Life Among the Mailgirls Ch. 02

Whether this arousal was unique to these twenty-four girls, or whether it was something more universal, the very fact that it was "normal" (or, at least, "normal" for this group) brought with it a certain freedom. Yes, Thirteen was ashamed that shame itself seemed to turn her on, but she could cop to it, own it, and act on it, because she knew that Seven was feeling the same way, and Twelve, and Fourteen, and Fifteen, and so on.

Lost her own thoughts, Thirteen almost didn't get out of the elevator when it chimed its arrival on the 2nd Floor; her janitor was continuing his descent to B4. But, once awoken, Thirteen leapt to life, knowing that she was once more racing against the clock.

She stepped into the elevator lobby, and then hurried through the gauntlet of toilets lining the hall into the locker room. She barely grunted an acknowledgement to either Four or Twenty-Three as she sped past them, but neither girl would take offense. Not only did they entirely understand, but they were otherwise engaged. Both were down on their hands and knees at a communal dog bowl at Mistress Zero's desk, sharing a quick morning snack.

Fourteen was waiting for Thirteen at their adjoining lockers, and Thirteen hesitated momentarily, ticking through a handful of alternatives – the showers, the sinks, the locker of another girl. But the very fact that the brunette was already on her back, with her legs spread and her hand between them, was a temptation in and off itself. Not only did it mean that Thirteen wouldn't be alone, that she'd be just another masturbating mailgirl to the croissant-and-coffee crowd on the far side of the mirror glass, but – God help her – the idea of getting off next to Fourteen made it that much hotter.

She glanced down at her leash, and was tempted to clip herself in, as Fourteen had done. But time was limited. Any chance she'd have to do something on her break other than get herself off, once she was done, would be at the mercy of Mistress Zero unlocking her. It wasn't a requirement, at least not until her break was over, but – again, God help her! – she'd learned from previous experience that it heightened the whole thing. And was a turn on, as evidenced by Fourteen, that she shared with others.

She rolled to the floor in front of her locker, beside her masturbating coworker. Her whole body was wet and warm, and she felt sticky with sweat. The cool, tiled floor of the locker room provided welcome relief, but the girl next to her was kicking off body heat of her own. Fourteen had her head up towards and almost in her locker, her legs splayed towards the sinks and the audience beyond. Thirteen, in contrast, chose to face the other direction; she like to put her bare feet up, resting them low against the walls of her open locker. And, with no further delay, no need for any sort of foreplay, no need to ever-so-slightly tease herself as she had in the elevator, Thirteen's right hand found her pussy.

Thirteen had never been an overly sexual person. She'd had her fair share of boyfriends. Though, maybe "fair share" was misleading, as she'd slept with a grand total of four men before that summer, and lost her virginity well into college. She was no virgin, though, and had even been in a mildly scandalous relationship with an Assistant Professor in the Psychology Department as late as that spring; she'd broken up with Christopher just prior to agreeing to spend her summer with USF, and had never shared with him the excruciating decision she had been forced to make. Everything with Christopher, with Brad, with Luke, with Mark, had been ordinary and run-of-the-mill. There was no role-play. There were no whips or handcuffs. There were no exhibitionist runs through a public park or late night in a hotel. There were no threesomes or lesbian leanings. Doggy-style, though still very much a turn-on, was as wild as Thirteen had got prior to becoming a mailgirl.

It was sex. It was fine sex. It was acceptable sex. After she'd first slept with Mark, it was probably the better part of two months before she finally had an orgasm. Even then, it was due to oral. Her subsequent partners had been slightly more skilled lovers than Mark, and Thirteen herself had grown more confident in pursuing her own orgasm, so things had gotten better, and she'd been able to climax almost a third of the time with Christopher.

Masturbation was obviously more successful, but Thirteen had masturbated infrequently. She'd go through a brief phase where she'd get herself off two or three nights in a row, but then it might be another three or four weeks before she did so again. She hadn't owned toys or vibrators. She hadn't watched a lot of pornography. She hadn't had intricate and detailed fantasies.

Back in the locker room, Thirteen ran her right middle finger between her waiting pussy lips, back to front. At this point, she was no longer surprised at how wet she got after a morning on-duty. Her finger plunged deep inside her, finding no resistance to speak of. And, with the palm of her hand, she began grinding against her clit.

Somewhere in the distance, she heard Mailgirl Number Eight yip in that unique combination of pleasure and pain, and she knew that Eight had earned enough demerits to necessitate a visit to spanking bench. Beside her, Fourteen moaned softly; she was a bit of an actress, but as the mirror glass was nearly soundproof, Thirteen knew that this was either sincere or for Thirteen's benefit, and probably a bit of both. But Fourteen, Eight, Twenty-Three, Four, and whoever the sixth girl on break happened to be – none of that mattered at the moment. The only thing that mattered was Thirteen's own pussy.

No, Thirteen had never been a particularly sexual person prior to becoming a mailgirl. But she'd never cum like she'd cum that night in June, after her first day at USF. She'd cried after, and that first night had been the hardest night of the entire summer. But she'd hit her first climax and just kept going – two, then three, then four. She had thought about being stripped in Will Barrow's office. She had thought about shadowing Number Seven on deliveries. She had thought about showering in the locker room, very aware that she had an audience on the other side of the glass. She had thought about catching One masturbating at the sink. And she'd exploded in wave after wave of pleasure, losing herself to the thrill and shame and excitement and embarrassment of the day.

With her left hand, Thirteen ran her palm over her sweaty forehead, and then up into her hair. Her fingers found traction in the tight, blonde hair. She pulled one pigtail loose, knowing full well that she'd have to do her hair up again before she went back on duty, but liked the sensation of maintaining a firm grip on her locks. With her right, Thirteen lost another finger deep inside of her, her ring finger joining her middle inside of her soaking, sopping pussy. With her palm, she continued to grind – back and forth, up and down, in forceful, circular motions.

Masturbation was tolerated at USF, but there was no general, accepted consensus when it came to programs elsewhere. There were some (and USF had almost, apparently, been among them) who banned it outright, believing that it was a crude step too far. And there were others for whom any allowance to the mailgirls was unthinkable. Thirteen had read of programs where a girl was only allowed to touch herself with permission from her supervisor or another non-mailgirl employee, and others that allowed a mailgirl to touch herself, but not orgasm, without that same permission. There were still others for whom masturbation was like a trick to be performed upon command, and more than a few more whose mailgirls were indistinguishable from full-on sex slaves and were expected to derive their pleasure from their work alone.

What Thirteen had found was that programs who banned the practice altogether did so with marginal success. More successful programs accepted that allowances had to be made, that mailgirls would otherwise sneak off and do so anyways – punishments and consequences be damned. They simply couldn't help themselves. And so the program at USF had strict rules that forbade the girls from masturbating while on duty, or from doing so anywhere but the mailgirls locker room. Even on break, it had to be reported to and logged by Mistress Zero, which meant that anyone who bothered to pull up the mailgirls app could count just how many times Thirteen had gotten herself off at the Plaza that week.

But it was an allowance nonetheless, one in which most of the girls partook. Only a handful – Twenty-Four, Eight, and Five – had the willpower to resist, and both Twenty-Four and Eight had confessed to Thirteen that still did so, excessively, on their own time. Crowds, apparently, had begun to gather in the elevator lobby from 9:30 to 10:30, from 12:30 to 1:30, from 3:30 to 4:30, and at the end of the day, to gawk at the naked girls and watch them finger themselves into ecstasy.

The program at USF, when it first launched in April, followed a similar trajectory as Thirteen had read about elsewhere. Among the initial class, there'd be hesitance and denial, girls insisting they wouldn't give into their baser impulses and willfully join in and play a part in their own public shame. They had self-control, after all. And, despite the fact that they were stripped naked and forced to parade around their former colleagues in the buff, none was eager to give in or give up, none was willing to show how much their new life was turning them on. But at USF, like other programs, someone finally broke; it had been One, just four days in, who'd first gotten herself off in the showers after a long, hard day.

Never, in the history of the programs that Thirteen had researched, did a mailgirl stop after just one time. Once the initial taboo was broken, there didn't seem to be as much of a hurdle stopping a girl for going back a second, third, or fourth time. One had touched herself again the very next day, again in the showers, again after another long, hard day. She had been met with derision and scorn from most of her fellow mailgirls, as the first girl to masturbate often was. The original Mailgirl Number Four had been one of One's harshest critics, but she'd abandoned her job over the following weekend. By Monday morning there was a brand new Number Four and less resistance in the locker room.

Three was the next mailgirl to break, and then Two and Six shortly thereafter. The new Number Four followed. Amongst that first cohort, all five of the "participating" girls wrestled with what they were doing, and had periods of restraint and self-discipline that typically lasted no more than a few days. As new mailgirls joined, it became an accepted behavior and a part of the girls' overall culture here at the Plaza. More than that, it became expected of them, and even Thirteen had to confess she felt annoyed at Five, at Eight, at Twenty-Four; the very fact that those girls weren't touching themselves regularly reflected poorly on the rest of them. But now that Twenty-Four was single, Fifteen and Fourteen were taking bets on when she'd finally succumb; Thirteen was surprised that Twenty-Four had made it through the week, but was extremely skeptical she'd last through next.

The May class knew what the April class was doing, prior to the May class joining the program. And so it took less time for the first girl of the next group to break; Nine had masturbated on her very first day. Thirteen, for her part, had come into the program with eyes wide open, knowing full well that she'd likely join in – if for no other reason than to truly and completely experience life as a mailgirl. She'd even made the decision ahead of time that she'd wait until her second week, so as to "adjust" to the other humiliations that her advisor Gillian was asking of her, and to keep from coming off too slutty. But what Thirteen hadn't counted on, and what other girls who insisted "never me" didn't expect, was just how sexually intoxicating the life of a mailgirl really was. Being no more than a piece of meat, a set of tits and ass, a sexual object, left a mailgirl feeling sexual.

Thirteen had given in on day number two.

The night before, she had cum like she'd never cum in her entire life. But even that didn't touch the first time Thirteen had done so at USF. It left her feeling red-faced and embarrassed, sure, but she was one girl among many. And the truth of it was that she'd never felt so weak-in-the-knees and satisfied before. Satisfaction, though, turned out to be short-lived, and touching herself at work quickly became both a part of Thirteen's regular routine and so, so, so very necessary.

It had been just barely over a minute on the floor in front of her locker, and Thirteen could already feel her first orgasm coming on. She'd been on edge and excited all morning, from stripping and being inspected, from waiting on the floor in Hoblitzel's office to making her rounds, from holding hands with Ten to riding the elevator with the janitor. None of the specific scenes, alone, lingered in her fantasies for long. Rather, it was the combined weight of the entire morning that had her as hot as she was, and it was the realization that she still had three-quarters of the day to go that sent her cresting for the first time.

Her whole body convulsed violently. Her toes curled. Her jaw clenched. And she bucked her hips into the air, meeting an imaginary lover. She used her left hand to brace herself against the tiled floor, but it wasn't enough to keep her entirely in place. Her bare right arm was now touching Fourteen's bare right thigh, and neither girl was capable of pulling away. Whether it was the sensation of skin against skin or the sound of Thirteen's orgasmic exhalations, Fourteen was now, too, in the throes over her own climax.

For Thirteen, her first was always easy. But her second orgasm was always even easier, and bigger, provided that she never let up from her first. She still couldn't believe that she'd ever, ever stopped masturbating after a single orgasm; but, then, she'd never been as aroused in her prior life as she was now regularly aroused in her life as a mailgirl. Her middle and ring fingers were extracted from her depths, covered in pussy juice, and took the place of the butt of her palm against her clit. They moved rapidly, desperately, back and forth, working in a frenzy to chase her second climax. She knew she was touching, bumping, and rubbing up against Fourteen. But Fourteen was squealing to herself just loud enough to reverberate through their end of the locker room, lost in her own orgasm. And even if one or the other hadn't been lost in herself, neither likely would have objected.

USF allowed the girls to masturbate, but they had drawn the line at out-and-out lesbian sex. The "letter-carrying lesbians" phenomenon among mailgirls was common everywhere, but it was forbidden here in the building. It seemed to be an arbitrary line-in-the-sand, but one that Thirteen felt kept her baser instincts from running away her; even now, she had to fight the urge from rolling over and grinding her crotch against Fourteen's naked body. The fact that they were touching, even, risked the ire of Mistress Zero, but they were probably on the right side of the regulation. Which was laughable, considering that the side-by-side masturbation Thirteen and Fourteen were engaged in now was arguably more intimate and honest than anything she'd ever experienced with Christopher.

Thirteen gasped for air, and felt her second orgasm begin to overtake her. Her thighs clamped together around her hand, and her feet were back on the floor. Her left hand found the metal collar around her neck, and held on tightly. Her lips parted, her eyes closed, and she let loose a deep, low, guttural moan.

Fourteen, meanwhile, had finished her whinnying and whining, and – with an eye out for Mistress Zero – had pulled away from the naked blonde beside her, if ever so slightly. Thirteen couldn't have been sure if that particular orgasm had been Fourteen's second or third, or if it had been a one-and-done, but there was no doubt it had been real, as the brunette worked to regain her breath. Fourteen, like One, seemed to understand better than most girls that what they were engaged in was a bit of a show, and committed to her role. Thirteen had watched the girl masturbate in the showers before; while there was no doubt that she'd been turned on, and while there was no doubt she was getting herself off, her performance was over-the-top in parts, more pornographic than true desperation.

For Thirteen, it was true desperation through and through. Her second orgasm was every bit as powerful as she'd expected it to be, originating deep inside of her and shooting bolts of sexual energy coursing through her entire body.

But two wasn't enough. And, though Thirteen was racing against the clock, and though she knew chasing number three would be marginally more difficult than hitting one and two, she could not help herself.

There'd be no number four. Or, at least, not now. By the time that Thirteen crested a third time, she knew her fifteen minutes were nearly up. And, as her ass came back down to the floor, it struck her just how much she was sweating. Unlike Fourteen, who was still chained up beside her and dutifully doing her best to give Thirteen her privacy and space (but whose knowing smirk signaled otherwise), Thirteen wanted to get in a rinse before heading back into the building. Fourteen probably could have benefited from a quick shower herself, as she, too, smelled of sex; but she wasn't perspiring as much as the blonde next to her.

Thirteen looked at the smartphone on her arm, and confirmed that she had less than two minutes to get into position back at her locker. She wasted no more time, shedding the lycra armband and the smartphone itself, and then walked briskly to the showers. There was no need to wait for the water to warm up; even if mailgirls had been allowed a creature comfort as negligible as warm water, Thirteen knew she'd benefit from a cold shower. She needed to cool herself down inside and out.

In a perfect world, she would have left herself enough time for a trip to the toilets, as well. But Thirteen did not live in that perfect world – far from it – and so she squatted in the shower itself. It was a common enough practice among the mailgirls, one that Thirteen regularly employed on her morning breaks, so that she could maximize the amount of time she spent on her most pressing urge. It struck Thirteen, not for the first time, that only a panel of mirror glass separated her from the elevator lobby beyond, but she didn't linger on that thought – it was out of her control.

Paradoxically, it was that very lack of control that Thirteen found so freeing. She was a mailgirl – of course she wore no clothes. She was a mailgirl – of course she would get herself off in the middle of the day. She was a mailgirl – of course she'd subject herself to inspections and spankings and whatever else Mistress Zero and Human Capital chose to throw at her. All of this was expected of her, and it was only in pushing back, in demanding some measure of dignity, that she called attention to herself. It was what Thirteen felt that Five didn't understand, what Eight struggled with, what Twenty-Four would only soon likely come to realize – things were easier if a mailgirl just bent with the wind, and accepted her place.

Maybe it was easier for Thirteen, as she hadn't worked at USF prior to becoming a mailgirl and would be leaving the company and the people behind that afternoon. Maybe she was in no position to judge. But she saw just how miserable Five and Eight were, in particular, and couldn't help but believe that they, too, would find freedom in submission, just as the other girls had done.