off. If they wanted to see your gross faces, they'd ask, I promise you."
The girls nodded their assurances.
Carl went on in this vein for a bit, talking about runs and punishments peppering his spiel with an abundance of "ums" and "likes". He wasn't a great communicator, and his presentations were usually so he could feel like a big man rather than any immediate need.
The big clock on the mailroom wall flipped to 6:00. The assistants were at their desks and the girls armbands started lighting up. There were runs to be made, interoffice deliveries, odd jobs.
Carl waved the girls away. Kirsten turned to go, eager to leave the mailroom.
"Oh Kirsten, by the way, hold up..."
"Yes?" She turned. Carl was not a tall guy. Kirsten was 5'8 and even in her bare feet she was a skosh taller than Carl in his loafers.
Carl looked her up and down. She flushed with humiliation. She still hated being naked, and resented every microsecond spent under Carl's rapacious gaze. Carl knew it and loved that about her.
"Go get 'em, Kiddo." He gave Kirsten a little pat on the fanny and retreated to his office to look at porn and fuck around on his internet connection.
++++
It was 10:30 AM when Kirsten ran up the stairwell and into the PR department, which took up the southwest corner of the fifth floor. She ran past conference room 5-A, noting it wistfully. Her days of presenting at grown up meetings seemed a million miles away. Kirsten hated returning to her old department, it was the absolute apex of her shame, the fullest possible reminder of how low she'd fallen. Once she'd been a junior executive on the rise. Now she was just a stupid, naked mailroom girl, stuck in a horrible job with no exit in sight. Her sweat shone with the layers of sweat she accumulate in her hours of running.
The instructions on her armband told her to go see Paul Pritchett, her former colleague. She cursed inwardly. She gotten along with Paul back in the day, but as her new job became the status quo it had unleashed a sadistic streak he'd previously kept under wraps. When she approached Paul's cubicle, he looked up with a smile that clearly telegraphed his intention to fuck with her.
"Yes, sir?" She said. Paul was nothing special in the department, but she had to call him sir per dictate MR-09, one of the cardinal ones.
"Glad you're here, #12. I need you to change the water cooler." He pointed to the cooler, ten feet from his cubicle. The bottle at the top was indeed empty.
Typical. There were dozens of guys on the floor, all better equipped to change the cooler, a task that she'd avidly avoided in her junior executive days. She almost smiled at the irony of the strapping Paul handing down a physical task to a girl. She wanted to tell him off, but she was stopped by the thought of the rain of demerits that would surely shower upon her. A few demerits turned into spanks, more turned into duties so odious it made running the floors seem like a luxury cruise.
Kirsten walked over to the cooler. Instinctively, she wiped her sweaty hands on her thighs before remembering that she wasn't wearing anything. She rubbed her oiled, sweaty hands on her oiled, sweaty thighs to no effect. She pulled off the empty bottle with ease, but then struggled to lift the full, 10 gallon bottle. It was broad and round without a handle on it. There were grooves in it, but not deep ones. It was heavy and her slick hands couldn't get a good grip on it.
Kirsten had to bend over in her struggles with the bottle, though she was keenly aware that this position required exposing the folds of her pussy and her asshole to the whole department.
Paul chuckled. He sipped coffee as he stood behind her. Two more former colleagues came out of the woodwork to ogle her, Dale and Art. Last year, Kirsten had fought to keep Art's job with the department, and Dale still owed Kirsten twenty dollars from the time she'd covered him on the office pool for Mr. Goldstein's birthday gift.
"Lift with your legs like a good girl," said Dale. There was something indecent in the naked enjoyment he had in the humiliation of his former equal. She wondered if she'd feel the same way if the situations were reversed. Not likely. She bit her tongue and lifted with her legs, like a good girl.
She managed to hoist the bottle, but she had to take the cap off with her teeth, which took ten seconds of her gnawing at it like an animal. The men laughed at her and she belatedly realized that she should have taken off the cap when the bottle was on the floor. Too late now.
She struggled to hold the heavy bottle against her slippery body with her slippery arms. She staggered with it, splashing water everywhere.
A fourth man came to watch. Kirsten had never seen him before, but she was shocked to note that he emerged from her office. The feeling of trespass was so great that the bottle slipped from her arms. She recovered just in time and caught it by bending over and catching it between her legs in an impossible, ridiculous catch that would have been impossible for her to ever duplicate again. She stood there, hunched over the bottle her feet forced onto her toes. She wanted to straighten up, but she could feel the bottle slipping millimeter by millimeter and she dared not adjust her position lest she lose the bottle entirely.
So she stood there, naked and trembling, pain shooting up her calves, her feet arched on her tippy toes as she fought to control the heavy bottle.
Paul chuckled. "This worked out better than I could have hoped," he said.
The man who'd come from her office smiled. "Not very bright, is she?"
"Sadly, no, Bryan. That's why you're replacing her.”
Kirsten looked over the bottle at the new guy, Bryan.
"R-replacing, sir?" she ventured.
"That's right."
"But this transition was only a pilot program--"
"It's actually the program now. Wait, you didn't honestly believe you were ever coming back?"
She had. But in that instant she saw how stupid her hope had been. In a season of cruel realizations, this was the worst. She wanted to cry, but she wouldn't give Paul the satisfaction.
But she saw how stupid she had been, it was written in the faces of her coworkers as they stared at her breasts and pussy with their hungry eyes. How could she ever face them as equals again?
Dale laughed at her and grabbed the water bottle out of her hands. He placed it easily atop the cooler. Kirsten dropped to her knees, relieved that her ordeal was over.
Paul picked up the stainless steel water dish off the floor and filled it up.
"Drink up, slut," he said.
Her cheeks flushed but she went to all fours and lapped out of it with all the dignity she could muster. The tips of her nipples brushed against the carpeted floor. She was incredibly thirsty and the cool, clean water was refreshing.
But then she was grabbed by her legs, like a lawnmower. Kirsten yelped, found herself standing on her hands, her legs held aloft.
Art was standing behind her, grabbing her ankles. Paul, Dale and Brian were in front of her. From her upside-down vantage point, they towered over her. They all had erections.
"Sir, please put me down," she begged.
Paul ran a finger down from her foot to her ass cheeks. He sniffed his finger.
"God, #12, you really are a sweaty little brute. You reek." The others nodded their agreement.
Kirsten knew they were only being cruel, but it hurt anyway.
"We should give her a bath.”
Bryan picked up the water dish and dumped it over Kirsten. Water flowed down her curves and soaked into the office carpet. Her bare flesh was quickly covered in goosebumps thanks to the office air conditioning.
Paul produced a box of sanitary wipes from his desk. "Let's clean off her stink."
They wiped her armpits and legs and breast and tummy with the sanitary wipes and dropped them on the floor, exchanging the soiled ones for fresh ones. Kirsten was humiliated to see the dark layers of soot and grime and dead skin that were sloughed off on the white wipes.
"Let's check to see how clean she really is," said Paul. He pressed a wipe into her ass crack and rubbed hard.
"Aiiiggh!" Paul's ministrations were tearing at her. Kirsten yelped and twisted, but Dale held her fast.
But just then, Mr. Goldberg stepped out of his office. He held a report in one hand and his coffee mug in the other.
"Don't you boys have some real work to do?"
The guys looked at him sheepishly, like kids caught at the cookie jar. Dale dropped her ankles. Kirsten fell to the floor in the presence of her former boss, as she had to do before everyone VP level and above.
"Sorry, Mr. Goldberg. We were just messing around."
Goldman shook his head. And Bryan, I need to know the involvement on the Dunleavy account. You left it off the report."
"I don't know. I uh..." said Bryan.
Goldman looked down at Kirsten.
"Kirsten, any chance you recall?"
"Sir, I believe she's called #12," said Paul.
"Whatever." Mr. Goldberg looked annoyed at the whole thing.
Kirsten did remember. "They're locked in at $5000 till November. It'll go up to $7,500 after that." she said, looking up at him.
Mr. Goldberg gave her a small, tight smile.
"See that, Bryan? Maybe you should be the one delivering the mail."
Kirsten's former coworkers laughed. Bryan glared at her with a passionate hatred. She knew she'd pay for this later. Goldman waved his hand and the guys retreated back to their desks.
"Get up," said Mr. Goldman.
Kirsten did. He checked the readout on her arm band, and then tapped it with his ID card, clearing her for a new assignment.
"That's a girl," he said, patting her flanks. "Oh, by the way, today's the 23rd. It's your birthday, isn't it?"
"Yes sir," she said, blushing furiously, her eyes downcast at the sodden carpet and the sanitary wipes. One of them had a shameful trace of brown that Paul had scrubbed out of her ass.
"Happy birthday, then." He removed a peppermint hard candy from his pocket, unwrapped it, and fed it to her. Then he returned to his office.
Kirsten paused long enough to pick up the soiled wipes and drop them in the trash. Then she bolted from the office, desperate to be free of the place. She made it to the stairwell before she started crying.
Her armband buzzed again, time for another run, on the other side of the fourth floor. She had to pull it together. Only 45 more minutes until lunch.
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