Mailgirls Get Off

The thought of sleeping on the hard, tiled floor of the mailgirls locker room was not one that appealed to Seventeen. But then, neither did the idea of having to get all the way up to Washington Heights later tonight, only to have to get all the way back down to the Financial District in the morning. She supposed she could understand where Fourteen was coming from.

"We've got a room upstairs," Seven offered. "You can stay with us. You both can."

Fourteen declined. "You bitches will make me work for it."

Seven smiled wolfishly.

"So does that mean you're not going home with anyone tonight?" Mountbatten-Seven asked.

Fourteen turned, and smiled at the bartender to whom she'd given Seventeen's panties. "He gets off at three," Fourteen answered. "I get off at three-oh-five. And I'll be back at the Plaza by three-thirty."

This, as it turned out, wasn't much of an exaggeration.

The night carried on in a similarly lively and bawdy way. Seventeen drank a bit more than she usually allowed herself, but it had been a difficult couple of days, and she was in good company. She mingled with the other girls, greeting Four and Sixteen when they arrived, and comparing notes with the girls from Young & Unglaub, as well as Hobson Morgan McNamara.

"Lawyers," Seven had laughed, shaking her head. Junior executives from sales and marketing functions represented a disproportionate percentage of all mailgirls, nationwide, if Seven were to be believed. Especially those up-and-comers who'd signed non-competes and non-solicits as part of their pre-mailgirl careers, blissfully unaware that such agreements would eventually be used against them, to bully them into mailgirl contracts. But lawyers apparently made up the next largest group of volunteers, either because they recognized just how trapped they already were when presented with the opportunity, or because -- as the jokes went -- lawyers were willing to do anything. Seven had herself, once upon a time, worked in USF's Legal department; Eighteen, Nine, and One, too.

Seven kept a watchful eye on the new girl throughout the evening, which both reassured Seventeen and skeeved her out. She had a reputation as the group's mother hen and emotional cheerleader, a role that Seventeen had appreciated at the Plaza. But Seven had repeated her invitation for Seventeen to spend the night upstairs with her and a few of the other girls, and then half-joking/half-seriously repeated it once more. It signaled that Seven's intentions might not have been as pure as she'd have liked Seventeen to believe.

Instead, it was Fourteen to whom Seventeen looked for how to handle herself. In no way did Seventeen feel as confident as Fourteen seemed to be, but Seventeen felt drawn to her approach. With a drink in her - or two, or three, or four -- Seventeen began to appreciate the undaunted and self-assured way that Fourteen accepted her role as a mailgirl, taking everything as it came, and treating each new challenge and embarrassment as if she were in on the joke. As if she were above it. As if she were enjoying it. It was stagecraft, of course. But it was stagecraft that had the potential to keep Seventeen from wallowing in depression and misery. Better to lean in, and accept her new life, than spend the next two years fighting the bit.

As the room emptied, though, and Seventeen found herself sitting alone at the bar with Fourteen, she began to wonder how much of Fourteen's demeanor was bullshit and stagecraft, how much Fourteen truly felt above it all. There'd been no spectators when Fourteen had kissed her in the stairwell, no audience but Seventeen. And Fourteen had indeed seemed charged up and turned on by the public spanking she'd just been administered. Earlier in the night, the table had confessed to all of the perverted and messed up things they'd nonetheless found arousing, and Seventeen hadn't contradicted her mentor when Fourteen had volunteered that same session with the riding crop as Seventeen's. Despite herself, she had been turned on, she had been aroused, she had been wet.

She fiddled with the label on her bottle of Mich Ultra, tearing it back just so, and avoiding Fourteen's eye contact.

Maybe Fourteen's act wasn't just an act. Maybe it was that Fourteen was capable of admitting to herself that all of this turned her on. And maybe it wasn't her false confidence or play-acting that Seventeen needed to imitate, but her honesty and self-awareness. Maybe that was what separated Fourteen from most of the rest of the girls.

The Young & Unglaub girls, nearly indistinguishable due to their hair, left as a unit. The Chiyoda girls, apparently indistinguishable based on number, trickled out here and there. Seven had disappeared upstairs a bit earlier, with Ten, Nineteen, and Twenty-Three all in tow. Two and Three had left together, hand-in-hand. Thirteen had gone home with some average-looking guy in an expensive suit. Twenty had gone home with two.

Seventeen absently peeled a bit more of the label off her beer, and then took a swig. It was room temperature. She'd cut herself off from the hard stuff around midnight - no more cherry liqueurs or lemon-drop martins for her, thank you very much. She'd made so many poor choices that week already; she didn't need liquor to fuel any more. And so she'd been nursing the same beer for at least an hour, all while fighting the good fight to keep from flashing the few stragglers from where she sat perched on the bar stool.

It wasn't quite closing time when Fourteen's bartender raised an eyebrow, followed by a commanding head nod in the direction of the kitchen. Seventeen had, reluctantly and begrudgingly, agreed to spend the night back at the Plaza with the other dark-haired girl. She wasn't looking forward to stripping down and sleeping on the floor of the locker room. But, it marginally beat out the alternative of hauling ass all the way up to Washington Heights, dressed as she was, only to have to turn around and come all way back downtown to present herself to Mistress Zero for morning inspection just a few hours later. But staying with Fourteen meant waiting for Fourteen, and Fourteen had one more thing to do that night before she was willing to head to bed.

Seventeen's roommate, Laura, would likely just assume she'd spent the night at Justin's, an assumption that Seventeen didn't intend to correct just yet. She'd likely need to come clean to Laura about her new job sooner rather than later, as Laura was bound to find out eventually. And she needed to officially break up with Justin -- pleasuring herself in front of audience that afternoon felt enough like cheating she wasn't sure she could do it again in good conscience. Thus, she also needed to politely decline Fourteen's invitation to join her and the bartender in the kitchen, when Fourteen oh-so-casually extended the offer.

"I can't," Seventeen answered, making it sound as if she did want to. The striking normalcy of a chance to participate in a ménage-a-trois caught her by surprise. Fourteen's invitation came across with all the excitement and danger of splitting a cab or offering a stick of gum. "It's just...Justin...and..."

Fourteen shrugged and hushed the girl, making clear that the abstention carried no more weight to her than the proposition had. Her feelings weren't hurt, and she could respect where Seventeen was coming from. "I get it," she assured her. "Day two."

"Day two." Tossed out, as if banging a random bartender with another girl was inevitable, part and parcel with her new role at USF. She hoped that it wasn't. She feared that it was.

"But..." Fourteen continued, making eyes with the bartender, and then returning her focus to Seventeen, "you should still come with me."

Before Seventeen could object again, or stammer out an excuse, Fourteen assured her she didn't need to participate. She shrugged again, this time apologetically, and explained, "There's something about an audience..."

The "okay" escaped Seventeen's lips before she'd even had time to process the request, just as her signature had been scrawled at the bottom of a mailgirl contract in Joan's office without fully considering all of the implications. The only comfort Seventeen could find, however, was that her "okay" hadn't sounded meek or beaten, but genuine and honest; she was simply doing a friend a favor.

"Good," Fourteen replied, flirting. "I'm told I put on a good show."

Still without fully wrapping her mind what she had just committed herself to, Seventeen was led through the swinging door into the kitchen, where Fourteen's bartender stood waiting expectantly and leaning up against a long, silver prep table. He was good-looking, certainly more so than the handful of average guys that Seventeen had witnessed a number of the mailgirls leaving with that night. He was tall -- maybe six-foot-four or even six-foot-five -- with a strong, muscular build, a charming-but-goofy smile, and confidence that came across on par with Fourteen's own. If he were surprised to see Fourteen dragging another girl in behind her, he didn't give it away; his only tell was simply to size Seventeen up, head-to-toe, before turning his attention back Fourteen.

"Not tonight," Fourteen chided him. With a wicked smile, she added, "Sir."

The bartender might only have been twenty-four or twenty-five, but the deference had given away that there was still a power dynamic at work here, one that echoed the submissiveness of Fourteen's day job.

Still, he nodded, accepting both Seventeen's presence and lack of participation without further comment. Instead, he focused on Fourteen, and ordered, "Undress."

"Yes, sir," Fourteen mewed, more playfulness and half-mocking sarcasm evident in her tone than she ever would have dared to answer Mistress Zero with. She found the hem of her cocktail dress, and in one motion, pulled it over her head and tossed it to the floor. She was still in her heels, still in her jewelry, and missing her collar and armband -- but the black marker displayed prominently on her hip announced her as a mailgirl all the same.

Fourteen looked hungrily at the man, but then barked at Seventeen. "You, too," she ordered.

Seventeen shook her head. "No," she choked. "I can't. I'm not..."

"He won't," Fourteen assured her. "I won't."

The bartender looked in her direction, seemingly amused by Seventeen's hesitation. "Price of admission," he offered in Fourteen's defense.

Seventeen wanted to point out that Fourteen had invited her, and that she'd only agreed to tag along as a favor to a friend, not as a voyeur. Instead, meeting Fourteen's eyes, Seventeen only nodded and conceded. In that silence, Fourteen promised to respect Seventeen's wishes, and to keep her bartender from expecting any participation on Seventeen's part. But, apparently, she wasn't willing to respect Seventeen's wishes to remain fully dressed; in that single look, Fourteen reassured her trainee that she was in good hands.

Seventeen slipped her spaghetti straps over her bare shoulders, and let the dress descend down her body -- past her braless breasts, past the hand-written number seventeen on her hip, past her bare pussy. The bartender already had her panties, presented to him earlier in the evening for a pair of shots. Seventeen caught Ten's dress at her knees, and stepped from it. Folding it neatly over her forearm, she awkwardly looked to Fourteen for further instruction.

"The floor," Fourteen offered tersely, humor and delight in her voice. And then, with more authority, "Knees."

"Yes, ma'am," Seventeen replied instinctively. Her response was less playful than Fourteen's tone, her voice sounded cowed into submission as if this instruction were given by Mistress Zero. But she again caught Fourteen's eyes, and shared a quick giggle - both of them laughing at how well Seventeen had been trained.

"Knees," the man repeated to Seventeen, inserting himself into their moment. He pointed towards the corner of the room, ten feet or so from where he and Fourteen were positioned by the door. "In the corner."

"Yes, sir," Seventeen played along. The floor was hard on her knees, but the linoleum warm. She knelt, her legs apart, her hand behind her back, and her chest ever-so-slightly puffed out and protruding into the room. She deviated from the standard "Knees" position in only two ways. First, she was still in her heels; she'd forgotten to take them off before kneeling, and then left them on out of sheer awkwardness. And second, Seventeen's eyes were not focused on the floor in front of her. Instead, she watched as Fourteen and the bartender met in a kiss.

Not for the first time in the past few days, Seventeen wondered how she'd found herself here in the moment. She was naked in a hotel kitchen, down on her knees, and watching a naked Fourteen -- her mentor, her friend -- kiss some unknown bartender deeply and passionately. What was she doing here? How had she ended up here? Who was she now?

The fact that she was wet, however (and she could feel it without touching herself), told her all she needed know.

Breaking the kiss, the bartender pulled back, took Fourteen by the back of the head, and instructed Fourteen, too, to take her knees. "Knees," he said authoritatively, and Fourteen complied with a "Yes, sir." There was no further foreplay; his cock was out and into the dark-haired girl's mouth without any additional hesitation.

Seventeen watched with wide eyes.

Emily Evans was no virgin, but this was virgin territory for Seventeen all the same. Emily Evans would have been appalled to find herself here, naked and kneeling in a public place, witness to the scene unfolding before her. Emily Evans had grown up attending church services weekly, had been near the top of her class in high school, had gone on to obtain an Ivy League education and a Masters from one of the country's best business schools. Emily Evans had friends elsewhere in the city, undoubtedly already fast asleep after a night out at a low-key bar or a night in watching TV. Emily Evans had a boyfriend, Justin Miller, who hadn't heard from her since earlier in the week, and who was likely planning a date night for Saturday evening. Emily Evans had a mother and a father, both of whom she called regularly, and both whom were proud of all she'd accomplished.

Emily Evans was no one where near the Imperial that night, however. Only Mailgirl Number Seventeen was in the hotel's kitchen that night -- undressed, aroused, and owned in every sense of the word.

Fourteen may have been engaged with her bartender, but her focus was on Seventeen. Even as her lips ran the length of his cock, and her right hand found the base, she shared a look with Seventeen. Their unspoken conversation continued, Seventeen's apprenticeship not quite over yet. Give in, Fourteen seemed to be telling the girl.

Submit.

Enjoy.

The bartender offered nothing more than a few grunts of appreciation as Fourteen's head bobbed back and forth at his waist. Fourteen slurped away loudly -- loudly enough that Seventeen suspected she was doing so intentionally, for show. Her hair was firmly in her partner's clutches, and there was playful submissiveness in her demeanor, but never once did Seventeen doubt that it was Fourteen who was entirely in control.

"Please," she begged him, taking a momentary break from his dick. She wrapped her lips around him once more - down-and-back, down-and-back, down-and-back -- before asking again, "Please."

The bartender offered no response.

Down-and-back. Down-and-back. Down-and-back. "Master, please," Fourteen begged again, almost as if she were in physical pain. Almost as if her whole body ached for him to be inside of her. "Please."

"Up," he allowed, finally answering her supplication. He released his hold on her hair, and instead grabbed her roughly by the hips and positioned her up against prep table in the center of the room. Fourteen's back was to her partner. Her legs were spread and her pussy open and inviting. Her arms were braced against the edge of the table. And she faced in Seventeen's direction.

Seventeen, like it or not, was a part of this fucking Fourteen was about to receive.

Behind her friend, the bartender stripped off his shirt, revealing pectorals, biceps, and shoulders all teeming with muscle. He had a stylized, menacing devil tattooed on his chest, just above his left nipple -- thereby eliminating his potential candidacy as a mailgirl, Seventeen mused absently to herself. He, too, looked to Seventeen, and seemed to drink in her naked body, before glancing back down to the business end of the girl immediately in front him, and driving himself into her waiting pussy.

Seventeen, like it or not, was on the receiving end of this fucking that the bartender was giving.

It was too much, and Seventeen couldn't help but break her pose and touch herself. Somewhere, in the distance, Emily Evans howled in objection. But this was Seventeen's hand, Seventeen's body, Seventeen's desperate and hungry vagina, and Seventeen's night. Just a few hours after defiling herself at USF Plaza in front of an unseen audience, Seventeen was at it again -- this time for an audience of two.

Both girls came hard. Both girls came fast. Both girls came loud.

If there were anyone still out at the bar, on the far side of the swinging doors, there would have been little doubt as to what was taking place in the kitchen. Seventeen had lost all track of time, and she couldn't be sure which side of three o'clock in the morning they were on. Not that it would have mattered -- Seventeen doubted Fourteen could have controlled her whinnying and whining, the squeals of carnal delight that echoed through the kitchen. Seventeen, too, had simply lost all control, and her high-pitched squeaks and wanton groans joined Fourteen's voice in an erotic chorus.

Fourteen came first, but Seventeen had already begun to crest when Fourteen's change in tone and tempo signaled her climax. Fourteen's climax put Seventeen over the edge and brought about her own. Fourteen smiled at Seventeen, and Seventeen returned the grin.

Behind Fourteen, the bartender pulled out, and with a few quick strokes croaked out his own orgasm, shooting his load across his partner's bare behind. He, like the two mailgirls, was panting. But he managed to compose himself a bit more quickly. Grabbing Fourteen by the chin, he pulled her towards him, and locked lips with her.

"Next week," he said when he pulled away. Seventeen was unsure if this was a question or an order.

"Next week," Fourteen replied. "Sir."

"I'll let you out when you're ready," he told her. He zipped up his pants, pulled his shirt back on, and headed for the door. He blew a kiss, teasingly and mockingly, at Seventeen, and then left the girls to themselves.

"Next week?" Seventeen asked her friend. After cumming on her hands-and-knees, she rose back to her feet, and stepped towards other girl. For now, Ten's dress was left on the floor.

Fourteen used her bare hand to wipe the bartender's cum from her ass, and then turned towards the sink. "Next week," she repeated.

"You've got a...a...standing thing?" Seventeen asked.

Fourteen rinsed her hands, wiped again, and rinsed one more time. "Maybe," was all she offered in response.

"Could it be...?" Seventeen ribbed the other girl. "Could it be that Mailgirl Number Fourteen is in a relationship?"

"Ssshh," Fourteen laughed, holding a finger to her lips. "You'll ruin my reputation."

***

Paradox upon paradox.

As the leash attached to Fourteen's collar three lockers away, a "click" bounced against the bare walls and bare tiles of the locker room. Seventeen's had made a similar sound a moment earlier, and a shiver shot up Seventeen's spine now, as it had then. It was unnerving and upsetting, and underlined the girls' station here at the Plaza. They were mailgirls. They were slave girls. They were the property of US Financial, tools for Human Capital to use in driving the performance of employees who had once been their peers and coworkers. They were the butts of a company-wide joke - undressed and embarrassed, beaten down and beaten up, whipped and chained.