Chapter 3: The Price of Proximity

Setting: Financial Limited, Executive Floor and Conference Rooms, Phoenix, Arizona. Late October. Morning.

The days after Margot Sinclair’s revelation had settled into a strange new rhythm, one that I had not anticipated when I first signed the contract. I had expected the mailgirl program to be a singular experience, a stripping away of identity, a reduction to essence, a life of anonymous service. What I had not expected was to become a fixture in the personal orbit of one of the most powerful women in the company.

Margot had requested me every day for the past four days. Not for sexual service, not always, but for presence. She wanted me kneeling in her office while she worked, a silent witness to her empire-building. She wanted me at her side during conference calls, a living testament to her power over my father. She wanted me visible, a reminder to anyone who entered her domain that she could command the attention of even the most prominent executive’s daughter.

I had become, in effect, her personal mailgirl. Her property within the property.

“You’re adapting well,” Sky had said to me on the third morning, as I prepared for another day in Margot’s service. “Most girls break when they’re singled out like this. The attention, the scrutiny, it’s too much for them.”

“I’m not most girls,” I replied, my voice flat and unemotional.

Sky had looked at me with something like sadness in her eyes. “No,” she said. “You’re not. That’s what worries me.”

I had not understood her concern then. I understood it now, as I knelt in the corner of Margot’s private conference room, watching the parade of junior officials file through the door.

They were young, these officials younger than me, most of them recent MBA graduates who had been fast-tracked into positions of authority. They wore expensive suits and confident expressions, the armor of privilege. They had been summoned by Margot for what she called a “strategy session,” but I had learned to read the subtleties of her language.

This was not a strategy session. This was a demonstration.

Margot sat at the head of the conference table, her posture relaxed, her expression serene. She wore a tailored blouse in deep burgundy, her silver-streaked hair pulled back in an elegant twist. From the waist up, she was the picture of corporate professionalism.

From the waist down, she was naked.

Her skirt lay discarded on the floor beside her chair. Her underwear had been removed and placed on the table in front of her, a deliberate provocation. Her legs were spread, her feet resting on the arms of her chair, exposing her completely to anyone who entered the room.

And I was kneeling between her legs, my face pressed against her vulva, my tongue moving in slow, steady strokes.

I had been in this position for the past hour. My jaw ached, my tongue was numb, and my knees had long since gone from painful to simply absent. But I did not stop. I had been commanded to serve, and I served. That was my function. That was my purpose.

The junior officials entered in groups of two and three, their eyes widening as they took in the scene before them. They had been briefed; of course, they knew what to expect. But knowing and seeing were different things, and I watched the shock register on their faces as they realized that the Vice President of Operations was being orally serviced during a business meeting.

“Come in, come in,” Margot said, her voice warm and welcoming. “Don’t be shy. Find a seat.”

They sat, their movements stiff and uncertain. They tried not to look at me, tried to focus on Margot’s face, on the documents she had placed before them. But their eyes kept drifting downward, drawn to the sight of my head moving between her legs.

“This is Mailgirl 129,” Margot said, her voice casual, as if she were introducing a new piece of office equipment. “She’s been assigned to me for the foreseeable future. You’ll be seeing a lot of her.”

I did not look up. I kept my eyes closed, my focus on the task at hand. I had learned to detach during these moments, to let my body perform while my mind retreated to a quiet place. It was a survival mechanism, one that Sky had taught me during my first week in the program.

“You may be wondering why I’ve called you here today,” Margot continued, her hips shifting slightly against my face. “The answer is simple: I want to observe how you react to ... unconventional circumstances.”

She reached down and placed her hand on my head, her fingers tangling in my shorn hair. “Mailgirl 129 is going to continue her work while we discuss the quarterly projections. I want you to pay attention to the numbers, not to her. I want you to demonstrate that you can focus on business, regardless of the distractions around you.”

The junior officials exchanged glances, their discomfort palpable. But they were ambitious, these young men and women. They had clawed their way into positions of power, and they were not about to let a little thing like a woman being sexually serviced in front of them derail their careers.

“Of course, Vice President Sinclair,” one of them said, a young man with slicked-back hair and a nervous smile. “We’re professionals.”

“Good,” Margot said. “Then let’s begin.”

The meeting proceeded as if I were not there.

Margot discussed quarterly projections, budget allocations, and strategic initiatives. She reviewed performance metrics and discussed personnel changes. She was sharp, incisive, and utterly in control even as her body responded to my touch, even as her breath quickened and her words occasionally stumbled.

I continued my work, my tongue moving in the patterns I had been taught. I had become skilled at this, adept at reading the subtle cues of a woman’s body, the flutter of muscles, the catch of breath, the slight shift of hips that signaled approaching climax. I could bring Margot to orgasm in minutes if I chose, but she did not want that. She wanted to draw it out, to use my mouth as a background hum of pleasure while she conducted her business.

And so I maintained a steady rhythm, never speeding up, never slowing down. I was a machine, a device for her pleasure. I had no thoughts, no feelings, no desires of my own.

Or so I told myself.

“You there,” Margot said, addressing one of the junior officials, a young woman with sharp features and calculating eyes. “What’s your assessment of the Phoenix division’s performance?”

The young woman, whose name was Helena, as I had learned from the introductions, cleared her throat. “The Phoenix division has shown consistent growth over the past three quarters,” she said, her voice steady despite the circumstances. “However, there are some concerning trends in the customer acquisition metrics.”

“Go on,” Margot said, her hips shifting again. I adjusted my position, maintaining contact.

“The cost per acquisition has increased by fifteen percent year-over-year,” Helena continued. “And the retention rate has declined slightly. It’s not catastrophic, but it suggests some underlying issues with the division’s strategy.”

“Interesting,” Margot said. “And what would you recommend?”

Helena paused, her eyes flicking to me for just a moment before returning to Margot’s face. “I would recommend a comprehensive audit of the division’s operations,” she said. “Specifically, I would like to examine the leadership’s decision-making processes and their alignment with corporate objectives.”

Margot smiled, a cold, knowing expression. “You’re referring, of course, to Senior Vice President Cannon.”

“I’m referring to a general assessment of the division’s performance,” Helena said carefully. “I wouldn’t presume to single out any individual.”

“But you just did,” Margot said. “You mentioned leadership. And the leadership of the Phoenix division is Richard Cannon. My rival. My ... colleague.”

The tension in the room ratcheted up several notches. The junior officials shifted in their seats, suddenly aware that they had been drawn into something far more dangerous than a routine strategy session.

“I didn’t mean to imply,” Helena began.

“You didn’t imply anything,” Margot interrupted. “You stated a fact. The Phoenix division has performance issues. And those issues can be traced to its leadership. That’s simply good analysis.”

She reached down and pressed my head harder against her vulva. I increased my pace slightly, responding to her unspoken command.

“I want you all to understand something,” Margot said, her voice taking on a harder edge. “This company is changing. The old ways of doing business, the cronyism, the good-old-boy networks, the protection of underperforming executives those days are over. We are entering a new era, one in which performance is the only metric that matters.”

She paused, letting her words sink in. “And I intend to be the one who leads that transformation.”