A Very Merry Mailgirls XMas Ch. 03

"Jesus Christ!" Catherine Ryan called out once more, with a finality that signaled she, too, had cum. She, too, had gotten herself off in the mailgirls locker room at Park Place.

Barrow's office faded away, and the fantasy dissipated with it. It was still Christmas Day. She was still at Park Place. She was still nothing more than a visitor to this world.

Shame overtook her immediately. She was painfully aware that a locker room full of mailgirls had just witnessed her finger-fuck herself in the shower, that she'd cum at least twice, that she'd gotten herself off beside her father's second wife. Her sisters - her stepsisters - were undoubtedly somewhere nearby. Hidden cameras were rolling everywhere. Will Barrow would be watching.

Catherine, in the reflection, offered Erin a sheepish look. Thankfully, she said not a word. But her expression read that same complex cocktail of embarrassment and relief, and she met Erin with a look that seemed to be trying to play it all off as a joke. Like, "What are you going to do? Right?" A girl's got needs, after all.

The older woman had been in the shower before Erin had joined her, one showerhead over. And, though she hadn't been at work upon herself when Erin stepped under the cold water, it had been Catherine who'd made the first move. Erin had - initially at least - pretended it wasn't happening when her stepmother began to sigh beside her. Catherine was in her bubble, and Erin was in her own. Though they'd been separated only by inches, there'd been an imaginary divide that had gone up between them.

Only, that imaginary divide wasn't soundproof. When Catherine had begun to touch herself, Erin was well aware what was happening. The brunette had been abuzz with sexual energy, sure, but she'd been abuzz with sexual energy since before she'd even arrived at Park Place. Her nipples had been erect for so long that it was bordering on painful. Her pussy had been so wet that she'd begun wondering when it might begin to drip down the inside of her thighs. But Erin hadn't entered the shower with the intention of masturbating alongside her stepmother - only to take a quick rinse, cool down, and get clean. The dirtiness, though, of her father's wife touching herself had overtaken her, and the dirty slut hiding just below the surface had only needed that gentlest of pushes to come out.

The Will Barrow of her fantasy had been right.

Erin had been lost in that fantasy while living in this one. She'd wanted the mailgirl experience, and she was experiencing it full-on with full fanfare. In that moment, she understood how Sarah and Sophie could have happened, and how Mailgirl Number Five could have gone down on her own sister. The naughtiness of it all. The dirty, wanton slut who'd just gotten off next her stepmother had gotten off on the dirty, naughty, sluttiness of it all.

Whatever tomorrow held, whatever Mistress Rei and Will Barrow had in store for her, Erin O'Neill was a mailgirl through and through.

***

"Christmas dinner," as it turned out, was mailgirl chow. And small group of the mailgirls had been responsible for pulling together a serviceable meal for the male guests that morning. But even the four girls receiving said male guests were to eat their allotted chow; the only difference from the rest of them was that they were given individual dog bowls, fetched from some supply closet, and instructed to place them on the floor at the feet of their male callers.

There was no Christmas goose or honey-baked ham for any of them, no turkey or sides. Last night's spread had been Mistress Rei's one allowance for the girls' Christmas break, and a good number of the girls lamented not having stuffed themselves further with real food before returning to the thick, disgusting grey gruel. Erin forced herself to eat, gobbling down a more than healthy serving; she was already tipsy from her coffee-with-cream that morning, and still a little hung over from the night before. She stuffed her face with her stepmother and stepsisters, and managed to find humor in the absurdity of this particular Christmas family get-together.

Phones would be made available up in the executive secretarial pool on the 6th Floor within a limited window that afternoon, and Erin did want to talk to Ben. She did and she didn't. She needed to, however. Patrick would be out of range, and wouldn't be hurt if he didn't hear from his wife or his daughter or his stepdaughters until some other point. Catherine, Sarah, and Sophie, as well as Plaza Seven, agreed to accompany Erin up the 6th Floor all the same, to wait for her to speak with her loving husband. After that, they'd head out into the building, unsure of what, exactly, they'd do with their spare time that afternoon. Erin admitted she wanted a nap. Catherine agreed. Sophie thought she knew a good spot. The fact that Sarah grabbed the strap-on, and carried it in one hand, told Erin that a "nap" wasn't all that she had in mind with her friends.

But before departing for the 6th Floor, Catherine insisted that she needed to meet Angela Giannini's husband. There was a morbid curiosity there, she admitted. But she'd also promised Visitor F she would. If Erin and the girls wanted to wait for her in the service corridor, while she strutted naked into the cafeteria - that was fine.

Erin had no interest in meeting Mailgirl Fourteen's father, of exposing herself in all her glory to him and the small handful of other men who'd come to visit their loved ones. Hiding in the service corridor, or even waiting in the locker room, was by far the preferable option. She knew she was being ridiculous, though; Mr. Giannini and the others could see right through the mirror glass on the other side. They'd likely witnessed Erin's little show with her stepmother. And so she, and the others, dutifully followed behind Catherine.

Erin wasn't sure what the relationship between Nineteen and her ex-boyfriend was - if it was a good one, if it was a bad one, if they'd only broken up a few weeks earlier when she'd become a mailgirl. She couldn't exactly read the look on Nineteen's face, as the girl had her backside to her, and she had said face in her dog-dish at her former beau's feet. The ex himself was good-looking but non-descript, early thirties and clean-cut. He seemed to be amused with Nineteen's new station in life, and enjoyed his lunch while leering at the other girls.

Thirteen's father, a Chinese gentleman in his fifties or sixties, was clearly having a harder time of it. He spoke in either Mandarin or Cantonese - Erin wasn't sure which - in a calm, soothing tone. He was reassuring Thirteen of something or another, but had an absent look upon his face. He wanted to be anywhere else, doing anything else. But he was here for her, all the same.

Four, meanwhile, had finished her meal, and was now standing in a mailgirl's standard "Feet" position before her brother. He was joking with her, talking with her, catching up with her. Erin caught a "mom" here or there. A "dad." He didn't let his eyes wander, and the exchange felt that much more awkward for it.

By contrast, whatever freak show was playing out with the Gianninis was almost preferable. Mother and daughter, naked together, were licking their bowls clean at the feet of Mr. Giannini, while Mr. Giannini himself was watching without any sense of shame or embarrassment. They were naked. He was clothed. They were being treated like animals. But he carried on a one-sided conversation in his wife's direction while she ate - a conversation punctuated with words like "hot" and "sexy." His eyes wandered to the other girls in the cafeteria, and through the mirror glass into the locker room beyond. As Catherine and her group approached, he greeted them with a big, predatory smile, and made no attempt to pretend he wasn't drinking them in.

"Well, hello," he offered in Catherine's direction. "I hear you had quite the evening with my wife?"

Catherine was caught off-guard. To her credit, she recovered. "She's got a mouth on her."

Angela, grey goop smattered all over her face, looked up and smiled at the double entendre.

Mr. Giannini laughed, re-evaluated Visitor E, and then corrected her. "'She's got a mouth on her, sir.'"

"Forgive this dumb slut," Catherine replied mockingly. "She forgot her place. Sir."

"Happens to the best of you," he said, chuckling to himself. "And, my, aren't you the best of you."

Erin blushed on her stepmother's behalf.

"And 'Mr. Giannini' will be fine," he allowed.

"Thank you, Mr. Giannini," Catherine answered.

In a normal setting, Catherine might have shaken his hand. Angela might have made introductions. They might have wished each other a "Merry Christmas," had a good laugh, and been on their way. Instead, Mr. Giannini gestured to the floor, and invited Catherine to join his wife for a quick bite.

"Thank you, Mr. Giannini," Catherine said. Playing her part, she tried to excuse herself. "This girl has already eaten."

"I saw," he said. "In fact, I got to see quite a bit." He looked to Erin, who immediately turned her gaze to the floor. "Another sister?"

"Stepsister," Erin corrected him. "Mr. Giannini."

Back to Catherine, the man clucked his tongue and smiled. "Naughty girl."

Neither Catherine nor Erin had acknowledged what had transpired beneath the showers. Angela's husband seemed to take pleasure in bringing it up.

Catherine said nothing.

"Eat," he ordered. "Mistress Rei won't mind. You made a meal of my wife. How about a quick meal with my wife?"

Catherine looked to Sarah for help. Sarah's only response was to explain, "Mr. Giannini is a Managing Director in Mergers and Acquisitions." That was to say, Mr. Giannini was a USF employee who was used to getting his way with the mailgirls.

What his daughter was doing here among their ranks, then, seemed to be a story unto itself.

"I'm almost finished," Angela offered from her bowl on the floor, coming to Catherine's rescue in her own way. "Help me with the last little bit."

Catherine scowled, but got on all fours all the same, and took up position to one side of Angela Giannini. She and Angela took turns with the bowl, while the older man took stock of the other naked mailgirls in front of him.

"Seven," he greeted Plaza Seven. "A pleasure to see you here today."

"My pleasure, Mr. Giannini," Plaza Seven cooed politely.

"I'll make sure to spend a few chits on you later this week. We have a group coming over from the FTC, and I want to make sure we put on a good show."

"Of course, Mr. Giannini."

"Stretch beforehand," he instructed her. "They'll put you through a workout." In Sarah's direction, he shrugged, and explained himself. "Jumping jacks. I don't know what it is about jumping jacks."

"I remember, Mr. Giannini," Sarah said in response.

Jumping jacks, from what Erin could discern from her research, seemed to be a common and recurring fetish among mailgirl enthusiasts.

"Of course, of course," Mr. Giannini remembered, reminiscing over some shared experience he and Sarah had presumably had the previous summer, when she was at the Plaza. "I hope you two are treating my little girl with the respect that she deserves here at Park Place."

Fourteen didn't glance up from her bowl. Sarah simply nodded, "Yes, Mr. Giannini."

He stared at Erin, taking her in, but spared her any commentary for the moment. Turning his attention back to Catherine, who was now licking Angela's bowl clean while Angela watched on, Mr. Giannini asked, "Just as your mother has been taking care of Mrs. Giannini...?"

Angela met his eyes, and recited with a sly grin, "Sir, per Human Capital, I am to be called by my mail room visitor's designation."

"'Mrs. F,' then?" He smiled. "I do thank you for expanding her palette." He tilted his head in the direction of Mailgirl Thirteen. "I was afraid she was becoming a bit of a 'rice queen.'"

Catherine hesitated, unsure of how to respond. After a beat, and a gulp, she said finally, "It was my pleasure, Mr. Giannini."

"I'm sure it was," he nodded, and lost himself for a moment inside his own imagination.

When he returned to them, Mr. Giannini came back to Erin. He eyed her up and down. He lingered on her thighs, her hips, and her stomach. He shot her a wolfish, appreciative smile.

"You," he said to her, "turn around for me. Let me get a better look."

It was Erin's turn now to glance at Sarah and Sophie for support. Though they said nothing aloud, both of them met her look, and warned her to play along. Or there'd be consequences for them all.

Erin did as instructed. She didn't want to feel the sting of Mistress Rei's bullwhip in earnest. She turned slowly, as she expected he'd want her to. When she was facing the opposite direction, with her back to Mr. Giannini, she came to a stop, and let him get a better view of her backside.

He chuckled behind her. "You stupid sluts," he laughed. There was no anger in the tone, only amusement. "It's like you've all had a fucking lobotomy, and can't follow a simple instruction. Turn all the way around. Back to me."

How was Erin to know that was what he had meant?! Rage boiled up inside of her over the insult, so casual and off-the-cuff. She turned all the way back around, until she was facing her tormentor, and met herself with another emotion entirely: shame. She felt bad that she hadn't anticipated what he'd actually meant. She felt dumb. She wanted to please him.

"This girl is sorry for being so stupid," Erin apologized, the words forming on their own and escaping her mouth without any higher brain function. Maybe there was a kernel of truth in Mr. Giannini's derision.

"It's okay, sweetheart," he reassured her. "You're new at this."

"Yes, Mr. Giannini."

He lingered upon her front side once more, again dropping his eyes to her crotch. As he spoke, it was as if he was addressing her pussy more than Erin herself. Which seemed appropriate, perhaps.

"So you're a mailgirl tourist?"

"A visitor, Mr. Giannini. I'm visiting...that is...this girl is visiting her step-sisters."

"Maybe," he clucked. "You're putting yourself through an awful lot for your stepsisters."

Erin said nothing. She was naked before him in more ways than one.

"What do you do for work? In the real world?"

"I...this girl teaches English. Eleventh grade. Mostly."

"A schoolmarm!" Mr. Giannini teased. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and snapped a picture. "I bet your students would get a kick out of this."

It wasn't as if Fourteen's father had the mailing list for her school. And posting a photo of her somewhere online didn't seem like the behavior of a high-level corporate executive; she doubted that Mr. Giannini was pathetically trolling around on Mailgirls Exposed. He was saying this to get a rise out of her, a reaction.

"Yes, Mr. Giannini."

"I'm sure they don't know about your little fishes..."

Her tattoo. "No, Mr. Giannini."

He let out a low whistle. "I wish I'd had teachers like you when I was growing up." He paused, thought this over for a moment, and added, "Though, probably for the best. It might have been difficult to concentrate on Shakespeare or Gatsby with all of that parading around in front of the class."

Her college-track classes had just finished a unit on the Scarlet Letter.

"Come here," he instructed her. "Let's have a closer look."

"Look-but-don't-touch" was USF's standard policy. But, as Erin understood it, upper management types like Mr. Giannini often violated that policy - to a point - without much consequence. As she stepped forward, the older man did, indeed, take advantage of that executive privilege, and ran his middle finger ever-so-delicately over her tattoo. He traced the outline of the little red fish just so.

"Smooth," he offered as a compliment.

She wanted him to go bolder. She wanted him to run his finger all the way down her hip and between her thighs. Her legs were parted. Her pussy was warm and welcoming. She wanted him to go for it, to touch it, to penetrate it.

She shivered at his touch, and he felt the tremor. He looked up her, then back down to her midsection, and pulled away. "Smooth all over, in fact," he said.

Erin exhaled. She hadn't been aware that she'd been holding her breath.

"Let's get you up on the table," Mr. Giannini said. As he leaned back in his chair, he tapped the counter top. "Get you in position, and really see what we have here."

He turned to his daughter, and with disdain in his voice, asked, "I mean, that's what this is really about, right? You girls get off on teasing us all, showing off what good little cum receptacles you'd all be if you had your way."

Fourteen, through gritted teeth, responded only, "Yes, Mr. Giannini."

"...if only Human Capital didn't protect you from yourselves."

"Yes, Mr. Giannini," Fourteen repeated.

To Erin, he patted the table once more. "Up. Up. All fours."

Erin didn't look to Sarah or Sophie this time. They were witnessing this submission, right alongside Catherine, Angela, and Fourteen. She couldn't bear to acknowledge their presence.

Erin wondered to herself whether Mistress Rei might see what was happening and put a stop to it. After all, mailgirls weren't allowed on furniture, were they? Mr. Giannini no doubt knew this, but he also no doubt knew of a few loopholes. The letter of the law was clear, but the spirit of the law was likely more about keeping Erin from rubbing her wet pussy or bare asshole upon surfaces non-mailgirls might sit. As she got up onto her hands and knees, and crawled down the length of the table, she felt that much more exposed, those very same pussy and asshole on display for anyone and everyone behind her.

Mr. Giannini stood, rounded the table, and got himself a better look. He didn't touch, but she could feel his breath upon her backside.

"Knees a little further apart," he told her. "Forehead down."

Erin parted her legs, and a waft of her own pussy met her nose. It was definitely hers. There was no doubt that others could smell it, too.

She placed her forehead flat on the surface of the table and closed her eyes. She was "presenting." She was "in position." "Forehead," was the term Mistress Rei had used yesterday afternoon. She was ready and willing to accept whatever happened next.

She half-expected a finger to come, though she knew it was a well-established no-no. She wanted a finger to come. The power that Mr. Giannini held over her was intoxicating. And, just like in her fantasy beneath the shower, she would have done anything he'd told her to. Sarah, Sophie, and the others would see her get penetrated by Fourteen's father. They'd hear her sighs. They'd watch her cum.

But that finger never came. Instead, Mr. Giannini circled the table with menace, assessing the naked submissive in total. She was a prized pig at the country fair. She was an animal, to be bought and sold.

"Up," he ordered. "Back up on all fours."

"'Hands-and-Knees,'" Angela offered helpfully.

"Hands-and-Knees," Mr. Giannini repeated. "Let's get a better look at those tits."

Erin grimaced. She returned to her hands and knees, as instructed, and opened her eyes. She stared down at the table, beaten and dominated, and said nothing.

"In fact, let's get a better feel," he said. "Mrs. F, would you care to do the honors?"

"Yes, Mr. Giannini." Erin could hear the woman's smile.

Angela and Catherine had finished their shared meal, apparently, and licked their bowl clean. They'd no doubt then cleaned each other's faces with their tongues - a show Erin had missed as Mr. Giannini had her jump through hoops of her own. Angela stood, stepped forward, and cupped Erin's dangling right breast her hand. With the knuckle of her thumb, she found Erin's nipple, and kneaded it as she did so.