Mailgirl Number Thirteen: Day 01

Collars, then, were common. But they were not universal. Nor were they always the vicious, Medieval-looking things of the sort USF employed.

"Evil," Gillian said. Her tone indicated that this was neither a criticism nor a condemnation, but an off-the-cuff reaction to the sight of the collar itself.

Barrow took the comment in stride. "A necessary evil."

"How so?"

Collar in-hand, Barrow came back around his desk once more, and gestured to the naked blonde on the floor of his office. "Look at this girl. She's a goddess. She doesn't belong here. She doesn't belong in New Haven, for that matter. She should be in Hollywood. She should be strutting her stuff on a catwalk down in the Fashion District. She should be gracing the pages of a Victoria's Secret catalog, or splayed out across Playboy or Penthouse."

There was a "but" coming. Thirteen knew there was a "but" coming.

"If she wanted it, she could reduce every man here at the Plaza to a quivering puddle of jelly. More than a few women, too, depending on their proclivities. Naked? Even more so. Strip the clothes off Number Thirteen here, and she's only that much more powerful. It completely throws the power dynamic we're looking for out of whack."

He held up the collar. "This? This helps restore the balance. It keeps her in her place. It signals to our non-mailgirls that she recognizes what her place is."

"I'm not sure that dolling her up in bondage gear achieves what you're going for..."

"Wearing it is an act of submission," Barrow disagreed. "She's not a slave. She can walk out. She can quit. But, when she puts this on in the morning? She's submitting. When she submits, when she shows deference, she's building up the ego of everyone she's submitting to. If this girl, this gorgeous specimen of the female sex, is willing to submit herself to you, what can't you do? Who can't you conquer?"

As he monologued, Barrow fitted the collar around Thirteen's neck and snapped it into place. The "click" it made as it locked was like a crack of thunder, reverberating through Thirteen's ears. She was submitting.

It didn't feel right. Not that it would ever feel right. But it felt too tight, and Thirteen was afraid it might constrict her breathing, or keep her from swallowing. She felt compelled to let Barrow know that something was wrong. "I...I'm sorry...I...sorry! This mailgirl? This mailgirl thinks the collar might be too tight."

Barrow took a step back, gave the collar a look, and then slipped a finger between the metal and Thirteen's skin. He shook his head. "No, that's about right. I know these things aren't exactly one-size-fits-all, but it's made to be that tight."

Thirteen was unconvinced, but she offered no more protest.

"You'll get used it," Barrow assured her. "It's different. It is tight. I promise you it's supposed to be like that. You may end up even liking it."

Gillian scoffed, speaking for herself and Thirteen both. "I think that might be a little much."

Barrow cocked an eyebrow. "If there's anything I've been surprised by over the last two months, it's just how common some deep-and-dark predilections truly are. I'm not going after known exhibitionists here. I'm not specifically recruiting masochists."

"Still," Gillian argued. "You've got to admit that it takes a certain kind of girl to volunteer for this."

She hadn't specifically meant Thirteen, but Thirteen still winced at the remark. A "certain kind of girl." Meaning sluts and whores. Exhibitionists and fetishists. Submissives.

"This mailgirl apologizes for being so stupid as to think her collar was too tight," Thirteen seethed. Her tone was defiant. Sarcastic, even. She was angry at them both.

"Sarah," Gillian caught herself, recognizing what she had just said. "That's not what I meant."

"Ma'am, per Human Capital, I am to be referred to by mailroom number," the girl hissed. "Mailgirl Number Thirteen."

The mood was tense. Uncomfortable. A pregnant silence hung over the room.

"Mailgirl Number Thirteen," Gillian began again carefully, making no attempt to hide how ridiculous she felt addressing Thirteen this way. "You're not like the other girls. You're here for research. You're not really one them."

Naked, collared, and on her knees, with a red "13" scrawled across her hip, Thirteen certainly felt like one of the "other girls."

"I'm just trying to keep my good friend William here," Gillian went on, "from getting a bit too broad in generalizing a perceived 'predilection' across an entire gender. Our gender."

Thirteen exhaled. No, Gillian hadn't meant it. She hadn't intentionally meant to cast aspersions in Thirteen's direction. Even if - at times - it hadn't felt like it, Gillian was on her side. She was, in her way, looking out for her. Maybe the Work was more important to her than her graduate student was, as an individual. But Thirteen was here for the Work, too, and so long as her interests aligned with Gillian's, she knew her professor was in her corner.

She nodded her head. She couldn't bring herself to choke out, "this mailgirl understands," but she signaled to her professor that she understood, all the same.

"Maybe I'm wrong," Barrow said, interjecting. "Maybe that's a place for Thirteen's research to take her. To take us."

"Maybe," Gillian allowed.

"And maybe," he teased, "you'd like one of these collars to take home?"

Gillian laughed, and the mood in the room lightened.

"So what next?" Gillian asked.

Barrow checked his watch. "We still have some time before my eight o'clock. Number Thirteen is going to wait patiently here in Human Capital, until one of the other girls comes and fetches her. But we have a few more bits and pieces, items that individuals of certain 'predilections' might be familiar with -- however common said predilections might be across certain genders."

The collar, apparently, wasn't enough.

"You're kidding me!" Gillian gasped, laughing uncomfortably. Barrow had produced something else, this time from his desk.

"Think of it as allowing a new recruit a measure of quiet contemplation," Barrow responded cryptically.

"Will, you can't..."

"Mailgirls One through Twelve all received similar treatment," Barrow explained. "Mailgirls Fourteen through Eighteen have it coming later this morning. You tell me. Is she, or isn't she, a mailgirl?"

Gillian was unsure of what to say next. "It's too much."

Thirteen couldn't help herself. Careful to avoid eye contact, she snuck a glance in Barrow's direction. He was holding a blindfold.

It was a common enough practice, especially in Europe. Especially on a girl's first day. In fact, Thirteen knew full fell that the girls of Rhine-Main Bankengruppe were hooded and gagged on Day One, and that this would have felt like standard procedure to Mistress Zero. Mailgirl Funf likely had gone through something similar on her first day. The way that Gillian had reacted, Thirteen had half-expected a silicone ball gag, a muzzle, or a bit. A blindfold seemed tame by comparison.

"Gillian...ma'am...it's okay," Thirteen croaked, her throat dry. And it was. Just as the restriction on eye contact kept Thirteen from having to actually look someone in the eye, the blindfold was a bit of mercy, really. If she attracted just one or two lookie-loos, or if a crowd descended upon her to gape and guffaw, Thirteen would remain in the dark -- literally and figuratively both.

"It's a part of Mistress Zero's training," Barrow shrugged. "And, really, it's a part of the fantasy."

The lines between fantasy and reality were blurred here, though. A blindfold had never been something Thirteen had fantasized over, or even given much thought to. The collar, the leashes, the more BDSM-inspired aspects of her new life? They weren't fetishes Thirteen had ever daydreamed about. They weren't kinks that she'd explored with Christopher, with Brad, with Luke, with Mark. This wasn't her fantasy, but it was now her reality.

Barrow slipped around behind her, and Thirteen's world disappeared. No, it was Sarah's world that disappeared; for Mailgirl Number Thirteen, this was just another run-of-the-mill cruelty and humiliation she'd be forced to endure as part of her new life. The mask was black, and leather, and Thirteen inhaled its scent. Like with the collar, Thirteen wondered if he'd secured it just a little too tightly. "Quiet contemplation," Barrow had offered, but it was just another way of "putting her in her place."

"It's just a little too 'kinky' for me," Gillian said, the word coming off as stiff and unnatural.

"We know our girls," Barrow answered. It wasn't a denial. Barrow wasn't trying to claim innocence, or suggest the blindfold was anything other than "kinky." No, it felt more like an accusation, like this was a kink he knew Thirteen would get off on.

She wasn't entirely sure that he was wrong.

"And so what now?" Gillian asked.

"It's early," the man said in response. "It's going to be a little while before one of the other girls comes up to fetch Number Thirteen. Mistress Zero and I have our rounds to make, and we'll get her down to the locker room after morning breaks are through. With -- God willing -- Mailgirls Fourteen and Fifteen and maybe even Sixteen, for orientation and some initial training."

Morning breaks, Thirteen recalled, were clustered around the ten o'clock hour. As it couldn't have been any later than seven-thirty by that point, that meant something like three hours from now. Barrow's kindness in letting her use the bathroom turned out to be a kindness after all. The butterflies in her stomach, though, were accompanied by a nervousness in her bladder, and three hours was no small stretch of time.

"But I'm going have her sit outside," Barrow continued, "and let Mrs. Lowrie look after her."

"Fourteen. Fifteen. And maybe Sixteen?" Gillian asked, brushing past the bit where Thirteen was expected to wait in the public corridor for the next few hours. "One an hour, on the hour?"

"That's the plan."

"How often do you get a 'no'?"

"Less often than you'd imagine. The company can be fairly persuasive. We've put together specific and targeted packages for each of the candidates we've approached, and I think you'd be surprised by the willingness of our junior executives to take the pitch seriously. If you don't include the girls who've signed and then quit a day or two or five in, we've only had one out-and-out 'no.' In fact, we've rejected more girls because of tattoos than we've had girls reject the job on their end."

USF had a policy against body art when it came to their girls. In a moment of weakness a month or so back, Thirteen had briefly flirted with the idea of getting herself inked up somewhere in an effort to derail her participation in this project. Nothing extreme -- just maybe something small on her ankle or on her wrist. Maybe something on her hip, something other than a coral red number thirteen. But Thirteen had thought better of it. Gillian had proposed this line of research long before the opportunity at USF had come along, and it wasn't unthinkable that Thirteen would only end up being talked into the exact same approach at a company in Silicon Valley more forgiving of that sort of thing than USF, one perhaps that also happened to be much more forgiving when it came to what they would and would not allow their employees to get away with when it came to the mailgirls.

"It's a waste of time, more than anything," Barrow went on. "All that time and effort making the pitch, and getting a girl to see the opportunity for what it is, only to have her undress and have the whole thing fall apart."

"Interesting," Gillian responded.

And it was, too. Thirteen made a mental note to look into the topic at some point down the line, as part of her research. She was curious about what became of these particular volunteers after they washed out. After they'd signed a contract, and taken off all their clothes in front of Barrow, in front of Mistress Zero, and possibly in front of their direct supervisors or department heads, did they simply get dressed and go on with their old jobs as if nothing had ever happened?

"We're after a certain aesthetic at Plaza. A uniformity, so to speak, in uniforms. At our back office in Jersey City, we may want to get a little looser with the restriction. Or if and when Executive Management gives us the green light to roll out teams at our regional offices. I'm just worried about missing out on otherwise qualified talent."

Tattoos weren't exactly uncommon within the age demographic USF was targeting, even among up-and-comers and management-track young professionals on Wall Street. And so it made sense that the company would have to reconsider its stance on body art at some point. But Thirteen's curiosity was now piqued by the comment about Jersey City; it was the first time she'd heard that USF was considering expanding the mailgirl practice outside of the Plaza. If they were rolling out a program there, in the near future, she'd perhaps missed out on the opportunity to be part of a launch from Day One.

Barrow punched his phone, and Mrs. Lowrie answered over the speaker.

"Yes, Mr. Barrow?"

"Come fetch our new mailgirl. I'm going to need you to babysit while I meet with the other candidates."

"Yes, Mr. Barrow."

To Gillian, Barrow asked, "Would you like to tag along? My eight o'clock is a little unique. She's a client management specialist who has gotten herself into some hot water with the husband of one her bosses. We're thinking a transfer to the mail room might be in everyone's best interest. If she's willing to consider it."

"Are you sure? I'm not going to be in the way?"

"No, no, no. It's nice to have a witness or two present, especially another woman. And it'll give you an opportunity to see Mistress Zero in action. As well as a better handle on what these sorts of negotiations look like with a less enthusiastic candidate than your girl here."

Eager. Enthusiastic. Thirteen, Barrow continued to suggest, was easy.

"Let's have a quick tour, though, first," Barrow went on. "We've got a few minutes for me to introduce you to the team that makes all this possible."

Mrs. Lowrie had joined them. Thirteen had heard the door open, but she was blind behind her mask. "Up," she said, announcing herself to Thirteen. "I'll get you settled in out in the hall. Without you walking into any walls."

"Yes, Mrs. Lowrie," Thirteen said mindlessly. She stood, and added, "Thank you, Mrs. Lowrie."

The secretary said nothing more in response than an annoyed grunt, but placed a hand gently on the small of the girl's back and pushed in her in what Thirteen could only assume was the direction of the door.

"Good luck," Gillian offered in parting. "You'll be okay. You'll be in good hands."

What was Thirteen to say? "Yes, ma'am," she said in response. "Thank you, ma'am."

Whatever she thought of Gillian, and however much she blamed Gillian for putting her in this position, it was unnerving to be on her own, without Gillian looking after her. Or, at least, without Gillian looking after her in her way. They were a team. They were pursuing this research together. Professor and student. Advisor and advisee. Sure, Thirteen's part in this was decidedly more hands-on than Gillian's, but Thirteen was an extension of Dr. Gillian Schang, and Thirteen feared for what was to come when she was no longer within Gillian's line-of-sight.

Thirteen couldn't have taken more than a step or two out of Barrow's door when the secretary spun her around and guided her back to the floor. With one hand on Thirteen's left shoulder, and the other at the top of Thirteen's buttocks, Mrs. Lowrie hissed, "Knees."

She was facing a wall. She couldn't see it, but she could feel its presence. Settling in, legs apart and hands locked behind her back, Thirteen did her best to orient herself. The door to Barrow's office was less than a foot to her left; she heard it shut, and could hear the conversation between Barrow and Gillian carrying on -- though, it was muffled, and Thirteen couldn't make out what they were actually saying or whether it was about her, specifically. To her right, and now slightly behind her, was Mrs. Lowrie's desk; Thirteen heard the older woman settle into her chair.

"Straighten up," Mrs. Lowrie instructed her. "You need to get your positions locked down, or Mistress Zero is going to send you home spanked raw."

Thirteen did as she was told.

"I just don't understand it," Mrs. Lowrie seethed softly, so quietly only Thirteen could hear it. "You girls. Your mothers and grandmothers fought and fought and fought for equal treatment. They fought to be taken seriously, to be seen as something more than just playthings. And then, in the blink of an eye, you undermine all that. For what? Why are you doing this? For money? For your career? I don't say this lightly: it makes you a prostitute. You are prostituting yourself out for them."

Mrs. Lowrie's haranguing of Thirteen was interrupted by the sound of Barrow's doorknob turning, by Gillian's voice and Barrow's voice exiting the latter's office. The secretary's tone shifted dramatically, and she bid Thirteen's professor a pleasant morning.

"I'm going to introduce you to Alan Bagby," Barrow was saying to Gillian. "He's one our Senior Analysts, and the person I've leaned on the most in identifying potential candidates here at the Plaza."

Gillian brushed past Thirteen without saying a word, without acknowledging that her graduate student was naked and on her knees, blindfolded and facing the wall. Instead, she asked Barrow, "'Candidates'? You keep using that term. 'Volunteers,' correct?"

Thirteen could hear the smile in Barrow's voice. "Candidates for volunteering, then."

Thirteen heard a gentle rap upon a door a short distance away. A round of introductions among Barrow, Bagby, and Gillian Schang. A laugh. A lighthearted pleasantry. Small-talk. Chit-chat. And then they moved on, leaving Thirteen behind with Barrow's hissing assistant.

Mrs. Lowrie, however, had apparently said her piece. There were no more accusations, no more recriminations. No more talk of "prostitutes." Mrs. Lowrie had apparently turned her attention back to her desk, pecking away at her keyboard and doing her best to ignore Thirteen.

And then it struck Thirteen where she'd heard the name "Melanie Lowrie" before. Melanie Lowrie had been USF's Chief Human Resources Officer, as late as last September or October, when emails had begun circulating among the company's higher-ups about exploring the mailgirl concept. Melanie Lowrie, one of just two women on USF's Executive Steering Committee, had been strongly and passionately opposed, and had penned a series of dissenting emails and memos. She hadn't been the only member of Senior Management to argue against a roll-out; at the outset, she was in the majority, with more than half of her male colleagues sharing the same viewpoint. But the emails -- and Thirteen had seen a good number of them -- became increasingly accusatory and desperate, and eventually the tide turned against her.

Melanie Lowrie had been removed as CHRO before the holidays, replaced by Something-or-Other Manzanillo (Thirteen couldn't remember Manzanillo's first name offhand, but it was moot; he'd be "Mr." Manzanillo to her, anyways). Mr. Manzanillo was now Will Barrow's direct supervisor and USF's new Head of Human Resources, while Mrs. Lowrie had somehow wound up as Barrow's administrative assistant. Wearing a too-short miniskirt and a blouse with a few too many buttons left undone. How had that happened? How had Mrs. Lowrie fallen so low? Why had she accepted such a demotion? Why had she stayed with USF? Why was she in Human Capital, of all departments? There was a story there, a story Thirteen would have to suss out at the summer went on.