I'm Dating Our Mailgirl Ch. 01

I've often acknowledged by gratitude to Seahawk76 for providing many pleasurable hours of erotic reading. By his own statement, he has a subtle approach and shuns balls-to-the-walls fucking and sucking. He has an intelligent approach to erotica which personally I find quite enjoyable. His Reluctant Exhibitionist and Allison's Inheritance inspired me to write my first submission, The Reunion, which mainly featured a naked-in-public story line. Then he came back with my first introduction to the Mailgirl genre. This inspired me to write my own mailgirl story. In tribute to Seahawk76, and with his permission, the company that is implementing the mailgirl program is Seahawk Industries. I believe the premise of the genre should be apparent in my story if you aren't familiar with it. But the "history" of the mailgirl phenomenon can be explored by reading his Confessions of a Mailgirl. Thanks, Seahawk76.

This is a work of fiction. All characters are at least 18 years of age. No resemblance to any actual person or company is intended.

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THE ANNOUNCEMENT

After 18 years of formal education, 21 if you want to count pre-kindergarten and kindergarten, I finally got my first big girl real job. I had an MBA from a Southern land grant college, not your prestigious Ivy League school or Stanford, but I was proud of my achievement. I landed a job at Seahawk Industries in their corporate finance and acquisitions department and moved west.

I had been there 3 months when we all received an email blast for all employees who worked in the corporate headquarters. It announced that next Monday the company would be implementing a mailgirl program. The description in the body of the email was short and to the point. "The radical concept of having naked women deliver all corporate mail deliveries in the main office originated in Japan. The concept has now been tested and extensive research found that the belief that such a program would be disruptive, and counter productive was not true. Research by Industrial Psychologist Caitlyn Ohara, PsyD, and Industrial Engineer Gregory Kelly, BSE, ISE showed the counterinturtive opposite. Businesses that implemented mailgirl programs found productivity actually improved, sick calls went down, the retention of male employees improved, and workers were often willing to work longer hours. Seeing beautiful nude women during the workday turned out to be more stimulating to many employees."

A 40-page attachment contained an article by Ohara and Kelly jointly published in the Journal of Industrial Psychology and The Industrial Engineering Journal. I found myself drawn to the article, perhaps it was 4 years of undergraduate research and two more years of research working for her MBA, but I opened the article. I couldn't believe what I was reading. I was appalled that these mailgirls would willingly subject themselves to the humiliation of walking around, no running around all day completely naked. I'm not a crusader by nature. I never participated in political rallies, pro-abortion rallies, or even pro-life rallies which did nothing for me. Women's Lib? That's so 80's, and I certainly wasn't going to take a public stand on gay rights.

I couldn't believe I read the whole article. . .twice. The article was profusely illustrated. All of them were abhorrent and completely offensive. I though about it all weekend and decided this wasn't the hill on which I was going to die. I figured the women were all pole-dancers, prostitutes or potheads. I would just show up at work on Monday and mind my own business as I always do. No idle chit-chat at the water cooler, but I never engage in such office gossip anyway. Believe it or not, despite my scholastic achievement I really am an introvert who was known to keep to herself.

THE ORIENTATION

The Monday morning email blast announced that the mailgirls were to take part in a 5 hour orientation from 7:00 AM until noon. They were to take a 30-minute lunch and then they would tour the building, or at least the 10 floors Seahawk Industries occupies between the 21st and 30th story of the 42-story building of which we were the name tenant. Sure enought, at around 2:30 12 completely naked women emerged from the stairwell. They were led in by Joyce Parker. She is the head of home office human resources. On paper, she is the main HR person in the corporate headquarters but theoretically she does report to the head of corporate HR, the COO and of course the CEO and chairman of the board. I would guess she is pushing her 50's. I wouldn't describe her as attractive, I hate to sound like an ageist but she IS almost 50. She actually is quite slender and looks like the stereotype you would conjure up if you tried to imagine the Chairman of the local Fine Arts council.

She rushed the girls into the mail collecting and sorting area. The women were all quite attractive, well, 10 of them where "quite" attractive. The other two were a bit plain but certainly not unattractive. They were all naked and had individual numbers on their bodies. There was an 8-in number on the left buttocks, a 6-in number on the right upper arm and a 4-in number on the left breast. At first, I thought the numbers were applied with a marker, but I later learned they were made of a plastic attached with the strongest adhesive ever used on the human body. The numbers were black except for 7, an ebony skinned beauty with a short afro. I guess in deference to her skin color, her numbers were white to provide a contrast and be easily read. Another girl, 3, was a beautiful caramel or mocha-skinned woman whose skin was light enough that she didn't need the contrasting white colored numbers.

I didn't want to stare, but I was drawn to the sight much as people are drawn to watching a train wreck. As I made that analogy, I wondered if that is what would come of the great Seahawk Industries experiment. I must admit, I was struck by No. 9, a strawberry blond beauty. I must make a confession, I don't go around looking at women's pubic regions, but I couldn't help noticing this woman had strawberry blond pubic hair. I thought to myself, "Well, at least the carpet matches the drapes." Believe me, I don't go around noticing women's, or even men's for that matter, pubic hair, but her hair appeared to be as smooth as any pubic hair I had ever seen. It wasn't kinky or frizzy as most of the hair I have ever noticed has been. Her pubic hair could have been used in a hair conditioner ad, at least it appeared that way.

After about 20 minutes Ms. Parker led the women back to the stairwell.

Starting Tuesday we usually had three or four mailgirls make deliveries or pickups on our floor. Since they were assigned randomly, you could figure on any particular mailgirl coming to our floor maybe every third of fourth day. Sure enough, on Friday 9 came for a pick up. I noticed her hair was worn in a ponytail and her pussy was shaved. I missed her smooth hair, but I guess I need to confess I was glad to get a clearer view of her pussy lips. Alright, here we go. I'm not a lesbian. I've never had any urges in that direction. Sure I participated in the obligatory junior high coming of age girls sleepover where we all "practiced" kissing just so we could be good when we finally started kissing boys. I didn't necessarily like it; I guess I viewed it as necessary just like learning the multiplication tables. Even when one of the girls "copped a feel" of my breast which was starting to blossom into young womanhood, I didn't like it although I didn't protest. Through college and graduate school, I never had any opportunity to engage in lesbian sex and I didn't seek it out and I didn't regret the absence.

But there was something about seeing 9 run around completely naked, with her stunning beauty. Everytime I saw her I was getting a estrogen rush and I was experiencing a completely out of character desire to . . .I don't know what. . .make love to her? No, that's ridiculous but there was definitely a sexual arousal there.

The next week when she was routed to our floor, I came out of my office and smiled at her. "Hi, I'm Monica Ross. What's your name?" She looked at me as if I had two heads.

"Nine. Can't you see", as she jabbed the bold black 9 on her arm.

"Yea I know, but what's your name?"

"I'm nine; that's all."

"But you've got to have a real name."

"We aren't allowed to talk to anyone, unless it's work related." She pointed to her Mailgirl Monitoring Unit, MMU for short, These summoned mailgirls from job to job. These were smartphones encased in black elastic around their biceps . She barely whispered, "There's a microphone in here." Then she just mouthed the words, "You'll get me in trouble." I backed off and went back to work.

She was back 3 days later. I smiled and waved at her, but got no reaction. She had that sad, morose look on her face. Finally, two weeks later when she was making one of her routine trips to our department, I smiled and detected a very faint smile in return. The next time she showed up, I smiled again and waved to her. Her smile was just a bit more evident.

WAITING FOR THE CALL

I felt I was getting through to her and decided to take the bull by the horns. On her next delivery, 2 days later, I handed her a post it note on which I had written, "Monica Ross, with my telephone number and call me." I was gratified to see that she did not throw the note into the trash can. But what she did completely floored me.

She looked perplexed as to what she could do with the note. She tried to stick in into her MMU, but it was too tightly bound to her arm, she couldn't squeeze it into the holder. She looked around, got a forlorn look on her face, rolled the note up and stuck it into her pussy. I was amazed. I had the most astonished look on my face. In one sense, I was glad she didn't stick it into her asshole! Sorry, my weird sense of humor coming out. I guess she was holding the note to the most intimate part of her body she could find.

When I went home that evening, I was like a school girl waiting for a call inviting me to the prom. But all night, silence. The next night, silence. Then the next night, around 9:00 my phone rang. I didn't recognize the caller ID. "Hello."

"This is 9. Why did you want me to call?"

"Oh, OH! Thanks for calling." I was completely flustered. "Uh, I, um, well, I just wanted to find out more about you."

"What's to find out. I'm a mailgirl. I'm 9."

"No, I mean, uh, I was just, uh. Listen, can we get together after work some day so we can talk?"

"I don't socialize. I just go to work, take off all my clothes, shower, shave and make my deliveries. I eat my gruel for lunch, make more deliveries, go home and go to sleep to recover. Then I do the same thing the next day."

"Well, it sounds like you need to do something new. Are you familiar with the Loading Dock?" That was a bar about 4 blocks from the Seahawk building that was popular with the working crowd. "Will you meet me there tomorrow after work?"

There was silence. "I'm really not very interesting. I don't know why you want to talk to me." More silence. "I don't get off from work until 8:00. I need to shower and walk there. Is 8:30 alright?"

My heart was fluttering. Or was it my pussy? "Yea, great, I'll see you there."

OUR FIRST DATE

The next day, I worked late to kill the time until our rendezvous. I left the building at 8:00 to make my way to the Loading Dock. I was there before 9 arrived and took a table for 2 near the rear. I ordered a wine cooler and ate some of the peanuts they had at the table.

Promptly at 8:30 9 arrived. She was wearing tattered jeans and a tank top. They weren't the designer jeans that are pre-tattered that are popular today. Rather, these were genuinely old jeans that were well worn. She had canvas shoes and no bra. I was a little taken aback when I first saw her. This was the first time I had ever seen her clothed. It was a little jarring and totally out of context from the past 3 months.

She saw me, came over and sat down. I wanted to set the mood and I joked, "I didn't recognize you with your clothes on."

"Do you want me to take them off?" I don't think she was joking.

"No, that's alright. I'll just have to get used to it." Mental note to myself, she has no sense of humor. I asked her if she wanted a drink. She ordered the least expensive beer they served. I ordered a couple of appetizers.

"So, how was work today?"

"Are you serious? The same as every day. I went to work, take off all my clothes, showered, shaved and made my deliveries. I ate my gruel for lunch, made more deliveries, showered at the end of my shift and walked here."

"Well, did anything interesting happen?"

"I got two demerits for being late for a couple of the deliveries." Mental note to myself, she suffers from depression.

I tried a different approach. "Tell me a little about yourself. What did you do before you became a mailgirl?"

She got the saddest look on her face, she lowered her face and lowered her voice, "I've always been a mailgirl."

"Oh, come on. You haven't ALWAYS been a mailgirl."

My old life ended when I became a mailgirl. That is who I am now, who I have always been." Mental note to myself, she suffers from psychosis.

We continued in the same vein for two hours. Every attempt to draw her out was met with a depressing response that reflected a miserable life. She never asked me about myself, but that was alright. I didn't wants this to be about me. But I thought it was strange she couldn't even reach beyond her wretched life to explore what might be happening in the larger world around her.

Believe it or not, we continued this way for two full hours. Each minute I was getting more depressed, but I did feel sorry for the poor waif. I finally said that I needed to get home. I had parked my car in the garage of the Seahawk building. I asked about how she was getting home. She said she lived in a warehouse about two blocks from the building. We needed to walk by it on the way back to the garage.

We came to a brick industrial-looking building enclose in a chain-link fence. The entrance wasn't locked, but I couldn't help wondering if the fence was to keep people out or to keep them in. I made one more attempt to appear animated and interested in her. "Oh, what an interesting building. Do you have some type of loft space in there?"

Again the stare as if I had two heads. "Are you serious? Seahawk Industries gives us the housing. Ten of us live here; two others actually have their own apartments. We don't have to pay any rent and it's only two blocks to work."

I was about to say goodbye. I now realized other than an occasional encounter at work, I would never see this woman again. This little social experiment had been a complete and utter failure. I only managed in finding out what a miserable life she lived and got myself depressed in the process. As I was about to leave, 9 said to me, "Thank you, Monica; this is the best date I have ever had."

I was floored. "But you appeared to have had a miserable time."

"No, I really like you. I like this time we spent together. You are the only person in the last 3 months who regarded me as a human being. Please, can I see you again soon?" I hadn't even thought about a proposal for the "next" date.

"Well, we could get together Friday. What would you like to do? A movie, maybe go to a club, or how about a nice dinner somewhere?

"Oh, a delicious meal somewhere sounds so great. I'm really tired of the gruel they feed us at work and I can't afford much more than ramen noodles at night. But I could't afford to go to a fancy restaurant, or even Applebee's or Chili's."

"Well, don't you worry about that. It'll be my treat. Hey, how about you come to my apartment and I'll fix you a nice Italian meal. How does veal marsala sound?"

"That would be heaven. But I don't drive; I don't own a car."

"I'll take you after work. And, of course, I'll bring you back her at the end of the evening."

She agreed, and then she grabbed me and hugged me in the most sincere affectionate, caring caress I ever expected. She didn't let go. I assume it was because she was so starved for affection that she wanted to make this moment last. Then she kissed me. I don't mean a peck on the cheek or even on the lips, but she got me into a lip lock that lasted for over a minute. Then I felt her tongue probing my mouth. I was caught unaware, but I rather enjoyed the sensation. Mental note to myself, "My first lesbian kiss."

I have to make a silly confession here. At this point, I wasn't sure where this was all headed. I told you thoughts of a lesbian liaison had entered my mind, but were those just wild fleeting thoughts? Was i prepared to go in that direction. I actually went on line and googled how to ask someone to have a lesbian affair. The advice was all over the place. I wonder if the best course of action was just to let things take their natural course. Clearly, I was on my own. It would be so nice if she were a lesbian and she would take the lead. But that just wasn't her personality. I had not reason to believe that was how she was wired.

OUR SECOND DATE

I arrived her her "home" promptly at 8:30 Friday evening. The gate that entered onto a lot with 6 parking spaces was open. I got out and walked to the front door. There was no doorbell or knocker, but just an industrial push bar that I pushed and sure enough the door opened. I felt I was intruding, but I guess they could have locked the door and I'm sure sometime later that evening they would.

I walked into a vast open space. I could see a kitchen area to one side and on the other side there were 3 toilets and basins, right in the open without any privacy. In the middle of the room were 13 beds. Six were on one side and six more were on the other. They were all single beds. I fact, they looked more like military style bunks that were slightly narrower than a conventional bed. The "mattress", from what I could tell was maybe two inches thick, no more than 3. They were covered with utilitarian sheets and I could only guess at the thickness. In between the two rows of beds was a conventional queen size bed.

I saw that there were 20 drawers, each about 1 cubic foot. They were numbered 1 - 20, and each was assigned to one of the girls. I guess they were planning for possible expansion of the program. I didn't see any other closet or chest of drawers.

There were 9 girls present including 9. Seven of them were naked. Nine was wearing a plain cotton dress, no stockings, and her canvas shoes.

She said, "I guess you know all my roommates, one, two, four, six, seven, eight, ten, and twelve." She said it as if she were the old lady who lived in a shoe counting off her children. I wanted to think that the way she rattled off the "names" in numerical order was a rudimentary vestige of a sense of humor. We left, but she really didn't say goodbye nor did any of the girls acknowledge her departure.

We drove off and then we each simultaneously said, "Thank you for doing this."

We giggled and I said, "My pleasure."

There was no conversation. "How are you doing? Nice car. How was work this week." I knew she wasn't much of a conversationalist and I didn't want to frighten her like a deer in the woods.

We got to my apartment building. I live in a high rise overlooking the downtown area only about 20 minutes from the Seahawk Building. I led her to my apartment. When we got to it, I asked her, "Would you like something to drink?"

"I'm sure I'm going to need it." What a queer choice of words, but it's kind of how I felt. Her drink of choice is cheap beer, but I splurged and risked buying her Dos Equis. Since it was still summer, I fixed myself a gin and bitter lemon.

I sad down and she said, "I really feel uncomfortable." Here it comes.