Chapter 2

Monday morning, I lay in bed, my eyes wide open as I contemplated the day ahead, though I still had a couple of hours before needing to rise, sleep eluded me. My mind raced uncontrollably when my phone buzzed on the nightstand. Glancing at the unfamiliar number flashing on the screen, I answered cautiously.

Amanda: “Hello?”

Barbara Anderson: “Hello Amanda? This is Barbara.”

My pulse quickened—I hadn’t expected a call from Barbara so early. Oh shit, I thought to myself.

Amanda: “Hi Barbara”

Barbara wasted no time getting to business, her tone carrying that unmistakable air of authority.

Barbara: “I hear you’re coming here to DDE this morning to observe our mailgirls. Bring some gym clothes with you.”

My brows knitted together in confusion.

Amanda: “Gym clothes? Why would I need those?”

Barbara: “Since you’re here to observe, we want you to experience firsthand what it means to be a mailgirl.”

I still pondered Barbara’s cryptic instructions, my mind racing with possibilities as I tried to understand why gym clothes were necessary for a simple observation. A knot tightened in my stomach—a gnawing intuition that something was amiss. I sensed I would soon discover the truth behind her request, and I doubted I would welcome it.

Amanda: “Ok Barbara, will do.”

Barbara: “Great, see you soon my dear.”

The line clicked off abruptly, leaving me clutching the phone in stunned silence. As I lowered it from my ear, the weight of her words sank in deeper. The thought of dressing down to observe near-naked women made my skin prickle with unease. Was this some twisted test of loyalty—or worse, a ploy to draw me into their bizarre ritual? My stomach churned at the idea of being reduced to an object under Barbara’s watchful gaze.

I forced myself out of bed and began rummaging through my closet for suitable attire. Each piece of clothing felt tainted by the prospect of what awaited me at DDE. By the time I stepped into the shower, the hot water did little to wash away my rising apprehension. All I could think about was how this day might unfold—and whether I’d emerge unchanged by whatever games Barbara had planned.

I carefully selected my business attire, choosing a crisp blouse and tailored skirt that projected competence despite my inner turmoil. Into my bag I hastily stuffed gym shorts and a sports bra as Barbara had instructed, the mere act of packing them sending a fresh wave of unease through me. With everything ready, I grabbed my phone and sent Caroline a quick message: “Heading to DDE now.” Almost immediately her reply flashed on the screen: “Great! See you there later—have fun!” Her casual tone did little to ease the knot tightening in my stomach.

With one last glance around my cozy apartment, I stepped out into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind me with an air of finality. The elevator ride down felt interminable, each passing floor only heightened my sense of trepidation about what awaited me at DDE. Barbara’s words echoed in my mind—”experience firsthand what it means to be a mailgirl”—and though I tried to push away thoughts of why exactly gym clothes were required for observation, they lingered like an unwelcome shadow.

As I emerged onto the busy city street, sunlight filtered through gaps in the towering buildings overhead, casting long shadows across the pavement. The usual energy of the morning rush seemed muted today; every passerby appeared to move in slow motion while voices blended into a distant hum. My heels clicked rhythmically against concrete as I walked toward the subway station, each step bringing me closer to an uncertain fate at DDE. And with every stride came another question: What exactly would I witness today?

I entered the gleaming tower of DumpsterDawg Enterprises, stepping into the vast lobby where sunlight streamed through floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the lush tropical garden at its center. As I approached the sleek reception desk of polished marble, a woman seated behind it looked up from her computer screen and offered a warm smile. “Good morning,” she greeted me cheerfully. “How may I assist you today?”

I approached the reception desk with a polite smile. Receptionist: “Good morning! How may I assist you today?” Amanda: “Hi, I’m Amanda Johnson. I have an appointment with Barbara Anderson.” The receptionist returned my greeting warmly before picking up the phone and dialing. Within moments she replaced the receiver and directed kindly, “You may proceed to the ninth floor—her office is at the far end of the hall.” I thanked her and made my way toward the elevators, trying to ignore the growing unease that coiled within me.

I pressed the button for the ninth floor and watched as the doors slid shut, sealing me inside the mirrored chamber. As the elevator began its ascent, my stomach tightened with apprehension—I had no idea what awaited me at Barbara’s office.

As I stepped onto the ninth floor, I walked through the department lined with rows of desks where sharply dressed employees murmured softly, barely noticing my presence. Then I froze mid-stride as my eyes widened in disbelief—for there, kneeling on a mat in the center of the bustling office, was a completely naked woman. Her hands rested on her thighs with her knees apart and back straight, eyes lowered submissively. The realization struck me: this was the mailgirl I had been summoned to observe.

As I continued past the kneeling mailgirl, my eyes remained fixed on her. Suddenly, she glanced up at me, and heat flooded my cheeks as I quickly averted my gaze. Carrying on toward Barbara’s office, I approached the receptionist stationed just outside. She politely informed me to wait while she notified Barbara of my arrival. Settling onto the cushioned sofa nearby, I couldn’t resist turning my head for one more look at the kneeling figure still in that submissive pose amid the busy department. A sleek wristwatch was strapped around her wrist—the likely source of her mysterious instructions.

The receptionist soon gestured for me to enter Barbara’s office, and as I rose from the sofa, a subtle mix of curiosity and discomfort lingered within me. Stepping inside, I found myself in an expansive space with floor-to-ceiling windows framing sweeping city views; the soft hum of a laptop mingled with the faint scent of expensive perfume. Barbara Anderson stood near her glass desk, impeccably dressed in a tailored black blazer and matching skirt paired with a crisp white blouse. Her blue eyes sparkled with confidence as she extended a welcoming hand.

Barbara: “It’s wonderful to see you again, Amanda.”

With some hesitation, I offered a nod in return.

Amanda: “Good to see you as well, Barbara. I caught your interview on television recently.”

Barbara: “Yes indeed—they’ve been relentless with requests lately. Oprah’s team keeps calling, and Ellen’s producers even reached out last week.”

Amanda: “I saw one of your mailgirls just now kneeling outside.”

Barbara: “Yes, that’s my lovely Sarah, identified by the number 10.”

I noticed how Barbara spoke of her mailgirl with a hint of pride and warmth.

Amanda: “She’s beautiful.”

Barbara: “She’s one of my finest, remarkably loyal and truly embodies what it means to be a mailgirl—she’s served admirably for over two years now.”

I struggled to comprehend it. Sarah, the naked mailgirl, had been displayed within these walls for more than two years. Was she imprisoned by circumstance? Or perhaps, against all reason, did she find some twisted satisfaction in this role?

At that moment, a sharp rap sounded at the door. Barbara called out crisply, “Come in.” My gaze shifted toward the entrance as the door swung open. A woman in her early thirties entered, her sleek dark grey suit accentuating her slim figure. Her dark brown hair was pulled back neatly in a ponytail as she stepped inside with purposeful grace.