Mailgirls Get Off

Seventeen conceded. Once more, she caved under pressure. Once more, she allowed herself to be talked into exposing herself. Once more, she'd accepted what it meant to a mailgirl -- even the parts not expressly written into her new contract.

She gave up trying to zip up her navy blue business dress, and instead pulled it down from her shoulders and let it pool at her ankles. Stepping from it, she took Ten's dress in-hand and pouted. "I don't think I'm going to be able to wear my bra with this."

Like Thirteen, Seventeen worried about leaving anything behind in the locker room. Mistress Zero was gone for the night, and Seventeen would be back here before her in the morning. Even still, she wasn't ready to risk losing her work outfit, or her bra, to the list of clothing items that had gone "mysteriously" missing from the locker room. Thankfully, Mailgirl Number Seven offered a solution in the form of an overnight bag slung over her shoulder.

"We've got a room at the Imperial," Seven explained. "You're welcome to spend the night. Otherwise, I can get them back to you at some other point."

Seventeen nodded, and tugged at the hemline of her new dress. As she did so, the top of her right areola peeked into view. It was going to be a long night.

Seventeen's flats were tossed into Seven's bag, as well, along with shoes and clothes from a handful of other girls. Instead, Seventeen wore a pair of high-heeled ankle-wrap sandals lent to her by Eighteen, which fit surprisingly well, but were uncomfortable all the same. She borrowed a pair of silver hoops for earrings from Twenty, a bracelet from Sixteen, and a choker from Fourteen. Her purse didn't exactly match the rest of her ensemble, but she needed it for her phone, her wallet, and her own jewelry that she'd worn to work that morning.

The girls trickled out of the locker room in groups of twos or threes or fours. Five wasn't coming, Seventeen was told, and a neither was Twenty-Four. Two and Sixteen both promised to catch up after they'd picked up the locker room and Evening Shift duties had been completed. Seventeen lost track of Fourteen, but Seven took her hand and led her out through the front door with Ten and Nineteen trailing behind.

Seven didn't let go as they entered the elevator lobby, and Seventeen was thankful for it. There wasn't a big crowd, as she had feared, but there were still a dozen or so USF employees milling about as her particular little gaggle of mailgirls left for the day. Three young-looking men stood against the wall to the right, and gave each of the girls a good long look without ever breaking from their private conversation. Two middle-aged women sat at one of the café tables, cackling and snickering. A man in glasses, sitting alone, pretended to read his smart phone. An older man stared at them blatantly, with a dirty, wolfish grin, but turned his attention back to where Three and Four were still getting dressed on the other side of the glass.

The people were less unnerving than the glass itself. Seventeen had come through the lobby hundreds of times since the mailgirls program had been launched in April. But it was a different experience now that she had moved to the other side of the glass. Four was topless, wearing just a thong. Three was in her bra and panties. Two, still naked, was now overseeing Sixteen, still naked, on all fours and eating from the dog dish. Seventeen glanced at her locker and turned crimson red; she'd masturbated right there, on display and performing for an audience.

Seven didn't let her linger. Never letting go of Seventeen's hand, she quickly made her way to the top of the escalator, which led to the security desk and the public lobby below. "Don't look back," Seven whispered. "You're free."

For tonight.

***

"How bad could it be? Right?" asked Mailgirl Number Seven.

Seventeen wasn't sure how to respond.

Crammed into a booth that had been designed for four were six off-duty mailgirls, done up and dressed for a night out, with one more in a chair on the end. Seventeen was shoehorned between Seven on her right, and Three on her left, with Seven's hand on her knee beneath the table. Across from them was Mailgirl Number Eighteen, as well as Mailgirls Number Seven and Two from Mountbatten Asset Management. USF's Number Fourteen sat at the end.

Seventeen wasn't sure what she'd expected out of Friday night "Bitch Sessions" at the Imperial. There were a handful of men in suits milling about, as well as a few women who clearly weren't a part of the mailgirl party. There were two male bartenders holding court on the far side of the bar, serving drinks at a breakneck pace, and a single female waitress making the rounds from table to table. For the most part, though, it was a largely mailgirl clientele, easily distinguished by their looks; any man lucky enough to stumble into the Imperial that night would have been greeted by forty or fifty of the most attractive women he'd ever seen, all in one place, all stuffed into little cocktail dresses and miniskirts. It was loud and raucous, and not exactly the misery-filled group therapy session that such a gathering could have easily been. The USF girls were scattered about, mingling with the Mountbatten girls and Atlantic Life girls, rubbing elbows with the Hobson Morgan McNamara girls at the bar, and laughing with the Chiyoda America girls by the door. The Young & Unglaub girls, notable for the fact they were all bleach blonde, rounded out the party.

USF's Number Seven squeezed Seventeen's knee, and Seventeen was forced to respond to Mountbatten's Number Seven across from her.

"Sorry?" she asked, buying herself time.

"How bad could it be, right?" Mountbatten-Seven asked rhetorically.

"It's pretty bad, I guess," Seventeen replied.

"Not what I mean," Mountbatten-Seven shook her head. She had short, chin-length dark hair that she wore down, which bounced with the movement. "You signed because you couldn't imagine that it would be this bad."

Seventeen looked to Fourteen for guidance. Fourteen only shrugged.

Of course she hadn't fully expected for it to be as bad as her first two days had been. She wasn't naïve -- she'd known it was going to be awful. But there were twenty-three other girls all doing this already, day in and day out. Volunteers. How bad could it be?

"They would have fired me," Seventeen offered as a defense.

"And that would have been worse....how?" This from Three.

"They were going to go after my CPA designation," she explained. "I wouldn't be able to work..."

"And...again?" Again, Three.

Seventeen felt flustered. She was explaining it wrong. What didn't they understand?

She'd known Will Barrow by name and reputation, but yesterday morning in Joan's office had been the first time she'd ever set eyes on him. He couldn't have been more than forty, and was more attractive than the creepy, perverted old troll she had expected him to be. In fact, Seventeen might never had made the leap that this good-looking young executive was the one and only Will Barrow had it not been for the fact he was accompanied by Mistress Zero.

Mistress Zero was tall, like Seventeen, but carried herself with a confidence, a power, and a sexuality that Seventeen never could have pulled off. She wore her dark hair up in a neat bun, and was dressed in a professional -- albeit tight-fitting -- suit that would have been at home in boardrooms all over Wall Street. That professionalism and polish, though, belied that fact that Mistress Zero spent her days torturing, tormenting, and supervising a locker room full of naked mailgirls, bending them over her knee for spankings and performing periodic touch-tests to make sure they were free of any sort of pubic stubble. She struck terror not only into the mailgirls, but also into half the young women who worked for USF in any capacity.

Mistress Zero's presence in Joan's office meant only one thing: they'd come for Emily Evans.

There were moments of the meeting that followed that would be burned into Seventeen's memory forever -- such as Mistress Zero literally cutting Seventeen's bra from her body with a pair of scissors when she felt Seventeen was moving too slow. Or Mistress Zero tugging on Seventeen's pubic hair, and telling her it had to go. But much of the back-and-forth with Barrow was a blur, and she'd signed away the next two years of her life before the gravity of what that entailed had really-and-truly sunk in. Joan had called it a "special assignment" in her calendar invite, and Barrow had referred to it as a "transfer." She'd have been fired if she hadn't accepted, and the Division of Public Licensing Services upstate would hear of some made-up ethical and professional conduct concerns about her from USF. But she'd also been assured a significant spot bonus, a salary above-and-beyond what she was earning in her current role, and the promise of potential incentives down the line that could bump her up a tax bracket or two just on their own. And so, despite having promised herself that she'd never wind up among the mailgirls, the signature of Emily Evans was soon affixed to the bottom of an official contract, and Seventeen was being paraded naked through the 13th Floor.

After all, she'd told herself yesterday morning, how bad could it really be?

"Okay," Seventeen admitted. "How bad could it be?"

Mountbatten-Seven squealed, and called out, "Every time!"

Mountbatten-Two leaned across the table, patted Seventeen's hand, and explained, "She said the same thing."

Mountbatten-Seven nodded in agreement, and explained, "Second cohort."

"We went six per month, like you all," said Mountbatten-Two. Mountbatten Mailgirl Number Seven, like Seventeen, had seen mailgirls in action before deciding to join up. And yet, despite that, both had talked themselves into it; after all, how bad could it really and truly be?

"What happened to the last Seventeen?" Mountbatten-Seven asked, and all eyes went to USF Mailgirl Number Seven.

Seven swallowed, looked to Seventeen, and then back to Mountbatten-Seven. "Actioneers," she gave in response.

The reaction around the table was mixed, and it was clear to Seventeen that -- whatever "Actioneers" meant -- there was some divide as to whether it was a good thing or a bad thing. She risked being seen as stupid, and asked, "Actioneers?"

"Whitestockings," Fourteen offered.

The term didn't do anything to clear up Seventeen's confusion.

"Whitestockings," Fourteen repeated. "As opposed to the Blackstockings."

Seventeen stared back at her blankly.

"Like the Bluestockings and Redstockings? Feminists?"

"Sorry," Seventeen responded with a shrug.

"Whitestockings are bad," Eighteen jumped in. "Blackstockings are good."

"Right," Mountbatten-Two agreed sarcastically, rolling her eyes.

"Whitestockings are bad," Fourteen repeated, agreeing with the girl to Seventeen's left, and shooting a look of derision at Mountbatten-Two. "Blackstockings are good. Whitestockings swoop in playing Mother Theresa, but you just get owned in a different way, and get treated like a victim. With the Blackstockings, at least, you are who you are."

None of this was making any sense to Seventeen, which was apparently clear to Seven.

"Actioneers," Seven explained. "The International Women's Action Committee. They're one of the 'whitestocking' groups fighting against mailgirl programs anywhere and everywhere. The American Association of Professional Women. Feminists For Equality. United American Women."

The mention of this last group induced a wince from Mountbatten-Two, and Seventeen suspected there was a story there.

"Anyway, they're the 'whitestockings.' On the other side are the 'blackstockings,' which are all the 'individual life, individual choice' groups," Seven continued.

"'I Lick'," Fourteen joked at the end of the table, pronouncing the "ILIC" acronym aloud.

Seven stuck her tongue out at Fourteen, and then went on. Her quick lesson to Seventeen was through, and so she went back to the previous Mailgirl Number Seventeen's story. "They got her on Wednesday morning. She got up and got dressed for work, but then ended up over in their picket line, instead."

"Why?" Mountbatten-Seven asked.

"She got pulled in as entertainment for the COO's birthday on Tuesday, after hours. Got helium balloons tied around her nipples. Some random executive assistant's panties shoved in her mouth. Hot wax from the birthday candles dripped on the inside of her thighs. And..." -- Seven hesitated -- "got the full ponygirl treatment as some sort of pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey thing."

"Ugh," Mountbatten-Two grunted.

Mountbatten-Seven reacted similarly, and asked, "I thought that sort of thing didn't happen at USF?"

Seventeen was baffled as to what the "ponygirl treatment" was. "Sorry, what happened?"

Seven ignored her momentarily, and responded instead to her Mountbatten counterpart. "They're getting bolder," she answered. "Especially at the top."

"Sorry...?" Seventeen again.

"Butt plug with a pony tail," Fourteen said to Seventeen, almost as an aside. Seventeen cringed. To the table, Fourteen picked up Seven's story. "Eight was there, too. Same stuff. And when they left, Seventeen apparently seemed okay with it all. A little shaken, according to Eight, but a little turned on, too."

"She got herself off in the shower before she went home," Three interjected. "Seventeen, that is. Melissa."

"Eight, too," Fourteen chuckled.

"But Eight came back the next day," Seven continued. "Melissa went to Grace Burgmeier and the Actioneers."

Grace Burgmeier, Seventeen had heard of. She was the mailgirl phenomenon's answer to Gloria Allred, and had been fighting tooth-and-nail against the concept since it first kicked off in the States. So far, that fight had been largely one-sided, and Burgmeier's successes limited. But she'd won the attention of a popular, young Congresswoman from Illinois, and the so-called "Mailgirl Hearings" were scheduled to begin in January.

"She's going to use her," Eighteen lamented. "She's already got our original Twenty-Three with her face on pamphlets and her story -- our story -- thrown up all over the Internet."

"Yeah," Seven said, shaking her head. "Rumor has it she's going to trot Twenty-Three out in front of Congress."

"Heather," Fourteen spat. "Heather Harper." Heather Harper had broken ranks and deserted them. She was no longer allowed the anonymity of a number.

Seventeen interrupted again. "Sorry, I don't see what the issue is? Aren't we all rooting to be free again?"

The reaction around the table was mixed. Mountbatten-Two and Mountbatten-Seven both nodded. Eighteen said, "yes," but with hesitation. Three remained silent. And Seven and Fourteen shared a look.

"Not like this," Seven answered. "Heather will get up there and air all of our dirty laundry. Figuratively. Outside of USF, people know we're mailgirls -- parents and friends and so on. Naked delivery girls. Exhibitionists, maybe. But they don't really know the full extent of it. The sadism. The masochism. The masturbation. The punishments. Maybe some of them know some it, sure -- my mom keeps pumping me for details. But not all of it. Every time that Heather opens her mouth, she makes it all public."

"And we look like idiots for not walking out with her," Three said.

"Sluts," Eighteen added.

"Sluts," Seven agreed. "Idiots and morons for ever signing up, idiots and morons for continuing to affirm our participation every morning. Stooges for letting USF do to us exactly what they're doing to us. Laughingstocks."

"But..." Seventeen began.

"But we are idiots and morons," Fourteen jumped in. "We are stooges. We are laughingstocks. We are sluts." She shrugged. "But it was our decision. Individual life, individual choice. 'I lick.'"

"But we all got pressured," Seventeen argued. "Blackmailed. And we can't just walk out like she did. Those contracts would ruin us."

"They ruined Heather," Seven noted. "The Actioneers paid off her debt, but the company still ruined her credit, they took everything she owned, and they're still going after her for breach-of-contract. She's never going to work in finance again. And then Grace Burgmeier turned her into a celebrity: Heather Harper, famous nation-wide as an idiot, a stooge, a slut, a mailgirl."

Seventeen shook her head. "But if Congress..."

"If Congress sets us free --" Seven began.

"Mailgirl emancipation," Mountbatten-Two observed.

"If Congress sets us free," Seven started again, "then all of this is for nothing. No promotions. No bonuses. And, again, we all look like victims."

Seventeen certainly felt like a victim.

"Better to ride it out," Seven said.

"Keep your head down, take everything they throw at you, and get out the other side." This from Three.

There was a brief silence around the table; the other girls all reluctantly agreed.

"So, Seventeen?" Mountbatten-Seven asked, meaning the previous Mailgirl Number Seventeen.

"Melissa Schmidt," Fourteen corrected her.

"Melissa Schmidt," Mountbatten-Seven repeated dutifully.

"Melissa Schmidt will become another puppet for Grace Burgmeier. Another celebrity. And my mother will hear all about the time I got a butt plug with a ponytail shoved up my ass," Seven answered.

Seventeen blinked. "No! You, too?"

"Not a butt plug, no," Seven replied. "But I did get a magic marker, once."

"Top of a champagne bottle," Three volunteered.

"A finger," Eighteen added.

The other girls waved Eighteen off and rolled their eyes. "We've all had a finger," Fourteen said dismissively. "I mean, who hasn't had a finger?"

Seventeen slowly raised her hand, more terrified of what her future held now than she had been before.

Fourteen just laughed, and assured her, "It's not as bad as it sounds."

"It's not particularly enjoyable," Eighteen corrected her.

"I'd take it over a spanking," Fourteen admitted.

"Oh, I heard," Three stepped in. "You two got it up on the 13th Floor today?"

"Her old office," Fourteen confirmed, meaning Seventeen. The two girls had had their smartphones synched, meaning that every delivery Fourteen was called upon, Seventeen was called upon, as well. More significantly to that afternoon, every demerit that Fourteen earned was counted against Seventeen, and every punishment that Fourteen suffered was suffered by Seventeen, too. The girls had been punished that afternoon for a sum of demerits Fourteen had at least partially earned prior to Seventeen even becoming a mailgirl. But, rather than administering that punishment in the mailgirls locker room, Mistress Zero had summoned them both to the 13th Floor, and delivered it in front of all of Seventeen's former coworkers.

"How bad?" Mountbatten-Two asked. "Let me see."

Fourteen didn't hesitate. She stood, turned, and hiked up her dress -- mooning the table and exposing her crotch to the rest of the bar. Her ass, perfectly toned and fit from months of running the halls and stairs of USF Plaza, was decorated with a series of red welts -- fading, but still visible.

Mountbatten-Two whistled. As Fourteen fixed her dress, Mountbatten-Two asked, "Cane?"

"Riding crop," Seventeen answered.

"And you?" Mountbatten-Two. "How bad?"

Three graciously slid out of the booth, and then waited expectantly for Seventeen to follow behind. Seventeen, feeling caught up in the moment and pressured by her peers, dutifully did so. She stood, surveyed the bar to make sure no one but her table was watching, and then reached beneath her skirt. She slid her flesh-colored panties down below her buttocks, while lifting the hem of the cocktail dress.

"Ouch," Mountbatten-Seven observed.

As Seventeen went to fix her clothes, however, she felt Fourteen's hand reach up and grab her underwear. "Lose them," Fourteen ordered.