Summer Lovin' by EssexEye

Summer Lovin’ by EssexEye

Part I

It’s not that Tina thought her first job out of college to be perfect: she was expecting maybe a not-great salary, possibly some apathetic coworkers, stuff like that. What she wasn’t expecting was a sexually aggressive secretary, a deceptively meek coworker, and a conspiracy that goes all the way to the top - and might end up with her as the bottom.

Done as part of a round robin homage thingamajig like what happened last year. I’m writing this in homage to P-B-K-E, because they seem to be into the idea of masking in the workplace. It wasn’t originally gonna be multiple parts but then it got lengthy.

The first word I think when I see Jessica Hartwell is “receptionist”, and I’d be thinking that even if she weren’t sitting at a desk with her job title written on a placard, and answering a phone call as well. From the tight bun her hair’s in, to her spectacles with the pointy corners, to her black pinstriped jacket over a white undershirt—everything about her screams receptionist, like she’s trying to be a parody of herself. At a tech startup like this, where casual clothes are apparently allowed and expected, it’s pretty weird.

The second, third, and fourth words I think of were “damn”, “she’s”, and “hot” in that order. Neither her jacket nor her shirt quite cover all of her cleavage, leaving me with an enticing peek beneath her neckline. And when she stands up to make some particularly forceful point on the phone, and shows off her tight skirt and sheer leggings—

I smack myself on the leg. Focus, you useless lesbian brain! This is a job interview, not Ladies’ Night at the bar.

Finally, Ms. Hartwell finishes her call. She replaces the phone in its cradle, adjusts her spectacles (a device such as that could never just be called glasses), and gives me a stare that makes me feel like I’m not supposed to be here. “Do you have an appointment?”

It takes an effort of will to remind myself that I am, in fact, supposed to be here. “Yeah, I’m, uh… Tina? Tina Williams? We talked over the phone, I sent in my resume through your website, I’m here for the… interview?” Why am I asking questions, as if these aren’t true facts? I hastily reach into my backpack and pull out my resume to shove at her.

Ms. Hartwell takes the resume and peers at it, like a bank teller trying to spot a counterfeit bill. “Mm. It says here your name is Augus—”

“Augustina, yes, Tina is technically a nickname.” Though I haven’t let anyone call me Augustina in, like, four years. Come on, Mom and Dad, were you being serious with that name?

“I see.” She passes it back to me and fixes me with that glare and Jesus, that is the intersection of intimidation and sex right there.

I wish these thoughts would stop.

Ms. Hartwell looks over her shoulder at the door that says Simone Beauregard, and says, “Your eleven o’clock is here, Ms. Beauregard.”

A voice calls back through the door, and it’s a lot less stern than Ms. Hartwell’s. If anything, it’s a little out of breath. “Send her in, Jess—I mean, Ms. Hartwell! I’m just changing.”

Ms. Hartwell’s lip curls a little at Jess. Nonetheless, she stands up and opens the door for me, and I walk into the boss’s office.

I notice a few things in sequence. The desk has a computer and a phone and various bits of paper and stuff on it, but it doesn’t have a person behind it. There’s a big complicated piece of exercise equipment in the corner, with the adjustable weights set to a pretty high number and the seat slick with recent sweat. On the wall is a locked closet. And in another corner, much closer to the door, is a little screened-off alcove, with a silhouette behind it. “I’ll be right out, sit down,” says the silhouette.

I do, and within a second a woman emerges from behind the screen. Tanned, buff under her thin tanktop, and gleaming with a sheen of sweat. Her hair is a little messy, which makes sense if she just changed clothes. “Sorry about Jess—I mean Ms. Hartwell,” she says, smiling apologetically as she sits behind the desk. “Great receptionist, but she’s always been, well, like that.” She offers her hand. “You can call me Simone.”

I offer my hand back. Her grip is firm, but I get the sense she could grip way harder if she wanted.

“So,” she says, “what makes you want to work at QuickChange Enterprises?”

The interview passes quickly—maybe fifteen minutes? There’s only so much you can say about why you want to work at a run-of-the-mill “we make websites for you” company. Whatever: Simone’s nice, and when she offers a few example coding problems for me to work through, her followup questions make it clear she knows her stuff.

“All right,” she says, and sticks out her hand once more. “I’ve made up my mind. Welcome aboard, Tina! You can start right away!”

“Erm….”

“I’m kidding, you start on Monday. But seriously, though.” She walks around the desk as I stand up, and takes me by the shoulders, and for whatever reason I don’t mind the personal space intrusion because she’s just that friendly. “Have a look around the office, meet people. Your room is gonna be… 113, second from the left. Put your stuff in there if you’re bringing anything.”

She guides me toward the door. “And welcome to QuickChange Enterprises,” she says, ushering me on through. “Congrats!”

The door closes behind me. I walk out, and then frown and turn around—and there’s Ms. Hartwell, typing away at her computer, not sparing me a glance.

Huh. For a moment it seemed like no one was in there.

Everyone’s pretty friendly as I introduce myself. Not too friendly—they’re all busy coding and don’t really have time for someone who doesn’t work here yet—but no one’s nasty either.

Within about twenty minutes I’ve worked my way around to the last two rooms, 113 and 114. The office as a whole is organized in two parallel corridors, and if I’m remembering my sense of direction correctly, I’ve ended up pretty close to Simone and Ms. Hartwell’s rooms. 113, my room, is one away from the end of the corridor: 114 is the one at the end. A post it note under the number says “July Jones”.

I knock twice. Within seconds, the door is yanked open, and a voice says, “Hi there!”

The person doing the yanking is in a loose t-shirt, sweatpants, and sandals—she’s the poster child for casual dress codes everywhere. Her face is sort of slight and pale, contrasted by her flaming red hair. “You must be Tina!” she says, and gives a little wave. “Hi!”

“Hi… how’d you know that?”

“Oh!” She suddenly looks embarrassed. “My office is right next to the boss’s. And her weird secretary’s, too. The walls aren’t that thick. Sorry, should I have waited for you to introduce yourself, or….”

“Don’t worry about it.” I laugh, relieving the tension, and give a little wave back. “Tina Williams. And you must be July.”

I pronounce it like the month. She winces. “Yeah, it’s spelled that way, but please pronounce it like Julie. You know, like an actual name a human person would have. Dumb parents,” she mutters.

I giggle a little, though this one isn’t just to relieve tension. “Wanna know a secret?” A spark of curiosity lights up her eyes, and she nods, so I lean in and whisper, “Tina’s actually short for Augustina.”

She blinks a few times. “No way.”

“I know, right?”

“We’re month buddies!” She hops up and down. “And we’re even next to each other! Oh my gosh, we—hang on,” she says, and rushes to grab her phone from where it’s charging on her desk. “We should totally exchange contact info….” She peters off. “I mean, if that’s all right with you?”

I hold up my phone, and I see her face light up.

I leave QuickChange that afternoon with a new friend’s phone number, and a promise to meet up over drinks later. I’ve got a job, I’ve met someone new, and life is good.

Life is… still good, but strange.

I’ve been working at QuickChange for a few weeks. Development’s going fine. We’re getting customers, getting contracts, yadda yadda yadda. Simone’s always approachable if I have questions—at least, as approachable as a person can be when she’s being guarded by a dominatrix like Ms. Hartwell. (I mean, I don’t know that she’s a dominatrix, but I definitely don’t know that she isn’t.)

And July is great! She’s been helping me get the hang of the couple of internal tools at the company, and does a great job reviewing my code, and I try to do as good a job reviewing hers. And we’ve been out for drinks a couple times, so we’re pretty good buds.

But some things are strange, and by some things, I mostly mean Ms. Hartwell. She hasn’t warmed up at all, she’s the only one who feels the need to dress up at the office, and…. Well, maybe this is just me going crazy. But sometimes it seems like she vanishes, or appears out of thin air. Like, I’ll go in to talk to Simone, and Ms. Hartwell will be there when I enter but not when I leave. Even if I’m only in there for, like, a few seconds.

It doesn’t really matter right now, though, because I’ve got something bigger on my mind. It’s the end of the day on a Friday, and I’m busy psyching myself up. Frankly, I’ve been psyching myself all week. I take one last deep breath, then step outside my office, and in front of July’s.

I’ve been meaning to do this for a while. July and I have been getting along really well, and she laughs at all my jokes, and we like a lot of the same things, and… I’ve been wanting to ask her out. And not as friends. Even if office romances are supposed to be a terrible idea, I don’t wanna just ignore how I feel. So I sigh deeply, mutter, “Here goes nothing,” and knock.

No reply.

I tentatively push open the door, and her office is empty. She must have taken an early bus home or something. Those agitated flickerings inside me, the proverbial butterflies in the stomach, slowly die away.

I sigh again, and it’s a lot deeper this time. I barely managed to convince myself to do this the first time, so how am I supposed to pull it off a second time? I turn away, intending to go grab my stuff and leave as well—

I hear fingers tapping on a keyboard.

When I look again, July is there, typing away like she’d been there the whole time. She glances up. “Oh, hey, month buddy. What’s up?”

My jaw is slack. “But… what’s going on?” She looks confused, but not nearly as confused as I feel. I gesture at the corridor around me, the one she’d have had to walk through—past me—to get back into her office. “Where were—how’d you get back in here?”

She frowns. “Been here the whole time. Look, I was gonna head out, unless you need something?”

“Uh, but….” I’m only partially leaning through her doorway, which means I can punch myself in the thigh without her seeing. Focus, idiot: you came here for a reason! “Actually,” I say, walking all the way into her room. “I was wondering if you wanted to go out tonight.”

“Oh, for drinks again? Hmmm.” She purses her lips, and god she looks cute when she does that. “I guess I’ve got time for a friendly round—”

“Not as friends.”

She stops talking.

“I… I’m asking you out. Like, not just as friends who are girls, but… y’know… girlfriends.” My voice trails off at the end.

She blushes. “How do you know—what makes you think I’m into girls?”

My heart does a backflip to hear her say that—the first part, specifically. “Just a feeling.”

“Well….” She glances around, as if looking for approval. Then she jumps up. “Oh, screw it. Only got one life to live—might as well give it a shot, right?”

We leave the office together, and it feels like I’m walking on the moon.

“It’s so bad!” July is laughing her head off.

We’re at the bar, and a couple different channels are playing, including—for some reason—that old movie The Master of Disguise, on the screen closest to us. And yes, it is really bad, and we’re both laughing along as we order drinks. July’s looking a little rosy cheeked from how much she’s had.

“I mean,” she says, “you can’t expect to fool people with just some prosthetics!” She slumps on the counter, still shaking with mirth.

“Hey, be nice,” I say, jostling her a little. “I loved this movie when I was a kid.”

“Why?” she manages.

“I guess….” I dunno if I’ve ever told this to anyone, but hey—I’m buzzed, and my lips are loose. “I’ve got a bit of a… thing. For disguises.” She pushes herself up off the counter to listen, looking at me, and I continue. “Like… the idea of becoming someone else, being in another skin. I guess you could say it excites me….” I rub my thighs to together. “Like, in that way.”

“This is just because you don’t wanna be called Augustina, isn’t it.” July giggles and boops my nose.

I flinch back. “It is not! Mostly.”

“No, really though, I get it.”

I stop talking.

“I dunno if you’ve noticed this about me, but….” July looks down tiredly at the bar. “I’m kind of not that confident. Like, I’ve kind of thought you were cute for a while, but I don’t think I was ever gonna do anything about that. Sometimes I wish I was, y’know, someone else. Someone more… daring?”

She looks up into my eyes. “But you know something? Being with you… I’m pretty happy with being me.”

And then she leans in and kisses me. Her mouth tastes like the cheap beer she’s been drinking, and at this moment I can’t imagine a taste more delicious, so I kiss her right back.

It’s time for my weekly meeting with Simone, but when I try to walk through Ms. Hartwell’s office, she tells me that Ms. Beauregard is on a call and isn’t available yet, and directs me to wait here until she is. In theory, Ms. Hartwell doesn’t outrank me or anything, so there’s nothing stopping me from going back to my office and waiting there instead, maybe getting some work done.

In practice, I sit down like my ass has been magnetized to the chair.

The clock ticks along, and Ms. Hartwell keeps typing. I look around the office because the alternative is staring right at her. There’s a fair amount of stuff in here: little potted plants, tiny sculptures on shelves, photographs of landscapes… no family pictures, though. Evidently, Ms. Hartwell prefers to keep her work like and her private life separate.

I’m laughing quietly to myself, thinking about how that doesn’t apply to me at all, when she clears her throat. “Yes?” I say, immediately stopping with the laughing.

She doesn’t look up from her work, but she does start talking. “Ms. Beauregard is committed to the ideal of a relaxed workplace environment. To a fault, even. So she won’t say what needs to be said, and thus, that responsibility falls upon me.” She sniffs. “I suppose this is what it means to delegate.”

A silence fell, if you could call it a silence with her continued typing. In any case, the longer she didn’t talk, the more I felt I needed to, until the words were drawn out of me as if by suction: “Uh, what do you—”

Which is, of course, exactly when she cuts me off and looks me in the eye. “Ms. Williams, inter-office romances are a poor idea.”

My words catch in my throat.

“I can see why you might take a liking to Ms. Jones,” she says, and it takes me a moment to remember that that’s July’s last name, “and why she might take an interest in you as well. You have a certain… physical charm.” The words hang in the air long enough for me to realize she’s just, technically, called me pretty. “But I must warn you. These things always lead to complications far beyond what you could anticipate.”

I find my voice at last. “I checked the employee handbook and there’s nothing in there that says we can’t—”

“Have I not made myself plain, Augustina?” She walks around the desk, and I hear the sound of her high heels against the floor, t-tack t-tack t-tack. She leans down in front of me and her breath is hot on my cheek, and I wish I could say that I’m uncomfortable, but that’s not quite the right word. “If you intend to go through with this, you must be prepared to accept the consequences.”

The last word is a whisper into my ear.

“Ms. Hartwell! Send her in!”

Oh, thank god. Simone’s voice gives me the start I need to jump to my feet and rush past Ms. Hartwell, right into Simone’s office. I don’t glance back.

Simone’s behind her screen as usual, but emerges a few seconds later. “Sorry this keeps happening. I exercise when I’m feeling stressed out.”

“You’re always exercising,” I say.

She grins. “Bingo. What’s up?”

We talk about projects, she gives me some advice and feedback, and it goes well. And then, at the end, as I’m getting ready to leave, she asks the big question: “Anything else you wanted to talk about?”

“Um.” I take a deep breath. “Yeah, uh… your secretary is really weird.”

She chuckles. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“She… has issues with personal space. Like, my personal space.”

Simone’s eyes narrow. Apparently this counts as something she doesn’t know.

“And… that’s not the only thing. Sometimes she’s not there when she should be. And I don’t mean, like, she takes really long bathroom breaks or ducks out early, I mean, like—” I find myself rambling, stumbling over my words. “Like she vanishes and reappears, like a ghost or something….”

A few seconds after saying that, I realize there’s no way to say it without sounding like a crazy person. Simone’s look confirms my fears. “Uh-huh,” she says, slowly. “Well, I dunno about that, but I’ll definitely talk to her about the personal space thing. Thanks for reaching out.”

Shamefacedly, I leave her office and return to mine—and something occurs to me on the way. So instead of going back into my room, I knock on July’s door. “Come in!” she says.

“Hey,” I say, opening the door, “can I ask you something?”

“Sure, what’s up?”

“You know how….” I drop my voice so that no one else can hear. “How we’re dating now?”

She smiles up at me. “I’d have to say I do, yeah. And I really like it.”

“Um… did you tell anyone?”

“Uh… guess not. Do you want me to tell my parents, or—”

“I mean anyone here, at the company.”

“Oh!” She shakes her head. “Nope. Why?”

“Just… nevermind. Talk to you later.”

So how did Ms. Hartwell know?

She comes by my office later that afternoon. Ms. Hartwell, I mean.

I’m typing away at my computer, trying to debug something with this stupid CSS, and I hear a t-tack t-tack t-tack and look up to see her holding a sheaf of papers, walking through the door I leave open. “Ms. Beauregard has a new assignment for you,” she says, and places the papers on my desk. “Please deliver some estimates for this at your earliest convenience.”

She’s never come to my office before, and I don’t think I’ve seen her come to anyone else’s. “Uh-huh.” I carefully avoid eye contact. Hopefully her first visit will be as brief as it is unusual—but then I hear the door closing and glance up to see her still in my room, her hand on the handle. I try not to gulp.

“I have something else to talk to you about.” And then another first, and this one’s much more shocking: her expression softens a little. “Ms. Beauregard informed me that you feel I’ve behaved… unprofessionally toward you. I’d like to offer my apologies.”

“Oh. Um… thank you?” I blink, and rephrase it as a statement with some effort. “Thank you.”

But it’s weird, because she’s walking closer. “I want to reassure you, Augustina, I did not intend to do anything that would make you… unhappy. So I hope we can take the time to establish some clear boundaries.”

Before I can ask what she means, she puts a hand on my swivel chair and spins me away from my computer to face her. Then, without further preamble, she drapes herself across my lap, back against the armrest, arm around my back. Her head right next to mine. “Does this make you feel unhappy?” she whispers.

“Igubuh,” I say.

“No need to be coy.” She traces a finger along my face, and it feels like electric current is passing through my skin. “I’ve seen the way you look at me. The way you try not to look at me.” She uncrosses, then crosses her pantyhosed legs. I’m distinctly aware of how her taut rear is shifting against my lap.

“Uhhhthth.”

“And I confess feeling similarly toward you. You have an undeniable, shall we say, girl next door charm.” Her hand cups my chin, forcing me to look right at her, and I see her face is red—not nearly as red as mine feels, though. “I am so fond of girls like you and July.”

Bringing up July is what gives me the ability to use words again, instead of incoherent mumbles. “You know July and I are already together—”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about her.” Ms. Hartwell smiles sweetly, like a poisoned apple. “I’ve known July for some time. Known her intimately, even. She won’t voice any complaints.” She leans closer, her voice breathy. “Which means that right now, I have you all to myself.”

She leans right in, pulls my head closer, and makes me kiss her. I can taste her lipstick, and feel her tongue, and for all that this is so wrong it feels so right as she makes little noises of satisfaction, and my eyes roll back beneath their lids.

And then she’s off of me. I open my eyes to see her with the same dour expression as always, standing in my office like nothing just happened. “Be sure to devote your attention to that project. I’ll see you later, Miss Williams.”

“Wha—” I have to force myself to stand as she walks away, leaving behind only those little t-tack t-tack t-tack sounds from her heels. I rush out my office after her. “No hang on, you can’t just—”

“Tina? What’s up?”

Ms. Hartwell isn’t there. Even though I heard her only seconds ago, she’s not there. The only one in the corridor is July, and she looks confused, even concerned. “Are you okay? You look kind of… mussed up.”

“Did you—what did—Miss Hartwell!” I point wildly. “She must have gone right past you!”

“I… didn’t see anyone?” She frowns. “Tina, it’s okay if you need to go home early or something—”

“She was in my office not ten seconds ago. She—she said—” I remember one thing she said, and grab July by the shoulders. “July,” I hiss, “she said she knew you intimately. Has Ms. Hartwell been… harassing you?”

July looks off to the side. She doesn’t say no.

“That does it.” I take her hand and drag her along behind me, marching down the corridor. “We are going to get that crazy bitch fired. You’re going to tell them what she’s been doing to you, and—”

But July slips her hand from mine. When I turn around in surprise, she looks more uncomfortable than I’ve ever seen her. “I… I just realized, I’ve got something I need to do at home. I forgot. Sorry, I’ve gotta go.” She rushes past me, aiming not for the turn that would lead her toward Ms. Hartwell’s office, but for the stairs.

I stare and watch her go. What the hell is going on?

Why is Ms. Hartwell hitting on me? Why isn’t July concerned? Why are they sometimes vanishing for no reason?

I blink several times.

Why have I never seen them in the same place at the same time?

The idea was crazy. Totally crazy. But then again, so was everything else.

I really hadn’t seen them in the same place ever. Not even at the company’s rare all-hands-on-deck meetings, also known as the exact kind of place I’d expect to see them both. Both of them were roughly the same height and build, though it wasn’t exact. Both had engaged in certain, er, displays of affection with me. I’d seen both of them vanish at unexpected times—and most recently, July had appeared in Ms. Hartwell’s place.

And July had mentioned wanting to be someone more confident. I could hardly imagine someone more confident than Ms. Hartwell. It all made sense!

Except for the slight issue of it being impossible. As ridiculous as the idea of Ms. Hartwell vanishing was, it was probably more ludicrous to imagine her shapeshifting into July within a second. I was probably just letting my, ahem, interests get the better of my logical brain.

But you know what? Fuck it. I’m going crazy anyway: might as well give in and see where crazy leads me. Over the weekend, I spend a little time online and purchase a certain device.

On Monday I arrive early—crazy early. I’ve heard Ms. Hartwell is an early riser, so I’m at the office by dawn to preempt her. No one’s home, not in any of the rooms and certainly not in Ms. Hartwell’s. So I enter her office, snoop around, and find the perfect hiding spot….

Bingo.

Smiling to myself, I stuff the original in my backpack, bring out the replacement—

“Ms. Williams. You’re certainly displaying quite the work ethic today.”

My blood is frozen in my veins. I’m right next to the door—there’s no way she got in past me—but I turn around and see her sitting at her desk, staring at me. “Is there some way I can assist you?”

“No, I was just, just… I was wondering if Simone was here yet.”

“She arrives somewhat later in the morning than I do. As I assumed you knew.” She quirks an eyebrow. “Is there some other reason you’re manhandling my picture?”

“Oh, this!” I hold out the picture frame, which holds a picture of the aurora borealis. “It’s just really pretty is all, and I was looking at it.” I hurriedly place it back on its shelf, making sure the angle is right, and then make to leave. “All right, I’ve put it back, and now I’ll be out of your hair—”

“So soon? And here I thought we were enjoying one another’s company, Augustina…..”

I can hear the seductive, taunting smile, and my glance back only confirms it. She’s rising from her desk, crossing the room toward me, and I swear she’s shaking her hips more than usual. “Come now, you can admit it. Don’t feel embarrassed.” She slams her hand on the wall, her arm between me and the door, but her voice is soft. “You came early to be with me, didn’t you?”

For a moment I imagine July in her stead. Her lips so close to mine, her hand trapping me in here, her breasts hanging down—

No. No no no no. There is too much going on right now in my head. I put my hand on her chest—her collarbone, not her boobs, thank you very much—and shove her back. “I really need to work on that project,” I say, and duck out of the room before she can reply.

The rest of the day is spent burying myself in work, trying to pretend the only thing I’m concerned about is making some website look correct. When July arrives later that morning, I don’t say a word to her.

And before I leave that night, I do a final covert check in Ms. Hartwell’s office, and she’s not there to accost me.

The hidden camera is just where I left it, safely concealed in a replacement picture frame.

The camera is a fantastic little gizmo for its size. It’s been uploading its video feed over the internet to my computer all day. On the other hand, being so tiny and having to stream its video means that the picture quality is not great, the framerate’s worse, and there’s no sound.

But I don’t need much. I can still see Ms. Hartwell’s face in the video, even if it is in black and white. I grin and click play, ready to get to the bottom of this.

Several hours later… I’m not as ready as I was when I started. It turns out, watching a receptionist do work, take calls, and occasionally walk in and out of her boss’s office is about as exciting as it sounds, and twice as mundane. Sure, Ms. Hartwell is definitely a sexual harassment lawsuit waiting to happen, but these first several hours haven’t shown me any evidence that she’s part of some wacko double life.

It’s late at night, nearing midnight. I’m in my PJs, yawning frequently. I’ve increased the playback speed multiple times now, and I think it’s at something like three times its usual speed. Four times? Who knows. The timestamp in the video says I’m nearly at the end of the day.

I slump forward in my desk chair, and perspective washes over me like a cold shower. What the hell am I doing? Spying on a woman in her own office, just because I watched too many dumb movies in my formative years? Spending hours watching her fill out forms, do interviews, occasionally lean back and stretch her shoulders and idly stick her finger down in her—

Hold on.

I stop the video, and I rewind about a minute. She’s sitting with her arms up, pulling on one elbow with her other hand, relieving tension in her shoulders. This goes on for about twenty seconds, and then she drops one of her arms to the desk. The other goes down further than the desk, and starts relieving another kind of tension entirely.

Ms. Hartwell’s desk is the kind that forms a box around her legs: I can’t actually see her going at herself directly. But the rhythmic way I see her shoulder and upper arm move, and the little silent pants she’s making with her mouth, don’t leave room for any other conclusion. She’s masturbating in her office.

It takes me a few moments to realize that I’m copying her.

Her free arm rises above her head, and her expression curls up with what looks like anguish but must be ecstasy. And then, to my surprise, she kicks off the desk and rolls her chair out to the side, apparently without meaning to. And now I have direct confirmation.

Her hand is a blur at this framerate, at this video quality, but it’s clearly nestled in under her leggings and right into her womanhood. She’s moaning, twisting this way and that, and it is so arousing—not just because it’s Ms. Hartwell, but from the obscene voyeuristic aspect of it. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was putting on a show, just for me. Maybe in my more private moments, I’ll imagine it that way.

We’re both getting close. My hand is slick with my own juices, and I imagine hers must be as well. Her moans are getting bigger, and I imagine I can hear them through the screen, and she’s turning this way and that on her swivel chair—

She pauses for a moment, facing the camera, and it’s almost like she winks—but I can’t be sure on the camera. She spins around all the way, a full rotation. As her back faces me, I see a little flurry of movement, barely noticeable.

When the chair rotates back around, July is sitting in it.

My heart stops, but it’s the only thing that does. Instead of leggings, July’s hand is rubbing vigorously within her sweatpants, and another hand is inside her shirt, clutching at her breast—and for my part, I’ve only sped up. My hand is shoving itself in and out of me with furious intent.

It’s everything I ever imagined—in my best dreams and my worst ones.

I explode, just as she does. Our hips buck together. I gasp and cry, and I see her do the same.

And then it’s over. She coos, takes a deep breath, stands, and readjusts her clothes. I’m still sitting down, feeling utterly drenched in moisture, and too dumbfounded to move. It’s real. I’m not crazy. It’s real.

I keep watching long enough to see her press on a certain patch of wall, one which I know must be next to July’s office. The patch of wall swivels open, letting her go through to July’s office. Then I stop the video and slam my laptop shut, panting like I’ve just run a marathon.

This is evidence. This is proof. I’ve seen all I need to see, and I definitely don’t need to watch any more before sleeping.

I watch it six more times, and cum during three of them.

Part II

Tina puts the pieces together, and is rewarded with a chance at a promotion. Whether she wants it or not.

July is waiting for me when I enter the office. That is, someone’s waiting who has a face like July’s, and a voice like July’s, and clothes and a body like July’s. At this point I don’t even know anymore. “Morning, month buddy!” she says. “You look tired. Sleep badly last night?”

Does ‘month buddy’ even make sense? Is July her actual name? She’s walking toward her office: I ignore her. As if on rails, I turn left, and then right, and head down to “Ms. Hartwell”’s office.

The woman herself there when I enter, typing away like nothing is wrong. “That was fast,” I mutter.

“Dear me. Here first thing in the morning, two days in a row.” ‘Ms. Hartwell’ adjusts her glasses and smiles mischievously. “If you want to convince me you don’t enjoy my company, Augustina, you’ll have to work harder than—”

“I need to talk to Simone.”

“I’m afraid she’s rather busy at the—”

“I saw you last night.” I plant my hands on her desk and lean over her. “I saw you. And ‘July’. And I saw the panel.” I glance at it, and so does she. “I need to talk to Simone. Now.”

“Ms. Hartwell”’s eyes widen briefly. It’s enough to lend me a feeling of triumph. “One moment,” she says, and stands up to face the door. “Ms. Beauregard? Ms. Williams says she needs to speak with you. Urgently.”

After a moment, I hear the reply: “Send her in.” It sounds somewhat excited.

“Ms. Hartwell” opens the door for me. I step through and wait patiently for Simone to emerge from behind her changing screen. “So,” she says, “what’s up, Tina?”

I pull out my phone and load the video. Specifically, the important part of the video. “You need to see this.” I rest it on the desk, the screen facing her, and tap play.

She frowns. “Tina?” she asks after a few seconds. “Why do you have camera footage from inside Ms. Hartwell’s… is she doing what I think she’s doing?” Apparently we’ve reached the masturbation section of the video. Simone blushes. “Um… wow.”

“Keep watching.” My voice is firm and cold.

She bites her lip and does as I say. Almost a minute passes, and then—“What was that?” she yelps, recoiling.

“One of your employees is leading an elaborate double life.” I keep showing her the video for long enough to see the panel—I’ve memorized the timing by now, so I don’t need to also be watching—and then replace it in my pocket. “Or I guess two of your employees. Think about it. You’ve never seen July and Ms. Hartwell in the same place, have you?”

Simone squints.

“It’s just… I thought you should know that they’re—that she’s using you. That she used me,” I mumble. “So… what are you going to do?”

The seconds stretch out. Simone reaches forward, her finger twitching, like she’s trying to rewind an invisible screen—like she’s watching it in her mind’s eye. Finally, maybe ten seconds later, she looks up at me and speaks. “Good work on this, Tina.”

“Hm?”

“That was some very well-done video editing.”

I blink. No, you’ve gotta be kidding me—

“Though I don’t understand why you felt the need to show it to me. If this is some backdoor way of trying to audition for a video editing role, we don’t actually have one at the moment—”

“What—no!” I jolt to my feet. “This is me showing you that this workplace is crazy!”

“Oh, give me a break.” Simone glares at me. “I know you don’t like Ms. Hartwell, but she’s the most reliable secretary on the planet, and if you want me to fire her because of some… crazy body-changing fairy tale, then you’ve got another thing coming. Is there anything else you’re interested in talking about, or do you want to leave my office?”

She stands up too, and she’s taller than me. “Or maybe you can stay here and talk about how you’ve just performed some combination of the following: filming one of my employees without her consent, showing me edited porn of that employee during work, and trying to get one of your coworkers fired?”

I’m shaking in my shoes. I’ve never heard her sound this authoritative before, and it feels as though all my arguments are wilting under a scorching sun. “I, um….”

She puts a hand on her hip. “Well, Ms. Williams?”

“I….” I blink. Hang on. “I’ve just realized something.”

“And what is that?”

“That I’ve never seen you in the same place as Ms. Hartwell or July. Not once.”

She stares at me. And then she walks out from behind the desk, and walks to the door. And locks it.

And then she walks behind her screen, and a few seconds later, July pops out and tackles me. I yelp, and it takes several seconds to realize it’s a hug. “You did it!” she yells. “I knew you could do it—well, I really hoped, no one else figured it out and it’s been so long—”

“What—” It’s the only word I can get out before she embraces me in a passionate kiss. A kiss which lasts for all of two seconds before I push her back. “What the fuck is going on. Explain, now!”

“Right, of course!” She backs up, cringing a little in embarrassment. “Got carried away there—I’ve just been waiting forever. Sorry.”

July minces her way back behind Simone’s desk… behind her own desk, really. She sits down and, after several seconds, I do the same. “And when I say sorry,” she says, “I really do mean it. Sorry for everything I’ve been putting you through. It must have been driving you crazy.”

My voice is a hiss. “It has. Explanation now, please.”

“Right. So.” She blushes. “The truth is… there’s not really a Ms. Hartwell. Or a Simone, even. They’re all just me. I mean, the me under here right now.” She tugs on her cheek a bit as if she’s going to pull off a mask, but it stays on. “I’m… gonna let you call that me Any.” She hunches her shoulders a little, coyly. “I guess you can tell it’s not my original name, but… well, we’ve only just met, after all.”

My heart is racing, sending my blood around my body like my arteries are a Nascar circuit. “Why and how.” It takes a lot of effort to keep my voice low and serious—to act like hurt is the only thing I’m feeling, as opposed to just the simplest thing.

“Why is easier, so I’ll start with that.” She sighs and slumps forward. “Do you know how hard it is to start up a startup? No one wants to be the first one to board what might be a sinking ship. Second after the founder, I mean. But….” A little smile lights up her face. “What if the company already had three people there? Including a personal secretary? That would seem like way more of a sure thing, right?”

I blink.

“I was gonna have… oh, I’m not sure which two,” she says, tilting her head this way and that, “but some two of me quit after a while. After we’d gotten enough people to keep going. Probably July and Ms. Hartwell. But I guess I’ve got a bad habit, or three.” She giggles.

“You pretended to be three people… for the sake of a startup.”

She smiles back.

“Bullshit!” I slam my hands on the desk again. “That is not a good enough reason. That is not one hundredth of a good enough reason for the shit you’ve been pulling.”

“Yeah, you’re right. I mean, I’m not lying, it is a reason. But there’s a bigger one. And that reason is….”

She grabs a sheaf of papers from the desk and throws them up in the air like confetti, obscuring her body for only a few seconds. When they settle back on the desk, I’m not looking at July anymore.

“I get off on it,” says Ms. Hartwell. She’s sitting with perfect composure at her “boss”’s desk, not a hair out of place and not a wrinkle in her tight-fitting shirt. “The thought of playing a part like this, and playing it to perfection day in and day out, excites me like nothing else in this world can.” Her voice is getting less neutral, her words are quickening. “The feeling of this tight suit, compressing me, molding me into another identity, reminding me with every breath I take that the real me is nowhere to be found, hidden behind a supposed normal girl, or a tanned babe from the beach, or this sexed up stereotypical secretary—”

She lets out a little gasp, her lips parted in a perfect O, and leans forward as she stands up. “You understand it, don’t you, Augustina? I learned it from July, just how much this excites you. It’s why I made sure to put on that show for you last night.”

I sucked in a breath. So she had noticed the hidden camera.

She walks around the desk with slow, deliberate steps, t-tack t-tack t-tack, and plants herself again on my lap—and I let her do it. “I know you love it,” she purrs. “Imagining some senseless harlot, half blinded behind a mask and contact lenses, strutting down these halls in my high heels. Her real skin hot and slick with sweat, among other things, beneath my flawless exterior—doesn’t it make your breath quicken, Augustina? Don’t your legs squirm at the thought? Doesn’t your pulse race?”

It’s like she’s reading out my biography. She reaches up to my head with one hand, except instead of grabbing my head she rests two fingers against my carotid artery. “I have to confess,” she says, her voice breathy. “I was lonely, before. I was worried I would never find anyone who understood. And now you’re here, Augustina. The answer to my silent prayers.” She leans closer and kisses my cheek, just a little peck.

I want to reciprocate, because she’s right about everything she’s said. But I stay firm. “Who says I’m staying here?”

Her mouth opens, her eyes widen, in an exaggerated expression of shock. “Heavens. You’re right. You could unlock the door, go out there, and tell everyone. I’d be completely exposed.”

If she’s trying to sound terrified, she’s not doing a great job—indeed, she’s licking her lips as she slides off my lap and kneels before me, clutching desperately at my leg. “Please, Augustina, surely there must be some way—” her hand reaches for her shirt “—I can convince you—” fiddles with the buttons “—to keep this quiet—” and undoes them one by one, revealing more and more of her flawless breast each time.

I reach out my hand to grab hers before she can go further. “Here’s what I want,” I whisper. “Show me how it works. How you work.”

She smirks up at me. “In that case, Augustina, I shall see you momentarily.” She stands, brushes herself off, and rebuttons her shirt before walking back behind the desk. With a little nod, she ducks down and out of sight.

Simone stands up. “So,” she says, and sticks her bare arm out, tensing it. “Feel this.” I reach out and touch her arm, and grab at it, and feel how firm the muscles are. “Feels real, right? But it’s not quite skin—it’s called a skinsuit. It simulates the skin, the fat, even the muscles underneath.” She smiles. “Pretty swell, right?”

“Wow. Do you mind if I—” She’s already smiling and nodding, giving me carte blanche, so I grasp her arm and roll my thumb around. I squeeze at her muscles, and then lean forward even further. My hand travels up her arm, along her collarbone, and—cheekily—down to her breasts, which I fondle through her tank top. She’s been feeling me up for the past few days, after all, and she lets out a little murmur of appreciation anyway.

It feels so real. “And your real skin is really under there?” I say, not letting go.

“Ooh, there’s actually a latex catsuit under here. Keeps the outer layer clean.” She smiles, and leans forward into the pressure of my hands. “Plus I like having the extra layer. Feels… comfy, in all the wrong ways.”

“How do you change suits so quickly?”

She laughs. “Oh, I don’t change suits. It’s the suit that’s changing.” She gently pushes my hand off her breasts, then holds out her hand and lays it on the desk. “Watch this,” she says, and flourishes with it like a magician doing a trick.

My attention is drawn to it. The fingers keeps moving as if playing an invisible keyboard for a few seconds longer, building my anticipation, and then all the fingers splay out—and I watch them change color before my eyes, from Simone’s tanned skin to something paler. A bit smaller, too—I see some bulk leave the fingers.

“It’s all one suit,” says July’s voice, and I look up in astonishment to see that she’s changed again, clothes and all. I’d barely taken my eyes off her. “And it’s got little mechanisms in it that change the color and the muscles. Um… besides those….” She flexes, showing off absolutely no definition in her arm. “There’s also little lifts in the feet that rise or lower, and a sort of posture thingy in the torso that basically stretches me out or lets me relax. It’s not enough to hurt, but I can gain or lose something like three inches in either direction.”

She grins sheepishly. “And there’s an adjustable corset too. Like, I’m just regular skinny right now, but Ms. Hartwell’s waistline is ridiculous. The feeling I get when it’s pressing on me….” She sucks in a breath. “I think that’s why Ms. Hartwell is the horniest one of me.”

“And—and the clothes? The face?” This is a lot to process. I’m sort of slackening back in my chair, imagining what that must all feel like—imagining how it would feel on me. “Are those part of the suit too, or—”

“Nope, those aren’t attached. Watch.” July pulls her logo-bearing t-shirt off over her head, revealing a plain tan bra. Then she throws it at my face, where it lands to obscure my vision. I realize exactly what she’s doing, and I pull it off my head as fast as possible, and I’m still not quick enough to see any transition—Ms. Hartwell is there now, similarly shirtless. But her bra is black lingerie.

“I don’t suppose you’ve ever seen a quick change act, Augustina?” Ms. Hartwell smiles, and swipes her hands over her breasts; the bra changes briefly to the tan set that July had worn, and then changes back with another quick movement. “The performer wears special clothes that can quickly fold and unfold, presenting a new appearance. This is the same basic principle.”

Her hand reaches up and starts mushing at her breast, apparently without her noticing. Horniest of the three, indeed. “And as for the masks, well, that took quite some time and skill to master. I took inspiration from the ancient dramatic art of Bian Lian. These days, after strenuous practice and discipline, I can fully change my identity within the blink of an eye. “

“That’s not possible,” I say, as if I believe it.

“Oh?” She smiles. “Then I’ll just have to make you blink, Augustina.”

And the look in her eyes tells me that we’ve reached the time for action, not talking. And that stings, because I have so many more questions—how do the panels in the walls work? How does she switch between personalities, between voices, so easily? Haven’t I heard Simone’s voice while looking at Ms. Hartwell?

With a careless sweep of Ms. Hartwell’s arms, the desk is cleared of everything upon it—files, the phone, even the computer crashes to the (thankfully carpeted) floor. She crawls over the desk toward me, an exaggerated affectation of longing, of lust. She reaches out for the collar of my shirt and gently pushes me into my seat. The torrent of questions in my mind stills—almost entirely—and I have no problem with rising from my seat to obey.

“I’ve prepared a new assignment for you,” she says softly. “Watch me carefully as we do this. Keep your eyes on me. Try to spot any transitions, any imperfections in my changing identities.” She smiles. “And in case it’s not obvious, Augustina, I’m setting you up to fail.”

It’s a challenge I’m more than willing to accept. But there’s still one more question. “Was it all a lie?” I ask.

She puts her finger on my lips. “Yes. Except for how we—how I—feel about you. All of me loves you, Augustina.”

She gets off the desk and starts a slow striptease. First to go is the skirt, which she works down her legs with as much wiggling of the rear as possible. She kicks it off to the side, then dances in a tight circle to show off every inch of her exposed leggings, as well as the flesh—well, flesh substitute—beneath.

“Does this excite you, Augustina?” She bends down further than is necessary, undoing and removing her high heels one—by—one. “Are you enjoying what you’re seeing?

She moves in further, and before I know it she’s sunken into a lap dance. First she’s backed toward me and is grinding her ass into my lap, and then she turns around as I pant, and she straddles my legs with her own, and presses her breasts toward my face.

“I’m sure you’re excited for us both to be, at least apparently, in the nude.” Now she reaches into my shirt and, as easily as if she’s pulling off velcro, undoes my bra behind my back. She pulls the bra out through my shirt’s neckhole and tosses it aside, and I’m sure that my nipples must now be showing through my not-very-thick T-shirt. “But you should be concerned as well.”

“Hm?” For reasons I hope should be understandable, it’s not the easiest thing in the world to focus on Ms. Hartwell’s voice. “I should… why should I be concerned?”

She smiles devilishly and undoes her own bra, making more of a spectacle of it than she did with mine: slowly pulling the straps along her arms, then removing the whole garment and letting it dangle for a moment, before dropping it to join mine on the floor. Her breasts are revealed now, firm and smooth and symmetrical and god, I can hardly believe they’re not real.

Her leggings come off soon after, with much gyration and drawing attention to her rear, her thighs, her calves….

“Because, little Augustina,” she says, now wearing nothing but lacy black panties. “The hardest part of switching is changing clothes.” She leans in again, gives me a peck on the cheek, and simultaneously starts helping my arms through my sleeve holes, so that they’re both under my shirt. “Ipso facto, the more I remove….”

She grabs my shirt and tugs it up, and yanks it over my head, and in that brief instant—it’s less than a second—she’s changed again. “The easier I change,” July says. She’s blushing furiously, nothing on but her plain tan panties, and as soon as she drops my shirt she covers her breasts with her forearms. “Oh, wow,” she says. “Wow.”

Her embarrassment is so obvious it takes me a moment to remember who was just giving me a lapdance. “Isn’t it a bit late to be flustered?” I complain, standing up. Her height has definitely changed: even without those heels, Ms. Hartwell was a little taller than me, but July is a little shorter. Which means I can take a more dominant role now, standing tall and looking down at her, and try to reassert some control. “Don’t tell me you’re backing out now, July. Or should I call you, what was it… Any?”

“Um… I just never expected our first time to be, like… like this.” She’s stammering, backing up. “Not, um, not that I’m complaining, but—”

I laugh a little and step forward, forcing her against the desk. “Come on, Month Buddy. I know you’ve been fantasizing about this.” I take her arms and pull them apart, revealing her breasts—smaller and softer than the secretary’s. Still delightful. “This is exactly what you wanted.” I lean over her, and she’s forced to lean back, and it doesn’t take anything more than a tiny push to land her back on the desk.

“Oh, wow.” She’s breathing hard, like she can’t believe this is happening. “You weren’t this dominant with Ms. Hartwell. You, hah, switch roles pretty quick, huh.”

“Pot to kettle.”

I yank my jeans down, and we’re both nude except for our panties. I bend over her, straddling her legs now, and force a rough, passionate kiss upon her. But my mouth isn’t the only thing touching her: my right hand is cupping her head, and not just to keep it off the hard desk. I’m groping her false skin, trying to find a seam between suit and mask, any evidence that the person beneath me is somehow fake.

“Aw….” She takes a deep breath as I break off, having found nothing. “That’s dirty pool, Month Buddy.” She swivels on her back, so that she’s laying lengthwise along the desk. Then she hooks both thumbs into the waist of her panties, and she tucks her knees to her her chest so she can pull them off.

She wiggles her tush. “Just FYI, uh… the skinsuit changes with the different masks. It’s programmed to. So I, uh, just have to swap masks now.” She smiles sheepishly. “Sorry, but I really don’t think you’re up for—”

I shut her up with a kiss. This one’s even more passionate, even more probing, so much so that I’m not even trying to find a flaw. I’m just overcome with how desirable this person, this collection of people, is. I clamber atop her, her body sandwiched between mine and the desk. “Oh my god,” I pant between sloppy kisses. “I want you so much.”

“Yeah?” she manages.

“I wanna fuck you—I wanna ruin this fucking desk.” My free hand, the one that’s not behind her head, goes down to her crotch and gets to work. She’s panting, losing all composure, not that she had much to begin with. “And it’s not just that. I wanna know how you work, I wanna see all of you, I wanna be you—”

I’m keeping my eyes fixed on her. Not even because of the challenge—I just love seeing her squirm at my touch, seeing her cheeks glow and her body gyrate. But my eyes can’t stay open forever. My hand’s on her neck, my other is in her nethers, and without thinking—

I blink.

“Really?” Simone is staring back up at me. I recoil. She looks completely at ease, even a little cocky. “I do like to hear that.”

Before I can process what’s going on, she grabs my torso and spins us, so that all of a sudden I’m slammed on the bottom, at her mercy. “Oh, Tina.” She clicks her tongue. “Tina, Tina, Tina. You’ve been talking a big game and now you can’t back it up?” With a little shake of her head, she clambers around. “You need to learn to put your money where your mouth is… or is it the other way around?”

Her pussy is right in front of me. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what to do next, so I get started. My hands grasp around Simone’s rear, and my tongue laps around her clit, She moans as she does much the same for me, though instead of her hands on my rear, I feel pressure around my legs.

Forcing my eyes open, I see the sweat on her, sweat that must be extruded through two layers of skin and latex, and I taste its saltiness in my mouth. I’m getting close, my eyes are rolling back—

Simone pushes herself up, and turns herself around so we’re eye to eye once more. “Not yet.” She smiles. “I wanna get a look at that pretty face, one last time.”

She takes my arms and positions them above my head, then leans into them both with one of her arms, pinning me. The other takes its place at my own nether regions, and they’re already so worked up that I whimper at her slight touch. “What were you saying before?” Her voice is deceptively casual.

“I wanna fuck you—”

“Not that.” Her fingers tickle at my stomach, well above any truly erogenous zone, and it’s torture to be so denied. “The last thing you said to July.”

“I—I wanna become you,” I gasp. “You’re everything I ever dreamed of being, I wanna be like you, I wanna be you—”

And her fingers dive back inside me, and I nearly howl. “Keep saying it,” she says. Her eyes are hungry, and they’re all I have the mental strength to make out. “Don’t you stop.”

“I wanna be you. I wanna be you.” She’s speeding up. “Oh, fuck, I wanna be you so much, I wanna—I wanna be—”

Everything goes white. My hips buck, over and over, as I release. I’m panting heavily and I don’t think I can keep saying the words… but as I return to my senses, she seems pleased. Eager, even.

Oh, and she’s Ms. Hartwell now. “I’m very glad to hear it,” she says, just a hint of warmth in her voice. “And now we can discuss your upcoming promotion, Augustina… well, no.” She frowns. “That name just won’t do.”

“What?”

Ms. Hartwell gets off me and stands to the side of the desk. I try to follow her example, but—I can’t. I look up and see handcuffs around my wrists, locking them to the legs of the desk, and then I glance frantically down and see my ankles are in the same situation.

“Wait, what are you—” And then she’s shoved a gag into my mouth, and I can’t talk. I can try to yell through the rubber ball, but it doesn’t do any good, doesn’t come out as anything louder than a whimper. I try anyway.

“You should know, the bits where my selves told you the walls aren’t thick? Those were lies.” Ms. Hartwell circles the desk. “This office is soundproofed extraordinarily well. No one will know what we’re doing in here.”

She bends down out of my line of sight. Maybe ten seconds later, she’s standing up again, and she’s back in all her clothes. Not a hair’s out of place, and there’s not a wrinkle on her. She crosses to the closet, t-tack t-tack t-tack, and it occurs to me that I’ve never seen Simone’s closet without that lock on it.

I can’t see what she’s doing. But as the seconds pass, I hear the sound of her, possibly, removing something from the closet. And then she walks back and I see that she’s holding a heavy black latex suit.

“Well?” A smirk flickers onto her face, like a malfunctioning fluorescent briefly sparking to life. “We try to accommodate all our employees here, and you requested to… be me, was it? Did you think we wouldn’t take your request seriously?” I freeze up at that. It takes a second, fifteen seconds, for me to realize what she’s saying.

“Be still,” she says, and she walks to my left leg and I feel the cuff coming undone. She doesn’t need the order, though—once I realize that she’s sliding the heavy latex onto my body, I’m nothing but compliant. I let her manipulate my leg, my foot, even my toes until everything’s firmly inside the latex.

She recuffs my left leg, then repeats the process with my right. Now there’s a floppy mass of shiny blackness bunched up around my crotch, but I can still see my legs. I feel that they’re compressed and enclosed, and they certainly look thinner from here. I wiggle my toes experimentally, and find there’s almost no more resistance than if they were bare.

Without warning, Ms. Hartwell reaches down by the mass and shoves, and I feel two probes enter me. So soon after the last bit of excitement, I can’t help but see stars. When I come back to, she’s worked the latex up my abdomen, and I hear a zipper sound as she runs a hand up my back. It’s so tight around my waist now, and it’s a little harder to breathe, and I kind of love it.

“What shall I call you?” she asks. She uncuffs my left arm and slides it into the suit’s, and I’m limp as a ragdoll. “For reasons that shall soon become clear, Augustina simply won’t do. Nor any derivation from that name, no Tina or even Month Buddy.” She works the same magic on my right arm, and then presses the latex up along my chest. This feels even tighter than the stomach does: my breasts are squashed and compressed, and when I look down I’m flat as a board.

“Well, let’s think logically. If my name is Any, then yours….”

There’s only one thing left to do. Only one piece of the catsuit left, flopping around under my neck. And she removes my gag and then, before I can get a word in edgewise, puts on the hood.

“Your name is No.”

I feel a latex tongue around mine, a full set of teeth covering my own, and latex nostril tubes intruding into my nose. My hair is pressed flat against my scalp. I feel her hands pressing around the back of my head, and I hear a click, and it is done.

“Sit up, No. Take a look at… well. I can hardly even say yourself.”

I try, but I can’t—I’m still bound. “Oh, silly me,” she says, and I hear her walking to the closet again and pulling something else out. She returns and undoes my cuffs. “Now sit up, drone.”

I do. What she’s pulled from the closet is a mirror. “Take a look,” she says. With a firm hand on the back of my neck, she guides me off the desk and toward the mirror.

Drone is right. My body is smooth and shining and black. My breasts are gone, though there is still a slit at my crotch. And my hair and face are gone. I can make out a nose and a mouth, but my ears and even my eyes are absent. I don’t know how I’m seeing this, even: maybe some sort of tiny holes in the latex, perhaps.

“Your name is not Augustina, nor even Tina, drone. Augustina does not exist. For you see, I am Any, because I can be anybody,” Ms. Hartwell whispers into my ear. “But you? You cannot be anybody, and with that suit locked you cannot even return to the foolish girl who used to be there. Try to do so. Try to remove the suit.”

I don’t want to—but she slaps me, her face suddenly angry, and I’m compelled to obey. I reach behind my head with my right hand, with both hands, feeling for a seam or a zipper or a lock. It’s completely smooth.

“Exactly, drone. You cannot be anybody, or even somebody. You can only be nobody. You are nobody,” she hisses, her voice so soft and sibilant that it may as well be my own thoughts, “and therefore your name is No.

“I, on the other hand?” She ducks behind me. When she stands up again—she’s Augustina. “I can be anyone.” She’s wearing my clothes, speaking in my voice. “I’ve earned this name. But you have earned no name.”

I feel, distantly, as though my breath should be catching at this, at the thought of my identity being stolen as literally as possible. But I’m strangely calm. Drones don’t get names or emotions.

She ducks back behind me and Ms. Hartwell emerges once more, before I can even process what’s happened. “Would you like to earn a name, drone?”

I nod fervently.

She opens the closet once more. I can see for a moment that there’s many shelves in there, some sleek-looking machinery, and even maybe a bunk—and then it’s closed again, and she holds a folded collection of clothes in one hand and a fleshy pile in the other. “Put this on,” she orders, tossing the latter at me.

It’s a skinsuit. I do as I’m told, grabbing it and putting it on with a lustful eagerness. The suit’s legs become my legs, the suit’s torso and breasts become mine, its inserts slide into my latex inserts, I take its arms for myself, and the head—

There isn’t a head. I stare at the mirror in confusion: a generic but fully human woman from the neck down, and a black latex thing above.

“That will come last,” she says, answering a question I can’t ask. “Now to dress you.” She sets the clothes on the desk, then takes them one by one to dress me. She’s faster than I could be, too, moving like a blur. I’m in panties, leggings, high heels, a tight skirt, an undershirt—

Hold on.

She pulls a jacket over my shirt, displaying a hint of cleavage, and says, “And now for you to become.” From behind her back, like a magician, Ms. Hartwell brings out the mask of another Ms. Hartwell. “Open wide, drone.”

My mouth opens in astonishment as much as obedience. There’s a momentary discomfort—a skinsuit’s mouth and nose settling in around mine, a split second’s darkness as the eyes align—and then it’s done.

Ms. Hartwell is there in the mirror, standing next to another Ms. Hartwell. But the two are like night and day: one drips with confidence and self-assurance, and the other is gaping and confused and uncertain. Despite this, it takes me a moment to realize which one is me.

“None of that.” The other Ms. Hartwell lifts a finger into my chin and shuts my mouth. “You are Ms. Hartwell. Old fashioned, sexy, and excellent at acting as if you’re unaware of either fact. You take pride in being the best and most efficient secretary on the face of this planet. You work from dawn to dusk without complaint, and your only thought is the company’s success—except for when you spot a morsel of shyness in an employee. And then you take perverse pleasure in probing at it, putting that employee on the back foot as subtly or blatantly as you like. And when I say perverse, I am being as literal as possible.”

She stands in front of me, blocking the mirror. “A girl was in here not too long ago. She said she wanted to be me. Will you carry out her last request, drone?”

I blink. “Excuse me?” I say.

“I said, will you carry out her last request, drone? Or are you hard of hearing—”

“I beg your pardon.” It’s clear as day what I have to do. My mouth—Ms. Hartwell’s mouth—twists into a sneer. “I don’t keep up with any current slang, so perhaps drone is an appropriate thing to call a friend these days. But I am not your friend. My name,” I say, “is Ms. Hartwell, and you will kindly address me as such.”

It’s like someone else is saying the words, and that someone else is me. I feel as if my brain has been partitioned—one part is coldly dismissive of the idea of being addressed at all informally. The other part is, for lack of a better word, flipping out. I can’t tell if that other part is Tina, or No.

The first Ms. Hartwell—though the cold part of my mind thinks of her as the second Ms. Hartwell—blinks, then nods once and sharply. “Excellent. You’re ready.”

She walks past me. I see Ms. Hartwell in the mirror, crossing behind my back and pausing there, and then Simone stepping out from behind me. “Well, Jess—sorry, Ms. Hartwell,” she amends, as I glare at her. “This certainly has been a productive meeting, and it’s nice to find another way besides weights to burn off stress. But we both really need to get back to work so… later!”

With all the autonomy of a wind-up clockwork doll, I nod, then unlock the door and stiffly walk out. It closes behind me.

A part of me dimly realizes I don’t actually know Ms. Hartwell’s username or password, but I don’t stop walking to her chair and sitting down. Once I have, I notice a post-it note on the corner of her monitor, one that I’m pretty sure isn’t usually there: it’s got the information I need.

If it was put up today, then it was put up before I called her out. Any has been planning this for a long time. I’m thrilling on the inside at that knowledge, but on the outside I’m logging in and checking through Ms. Hartwell’s emails.

It’s strange, this dual identity. I know I’m doing a lot more to memorize Ms. Hartwell’s meticulous calendar, and checking through more of her email backlog, than the usual version ever would need to. And yet the larger part of me, the Ms. Hartwell part, is convinced there’s nothing strange about it, that she’s just taking her usual time to read her emails.

Within a few moments, I’m done with my preparations, and I check the clock. It’s ten in the morning. The workday ends at five in the afternoon.

I crack my knuckles. Let’s do this.

Part III

Until about one PM, things are simple. I’ve got various work to do, of varying levels of importance: collating our various onboarding files into a single presentation, for instance, takes about an hour. Somewhat less time is devoted to scheduling meetings, or reviewing applicants to the company.

My flow is broken a few times, with people calling the phone or coming in with some inane question or other. In each case, I treat the interruption as Ms. Hartwell always has: politely and dourly, emitting the unmistakable aura of someone whose valuable time is being wasted. And when each of them scuttles away, or hangs up with an apology, the No inside Ms. Hartwell gets a secret thrill.

Lunch is at noon precisely: I walk to the office’s break room, t-tack t-tack t-tack, and grab the meal labeled Ms. Hartwell. Tina never really managed heels, but somehow they feel perfectly natural to Ms. Hartwell, and my steps are confident on the way back, t-tack t-tack t-tack. It’s a cucumber sandwich, bland as a manila folder, and Ms. Hartwell rather enjoys it. (No is not quite as enthused.)

My attention wanders as I eat, and the part of me that’s not just Hartwell takes a little more control. I blink in surprise. Oh my god. I’ve been in another skin for—I check the clock—three hours, and no one has noticed. I’ve been doing all these menial tasks and it hasn’t been boring, it’s been exhilarating. The thrill of being this fake person, feeling every sensation just a little bit duller, feeling just a little bit enclosed—it’s like playing the world’s most realistic game. And I am winning.

One hand continues to move the mouse. The other, as if controlled by another brain entirely, works its way off the desk.

I can still feel the latex on my inner body. I can feel the way it leaves me just a little damp with sweat. And yet—I reach into a shirt pocket and pull out Ms. Hartwell’s phone, seeing my reflection in its black screen—none of that shows through to the surface. I tug at my face a little, and it barely even gives any more than regular skin. I’m safe inside Ms. Hartwell.

Trapped inside Ms. Hartwell. I reach around with my hand and feel for a seam, one which I logically know must exist, but it’s undetectable. Sure, only the inner suit is locked, but I couldn’t take off the outer layer if I wanted to because I don’t know how. I could go to the cops and they wouldn’t believe me if I told them. I’m the most powerful woman in this office, the one they all fear—and at the same time I’m bound, powerless, helpless.

The free hand, the one that seems to be controlled by No instead of Ms. Hartwell, wends its way downward between my legs—her legs—someone’s legs. And while Ms. Hartwell’s icy composure remains as intact as permafrost, No is absolutely frothing with lust. My body is being puppeteered by two people: Ms. Hartwell is scrolling through her email, typing out a reply one handed, but No is working on her pussy like it’s her career.

Soft breaths start to escape through Ms. Hartwell’s lips. The other hand leaves the keyboard and props itself underneath her breast—

The door opens. “Hi?” says the voice of July. I look at her in surprise. “Can I… is this a bad time?”

She’s in her usual: loose T-shirt, baggy sweatpants, somewhat messy hair. Looking at her for the first moment, I almost forget what’s actually underneath all that faked lack of confidence—but that’s Any under there. She can be July, or Simone, or Ms. Hartwell, or even me.

“Ms. Hartwell?” she says.

I curse internally. How long have I been dawdling with a response? Right now, she is just Ms. July Jones, and I am just Ms. Jessica Hartwell. And what Ms. Hartwell would say in this situation is: “It’s customarily considered polite to knock, Ms. Jones.”

“Oh, uh, sorry.”
I’ve never seen Ms. Hartwell interact with July. Thinking about it, it’s almost certainly never happened, unless Any has shanghaied someone else into one of these suits. Yet, something about the way July is peering at me—the way that Any is peering at me from behind July’s face—makes me feel like I’m being held to a standard, even if none exists as such. This is a test of some sort.

July breaks the silence first. “Was I interrupting something? It looked like you were, I dunno….” She trails off.

“Stretching.” My words are cold, and my hands are already back where they should be—at my computer keyboard and mouse. “I spend enough time in this chair each day that it’s important to limber up every now and again, Ms. Jones. You should consider a similar regimen, if you don’t have one already.”

“All right. Uh, thanks.”

If she’s testing me, and something about her almost-shy-but-not-quite glances tells me she is, then I won’t pass the test just by letting July drive the conversation. I stand up and walk around the desk, making sure my heels—*t-tack t-tack t-tack—*click as loudly as possible. “Let me take a look,” I say, and I take hold of her shoulders without awaiting permission.

“M-M-Ms. Hartwell?” July manages, her spine going ramrod-straight as I let my fingers probe at her back. But Any must be looking for this. Earlier in her game, she had used both Ms. Hartwell and July to imply that the former had harassed the latter.

Best to stay in character. “I’m sensing a lot of tension,” I say, bringing my other hand to work at her other trapezius. It’s intimate, far more than any sane workplace would allow—but in context, it’s payback. “We do value our employees’ health here at QuickChange, July.”

A part of me wants to call her Month Buddy instead, but it’s not what I would do. No, what I do is move forward slowly, forcing her to step back until she’s against the door with nowhere to go. That’s when I lean forward and whisper, “If you’d like, I wouldn’t mind helping you release that tension, July.” One hand remains behind her back, but with the other I trace a finger up her t-shirt and then grab her chin, forcing her to look up at me instead of anywhere else. The height difference—heels and skinsuit combined—means that she has to look up pretty far.

She’s obviously cowed, aroused, and anxious. Obviously. Less obvious, but still visible since I’m looking so closely, is a little twinkle in her eye. A tiny spark of what I hope is approval.

God, she looks so cute and helpless like this. But she squirms and mumbles, “I’m actually here to meet with Simone.”

“Ah.” I release her in that way Ms. Hartwell once did to Tina, as if dispelling a mirage and reasserting reality, like nothing had just happened. I cross the room to the door and rap on it three times. “Ms. Beauregard? Ms. Jones would like to speak with you.”

“Send her in!” comes the reply. It’s Ms. Beauregard’s voice, all right, but first of all the only two people who can be Ms. Beauregard are in this room, and second of all I have it on good authority that that office is soundproofed. So….

I glance back at July. She’s looking as anxious as ever, but for a moment I spy a smirk on her face. Some sort of ventriloquism, perhaps, and the talent to mimic voices even without whatever voice changer my mask seems to have. None of my pondering shows on my face, though: I open up the door and gesture, like Ms. Hartwell always does. And like everyone else always does in front of her, July scuttles.

I close the door, dutifully as ever, and sit down to resume my duties. A minute later, however, there’s an email—from Any. Not from Ms. Beauregard or July or even from myself, but from Any, with a non-company email address, and the subject line is Congratulations. I leer and open it.

Dear No,

Congratulations on your success at that impromptu performance review. (I allow myself a slight smile before I keep reading.) And that means you’re ready to move to the next difficulty level. Try to enjoy yourself—not too much, though!

Sincerely,

Any

I have all of five seconds to wonder what she could mean, and then the buzzing starts.

The next four hours are hell. True, it’s the most pleasurable hell ever devised, but still hell.

Having a little intruder buzzing away within my inserts is agonizing, but I manage to sit back and think of Ms. Hartwell—how she would react to this situation, which is to say not at all. “I am Ms. Hartwell,” I murmur to myself, hearing my tone quaver less and less as I say it over and over again. It’s not easy, it takes me ten minutes of repetition and deep breaths to return to character, but it works. The next time an employee enters the room, I answer him the same as any other day—albeit perhaps a tad more cheerfully.

The No in me is shrilling in ecstasy, begging for the chance to rub her thighs together and grope at her breasts and ruin her leggings, but Ms. Hartwell can ignore her easily enough.

The real trouble starts at three in the afternoon, when the vibrator starts varying. I’m in the middle of a phone call when it spikes in intensity, and the buzzing gets loud like a mosquito flying past my ear, and it’s all I can do not to yelp right into the microphone. “Pardon,” I manage to choke out, “I believe I just hiccoughed.”

The phone call ends quickly, and that’s good because I feel another rise in intensity coming on like an approaching ocean wave. I slam the handset back into its cradle and grip my chair’s armrests with all my might, shaking with repressed desire and gritting my teeth and moaning under my breath. This intensity is bringing me closer, closer and closer to exploding—

It passes. Just as I’m about to convulse and climax, the vibration dials back to a low hum—but whereas that hum had been enjoyable before, now it’s nothing but infuriating. I squirm a little in my seat, not that it relieves the tension.

A few seconds later, just as I’m trying to get back to typing, another little crest breaks over me. I shudder, then scowl. “Is that how it is, Ms. Beauregard?” I mutter. It’s easy to imagine her sitting at her desk with a remote control, lazily adjusting the knob this way and that—or perhaps her ear is pressed to the door, listening for any break in character.

Nuts to that. I give my head a firm shake, straighten my clothes, and get back to work. The one and only Ms. Hartwell will not be defeated by anything so frivolous.

So I keep my composure for the next two hours, but it’s not automatic like it had been. I’m feeling bits of No mingling with my consciousness, even bits of Tina. Little doubts running through my mind, like This is crazy! and There’s no way I’ll survive until five o’clock! and Oh, god, everyone’s going to find out! If there’s still any sort of partition in my mind, then it feels like there’s a door in it, with a flood of panicked thoughts on one side, and Ms. Hartwell shoving her back against the other, desperately keeping them out.

There aren’t too many more meetings in the day, thank goodness, but near the end of the day, one final meeting appears on my calendar, courtesy of Ms. Beauregard. Ten minutes before five o’clock. And as I check the location, I can’t keep my eyes from widening. The meeting is in my—no, it’s in Augustina’s office. This bodes ill.

With a purposeful shove, I push myself to my feet, and then I start walking around the hallway, t-tack t-tack t-tack, ignoring the little variations in my vibrator’s intensity. I barely even wobble, but even these little wavers provoke harsh internal recrimination: my fist clenches and my painted nails dig into my ‘skin’, hard enough to sting through two layers of skinsuit. “Don’t you dare,” I whisper.

I survive the trip to Augustina’s office, and think better of knocking: Ms. Hartwell doesn’t respect Augustina enough for that. So instead I shove the door open.

Augustina is sitting there. Yawning, humming to some tune she knows—I know—typing merrily along with her phone next to her. My phone! Did I ever show July the password, or did she spy on me, or—

No, these aren’t the kinds of thoughts Ms. Hartwell would have. Focus!

She glances up at my approach, and though her face is almost neutral, her eyes are a bit wider than one might expect. That’s me—no, that’s Augustina all right. Trying to play it cool, trying desperately not to lose the battle of wills with Ms. Hartwell, but with that fear hidden beneath the surface—

“Oh, hey, Ms. Hartwell. What’s up?” she says. There’s barely a tremor in her voice.

I wrench my thoughts back to the here and now. Thankfully, the vibrator is holding steady. “I’m here on behalf of Ms. Beauregard,” I say, hoping to hell that my voice is as unruffled as it should be. “She’s sent me to tell you that the deadline for the mill contract has had to move up by a day.”

Her confusion turns to anger in a moment. “What? Since when? The contract says–”

I cut her off with a raising of my hand. “We’ve renegotiated the contract in light of our customer’s needs, and you know what they say about the customer.”

Augustina stares at me. “You’re kidding.”

“Do I ever kid, Ms. Williams? You’ll be getting a larger pay out of it, so try not to complain too much. That will be all.”

I turn to leave, and hear an, “Ugh, fine,” from Augustina. And then, just as I’m the doorway, the largest spike in intensity slams into me, and I have to grip the door jamb for support. The buzzing is audible now, not just physical, and….

No. The buzzing is coming from behind me, not from my behind. “Augustina,” I whisper, my voice strained and staccato, “are you getting a phone call?”

“Nnnope,” she says. The buzzing dies down and then comes back up within a second, provoking a grunt from me.

“Then why,” I manage, turning myself around, “do you have your phone out during work hours?” My voice sounds angry, even enraged, but it’s more like I can barely control myself, whoever myself is right now.

She has it in her hand, and is idly staring at it instead of me. “What? Oh yeah, this. It’s a fun little app. I’ve gotten really into it lately.” I watch her thumb on the screen: it slides up and down at will, and its motion perfectly matches the intensity of my vibrator. “I mean, it’s the end of the workday, right? Who cares?”

I stare.

In that moment, I could be thinking about a lot of things. I could be thinking about how incredibly difficult it’s become to maintain character. I could be thinking about how Augustina is clearly challenging Ms. Hartwell’s authority, and what measures Ms. Hartwell might take to assert herself. I might even be thinking about how fucking insane and recursive this scenario has become.

But the truth is, I’m not thinking at all.

“You truly are intolerable,” I whisper, staring down at the floor. Then my head jerks up and I look Augustina in the eyes. “Augustina?”

“Yeah?”

“Remove your clothes.”

I’m not thinking. I’m doing. She stares at me, her mouth a little open. “Excuse me, but—”

I grab her wrist like a hawk abducting a rabbit, and yank her from her chair. The phone falls out of her hand—leaving the vibrator on medium—and she lets out a little cry. “Your incompetence is supremely aggravating,” I hiss, pushing her back until she slams against the wall. “Must you force me to do everything for you myself?”

Before she can respond, I take the collar of her shirt in my free hand and pull it over her head, scraping my nails across her face in the process—it’s not on purpose, but with the kind of explosion I’m anticipating, there’s bound to be collateral damage. “Ow!” she yelps. “That really—”

“I’d be quieter if I were you,” I say, tossing the shirt behind me. “These walls aren’t soundproofed.” Now my left hand grips her chin, keeping her mouth closed, while my right is hard at work on her body: Augustina’s bra comes off in a matter of seconds, discarded like the shirt, and I messily pull her pants part of the way down.

“Ms. Hartwell,” she pleads one last time, and then I shut her up with a forceful kiss, sending my tongue into her mouth like an invading army. Her eyes widen at first, and then close as she reciprocates. She is pacified. As I pull away, she’s panting.

“That’s right,” I say, still pressing her against the wall. “We both know you want this. A firm hand to mold you into the perfect obedient worker. Dare I say, the perfect obedient servant. But that’s not all you want, is it?” My right hand droops to just below her waist level, and slips beneath her panties, and gets to work.

At first, Augustina can only grunt. I slap her roughly in the cunt, sending a wince through her body. “Say it.”

“Y-yes, Ms. Hartwell,” she manages.

She’s so entirely out of control. I should be, too: my pussy hasn’t stopped vibrating for the last minute, and it’s intense, but now it’s like the energy filling me has an outlet. I’m not restless anymore: I’ve got direction.

“That’s right,” I croon, “but it’s not all you want. The way you look at me, it’s not just attraction, now is it?” My fingers move faster, drawing out more little cries of pleasure from her mouth. “Well? What do you want? And don’t lie, dear Augustina, not when I know your mind better than you do.”

“I—I want—I want to be you!” she whispers.

“That’s right, and who wouldn’t—you’re not just attracted, you’re envious, Augustina.” I lean close and whisper into her ear. “You want to be me. Ask nicely.”

“Please.”

“Please what, Augustina?”

“Please let me—let me be you, Ms. Hartwell.” She’s gasping. My plunging fingers are bringing her nearly to climax.

Well, no need for that just yet. I pull them out. “Then I’ll need you to do something for me,” I say, and put on a little smile.

“What the shit,” she whimpers, “I was so close—”

“You want to be a perfect servant?” My grip on her chin is cruel once more. “Then you’ll have to learn to serve.”

I glance at the wall beside her, to the right. If I’m understanding the floorplan correctly, then this section of wall has Ms. Hartwell’s office—my office—on the other side. And if I understand Any, then that means… my fingers probe at the wall, a little like the way they were probing at dear Augustina’s pussy scant seconds ago, and within moments I find what I’m looking for: a hidden button. The secret door opens, and I see an empty office through it. “Inside,” I command.

She meekly obeys. Before following, I glance around the room and spot the discarded phone. I bend over—no way would Ms. Hartwell crouch, and miss the chance to show off—pick up the phone, and unlock it. It’s still open to the app that controls my vibrator.

With a little chuckle, I place my finger on the screen and ramp it up to full. Then I lock the phone again and place it on the desk.

“Ms. Hartwell?” Augustina says meekly as I march through the secret door, closing it behind me. “What if someone comes in?” And that’s a very good point: her breasts, small as they are, are nonetheless gloriously on display, as is the line of her womanhood.

“Well, we’ll have to ensure no one can see you, won’t we.” With a gentle smile—gentle for Ms. Hartwell—I hold her shoulder, then guide her to my desk. “Get under there.”

She gulps, and follows orders. She’s crouched under my desk, facing to the side, which is rather stupid of her. “Toward me,” I say, standing in front of her: she can’t see more than my legs now. “If you want to succeed in this company, Augustina, you’ll have to start from the bottom. Now….”

I reach under my tight skirt, and carefully pull my leggings and panties down. My panties are discarded, whereas my leggings remain at the level of my ankles. Then I sit with as much poise as if I were starting any other workday. “Well, you know what to do,” I say. “Serve.”

She takes a few seconds, but the girl eventually wraps her head around the concept, around the same time as I wrap my legs around her head and pull her close. Her tongue starts in on my moistened cunt, slowly at first, and I do what I can to ignore it: a secretary’s job is never done, after all, and there are more emails to respond to.

If anyone were to come through the door right now, what would they see? Just a loyal, if terrifying, secretary hard at work. Would they imagine a terrified programmer, half naked, below the desk with her tongue lapping at the secretary’s privates, working harder and harder as her confidence builds? Even if they could conjure up that fantasy, could they imagine the deeper play at work?

I smile a tight lipped smile, and as my right hand continues with my mouse, my left reaches down to tousle Augustina’s hair—and press her face more firmly against me. “That’s exactly right,” I whisper. “Good girl, Augustina.”

It’s worth giving her a reward. I nudge my high-heeled foot forward, toward her own pussy, only to find her hand already working at it. A little kick sends it away. “How impetuous,” I hiss, gripping her hair tight enough to hurt. “If you must pleasure yourself, girl, I’ll give you ample means to do so.”

My high heel brushes up against her lips, against her clitoris, and she takes the hint quickly this time. She scoots forward, and sits instead of kneeling, so that she can hug herself against my leg and pleasure herself against the leather of my shoe. It’s like having an overly amorous dog, and I smile at the comparison. I jiggle my foot a little, granting her a little more fun.

And she’s good, too—I believe I’ve found an area where Augustina naturally excels. Her tongue is swift, and forceful, and doesn’t tire, and with it and the vibrator still going at full blast—

I cum. My hips buck into her face, and I push her ever harder against myself, forcing her to swallow every bit of fluid that comes out. “You’re mine,” I say, “mine, mine—“

And Augustina cums too, if her stifled cry and spasms are any indication. Only now do the skillful movements of her tongue cease, and eventually she is still against my leg. Her only movements are those that come from her deep, slow breaths.

I smile, and let out a satisfied sigh. I push my chair back so that I can see her sweat-marked face, and cup her chin tenderly. “You were excellent,” I say.

For a moment more, she stares back at me—tired, cowed little Augustina. Then she smiles. No, she smirks. “So were you,” she says, in a voice which betrays no hint of exhaustion.

Before I can respond, there’s a flurry of movement, and my hands are grabbed and pushed against the arms of the chair. By the time I look down, they’ve been bound by strips of cloth. “Why, whatever is the meaning of—” is as far as I get, before she stands up and forces my mouth open, and then forces my discarded panties into it. Just like that, I’m gagged for the second time of the day. The taste is truly pungent.

Lastly, my leggings are repurposed as an effective set of cuffs around my legs. Only once I am totally bound does Augustina—Any—leave my sight for a moment. She walks over to my left, opens the hidden panel to Augustina’s office, and ducks in: when she returns, she has my phone. Augustina’s phone? Someone’s phone. She smiles, unlocks it, and waves the vibrator control in my face for a few moments as I leer back.

Then she smiles. “You’re ready.” With a glide of her finger, the vibrator is sent all the way down to zero, and the buzzing in my loins finally stills.

Then Any takes my chair, spins me around, opens the door to Ms. Beauregard’s office, and shoves me inside. The door locks behind me.

“Well,” says the voice of Ms. Beauregard, “that was a pretty convincing trial run.” She walks past me and around the desk, stripping off Augustina’s remaining clothes—the clothes I was wearing earlier today, I realize: they can’t transform. Then she sits down, buff and in the buff, and leans back. “I really liked your improvisational touches. The bit about stretching, nice recovery there. And then, hoo! When you dommed me and forced me under the desk?”

With a shiver of delight and a ragged sigh, she leans back further. “I haven’t been fucked like that in a long time. You were spectacular, and I don’t think I can call you No anymore, because you were a phenomenal Ms. Hartwell.”

She winks and leans across the desk—which is now back to normal, holding everything that had previously been shoved off it. “But be honest. Tell me, what did you think?”

I can’t talk. And that’s not just because I’m gagged. Even if my mouth were free, I think all I’d be able to do would be to pant. Now that the vibrator is gone, now that that piece of background sensation is absent, I’m able to parse just how exhausted it made me. I’m panting, sweating, sagging forward as I try to fill my lungs.

“Oh, right.” Any laughs, then jogs around the desk to pull the panties out of my mouth. I cough and spit as they leave. “So, what do you think?”

I heave breath after breath, eyes fixed upon my knees, and finally manage to get myself under control. I force my head to stare up at her, and let out a single word: “More.”

She holds my gaze. Then beams, and leans in and kisses me—not forcefully, but gently, and I respond in kind. “I’m so glad you said that,” she says, and slowly undoes my bindings. “I wanna show you something, Some.”

“Show me what?” I ask, waiting patiently as she frees my legs and pulls my leggings back up. “And also, Some?”

“You’re not nobody anymore. You’re somebody. But that’s just the first step in your exciting new career path.”

I slip a little back into Ms. Hartwell’s voicing as I stand. “Naturally, I assume that Some will learn how to play as Ms. Jones, and additionally as yourself, Ms. Beauregard?”

But Any actually laughs at that. She laughs out loud. “Is that it? Is that as far as you think this goes? Only three people?”

As my eyes widen at the implications, she plants her hands on my shoulders and forces me to face the side of the room. The mirror she brought out earlier is still there. For a moment, I see an astonished Ms. Hartwell—but then Any’s hands set to work.

“I might only be three or four people here on the job, but I have free time like anybody else,” she says, as her hands fly across my body, adjusting here and tugging there. All I see in the mirror is a flurry of indecipherable motion, and then a hand dashes across my face: the mask that’s been there all day is yanked off in a flash, and before I can even react to it, another one is shoved on. I gasp as all the little connections, in the ears and the nose and the mouth, are undone and remade in an instant.

“And when I’m off the clock, I’ll be anyone I want. Like a model,” she says, as I stare in open mouthed shock at what she’s done to me. My face is now somewhat longer, my cheekbones sharper, and the corset inside me is squeezing me fit to burst—and lengthening me by what must be half a foot. A drop-dead gorgeous blue dress drapes itself around my legs, showing legs that balance on heels higher than even Ms. Hartwell would dare wear.

Her hands set to work again. “Or a nerd,” she says, and I watch as I’m turned into someone short and a little on the chubby side. A pair of glasses find their way onto my face, loose jeans and a sweater cover my body and a medium-sized set of breasts—it’s like I’ve turned into Velma Dinkley.

“Or a whore.” I’m taller and thinner again, though not as much as the model. My face is garishly made up, my boobs look fake as hell, and my clothes—well, there really aren’t much of those, beyond a tight fitting tube dress that makes for easy access.

“Or a mother…” My hair is long and blonde, my stature is middling, and my ass is amazing in these mom-jeans. And wow, those tits! “Or her daughter.” And I’m reduced, as short and slight and flat-chested as I can go, so I look like I’m no older than high school in a plain white shirt and skirt.

“Oh, but we’ll be able to do both, won’t we?” Any ducks behind me, and when she stands up I see the face, the body, of the mother—still in the nude. “Come on, baby girl, give Mommy a kiss,” she says in a mature, sultry voice.

She leans down, and I get up on tiptoe and kiss her—and her hands rove around my body again, and her own. As we pull away, she whips off both our masks and replaces mine—and now, at last, I am Augustina again. And she is July, and I see a shiny black bundle around her neck, like a removed latex hood, and her face shines with sweat.

And she kisses me. More forcefully, more passionately than July ever has, she kisses me and I kiss her back.

“We can be anyone,” she says, as she pulls away after an eternity. “If you let me show you how, you and I can be anyone for each other, forever. So… what do you say, month buddy?”