Mailgirl Number Thirteen: Day 02

There was a reason Thirteen was here. There was a reason Sarah Scott was watching on. There was a reason neither of them had taken any of the exits available to them on the way to this place, to here and now, to standing naked at USF, drowning in sexual urges undiminished by the cold shower.

She wanted to be here.

So, too, did Seven.

So, too, did Mailgirls One, and Two, and Three. So, too, did even the likes of Five and Eight. Fourteen, with the word "Slut" scrawled in lipstick across her forehead. Fifteen, outwardly hissing in anger like an old-school radiator. Seventeen, as white as a ghost at the end of Day Two.

Every one of them could hide behind an excuse that they were tricked, or forced, or coerced into becoming a mailgirl. But, truly, what consequence or threat or punishment could be worse than what they were enduring as USF's naked delivery girls? What sort of blackmail or intimidation had them subjecting themselves to this level of harassment and humiliation?

No. They were all here because they chose to be. Thirteen, included. There was something inside of each of them that had compelled them to be here. Curiosity. Ambition. The need for an adventure. Exhibitionism. Submissiveness. Out-and-out masochism. Sheer, unbridled lust.

And with that, Thirteen's hand found her pussy.

It was the agency that did her in.

After a day of being told what to do, where to go, and how to stand, Thirteen was choosing to do this of her own volition.

With her left hand braced against the mirror glass before her, Thirteen leaned forward, spread her legs ever-so-slightly, and allowed her right hand to caress the top of her pussy with abandon. From her vantage point, it was almost as if she holding hands with herself, and she stared into the eyes of the girl in the reflection. It became unclear, in that moment, who was who, and which side of the looking glass Thirteen was really on.

This was not a porn shoot, or a soft-lit sex scene. This was quick, coarse, and contemptible. She looked pathetic -- wretched, even -- soaking wet and covered in shampoo and soap. Thirteen hated herself as she stared into her own eyes, and that hostility only fueled the fire that much more. She took a deep breath, chest heaving, and gritted her teeth. Her hand moved as if acting on its own, coaxed into rubbing this way or that by some unspoken command emanating from her vagina itself. It was unfair to say that she was on autopilot, that her higher brain functions had given way to animal desires from below the waist, because the fantastic nature of her current situation was playing a very big part in how horny she found herself in that moment.

But here, too, Thirteen descended into ritual. Before last night, she'd never masturbated in the shower before. Before last night, she'd never masturbated standing up. That aside, however, Thirteen's fingers knew what they were doing. They'd been practicing for this moment for months, with Sarah Scott's dirty thoughts increasingly turning towards fantasies about mailgirls, fantasies about being a mailgirl herself.

"Yes..." she whispered to herself, and watched Sarah Scott whisper the word back to her. "Yes, yes, yes...'

Sarah had underestimated the number of times she'd be spanked over the course of the summer. She'd promised herself that she'd do everything she could to avoid that particular punishment. She'd had no similar illusions about masturbating, however. She'd known, coming in, that it would be a "when" and not an "if," even if she'd told herself it would be for the purposes of the study itself. She'd read all the accounts, and knew that -- if she were truly to fit in among the mailgirls -- she'd need to succumb and touch herself at the Plaza. She hadn't been looking forward to it.

No. Again, it wasn't that simple.

"Yes..." she cooed again, between heavy breaths.

The full weight of the day was upon her. Undressing that morning in the locker room. Spinning and twirling for the likes of Mr. Moses and Mr. Lin in Human Capital. Hearing Seven recount her office encounter with David Woodward, and the round of self-pleasure that followed. Manzanillo, the ice cubes, and the Rolling Stones. The dickish, abusive commercial bankers. The names she'd been called and clucked at by unsympathetic women. Lisa D'Alessandro.

And Seven.

Seven.

Seven, most of all.

Holding hands. Sharing secrets. The kiss. The intimacy of it all. Feeling sweat dripping from the other girl's body onto her own naked skin. The smell of her. Watching her, staring at her, meeting her eyes as she fucked herself on the table up on 21.

Thirteen met Sarah's eyes the same way.

And, at that moment, it all became too much.

Sarah watched as the mailgirl gasped in ecstasy, the orgasm blossoming inside of her, grabbing a hold of her at the base of her spine and refusing to let go. There were no shrieks or screams or vocalizations, beyond the soft, hissing exhalation of the word, "Yessssssss..." The girl, still covered in soap and shampoo, ground desperately against the butt of hand, thrusting with her hips against an imaginary lover. Her knees bent reflexively. A shiver ran up her spine. Her shoulders convulsed. Her head was tossed back.

Whether it was a single orgasm that crested and then crested again, or was, in fact, an orgasm followed by another and then another -- of that, Sarah couldn't be sure. Thirteen didn't know. From both sides of the mirror, though, each girl watched the other, riding it out and losing themselves in the bliss. The lines between them blurred. There wasn't a Sarah Scott. There wasn't a Mailgirl Thirteen. There was only the orgasm itself, self-indulgent and all-encompassing.

It was release, in a way that the mailgirl had never experienced before. Even the night previous couldn't compare. The whole day had been foreplay, tension building and then building more, winding the girl tighter, pushing her just to the precipice but never over. And then -- now -- surrendering, setting loose, submitting. As Sarah's eyes stared into Thirteen's, and Thirteen's into Sarah's, the desperation and distress were gone, and only satisfaction remained.

There was a weird freedom in being a mailgirl, running deliveries from floor to floor upstairs in the Plaza. As excruciatingly embarrassing as it all was, standing stark naked in front of strangers and shoving her tits in their faces, there were moments of placidity and serenity, flipping the switch off on higher brain functions and simply following orders. So, too, had the orgasm allowed her to forget, momentarily, everything but the orgasm.

But, as Thirteen began to regain composure, still weak in the knees and gasping for air, a wave of shame washed over her. She hadn't been alone, of course. She hadn't been performing for an audience of one, the Sarah Scott she'd been before yesterday. There was another girl here with her in the locker room, and any number of spectators out in the elevator lobby lucky enough to catch a late night show. She'd need to report tonight's on-site session the following morning to her Mistress, and anyone and everyone with the Mailgirl App would know about her dirty deed. They'd know that Mailgirl Thirteen was getting off -- had gotten off -- on her new life as one of USF's naked delivery girls.

Sarah Scott had become a mailgirl through and through.

***

Thirteen tugged at the hem of Ten's dress once more, in yet another futile attempt to cover a bit more of her thighs. She was self-conscious about just how high the hemline was, and half-resigned to the fact that she'd end up flashing someone at the Imperial before the end of the night. And, in that scenario, she found herself wishing -- somewhat in jest -- that she'd have something other than the girlie-pink cotton briefs to show off. After streaking around USF Plaza all day, would it have been so unthinkable that she just simply go commando...?

Thirteen brushed the thought aside. Honestly, if she could have put on a pair of overalls and hoodie, she'd have been happier. But Seven had suggested something a bit fancier than the yoga pants and long-sleeve tee Thirteen had worn into work that morning, and Ten had insisted on sharing one of the spare dresses she kept in her locker.

And so Thirteen stood in front of the row of sinks in Ten's black sleeveless evening dress, flouncy tiered ruffles punctuating the skirt from the waist down. Hemline aside, Thirteen was thankful for the high neckline and the loose fit; this could have been so much worse. Ten's shoes weren't terrible, either -- a pair of black, chunky-heeled ankle-wrap sandals that were maybe a size too big, but Thirteen would make them work.

As Thirteen checked her look in the mirror, Seven sauntered over from the far side of the locker room, wearing the same floral-print dress she'd had on that morning and a knowing smile.

"Shut up," Thirteen laughed, looking away. She blushed.

"I didn't say anything," Seven shrugged.

Seven joined Thirteen at the mirror, and reached for one of the lipstick tubes arranged neatly to one side of the counter.

There was a beat of silence.

"It's your fault," Thirteen joked, finally.

Seven smirked. "I'm...sorry?"

"Twice today," Thirteen accused.

It was Seven's turn to blush. "Oh, right..." she began, but trailed off, shaking her head. "Well, we've got each other, at least."

"Are you sure that's such a good thing?" Thirteen giggled, despite herself. Thirteen had managed to ramp Seven up that morning, by making her relive the last time she'd masturbated here at the Plaza. And Seven had just played an embarrassingly large part in Thirteen's own fantasies under the shower that evening.

Seven smiled in response, the big, beaming grin infectious. Thirteen felt better about that evening, about that day, almost immediately. Seven seemed to have that effect on her.

"It's a good thing," Seven assured her friend. "We've got each other. And the other girls."

Thirteen nodded. Seven was right, of course. They had each other. They had each other, all of them. Whatever Thirteen was going through, whatever was done to her, whatever she did to herself -- well, she was just another mailgirl. US Financial had made sure of that, stripping her even of her name.

Sarah Scott would walk out of the Plaza tonight.

But Mailgirl Thirteen -- number thirteen of eighteen -- would return to the Plaza tomorrow for Day Three.