Accessibility Compliance

Ingredients list (mild spoilers)

1 cup voyeurism

1 cup cis-male/cis-female sexting

1/2 cup cis-male/non-binary mutual masturbation

1/4 cup gratuitous HTML

Extra special thanks to both YmaOHyd and SinclairGroupLLP for beta-reading and brainstorming on this weird little excursion!

I love receiving comments, feedback, ratings and favorites, they motivate me to keep writing!

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Login: Scout. Harris

Password: **********

Explaining my job is a pain in the ass. It's my second-least-favorite topic of conversation, after trying to explain being non-binary to someone who doesn't believe in pronouns.

The average neighbor, relative, or hair stylist doesn't know what web accessibility is. I have a little elevator pitch memorized, sufficient explanation to satisfy most people such that they stop asking and move to a different topic of small talk. So:

Not everyone experiences the internet in the same way. Some people are colorblind. Some people have physical impairments and can't use a mouse. Some people are deaf or hard of hearing. Some have low vision, or are completely blind. They might use assistive technology like a screen reader, which literally reads the content of a website out loud to them.

Web accessibility means making online content more usable for more people. My job is to write alt text. Alternative text is a brief description attached to an image and graphic, and it's one of the tools we use to make the Internet more accessible.

AccessPro provides on-demand accessibility compliance for hundreds of schools, businesses, and governmental organizations. Any time one of our clients' users records a video, uploads a picture, builds a fucking pivot table, we're here to create captioning, write alt-text, or put a header row tag on it.

Is it an exciting job? No. But does it pay well? Also no. But it's easy for me. I'm good at it. Fast, thorough, efficient. It's very meditative, very zen.

Madison: Heyyy Timmm ???? Good morning!!

Tim: Hello Maddy! How's the trip so far?

Madison:

The interaction pops up in my work queue. A private Teams conversation at a non-profit somewhere in Oregon, CascadiaTides. Their org pays for premium tier, maximum accessibility compliance, so even a DM between two employees gets checked and remediated by a human being. I see the HTML code of an uploaded image file. Then the image opens in a pop-up, along with a box for me to add alt text.

Writing good alt text is more of an art than a science. You have to be concise but descriptive. Specific and evocative, but dispassionate and analytical.

You need to know what's important about an image in the context in which it's presented. The alt text for a picture of a sailboat is going to be very different depending on if the picture belongs on a boat auction website, or an official. gov page for the Coast Guard, or a tumblr page full of inspirational memes about freedom and integrity.

AI can do some of this. It can distinguish an apple from a banana, a camel from a zebra. But when it comes to nuance and context and indexicality, it shits the bed. So I've still got a job, at least until the next version of ChatGPT comes out.

My practiced eye takes in the image, then I start typing.

I click Submit.

She's cute, short and athletic like a gymnast. I clock her at early twenties, maybe a little younger than me. Tanned, short brown hair in a tomboyish pixie cut, a killer smile. She's wearing a wetsuit that exposes her toned forearms and legs.

Tim: Nice! Looks amazing there.

Who did you go with?

Madison: Me, Myself and I,

the beach was totally empty!

I did some skinny dipping ????

Tim: Oh really! Prove it.

Madison:

Damn, she is cute. Her breasts are small, perky, firm. Her areolas are puffy and luscious, nipples small and pink and erect in the cold ocean water, goosebumps everywhere. Her exposed, intimate skin is pale and milky, with sharply contrasting tan lines in the intertidal zones of her arms and shoulders.

She really should not be sending this on a work channel.

I could click the Report button and flag it as inappropriate content. Their conversation would leave my queue, and their HR department would get a notification. I don't want to get this girl into trouble, though...

Tim: Oh fuck! That's so hot,

now you've got me hard at work.

Madison: prove it ????

Tim:

Shit. This is escalating. They're egging each other on. I don't have any way of communicating with them. I can't send them a message, "Hello, human here, I'm seeing everything you're doing right now, please stop."

If I close the work queue, the job will just go to one of my coworkers. The activity log will show that I already processed three pictures in the job. I do not want to have that conversation with my teammates.

Looks like the only way out is through.

If I keep captioning their pictures until they finish the interaction, the ticket will close. It's not likely to get audited, nobody will ever know. Just another resolved ticket in my productivity stats, nothing wrong with that!

Madison: Mmm can I sit on your lap ????

well now you've got me going too,

my nipples are all hard

Tim: Prove it ;)

Madison:

The lighting in the picture makes me think sunlight. She must be outside. Field work of some kind? She looks like a Clean the Ocean, Save The Whales kind of girl. She isn't wearing a bra, probably never wears a bra. Probably has strong opinions about bras as a tool of the patriarchy.

I pop up from my desk and peek over my cubicle. It's Monday morning, nobody is in a chatty mood, everyone is head-down at their work. If I keep my earbuds out, I should be able to hear if anyone is coming my way and tab out of the work thread in time.

Tim: Damn girl, u r trouble : D

Madison: ???? What are you going

to do about it, old man?

Tim:

Shit, Tim is a total DILF. A little old for me, I'm guessing early fifties? But he's in good shape, long and lean and a little muscly. A thick bush of soft-looking pubic hair, nothing wrong with that. His cock looks like a healthy size, not scary huge, not laughably small, but it is rock hard.

He's got kind eyes, a nice smile, a little bit of stubble, a generous pinch of salt in his pepper.

My heart is pounding hard in my chest.

Madison: Yessss daddy

will you stroke it for meeee

Tim: Could use some more inspiration ;)

Madison:

My mouth floods with saliva, and I can't help but imagine licking this girl's fingers clean for her.

In my mind she's pushing them into my mouth, touching the back of my neck with her other hand, telling me to suck them.

Tim: God you tease

Madison: Touch it

Tim:

I can see his expensive-looking watch. No wedding band. His fingers are thick and strong... So is his cock. A little bead of precum is visible on the tip.

Now I'm imagining myself kneeling in the bathroom stall with him, licking his crown, polishing it attentively.

His strong fingers would grab a handful of my bright blue hair. The part that isn't shaved, anyway. Classic androgynous haircut, you know the type.

Maybe Madison is there too, watching me. Maybe she's commanding me, giving me directions.

I can feel a wet spot forming in my underwear. It's a good thing I'm wearing dark-colored jeans today.

Tim: Wish you were here...

Madison: two more weeks ♥️

are you missing this, daddy?

Madison:

It's an awkward angle, like she's leaning against a tree with her pants around her ankles. Her pussy is mostly hairless, just a patch of brown curls on her plump little mons. She's soaking wet, practically dripping.

Now I'm imagining myself on my knees in front of her, eagerly lapping up her nectar. Now Tim is the one watching, commanding. Maybe he calls me "Pet." I bet he's got a deep, reassuring voice, I bet he would give me goosebumps whispering orders into my ear.

A few of my friends teased me when I picked my new name. "Scout sounds like a dog's name."

Whatever. You try coming up with a good enby name that isn't just a tree or an herb or something. I don't feel like an Ash or a Basil. But the tomboy in To Kill a Mockingbird isn't the worst character in the world to latch onto when you're an angsty kid trying to figure themselves out.

Tim: Fuck maddy

ur going to make

me cum at work

Madison: ????????????

Do it, cum for me daddy!

Madison:

Her lips are plump and glossy, her teeth are bright and white. One crooked little canine tooth gives her a cute roguish look. She's licking her fingers, the same ones that she was fingering herself with earlier.

I want to be in the middle of these two. I want to serve both of them at once, in whatever way they want. I want them to treat me like a toy, I want them to make love to each other while I sit on the floor next to them, ignored, watching, waiting to do whatever they command.

Tim: fuckk

Tim:

Waste of a good cumshot, if you ask me. It could have landed in my mouth, on my face, on my glasses, on my ass...

Or on Madison, so I could lick it off of her. Or out of her.

Who am I kidding? I'd lick it off the tile floor if he told me to.

Madison: Wowww ????

oops gotta run, breaks over!

Madison:

What a little brat. What a daddy. I would let both of them do such terrible things to me.

In theory, at least. I've never actually been in the position to have terrible things done to me, never taken the chance to ask for what I want. Never wanted to freak out the handful of vanilla partners in my pathetic dating history.

The ticket closes. The thread and pictures disappear, automatically cleared from my computer's cache. All that exists now is an activity log on my end, alt text on their end, and a record that I closed a job.

Shit! I could have pulled out my phone, snapped some pictures of my monitor...

No, that would have been wrong, I don't have the right to save them. Probably would've been a huge legal liability, for that matter. I'll just have to keep it in the mental goon bank.

I get up and stretch, then casually saunter back toward the all-gender restroom down the hall. It's the single occupancy kind with a lock and a sliding Available/Occupied indicator. I've never rubbed one out at work before, never felt the need. But today...

"Hey Scout! Couldja come here a sec?" Stephanie pops her head up from her cubicle and waves me over. Stephanie's basically my work mom. Sweet Southern lady, gives me cookies sometimes, struggles with my pronouns a little but her heart is right. She stood up for me once when a former employee kept deadnaming me, so I'll love her forever.

Right now I just want to lock myself in the bathroom and tear my clothes off and take care of some business, but I can't say no to her. "Sure, Steph... what's up?"

"I'm having trouble with my queue... I swear, I have submitted alt text for this picture of a duck five times now, and it keeps kicking it back to me! I don't know whether to scream or... or quack!" She says with an exasperated chuckle.

"Sounds like a foul situation," I say. Stephanie loves bad puns, it's a little thing we do. "Did you try clearing your browser cache?"

"Yes, yes, you've drilled that one into me by now."

"Well done, my techie padawan. Can I try it, just to see what it's doing?"

"Knock yourself out, kid!"

She scoots back in her rolling chair to give me space to access her monitor. I get a whiff of her perfume, some kind of floral scent that I associate with older women. She's really rather pretty for her age. I've gotten glimpses of her generous cleavage a few times, and I do love her sweet calming voice with that little bit of Southern honey...

Shit! I'm so horny, I'm sexualizing Stephanie. I need to fix her computer problem and get to the bathroom. I look at her screen.

It's a picture of a duck. The context is a community newsletter for a township in Utah, advertising a spring concert series. I shrug and type in some appropriate alt text.

I click Submit. The job window disappears, and a new one pops up. It's the same duck.

"Huh. That's a weird one. Probably something going on in the CMS queue. I think you'll have to ask Jeremy in IT."

"Oh Lord... Bless his heart, I always feel like we're talking right past each other. Last time I had a problem it took, I kid you not, nine back and forth emails before I could get him to understand what I was asking for!"

She's not wrong. Jeremy is a nice guy, but he's the kind of IT guy who would probably prefer to live in the cavity between the walls of the building rather than talk to humans.

"Want me to go ask him? I speak a little IT, I can usually communicate successfully."

"Oh Scout, you make this stupid duck go away and I'll bring you a plate of chocolate no-bakes tomorrow!"

"Your offering is acceptable," I intone with a grin.

Shit, now I have to deal with this before I can get some relief. I walk through the cubicle maze, down the hall past the bathrooms -- so close, and yet so far -- into the IT den.

It's not that bad, as far as IT dens go. It's well lit, it doesn't stink. One wall is lined with wire shelves stacked with spare routers, keyboards, mice, gutted computer towers, and boxes of miscellaneous cables and adapters that might possibly some day be critically important, and so can never be thrown away.

Another wall is filled, floor to ceiling, with blinking humming server racks. It's the pulsing brain of AccessPro, without which we wouldn't have jobs. And Jeremy's the only person on-site who knows how it works, the shaman of the monolith.

I have to admit I find him rather cute. Tall, skinny, brown, awkward but in an endearing way. He looks gangly and uncoordinated, but his hands are graceful and strong and confident when he's typing or working on hardware. He usually wears a white Oxford button-down with the sleeves rolled up, exposing his veiny arms.

I didn't think much of him when I first met him, but he's grown on me like an acquired taste, like the first time you taste black coffee. We eat lunch together sometimes in the break room, and talk about music and anime.

He's got some Emo Revival playing on his speakers, ironically self-aware songs about being lonely and midwestern, surprisingly catchy. Jeremy has a four-monitor battlestation behind the walk-up counter, angled so he can see when someone enters without the visitor seeing what's on his screen.

Unfortunately for Jeremy, I don't think he realizes that his big square glasses are highly reflective.

His eyes get wide when he sees me coming. "Oh! Um. Hey Scout!" He says hastily. He glances at one of his monitors. Reflected in his glasses, I see a flash of green fabric.

It's the same color as Madison's polo shirt from the sexting conversation. It's a very distinctive shade. Oh God he saw the pictures. He knows I saw the pictures. Shit.

I freeze in mid-stride, almost-but-not-quite up to the counter.

"Um... Hey, Scout! What's up?" He says, his voice cracking.

"Duck," my autonomic system manages to say, while my higher functions scramble to catch up.

"D- duck?"

"Stephanie's workstation is being weird she keeps getting served the same picture of a duck for alt text and no matter how many times she submits a caption the CMS gives her the same picture of a duck again," I blurt out like a terrified firehose. "She already cleared her browser cache."

Jeremy stares at me for a moment. "Did she try clearing her-- Right... Yes. Let me... look at her account log!"

The green of Madison's braless polo shirt selfie disappears from the reflection in his glasses, as he pulls up a different window and starts clicking around attentively.

Against my better judgement, I lean forward and peek over the counter, and I can see an obvious bulge in his pants. It's very noticeable. I find myself wondering how it compares to Oregon Tim's.

What do I do? We've both seen the CascadiaTides couple's everything. We both got turned on by them. We're both complicit, now.

I could kill him. No, that's no good. I could kill myself. No, I won't give my enemies the pleasure. Also I need to live long enough to acquire some enemies.

I could set the server room on fire. Break in at night and zero out the hard drives. Bribe Jeremy with all of the money I have in my savings account -- all 230 dollars. Seduce him and take pictures of our lovemaking to use as blackmail. Seduce and marry him so that he's bound by spousal privilege.

"Oh! Um, I see the problem! It's the ampersand."

I stare blankly at him, making an 'Okay, and?' face until he realizes that more detail is required.

"'Ducky&Puddle. jpg.' There's an ampersand in the filename for the duck picture, and our database doesn't like ampersands. So instead of adding it to the bottom line of Stephanie's work log and moving to the next job, it throws up an error message and sends the duck back to her."

He opens a new window and starts typing swiftly, 80wpm at least. "I'm writing a quick little sanitising script to detect and remove ampersands in any incoming file names. Kind of surprised we didn't already have something like that already, I guess it just never came up... Okay, done! I'll send Stephanie a message in T- Teams letting her know it's been fixed."

Jeremy's voice hitched a little when he said Teams. Madison and Tim were using Teams for their illicit messaging.

"Thanks, Jeremy," I manage. I have to know for sure. "Hey, do you know anything about wetsuits? I've been thinking about trying body surfing. In Oregon." He jerks his head back like I slapped him.

Yep, that clinches it. Shit.

The only way out is through.

"So. I had a really wild interaction in my work queue today... I think two people were sexting on their work accounts, and it accidentally got sent to us for alt text."

"Oh! Wow! You don't say. That's... that's wild."

"Yeah. Would you know anything about that?"

His skin is a creamy brown, but he's definitely blushing. He fesses up. "I do... know about it. Yes. I keep a livestream open, s-sometimes, of every work order that comes in. I saw them. I saw you captioning them."

"Yeah. So. What do we do?"

He stares at me, holding eye contact. "I don't know... W- what do you think we should do, Scout?"

"Well, if nobody ever learned about this, and nobody ever talked to us about it until we both died of old age, I would be alright with that."

"Okay," he says softly.

I stand there, staring at him. My eyes drift down to his lap again. I could go back to my cubicle and I trust that he would never say a word. But I'm still standing here.

There are moments in your life when you let the plot get away from you. The intrusive thoughts win, and you do or say something that you would never consciously do or say, but it slips out, and then you can't stop the momentum of it all.

"It was pretty fucking hot though, wasn't it."

His big brown eyes get even bigger. His mouth hangs open a little, and he licks his soft brown lips. "Yeah. It was really hot," he says faintly.

"I can't stop thinking about them. Tim and Maddy."

"Yeah."

"I think I need to go spend some Me Time in the bathroom."

"Oh... Okay. Enjoy yourself, Scout."

I still haven't moved. I look at Jeremy's lap again. He's wearing khaki work pants, just like Tim was. He's still obviously hard, just like Tim was.

Why am I still talking? Why haven't I run down the hall to the HR office and turned in my resignation and committed seppuku in the parking lot?

Wait, why is he still talking? Why hasn't he run down the hall to the HR office to have me publicly shamed, flogged, and arrested?

Wait a damn minute. Every interaction we've ever had flashes through my brain like a near-death experience. Lunches in the break room. Random conversations in the hallway. The Winter Holiday party, when he helped me come up with an excuse to avoid the karaoke nightmare, and walked me to my car.

Does Jeremy like me? Like, like me? He's so shy, he's never going to make the first move.

I'm not usually a first-move kinda person, but today has been so Goddamn surreal already...

"Jeremy, would you like to come with me to the bathroom?" Did I really just say that out loud?

He swallows hard, and his Adam's apple bobs visibly. "Yes, Scout, I would like that," he says, voice barely a whisper.

I spin around on my heels and march to the all-gender restroom. I hear his chair creak as he gets up. I don't dare turn around to check if he's following me.

I enter the restroom. Jeremy enters, right behind me. I reach behind him and flip the latch. Occupied. It's a single-seater, just one toilet, a urinal on the wall, and a sink. We're standing about five feet from each other.

"I've never done something like this before," I say. "I'm not going to have sex with you right now. That's off the table."

"Understood... I've never done something like this before either. Um... What is it we're doing?"

"I think we're going to watch each other get off. If you want to."

"Yes. Yes, I want to," Jeremy nods enthusiastically. He really is pretty cute.

"Take your pants off," I hear my voice say. "Unbutton your shirt."

He nods and unzips his khakis, pulling them down to his ankles. He's wearing Space Invader boxers, which should probably make me laugh but right now I'm not in a laughing mood. His cock is straining against his boxers, the button on the flap hanging on for dear life.

He unbuttons his work-casual button down, revealing his abdomen and chest. He's in pretty good shape, skinny but well defined, a little sprinkle of curly black chest hair on his brown skin, a dark happy trail leading down into his boxers. He grabs his lanyard holding his badge and prox card and throws it back across his shoulder.

"Let me see it," I breathe.

He pulls down his boxers, letting his erect cock spring free. It's long, thin, well defined, just like the rest of him. A modest thatch of pubic hair cradles his testicles and the base of his shaft.

"Wh- what about you?" He asks, blushing furiously.

I unzip my jeans and pull them down to my ankles, then I pull down my boyshorts. I keep my hoodie on. Jeremy stares at my fronthole, fuzzy and untrimmed, and right now absolutely soaking wet. My throbbing pink button is poking out from its fleshy hood, begging to be rubbed.

Jeremy stares at my private parts. His cock jumps visibly. I'm not sure what he was expecting or hoping to see, but he doesn't seem disappointed.

"Okay, we need to set some ground rules before either of us does something we regret," I hiss, trying to be quiet.

"Agreed," he says quietly, not taking his eyes off my soft wet pink parts.

"Okay, good. So. No touching, no talking. We get the job done, we leave the bathroom, we never speak of this. How does that sound?"

"Can I... make a counter proposal?" The nerve of this guy!

"You can try, but this isn't Settlers of Catan. I'm not trading bricks for sheep."

"No touching, but a little bit of talking. We leave the bathroom and never speak of this, but I take you out to dinner later."

"What the fuck? Are you asking me out right now?"

"Yes?" he asks, hopefully.

"Fine. You should know that I don't kiss or put out on the first date. Now sit on the toilet and stroke your cock."

Grinning like an idiot, unreasonably pleased with himself, he penguin-walks over to the toilet with his pants around his ankles and sits down on the lid. I lean against the sink, facing him.

I slide my fingers down my stomach, spreading my fuzzy lips apart and rubbing against my plump button with the sides of my fingers. Yes, it feels good, but I'm also showing off a little, mirroring Madison's exposure.

Jeremy responds as intended, groaning quietly and grabbing his dick in his strong, nimble IT hands, sliding his long fingers up and down his veiny length.

"You're really cute, Scout," Jeremy says shyly. "I've been thinking about asking you out for a while, but I wasn't sure you were interested in... my kind of person."

"I'm still figuring out what kinds of people I'm interested in," I say. My heart rate has been in the cardio zone since Maddy sent the topless selfie, and now I feel like it's going to beat right out of my chest. "But right now, you're pretty interesting."

I slip a couple of fingers into my slippery fronthole, gathering some of my copious natural lubrication, holding my hand out under the harsh fluorescent bathroom light, enjoying the way it glistens. Jeremy is watching intently, and he picks up that I'm roleplaying Madison's sexting performance.

"Tease," he says, taking on Tim's role. I imagined Tim's voice as deep and dark and commanding. Jeremy's is soft and sweet. I think I like Jeremy's version better.

I lick my fingers slowly and performatively, while my other hand slips under my hoodie to tweak one of my nipples. Jeremy's eyes follow the movement of my hand under the fabric, obviously curious, but I've exposed enough of myself for one day thank-you-very-much.

I return my licked-clean fingers to my pink bits, rubbing at my button like a DJ scratching vinyl. Jeremy speeds up his own self-service, gripping his cock more tightly, pulling his foreskin taut with each stroke, revealing his pinkish-brown crown.

I pull my other hand out of my hoodie and send it down south, pushing a couple of fingers into my wet hole, penetrating myself vigorously.

"Oh wow," Jeremy whispers, eyes locked on my body. I'm not used to being looked at like this. Not used to being desired. It feels good, and bad, and overwhelming, and addicting. I want to be seen by him.

This isn't going to take long for either of us. Both of us are moving faster and faster. I can see Jeremy's testicles tighten up. I think he's about to cum.

The intrusive thoughts win again, and I step closer to Jeremy.

"Cum on me," I mutter. I'm so close to him now, I'm pretty sure he can feel my body heat and smell my arousal.

"Wh- What?" He gasps, his hand practically a blur.

"I want you to cum on me, Daddy," I moan, framing my button with my fingers, pulling at my lips and making it stand at attention.

"Oh God, Scout! I'm cumming!" Jeremy groans, and aims the head of his cock directly at my pink bits. His thighs tense, and a stream of hot white cum lands directly on my button. He grunts quietly with each pulse, his big brown eyes glued to my privates as he paints me.

I moan and rub myself furiously, as another stream lands across my quickly-moving fingers. A third splatters across my thighs, and the rest of his load lands on the bathroom tile with a series of quiet plops.

My own orgasm hits like a jolt of electricity, powered by the buildup of today's events, the naughtiness of the situation, the feeling of being wanted, and the hot wetness of Jeremy's sperm on my fingers and button and thighs. My knees go weak and I nearly fall over, slamming my other hand against the bathroom wall to steady myself. I bite my lip to keep from moaning too loudly.

Neither of us says a word as we both catch our breath. My crotch is an absolute mess. I walk over to the sink and grab some paper towels, cleaning myself off as best I can.

"Wow," Jeremy finally says, pulling up his pants and bending down to clean up his mess on the floor with some toilet paper. "That was amazing... Did we really just do that?"

"Yep. Now you're going to leave the bathroom. I'm going to wait a couple of minutes and then leave. We never speak of this again."

"Right... yes. Never. But... you'll get dinner with me tonight?"

"Yes. Italian? Japanese? Korean?"

"Korean? Bibimbap at Kim Jong Yummy?"

"Okay. Eight o'clock. I'll meet you there."

I walk back to my cubicle. Stephanie pops her head up.

"Jeremy fixed my queue, no more ducks! Thanks so much, Scout!"

"No problem, Steph. You don't really need to make me chocolate no-bakes, as much as I love them. I don't mind talking to Jeremy, it wasn't a chore at all."

"No, no, deal's a deal, and I love baking for you! Scout, you are grinning like the Cheshire Cat," Stephanie says with a chuckle. "Something happen while you were back there?"

Shit, I always forget how perceptive Steph is. "Um. We're getting dinner. Tonight."

"Ooh really! Good for you, kiddo! Have fun, I'm gonna grill you about it tomorrow," She says with a wink.

I sit down at my desk and open my work queue back up.

A work order pops up almost immediately.

Unknown Sender:

Unknown sender? Weird. I open it, and look at the attached photo. It's from our work Winter Holiday party. A team picture somebody took for our office newsletter, but it's been cropped down to just two people. Shit, I can feel myself blushing and grinning like an idiot.

Writing good alt text is more of an art than a science. You have to be concise but descriptive. You need to know what's important about an image in the context in which it's presented.