This was the promotion Amala had been waiting for. The ideal hours, a better position, but most importantly of all, a significant pay raise. When the opening was available, she leaped forward with the exact initiative her supervisors talked about wanting to see; it meant little to her how suddenly that opening was made, the circumstances in which the shift needed to be replaced. It was irrelevant for her, knowing that any position in this field of work was dangerous labor.

The Crotch was before her. A vertical chasm of pink that split apart the mighty wall of tanned skin, that color made darker when seen through the visor of her hazmat suit. It rose fifty feet high from where it began, and that was at least twenty feet off the ground, positioned above the closed entrance of the asshole. Hairs sprouted from the skin like wild trees, occasionally forming tangles; Amala marked the position of those knots, knowing she would have to attend to them later.

Two quick honks shot from behind her. Amala waved farewell before she was fully turned around to see David off. He had helped her unload her cleaning equipment, just one of several stops along the Body he had to make. The jeep he delivered her in plowed over the wrinkles of bedsheets, designed perfectly for the uneven terrain, yet it was still a slow drive outward from the Crotch, a long trail that followed the full valley of legs down to the Feet.

Amala shook her head, gazing that far down. Since beginning her career as a bodycleaner, she had been stationed at the Feet, a humiliating shift to work. It was where most entry-level employees were first assigned, and for too long did Amala feel she was trapped there. Both of the Feet required a crew of people at a time to complete on schedule, and even then was it a rush to get things done; every toe had to be washed, around and between them, a decent chore for even just a single pinky toe which stood taller than they did. Then there was the heel, the efforts of washing underneath it; the sole, so long and tall, especially so for a Body such as this; the nails had to be trimmed, the littlest of hairs plucked free, the odor made clean and refreshing.

It was the lowest point of the Body, a constant reminder to Amala that she was at the bottom of the totem pole. But that was behind her. No more of that scent seeping into her suit, no more ticklishness that caused earth-rattling kicks. The Crotch was an area of respect, personal and private to the Body that paid as much as she did for this decadent service. It was delicate, hence why it was always performed by one person, lest too many riled her up. She had the territory to herself, the ability to control her own schedule, no bosses overlooking her every move. Amala had trained for this, and felt confident as she approached the enormous cunt, reading off a tablet to double-check her list of duties.

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