Step by step by step, she ascended towards the 26th Floor. She dreaded it no less than she had yesterday, or the day before, but she hurried upwards at a good clip nonetheless. Her thighs burned. Her chest heaved. And she could feel a trickle of sweat running down her back. But the clock was always ticking, and there would be repercussions if she were late.
Amanda Dobson had long prided herself on the fact that she took the stairs whenever possible. She lived on the fourth floor of a six-story apartment building in SoHo, and could have counted on one hand the number of times she'd ridden the building's elevator in those first few months after moving in. She worked out religiously, even if that had meant arriving at US Financial Plaza before six to do so; but she spent so much of her day behind a desk that any additional opportunity to move her body and burn a few calories needed to be seized. She'd pushed her colleagues in Asset Management to avoid the elevators when running between meetings on the 26th and 24th Floors, but had had little success, and it was often just Amanda - alone - ascending and descending the stairs.
As opposed to the ornate and opulent décor that graced the offices, conference rooms, cubicles, and elevator lobbies throughout the rest of the building, the stairwells at the Plaza were unremarkable and utilitarian. They went more or less unused by most of USF's employees, aside from maintenance and mail staff, tucked away and out-of-sight alongside the service elevators entrances and janitors' closets that graced each floor. Decorated with nothing more than metal railings, cinderblock walls, and the occasional, watchful security camera, the stairwell seemed as if it belonged more in a state-run prison than in the interior of one of the biggest, most successful bulge-bracket financial service firms on Wall Street. Maybe it was unsurprising that USF's employees preferred the elevators.
She was alone in the stairwell again now – alone on this errand, alone in facing Joe Hoblitzel, and alone in her thoughts. She knew that some of her peers could go blank, and find a peaceful, Zen-like place when running the stairs; the bareness of the stairwell worked in their favor, in that regard. But that had never been Amanda. She'd always been focused to a fault: planning out her day while on the treadmill in the morning, working through a task list in her mind while in the middle of sit-ups, writing and re-writing briefs while getting undressed in the locker room. She knew exactly how it was going to go with Hoblitzel – the same as it had yesterday, the same as it had the day before. And yet she was preparing for it, rehearsing for it internally, all the same. What he'd say. What she'd be expected to say, in return. How he'd react to her. How she'd react to him. What her posture would be like. How she'd stay in control of herself, even while being subjected to Hoblitzel's demands.
Her chest bounced with each step, and she wished – not for the first time – that she were wearing a sports bra.
Self-control was a laughable objective, given everything that had happened since April. Everything that had been done to her. Everything she had allowed to be done to her. Everything she had done to herself. She was increasingly tempted to believe that giving up self-control, as a goal, would do her a world of good. Would she be happier? Maybe. She wasn't sure. But there was no doubt that all of this would be easier if she cut her better angels loose and succumbed to the demons whispering in her ear.
23 became 24. 24 became 25. And, soon enough, she'd completed her eight-flight climb from Human Capital on the 18th. She reached for the handle on the heavy metal door leading to Asset Management, and paused only just long enough to compose herself, to catch her breath as best she could, and to brace for what lay on the other side. Amanda Dobson didn't work on the 26th Floor anymore. Amanda Dobson wasn't a fast-rising Research Analyst out of Tuck anymore. And Amanda Dobson could take her preference for the stairs and shove it up her ass.
It was Mailgirl Number Three who emerged from the stairwell that morning, wearing an ugly-looking black metal collar, an armband with a pocket for her work-issued smartphone, and nothing else.
On most floors at the Plaza, the stairs emptied into a recess where the service elevators could be accessed, where the custodial staff kept their supplies, and where both the men's and women's rooms could be found. The 26th Floor was no different, and Three found those first few seconds before being spotted to be the most unnerving. Luckily or unluckily, Three didn't have to wait for long.
She was greeted by the lecherous smile of Parker Wertz, who was waiting for her to pass by his office. Three had been beckoned to Hoblitzel's office at approximately the same time every morning for months now, but it was the sound of the stairwell door creaking open that likely alerted Wertz to her presence. As a mailgirl, Three was forbidden from making eye contact with her betters – a broad, all-encompassing designation that accounted for everyone at the Plaza, save for the other mailgirls themselves. But the chances of Three making eye contact with Wertz were slim to none; Wertz never bothered to take his eyes off her tits any more.
Back in the day, Wertz had been more discrete about where his eyes wandered, even if Three had been aware of the occasional glance or the fleeting look – in the same way that all attractive women were aware of such attention. In fact, she used to get a kick out of the clumsy, half-concealed ways her coworkers checked her out – drawn to her chest, drawn to her legs, drawn to her ass – and loved the embarrassed, flustered way they reacted when they realized they'd been caught. Oops! Had she crossed her legs just a little too slowly? Had she given one of the boys even the faintest whiff of a hope that her panties might be exposed for an ever-so-fleeting millisecond?
No, that wasn't fair. That hadn't been Amanda Dobson. That hadn't been like Amanda to tease like that. Still, she'd worked in an office full of men, she knew she was young and attractive, and she knew that being on the receiving end of a quick little look was harmless enough.
Wertz was no longer obligated to look away, however. Very much the opposite, in fact. Three had volunteered to pilot an application of the "mailgirls" concept here at USF Plaza oh-so-many months ago. It was now her job to be ogled, to be eyeballed, to be stared at like nothing more than a set of standout tits and a warm-and-welcoming pussy.
On top of that, and adding insult to injury, Three's new job freed up her office for someone else in Asset Management, someone else who'd been sitting out in the bullpen until then. Three had been demoted down to the mailroom on a Monday, only to find that Wertz had taken up residence in her old office by the following morning. It hadn't been a good office, per se: no bigger than a walk-in closet, no exterior windows, and no view aside from the comings-and-goings of the men's room and the stairwell. But at twenty-nine, Three had had her own private office on Wall Street, such as it was, and it felt like yet another slight to have it so quickly be bequeathed upon someone of such inferior aptitude as Parker Wertz. She'd had to remind herself that there was a Portfolio Manager's role waiting for on the far end of this ordeal – with a bigger and better office, and a say in the career advancement of lowly research analysts like the Parker Wertzes, the Nick Pagliaros, and the Amanda Dobsons.
Wertz's eyes were on her, but his fingers were flying over keyboard, banging madly and frantically away. Everyone on the floor on USF's chat-and-instant messaging platform was going to be alerted to her presence. Everyone would be given their opportunity to hoot and holler, to whistle and catcall, to heap scorn upon the girl who'd raised her hand to run naked through their offices. Somehow, the details of the arrangement Three had hammered out with the company had been made public that summer, and Three's former peers had not been pleased with the willing slut whoring herself out to leapfrog past them and up the corporate ladder. In their eyes – justifiably – the opportunity to manage a portfolio should be awarded to an analyst who'd proven himself (or herself) by the caliber of his (or her) work. It had been that much more excruciating for Three to show her face up on the 26th Floor in the immediate aftermath of that reveal, and Hoblitzel had been forced to replace her with another mailgirl for his little morning routine, for a time. The anger and annoyance in Three's direction had subsided some when Mailgirl Number Thirteen had been shipped out to Jersey City and Mailgirl Number Three retook her rightful place on Hoblitzel's floor. There were some members of Asset Management who were clearly holding back, and treating Three with more respect than that might have another mailgirl, perhaps in fear of sort of retribution down the line. But there were still plenty of others that heaped abuses upon her for her decisions, and seemed to see Three's stint as a mailgirl as an outlet for all their frustrations with the company, their standing within the company, and Three's promised payoff.
Nick Pagliaro didn't bother to hide his disdain, any more than Parker Wertz did his creeper tendencies. Three passed by her former friend, who'd started in Asset Management with her a year ago, and with whom Three had shared drinks, lunches, and a wall. Pags just glowered at her from behind his desk, continuing on with whatever phone call he was taking this early in the morning. He was one of those rare people at USF Plaza who still looked at Three as a real person, instead of just as a naked piece of meat. He looked at her as a real person, yes, but as a real person who now disgusted and offended him. He didn't know the whole story, Three told herself, before shaking free of the excuse. No, he didn't know the whole story, but he knew enough. And the truth of the matter was that Three was, in fact, whoring herself out for the chance to manage a portfolio here at USF. Maybe she hadn't crossed that line and become a full-on fuck-toy, but she had certainly tiptoed up to that line. And still only eight months into a twenty-four month contract, Three was not alone among the mailgirls as one who believed that crossing that line was all but inevitable at some point.
After Pags, it was Ezra Fischer. Then Ryan Brandenburg. Tetsuya Uehara. Moyer. Reddy. Greenwell. Research had been a boys' club here at USF long before Three had been hired. It was even more so now, after Leslie Weiland had resigned and Three had been demoted down to the 2nd Floor. Only Martyna Hriniak remained. It had never bothered Three at the time – she'd always gotten along with men better than women, and had historically always had more guy friends than girls. She was shit at relationships, when it came to the lovey-dovey, kissy-face, and handholding sort of thing, but she had a natural rapport with her male colleagues that neither Martyna nor Leslie had been able to replicate. Men were straightforward, they were simple, they were predictable. Women? Too much drama. Too much emotion. Too manipulative and passive aggressive. Too catty and cliquish.
Past Research, it was out into the bullpen, through all the twenty-two-year-olds and administrative assistants. Along the far wall, tits bouncing out in the open for George Strunk, for Mark Stansbury, for Mitch Miller, for Debbie Truesdale. Three didn't recognize a good number of the people on the floor anymore; attrition had spiked when USF rolled out its mailgirls pilot in the Spring. But Hoblitzel had also managed to work out a tit-for-tat with Human Capital in exchange for sacrificing one his best analysts to the mailroom. A few months after Three's transfer, her old department - understaffed for the length of Three's tenure – was now afloat with additional headcount.
