The Treasure Room

It was in the immediate aftermath that Abby felt most ashamed about what she'd done. Still breathing heavily, still disheveled, still coming down from her orgasm. She had barely broken a sweat -- she was thankful of that, at least -- but her fingertips were wet and she smelled like pussy. She smelled like mailgirl. She knew what she'd done was wrong, and she felt damaged, dirty, and whorish.

And yet this was now the sixth time she'd gotten herself off at work, since that afternoon two weeks ago in the stairwell.

Abby was on the floor of a storage room on B-2, the sub-basement, a floor down from the call center, the cafeteria, and the mailgirls locker room. Her skirt, as her dress had been that first time, was bunched around her waist, and her legs splayed out with her hand between them. She'd folded her suit jacket and placed it neatly on a nearby open shelf, but her blouse was still on, still buttoned, and now rumpled and partially untucked. She'd left her shoes on, for some unknown reason, and her heels were flat on the floor, her legs bent at the knees. At least today she'd worn stockings and a garter belt instead of pantyhose -- she'd had one less layer to contend with as she had dipped her hand into the front of her panties.

After that first time at USF Plaza, Abby had managed to go the better part of a week before she touched herself at work again. That next time - and the time after that, and the time after that - she'd at least been able to do so in the privacy of her own office at Park Place, door closed and securely locked. The anticipation of this week's induction of Jersey City's mailgirls had proven too much for her to resist, and she'd talked herself into getting off, getting it over with, and getting on with her day. She'd already "broken the seal," so to speak, and the risk of being caught in her office was decidedly lower than in the stairwell on the 18th Floor.

But Barrow had claimed Abby's office for himself that week, and Abby had been bumped down to an open seat at the reception desk in Human Resources. As it wasn't as if she could ask Barrow for her office back, for a few minutes of privacy, she'd gone the entirety of that Monday being good. Being good, at least, until the moment she walked through the door of her apartment.

Tuesday, though, her excitement had proven impossible to deny, with the ensnaring of Mailgirls Three and Four. Abby knew she'd either have to take care of herself or go home. She briefly flirted with the default of the ladies' room, even if it meant there was a chance she'd be caught. But then she realized she had access to a storage room in the sub-basement, off-limits to everyone but Barrow, Barrow's assistant, and Abby herself.

Abby had begun to think of it as the "Treasure Room." It was where the underthings of girls One and Two had come over the weekend, and where those of Three and Four had arrived that Wednesday morning. In an expansion of the "Hall of Panties" that stood guard outside of Human Capital at the Plaza, and the corresponding trophies that were already now hanging in Human Resources here at Park Plaza, Barrow's intention was to display each and every pair of underwear his new mailgirls had owned throughout the building. This was a staging grounds, a temporary holding place, until Abby -- to whom responsibility for executing Barrow's vision had fallen -- could get to sorting through and framing the girls' treasures.

The room was mostly empty, occupied by a few metal shelves, boxes of unopened frames, and a single folding table. But it had sufficed in Abby's moment of need yesterday, and it done the trick again that morning. She wondered if maybe she should have waited until after they'd stripped and enslaved Marie Partee, but she'd had the better part of an hour and had needed something to take her mind of her failure with Kristen Metkovich.

Abby rolled to one side, and used the table to pull herself to her feet. A chair might have been nice. A bed, even better. But the floor had worked in a pinch, and it seemed to work for the mailgirls, so Abby had accepted the hard linoleum as a price she had to pay for a good, private, hiding place. She fixed her panties, tugging them back into place, and shivered at how wet they still were. She pulled her skirt back down, smoothing it and hoping it hadn't gotten too wrinkled. And then she tucked her shirt back in, hoping -- as she had yesterday -- that the floor had been clean enough that it wouldn't leave a hard-to-explain dirt smudge on her back.

Taking a moment longer to collect herself and catch her breath, Abby peeked inside a large cardboard box that was marked with a "4." Bras. Black bras. White bras. Satin bras. Cotton bras.

There'd be lingerie in here somewhere, too -- Abby was sure of it. In an attempt to spice up her love life with Jon, and in response to his complaints she wasn't adventurous enough, Abby herself had picked up a few babydolls and teddies over the last couple of years. More often than not, however, she wore them only once or twice, and then they'd fall into disuse. And she couldn't justify continuing to spend money on something that she'd take off quickly and discard in a pile on the floor.

Abby laughed a little at the idea Jon had accused her of not being adventurous enough. Abby, who'd just masturbated on the floor of a storage room in the basement of Park Place.

There'd be lingerie here, Abby thought to herself, among Four's things. And Three's. Mailgirl Number Two, despite having only temporarily moved down to New York for the summer, had had a shocking number of sexy little things among her belongings.

She wondered what it would be like for someone to sift through her panties, bras, and lingerie like this.

After a moment or two longer, Abby found her suit jacket and then the lights, and exited into dimly lit corridor beyond. She'd need to check her hair and reflection in the ladies' room down the hall, the one that USF had converted into a fully-functional bathroom for Mistress Rei -- shower and all -- before she'd head back upstairs.

Mistress Rei was almost every bit as much a captive of the mailgirls program here at Park Place as the girls she oversaw. Just as Abby had signed for the delivery of Mailgirls One and Two over the weekend, she'd had to sign for Mistress Rei two weeks earlier. The crate she'd arrived in had been a little bigger, and she'd been alone, but Mistress Rei had emerged no less naked and crazed as the two sisters. It was hard to believe that that girl, Mailgirl Juu-Shi, could have transformed into Mistress Rei so quickly. But in addition to being a testament to the power of the Plaza's Mistress Zero, to whom the transformation had been assigned, Abby felt it spoke to the thin line between dominance and submission. The two were two sides of the same coin, and Mailgirl Juu-Shi - despite having recently inked her third consecutive mailgirl contract for a keiretsu in Tokyo -- had been sold and shipped to USF, to play the part of governess to a new generation of mailgirls. It made the confusion Abby felt about what was turning her on seem more understandable -- the Japanese girl had gone from submissive to dominant overnight.

But, though she was playing the part of dominatrix here in New Jersey, Mistress Rei wasn't exactly free. Because her charges would be 24/7, she herself was expected to be here nearly 24/7, as well. She'd been given a tiny, makeshift "apartment" here in the sub-basement to live. Consisting of not much more than a bed, a desk, and a closet filled with a wardrobe Mistress Zero had picked out, Mistress Rei's new "home" wasn't much. But, Abby thought to herself, it was better than a hard floor and a metal leash upstairs naked in the locker room.

Abby entered the ladies' room on B-2, and headed to the sinks to wash her hands and fix her hair. There were still two stalls on one side of the rom; a third, however, had been replaced with a shower with a see-through glass door. Abby doubted there were many women who came down here, though, which meant that Mistress Rei likely had the facilities to herself.

Her red hair was out of place, but Abby otherwise looked aglow. As embarrassed and ashamed of her behavior as she might have been, the girl staring back at her in the mirror looked content, happy, and confident. There was little as satisfying as a good orgasm, even if it had been achieved alone, and Abby felt wicked and naughty -- in a very good way. Whatever the rest of the morning brought, and whatever the afternoon held in store, Abby felt ready for it. As ready as she could be, at least.

She needed a smoke.