Life Among the Mailgirls Ch. 02

"Go ahead," Mrs. Shean instructed, and gestured to an open stall. She took up a position by the sinks, leaning against the counter, and waited.

Thirteen didn't hesitate. She dutifully left the stall door open as she sat down, offering up a "Thank you, Mrs. Shean," as she did so. She was thanking the receptionist for the bathroom break itself, but there was also an implied gratitude that Mrs. Shean was around the corner and just out of sight.

Thirteen wasn't the fastest mailgirl – that honor probably belonged to Sixteen or Four. But she wasn't the slowest, either. She admittedly picked up a few more demerits than average, but it was Twelve who seemed to be subjected to a punishment on an almost daily basis (to the point that some of the other girls had begun to speculate she enjoyed it more than the rest). She wasn't a "star," like One or Fourteen, both of whom had decided to embrace what it meant to be a mailgirl more than others. No, Thirteen was a middle-of-the-road performer, but a middle-of-the-road performer who'd been cursed with a small bladder.

She'd suffered two accidents, both earlier in the summer, both of which still embarrassed her more than just about any other humiliation she'd suffered at USF. The first, in the actual mailroom, had been her own fault, that first week as a mailgirl. She'd simply been too embarrassed to ask, and had convinced herself that she could make it to her next break. That had been a small one, as she'd bolted to the bathroom without permission as it began to happen; she was paddled by Mistress Zero until her ass glowed. The second accident, two weeks later, had taken place more publicly, in Investment Financing, and was the result of a particularly bitchy administrative assistant who refused to grant Thirteen permission. She knew she was in trouble as soon as she'd taken her place on the mat, as she hadn't entirely learned to regulate her water intake at that point. She lost control, to the disgust and contempt of everyone in the area, and to this day hated having to go to Investment Financing more than just about any other department in the building. Custodial had been called, but it was Thirteen who had to clean up her own mess, and then carry the soiled mat down to the locker room and report the incident to Mistress Zero. She'd been paddled again, of course. But, as she apparently hadn't learned her lesson the first time, she'd also suffered her first overnight in the locker room – gagged, blindfolded, handcuffed, and leashed to her locker at the end of Evening Shift, and then left to sleep on the hard, tiled floor until Mistress Zero arrived the next morning.

About half the girls had had an accident at least once, usually in the first week or two. Only Thirteen and Nine had suffered the indignity twice. And while that wasn't Thirteen's last overnight stay in the locker room, it was her last overnight stay for that particular offense; Thirteen hadn't had an accident since.

Finished, Thirteen joined Mrs. Shean at the sinks and washed her hands. The receptionist then dutifully punched her employee ID into Thirteen's smartphone once more, logging that the bathroom break was over, and led the naked girl back to her desk.

Bladder empty and her morning break pending, Thirteen stopped for a drink before returning to her station. She got down on all fours at the silver dog bowl, and then dipped her face down to the water. As the bowl was full enough, she sipped with her lips, but she wasn't above lapping up water with her tongue when the water level got low.

"I will never get tired of looking at that!" Thirteen heard from behind her, and she knew that she and Mrs. Shean were no longer along in the reception area.

She was fully aware of how exposed she was. Her head was down, her ass was in the air, and her sex on display like a female animal presenting.

Thirteen swallowed, and then turned her head. She dared not look up and meet their eyes, but confirmed that there were three men now behind her. And, while she doubted that she was being addressed directly, she offered a "Thank you, sir," nonetheless.

Indeed, as she returned to her mat, it was clear that the three men – all about her age – were talking to one another, about her, as if she couldn't hear them. One of them had pressed the down button for the elevator, and they continued to talk as they waited for their car.

"Look at those lips," one of them offered. And, though Thirteen couldn't be sure which set of lips he was talking about, she suspected they'd moved on to her mouth. "Those are lips tailor-made for providing relief."

They all laughed. "Providing relief" was mailgirl program code for a blowjob, though thankfully the practice hadn't spread to USF. Thirteen had chosen to do her research at USF specifically because the company had drawn a line in the sand of just how far they were willing to go, and "relief" was off the table, as were insertions and touching of almost every kind. Her faculty advisor, Gillian Schang, had known Human Capital's Will Barrow back as an undergraduate, and felt that with Will in charge USF wouldn't tolerate some of the over-the-line abuse that plagued any number of mailgirl programs elsewhere.

Which wasn't to say that abuse didn't happen; after all, that was what the mailgirl program was all about.

One of the other men glanced over his shoulder, to check if Mrs. Shean was paying them any attention. She wasn't. He ever so slowly and quietly unzipped his fly, and whispered, "Hey, Tits. Open up."

Thirteen steeled herself. He wasn't going to do it. Of course he wasn't going to do it. At least, not here, not now. And so, calling his bluff, she met his eyes, opened her mouth, and dared him to follow through.

"Do it," laughed another of the three men, urging him on.

Thirteen could have protested, could have called Mrs. Shean's attention, and could have told them she'd report them for harassing her this way. But it wasn't worth it. She could handle this, this childish level of bullying, without sounding an alarm. It was nowhere near the abuse she suffered at the hands of Mistress Zero, and it wasn't so objectionable that she needed to make three new enemies.

But before the game of chicken could go any further, the first man grabbed her roughly by the chin, and asked, "Aren't you supposed to correct him? For not using your number?"

The whole thing was supposed to feel menacing, and Thirteen was supposed to feel victimized. She was naked, on her knees, and surrounded on all side by fully-dressed young men. She smiled, however, knowing full well that she'd called them out. She might have even been willing to take him into her mouth, as she'd been willing to do to Hoblitzel, confident that the repercussions to her – while painful – would be nowhere near as severe as they'd be to the three of them. To the one with her chin in his hand, she said, "Yes, sir." To the one whose fly was open, she corrected, "Thirteen, sir."

"Thirteen," he laughed, starting to get uncomfortable. "Open up."

But though Thirteen parted her lips and opened her mouth, the offending member never came.

"Gentlemen?" Mrs. Shean called over. It wasn't a question. It was an admonishment.

These three young men probably earned more in a week than Mrs. Shean did in a year, but she still held some power over them, as if she were scolding them like their mothers might have. They looked over at her sheepishly, and apologetically. And then the whole confrontation ended abruptly, when the elevator chimed and the doors slid open.

When they were gone, and Thirteen was again alone with the receptionist, Mrs. Shean shook her head and wondered aloud, "I don't know how HR expects them to get anything done with you girls strutting around with all your goods on display."

Thirteen knelt silently.

The older woman looked over at her now, directly, and seemed to be sizing her up. Not physically, as Thirteen was used to, but deeper. Psychologically. Puzzling through the naked mailgirl's inner workings, figuring out just what made her tick.

"You get off on this, don't you?"

Thirteen hesitated. Three months ago, when she first started at USF, she might have issued a denial. Now?

"Yes, Mrs. Shean."

"That's what I thought," she responded. She went back to her typing, but not before amending, "Who knows? Maybe if I was in your position..." She trailed off.

From the 33rd Floor, Thirteen was called down to the 31st. Interoffice. Then up to the 34th. Another interoffice. Then back down to the 33rd for a memo. Standard mail pick-up at the reception desk on the 28th, and then out and about amongst the cubicles on that floor. And so the morning sped on, with Thirteen running, jogging, speed-walking through the building, as the timer on her smartphone dictated her pace. And, though she wasn't called down for her break until as late as possible – 10:15 to 10:30 – Thirteen still managed to avoid another demerit. A punishment was coming, sure; likely at lunch. But at least for this morning, those fifteen minutes were all hers, to do as she pleased.

Never wanting to pull too many girls off-duty at one time, Human Capital had staggered the mailgirls' breaks. The first of the morning breaks was scheduled from 9:30 to 9:45, and consisted of a random assortment of six girls, based on current activity level. From the tablet at her desk, and thanks to the geo-locators inside each of their smartphones, Mistress Zero could see exactly where all twenty-four girls were at any given time. She could see who was engaged in an active delivery, who was being "held" and expecting a delivery, who was on a bathroom break, who was currently at rest and waiting for her next assignment. She took them off duty six at a time, with their fifteen minute breaks beginning the moment they were notified by a chime from their smartphones on the band on their arms. Afternoon breaks were similar, at fifteen minute intervals between 3:30 and 4:30. Lunches, too, though they were allotted thirty minutes at lunch, and were split twelve and twelve between First Lunch at twelve-thirty and Second Lunch at one o'clock.

Because breaks included the time it took for a mailgirl to get back to the locker room, time itself was precious, and it could be tortuous to see the countdown begin if a girl were on one of the upper floors. That was what Thirteen was dealing with now, watching her smartphone tick down from 14:50 to 14:49, as she waited for the service elevator on the 42nd floor.

Unlike a number of companies that Thirteen had studied on the West Coast, with their suburban campuses and office parks, US Financial Plaza posed a challenge to a commonly enforced prohibition against mailgirls riding in elevators. Most programs had some allowances for service elevators when a delivery was big enough or heavy enough, and the employee sending the delivery granted permission. A forty-eight story skyscraper in downtown Manhattan, however, made such restrictions difficult to put into practice, as the ascent from the locker room on the 2nd Floor to the Executive Offices on the 47th or 48th might well have killed a girl. Let alone the time it would take to make the run.

Instead, USF had followed the lead of a handful of other programs in Tokyo and Frankfurt, and allowed the use of service elevators when necessary. What Human Capital had decided to call "necessary," however, was an ascent or descent of more than ten stories. If Thirteen needed to get from the mail room on B2 to the 18th Floor, she was allowed to use the elevator. If she needed to get from B2 to the 6th, it was the stairs.

Because of the tracking and analytics that Human Capital had its fingertips, because the closest mailgirl was the one who was called (unless an executive was willing to spend a few chits to call a specific girl), and because they'd continued to refine and find efficiencies the longer the program was active, the bulk of Thirteen's deliveries were usually within ten floors and required the stairs. Standard mail and packages from the actual mail room in the basement were an exception, but a high percentage of those were taken care of early in the morning, between seven and eight, before most employees arrived for the day. A significant portion of Thirteen's daily activity was interoffice and memos, and a significant portion of those were between and within departments clustered together in the building. Which wasn't to say that use of the elevators was rare; Thirteen was on and off the service elevators all day. It was just that, nine times out of ten, she was taking the stairs.

The elevators, though, brought with them their own challenges. There were only four service elevators, compared to the plethora of regular elevators that the regular employees rode. And the mailgirls shared them with each other, as well as Maintenance, Custodial, and other members of the building staff. A mailgirl might pull out her hair waiting for a car to arrive, all while the timer on her smartphone ticked closer and closer to a deadline. Delivery times, thanks to the analysts in Human Capital, accounted for average service elevator wait times - but average was just that, and Thirteen had missed more than a few deadlines because her chariot was slow to arrive.

Thus, the "greater than ten floors" allowance had, in practice, mutated into thirteen, fourteen, or even sixteen floors, depending on the mailgirl herself. Climbing the stairs, even at the risk of missing a deadline, meant that a girl had at least some control over her own fate; better to make a valiant effort and fail than fail because an elevator took too long to arrive. For Thirteen, fourteen floors was about her limit for an ascent, and even then she'd at least press the elevator button and then gauge how fast she thought it might arrive. For a descent, she might decide to take the stairs for as many as sixteen or seventeen floors; again, though, she'd try the elevator button first before gritting her teeth and betting on herself, betting that she could get there faster via the stairwell.

The upside was that Thirteen was now in better shape than she'd ever been. All of the girls had been thin and athletic before signing on, but a few months of a mailgirl's routine had erased any excess pounds and left them all well-toned, well-sculpted, sights to behold. There were some deliveries that required little more than a fast-paced walk, but Thirteen generally spent most of her day at a light jog, with full-out sprints required at fairly regular intervals. She'd never been much of an exercise freak in New Haven or at Pepperdine, but she now found herself going stir-crazy on Saturdays and Sundays if she didn't get in at least one, ridiculously long run per day. And, because she'd gotten so accustomed to making such runs while barefoot, that meant a long, sneaker-less session in her building's basement gym.

The elevator finally, thankfully, arrived, and Thirteen immediately reached for the button to hurry along the closing doors. She pressed the button for the 2nd Floor, and then prayed there'd be no stops on her way down.

As she stood, fixated on the descent from 41 to 40, from 40 to 39, from 39 to 38, Thirteen ever-so-slightly parted her legs, and used her right middle finger to begin gently teasing her clit. Masturbation was strictly, strictly forbidden anywhere outside of the locker room, but Thirteen knew what she could get away with and what she couldn't. Mistress Zero could punish her for doing even this, of course, as punishments could be as trumped up and arbitrary as her mood varied. But though there were cameras watching Thirteen even now, touching herself in the service elevator was relatively private, and out-of-sight from the regular, non-mailgirl employees for whom USF was still a place of real work.

Given the limited time her break in the locker room allowed, Thirteen was priming herself in the elevator, despite the fact that she was already dripping wet, and likely required only a quick minute or two to hit her first climax. If she had allowed herself, she was sure that she could find her orgasm even before the elevator reached the second floor.

It didn't help that she could smell her own scent as well as she could in the confined space; no amount of cheap, mailgirl-issue perfume could mask the musky odor of Thirteen's own pussy. The very smell of arousal only served as a feedback loop. And the fact that it wasn't just her own smell sent a current of excitement running up and down her spine. There was a time that Thirteen might have thought that smell of pussy was the smell of pussy, but she'd become a bit of a connoisseur over the course of the summer, and she knew – almost instinctively – that Seven had been on this particular elevator at some point in the last few minutes.

Thirteen groaned – not out of pleasure, but out of frustration and desperation – as the elevator slowed to a stop on the 21st Floor. She dutifully took a step back, into the rear, left side of the car, and parted her legs that much further, to make sure they were shoulder-width apart. And, excruciatingly, she removed her right hand from her pussy, and clutched her left behind her back.

As the doors slid open, Thirteen was joined by one of the building's many custodians. She knew the smell of sex was obvious, even to someone without as fine a palate as her own. But Thirteen doubted any of the janitors or building maintenance staff minded all that much; Thirteen suspected that it was less of a problem and more of a perk. What was more, Thirteen knew that her arousal was the least she needed to be embarrassed about. A quick glance at the older, Eastern European gentleman confirmed that this particular custodian was the very one who'd shown up on that fateful day in Investment Financing, the one who'd handed Thirteen a mop to clean her own mess.

She blushed, all over. Thirteen's embarrassment only emboldened her excitement. Not so much the activity in Investment Financing itself (though, some), but rather the punishment that followed. She couldn't help it – being left overnight, with the blindfold, with the gag, with the handcuffs, turned her on.

The girls' Friday night Bitch Sessions at the Imperial were for blowing off steam, sure, but they'd also become one part support group and one part confessional. And, inevitably, at least a portion of every night out, week in and week out, was a game of one-upsmanship around what screwed-up thing they had discovered turned them on that week. For a random cross-section of America, maybe folks might have confessed to being into feet, or leather, or fat girls, or bondage. Mailgirl confessions could be just as wide-ranging, but typically boiled down to some combination of exhibitionism, humiliation, submission, and punishment. A girl might cop to an inadvertent orgasm during a spanking, or to just how turned on they'd become while making a delivery to their old floor, or at their secret arousal being ogled while trying to get a signature.

The confessions were met with hoots and hollers, with laughs and screams. But the power behind them was that they were all experiencing the same thing, that this wasn't a kink or fetish specific to one girl. Maybe this was due to the fact that USF had researched its volunteers, and approached only those exhibiting certain traits or psychological make-ups (they hadn't; Thirteen had checked). Or maybe they'd tapped into something more universal, something deep-seated but denied, something that had lain in wait within their collective unconscious. Most of the girls believed the former - that they themselves were damaged and screwed up, and that USF had somehow targeted them specifically. But, faced with confessions and interviews of mailgirls worldwide, Thirteen was firmly in the other camp; she suspected that anyone in this position might have struggled with the same unexpected sources of arousal.