Mailgirl Number Thirteen: Day 02

The remainder of the morning passed without incident. Or, perhaps said better, passed without any major incidents. The girls made their deliveries on time, and the demerit they'd picked up for Thirteen's weight that morning remained the only demerit of the day. There was commentary aplenty, of course, running the gamut from the positive to the negative. Thirteen, as the new girl, got more attention than Seven, but Seven received her far share, as well. It was awkward and weird and embarrassing, showing up in someone's cubicle dressed as she was. But Thirteen felt that she was blushing less and less each time; she was getting accustomed to it. It was also undeniably arousing, just being the embodiment of sex. Being so naked. Submitting herself in this way.

She decided that men, alone, were to whom she preferred to make deliveries, and from whom she preferred pick-ups. The majority of these interactions were quick and by-the-book. They'd look her over, of course, but it was often perfunctory. Only once or twice did she feel her skin crawl as someone fucked her with their eyes. Most of time, they were almost gentlemanly and kind. Or as gentlemanly and kind as a mailgirl had any hope of being treated. They were appreciative of her and her sacrifices. She'd get the occasional, "gorgeous" or "beautiful" or "hot" or "sexy." Sometimes, she'd even be referred to by one of these adjectives, as if it were name. "Here you go, Beautiful."

Women, when they were alone, were fine enough. A few looked at her with empathy in their eyes, feeling sorry for her. They, too, were polite. But, more often than not, Thirteen was looked down upon with disgust. They didn't want her and Seven in their offices for longer than necessary. They didn't want to be forced into an interaction with a naked girl. They didn't want her tits in their faces. She was viewed as a pathetic wretch, an annoyance, or a whore. She was a torment inflicted upon them for working at USF.

Men, even together, were not so bad. A little more teasing. A few more remarks. A bit more objectification. They'd talk about her like she wasn't there. Or they'd say something sexual to her, to get a rise out their friends. If Thirteen was being honest with herself, she didn't mind even this, especially as the morning wore on. She was naked. Call it out. Make a comment. It felt more awkward to pretend like this was normal. It felt weirder when they got nervous and wouldn't acknowledge it.

Women together, though? By far, hands-down - they were the worst. Thirteen began to dread these deliveries. When one woman was in another's office when Seven and Thirteen arrived. When two women were seated together in some sort of communal workplace. It wasn't just disgust. It was open, vocal, contempt. There were catty remarks about the mailgirls' bodies. The name-calling was worse. "Skank" and "tramp" and "slut" were thrown at them repeatedly. Even more so than when interacting with men, Seven and Thirteen were called upon to get down on their knees or up on to their toes. Or forced to recite the phrases Mistress Zero had drilled into them. Thirteen was "lazy" or "stupid" or "slutty." She called herself all of these things at their command.

After one particularly vicious back and forth with a pair of administrative assistants in Underwriting, Seven wrapped her arm around Thirteen's waist as they waited for the service elevator. Thirteen was shaken. Visibly so, judging by Seven's reaction.

Upon arriving, Seven and Thirteen were forced into "Knees, Fourth Position," an instruction so specific that the girls knew they were in trouble from the outset. Most employees knew the old standards -- "Knees," "Feet," "Toes," and even "Hands and Knees." When they were looking for something more specialized, they simply told Seven and Thirteen what they wanted out of the two mailgirls. Seven dutifully informed them the "official" name of the posture each time, but for most it was in one ear and out the other. "Knees, Fourth Position" suggested that these two cackling old crones had either run other girls through the ringer or had spent time studying the positions on the mailgirls app. Neither boded well.

Down on their knees with their legs apart, and leaning far enough back that they had to brace themselves with palms flat on the floor, Seven and Thirteen parroted back each and every word they were instructed to utter.

"This mailgirl is a dirty, filthy whore," Thirteen whimpered.

"This mailgirl's cunt is dripping wet," Seven whined.

"This mailgirl is an embarrassment to her mother," Thirteen professed.

As Seven and Thirteen made their confessions, one of the secretaries filmed them on her cell phone.

"Why?" Thirteen asked weakly, blinking back tears. It couldn't have been purely sexual. There simply couldn't be that many closeted lesbians working at the Plaza.

"Because they can," Seven explained. Lesbians, no. Sadists, yes.

The only saving grace was that one of the two secretaries had made a comment somewhere along of the lines of, "Steve's going to get a kick out of this." That it was being filmed for an audience of one -- a husband or a boyfriend, perhaps -- was preferable to it being splashed all over the Internet. Though, Thirteen admitted to herself glumly, the former didn't necessarily preclude the latter.

When USF had announced its program in April, those women indignant about the very concept had likely been among those first resignations. A subsequent subsection of the female population who might have been empathetic to the girls, given how they were treated in practice on a daily basis, had likely been in the next wave. The remainder, it seemed, loathed the girls for volunteering, loathed the girls themselves.

Morning breaks were clustered around ten o'clock, with Mistress Zero pulling six girls out of circulation at a time, in fifteen-minute increments. 9:30. 9:45. 10 o'clock. Seven and Thirteen were called down at ten. But, as these breaks included the time it took the girls to get down to the locker room, and as Thirteen and Seven had been up on the 36th Floor when their smartphones had signaled it was their turn, their time off-the-clock was brief. Much of it was eaten up just waiting for their elevator car to arrive.

The pair was greeted in the service lobby by the sound of running water in the distance, and the sight of Seventeen -- looking like a deer-in-the-headlights -- seated on one of the metal toilets, relieving herself. Thirteen, too, needed to pee. She'd needed to do so for the better part of an hour, but she'd told herself she could make it back to the locker room.

Seven didn't waste any time. She crossed the lobby to a storage closet, retrieved a can of mailgirl chow, and handed it to Thirteen. "Let's split a can," she said. "Open it, pour it into one of the dishes, and I'll join you in a few."

"I think I'm good," Thirteen stuck out her tongue, recoiling at the thought of eating the disgusting grey gruel voluntarily.

Seven wasn't taking no for an answer, though. She shook her head. "Eat. Keep your energy up. You can skip it this afternoon, if you want."

"Okay," Thirteen said meekly as her stomach turned.

"Potty break. Eat. Then a quick rinse, and back to your locker. We don't have a lot of time. And I need to...take care of...something."

Thirteen's eyes widened.

Seven was going to do it.

She was going to go for it.

Despite what she'd told Thirteen earlier, just a few hours ago, Seven was going to get herself off here in the locker room again.

"Don't judge," Seven said sheepishly, reading the look on Thirteen's face. "It's your fault. Making me relive it. I've been thinking about it all morning."

"I'm...sorry?"

"Kidding. Sort of."

Seventeen was done by the time Thirteen sat down on one of the toilets, and was headed back into the locker room proper. Any misgivings that Thirteen had about peeing in front of whomever was out on the other side of the mirror glass were minor. She was distracted by the confession Seven had just made. It was all she could think about.

In addition to Seventeen, the girls were joined in the locker room by Mailgirls Six, Three, Ten, and -- of course -- Mistress Zero. Thirteen couldn't help but be drawn to Ten's chest, given the comments Lin and Moses had made about her up on the 18th Floor. The girl was unquestionably beautiful, as beautiful as any of the other girls. She was a brunette. Tall. Slender. Tan all over. Thirteen remembered yesterday thinking she looked "smart," a judgment somewhat diminished by the fact that she was on her hands and knees now, lapping up water from a dog dish beside their mistress's desk. Her breasts were admittedly on the smaller side for a mailgirl. Oranges, maybe, instead of the grapefruits Thirteen and most of the other girls possessed. Cantaloupes, in the case of Mailgirl Six. Thirteen felt for the girl. Otherwise gorgeous, her smaller-than-average cup size (again, only for a mailgirl) were her distinguishing feature, the thing that singled her out.

But Thirteen's focus wasn't on Ten. It was on her fellow blonde in the far showers, who looked to be...yes...yes, she was!...squatting and peeing as water cascaded down on her from above. Thirteen felt nauseous. She wondered if this was normal behavior for the mailgirls, or if it was something Seven-specific. As nasty as it would have been had it been just Seven, Thirteen suspected that the former was closer to the truth. That her fellow mailgirls -- pressed for time -- might have been regularly urinating in the showers. That thought made Thirteen retch a little bit, and rethink whether she actually wanted to rinse off, after all.

Seven wasn't alone in the showers, however. Mailgirl Number Three, two showers down, didn't bat an eye. Nor did Three pay Seven any attention when the girl, still squatting, spread her legs open and began furiously attacking her own pussy. Seven braced herself against the mirror with one hand, closed her eyes, and rubbed herself with abandon.

Before yesterday, Thirteen had never watched another girl masturbate. On the Internet, sure. If that counted? But it wasn't...normal. It wasn't the sort of thing people did in front of each other. Christopher had once confessed that it would turn him on if Thirteen did it while he watched. But, as much as the idea had also titillated Thirteen, she'd lacked the courage to actually go through with it. She wasn't an exhibitionist. Or, at least, she hadn't thought of herself as one at the time.

No, the closest Thirteen had ever come to witnessing this sort of thing firsthand had been with Erica Wright, her freshman-year roommate back in Malibu. Erica had stumbled home late one night, pretty early into the Fall, drunk out of her mind and bumping into furniture. She'd crawled into her own bed across the room, while Thirteen pretended to sleep. They were still getting to know one another. Erica was very much a "party girl," and Thirteen was decidedly not. At the time, it had just seemed easier to roll over and close her eyes, rather than acknowledge Erica's return and be drawn into some sort of confused, beer-addled conversation with the other girl. Erica, buying into Thirteen's ruse, had taken the fact that her roommate was passed out as an opportunity to pleasure herself. Softly, to her credit. Or, as softly as a drunken eighteen-year-old girl was capable of. There'd been the rustling of covers, the gentle whispers of the bed springs beneath her, and the labored in-and-out breathing that increased in tempo as she got closer to achieving her goal. When she came, she didn't call it out. There was no whining, no whinnying, no moaning. Just a simple, desperate gasp for air, and then the thing was done.

The whole episode couldn't have lasted for more than two or three minutes. Erica had known exactly what she was doing, and must have been fairly worked up even before she'd stumbled back to their room. Thirteen was never going to come right out and ask her what had gotten her so hot and bothered. To do so would have meant admitting she'd been awake to hear the whole thing unfold. But she'd overhead Erica confessing to one of their other suitemates that she'd been out with the men's volleyball team. Erica had gone on and on about how "hot" one of the freshmen was, and Thirteen was eventually able to make an educated guess; Erica and Drew Wagner dated, on-and-off, for much of the Spring.

Erica Wright had gone on to medical school after Pepperdine, if Thirteen remembered correctly. As Thirteen was delivering interoffice envelopes, naked, in New York, Erica was probably just starting her residency somewhere out west. Thirteen wondered what she was specializing in. It made her laugh think that Erica might have gone on to become a gynecologist.

Seven was moving with that same purpose, that time-is-of-the-essence desperation that suggested she, too, was going to hit her climax in less than three minutes. She wasn't screwing around.

Thirteen had granted Erica an illusion of privacy then, and she thought it only proper to allow Seven that same politeness now. Three, who was only three or four feet removed from where the thing was going down, paid no attention to other mailgirl. Three remained focused on her shower. Thirteen could do the same.

Willing herself to pretend it wasn't happening, Thirteen went to the far side of Mistress Zero's desk, retrieved the silver dog dish from the floor, and -- using a can opener left conveniently nearby -- opened the can of mailgirl chow and deposited the contents in the bowl. The dish itself wasn't quite clean. There were specks of food left behind from whomever had eaten their own snack out of it during one of the earlier breaks, streaks from where another girl's tongue had licked it clean. Clean-ish, at least. This didn't make the chow any less appetizing. No, there simply wasn't a way in which Thirteen's "snack" could have gotten any less appetizing.

"I'll split that with you," Mailgirl Ten offered, from down around Thirteen's ankles. She was still on her hands-and-knees at the other dish, where she'd stopped to have a drink.

Thirteen glanced down the locker room, where Seven was still at work beneath the shower. She began, "Seven said..."

Ten checked the time on her phone, and peeked around Mistress Zero's desk to get her own quick glance at the masturbating blonde. With a little smile on her face, Ten said, "I don't think she's going to have time."

Thirteen frowned. She'd only resigned herself to the chow at Seven's instruction. It didn't seem fair that Seven would be too busy to actually eat her half of the can.

"You're going to have finish it alone if she doesn't wrap up quick," Ten argued. "Otherwise, you know, demerits."

"Thirteen is not afraid of demerits," Mistress Zero added from behind her desk. She was playing with her tablet, and listening in on the girls' exchange. The comment carried with it an accusation. Thirteen wasn't afraid of demerits, she had said. But what she'd meant was that Thirteen was growing accustomed to the spankings that followed. That maybe she was enjoying them.

Thirteen bit her lip. She didn't want demerits. On the other hand, she wanted to wait for Seven. On the other other hand, she didn't want to be forced to choke down an entire can of mailgirl chow on her own. She nodded to Ten. Seven could get another can, if she finished up in time.

Mistress Zero's presence intruded on the "snack" that Thirteen and Ten shared on the floor. She hovered over them both -- listening in, judging them, keeping them in line. Still, Ten smiled at Thirteen, and there was an unspoken conversation between them.

"It's not so bad," Ten seemed to be saying with her eyes, seeing the hesitation in Thirteen.

"It's pretty bad," Thirteen frowned.

They took turns. Ten first, then Thirteen. Ten, again. Thirteen, again. Ten gobbled down more than her fair share, in what Thirteen took as a favor to her. When the food was gone, Ten licked one side of the bowl, and then encouraged Thirteen to do the same on the other.

If the taste, smell, and consistency of the chow weren't bad enough, the watery "gravy" that remained behind afterwards was worse. Thirteen felt herself gag, and she dipped her head into the water dish immediately after she was done, desperately trying the wash the taste out of her mouth. She knew better, but she swallowed more of the room-temperature water than she probably should have.

Thirteen didn't dare look back down the locker room to assess where Seven was in her build. Instead, she turned tail and b-lined for the shower block on her own end of the room, the end of the room where Mailgirls Thirteen through Eighteen had their lockers.

Ten padded behind.

Seventeen had already had her own quick rinse. Thirteen wasn't sure if Six had done the same. She fought the annoyance she felt when Ten followed her over to the showers, and slid in under the showerhead immediately to her left. Four showers to choose from at this end of the locker room, and Ten had be right on top of her.

She'd done so, apparently, to talk.

"Figured I'd give her some space," Ten whispered, unironically. She meant Seven.

Thirteen couldn't blame her. Three had seemed unfazed by the display, but she'd been in the showers before Seven had joined her. Given the choice, it made sense that Ten would shower down here, away from the mailgirl engaged with her own sex.

"It gets better," Ten said softly.

Thirteen was unsure of what she meant.

"The food," Ten clarified.

"Yeah?" Thirteen asked, skeptically.

"It gets more tolerable," Ten allowed. "I tell myself that it's good for me."

"Certainly doesn't taste that way," Thirteen quipped. She wasn't being nice. She changed her attitude. "Thank you, by the way. I know that you choked down more of it than I did."

"You did your part," Ten smiled. "Soap?"

"Uh..." Thirteen said, looking down at her feet and scanning for one of the bars.

"Nevermind," Ten said. "I see them." She stepped out of the spray and went to retrieve both bars of soap from the far end of the block. She returned, and handed one of them to Thirteen. Luxury of luxuries, Thirteen wouldn't have to share.

"So, you need a dress?" Ten asked. "I've got a cocktail dress in my locker that I think will fit you."

They were about the same size. Ten had a few inches on her, and Thirteen was a bit bigger in the bust. But they were roughly the same the same build. To Kevin Lin's point earlier that morning, there wasn't a lot of variety in body types among USF's mailgirls.

"You think I need it?" Thirteen asked. She didn't want to borrow Ten's clothes. It felt uncomfortable. She'd just met the girl yesterday, and hadn't exchanged more than a few words with her up until now. Ten was doing this as a favor to Seven more than she was doing it for Thirteen. "She wants to go to the Imperial."

"Ooh," Ten replied. "Fancy."

It's not that fancy, Thirteen wanted to say. She'd been there last night with Gillian, in a moderately casual skirt and a tank-top, albeit wearing her roommate Audrey's blazer. It certainly wasn't a place that required a "cocktail dress."

"So that's a yes? You think I need it?"

"What'd you wear in this morning?"

"Yoga pants. And a long-sleeve shirt."

"Borrow the dress."

Thirteen grimaced.

"Dress up," Ten encouraged her. "You're doing more than enough dressing down."

Despite herself, Thirteen had to laugh. Ten had a point.

"Just get it back to me tomorrow. Or, whenever. Ooh," she said, an idea striking her, "wear it in tomorrow! Just leave your clothes from this morning here overnight."

The suggestion wasn't without merit. What was Thirteen going to do with her clothes otherwise? Carry them with her? They weren't going to fit in her purse.

She was hesitant, though. "Overnight?"