Mailgirls Get Off

She came hard. She came fast. She came loud.

Louder than she'd expected to, at least. Louder than she'd intended. The rapid in-and-out breathing had turned into a repetitive series of increasingly high-pitched "ohs" as she'd begun to crest, and she was borderline ultrasonic by the time she hit her actual climax. It wasn't that these squeaks and squeals were echoing off the tiled walls of the locker room, or shaking the mirror-glass that separated it from the elevator beyond; she was likely louder in her own imagination than in actuality. And, besides, any excited exclamations joined in among a chorus of happy conversations, genuine laughter, and other similar victory cries offered up that filled the room around her.

But she hadn't been able to control herself all the same, and it was embarrassing to let loose with such a genuine admission of her own self-indulgent satisfaction. It was honest, and authentic, and shameful in a way that even the overall act of getting herself off wasn't. There was no wry detachment, no stagecraft, no going-through-the-motions-just-to-fit-in. As she came, her body had felt the need to release its own version of a war whoop, conquest achieved.

Mailgirl Number Seventeen was standing at her locker, her legs spread and knees bent, with her right hand coaxing every last drop of orgasmic bliss from between her legs. Her left hand was braced against the open locker, with her fingers clutching the partition that separated hers from Sixteen's. Her eyes were shut. Her head was bent. And she found herself rising to her tip-toes even as her legs turned to jelly.

Even when not in the midst of such carnal ecstasy, she would have been magnificent. Long, chestnut brown hair was done up in a ponytail, which waggled back and forth as her body shuddered and shook. Her bare back shimmered with sweat under the fluorescent lights from above. Two large round breasts bounced beneath her with each breath. She was skinny -- too skinny, in fact, according to her new supervisor -- blessed more by genetics than by the discipline of exercise. And she was tall, just shy of five-foot-ten, capable of rising to a full six feet in the right heels.

She worked to catch her breath, but the ministrations against her pussy didn't stop; they only slowed. Her middle and index fingers were still deep inside of her, and the heel of her palm continued rub forceful, grinding motions against the top of her slit -- almost as if she were working her clit from both inside and out. She shivered, though not from the temperature -- given the state of dress of its occupants, the mailgirls locker room was thoughtfully kept a few ticks warmer than the rest of the building. Rather, it was from the last little aftershocks of her orgasm shooting up her spine.

Seventeen couldn't remember the last time she'd gotten herself off while standing up -- outside of the shower, at least. But she'd chickened out of doing so in the shower here at work earlier that afternoon. Flat on her back would have been her first choice if she'd been alone, and seemed to be the most popular option among the other mailgirls, but Seventeen had felt unnerved about the vulnerability of it. Standing, with her back turned to the mirror glass, had made it feel like she was more in control.

Which was laughable. Seventeen was not in control. She hadn't been able to control her vocal chords from singing her own praise. She hadn't been able to keep herself from giving in and getting off here at the Plaza. She'd been stripped, whipped, and humiliated. Hell, she wasn't allowed to go to that bathroom without asking for permission. It scared her how much control she'd given over to her new masters in Human Capital. And it scared her how much that turned her on.

Her eyes had been closed since she'd first found her pussy, and she was nervous to open them back up. She imagined a semi-circle of her nude coworkers around her, watching on with interest, and applauding her success. She imagined a muffled cheer erupting from an audience on the other side of the glass. But, as she released her sex, she risked a peek with her peripheral vision. For the most part, the girls were all busy doing their own thing; in some case, their own selves. And as significant as this new capitulation was in Seventeen's own life, she was sure that it barely registered to a USF workforce that had grown accustomed to such things over the last six months. It was after seven on a Friday; she doubted that anyone was interested in yet another mailgirl debasing herself in the corner on the far side of the locker room.

But Seventeen hadn't entirely gone unnoticed. As she relaxed, and turned, she found Sixteen waiting for her with a smirk.

"I can log that for you," she offered, the gentle teasing evident in her voice. She, like Seventeen, was naked from head-to-toe, save for her collar, her armband, and the number inked upon her hip. But she had Mistress Zero's tablet in her hand, which was new, and the confusion -- on top of the red-faced embarrassment -- must have been evident on Seventeen's face.

"She's out of here when the afternoon breaks are over on Friday," Sixteen explained. "Saturdays, too. Evening Shift gets play the jailer." The girl jangled a key that hung from an elastic on her wrist.

"Liberator," Seventeen croaked, correcting her.

Sixteen chuckled politely. She had brown skin and dark, curly black hair, as well as a megawatt smile that she showed off on those rare instances a mailgirl had something to smile about. She was the lone African-American among the group, and Seventeen -- prior to becoming a mailgirl herself -- had more than once found herself wondering about the racial politics at play in USF enslaving a black girl. That she could be collared, chained, and whipped like the rest of them was a weird sort of equality, Seventeen had supposed. They may have been sadists, sexists, and misogynists up in Human Capital, but no one could accuse of them of discriminating on the basis of race.

"I can log that for you," Sixteen repeated again gently. "If you want me to."

Of course Seventeen didn't want her to. Only deepening the humiliation she had just suffered at her own hand, Seventeen was required to report that she'd gotten herself off here in locker room. This little episode would get logged in her file, and anyone with access to USF's mailgirls app would know she had succumbed to her baser instincts. They'd have quantifiable confirmation that the company's new little mail slut was getting off on her new station in life. But to not report it risked another round on the receiving end of Mistress Zero's riding crop - or worse -- and the red welts still gracing her backside from that afternoon provided persuasive motivation to catalog the event. And, regardless, Sixteen's offer was likely little more than an empty kindness; she'd no doubt be punished alongside Seventeen if Mistress Zero discovered the omission.

"Okay," Seventeen replied meekly. "Sure."

Sixteen seemed to hesitate, and then took a step closer to Seventeen. It was intimate, as if they were sharing a secret, and made even more so as Sixteen draped an arm around Seventeen's naked shoulders. Seventeen was acutely aware of the fact that she was still breathing hard in the aftermath of her orgasm, that she was covered in sweat and grime, and that Sixteen was sure to be breathing in a musky combination of the brunette's pussy and body odor. She also couldn't help but drink in Sixteen's own combination of the same, or keep from noticing Sixteen's adamantine-and-at-attention nipples pressing against the bare skin of her torso.

"Seventeen of twenty-four," Sixteen said softly. "You're number seventeen of twenty-four. You're a mailgirl, and just a number. You're just another mailgirl who got herself off like any other mailgirl on any other day. It comes with the uniform. It's part of the job. And you call more attention to yourself as an individual if you're fighting it."

It was, more or less, the same speech that Fourteen had given her yesterday. Fourteen's argument had been that the other girls weren't going to judge her for masturbating in their midst; rather, they'd judge her if she didn't. Part of it was that these twenty-three other girls were the only ones who truly understood what it was like to live the life of a mailgirl, to wrestle with the constant and confusing arousal, to feel what it was like to need -- not want -- to get off right then and right there. But part of it, understandably, was peer pressure; if Five and Twenty-Four were capable of controlling themselves, what did it say about the other girls who couldn't?

But Seventeen knew full well that there were pools going on upstairs, throughout the building, as to when Five and Twenty-Four would finally cave. And that even in her own department, she had had coworkers who had obsessed over those two girls, and who had pulled up their app profiles daily to see if they'd joined the ranks of masturbating mailgirls. It wouldn't have surprised Seventeen if it had been well into the hundreds of thousands of dollars that had changed hands when Mailgirl Number Eight finally surrendered herself in September.

The brunette grimaced to herself. She wondered who'd had the new Mailgirl Number Seventeen masturbating on just her second day on the job.

She felt whore-ish and dirty.

She needed a shower.

"I know," she squeaked back to Sixteen. She didn't have more to offer, and didn't want to talk about it further. Generally speaking, she'd noticed that the girls gave each other a bit of space when diddling themselves. Even when space was at a premium, they had the decency to look the other way or pretend not to notice. Under the eight showers behind her, there were likely at least a few girls masturbating side-by-side but lost in own private, pleasurable little worlds.

So Sixteen was genuinely sorry that she'd shattered that illusion of privacy. "I didn't mean to," she explained, releasing her grip and taking a step back. "I'm just here for this..." She jangled the key on her wrist.

"That's okay," Seventeen sighed. "And...thank you." Thank you for unlocking my collar. Thank you for the words of encouragement.

"Please," Sixteen offered, brushing it off. She leaned back into Seventeen, but this time reached for the girl's collar.

Prior to that first, fateful day in April that Mailgirls Number One through Six were stripped and dispersed into USF Plaza, Seventeen had never seen anything like those collars in real life -- maybe not even on a pit bull or a rottweiler. Which was perhaps ironic, given the silver number seventeen that hung like a dog tag from the D-ring at her throat. It was black, and metal, and studded with similar such D-rings around the circumference, which allowed the girls to be chained from a number of different angles. It was thick - two-and-half or maybe even three inches in height -- and masculine; this was not a girlish piece of jewelry. And it was tight. Not so tight that Seventeen had trouble breathing or swallowing, but tight enough that she reached to massage the sore, sweaty skin underneath the moment Sixteen removed it.

Sixteen hung the collar on a robe hook in Seventeen's locker.

"But...," the dark-skinned girl continued, "I have to get some follow-ups."

"Oh, god," Seventeen choked.

"Sorry."

"No...no...no, it's okay. It's fine."

"Okay. How many times did you orgasm?"

"Oh my god. That's really part of it, isn't it?"

"Sorry."

"...once."

"Once," Sixteen repeated, tapping Mistress Zero's tablet. "And how long did it take you?"

"I don't know," Seventeen answered. She and Fourteen had been alerted that it was seven o'clock, and that their day was through, while upstairs on the mostly deserted 27th Floor. They'd had to wait for one of the service elevators. They'd joined Mailgirls Two and Twenty-Two when one finally arrived, and then had had to stop to pick up Nineteen, Six, and Ten (all on different floors) before they'd finally been released into the locker room on the 2nd Floor. And then she'd come straight to her locker. "What time is it?"

Sixteen ignored the question, and instead tapped the tablet. "I'm going to say five minutes."

Seventeen wasn't sure it had taken that long.

"Next time," Sixteen advised her, "just glance at the clock on your phone. She says she's okay with 'best guess' estimate, but I've seen her hand out demerits for being off." She reflected momentarily. "Though, honestly, I've seen her accuse girls of lying even when they're telling the truth. So, fucked either way, I guess."

"Uh, okay," Seventeen nodded.

"You're going out with the girls tonight?" Sixteen asked, and reached towards the smartphone tucked in the black lyrca armband around Seventeen's left bicep. She punched in a quick code, and the phone began to shut down for the night.

Seventeen nodded again. It was the last thing she wanted to do. The last two days had been worse than she ever could have imagined, and all she really wanted was to go home, crawl into bed with all her clothes on, and cry herself to sleep. But Fourteen had insisted. Seven, too. And then one girl after another after that. She smiled, and joked, "It doesn't sound like I've got much of a choice."

"No, you don't." Sixteen smiled widely. "You're a mailgirl now. Bitch Sessions are part of the job. It's the only way we all get through this."

She took Seventeen's hand in her own, and interlocked her fingers with Seventeen's. She emphasized, "Together."

"Together," Seventeen agreed, and met the girl's eyes. "That and the drinks."

Sixteen chuckled again, genuinely this time. "The drinks certainly help."

"You're coming?"

"Two and I have Evening Shift, but we'll be over after."

Mailgirls weren't allowed to make eye contact with their betters here at USF Plaza. As their betters included everyone from the CEO down the maintenance and custodial staff, Seventeen had spent the last two days staring submissively at people's feet, or blankly at the floor. It therefore felt odd to make eye contact with Sixteen like this -- uncomfortable and comforting all the same, another paradox in a sea of them that came with her new life. Seventeen offered, "Thank you, again."

Sixteen responded with a look of feigned offense. "Together," she repeated, released Seventeen's hand, and then surprised her with a playful pat on Seventeen's still-tender ass. And then she was off down the line, to free Nineteen from her collar.

Seventeen took a deep breath, and began to compose herself. She hadn't even had a chance to come back down from her orgasm before Sixteen had snuck up behind her, and she hadn't had even a second to reflect upon the line she'd just crossed. She wondered if that had been Sixteen's intention.

She was still a bit weak-in-the-knees, she was still slightly out-of-breath, and she was still giving off significant heat from her pussy. Her right hand was warm, sticky, and wet with her own juices. And, though she hadn't been at it for very long, she had nonetheless managed to work up a sweat -- after having only just cooled down during a lull at the end of the day. She bent, and absentmindedly wiped her hand against her inner thigh, before then rubbing her eyes and massaging her temples with fingers.

"Rookie!" she heard from behind. Fourteen. Shouting from the shower. "Eat something!"

Seventeen steeled herself, and turned.

Fourteen was indeed in the showers on this end of the locker room. As were Thirteen, Nine, Twenty-Two, and Twenty-Four. Five girls between four shower-heads, with Fourteen and Nine sharing the second from the right. Nine was facing away from Seventeen, towards the mirror-glass that lined the far wall, while Fourteen was facing Seventeen and the lockers. Beside her, Twenty-Two was knuckle-deep in her own sex, and -- true-to-form -- neither Fourteen nor Nine were paying her any mind.

"Ma'am," Seventeen shot back with a smirk. "Per Human Capital, I am to be called by my mailgirl number."

Fourteen was forced to laugh, and Nine turned just enough to shoot Seventeen a smile. "Do you need me to slap her?" Nine asked.

Fourteen shot a playful look at her shower-mate, as if daring her to try. To Seventeen, she replied, "I'm sorry, ma'am. This stupid slut was too stupid to comply with such a simple rule."

Seventeen laughed.

"Eat something," Fourteen repeated, running her hands through her long, dark hair. In contrast to Seventeen's girl-next-door looks, Fourteen oozed "bad girl" out of every pore of her body. Her nakedness, rather than diminishing or humiliating her, only gave her more power. There'd been rumors that she'd been sent the mailroom for sleeping around with the executive staff even in her old job, rumors that Fourteen had laughed at but not quite denied. As the mailgirl to whom Seventeen had been assigned to shadow this week, Seventeen had gotten to spend more time with Fourteen than she had with any of the others, and she'd witnessed Fourteen's unique approach to the role.

Among the mailgirls, One and Fourteen were competitive and catty, each one competing to be the program's star. Neither shied away from anything -- there was no punishment too severe, no order too degrading, no abuse too terrible, that either girl wouldn't put up with or accept without hesitation. Mailgirl Number One tended to get herself off at the far end of the locker room with a lot of clearly overemphasized "oohs" and "ahhs", and viewed her role as that of a porn star. Fourteen, admittedly, was the similar -- but with a hint of sarcasm, as if she were in on the joke and had never really ceded control over to her corporate masters.

It had made moments over the last two days more challenging for Seventeen than if she'd been assigned to, say, Sixteen or Eighteen or Twenty-Four. For instance, when one of the traders up on the 22nd Floor had started pressing Seventeen on who she was and where she'd come from, Fourteen had - for some reason - decided to escalate things by asking, "Are you sure you don't want to inspect her, sir?" Sure enough, both girls were then up on their tiptoes with their hands behind their heads in inspection position.

And Fourteen had badgered her, both yesterday and today, to get herself off in the locker room -- almost as if she had money riding on "Day One" in the pool upstairs. To hear Fourteen justify it, Seventeen was going to break eventually, so why not steer into the skid and touch herself now? Seventeen wanted to. Fourteen knew Seventeen wanted to. Twenty-two other mailgirls knew Seventeen wanted to. Why wait? They'd been up on the 18th Floor, in Human Resources, when Fourteen nodded down the "Hall of Panties" towards Human Capital and offered aloud, "Fuck them. Do it for you."

Fourteen also happened to be one of just a few girls who preferred a male chaperone when getting escorted to the bathroom upstairs. Sure, it meant having to use the men's room instead of the women's. But Fourteen explained that men, significantly more often than women, were willing to ignore Human Capital's rule that required the chaperone to actually stand there in front of an open stall door and watch a girl pee. Seventeen, in her prior life, had only been called upon to play the part of chaperone once, but she supposed Fourteen had a point; Seventeen had dutifully stood watch over the previous Mailgirl Number Thirteen, for fear that spurning the rule might land her down here on the 2nd Floor. But while they were taking turns yesterday afternoon in a single stall, stall door wide open, and with their chaperone waiting patiently by the sink, Fourteen loudly and provocatively asked, "You want to play swords?"

Mailgirl Number Seven may have been everyone's surrogate mother here in the locker room, but Fourteen had played the part of a cool, all-knowing older sister for Seventeen over the last two days. And now Fourteen was telling her to get something to eat.