Mailgirl Number Six

As Abby joined the three male analysts above and around the naked brunette, she recognized she was now almost as much a part of this little scene as Eighteen herself. Did she wonder if this, on some level - on any level - was wrong? Of course. But she liked being a part of Bagby's mean little clique, of being accepted by her peers in Human Capital, of being one of the boys. She made a show of swishing saliva around inside her mouth, and caught the anticipatory looks from them all as she did so. And, with one last wicked smile at her co-conspirators, Abby discharged down onto the mailgirl's back door.

The sound of the impact brought about immediate regret in the redhead. What had she just done?

But that regret didn't last long. The three men around her cheered in celebration, and it was hard not to get swept up in their enthusiasm.

"Bull's eye!" Moses whooped.

Abby's saliva puddled a bit in the pucker, but then began to dribble down between the girl's legs and to her thighs. Eighteen didn't make any attempt to wipe it away or clean it off; she knew she would need permission. She didn't risk wiping it away when she was finally allowed to stand, nor when Bagby stuck a twenty in her armband and sent her off for coffees. She might have cleaned herself off in the service elevator, maybe. Or, maybe she just let it dry naturally. Abby didn't exactly check when Eighteen returned to Human Capital, and delivered her her coffee in the copier room.

Abby knew it was frowned upon to thank a mailgirl, so she resisted the instinct. She also resisted the urge to apologize, or to make a joke about the whole thing. Instead, she donned her best domineering bitch mask, and simply nodded at the naked girl as she received her coffee.

Eighteen wore a mask of her own. There was no evidence of hate or anger or disgust in Abby's direction. Instead, the girl wore only an inscrutable Mona Lisa smile, as if she'd found some sort of amusement in the humiliation she'd just suffered. And, as they met eyes for the briefest of instances, Abby knew that amusement was at Abby's expense. Maybe it was just guilt or paranoia. But, in that moment, it was as if Eighteen could see right through her, and possessed some truth about her that escaped Abby herself. No, Eighteen didn't seem angry at all. She did, however, seem to know how much Abby was affected by her day at the Plaza, how aroused the redhead truly was.

And Abby was aroused. Not by the sight of another girl's anus, of course -- Abby wasn't quite that warped. At least, not yet. It was the dominance and submission involved that had her wet, and she wasn't sure which was affecting her more. Was it the power that Abby felt in owning and humiliating Eighteen? Or was it being owned and humiliated, as imagined vicariously through Eighteen? The two were surprisingly difficult to untangle, and Abby wasn't sure which disturbed her more. All she was sure of was how sexually stimulating the whole thing had been.

She didn't dare risk eye contact with Eighteen again as she left Human Capital. The girl had taken up position on a mailgirl mat outside of Barrow's office, the only deviation from her standard "Knees" pose being the coffee in one hand. Such a rare kindness and luxury in the middle of a shift had likely made the torment she'd just suffered worth it. Abby suspected she'd been treated worse.

Back in the cubicle where Abby was working for the day, she bit her lip and pulled at her hair. She'd caught Wendy Brown masturbating in the ladies' room that morning. Diane Harris had caught Georgeann DiMaggio with a vibrator. Nicole Culberson likely hadn't brought her little vibrating egg to work as simply a conversation piece. There were blowjobs happening in the parking garage, sexual encounters taking place in supply closets, and god-knows-what-else being done by god-knows-who god-knows-where here at the Plaza.

Abby would be in good company if she slipped off somewhere to get herself off.

No. No. No. No, of course not. Of course she couldn't do such a thing. Wendy had been caught. Georgeann had been caught. She'd be caught, too. And, whether or not she'd get caught was beside the point, wasn't it? Wasn't there a right-and-wrong when it came to touching yourself at work?

But Abby thought back to the sight of Thirteen masturbating in the shower, downstairs in the elevator lobby. And about how rampant the behavior was among the rest of the mailgirls, almost every chance they got. Why should they be allowed something Abby was denied?

It was tortured logic, and Abby knew it. But, it was enough. It was enough that the decision had been made, and now Abby was only left with a question of where.

The ladies' room, of course. It was the logical choice. She could go into a stall, close the door, and be quicker and quieter than Wendy had been. And she'd be smarter about it than Wendy had been -- she'd go downstairs, to the 17th Floor, just to make sure she didn't run into anyone she knew here in Human Resources. In fact, she didn't even need to walk up through the rest of Human Resources to the elevators. She could simply take the stairs - the service stairs - which were within eyeshot of her cubicle. No one would even see her sneak out.

As Abby pushed open the thick metal door that led to the stairs, however, she began to see an alternative. Maybe she didn't need to hide in the ladies' room after all. Maybe the stairwell would do fine. The door clicked closed behind her, but Abby was frozen in place as she thought this through. Whether to masturbate or not -- that decision had been made. But she considered the chances of being caught in the ladies' room versus being caught in the stairs.

Prior to the introduction of the mailgirls here at the Plaza, no one used the stairs. No one. It was just part of the building's culture, Abby supposed. That first year she'd been with the company, when she'd worked here in the building every day, the only time she'd seen anyone go into or come out of the door to the stairs was during a fire alarm. She knew that Kaitlyn York had once snuck a quick smoke on the stairs between the 18th and 19th Floors. But, as a general rule, the stairs had been ignored and neglected.

When the mailgirl concept had been adopted at the Plaza, Barrow had granted a few allowances that would have been unthinkable in mailgirl programs elsewhere. Specifically, he allowed the girls to ride the elevators. The service elevators only, and only on those occasions where a delivery required more than a ten story climb or descent. In practice, the greater proportion of interoffice deliveries and memos occurred within a few floors of one another, and so the girls were still on the stairs a lot. But from twenty-four total mailgirls, subtract six due to afternoon breaks. Maybe subtract another six or seven who might be waiting patiently on their mailgirl mats waiting for their next delivery. Subtract another few who might be on the elevators. And then divide by forty-eight floors.

The math worked in Abby's favor. So too did the fact that any amount of noise echoed up and down the stairwell; she'd have to be quiet herself, but she'd be able to hear anyone coming from above or below in time to get herself together. Even if anyone heard her breathing a little heavy, they'd likely assume the panting belonged to a mailgirl running the stairs. And then, even if anyone caught her, it was almost guaranteed to be a lowly mailgirl -- stark naked and in no position to judge.

Her biggest risk was from the 18th Floor itself. Mailgirl Number 18 was still back in Human Capital, and any job between the 8th and the 28th could theoretically bring her rushing through that door. But the way the door opened, into the stairwell, granted Abby some measure of safeguarding against that possibility; if she were in the corner, the open door itself would shield her from exposure -- so long as Eighteen didn't look back behind her after the door closed.

She hesitated for a moment longer, wondering if this were truly a good idea. Of course it wasn't. Of course it wasn't! She shouldn't be doing this. She shouldn't even be considering this. But...but...if she were going to do this, if she was really and truly going to get herself off at work, she was less likely to be walked in on by a mailgirl here in the stairwell than another woman in the 17th Floor's ladies room.

Abby ground the butt of her palm into her groin, through her dress, and it was decided. She could do it here, and do it quickly.

She wished she had one of Kaitlyn's cigarettes. At least then she'd have a plausible reason for being out here, as forbidden as it may have been.

Positioning herself in the corner, with the door to her right, Abby leaned back against the wall and began to tug her dress up her thighs. She cursed her lack of foresight when she got dressed that morning; not only did she have to deal with the tightness of her dress, but she'd also have to contend with her pantyhose, as well. A garter belt and stockings might have been smarter, she told herself -- it would have allowed for easier access. Nonetheless, Abby was determined, and so the black pencil dress was bunched at her mid-section, with her hand stuffed unceremoniously into the waist of her panties and pantyhose.

She would have been a sight. Heels. Nude pantyhose. Light pink - almost white -- lace panties. Black dress, hiked up to a ridiculous degree. Her suit jacket, naturally. Her long red hair hanging loose. Eyes as wide as dinner plates, looking nervously up and down the stairs. And her right hand working furiously back and forth against her pussy.

The naughtiness of it all, coupled with the fear of being caught, made the whole thing exponentially more exciting. It wouldn't take long.

Abby focused on her breathing, trying to stay as quiet as possible. She did it through shivers and shudders, her body doing its best to betray her. Her soft inhale and exhale was deliberate, almost Lamaze-like. She bit her bottom lip, hard, and willed herself to stay quiet.

To say she was wet would have been an understatement; Abby could feel how soaked her panties were against the back of her hand. Her fingertips traced circles around her clit, around and around again, dipping every so often shallowly between her lips. She spread her legs a bit wider, bent her knees a bit more, and slid just a bit further down the wall.

She heard a noise from behind the door, and cocked her head to hear it better. She slowed her pace, but didn't stop entirely, as she worked through whether she needed to pull her dress back down. As far as she could tell, it was just Diane, laughing. And so she went back to her pussy.

She thought about Eighteen, on her knees and bent over, spreading her buttocks to expose herself further. She thought about Thirteen, with her left hand bracing against the mirror glass for support as her right rubbed her sex with abandon. She thought about Wendy Brown, touching herself in the ladies' room. She imagined herself in Barrow's office, ordering Kaitlyn to undress. And she thought about herself, stripped naked waiting submissively on her knees on a mailgirl mat somewhere in the building.

And then she was there. Abby wasn't sure how much time had passed; had it been two minutes? Three? She'd been primed and ready to go since Human Capital, but the speed to which she felt her body begin to crest still surprised her. Her strokes slowed, but became more deliberate and forceful, as she tried to draw out the orgasm that was about to take her. Her knees felt as if they'd buckle, and she slid further down the wall. Her thighs clenched around her hand. And then her pussy erupted in pleasure, shooting orgasmic sparks up and down her spine. She gasped, loudly, and let out an inadvertent "Ohhh!" But then caught herself, quieted herself, and steadied herself with her left hand against the wall.

***

It was in the immediate aftermath that Abby felt most ashamed about what she'd done. Still breathing heavily, still disheveled, still coming down from her orgasm. She had barely broken a sweat -- she was thankful of that, at least -- but her fingertips were wet and she smelled like pussy. She smelled like mailgirl. She knew what she'd done was wrong, and she felt damaged, dirty, and whorish.

And yet this was now the sixth time she'd gotten herself off at work, since that afternoon two weeks ago in the stairwell.

Abby was on the floor of a storage room on B-2, the sub-basement, a floor down from the call center, the cafeteria, and the mailgirls locker room. Her skirt, as her dress had been that first time, was bunched around her waist, and her legs splayed out with her hand between them. She'd folded her suit jacket and placed it neatly on a nearby open shelf, but her blouse was still on, still buttoned, and now rumpled and partially untucked. She'd left her shoes on, for some unknown reason, and her heels were flat on the floor, her legs bent at the knees. At least today she'd worn stockings and a garter belt instead of pantyhose -- she'd had one less layer to contend with as she had dipped her hand into the front of her panties.

After that first time at USF Plaza, Abby had managed to go the better part of a week before she touched herself at work again. That next time - and the time after that, and the time after that - she'd at least been able to do so in the privacy of her own office at Park Place, door closed and securely locked. The anticipation of this week's induction of Jersey City's mailgirls had proven too much for her to resist, and she'd talked herself into getting off, getting it over with, and getting on with her day. She'd already "broken the seal," so to speak, and the risk of being caught in her office was decidedly lower than in the stairwell on the 18th Floor.

But Barrow had claimed Abby's office for himself that week, and Abby had been bumped down to an open seat at the reception desk in Human Resources. As it wasn't as if she could ask Barrow for her office back, for a few minutes of privacy, she'd gone the entirety of that Monday being good. Being good, at least, until the moment she walked through the door of her apartment.

Tuesday, though, her excitement had proven impossible to deny, with the ensnaring of Mailgirls Three and Four. Abby knew she'd either have to take care of herself or go home. She briefly flirted with the default of the ladies' room, even if it meant there was a chance she'd be caught. But then she realized she had access to a storage room in the sub-basement, off-limits to everyone but Barrow, Barrow's assistant, and Abby herself.

Abby had begun to think of it as the "Treasure Room." It was where the underthings of girls One and Two had come over the weekend, and where those of Three and Four had arrived that Wednesday morning. In an expansion of the "Hall of Panties" that stood guard outside of Human Capital at the Plaza, and the corresponding trophies that were already now hanging in Human Resources here at Park Plaza, Barrow's intention was to display each and every pair of underwear his new mailgirls had owned throughout the building. This was a staging grounds, a temporary holding place, until Abby -- to whom responsibility for executing Barrow's vision had fallen -- could get to sorting through and framing the girls' treasures.

The room was mostly empty, occupied by a few metal shelves, boxes of unopened frames, and a single folding table. But it had sufficed in Abby's moment of need yesterday, and it done the trick again that morning. She wondered if maybe she should have waited until after they'd stripped and enslaved Marie Partee, but she'd had the better part of an hour and had needed something to take her mind of her failure with Kristen Metkovich.

Abby rolled to one side, and used the table to pull herself to her feet. A chair might have been nice. A bed, even better. But the floor had worked in a pinch, and it seemed to work for the mailgirls, so Abby had accepted the hard linoleum as a price she had to pay for a good, private, hiding place. She fixed her panties, tugging them back into place, and shivered at how wet they still were. She pulled her skirt back down, smoothing it and hoping it hadn't gotten too wrinkled. And then she tucked her shirt back in, hoping -- as she had yesterday -- that the floor had been clean enough that it wouldn't leave a hard-to-explain dirt smudge on her back.

Taking a moment longer to collect herself and catch her breath, Abby peeked inside a large cardboard box that was marked with a "4." Bras. Black bras. White bras. Satin bras. Cotton bras. There'd be lingerie in here somewhere, too -- Abby was sure of it. In an attempt to spice up her love life with Jon, and in response to his complaints she wasn't adventurous enough, Abby herself had picked up a few babydolls and teddies over the last couple of years. More often than not, however, she wore them only once or twice, and then they'd fall into disuse. And she couldn't justify continuing to spend money on something that she'd take off quickly and discard in a pile on the floor.

Abby laughed a little at the idea Jon had accused her of not being adventurous enough. Abby, who'd just masturbated on the floor of a storage room in the basement of Park Place.

There'd be lingerie here, Abby thought to herself, among Four's things. And Three's. Mailgirl Number Two, despite having only temporarily moved down to New York for the summer, had had a shocking number of sexy little things among her belongings.

She wondered what it would be like for someone to sift through her panties, bras, and lingerie like this.

After a moment or two longer, Abby found her suit jacket and then the lights, and exited into dimly lit corridor beyond. She'd need to check her hair and reflection in the ladies' room down the hall, the one that USF had converted into a fully-functional bathroom for Mistress Rei -- shower and all -- before she'd head back upstairs.

Mistress Rei was almost every bit as much a captive of the mailgirls program here at Park Place as the girls she oversaw. Just as Abby had signed for the delivery of Mailgirls One and Two over the weekend, she'd had to sign for Mistress Rei two weeks earlier. The crate she'd arrived in had been a little bigger, and she'd been alone, but Mistress Rei had emerged no less naked and crazed as the two sisters. It was hard to believe that that girl, Mailgirl Juu-Shi, could have transformed into Mistress Rei so quickly. But in addition to being a testament to the power of the Plaza's Mistress Zero, to whom the transformation had been assigned, Abby felt it spoke to the thin line between dominance and submission. The two were two sides of the same coin, and Mailgirl Juu-Shi - despite having recently inked her third consecutive mailgirl contract for a keiretsu in Tokyo -- had been sold and shipped to USF, to play the part of governess to a new generation of mailgirls. It made the confusion Abby felt about what was turning her on seem more understandable -- the Japanese girl had gone from submissive to dominant overnight.

But, though she was playing the part of dominatrix here in New Jersey, Mistress Rei wasn't exactly free. Because her charges would be 24/7, she herself was expected to be here nearly 24/7, as well. She'd been given a tiny, makeshift "apartment" here in the sub-basement to live. Consisting of not much more than a bed, a desk, and a closet filled with a wardrobe Mistress Zero had picked out, Mistress Rei's new "home" wasn't much. But, Abby thought to herself, it was better than a hard floor and a metal leash upstairs naked in the locker room.

Abby entered the ladies' room on B-2, and headed to the sinks to wash her hands and fix her hair. There were still two stalls on one side of the rom; a third, however, had been replaced with a shower with a see-through glass door. Abby doubted there were many women who came down here, though, which meant that Mistress Rei likely had the facilities to herself.