Mailgirl Number Thirteen: Day 02

Seven and Thirteen avoided talking about the kiss, however. Thirteen wasn't sure what had come over her that morning. Or, perhaps said better, she knew exactly what had come over her and didn't want to have to say it out loud. It was lust, pure and simple. Arousal. In that moment, she'd been turned on, ready to go, and desperate to be touched. Despite the breakdown beneath the showers, there'd been a part of her -- and not a small part, either -- that had been disappointed in Manzanillo, disappointed that he hadn't ordered Seven and Thirteen to perform for him in the same way he had done to Seven and Three. "Heavy petting," as Seven had put it. She was jealous of Three. Jealous of Seven, for that matter, for being allowed to engaged in some HR-sanctioned physical contact.

She needed some sort of release.

The more she thought about the kiss, Thirteen no longer regretted it. Not exactly. She was a little embarrassed about it, sure. She'd only known this other girl since yesterday. What they'd been through together over the last day-and-a-half, though, was bonding. It was intimate. It was intimate in a way that Thirteen had never been with anyone else. Not Christopher. Not Luke. Not Mark. She was so, so naked. So vulnerable. So honest. And Seven had been just as naked, vulnerable, and honest with her. The kiss, as self-serving as it might have been, felt right.

Still, despite all they'd shared, Thirteen had no interest in talking about it.

If Thirteen had hoped the kiss might provide some sort of release, it did exactly the opposite. As she had been for much of the day yesterday, and as she had been for much of the morning, Thirteen had sex on the brain. As person after person took her in in all her glory, and as they regarded her as little more than a fuck toy to be enjoyed, she felt her state of arousal rising to hitherto unexperienced heights. Just when she thought she couldn't be any more turned on, someone would comment on her body, or stare openly at her breasts, or order her up on her toes or down onto her knees. She hated it and she loved it. No matter how much her higher brain functions tried to deny it, animal instincts got the better of her. She'd get that much more sexually excited. Which, in turn, made her feel that much more like a whore. Which, in its own twisted way, only served as a feedback loop to the whole thing.

She found herself fantasizing about getting back to her apartment that night. Alone, in her own bedroom, with her hand between her legs. It was all she could think about, and the clock seemed to slow each time she dared to look at it on her arm. The end of the day seemed impossibly far away. As much as she wanted to get drinks with Seven, and as much as she recognized it would be good for her research, she wished she hadn't agreed to yet another night out at the Imperial. She wished she could simply return home to the Upper West Side after work.

By the time she and Seven arrived back down on the 2nd Floor for their afternoon break, Thirteen had time only for a quick potty break and perfunctory rinse beneath the shower. Again, there were no moans of pleasure to greet her upon her arrival. None of the other girls were attending to themselves. She was, surprisingly, a little let down by the mailgirls' self-restraint. After the stories she'd heard, and those few instances she'd witnessed yesterday, she'd expected someone -- anyone -- to give in and get off. Seven had explained that the veterans tended to hold back when new girls were inserted into the mix. But Thirteen had hoped that Ten, or Two, or One, or even Seven again might make a go of it, and act upon the sexual excitement that they, too, had to be feeling. Thirteen wasn't ready to do so, herself, but she'd have felt validated if one of them had touched themselves -- knowing that she wasn't alone in the feelings she was feeling inside of her.

Seven was a pro. It was easy to forget that this was just her seventh day on the job, the way she handled herself. She'd been nervous, of course, when they'd been called up to Manzanillo's office. But, for the most part, she took everything that was thrown at her in stride. "Yes, sir" and "No, sir." "Thank you, ma'am" and "Please, ma'am." Quick and efficient in her deliveries, submissive and obedient in her dealings with her clothed counterparts. In those moments they were allowed to rest together, she'd whisper a secret or share some gossip. But, on the clock, Seven was heads-down and compliant, operating almost on autopilot in her interactions with the Textiles. Her composure was infectious, and Thirteen followed along. Her courage gave Thirteen courage.

Which, then, was why Thirteen was so shaken by Seven's reaction to their next assignment, just after six o'clock. They had finished a delivery on the 35th Floor -- an electronic message to a mousy young woman in her early forties who was clearly uncomfortable with having to get close enough to bump her smartphone against theirs -- and were on their way to the mailgirl mat by the elevators when the order came through. Seven froze in place, yelped out, "No! Please no!", and turned as white as a ghost. Thirteen glanced at her own phone, and saw the issue.

They were headed to the 21st Floor.

They were headed to Legal.

Seven had been noticeably on-edge when the pair was down on the 21st Floor earlier that morning, when she and Thirteen arrived to prep coffee. Their time there, though, passed without incident. And somehow, by simple luck of the draw, Thirteen and Seven had managed to avoid Seven's old stomping grounds for the remainder of the day. Maybe it was that Legal didn't have any need for the services of mailgirls today. Or maybe it was just that one of the other girls always happened to be closer when they did.

This, though, was something different. Not only were they being summoned down to Legal from fourteen flights away, but there also appeared to be an expenditure of chits above-and-beyond the associated cost with summoning a specific mailgirl. Matt Doyle, yesterday afternoon, had walked the new girls through the various chimes and vibrations they could expect out of their smartphones, and what all of the various numbers and icons represented. Most assignments were simple ones: this location by this time. But, though Thirteen was still getting accustomed to the app, she knew enough that the "$" symbol next to the destination signified that they were being called to do something less than routine.

"The 'Chautauqua Conference Room'?" Thirteen asked. "Does that mean something?"

"It's not the conference room," Seven moaned. "It's Lisa D'Alessandro."

Thirteen looked at her friend blankly.

"One's old boss," Seven explained. "Lisa D'Alessandro. The Dragon Lady."

"That sounds ominous."

"She was a bitch, even before. She's also one of the few people -- even in Legal -- who knows how involved I was in prepping the contracts."

"She's upset about the program?" It wasn't surprising. If Lisa D'Alessandro believed Seven to be even partially responsible for the naked-women-in-dog-collars thing, Thirteen could understand why Seven was afraid of her.

But Seven shook her head. "No. No, it's not that. She's one of those firmly in the camp that any girl who volunteers for the mailgirl program is going to get what's coming to them. She's just...sadistic. A bitch just for the sake of being a bitch. When I transferred down here from Boston, I got warned to steer clear of her from some of my old coworkers."

Not good, Thirteen thought to herself.

"On the day the program launched back in April, on Three's very first assignment, Lisa ran her through, like, every single one of her positions. 'Feet' and 'Knees' and 'Toes' and even stuff like 'Ankles' and 'Shoulders-and-Toes' and so on."

On the one hand, Seven and Thirteen had been run through various positions by various different people at various different points throughout yesterday and today. Mostly, it was just the 'Feet' and 'Knees' and 'Toes' positions, but they'd been thrown the occasional 'Hands-and-Knees' or 'Squat, Knees Apart' along the way. 'Shoulders-and-Toes,' admittedly, was a little intense; it required a mailgirl to get down onto her back, spread her legs, and then arch her lower body up off the floor, thrusting her pussy up into the room. No one but Mistress Zero had yet asked Thirteen to strike that particular pose -- but it was only Day Two. Still, such requests were well within the rights of any USF employee who chose to make them.

On the other hand, the fact that Lisa D'Alessandro chose to inflict that particular torment on the very day the program launched, on Three's very first trip up into the Plaza, spoke to something vicious and vile within the woman. In every program Thirteen had studied, there were always those "early adopters" who took the opportunity presented to them to jump into the mailgirl world with both feet. But, from what Thirteen had read, most people were more cautious and conservative around the mailgirls at the outset. It took time to break them of the notion that these were still human beings.

"Well, if that's the worst..." Thirteen began, optimistically.

Seven shook her head. "On Day Two, she walked One around the entire floor on her hands and knees, on a leash. She made her bark like a dog, too, for good measure."

Thirteen cringed. "Okay. That's a little more extreme."

"Nine? She was a tax attorney. She worked on the 21st Floor, too. That first Friday in May? After she became a mailgirl? Lisa sent her down to the locker room to fetch the clothes she'd worn in that morning, and made her come back upstairs and shred them all in front of all her old colleagues. I was there. It was awful."

Thirteen swallowed hard. "She can do that? They can do that?"

Seven shrugged. "She did it. One of the other girls in the office -- Theresa - took some pity on her, and gave her a coat to wear home that night. Lisa was pissed. Theresa? She's Mailgirl Number Eighteen now."

Thirteen was beginning to understand why Seven was dreading this next assignment.

Seven was quiet as they got into the service elevator on the 35th Floor. She'd been quiet before, but mostly in the context of keeping her head down and concentrating on whatever task they'd been assigned. This, though, was different. It was dread. It was fear.

Thirteen reached out and took the girl's hand.

Being walked around the 21st Floor on a leash? It would be humiliating, for sure. But it wouldn't be the first time Thirteen had been on the business end of a leash over the last two days. She was already drinking out of dog bowls, and choking down mailgirl chow that couldn't have been more than a step or two removed from actual dog food. She could get through it.

Shredding her clothes? It was ruthless. It was vicious. It was sadistic. Thirteen, of course, didn't want to lose her yoga pants, her shirt, her underwear. But she'd worn those cheap, cotton-candy pink panties that morning partly because she'd half-expected to go home without them. And Ten had already offered her a cocktail dress to wear out to the Imperial that night with Seven. Even if Lisa D'Alessandro forced her to repeat the torture she'd inflicted upon poor Mailgirl Number Nine, it wasn't as if Thirteen would have to return to the Upper West Side in the nude.

She hoped that whatever awaited them in the Chatauqua Conference room wasn't so elaborate. She hoped it was nothing more than being run through her positions. It would be embarrassing enough to Seven, being forced to do so in front of people she'd once considered peers. Thirteen couldn't even begin to imagine how embarrassed she'd be, if Gillian and Thirteen's fellow graduate students took a field trip down to USF Plaza to watch. Thirteen hoped that Lisa D'Alessandro would recognize this, and nothing would be inflicted upon her and Seven more than a few rounds of "Feet" and "Knees" and "Shoulders-and-Toes."

She could hope, at least. Will Barrow couldn't take that away from her.

The elevator signaled its arrival on the 21st Floor, and the girls disembarked. They had time to spare, if Thirteen were reading her smartphone correctly, but Seven broke into a sprint all the same. Thirteen understood. Seven didn't want to linger out on the floor, out among her old colleagues. No matter what One's old boss had in store for them.

Outside the conference room, Seven hesitated. She paused, caught her breath, and looked Thirteen in the eyes. "We can do this," she reassured Thirteen. Thirteen could see through the façade. Seven was really reassuring herself.

As they entered Chatauqua, they were greeted by none other than Mailgirl Number Seven herself. The blonde girl, naked save for her collar and number, was squatting beneath the shower in the locker room, legs spread wide and eyes closed. One hand was extended, bracing flat against an invisible wall. The other was between her legs, and it was unmistakable what it was doing there. The image was a little grainy. It had clearly been captured on someone's phone. Now, though, it was blown up almost to life-size, projected onto the far wall for all to see.

It was from that morning. Someone had snapped a picture. No, no, no -- that wasn't quite right. The image was frozen, static, but the big white circle at the bottom of the picture -- the one with the triangle in it -- signaled that this was a video.

All the eyes in the room, though, were fixed upon the two nude mailgirls who'd just joined the proceedings. There were two men -- one in his late forties or early fifties, who looked sick to his stomach, and another, likely only a few years older than Seven and Thirteen, who stared at Seven in shock. The rest were women. Four of them, in total. Two of them looked about the mailgirls' age, while the other two -- while still attractive and well put-together -- were a little older.

Thirteen didn't need introductions to place which of them was Lisa D'Alessandro. The woman with the phone her hand, at the end of the table, sneered at them as the door closed behind Thirteen. "A culmination of all your work?" she teased Seven.

Lisa started the video. From the guilty looks upon the rest of the audience's faces, this wasn't the first time they'd watched it. There was no audio. Or, at least, there was no audio of Seven; instead, the conference room's speakers spat out background noise from elevator lobby. Someone on the recording laughed. Someone else called, "Jesus!" A dozen different conversations combined into inaudible and indistinguishable chatter.

The recording picked up with Seven already rubbing her pussy with speed and with purpose.

"I was getting myself coffee this morning," Lisa began. "And I caught your little show. We'd heard about the first time. On Wednesday. The floor was abuzz! Honestly, I didn't think you'd make it to the end of your first day without doing it, given how hard you'd worked to set this all up."

It took all the strength Thirteen could muster to keep from darting back out the conference room door. Consequences be damned, she just wanted to grab Seven's hand and pull her out behind her. They could run. Down to the locker room. Down to their lockers. Down to their clothes, and then out to the street. Thirteen wanted to save her friend from this humiliation.

Seven, though, clenched her jaw. She parted her legs. She placed her hands behind her back. Her eyes went to the floor. She stood defiant, even as the video of her masturbating in the showers played out on the far wall.

Thirteen followed the other girl's lead, and took up "Feet," as well.

"No," said one of the younger women to Lisa's left. "Watch. Make her watch."

"You heard her," Lisa sneered. "Watch."

Seven raised her head. Thirteen did the same.

Where had Thirteen been? How far into the diddling had Lisa begun to record it from the other side of the window? Was Thirteen still scarfing down mailgirl chow at Mistress Zero's desk? Was she already in the showers with Ten? Was Thirteen, too, going to make a cameo appearance?

Then, she'd done her best to given Seven her space, to pretend it wasn't happening. Now, though, Thirteen was witnessing Seven in all her glory. Lisa, phone in hand, couldn't have been more than four or five feet from where Seven had been masturbating, and the proximity -- maybe even more than the recording itself -- felt like a violation. Seven's eyes were shut, and the girl was blissfully unaware that the session was being captured for posterity. Even if they'd been open, all she'd have seen from her side of the glass was her own reflection, biting her lip and gasping for air.

"Please," Thirteen begged, before she was even aware that she had uttered the word aloud. "Please. Please. You don't have to do this."

Lisa cackled. The girl who'd insisted the Seven watch laughed along with her. So, too, did the younger of the two men.

"This isn't for me," Lisa sneered. Jutting her chin towards Seven, she continued, "This is for her. Our star!"

Seven risked a glance in Thirteen's direction. Subtly, she shook her head, and whispered, "Ssshhh." Thirteen wasn't to speak up again.

"You can dress all of this up however you want," Lisa said. "Deliver the mail. Make coffee. Fetch this package or that. Mop up the men's room. Whatever HR is selling. Whatever we're peddling to the protestors out front. This is what it's all about, isn't it? Me? Courtney? Cathy? Brian? We're just minor characters -- bit players -- in Michelle's story."

"Ma'am," Seven interrupted, her voice strained, "per Human Capital, this mail girl is to be referred to by her mail room number."

Lisa laughed. So, too, did the others around the table. Some it was uncomfortable laughter. But some was cruel, mocking.

"My apologies," Lisa offered sarcastically.

"Ma'am," Seven responded, "you are not to apologize to a mailgirl."

Seven was required to correct Lisa for using her real name. She was required to correct Lisa for apologizing to a mailgirl. To Thirteen, though, the corrections came off as petty. It was Seven finding the smallest of ticky-tack regulations to regain the upper hand, to put Lisa her in her place.

Lisa was caught off-guard, but recovered. She smiled thinly, and offered, "You're right. You're right. What was I thinking?"

"It was this mailgirl's fault," Seven went on. "For putting you in such a position."

Again, uncomfortable laughter from around the room.

"You're right, of course," Lisa snickered. "Your fault. You did this to yourself. You're the reason we've got exhibitionists in the lobby, fucking themselves silly and forcing us all to watch."

"Did she tell you?" This, from one of the other women. Cathy? Courtney? The third, so far unnamed woman? It wasn't aimed at Seven, though. The question was directed at Thirteen. "Did she tell you that she's the one who wrote the contracts?"

Thirteen used the opportunity to look away from the wall, where Seven continued to pleasure herself beneath the shower. She met Seven's accuser's eyes -- briefly. It was one of the younger of the women, a girl who probably only a year or two older than Thirteen herself.

Thirteen nodded. "She did. She did, ma'am."

"Ms. Judd," Lisa interjected.

Thirteen swallowed, and then nodded again. "She did, Ms. Judd."

Ms. Judd was a bit surprised by the fact that Seven had revealed her part in the mailgirl program to another mailgirl. She didn't, however, let up.

"She did, did she? She told you that she's the reason you're a mailgirl? That she's the one who slipped clawbacks into all our bonuses? That it's her fault that the company is doing this to us all?"

Thirteen wanted to point out that she wasn't actually a USF employee. Or, at least, that she hadn't actually been a USF employee before yesterday morning. That it wasn't Seven's fault that she was here, that she was under the thumb of Will Barrow and Human Capital, that she hadn't been subject to clawbacks on a bonus. But she didn't see the point -- it wasn't what Ms. Judd was after. And the Chatauqua Conference Room didn't need Thirteen's backstory.