This story does not take place in our universe but in a close neighbour. Due to an ever-so-slight alteration in the development of the human brain's hypothalamus and its regulation of sexual arousal, the average person is of a mental state which you and I would refer to as hypersexual. As a consequence of the Sexual Revolution of the 1960s, this has led to a world where sex is an ordinary recreational activity -- acquaintances screw each other regularly and work colleagues think little more of a tongue in the ass than they would of a hug. This is what that world is like to live in.
...
I hated business parks. They felt soulless in the extreme -- just rows and rows of identical glass and plastic warehouses with barely a tree to liven things up. So I guess it was inevitable that I'd ended up working at one -- and been desperate to do so.
It wasn't much of a job and certainly not the start of a career but, as a fresh-faced graduate, I'd take whatever I could get -- and, in a place like Telford, purpose-built for this kind of heartless business aesthetic, it really was all a girl like me could get. So here I was, staring at a big glass cube in a line of big glass cubes, made distinctive only by the plastic sign near the double-door entrance identifying it as 'OVADAL-MIGNAULT TRANSPORT SERVICES LTD.' Did I know anything about transportation services? No -- but that doesn't stop you from getting a barebones admin job, apparently.
Oh, and I was late.
So, I was hurrying from the Number 6 bus and across the seemingly endless car park -- one vehicle, an old BMW, had misty windows and I wondered if someone was 'sending off' their partner before they started their own first day. Maybe. I wished that could be me -- I could have masturbated on the bus to relieve a shred of stress, I supposed, but I'd prefer not to show up all sticky and sweaty. It didn't indicate confidence to your superiors.
I wondered if they'd even like the look of me. I was a bit chubby, which had its own charm, and my black hair and poorly maintained bangs carried a certain mystique. It made me look a lot less shy than I was. But confidence was something I lacked -- though, of course, I wasn't above jerking off the occasional student on a train or tipping a delivery driver with some nipple play. What kind of ultraconservative would you need to be to be that?
Once I reached the doors, the problems mounted as I had no way of getting in. I hadn't been issued an ID card and I needed it to unlock the doors. The thought crossed my mind of following someone else inside but, fearing that I might be misinterpreted for a corporate spy (I don't know), I dug up the phone number of Mia -- my line manager. We'd spoken only once, during my final interview, and I found her number in the email signature confirming their employment offer. Oh, how I hoped it wouldn't be out of bounds to text her for help.
"Hi Mia," my text began, with me already hating it but panicking far too much to stop, "sorry to bother you but I'm not quite sure how to get into the office as I haven't been given a swipe card yet? I'm just outside the main entrance right now." I sent it -- then, cursing myself, sent a follow up: "This is Grace Bridges by the way! Sorry!" I couldn't have cringed harder at myself.
Barely a moment later, as a police helicopter buzzed overhead like a bluebottle, my phone pinged with Mia's reply.
"Hi Grace! Good news -- I'm late too! Should be with you in a few minutes and then I'll let you in. Excited to meet you!" I can't tell you how good the relief pouring into my veins felt. And it must have been exactly five minutes, too, before Mia arrived, flustered and apologising for the dreadful state of the local bus services. Dressed in blue jeans, a fuzzy yellow jumper, and trainers, she didn't look much like the head of a corporate department -- she looked like a fellow graduate, actually, and was pretty with her pudgy frame and full cheeks and black glasses and the strawberry blonde hair which ran messily down to her shoulders. There couldn't have been many years separating us.
"Hi!" she exclaimed, raising a hand in greeting, her ID dangling from a lanyard around her neck. I copied her.
"Hey," I replied, trying not to betray my nerves. "Mia, right?"
"That's me," she replied with a smile, scanning her ID -- the scanner beeped, an inner light turned green, and the double-doors swung open just a little bit too fast to be safe.
"I didn't spell your name wrong in my text, did I?" I laughed.
"Is that possible?" she giggled back. "It's three letters."
"I guess," I conceded, as I followed her inside. The reception desk smelled of carpet cleaner and was manned by a stern looking Sikh man who glanced up at us and nodded. A maintenance worker was struggling to negotiate with the water cooler across from him. "Do I need to get an ID before I start?"
"We'll worry about that at lunch," said Mia, as she led me through another set of doors and into a stairwell, "we're already late as all hell. Which is my fault and my fault only -- just to be super clear. Yeah, the IDs for all the businesses here get issued by the security office, and that's like a ten minute walk both ways. So not worth worrying about right now."
"Ah, well, fair enough, then," I said.
"Excited for your first day?"
"Nervous, really."
"I don't think anyone would fault you -- you won't be expected to know everything for, like, a year. So I wouldn't worry about getting thrown in at the deep end."
"Yeah, I remember you said something similar in the office." Mia reached over and patted my shoulder.
"You'll be fine -- everyone here's super nice. Don't see that changing soon."
I followed Mia up the stairs -- a couple steps behind her at all times, I could admire her round denim-covered bottom as she walked. Mia must have noticed because, glancing over her shoulder, she sniggered.
"Like what you see?"
"Well, obviously," I laughed; and she grinned at me. "It's a cute butt."
"I actually used to hate it," Mia replied, as we reached the top of the stairs -- she twisted to look round and regard it. "When I was younger I did squats all the time and now it's way better. I'd never let a cock in it, though. I'm far too gay."
"Oh, no, me neither," I laughed. "I mean my butt -- not yours. I wouldn't mind seeing you getting pounded."
"Only if it's a strapon," she said with a wink, before pulling the door open and leading me down the Third Floor's western corridor. We passed a few staff members, plastic lanyards dangling in front of crisp or unironed clothes, and none seemed to pay me any heed.
"So you prefer girls too, then?" Mia asked.
