Dog Bowls and Open Lockers

Thirteen entered the locker room to the sound of a running shower to her right, to whispered and subdued conversation, and the sound of another girl's moans of pleasures echoing across the tiles. The large, metal desk in front of her, with its back to the double-doors and the elevator lobby beyond, sat unoccupied. It was both utilitarian and terrifying, an unadorned piece of throwback office furniture that had been transformed into an intimidating symbol of control by its owner; even now, despite the fact that Thirteen knew that Mistress Zero was still at least thirty minutes away, bare minimum.

The mailgirls' locker room stretched in both directions, from left to right on either side of the desk, on either side of where Thirteen entered the room. It was entirely balanced and symmetrical; in addition the spanking benches flanking the double doors, each side had four sinks, four showers, and twelve open, door-less lockers that faced into the center of the room. On the other side of metal desk was a corridor that led to another lobby, where the girls could access the building's East, West, and North Staircases, as well as the four service elevators. There was no door to enter the service lobby, as there was to elevator lobby behind her. But that fact hadn't alarmed Thirteen on her first day as much as the six prison-issue toilets, three on either wall along the corridor, open and exposed for anyone to see. Thirteen, though, had read of mailgirls forced to pee in litter boxes and mop sinks in other companies, so she ultimately decided to accept the toilets as some bare minimum concession that the mailgirls were still, on some level, human beings.

Not that this was something Mistress Zero, or the men in Human Capital, encouraged the girls to think. On either side of the metal desk, on the floor, were two pairs of silver dog bowls. They'd been filled the night before by the girls on duty for Evening Shift, and left overnight for any girl thirsty for a drink the next morning. As the day progressed, it fell to Mistress Zero to refill -- or, more accurately, to instruct one of her girls to refill -- the bowls.

Being Number Thirteen, the blonde had the misfortune of having the first locker on the right, closest to her mistress's desk. It was here she went first, to put her purse down, take off her heels, and run her thumbprint over the smartphone charging there within. And, without thinking any more of it, without lamenting her misfortune or the humiliation of the exercise, Thirteen turned back to Mistress Zero's desk, dropped to her hands and knees, brushed her hair back from her face, and began sipping up water from the bowl.

Her ass in the air, her face in the dog bowl, Thirteen drank down the room-temperature water, not even bothering anymore to consider the fact that the bowl was already half-empty, and had likely already been drunk from by at least one or two other girls. She was thirsty, but she was careful not to drink too much; not only was it common for Mistress Zero to "forget" to refill the bowls, but Thirteen knew she'd be able to have a drink in a few minutes in the shower. And, besides, she had found that one of the biggest challenges to being a mailgirl was not the humiliation of delivering interoffice envelopes in the nude, nor enduring the punishment for racking up too many demerits, nor the physical exertion of climbing up and down stairs or spending long stretches of time on her knees. No, three months in, Thirteen still found it difficult to balance the necessities of hydration with the realities of a limited number of bathroom breaks.

Still fully dressed, aside from her shoes, Thirteen stood and nodded down the line of lockers to Numbers Fifteen and Sixteen, already stark naked. Fifteen was a tall, slender brunette, with relatively small breasts but puffy nipples, and a mischievous side that couldn't help but rebel against her new station in life. Sixteen was an African-American girl with an ever-so-slight Southern accent, light brown skin, and a shock of dark, curly, chin-length hair that seemed to be a source of pride for someone whose daily work attire consisted of little more than an armband and a smartphone. The new Number Twenty-Three, another brunette, was there as well; three weeks in, Thirteen still thought of her as the "new" Number Twenty-Three, having replaced the previous Number Twenty-Three, who herself had only been a mailgirl for five weeks in total. Twenty-One, too, was here, and was already in the shower, alone. On the other side of the room were One, Five, Nine, and Twelve. As well as Two and Three, in the far set of showers - which explained where the moans were coming from.

No sign of Number Seven.

"Today's your last day?" Twelve asked from her locker, standing in just a bra and a pair of hip-hugger panties. She was pixie-cut blonde, approximately Thirteen's height and build, and closer in age Thirteen than most of the other girls (though, admittedly, the oldest girl in the program was just eight years older than Thirteen herself). The pixie cut had actually grown in; it had initially been much shorter, and bequeathed upon Twelve as a punishment by Mistress Zero. It was a friendly enough question, but it was tinged with suspicion, accusation, and jealousy. The girls all knew it, of course -- they knew Thirteen was getting out, was getting free of the program. But Thirteen wasn't sure if she should being calling attention to that fact or not. Was she a symbol of hope? Or was her release after three months just one more form of torture for the girls that still had nineteen, twenty, twenty-one more months to go?

"It is," Thirteen replied politely. "Wish me luck."

"Good luck," Twelve answered glumly.

Torture, Thirteen decided.

And then, from Twelve, "They'll fuck you."

Thirteen glanced back over at the other girl, as if she hadn't heard her. Or as if she hadn't understood her.

"They'll fuck you," Twelve repeated. "You know they will." It wasn't Twelve being a bitch. It wasn't her striking out at Thirteen for getting free. What she was offering was sincere concern, a friendly warning for Thirteen not to get her hopes too high. There was no doubt that Twelve was rooting for Thirteen to escape, but there was also no doubt that Twelve felt it wouldn't actually happen.

"I'm sure," Thirteen managed to reply politely, even if she didn't believe the sentiment. Sure, she suffered alongside these other girls, and she did the same job as these other girls. She was stripped and embarrassed the same as these other girls, and she was spanked, paddled, and punished the same as these other girls. But she was different from them; apart. She knew that, and understood that, even if the other girls couldn't see it. This was a three-month sentence for Thirteen, while it was two years for everyone else.

"No, I promise," Twelve went on, and offered again, "they'll fuck you." She reached behind her back, and unfastened her bra.

"You'll be here tomorrow. Some sort of threat. Some sort of bullshit penalty. Some sort of legal maneuvering we're too fucking dumb to see coming."

Thirteen let it slide, and unfastened the waist of her skirt. Whatever Twelve thought, whatever Twelve said, Thirteen knew she was different. This was just part of life among the mailgirls -- the constant fear of some new torment, either physical and psychological, just waiting to be sprung upon them.