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?”