Mistress Zero

Any amount of confidence, swagger, and presence that Thirteen had felt that morning, though, dissipated the moment Mistress Zero entered the locker room.

Standing at the mirror with the other girls, mascara brush in hand, Thirteen didn't see or hear her mistress enter the room, so much as she felt a cold shiver run up her spine.

Any amount of laughter fell silent, any conversation dropped to a near-inaudible whisper. The few girls still dressed, and dawdling before getting undressed, were immediately set into motion by the invisible hand of fear. And even if Mistress Zero paid them no mind, each and every girl in that locker room was acutely aware that she was now among them.

She was tall -- maybe not as tall as Fifteen or Four, but above average height and taller than Thirteen, at least. She was a few years older than any of the mailgirls at USF; but even if she was closing in on forty, she was every bit as attractive as any girl in the room, and perhaps moreso than half. Dark brown hair that had pulled up in bun and high, angular cheekbones gave her an appearance of discipline and severity, which was only further underlined by her thick German accent. Human Capital, up on the 18th Floor, may have designed the mailgirl program here at USF, may have owned the metrics and analyses, and may have recruited the girls into the program, but it was Mistress Zero that made it work in practice.

Whereas Thirteen had HR files on each and every one of her fellow mailgirls, and while she'd been able to pull files on other employees who caught her interest or whom she thought might be relevant to her research, Will Barrow and his Human Capital team had given her nothing on the dominatrix who so terrorized the girls. Thirteen understood the logic; as "apart" as she might have been from the other mailgirls, Thirteen was still a mailgirl herself, and Mistress Zero's authority and discipline was fundamental in understanding the mindset of the girls.

Still, Thirteen's research in other mailgirl programs throughout the country and abroad had been extensive, and it hadn't taken much digging for her to identify Mistress Zero as none other than "Mailgirl Funf" at an Investment Bank in Frankfurt; most companies kept extensive files, complete with photographs, of their mailgirls. Her name had, at least at one time, been Mila Bluhm. But Mistress Zero's real name seemed as important as Thirteen's; which was to say, not at all. The fact that she had herself been a mailgirl had humanized her a bit to Thirteen, but it also made her transition to dungeon master that much more perplexing; given that she had faced many of the same trials and humiliations as the girls at USF, shouldn't that have made her more sympathetic to their plight? There was no documentation around Funf's transition to Zero, about whether the role had been lined up between the companies, or if USF had hired her directly. But, over time, Thirteen came to realize that despite the torment, despite the punishments, despite the discipline, Mistress Zero was almost every bit as important to the mailgirl program as the mailgirls themselves; she was every bit a part of the show as the girls.

There were countless mailgirl programs that were run on a day-to-day basis by men. Some had been selected by higher-ups to run the daily operations, some had been rewarded with the role, and more than a few just happened to be working their company's mailroom when the program rolled out. Thirteen laughed at the idea that any mailgirl program could be respectable, per se, but most of the more "respectable" programs had tapped women to oversee and keep order. It made sense to Thirteen; given the paddlings and spankings, the intimate inspections, and the escalation of psychological torment, it made the abuse -- lower-case "a" -- seem less like Abuse -- capital "a" -- to the audience. Even at USF, most of the rules and regulations were established by the small team of men up on the 18th Floor, but it was Mistress Zero who carried them out. No doubt she had improvised a punishment or two over the course of the summer, or meted out a penalty when Human Capital might have advised her to let it go, but Thirteen suspected that her Mistress grasped a central truth about the mailgirls concept that still continued to elude a small handful of Thirteen's fellow mailgirls: they weren't here to deliver the mail. No, rather, it was the debasement of the girls themselves that was the true service their department was providing the company.

"Good morning, mistress," Thirteen finally heard, as Number Fourteen entered the locker room.

If Mistress Zero had so much as grunted a response in Fourteen's direction, Thirteen didn't hear it.

As Fourteen, behind her, began undressing at her locker, Thirteen focused on her own reflection in the mirror, and what she had to do to get ready for the day. Seventeen and Twenty-One continued to giggle and whisper back and forth, but it was with nowhere near the same volume or glee as it had been before.

Hair dried, brushed, and pulled back into a ponytail. Teeth brushed with a purple toothbrush that had been handed to her by Fifteen, barely rinsed. Deodorant applied with a stick that had been handed to her by Seventeen, still warm from Seventeen's own body. Cheap, flowery "mailgirl perfume" misted over her bare body. A subtle, barely noticeable amount of make-up applied. Thirteen puckered her lips, offered a subdued-but-playful kiss in the direction of Twenty-One's reflection, and excused herself to the row of toilets in the hallway next to her locker.

The fact that Mistress Zero's cold, utilitarian metal desk was the seat of power in the locker room, and the fact that it sat directly in front of the toilets the girls all used, always caused the girls to laugh in private. She herself used a more private women's room around the corner, in the lobby for the service elevators, but she was still forced to sit fifteen-maybe-twenty feet away as her girls emptied their bladders. Fifteen, in particular, seemed to delight in that fact, and viewed every opportunity to use the toilet when Mistress Zero was present as some small enactment of vengeance.

The German woman was sitting with her back to hallway, facing the locker room entrance, and flipping through files and statistics on her tablet as Thirteen tried to pass by. But Mistress Zero lifted her head, and Thirteen cringed when she caught her eye.

"Good morning, mistress," Thirteen offered, hoping that she could pass to toilets without anything more needing to be said.

"Thirteen," Mistress Zero responded, her lips offering a cruel smile, her eyes hinting a mischief. "Today's your last day with us here at the Plaza."

That's the plan, Thirteen thought to herself. She offered only, "Yes, mistress."

"You'll miss us," the woman stated. It wasn't a question.

"Yes, mistress."

She nodded to her tablet. "I see twenty-one demerits since Tuesday." Again, it wasn't a question. But, this time, a threat was implied.

"Yes, mistress," Thirteen replied, without committing to anything further. New punishments and humiliations were thought up and applied almost arbitrarily, but the one thing that any girl could count on was corporal punishment at every interval of twenty-five demerits. A good day -- for Thirteen, at least -- was four or five; she averaged probably closer to nine or ten. What that meant was that it was unlikely she'd make it through the day without one last visit to the leather bench, one last punishment at Mistress Zero's hand.

Her mistress looked her up and down, and then turned her attention back to the tablet. For a moment, Thirteen hoped that would be all, and she'd be allowed to pee without further comment. But it was unlike Mistress Zero to let her go with just that, and true to form, she said, "Let's try to be a good girl today, or I'll send you off with something to remember me by."

Thirteen swallowed hard. It was unlikely she'd be forgetting Mistress Zero anytime soon, regardless. But she understood, nodded, and offered one last, meek, "Yes, mistress."

So excused, Thirteen padded past the desk, and up into hallway. She took a seat on the toilet closest to her, directly across from where Number Six was relieving herself, still dressed but with her skirt hiked and panties at her ankles. Unfortunately, unlike those moments when a girl was masturbating and the others left her to herself, toilet etiquette provided for no such moments of unspoken-but-agreed-upon attempts to feign privacy. Six smiled at, softly greeted her with a "hi," and said, "I can't believe it's your last day."

As she peed, Thirteen shook her head and said, "Neither can I."

"You don't think she's going to try to keep you here for one last Saturday shift?" Six asked in a whisper, gesturing to Mistress Zero with her head. The older woman might have been able to hear the question, but she didn't look up from her work.

Thirteen wouldn't have put it past her. Fall Term didn't start until Tuesday of next week, and Thirteen could have conceivably worked one last Saturday before returning to New Haven -- even if it violated the contract she and Gillian had signed with USF. But, no, Mistress Zero posted the Saturday shift girls on Thursday afternoons, and Thirteen hadn't been on that list last night. And, besides, Thirteen had spent more than her fair of Saturdays here at the Plaza. "I don't think so," was all Thirteen offered in response.

"But you're still coming to the Bitch Session tonight?"

This made Thirteen smile. "I wouldn't dare miss it," she answered. This would be her last night out for drinks with the other girls, and she understood that Seven was making sure just about everyone would be there -- even Five and Eight, neither of whom usually participated.

It was Seven who had turned irregular nights out for drinks into the standing, Friday-night tradition that they'd become, but it was Fourteen who'd bequeathed upon that tradition the name. True, half the girls would be required to show up to the Plaza the following day, for the pared-down Saturday shift. But the end of the week felt freeing nonetheless to them all, and it had become an opportunity for them to go out, collectively, and blow off steam. Rare did the topic of conversation stray from their lives as mailgirls, and Mistress Zero received a good portion of the girls' ire in absentia. With a drink or two in their systems, and a weekend to look forward to, the girls were almost able to laugh at themselves, and joke about the misery they'd suffered that week.

For Thirteen, the Bitch Sessions had become an invaluable research tool. The girls opened up about their situation, about what they were feeling on a day-to-day basis, about what it meant to be a mailgirl. Thirteen, often a little buzzed, did her best to jot down notes and reconstruct confessions when she got home later that night, and then clean them up on Sundays prior to a weekly check-in call with Gillian.

No one really had a life outside of being a mailgirl; even fully dressed, even away from the Plaza, even on a night in which many of them had entire weekend ahead of them, they were still mailgirls. It was impossible to date and meet someone new; how did you explain what you did for a living? Most of the girls who volunteered for the program were single at the time, and those few girls who'd been seeing someone typically saw that relationship fall apart within a few weeks; Twenty-Four had only just broken up with her boyfriend -- of two years -- a week ago. Most nights, a mailgirl returned home exhausted both physically and emotionally, beaten up in every sense of the word. And even on weekends, and even if she wasn't working a Saturday shift, a good portion of a mailgirl's time was devoted to something mailgirl-related: tanning, grooming, or even bleaching (Thirteen's asshole puckered just at the thought of that new, fresh hell of her expected hygiene). Thirteen often went stir crazy without a long run on the treadmill in her building's gym -- barefoot, of course. There were the occasional nights and weekends where Thirteen found herself wondering why she ever bothered going home; she might have been better served sleeping at the Plaza.

So it wasn't surprising that they'd spend most of a Friday night telling each other stories about their week at work. At the start of night, the Bitch Sessions truly earned their name -- the girls were negative, angry, and miserable. But horror stories and fresh embarassments were recounted in such a way that they were often delivered with a "can-you-believe-it" style of storytelling, and a laughing commiseration began to lift their collective spirits. The girls shared stories of having their nipples tweaked or asses pinched; both were violations of company policy, but regularly overlooked when it came to the senior staff. They tried to one-up one another with accounts of such miserable things being said to them that it became funny (notably, by Paul Hooper in the actual mailroom), or interactions with colleagues with whom they'd worked in their prior jobs. And then inevitably, at some point, someone would confess to getting turned on by some humiliation or punishment that any one of them would have recoiled from prior to becoming a mailgirl; this, instead, would be met with laughs and nods, and another, more X-rated game of one-upsmanship.

Despite being objectified and sexualized at USF all week long, Friday nights were more than just an emotional release for many of the girls. Even the girls who showed up in sweats or jeans or yoga pants at USF tended to dress up for Friday's night out, and more than a few among them went out without underwear. Four, Fourteen, and Twenty each had a string of one-night-stands that they picked up on Friday nights, and most of the girls had at least one such night themselves; Thirteen was among this latter group, but had done it only once, finding it awkward, out-of-character, and unsatisfying. More common were the girls who went home with each other; jokingly referring to themselves as "letter-carrying lesbians," most had no experience with another girl or any bisexual leanings prior to becoming a mailgirl, but found in one another understanding, acceptance, and shared experience. Thirteen, for a time, had been part of this group, as well. And, finally, there was a particular booth at the Imperial Hotel's bar that was out-of-the-way and poorly lit. It was nicknamed by the girls -- wildly, inaccurately - the "kissing booth," and a girl (or two) could get herself off while a friend served as look-out. Thirteen had to admit that she'd participated in this particular exercise, too.

Earlier in the summer, Thirteen had hated herself for such behavior, hated that she'd that she'd descended into this level of depravity. It wasn't enough for her, apparently, that she had been stripped naked at USF, been subjected to spankings and paddlings and other such torments, and been humiliated time and time and time again. The eye-opening revelation of the summer had been how much she seemed to get off on it all, and how much she needed -- needed! -- to touch herself because of it.

Thirteen wasn't alone in hating herself. Almost all of the girls felt the same way. Which, in and of itself, was a way out of that very same anguish. Very few of them would have confessed to being exhibitionists coming into the program, but the exhibition was having the same effect on them all -- even on girls like Twenty-Four, who refused to act on that arousal (at least, in public). This realization, this shared experience, was freeing in its own way: Thirteen wasn't a pervert or a deviant, but rather reacting to her current situation in a very normal way, in a way that twenty-some other girls were reacting here at USF alone, in a way that countless other mailgirls were reacting worldwide. And it opened them all up to be honest about themselves, about what turned them on, and even about the individual kinks and quirks that were unique to them.

For instance, Six had confessed she now had a difficult time peeing when no one was watching. Thirteen, at that moment, was providing the audience that Six needed.

But Thirteen finished, nodded a "goodbye" in Six's direction, and headed back to her locker.