Eat Something

Seventeen took a deep breath, and began to compose herself. She hadn't even had a chance to come back down from her orgasm before Sixteen had snuck up behind her, and she hadn't had even a second to reflect upon the line she'd just crossed. She wondered if that had been Sixteen's intention.

She was still a bit weak-in-the-knees, she was still slightly out-of-breath, and she was still giving off significant heat from her pussy. Her right hand was warm, sticky, and wet with her own juices. And, though she hadn't been at it for very long, she had nonetheless managed to work up a sweat -- after having only just cooled down during a lull at the end of the day. She bent, and absentmindedly wiped her hand against her inner thigh, before then rubbing her eyes and massaging her temples with fingers.

"Rookie!" she heard from behind. Fourteen. Shouting from the shower. "Eat something!"

Seventeen steeled herself, and turned.

Fourteen was indeed in the showers on this end of the locker room.

As were Thirteen, Nine, Twenty-Two, and Twenty-Four. Five girls between four shower-heads, with Fourteen and Nine sharing the second from the right. Nine was facing away from Seventeen, towards the mirror-glass that lined the far wall, while Fourteen was facing Seventeen and the lockers. Beside her, Twenty-Two was knuckle-deep in her own sex, and -- true-to-form -- neither Fourteen nor Nine were paying her any mind.

"Ma'am," Seventeen shot back with a smirk. "Per Human Capital, I am to be called by my mailgirl number."

Fourteen was forced to laugh, and Nine turned just enough to shoot Seventeen a smile. "Do you need me to slap her?" Nine asked.

Fourteen shot a playful look at her shower-mate, as if daring her to try. To Seventeen, she replied, "I'm sorry, ma'am. This stupid slut was too stupid to comply with such a simple rule."

Seventeen laughed.

"Eat something," Fourteen repeated, running her hands through her long, dark hair. In contrast to Seventeen's girl-next-door looks, Fourteen oozed "bad girl" out of every pore of her body. Her nakedness, rather than diminishing or humiliating her, only gave her more power. There'd been rumors that she'd been sent the mailroom for sleeping around with the executive staff even in her old job, rumors that Fourteen had laughed at but not quite denied. As the mailgirl to whom Seventeen had been assigned to shadow this week, Seventeen had gotten to spend more time with Fourteen than she had with any of the others, and she'd witnessed Fourteen's unique approach to the role.

Among the mailgirls, One and Fourteen were competitive and catty, each one competing to be the program's star. Neither shied away from anything -- there was no punishment too severe, no order too degrading, no abuse too terrible, that either girl wouldn't put up with or accept without hesitation. Mailgirl Number One tended to get herself off at the far end of the locker room with a lot of clearly overemphasized "oohs" and "ahhs", and viewed her role as that of a porn star. Fourteen, admittedly, was the similar -- but with a hint of sarcasm, as if she were in on the joke and had never really ceded control over to her corporate masters.

It had made moments over the last two days more challenging for Seventeen than if she'd been assigned to, say, Sixteen or Eighteen or Twenty-Four. For instance, when one of the traders up on the 22nd Floor had started pressing Seventeen on who she was and where she'd come from, Fourteen had - for some reason - decided to escalate things by asking, "Are you sure you don't want to inspect her, sir?" Sure enough, both girls were then up on their tiptoes with their hands behind their heads in inspection position.

And Fourteen had badgered her, both yesterday and today, to get herself off in the locker room -- almost as if she had money riding on "Day One" in the pool upstairs. To hear Fourteen justify it, Seventeen was going to break eventually, so why not steer into the skid and touch herself now? Seventeen wanted to. Fourteen knew Seventeen wanted to. Twenty-two other mailgirls knew Seventeen wanted to. Why wait? They'd been up on the 18th Floor, in Human Resources, when Fourteen nodded down the "Hall of Panties" towards Human Capital and offered aloud, "Fuck them. Do it for you."

Fourteen also happened to be one of just a few girls who preferred a male chaperone when getting escorted to the bathroom upstairs. Sure, it meant having to use the men's room instead of the women's. But Fourteen explained that men, significantly more often than women, were willing to ignore Human Capital's rule that required the chaperone to actually stand there in front of an open stall door and watch a girl pee. Seventeen, in her prior life, had only been called upon to play the part of chaperone once, but she supposed Fourteen had a point; Seventeen had dutifully stood watch over the previous Mailgirl Number Thirteen, for fear that spurning the rule might land her down here on the 2nd Floor. But while they were taking turns yesterday afternoon in a single stall, stall door wide open, and with their chaperone waiting patiently by the sink, Fourteen loudly and provocatively asked, "You want to play swords?"

Mailgirl Number Seven may have been everyone's surrogate mother here in the locker room, but Fourteen had played the part of a cool, all-knowing older sister for Seventeen over the last two days. And now Fourteen was telling her to get something to eat.

Seventeen slid her black lycra armband down the length of her left arm, extracted the smart phone, and placed it in the charger inside her locker. As she did so, she glanced towards the middle of the locker room, where Mailgirls Number Fifteen and Twenty-One were sharing dinner from a single silver dog dish in front of Mistress Zero's desk. Both were still stark-naked, and Twenty-One was still in her collar. Both were on their hands and knees, and taking turns gobbling down the thick, gray gruel known semi-affectionately as "mailgirl chow."

Seventeen couldn't help but gag.

"You're worried about me having a few drinks on an empty stomach?" she asked Fourteen. "Can't we stop and get a hot dog or something?"

Fourteen had turned back towards the shower head, and now her bare ass was what greeted Seventeen as she looked in that direction. "That shit's better for you hot dogs."

Seventeen scowled. "Does it taste any better coming up than it tastes going down?"

"You get used to it!" Fifteen shouted down to her, as Twenty-One took a turn with her head in the bowl.

"And then you end up craving it in the middle of the night," Sixteen laughed, joining in. She was in the midst of unlocking Nineteen's collar.

"You don't get used to it." This from Fourteen. "But it's fuel."

That part was true. Seventeen couldn't believe that there was a company in Northern California that produced this slop specifically for mailgirl programs, but perhaps that fact spoke to the growing prevalence of such programs nationwide. Loaded with vitamins and nutrients, it was literally everything the body needed for an exercise-heavy job like that of a mailgirl, which required a marathoner's stamina as they dashed from one delivery to the next. It looked disgusting, it smelled awful, and it tasted worse -- Seventeen had fought through her first meal yesterday at lunch while retching and heaving. Today had been a little easier, but it didn't help that Mistress Zero was assigning her double portions to bring her up to what she considered an acceptable weight.

The chow was all the mailgirls were given at lunch, and all they were allowed for snacks on breaks. But there were some girls, like Fourteen, who'd taken to eating it at the end of the day, for dinner, even though it wasn't necessarily a requirement, and even though she was free to eat literally anything else anywhere else in New York City. "Eh," Fourteen had shrugged yesterday when Seventeen had challenged her on this. "It's here. It's free. It's easy. It's healthy. And, fuck, I don't want to have to cook dinner when I get home."

But tonight, it seemed like just about all the girls were taking their turns at the bowls. Unlike lunch-time, serving size wasn't as tightly regulated. But also unlike lunch time, the girls were forced to share just two bowls in the center of the locker room, with Two and Sixteen forced to refill them when empty.

"We can't just get some appetizers or something?"

"Eat!" Fourteen ordered.

"Or a salad?"

"Eat!"

The thought of choking down another bowl of the awful, room-temperature sludge made Seventeen's stomach turn, but there was no denying she'd worked up an appetite that afternoon. And maybe Fourteen had a point. After the two days Seventeen had just had, she needed a drink like she'd never needed a drink before, and she suspected she wasn't alone in that regard. To hear them tell it, USF's mailgirls had been closing down the bar at the Imperial Hotel since sometime that summer. Seventeen wasn't going to be able to have more than one drink on an empty stomach.

She frowned, but decided to buckle and do as she was told. She didn't necessarily have to follow Fourteen's orders, the way she was required to do with literally everyone else who worked at USF Plaza. But she and Fourteen were attached at the hip for one more day of training, and Fourteen was -- in her way -- still looking out for her.

First, though, Seventeen had to pee.