Mailgirl Number Thirteen: Day 02

Thirteen took a deep breath, found the hem of her shirt, and pulled it up over her head.

She'd undressed in Will Barrow's office yesterday, in front of both Gillian Schang and Barrow himself. She hadn't yet had to do this in the locker room, with dozens of early bird employees watching through the locker room's big, mirror-glass windows.

No, she caught herself. That wasn't quite right. She'd gotten dressed the previous evening to go home, only to then be told to undress and shower. She'd stunk too much -- of exertion, of arousal -- for Mistress Zero to permit her to leave in the state she'd been in. Her skirt, which had been bunched up around her waist so that her mistress could give her bare ass a good paddling, had had to come off. Her tank top. The jacket she'd borrowed from her roommate back in New Haven, so that she could look "professional" when arriving at USF Plaza yesterday morning. Her pearl-white lace bra. She hadn't been wearing panties, of course, because Barrow had stolen those away from her before the clock had even struck eight in the morning, to be hung like a museum piece in the corridor outside his office.

In retrospect, being forced to shower turned out to be a blessing in disguise. All she'd wanted to do was go home, go back to the apartment she'd rented for the summer, and pretend like yesterday hadn't happened. Or, had happened to someone else entirely. But, on her way out the door, she'd been intercepted by her academic advisor, Dr. Gillian Schang, who'd hung around that day so that she could be there when Thirteen was finally set free. Had Mistress Zero not instructed her to undress again and shower, Thirteen would have been forced to sit through a meal with Gillian, surrounded by her own stink.

Thirteen folded her top neatly, and placed on her locker's lower shelf. When her pants came off, she'd have to slide those under. USF had rules and regulations on how clothing items were to be arranged in a mailgirl's locker. Pants, shirt, panties, bra. Outwerwear to innerwear, no exceptions. Demerits to be awarded for failure to comply.

Dinner with Gillian was the last thing Thirteen had wanted after the day she'd had. It had been a surprise. As Thirteen's day had worn on yesterday, she'd been looking forward to returning to the Upper West Side, putting on a pair of sweats, and maybe having a good cry. The tears had come, but they'd come in the middle of the Imperial Hotel's dining room, as Thirteen recounted the events of the day to her professor.

Gillian had thought she was doing a nice thing. Comforting. Motherly. Wrapping her arm around Thirteen in the elevator lobby and being there for her -- physically, emotionally. Maybe it had been guilt, for pushing Thirteen as hard as she had to get her to volunteer. Maybe it had been a simple kindness. Or maybe it had been for the purposes of collecting research, and she'd wanted to pump Thirteen for information while it was still fresh. Given that this was a joint study, that Gillian and Thirteen would be co-authors, Thirteen recognized that she should be grateful to Gillian even if this was, in fact, her motivation.

And so Thirteen ran her through her day, from being left alone with Mrs. Lowrie to the indoctrination in the locker room to the round of deliveries she'd made with Mailgirl Number Seven late in the afternoon.

She censored the worst of it. Most of all, the intense sexual arousal she'd battled with for the bulk of the day. That, she wasn't ready to confess. That, she was still wrestling with herself.

She'd broken down at one point, torn up by the rawness of it all, and had sobbed for a good three or four minutes before collecting herself and going on. It had the felt good -- the release -- but she'd also been embarrassed to lose her composure in front of her professor.

Thumbs in the waistbands of both her pants and her underwear, Thirteen tugged them down over her still-tender backside. Seven had been right. The welts Mistress Zero had bequeathed upon her yesterday with her riding crop were gone, as was the more generalized red glow she'd received from a combination of her mistress's paddle and her mistress's bare hand. Thirteen had checked that morning in the mirror. She was still a little sore, but not as sore as she'd been last night at the restaurant. She'd been thankful for the Imperial's cushioned benches in their booths.

She was sore all over, though. It wasn't only due to her multiple trips to the spanking bench, and it wasn't localized only to her ass. So much had been said about the psychological toll of delivering the mail in the nude. The physical exertion of running the stairs, though, would be its own challenge. Her thighs smarted from the ascents. Her knees, from the descents. To say nothing of the aches and pains in those very same knees from kneeling all day.

The burning sensation around her asshole had dissipated, though, and that was a relief. She'd tried to inspect Miss Henriksen's handiwork last night, after yet another shower -- this one in the privacy of her own bathroom. But Thirteen hadn't been able to get the right angle in the vanity, and the sublet wasn't stocked with a hand mirror. She had to take it on faith that the bleach had done its job.

She stood bottomless in front of her locker, and pulled her underwear out from the black yoga pants. Nothing special today. Thirteen had worn a pair of cotton briefs, cotton candy pink, with full coverage in the back. Cheap. Functional. Disposable, in the sense that they wouldn't be missed if she were forced to go home commando again tonight. But also, perhaps, less tempting to Will Barrow and his Human Capital goons. The skirt she'd worn yesterday had been long enough to keep her from flashing anyone at the Imperial, but it had felt odd, all the same, to be out without underwear.

As Thirteen folded her pants and slid them beneath her shirt, she took stock of her lower body. Though Seven and Nine had warned her of the futility of doing so, Thirteen hadn't gotten out of the shower last night until the black ink on her hip was completely scrubbed off. It was pointless, sure. Thirteen conceded that fact. Mistress Zero would be coming around with her marker shortly. But she'd obsessed over it, and had wanted it off -- even just for the night.

She grimaced, though, as she saw the lines around her hips that her panties' waistband had left, and, with a quick glance back-and-forth to see if anyone was looking, she massaged her skin in an attempt to remove the impressions. Panty-lines -- in this case, in her actual skin -- were a no-no. USF's official mailgirl handbook was clear on that fact. She had time before Mistress Zero made her rounds, however, for them to fade. Maybe she'd need to get to the Plaza even earlier tomorrow, to make sure this wasn't going to be issue going forward. Or maybe some new underwear was in her future, after all?

She'd already charged yesterday's bra-and-panty set to the grant. She'd had misgivings about doing so, when she'd used her department-issued credit card to pay for them back in Connecticut. But Gillian had made clear that the research grant she'd been given access to was for any and all expenses related to her summer in New York, no questions asked. Her rent. Her grocery bills. Her commuting costs. Her meals and any entertainment. The waxing she'd gotten as a run-up to yesterday went on the account, in what Thirteen imagined was the first time the Department of Anthropology had footed the bill for a Brazilian. Thirteen wasn't pulling down the handsome sums of money the rest of the mailgirls were for their sacrifices, but Gillian had assured her that the grant was hers to do with as she pleased, especially if it was to keep up with the other girls and better fit in.

A few new pairs of seamless briefs weren't going to hurt anyone.

Thirteen wasn't the first girl in the locker room that morning. That honor belonged to Mailgirls Four and Ten, who'd been assigned Morning Shift duties and had been here since before five o'clock. Mailgirls Two and Three were here, as well, and were whispering secrets back and forth between them in their underwear on the far end of the locker room. Mailgirl Eighteen had beaten Thirteen to the Plaza that morning, and was already in the showers. But Thirteen was on the earlier side, all the same. It was in her nature, even if she was in no rush for today to get started in earnest.

Being among the early birds, Thirteen got to watch the others arrive. Five? Eight? Fifteen? They all seemed to subscribe to the same belief that Thirteen had when she'd picked out her clothes that morning, that it didn't matter what she wore if she were going to be taking it off as soon as she got the Plaza. Sixteen was wearing jeans.

But as more of the veterans began showing up, Thirteen was struck by how put-together and professional they all looked. Nine was in a suit. Six was wearing a tight-fitting plaid pencil skirt, a low-cut blouse, and a blazer. Eleven, as she began to undress, revealed a garter belt even, to hold up her stockings. Heels, the whole lot of them. They dressed as if they were arriving for their old jobs, and not their new ones.

Mailgirl Number Seven arrived in a short-sleeved floral flare dress, one that showed off a little leg above the knee. She looked ready for a date, and Thirteen now worried she'd underdressed for what Seven had described only as a "quick drink" after work.

"Good morning, beautiful!" Seven smiled as the two made eye contact. She didn't stop to chat, however. Not yet, at least. Instead, she placed her purse on the edge of Mistress Zero's desk, and -- still fully dressed, still looking like the consummate professional -- got down onto her hands and knees and took a drink of water from the silver dog bowl there on the floor. When she got back up, she was now carrying her light tan pumps in one hand, and pulling her purse back over her shoulder.

"Did you have an okay night? Well rested?" Seven asked.

Did she know? Did she suspect? What was she insinuating?

"I actually ran into my professor," Thirteen said softly. She hadn't yet confessed to the other mailgirls what she was doing here among them that summer. For all they knew, Mailgirl Number Thirteen was just another accountant or lawyer or product manager, plucked from USF's payroll.

"Oh," Seven replied, sounding almost disappointed for her. "Where'd you go?"

"Just over to the Imperial."

"Smart," Seven chuckled, with a hint of mischief in her eye. "Padded seating."

Thirteen couldn't help but giggle a little. She'd taken off her bra -- again, nothing fancy, just plain white and full-cupped -- and added it to the pile of clothes in her locker. It felt weird having this little back-and-forth with Seven still fully dressed. Somehow, it would have felt less weird if Seven had been naked, too. Leaving aside those few quick minutes Seven had been in her underwear when the pair had been sent to Mistress Zero's spanking bench, Thirteen hadn't really seen Seven in clothes. She looked like a different person.

"We're still on for tonight, right?" Seven asked.

"Yeah," Thirteen answered. Glumly, she added, "After Evening Shift."

"After Evening Shift," Seven affirmed.

Seven o'clock wasn't always the end of a mailgirl's day. Nor was seven in the morning always the start. Two girls were assigned Evening Shift each day, and two were assigned Morning. Tonight, Seven and Thirteen were expected to stay behind until nine, to pick up and clean up and mop up the locker room, to pull together all the used hand towels for laundry, to scrub the toilets and wash the girls' dishes. In this regard, the veteran mailgirls were thankful for the new recruits; six new girls meant that these responsibilities would be spread out a bit more.

For the second night in a row, Thirteen wouldn't be able to head right home. As much as she wanted this opportunity to connect with Seven outside of their daily routine, she hoped that Seven wasn't intending for this to be long night out. It was going to feel torturous to get home late, only to have to turn around and come right back to the Plaza in the morning.

"I'm not..." Thirteen started, looking for the right words. "I'm not going to be 'underdressed,' am I?"

Seven laughed at the thought. She knew what Thirteen meant. She surveyed the pile of clothes in the girl's locker. "For the Imperial? Maybe."

"Do you think we're going to needed the padded seating again tonight?"

Laughter, again. "I certainly hope not. It usually takes me two or three days to rack up twenty-five demerits. Unless...you're not going to slow me down, are you?"

"I'll try not to!"

"We can go somewhere else," Seven said. "Or, you know what? Ten's got a few extra dresses in her locker. I'm sure she wouldn't mind. Let's do the Imperial again. I like the bartender there."

Thirteen knew the one. As ramped up as she'd been last night, he'd been hard to miss. Well over six feet tall, with dark hair and muscles. A charming -- if a little goofy -- smile. After a day of being eye candy to the men and women working at USF, Thirteen could forgive Seven for wanting a little eye candy of her own.

Even if it meant borrowing a dress from someone else, someone she didn't even yet know.

"Are you sure?" Thirteen asked.

"It'll be fine," Seven assured her. "I'll ask for you. She won't mind."

"Okay," she said meekly. It felt odd to commit to wearing another girl's clothes, especially sight unseen. If she'd been smarter, she might have anticipated this, and dressed accordingly. But Thirteen had been focused only on the here-to-there of her morning commute, and hadn't really thought through cocktails with Seven that night.

"Hey," Seven said, turning her back to Thirteen. "Would you mind?"

She was asking Thirteen to unzip the back of her dress.

"Uh, sure," Thirteen stammered, and reached for the zipper.

"Impractical, I know," Seven apologized. "You should have seen me trying to get it zipped this morning. But, I figured, once I got the locker room, I could press someone into service."

That someone was Thirteen. She pulled the zipper all the way down, exposing the other girl's skin between her shoulder blades, as well as the back of a black lace bra and -- eventually, as she reached the nadir -- the waistband of a matching black lace set of panties.

"Thank you," Seven said sweetly. She didn't immediately pull the dress off. She'd go over to her locker first before doing so. But, she didn't leave before issuing Thirteen a few reminders and instructions.

"We've still got some time," she said, glancing at the time on the smartphone still set in its charger in Thirteen's locker. "Sign in, and do all that stuff. Shower. Get yourself ready to go. Make-up, deodorant, teeth, et cetera, et cetera. Make sure you use the bathroom. Do the morning weigh-in, once you've got your phone on you. Collar, after that. But don't attach the leash until right before Inspection, just in case you forget something. Or, if you and your nervous bladder need another go."

Seven wasn't telling her anything that Mistress Zero hadn't yesterday. She knew all this. But she appreciated the sisterly advice, all the same -- especially the bit, embarrassing though it might have been, about making sure to use the facilities here in the locker room. As humiliating as it was to pee out in the open, in front of whomever was watching from the elevator lobby, it would be even more so if she happened upon a chaperone less willing to bend the rules than Nick Pagliaro had been yesterday. At least here, she was just one mailgirl among many.

Thirteen wasn't sure she'd ever be able to recover if she'd had an "accident" somewhere in the building, as apparently some of the other mailgirls had.

Once Seven had departed, Thirteen dutifully thumbed on her smartphone, and hesitated for just a minute as her morning affirmation popped up on screen.

"I swear," it read, "under the penalty of the law, that I submit under my own free will..."

Submit.

She knew what it meant, in this context. There was no deeper meaning intended. No slight. No effort to "put her in her place." She knew she was reading into it more than what was there. But Thirteen couldn't help but get hung up on the word, all the same.

Submit.

Submit.

Submit.

Was that what she was? Someone who "submitted"? A submissive? On the sub-dom spectrum, was Thirteen the sort of person who derived sexual pleasure in being servile and obedient?

It was incongruous with the way she'd always thought of herself, at the top of her class and in the upper echelon of academic achievers. She'd never been a leader, exactly, but nor had she ever been a follower. An "independent spirit," was the term she'd once heard her mother use to describe her, as if she were the sort of person who dropped out college to backpack across Europe or joined a motorcycle gang. Thirteen hadn't done either of those things, of course. But the characterization still fit. After all, didn't take an "independent spirit" to go this route? To do something this wild and adventurous? She couldn't see the other girls in her PhD program being willing to take part in a grand experiment such as this.

But was she a "submissive"? There was data now, given yesterday, to suggest that the label might be appropriate. After all, she'd been turned on for an embarrassingly large portion of the day, if not for the day in its entirety. Nipples hard. Moist between the legs. Lost to inner fantasies on more than one occasion. She'd masturbated in the shower almost as soon as she'd gotten home, and again in her bed before turning out the lights. There was simply no denying that she was getting off on being a mailgirl.

"I swear, under the penalty of the law, that I submit..."

Thirteen scrolled down the page on her phone. It was her contract. She didn't read it all again, only enough to confirm that it was her specific contract, and not the contract the other girls had to agree to as part of this morning exercise. Thirteen weeks for Mailgirl Number Thirteen. She didn't want to accidentally agree to more, and be suckered into this life for the next two years. It wasn't unheard of for a mailgirl to be tricked or bamboozled into agreeing to more than she'd intended. Even here at USF, Thirteen understood that the initial class had been told they were signing up for a "pilot program" only - just a month, we swear - and that they could expect to return to their normal jobs thereafter.

Still, it would have taken the better part of an hour and three years of law school for Thirteen to go line-by-line through the affirmation she was agreeing to that morning. Or to truly understand the implications of it all. She simply didn't have the time. Knowing full well that she might live to regret it, Thirteen thumbed her consent. She'd risk that USF hadn't snuck anything new into her contract in the last twenty-four hours.

Thirteen got under the first showerhead in the block at her end of the locker room. Fifteen was under the one in the far corner, and Twelve was beside Fifteen, leaving an open spot and a bit of space between Thirteen and Twelve. She turned it on, gasped and shivered as the water began to fall, and got down to business.

Thirteen had felt ashamed of herself after that first time in her shower at home. She felt shame in it now. If she'd touched herself here at the Plaza, she would have been required to report it to Mistress Zero, to be logged and added to her profile. USF allowed their girls to masturbate when off-duty in the locker room (not all companies were so understanding), but they tracked these sessions, right alongside every other data point they tracked in the app. At home? On her own time? Thirteen could keep those to herself. But she was terrified that it was written all over her face.