The Weigh-In

The locker room could be loud and rowdy at times - usually at the tail end of the day, when the amount of time between the end of a mailgirl shift and the start of a mailgirl shift the next day was at its greatest. Most mornings -- and this morning was no different, despite Thirteen's impending freedom -- were more subdued, especially with Mistress Zero present. There were whispers and quiet conversations, to be sure, and there was a soft murmur throughout the locker room that reminded Thirteen of one of the libraries back in New Haven. But as Thirteen reached for the smartphone that sat charging in her locker, she thought to herself that, despite the misery and negativity the accompanied most mornings, she was going to miss the particular and peculiar combination of excitement and dread that was central to life as a mailgirl.

Thirteen had input her arrival time into the unit with a simple thumbprint that morning, and she awoke the unit with her thumbprint again now. It was one of the few, rare times she was even allowed to touch the device, which she'd come to regard and respect as her "electronic leash"; most of the time, it sat in a lycra arm-band around her left bicep, and was available only so that those sending and receiving messages, mail, or interoffice deliveries could "bump" their own smart device against it for instructions or information. It proudly displayed the number thirteen for most of the day, but at the moment it was open for morning inputs.

The first screen that popped up was Thirteen's morning affirmation. "I swear, under the penalty of the law, that I submit under my own free will..." She clicked "accept" without scrolling further. She'd read it all before, and iterations of the same message in her research into other programs before. Essentially, it assured the company that her participation in the mailgirls program today was entirely of her own choosing, that she was a volunteer, that she could walk away at any time, that she was allowing herself to become subject to whatever USF threw at her that day, that she wasn't being blackmailed or coerced into this life, and yadda yadda yadda. It was mostly bullshit; of course she was being coerced, she thought to herself, as she remembered Gillian's runaround with Guy Dubuc. Just as any other girl was being coerced ("incentivized" was Human Capital's term for it) by onerous contracts that could cripple her financially and career-wise for years to come. But by signing and swearing each morning, Thirteen was creating a digital record of her acceptance and submission, one that USF was sure to throw back in face if challenged in court. Sure, any of the girls could theoretically click "decline," instead. But, five months into the program here at USF, few had yet dared to.

Next, Thirteen carried the unit over to one of two digital scales in front of Mistress Zero's desk, and patiently waited behind Fifteeen and Sixteen for her morning weigh-in. Mistress Zero barely glanced up as each girl stepped on the scale and offered a "Good morning, mistress." Thirteen, though, again got a devious smile when she took her turn and offered, "Good morning again, mistress."

Maybe it was just in regards to the unavoidable spanking coming her way, or maybe Human Capital had one last humiliation to inflict upon her before she left today, but Thirteen knew that something cruel and unusual was coming her way. Whatever it was, she reassured herself that by that by tonight the entire ordeal would be behind her.

The smartphone chimed, indicating it had synched with the scale, and Thirteen glanced down at stepped off. She smiled to herself, as she was down half a pound since yesterday. Not so much for the negligible weight loss, but for the fact that she remained within the narrow band of "acceptable" weight fluctuation. Too heavy, and she'd be given half-rations at lunch, in addition to a demerit. Too light, and it was a demerit and a double ration.

Returning to her locker, Thirteen slipped the lycra armband over her left hand, up over her forearm, and snapped it snugly in place around her bicep. She then inserted the smartphone into the band, touching it for the last time until she needed to take another shower.

Not only did the device synch with the scale, but it also uploaded to the mailgirls app accessible to every USF employee in the building. Anyone who logged in from their own laptop, desktop, or smart device would see how much Thirteen weighed that morning, and could pull up historic data about how much she had weighed yesterday, the day before, or three months prior. Thanks to a pedometer in the device, it tracked how many steps Thirteen made on a daily basis. Height. BMI. Hair color. Eye color. Measurements. Cup-size. Dress size. Shoe size. Birthday. Age. Sexual preference (confusing as that might have been for Thirteen at the time). Place of birth. She had to have someone log every bathroom break between 7am and 7pm. She had to confess every masturbation session here at USF with Mistress Zero, who logged it and made it available to anyone and everyone with the app. If she were on her period, Mistress Zero needed to know; and, rather than being taken out of circulation, she was given a tampon and "red-flagged" in the system for everyone to see. Even though she was required to correct anyone who used it, and forbidden from using it herself, her given name was on there. And, for no reason other than pure cruelty, the girls were forced to provide their mother's full name, as well.

Thirteen's mother, Catherine Ruth Ryan, knew nothing about the part she played in this little game.

The lycra armband and the smartphone weren't the entirety of Thirteen's mailgirl "uniform," however. No, her get-up wasn't complete until she'd heard the soul-crushing click of the metal collar around her neck. One part dog-collar, one part choker, and one part lifted directly from some of the deepest, darkest corners of the Internet, Thirteen's collar seemed to hammer home the fact that she was enslaving herself to USF. The nudity, apparently, wasn't enough; the collar took her current enforced nudity and exhibitionist predicament and sent it careening down the path towards bondage and discipline, with a bit of sadomasochism mixed in for good measure. It could only be unlocked at the end of the day by Mistress Zero, or some lucky designee she assigned responsibility to for a particular night. But, it was left unlocked in each girl's locker every night, and every morning they'd be required to put it back on before they got into position. The keyhole was hardly noticeable; instead, it was the #13 dog tag, and the D-rings affixed around the circumference of the collar, that caught one's eye.

Thirteen had been forced to wear the collar home one Thursday night in late July, a punishment for some minor, trumped-up offense that she could no longer recall. Had it been any other night, she might have been able to just hide in her apartment until the next morning. But the fact that her little sister Sophie had been visiting from LA at the time turned just another day-in-the-life embarrassment of a mailgirl into something even more deeply humiliating.

Thirteen shivered at the memory.

The collar, naturally, came with a leash. Like the collar, it was metal, ugly, and medieval-looking, with thick, heavy links. One end was affixed, permanently, to the floor of Thirteen's open locker. The other? Thirteen had the honor of hooking it through the D-ring on the back of her own collar. She listened for the next click, indicating that it, too, had been locked, and that she'd only be freed when Mistress Zero decided it was time for her to be freed. The chain leash had only enough slack that Thirteen could stand directly in front of her locker, and stray no further.

But Thirteen didn't need to stay standing; she could "rest" until Mistress Zero came by for her inspection. And so, the blonde girl got her knees, with her back to her open locker and the clothes she'd shed that morning. She sat back upon her haunches, in what would be her standard position of the day. Per her training, it was simply referred to as "Knees" here at USF, but she knew that other programs referred to it as "Resting Position" or "Mailgirl Kneeling Position" or even "Nadu" (something apparently lifted from Gorean sub-culture). Both arms behind her back, with the back of her right hand resting against the very top her ass, and her right hand grasping her left wrist. Legs at the very least shoulder-length apart, with her shaven pussy so prominently on display that she imagined her swollen clit was practically throbbing and glowing for all to see. Back ever-so-slightly arched, pushing her breasts out. Eyes cast downward, focused on an imaginary spot four feet in front of her, in a show of submission.

It had taken Thirteen, for some reason, longer than most to learn her positions; or, at the very least to get them right. She had thought that Mistress Zero was picking on her initially, putting the PhD candidate among the mailgirls in her place, driving home just how stupid Thirteen really was. She wasn't arching her back just right. She wasn't spreading her knees far enough apart. She was making too much eye contact. By the time she'd finally gotten "Knees" correct, her ass had been spanked raw, and she swore she'd never be able to sit down in a chair again. Maybe that had been the point.

She spent a significant portion of her day on her feet, dashing from one delivery to the next, with hardly more than a few minutes' rest here or there. Even in those rare moments where USF employees didn't have a delivery for her to make, or a memo for her to distribute, or an important message they needed to be assured a colleague would pay attention to, Mistress Zero and Human Capital kept her busy delivering supplies, keeping conference rooms stocked and maintained, and otherwise doing odd jobs. But, every now and then she was just lucky enough to catch a breather, and it was most often in the "Knees" position. In just three months Thirteen had begun to find the position both restorative and oddly comfortable.

In addition to the "Knees" position, there was "Feet." And "Toes," which was also referred to as the "Inspection Position." There was "Hands-and-Knees," as well as "Elbows-and-Knees" and "Forehead-and-Knees." There were countless others. And then there was what the mailgirls themselves jokingly referred to as "Back" - not an official position, but one which was a common position in the locker room nonetheless, with proper hand placement rubbing desperately back-and-forth between one's legs.

Thirteen wasn't the first girl in position that morning, but she was among the first few, as usual. Others -- Fourteen, for example -- were still in the shower, and still had hair and make-up to do, affirmations to proclaim, and weigh-ins to complete. Thirteen couldn't do it; in those few occasions when she'd been running a bit behind, she had felt a pit a dread in her stomach as she raced against the clock to get to her knees in front of her locker. After the first few days as a mailgirl, it was rare that any of the girls weren't in position when inspections began. But, all the same, Thirteen preferred to have a few minutes to herself, to sit quietly, and to steel herself for the day.

Most mornings, Thirteen forced herself to "power down" her higher brain functions -- they did her no good as a mailgirl. Whoever she'd been before arriving at the Plaza that morning had no bearing on her ability to do her job quickly, effectively, and submissively. She entered an almost meditative state in which her whole being was consumed by the orders delivered to her via the smartphone affixed to her arm. It was freeing, in its way, and Thirteen had read countless confessions and testimonies of current and former mailgirls who felt the same way. Gone were worries over bills or debt or anything else intruding from the outside world. Gone was stress over impending project deadlines or contracts to be reviewed or clients to be kept happy or -- in Thirteen's case -- research still to be done. Even the embarrassment over her nudity, the humiliation from drinking out of a dog bowl, the shame of being subjected to corporal punishment -- she could accept it almost robotically, detached as if it were happening to someone else.

Today, however, was a bit different, and Thirteen's mind was racing. She knew she had a spanking coming to her -- it was inescapable. She knew that Mistress Zero had something new, cruel, and unusual waiting for her, a parting gift to remember her by. She knew she still had an entire day of abuse in front of her. But she'd endure, as she'd endured for three months to that point, and by tomorrow, all of this would be behind her. Twelve-hours-and-change from now, she'd put her clothes on and walk out of the Plaza for the last time, never to return. It was, for most mailgirls, a crueler torture than most -- hope.