The Fitting Room

The elevator doors closed and I watched the numbers tick down. Four. Three. Two. One. G. The car was empty, which was a small mercy. I didn't want anyone from my floor to see me heading down to the ground level, didn't want to answer the obvious questions. Another review? A promotion? A firing? None of the above, apparently. Just a fitting. A dress code. A new standard.

The corridor on the ground floor was quiet in a way the upper floors never were. Long, carpeted, doors spaced far apart like the offices behind them had nothing to do with each other. At the far end, a door stood ajar. A voice called out before I could knock.

"Come in, come in. Close the door behind you."

Mr. Hargrove sat behind a broad desk. Tall, grey-haired, thin spectacles, a smile that never quite reached his eyes. Shelves of law books. Framed certificates. On the desk, arranged with unusual care: a garment bag, scissors, a measuring tape, a small tray of tailor's chalk.

"Thank you for coming down, Maya. Sit. We have something to discuss."

I sat. The chair was leather, expensive, designed to make you feel smaller than you were. "Is it about my review?"

"Better than that. The company has adopted a new dress code. A house uniform, you might say. We've been rolling it out department by department, and your department is next. You're the first on your floor to be fitted."

"A uniform. Like what?"

He opened the garment bag. Inside was a blouse, white and sleeveless, cut in a way that left very little to the imagination. And a skirt, short and flowy, pale blue, the kind of fabric that seemed designed to catch the light.

"This. The blouse and the skirt. Every analyst will wear them. It's the new standard."

I looked at the blouse. Low neckline. Narrow shoulders. Thin fabric. I looked at the skirt. Short. Very short. Wide panels that would swing and open with any movement.

"And how does the fitting work?"

"You try it on. Right here. In front of me."

"Here?"

"The office is soundproofed. And it's faster than sending you to a fitting room and back. You'll understand once you see how much adjustment is needed."

A cold thread of unease wound through my stomach. "Could I at least have a screen?"

"Maya." His voice took on a patient, reasonable tone. "I'm a tailor at heart before I'm a lawyer. If there's a seam to adjust, I need to see it adjust. A screen would only slow us down. Please."

I stood. I looked at the door, then back at him. "And underwear? Will the package include—"

"Ah." Something almost pleased in his voice. "Good question. The package is blouse and skirt only. The uniform is meant to be worn as issued. So, no."

"You didn't include any."

"Didn't need to. The blouse is lined, and the skirt is double-layered at the front. You'll be fine."

I was fine. I was going to be fine. I told myself this as I took the blouse and skirt, and I told myself it again as I turned my back to him and began to undress.

The blouse went on first. I pulled it over my head and felt the thin fabric settle against my skin, and immediately understood why he had said I would be fine. The lining was there, but it was a whisper of a lining, and the cut was so tight across the chest and waist that every breath I took made the fabric strain visibly. I turned to face him. He was already on his feet, walking around me slowly, his spectacles catching the light.

"Good. Good. The blouse is correct. Now the skirt."

I took the skirt and lifted my blouse slightly, and my face burned as I pulled the pale blue fabric up over my hips. The skirt was short. I had seen it in the bag, but seeing it on my own body was a different thing entirely. The hemline sat high on my thigh. The panels were wide and loose, so that even standing still, I could feel them shift and part with the smallest movement of my legs.

"Turn."

"Mr. Hargrove, the skirt is—"

"Turn, Maya."

I turned. He walked around me again, slower this time, his eyes moving up and down my body with the unhurried attention of a man examining a document he intended to annotate. When he came back around to face me, he picked up the scissors.

"The hem is too long."

"—"

"The pattern calls for a shorter hem. The manufacturer's spec is approximate. I need to bring it up to the house standard." He marked a line across the front panel with tailor's chalk, then cut. A strip of pale blue fell to the carpet.

"Again." Another slow circle. "Still not right." Another chalk line. Another cut. Another strip fell.

"Mr. Hargrove." My voice was tight. "How much shorter are we talking about?"

"Until it's correct." He cut again.

He cut four more times in the next ten minutes. Each time he walked around me, each time he marked, each time he cut, and each time a strip of the skirt fell to the floor and the hemline crept higher. I stood with my arms at my sides, my jaw set, feeling the cold air on my thighs with every new inch of exposure. The skirt was flowy, which meant that with every small adjustment of my stance, the panels swung open and I could feel the room's temperature against my bare skin.

"There." He stepped back. "That's the line."

I looked down. The skirt now ended high on my thigh in front, and in back—I could feel it, though I couldn't see it—it covered only about two-thirds of my backside, the rest of it bare to the air. I hated it. I hated the way the panels swung when I breathed, I hated the way the blouse strained, I hated that I was standing in my boss's office in a two-piece uniform with nothing underneath, and I hated, most of all, that he had done all of this with the calm, reasonable tone of a man who had simply been doing his job.

"I hate it," I said.

"I know. But it's the standard now."

"Can I at least have a mirror?"

"Of course." He produced a small hand mirror from his desk drawer and held it up for me. I looked, and my stomach dropped. The back panel was even shorter than I had feared. Two-thirds, maybe less, when I shifted my weight. I looked away.

"Right." He settled back into his chair. "Now. The fitting isn't complete until we've checked the movement."

"Movement?"

"The skirt is flowy by design. It needs to be tested in motion. Sit on my lap."

"—"

"Maya. The uniform has to be seen in use. A skirt that swings when you walk needs to be seen swinging. Sit."

I sat. I sat on his lap, my knees either side of his hips, my bare thighs pressed against his trousers, the short skirt swinging open around me as I settled. He put his hands on my waist, lightly, to steady me, and I felt his fingers through the thin blouse lining and looked away from his face.

"Now walk."

"Walk where?"

"Here. In place. March."

I marched. The skirt swung. He watched, nodded, made a note on a small pad. "Again, slower." I marched again. "Now turn." I turned, still on his lap, and felt the skirt flare and settle, and felt his hands still on my waist, and felt my face go hot all over.

"Good. Now bend over the table."

"The table?"

"The blouse needs to be checked from behind at a working angle. Bend over the desk, please."

I got off his lap and walked to the desk, and bent over it, my hands on the edge, my back to him, the skirt falling open behind me in the pale afternoon light from the window. I felt his breath, faint, at my back. I felt his hand, brief, at the small of my spine, checking the blouse's seam.

"Straighten. Good. Now bend again, slower."

I bent again. And again. And again. Each time he checked a different seam, a different line, and each time the skirt swung and settled around me, and each time I felt more of myself exposed to the room and to him.

"That'll do. Stand."

I straightened, my arms trembling slightly. He was already writing on his pad.

"Right. The blouse is approved. The skirt is approved at the new hem. But the uniform isn't complete until we've run through the full movement sequence. Sit back on my lap."

"The full—"

"Sit, Maya."

I sat.

The afternoon stretched. What had begun as a fitting became something else entirely, and I understood this only gradually, as one instruction after another accumulated on his small pad like a list of charges.

"Now," he said, after I had sat on his lap for the third time, "the blouse needs to be checked at a seated angle. Sit on the desk."

"The desk?"

"The edge. Legs apart. I need to see the shoulder seams from below."

I sat on the edge of his desk, my legs either side, the skirt swinging open around my thighs, my back to him. He stood behind me, his hands at my shoulders, adjusting nothing, checking everything, his fingers tracing the seam lines through the thin fabric.

"Now bend forward from the hips."

I bent. The blouse strained across my back. He watched, nodded, made a note.

"Again, slower."

I bent again. And again. And again.

"Now stand and reach for the top shelf."

I stood and reached up, my arms overhead, the blouse pulling tight across my chest, the skirt settling high on my thighs. He watched the fabric stretch, nodded, made a note.

"Now crouch."

"Crouch?"

"The skirt needs to be checked at a working crouch. Crouch."

I crouched, my knees bent, my back rounded, the skirt falling open around me. He crouched with me, his face close, his eyes on the hemline, and I could feel his breath on my bare thigh and looked away from his face and stared at the carpet.

"Good. Now walk to the window and back. Five times."

I walked to the window and back. Five times. Each time the skirt swung, each time I felt the cold air, each time he watched and nodded and made a note.

"Now turn at each end."

I turned at each end. The skirt flared and settled. He watched.

"Now bend over the desk again. This time, hold the position."

I bent over the desk and held. My arms trembled. The skirt fell open. He walked around me, slowly, his eyes moving up and down, his hand brief at my spine, my shoulder, my hip.

"Hold," he said, when I began to straighten.

"How long—"

"Hold, Maya."

I held. My arms shook. My face burned. I held until he said "straighten," and when I did, I was breathing hard and my eyes were bright and I would not look at him.

"Good. Now sit back on my lap. We haven't finished the movement sequence."

I sat.

"Now swing your legs. Like a pendulum."

"A—"

"Pendulum, Maya. The skirt needs to be seen in full swing."

I swung my legs. The skirt swung with them, wide and open, and I felt the air against my bare skin and looked at the ceiling and did not look at him.

"Now cross your legs."

I crossed my legs, still on his lap, and felt the skirt shift and settle, and felt his hands still at my waist.

"Now uncross. Now cross the other way."

I uncrossed. I crossed the other way. Each movement sent the skirt swinging, each movement exposed more of me to the room and to him.

"Now stand and lift one knee."

I stood and lifted my right knee, my hand at my thigh, the skirt falling open around me. He watched, nodded, made a note.

"Now the other."

I lifted my left knee. He watched.

"Now march in place. Twenty steps."

I marched. Twenty steps. The skirt swung with each step. He watched, counted, nodded.

"Now bend at the waist. Slowly."

I bent. My hands reached toward my toes. The blouse strained. The skirt fell open. He watched from behind, his face close, his eyes on the hemline.

"Now straighten. Now bend again."

I straightened. I bent again. And again. And again.

"Now sit on the floor."

"The floor?"

"The skirt needs to be checked at floor level. Sit."

I sat on the carpet, my legs crossed, the skirt spread around me like a pale blue pool. He crouched before me, his face level with mine, his eyes moving down my body, his hand brief at my knee, my thigh, my hip.

"Now extend your legs."

I extended my legs, one after the other, the skirt sliding up my thighs, the air cold against my bare skin. He watched, nodded, made a note.

"Now bring them back. Now extend again."

I brought them back. I extended again. Each movement sent the skirt shifting, each movement exposed more of me.

"Now stand."

I stood, my legs unsteady, my face hot, my eyes bright. I would not look at him.

"Good. Now bend over the desk one more time. This time, hold for thirty seconds."

"Thirty—"

"Thirty seconds, Maya."

I bent over the desk. I held. My arms shook. My face burned. I counted the seconds in my head, one by one, each one longer than the last. I held until he said "straighten," and when I did, I was breathing hard and my eyes were wet and I would not look at him.

"Good. That'll do for today."

"That'll do?"

"The blouse is approved. The skirt is approved. The movement sequence is complete. You may change."

"Change?"

"You may change back into your own clothes. The uniform will be pressed and delivered to your desk tomorrow morning."

I turned my back to him. I pulled the blouse over my head. I pulled the skirt down over my hips. I felt the cold air, felt the thin fabric, felt the absence of anything underneath, and my hands trembled as I reached for my own clothes.

"Mr. Hargrove," I said, my voice tight, my back still to him.

"Yes?"

"This isn't a fitting."

A pause. Then, quietly: "No. It isn't."

I pulled my blouse on. I pulled my skirt on. I stood in my own clothes, my arms wrapped around myself, my face still hot, my eyes still bright, and I did not turn around until he said "you may go."

"You may go."

I went. I took the elevator up to the fourth floor. I sat at my desk. I did not open my files. I did not answer my emails. I sat with my arms wrapped around myself and my face in my hands, and I thought about the pale blue skirt, and the thin white blouse, and the small pad of notes on his desk, and the way he had said "no, it isn't," and I understood, with a cold and certain clarity, that tomorrow morning, when the uniform was pressed and delivered to my desk, I would put it on. And I would walk onto the fourth floor in it. And everyone would see. And I would not be able to say why.

The uniform arrived at nine the next morning. A garment bag on my chair, no note, no explanation. I took it to the bathroom on the fourth floor and changed in the handicapped stall, the one with the extra space, the one where I could hang the bag on the hook and step into the skirt without my knees hitting the door. The blouse first. The lining whispered against my skin. The fabric strained across my chest. Then the skirt. The hem sat high on my thigh. The panels swung when I walked. I looked at myself in the mirror above the sink and saw a stranger. A woman in a uniform designed to expose her. A woman who had agreed to wear it.

I walked onto the floor. The first person to see me was Daniel, a senior analyst, coffee in hand, mid-sentence with someone from compliance. He stopped talking. His eyes moved down my body and back up, and he didn't say anything, and that was worse than if he had.

"You look—" He stopped. "New dress code?"

"New dress code."

"Right." He nodded, slowly. "Right."

I sat at my desk. I opened my files. I answered my emails. I pretended to work. All morning, I felt eyes on me. The skirt swung when I shifted in my chair. The blouse strained when I reached for the phone. At lunch, I stayed at my desk and ate a granola bar from my drawer and did not go to the cafeteria.

At two in the afternoon, my phone rang. The receptionist. "Ms. Hargrove would like to see you, Maya. Downstairs. His office."

Downstairs. Again.

The elevator was empty again. The corridor was quiet again. The door was ajar again. "Come in, come in. Close the door behind you."

He was standing this time, not sitting. The desk had been cleared. The garment bag was gone. The scissors and measuring tape and tailor's chalk were gone. In their place was a small wooden box, about the size of a jewelry case, and a single sheet of paper with a list on it.

"Good afternoon, Maya. The uniform looks correct. You're wearing it as issued?"

"Yes."

"No underwear?"

"No."

"Good. The fitting isn't complete. There's one more phase."

"One more phase."

"The final phase. The uniform has to be tested in a real-world environment. With real-world variables. We've set up a series of rooms on this floor. Fifteen rooms. In each room, there's a tester. Someone who will evaluate the uniform's performance under different conditions. You'll spend one hour in each room. Fifteen hours total. We'll do it over three days."

"Fifteen rooms. Fifteen testers. One hour each."

"Correct."

"What kind of conditions?"

"Various. Movement. Stress. Durability. The testers have been briefed. They know what to look for."

"And what are they allowed to do?"

He picked up the sheet of paper. "They can touch the uniform. To check the seams, the fabric, the fit. They can adjust it. They can test its limits. They can spank you, if the uniform needs to be checked under impact. They can touch you, if the uniform needs to be checked against the body. The uniform is the subject of the test, Maya. Not you. But the uniform is on your body. So the test involves your body."

I stared at him. "You're telling me that fifteen men are going to spend an hour each touching me. And spanking me. And I'm supposed to call this a fitting."

"I'm telling you that the uniform needs to be tested. And you're the first analyst on your floor to be fitted. The others will follow. You're setting the standard."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then you're not wearing the uniform as issued. And that's a performance issue. And performance issues go in your file. And files follow you, Maya. You've been here three years. You know how that works."

I knew how that worked. I knew that a note in my file could mean no promotion, no raise, no transfer. I knew that Hargrove & Lane was a place where careers were made and broken by the smallest things. I knew that I had rent to pay and a mother in a nursing home and no savings to fall back on.

"One hour in each room," I said.

"One hour in each room. Fifteen rooms. Three days. Five rooms a day."

"And the testers. Who are they?"

"Partners. Senior associates. Clients. People whose opinion matters. People who will be evaluating the uniform's performance."

"Clients."

"We have clients who are interested in the uniform program. They've been invited to participate in the testing phase. It's a privilege, Maya. Not everyone gets to be first."

I looked at the wooden box on the desk. "What's in the box?"

"Nothing you need to worry about. It's for the testers. A small token of appreciation for their time."

I didn't ask what kind of token. I didn't want to know.

"The first room is ready," he said. "Room 101. Down the hall, second door on the left. The tester is waiting. You have one hour."

I walked down the hall. The carpet was thick, the lights were dim, the doors were closed. Room 101 had a small brass plate on it, no number, just a symbol I didn't recognize. I knocked. A voice said "come in."

The room was small. A chair. A table. A camera in the corner, red light blinking. A man I didn't recognize, maybe fifty, grey suit, no tie, sitting in the chair with a clipboard on his knee.

"Come in, come in. Close the door behind you. You're Maya?"

"Yes."

"I'm Mr. Calloway. I'm a client of the firm. I've been asked to evaluate the uniform. Stand in the center of the room, please. Feet apart. Arms at your sides."

I stood in the center of the room. Feet apart. Arms at my sides. He got up and walked around me, slowly, the way Hargrove had, but slower. His eyes moved up and down my body. He stopped behind me.

"The back panel is short," he said. "Very short. Is that the house standard?"

"Yes."

"Turn around."

I turned. He walked around me again. He stopped in front of me. He reached out and touched the blouse, his fingers at the neckline, tracing the seam. "Thin fabric. Very thin. You can see everything through it."

"Yes."

He touched the skirt, his fingers at the hem, lifting it slightly, letting it fall. "Flowy. Good for movement. Bad for coverage." He walked around me again. He stopped behind me. He put his hand on my back, at the small of my spine, and I felt his fingers through the blouse. "Bend forward."

I bent forward. The skirt fell open. He stood behind me, his hand still on my back, his eyes on the hemline. "Hold."

I held. He walked around me, slowly, his hand moving from my back to my hip to my thigh. He stopped in front of me. "Straighten."

I straightened. He was close, very close, his face inches from mine. "The uniform is designed to be touched," he said. "To be tested. To be evaluated. You understand that?"

"Yes."

"Good." He sat back down in his chair. "Now. The first test is impact. The uniform needs to be checked for durability under impact. Bend over the table."

I bent over the table. My hands on the edge. My back to him. The skirt fell open. He stood up and walked behind me, and I heard him pick something up from the table, something small and wooden, and then I felt his hand on my back, and then I felt the first spank.

It was light. A test. A tap. The skirt absorbed it, barely moved. He made a note on his clipboard.

"Again."

Another spank. Harder this time. The skirt swung. He made a note.

"Again."

Again. And again. And again. Each spank harder than the last. Each spank sent the skirt swinging, sent a small shock through my body, sent a small sound out of my mouth that I tried to swallow. He spanked me ten times, twenty times, thirty times. He made notes after each one. He checked the hemline after each one. He touched the fabric after each one, his fingers at the spot where his hand had landed, feeling for damage, feeling for wear.

"Good," he said at last. "The skirt holds up well under impact. Now the blouse. Stand and turn."

I stood and turned. He walked around me, his hand at my shoulder, my back, my waist. He stopped behind me. "Bend forward."

I bent forward. He put his hand on my back, at the blouse, and spanked me again. The blouse absorbed it, barely moved. He made a note.

"Again."

Again. And again. And again. Each spank harder than the last. Each spank sent a small shock through my body. He spanked me ten times, twenty times, thirty times. He made notes after each one. He checked the fabric after each one.

"Good," he said at last. "The blouse holds up well under impact. Now the skirt again. Bend over the table."

I bent over the table. He spanked me again. And again. And again. Forty times. Fifty times. Sixty times. The skirt swung with each one. The air was cold on my bare skin. My face was hot. My eyes were wet. He made notes after each one. He checked the hemline after each one.

"Good," he said at last. "The skirt is approved for impact. Now the blouse again. Stand and turn."

I stood and turned. He spanked me again. And again. And again. Forty times. Fifty times. Sixty times. The blouse absorbed each one. He made notes. He checked the fabric.

"Good," he said at last. "The blouse is approved for impact. Now the final test. The uniform needs to be checked for fit under stress. Bend over the table. This time, hold for the rest of the hour."

I bent over the table. I held. He walked around me, slowly, his hand at my back, my hip, my thigh. He touched the blouse, the skirt, the hemline. He touched me. He touched the crotch of the skirt, his fingers at the front panel, checking the fit. He touched my butt, his hand at the back panel, checking the coverage. He touched me again. And again. And again. He made notes. He checked the fabric. He checked the fit. He checked the coverage. He spanked me again. And again. And again. He touched the crotch again. He touched my butt again. He made notes. He checked the fabric. He checked the fit. He checked the coverage.

The hour ended. He looked at his watch. "Time. You may stand."

I stood. My legs were unsteady. My face was hot. My eyes were wet. He made a final note on his clipboard.

"Good," he said. "The uniform is approved. You may go to the next room."

The next room was 102. The next tester was a man I didn't recognize, maybe forty, dark suit, no tie, sitting in a chair with a clipboard on his knee. The room was the same. The chair. The table. The camera in the corner. The red light blinking.

"Come in, come in. Close the door behind you. You're Maya?"

"Yes."

"I'm Mr. Prescott. I'm a partner at the firm. I've been asked to evaluate the uniform. Stand in the center of the room, please. Feet apart. Arms at your sides."

I stood in the center of the room. Feet apart. Arms at my sides. He got up and walked around me, slowly. His eyes moved up and down my body. He stopped behind me.

"The back panel is short," he said. "Very short."

"Yes."

"Turn around."

I turned. He walked around me again. He stopped in front of me. He reached out and touched the blouse, his fingers at the neckline, tracing the seam. "Thin fabric. Very thin."

"Yes."

I bent forward. The skirt fell open. He stood behind me, his hand still on my back, his eyes on the hemline. "Hold."

I held. He walked around me, slowly, his hand moving from my back to my hip to my thigh. He stopped in front of me. "Straighten."

I straightened. He was close, very close. "The uniform is designed to be touched," he said. "To be tested. To be evaluated. You understand that?"

"Yes."

"Good." He sat back down in his chair. "Now. The first test is impact. Bend over the table."

It was light. A test. A tap. The skirt absorbed it, barely moved. He made a note on his clipboard.

"Again."

Another spank. Harder this time. The skirt swung. He made a note.

"Again."

Again. And again. And again. Each spank harder than the last. Each spank sent the skirt swinging, sent a small shock through my body. He spanked me ten times, twenty times, thirty times. He made notes after each one. He checked the hemline after each one. He touched the fabric after each one, his fingers at the spot where his hand had landed, feeling for damage, feeling for wear.

"Good," he said at last. "The skirt holds up well under impact. Now the blouse. Stand and turn."

I stood and turned. He walked around me, his hand at my shoulder, my back, my waist. He stopped behind me. "Bend forward."

I bent forward. He put his hand on my back, at the blouse, and spanked me again. The blouse absorbed it, barely moved. He made a note.

"Again."

Again. And again. And again. Each spank harder than the last. He spanked me ten times, twenty times, thirty times. He made notes after each one. He checked the fabric after each one.

"Good," he said at last. "The blouse holds up well under impact. Now the skirt again. Bend over the table."

"Good," he said at last. "The skirt is approved for impact. Now the blouse again. Stand and turn."

I stood and turned. He spanked me again. And again. And again. Forty times. Fifty times. Sixty times. The blouse absorbed each one. He made notes. He checked the fabric.

"Good," he said at last. "The blouse is approved for impact. Now the final test. The uniform needs to be checked for fit under stress. Bend over the table. This time, hold for the rest of the hour."

The hour ended. He looked at his watch. "Time. You may stand."

I stood. My legs were unsteady. My face was hot. My eyes were wet. He made a final note on his clipboard.

"Good," he said. "The uniform is approved. You may go to the next room."

The next room was 103. The next tester was a man I didn't recognize, maybe thirty-five, light suit, no tie, sitting in a chair with a clipboard on his knee. The room was the same. The chair. The table. The camera in the corner. The red light blinking.

"Come in, come in. Close the door behind you. You're Maya?"

"Yes."

"I'm Mr. Ellsworth. I'm a senior associate at the firm. I've been asked to evaluate the uniform. Stand in the center of the room, please. Feet apart. Arms at your sides."