Mailgirls Get Off - lizstanton8181 [COMPLETE]

This story was originally written by lizstanton8181 and follows Emily Evans, a talented young financial analyst working for US Financial, one of the world's most prestigious investment banks.

Emily has spent years building a career she can be proud of.

Then US Financial changes.

A new corporate initiative transforms the company's Manhattan headquarters into something barely recognizable as a traditional workplace. Human Capital's controversial mailgirl program turns a select group of female employees into the company's most visible (and most humiliated) representatives. Stripped of their names, dressed in little more than collars and armbands, and assigned to perform degrading duties throughout the building, the mailgirls become both corporate tools and objects of fascination for their former coworkers.

Emily watches it all from a safe distance.

She tells herself that the women volunteered. She tells herself that she would never make the choices they made. She tells herself that, whatever happens to them, it will never happen to her.

For months, she is right.

Until one morning, Emily Evans will have disappeared.

In her place, Mailgirl Number Seventeen.

You can read the original upload here: https://www.literotica.com/s/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.