Mailgirl Number Thirteen: Day 02

By seven o'clock, their prep-work was complete. Mistress Zero beckoned the two girls over and directed them to their knees on either side of the desk. They had their backs to the mirror glass behind them, and were facing up the narrow corridor, past the toilets, to the service lobby beyond. They would need to feed the small number of mailgirls who opted for dinner here at the Plaza, but otherwise there was little for them to do but wait for the last of the mailgirls to depart before their next round of chores began.

Seven hadn't said much since they'd returned to locker room. She hadn't said much, in fact, since the incident on the 21st Floor. With their mistress's desk now between them, and their mistress herself about, Thirteen felt intimidated out of whispering to her friend, even if she very much wanted to do so. Her best moments of the day had been with Seven, holding hands and conversing in hushed tones upon a shared mailgirls mat. Seven had given Thirteen encouragement when she'd needed it. Thirteen wished she could have returned the favor now.

Instead, she followed her mentor's lead, and greeted the returning mailgirls. She was on her knees, with her legs apart and her hands behind her back. But, like Seven, she kept her head held high. There was no need to bow or avoid eye contact with the other girls. For the first time in hours, Thirteen was among equals.

***

She wasn't alone.

The truth of the matter was that Mailgirl Number Thirteen hadn't been alone since entering the locker room that morning. She had undressed at her locker, surrounded by her fellow mailgirls, witnessed by peeping toms and lookie-loos in the lobby. She had been assigned to shadow Mailgirl Number Seven for the day, her smartphone and schedule synched to those of the ever-so-slightly more experienced blonde. She'd been rushing from delivery to delivery, floor to floor, giving and receiving mail to and from fully clothed co-workers. There'd been no time to herself, no opportunities to catch her breath on her own, no moment or two when she'd been alone, or had even a whisper of privacy.

But then, "a mailgirl shall have no privacy, nor any expectations of privacy, so long as she is under contract."

It was after nine in the evening, and even now Thirteen wasn't alone. Most of the mailgirls had gone home for the night two hours earlier, rushing through their ablutions, slipping into the clothes they'd collectively shed that morning, and doing everything in their power to put USF Plaza in the rearview mirror. A few of them -- Eighteen, Eleven, Eight, and Three -- took their turns over Mistress Zero's spanking bench, calling out each of the stings delivered upon them by their mistress's riding crop. Mailgirl Number One had diddled herself on the far end of the room, but none of the other girls had apparently been in the mood. Within ten minutes from the first few girls' arrival in the locker room, it was already half empty. Within twenty, it was just Thirteen, Seven, Mistress Zero, and a few stragglers. Within thirty, even Thirteen's mistress had departed for the night.

But Seven was still here, having been assigned to Evening Shift with Thirteen. She was maybe a minute or two behind Thirteen in heading for the showers. Seven had granted the rookie permission to be done for the day, while she herself ticked off the last few items on their Mistress's list of chores.

Seven, though, headed for the showers at the far end of the locker, rather than opting for one of the heads next to Thirteen. Thirteen didn't take it personally. It had been a difficult afternoon. And, though the two of them had talked through it while scrubbing toilets together, and Seven was in a better place, Thirteen was more than happy to grant Seven a bit of distance. A bit of alone time, such as it was.

Even then, Thirteen still wasn't quite alone. As the water came on, and Thirteen gasped at the shock of the ice cold deluge, there was another girl on the block with her, another girl that she barely recognized. The other girl gasped, too. Her back arched. Her shoulders tightened. And her eyes shot open, meeting Thirteen's gaze and staring back at her.

"A mailgirl is not allowed eye contact unless authorized by a superior."

This girl, though, was no one's superior.

She was attractive, to be sure. A vision. Long blonde hair. Bright blue eyes. High cheekbones. Thin, Mona Lisa lips. Ample breasts. Flawless skin, without scar or tattoo. Without demarcation -- save one. She was a goddess, albeit a goddess in disarray.

Her hair darkened as it got wet, and it clung to her face, her neck, and her shoulders. Those bright blue eyes looked a bit less bright than they had yesterday morning. They looked tired, and sad. She was frowning. Her shoulders seemed hunched. This girl was beaten, humbled, and owned. This girl carried the weight of the day on her back. This girl was pathetic, pitiful, inferior.

And scrawled upon her hip in black ink, fading but not faded, was the number thirteen.

"A mailgirl is to be referred to only by her mailroom number."

Thirteen met her reflection's eyes, and had to look away.

There'd been a moment in Will Barrow's office the day before when Sarah Jane Scott had transformed into Mailgirl Number Thirteen. It hadn't been when she'd finally gotten naked, as Barrow had kept her in her white lace thong for longer than she'd had any right to expect. It hadn't been when he'd led her through her positions -- Feet, Toes, Knees. It hadn't been when he'd finally scribbled her number on her hip with the lipstick he'd fished from her purse. No, it had been before all that, Sarah tagging out and Thirteen tagging in, as if everything from that point forward had happened to another girl entirely.

The truth, though, was both less and more complicated.

She was Sarah Scott, just as she was Mailgirl Thirteen. She was this blonde, just as she was that one. She was the wretch on this side of the mirror glass, just as she was the wretch looking back at her.

But she wasn't the same Sarah Scott who'd crossed the lobby for the first time yesterday. Honestly, how could she be? Since she and Gillian had entered the building the previous morning, Sarah Scott had been stripped, spanked, and subjugated. She'd been collared and leashed. She'd been cursed at and called names. She'd been belittled, humiliated, and degraded, treated like an animal. There was the bright young woman she'd been in New Haven, and then there was the sorry and contemptible creature showering after hours in the confines of USF's white-tiled mailgirl terrarium.

It had been a day.

"A mailgirl feels no embarrassment at her nudity, and knows exposing herself is for the benefit of the company."

The truth of the matter was, as Thirteen had been told, that the nudity really was the least of it. Having had flitted about the building yesterday in nothing more than her birthday suit, today had been more of the same. It was uncomfortable. It was weird. It was humiliating, tits out and sex on display. The idea that a mailgirl would feel no embarrassment at her nudity? Laughable.

But today had been Day Two. She'd been through it on Day One.

She'd dreaded undressing in the locker room that morning, but less than she'd dreaded undressing in front of Will Barrow yesterday. She'd dreaded bounding around the building stark naked today, in front of USF's bankers and analysts and executives, but less so than she had the first time. Quite frankly, undressing that morning in the locker room had been more stressful than actually being nude; she'd hurried through it and had wasted little time in getting "into uniform." Why linger? Why stall? Why wait?

Being naked day-in and day-out this summer would be no small thing. But the job brought with it other challenges that distracted from the dress code itself.

"A mailgirl will be prompt. It is the primary duty of a mailgirl, above all others, to be punctual, to meet or exceed their deadlines, and to maintain delivery schedules to ensure the smooth operation of all departments within the company."

Forget the nudity, the name-calling, and the degradation (a big ask, Thirteen supposed). Sarah and Gillian had both grossly underestimated the physical demands of a day in the life of a mailgirl.

Thirteen was sore all over. Her thighs -- quads, hamstrings -- smarted from the running, the jogging, and all of the ups-and-downs on the stairs. Her knees bitched and complained at her all afternoon, still accustoming themselves to the amount of time Thirteen spent kneeling as part of this new adventure. The redness and the welts on her buttocks from the attention they'd received yesterday, courtesy of Mistress Zero, had faded, as had the acidic sting of Miss Henriksen's bleach about her asshole. But Thirteen was still ever-so-aware of the anguish she'd put her glutes through during her first full day delivering messages and interoffice envelopes. Her tits begged for a bra, less for coverage than for support. Her feet begged for sneakers, the thin, industrial carpeting throughout the building only slightly preferable to the concrete stairs. Even her groin, from the inside of one thigh to the other, throbbed from the uncomfortable and unusual way she'd been spreading her legs for anyone and everyone to see.

She needed to stretch. She promised herself she'd stretch tomorrow morning. There were other programs she'd researched that spring with full-on yoga sessions for the mailgirls in the morning. These were apparently popular among the masses, and often created large crowds of spectators outside of locker rooms, inside of mail rooms, or out in the lobbies -- wherever the program decided to take its girls through Dolphin, Bridge, Bound Ankle, and Upward-Facing Dog. USF had no such courses at this time, thankfully, but Thirteen had seen a few of the veterans loosening up that morning before Inspection -- most starked naked, with Six still in her bra and panties and Eleven wearing only the latter. Thirteen would make sure to carve out a little extra time on Day Three to do the same.

The cold water of the shower, then, was probably good for her aching muscles. Thirteen, though, would have given anything for a bit of heat.

She reached up with both hands, cradled the outside of her breasts, and kneaded into them with the butts of her palms. She knew what it would look like to anyone still out in the elevator lobby after nine o'clock. But, at that moment, Thirteen didn't care. She massaged her chest all the same, the deep tissue beneath feeling that much better after having bounced and jounced and flipped and flopped through the day. It wasn't sexual. At least, it wasn't sexual to Thirteen, on this side of the mirror glass. Or, at least, it didn't start that way.

The girl in the reflection played with her tits, too.

"A mailgirl is to be hygienic, her uniform maintained diligently, cleanly shaved from neck to toes and free of all significant dirt, dust, grime, grit, or sweat."

Again, as if.

Thirteen had lost count of the number of times she'd been under this shower head today. She'd been covered in a sheen of perspiration from her very first delivery, and she'd joked with Seven that she was sweating out of body parts she hadn't even been aware possessed sweat glands. Her neck. Her back. Her underarms. Her crotch. Her ass. The underside of her breasts. On more than one occasion today, with Thirteen either down on her knees or up on her feet with her arms behind her back, she'd felt a bead of sweat or two trickle down her naked body. She'd left a moist spot or three on mailgirl mats at dozens of different locations up in Plaza.

Thirteen wasn't in terrible shape. She'd never been one much for the gym, but she'd been more diligent about making time at Payne Whitney in the weeks and months before the end of Spring Term, motivated by the fact that the world was about to see her in all her glory. Even still, the workout she was getting on USF's actual stairs was significantly more intense than anything she'd put herself through on the Israel Fitness Center's Stairmasters.

She took heart in the fact that Seven seemed to be struggling, too. The other blonde had a week on her as a mailgirl, but it had only been a week. Sarah Scott would no doubt be returning to New Haven in the Fall in the best shape of her life, but there was still quite a bit of distance between here and there, and Thirteen felt better about herself that Seven was sweating from exertion right alongside her. From Seven's sweaty palms when the two were holding hands, to the puddles of perspiration that that accompanied Thirteen's on the thin pink mailgirl mats, to the times that Thirteen's skin had brushed up against her partner's, Thirteen was very much aware of Seven's sudoriferous body.

And, even if Thirteen hadn't felt the other girl's sweaty body, she could smell her. Just as Thirteen knew that Seven could smell Thirteen, too. Thirteen wasn't sure she could blame the communal roll-on deodorant the girls all shared. She doubted her normal stick of Secret would have held up to the exertion she was putting her body through. The floral perfume the girls were all required to wear helped some, but it didn't so much mask the smell of the girls' body odor so much as it contributed to a unique and specific bouquet of scents Thirteen couldn't help but think of as mailgirl "musk." By the time Seven and Thirteen had descended down to the locker room for Morning Break, and then again later for lunch, and then again for Afternoon Break and the end-of-day, both girls stunk similarly and strongly of sweat, deodorant, perfume, and pussy.

And, yes, both girls smelled of pussy.

"A mailgirl agrees to adopt any of the standard mailgirl positions, at any time, when instructed to do so by a superior."

At any time, Thirteen's superiors - that is, anyone, anywhere in the building, save from the mailgirls themselves -- were allowed to force her into Inspection position, and judge the state of her so-called "uniform." No one had done so today, thankfully. A youngish cubicle-dweller yesterday afternoon had, but it had been less an actual evaluation and more of a chance to get up close and personal with the new mailgirl. Had he been more diligent in his duties, the stink emanating from between Thirteen's legs -- from Seven's, too -- would have been remarked upon, and Thirteen would have been sent immediately down to the locker room to freshen up.

Thirteen bent at the waist, and reached for the bottle of shampoo on the shower block's floor. Flipping it upside down, she squeezed a decent gob onto the top of her head, placed the bottle back down at her feet, and began to lather her long, blonde locks. She had rinsed a handful of times over the course of the day, but it hadn't been since this morning that she'd washed her hair. She doubted she would have bothered now, had she and Seven not made plans for drinks earlier.

Soap would come, too, but Thirteen used a bit of the excess shampoo on her hands as she always did, rubbing her pits, the top of her ass crack, and her crotch as a first, quick pass. Though the cold water was new, as the prospective audience out in the elevator lobby certainly was, Thirteen still fell into the same little rituals she did in the privacy of her own home. Sarah Scott, in the reflection, aped the routine.

Yes, Thirteen smelled of pussy. Yes, Seven did, too, and Seven's nostrils had grown accustomed to the pair's intermingling fragrances as the day had gone on. Following the incident on the 21st Floor, Seven's scent had been overpowering in the stairwell, with Thirteen following just behind her new friend on the climb up to the 24th. Seven hadn't want to talk about it then, but the smell of sex had made it difficult for Thirteen to think about anything else. As much as the two girls had tried to throw themselves into the round of pick-ups and deliveries that came after, the cloud of Seven's intimate and personal perfume was inescapable.

Thirteen's own scent gave away that the run-in with Lisa D'Alessandro had affected her, too.

"A mailgirl is not to refer to her betters by name."

Sorry. The run-in with Ms. D'Alessandro.

Ms. D'Alessandro, the sadist fucking bitch.

"A mailgirl is to be polite, respectful, humble, and thankful for any activity imparted upon her by her superiors. She follows all commands as issued, so long as those commands are themselves compliant with restrictions as set out by Human Capital."

A selling point of the US Financial program was the presence of Will Barrow, and his assurances to Gillian that he'd erected guardrails to prevent the company's naked messenger girls from sliding into full-fledged sexual playthings. Just yesterday, in his office, he'd mentioned that they'd fired someone of the maintenance team for jacking off in front of one of the girls, and that he himself had had to discipline one of the senior executives for patting the girls on their rear ends. Gillian and Sarah had each read accounts of programs elsewhere in which mailgirls were required to perform fellatio (or cunnilingus) on anyone who made the demand, or had had fingers inserted inside of them every time they'd ridden the elevator without repercussion, or had been forced to make their deliveries bathed in the ejaculate of the previous pick-up.

USF, though, had rules. Rules about everything.

"A mailgirl is forbidden from using the restrooms outside of the mailgirls' locker room, unless authorized, documented, escorted, and monitored by a superior."

"A mailgirl is prohibited from any sexual activity with a superior, on- or off-duty, on- or off- campus."

"A mailgirl is prohibited from pleasuring herself outside of the mailgirls locker room."

And yet Lisa D'Alessandro had compelled Seven to finger-fuck herself on a conference room table up in Chataqua, while Seven's former co-workers had watched on.

Thirteen shuddered to herself. With shampoo still in her hair, she took a step out of the cold stream and fetched a bar of soap from two showers down. As she returned to her own, the temperature didn't affect her as much as it had when she first got in. She was growing accustomed to it. The turned the bar of soap about in her hands, building up suds, and got to cleansing her body.

Seven hadn't wanted to do it, Thirteen told herself, before stopping to really consider that thought.

Yes, Lisa had made her do it. Yes, Seven had been hesitant about it. Yes, Seven was clearly uncomfortable touching herself in front the likes of Ms. D'Alessandro, Ms. Judd, Ms. Burleson, and Mr. McCarthy.

And yet she had done so anyways.

Seven -- and by consequence, Thirteen -- had racked up over a dozen demerits in the span of a few quick minutes while trying to rebuff her tormentor. But, as Thirteen had learned yesterday, trips to Mistress Zero's spanking bench were painfully frequent. A spanking tonight for going over twenty-five didn't seem all that awful when faced with the reality that they'd very likely hit that number before lunch tomorrow, and be bent over the bench anyways. Thirteen didn't know what the consequence was for masturbating outside of the locker room, but she imagined that it had to be worse than a simple (and, again, frequent) spanking was. To say nothing of the fact that X number of demerits probably would have raised an eyebrow from either Mistress Zero or the 18th Floor, and Seven would have been given the chance to explain herself. Maybe the demerits would have still stood, or maybe that wouldn't have. But Lisa very likely would have been reprimanded herself for issuing a command out of compliance with the restrictions set out by Human Capital.

Soap suds up and down her body, shampoo still in her hair, Thirteen met the eyes of Sarah Scott in the reflection.

No, it wasn't as simple as "Seven hadn't wanted to do it." Because that wasn't really the truth at all.