One year later.
Four sets of six grey cubicles, each housing a desk and computer, were spread out over the white tiled floor. The orange rays of sunrise entered through the horizontal blinds and perished in the fluorescent light cast from the high ceiling. The cubicles seemed small in comparison to the room. Dean Johnson always found the décor bleak and expressionless rather than the sophisticated intention.
The stillness of the office was interrupted by the buzz of Dean's desk phone. The call had been automatically re-routed to him because he was the only employee clocking in so early. He stifled a yawn and answered.
"Good morning, Aphrodite Campaigns," he did his best to sound alert.
"Oh hi! My name is Claire. I'm starting a new job with you today but I'm afraid that I've lost track of the exact address of the office," the voice of a young femme smiled apologetically on the other end.
"Nice to meet you, Claire. You will find us at 32 Margret Street on level 12," he answered in a slightly more familiar tone.
"Ok, I'll see you at 9. And I'll let them know that the boy at reception was very helpful," she hung up before he could correct her.
Dean had recently been promoted from reception and was now a junior member of a creative team. He had just spent a year manning the reception desk and was glad to see the last of that job.
Turning back to his computer, he resumed typing up his new idea for an advertising campaign for a client. The concept had occurred to him the night before, so he arrived early in order to prepare something before the brainstorming meeting at 9:30. He glanced up at the date clock on his computer which read:
7:48 Tuesday the 24th of January 2195
One by one, his co-workers arrived. The new receptionist entered just before 8 am and began his day. Brent was the only other male who worked on level 12. They gave each other a routine nod before going about their daily business.
Brent was slightly more muscular than Dean with brown hair in a sleek and regimented part to one side. This was his first job out of high school, making him several years younger. He was wearing skin- tight leggings that accentuated his bubble butt with tight seam that rode up is ass. Those pants were obviously designed to show off his jutting bulge in an elastic pouch. For his top, he wore and a sleeveless, muscle-fit shirt that hugged his meaty chest to show off his masculine arms. The shirt's thin, sheer-like material did little to hide the perky shape and of Brent's nipples which looked like they were about to pierce through the fabric thanks to the cool office air.
Dean's jaw tightened.
"How can us boys be taken seriously when one of us dresses like that?!" he thought.
Worse, Brent's sexy outfits seemed to have fuelled the flames of male objectification in the office even further. Dean lost track of the number of times he overheard his colleagues' inside jokes, in which Brent's nipples were cheekily referred to as "headlights" or "his second pair of eyes". Or his jiggling genital pouch as "Brent's big bouncing blue balls".
Dean wanted to say something to him but couldn't find the words. After his career in femme entertainment, he hardly felt like he could preach to the new receptionist about modesty. Besides, for a male receptionist, Brent's outfit was very much in line with the current trends Dean had been seeing everywhere from shopping malls and online stores to fashion magazines and social media.
Brent began booting up the computer at reception. The desk was directly in front of the elevator door. He grabbed a bin and began the same morning routine that Dean had taught him.
"Pick up rubbish, sweep if needed, check that the fridges are stocked and place orders where necessary, clean the toilets before everyone arrives and unload the dishwasher in the break room," Dean told him on his first day several weeks ago.
It made more sense to do this in the morning when the office was mostly empty. Cleaning in the early morning made sure that they would be ready for the new work day.
Brent greeted some co-workers as they began to trickle in at about 8:30. As Dean focused on the screen, he could hear the slapping sound of rubber gloves being put on in preparation to clean the toilets.
The elevator doors opened and the clicking of heels on the tile floor was like a homing beacon for feminine movement in the periphery of his mind. The heels would send out a crack under the weight of the ladies with each step. In contrast, Dean and Brent would move silently in their soft-soled flat bottom shoes.
He heard the approaching click-clack.
"Morning Dean," Mary's voice interrupted his concentration.
"Good morning," he responded without looking away from his screen.
"Are you coming out with us tonight? The accounting team are going to the bar across the road," she said.
Dean felt that it was now too rude to look away and forced a smile up at her intimidating figure. Her fashionably rotund frame was bolstered by the hip padding of a typical black business dress which hung down to the floor completely obscuring her legs. Her blouse was done up to her neck and she wore a loose fitting suit jacket that suggested a large bust without revealing any form. Her grey hair was tied back in a business-like bun.
Mary's outfit was the fashion for femme in any position of power; a pseudo uniform that advertised generous feminine proportions while reinforcing a lady's dignified modesty. He felt his stomach lurch slightly as the married lady in her sixties smiled at him with confidence. Her face creased along the lines of her wrinkles.
Dean knew the look of lust that a femme gets; it was especially common amongst older ladies. He tried to act normally as she undressed him with her eyes.
"I don't know Mary. I'm just swamped. I've got this report due at the end of the week and I haven't even started," he shrugged.
"The cost projections?" she shifted her stance a bit closer.
Dean looked up and nodded.
"I'm about to talk to Riya about those. We don't really need them for a couple of weeks anyway," she said.
"Oh," Dean took a breath.
"Besides, work isn't just about reports. You also need to build relationships if you want to progress. I'm happy to cover you if money is an issue."
"No, I can cover myself," Dean sighed, "I guess you're right."
"Wonderful! I'll come get you at 5!"
The new employee arrived at about 9:15 am. Dean had just finished up his meeting preparations and was free to show her around.
She was roughly twenty years of age. Her long, straight, caramel hair was tied back in a practical ponytail and like many young femme she wore no makeup. Hers was the first generation to whom makeup was considered unfashionable, even shameful. For the contemporary femme, putting effort into one's beauty was seen as a compensation for a lack of ability. Successful ladies preferred to not think of such trivial things.
She stood a head taller than Dean in her heels and was carrying a bit of extra weight. Gaining some extra fat around the hips and waist was generally considered a desirable sign of maturity amongst femme, but Dean secretly found athletic femme more attractive. Everything about her was consistent with the average 20- year- old. She could have just as easily been an actress representing the '20-25 every femme' demographic in one of their advertising campaigns.
