Just Another Mailgirl

"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.