It was a constant psychological effort to keep her hands by her side as Abby lay naked on a conference room table. She wondered if her clothes were still somewhere on the floor or if she’d have to walk around naked after lunch, looking for them, carrying her melons like two stacks of confidential documents. How could she have let things get so out of hand?
“Any questions so far?” Bill asked, his hand on the nape of the new girl he had shown around the office. He had penetrated the veil of her shoulder-length, light brown hair so casually that Abby had been too shy to shy away. Simply hunching did not get the message across.
“I’m OK so far,” she stuttered, convincing herself that maybe she was the one who needed to adapt to typical, friendly, office touching. If Bill thought two minutes was an appropriate amount of time to painstakingly apply a nametag sticker on her left breast, who was she to judge the head of Human Resources on her first day.
“So, you remember everyone’s name?” he joked, now massaging her neck with his hand while bending forward to meet the new hire face-to-face. He had called her ‘fun-sized’ earlier. Abby hoped he wouldn’t be too disappointed; her crippling social anxiety rarely let her fun side escape.
“I think so,” Abby said. Had she corrected Bill when he wrote ‘Gabby’ on the name tag, the other employers might have known her name too. “Why were so many of them asking me about lunch?”
“Ah, it’s kind of a tradition for the newbie to buy everyone lunch.”
Abby’s discomfort deepened beyond the aversion to physical contact. “I’m not sure I can afford to buy lunch for all these people…” There was no ‘not sure’ about it. The entirety of her first paycheck was already reserved for last month’s rent.
“Don’t worry, we’ll figure something out. Listen, Gabby,” Bill said from an uncomfortably close distance, now with his hands firmly placed on her shoulders. “I need to talk to you about our dress code. Can we talk in my office?” He had chosen not to look into Abby’s eyes but straight into the breasts he was forcefully squishing between her own arms.
Abby’s heart sunk as she felt history repeat itself. She had been banned from the public pool though wearing the most conservative swimsuit that her chest could fit in. She had been accused by several teachers of dressing provocatively in school while in the same uniform as everyone else. And today, she fooled herself into thinking she wore a professional business-casual attire: a no-cleavage, boat neck, long-sleeved shirt the color of a stormy sky long enough to mask the curves of her butt. There was no way to fully conceal her leading ladies, however. Bigger than her head, her tits screamed for attention by stretching the fabric of their elastic prison.
As she followed Bill through the rows of cubicles, Abby tried to think of how she would say that this curvy figure was the most modesty she could manage, her breasts already compressed under a minimizer bra.
“Close the door, please.”
Abby spent a few confused seconds looking for a door. The fancy offices had an open-concept design, and this one bore no hinges along the glass wall’s opening.
“Gotcha. As you can see, I take my open door policy very seriously. I take all my policies seriously, and one of them is the one I wanted to talk to you about: no bras allowed in the office.”
Abby was stunned into silence. Though Bill’s words were clear, the message made no sense. She waited for him to speak again, hoping for another, more inappropriate ‘gotcha.’
“We’re very forward-thinking here at Ethos Accounting, Gabby. We don’t want women to feel oppressed or even uncomfortable in the workplace just because they might distract some of their male coworkers. It creates gender barriers that promote sexist behaviors.”
Ideally, Abby wouldn’t be having a conversation about breasts in a middle-aged man’s office, but she was still relieved that this wasn’t technically about her bust-to-waist ratio. There might have been good intentions behind the policy? But she was happy to be an exception.
She allowed herself a shy smile while saying: “It’s fine. I don’t mind.”
“You don’t mind wearing a bra or taking it off? Because like I said, I take my policies very seriously. If we make it optional, women at the office will feel pressured to keep their bras. And that’s the last thing we want.”
She had not met another woman in this office so far. “Of course, it’s just. I would much prefer to keep mine if that’s OK.” Smiling was becoming harder.
“Gabby… I’ve just finished explaining why it’s not OK. Do you always push back on against every minor detail like this?”
“I… I’m not… But…” Abby knew she sounded like a birdbrain but admitting that she crumbled at the slight hint of pressure sounded worse on a upcoming review.
“Don’t worry, I will keep it safe in my desk drawer, and you can have it back at the end of the day,” Bill said as if misplacing her bra was Abby’s primary concern.
“I… I’ll be right back,” she resigned, but that wasn’t enough for a stickler like Bill.
“Stop!” he said, raising a hand. “You’re not paid to go back and forth between office and bathroom. Just do it here and now so I can put a little green checkmark next to your name, and we can finally move on to more important things.”
“It doesn’t have a hook; I’d have to take my shirt off,” the words trembled out of Abby’s mouth, barely audible.
Bill’s mouth and hands asked the same question: “So?”
What was left of Abby’s polite smile melted as soon as she turned around. Even facing a corner, no angle provided true privacy. Being done before someone from the parking lot walked by the window was her motivation for acting quickly. She needed the strength of both arms to pull the compression garment over her head. The resulting titty-drop was a tsunami of flesh overflowing from each side of her petite body, even giving Bill behind her a taste of bouncing side-boob.
“That’s a really nice shirt.” Bill startled the girl by his proximity.
Abby reached for said shirt, but Bill had already snatched it from the chair she left it on. She stuffed as much boob as she could in her skinny arms looking like toothpicks in olives before turning around a few degrees.
“It’s from The Gap… I think.” Abby yearned for the privacy of her cubicle, away from the world’s most awkward conversation.
“Here, let me help you put it back on.”
Putting her shirt back on was at the top of Abby’s list of things she wanted right now, but she almost preferred toplessness over Bill’s help. He gestured her to put her hands up, and she obliged only because she could keep her back to him. For the moment when her shirt became handcuffs over her head, Bill’s had free reign of her body. Under the pretext of fixing her shirt, his fingers tickled each of her ribs, rubbing the sides of her breasts. She tried and failed not to give him too much jiggle. Like with the nametag earlier, perfectionist Bill made sure not to leave a single crease behind.
“See, isn’t this better? Now you’re comfortable and free.” Without warning, the hands that helped her get dressed wrapped around her chest to shamelessly land in the thinly clad bowl of Jell-O. “I can’t believe how soft this shirt is.”
Bill’s fingers explored the softness of more than just the shirt; they danced and dug in the ample flesh, making Abby feel more naked than when she had to use communal showers before the leotard-ripping incident that got her banned from gymnastics class.
Eventually, his hands went south to cup the underside of her Abby’s milkers. “Wow, these are really heavy, aren’t they. Must be a burden to carry around all day. I want you to know that I would never allow any body-shaming to happen in this office.”
Abby’s whole body cringed, but Bill kept her up straight by the base of her breasts. He was now roughly caressing her tits as if trying to read the future inside them. She was aware the little moans of discomfort she made while getting her breasts massaged through a thin shirt were more ambiguous than yelling ‘stop,’ but even her throat was robbed of its strength by the shame.
Bill seemed to finally pick up on Abby’s reluctance but misinterpreted its source. “You’re not ashamed of your breasts, are you? You have absolutely no reason to be. They are exquisite. And I’m not just saying that because I have to be nice to new employees. Hey, Clark!” He stopped a man passing by his office. “What do you think of the new girl’s breasts?” Bill let go of Abby’s tits but grabbed her arms before she could cross them over her chest. He used this new hold to spin her around toward the doorway.
Clark whistled his approval. “Are they real?”
“Gabby?” Bill redirected the question to the helpless girl in his iron grip as Clark closed the distance.
The only body part that still functioned was her head, with which she could only nod ‘yes’ or shake ‘no’. It was hard to convey: ‘Yes, but please don’t touch them. Also, that’s not my name…’ so she just nodded.
“I find that hard to believe?” Clark said.
“Try them,” Bill said as if Abby’s breasts were a bucket of appetizers he was willing to share. And moments later, a new set of fat fingers were digging deep into her shirt, crumpling her incorrect name tag.
“They feel real enough, but it’s hard to tell these days. Apparently, they can work some miracles in Korea.” Clark said, possibly to buy himself more boob-digging time.
“Having fun, gentlemen?” A female voice made all three coworkers turn their heads. A woman in a stylish business suit and blonde bun stepped into Bill’s office. Abby remembered her from the organizational tree, where she featured prominently at the top. If anyone could put an end to this nonsense…
“I was just getting back to work,” Clark stammered, rushing out. “See you around, Bill. Nice to meet you, Gabby.”
“Alright, have a good one, Clark.” Bill continued his massage solo from behind, unbothered by his boss’s presence.
“Hi, I’m Diane.” The woman extended a hand that Abby instinctively shook even in her ongoing predicament. “I would fire him, but HR reports directly to Head Office, and I’m just the site manager. So,” she sighed, “you’ll have to put up with him like we all do.”
“Hey, I’m standing right here,” Bill said with mocking outrage. “First days are stressful. I’m just helping the new girl relax.”
“Um-hum. Anyway, woman to woman,” Diane leaned in, “having large breasts opens a lot of doors, so you can’t really complain about the occasional drawback. Tough it out. His hands will cramp up eventually.” And with those words of wisdom, she was gone. Abby couldn’t imagine anyone else rescuing her now.”
Bill’s hands did cramp occasionally, but then he’d just call someone to his office to take over for a few minutes, saying they had earned some time with the office stress balls. Abby was good for morale, apparently. Hopefully, it made up for the fact that she hadn’t even touched her computer yet.
The morning stretched interminably. Abby’s breasts were sore from the constant manipulation, her nipples were throbbing from all the pinching, and her butt hurt from hours sitting on an erection. Until Clark swung by with some news: “Hey Bill, lunch is here. The sushi guy is asking where to set up.”
“Ah, perfect. Gabby, are you paying after all? Or are we going with plan B for Bill?” Bill flashed a corporate credit card, and though Abby wasn’t getting good vibes from ‘Plan B for Bill,’ she wouldn’t have been able to afford sushi even for just herself.
Now that she had mentally revisited her day, Abby identified a few key moments where she probably should have spoken up or maybe even walked out. It was too late now, of course. Covered from head to toe in sushi, any movement could topple a piece the delivery man placed on her skin with great care. Gravity was doing its best to flatten her tits, but they were simply too perky and jiggly to act as stable plates. Her only consolation was that the ‘Gabby’ sticker had been peeled off her shirt and slapped over her vulva. Perhaps for sanitary reasons rather than dignity, but she was willing to take any little win.
Her coworkers began streaming inside the conference room, expressing their hunger and greeting Abby either by the wrong name or the borderline derogatory nickname of ‘sushi girl’, which she hoped wouldn’t stick.
“Ow!”
“Hey, careful,” some random coworker reprimanded. It felt like weeks since she had shaken his hand. “You almost made me knock a piece off your giant tit.”
“Then could you not intentionally pinch my nipple with your chopsticks, please?” Abby didn’t say that, of course. Not out loud. And from the number of times her nipples found themselves between chopsticks after that, there might not have been enough subtext in her meek “…sorry.”
Her sushi girl services were required long after lunch, as pretending to wring milk out of her breasts while sucking on her puffy nipples became everyone’s dessert of choice. There were two dozens of them but only two breasts, so it took hours for everyone to have a turn. If a train of sucking lips and nibbling teeth wasn’t enough, she had to deal with the ache and splinters of the dirty chopsticks that had been shoved up her butt like a return envelop.
Maybe my guidance counselor was right, Abby thought, smiling at strangers through the aisles of an unfamiliar office, looking for her clothes and wearing only her ‘Gabby’ labia name tag, l. Maybe pornography would have been a better, more dignified use of my skillset, as he called them.